by Jan Gleiter
“So you don’t know what that is either?” She indicated a huge cluster of double narcissus combining yellow, gold, and orange at the far end of the border.
Mike followed the sweep of her arm. “Nope,” he said. “I might be able to find the charts Aunt Hannah kept. They could be in a drawer I haven’t cleaned out. That patch wasn’t here last year. It’s nice.”
Ah, thought Meg, the By George. She walked over and knelt to look more closely, gently pulling a blossom toward her to breathe in the fragrance. “I think she was looking forward to these,” said Meg. “You should cut some for her grave.”
Mike moved two lawn chairs into the shade and sat down on one. He indicated the other with a jerk of his thumb. “Come,” he said. “Sit. Tell me why you were so grouchy the other day.”
Meg shook her head. She wanted to eradicate any feeling he might have that she was angry with him, but she wasn’t willing to tell him about Jim. “It didn’t have anything to do with you,” she said. “It was something that happened in Chicago.”
He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms behind his head, and looked at her. “And you’re not going to tell me what.”
She grinned at him. “When I know you better,” she said.
* * *
Jane and Harding walked sedately into Meg’s yard, the dog close by the child’s left leg. Jane stopped in front of the porch where Meg was looking through the gardening book, and Harding stopped too, glancing up at his mistress and then sitting.
“Wow!” said Meg. “You didn’t have to say a thing! I’m impressed. Really, I am.”
Jane beamed and bent to hug the dog. “Good dog! Good Harding!” she said. She unsnapped the leash from his collar and patted him. “Okay. Go on. Okay.”
Harding leaped onto the porch and crouched in front of Meg’s dog, front legs extended, his tail waving against the sky and soft, eager whines issuing from his throat. The smaller dog got up, stretched, and walked casually down the steps, Harding at her heels, barking happily.
Jane handed Meg the bulb catalog she was carrying. “I remembered that you asked for this,” she said. “Are you planning your garden?”
Meg groaned and closed her overdue book. “Indeed. The problem is, I want everything, and I want it all right away. I want great, big, huge peonies without waiting twenty years and I want masses of established chrysanthemums and I want … But if I put in a lot of spring bulbs this fall, at least April and May next year will be pretty. Sit down and rest. Harding is doing really well.”
“I think,” said Jane, sinking onto the chair next to Meg’s, “he’s developing a reliable moral center.”
“He just may be,” said Meg.
“There’s going to be an obedience contest at the Memorial Day picnic,” said Jane. “I thought maybe we’d enter. What do you think? First prize for beginners is a fancy supper at La Petite Maison. For two. If we won, I could give the prize to Mom and Dad for their anniversary.”
“Hmm…” said Meg. “A fancy evening at the little house. The competition could be stiff.”
Jane smiled sheepishly. “I know. We probably wouldn’t win, but it doesn’t cost anything to enter.”
“Then enter,” said Meg. “Definitely. Unquestionably. He is pretty good, and you’ve got more than a week to work with him.”
“Except the seventh-grade trip is next week,” said Jane. “We’re going to Washington, D.C., for three days, and I’m in charge of the last fund-raising event for it this Saturday. We’re having a bake sale and craft fair in the park. So I’ve got hardly any time at all.” She looked at Meg slyly. “And I’ve got this baseball coach who says she’ll bench kids who miss practice.”
“You’re kidding!” Meg’s tone was shocked and sympathetic. “What a witch!”
“Mmm…,” said Jane. She slid down in her chair and put her feet on the porch rail. “But I had an idea. Would it be cheating if you helped me? I mean, you’ve already helped me, but if you, like, worked with him extra?”
Meg thought about this. It didn’t seem even faintly like cheating. “That’s not cheating,” she said. “It would be cheating to dress Teddy up in a dog suit and enter him, but that’s not your plan.”
“So, would you do it? Work with Harding some? If he won, the anniversary present could be from you, too. La Petite Maison is so fancy! They usually go to the Wagon Wheel.”
“Let’s not count on his winning,” said Meg. Harding was, indeed, making exceptional progress, but he was young and questionably reliable. “But, sure, I’ll work with him.”
* * *
She sat by the creek, watching the play of light on the water while the dog cast about in the underbrush, her tail whipping back and forth.
“Oh, leave them alone, whoever they are,” said Meg tiredly.
The dog ignored her and set off through the woods, nose to the ground. Meg rested one elbow on her knee and propped her chin on her hand. She wanted to believe that Hannah Ehrlich had taken her medicine right on schedule and died despite it. She did not believe this. The dead woman had owned an enormous number of valuable objects, and those objects had ended up in the hands of someone who became angry when teased about when he’d acquired them.
So what had happened to the capsules she hadn’t taken, and how had she been persuaded not to take them? Would someone who had become convinced of the efficacy of bee venom take other folk-cure advice? How far would John Eppler go to protect his daughter?
Meg got up slowly and trudged back toward the house. Had someone deliberately killed Hannah Ehrlich and, if so, who?
* * *
Ginny Eppler stretched out languorously on her camelback sofa and rested her head on the arm. “I’ve been at an estate sale in Boston,” she said into the phone. “That’s where I’ve been. Why?”
“You should tell me where you’re going,” said the man on the other end of the line. “Has anyone been looking at the Ehrlich silver?”
“Of course. The caskets sold really well, I told you that.”
“Not the caskets,” he said, trying to suppress his irritation. “The flatware. The stuff I told you not to show yet.”
“Actually, a woman was in a while ago who was very interested in it. I’d be surprised if she didn’t come back.”
“What day?” asked the man.
“I don’t know. Last week. Before I left for Boston. It doesn’t matter. Fran would have told me if she’d come back to ask about it, so she hasn’t yet. But she will.”
“You shouldn’t have shown it to anyone yet. If she comes back, tell her it’s been sold.”
Ginny ran her fingers through her glossy hair and frowned. “Sold? Why?”
“Just do it,” said the man. He did not want to confide his worry. “Don’t show it to anyone.”
“Look,” said Ginny. “This is ridiculous. Waiting six months made some sense to me, but the china sold the second day I had it out in front. The couple who bought it didn’t even blink at the price. The jewelry caskets brought in a lot, and so did the biscuit jars and figurines. Why are you sticking at the flatware? It’s not even the best item we got.”
“It’s the most identifiable. Just do what I say.”
“I’m telling you, she was really tempted. She’ll be back. And she wasn’t a cop, wasn’t an independent, wasn’t anything like that.”
“What makes you so sure?” he asked.
“I know serious interest when I see it. And she could afford it. The rubies in her earrings were real. Small and tasteful, but real.”
The man took a deep breath. “Describe her. Describe her very carefully,” he said.
* * *
“Buy these,” said Christine. “They’re butterscotch brownies, chewy and full of nuts. They have more fat than you should eat in a week, but—”
“I know,” said Meg, picking up the package. “They’re the best things I ever tasted.” She handed Christine the price of the brownies. “I’m going to go stroll around by the crafts. Remember to gaze after
me in an irritated way. Maybe you could put your hands on your hips and look huffy.”
“No problem,” said Christine. “I’ll look huffy, you go look at the Ukranian hand-painted, gorgeous blown eggs. The grandfather of one of the kids makes them and he isn’t charging enough. Go get one before they’re snatched up. I got the best, but there are some almost as nice. Mine’s in the car, or I’d show you. Oh, no, I wouldn’t. We’re barely speaking.”
Meg wandered in the direction Christine indicated and found the display. A man was basking in the praise of a small crowd that had gathered to admire the fragile, intricately decorated eggs. She had carefully lifted one from the table when she felt a hand on the back of her neck.
“Hey, babe,” said a familiar voice. “I was going to donate a painting I have of a baseball coach. Figured the school would get about a hundred grand, and the seventh graders could go to Jamaica instead of Washington, D.C. But then I thought, the model herself should have it.”
Meg turned and smiled. “But she doesn’t have a hundred grand.”
Jack squeezed her neck gently. “I know,” he said. “It’s her only flaw. But what would seventh graders learn in Jamaica, anyway? It’s probably better to have them trotting up and down Capitol Hill and checking out the Renoirs at the National Gallery. So … when can I bring the painting over?”
“Really?” asked Meg. “I can have it? Wow! You can bring it anytime I’m home. How about this afternoon?”
“If this weather holds, I’ve got to tuck-point a chimney this afternoon,” said Jack. “I’ve been putting it off for weeks because I hate climbing around on roofs. The Corbetts are getting peeved. But I’ll call you.”
“Great,” said Meg.
* * *
It was impossible to work. It was impossible for Meg to trick herself into thinking that communicating the difference between disinterested and uninterested, important as it was, mattered enough for her to spend her time doing it. She turned off the monitor and went into the kitchen to find something to eat, something easy and comforting.
She sat at the table, not tasting the egg-salad sandwich she was eating, and opened the bulb catalog Jane had brought. She leafed though the allium, crocus, iris, and lilies. Her yard would never rival the beauty of Mrs. Ehrlich’s garden, but bulbs would be a good way to start. A little elbow grease, some bonemeal, cover them up, and five or six months later … beautiful blooms. No spraying, no fussing. Her eyes stopped at a pretty double narcissus with scatterings of gold and orange on pale yellow petals. It looked familiar. “May-flowering,” the catalog said. “Pleasantly fragrant.” She would definitely order some of that one. It was called Tahiti.
She carried her plate to the sink and set it down, looking at the decorated egg she had put in a glass eggcup on the cabinet. The dog stood up on her back legs and put her front paws on the edge of the sink. She whined.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Meg. “You want the leftovers?” She took the plate out of the sink and set it on the floor.
“Help yourself,” she said. “This is egg you can eat, but stay away from my expensive craft purchase. You may think you want it, but you don’t. It bears a resemblance to a real egg, though one from a very unusual chicken, and at one time, that’s all it was, and from an ordinary chicken to boot. But it isn’t anymore. Got it?”
The dog finished licking the plate and nudged it out of the way to see if anything had fallen off underneath. Nothing had. She lay down on the kitchen floor and put her head on her paws.
Meg backed over to a kitchen chair and sat down, her knees feeling hot and weak.
“That’s how,” she said. “That’s how Mrs. Ehrlich died.”
* * *
“Hi!” said Jane, recognizing Meg’s voice on the phone. “We’re leaving on our trip tomorrow! Will you remember to work with Harding? And what should we see in Washington? My teacher left one afternoon free and said she’d take suggestions. Mom says we should walk up the steps of the Washington Monument.”
“I’ll work with Harding, I promise,” said Meg. “Tell your mom she’s revealing her age. They stopped letting people walk up the Washington Monument a long time ago. See everything. Walk down the Mall, for sure. And go to the Vietnam Memorial even though it will make you cry. Oh, and if you get tired of going to bars in the evenings, tell your teacher you should drive around the whole downtown at night. It’s wonderful at night. And have fun! Can I talk to your mother?”
“I never get tired of going to bars,” said Jane. “Hang on; I’ll get her. Oh! And win on Monday night, okay?”
“Without you? Fat chance, but we’ll try.”
Meg paced around the kitchen until Christine came on the line. “Hannah Ehrlich didn’t forget to take her capsules,” she said. “She took them.”
“What do you mean?” Christine lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “You mean it was just … inevitable?”
“The opposite,” said Meg. “She died from taking capsules that contained no medicine. They probably contained cornstarch, or sugar, or who knows what, so they’d have some weight. The capsules in the prescription bottle had Norpace in them; the capsules in her daily reminder dispenser didn’t.”
“Who emptied them? Do you know?”
“No,” said Meg. “Not yet.”
* * *
She drove to John Eppler’s house and found him, unusually idle, on the front porch. He folded his newspaper and stood politely until she had seated herself in a cushioned wicker chair.
“Ms. Kessinger,” he said. “How are you doing?”
“Mr. Eppler,” she said. She had given up on establishing a first-name basis for their relationship. “I’m doing fine except for a burning curiosity about something that seems like none of my business, and may well not be. Why are you so mad at Mike Mulcahy?”
The man looked out across his yard. “You’re right. It’s none of your business,” he said. “But I’ll tell you.”
* * *
“What are we doing here, and why did you insist I walk over?” asked Christine. “Why didn’t you just pick me up on your way? Where’s Mike?”
“He’s at work,” said Meg. “I know because I called him to taunt him about only beating Joe Murrell’s team by one run last night. So look.” She pointed at the narcissus at the end of the border in Mike’s backyard.
“Very nice,” said Christine.
Meg held out the gardening catalog and pointed to the blooms displayed on page 32. “See any difference?”
Christine peered at the picture, at the garden, back at the picture. “Should I? I don’t.”
“Neither do I,” said Meg. “Because they’re the same flower. It’s called Tahiti.”
“And?”
“And it’s supposed to be By George.”
“Which means that…?”
“I don’t know,” said Meg. “But it’s peculiar.”
Twenty-two
Barbara Stanley’s tone was brisk and businesslike. “A car that resembles Angie Morrison’s has been found in the city,” she said. “But it may not be hers.”
“Where?” asked Meg. A break! She’d be happy to have something constructive to do, some streets to walk up and down knocking on doors, asking neighbors—who would surely have noticed someone who looked like Angie—where she lived.
“Behind a deserted factory. Stripped. Must have been stolen, but no report’s been filed.”
“I think she was going on a long vacation,” said Meg. “Maybe she doesn’t know yet that it’s gone.”
“Nice surprise,” said the policewoman. “I asked them to let me know when a report does get filed. I’ll call you when I hear.”
“Thanks,” said Meg, trying not to sound as frustrated as she felt. “Did you get anything else? Like, does grand theft auto bring out the fingerprinting team?”
“It depends,” said Officer Stanley. “Not early on a Sunday morning. Not unless there’s a body in it.”
* * *
The garbage bags we
re where she’d left them next to the toolshed. Meg carried them into the house and dumped them out on the kitchen floor. There might be something she hadn’t noticed. After all, when she’d looked through these discarded possessions before, she hadn’t been trying to find their owner. She knelt by the heap, sifting, looking and discarding, pushing things away until all that was left in front of her was paper. Postcards were unlikely to help; she ignored them for the time being. She gathered the letters. Three had envelopes; most did not. As she had recalled, none of the three had a return address.
She opened the first envelope. The letter inside was an angry response to a break-up. Near the end, it became more pleading than angry—the type of letter one would keep, at least for a while, to counterbalance moments of insecurity. Still, Angie was unlikely to have recently contacted a man she had, years ago, rejected—cruelly and without cause, if the letter was to be believed—even if Meg could find him.
The other two envelopes were both addressed in the same hand. Meg pulled out the contents. One was a birthday card, one a letter. Angie, it appeared, had a mother. Not, Meg thought, an endearing mother, but at least one who occasionally wrote. A mother was more promising than a thrown-over boyfriend. She sat on the floor, reread the letter, gazed at each envelope. Nothing but Angie’s name and address, a cancelled stamp, and … a postmark.
Standing at the kitchen window and tilting the envelopes just right, she could make out the faded ink. They had both been mailed from Sinclair, Oklahoma.
Please still live there! thought Meg. Please! And then, when she had gotten a number from Directory Assistance: Please be at home!
Mrs. Morrison was at home but in no hurry to give Meg any information. “Who did you say you are?” she asked, her voice suspicious.
“Meg Kessinger,” said Meg. “I live in the house Angie used to live in, in Pennsylvania.”
“What house Angie used to live in?”
Meg tried to maintain a cheerful tone. “The house in Harrison, where Angie was for a while. I live in it now. She moved out, and I moved in, but she left something that I want to send to her. Only, like I said, I don’t know where she moved.”
