Читать книгу The Poisoned Pen - E. Joan Sims - Страница 6

Chapter Four

The hot bath felt even better than I had imagined. I lathered up twice and rinsed off, then filled the tub again for a long soak in the sweet, oil-scented water. My hair, however, presented a more difficult problem. In the past few weeks I had let it get too long and the auburn curls were frizzy and difficult to brush out under the best of conditions. Tonight I had no choice but to resort to the scissors.

It wasn’t the first time I had cut my own hair. I hated beauty parlors. To my mind they were full of noxious odors, silly women, and malicious gossip. I avoided them like the plague.

Reluctantly, I left the warm, sweet-scented haven of my bathroom and wrapped up in a long terry robe. Mother and Cassie were out on the back porch with their heads together over the remainder of my bottle of wine and a big tray of cheese and fruit.

“Oh, dear!” apologized Mother. “I’m afraid we’ve finished off your wine, Paisley, dear. Shall I open another, or would you like something else?”

“Water’s fine, Mother.” I showed her the bottle I had grabbed from the fridge on my way out. “I would like a hunk of that funny-smelling cheese, though, and some grapes.”

“Cassie, please cut your mother a slice of manchego with the cheese knife before she disfigures it with her fork.”

“Cut her some slack, Gran. Mom’s had quite a night.”

“Nonsense! She was simply fulfilling her civic duty. Anyone would have done as much. Although,” she added, as she leaned over and rewarded me with a quick kiss on the cheek, “I’m sure our Paisley did it with more panache.” She paused and looked at me closely in the dim light of the citronella candle. “What have you done with your hair?”

“Oh, Mom, what have you done?” giggled Cassie. “You look like….”

“Please, don’t say Raggedy Ann,” I begged.

“I was thinking more of the Chia pet my roommate had at Emory.”

I jerked the hood of my robe up over my head and grumbled, “Never mind my hair. I’m a writer, not a model, for goodness sake.”

“Yes, but….”

“But, what, Mother?” I demanded.

“Beth Davis called from the Rowan Springs Gazette to ask for an interview with the heroine of the day.”

“And you refused, I hope!”

“No, dear, I’m afraid not. As a matter of fact, I invited her for breakfast. You’re usually at your best in the morning.”

“Damn, damn, and double damn! I hate that silly twit! She couldn’t write her way out of a paper sack.”

“You have to admit she’s entertaining, Mom. Remember the wedding we were reading about last week. Describing a fifty-pound wedding cake shaped like a guitar in a hundred words or less can’t be all that easy.”

“She’s pedantic and obtuse—and what’s worse, she’s a literary snob! Can you imagine anyone in Rowan Springs understanding her constant references to the bride and groom as Beatrice and Benedick?”

“Of course, dear.”

“Why am I surprised that you disagree with me, Mother?” I asked with a shake of my shorn curls. “And by the way, why do you?”

“Miss Davis and quite a few of her peers were students of your father’s before he retired. Shakespeare’s comedies were required reading in his English Literature classes, and “Much Ado About Nothing” was one of his favorites. I’m sure some people are quite well-acquainted with Beatrice and Benedick.”

Mother had taken some of the wind out of my sails, but I refused to admit defeat. “Well, I still don’t want her here. She’s always trying to get me to read her latest attempt at the great American novel. Last week I had to duck into the feed store and hide behind the Bag Balm shelf for twenty minutes until she finally quit gabbing with some poor soul and went on her merry way. I’ve managed to avoid her for months and now my very own mother has invited her into the bosom of my family!”

Mother straightened her shoulders and zoomed in for the kill. “Be kind, Paisley, dear,” she ordered quietly. “More cheese?”

Mother went to bed early, but Cassie and I made ourselves comfortable on the lounges and listened to the frogs and crickets until almost midnight.

“Aren’t you exhausted, Mom?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But I love hearing the night songs of all those little creatures. It’s is one of the things I missed the most when we lived in the city.”

“I love the sound, too,” she agreed. “But I hate the thought of all that unrequited love.”

“Lonesome, Cassie?”

“Absolutely not! You may not believe it, Mom, but I practically have to beat ’em off with a stick!”

I smiled in the darkness as I conjured up a picture of my tall, slender, and very beautiful daughter fending off hordes of hopeful and insistent swain. “Is there no one in Rowan Springs worthy of your charming company?” I teased.

“Maybe a couple, but they’re married.”

“You’re kidding! Who are they?”

“Bruce Hawkins for one.”

“He comes on to you?” I was surprised and disappointed. Bruce was Mother’s lawyer. I really liked and respected him, and his wife was one of the few people in Rowan Springs I wanted to get to know better.

“No,” she answered, thoughtfully. “I don’t think you could call it that, but he has been spending a lot of time in the bookstore lately. Then again, Mary usually meets him there after work, and they always seem really happy to see one another. She’s getting a little chubby,” Cassie added, with a smile. “I think she might be pregnant.”

“Well, then you can forget about Mr. Hawkins. Who’s the other one?”

“William Budd.”

“Good grief, Cassie! That funny little man? Whatever do you see in him?”

“He’s sweet,” she protested. “And if he lost the granny glasses and changed his wardrobe a bit he could be really interesting looking.”

“Maybe so…but somehow I think his neck would fall off if he didn’t wear that bow tie.”

“Don’t be mean, Mom.”

I cleared my throat of the chuckle that was threatening. “You said married men. Is Budd married?”

“He wasn’t married for very long. His wife died last year,” she said softly.

“Oh! Sorry. Who was she? Anyone I might know?”

“I never heard her name before. I think she was someone he met when he went away to school. She was ill for several years. He’s not as old as you think. He’s just had a hard time.”

“My God, Cassie! You sound like you’ve fallen for this character.”

“No, Mom,” she stated firmly. “But I do enjoy his conversation, and I can hardly ask one of my best customers to quit coming around.”

“But he’s old! He almost as old as….”

“You, Mom?” asked Cassie, barely suppressing her laughter. “He did mention that he had a crush on you when you were in junior high.”

“See! He’s just a year, or two….”

“No, Mom,” she laughed. “He was six, and you were his baby sitter.”

I slept late the next morning—or at least, I pretended to. For the last couple of years I had managed to arrange my life just to suit me. Perhaps I was spoiled, but I liked having the freedom to decide what I wanted to do and when I wanted to do it. I deeply resented any unwanted changes in my schedule.

When Cassie rapped sharply on my door, I turned over and buried my head under the pillow. “Rats, rats, rats,” I mumbled angrily. “I should have left that snot-nosed little brat in the jungle.”

“Now, now, Mom, you don’t really mean that,” admonished Cassie, as she entered my room and sat down on the edge of my bed. Aggie’s toenails clicked rapidly on the bare wood floors as she ran to join her mistress.

“Go away! I’m asleep! And take that rotten little beast with you. She’s been burying dog biscuits under my pillow again. I had to get up twice during the night just to brush the crumbs off my sheets.”

“Come on, Mom. Miss Davis is here—all bright and shiny as a new copper penny. Looks like she bought an outfit just for this interview. She must really think you’re something special!”

“Then fill her in on the story of the ‘real me,’ and tell her to buzz off.”

“Gran’s loving all of the attention you’re getting,” she said, trying a new tactic. “She’ll be very disappointed if you’re not on the front page of tomorrow’s paper.”

I turned over and sat up, propping my pillows behind me. I took the cup of hot tea Cassie had brought me and winked at her.

“Then she’s forgotten that old southern adage: a lady’s name appears in print only twice—when she marries and when she dies.”

“Get dressed, Mom. They’re waiting for you on the patio.”