The Buzzard Table Read Online Free Page B

she doesn’t want the others to know until it’s time for hospice. I just hope they won’t take it out on Anne.” Kate turned to face me around the headrest of her front seat. “Be prepared for Aunt Jane to give you a bit of a hard time, though.”
    “Me? What did I do?”
    “You were the one who told Sigrid, remember?”
    Rob turned at one of Cotton Grove’s three traffic lights, and a moment later we glided through the open iron gates to follow the circular drive to the imposing front door.
    “Nobody swore me to secrecy,” I said. “And besides, Sigrid had already figured out that something was wrong.”
    With rain pounding on the car roof, Dwight reached for the umbrellas on the rear ledge and passed one up to Rob.
    Chivalry is not yet dead in the South.

CHAPTER
3
    These peaceful animals pose no risk.
    —The Turkey Vulture Society
    I was not surprised when Chloe Adams opened the door. A licensed practical nurse, she has an easy, reassuring manner that makes her a good companion for someone ill or dying. Early fifties now, with a trim build that belies her physical strength, her children are grown and her husband is a long-haul trucker who is on the road for such long stretches that she can move right into a spare bedroom if that’s what’s wanted and be on call 24/7.
    Elderly whites who were tended by black nursemaids in their long-vanished youth are doubly comforted by her calm professionalism in the evening of their lives. Sent to bed early by a stern parent, they could remember a soothing pat and a low voice crooning in the darkened room. “There, there, baby. Stop your crying and go to sleep now. Things’ll be better in the morning.”
    Mrs. Lattimore has never struck me as someone who would cry herself to sleep, not even with death staring her in the face. All the same and despite her wealth, she had hired Mrs. Adams rather than a fully accredited RN. I doubt if her choice had anything to do with money.
    Chloe Adams took our umbrellas and coats and told us to go on into the living room, then discreetly vanished.
    “Come in, come in,” said Mrs. Lattimore. Seated in a high-back wing chair, she gave a welcoming gesture with her thin hands. “How nice to see you all.”
    She wore a stylish cranberry wool dress with a high neck and long sleeves, and a quilted velvet throw was tucked around her legs although the room was quite warm. She seemed even more fragile than when I had last seen her at Kate and Rob’s Christmas dinner, yet she was still beautiful. Good bones always last.
    In any conflicts with school boards, town officials, or county commissioners, I’m told that Mrs. Lattimore had always begun with honey. “Although you knew the vinegar was coming if they didn’t fall in line,” my own mother had said with a grin. Over the years, I had heard so many stories about the vinegar that I admit I was slightly intimidated by her when we met at Christmas. Now I was seeing the honey as she welcomed us.
    She did not rise from her chair by the fireplace where realistic-looking gas logs burned, but Sigrid stood and so did the woman I assumed was her mother. Anne Harald resembled her mother more than her daughter, the same bones, the same beauty, the same easy poise when meeting new people. She was shorter than Sigrid, and her dark curls were heavily threaded with silver. Like her mother, now that I was noticing, her eyes were the same indeterminate bluish gray while her daughter’s were more silvery. A green silk scarf, loosely looped around her neck, brightened her dark blue sweater and slacks, and sapphire earrings caught the light as she greeted Kate and Rob with warm hugs, before turning to Dwight and me with outstretched hands.
    Charm and beauty seemed to be this family’s birthright and Anne Lattimore Harald had apparently inherited both her share and Sigrid’s, too.
    She’s a prizewinning photojournalist, semiretired now, and Kate reminded her that I’d gone to the opening reception when