by Tamara Leigh
In your head! Then why is my skin prickling? I have to scratch—my palms, the backs of my hands, my lower arms. All the places that might have come in contact. Did I sniff the daisies? If I did…
I shake the water from my right hand and scratch my nose so hard I break the skin. Self-mutilation on top of blisters. Lovely.
So what is taking Trinity so long? At Uncle Obe’s suggestion, I sent her to Axel’s cottage for the lotion he uses to remove the oil when he comes in contact with poison ivy. That was fifteen minutes ago.
I check in on Uncle Obe. Satisfied he’s asleep and his cell phone is near should he need to call me, I go in search of Trinity. Hurrying down the garden path, I glare at the daisies. Poison ivy! Axel has a lot to answer for.
Though I expect to hear Trinity trilling as I near the cottage, all is quiet. My other expectation—of finding her twirling as she wields her duster among Axel’s effects—is also unfounded.
I scratch my left hand as I cross from the small kitchen into the living room. “Trinity?”
A resounding thud is followed by an “Ow!”
I turn down the short hallway toward the bedrooms. “Trinity, I’m dyin’ here.” Did I just drop a g? Was that a twang? “Did you find the lotion?” Every word perfectly enunciated.
She pops out of the room on the right and rubs the back of her head. “I didn’t mean to snoop, but then I saw the box.”
“What box?”
“The box!” She steps back inside.
I peer into the bedroom that Axel has transformed into an office. On the floor beside a neatly organized desk is a black-speckled box of folders. “What about it?”
“It was under your uncle’s bed. It disappeared last week after he came home from the hospital. I figured he asked you to do something with it, but Axel must have stolen it.” She shakes her head. “There are a lot of personal papers in there.”
I thought she didn’t mean to snoop. Regardless, if it is the same box, what is Axel doing with it? Did he steal it? No.
The first day Uncle Obe was home from the hospital, Trinity offered to move the rest of his personal effects downstairs, including a box of papers she found under his bed. Uncle Obe’s face had gone a bit gray, and he had declined. He must have asked Axel to bring the box here. Why? “What kind of personal papers?”
“Come see.”
I follow her to the desk and lower to my knees beside her, only to startle when she jumps up. “I forgot that I have to go to the bathroom—bad.”
How do you forget that?
She hurries from the room, and I scan the folders: expenses, legal, checking account, assets, taxes, deeds and titles, insurance, stocks and bonds, medical—
“Medical.” A moment later, the file is on my lap. The first document is a summary written by a Dr. Dyer three months ago, and it answers what Artemis wouldn’t. Explaining the findings of the documents that follow, Dr. Dyer concludes that Uncle Obe has early onset dementia, defined as dementia that strikes before the age of sixty-five. For the most part, he is able to function on his own despite minor word retrieval problems. I suppose that’s good news, but only in light of the bad news, which is that it’s going to get worse before it never gets better.
I swallow a lump in my throat.
“I’m back!”
I snap the folder closed as Trinity drops to her knees on the other side of the box. “You okay, Piper?”
“Yes, fine.” As inconspicuously as possible, I slide the folder onto the floor.
“Let me show you somethin’.” She retrieves a folder from the chair behind the desk. “I know I shouldn’t have snooped, but that curiosity thing—wondering why Axel took the box—got the better of me. You aren’t goin’ to fire me, are you?”
She shouldn’t have looked, but then neither should I. “No.”
She sits back on her heels. “That’s a relief, ‘cause I need this job if I’m goin’ to get my business turnin’ a profit.”
I glance at the medical folder. “You didn’t look through the whole box, did you?”
She opens her eyes wide. “Heavens, no!”
So glad she has some scruples.
“I mean, it’s not as if I had time, right?”
Er… right. I gesture at the folder she holds. “What’s in that?”
She taps the label that reads Last Will and Testament. “It has to do with your uncle’s will. And I’m in it.”
Holding my breath, I take it and open to a handwritten page that lists beneficiaries to be added to the will. Beside each name is a dollar amount, all of them revised several times as evidenced by strike outs. This has been on Uncle Obe’s mind for a long time.
Trinity leans across the box and touches her name. “I don’t know why he’s addin’ me to his will, but it’s awful nice of him. And I certainly could use the money. Not that I want him to die, but it’s a relief that some day Gran and I won’t have to struggle so much. We’ve had some real hard years since the knitting shop closed.”
The lump is back. I scan the list: Antonio and Daisy, Dorcas Stanley, the Biggses, the town of Pickwick, the IRS, the Calhouns—
Ugh. That’s a big dollar amount. Though my uncle originally valued the land he believes my great-grandfather cheated the Calhouns out of at two hundred thousand, the most recent figure is seven hundred and fifty thousand. But then, Pickwick is in the midst of renewal.
A quick calculation reveals that my uncle wants to make restitution to the tune of two million dollars. I inwardly groan. If there were any doubt the estate would have to be sold, there’s none now.
“Why do you think he wants to leave me fifty thousand dollars?” Trinity whistles. “Whew! You know how big that sounds? Fif…ty…thou…sand.”
You could tell her. Take responsibility for your wrongdoing.
But she’s so talkative that even if she agreed to keep it between us, she probably couldn’t.
So? If it were made public, it would likely be yesterday’s news before the day was out. It was a teenage indiscretion, and it’s not as if you’re Cootchie Lear.
What about Grant?
Come on, you’re pretty much kaput.
It looks that way. So maybe I should just—Wait. Even if our relationship is strictly business, from a PR standpoint, it could reflect poorly on him to have been dating me. Strike Grant Spangler from my client list. No, my partners would not like that. Besides, what’s the benefit of telling Trinity? Money is what she needs, and money is what she’ll get—philanthropically speaking.
Whose money, did you say?
Closing the door of my conscience, I return my gaze to the medical folder. In Luc’s hands, it could be the ammunition to prove Uncle Obe is mentally incompetent. But that’s not going to happen if I have a say in it. I wish all this would go away, but I will help him make amends to those our family has hurt.
“Your uncle must think highly of my cleaning services.”
I look at Trinity. Does she not realize these papers predate her work here? “I know he’s appreciative of all you do.”
She frowns. “Still… that’s a lot of money for just doin’ my job.”
If not for the real reason Uncle Obe wants to make restitution, I would be relieved that she has enough sense to realize that. I close the folder and set it atop the medical folder.
Trinity wags a finger in the air. “Of course, he did say the other day that he was sorry the knitting shop had to close, but I can’t see as he had anything to do with that.”
That’s too close for comfort. “Well, whatever the reason—”
“If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. When that rumor started that I made the Lady Godiva ride down Main Street, I should have gutted it then and there.”
Oh, Lord.
She tilts her head at me. “You heard about that, didn’t you? Or had you already left Pickwick?”
“It… happened right before my mother and I went to L.A.”
“Like everybody else, you probably thought I did it, but
you’d be wrong.”
If jealousy is green, what color is guilt? My face is suddenly cold and prickly. “I don’t see you doing something like that, Trinity. In fact, I’m certain you didn’t.”
Her eyes get big. “Really?”
“Yes, and I’m sorry that you took the blame.” How sorry are you? “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t deny it.”
With a sheepish shrug, she says, “All that attention.”
“What?”
“It was like entering a pie-eatin’ contest. You know, enjoyin’ all them berries and peaches and buttery crusts and not havin’ to be the one to make and bake them.”
“What?”
“Uh-huh. Though I didn’t deny the rumor, I could never do somethin’ so nasty and wicked as ridin’ buck naked through town. And in a parade, no less!”
On top of being confused, I feel like pond scum. “Trinity, you’ve lost me. You enjoyed the attention?”
“Well, yeah. The guys looked at me different. I mean, really looked. Like they’d never looked before.”
I’ll bet.
“If not for Grandpa—God rest his soul—puttin’ his shotguns in the front windows of our house, I would have had me one date after another. But even better than havin’ a slew of suitors was that the family business my grandparents wanted me to run”—she jams her fist against her chest—“put a stake through the whole idea. That musty old place with all those balls of yarn and them pokey knitting needles… It makes keeping house seem like executive work.”
I lean toward her. “Then you weren’t harmed by the rumor? It was a good thing?”
“Well, mostly. My grandparents were so heartbroken when the knitting shop went under that I suffered guilt somethin’ terrible. After all, I’m pretty sharp, and I probably could have made a go of it.”
Could she have?
“Then when Grandpa was on his deathbed, he forgave me for my godforsaken indiscretion and made me promise I would never again do such a thing to shame the family. That’s when I told him and Gran it wasn’t me.” She sighs. “They didn’t believe me, and next thing I knew they were prayin’ for my salvation. Then”—she snaps her fingers—“Grandpa laid back, closed his eyes, and up and died.”
Pond scum—the slimy green stuff.
She gasps. “Why, you could help me, Piper.”
I could do better than help, but…
“You could tell my grandmother that you believe me, that I would never do somethin’ like that.”
“Me?” My voice breaks.
“She might listen to you, seein’ as you’re one of the few upstanding Pickwicks.”
She has no idea.
“And what I wouldn’t give not to have her prayin’ over me for sins I didn’t commit when her body is ready to pack up and go home.”
It’s the least you can do. “All right, I’ll talk to her.”
She clasps her hands as if to pray. “Thank you. You’re a good friend. And God knows I could use one or two.”
Pond scum.
“Of course, I could also use the money.” She gives a blissful roll of her eyes. “Fifty thousand dollars. Why, one day I could have a half-dozen girls workin’ for me and a whole fleet of pumpkin coaches.”
Fifty thousand dollars won’t go that far.
She grabs me and hugs me so tight my ribs creak. “This has been some day. Know what I’m goin’ to do after work?” She jumps up. “I’m gonna get me one of them expensive ice creams where they mix in gummy bears and Oreo cookies on a marble slab.”
Gummy bears and Oreo cookies?
“Normally I treat myself only once a month, and I’ve already had mine for the month—” She gasps. “That reminds me. When I was at the ice cream shop last week, a lady there was askin’ about you.”
A distant alarm goes off. “Someone who lives in Pickwick?”
“If she does, I haven’t seen her before. She also had one of those accents like they got up north. You know where they say ‘pok’ for park,’ like the Kennedys.”
The alarm is no longer distant. “A New England accent?”
“I think so.”
Could it be Janet Farr, or is this coincidence? Lord, please let it be coincidence. “Who was she asking about me?”
“Me. Said she’d heard I’d been hired on at the Pickwick mansion. Was real friendlylike. Even paid for my ice cream.”
Not coincidence. “What did she ask about me?”
“Oh, like why did you leave Pickwick, why are you back, why did you change your name to Wick, are you datin’ anyone. That kind of stuff.”
I feel each beat of my heart. “What did you tell her?”
“Mostly that I didn’t know, though I did say that your uncle had surgery and you were helpin’ him to get back on his feet.”
Fairly benign. “Have you seen her since?” At the shake of her head, I ask, “Did she mention her name?”
“Just her first: Jane.” She frowns. “Or maybe it was Janet.” She shrugs. “One or the other.”
Actually, both. Janet Farr, who tried to get information out of Celine about me, and Jane Farredy, who wrote the article questioning Grant’s sexuality, are undoubtedly the same. And she’s in Pickwick—or was.
“So you wanna join me for an ice cream, Piper?”
I shake my head. “Thank you, but maybe another time. I need to talk to Axel.”
Her eyes flick to the box. “You aren’t goin’ to press charges, are you?”
“No, I’m sure Uncle Obe asked him to bring the box here to keep an eye on it.”
“You could be right.” She flounces to the door.
“Trinity?”
“Yeah?”
“Let’s keep the matter of my uncle’s will just between us, hmm?”
Her face grows serious. “You can count on me.”
Can I? Not that I think she would intentionally blab. “And if you run into Janet or Jane again, would you let me know?”
“I sure will.”
“Also, I may be here awhile, so would you check on Uncle Obe in case he wakes up and needs something?”
“You bet.”
I hear her break into song as she heads down the hill.
Janet Farr/Jane Farredy, what besides my connection to the Pickwicks and my Southern roots are you trying to dig up? My scandalous Lady Godiva ride? Of course, now that Grant is dating someone else, maybe she’s moved on. Yes, I’m going to hang my hat on that. I have to because my plate is too full as it is.
I retrieve the list of beneficiaries and focus on the dollar amount beside Trinity’s name. At one point it was twenty-five thousand, then thirty, now fifty. How did Uncle Obe arrive at that number? More, how can I stand by and let him pay my debt?
Blowing a breath up my face, I look up. “Lord, this is going to hurt.”
21
Axel’s back. Unfortunately, as absorbed as I was in the contents of the box, I didn’t hear him drive up.
I start to rise from the desk, but when the floor creaks a second time as he walks down the hallway, I fold my hands atop the folder that contains documentation of Uncle Obe’s assets, one of which was more than a little eyeopening. When Axel heads into the bedroom across the hall, it’s obvious he’s unaware of my presence.
I draw a breath to announce myself, but he halts, turns, and locks eyes with me. And I feel as guilty as a thief with a hand stuck in a victim’s pocket.
He scans his desk, the orderliness of which has been overturned. “I see.”
I lift my chin. “So do I.”
He steps into the room. “I’m surprised.”
I wish his eyes were Blue. Though I knew it wouldn’t look good if he found me here, adding to the bad impression made when I didn’t refute that his prosthetic bothers me, I didn’t want to turn my discovery into a game. Me and my high ideals.
“Of course”—his nostrils flare—“all that’s missing are night-vision goggles.”
That stings. “I am not like Bart or Luc.”
“No.” He pushes aside the scattered folders, places his palms on the desk, and leans in. “Where they failed, you succeeded. You’re entirely different, Piper Wick.“
I tense from the roots of my hair to my toes. What would Piper advise? That I measure my words. I point to the folders. “This is not what I came for.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“I came for—” How could I forget? I jerk my hands up and examine my wrists and lower arms. Still no angry rash. Maybe I am immune. Wait! The itch is back.
I shove the chair back. “I need your lotion.”
“What?”
I thrust my arms out to reveal skin ripe for ruin. “I got into poison ivy, which is your fault for not keeping that bloodsucker out of the daisies.”
I almost feel sorry for Axel, who has to edit the accusation on his face to make room for confusion.
I come around the desk. “Uncle Obe said you have a lotion that removes the oils.”
“It’s in the kitchen. What happened to your nose?”
The scratch. “I think it brushed against the ivy when I sniffed the daisies. It started itching—” Like it is now. I rub it with the back of my hand. “Do you mind?”
Shortly I stand before the kitchen sink, rubbing the lotion into my hands, lower arms, and nose. “It’s probably too late. It’s been over two hours.”
“As long as you catch it within the first few hours, it usually works.” Axel reaches past me and turns on the faucet. “Okay, rinse.”
“Shouldn’t I leave it on awhile?”
“It only takes a couple of minutes.”
To be certain, I rub another minute before sticking my hands under the cool water.
Axel hands me a towel, and as I pat my skin, he leans back against the counter. “Let’s talk about what you were doing in my office.”
I step to the small table and take a chair. When he remains standing, I grudgingly concede the advantage to him. “I didn’t come looking for those papers. And, yes, I went through them.” Should I mention Trinity found them? No, it’s an unnecessary detail that would only muddy the water. “You know what’s in there, don’t you?”
