Endora rubbed against her leg while An’gel peered into the mirror again to satisfy herself that her makeup was as impeccable as she could make it. “It’s a good thing I don’t have my stockings on yet,” An’gel muttered.
“Sister, where are you?” Dickce’s voice rang out in the living room. “Are you decent?”
“Yes, come in.” An’gel turned to await her sister’s entrance. Endora, hearing Dickce, trotted out to greet her. When Dickce came in the bedroom, the cat rode in her arms.
“How is Sondra?” An’gel asked.
“A little shaken up, once the reaction set in. Still able to fuss and carry on and give everyone a headache, though.” Dickce perched on the edge of the bed and eyed her sister critically. “I thought Mireille might have a conniption fit on the spot when she heard what happened. Jacqueline had to give her a shot of brandy to buck her up.”
“For all that shrinking violet bit she displays on occasion, Mireille has always been strong as a horse.” An’gel frowned. “I hope she isn’t having health problems she hasn’t shared with us.”
“A few sips of brandy put her right,” Dickce said. “Fortunately Estelle was busy elsewhere, or she would have had all of us on the edge of a nervous breakdown.”
“Mireille has enough stress at the moment without strange events like this adding to it,” An’gel said. “I’m afraid, Sister. I’ve got a feeling that something nasty is going on under the surface here.”
“I agree,” Dickce said. “I have a bad feeling about those brakes and why they failed.”
They stared at each other for a moment. An’gel couldn’t help remembering the events of a couple of months ago, when an old school friend turned up uninvited on their doorstep. Tragedy arrived with her, and An’gel didn’t care to go through anything like that again. She might not have a choice, she realized. She and Dickce would simply have to remain vigilant and do their best to guard against any further looming disasters.
CHAPTER 6
Dickce glanced around the twelve-foot-long Louis XV walnut dining table and did a quick count. Nine people. Isn’t that supposed to be unlucky, an odd number at the table? she wondered. No, it was thirteen at dinner, like in the Agatha Christie book, that was unlucky. She had a sip of her sweet iced tea and glanced at Benjy, seated to her left. He seemed a bit overwhelmed by the assembled company, and she didn’t blame him. With the exception of Mireille and Jacqueline, no one had made much of an effort to speak to him or make him feel welcome. The atmosphere in the room felt oppressive, and Dickce had little urge to talk herself.
From across the table, Lance kept gazing vacantly at Benjy and not paying much attention to Sondra on his right. Sondra, directly across from Dickce, appeared not to notice the older woman’s presence. Instead, Sondra, too, gazed at Benjy, but not vacantly. Predatorily, Dickce decided, and then wondered if that was an actual word. Poor Benjy.
At the head of the table, as befit her position as mistress of Willowbank, Mireille looked splendid in lilac silk. Dickce had always admired the pearl necklace and earrings Mireille wore. They had belonged to Mireille’s great-great-grandmother and were worth a fortune. Dickce didn’t think it was her imagination that Horace Mims, seated on Mireille’s right, kept gazing hungrily at the jewels. They would someday belong to Jacqueline, his wife, but Dickce had the oddest feeling Horace would like to have them in his fat, clammy hands right now.
To Mireille’s left sat Richmond Thurston, an old friend of Terence Delevan’s and a prominent attorney in St. Ignatiusville. He had been best man at Terence and Jacqueline’s wedding, and he was also Sondra’s godfather. Dickce thought him a fine figure of a man—tall, stately, with an imposing presence. His dark hair sprinkled liberally with gray, he had a beak of a nose that gave his face character. Unlike poor Horace, Dickce thought, who looked more like the Michelin Man or the Pillsbury Doughboy. What Jacqueline saw in him—other than his money—Dickce hadn’t a clue. Where Richmond Thurston was urbane and sophisticated, Horace Mims was provincial and crass. Dickce and An’gel had often wondered why Jacqueline hadn’t married Thurston. He wasn’t as rich as Horace, but he was far more attractive.
No accounting for taste, Dickce thought. She tuned back into the conversation—more like a monologue, she realized, as Horace appeared to be winding down a tedious story about some deal he had made and how he’d made mincemeat out of the other man.
“Guy was ready to lick my boots and thank me for the privilege by the time I got through with him,” Horace said with a nasty grin.
“You’re a hard man, Horace.” Thurston smiled. “Can’t tell you how happy I am we’re not in the same business.”
“Horace is such a hard worker,” Jacqueline said. “He’s always working on some new deal or other.”
Dickce thought she detected a note of complaint in Jacqueline’s voice. Perhaps Horace spent more time on his business than he did on his marriage. Dickce wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.
“That sure is the truth, darling.” Horace beamed across the table at his wife. “Takes every bit of money I earn selling cars to make sure you got everything you need. When you got a beautiful wife, you want to make sure and show her off to everybody.”
Jacqueline blushed and reached with a not quite steady hand for her wineglass. “Thank you, Horace. You’ve very sweet to say such things. But we should be talking about Sondra and what a beautiful bride she will be.”
“About time,” Sondra muttered.
Dickce glanced at the girl sharply, then at Jacqueline. She didn’t think Jacqueline had heard her daughter’s rude remark.
Lance continued to appear oblivious to the scene around him as he gazed across the table at Benjy. Benjy seemed fascinated with his food and was not paying attention to Lance. Dickce gave his arm a surreptitious pat, and he flashed her a grateful smile.
“Yes, Sondra will be the most beautiful bride St. Ignatiusville has ever seen—at least since her mother walked down the aisle with Terence Delevan twenty-three years ago.” Thurston bent forward slightly to look down the table at Sondra.
“The wedding will be lovely,” Mireille said. “I’m so pleased that Sondra has agreed to wear her great-great-grandmother’s dress and pearls for the ceremony. It has been a tradition for several generations of Champlain women, and it means so much to me that my lovely granddaughter will be a part of it on her wedding day.”
Dickce leaned forward slightly to see An’gel’s expression. Her sister was as surprised as she was over Sondra’s capitulation. Dickce wondered how on earth Mireille had prevailed in this, because Sondra had seemed determined not to wear the antique gown. She was surprised that An’gel didn’t ask right then and there.
Estelle bustled in at the end of Mireille’s remarks, with Jackson the butler trailing behind, both carrying trays. They started removing the first course, a delicious French onion soup, and worked swiftly and competently.
“As long as you’re happy, Grand-mère, that’s all that matters,” Sondra said, her expression mulish.
“There’s bad weather coming,” Estelle announced suddenly. “It’s going to be storming the night before the wedding, and that’s a bad omen.” She removed An’gel’s soup service and set it on the tray. “It’s bad luck for brides in St. Ignatiusville, and I am going to be praying that nothing terrible happens.”
“Estelle, I’d rather you didn’t talk about such superstitious nonsense.” Mireille sounded outraged, and Dickce was a bit surprised. She had never heard her cousin speak in that tone to the housekeeper.