by Sue Henry
A person in the crowd stepped in front of me before I could be sure, but neither of them noticed me as they disappeared into the chapel. I was about to follow when the crowd closed in completely between us and Soames spoke suddenly beside me.
“Someone you recognized, Mrs. McNabb?”
“Maxie,” I corrected him absently, still looking in the direction of the chapel. “Mrs. McNabb makes me think of my mother-in-law and I never liked her very much.”
“Who did you see?”
Persistent, wasn’t he? I swung around to give him a frown.
“I’m not sure. It might have been someone I saw in Salt Lake.”
“Who?”
Not being sure, I refused to be drawn.
“You got the prints you wanted?”
“Yes. Thanks to your quick thinking with her son’s, I have all but the Stover woman’s. Is she here? Have you seen her?”
I bit my lip before nodding. “She just came in and went into the chapel with some flowers.”
Taking my elbow, he pulled me after him through the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea at his “ ’Scuse me, please—pardon me—’scuse me.”
We arrived at the doorway to the chapel, moved around several people conversing in the opening, and stopped in the long aisle that ran down the center of the room. From where we stood I could plainly see that the spray of yellow freesia Jamie had carried now lay among the flowers that covered Sarah’s coffin.
But neither she, nor the dark-haired man who had accompanied her, were anywhere in the room.
“Well—hell,” Soames said in disgust. “You’re sure you saw her come in here?”
I was, but didn’t bother to inform him that someone had accompanied her.
Like wraiths, the two had slipped in and, somehow, out again. Probably they had gone through some back door, avoiding all contact with anyone they knew, or didn’t want to acknowledge—myself included.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BY FIVE O’CLOCK THE CALLAHAN-EDFAST MORTUARY was empty of guests. Even Soames and his pair of pseudo-waiters had gone from the kitchen.
“I’ll let you know what I find,” he had assured me.
Except for the staff engaged in cleanup, the only people left were Don Westover, Ed, myself, and, reluctantly, Alan, who had agreed—when I all but shook my finger under his nose in admonition—to once again behave. He stood as far as possible from Ed, however, and glowered at him as Westover handed over the envelopes he had, as promised, brought and removed from an inside pocket of his jacket.
“Sarah left letters for several people,” he told them. “These were for you. Mrs. McNabb and I thought this would be an appropriate time for you to have them.”
Ed gave me a nod as thank you, took the envelope he was handed and tucked it away in his own inside jacket pocket. “I’ll read it later,” he announced and walked off toward the front door.
Alan, as I suppose I should have expected, once again couldn’t leave it without contention. His amenable disposition of the day before was now evidently a thing of the past.
“How long have you had this?” he demanded. “Why wasn’t I told?”
“Your mother suggested it should be given to you today,” Westover said calmly, avoiding his first question. “We could have waited until time to notify her beneficiaries and transfer the allocations of the inheritance as designated in her will. But we decided not to do that—to give these to you now.”
“We?”
“Mrs. McNabb is the executor—with my assistance.”
“So the two of you get to make all the decisions?”
Alan’s voice was loud enough to cause Mr. Blackburn to appear in the door to his office and give me a questioning look.
I shook my head at him and he disappeared, relieved, I’m sure, not to be involved.
“Yes, Alan. Legally, we do,” Westover answered.
Without another word, Sarah’s son whirled and strode angrily out the front door, ignoring Ed, who had paused there, and swearing under his breath for as long as we could hear him, which wasn’t long.
I was grateful that we had waited until after Sarah’s gathering to present the letters. We would not, however, have any satisfaction in finding out what Sarah had written in either one of them.
“And this one?” Don Westover asked, turning to me and holding out the third letter with Jamie’s name on it.
“Give it to me,” I suggested. “She came to me once and, who knows, might again. She doesn’t know you.”
“True.” He handed it over and I tucked it into my bag.
Another chore to add to my list, I set my bag on a chair near the chapel door and went to Mr. Blackburn’s office to thank him.
“It was lovely,” I told him. “Just what Sarah had in mind. You and your people have done a great job.”
“You’re welcome and I’m glad it went well,” he said. “Are you sure you want all the flowers sent to St. Mary’s Hospital?” he asked.
I assured him I was, but went back to the chapel, where I sat down for a minute to look again and feel pleased with the colorful display covering Sarah’s coffin. No matter that she had said she didn’t want them. I knew that she had been cringing at the thought of wreaths and baskets from florists, not this bright remembrance from gardens all over Grand Junction.
You would have loved this, Sarah, I told her and remembered her smile.
Before I left I took one sprig of the honeysuckle I had put with the flowers I brought from her yard. It would press nicely in a favorite book and be an unexpected reminder whenever I ran across it that, sweet as honey, it had been a favorite of hers.
Retrieving my bag, I slipped the honeysuckle inside and headed for the front door, where I was not surprised to find Ed waiting.
“Ready for dinner?” he asked, as if we had made plans ahead of time.
Well, why not? I had a hunch he didn’t want to go back to an empty hotel room by himself and wanted company, which was fine with me as I had planned nothing beyond the gathering.
“Sure, Ed. Thanks.”
“Gladstone’s?”
“Why not?” It was a pleasant place with good food and it was nice to have someone else make a decision for a change.
“I need to stop and give Stretch a break first, so I’ll take my car back there and you can pick me up, if you don’t mind.”
Stretch, as usual, was happy to see me and, I think, even happier to be allowed out. I do not usually leave him to spend as much time alone as he had in the last few days. I made sure he had plenty of water and a rawhide bone to chew on after our quick trip to the backyard, where I waited with a plastic bag to collect his deposit from the grass and trash it in a can by the alley.
Ed waited patiently and we were soon ensconced once again in a booth at Gladstone’s, waiter hovering to take our drink order and provide us with menus.
“It was a fine gathering,” I said, when I had settled comfortably and had my first sip of Jameson.
“It was,” Ed agreed, then shook his head, a bemused expression on his face. “I just can’t get over how many people came. There must have been well over a hundred.”
“A hundred and sixty-seven all together, according to Mr. Blackburn and counting Soa—” I stopped, realizing I had been about to reveal that we had had the police among us.
“Counting who?”
“Ah—counting some people from the hospital and the nurse who came to the house twice a day,” I managed—I hoped—to cover my almost-slip.
“Alan certainly made it plain he was anything but pleased to have me there.”
“Well, let’s give that a rest, shall we? I’m just glad everything went as Sarah wanted. Let’s talk about something besides Alan. I’m tired of his childishness. When are you going home?”
“Trying again to get rid of me?” he grinned. “I’ll have to make a reservation for tomorrow—maybe the next day. We’ll see how it goes—how booked they are, for instance. I haven’t seen you since you cam
e back from Salt Lake. How was your trip?”
“Oh, it was fine—an interesting drive.”
I was thinking of my lunch in the café in Helper, but interesting would also have had to include the threat I had found in Green River, though I didn’t mention it.
“Maxie,” Ed said, after moment of thoughtful silence. “You didn’t go just to get away from here for a day or two, did you? It had something to do with Sarah’s death, didn’t it?”
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised at his suspicions. The trip had been abrupt and unplanned under the circumstances and Ed was no mental slouch.
“What makes you think so?” I asked, stalling for time and not knowing what to tell him.
“I just do,” he said flatly. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“What did Sarah tell you in the letter she left?” I asked.
“That’s really my business, isn’t it? But I haven’t read it yet.”
This statement startled me into silence. When he had leaned forward to help me with the seat belt in his car, I had seen the ragged edge of that white envelope in the inside pocket where he had placed it after saying he would read it later. If he hadn’t torn it open hastily, it wouldn’t have been tattered. Was there any other reason to rip it open than to read while he waited for me outside the mortuary door? I couldn’t think of one.
“Oh,” I said and picked up my glass for a swallow of ice water, which went down wrong and resulted in a fit of coughing. Jameson expected is great stuff. Mistaken for a gulp of ice water it can take your breath, as it took mine. I could feel its burn in the top of my nose between my watering eyes.
“Sorry,” I said, when I could speak to apologize and had made a quick trip to the restroom to splash water on my face and blow my nose. “That certainly cleared out the cobwebs.”
As a distraction, however, it worked well enough in avoiding the answers to unwelcome questions.
Salt Lake as a topic was not resumed. As we ordered and ate dinner, Ed did not talk about Sarah, which surprised me, for I had expected him to once again expound upon his feelings for her and how much he missed her. Instead, he asked innocuous questions about Alaska and my trips back and forth in the motor home, told me about his work and travels, and was a generally pleasant dinner companion.
Tired from the day’s activities and concerns, I would have turned down the offer of another walk in the park, but Ed didn’t offer, seeming a little distracted and anxious to go home himself. We said little during the drive to Chipeta Avenue.
“I’ll let you know when I’m leaving,” he told me, when he had swung into a space at the curb and left the engine running. “Where are you going from here—and when?”
“I don’t know when. It will depend on what Don Westover still has for me to do in taking care of Sarah’s estate—there’ve been a few complications. But when that’s finished I’m going to New Mexico for a warm and quiet winter—Taos, perhaps.”
“Good plan. Have a good rest tonight—you’ve earned it. It was a great day for Sarah. Talk to you soon.”
I got out and watched him pull quickly away, bands of light and shadow from the streetlights and trees alternately playing across the roof of his rental car. Walking slowly to the Winnebago, I could hear Stretch barking an It’s about time.
Having tucked the sprig of honeysuckle from Sarah’s bouquet between the pages of my journal and changed from my dress clothes into comfortable casuals, I let Stretch out and went to sit in the porch swing while he poked about in another circuit of the yard. The last of that wonderful blue of twilight that makes artificial light seem so bright in contrast was gradually growing deeper and I could see that once again the across-the-street neighbor was watching television. This time his wife had joined him in a nearby chair and, between glances at the television, was knitting something green that covered most of her lap and may have been an afghan.
It reminded me that I hadn’t even thought of getting out my yarn and needles since I left Alaska. I like to knit. Because my mother had rheumatoid arthritis, she had been forced to give up many things, including any kind of needlework. Assuming it was probably an inherited trait; I checked on it years ago and found, thankfully, that it did not seem listed on my menu of possible future aches and pains. By that time, however, knitting had become such an integral part of my life that I’ve kept it up anyway. It keeps my hands busy and supple and, according to a friend’s humor, “It’s a bit like what they say about sex—a use it or lose it sort of thing, I think. But knitting is less likely to get you into trouble.”
Part of going to New Mexico was the idea of a visit to a group of weavers and dyers in Taos from whom I had ordered yarn in wonderful textures and colors from time to time and looked forward to meeting. With that in mind, I thought perhaps I would get back to my knitting in the next day or two.
Stretch suddenly barked, but only once, so it was someone he recognized, and hearing footsteps on the front walk, I stood up to see who had attracted his attention.
Doris Chapman was coming up the shallow steps with Stretch right behind her. She was carrying two tall glasses, one of which she handed to me.
“Thought you might welcome some iced mint tea,” she said smiling. “I heard the porch swing, so I knew you were out here. Someone really should oil that thing.”
“Sit down,” I invited, scooting over to make room. “I’ll ask Tomas the next time he shows up if he can do something. It was complaining a little in the breeze last night.”
“Really? There wasn’t much last night. It usually takes a pretty big wind to move this heavy old thing enough to make it whine.”
She went on to what she really wanted to talk about—the gathering.
“Wasn’t it a lovely afternoon for Sarah? And weren’t the flowers wonderful? I wasn’t at all sure about not having a regular funeral, you know. But it turned out just fine, didn’t it?”
It had, indeed, and I could understand her need to share her observations with someone. Many women have a predisposition to make things more real for themselves by talking them over in detail. Living alone can be frustrating at times in that regard.
It made me remember Ed that afternoon and how singularly focused he had been on what he had assumed, or wanted things to be concerning Sarah. Men do tend to focus on one idea or thing at a time. Women, on the other hand, seem more capable of dealing with several at once, like jugglers. Multitasking comes easily to most of us, at home or at work—balancing chores, professions, and family.
“I hardly recognized Tomas all dressed up like that,” Doris said. “And wasn’t his wife a surprise. I’d never met her.”
Thinking back to my own pleasure at meeting Jovana Navarro, I agreed, amused that Doris seemed to have been every bit as watchful of who came and went as she was at home.
“And who was that couple that came in late?” she asked. “The woman had some yellow freesia? I think I’ve seen him before somewhere.”
It was a comment that caught my complete and serious attention.
“Where?”
I held my breath while she leaned back in the swing, closed her eyes, and thought aloud.
“I can’t quite remember, but it’ll come to me. It was back before Sarah died. Or was it? Maybe right after you got here. I don’t know, maybe I just imagined I’d seen him. No, I’ve definitely seen him, and more than once.
“I know!” she said, sitting up so suddenly it set us both rocking hard enough to slosh some of the tea over the rim of my glass.
“It was that first day you were here—you know, the day I gave you the tamale pie—the day Sarah died,” she remembered, hesitating sadly. “There was a man went in the back door of her house that morning while you were gone to the hospital. Do you remember? I asked you if he had come with you, but you said he hadn’t.”
I thought back and did remember. “You said he had dark hair and wore sunglasses.”
“That’s right, he did. Well, I think it was the same man. If it was, I may have se
en him the day—or maybe two—before that. Didn’t think of it until just now. He came in the same way, through the back.”
“A day or two? Which, Doris?”
Considering when Sarah had been found unconscious, it could be extremely significant.
She frowned and made an attempt, but shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t recall for sure. Is it important?”
I had no way of telling, but wished I knew if it had been the man I thought I had recognized with Jamie at Callahan-Edfast that afternoon—the man I had seen in Salt Lake who resembled Ed Norris. It raised all kinds of possibilities, none of which I cared to discuss with Doris.
“Not so you should worry about it. There were so many people this afternoon I’m not sure who they were.” Then hoping to distract her, if possible, “What did you think of Alan’s toast for Sarah?”
“Oh, he did very well, didn’t he? And the music was just lovely.”
Doris settled back into a replay of other details, including a critique of the wine’s quality, allowing me to nod and put a word or two in here and there, while considering the ramifications of what I might have just learned.
In ten minutes we had finished our tea and she had gone happily home, having relived the afternoon to her satisfaction.
I took Stretch and went back to the Winnebago, still attempting to sort out just how this man could fit into the rest of what I knew, or thought I knew, about everyone else involved.
Where was Jamie and, by extension, this unknown man who just might actually be her twin? I remembered the letter for her that Westover had given me and started to get it out of my bag when another thought struck me.
If the man Doris had seen had gone into Sarah’s house while she was alive, she must have known who he was. If he was her son, why hadn’t she left him a letter similar to those she had left for Ed, Alan, Jamie, and me? Or had she? Could I have missed one in that secret space in the bookcase where I found the others?
It was possible and I decided it shouldn’t wait. I wanted to know—right then.
