by Lyn Cote
Why are you looking at me like that? He waited for her to go on, to tell him what he could do to stop this run of destructive misbehavior. He waited in vain.
Miss Andrews sipped the incredibly bitter coffee that he’d refused to take even one more sip of.
“What do you suggest?” Gil pressed her.
She tightened her jaw. “I had everything under control until I was taken away from the classroom for an extended period.”
At first, the impact of what she was saying didn’t hit him. Then it did. She’s holding me responsible for Darby’s misbehavior. The sheer gall of it closed his throat to acid words that gushed up.
“I told you that day in court that I thought I would be of better use in the classroom.” Low and fluid, her voice continued to entice him, but now heat and temper infused it. “Why didn’t you let me come back here to Darby? Everything I feared for him has happened.”
“What?” What had you feared? What are you talking about?
“He didn’t get along with the substitute. She concentrated on him and let him paint himself into the corner of being the class behavior problem. That was exactly what I was trying to prevent, but it all happened that ten days I was away from him.”
The accusations came one after the other, allowing him no time to respond.
“And now you’re probably mad at me, too, because I voted not guilty.” The lady glared at him, her jaw moving as though she were chewing nails. Stale ones.
“I didn’t bring that up—”
“Oh, really? Your eyes did. They are extremely eloquent. When you walked into my classroom tonight, you looked ready and willing to strangle me.”
“Looks can’t kill.” Gil took a step closer to her. Her fragrance enveloped him, flowers and sunshine.
“But they can wound.” Her voice continued to rise. “And I’m tired of being the target of everyone’s animosity. Dan Putnam was not proven guilty of attacking his mother—”
Her words ripped off the last layer of his restraint. “Yes, he was. My case convinced eleven out of twelve jurors. I prosecuted the right man. Solving crimes isn’t like those TV shows where they make up forensic evidence that doesn’t exist in the real world. You just think you know more than the rest of us…hicks.”
“That’s not true.” She leaned even closer.
His pulse spiked. Was it due to their argument or just her, just the way her eyes flashed and her presence had defied him?
“This has nothing to do with my being from Chicago. It has everything to do with small-minded prejudice and prejudging people with mental illness. I happened to know that that happens even in big cities.”
“I prosecuted the right man.” Gil wanted to shout at her, rail at her, but he stuck to the plain truth.
“Then start a new investigation that actually provides some evidence to convict Dan Putnam of being guilty of something more than shouting and arguing with his mother. I dare you to find any real, hard evidence that would convict him. Your case had no evidence. You just relied on his history of mental illness and thought that would be enough to convict him.”
“Many cases in the real world suffer from a lack of hard evidence. My case didn’t depend on Putnam’s history but on motive and opportunity.”
“You never even looked for anyone else with motive and opportunity, much less evidence.”
“Well, I’m going to have to come up with new evidence. Because of you, I have to retry the case. And this time, Dan Putnam will be convicted.”
“Probably.” She cast him a look of pure disdain. “But will the real culprit be convicted? I don’t think so.”
Chapter Four
Later, under the clear and starry November sky, Patience dragged herself home from parents’ night. The street was silent except for her own footsteps and the wind shaking bare tree branches overhead. The stark and lonely sound echoed through her. The leaves had all fallen and so had her hopes.
This is not going to blow over. The rest of the school year, I’ll be the targeted teacher. And when it comes time to renew my contract, I’ll get a “Please don’t call us, we’ll call you” letter instead.
Tears smarted in her eyes. Lord, you know how happy I was that you provided me with this job. Why can’t anyone see that I was only acting on my conscience when I voted not guilty? Why did Gil Montgomery take it personally when it wasn’t? And why did I let my anger burst out again? Why can’t I keep my cool about this?
Thinking of the father made her think of his son. And you know how much I wanted to do for Darby. It’s all gone now, exploded in my face. But Darby will suffer the most.
How can I turn this around for that little boy? I don’t want him to go through the rest of his school years as “that Montgomery kid.” I already hear that tone in other teachers’ voices when they monitor him on the playground or in the cafeteria. It isn’t right. He didn’t deserve this. Why can’t anyone see how he’s crying out for love?
What a horrible night, Lord. She walked up the sidewalk to Mrs. Honeycutt’s house, her safe haven. Once inside, she could lay down her sword and shield and relax. That’s all she wanted now. Lights glimmered in the high, wide windows, and a cheery welcome would be on Bunny’s lips. Thank you, Lord, I have at least one friend here.
The door opened and Bunny motioned her in. “You have company, dear.” She stepped aside to reveal a painfully thin woman standing with drooping shoulders in the parlor arch.
Patience gasped. A moment of stunned silence and then anger—a blazing heat—surged through her.
“Patience…” The woman’s voice was rough from years of smoking and vodka. “Hello.”
“Mother?” Patience tried to think of something more to say. But she couldn’t. Stalling for time, she took off her coat and hung it on the hall tree by the door, trying to think of words, any words polite enough that she could voice in front of Bunny. Patience turned back and faced her mother.
“I know I’ve surprised you.” Her mother looked at her, pleading with her for…what?
Did she want Patience to act like a daughter happy to see a beloved mother? The thought galled Patience, almost gagging her.
She tightened her self-control. “That’s right. I didn’t expect you, Mother.” The clipped words were the right ones for this situation, but she hadn’t been able to make them sound completely natural. This is all I need—on top of everything else.
Bunny’s eyebrows lifted. “I was just going to make us a pot of herbal tea. I’ll go do that while you two chat.” She waved them toward the parlor where a small fire burned on the grate.
Patience obeyed her landlady and moved into the room decorated with comfortable floral-print furniture and sat down by the cozy hearth. Her mother sat down in the wing-back chair across from hers. The crackling of the pine fire was the only sound in the room. Patience banked down the inner flames that had consumed her at seeing her mother here tonight.
Her mother picked at her ragged nails and stared downward.
“Why are you here?” Patience asked finally.
“Did Mike…” Her mother dabbed at her eyes with a tissue from her jeans’ pocket. “Did he tell you what happened to me while you were still in school?”
Patience stared into the flickering fire. “Yes, he did. When did they let you out of jail?”
Her mother let out a gasping sort of sob. “Just a few days ago.”
The wounded sound bothered Patience, but she steeled herself against it. No one asked you here and I know your tricks too well.
“Then let me guess,” Patience pressed on. “You needed a place to stay and no one else would take you in.” The coldness in Patience’s own voice shocked her. How could she burn inside with fury yet speak with frigid politeness?
“Patience, please, that’s not why I’ve come—”
“I only want to know when you’ll be leaving.”
Her mother sobbed again. “Don’t, Patience. Please don’t be cruel.”
“Why? Because you’re
my mother?” Her words, steeped in caustic sarcasm, oozed up from a deep dark sore spot inside Patience.
Bunny bustled in. “Such a chilly night. Winter is just around the corner.”
Patience watched her friend set down a tray and begin pouring and serving tea. Patience accepted hers but had no inclination to lift the cup to her lips, her numb lips. Jonesy ambled into the room and brushed Patience’s ankles.
I’m numb all over. Lord, why is she here? Wasn’t everything bad enough as it was?
“Now, Mrs. Andrews,” Bunny began.
“She doesn’t have the same last name as I do,” Patience said, again in a harsh voice she barely recognized as her own. “Her name is Scudder.”
“Yes,” her mom said, holding her china cup. “But please call me Martina.”
Bunny stared at Patience but addressed her mother. “I’m afraid it slipped my mind. I’m Bunny. Patience, I told your mother what a difficult time you’ve been having.”
“You did?” Patience lifted the cup to her lips and forced in a sip of warm liquid. You should have saved your breath, Bunny.
“Yes, I thought she should know what you’re up against and I thought it would be easier on you if I explained it all to her.”
Yes, I do have a friend in you, Bunny. “Thanks.”
“How did tonight go?” Bunny asked. “Did you make any headway?”
“No.” Patience felt the sudden and overwhelming urge to pour out everything, even in her mother’s presence. “My students’ parents gave a good impression of a lynch mob. With Gil Montgomery in the lead, carrying a rope.”
“No.” Martina looked shocked.
Yes, this isn’t about you, Mother, like you think everything is. “The worst part came in the cafeteria during the coffee time. Gil came over to talk to me about Darby and I’m afraid I lost it.”
“What did you say?” Bunny got up, moved the fire screen and stirred the fire.
“I reminded him that when I had appeared in court, I told him I thought I’d be of more use in the classroom than on a jury.”
“I bet he didn’t like that.” Bunny put the blackened fire screen back into place and sat down beside Patience.
Patience hmmphed. “You better believe he didn’t. I told him that Darby didn’t get along with my substitute and then she helped Darby brand himself as a behavior problem—exactly what I was trying to prevent.”
Martina looked confused, but Patience ignored this. Her mother never cared about what happened in her daughter’s life anyway. That would never change.
“What did Gil say to that?” Bunny lifted her own cup. The mantel clock chimed ten times.
“Nothing. He knows something’s gone wrong with his son, but he doesn’t know how it came about or what to do.”
“Did he mention the trial?” Bunny didn’t take her eyes off Patience.
Her concern bathed Patience like a soothing cream over her jagged nerves. “Yes, I told him that he’d relied on Dan Putnam’s history of mental illness, assumed that explained the attack on Mrs. Perkins and hadn’t really investigated at all.”
Bunny pursed her lips.
Profound fatigue rolled over Patience. “What does it matter what I said to him? Everyone there tonight except for Mrs. Canney has branded me ‘a behavior problem,’ too. Darby and I will be persona non grata for the rest of the year. And in the spring, my contract won’t be renewed and that’s that.” Patience lifted her cup and swallowed a mouthful of fragrant cinnamon-flavored tea, letting it soothe her tight throat.
“You mustn’t say that,” Bunny scolded. “You can turn this around.”
“How?” Patience asked.
“Well, personally, I think that neighbor, Fiskus, had more motive than Dan. We’ve got to do some digging ourselves, I guess.” Bunny sounded encouraging. “I mean, if Gil Montgomery has his mind made up, he won’t be looking for evidence to acquit. I bet if you found just one fact he hadn’t come across, you could get him to listen to you.”
Patience held her cup in front of her mouth, considering this. “You might have something there.”
Martina shrugged. “Men never think women know anything.”
For once, Patience had to agree with her mother.
“Too true.” Bunny grinned. “Patience, I told your mother she can stay in my guest room until she finds a place of her own.”
“A place of her own?” Patience’s fingers congealed around her cup. “I thought you just came for a short visit, Mother.” She couldn’t help twisting the word mother.
“No, after your stepfather’s death, I decided to make a fresh start here in Rushton. I wanted to be near you.”
Patience stared at her mother. This is all I needed to make my life perfect. A perfect hell.
On Saturday morning, Patience walked into the entrance of the Rose Care Center, a newer one-story retirement home. Though her nerves vibrated, she made herself walk nonchalantly to the information desk. “Hi, I’m new in the area and I was wondering if the care center has a volunteer organization.”
A young girl in jeans and a white sweatshirt with royal-blue lettering—At Rose We Care—looked up. “Yes, we do. Would you like to volunteer?”
Patience nodded. I want to volunteer, but I also want to find out all I can about Mrs. Perkins.
“Would you fill out this form?” The teen offered her a clipboard and pen.
Patience filled in the blanks on the five-by-six card asking for name, address, and such and handed it back.
“Mrs. Grantley is the head of our volunteers. She will be in shortly.”
“May I just look around while I wait?” Patience glanced around the well-decorated lobby with many luxuriant green rubber plants and hanging Boston ferns.
“Sure.”
“Thank you.” Patience relaxed the tiniest bit as she followed the hall to the right. The name of each resident was posted right beneath the room number beside each door. Very convenient for finding someone. Mrs. Perkins, where are you?
An inner voice parried, “But the woman can’t talk. What do you expect to find out?”
I don’t know. But I have to start somewhere.
“You think—” the voice didn’t give up “—you’re going to be able to find out more than the sheriff and the D.A.?”
Give me a break. Maybe I won’t find anything, but I have to start looking. This case has forced me into a tight corner. If I don’t take action, I’ll be looking for a new job next summer and how will that look on applications? A teacher should last longer than one year at a school district.
And Bunny’s right. I have to try to dig myself out of this. If Mrs. Perkins can’t talk today, what about tomorrow? If I volunteer here, at least I’ll know if and when Mrs. Perkins regains her faculties.
Then, there she stood, at Mrs. Perkins’s door, room 103. Patience hesitated on the threshold of the semi-private room. Which of the two ladies in the two beds was Mrs. Perkins?
“Hi.” A gray-haired woman sitting beside one of the two residents in room 103 looked up.
“Hi.” Patience stepped into the room. “I’m just looking around. I’ve just signed up as a volunteer here.”
“Oh?” The woman looked surprised.
“How long has—” Patience nodded toward the woman in the bed “—been a resident here?”
“Bertha’s been here just a few months.”
Ah, so this was Bertha Perkins. “How pleased are you with the accommodations here?” Patience tried to sound politely disinterested.
“Why do you ask?” The woman sounded suspicious.
“Because I don’t want to volunteer somewhere that isn’t doing a good job.” Patience walked to the end of Mrs. Perkins’s bed and gazed at the plump woman who was in turn studying her. The eyes behind the glasses looked intelligent and alert, but Patience noted that one arm lay helpless at her side.
“Ah.” Mrs. Perkins’s visitor nodded. “Well, this is only the second time I’ve been here. I live out of town. I’m Phyllis, Berth
a’s sister-in-law from her second marriage.”
“Hi, I’m Patience.” She shook the woman’s dry crepe-paper hand and sat down in a chair beside her.
“This place seems okay,” the sister-in-law continued, still holding the magazine she’d been reading. “Bertha’s been getting physical therapy every other day. I’m hopin’ she’ll be able to get out of her bed and back home sometime soon. I keep talkin’ to her, hopin’ she’ll try to talk back to me. But so far, not a word.”
“Did she have a stroke?” Patience asked, hoping to get more information as she returned Mrs. Perkins’s examination of her.
“Yes, it’s awful. Her home was robbed and she was attacked.” The woman leaned closer. “It was her own son that did it.”
“Really?” Patience affected surprise. Her heart plummeted.
“Yeah, that boy always was a problem to her. Everybody knows that. I told her when he come back to town a year ago. I said, ‘Bertha, that boy wants somethin’. You make sure he don’t talk you outta your house, talk you into a nursin’ home or somethin’.”’
Patience nodded and tried to look sympathetic.
“I never thought to warn her about him attacking her. But I shoulda known. He’s been in mental hospitals. You never know with them kind of people, do you? And now Bertha’s laid up here and what’s going to happen to her? There’s only me and that boy of hers and he’s in jail.”
“Oh, there you are.” The teen from the information desk paused in the doorway. “Miss Andrews, Mrs. Grantley will see you now.”
Patience rose, the sister-in-law’s words revolving in her mind. “Goodbye. It’s been nice talking to you.” She turned to the woman in the bed. Mrs. Perkins, maybe I’ll drop in and see you again.” Patience walked out. What a shame. Even Bertha’s sister-in-law thinks it was Dan.
“I needed to find a job and I can’t drive with a suspended license.” Patience’s mother would not meet her daughter’s eyes. She talked to the tabletop in the tiny kitchen upstairs in Patience’s apartment. Several days had passed since Martina’s appearing in Rushton. “I saw the ad in the newspaper and thought it was something I could do. So I called and went over to talk to the woman.”
