Miss Ruffles Inherits Everything (5 page)

“These are my last refreshments for the Hensleys, and I want to honor Honeybelle's good taste.” If her lips trembled for an instant at the imminent loss of her longtime job, she quickly pressed them together to avoid showing me any emotion. “So everything's already ready. Except you forgot to get my silver trays down from the shelf.”

“Did I?” I had no memory of being asked, but I followed Mae Mae into the kitchen.

My height made me useful to Mae Mae and Mr. Carver, Honeybelle's butler. They were both elderly and had difficulty reaching high shelves. Not to mention carrying heavy objects. And setting the new security system at night, reading fine print, and working anything electronic. So I often stepped in without being asked. I had sensed they both disapproved of Honeybelle hiring me in the first place. Or maybe they suspected—correctly—that Honeybelle had asked me not just to provide secretarial help and to look after Miss Ruffles but to surreptitiously pitch in around the house. She knew her staff was too old to be doing all the manual labor in her home, but she didn't want to hurt their feelings by bringing in a spry twenty-something to do their jobs.

I agreed to keep her secret.

“These trays?” I asked from the top step of the pantry ladder. Around me, the glass-fronted cupboards glittered with Honeybelle's fine china and glassware. Her silver candlesticks gleamed. Her Waterford crystal sparkled.

“Hand 'em all down to me,” Mae Mae said. “I'll go through and pick out the pretty ones.”

“I can pick pretty.” I held up a large, glinting tray. “What about this one with the engraved flowers?”

“Those aren't just flowers! They're bluebonnets.” Again Mae Mae's face tightened again to stop herself from showing emotion. I wondered if she was as heartsick as I was about losing Honeybelle. But she snapped, “Don't you know anything about Texas yet?”

Mr. Carver poked his head into the pantry and peered at us through the round bifocals that magnified his wide, hound-dog eyes to comic proportions. A small man, he looked up the ladder at me and said, “Oh, you're back, Miss McKillip. Making yourself useful, I see.”

Pursing her mouth again, Mae Mae gathered the bluebonnet tray to her bosom and marched back into the kitchen. She let the door swing closed behind her.

Softly, I said, “I upset her. She's very sad about Honeybelle, isn't she?”

“Don't pay her no mind,” Mr. Carver said on one of his morose sighs. “She's just worried about what she's going to do after losing this job. She's too old to stand all day flipping hamburgers.” He had a soft Memphis drawl I had learned to discern from the Texas twang.

Mr. Carver had been my first guide to southern behavior. He'd taught me to say “ma'am” when I spoke to Honeybelle, and that if I answered the door in his absence I should make the guest feel welcome by asking about the weather on their side of town, and when or how hard to shake someone's hand. I was still confused about the complicated handshaking rules when it came to ladies; I was learning, though, and I had Mr. Carver to thank for many lessons.

I climbed down from the ladder. “I feel sorry for her.”

“Well, for heaven's sake, don't tell her that or she'll slap you upside the head.” Mr. Carver took off his eyeglasses and pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket to polish an invisible speck of dust from the lenses. “She's been with Honeybelle ever since Katrina, you know. When the hurricane destroyed her home, Mae Mae ended up here, and Honeybelle took her in. Never made Mae Mae feel like a refugee, though. Treated her with respect. Oh, they had their disagreements—you know Honeybelle didn't like spicy food much—but Mae Mae was Honeybelle's friend more than an employee.”

“You were with Honeybelle even longer.”

“Forty-one years,” he said promptly. “I had an offer to go work for the governor, but I turned it down. I wanted to finish my career with the family. But…”

He began to heave deep breaths, so I said, “Sit down a minute, Mr. Carver.”

He used the handkerchief to dab his forehead. “I'm perfectly well. Just … every time I think of Miss Honeybelle, I feel…”

“I know.” I patted him on the shoulder.

He mustered a pathetic excuse for a smile. “She was born in a saloon, did she ever tell you that?”

“No. No, she didn't.”

“Well, that's what her mother told me. Her mother was out shopping and didn't feel well and stepped into a bar to call an ambulance, and—that's what happened.” He sniffled and took another long breath, finally saying, “We had a disagreement, you know, the morning Honeybelle left us.”

“Yes,” I said.

Hut Junior had come for breakfast the morning of her death, and I'd overheard them arguing. Hut had stormed out of the house after their fight, and then I'd heard Honeybelle squabbling with Mr. Carver behind closed doors—very unusual. I hadn't overheard the specifics of their discussion, but I had seen Honeybelle afterward and knew that she had been uncharacteristically furious with her longtime butler.

I said, “You shouldn't be upset about that anymore.”

Sadly, Carver said, “She didn't want to host that family wedding. I said we'd be happy to do the work, but she didn't want to hear it. She was … stubborn.”

“Honeybelle was a little petty sometimes, too,” I suggested. “She was still mad about the garden club.”

Mr. Carver sniffed. “Justifiably so.”

“But she shouldn't have taken it out on you.”

“We both said some harsh words. I surely regret that now.”

Afraid he was going to faint, I caught him by the arm. “Look, if you sit on the rung of this ladder for a second, you could steady it enough for me to reach the silver coffee urn for Mae Mae. It's in a difficult spot, see? I'm afraid the ladder might tip if I stretch that far.”

He obeyed me and sat.

I had no idea if Mae Mae wanted the urn or not, but lately I had learned to use any ruse to get Mr. Carver to rest when he got short of breath. He was moving much more slowly than he had when Honeybelle was around to keep him on his toes. Whether it was his sadness or his health that caused this change, I didn't know.

I climbed past him and feigned rearranging items on the top shelf as if to reach for the antique coffee urn. I looked down to see Mr. Carver touch the knob on the nearest door. He gazed dolefully at the glassware arranged behind the glass cabinet doors as if reminiscing. Honeybelle had relied on his steady if somewhat melancholy presence. Now, though, he looked very old.

I lugged the coffee urn down the ladder and plunked it onto the marble counter. “Anything else I can do?”

He stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket and got unsteadily to his feet, but efficiently checking his watch. “Everything's in order. I'll encourage the family to take their refreshments at the buffet, then sit in the living room for a few minutes until the lawyer summons them into the library.”

“Is the lawyer here yet?”

Mr. Carver's frown returned. “About an hour ago, I had a call from Tennyson and Tennyson. Mr. Max has been called away on another case. I can't imagine what case could be more important than the estate of his most valued client, but there you have it. His son is on vacation, too—bad timing. So he's sending his new associate to break the news—that is, to inform the family.”

I risked asking the question that we'd all be thinking. “What do you think Honeybelle's will is going to say?”

Mr. Carver let out a sigh. “No matter what it says, there will be shouting.”

Yes, even with a large inheritance, Hut Junior and Posie were going to be unhappy. That was their nature. Mr. Carver and Mae Mae were another story. I suspected neither one of them could afford to retire. The longtime servants had assumed Honeybelle would support them until the end of their days. Now that Hut Junior and his wife were measuring the rooms for carpets, however, their hope seemed doomed.

Mae Mae stuck her head around the pantry door. “That dog is barking her head off in the backyard again. Go see what's got her riled up.”

Mr. Carver snapped, “It's not in your job description to give Miss McKillip royal commands, Mae Mae.”

But Mae Mae banged the door shut again without apology.

I patted Carver's arm. “Don't worry on my account.”

I used the servants' side entrance just off the pantry and let myself out into the backyard. I heard Miss Ruffles barking somewhere beyond the lush shrubbery. I whistled for her, but she didn't come to me. The pitch of her barking changed, sounding an alarm. I took off running across the lawn.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

If you're not God or George Strait, take your boots off.

—TEXAS WELCOME SIGN

I ran across the lawn and past the umbrella tables by the pool, hung a left turn at the long swath of grass, and followed the sound of her barking. At the back gate, Miss Ruffles had her nose pointed at the driveway, and she barked through the bars of the wrought-iron gate. She bounced on all four feet as if to levitate herself over the gate to the driveway.

“What's going on?” I asked her. “Is it trouble? Or just the mailman?”

Every hair on her neck and shoulders bristled like a porcupine's quills.

Tied to the tree on the other side of the gate was the big Appaloosa I'd seen in the parade. His head was down, nose snuffling the flowers under the tree. He had already cocked one hoof to relax. The lanky cowboy was loosening the saddle girth.

“Hey again, little lady,” he said.

“Quiet, Miss Ruffles!”

The cowboy opened his saddlebag and pulled out a khaki sport coat—none too well pressed. He gave it a slap as if to shake off trail dust and put it on, still wearing his cowboy hat and sunglasses. He said, “We haven't been introduced yet. You're Sunny, the dogsitter. Your name suits you. You're sunburnt.” He took off his dark sunglasses and tucked them into the breast pocket of his sport coat. “I'm Ten Tennyson, Max's grandson. How do you like Texas so far?”

“What makes you think I'm not from Texas to begin with?”

He laughed. “I see you go running past my office in the mornings. Nobody from Texas goes running outside—nobody from West Texas, that is.”

To answer his question, I said, “So far, I think Texas is its own country.”

“Experienced anthropologists say the same thing. You look different without your shorts and sneakers. Still nice, but different.”

I looked down at my secondhand dress, bought at Gracie's resale shop. Compared to the Texas girls with their big hair and lavish makeup, I probably looked like a duck among the swans—dark ponytail, flat-chested, and of course sunburned. “Have you been spying on me?”

“It's not spying when you run straight through town. What's wrong with your mouth?”

Automatically, I swiped the back of my hand across my lips. “I had a Popsicle. Cherry. Would you…? I can get you one.”

“No, thank you, ma'am. Cherry looks better on you than me. Anyway, like most Texans, I'm partial to orange.”

Miss Ruffles continued to bark and do her little dance of protective outrage. Come to think of it, this display was the first time she'd felt the need to defend somebody other than Honeybelle. I bent down to soothe her. She wagged her stub at me and jumped up to lick my nose.

When I straightened, rubbing the wet from my nose, the cowboy grinned and put his hand across the gate for me to shake. He said, “I'm pleased to meet you.”

I found my hand warmly clasped in his calloused one. I looked up into a lean, outdoorsy face with a narrow, crooked nose and light gray eyes with sunburned crinkles around the edges. He had broad shoulders and a lean, whippy body.

I said, “You're Tennyson and Tennyson.”

“Soon to be Tennyson, Tennyson, and one more Tennyson.” He released my hand. “The third one's me—that is, if I passed the Texas bar. The results aren't in yet. Anyway, Gramps and Dad chickened out today. They hightailed it out of town and left me to deliver the bad news to the Hensleys. They said if I can handle this, I don't have to buy into the family practice.”

“Is it going to be bad news?”

“For some. What do you think? Should we ask Carver to confiscate all shootin' irons at the door?” He reached into one of his coat pockets and pulled out a rumpled, narrow tie. He began lacing it around his shirt collar. “Just kidding. I don't foresee any gunplay. Hut Junior will be mad, but he'll swallow his medicine. Posie's the wild card. She was an Appleby, you know, before she married Hut Junior. Appleby girls are known for their tempers. Her sister Poppy, she's a couple years younger than Posie. They're both easy on the eyes, but unpredictable.” His grin said he liked unpredictable. “You know Poppy?”

“I'm not sure.” I remembered the day Honeybelle invited several young ladies over to the house for a committee meeting. I happened to be in range when everyone arrived in a flurry of summer dresses and high heels. Most of them wore false eyelashes and talked as if they drank molasses by the spoonful. I added, “I'm below stairs.”

His grin turned wry. “Honeybelle always liked that
Masterpiece Theatre
stuff. My mama loves it, too, but we never had help in the house like Honeybelle. I figure you're the governess—Jane Eyre, that's the one. I didn't get to meet you at Honeybelle's Fourth of July picnic this year—I was studying for the bar—but Gramps and Dad said you were real nice. Quiet, but smart as a whip. And tall.”

I remembered the Tennysons—two lanky, joshing older men in cowboy hats and string ties. They flirted in a twinkly-eyed, gentlemanly way with me, but they had turned up the heat considerably with Honeybelle, who had flirted right back.

Ten Tennyson was high altitude himself. Maybe six three or four, I guessed, and leanly built, as if he could slip a basketball through any hoop without too much effort. Did they play basketball in Texas? He smiled at me while I absorbed his height. There's a thing about being tall that only tall people really understand. We shared a funny second of measuring each other.