Excerpt from Fiddle Dee Death:
Excerpt from Fiddle Dee Death:
Miss Augusta teetered on the vintage high heels she insisted on wearing and leaned back against the car, obviously flustered. With her dyed red hair escaping in wisps from the French twist she always wore and her blue winter coat, she looked like that poster you see everywhere, the photo of the angry bluebird, its chest and feathers all puffed out. Taller and thinner, though.
“What man?” she said, marching toward the house. “How bad’s he hurt? Where is he? I need to see him. Where’s Will?” She looked up at the porch, where one of the EMS techs had just come out the door. “Young man. Put out that cigarette right now. There’s no smoking at Pinckney. And no, don’t you dare throw that butt in the camellia bushes! Put it out in the drive and then put it in your pocket.”
Frowning, Miss Augusta turned her attention back to us. “Lindsey, I didn’t see you. How are you, dear?” I got a strong whiff of Chanel No. 5 as she gave me a brisk hug and kissed the air near my ear. I could feel the knobs of old bones beneath the coat. She stubbornly continued up the brick path, leaving Mam, Cissy, Jimmy, and myself to trail behind her, a ragtag militia cowed by its commander.
“Miss Augusta, I don’t really think . . .”
“Margaret Ann, if some stranger has hurt himself on my property, it is my duty to see that he is taken care of. Even if it does mean my insurance rates will likely go up. Cissy, where did he slip? In the front hall? I told Marietta she put too much wax on those floors last time. And with this rain we had this afternoon. Were his shoes wet? I bet his shoes were wet. Hardwood floors and slick soles, why you’re just asking for a sprained ankle. Didn’t he see the doormat?”
“Miss Augusta, I think we best tell you that the man appears to be seriously injured.”
That was an understatement, although I had to admire Mam’s handling of the situation.
Still, Miss Augusta seemed to pick up on the strain in Mam’s voice.
“Margaret Ann, what is it you’re not saying? Dear Lord, tell me a tourist hasn’t died at Pinckney Plantation.”
Excerpted from Fiddle Dee Death by Caroline Cousins. Copyright © 2003. All rights reserved.
