The Raven Master. Diana Whitney

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СКАЧАТЬ classic European style, Jules was quite handsome although a porcelain-pale complexion and refined features gave him a pinched, somewhat effeminate appearance that Janine found unappealing.

      This morning, as always, Jules was impeccably attired in a freshly starched dress shirt with a tasteful silk tie tucked under a V-necked argyle pullover. Janine guessed that his wool trousers, fashionably pleated and hemmed precisely one-eighth inch above the gleaming toes of his wing tips, probably cost more than the austere boardinghouse earned in a month.

      Extravagant business apparel notwithstanding, Jules hadn’t worked since arriving a year ago and apparently was supported by his grandmother, who held a nursing position at the town’s small medical facility. Janine had always found that rather peculiar but respected the privacy of her guests and would never be so crass as to question their source of income. Edna and Jules were tidy, undemanding and, most important, paid their rent in a timely fashion. For that Janine was deeply grateful and willing to ignore their eccentric and occasionally disruptive personality foibles.

      When Jules and his grandmother reached the kitchen table, Janine pasted on her cheerful hostess facade. “Good morning, Jules, Edna.”

      Ignoring the polite greeting, Edna dabbed her red eyes with a tissue. “God’s wrath is upon us,” the woman lamented, settling heavily into the ladder-back chair that her grandson held out. She blew her nose and tucked the soggy tissue into the polyester pocket of her white uniform. “Praise be to the Lord.”

      Jules sympathetically squeezed the older woman’s shoulder. “Grand’mère is quite upset. She was very fond of Marjorie.”

      Startled, Janine laid down the spatula and looked over her shoulder. “I didn’t realize that you were acquainted with Miss Barker.”

      Edna stoically lifted her chin. “She was a godly woman and a valued member of our congregation.”

      “I’m so sorry.” The words sounded trite but not knowing what else to say, Janine returned her attention to the eggs she was scrambling.

      “I must call the Reverend Mr. Weems about the services,” Edna murmured sadly, lifting a china cup from her place mat and handing it to her grandson. “Such a horrible thing to happen.”

      Jules nodded somberly. “Yes, horrible.” He dutifully placed a chaste peck on his grandmother’s upturned cheek, then crossed the room and set Edna’s cup beside the coffee-maker.

      As Janine transferred scrambled eggs from the frying pan into a serving bowl, Jules glanced warily over his shoulder then whispered, “Did you see the flames?”

      “Excuse me?” A spoonful of congealed egg hovered in midair.

      “The flames,” he repeated impatiently, his eyes glittering strangely. “They were positively immense. Did you see them?”

      Unnerved, she slowly set the spoon in the bowl. “Yes, from my bedroom window.”

      Jules poured two cups of steaming coffee and continued in a hushed voice. “It was a magnificent spectacle, wasn’t it?” Before she could respond, he’d returned to the kitchen table and set a steaming cup in front of his grieving grandmother, who patted his arm and smiled up gratefully.

      Sighing, Janine shook her head. Appearance notwithstanding, Jules Delacourt was definitely an odd duck, a twenty-three-year-old man with the emotional development and bizarre imagination of a child. He seemed harmless enough, although Janine was occasionally unnerved by his propensity to read a sinister intent into ordinary events.

      A raspy female voice suddenly demanded, “Who the hell do I have to kill to get a cup of coffee?”

      With a glance toward the doorway, Janine set the bowl of eggs and a platter of crisp bacon on the table. “Good morning, Althea. You’re up early.”

      The sullen woman shuffled across the linoleum and slid onto an empty chair. “One of the waitresses called in sick,” she muttered peevishly. “Good old Al gets to cover the morning shift again.”

      Always the caregiver, Edna was instantly concerned. “The poor woman. I do hope it’s nothing serious.”

      Althea shrugged. “Could be a case of the clap, for all I know.”

      Janine rolled her eyes, wishing to heaven that Althea wouldn’t deliberately bait the other guests. The sharp-tongued woman wasn’t likely to change tactics, however, and since she obviously enjoyed shocking people, poor pious Edna was a particularly tempting target for Althea’s crude comments and tawdry wit.

      Now Edna glanced quickly at her grandson, who was busily filling his plate, a crimson streak below his ear the only indication that he’d heard the coarse remark. The older woman returned her attention to Althea and frowned disapprovingly. “That was quite unkind, dear.”

      Ignoring the rebuff, Althea yawned and stretched luxuriously, seeming unconcerned that her silky peignoir had spread apart, exposing considerable cleavage above the lacy bodice of her gown. Unconcerned, but not unaware. The subtle tilt of her freshly glossed lips indicated that she’d noted Jules’s discomfort and was amused by it.

      In spite of the overbleached hair and exaggerated, chorus-girl makeup, Althea was an attractive woman. To her, however, only adjectives like stunning, gorgeous and breathtaking were acceptable.

      Embittered and emotionally bruised by several failed relationships, Althea flaunted her fading assets with the terrified desperation of a woman still grieving for her lost youth. Each new crow’s-foot sent a dagger into her heart; every sagging muscle was a personal tragedy of gigantic proportions. After all, she was only forty-four, still in her sexual prime. It wasn’t her fault, Althea had once complained, that society valued a tight butt over the wisdom gained by experience.

      And Janine suspected that Althea Miller was nothing if not experienced.

      At the moment, however, Janine hoped that a caffeine fix would temporarily silence the woman’s disruptive tongue, and handed her a steaming cup of coffee. Althea gurgled in delight, downed the hot liquid as though it were a shot of whiskey, then unceremoniously held out the cup for a refill. Janine complied without comment.

      “Ahh.” Althea took a healthy swallow, then set down the cup and lazily raked her fingers through a shoulder-length mass of brittle, strawberry-blond hair. “Nectar of the gods.”

      Jules, who apparently was desperately trying to avoid looking at the woman’s partially exposed bosom, laid down his fork and delicately dabbed his lips. “Have you heard about last night’s fire?”

      Althea emitted an annoyed snort. “Damned sirens kept me awake half the night.”

      “Marjorie Barker died,” Jules intoned, his eyes glistening with barely suppressed excitement. “It was tragic, simply tragic.”

      At the mention of her friend’s name, Edna twisted her linen napkin. “Such a dear woman. She volunteered at the hospital, you know.”

      Leaning forward, Jules lowered his voice. “I heard that the authorities suspect arson.”

      Edna sniffed loudly and murmured an obtuse biblical quotation that seemed irrelevant to the discussion.

      “What if it really was arson?” Jules insisted. “That means that Miss Barker was actually murdered. Think of it! A real killer loose right here СКАЧАТЬ