After a commercial, the pudgy local weatherman said that a storm front was on the way that might be dropping up to a foot and half of wet, heavy snow if it stalled where it was expected to stall, or even two feet if the circumstances were just right.
Let it, I thought. It’d be nice to be snowed in. We hadn’t had a real heavy hitter of a snowstorm in years. Most places I needed to go were within walking distance, and Ted always trekked in by foot anyway. There was something incredibly cozy about watching the snow fall and pile up layer on layer through the window of my warm and well-lit shop, surrounded by the artifacts of the past. At such times I could almost wish myself entombed there, with all those great old books to read and movies to watch, and if starvation loomed, there was always a tasty cat close at hand. Kidding.
Still, we’d probably get just a few inches. The weather guys on TV were calling for the storm of the century every other week, just so you’d keep tuning in. I’d been had that way before, plenty of times.
I clicked the TV off, turned out the lights, and crawled into bed, while Fudge, a/k/a “Emergency Rations,” curled himself into a ball near my feet. As soon as I’d lie on my side, he’d make himself at home in the hollow formed by the backs of my legs. But for now, I just lay on my back, watching the gleam of the street lights against the bedroom curtains.
It was the first chance I’d had to just relax and reflect on the happenings of the past twenty-four hours, and even though I was exhausted, having gotten only a few hours of sleep the night before (and that with a guy), I didn’t let myself drift off.
I thought about Tom Drummond, and how a nearly random act in a forest over seventy-five years before had set him on a path of terror and death that had stretched into the present.
And then for some reason Genevieve Tucker encroached into my thoughts, that tall, lanky, sad-faced woman whom I had suspected and misjudged so completely. I saw now that her life of caring may have been her way of redeeming herself for the death she had caused, merciful as it was. There was nothing sinister about her after all, and I made up my mind to be neither frightened nor resentful of the kind attentions she paid to my mother.
Now the guilt was mine, guilt for having told Karen and Doris Landover about Genevieve’s clouded past. Who knows how many employees of the Gates Home they might have told, and how it might affect their relationship with Genevieve? And would the increase in security mean the end of Genevieve’s job at the home? They couldn’t legally fire her, but I knew about the ways employers could put pressure on people they didn’t want around any longer.
With guilt surrounding me like another of the heavy blankets on my bed, I rolled onto my side, offered Fudge his preferred sleeping spot, and finally drifted off to sleep.
Yes, that worked out quite well.
Two old fools, one following the other, that’s how it looks, doesn’t it? Luring the one there, and the other follows…some mistaken motives…a little confusion…and then one of them is down.
The one who suspected me.
Now there is one other suspicious old fool to deal with, and my path is clear.
And then I shall be able to give her the peace and the freedom from pain that she needs, that they all need. I shall deliver her, in the night.
And I shall deliver myself.
Chapter 19
I woke up at eight, a good hour before Ted would be making his way into the store. When I drew back the curtains, I saw that it was snowing already, big fat flakes that were just beginning to coat the ground with white.
Before I made my coffee, I hopped on my laptop to check my email. Usually it’s the other way around, but I wanted to see if there was anything interesting, like, say, a message from Dave.
There wasn’t. I sighed a really big sigh and ground some beans. I had a full day ahead of me, and most of it was going to revolve around the Gates Home, as if I hadn’t already had enough of the place. I had a music presentation scheduled for 1:00, and that evening was the volunteers’ dinner, an annual event that I always attended. It was a little thank you from the home to all the volunteers, outsiders like me as well as residents who also helped around the place, everything from sewing to hairdressing to reading to other residents. The dinner was a bit more palatable than the usual stuff they served in the dining hall, and they always gave a little memento along with a certificate about the value of volunteers. Last year we got a pen and pencil set.
Ted arrived right on time with his new cheery countenance, and immediately got a snow shovel from the storeroom. “We’re really in for it, I hear,” he said, as he went out for the first of several trips to clear the sidewalk. The city has a hissy fit if businesses don’t keep them clean, even if their own efforts to plow the parking places leave a whole lot to be desired by aforesaid merchants.
I had to confess that Ted 2.0, the new, chirpier version, was actually fun to work with. No moony eyes, no long, depressing silences, no self-deprecating comments, just work and shovel and an occasional, “Whoa, we’re gonna have a foot before you know it!” kind of comment.
Halfway through the morning I brought down my hot water boiler/warmer and packs of hot chocolate for Ted and me, as well as any customers who were willing to trudge through the snowstorm to get to the shop. We actually had several who wanted to get some reading material in case they got snowed in. Ted went out to a convenience store and got some cookies, too, and I put them on a snowman tray and set them next to the warmer.
When there was no one else in the shop, I grabbed the second shovel and went out with Ted when he made his regular trek. We did as much laughing as shoveling, and dumped our shovelfuls onto the areas the other was shoveling, and tossed a few snowballs at each other for good measure.
When we went back in, we flicked on the radio that we hardly ever listened to, and heard the AccuWeather guy’s forecast. “This looks like the perfect storm, folks. A slooow mover that’s stalled right over us and doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere soon. We don’t expect this to leave the Buchanan area until tomorrow morning towards dawn. And that means we’re gonna end up with a doozy of a snowfall, maybe even topping two feet. If I had to make a guess at this point, I’d hazard twenty-six inches by the time all’s said and done, maybe an itty bit more…”
Oh boy, I thought.
I ate so many cookies that I wasn’t hungry for lunch. Still, I had a small yogurt to get some protein into me and then got my record player and records together for the trip to the Gates Home. I thought about driving, but even with the four-wheel drive it could get a little dicey. Dicey and icy. The stuff outside was heavy and solid, and I could hear cars spinning their wheels as their drivers strove to get traction on the quickly freezing surfaces.
The snow seemed to freeze as quickly as it landed, and I decided to let discretion be the better part of valor and walk the fifteen blocks. I wrapped up my records and record player in a big green garbage bag, and put on my Uggs at the door. “You’re walking?” Ted asked.
“I won’t melt. I’ll just clump clump clump along until I get there.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’ll be fine. Thanks.” I pulled up my hood, found the handle of the record player through the plastic bag, and started my wilderness journey.
It was fun. My boots handled the deep snow nicely—I figured we had about six to eight inches so far—and the thick white mantle seemed to silence much of the city. A few cars still moved, though slowly. Some slid around corners, others slipped out of the ruts that previous cars had made and found themselves stuck in the unplowed parking spaces. Samaritans helped push them back onto the road, and I would have joined in had it not been for the musical burden I carried.
The city’s plows were nowhere to be seen, and I bet myself that they wouldn’t be out until evening, or even when the snow started to stop. The mayor had taken a lot of heat for the last city budget, like most mayors had these days, and I figured he’d wait until there was a whole lot to plow, rather than pay the drivers several
extra hours-worth to get the trucks out early and keep after it. Much more economical—and fun—to plow two feet worth of snow at once. That way the parking spaces would be unusable for several days afterwards, until the city could haul it all away, or until we had a good melt. Thanks from your grateful merchants, Mister Mayor….
I swear that it snowed another inch or two during the time I traversed those fifteen blocks. When I finally clumped into the front entryway of the Gates Homes, I bet I shook that much snow off my shoulders and hood. If I hadn’t had the garbage bag around the records, they’d have been nothing but a frozen block of shellac and cardboard.
I took off my coat and Uggs, changed into the clogs I had in my bag-of-all-tricks, and headed for the social hall. On the way I ran into Doris Landover and asked how she was holding up.
“Insane,” she answered. “The newspaper and TV people were bugging me all day yesterday. We were lucky enough to keep Harold’s name out of it, so they won’t be bothering him. But at least they’re gone now. I arranged for more security to come in starting tomorrow evening.”
“Are you cancelling the volunteer dinner tonight, what with everything—and the snow?”
“Nope. Normally I probably would’ve, but we decided that getting back to normal was the most important thing. Some of our volunteers who live out of town won’t make it because of the roads, so it’ll probably be mostly the residents and local volunteers who can make it on foot. You coming?”
“Sure, if you’re having it. I walked up here once, I can do it again.”
“There might be another foot on the ground by then. Those shoes aren’t going to do much.”
“Uggs.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I wore my Uggs here.”
“Ah. Well, I hope they’re high.”
There weren’t as many people waiting for me in the social hall as there usually were, but I noticed Harold right away. His hair was neatly combed, he was clean-shaven, and was sporting a nice jacket and tie. But instead of leaping up and coming to greet me, as he usually did, he merely raised a hand feebly and gave a weak smile.
“Hey, Harold,” I said, after I put down my burden and came over to him.
“Hello, Livy.” His voice was as tired as it had been earlier. “Got that Kid Ory for me?”
“You bet. How are you?”
“I’m not as young as I used to be, kiddo. The years have caught up with me. All at once, feels like…” He smiled a little broader then. “You taking care of my box?” I nodded. “Good. Remember now, not till I…” He twisted his head, made a ratcheting sound and stuck out his tongue. “…kick it, you know.”
“Oh, Harold. You’re not going to kick it for a while yet.”
“Hope you’re right.”
We talked a little about the snowstorm, and then I asked him if he was coming to the dinner that night, since I knew he read books and newspapers to some of the residents with poor eyesight. “Don’t think so,” he said. “I’m still pretty tired after…well, you know. I think I’ll just eat early and retire.”
The session that afternoon was pretty low key. Everyone seemed underwhelmed by anything that I played, although Harold nodded his head in rhythm and smiled throughout “Oh, Didn’t He Ramble.”
At two o’clock I said goodbye, packed away the records and record player, and went into the residential wing to see Mother. I felt a burst of irritation as I saw that her door was ajar, but then I heard voices from inside, and Mother was laughing.
I pushed the door open further, and saw Mother sitting in her chair. Perched on a smaller chair, her long legs bent so that her bony elbows were leaning on her knees, was Genevieve Tucker. The sight shook me for a moment, and then I remembered that Genevieve was what she appeared to be, a kind and considerate caregiver, and I smiled and said hello.
“Well, look who’s here!” said Genevieve as she stood up. “I’d better get to work and let you spend some time with your daughter.” As she walked past me, she nodded her head toward the hall, still smiling.
“Excuse me, Mother, I’ll be right back,” I said, and followed Genevieve. She led me just far enough down the hall so that Mother wouldn’t overhear, and then stopped.
“Miss Crowe,” she said, “I’ve been meaning to ask…I hope you don’t mind my visiting your mother.”
“Oh no, not at all.”
“Good. She just seems so sad sometimes, and my visits seem to cheer her up a little. But I didn’t want to be seen as overstepping or anything.”
“Absolutely not. I actually heard her laughing when I came in, and I haven’t heard that for a long time. I’m grateful, really.”
“Well, she’s a lovely lady. I enjoy talking to her.”
“I appreciate it, really.”
We talked for another minute or so, and then Genevieve said, “Well, I’d better go start my shift.”
“The way it’s coming down you may have to sleep here when you’re done,” I said.
“Don’t I know it—it’s a twelve-hour one too, so it won’t be until early in the morning till I get out of here…” She looked at me oddly and added, “…if I do at all.”
She said goodbye then, and I went back to Mother’s room. Despite my attempts, I couldn’t get her to laugh or even smile beyond a slight uptick at the corners of her mouth. I guess I just didn’t have the Genevieve charm. Or maybe Mother knew me too well.
“So how was Genevieve today?” I finally asked her.
That made her smile. “Oh, just fine. We talk and talk.”
“Really? About what?”
“Oh, she asks me about when I was younger, and I tell her stories about your father and me, and even about when I was a little girl. And then she tells me about her family and when she grew up. Just…memories. They’re fun to share.”
Not all of them, I thought, but I didn’t say anything.
We talked a little more, then her attention drifted back to the TV, and I made an excuse to leave. It wasn’t really an excuse, though, since I had to get back to the store through the ever-deepening snow, help Ted close up, and then get ready to go back out again to the dinner.
I thought it seemed kind of crazy for Doris not to cancel, and when I opened the door to go out on the street again, I thought so more than ever. During the time I’d been inside the home, another six inches had piled on top of the snow that was already there. I decided against hauling back the record player and discs, and stashed them in Doris’s office with her permission. I couldn’t help asking, “Are you sure you want to go on with the dinner tonight?”
“Everybody’s dispirited enough as it is. The residents really look forward to it, and I just don’t want to disappoint them. Maybe we’ll have a luncheon later on for the people who can’t make it. You going to try?”
“Oh, I’ll be here,” I said. “Even if I have to harness up the dog team.”
On the way out I saw Martha Myers, and when she saw me, she waved, then quickly put her hand back on her walker. “I have something for you,” she said. She looked at me a moment longer, then down at the floor, then back up at me. “But I don’t remember what now. And I don’t have it here, I think. It’s in my room, I think.”
“I’ll tell you what, Martha,” I said. “I’m coming back for the dinner this evening. I’ll stop by your room and get it, how would that be?”
“Ach, just fine, Livy, just fine.” Her Pennsylvania Dutch accent turned “just” into “chust,” chust the vay my Grandma Crowe used to talk, and I chuckled as I walked down the hall to the door.
The trek back home was a lot harder, and this time snow did get over the tops of my Uggs. There was hardly any traffic at all now, and the streets showed no signs of having been plowed. I’d heard on the radio that the mayor of a city in the Midwest, due to budget constraints, had ordered that no plowing of snow would be done until the snow reached eight inches, and wondered if our mayor had decided on the same strategy.
I opened the door of the store, and Ted
laughed when he saw me looking like a snowman, then came over and helped brush me off in the outside alcove where we often put a shelf full of dollar items in nice weather. “It doesn’t show signs of stopping,” I said.
“‘And I brought some corn for popping,’” he finished in song. Neither of us went on to the following, more romantic lines.
When I finally came inside, denuded of snow, Ted told me he’d checked the “wet spots,” which were two places at the juncture of wall and ceiling that had leaked when rainwater had made its way down through the walls in a storm the summer before. I’d had a roofer come in to find and fix the place the water had gotten in, and we’d had no recurrence, but I still kept my eye on it during heavy rains. Paper has no worse enemy than water. Okay, fire, sure, but then water.
I spent what was left of the afternoon doing menial tasks, and Ted still went out every half hour or so to clear the sidewalk. He came inside after his last scraping just before five, and I said, “You realize that by tomorrow morning there may be another foot or more on your pristine sidewalk?”
He shrugged. “At least there won’t be two feet.” Then he glanced outside, where the big heavy flakes were still descending. “Or maybe there will. Hope the roof’s okay.”
“The leaks are fixed, it should be fine.”
“I mean the weight. Two feet of wet snow is pretty heavy.”
Now I started worrying. The building, an old one dating back to the 1880s, has a flat roof. We’d never had any problems before, but still… “Haven’t we had two feet of snow on the roof before?” I asked him.
“Not since I started working here.”
“But since the building was built, surely.”
Ted seemed to think for a moment. “Yeah, yeah, you must be right, old as it is. Still a little worried about leaks, though. I mean, the roofer got the one, but if there are some he missed…snow packs up, starts melting underneath…water always finds a way in if there is one.”
Murder Old and New Page 17
