“Of all the gin joints in all the world . . .” she muttered as she took another step. She’d intended to call a cab as soon as she got clear of the service station where she’d left Mortie stewing in his own juice, but so far, she’d been unable to locate a pay phone.
She kicked a small stone out of her way. “Love means never having to say you’re sorry. Lies. The old poop.”
Except for the irksome arthritis in her knees and hips, she was in fair-to-middling shape, and home was only a few miles away. If the stiffness got the better of her, she would just curse Mortie’s misogynistic hide all the way back to the farm.
What had she ever seen in the little pipsqueak, anyway? “He’s not worthy,” she scoffed to the toes of her shoes.
Behind her, a car slowed, then rolled past her to stop a few feet ahead. A woman with short brown hair leaned out the passenger window.
“Ma’am?” the woman called. “Are you all right? Would you like a ride?”
Smiling sweetly at the nosy nincompoop, Sadie said, “Thank you for your concern, my dear. However, I am fit as a fiddle and simply out for a little stroll.”
The woman said something, gave her a thumbs-up and a wave. The car moved away from the curb to continue on up the modest incline.
Didn’t recognize me, Sadie mused in mild irritation as the car disappeared over the crest of the hill. Well, nobody does anymore. I guess that’s just the way of it.
She straightened her shoulders and trudged on.
Puget Road was narrow and winding and mostly uphill, unless you were going down to town, which, of course, she was not. There was no sidewalk to speak of, so she stayed as far to the right as she could without getting lost amid the thick stand of Douglas firs that stood like mute soldiers along the road.
The walk would do her good. Nothing better to clear away the cobwebs or mend a broken heart. Not that her heart was actually broken. Mortie had never had the power to do that.
“I’m walking here,” she mumbled in defiance. Then, a little more gusto, “I’m walking here!” She’d built up quite a head of steam listening to Mortie’s ranting and raving, and no better way to vent her anger than by walking away from him, leaving him in the proverbial dust.
He hadn’t loved her after all. He’d only wanted to use her to advertise his funeral home. He’d even come up with some wretched slogan: When the Director yells cut and I take my final bows, I’ll rest in peace with Mortimer’s.
Mort wasn’t only vile, he was . . . well, he was sure no Raymond Carver!
She heard another car slow, and watched as it moved a bit past her and stopped. From the looks of them, a passel of teenagers in a faded blue VW camper. The window squeaked as the passenger cranked it down.
“Dude.” A freckle-faced, red-haired boy stuck his head out. “You want, like, a lift or something?”
Dude? She was a sixty-five-year-old woman, for cripe’s sake—though she would never admit to that age in public. And she was walking, briskly for the most part, not crawling along like a one-legged slug! What was wrong with these people?
“No thank you, young man,” she stated, though her breath was a bit harder to catch this time. “I’m doing quite well.”
The kid shrugged, said something to one of the other boys in the car, and they sped off up the hill leaving a whirl of dry leaves skittering behind them.
Kids these days. They most certainly didn’t remember her. She could say her name outright and they’d simply blink at her like one of those vapid MGM script girls, or one of the pimply-faced teens who asked if you wanted your meal super-sized. Bah!
She shifted her shoulder purse to keep it from banging her thigh as her thoughts returned to Mortie. What an annoying little turd. It would serve him right to sit in that gas station for hours waiting for her to come out of the restroom.
She hadn’t taken the road he’d assume she’d take, either. No sir. She’d cut over to Puget and would follow it all the way back to the farmhouse. And when he did finally show up? Well, she would refuse to speak to him!
Another car buzzed past her, then another. One going up the hill, one coming down. They’d both had their headlamps on. She raised her face to the sky. My, was it that dark already? Must be close to eight.
She stopped to catch her breath. Funny, she’d driven this route for years and never realized how steep it was until now. It wasn’t that she was old and her muscles and bones weren’t what they’d once been. No, no, no. Why, in the old days, she could dance all evening, make mad love all night, and still be able to put in a full day at the studio with her lines memorized and her marks down pat. It was Spencer Tracy who’d taught her about professional behavior. Such a dear man. Gone now, like so many others.
She eyed the hill before her. Well, she’d just take it slow. Slow and steady won the race.
By the time she was halfway up the hill, the sun had dropped close to the sea far behind her, painting the Northwest sky a brilliant red. But soon the light would be gone and she still had a mile or so to go.
Cursing her stubborn pride for not accepting one of those rides, she took a deep breath and soldiered on.
Another car behind her slowed, then moved up and kept pace with her. Late-model station wagon of some kind. While she watched, the window lowered. The passenger side was empty, but she saw the man behind the wheel lean toward her. She stopped walking—huffing to catch her breath. The car stopped, too.
“You trying to prove a point, Sadie, or you want to get in?” His voice was deep, almost melodic. A little Gable with a touch of Mitchum. She didn’t recognize it, but she liked the sound of it.
Bending a mite, she looked into the open window.
Nice-looking gent, plaid flannel shirt, crooked smile, light eyes, maybe blue, gray hair, and plenty of it. Around sixty or so, fit, and handsome, too. Joel McCrea with a hint of Sean Connery.
She considered him for a moment, then said, “Have we met?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Are you a serial killer, sir?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Do I appear to be in difficulty?”
“No, ma’am,” he said, smiling. Yes, definitely Sean Connery. “But daylight’s about gone and you’re wearing dark clothing. Another fifteen minutes, and you’re going to be invisible. Hate to see the first lady of the silver screen reduced to roadkill.”
She narrowed one eye on him. She was flattered, but suspicious. “You recognize me?”
“Like they say in the movies, I am your number one fan.” His eyes twinkled and he grinned. “I mean that in the nicest way possible, Miss Lancaster. Now, you gonna yammer all night or get in?”
In the time they’d been talking, clouds had moved in, darkening the sky considerably. She eyed the crest of the hill once more—what she could see of it in the waning light. Softly, she drawled, “I suppose I shall be forced to depend on the kindness of a stranger.”
Opening the door, she slid in, but sat very close to it, with her fingers on the handle.
Pulling back into the road, the driver said, “Where to?”
Sadie clutched her purse to her bosom and looked over at him. “About one mile past the crest of this hill, there is a mailbox on the left. I shall show you when we arrive.”
He nodded. “Name’s Corrigan. Flynn Corrigan.”
Flynn? As in Errol? Yes, the name certainly suited him.
“Mr. Corrigan,” she said with a polite nod.
“Call me Flynn. Your car break down or something?” he asked casually. “This doesn’t seem like the best place for a hike or evening constitutional.”
She thought of Mortie, the things he’d said, how angry and used he’d made her feel. He was a disgusting excuse for a human being, and besides, he was up to no good, she just knew it. She’d developed a feel for those kinds of things. After all, she’d appeared in seven crime dramas, two of them with Jimmy Cagney, by God.
“I was with someone,” she said. “But I decided to walk home.”
> He arched a bushy brow. “Have a fight with your boyfriend, did you, Miss Lancaster?”
“Well, aren’t you the Nosy Parker.” She clutched her purse hard against her breasts.
He smiled over at her again, but remained silent.
They reached the crest of the hill, and he shifted gears, keeping the wagon at an even speed. It was close to dark now and Sadie was thankful he’d come along when he had. In her black pants and navy sweater, she would indeed have been invisible to cars on the narrow road.
Feeling a bit guilty at having snapped at him, she said, “You live on the Olympic Peninsula . . . Flynn?”
“No, I’m a stranger here, myself.”
She couldn’t help but grin at the old movie line.
“Just visiting for a while,” he added. “Fishing, mostly. I’m retiring in a couple of months, and I’m on the lookout for a decent place.”
“If a happy retirement is your goal, then Port Henry is your place.”
“Must say, I like the scenery.”
And couldn’t that be taken two ways, she mused. She liked this Flynn Corrigan. Oh, yes. She liked him a lot. Today might not turn out too badly after all.
His hands were on the steering wheel, but she couldn’t sneak a peek at his ring finger without being obvious, so she contented herself with gazing out the window, counting the number of stars that had winked on in the last few minutes.
“Lovely evening,” he said, taking another turn. “We getting close to your place?”
“Not far now,” she assured him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She was suddenly not all that anxious to be rid of Flynn Corrigan. It had been a long time since she’d been in the company of such an attractive fellow, and she rather enjoyed basking in the glow.
“This it?” he said, gesturing to the old-fashioned lamp post illuminating a large mailbox at the entrance to a long gravel drive.
“It is. You can let me out here, if you like.”
He flicked on the turn signal, then headed left into the driveway. “Wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me to leave you up by that mailbox to make your way down to the house in the dark. I was raised better than that.”
As they rounded the barn, she saw Claire’s car next to hers in the double carport, but no sign of the pickup. In the yard sat a truck she didn’t recognize.
And Mortie’s effing Deville.
She must have made some kind of noise, because Flynn let the wagon roll to a stop, then turned to her. “Somebody you don’t want to see?”
She gave a little snort and a curt nod.
He gazed out at the shiny Cadillac, then over at her. “Maybe you’d like to thank me for the lift by inviting me in for coffee. Of course, a cold beer would be better.”
She locked gazes with him. Oh, my. He had such nice eyes. Like a winter sky reflected in chips of ice. And about as sharp, too. Very Paul Newman.
Shaking her head, she said, “I appreciate your giving me a ride, and I would very much like to invite you in. But the evening may turn a bit . . . uncomfortable.”
“The boyfriend.”
“Not as of about an hour ago.”
With a tilt of his chin, he said, “Miss Sadie Lancaster, first lady of the silver screen, you owe me a beer, and I aim to collect.”
As Taylor and Claire ran for his truck, a station wagon she’d never seen before began making its way down the drive.
Over his shoulder, Taylor drawled, “Like I said, Grand Central. Stay put until we see who this is.”
As soon as the car stopped, the passenger door flew open, and Aunt Sadie stepped out. Her silky, shoulder-length hair—once blond but now an eye-catching silvery gray—slid over one eye, á la sultry screen siren Veronica Lake. Sadie raised her chin and glared across the yard at the gaping Mort.
“Well, aren’t you a parasite for sore eyes,” she snapped. “What are you doing here, you repugnant lump of snake entrails?”
Mortie rushed toward her, but before he could get far, the driver’s door opened and a man emerged. He was as tall as Taylor, rangy, and had a no-nonsense look about him that said he was accustomed to taking charge.
The mortician skidded to a halt, cutting worried glances between Sadie and the stranger.
“My God, are you all right, Aunt Sadie?” Claire said, moving to give the older woman a hug. Since she was nearly a head taller than Sadie, hugging her aunt always felt to Claire as though she were embracing a delicate bird. “Mort said there’d been some kind of trouble?”
“No trouble at all, my dear,” Sadie said wistfully, patting Claire’s cheek. “Besides, Mortie was just leaving.” Addressing the mortician, she said, “Good-bye, Mr. Chips!” She stepped away from Claire, raised her arm, and, with a theatrical wave of her hand, dismissed him.
Mort rubbed his chin with his short fingers, a look of anger in his eyes. “Well, by jingo, Sadie, I think we should talk about this.”
Sadie looked down her nose at him. “Sorry, Mortie. You are the weakest link.” She removed her engagement ring and handed it to him. “Good-bye.”
“But Sadie,” he whined. “Let me explain. We’ve been through so much together—”
“And most of it was your fault.”
“Sadie,” Mort pressed, his eyes gone big and pleading. “Remember what you said when I asked you to marry me? Remember how it was between us? We can have that again. Tell me I ain’t blown my chances with you, dear lady.”
Sadie looked wistful for a moment, then said softly, “Things change, Mortie. It’s best this way. We’ll always have our memories. We’ll always have . . . Spokane.”
He drew his mouth into a thin line across his face. “Well, if you won’t marry me, then at least go through with the endorsement, for pity’s sake. You need to reconsider—”
The stranger stepped forward and Mort clamped his jaw shut. “I believe I heard the lady ask you to leave,” he said. Though the words were softly spoken, there was an underlying steel to them that Mort would be a fool to ignore. He shot a glance at Taylor, then over to Claire, finally to Sadie. Obviously outnumbered and outgunned, Mort finally took the hint.
“Okay,” he barked, sweet pleading replaced in the blink of an eye by red-faced fury. “I’ll go. But you’re makin’ a mistake, Sadie Lancaster.” He shook his finger at her as he backed toward his car, nearly tripping over his own feet. “A big mistake.”
Muttering something under his breath, he opened the trunk and set a blue suitcase on the gravel. Then flinging himself into the Deville, he tore off up the driveway leaving a cloud of dust behind him, and a very bad feeling in the pit of Claire’s stomach.
When Mort had gone, the man who’d driven her aunt home said, “Guess I’ll take a rain check on that beer, ma’am.”
Before Sadie could make introductions or explanations, he slid behind the wheel of his car and was gone.
Staring after him, Claire sighed. “Who was that masked man?”
Taylor stepped forward, a quirky grin on his face. “I kind of expected him to say hi-ho Silver, away.”
Sadie scoffed. “You’re both too young to remember the Lone Ranger!”
“Not when you’ve got cable, ma’am.”
Sadie chuckled, then took a good, long look at Taylor. Smiling, she nudged Claire’s arm.
“Claire,” she all but purred. “Where are your manners? Who is this handsome young man?”
Before she could answer, Taylor extended his hand and said, “Taylor McKennitt, ma’am.”
“McKennitt? Like Claire’s friend Betsy?”
“Betsy’s married to my brother.”
Sadie’s eye widened. “Are you a policeman, too?”
“Yes, Miss Lancaster, but I’m on . . . vacation, so I’d appreciate if you’d keep it to yourself.”
“Aunt Sadie,” Claire said, taking the woman’s arm and escorting her to the porch steps. “I want to hear what happened between you and Mort. He hasn’t mistreated you, has he? Because if he has—”
Patting
Claire’s hand, Sadie said, “No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just, well, something strange is going on with Mort, and I don’t like it.” Shaking her head, she said, “For one thing, he broke faith with me, out-and-out lied about his feelings for me just so I’d do an endorsement for his business!”
“Oh, Aunt Sadie. I’m so sorry. Are you okay with the breakup?”
Gazing up the darkened driveway, Sadie said grandly, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”
Chapter 8
Fraud
Sigmund’s felonious brother.
After a long night hanging around the crime lab in Seattle, catching a few Zs at home, then tackling the drive back up to Port Henry, Taylor walked through the door of the PHPD around noon on Sunday, in search of his brother.
Sam Winslow, mid-thirties, squared-jawed poster boy for stalwart law enforcement officers everywhere, leaned over the counter, his tanned face contorted in concentration as he worked the New York Times crossword.
As the door closed, Winslow raised his head and smiled. “Would you look at this. Two McKennitts in one day.” Anticipating Taylor’s question, he stabbed the air with his pen. “The other one’s in the green room. Hey, what’s a six-letter word for barb-tailed dragon? Begins with W.”
Taylor pushed through the swinging gate that separated the public area of the station from the police-business-only section. “Wyvern,” he said, spelling it out as he passed.
Sam penciled in the letters, then laughed. “It works. Hey, how’d you know that?”
Taylor shrugged. “Busted one once for starting a fire without a permit.”
As Sam’s deep laughter trickled off, Taylor walked past the three presently unoccupied desks, all of which sported computers, toppling stacks of file folders, and an array of coffee mugs. Wanted posters, information bulletins, and flyers for local events were tacked to the message board on the far wall. On a beige Formica side table sat a blackened glass coffeepot, its acrid contents having boiled away hours, maybe even centuries ago.
He passed through the doorway and into the green room—so named for the pastel mint paint somebody had mistakenly thought would look attractive. Soldier sat at a square oak table, his back to the wall, a bottle of water in one hand, a cell phone in the other.
Sighs Matter Page 8
