Fixing To Die

“Awesome.” Benjy rose from his chair, his sang-froid seemingly restored. “Come on, Peanut, you know Miss An’gel always likes to see you.” The dog loped after the young man as Benjy headed out of the kitchen.

“Whereas you, Missy,” Dickce said to the cat still nestled in her arms, “are another story. An’gel can’t get over the fact that you prefer me.” She chuckled.

“Gracious, the way y’all talk to those animals.” Clementine laughed.

Dickce shot the housekeeper a pointed glance. “I’ve heard you talk to them both plenty of times yourself.”

“Well, I reckon so.” Clementine turned her attention back to the stove and picked the lid up from a pot of chicken and dumplings. “If y’all are going to treat ’em like people, I guess there’s no reason I shouldn’t do it, too.” She stirred the pot for a moment. “Lunch is just about ready. Ten more minutes.”

Dickce sniffed appreciatively. “The perfect thing for a cool fall day.”

Clementine looked up from the stove. “Miss Dickce, y’all ever told Benjy about the things that go on here sometimes?”

Dickce stiffened, and Endora squeaked a protest. Dickce forced herself to relax. “What do mean, the things that go on here?”

“You know what I mean,” Clementine said. “Doors closing all by themselves, things moving around after I’ve dusted, and you know I know to put things right back in the exact same place they’ve been the last hundred years.” She sniffed. “Unless you and Miss An’gel are going around behind my back, trying to play tricks on me, you know ain’t no earthly thing doing that.”

“An’gel and I would certainly never play that kind of trick on you, and you know it.” Dickce shook her head at the housekeeper. “I don’t have any better explanation for it than you do, and to answer your original question, no, I haven’t said anything to Benjy. I don’t imagine An’gel has either. Since he has his own quarters above the garage, he probably might not ever notice anything here in the house.”

“Maybe so.” Clementine focused her attention on the stove again. “Still, y’all might better tell that boy, ’specially before y’all go hunting spirits in Natchez.”

“You might be right. I’ll discuss it with An’gel.” Dickce set the cat on the floor. “Come on, Endora. After I wash my hands, we’re going to set the table.” To her amusement, the cat, after a yawn and a stretch, padded after her to the powder room under the stairs and waited until Dickce finished her ablutions.

While Dickce set the table, Endora sat in the doorway and watched. After a couple of minutes, apparently bored, she disappeared down the hall. Dickce figured she had gone in search of Peanut and Benjy.

Dickce performed her task without giving much thought to what she was doing. Her thoughts focused on the upcoming trip to Natchez, and their reason for going. She hated to admit it—and she doubted she would admit it to An’gel—but Clementine’s dire warning had spooked her a little. As had the housekeeper’s reminder about the occasional unsettling experience here at Riverhill. She and An’gel really should tell Benjy, she decided. He ought to know, because someday he would most likely be the owner of the house, since she and An’gel had no blood descendants to inherit from them.

The last piece of cutlery in place, Dickce gazed at the table. Had she forgotten anything?

“Looks fine to me,” she murmured.

As she continued to think about the housekeeper’s words, Dickce felt a prickle on the back of her neck.

What if Clementine is right? What if we stir up something in that house we can’t handle?

CHAPTER 2

Benjy braked the car gently to a halt, shifted into Park, and switched off the ignition. His shoulders ached lightly from the long drive, as did his head, but he figured a little pain was a small price to pay for having arrived at Cliffwood in one piece. Miss Dickce had pouted for a few minutes when Miss An’gel asked him to drive them all the way to Natchez. Miss An’gel refused to budge over her sister’s protests. Miss Dickce acted like a good sport and hadn’t sulked for long.

If Miss Dickce had driven them, Benjy reckoned, she would have received several tickets coming down the Natchez Trace. The speed limit was only fifty miles an hour, and Miss Dickce had trouble driving less than eighty no matter where she was going. He enjoyed the more leisurely pace because it afforded him the opportunity to appreciate the hues of the fall foliage—rich golds and yellows, vibrant reds, browns, and greens. Where he grew up in Southern California, there was nothing like this panoply of autumn colors.