Heart vs. Humbug

by MJ Rodgers

  “Then there’s nothing more we can do for her here. Come on, Octavia. There’s one member of the Silver Power League’s executive committee we’ve yet to talk to. Let’s go pay a call on Douglas Twitch.”

  * * *

  DOUGLAS TWITCH’S HOME caught Octavia completely by surprise. It was a turn-of-the-century, tastefully restored, Victorian estate with a full-size orchard, an honest-to-goodness turret and an astonishing array of lovely antique Christmas angels flying off the walls in the entry hall and formal front parlor.

  Douglas met them in that parlor a few moments after a housekeeper had shown them there. He was dressed as usual in scuffed boots, old jeans and a checkered shirt, the latter two hanging off his rawboned body.

  Octavia saw him plop down in the middle of a beautiful brocade love seat, two ancient ceramic Christmas angels adorning the end tables on either side of him. The man looked as out of place in that Victorian parlor as a Jackson Pollock painting on a wall full of Rembrandt’s.

  “I heard about Mab,” he said. “Constance called a few minutes ago. What can I do to help?”

  “Talk to us about Scroogen,” Octavia said. “What did you know about him?”

  “What everyone knew. He was scum.”

  “Had you ever had any dealings with him before his attempt to take over the community center?”

  “Never even met him until he became our landlord.”

  “But we knew of him,” said a voice from the doorway.

  Octavia swiveled around to see a very slender elderly woman with paper-thin white skin. She wore a high-neck, floor-length light blue dress with an old-fashioned fitted waist. Her light silver hair was drawn tightly into a tidy bun. This woman fit this home like Douglas Twitch never would.

  Her eyes were strong and mobile, darting between Octavia and Brett. Their agility was far at odds with the bent condition of her elderly spine and the stiffness with which she grasped the cane in her right hand.

  Douglas immediately jumped up and went over to her. Slowly, and with obvious care, he helped her to the couch. Once he had her propped up with pillows, he gestured toward them.

  “This is Mab Osborne’s granddaughter, Octavia. And this is Brett Merlin who is trying to help Mab fight the charges against her. This is my wife, Edith.”

  Octavia liked the proud quality that suddenly effused Douglas’s gruff, grating voice as he introduced his wife. Despite the fact that the two seemed from different worlds, the warmth in Douglas’s tone told Octavia of the feelings that had built the bridge between them.

  “We don’t get many guests,” Edith Twitch said. “Douglas thinks they tire me too much. But now that I have difficulty getting to the center, I do so enjoy company coming by. Have you offered our guests refreshments?”

  “Thank you, we don’t care for anything,” Octavia said quickly, speaking for them both. She didn’t want the obviously frail Edith Twitch to feel the obligations of a hostess.

  “But we could use some information, Mrs. Twitch,” Brett immediately added. “A moment ago you said something about having heard of Dole Scroogen before meeting him. Would you explain what you meant?”

  “Our sons told us, Mr. Merlin. They’re in the septic system business, as was Scroogen, only they service customers in Mason County. But even from that distance, our boys heard how Scroogen cheated his competition here in Kitsap County.”

  “It’s been going on for more than ten years now,” Douglas said. “The guy was really underhanded about it, too.”

  “Can you give me an example?” Brett asked.

  “Plenty,” Douglas said. “When Scroogen knew another septic company was bidding on a job he wanted, he’d have his workmen call up the prospective customer and pretend to be previous dissatisfied customers of his competition. Or he’d call up the competition and pretend to be the customer, telling them not to come because he’d changed his mind.”

  “And when the septic company didn’t show up, Scroogen’s people would,” Edith said.

  “Yeah,” Douglas said. “The guy played real dirty.”

  Octavia sat forward. “Douglas, if you knew this about Scroogen, why didn’t you warn the other members of the Silver Power League when you found out he was your landlord?”

  “I knew he was cutthroat in business. But that was business. I didn’t know he would go against his great aunt’s wishes concerning the community center.”

  “Why not?” Octavia asked.

  “Some men are real bastards in business, but honorable to family and friends. I thought that was the story with Scroogen.”

  “But you did have other thoughts at first, dear,” Edith reminded him.

  “Yeah, when I first heard, I said something like we’d better watch out for him.”

  “Who did you say this to?” Brett asked.

  “Just John, I think. But then the months went by and Scroogen never contacted us about increasing the rent so I stopped worrying. It threw me as much as anybody when he showed up at our open house with that damn appraiser.”

  “You must have been pretty angry,” Brett said.

  “I was steaming. Like everyone else. But that night he deliberately severed the sewer pipe and flooded the center, well, I’ve got to tell you that’s the night I really wanted to kill him.”

  “Did you?” Octavia asked in an even, conversational tone.

  Douglas shifted uneasily on the sofa. “No.”

  “You hesitated before saying no,” Brett observed. “Why?”

  “Maybe because I wish it had been me who smacked him in the face. And maybe because I wish it had been me to go after him the next day like Mab did.”

  Octavia and Brett exchanged glances. No use asking Douglas who he thought did it.

  “Have you ever loaned your key to the greenhouse’s storeroom to anyone?” Brett asked.

  “Never. It’s right here on my key chain.” He pulled it out to show them the distinctive silver-plated key. “Hasn’t left my pocket since the day I ordered the lock and had the keys made with the Do Not Duplicate caution on them several months ago.”

  “And the only members of the Silver Power League with a key are the executive committee?” Brett asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Where were you when Scroogen was being attacked in that parking lot?”

  “At the community center waiting for my boys to arrive to pump it out.”

  “Did you see John and Constance there?”

  “Like I told the police, I don’t remember when they arrived. Look, I know things are looking bad for Mab. She was only trying to do us all a favor by getting rid of Scroogen. If there’s anything I can do...”

  * * *

  “EVEN HER FRIENDS THINK she’s guilty,” Octavia lamented as soon as they had dashed up Mab’s stairs through the heavy wind and downpour and stood within the protection of the back porch, shedding their rain gear.

  “Remember, Octavia. One of these so-called friends is really the murderer. And a very clever liar.”

  “Which one do you think it is?”

  “At the moment I’m leaning toward Constance.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because of all of them she’s the only one I can picture creeping up behind Scroogen, knocking him to the ground and whacking him on the back.”

  Octavia flipped on the light as she stepped inside the kitchen, setting her purse and gloves on the counter.

  “And Constance’s motive?” she asked.

  “Scroogen cheated her when she had to sell her home. Then he tried to take the community center she’d designed away from her and the seniors. Constance has no home, no husband, no children. The center and the seniors are all she has left. And with the condo complex going up and the expected changes in the neighborhood, she may even be forced out of that small apartment she’s tried to make a home.”

  The lights started to flicker. Octavia reached into a kitchen drawer and brought out a flashlight. She set it on the counter in easy reach as she picked up a teakett
le. The rain pounded above them, the wind howled and the walls reverberated with the sound of tree branches beating at the house.

  “So now you admit that Scroogen’s condominium complex would ruin the seniors’ neighborhood?”

  Brett leaned against the counter. “The impact of the condominium complex wasn’t the point of law at issue, Octavia.”

  She filled the kettle with water before turning back to him.

  “But it was the real point, Brett.”

  “Not for an attorney.”

  She set the kettle on the stove and faced him. “It might interest you to know that after long years of study, my parents found the best gauge of happiness among primitive tribe members was not how closely those tribe members followed their laws, but how closely committed they were to their families.”

  “Yes, but how successful were these individual tribe members in modern terms?”

  “Modern terms? Brett, if finding happiness in life is not success in any terms, what is?”

  Damn, she used tricky arguments. Way too tricky.

  Still, he wished he could believe what those words implied and what he saw in her eyes. He wished he could believe that acting on what he was feeling for her would not lead to disaster.

  But he knew better than to believe in wishes.

  “The house is a little chilly what with just the tarps strewn over the roof to keep out the elements,” she said, “but if you’d care to stay, I can whip something up for us to eat to make up for that veal dinner we missed.”

  He wanted to stay. God, how he wanted to stay!

  “No, it’s getting late,” he said, stepping backward, determined to resist the overwhelming temptation she represented.

  He turned and started steadfastly for the door. He never made it.

  Because just then, a sudden flash of lightning shot all around them, a thunderous roar shattered his eardrums, and the roof toppled onto his head.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Octavia, wake up.”

  Octavia opened her eyes to see Brett’s face, faint and blurry, disembodied, wavering above her as though through a mist. An eerie whistling rushed in with the wind that cooled her cheeks. The floorboards groaned beneath her.

  She was on the floor? She blinked, fighting disorientation as sights and sounds refused to make sense.

  “Octavia, talk to me.”

  She tried to get his features into focus, wondering why his voice sounded worried, wondering why the light was so dim, wondering so many things and finding answers to none of them.

  “Octavia? Are you all right?”

  His tone had become most insistent. She moved her head, arms, legs. Her body felt bruised and battered, but responded. The faint light around her quivered. She began to realize that Brett’s features were dark and blurry and disembodied because she was seeing them through the beam of a weak flashlight.

  “I’m okay,” she answered finally, her throat dry and scratchy.

  She raised her head and shoulders only to find she was caught under a couple of heavy structural beams crisscrossed over her middle—forming a gigantic letter X over her body. Fortunately, they pinned her in place by position, not by weight. She wove her hands into the small space separating the beams from her shoulders and pushed up with all her strength. They didn’t budge. Her effort disturbed some plaster dust. She sneezed.

  “They’re too heavy to lift,” Brett said, indicating that he, too, had tried.

  “What happened?” Octavia asked.

  “The roof fell in. Maybe from the lightning strike. Or maybe from the heavy wind weakening the remaining supporting beams. You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

  “Just shaken up a bit.”

  Octavia started at a crashing sound from somewhere in the house. “What was that?”

  “The rest of the house falling down,” Brett said. “We have to get you out of here—and quickly—before what’s left of these walls go. “I’ll call for help from the car. I’ll leave you the flashlight.”

  “No, Brett. Don’t go.”

  He reached through the small opening between the crossing beams and touched her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “It’s all right, Octavia. I promise I won’t be long.”

  “Brett, I’m neither afraid to be left alone nor am I getting hysterical on you. What I meant was that you don’t have to call for help. At least not yet. I’d like to see if I can get out of here by myself first.”

  He withdrew his hand.

  “Octavia, I’ve already tried to lift those beams. I nearly brought the rest of the walls down in the process. What’s left of the structure will need to be braced before it’s tried again.”

  Octavia had already slipped her feet out of her shoes and was wiggling out of her skirt in the small space left for her to maneuver beneath the constricting beams.

  “I was thinking of trying something different.”

  “Different?” Brett repeated, clearly sounding confused.

  “Give me a moment and I’ll show you.”

  She let her body go limp then and concentrated on her breathing and her focus. She closed her eyes, blotting out the vibrating floorboards beneath her, the whistling of the wind through the broken windowpanes all around her, even Brett’s worried brow above her.

  When she was ready, she opened her eyes and slowly wove her elbows onto the beams above her, using them for leverage. Then she began to lift herself up and through the small opening between them.

  It was more than a tight fit. Without a trained body, it would have been no fit at all. As it was, it took several minutes of strict concentration and considerable sweat. But when it was all over, she rested triumphantly crossedlegged on top of the beams, free of their confinement.

  “What was that?” Brett asked in a voice full of surprise, the weak flashlight beam in his hand scanning her head to toe.

  “Yoga,” Octavia answered with a smile. “It’s what I use to keep my muscles toned and flexible.”

  “Yoga,” he repeated, shaking his head, but relief was replete in his tone. “Phoebe would not be disappointed.”

  Octavia chuckled. “Which way is out?”

  “You’ll never make it without your shoes. What’s left of the floor is a land mine of glass. Here, hold the flashlight. I’ll carry you.”

  Octavia took the flashlight and felt two very strong arms scoop her up as though she weighed nothing. Being a tall, full-bodied woman she found the sensation truly delightful. She circled one arm around Brett’s neck for balance, leaned against his warm steel chest and concentrated on focusing the flashlight in front of them with her free hand.

  He made his way carefully through the rubble toward the back door. But when they reached it, it was blocked by another enormous beam.

  “I need to put you down for a minute.”

  Octavia took the hint and scanned the floor with the flashlight until she found a spot clear enough to stand on. Once Brett had set her there, Octavia watched as he easily lifted the heavy beam with his bare hands and shoved it aside. Then he kicked open the broken back door. Octavia directed the flashlight shaft into the gulf of darkness that lay beyond.

  “The porch is gone and so are the stairs,” Brett said. “Get ready for a rough landing.”

  Once again, he lifted her into his strong arms. She felt the power and solid weight of him as his body absorbed most of the impact of that rough landing. He nestled her snugly against the strong beat of his heart as he ran through the frigid rain to the car. He laid her gently on the passenger seat.

  Octavia loved the strong, gentle feel of Brett’s care and concern for her safety and comfort. She also loved the intensely feminine reactions erupting inside her in response to such treatment. This man had a lot more heart than he gave himself credit for.

  As he circled to the driver’s side, she pushed herself into a more erect sitting position in order to see out. The heavy rain beat down on the windshield, obscuring her vision. It took a sudden flash of lightning to illuminate what wa
s left of her grandmother’s home.

  Her heart squeezed inside her chest.

  “It’s as flat as the proverbial pancake,” she said with a sigh as Brett opened the driver’s door.

  “Still, I’m glad it’s the house and not us,” Brett said as he swung into the driver’s seat.

  The interior light gave her a clearer glimpse of their wet and muddy clothes and a nasty gash across Brett’s right shoulder that had torn open his suit coat.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “Just a scratch. A little hydrogen peroxide from the first-aid kit in the glove compartment is all I need.”

  She quickly got it out for him. He took the bottle from her, pulled down his coat sleeve, dumped some of the solution right over his torn shirtsleeve and pulled his coat sleeve up again before she could even get a look at the wound. He was ultracareful with her, ultracasual with himself.

  “There are available rooms in my hotel,” he said as he handed her back the bottle.

  “Check into a hotel without any money or identification?”

  “Your purse is back there in that rubble, isn’t it? Well, no matter. I’ll take care of the hotel.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but checking into a hotel looking like this without shoes, a toothbrush or a change of clothes for tomorrow is definitely not an option.”

  “So where do you want me to take you?” Brett asked.

  “Only one place left to go. Home.”

  * * *

  ALL THE WAY THERE, reaction shivers snaked through Brett as he kept reliving the sight of the roof falling in on Octavia and kept seeing her trapped beneath those beams.

  Once, he’d lost his footing at ten thousand feet and had dangled for hours from a lifeline with nothing but thin air around him. Another time, he’d been trapped on a glacier for four days without food or fuel. But those minor inconveniences paled into insignificance when compared to the torture of watching her lying hurt and knowing he was powerless to do anything about it.

  He forcibly pushed the nightmarish memories aside and concentrated instead on imagining what her home would be like. His mind went through several possibilities. He could see her standing on a graceful balcony of a Seattle high rise, her face turned to the wind as she surveyed the lights of the city below.