notice.” She didn’t sound too upset. “I was going to quit; he stole that pleasure from me. I did tell him I wouldn’t work for a spoiled, cowardly adolescent like him for twice what Corinne was paying me.”
“I’ll bet he liked that.” I accepted the china cup she handed me and breathed in the fragrance of Earl Grey.
“Not by half,” she said with a reminiscent smile, seating herself beside me. “He hollered and carried on and ordered me out of the house on the spot. That’s why I came back now: I knew he’d be out, and I wanted to collect my things and a few mementos Mrs. Blakely intended me to have.” She nodded toward a couple of suitcases and boxes near a door that I guessed might lead to the housekeeper’s quarters.
“Do you have someplace to live?” I felt a tug of concern for the old woman whose knuckles were swollen with arthritis in the kitchen’s clear light.
“Bless you, I’m going back to England to live with my sister Abigail,” she said. “She’s got a snug little cottage in Cornwall and has been after me for years to retire and set up house with her. Now”—she leveled a stern look at me from pale blue eyes—“perhaps you’ll tell me what you’re doing here.”
I liked Mrs. Laughlin and couldn’t believe she’d had anything to do with Corinne Blakely’s death, so I told her about Maurice being arrested and about the manuscript Corinne was working on. “I don’t suppose you know where it is?”
She was shaking her head before I finished the question. “No. I know about the book, of course. She talked about it constantly these past few months, and used to ask me if I thought she should include this happening or that anecdote, but as far as I know, she hadn’t actually written the thing yet. She was waiting for a contract. ‘There’s no point doing it on spec, Mrs. Laughlin,’ she said to me more than once. She did have an outline, though, which she revised every day. ‘Should I put in the bit about Greta Monk?’ she’d ask, or ‘I don’t think I’ll use the story about Frederick Winston . . . poor old Freddy.’”
Mrs. Laughlin sipped her tea. “Sometimes I thought it would be best if she didn’t get a contract, because then she’d have to write the book, and I didn’t know what she’d focus on once it was finished. I had one of my feelings—that when she typed ‘The End’ on the last page, she’d be at her end, too. A foolish worry, as it turns out.” She stared into the amber liquid in her cup.
I tried to imagine what it must be like for her at eighty-whatever to have lost the woman I suspected was her best, if not only, friend, her employer, and her home all at once.
“You wouldn’t believe how worried some people were about what she was putting in the book,” Mrs. Laughlin went on. “My, my. I can’t tell you how many times one person or another cornered me in the kitchen if they were over for dinner, or asked me on the phone, if I answered it, exactly what she was including. I gave them all the same answer: ‘You’ll have to ask Mrs. Blakely.’”
Interesting, I thought. If Danielle or one of my former dance partners or boyfriends told me they were writing a memoir, would I be worried? Okay, maybe a little bit. Danielle certainly knew a few things about my love life that I’d just as soon my parents never knew, and Andrew might reveal the story of how we raised the money to enter our first serious ballroom dance competition, but I couldn’t see myself taking any drastic steps to protect those secrets. Just how big did a secret need to be to inspire someone to want it kept under wraps “at all costs”? A question to ponder later.
“I can help you carry your stuff to your car,” I said, beginning to worry about Turner Blakely returning. If he wasn’t spending the night in Virginia Beach, he could come driving up anytime. Even though he was probably whooping it up with his about-to-be-married buddy, I couldn’t help
“I’ll bet he liked that.” I accepted the china cup she handed me and breathed in the fragrance of Earl Grey.
“Not by half,” she said with a reminiscent smile, seating herself beside me. “He hollered and carried on and ordered me out of the house on the spot. That’s why I came back now: I knew he’d be out, and I wanted to collect my things and a few mementos Mrs. Blakely intended me to have.” She nodded toward a couple of suitcases and boxes near a door that I guessed might lead to the housekeeper’s quarters.
“Do you have someplace to live?” I felt a tug of concern for the old woman whose knuckles were swollen with arthritis in the kitchen’s clear light.
“Bless you, I’m going back to England to live with my sister Abigail,” she said. “She’s got a snug little cottage in Cornwall and has been after me for years to retire and set up house with her. Now”—she leveled a stern look at me from pale blue eyes—“perhaps you’ll tell me what you’re doing here.”
I liked Mrs. Laughlin and couldn’t believe she’d had anything to do with Corinne Blakely’s death, so I told her about Maurice being arrested and about the manuscript Corinne was working on. “I don’t suppose you know where it is?”
She was shaking her head before I finished the question. “No. I know about the book, of course. She talked about it constantly these past few months, and used to ask me if I thought she should include this happening or that anecdote, but as far as I know, she hadn’t actually written the thing yet. She was waiting for a contract. ‘There’s no point doing it on spec, Mrs. Laughlin,’ she said to me more than once. She did have an outline, though, which she revised every day. ‘Should I put in the bit about Greta Monk?’ she’d ask, or ‘I don’t think I’ll use the story about Frederick Winston . . . poor old Freddy.’”
Mrs. Laughlin sipped her tea. “Sometimes I thought it would be best if she didn’t get a contract, because then she’d have to write the book, and I didn’t know what she’d focus on once it was finished. I had one of my feelings—that when she typed ‘The End’ on the last page, she’d be at her end, too. A foolish worry, as it turns out.” She stared into the amber liquid in her cup.
I tried to imagine what it must be like for her at eighty-whatever to have lost the woman I suspected was her best, if not only, friend, her employer, and her home all at once.
“You wouldn’t believe how worried some people were about what she was putting in the book,” Mrs. Laughlin went on. “My, my. I can’t tell you how many times one person or another cornered me in the kitchen if they were over for dinner, or asked me on the phone, if I answered it, exactly what she was including. I gave them all the same answer: ‘You’ll have to ask Mrs. Blakely.’”
Interesting, I thought. If Danielle or one of my former dance partners or boyfriends told me they were writing a memoir, would I be worried? Okay, maybe a little bit. Danielle certainly knew a few things about my love life that I’d just as soon my parents never knew, and Andrew might reveal the story of how we raised the money to enter our first serious ballroom dance competition, but I couldn’t see myself taking any drastic steps to protect those secrets. Just how big did a secret need to be to inspire someone to want it kept under wraps “at all costs”? A question to ponder later.
“I can help you carry your stuff to your car,” I said, beginning to worry about Turner Blakely returning. If he wasn’t spending the night in Virginia Beach, he could come driving up anytime. Even though he was probably whooping it up with his about-to-be-married buddy, I couldn’t help
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