he somehow hadn’t expected, but it explained Margaret’s dashed hopes when she’d opened the door. Kincaid thought quickly. What story would satisfy this harridan? From the looks of the headline in her paper—“Eleven-year-old mum fights authorities for baby!”—Mrs. Wilson’s sympathies were aroused by melodrama, but the truth seemed a betrayal of both Margaret and Jasmine.
He improvised. “It’s her uncle. Died suddenly yesterday, and Margaret’s not taken it well at all.”
Mrs. Wilson’s heavy face remained as unmoved as her stiffly permed hair. “Figures.” She looked at Kincaid suspiciously. “What do you have to do with it, anyway?”
“I’m a friend of the family. Duncan Kincaid.” He held out his hand and Mrs. Wilson condescended to touch her pudgy fingertips to his before retrieving her half-smoked cigarette.
“So what’s it to me?”
“She’s not eaten anything since yesterday. I thought you might make her up some sandwiches?” Kincaid made the lastremark with a raised eyebrow and as much persuasion as he could muster.
Mrs. Wilson opened her mouth to refuse, then stopped and eyed Kincaid speculatively. Desire for gossip warred with her natural inclination to do as little for anyone as possible, and maliciousness triumphed over sloth. “Well, I suppose I could just put something together, but I don’t want her getting any ideas, mind you.” She levered herself out of the chair, then jerked her head toward the vacant seat. “You’d better sit down.” She continued over her shoulder as she opened the fridge, “Would this be her mother’s brother or her father’s that passed away?”
“Her mother’s youngest brother, not much older than Margaret, in fact,” Kincaid said glibly. “They were very close.”
Mrs. Wilson spoke with her back to Kincaid, slicing something he couldn’t see. “No family’s ever had anything to do with her since she came here. Might as well be an orphan.”
“Well, at least she’s had her boyfriend to look after her,” Kincaid threw out.
“Him!” Mrs. Wilson turned around and fixed Kincaid with a beady stare. “That one never looked after anything but himself, I can tell you. Sponging, more like it.” She turned back to her slicing. “Too pretty for his own good, and oily with it. What he sees in her,” she lifted her head toward the ceiling, “I don’t know.” She wiped her hands on her apron and presented Kincaid with a plate of squashy, if edible looking, ham and tomato sandwiches. “That do?”
“Admirably, thanks.”
Having finished her task, Mrs. Wilson seemed disinclined to let him go. She lit another cigarette and propped her hip up on the edge of the table. Kincaid looked away from the sight of her spreading thigh and settled his weight back into the chair.
Mrs. Wilson took up her train of thought again. “I’ve toldher I don’t want him hanging around here, nor spending the night. Gives my house a bad name, don’t it?”
Kincaid assumed the question was rhetorical, but answered it placatingly anyway. “I’m sure no one would think such a thing, Mrs. Wilson.”
Mrs. Wilson preened a bit at this, and leaned toward him conspiratorially. “She thinks I don’t know what’s going on, but I do. I hear him come padding down the stairs at all hours of the night, like a thief. And I hear the rows, too,” a pause while she inhaled and sent a cloud of smoke in the direction of Kincaid’s face, “mostly him shouting and her wailing like a lamb led to slaughter. Silly cow,” Mrs. Wilson finished with a snort. “I imagine she puts up with it ’cause she thinks she won’t do any better.”
Charitable old bitch, Kincaid thought, and smiled at her. “Then I don’t suppose he’s much comfort to her, at a time like this?”
“Not been here to comfort, or for anything else. Not since …” Mrs. Wilson squinted and drew on the last of her cigarette, then ground it out in the cheap tin ashtray. “Oh, must have been
He improvised. “It’s her uncle. Died suddenly yesterday, and Margaret’s not taken it well at all.”
Mrs. Wilson’s heavy face remained as unmoved as her stiffly permed hair. “Figures.” She looked at Kincaid suspiciously. “What do you have to do with it, anyway?”
“I’m a friend of the family. Duncan Kincaid.” He held out his hand and Mrs. Wilson condescended to touch her pudgy fingertips to his before retrieving her half-smoked cigarette.
“So what’s it to me?”
“She’s not eaten anything since yesterday. I thought you might make her up some sandwiches?” Kincaid made the lastremark with a raised eyebrow and as much persuasion as he could muster.
Mrs. Wilson opened her mouth to refuse, then stopped and eyed Kincaid speculatively. Desire for gossip warred with her natural inclination to do as little for anyone as possible, and maliciousness triumphed over sloth. “Well, I suppose I could just put something together, but I don’t want her getting any ideas, mind you.” She levered herself out of the chair, then jerked her head toward the vacant seat. “You’d better sit down.” She continued over her shoulder as she opened the fridge, “Would this be her mother’s brother or her father’s that passed away?”
“Her mother’s youngest brother, not much older than Margaret, in fact,” Kincaid said glibly. “They were very close.”
Mrs. Wilson spoke with her back to Kincaid, slicing something he couldn’t see. “No family’s ever had anything to do with her since she came here. Might as well be an orphan.”
“Well, at least she’s had her boyfriend to look after her,” Kincaid threw out.
“Him!” Mrs. Wilson turned around and fixed Kincaid with a beady stare. “That one never looked after anything but himself, I can tell you. Sponging, more like it.” She turned back to her slicing. “Too pretty for his own good, and oily with it. What he sees in her,” she lifted her head toward the ceiling, “I don’t know.” She wiped her hands on her apron and presented Kincaid with a plate of squashy, if edible looking, ham and tomato sandwiches. “That do?”
“Admirably, thanks.”
Having finished her task, Mrs. Wilson seemed disinclined to let him go. She lit another cigarette and propped her hip up on the edge of the table. Kincaid looked away from the sight of her spreading thigh and settled his weight back into the chair.
Mrs. Wilson took up her train of thought again. “I’ve toldher I don’t want him hanging around here, nor spending the night. Gives my house a bad name, don’t it?”
Kincaid assumed the question was rhetorical, but answered it placatingly anyway. “I’m sure no one would think such a thing, Mrs. Wilson.”
Mrs. Wilson preened a bit at this, and leaned toward him conspiratorially. “She thinks I don’t know what’s going on, but I do. I hear him come padding down the stairs at all hours of the night, like a thief. And I hear the rows, too,” a pause while she inhaled and sent a cloud of smoke in the direction of Kincaid’s face, “mostly him shouting and her wailing like a lamb led to slaughter. Silly cow,” Mrs. Wilson finished with a snort. “I imagine she puts up with it ’cause she thinks she won’t do any better.”
Charitable old bitch, Kincaid thought, and smiled at her. “Then I don’t suppose he’s much comfort to her, at a time like this?”
“Not been here to comfort, or for anything else. Not since …” Mrs. Wilson squinted and drew on the last of her cigarette, then ground it out in the cheap tin ashtray. “Oh, must have been
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