by Shelly Frome
Emily ducked under the overhang of the cottage. “Sorry, I’ve got something I’ve got to look into.”
Will shrugged and ambled over to the B&B. Calling across the yard, he asked, “Sure you don’t want some hot coffee and an omelet? I can do it with chili or asparagus.”
At any other time, she would have liked nothing better than to take a break and find out how his work was going. She’d only known him for a short while, dropped in for coffee once or twice, and he couldn’t be that much older, maybe in his mid-thirties, and you never know. But at this moment, that was out of the question.
“Tea? Supper?”
“Maybe. But right now I’ve got to—”
“Around five or so?”
“I guess . . . sure, fine.”
“Then you can tell me exactly what Oliver’s been up to.”
“I will. Later, okay?”
Stepping inside the cottage, Emily made straight for the kitchenette. All other issues were secondary now given the way her thoughts were running. Rambling and moving on was her primary modus operandi. But her encounter with this Doc guy meant there was no way she could shrug this off.
She snatched up the handset and punched in the numbers.
The familiar gravelly voice that went with the elongated weathered face picked up almost immediately. “Yes?”
“Chris, I met a guy just now on the high meadow who’s got to be from New York. He seems to be—”
“Emily, can this wait? I’ve got a by-me to take care of.”
“By-me” was their code for “by my own hand, I am responsible.” The alternatives were “to-me,” or “everything happens to me,” and “through-me,” meaning “let it go, let it pass.” When Emily’s dad ran out on her and her mother, Chris pushed the “through-me” tack. All things being equal, through-me looks like your best bet, kiddo.
“Look, Emmy,” Chris went on, “it’s a by-me ’cause I just got a phone message that I botched a job on North Lake Road. As if I didn’t know my business, didn’t know how to weather-tight a slate roof. So I’m off to see what’s going on.”
“Now? In the rain?”
“When else? Claims there’s a bad leak, all my fault. Anyone who knows me knows that is bogus.”
“Chris, listen to me.”
“Whatever it is, whatever you want to discuss, I’m sure it’ll keep,” Chris said, obviously in a rush. “Let me see to this. We’ll kick back later and you can tell me all about it.”
“Will you please wait a minute? This is not a good idea.”
But it was no use. Chris offered his quick apologies and hung up. Hitting the redial brought her nothing but his answering machine.
She replaced the handset and thought it over. Was she jumping to conclusions? Was she, once again, about to confuse motion with action? Shouldn’t she at least think it through?
But she couldn’t just stand there.
Unable to contain herself a moment longer, she left the cottage and hurried down the drive, past Will’s pickup and the clapboard siding of the B&B and the front lawn. She slipped behind the wheel of her old Camry, had a few more second thoughts, hit the ignition, and headed down the hill.
As she passed the expanse of wetlands and uplands, it didn’t register that the tract the GDC coveted was bracketed by her mother’s property and the Curtises’ ramshackle colonial at the foot of the hill. Nothing registered except a need to talk Chris out of climbing up onto that slate roof.
He was over seventy but refused to admit he was no longer agile and had had a few recent close calls. Steadfast to a fault, thinking only of his artisanship. Unless she missed her guess, he would be going up to the Tudor house on North Lake Road if she didn’t intercept and get him to change his mind. The vacant McMansion was owned by the UK’s own Miranda Shaw, a pampered guest who had stayed at the B&B while her McMansion was under construction. Who may or may not have made the call that set Chris off. After all, Miranda was currently in far-off Bovey Tracey, on the outskirts of the moors.
Driving on, everything receded, including the stately elms and the file of Federal style homes on both sides of North Street with their low-pitched roofs, flat façades, and black, louvered shutters. So did the white congregational church on the Green with its Christopher Wren steeple dissolving instantly as she turned right onto West Street and whisked by the old brick shops, Village Restaurant, and the town hall and state trooper’s office.
Picking up speed, she passed the rows of Victorian houses with their pilastered front porches and attached shutters in homage to last century’s Colonial Revival. She’d grown up here, always lived here except for college and her transatlantic jaunts. But at this moment, her village might as well be a scattering of old photos.
Before she knew it, the rain was beating down harder, her wiper blades barely able to keep up. Among the nagging questions flitting through her mind was how could Miranda Shaw have suddenly gotten wind of her leaking roof? Or did somebody just put her up to it, to get Chris rushing pellmell in the rain so he would . . .
Emily eased her foot off the pedal, barely able to see through the downpour. She switched the wipers on high and kept her eyes on the road, intent on avoiding an accident.
Minutes later, she pulled into Miranda Shaw’s place at a slow but steady crawl. As she reached the circular drive, straining her eyes through the thwacking blades, she peered up two stories above the stone archway.
There she caught sight of the familiar gangly figure climbing higher toward the peak of an eight-sided turret. At a point where the grayish-blue slate, copper flashing, and a mullioned window merged, the figure suddenly became a shuddering blur.
Emily honked her horn, blasting as loud as she could. But it was too late. The figure flopped over and slid down the turret, glanced off the aluminum ladder, and toppled like a broken doll until the cobblestones broke its fall.
Chapter Two
“Just think about it,” said Emily.
“I have,” said Trooper Dave Roberts.
“Not hardly at all.”
“I listened and now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”
“Terrific, Dave. That’s just terrific.”
It was close to noon on that same rainy Monday. Emily was down in the basement of the old fire station in a gray-paneled office that suited Dave Roberts perfectly. The room matched his uniform, standard-issue features, crew cut, and build. Despite Dave’s attempt to brush her off, Emily remained rooted in front of his desk.
Dave started rifling through a file cabinet, pulled out some papers, plunked himself down on his swivel chair, and began to read. After a few moments of strained silence, he looked up.
“Come on, Em. It was an accident. How many times has he rolled off a roof and broken something? This time it happens to be worse.”
Emily continued to wait him out.
“Okay,” Dave went on, “I know. I heard. Looks like it’s touch and go, iffy vital signs, and they’re not giving out details. But that doesn’t change a thing.”
“Except . . .”
“Except what?”
“If I’d gotten there sooner or been more insistent over the phone—”
“And if the dog hadn’t gotten loose or the sun was shining or Cooper had used some common sense . . .”
Holding her temper, Emily went at it again. “Okay, I can’t prove it. But I’m telling you somebody was counting on him shimmying up that turret. Counting on him to—”
“What? Lose his footing? Be totally out of it so his Planning Commission alternate, slick Brian Forbes, bank vice president, would rubber-stamp the GDC’s application for site development? All by the hand of some Doc character you ran into up on the proposed site? Is that what you really think?”
“Maybe.”
Tossing the papers aside, Dave stood up again. “Face it, will you? You saw something that shook you up. You’re antsy. And you’re stuck with your clients, the wacko Curtises, and this stupid twin thing you were working on just be
fore this happened.”
“Twinning. It’s called a Twinning—twin villages, a twin exchange.”
“Right. Like when we still had a soccer field, and the Brits came over every couple of years and we’d do our thing with sports and go over there for their fete or what-you-call-it. And our village council wanted to keep it going until finally there was no real point. But now, you’re trying to maintain some last ditch thing with the Curtises, of all people. Hanging by a thread. Like Cooper scrambling on a soaking-wet slate roof trying to hang on to his reputation. Same reason—trying to hang on. And for what?”
“Open space, for your information.”
“Open space? Where are we now? How many circles do you want to go around? First it’s what you call a suspicious accident, and then it’s some environmental issue. In case you haven’t noticed, I am actually trying to accomplish something.”
“Right. Wonderful. Thanks for your time, Dave.”
Dave Roberts plopped down on his swivel chair and went back to his paperwork.
Emily walked away and stopped at the doorway. “Tell me, what would it take?”
“For what?”
“To get your head out of that folder and do your job?”
Dave sprang back up, brandishing the sheaf of papers like a warrant.
“You see this? It’s full of tangibles. One: The glass front door of Lydfield regional fourteen high school was smashed. Two: The alarm system was tampered with. Three: Library books were ripped and flung all over the place. Plus honors plaques broken and school bus tires slashed. Conclusion: It’s an inside job. Bottom line? One of those kids who flunked out will supply us with a lead or incriminate himself. No lame conspiracy theories about an old guy falling off Miranda Shaw’s roof while she’s off in jolly old England.”
“Is that what you think of Chris? Some old guy who fell off a roof?”
Dave cast his gaze up at the fluorescent lights as though searching for an exit line. Then, looking directly at her, he said, “All right, Emily. Let’s play Clue. What I would need is for something to cast a shadow.”
“Go on.”
“Say Miranda Shaw is in touch with some busybody neighbor and asks her to watch out for prowlers. The busybody spots some stranger trespassing or an alarm’s been tripped or tampered with on the premises. Perhaps Cooper’s housekeeper signs a statement that Cooper’s been harassed by this Doc guy you ran into.”
“If he had a housekeeper. If he wasn’t a bachelor who lives alone.”
“You see? That’s what comes of concocting stuff way out in left field. But take you, for instance, alone in the cottage.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“That Will Farrow, the handyman nobody knows anything about, is all by his lonesome in the main house. What guy could resist that perky, trim bod? Not many females with those qualifications around these parts. So, if something happens to you, we’ve got probable cause.”
“Get off it, Dave.”
“And you get off it. You wanted to play, we played. Game’s over.”
“No way. You haven’t even checked it out.”
“Come again?”
“Drive up to Miranda’s place and look it over. Won’t take you more than twenty minutes.”
Dropping the papers on his desk, Dave spread his hands
in mock surrender. “Is that it? Will that do it for you?”
“It would be something.”
“Fine, I’ll take a look-see. But the price is negotiable.”
Emily slipped out before he had a chance to name his price. But he did manage to tack on, “You know, Em, I still think we’d make a good team.”
Famished, Emily crossed the Green, settled into a front booth at the Village Restaurant and waited impatiently for a salmon-cake platter and a cup of hot tea. Now almost two in the afternoon, Emily was still mulling over the cursory report that Dave Roberts had run by her back at his office. His “look-see” had turned up nothing except the obvious. There was an aluminum extension ladder skewered to the side of the stone archway and Chris Cooper’s bag of tools was sitting up high next to one of the chimneys.
Making matters worse, Dave had come up with his price for humoring her and wasting police time. He had found out that the proposed development was geared for retirees with disposable income. A strip mall with a multiplex was in the works, slated for the old soccer field grounds—anything that would draw well-off buyers. Coinciding with what he called Emily’s obvious need for a career change, he told her that all she had to do was get hold of a limousine, hire herself out, and take the bored condo owners into New York for shows, up to the Berkshires for the summer music festivals, and be on hand to chauffeur them back and forth to the airport. After Emily returned from her trip, Dave would have it all outlined for her, over dinner.
He left her with the prediction that as soon as this “twin thing” tanked, she wouldn’t have to think it over. She’d been at it now for over seven years and the handwriting was on the wall. She’d have to come around.
His remarks only added to her frustration. There was nothing she could do for Chris at the moment. He was in the intensive care unit of the Sharon hospital miles away. Visitors were not allowed and he still hadn’t regained consciousness. Just obtaining that bit of information had taken a lot of finagling. If Emily hadn’t gotten hold of a duty nurse she’d dealt with the last time he broke his leg, she would’ve been completely in the dark. At a loss, she had a bouquet of cut flowers delivered anyway.
Now, still waiting for her order, she was filled with a twisty feeling in the pit of her stomach coupled with the same abiding guilt over not interceding in time.
To deflect for a moment, she turned her thoughts to her business. Dave was right. Prospects were not looking good. Continued job losses, people dipping into their 401Ks and postponing retirement, and the fear of terrorism aloft or in terminals and what-have-you overseas had resulted in a number of recent cancellations.
She’d heard the same excuses: “Sorry, Emily, love to but perhaps we can do it in the spring . . .” and “Can we take a rain check?”
Continuing to deflect, she reassessed her website and a typical testimonial she knew by heart:
“If you want to get off the beaten path and leave the tour buses behind, you can’t do better than a personalized jaunt with Emily Ryder. Always enterprising, at the ready to make adjustments, there is nothing like her incomparable rambles. Take it from us, log onto ‘Hidden Britain.’”
—Fred and Mary Showalter
New Milford, Connecticut
She thought of the photos on the site. Perhaps they could use some revising. Like the one of her deep in the moor, leaning up against the jutting ancient rock. Echoes of all those times in the wilds, scurrying around the stone circles and the shifty weather patterns. The critical difference between the peat beds with heavy, firm grass around the edges and the featherbed of sphagnum moss that sucked you down and covered you over. Perhaps she should cut even the remotest allusion to anything of that sort.
It was only a short while ago that she was tramping around on a misty, rainy morning not unlike today, pointing out the dangers to the Showalters. It was that same thin line between jeopardy and adventure she was so drawn to. Underscoring the sense of light and dark, ups and downs, then it was back to the nearby confines of Lydfield-in-the-Moor, dinner at the old Elizabethan Castle Pub, and the rest of the cozy amenities.
All of which, in conjunction with today’s events—misty, raining, then dreadfully dark—only exacerbated that twisty feeling and sent her thoughts reeling back to Chris’s plight.
Pulling herself together as the food was set in front of her, she remembered that she had a meeting at the rickety Curtis colonial at four to go over last-minute details. She’d continue to check on Chris’s condition and, in the interim, return to her maps and last-minute preparations.
She had taken a sip of her chamomile tea when Harriet Curtis burst through the door.
&nbs
p; “Ah, there you are!”
Framed against the green-and-white-striped wallpaper of the empty restaurant, Harriet was a sight, even for those who knew her, with her ill-fitting charcoal blouse and skirt, stoop-shouldered figure, and lank white hair.
“Listen,” Harriet said sharply, juggling a pile of slick catalogues and envelopes under her arm while grappling with an open shoulder bag. “There’s been a change of plans.”
“No, Harriet. Sorry, not at this late date.” Thrown for a loop but holding on to a sense of professionalism, Emily added, “I’m sure you recall my cancellation policy.”
“Don’t interrupt me. My mind is made up and I don’t have time to mince words.”
It was Harriet at her worst. The domineering head of the library board and Historical Society, and chair of the local League of Women Voters and Lydfield Beautification and Garden Society, Harriet was a perfect contrast to her distracted brother, Silas, and her pixilated stepsister, Pru. Though Emily was in no position to lose a client and would have liked nothing more than to call off taxiing all three Curtises around the west of England, there was no way she was going to let Harriet push her around. Especially not today.
“Now listen carefully,” said Harriet, still attempting to keep the assortment of slippery catalogues from squirting out of her grasp. “I’m taking a late flight tonight and—”
“Wait a minute. The inn in Bath isn’t booked until the day after tomorrow.”
“Nevertheless. I shall stay at the Windermere near Victoria Station, take the train to Bath the next day as we planned, and go over my concerns with the organizers of the fair.”
“Fete.”
“Fete, fair, Twinning—what’s the difference?”
“The Twinning is just a segment,” Emily said, trying to keep the newfound edginess in her voice in check. “Let’s stay calm and keep everything in proportion.”
“Oh, will you please stop interrupting me, Emily?” Rattled, Harriet clutched harder at her slipping catalogues. “Now where was I? Ah, yes. As I was saying, I shall see to matters with the organizers by phone and then await your arrival the day after tomorrow. We shall rendezvous in Bath, where you will transport me via rental car to the moor and the sister village as planned.”
