Blanche on the Lam: A Blanche White Mystery Read Free Page A

informal there. No large dinner parties, few guests. Although we always maintain a high standard.”
    A wry smile lifted the corners of Blanche's mouth. Life did seem to be poking fun at her, sometimes. Even on the run she had to clean up after people.
    “We always give our regular staff vacation when we go to the country. That's why you're here.” The woman turned her head and gave Blanche a smile with more width than warmth in it. And because you're trying to make it on the cheap with just one staff person, Blanche added to herself. What was it about money that made people who had it not want to spend it? Blanche gave the woman her own shark's tooth smile, along with a demure “Yes, ma'am.” She was relieved to hear the regular help was away. She wondered if the woman was as direct and fast-talking with other people who were not the help.
    The woman stopped and turned so suddenly that Blanche almost bumped into her. She examined Blanche's face. “You
have
worked for us before, haven't you?” A vertical frown creased the middle of her forehead. “I specifically asked the agency to send someone who knew our...routine. My aunt's...I don't seem to remember your face...” Her eyes narrowed slightly.
    Blanche forced her mouth into a toothy grin and blinked rapidly at the woman. “Oh, yes, ma'am!” Blanche's voice was two octaves higher than usual. “You remember me! I worked for ya'll about six months ago. I think one of ya'll's regular help was out sick? Or maybe had a death in the family?” She gave the woman an expectant look.
    The woman's face remained blank for a moment. “Oh, yes, of course.” She quickly turned and continued walking along the path. “My memory is just terrible of late,” she told Blanche over her shoulder. “So much to think about, to remember...so much on my...”
    Blanche smiled and nodded. She ain't got no more idea what's going on in her house than a jackrabbit. Blanche had guessed as much. The woman hadn't even bothered to ask her name. That was just fine. The last thing Blanche needed right now was a truly interested employer. But she was sorry for the permanent help. This was the kind of employer who responded to your need for a surgeon with a bag of dated, cast-off clothes.
    The house they approached was large, many-winged, graceful, and of that peculiar pink brick which Blanche remembered seeing only in this part of the country. Blanche believed in the power of houses. She'd worked inside too many of them to act—as most people did—as though a house were just a building. She could often tell what a house was going to be like by the way it either fit into the landscape or imposed itself upon it.
    This house rose from a bed of flowers and shrubs that spoke of a builder and a once-a-week gardener, both with an eye for blending nature and architecture. But this house had nothing to say to her, personally. Much like the woman who lived in it, the house recognized her only as a function. Fortunately, she wasn't going to be there long enough for it to matter.
    She followed the woman up three steps to a flagstone patio and through French doors into a room that smelled of leather and was lined with so many books it could have been a nook in the New York Public Library. The woman opened a door on the far side of the room. Blanche followed her down a long hall, around a corner, past four or five other doors, and down a dark, uncarpeted, and narrower corridor into a large, bright kitchen.
    It was at least as attractive, well designed, and well appointed as any of the kitchens she'd known in New York. And it was largerthan most—a microwave, plus two built-in, eye-level ovens, a rotisserie, a double-door refrigerator and freezer built into the wall, an eight-burner range, copper-bottomed pots hanging from the ceiling, a wealth of kitchen cabinets, and, in the middle of the floor, a butcher-block work station complete with sink and garbage-disposal unit. It was a kitchen so different from