Claws For Concern

From the backseat Diesel meowed as if in agreement. When he was younger he tried to climb in between me and any book I started to read, and given his size, he easily obscured even the largest, thickest book in my collection. It took me six months to gently dissuade him from the habit. In the end I think he realized that that was one battle he was never going to win. Now he settled for simply being next to me when I paid attention to a book instead of him.

“Occupational hazard, I suppose, for a librarian.” I had loved books from childhood, when my parents read to me before I was old enough to read on my own. Once I discovered that I could actually buy books at a bookstore, rather than only borrowing them from the library, I turned into a collector of sorts. I had to own copies of books by my favorite writers because I never knew when I might want to reread one of them.

Helen Louise and I discussed books the rest of the way to Riverhill. When we neared the magnificent old Greek Revival mansion, I saw a late-model, bright red Jeep parked in the circular driveway in front of the house. I parked behind it, and by the time Helen Louise, Diesel, and I exited the car, Miss An’gel was standing on the verandah calling a greeting to us.

The elder of the sisters, Miss An’gel had never been less than impeccably dressed whenever I saw her. She once told me that she and her sister, Miss Dickce, had inherited a large collection of classic haute couture from their mother and grandmother—names like Worth, Chanel, and Balenciaga, among others. Today looked like a Chanel day, I decided, after noting the simple black dress and pearls Miss An’gel wore.

“Come right in, all of you,” Miss An’gel said, after first giving Diesel several pats on the head. “Helen Louise, it’s lovely to see you away from work and looking so relaxed.”

“Thank you, Miss An’gel.” Helen Louise laughed. “I need to hear that because I confess I’ve been having a hard time letting go of the reins.”

“Not surprising,” Miss An’gel replied as she ushered us through the front door and closed it behind. “You created a highly successful business, and you want to ensure its continued success.” She cast a sidelong glance at me. “Now, however, you have a handsome distraction who deserves more of your time, I daresay.”

“He certainly does,” Helen Louise said. As I began to blush, Helen Louise looked down at my cat. “Don’t you, Diesel?”

The cat warbled loudly, and Miss An’gel joined Helen Louise in gentle laughter. I smiled.

“We’re in the front parlor.” Miss An’gel led the way. “Sister and I are delighted that you could come this afternoon. Our dear friend Ernestine Carpenter has been looking forward to meeting you.”

We followed our hostess into the elegant front parlor at Riverhill. After numerous visits here I had become somewhat accustomed to the sight of the furnishings, many of which were well over a century old. Miss Dickce rose from a sofa that faced the door to come forward, hands extended. First Helen Louise, then I, gave her a quick peck on the cheek. Then Miss Dickce focused her attention on Diesel for a moment.

The other occupant of the sofa stood as well. She appeared to be nearly as tall as Helen Louise and I and probably in her early seventies. Perhaps a decade younger than the Ducote sisters, I reckoned. Her shrewd gaze swept over us, and I smiled. She smiled back and stepped forward.

Miss An’gel performed the introductions. Miss Carpenter immediately took a shine to Diesel, and he to her. When she resumed her seat, he sat on the floor by her legs and enjoyed her attention.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Carpenter,” I said, after the first formalities were out of the way, including the obligatory remarks about the weather.

“We have actually met before,” Miss Carpenter said, “though I doubt if you remember it because of the occasion. Your aunt, Dottie Collins, was a dear friend of mine. I attended her funeral, and we spoke briefly at the time.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I remember so very little of anything that happened at Aunt Dottie’s funeral. I was in such a fog at the time that it is all still a blur in my mind.”

Miss Carpenter regarded me with obvious sympathy. “I completely understand. You were overwhelmed, I know. Your wife had passed away not long before that, if I remember correctly.”

I managed to nod, too overcome at the moment to say a word. Odd how those sharp, stabbing pangs of grief hit you sometimes and rendered you almost unable to breathe, let alone speak. I closed my eyes briefly, drew in a deep breath, then exhaled and opened my eyes. “Yes, that’s correct. I’m glad to get the opportunity to meet you again under happier circumstances.”

Miss Carpenter smiled and patted my arm. “I am, too.”

I felt able now to resume our conversation. “Miss Carpenter, I understand you are a friend of Jack Pemberton, the true crime writer.”