I found reverse and slowly eased out of the drive. It took all my strength to crank the wheel enough to make a tight turn onto the street. No power steering. How did Aunt Ruth handle this boat?
I hadn’t traveled more than a block when my cell phone rang. I fumbled in my bag to find it. Were there laws in Indiana against cell phone use while driving? “Lauren Halloren.”
“Ms. Halloren, this is Earl Clooney with Justice Insurance. I’m calling at the request of Smith Williams.”
“Can I call you b—“
The man didn’t take a breath. “As you know, he was Ruth James’s attorney and handled her estate. I’ve been asked to give you a reminder call about the insurance on the house and the car.”
“Insurance? I haven’t even thought about it.”
Crap. One more thing to add to my list.
As if reading my mind, Mr. Clooney chirped, “No worries, I’ll take care of everything. That is, providing you want to remain with the same company. Of course you’re welcome to use any you choose. Maybe you have an insurance agent you prefer?”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t. I haven’t owned a house for a while, or a car. This has all happened so quickly.”
Clooney lowered his voice, taking on a tone that reminded me of a funeral director. “I see. In that case, are you aware that at this time you are uninsured? Ms. James’s insurance coverage ended upon her death.”
Uninsured? I took my foot off the accelerator, turned the wheel, and directed the wagon to the curb.
Mr. Clooney continued in a lighter vein. “I carried Ms. James’s insurance for many years and have all the information on the house as well as the car. It would be my honor to take care of your insurance needs, as well.”
I let my forehead drop to the steering wheel and scrunched my eyes closed. “That sounds like the best option. When can I come in?”
“I have time right now if you’re available. We’ll get it taken care of today.”
“Oh, thank goodness. Yes, I’m available.” After recording his address, I checked the rear-view mirror, pulled away from the curb, and drove five miles an hour under the speed limit all the way to Justice Insurance
Mr. Clooney opened the front door of the one-story office building when I got out of my car. He stood with his feet apart, and hands thrust into the pockets of his ill-fitting, brown suit. “Beautiful day, isn’t it? Come on in. I’ll show you the way.”
I followed him down a long, dimly lit hallway to an office at the back of the building. The center of the room was occupied by a vintage wooden desk surrounded by three leather upholstered chairs. Tall file cabinets lined the wall on one side, and the opposite wall was taken up with a printer, paper shredder, and book shelves.
I took a seat across the desk from him as he began an obviously well-rehearsed spiel. “Welcome to the Justice Insurance family, Ms. Halloren. Rest assured we’re ready and able to handle all your insurance needs. Complete home and auto protection, under one roof.” He took a breath and flashed a satisfied smile. “As I said, I handled your aunt’s insurance needs for many years. Let me begin by saying I’m heartbroken for your loss. Ms. James was a lovely lady.”
“Thank you, Mr. Clooney. That’s very kind of you.”
His chair rocked as he leaned into it. “How about something to drink? Can I get you anything?”
“Yes. Thank you. I would love a cup of coffee.”
His cheeks sagged. “Gosh, I’m sorry. I don’t have coffee. I stopped drinking it all together. I guess I should’ve told you before you got your hopes up. That caffeine will kill you.” He leaned forward and pointed at me. “Did you know it’s a drug? Very addictive.” He shook his head, then swung his hand to a compact refrigerator at the side of his desk. “How about some ice cold spring water or fruit juice? Orange? Grape?”
“You know, I’m fine, really. Maybe we should just get to the insurance papers.” I massaged my temples to ease tension threatening to blossom into a full-blown headache.
“Certainly.” Earl pulled a stack of paperwork from a drawer and slid the top sheet toward me. “I took the liberty of preparing these in advance. All you have to do is fill in your personal information here.” He tapped the paper. “Sign where I’ve indicated on the other pages, and we’ll be good to go.”
He tented his fingers and looked on while I signed my life away.
***
Fifteen minutes later, I drove my fully insured classic station wagon to Quick Mart Gas and Groceries. Not much of a food selection, but I picked out enough for a few days. I pulled down the tailgate and tucked the two bags of provisions in the back while marveling at the size of the vehicle. Large enough to haul a month’s worth of groceries, four kids and a dog, with room to spare.
Back at Stoneybridge, between trips to various cupboards and the refrigerator, I watched my neighbor through the kitchen window. Mr. Binion pulled weeds from around an assortment of what appeared to be vegetable plants. Never would have pegged him as a gardener.
I assembled a sandwich, and sat down to peruse The Evelynton News—a quick read. The headline, Crime Spree Continues, Police Baffled, took up a third of the first page. A paragraph below told of a theft on Maumee Street, the previous evening. A valuable coin collection stolen. The owner was out bowling and returned to find the back door open—big surprise, it hadn’t been locked—and no treasured coins. Apparently, this was the fourth in a string of break-ins over the past three weeks.
I took a bite of sandwich. Should it be called a break-in when the door was unlocked?
The rest of the news consisted of weddings, funerals, anniversary parties, and Miss Elizabeth DuPree, of the Beaver Creek Nursing Home, turning one hundred years young on Saturday.
I threw the newspaper into the recycle bin and set about unpacking. My minuscule television fit on an end table in the living room and I positioned the computer and printer to face it. Aunt Ruth would have had a fit over the arrangement. She may have served tea and cookies to her friends in this room, but I had no plans for entertaining. I tore into the boxes, put my last four unchipped coffee mugs and teapot in a cabinet, and placed Marc’s favorite mug on the windowsill above the sink.
I unpacked a box of sweaters and pulled open the bottom drawer of the dresser, intending to drop them in, when I paused. A square of paper lay in the bottom of the drawer. No, an old snapshot. I placed the sweaters on the bed and lifted the photo. My heart beat thumped in my ears as I held the picture. What kind of mean trick is this? Marc and I smiled into the lens—our wedding day. How did Aunt Ruth get it? She’d barely approved of me during my preteen years and hadn’t been concerned at all after I left for college. As a single dad, my father hadn’t known what to do with me and was visibly relieved to send me off. Then, I met Marc, my perfect match. He had no family either, so we eloped. In this picture, we were on our way to an exciting new life. I’d mailed my father pictures, at his request, with an apology for being disrespectful.
I blew out a long breath and willed my pounding heart to slow. Dad must have given Aunt Ruth the photo—only to have her discard it here. My beloved husband was the only person who had truly loved me, and he was gone. That dark, lonely reality hit hard. I wiped the tears and walked to the kitchen to prop the photo beside his special cup.
To complete a cruel joke, the three remaining boxes were labeled in permanent marker, “Marc.” I’d wallowed in my grief for a full year before clearing out his closets. Everything I could stand to part with, I gave away, and packed what I couldn’t. Since that day, these boxes, the last of his possessions, remained sealed. I shoved them to the far back corner of a dusty closet under the staircase. Someday I’ll be strong enough to throw them away.
A rapping on the door broke my train of thought.
Ugh. I don’t have any more appointments.
Leave me alone.
Another knock. Pushing up from the floor, I stared at the offending door, willing the pounding to stop. After another insistent knock, I stalked
to the door and flung it open.
Chapter Three
F ully prepared to decline whatever this unwelcome visitor was selling, I stood staring at a woman’s back. About my height and size, plus fifteen pounds, blond hair curled at her neck.
“I’m sorry, but I’m really busy.”
She turned. The wide grin, the blue eyes, pinged a memory. “Lauren, it really is you. They said your aunt Ruth left the house to a relative. I couldn’t think who else it might be.”
She paused, allowing me an opening to speak, but nothing came. “You look great. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time, but I was in town and just had to come over and bring you a housewarming gift.” She held up a colorful ceramic pot filled with red and yellow flowers.
She could probably see question marks in my eyes as I held out my hands to accept the gift. “Thank you. That’s nice of you.” Think, Lauren, a name….
Anita! My friend in high school.
Got it. “Anita, it’s good to see you.” To my surprise, this was true. I hadn’t wanted company, but this intrusion was welcome. “You caught me off guard, and my mind went blank. Umm. Come in.”
Anita intercepted my attempt to step aside, enfolding me in a warm hug.
When was the last time I’d been hugged? Tears sprang to my eyes.
Quit it Lauren. Crying? How silly is that?
A few awkward seconds later, she released me and stepped into the living room. “Oh, isn’t this nice? It’s so cozy.”
She plopped down on the sofa with a sigh, and reproduced her famous grin. “It is good to see you, Lauren. My goodness, how long has it been?” Anita waved her hand above her head. “Wait, I know exactly how long. Twenty-five years. I know this because our class reunion is next week. Can you believe it? And you haven’t changed a bit. I can’t wait to hear all about your last quarter century.” The room rang with her laughter.
Anita had changed. The picture of a forty-three-year-old, small-town housewife and mother, she’d developed deeper dimples and lots of smile lines.
“You look great, Anita.”
The glad tidings began to fade as I thought of the last twenty-five years. So to avoid regurgitating my life events, I blurted, “Anita, tell me about yourself. What have you been doing?”
“You know I went to business college after high school. Long-story-short, I met my husband, Jake—the love of my life—at my first job. We live in the old Tuburgen estate at the edge of town. Well, it didn’t take long for me to become pregnant—twins—and I quit work. Sue and Janey attend college in Chicago.”
Kids?
Quite a conversation-stopper for me, I groped for a reply. “Wow. That’s great. Twin girls. That must have been fun. How about something to drink? Do you want a can of pop or coffee?”
“Oh, coffee would be wonderful.” Anita followed me into the kitchen and rested against the counter while I fiddled with the coffee maker. “Now tell me about what you did. I know you got married after college. Eloped, if I remember right. We all thought that was so romantic. Any children?”
“No.” My hand trembled as I pushed the power button. I took a deep breath and stared out the window. “We never had time—then Marc was killed—murdered five years ago.”
Anita sucked in a breath and became quiet. I looked at her. Even the pink had fled her cheeks. Her voice came in a hush. “I’m so sorry. I heard your husband died, but…. I can’t imagine what it was like. How insensitive of me. I am so sorry I brought up such a painful memory.”
“It’s okay, Anita. I haven’t voiced the words in a long time. Guess I think if I don’t talk about it, it will go away.”
We were silent for a few seconds.
“New subject. This is a great home.” Anita pivoted, scanning the cupboards. “The kitchen is sweet, it doesn’t need a thing. Tell me about your plans for rest of the house.”
I took deep, calming breaths and handed Anita her filled coffee cup. Then I led the way back into the living room, and wondered how to explain my plans involved selling everything and leaving as soon as possible.
Anita could never tolerate silence. “Do you remember Clair? We’re on the reunion planning committee. Wait, who am I kidding? We are the committee—the only ones who do any planning, anyway. You’re home just in time. The reunion is next week.”
“Did you get the invitation? I left it in the mailbox, just in case.”
“Yes, I did. I’m not sure where I put it.” I glanced around trying to remember if I laid it down or threw it away.
“Don’t worry, I have more. It’s two days of fun—a cocktail party Friday and a dinner on Saturday. Isn’t that elegant? And you’ll get to see everyone.”
Ugh. Not my cup of tea.
“I don’t know. Crowds are not my thing. Who would I know besides you?”
“Nonsense, you’ll know loads of people.”
“It’s been twenty-five years. What would we have to talk about?”
“You’ll be surprised. Wait ‘til you see Clair. Remember how she always got us into trouble?”
That made me laugh, and at the sound of Anita’s giggle, old memories came rushing into my mind. I missed visiting with friends.
Our laughter stopped short when we heard a blast. The floor vibrated, and the windows rattled. My cup hit the floor, and Anita’s spilled in her lap.
Her eyes grew wide. “What was that?”
“It sounded like a gunshot—a really loud gunshot.”
I sprang to my feet and ran to the door. Anita followed close behind, hissing in my ear, “Don’t open it.”
That was wise counsel. Not sure why I ignored it. But I grasped the handle, pulled it open two inches, and strained my eyes to scan the surrounding area. Anita laid a hand on my shoulder and stretched to peer over my head. I held my breath.
All was quiet, except for leaves rustling in the breeze. Across the street, faces pressed against window panes. A woman ventured out onto the sidewalk, then a man emerged from the house next to hers and yelled from his porch. “What on earth was that?” The woman shrugged.
With activity returning to Stonybridge, I felt emboldened to step onto the porch as well. Anita inched forward and clung to my arm.
She took a deep breath and laughed. “A truck must have backfired, but it scared me to death.”
“Kind of loud for a backfire. But everything seems okay. Let’s go back in. I’ll pour more coffee.”
The distant whine of a siren caused me to freeze with my hand on the door knob.
The noise increased to an ear piercing scream, then silenced, as two police cars skidded to a halt at the curb. The driver of one jumped out and ran to the door of the blue house. The second drew his gun and jogged to the back yard.
Anita pushed me inside and slammed the door behind us. She stood with her back to the door, staring at me with big round eyes.
I pointed her to the window. “Wait here and watch. I’m going to the back room to see what’s going on in the yard.”
After a few minutes, Anita called from the living room. “Do you see anything?”
I yelled. “The police officer searched the bushes and went to the alley, but he’s coming back now.” He holstered his gun and entered the back door of the blue house.
“There isn’t anything going on up here,” Anita complained.
I joined her in the living room. “You didn’t miss much back there. He’s inside now. I don’t think he found anything.”
“You were right, not a backfire. Maybe a gun shot? Or an explosion? You know, like a gas grill. I’m trying to remember who lives there. The Wilsons? No, they’re on Elm. The Brubakers are on the other side of the street.” Anita droned on. Her constant chatter filling the minutes as we maintained vigil.
Before long, an officer exited the house, climbed into his squad car, and sped away.
While Anita stood watch, I knelt to retrieve the spilled coffee cups.
She bounced up and down on her toes. “Someone’s coming out.”
> I glanced up to see Anita bolt outside and down the steps shouting, “I know him.”
By the time I pulled myself up and made it to the porch, she’d corralled the second, younger police officer at his squad car.
I took a seat on the step and marveled at Anita’s energy. After many gestures, flapping of hands, and undecipherable words, she stilled and appeared to listen to the man. He punctuated his report with a shrug and got into his car.
As he motored away, Anita returned to sit beside me on the step. “That was Jimmy Farlow. I used to babysit him.”
“So, what happened?”
“Clive Barron, that’s the guy who lives there, came home to find a prowler in his house. They ran out the back when they heard him. Clive grabbed his 12 gauge and shot from the back door. That’s the explosion we heard. He missed, thank goodness. Would you believe he keeps a loaded shotgun in the house?”
“I’ve only seen him once, but I believe it. He scares me. Did he identify the intruder?”
“No. All he saw was someone in a dark hooded sweatshirt. The guy was long gone by the time the police arrived.”
Anita shuddered and hugged herself. “This is terrifying. I have Jake, and our dogs wouldn’t let a stranger in the house. But you’re alone. How are the locks on your doors?”
“They’re good. I checked them out yesterday. Having lived in the city, I appreciate good locks. Besides, what’s to steal? An out-of-date computer and an ancient TV?”
Anita chewed on a fingernail. “Maybe since they got shot at today, they’ll stop. At any rate, I’ll be praying for your protection.”
The squeak of a door caused our heads to swivel toward the blue house. A red-faced Clive Barron stood and glared at us for an instant before turning to lock his door. I heard a distinct growl as he stalked to his car.
Keeping her eyes on Clive, Anita leaned toward me to whisper. “Let’s go in.”
“Yep.” We scrambled inside.
“Creepy. Evelynton was always predictable, if not completely soporific, but at least I felt safe. Where’d the crazies come from?”
Heart Strings Page 2
