by E J Kindred
“Shut up, old man,” Ada called back in an equally stern voice. She gave us a little wink. “I ain’t crippled, you know.”
Moments later, a man who looked remarkably like his wife came around the corner pushing an empty wheelchair. He was taller than Ada, but just as round and just as white-haired. I couldn’t resist the thought that, had they been carved from wood, they’d have made perfect Matryoshka dolls.
“Don’t argue with me,” he said. The amusement on his face belied his attempts to sound commanding.
“I’ll argue with you all I want,” she retorted, but she eased into the wheelchair anyway and handed him the cane.
“Ada, Hal,” Sharon said, “this is my friend, Annie. We’re making Thanksgiving dinner for you. We have all of the fixins right here.”
“And you’re not going to argue with us about it, got it, old woman?” Hal tried again to be stern, but gave up after a few moments.
“No,” Ada said, “I certainly will not.” She took one of Sharon’s hands in her own. “Thank you, dearie. How nice of you. And you, too, Annie.”
Two hours later, the aromas of roasting turkey and sage dressing perfumed the air. A pumpkin pie sat cooling on the countertop, a pot of peeled potatoes was simmering on the stove, vegetables were prepped and waiting, and a large colorful salad was cooling in the fridge.
I scanned the kitchen. “What’s next?”
“Ladies,” Ada said, “why don’t you sit down and rest and let the turkey cook? I think you’ve done plenty. Hal, don’t we have some iced tea made? Or would you gals rather have coffee?”
“Tea sounds good to me,” I said, which the others echoed.
Once we settled around the kitchen table, iced tea in hand, I asked, “How do you three know each other?”
Ada chuckled. “I think my great-grandmother was Sharon’s grandmother’s second cousin, or something like that. Small town like this, we’re probably all related in one way or another. How about you two?” She turned to me. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
“Moved here about five months ago. I’ve always liked driving in the mountains between Portland and the coast, so I decided to take a drive to see where I’d wind up. I stopped here for a bathroom break and met Sharon by chance over by the park.”
“Yeah,” Sharon chimed in. “I was watching the kids play and she asked if I’d recommend somewhere to have lunch.”
“And you sent her to Freddy’s,” Ada said.
“Of course. Where else?”
“When I moved here in July, I needed a job, and lucky for me, I ran into Sharon again. She told me about a couple of people who needed a housekeeper. And here I am.”
“I know we just met,” Ada said, “and I don’t mean to be rude, but I have to ask.”
“All right,” I said, unable to anticipate what she might want to know.
“How is it that you have dark hair and olive skin, but such bright blue eyes?” Ada put her fingers to her lips and spoke through them. “Am I being too nosy?”
“Of course, you are,” Hal said.
“Not at all,” I said, relieved and with a quick smile for Hal. “My dad was born in Mexico and my mother’s family was Scandinavian, mostly Swedish. The luck of the genetic draw.”
“You are beautiful,” Ada said.
“Thank you,” I said, but my face grew warm.
Ada saved me from further embarrassment by announcing in a business-like voice, “Let’s talk housekeeping. See this rig?” She indicated the wheelchair. “I’ll probably be stuck with it for a while. These old bones don’t heal like they used to, and this old man is about as useful around the house as tits on a bull. Think you could help me out now and then?”
Somehow, I managed not to laugh at Hal’s feeble protest. “I’d be happy to.”
She grasped my hand and pulled me to my feet. “Then let me give you the nickel tour.”
Shortly before nine on the Monday morning after Thanksgiving, I rode my bicycle through the gates guarding the Wentworths’ driveway. Unlike most days, the morning’s ride had been less about enjoying the scenery and fresh air on my way to work and more about working off anxiety and anger. I’d pounded the pedals with a vengeance, with “damn it, damn it, damn it” keeping time with each revolution of my feet.
Until I’d opened the letter from Wilson and Wyatt, I’d had a truly enjoyable Thanksgiving holiday. After Sharon left to celebrate the holiday with her husband and kids, Ada and Hal insisted I stay to eat with them, and they were delightful company. Their bickering was endearing. I went home with enough leftovers to keep Shadow and me in turkey and sweet potatoes for the foreseeable future.
But I could ignore reality for only so long. By Sunday afternoon, the Wilson and Wyatt letter had stared at me for four days, so I gave up and opened it. The envelope contained a routine accounting form and a note from Patrick Wyatt, scrawled in pencil on the firm’s beautiful off -white stationery.
“Annie, here’s the most recent trust account statement. Natalie replenished it for us, as usual. When Beth calls you, pick up. She gets annoyed when she can’t reach you and takes it out on me. She’s the best detective in Portland, so it’s in your best interests to stay on her good side. You don’t make my job any easier by avoiding her.” He hadn’t bothered to sign it, but since we’d been friends since second grade, no signature was necessary.
I hated that he was right. I’d been avoiding talking with the Portland homicide detective, even though all I had to do was refer her to Patrick. She knew I didn’t have to talk with her without my attorney present. She did have good reason to want to know my whereabouts but understanding her rationale didn’t make me like it any better. My own stubbornness sometimes caused more problems than it solved. I grabbed the phone and jabbed the speed dial button for his office, getting all the more annoyed because my call went straight to his voicemail.
“Patrick, it’s Annie. Got your note. What’s with you being on first name terms with that cop? You’re supposed to be on my side. Okay fine, if I’m not working when she calls, I’ll answer the damn phone, but I’m not talking with her without you on the line.”
If I’d had one of those old solid black phones with the separate receiver, I’d have slammed it down. Poking the “end” button wasn’t nearly as satisfactory. Giving a piece of my mind to a recording and downing three beers in quick succession hadn’t helped, either.
Fortunately, Patrick called before I left for work and, as he’d done so many times, talked me down off the ledge. Despite his efforts, I still harbored enough residual anger to get me to work ten minutes faster than usual.
When I arrived at the Wentworth home, I dismounted and wheeled my bike toward the garage. I’d entered the code to open the door when a black and silver sedan with a blue and red light bar on the roof and the Charbonneau Police Department logo painted down the side pulled up and stopped nearby.
My first, almost overwhelming, impulse was to get on my bike and ride away as fast as I could. I gripped the handlebars hard while my breath escaped me and the world seemed to sway in my vision, but then I saw the two officers get out of the car and walk toward the front door. They rang the bell and were ushered inside.
They weren’t looking for me.
I waited until my pulse calmed and I could breathe fairly normally. Of course they weren’t looking for me. Even though I’d moved to Charbonneau, I’d made sure that the Portland police knew where I was and how to reach me, and Patrick, as my attorney, kept tabs on me. Logically, I knew the Charbonneau police had no reason to want to see me at my workplace, but the sight of the police cruiser sent me spinning anyway. I wondered if I’d ever truly believe that I wasn’t on anyone’s Most Wanted list.
I parked my bike in the garage and went through the connecting door to the kitchen. Mo was there with Lupe, the other housekeeper, and Orlando, the Wentworths’ surly gardener. They were huddled next to the prep island, talking in low worried voices.
I sidled up to Mo. “What’s
going on? I saw a police car outside.”
Mo pulled me closer and spoke in a low voice. “Elise says some of her jewelry was stolen this weekend. She ordered us into the kitchen and called the cops. She’s carrying on like an overwrought three year old, throwing things and screaming.”
Lupe held a damp cloth against the left side of her face. “She hit me with her coffee cup.” She showed me a laceration under her eye. The skin was reddened around and below the oozing blood. A brown stain covered the shoulder and side of her white uniform shirt. “All I did was offer her a scone.”
“What’s going to happen?” Orlando fidgeted where he stood. “Are we just supposed to wait here?”
Hearing Orlando speak in a soft accent reminded me of my father. The gardener wasn’t a very friendly man, but I liked him, and of course, I had a soft spot on my heart for Mexican men of my dad’s age.
“What do you think they’ll do?” Lupe lowered the damp cloth from her brow but replaced it when the cut on her face kept bleeding. “I want to go home.”
“Hold on,” I said. “Unless they find evidence that one of us took the jewelry, they probably only want to talk with us, do some basic information gathering. I can’t imagine they’ll do anything right away.” I hoped they didn’t ask how I’d know. Maybe they’d think I watched too many cop shows.
“Easy for you to say,” Mo said. “You weren’t here this weekend.”
“True, but I know the entry codes to the house, same as you. And not all of you were here the whole weekend, either, were you?”
“Just me,” Mo said.
“I thought you had the weekend off.”
“Best laid plans, my friend,” she dropped her voice to a whisper again, “in a world ruled by Number Four.”
Doctor Wentworth came into the kitchen, accompanied by two men wearing Charbonneau police uniforms. He looked tired, with lines around his eyes, and his voice was flat. “This is Sergeant Baker and Officer Harrison. They want to talk with you for a few minutes, and then you should all go home.”
As the doctor turned to leave, Elise Wentworth stormed into the kitchen. She was barefoot and wore only a short nightgown made of thin fabric. She’d put a silky robe on over it, but the robe had slipped off one shoulder. Her hair was a tangle and her face so red it was almost purple. She glared at everyone in the room and, pointing an accusing finger at each of us in turn, fairly shrieked. “Someone here took my necklace. Whoever did is going to prison.”
“Elise, honey.” The doctor laid a calming hand on her shoulder, but she shook him off.
“And you’re fired, all of you. If you ever come back into this house, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.” She yanked ineffectively at the shoulder of her robe and left as abruptly as she’d arrived.
The doctor let out a weary sigh. “I’ll take care of her, Sergeant, let’s talk again after you’re done here.”
After the doctor had gone, Sergeant Baker focused on Mo. “Doc Wentworth said there’s an office here?” When she pointed to the door at the back of the kitchen, he said, “All we’re going to do today is spend a few minutes with each of you and then you can go.” He consulted a sheet of paper in his hand and turned to Lupe, who still held the blood-stained cloth to her face. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Lupe Quezada.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “Guadalupe, I mean.”
“Okay, Ms. Quezada, I want to take a couple pictures of your face, and Officer Harrison here will take you down to the clinic and get you fixed up, okay?” He held his hand out to the younger officer. “You got the camera on you?”
Lupe protested, “But I can’t afford—”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Baker said. “We’ll take care of it. You need to have your face looked at. That cut might need stitches.”
Officer Harrison said, “Hey, the doc’s right upstairs, Sarge.”
“Take her to the clinic,” Baker said. “Can’t have any conflict of interest.”
Over the next ten minutes, Baker spoke with Lupe and Orlando. Once freed from the kitchen office, they quickly escaped out the side door. Only Mo and I remained.
“Annie Velasquez? Please come in.”
He closed the door behind us. I perched on the edge of the chair opposite him.
“I’m sorry about this, Ms. Velasquez. The missing jewelry is quite valuable, so I have to ask these questions. I hope you understand.”
I relaxed my grip on the arms of the chair and expelled a breath. Though I’d had time to recover from the initial surprise of seeing the police car outside, I was still on edge.
“How long have you worked for the Wentworths?” He held a pen above a notebook.
“Almost five months, since early July.”
“And you work upstairs, in the master suite? As a housekeeper?”
“Sometimes, yes. Our assignments change, so I’ve also worked in the rest of the house.”
He wrote for a few moments, then glanced up. “Did you work this weekend?”
“No. The doctor gave me the weekend off and let me go home early on Wednesday.” Baker must have known that, because he didn’t write it down.
“But you can always get into the house, right?”
“But I didn’t.” Note to self : don’t argue with the cop.
“Okay. Where were you from Wednesday night until this morning?”
I gave him a rundown of the weekend, dinner at the Brownlees, a drive into Portland to visit my grandmother and a couple of friends. He didn’t ask for their contact information. I didn’t offer it.
“Had any guests arrived before you left for the weekend?”
“The doctor’s oldest son and his family got here on Tuesday. I think they live in Seattle.”
“Anyone else?”
“Not that I know of, but Mo would have the list.”
He made a note. “Did you see anyone in the master suite who shouldn’t have been there?”
“No. As far as I know, any deliveries are handled downstairs here. The doc’s kids and their families have the run of the house when they visit. The wives do, too, even though it’s not their home any longer.”
“The wives?”
“The current Mrs. Wentworth is the doctor’s fourth wife. It’s amazing, but somehow he’s on good terms with all of his exes. One of them still lives in town, and she’s here fairly often. The others visit for holidays and birthdays and such.”
“He’s a better man than I am, Ms. Velasquez,” he said with a low laugh. He put his notebook aside and stretched his back for a long moment. “I’m sorry about your job. I hope you can find another one.”
“Oh, we’re not fired, Sergeant.”
“No?” He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “She sounded serious to me.”
“It’s a rare day she doesn’t fire at least one of us. The doc always manages to calm her down somehow. Between you and me, she probably won’t remember she said it.”
“Tough way to make a living.”
“It pays the bills.”
“I suppose.” He wrote down my address and phone number. “I’ll be in touch.”
He walked with me to the door, where Mo was pacing back and forth in the kitchen. She followed him into the office, and I headed for the garage.
Later, in a comfortable booth at the Charbonneau Diner, Sharon and I discussed the day’s events.
“You know, I feel a little sorry for her.” I stopped with my sandwich halfway to my mouth at the surprised expression on Sharon’s face. “I do.” I took a bite, savoring Freddy’s house-made pastrami, the tang of the sauerkraut and mustard. “Damn, this is good.”
“You’re either insane or you have no idea how to tell a joke.” She stopped with her soup spoon in the air, as if she’d forgotten she held it. “Tell me you don’t really feel bad for that little diva. I’ve never met her, but she sounds insufferable.”
I swallowed. “She’s obviously unhappy. I mean, wouldn’t you be, in her shoes?”
“For s
tarters, I’d never be in her shoes. I never see her that she’s not wearing those ridiculous six-inch stilettos. I think she does it so she’ll have weapons handy.” Sharon made an overhand stabbing motion with her spoon. “You could take out an eye easy with those things.”
“Very funny. You know what I mean. I keep hearing that the doc has been seeing someone on the side. Who knows if it’s true, though.” I took another bite of my sandwich and tried not to close my eyes in bliss.
“That’s the other thing. Did she really think he’d change his ways for her? She’s his fourth wife, for pity’s sake. I hear he’s a nice guy, and I know he’s a good doctor, but his track record in the marriage department is hardly a secret.”
I took a sip of Freddy’s excellent coffee. “What I can’t figure out is why women keep marrying him.”
Sharon rubbed her thumb against her fingers in the time-honored gesture for money.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “But that can’t be everything. He’s attractive enough, and he does have a great personality, but I don’t know—” I shook my head. “I’ll never understand some women.”
“Now that’s just sad.” Sharon said with a low laugh. “I’d have thought one of the perks of being a lesbian was understanding women.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “I have an easier time deciphering my cat.”
“Coffee, ladies? How’s your lunch?”
“Freddy, my friend,” I said as she refilled my cup, “I’d pay good money for your pastrami recipe.”
“Not a chance, little girl,” Freddy said with a smirk. “You keep paying for the sandwiches, and I’ll keep making them for you. That’s as close as you’re getting to my secret recipe.”
“I had to try.”
We’d exchanged the same banter so many times it was a regular part of my visits to the diner. And try as I might, I could never get her to explain why her name tag read “Fred” when Sharon told me the diner owner’s real name was Louise. Whenever I asked, she’d draw a finger across her lips, as if to zip them closed, with a twinkle in her eyes. We both understood I’d ask again. She’d told me she started working at the diner as a dishwasher when she was fifteen, worked her way up, waiting tables and cooking, and eventually bought the place. The Charbonneau Diner, known to the locals as Freddy’s, was the sort of eatery the Charbonneau residents knew about, but visitors wouldn’t notice. We liked it fine that way.
