by CeeCee James
I felt more alone in the world than I’d felt in a long time.
A gust of wind blew my hair in my eyes. I tucked it back and hurried over to the old porch.
So much drama. I wish I knew exactly why both my uncle and my dad wouldn’t talk with Oscar. I’d been working hard to bring the family back together, and I’d thought I’d made progress. Today’s conversation with Dad kind of put a damper on my dreams of a big family reunion in the near future.
I knocked on the door and then rubbed my hands together from the cold. As expected, a puffy tornado raced down the hallway, yapping a mile a minute. Peanut, or Bear as Oscar liked to call her, was my late grandmother’s Pomeranian. She jumped on the glass window next to the door and panted, before looking back toward the living room and giving an excited bark. I think in dog language, she was yelling, “Hurry, old man! The treat-giver’s at the door!”
The old man was listening because he appeared around the corner. Slowly, he shuffled down the hallway. I could practically hear his worn flannel slippers scuffing against the hardwood. His face was set in a scowl—the man did not like to show any other emotion—but he couldn’t fool me. I saw a twinkle in his eye and a giddy-up in his step that he normally didn’t have.
He opened the door and stared up at me through thick glasses. “What do you want?” he said gruffly.
I had no time to answer. Peanut shot out like a rocket and was now dancing around my feet.
“Come here, come here, come here,” I said, bouncing around, trying to catch the fluff-nugget. Finally, I scooped her up and stood to meet Oscar rolling his eyes.
“That dagnabbit dog. Always has to be front and center like she’s the princess at the ball.”
“Well, she is a princess, aren’t you girl.” I kissed her head, and Peanut returned the favor by licking my cheek.
“You here for a ‘talking moment?’ I was expecting you. Coffee’s on.”
It blew my mind to hear him use his reference word that meant needing a sounding board. “How’d you know I was on my way?” It was a curious thing. He always seemed to read my mind.
“Police scanner,” Oscar pointed to an antiquated black box. He didn’t say more, just shuffled into the kitchen. I followed after him, cuddling the dog. Her weight in my arms and soft fur against my cheek was the comfort I needed. I buried my face in and sighed, thankful for dogs.
Just inside the entrance of the old craftsman home, was a hallway lined with pictures. Each one placed perfectly next to the other on an invisible parallel line that suggested orderliness, yet the frames were covered in dust to the point of appearing furry.
I stopped before the first photo. It was of Oscar and my grandmother. They stood in front of a palm tree with young grins in some tropical location that suggested the first blush of marriage.
Following that was one of them holding a baby—my father. I remember the first time I’d seen it. When Dad packed up to move us to Washington, he truly left his old life behind, and I’d never seen him as an infant or child. It had been kind of shocking, as ridiculous as it sounds, to see evidence that he’d once been young like me.
The next picture was of my father in a little sailor suit, and a new baby, Uncle Chris. Uncle Chris had been a fat baby and was nearly bursting out of his own sailor suit. Grandma smiled contentedly as she held the roly-poly boy.
But my dad stared with eyes dark and serious. It made me want to scoop him up and play catch with him, or give him an ice-cream cone. Something to make him smile.
The next few pictures recorded Uncle Chris and my dad’s journey through school. The row ended with two college graduation photos. Uncle Chris was true to form as he made a goofy face at the camera.
In Dad’s graduation picture, I detected a difference from the solemn pictures of his youth and the serious man he was today. In this one, he had an easy-going smile on his face, and his eyes appeared lighter. I recalled that this was around the time he’d met my mother. Was it because he’d finally had his degree and could move on with his life that had brought him such joy?
Or was it my mom?
I touched the frame as bittersweetness fluttered in my heart like a strange butterfly. Love. I can’t say I’d really experienced it, at least not much more than the tiny flickers that had promised something deeper, but had soon sputtered out. Seeing my dad’s face in this photo made me think there really was something about true love…and maybe he’d found it with my mom.
“You coming in or trying to grow roots?” Oscar hollered.
“Coming!” I called. I kissed Peanut’s head one more time. “Her fur is shorter,” I commented as I walked into the kitchen.
“She went to the dog groomers. Georgie took her.”
“Georgie?” I asked, setting the dog down and taking off my coat. I hung it on the back of one of the farm chairs.
“Georgie.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the house next door. “My new Hot Thing’s granddaughter.”
Ewww. I shivered. That was one expression I never needed to hear again. Rapidly, I changed the subject.
“So, you know why I’m here? From the scanner?”
“Yeah, I was expecting you.” He shambled over with a cup of coffee and a plate of toast. “Go on, sit on your biscuit and let it out.”
I smiled and sat down. He always had a way of disarming me by lightening the mood but still creating a safe space to talk. “So did you know it was Uncle Chris’s friend? Ian Stuber.”
He grunted in surprise.
As I talked, he trekked back and forth to the table with butter, sugar, a pot of jelly, and finally his own mug of coffee. There was no offer of cream. I highly doubted he had any milk that wasn’t a solid chunk in his fridge, anyway.
Oscar sat down with a huff and Peanut immediately sprang to his feet. “Do they suspect foul play?”
“The cops did ask a few questions. We were all together at the table, so I don’t see how it would be a possibility. I think it had to have been a reaction to something he ate.”
“Best way murder happens.” He pointed a half-eaten toast triangle at me. “You have an alibi. Guy dies out of sight.”
I shivered and rubbed my arms. “I didn’t see anything unusual. We were all eating the same thing. Even Kari’s potato salad.”
He glanced up then. “Something wrong with the salad?”
“I didn’t eat any, but the guy next to me said it was off. And Ian did sort of grimace before he got up and left the table.”
“Who was at this party?” Oscar’s eyebrows beetled down.
I named off those who I remembered.
“Gordon Taylor?” he said with a grunt. “That guy’s a load of trouble.”
5
“Trouble? How do you know about Gordon Taylor?” Yeah, I went straight to the point, but Oscar appreciated it when you didn’t pull any punches.
“It was a dark and spooky night,” he began.
My eyebrow flickered, but he was being serious. He patted his lap for Peanut to jump up. “I was on a stakeout—one of my last ones. Before my darling wife got sick.” He winced as he mentioned his late wife. “We were trying to take a dirty informant into protective custody. Hector was a mob enforcer, and he got there before us. And, let’s just say, Hector was thorough and left little behind for us to find. Gordon Taylor was Hector’s friend.”
“Oh, wow.” I sat, a little stunned. The poky couple who showed up late at the party sure didn’t look like people with mob ties. “Do you think the police who showed up at Ian’s house know?”
“Anyone worth their salt in law enforcement knows. They have an eye on him, you can bet on that. If foul play happened, Gordon’s the one I’d suspect.”
Well, that was a thunderclap of news.
“Gordon and his wife did seem to arrive unexpectedly. I’d heard Gordon and Ian didn’t always get along, which made our dealings with selling the house tricky. We thought they’d throw a fit about the Flamingo Realty sign. Still, everything seemed to go all
right after they came. They even brought wine.”
“Wine?” His voice was full of suspicion.
I shook my head. “It was a sealed bottle.”
He shrugged and sipped his coffee. “You know where my vote’s going. The police must suspect something to interview all of you like that.”
I spun my mug on the table as a little worm of worry grew in my head. Oscar pulled out a newspaper—one of the few people I knew who still read them. Finally, I pulled out my phone and started fielding emails.
We sat in comfortable silence, broken only by the ticking of what he’d once informed me was a malfunctioning cuckoo clock (but it’s right twice a day, he said adamantly) and the rattling of the refrigerator. As an introvert, the silence suited me. Quite a bit of time slipped by, with me lulled into relaxation by the peace. I stretched and glanced over to see him working at the crossword puzzle.
“I guess I should go,” I said with a sigh.
“Storm’s coming. You drive safe, you hear?” He eyed me over the top of his glasses.
I nodded and gave him a half-hug, which Peanut interrupted by abruptly jumping up from his lap and jabbing her nose into my face.
His warning was no joke. As soon as I left his house, I could see black clouds crowding together in the sky. The snow started before I even made it home, falling, not in those soft floating flakes that looked like feathers off an angel’s wing, but the kind that made little ticks on the window. I was thankful to pull into my driveway. I hurried in the house and immediately searched for a sweater. The old house was drafty. I ended up dressing in pajamas with a blanket snuggled around my shoulders for good measure.
Okay, it was time to chill out before bed. I thought I might check out my Great-great Grandma Wiktoria’s letters.
The antique letters were a gift from my dad, who’d sent them in a care package a few months back. Grandma Wiktoria had escaped Poland when Hitler was overtaking the country. These were the letters she’d written to her mother who she had to leave behind.
Unfortunately, they were all written in Polish, so it had been slow going to interpret them. I pulled out the last one I’d managed to translate, using an app, and curled up on my bed with a pen and a pad of paper.
Taking the cap off the pen, I gently smoothed out the letter, while chewing on the cap. It was not nearly as satisfying to bite as a pencil, where the soft wood would give under my teeth in neat little dents, but it helped me focus. Back in grade school, I was always in trouble for ruining my pencils, but that’s another story.
Her letter began like this…
Dearest Mother,
It’s spring here. I remember the springtime back in Krakow. How fresh the beautiful mountain air is of the High Tatras. I miss you so much, yet at times, I can almost feel you with me. It’s your prayers, maybe? Or your thoughts. Either way, I swear I can nearly feel your hug. There isn’t a day that has gone by that I don’t hear your admonishments or encouragement. I miss you so.
I set the letter down on the worn quilt. Wiktoria’s words rang through my head. I could hear the pain of missing her mother. She’d been so strong to start this new life in America despite everything she left behind. Closing my eyes, I leaned my head back against the pillow. Everyone seemed to have it all figured out, while here I was, still trying to discover the depths of what made me—me. Today, for example, I was at the party, feeling confident and secure. Finally, feeling like I had it all together, like I’d achieved being a grown-up. When, suddenly, a comment from a stranger ripped apart what was apparently a facade and exposed me as this insecure little girl who missed her mom.
Celeste had knocked me for a loop, that’s for sure. I blushed as I remembered struggling to rise above the tidal wave of emotions to give her my usual excuse about my lack of a mom. My stammering words were flimsy like this piece of paper in my hand. My emotions tattered.
At this moment, I felt like I couldn’t face ever being asked that question again.
And yet it was being asked. By me this time. In a little girl voice, and then an adult woman voice, insecure, and confused. Why did you go, Mom?
Was it possible she had… died?
Celeste made that weird comment about Ian’s mom coming back to visit him. All boogey-woogey—just too weird.
Still, if my mom had died, was she watching me? I mean, there wasn’t a chance that it was her that I’d felt when I was in Ian’s bathroom, was there?
I shook my head, feeling silly. I need to go to bed, stat. This day has me so wound up, I’m not even making sense anymore.
Still, my questions showed that it was high time to have a real conversation about all of this with Dad. It was ridiculous that I, as a grown woman, had never talked to him about her.
Dad seemed so in control, such a type A personality who always had it together. But there was a vulnerability in him concerning my mom that nearly broke him. I’d seen it in his face through wrinkles of grief and wet tracks of tears when I was little, and I’d vowed then I’d take care of him so he’d never feel that way again.
Of course, when I’d made the vow, I was only a little girl. Maybe five or six. I hadn’t known then that my father didn’t need the security a little girl could bring. Still, I’d always felt my role was to make him proud. To show him that I was enough to make us happy.
To make him never miss my mom again.
I sighed now, a big heaving one. My throat felt tight and my eyes burned.
I’d never realized before this moment just what a heavy burden that had been.
I twirled the letter in my hand. Why did Dad cut Grandpa off? I mean, I know the reasons he gave me, the man was evil, a family destroyer, always moving them from place to place. Dad had also been resentful because grandma used to beg Oscar to quit the FBI and Oscar wouldn’t.
All those reasons had been enough for me to accept the division for years. But now, thinking about it, seriously thinking about it, I felt like I was missing a huge piece of the mystery.
And not only had Dad cut off Oscar, he had never been all that close to Uncle Chris either.
Oscar. I smiled as I thought of him. I didn’t call him grandpa—he hadn’t invited me to, and I sure didn’t feel comfortable. But he was a new gift in my life. My own flesh and blood, a history that extended past just my father and me.
I rolled over, springs squeaking underneath me in the ancient mattress, and flipped off the light. My dad might not be as easy to crack as Grandma Wiktoria’s letters, but I was determined to do it. I would bring this family back together, one way or another.
6
The next morning, I woke up to a frosted wonderland. I checked the MLS to keep fresh on new listings, and then wandered about the house, still in my pajamas, wondering if I’d ever get any new clients interested in a house showing. I hadn’t received any new messages in days.
I knew I should get dressed, so I’d be ready to go in case I got a call, but so far my morning had been spent on more pressing business of reheating the same mug of coffee over and over again because I kept getting distracted with chores needing to be done.
I was hanging up a load of laundry over the antique wooden drying rack—this cute old house had the most amazing claw tub but no electric dryer—when my phone dinged with an incoming text.
It was from Kari. —Joe ate the potato salad and lived. I think he knew it was his last chance since I wouldn’t be making it again for another year.
I chuckled and wrote back, —terrific!
Then I grimaced. That wasn’t the same news for poor Ian.
I walked through my bedroom and gathered clothing for the washing machine. As an old habit, I checked the pockets. There had been too many loads that I’d ruined with a pen back when I was in college.
The round metal piece in one of the pockets took me by surprise. The thing from Ian’s house. I hadn’t realized I’d stuffed it in my pants the day before.
Now that I had it out, I examined it closer. What was it?
It a
ppeared to be the clasp of something. Yet it also looked like a screw-on top. It reminded me of one of the necklaces I had, but I hadn’t seen a necklace in the bathroom when I’d cleaned it though. The thought crossed my mind that someone at Ian’s house could have thrown it out and just missed the can. But they seemed to be the type who wore expensive jewelry. Wouldn’t you want to repair it instead?
There was something odd about it besides the tiny threads. Studying it closer, I saw an 24k stamp which further supported my assumptions that whatever this belonged to was worth repairing.
Great. I needed to bring take back to Jasmine’s house. What excuse could I use to go tromping in on her grief? I could bring a meal, but when I’d left, their fridge had already been stuffed from the party food.
Flowers? That’s it! I could ask Uncle Chris if he’d want to contribute. Maybe the realty office could send some.
I jetted off a text to him with my question. Satisfied, I went back to stuffing the laundry into the machine. I hit start and brushed my hands together.
There. Another chore done.
My phone dinged with an alert. Uncle Chris was fast to respond today! I hummed as I clicked it open…a humming that quickly faded. My worst fear and suspicion had come true.
He wrote—Coroner says it’s murder.
There was no time for a text back. I hit call.
“Hey,” Uncle Chris answered, his voice heavy.
“Are you serious? How does he know? Are you okay?”
“Blood vessels burst under his skin. He also had blue fingernails. There’s some other signs the coroner didn’t go into, but it all points to acute poisoning. They are examining the stomach contents now.”
Shocked, I reeled backward until I rested against the wall. I’d eaten that lunch! It could have been me!
“Uncle Chris, any one of us could have died!”
“I know. It’s crazy. The detectives have returned to the house for samples of all the food and wine for testing. We should know more later.”
