bestthings I’d discovered about English country life. Its ovens never went out; somehow they kept a permanently even temperature suitable for the baking of soufflés or the slow braising of casseroles or roasting of meats, and its hot plates with the shiny steel covers never needed lighting. The Aga also partly fueled the Hall’s hot-water system and kept the kitchen the coziest room in the entire house.
Bob and I and his guests had often ended our evenings here, clustered around the big scrubbed-pine kitchen table that had been in the house since it was built, sipping wine and nibbling on Mrs. Wainwright’s excellent gingersnap cookies. Some of the best nights of my life had been spent with convivial company around this table. Now, though, the kitchen was immaculate. The dishwasher whirred gently, and the hardwood floors had a dark gleam from much polishing. The housekeeper was proud of her domain.
“Mrs. Wainwright’s finished for the night,” I told Montana, who was still standing by the door watching me. It was unnerving, as though he was looking out for any false move I might make. Well, darn it, the only move I was going to make was to clear the last of the dishes from the dining room table and then I was off to bed.
When I told him this, Montana immediately said he would help. He stacked plates efficiently, holding the silverware down with his thumb so it wouldn’t fall.
“You’re pretty good at table clearing,” I said.
“When I was a kid I was a busboy at a diner in Galveston.”
“Maybe you should have stuck to it,” I said nastily.
He made no comment, simply followed me into the kitchenwith the dishes. I ran water into the sink, squeezed in some Palmolive, swished the dishes around, rinsed them off, set them on the wooden drainer. He didn’t offer to dry them, which for some reason irked me. I took paper towels and ostentatiously dried the glasses, polishing them slowly to a gleam. I put them in the glass-fronted cupboard next to the dozens of others. I turned to face my silent, watchful guest.
“Time for bed,” I said, walking past him into the corridor that led from the kitchen to the front hall.
“Wait!”
It wasn’t a request, it was a command. I spun around. “Wait for what? So you can expound on your stupid theory that Bob was murdered? Well, I’m sorry but I don’t want to hear it.” He was standing next to me by now, but I turned angrily away.
He grabbed my shoulder this time. “Please, Daisy Keane, wait a minute. It’s not for me, it’s for Bob. He gave me something for you. Please, sit here while I go get it.”
He pulled out a chair, sat me in it, then walked down the corridor to the front hall. I waited, sullenly. He was soon back, holding a bulky manila envelope which he handed to me.
“Do you know what’s in here?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Bob simply asked me to hold on to it. I was to give it to you ‘should the need arise.’ And I’m quoting his exact words.”
He pulled out the chair opposite and sat, elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of him, looking at me. I caught sight of the strange turquoise-studded bracelet again and wondered in passing why such an obviously tough honcho would wear such a thing.
I turned the manila envelope over and over. For some reason I didn’t want to open it. I didn’t want to know whatever it was Bob had to tell me from beyond the grave, I just wanted things to be the way they had always been. Why, oh
why,
couldn’t I simply turn back the clock and start all over again? By not getting the flu, not staying home in bed, not allowing Bob to drive alone? Then I remembered what Montana had said: that if I had, I would be dead too.
9
Daisy
I clutched the envelope to my chest. Whatever it contained was personal, from Bob to me. It had nothing to do with this man; he was only the messenger. The weariness I had felt earlier returned, draining me. “I can’t deal with this now,” I said, getting to my feet.
Bob and I and his guests had often ended our evenings here, clustered around the big scrubbed-pine kitchen table that had been in the house since it was built, sipping wine and nibbling on Mrs. Wainwright’s excellent gingersnap cookies. Some of the best nights of my life had been spent with convivial company around this table. Now, though, the kitchen was immaculate. The dishwasher whirred gently, and the hardwood floors had a dark gleam from much polishing. The housekeeper was proud of her domain.
“Mrs. Wainwright’s finished for the night,” I told Montana, who was still standing by the door watching me. It was unnerving, as though he was looking out for any false move I might make. Well, darn it, the only move I was going to make was to clear the last of the dishes from the dining room table and then I was off to bed.
When I told him this, Montana immediately said he would help. He stacked plates efficiently, holding the silverware down with his thumb so it wouldn’t fall.
“You’re pretty good at table clearing,” I said.
“When I was a kid I was a busboy at a diner in Galveston.”
“Maybe you should have stuck to it,” I said nastily.
He made no comment, simply followed me into the kitchenwith the dishes. I ran water into the sink, squeezed in some Palmolive, swished the dishes around, rinsed them off, set them on the wooden drainer. He didn’t offer to dry them, which for some reason irked me. I took paper towels and ostentatiously dried the glasses, polishing them slowly to a gleam. I put them in the glass-fronted cupboard next to the dozens of others. I turned to face my silent, watchful guest.
“Time for bed,” I said, walking past him into the corridor that led from the kitchen to the front hall.
“Wait!”
It wasn’t a request, it was a command. I spun around. “Wait for what? So you can expound on your stupid theory that Bob was murdered? Well, I’m sorry but I don’t want to hear it.” He was standing next to me by now, but I turned angrily away.
He grabbed my shoulder this time. “Please, Daisy Keane, wait a minute. It’s not for me, it’s for Bob. He gave me something for you. Please, sit here while I go get it.”
He pulled out a chair, sat me in it, then walked down the corridor to the front hall. I waited, sullenly. He was soon back, holding a bulky manila envelope which he handed to me.
“Do you know what’s in here?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Bob simply asked me to hold on to it. I was to give it to you ‘should the need arise.’ And I’m quoting his exact words.”
He pulled out the chair opposite and sat, elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of him, looking at me. I caught sight of the strange turquoise-studded bracelet again and wondered in passing why such an obviously tough honcho would wear such a thing.
I turned the manila envelope over and over. For some reason I didn’t want to open it. I didn’t want to know whatever it was Bob had to tell me from beyond the grave, I just wanted things to be the way they had always been. Why, oh
why,
couldn’t I simply turn back the clock and start all over again? By not getting the flu, not staying home in bed, not allowing Bob to drive alone? Then I remembered what Montana had said: that if I had, I would be dead too.
9
Daisy
I clutched the envelope to my chest. Whatever it contained was personal, from Bob to me. It had nothing to do with this man; he was only the messenger. The weariness I had felt earlier returned, draining me. “I can’t deal with this now,” I said, getting to my feet.
Similar Books
