Widow's Row

by Lala Corriere

  “I don’t know. Best I can guess it’s kind of like being named Snow, or Stormy. Or Rain. Maybe your folks were whacked out on weed and couldn’t say Breezy, let alone spell it.”

  “A little more boring, I’m afraid. It’s a compilation of Irish family names.”

  “Go on.”

  “My grandmother went by Bree, short for Brigid. It means the exalted one. Some say it means strong. And my mother’s name was Cecelia. An early Christian martyr. And blind.”

  “Yoikes. Not a hippie name at all. They’d name their blind and exalted martyr Freedom. So I guess you hail from the polar opposite. Blueblood high-society type?”

  I regarded her with sudden discomfort. Any reply was caught in my throat.

  “Sorry. I just hear you’re a fancy D.C. lawyer,” Kate said. “There’s a lot of pressure on newcomers to this town because we locals like to dissect the hell out of you. Gives us something to do.”

  A huge clump of thick red fur jumped into Kate’s lap. I soared out of my chair, speechless. City girl or not, I thought I was staring down at a fox.

  “Don’t worry,” Kate laughed at my surprise. “This is just our little mascot, Journey. Gosh, I guess I forgot to ask you if you were allergic to cats. Usually I give a heads-up to incoming guests.”

  “No problem. I’ve just never seen a cat that huge.”

  “She’s a Maine Coon. As big as they get. Known as the gentle giants. That, plus this big girl is growing us some babies.”

  I warmed at the prospect of seeing new-born kittens.

  “How’s your father?” Kate stroked the looming belly of the cat sprawled out on her lap.

  “Better than I expected,” I said. “And worse, too. Nothing I ever do for him meets with his approval. My best guess is that if he could speak he’d tell me to leave.”

  Kate got up again and topped off my brandy, re-filling her empty glass to the brim.

  “You sound both overwhelmed and underwhelmed to me, but who am I to judge? I spent the first friggin’ twenty years of my life trying to please my mom and dad and I still haven’t figured out why I never could.”

  “I thought we agreed the word was ‘fucking’.”

  “Touché!”

  “I went to law school because it was my dad’s dream,” I said. Why would I care about secrets I told this woman and what she might think of me?

  Kate seemed to be digesting my statement. “It’s always fascinating how fast you can find common ground with a perfect stranger. That’s part of what I love about the hospitality business.”

  The room’s dim light bounced off old-fashioned prisms and patterned stained glass. It was just enough illumination for me to determine Kate wasn’t as young as I first thought. Her short blonde bangs obscured the worry lines blazing across her forehead. Her lacey vintage dress and kicky boots profiled a flirty figure, but her hands had endured more than a few years of dirty dishwater.

  “So, we’re both daddy pleasers,” I said.

  My parents think I’m white trash. I gave up trying to please them a long time ago.”

  “I guess I haven’t grown up enough yet.”

  “Are you happy being a lawyer? I mean, it’s odd the way you say you just said it was your dad’s dream.”

  “I don’t allow myself to think about it, except I admit I’m just coming off a case that made me want to cry, then quit, then become a sewer inspector. More dignity around the family dinner table. Dad was a lawyer, his dad was a lawyer, even my twin sister was a lawyer,” I said.

  “Your sister? Where’s she? Why isn’t she here helping you?”

  “Daddy more or less disowned her when she decided to have babies.” I looked across at the contented Journey, licking at her growing abdomen covered with red fur. “And she’s overseas. We’re really not very close, and we both agreed she didn’t need to come until I scoped things out, first.”

  “And what have you scoped out?”

  “A can of worms. Make that a couple cans of worms,” I said.

  “You gotta go dancin’ with me,” Kate said, molding her now empty glass up against the side of her face as if it were an ice pack.

  “What?”

  “You ain’t lived ‘til you’ve been dancin’ at The Raging Bovine.”

  For the second time that day I laughed. I mention this because it might have been a record for me. “This is a little much for a city girl. First, The Lost Cat, and now, The Raging Bovine. What’s up with this animal kingdom?”

  “You’re here for a few days, which means we can go take in a few dances, and maybe toast to our dear old daddies,” Kate muttered, beginning to get lost in the effects of all the brandy.

  “I’m guessing I need cowboy boots?”

  “Yup. And a decent hat.”

  Ch4

  Chapter Four

  One Small Town

  Breakfast was an epicurean delight, replete with bowls of tropical fruit, fresh muffins spilling from intricately woven baskets, and silver chafing dishes filled with wholesome warmed oatmeal raisin cereal, scrambled eggs, and a variety of sausages, bacon, and ham.

  “We keep our guests filled up on hearty food around here.”

  I reeled around to find a round, squatty little woman of Mexican descent, heaving a bag of ice chips from her shoulders and placing them out around the juice urns.

  “I’m Rosa. Glad to have you here with us, Ms. Lemay.”

  “That’s very kind. Thank you.”

  “I’ll be doing your room for you. Let me know if there’s anything you need.” Her accent was thick but her English neared perfection.

  “You be nice to our Rosa,” another voice boomed from the hall and suddenly a beautiful tall woman with an equally large southern drawl peered in from just outside the dining hall.

  “You be nice to yourself,” Rosa said, winking at the woman and then disappearing back into her kitchen.

  The southern woman moved with a shuffle and a slight wince, as if in a great deal of pain. Maybe arthritis, but she’s so young.

  “I’m Jennie,” she said, holding her arms close to her sides, managing to pour a glass of tomato juice.

  “I’m...”

  “...Ms. Breecie Lemay,” she interrupted. The surprise that she knew my name, coupled with annoyance, must have registered across my face. “Oh, don’t mind me, hon. This is just one damn small town. Everyone knows when we have a new victim with fresh blood,” she said. “And I can tell you it isn’t always comforting. I’m from Houston, myself. Back home I don’t know my next door neighbors but for the asshole that steals my Sunday paper.”

  I filled a pottery bowl with the steamy cereal, taking the inviting chair doused in morning sunshine and well aware of the illusion. The wind-chill factor outside put the temperature somewhere just below zero.

  The woman disappeared back into the hall. I presumed she returned to her room.

  Some caring nurse had once again positioned Dad’s chair next to the window in the small hospital room, but he wasn’t looking out. He sat slumped against the vinyl. Tiny slits of eyes appeared to be scrutinizing the polished floor as if he were reading a deposition.

  I set up the new radio/CD player on a nearby shelf, opened up the crystal case containing the Pavarotti CD, and pushed it in on continuous play. The dad I knew loved Pavarotti. Then again, the dad I knew also deserted his beloved balcony box at the opera when he fled the District of Columbia.

  “We have a few problems, Daddy,” I said, just as the tenor began his bel canto. No sign of comprehension from my father.

  “We have to think about long term care for you. Adam’s helping me. He’s certain you’ve drawn up legal stipulations that will provide for you. What you want, I mean.” I suddenly felt the shame and embarrassment of not knowing anything about my father’s estate planning. “For all I know, you’d be happiest moving back to Washington.”

  For a minute I thought he might be trying to look at me, but it was kind of like the baby you think is smiling at you when he
’s just passing gas.

  “Dad. Listen to me. I have another problem,” I said. “I found your stair safe.”

  Nothing.

  “Do you hear me, Dad? I found the damn gun.” I pushed my face into his. His eyes were a reflection of mine, pools of aquamarine. “What does that mean, Dad? Does it have to do with Mom? I never believed the thug story. Does this mean you know who really killed Mother?”

  Chapter Five

  He Made His Bed

  After leaving the hospital to return to my temporary home, I scrambled up the stairs of The Lost Cat, ignoring the three or four women gathered in the parlor. Rushing into my room, I locked the door, then turned to retrieve the garbage bag I’d tossed into the bottom of the closet. Within seconds, the two boxes sat on my bed.

  My intuition returned with a harsh warning that things were about to change, forever.

  I started with the box that made the most sense to me. The one labeled Cecelia.

  With its contents tossed onto the bed, I started sorting things out into piles. The love letters and post cards to my mother were all from Dad. Some lacked dates, but most were in postmarked envelopes, and it became clear the collection spanned several years. They started soon after Mom and Dad were married, and later some of the letters started referring to my sister and me, Dad scribbling extra little messages intended for us. He even started adding notes to our family dog.

  More receipts proved to be a chain of paper that evidenced my dad’s quick rise in monetary success, from Gumby’s Five & Dime to Geary’s of Beverly Hills. There was a pair of broken wire rimmed glasses. I wondered why they’d been saved. And a dried flower that had been crushed so badly I couldn’t tell what variety it was. I fantasized about its importance. I’d guessed then and there that this was really Mom’s box. The dad I knew wouldn’t bother to save anything like that. Besides, the letters were written by Dad, but sent to Mom. Yes. Mom would have saved Dad’s love letters.

  Thick rubber bands wrapped around a smaller box shrouded in a black lace mantilla. The last brittle band broke as I tried to remove it, snapping harsh against the palm of my hand. An omen, I thought.

  The death certificate was on top, folded neatly into thirds. Newspaper clippings followed. Prominent D.C. Attorney’s Wife Found Dead. Husband A Suspect In Lemay Murder. Police Investigation Stalled. New Evidence: Cecilia Lemay Surprised Burglar. Justice: Lemay Killer Commits Suicide. All the old crap I thought I’d never have to see again.

  A sadness enveloped me like what I imagine Earth’s abused skin of soil, its veil of skin, must feel like as mankind recklessly bulldozes over it for another condo development.

  I trust too much. Damn it. I’m a defense attorney. A damn good one. I have to trust. But the sinking feeling, the tightening of the veil of skin, was more guilt than sadness. I should have known better. I did know better. I knew the thugs they arrested for my mother’s murder were innocent.

  Tense nerves throbbed up and down my neck. A heavy fatigue settled in but exhaustion would not obfuscate the disturbance rattling my soul. Lifting off the fluffy bedside, I stretched my hands down to my feet, blew out stale breaths as if I could expel my mounting anger. I lifted my hands high above my head and up into the unseen heavens. Holding the stretch, I guess I was trying to force the stress out of my body, but it wasn’t going anywhere.

  A booster shot of a glass of wine was in order, and easy to obtain thanks to Kate’s honor bar system, which entailed a lined legal pad and pencil she kept in her kitchen.

  The Lost Cat appeared quiet as I walked past the parlor and the dining hall, and into the kitchen. A man dressed in a white shirt and white pants sat at Kate’s kitchen table, scribbling on a ledger. A stethoscope lay on the table next to him.

  “Hey there,” he muttered, barely looking up from his work.

  “Hey there,” I said. “Just helping myself to a glass of wine. May I pour you one?” I asked, already listing my honest purchase on Kate’s lined pad.

  “Afraid I’m on duty,” he said, placing his stethoscope into a black bag with one hand and grabbing his mound of paperwork with the other.

  “Excuse me?”

  “See ya around.” He was gone before I finished pouring the wine.

  An hour passed, at least, back in room number six. My glass was half-empty. My glass is half-filled, I thought, remembering my mother’s tenderhearted approach to any crap life dished out. I sat staring at the box on my bed with the name Erin scribbled across the top.

  I pushed myself up from the corner wing chair and glanced out the window. Dusk fell early. From my vantage point I could peer down on Main Street and see the tiny white lights framing storefronts, all beginning to twinkle with the fading daylight. The Christmas retail season had begun, but I had a sinking feeling it wasn’t going to be a Currier and Ives kind of Christmas. Suddenly I wished I had taken Adam’s advice and returned to him and my life in Washington.

  It was too late.

  Collapsing back down in the chair with the box now in my lap, I took a lingering sip of wine, pacing myself as I did whenever I was about to pour over evidence in a new case. I placed the etched-crystal glass back on the side table, tracing the edge of the lip with my moist fingertip in order to hear the musical chime of the stemware.

  “What do we have here, Daddy?” I sang in a whisper to the pitch of the whirring noise resounding from the crystal.

  The handwriting was unmistakably Dad’s. He always exaggerated his ‘m’s and his ‘g’s. Instead of notecards and letters addressed to my mother, this time the recipient of the contents was a Miss Erin McGinnis.

  I thumbed the outside of the grainy envelopes, as if hopeful they could tell me the secrets inside without the torment of actually opening them.

  The addresses showed mailings to Washington, D.C. and a post office box in Trinidad, Colorado. The single recipient, Miss McGinnis. I became obsessed with the envelopes, putting them in order of the postmarks.

  Those postmarks told a story of their own. There was about one year of mailings to the D.C. address. Then, six years ago, the address changed to Trinidad. About the same time as my mother’s death. Dad had moved to Trinidad four years ago. That’s when the letters stopped.

  My chin dropped to my chest and I rolled my head from side to side, the sound of the cranks and creaks surprising me. My eyes closed tight as my fingers randomly selected one envelope and removed the single sheet of paper from inside. I’d barely opened my eyes when the words flew off the page.

  You are the love of my life and I promise you,

  Sweetheart, we will be together soon. I could

  show you what’s in my heart better than I can

  write it. Wait for me, my darling Erin.

  I miss you with all my heart.

  I have a surprise waiting for you.

  You are fond of chinchilla,

  aren’t you, my dearest?

  The letters got tossed back into the box. The box got tossed into the garbage sack, and the sack went back into the bottom of the closet of room number six.

  I stormed out of The Lost Cat and toward Main Street. I don’t even remember grabbing gloves, but I must have, even though they did little to warm my icy hands. I don’t remember eating, but I must have. My stomach was full. The chill wasn’t in the night air. It was my blood.

  I froze in my tracks when my cell rang, amazed that I’d managed a full circle and was back at The Lost Cat. I don’t remember seeing the quaint town shops with the twinkle lights framing the windows. I didn’t appreciate the historical buildings and the brick streets, and yet, my feet told me I’d been walking for some time.

  “Hi, Adam.”

  “Christ, lady. You haven’t called all day,” he said. “If I weren’t a better man, I’d dump you. I don’t need this shit.” Was his voice kidding? He must have known I wasn’t exactly on vacation.

  Aware some of Kate’s B&B guests were just inside the front door, I endured the cold and sank down on the wooden porch swing, hopefu
l I was out of earshot.

  “I’m going to have to stay on here, longer than I thought,” I said.

  “What the hell are you up to? This makes no sense.”

  I took a deep breath. Kate must have had a fire going. The pleasant smell of burning oak filled my senses. I let it comfort me like my mother’s fall kitchen, constant smells of cinnamon and apple cider and bread baking.