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Before she could suit action to thought, Jackson entered the parlor bearing a tray with her tea. He set the tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

“Thank you, Jackson,” An’gel said. “I’ll pour for myself.”

“Yes’m.” Jackson hesitated for a moment. “Miss An’gel, do you think Miss Mireille’s going to be all right? I just can’t imagine this house without her.”

An’gel felt a lump in her throat. “I sure hope so, but only the good Lord knows. I’ve been praying that she’ll come back to us and be fine.”

“Me, too,” the butler said. “I’ve known Miss Mireille since she was a little bitty girl, and me just a boy myself.” He sighed. “I’m going to pray hard as I can she’ll be healed.”

“That’s the best possible thing we can do right now,” An’gel said.

Jackson nodded, and An’gel watched him depart, his shoulders slumped. She felt a fresh wave of anger toward Sondra for all the harm and distress she had caused. Then she realized that she had to calm herself or her blood pressure would remain sky-high, and that wouldn’t do. She poured herself a cup of tea, added a little cream and sugar, and stirred.

The warm liquid was a welcome balm for her frazzled nerves. As she sipped her tea, she listened for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. She was curious to hear Thurston’s report on his conversation with Sondra. If he would share it with her, she thought. He might not want to talk about it.

An’gel didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes later Thurston strolled into the parlor. He appeared remarkably calm, An’gel thought, in contrast to his state when he left her to confront Sondra.

“I’m having tea,” An’gel said. “Would you care to have some? I can ring Jackson and ask for a second cup if you’d like.”

Thurston shook his head. “Thank you, no. Right now I’d rather have a bottle of bourbon, but it’s too early in the day for that.” He glanced at the windows. “Even though it looks like blackest night outside right now.” He chose an armchair near the sofa and leaned back, rubbing his forehead.

“How is Sondra?” An’gel asked. She figured that was general enough an inquiry for Thurston to answer briefly or in detail, depending on how much he wanted to share with her.

Thurston laughed, and the sound was grim to An’gel’s ears.

“I think I managed to get through that piece of granite that serves as a brain. I told her the wedding would have to be postponed indefinitely.”

“How did she take that?”

“Not well,” Thurston replied. “She kept insisting that she was going ahead with the wedding, no matter what, but I told her that Father McKitterick wouldn’t officiate under the circumstances.”

“I doubt that went over well,” An’gel said. She poured a second cup of tea.

“No,” the lawyer said. “It didn’t, but I kept at her. I finally got through to her, though.”

“How?” An’gel asked.

Thurston grinned. “The one thing Sondra is really terrified of is public ridicule. She wants everyone to be impressed with how beautiful she is, and she can’t stand being laughed at. I promised her that I would personally tell every single person in St. Ignatiusville what she had done to her grandmother, and I assured her that if she went out in public, everyone would point at her and laugh. People love Miss Mireille in this town, and they’ll turn against Sondra completely if any word gets out about this.”

An’gel was horrified. “Surely you’d never share this with the whole town. Mireille would be utterly humiliated.”

“Of course I wouldn’t.” Thurston waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “But Sondra thinks I will. She’s so self-centered, she’ll never figure that out, however. She is unable to understand anything from a point of view other than her own.”

“You’re right about that,” An’gel said. “I don’t suppose she expressed any concern for her grandmother.”

“Nothing will touch that petrified heart of hers,” the lawyer replied. “She’ll never take responsibility for what happened, I can promise you that.” He stood and walked over to the liquor cabinet. “Forget about what time it is, I need a drink.” He found a glass and a bottle of bourbon and poured himself a sizable portion. He brought the glass back and resumed his seat. He lifted the glass in An’gel’s direction and said, “Here’s to Miss Mireille’s complete recovery.”

An’gel said, “Hear, hear,” and raised her teacup.

Thurston drained his glass and set it on a side table nearby. He glanced toward the windows. “Looks like the rain is slacking off. It’s not as dark out there as it has been.” He got up and walked over to look outside.

“Thank heavens,” An’gel muttered. The atmosphere in the house felt oppressive, and she would be happy if the weather cleared up enough to allow her to leave.

A chirping sound emanated from her handbag. She delved inside and pulled out her cell phone. She and Dickce had recently upgraded their phones from the old flip versions to phones that could take pictures and send text messages. She hadn’t tried the messaging function yet, but it appeared that someone had just sent her one. Dickce, she figured. She touched the screen and the message app opened.

“Mireille in ICU. Jacqueline says she’s stable, holding her own. Doctor not sure about chances of recovery.”

An’gel sighed and peered at the small screen. She touched the text box, and a keyboard appeared. With one finger she tapped a response.
“Thanks. Will be praying for her.”
She hit the Send button, feeling slightly proud of herself for having sent her first text.

Another message appeared.
“Will call later.”

An’gel typed in her response.
“Okay.”

No further message popped up, and An’gel put the phone back in her purse.

Thurston resumed his seat. “News?”

“Yes,” An’gel said. She gave him the update on Mireille’s condition.

Thurston’s face darkened. “It doesn’t sound good.”

“Unfortunately, no,” An’gel replied. “I feel so helpless, as I’m sure you do.”

“I feel like going back upstairs and wringing that girl’s neck for what she did,” the lawyer said.

“You might have to get in line,” An’gel said wryly.

Thurston grinned. “Not that it would do Miss Mireille
one iota of good, but it sure would make me feel better.” He stood. “I think the storm’s let up enough that I can probably get back to my office without being washed away. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Ducote, I’ll be going.”

“Do be careful out there.” An’gel got up and followed him out of the parlor.

As they moved into the hall, the front door crashed open, and a tall, muscular young man strode in, obviously worked up over something. He shed a raincoat and let it drop to the floor where he stood. Then he apparently caught sight of An’gel and Thurston and pulled up short.

“Where is Sondra?” he demanded. “I’ll kill her before I let her marry that jackass Lance.”

CHAPTER 12

E
ven standing several feet from the open door, An’gel felt the moisture blowing in.

Thurston spoke before she could admonish the stranger to close it, however. “Trey, there’s water blowing in. Shut the door.”

Trey stared blankly at the lawyer for a moment before Thurston’s words evidently sank in. He scowled but complied with the lawyer’s command.

“Well, where is she?” he demanded when he turned back, staring hard at Thurston.

“Upstairs in her room,” the lawyer replied.

Trey bolted up the staircase. Moments later An’gel heard him bellow Sondra’s name.

“Should you follow him, do you think?” An’gel asked. The strange young man’s violent words concerned her.

Thurston shrugged. “He’s more hot air than action most of the time. I doubt he’ll do anything other than get into a screaming match with Sondra.”

“Who is he?” An’gel asked, feeling slightly relieved by the lawyer’s response. “He looks vaguely familiar.”

“Horace Mims the Third,” Thurston replied. “Otherwise known as Trey. He’s been mooning over Sondra for years, but as far as I know, she’s thought of him only as a brother.”

“The last time I saw him,” An’gel said, “he was much shorter and weedy looking. No wonder I didn’t recognize him.”

Thurston laughed. “He’s a gym rat. Spends three hours a day there, last I heard tell.”

“He must be about twenty-three. If I remember correctly, he’s a couple of years older than Sondra.”

“Sounds about right,” Thurston replied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Ducote, I’d best be going. I’ll drop by the hospital on my way to the office, see if I can find out anything more about Miss Mireille.”

An’gel repeated her earlier admonition to be careful and bade the lawyer good-bye. Once the door closed behind him, she wandered over to the stairs. Should she go up and check on Sondra and Trey? Make sure the girl came to no harm?

The prospect of climbing to the third floor did not entice her, and she decided to let the situation alone. After all, Thurston knew Trey and she didn’t. If the lawyer thought Trey wouldn’t harm Sondra, despite the violence of the boy’s declaration, then there was no need for her to stick her nose in.

With a guilty start An’gel remembered Jackson and Estelle. She had promised to share any news of Mireille with them right away. She cast one more look up the stairs before she headed for the kitchen.

When she walked in, Estelle was on the phone talking to someone about the wedding. “No, I don’t know when it will be, but we surely can’t have it while Mireille’s in the hospital.” She caught sight of An’gel and told the person on the other end of the conversation she would call back.

“Have you heard something?” Estelle demanded.

“Yes, I have,” An’gel said. “Where is Jackson?”

“Probably asleep in the pantry,” Estelle said. “He has a chair in there where he goes and nods off whenever there’s a quiet moment. He’s too old for the job, but of course Mireille won’t make him retire.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Well?”

An’gel shared the information from Dickce’s text message, and Estelle nodded. “At least she’s not dead yet, the heavens be praised.” The housekeeper sniffed loudly. “I’ve started calling people to tell them the wedding’s been postponed. Figured I should get the word out right away.”

“Do you need help with that?” An’gel asked. She was a little surprised that Estelle apparently wasn’t worried about using the telephone in the midst of a storm. An’gel would be happy to assist with the notifications, but not until the storm passed completely.

“No, I’m fine,” Estelle said. “There’s not much else I can do right now.” She turned away, and An’gel felt like she had been dismissed.

“I’m sure you’ll let Jackson know about Mireille,” An’gel
said. Once Estelle nodded, An’gel decided to go back to the front parlor.

Once more seated on the sofa, An’gel decided she would practice her texting skills by sending Benjy a message. She wanted to be sure that he, Endora, and Peanut were doing all right.

Less than a minute after An’gel sent her inquiry, Benjy responded with
“Doing fine. R U OK?”
An’gel stared at the screen a moment, slightly puzzled, but then she realized Benjy was using an abbreviated form to communicate. She texted back that she was fine also and that she would be back at the cottages once the storm had passed. Benjy acknowledged that with
“OK.”

An’gel put her phone down and stared rather blankly around the room. After a moment she got up and went to the front windows to look out. The sun was trying to emerge, she could see, and the rain was much lighter. She hadn’t heard any thunder for a while now, she realized. Perhaps she could borrow an umbrella and make her way back to the cottages. She considered that but then decided that the ground would be slippery and she didn’t want to risk falling.

She was startled by noise coming from the direction of the stairs and went to the door of the parlor to see what was going on. She was in time to see Trey Mims running down the last few treads. He appeared not to have seen her as he strode to the front door, which he slammed shut behind him as he stepped onto the verandah.

Such a noisy young man
, An’gel thought, shaking her head. She wondered if he was in such a hurry all the time. Her thoughts turned to Sondra, and she wondered whether
she should go up and check on the girl. She listened for a moment and was relieved to hear a door close loudly upstairs. Deciding that Sondra was probably fine, An’gel hovered in the doorway, still feeling restless. She also felt tired, she realized.

Since there wasn’t anything else she could think to do, An’gel figured she might as well lie down and rest for a while. She turned off the lights in the front parlor, kicked off her shoes, and made herself comfortable on the sofa.

She lay there and stared at the ceiling, listening to the now-gentle pattering of the rain against the house. She willed herself to relax, to let the stress of the morning slip away, and soon she was drifting off . . .

Dimly An’gel was aware of a voice nearby, a voice that sounded upset. She struggled to identify it and in doing so came out of her slumbering state.

Horace Mims was talking, and An’gel, still drowsy, didn’t move from her supine position.

“. . . told you already it’s just a minor cash-flow issue.” Horace paused. “Don’t be giving me that crap, Bubba, you know I’m good for it.” Another pause, longer this time. Then an expletive, and An’gel winced. “If I have to, Bubba, I’ll come right down there and beat some sense into your head.”

After that the voice trailed away, and moments later An’gel sat up, cautiously, wondering where Horace had gone. She peered through the dimness in the parlor toward the door into the hallway. To her surprise, Horace stood there, apparently looking up the stairs, with a bright smile on his face.

“Hello, darlin’,” he said. “What’ve you been up to?”

“Hewwo, Gwanpa Howace,” a high-pitched child’s voice responded. “I’ve been pwaying in my woom.”

That had to be Tippy. Curious to see the child at last, An’gel slipped on her shoes and tiptoed to the door. She didn’t want Horace to see her, because then he would realize she had most likely heard his end of the recent phone conversation.

When An’gel peered around the door frame, she saw Horace’s back to her, and that pleased her. She glanced past him to stare at the elfin child who stood on the fourth tread from the bottom, gazing solemnly at her step-grandfather. An’gel had expected Sondra’s daughter to have coloring similar to her mother’s, but the child had pale brown hair, the sides held back by butterfly barrettes, and a slightly olive-skinned complexion. She was also taller than An’gel had reckoned, more the size of a first grader rather than that of a child who wasn’t quite four. Tippy wore sandals and a plain cotton dress, and her features vaguely resembled her mother’s. Overall, however, the child was ordinary-looking, with none of Sondra’s startling beauty.