Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(91)

As you’d expect, Papa did not approve of anyone whose name ended with a vowel—and he wasn’t too keen on the Irish either. Angela DeRosa was her name and I’ll never forget it because she was just like an angel to me, and to Mama, too. She was like a breath of fresh air, so efficient, so caring.

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You felt better the moment she entered your room, you just did. She was young and pretty and sang to herself as she made the beds and spooned out the medicine. But Papa always grumbled about having to pay a nurse as well as a cook and a maid.”

Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Lucy, mentally adding the nurse, the maid, and the cook to the judge as possible suspects. “What was the cook like?”

“Her name was Mrs. Sprout, if you can believe it.” Miss Tilley snorted. “Helen Sprout. She was no angel, that’s for sure. She was big and fat, and grouchy and she slammed around the kitchen, banging pots, and chopping up chickens with a cleaver, and punching the bread dough, and pounding potatoes with a big wooden masher. I stayed clear of her, that’s for sure.”

“Were you afraid of her?”

Miss Tilley reflected. “I guess I was, now that I think about it. There was something out of control about her. She was unpredictable, like a human whirlwind. Plates would break, smoke would billow from the stove, the sink would overflow, things like that were always happening.”

“How was the food?”

“Fine. Really good. It was the oddest thing. You’d think everything would be awful, burned to cinders, but it wasn’t.

And after Papa had a taste of her apple pie, why there was no question about letting her go. He loved all her cooking, but especially her pies. That woman certainly had a knack—even Mama’s pie crust wasn’t as flaky as Mrs. Sprout’s.”

“My mother makes good pies,” said Lucy, “and she’s tried to teach me but mine are never as good as hers.” She thought of her father, drifting in and out of consciousness in the hospital, and her mother who was spending every free minute with him and suddenly wanted desperately to talk with them.

Later, she promised herself, maybe after dinner when Bill gave Toby his bath. “What about the maid?” she asked.

“Which one?” chuckled Miss Tilley. “We went through quite 308

Leslie Meier

a few of them, if I remember correctly. There was a Brigid, and several Marys, and a Margaret. They never lasted very long.”

“Your father?”

“Oh, no. He never took any notice of them. It was Mrs.

Sprout. She made them work awfully hard. And I think some of them were afraid of Mr. Boott,” said Miss Tilley, giving an involuntary little shudder.

Lucy’s interest perked up. “Boott? Was he related to the Bootts on Packet Road?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Kyle is probably his grandnephew. Mr. Boott never married. He was a sort of handyman. He cut the grass and painted the trim and tended the coal furnace and sometimes he drove Mama when she went to see the doctor.”

“Did he have a first name?”

“Oh, yes. Emil.” Miss Tilley paused. “You know, I think that’s why I didn’t like him. I didn’t like his name.”

“Maybe there was some other reason?” prompted Lucy.

“Well, he was a convict, a trusty, from the county jail.”

Lucy’s eyebrows shot up. “A prisoner?”

“Yes. Papa had some arrangement with the sheriff and men from the prison often worked for him. They painted the house, I remember. Things like that.”

“No wonder you were afraid. They must have been in jail for a reason, right?”

“I don’t think Mr. Boott did anything very terrible, or Papa wouldn’t have had him around the house.”

“But he was in jail for a long time, right? So it must have been a fairly serious crime.”

“You’re right, Lucy. I never thought of it that way before.

He must have worked for us for at least twenty years and he was a prisoner the whole time.”

“Twenty years is a long sentence,” said Lucy.

“Even for Papa,” said Miss Tilley. “He was tough but he rarely sentenced anyone for more than a year or two at most.”

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She paused. “Only the very worst criminals, like murderers and embezzlers got long terms. He believed in getting them back to work as fast as possible so the taxpayers wouldn’t have to support them, or their families.”

“Your father sounds like a peach,” said Lucy, sarcastically.

“Speaking of peaches, I almost forgot Miss Peach.”

“Miss Peach?”

“Oh, that wasn’t her real name. That’s what Mama called her, because she was from Georgia. She was my father’s secretary. Miss Katherine Kaiser.”

“It sounds as if your mother was a bit jealous.”

“I think she was and who could blame her? Miss Peach was everything she wasn’t. She had a career as a trained secretary, she was independent, she could spend her salary any way she wanted. And what she wanted was to buy clothes.

She always looked lovely, in beautiful suits and hats and high-heeled shoes with peep toes. And she went to the beauty salon every morning just to have her hair combed! Harriet and I were pretty impressed, you can be sure of that. Imagine! Going to the salon just to have your hair combed.”