Claws For Concern

Pemberton told the story of a woman who had evidently been a black widow—a woman who marries a man, disposes of him, and then moves on to the next target. By the time she met and married her fifth husband, she had amassed a significant amount of money. She always chose wealthy, older men as targets. Number five, while older and wealthy as per usual, turned out to be harder to kill than the previous husbands. He was either extraordinarily lucky or much shrewder than he appeared, I decided, because he lived to see his wife go to prison for four murders.

I laid the book aside, rather surprised to discover that it was nearly ten o’clock. Pemberton definitely knew how to tell a story, I thought. He also told it with good taste, without descent into cheap sensationalism. He appeared also to have shrewd insight into abnormal psychology, and into human behavior in general.

Diesel warbled sleepily when I roused him and told him it was time for us to go upstairs. He had turned onto his back, his spine twisted into what looked to me a painful angle but one apparently quite comfortable for him. He shifted until he sat upright and then stretched and yawned. I waited for him to finish before I turned out the lights in the den.

He followed me around the first floor while I checked the doors and windows. He placed a paw on the door to the back porch. “Not tonight,” I told him. “You’ve had a long nap but I’m ready for bed. After we talk to Helen Louise, that is.”

He chirped at the sound of Helen Louise’s name and forgot about visiting the back porch. He trotted happily upstairs with me and waited on the bed while I undressed and put on my sleeping clothes, a pair of gym shorts and an old T-shirt.

I slipped into bed, and Diesel stretched out beside me. The clock now read ten thirteen. Helen Louise ought to be calling soon. The bistro closed at nine, and usually she and her staff were finished cleaning by ten. She lived only a few minutes from the square and would call once she reached home.

Five minutes later my cell rang, and I answered it. “Hello, love. How was today? Busy?”

“Extremely, sweetie,” Helen Louise replied. “Summer visitor trade on top of many of our regulars.” She paused, and I could hear her yawn. “Sorry about that, but I am completely worn out. These long days really take it out of me.”

“Good thing you’ve got tomorrow to rest and recuperate,” I said. “And on Monday Henry and the crew will open, so you don’t have to set foot in the bistro until the afternoon.”

Helen Louise chuckled. “Is that a gentle reminder that I shouldn’t go in Monday morning to help out?”

“Yes, it is,” I replied, my tone light as I continued. “You know Henry is utterly reliable and totally competent, and I don’t think it will hurt to let him know you trust him.”

“By not hovering over him, you mean.” I heard her sigh. “I know, love, but after being in charge for so long, it’s hard to delegate.”

“You can do it,” I said.

“We’ll see. So how was your day?”

“Fine. Busy, but not as tiring as your day,” I said. Once she changed the subject I knew there was no point in going back to the discussion of her work hours. “Nothing exciting. There are a couple of things to tell you about, but they can wait until tomorrow. Right now, you need to go to bed.”

“Not going to argue with you.” I heard another yawn, and I yawned in response. “Good night, love.”

I bade her good night, and we ended the call. I laid my phone aside on the nightstand and adjusted my position in bed. Before I switched off the bedside lamp, I glanced at Diesel. He regarded me sleepily, his head on his pillow. His tail thumped a couple of times against the bedspread, and then his eyes closed.

Smiling, I turned off the light, got comfortable, and soon drifted into sleep.

•   •   •

A few hours after an enjoyable Sunday dinner with my children, their spouses, and baby Charlie, Helen Louise, Diesel, and I drove out to Riverhill, the antebellum home of the Ducote sisters, for afternoon tea.

On the way I told Helen Louise about Jack Pemberton’s book. “I really enjoyed it,” I said. “I didn’t think I’d care for true crime, but the way he told the story, it read almost like a suspense novel. Well-paced with believable characters.”

“I’ll borrow it then, if you don’t mind,” Helen Louise said. “I haven’t had much time for reading all these years, and now that I actually have hours to fill away from the bistro, I’m looking forward to rediscovering books.”

I smiled. “I have a large library at home entirely at your disposal.”

“Yes, you do.” Helen Louise punched me playfully in the arm. “You have more books than I have cookware, cookbooks, and bottles of wine combined.”