by Sue Henry
Aghast at the ruthless devastation and damage that confronted me, I stood in the doorway staring into the room. My first concern was to make sure that Sarah was not inside, but a quick glance reassured me of that. Except for the tangle of belongings, the room was empty. Anger quickly followed. I have never had patience for senseless acts of destruction, or those who perpetrate them. What could have inspired such a savage search? From all that was cast aside, whoever it had been must have been looking for something specific. Had he, or she, found it before I made my way in through the back door to interrupt the attempt? I hoped not, but if not, would this person return?
Leaving the door open, I wheeled and started quickly back down the hall, headed for the telephone that I knew from past visits stood below in an alcove off the living room that Sarah used as an office. It was past time for some answers. This was a situation for the police.
Law enforcement was exactly what I got, much sooner than expected. As I reached the top of the stairs there was a sudden thunderous pounding and someone shouting outside. I halted where I stood when the front door, which I had neglected to lock, crashed open, again rebounding off the wall, and a hefty man in uniform stepped cautiously through it, handgun drawn. “Police!” he called out, catching sight of me standing above him.
It was a toss-up which of us was more startled as we stared at each other for a few seconds in silent astonishment. Obviously, a sixty-something woman was not what he had expected. Nor did I believe that my simple wish for officers would cause one to materialize like a genie from a bottle.
“You call dispatch about a break-in?” he asked, frowning in a combination of confusion and suspicion.
With visions of a night in the local lockup, I was supremely grateful that Sarah had insisted on providing the name and phone numbers of her lawyer in one of our last conversations. “No, I can’t think of a reason you’d need it, but it never hurts to be thorough, and you just never know, do you?” she’d said.
Attorney Donald Westover answered his home telephone on the third ring, recognized me by name, and arrived to reassure the police of my identity less than half an hour after I was allowed to dial his number.
As we waited, the police had listened dubiously to my account of having disturbed a prowler in Sarah’s house. An anonymous telephone tip had brought them, without sirens. But the only person they had found inside was a female senior citizen with a tale about an unlocked back door—which they had checked and found locked, thanks to me—claiming to have heard and seen someone—whom she couldn’t identify—making a hurried exit from upstairs, and a vehicle—for which she had no make or license number—speed away and disappear. As if that were not enough, they had found me close to the turmoil of the upstairs bedroom. It made sense even to me that they would react with suspicion to everything I told them and tend to consider me a suspect of sorts.
After Westover had arrived to set them straight with a power of attorney in hand that identified me as Sarah’s legal representative and estate executor and gave me the right to make Sarah’s home my own, I sensed that they were still not completely convinced that I had not demolished that upstairs bedroom. But they accepted my promise not to leave the Grand Junction area without informing them and, except for an officer who went to investigate the disarray upstairs and other parts of the house for evidence of the break-in, they were soon gone, leaving me with questions for Attorney Westover.
Those questions had waited that long, however, and would wait a few minutes more while I caught my breath. In Sarah’s kitchen, I made each of us a mug of tea, and then sat down with this tall stranger at the breakfast table near the back window through which I had peered earlier.
“Now,” I demanded. “Where is Sarah? Why isn’t she here?”
When he hesitated, frowning, thick brows hiding his eyes as he glanced down at the mug he held between his hands, and sighed before answering, anxiety rushed in to replace concern. Refusing to allow free rein to my imagination, I sat quietly and waited, forcing my attention to what I could learn from a cursory assessment of Westover’s appearance. How much could I count on him for the help I suspected I was about to need? Having come directly from home after office hours, he was dressed in a neat but casual shirt and jeans, without a jacket. It made him look younger than he would probably appear in a courtroom in the armor of a well-tailored suit and tie. With only the top of his head in view, I noticed that his hair was thinning slightly at the crown, and that he must have dressed in a hurry, for the right half of his collar was caught inside the neckband of his shirt. It made him seem younger still, and a little vulnerable.
Straightening to look at me, he lost the frown but retained a serious expression that told me something was very wrong with my friend.
“She’s not . . .”
“No,” he assured me. “Not yet. They took her to the hospital this morning. I saw her this afternoon, but she’s not doing well, I’m afraid.”
“What do you mean, she’s not doing well? She was supposed to have weeks left. What happened?”
“They’re not sure, but think something upset her enough to put too much stress on her heart. A visitor found her unconscious sometime before noon. She’s regained a kind of consciousness, but is very confused and weak. She’s been fading in and out and asking for you. I’m sorry, but I’d have to say she’s just holding on and waiting for you to get here. Seems very determined to speak to you in her few semilucid moments—keeps asking for you.”
I stared at him without really seeing, remembering Sarah’s words on the phone: I need your help. There are things I need to tell and show you—important things. What could be so important that my friend would stubbornly refuse to die until she could convey it? As long as I had known Sarah I had at times been amused, at others frustrated, by my friend’s intractable nature, though it came very close to my own. Now, whatever it was, only Sarah had the answers. Would she be able to communicate whatever it was that she felt was so essential?
“Then we’re wasting time sitting here,” I declared, rising from my place at the table. “Will you drive me to the hospital, Mr. Westover?”
“Of course. But please call me Don.”
I rinsed the tea mugs and left them in the sink with the one I had noticed earlier. There would be time to take care of them tomorrow.
Considering the warm conditions, I checked before leaving to be sure Stretch had plenty of water and that the doors of the motor home were securely locked.
“Will you stay in Sarah’s house tonight?” Westover asked as he drove down quiet residential Chipeta Avenue and turned north on Seventh. “You can, you know. She expected that.”
I considered and decided against it. “I think Stretch and I will both do better in our own space—particularly after tonight’s nastiness. I’ll back the Winnebago into the driveway at the side of the house where I’ve parked it before. I can hook up to electricity and water there. Do you have any thoughts on who it might have been in the house tonight—or what they could have been looking for?”
He shook his head, once again frowning. “Not a clue, but it worries me.”
“How about what Sarah wants to tell me?”
“I don’t know about that, either. But . . .”
He stopped, frowning again, and chewed on his lower lip for a thoughtful moment before he continued.
“You know Sarah, so you know she doesn’t like loose ends. Before that first surgery, two years ago, she put all her affairs in order: revised her will, settled debts—all that sort of thing. She’s kept it up to date since then, with advice from me. Hired an accountant I recommended and knew that she could trust. Gave him power of attorney to take care of her bills and taxes.
“About two weeks ago she called and asked me to come to the house because she wanted to make some changes in her will. Did she tell you that she had put your name in as executor?”
“No. I called her a couple of times from the road and she didn’t mention it. And I don’t understand i
t. Why me?”
“I asked, but she wouldn’t say why. Just that it would be better that way. She was very definite about it. It was going to be Alan’s job—you know, her son, Alan? It made sense, because there wasn’t anyone else.”
“I’ve met him a time or two, but I don’t really know him.” I neglected to say that I had never been particularly impressed with Alan the few times I had encountered him. “Does he know about this?”
“I assume she told him, but I don’t know,” he said, frowning again.
“And she didn’t give you reasons for the changes at all?”
“I have to admit I pressured her a little, but she just smiled—you know that enigmatic, determined smile—and wouldn’t give me any other reason. Just said she trusts you to do the right thing. She seemed concerned about something, but kept it to herself. Said you’d be able to take care of all of it.”
I sighed, frowning now myself. The assumption seemed a large one. It would certainly be difficult if I found that Sarah wasn’t able to communicate her intentions.
We came to North Avenue, a main east-west cross street, then Orchard, both of which I recognized from past visits. I considered what Westover had told me as I watched circles of illumination cast by the streetlights slide past along the tree-lined street. Green and leafy, the branches spread wide and sheltering in a way I always found unexpected.
Seventh Street rose gradually as he drove north, and we were soon pulling into the parking lot of St. Mary’s Hospital, a large complex that stood like a fortress overlooking the residential area between it and the Colorado River, which flowed beyond the south side of the downtown area. As we walked from the parking lot to the entrance to the hospital, I recognized the sweet scent of honeysuckle blooming somewhere close on the grounds and was reminded that it was one of Sarah’s favorites. I remembered her teaching me to gently tug the small trumpet-shaped blossoms from their stems and suck out the minute amount of sweetness they contained. The thought made me suddenly sad that that particular flower and fragrance would always be associated in memory with the friend I was about to lose.
Westover guided me straight to the intensive care unit for coronary patients where, though it was late, and considering the circumstances, I was allowed to see Sarah.
“Just you, and only for a few minutes,” the nurse supervisor—a Miss Tolland, I learned from her badge—told me decisively.
“This was unexpected,” I said. “What happened?”
“Are you immediate family?” the nurse asked.
Westover, who was listening, stepped in to explain that I was the executor of Sarah’s estate—had her power of attorney, which meant I could be treated and informed as family.
“That’s all right then. I’m sorry, but we really don’t know exactly what happened—we’re still waiting for some of the test results. You’re right about it being unexpected. From the tests we have, the doctor thinks she had another minor heart attack, which wouldn’t be unusual given her condition, but we’re still waiting on more definitive word from the lab. You should talk to him tomorrow. For now, she’s been asking for you, Mrs. McNabb. So you can see her—briefly. She needs to rest, but I think she’s awake and may know who you are.”
She was—and she did.
Though the light in the room was dim to encourage shadows and sleep, Sarah’s eyes blinked opened and she knew me immediately when I approached, leaving Westover to wait in the hall outside.
“Maxine,” she said softly in recognition. “Where have you been, dear?”
Relieved at being recognized, I stepped to the bedside and reached to gently take her hand. “I’m here now, Sarah. I’ve been on the road, you know. How are you feeling?”
Sarah closed her eyes for a moment as she nodded and half smiled. “I’m just fine. But you’re very late.” Her eyes blinked open again and her tone changed to one that was weakly admonishing. “It’s almost time for the party and we aren’t dressed yet.”
Party? Dressed yet?
Having assumed cognizance from recognition, it took me a second or two to shift gears and realize that, in her mind, Sarah was somewhere else—evidently somewhere in the past.
“Sarah,” I reminded her quietly, “you’re in a hospital now. I’m here from Alaska to help. You don’t need to dress.”
“I don’t?”
“No. It’s all right.”
“Okay.” Sarah smiled. “If you say so. Didn’t want to get up anyway.” She closed her eyes again, frowning in some kind of confused effort. “It was so dark,” she murmured a moment later. “There was someone that I couldn’t see.”
Her eyes blinked wide and she looked straight at me with what seemed a sudden flash of awareness.
“Maxine,” she said. Her grip tightened and she tugged at my hand. “Listen now. It’s very important.”
“Yes? I’m listening.”
“It’s not right. Will you fix it? He’s not right. Not . . .” Her words trailed away and her hand relaxed in mine. “I can’t remember,” she said, shaking her head back and forth in annoyance.
“Who do you mean—he?” I asked, hoping to get Sarah back on track.
“He? I—I’m so tired.”
There was silence and she seemed to have drifted off into sleep.
I glanced around and, through the interior glass window of the room, saw the nurse walking toward us—obviously about to put an end to the visit. Whatever it was Sarah needed to communicate, it would have to wait. I tried, gently, without waking her, to let go of the fingers Sarah had interlaced in mine.
“No,” Sarah said, opening her eyes and gripping my hand. “Not yet. At the house, Maxine . . . I wrote it all down. You can read it.”
It was a big house. “Where is it, Sarah?”
I heard the swish of the door opening behind me and the squeak of rubber-soled shoes as the nurse walked in.
Quickly, Sarah, I thought. Tell me quickly. But I waited without encouraging; afraid that to interrupt would challenge Sarah’s tenuous train of thought.
The aggravated frown of realizing memory loss had returned to Sarah’s face, but her grip on my hand was surprisingly strong and insistent.
“You—remember? We played Sardines?” she tried. “You know—where we hid? It was a party. Remember?” She slumped against the pillows that propped her up.
Sardines? It was a game I hadn’t played for years—had almost forgotten—where one person hides and the rest hunt. When the hider is found, one simply crawls in and hides too, and the last one left is “It” for the next game. Sarah was rambling again and it was too late, I knew, to ask her to repeat—to clarify.
Miss Tolland arrived at my side, protective and authoritarian. “I’m sorry, Mrs. McNabb. You’ll have to go now.”
“I’ll be back, Sarah, first thing tomorrow,” I assured her. “You can tell me all about it then—okay?”
Eyes closed there was no indication that she had heard. Though her lips twitched as if she would speak again, not even a whisper escaped. Her limp fingers slid away without hindrance when I released her hand.
CHAPTER FOUR
ALL EVIDENCE OF POLICE PRESENCE HAD VANISHED when Westover returned me to Sarah’s Chipeta Avenue house. A good look around told us all was quiet and peaceful. The television watcher directly across the street had evidently gone off to bed, for the room where I had noticed him was as dark as the rest of his residence.
Assuring Westover I would meet him at his office the next afternoon after seeing Sarah in the morning, I watched him drive away and vanish around the same street corner the trespasser had turned earlier. Dropping the set of keys he had given me into the deep pocket of my denim skirt, I decided not to go back into Sarah’s house. Walking briskly back to the Winnebago, I unlocked and carefully backed it into the driveway along the side of the house. There it took only a few minutes to retrieve the lines that were stored in an outer compartment and connect them to an exterior outlet and faucet on the house, providing electricity and water
to the motor home. Earlier in the day, knowing there would be no hookup at Sarah’s, I had emptied the holding tanks for gray water—from shower and sink—and black water—sewage—so there was no need for attention to either.
Stretch greeted me enthusiastically when I stepped back inside through the coach door, locking it behind me. Tail wagging and short legs pattering close, not about to let me out of his sight lest I disappear again, he accompanied me as I closed the blinds and curtains, converting the interior into the snug and private space that is part of what I appreciate about a motor home. When I had finished with the few chores that would enable me to stay where I was for the time being, I dropped onto the comfortable sofa and lifted him onto my knees. Giving him my full attention, I stroked his silky reddish-brown ears indulgently and scratched under his chin, a favored spot.
“So, you missed me, did you? You’re a good and patient bitser, you are—if a bit wacko.”
He leaned contentedly against my hands and gave my wrists appreciative licks when he could reach them. Wriggling over on my lap, he presented his stomach for consideration.
“Impenitent hooligan. Okay, I won’t go walkabout anymore tonight. Ready for a snack, then?”
Recognizing those words, he rolled over to right himself, allowed me to lower him to the floor, and trotted off to wait expectantly by the drawer in the galley where he knew the dog biscuits were stored.
Giving him his two customary bedtime treats, I reached for a pair of glasses from an overhead cupboard and filled one with ice and cold water from the small refrigerator. Into the other I poured a shot of Jameson, set them both on the dinette table, and slid onto one of the benches that faced each other from either side. Sipping the whiskey, I followed it up with a swallow of ice water and a sigh of relief. Except for the cooling effect of the rain, it had been a day of unaccustomed heat. The cold water was so satisfying that I quickly drained the glass and went back to refill it before settling again.
