10. The Never-Ending Manse-2
1095 Words
“It"s lamb stew. I"ll be freezing it.” The smile was as spare as his lips and he reached for a long thin plastic cutting board on which approximately three tablespoons of chopped herbs rested. “What brings you to my domain, Miss Fonne?”
“Jill, please. I"ve heard wonderful things about your cooking over the years from my aunt. I"ve liked what I"ve tried so far and thought it was time to officially meet you.” I leaned into a counter that supported two sets of rustic-red ceramic canisters and a mobile phone. “My boyfriend"s a pastry chef. He says you"re very good at what you do.” It was a bit of an exaggeration, but not a lie.
Another spare smile. He moved to a large French-door fridge and removed a fat ivory pitcher. “I don"t normally spend time with guests.”
“So I"ve heard, but I"m a niece, not a guest.”
This time he chuckled and the teddy-bear rumbles sounded cute. “I don"t spend time with them, either.”
I stepped up to a deep stainless-steel sink in front of a small steamed-up window, and grabbed a crisp Granny Smith apple. I tossed the green globe and caught it. “You"ve been here quite a while.”
He looked at me as if that went without saying, turned off the stove, and moved the pot with the stew to another burner.
“Did you know Thomas Saturne?”
“Only by name and sight.” He shuffled back to the fridge and removed butter and eggs.
“So you wouldn"t know if anyone hated him enough to kill him?”
Porter"s ruddy chipmunk cheeks performed a hamster shuffle (invisible nuts shifted from one facial pocket to the other and back again). A sizeable trident-shaped scar graced the lower left cheek. That injury must have hurt like crazy. “Are the police saying he was murdered?”
“No.” I smiled trimly. “Not yet.”
More hamster shuffles. Close-set ash-gray eyes stared into mine. “Do you think he was murdered?”
you“I"m a budding reporter,” I shrugged. “It"s my nature to be nosy and presume or assume the worst – until proven otherwise.”
He marched to the pantry like a soldier on a mission. “Anything else, Miss Fonne?” he asked when he returned with a fresh bag of sorghum flour and bottle of agave nectar. His visage conveyed nothing: no curiosity, annoyance, or joy. The man was hard to read.
I shook my head.
“The final touches to dinner require undivided attention. You don"t mind if I continue my work – in solitude?”
I shook my head again.
“Miss.” He bowed a cantaloupe-shaped head and ambled back to the counter with the cutting board while I moved on to the library-study, hoping to find an entertaining book to read later in bed.
I was scanning the inside jacket of Lee"s To Kill a Mockingbird, a book I"d not read since high school, when May-Lee Sonit entered.
To Kill a MockingbirdShe jumped upon seeing me. “You startled me!”
“Apparently,” I smiled, tucking the book under my arm.
She laughed anxiously and strolled to the shelves that housed fiction books. “I seem to be in a reading frame of mind and thought I"d grab two or three more novels.”
“Good books beat TV any day.”
“I agree. There are too many reality shows and not enough quality programming anymore.” She scanned two shelves and removed Hemingway"s For Whom the Bell Tolls and Twain"s Life on the Mississippi. “I never tire of either.”
For Whom the Bell TollsLife on the Mississippi“The books? Or the authors?”
She regarded me for several seconds. “You look like Mathilda. You have her cheeks and mouth.”
Instinctively I touched my face. “No one"s mentioned that before.”
“They"ve probably never seen the two of you together before.”
“Either have you.”
“But I have. Here you are and there she is.” She gestured three large photos in ornate silver frames on one of two antique oak carved pedestal tables. One was of Aunt Mat and Reginald by a willow tree in a vast hilly park during their early years. Gauging from the nearby flowering trees and colorful tulips, it was early spring. Another was of Reginald receiving an award or certificate from a man who bore a striking resemblance to Christopher Lloyd in Back to the Future. The third was a medium shot of my aunt in a forest-green sequined number at a black-tie gala, probably taken five or six years ago. “There"s definitely a resemblance.”
Back to the Future.“You two were close.”
“Very.” She glanced wistfully at the third photo. “We shared many enjoyable moments together.”
“You also shared a lot of interests.”
“We did, yes – antiques, art, theater, opera, viticulture and the resulting fine wines.” Another wistful glance.
“Did you know Thomas at all?”
She hugged the books to her chest. “We"d met a few times over the years, primarily here at the estate.” She smiled sadly. “Mat did have a flair for in-house parties and celebrations.”
“What did you think of the man?”
“He was stuffy, self-absorbed, anxious, preoccupied. He wasn"t overly friendly and he wasn"t one to open up to others and make them feel welcome or liked.” She shrugged. “I suppose I shouldn"t be so judgmental, considering the man"s deceased.”
“But that"s certainly the impression he gave,” I agreed. “Do you think someone could have disliked him enough to have killed him?”
Eyes the color of Red Rose tea widened. “The man"s death was an accident, wasn"t it? I know what your cousin has been claiming, and what"s been said, but I can"t believe his death was anything but an accident.”
I smiled fleetingly and sauntered to the door. “Of course it was an accident. It"s very easy to get caught up in Rey"s penchant for the melodramatic.”
She scanned my face, chuckled lightly, and moved into the hallway.
Forget Cousin Reynalda"s nonsense. I"d allowed myself to become absorbed in the dramatics. Of course Thomas" death was an accident. So I"d keep convincing myself.
- Writer
