Miz Scarlet and the Imposing Imposter

by Sara M. Barton

  Chapter Eight --

  “Good morning,” said Bur with great cheerfulness, bounding into the dining room like the only male escort on a cruise ship full of single ladies. My brother has a knack for sweet-talking the ladies and it never failed to amaze me that they could be so easily charmed by his boyish good looks and charm. Must be that gigolo streak he has. “What do you have for us this morning, Scar?”

  “For you?”

  “Scarlet,” my mother warned me, cutting off my reply. Bur was already lifting the lid on the warming tray of eggs and toast.

  “Perfect. I am simply ravenous this morning,” he announced. “So, Mary Anne, tell me more about your silk mill research. It sounds fascinating.”

  Paul Duchamps arrived as she was offering a detailed account of the lives of the silk mill workers. Good, I thought. Nothing like a little competition for a guy like Bur. I left the group discussing the influx of immigrants to the area and made myself busy in the kitchen. A short while later, Bur carried in the tray of dirty dishes and deposited it on the counter.

  “Thanks for the grub, sis,” he hollered as he slipped out the back door. “I’ll be back later.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll alert the media.” Minutes later, I had the dishwasher loaded, the pots and pans scrubbed and put away, and half of my shopping list complete. I sat at my desk in the kitchen and planned out the next week’s menus. It occurred to me, as I began to write down necessary staples for the coming days, that I was putting far more effort into it than normal. Was I trying to impress Kenny? I chastised myself for being such a twit, crossing off the shrimp creole, but thought twice about it. What was wrong with trying a little harder? Would it kill me to cook something special for him? After all, it really was a shame neither of us ever knew we had been so infatuated with the other all those years ago. Even if it was too late now, I could at least repair the impression he had of me.

  I tidied up the now-empty dining room, resetting the table for the lunch bunch. I could see Laurel across the hallway, her feet shod in her trademark navy SAS loafers. She was wearing a pair of khaki slacks and a striped navy and white top. Was that a gold bangle on her wrist? Were those gold button earrings I saw? Normally, my mother spent her days in active wear, the usual velour pants and top, switched out from time to time with a wildly colored pair of slacks and a sweater. It was rare to see her wear jewelry around the house. Interesting, I thought to myself. I hadn’t seen her doll herself up since Hank lived with us and I used to drive the senior contingent to the Goodspeed Opera House for the occasional musical or the Bushnell for the seasonal theater productions. I was pretty sure she wasn’t making the effort for Kenny. Apparently, there’s more to the old gal than meets the eye.

  “I’m taking the dogs for a walk,” I told Paul Duchamps when I found him in the living room, enjoying a second cup of coffee after breakfast as he read the Hartford Courant. Laurel must have gone upstairs, along with her cousin. Were the two ladies conspiring at that moment in time? “Lacey should be down shortly. She wanted to send a couple of letters, so she’ll be happy to drive you to the pharmacy.”

  “Wonderful,” the elderly man replied, looking up from the sports section. “I must say, she’s a very handsome woman. Widow?”

  “Divorcée. Her husband made the mistake of walking out on her three decades ago and she’s been breaking hearts ever since. Many men have tried to drag her back to the altar, but she remains an independent woman,” I told him. I didn’t usually tell guests much about our private lives, but I figured since the two sisters were plotting to change my life, the least I could do was help Lacey out. Besides, I liked Paul. He was very old school, with gracious manners and a nice way of finding the positive in life. An amiable man, he smiled and nodded often in conversation.

  “My wife died five years ago. We were married for fifty-two years.”

  “It’s tough, isn’t it? You have so many memories.”

  “Know what the hardest thing is, Scarlet? You always wish for one more day, just a little more time to be together.”

  “Sign of a happy marriage,” I suggested.

  “Oh, we had our differences. We weren’t all roses and puppy dogs. But she was a fascinating woman with a mind of her own. I loved that she challenged me like she challenged herself.”

  “I thought men wanted women who gazed up adoringly and put up with their bad habits,” I replied.

  “There’s a difference between ignoring bad habits and encouraging a man to be his best, my dear. Men don’t want to be nagged. They don’t want to marry their mothers and be smothered with instructions. They want to be inspired. Smart women learn to turn a blind eye to the things that don’t really matter and they focus on what does.”

  “What did you do for work?” I asked with a laugh. “You sound like you’d make a great advice columnist.”

  “I was a human resources manager for Sikorsky Aircraft.”

  “Ah, a ‘people person’,” I grinned. “No wonder I like you.”

  “And I you.” He smiled pleasantly and went back to his newspaper as I headed out into the hallway.

  Huck and January came running when I whistled for them. I strapped on their halters, grabbed their double leash, and we headed out for our daily trail walk. It was another sunny morning, so I decided to walk through the park to the top of White Oak Hill, following the carriage path, provided my boots could handle the icy surface.

  Huckleberry buried his nose in a pile of snow when we got to the bench by the summit. He began to dig with a fervor. The pocket pooch was great at finding all kinds of buried treasure, everything from a bird carcass to a half-eaten apple to a tiny mouse. I wasn’t expecting him to yank out a child’s red mitten. I pulled it away from the playful terrier as he pranced around with his new trophy. I figured I would leave it on the bench, in the hope that the child’s parent would return and recognize it. Even as I started to place it on the wooden seat, I noticed a tag inside. “Knitted with love by Connie Jordan” was the inscription. Jim’s mother had made mittens for her grandchild. What was it doing up here? Had the Jordan children been hiking the trail? Little January scampered off the trail, suddenly interested in something out of sight. I gave her a little extra leash to indulge that desire. Imagine my surprise when she began dragging a plastic bag along the snow.

  “What in the world do you have there?” I bent over and snatched the parcel from the diminutive dog. “Let me see that.”

  The plastic bag was from Repoli’s, the market on Main Street. Inside I spied the mate to the red mitten, a green and pink knit cap, a striped Henley shirt, a pair of size 10 flannel pajamas, and a pair of white crew socks. What does it mean, I asked myself. How did a bag full of assorted clothes wind up at the top of White Oak Hill? Had the missing family fled on foot?

  I spent another ten minutes, traipsing across the snow, hoping to find more clues. When I came up empty, I took the dogs and the bag back to the inn. Before he left, Bur told me he had a business meeting in Hartford, and after that, he was going to pick up Kenny at the airport. They wouldn’t arrive for at least another hour and a half. Where could I hide the clothes in the meantime? I decided on putting the Repoli bag in the locked library. Using my master key, I let myself in, crossed the room, and opened the large armoire we use for storage when we have guests using the room. Don’t ask me why, but I tucked it under a pile of blankets and sheets. Maybe I thought someone would search for it. Maybe I was just nervous. All I know is I felt a lot better when it was out of sight from snooping eyes. I went around the room, moving this, changing that, making sure the library was ready for Kenny. Once the room passed inspection, I locked it up tight. No reason to give Gretchen another shot at the Mac.

  Lonnie Powick’s dutiful daughter was in the dining room, buttering a blueberry streusel muffin, when I stepped through the back door into the kitchen. So much for setting the table for lunch, I thought, as I looked at the guest seated at the head of the table, like a duchess. Lonnie was nowhere in sight. N
ormally, breakfast was served from seven until nine, but I left packaged cereals and baked goods for the stragglers. That was clearly the right word for Gretchen. She looked like something the cat dragged in. Her hair was tossed on top of her head by a big plastic clip. Without makeup, she seemed older, almost a little faded.

  “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here!” she hailed me, coming through the doorway. “My mother isn’t feeling well. The funeral has been postponed until Friday morning. Is there any chance we can stay a couple of extra days? I told Mother I was sure you wouldn’t mind.” She gave me an overly bright smile that exuded great confidence.

  “Um...” I thought about Kenny. I had planned to move him into the White Oak Room as soon as the Powicks left. At least that had been my plan. Still, if Lonnie wasn’t feeling well, I could hardly boot her out of bed, could I? That seemed a bit harsh. “Of course that would be fine. Does your mother need medical attention? My cousin Willow is a nurse. I could ask her to stop by and have a look at her.”

  We had the local VNA available for guests who gave us advanced notice of their need for a skilled nurse -- it was easy enough to arrange a visit if anyone had a pre-existing medical condition. We had often done that for Hank in his final year. But Willow was helpful in an emergency or to take a look at the occasional guest who might not be feeling well. She had spent more than ten years working in the emergency room of Manchester Memorial Hospital and she was very experienced.

  “No, no,” she shook her head adamantly in response. “That’s not necessary. We’re used to this. Mother just needs some bed rest. I’m sure it’s just the strain of losing her cousin.”

  For a moment, I almost thought she protested too much. If it had been my mother suddenly feeling under the weather, I would have wanted to make sure she wasn’t coming down with something. In the elderly and handicapped, infections were quick and cruel. They could come on suddenly for someone with a compromised immune system. Still, not my call. If Gretchen didn’t want a nurse to check out her mother, there wasn’t much I could do, was there?

  “Let me know if you need anything,” I said, looking her in the eye. She met my gaze for all of two seconds before turning back to her People Magazine. Flipping two pages, her head down, she seemed to want to avoid any further conversation. It was clear she was dismissing me.

  I made my way to the butler’s pantry and tidied up the breakfast offerings. There were three muffins, a whole wheat bagel, and two pieces of whole grain bread. I decided to use the leftover bread as croutons for my salad. I wrapped the muffins and the bagel for the freezer. As I was loading the dishwasher, Huck scrambled to his feet. I turned to find Gretchen standing in the doorway.

  “Actually, Scarlet, I was wondering if you could keep an eye on my mother for a little while. I have to go out and take care of some business. Would you mind?” There was something about the way she said that which rubbed me the wrong way. Why was I suddenly so prickly? I covered it up as best I could, putting a honey tone on my words.

  “Not at all. Can I bring her anything? A cup of tea, a frozen smoothie?”

  “I’ll take her some food before I leave. She’ll probably just sleep while I’m gone. Any chance I could get a bowl of oatmeal for her?”

  “Sure. What else would she like? Some juice or milk?”

  “Anything’s fine,” she replied. “She’s not fussy.”

  I got to work on that while Gretchen went back to her muffin in the dining room. While the water was heating for the oatmeal, I took out a bed tray with folding legs and set it up. My little guy usually made friends with our guests. Huck especially liked to hang out in the dining room, on the off-chance a crumb might hit the carpet -- he considered that his territory. And yet he seemed to shy away from Gretchen. Almost as if he knew she didn’t like dogs.

  I looked around. January was nowhere to be seen. I wondered if she had found a sunny spot in the living room for her morning nap. She also seemed less than charmed by Gretchen. Was I making too much of this? I knew I didn’t like the woman, but why? Was my nose out of joint for any legitimate purpose, or was I just steeling myself for Kenny’s arrival? Maybe I just didn’t want to share him with Gretchen. Was she really competition, or was that my aging self feeling challenged by a younger woman?

  I had noticed that Lonnie had trouble gripping things, so I pulled out the ergonomic flatware we saved for handicapped guests and a “nosey” cup that was easy to grip. I sliced up a banana with some vanilla-flavored Greek-style yogurt in a small bowl with suction cups on the bottom. I pulled out a bigger “stay-put” bowl with a handle for the cereal. When it was ready, I carried it into the dining room.

  “Would you like me to bring it upstairs?” I asked Gretchen. She wiped her mouth on the white linen napkin and stood up from the table.

  “No, thanks. I’ll do that. It all looks very yummy,” she told me, eyeing the food for her mother. “I’m not sure she can eat all this. You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all. We like to pamper all of our guests.”

  Why was I put off by the word ‘yummy’? Try as I might, I just couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that Gretchen was sincere or loving towards her mother. She reminded me of Mrs. Danvers, the housekeeper in Daphne Du Maurier’s Rebecca. It would have been more appropriate to call that oatmeal gruel, for all Gretchen’s chilly enthusiasm. All she was lacking was a tight bun of hair at the nape of her neck and a severe black dress.

  Gretchen left a little after ten-thirty, right after she told me her mother was napping and would probably sleep until noon. I promised to peek in on Lonnie a couple of times while she was out.

  Back from her trip to the post office, my mother’s cousin retired to her room for an hour, making her usual phone calls to friends. I could hear snatches of conversation through Lacey’s open door as I made my way from room to room, tidying up.

  Mary Anne Turley asked for directions to the historical society while I was sprucing up the powder room just before eleven. She had a meeting with one of the historical society volunteers who was knowledgeable about the history of the local silk mills. I set about to get her what she needed while she took the elevator up to her room to collect her keys and her camera bag.

  “I should be back by four,” she told me as she passed me in the hallway, her oxygen tank slung over her shoulder. “I’m touring the old Cheswick mansion this afternoon. I hope the stairs don’t do me in.”

  “Good luck,” I called out. “Take it slow.”

  “Thanks, I’m looking forward to it.” She left the inn with a printed map and her black briefcase in one hand, an oversized brown leather purse in the other, oxygen tank on one shoulder and a large red tote bag, with the camera tucked inside, slung over her other. She looked like a crazed refugee from a Coach sale. I watched her waddle down the driveway, weighted down with paraphernalia, to the parking area, where her car was waiting. I could only hope she could navigate all those stairs. No doubt she would come back exhausted.

  Chapter Nine --

  I got busy with laundry, pulling pillow cases and sheets out of the dryer for folding. Another load came out of the washer and went into the dryer, and I followed that with another batch of clothes to be cleaned. With the laundry basket slung on my hip, I made my way upstairs. I stopped at the second door and quietly turned the knob to peek inside the room. Lonnie was busy sleeping. Moving on, I tapped lightly on the open door just down the hall.

  “How’s it going?” I asked, joining my mother in her bedroom, where she was busy working on her laptop. I plopped the basket on the floor, settled myself in her armchair, and folded the clothing as we chatted.

  “Not bad. Did you know that we’re expecting cicadas this year? The first time in seventeen years.” We passed that around, wondering if there would be any effect on the plants or the birds. When I had the clothes folded and stacked, I rose and carried everything to my mother’s dresser and then sorted the items before opening the drawers to put the clothing
in. I hung her blouses and slacks in the closet and shut the door.

  “Cup of tea?” I asked.

  “Mmm...that would be nice, dear. I just want to finish composing a few emails. Libby Horellis is having trouble with her hip.”

  “Give her my best. I’ll be back in a jiffy,” I promised. Downstairs, I deposited the empty basket in the laundry room and made my way to the kitchen. Three minutes later, I carried the mug of hot Earl Grey into the front hall for the journey back to Laurel’s room.

  Lacey came trotting down the long staircase, swinging her bathing suit in her hot pink “Ooh-la-la!” vinyl-lined tote bag. She was dressed in a black fleece leisure suit, embroidered with a pink Parisian poodle at a little cafe having a cup of espresso with a French bulldog. From the hall closet, she pulled a faux mink vest, slipping her arms through the sleeve holes before waving goodbye to me.

  “I have a water aerobics class at the health center at 11:15 and then I’m having lunch at the senior center today, dear,” she informed me. That explained the outfit. Tony the Tiger was going to the shindig this afternoon.

  “Have fun. Stay out of trouble,” I called after her.

  “Sorry. Can’t do both!” she shot back. “My mind’s set on fun and there’s no turning back!”

  I delivered the tea to my mother and then got busy collecting the towels in the guest bathrooms and bagging them in a cotton duck sack. I’d toss those in the washer after lunch. Then I changed the sheets in the guest rooms. There was a “Do Not Disturb” sign hung on the knob of Lonnie and Gretchen Powick’s room. I tiptoed past, wondering if the handicapped woman had experienced a tough night. Stroke patients often struggle with everyday activities, and sometimes being on a road trip upsets the already precarious balance.

  When the beds were made and the dirty sheets were gathered up, I headed downstairs with another load. Five minutes passed before I heard the whir of the elevator as it descended. A moment later, the door opened and I listened as the motorized wheelchair headed into the living room. Ten minutes later, I went to check on my mother. Laurel was working on her needlepoint. Paul Duchamps was keeping her company as he read his biography of Churchill.