by Lynn Bohart
“You have such a nice way with people, you know that?”
“Very funny. But now it’s just the three of us,” I said, nodding toward José.
“No problem,” she said. “José, can you help me move this?”
She pointed to another buffet she wanted to move up against the window, and José stepped in to help. While she did that, I pulled a beautiful antique Santa from a box and placed it in the center of the table to replace the missing candle arrangement. Then I turned to José.
“Can you bring over that small blanket chest from the storeroom?” I said. “I’ll find some Christmas linens to drape out of the drawers, and we’ll put it in the corner.”
“Sure,” he said. “What do you want me to do with the damaged buffet?”
“Take it to the warehouse. Mr. Garth can work on it when he gets back from vacation. By the way,” I said, stopping him. “I bought a table last week from…from…Martha.” As soon as I said her name, a sob caught in my throat and I had to pause. I placed my hand on my chest and counted to five. “Anyway,” I said with difficulty, “I had arranged that you would pick it up tomorrow so that Mr. Garth could get started on it before he leaves. But now…well, I’m going to call Martha’s daughter tonight to find out what she’d like to do about the memorial service. I’ll ask her about picking up the table.”
“I’m sorry about your friend,” José said with a solemn nod. “She seemed like a nice lady.”
He rolled the buffet out on a dolly as an elderly woman approached us from the entryway, walking with a cane. It was one of our single guests–a Mrs. Devonshire, another octogenarian.
“Hello, Mrs. Devonshire. Can I help you?”
“I was just wondering what happened,” she said tentatively, leaning on her cane. “I was napping earlier and thought I heard sirens.”
“A friend was here for the book club, and…well…we think she had a heart attack.”
I stopped because I wasn’t sure what else to say. Mrs. Devonshire’s eyes grew wide.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said with feeling. “Will she be okay?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” I replied, my throat tightening again. “She was in her seventies, and was taking heart medication, so…”
She began nodding, as if this was a subject she was all too familiar with. “Well, I’m very sorry for you. It’s hard to lose our friends as we get older.”
She patted my arm as if we shared this in common. I inwardly cringed as she left and glanced into the mirror that hung on the wall opposite me. What stared back was a healthy-looking woman who was sixty-three, with short, auburn hair, good cheek bones, brown eyes and a heart-shaped mouth. Not bad. At 5’2”, Graham used to call me, “pretty and petite.” But as I contemplated the beginning folds of skin at my neck, I thought that maybe I needed to have one of those lifts advertised on TV.
I turned to find April grinning at me. We’re only three months apart in age.
“What are you smiling at?”
“You,” she said. “Don’t worry. We both have a long way to go before we’re in Mrs. Devonshire’s age bracket.”
It was late afternoon by the time we finished and guests began returning from their daytime outings. I decided to inform them about Martha as they returned, so they wouldn’t hear it from either Mr. Stillwater or Mrs. Devonshire. Martha’s daughter, Emily, called just after six o’clock.
“Oh, Emily,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I was going to call you later. I thought you’d be asleep.”
“I can’t sleep. I’m just devastated,” she said, choking back sobs. “I don’t understand how this could have happened.”
“We’re all in shock,” I said. “If it’s any consolation, she was laughing at a joke…she was enjoying herself.”
I knew that was weak, but I didn’t know what else to say. I just hoped Emily wouldn’t ask me to tell her the joke.
“I just talked to her last weekend,” Emily said, breaking down in sobs. “She said she’d just been to the doctor and got a good report. She didn’t complain about anything, except that she was thinking of quitting the shelter.”
“What?” I suddenly became alert. “I didn’t know that.”
“I thought she loved it there,” Emily said, sniffling. “But she said it wasn’t what she thought it would be.”
She got very quiet for a moment, and then she said, “By the way, Julia, I told the police I wanted to have an autopsy done. They weren’t going to do one. They said for people her age and with her health problems, there was no reason.”
“So why did you ask for one?”
“Because she wanted it.”
“What do you mean?” My heart began to race as I realized something about this conversation was very wrong.
“I don’t know,” Emily said, sniffling. “But I think she knew she was going to die. She told me last weekend that if anything happened to her within the next few weeks I should make sure they do an autopsy immediately.” This revelation ratcheted up her emotions and she began to gulp air. “Why, Julia? Why would she ask for such a thing?”
These last words came out in a screech as she broke down in tears again. I felt the adrenaline flowing through my own body as I strained to understand Martha’s last request.
“I…I don’t know, Emily,” I said, having trouble breathing.
“I just feel…” Emily tried to continue but stopped. “I just feel that if I’d been there…”
“You couldn’t have done anything, Emily,” I said, quickly. “None of us could. There wasn’t even time to say goodbye.”
She sighed on the other end of the phone, trying to control her emotions. “I agreed to pay for the autopsy, and I’m paying extra to have them do it right away. It’s what she wanted. We have a flight into SeaTac at 8:30 Sunday night. I’ll stop over at the inn on Monday. I know you volunteer in the morning, so I’ll come by in the afternoon.”
“Emily, one more thing,” I said, stopping her. “This may not be the right time, so you tell me if it isn’t. But I bought your mother’s drop-leaf table last week and was supposed to pick it up tomorrow. It’s paid for and I have a receipt. Mr. Garth is all set up to begin refinishing it before he goes on vacation. Would it be okay if I had José pick it up?”
“Of course,” she said. “Mom told me she was going to let you have it. That was my grandma’s table, you know. I’d love to see it restored to its original beauty. Will you keep it or sell it?”
I cringed, realizing that I hadn’t really decided. I kept very few of the things I acquired, since selling the antiques was a business. But before I realized it, I was saying, “Of course, I’m keeping it. I have the perfect place in my apartment.”
I swear I felt my nose growing.
“I’m glad,” she said with relief.
“Do you want us to wait until you get here to plan a memorial service?”
“No,” she said quietly. “You ladies were her best friends. I know whatever you plan will be exactly what she would have wanted. In fact, when you pick up the table, you might want to pull out some of the family photos. She kept them in a box I made when I was in Girl Scouts.”
This brought on a new round of tears, and I felt a sob catch in my chest.
“I think that’s a great idea. Blair is really creative. I bet she’d be willing to put together a video. How about if I reserve the church for Wednesday afternoon? That way, you’ll have some time to be involved in the planning when you get here.”
“That sounds good,” she said. “Thank you, Julia. I know this has to be hard on you, too. I’ll talk to you Monday.”
After we hung up, April joined me in the main kitchen for a light supper. I told her about Martha telling Emily to ask for an autopsy. April’s eyes opened wide.
“That’s weird. What do you suppose she meant?”
“I have no idea. But now I’m wondering if it’s somehow connected to how she was acting today. You should have seen her, April. She couldn’t sit still.”
April was my greatest comfort. We’d met in an English class at the University of Washington when we were both freshmen. Halfway through the class, April had warned me one day that the professor was going to give us a pop quiz. It was just one of those things she seemed to always know. We’d been friends ever since. Having her with me as I struggled to process Martha’s death was like being wrapped in a warm quilt; it didn’t make the pain go away, but it helped me through it.
By seven-thirty, she gave me a hug and headed out to the carriage house to close up and head home. As I watched her hurry across the back drive, I silently prayed that when the time came, I would go before April. She was the best friend I had in the world, and that was a loss I didn’t think I could survive.
CHAPTER NINE
As much as I love the inn, my apartment is where I feel most at home. I have purposely filled it with the things that mean the most to me: working antique clocks, colorful Tiffany lamps, old steamer chests, woven area rugs, and assorted whimsical tea pots, and my Wizard of Oz collectibles scattered around to make me smile.
By the time I retired to my apartment that night it was almost eight o’clock. My back ached and my energy level had bottomed out. I made a cup of hot cocoa and collapsed into my favorite overstuffed arm chair in front of the gas fireplace with the dogs on each side. An original framed Wizard of Oz movie poster of Dorothy, the Tin Man, the Scarecrow and the Lion hung above the fireplace. I tried to relax, but I was more than a little curious as to what had happened to Martha, not just her death, but her life in general. Something had changed over the past couple of weeks. She had missed two days at the shelter and one of our book club meetings. I had noticed it, but life had gotten in the way, and I hadn’t stopped to question why my friend was retreating.
I felt a pang of guilt when I realized that I’d overlooked Martha, perhaps when she’d needed me most. And now I wondered if her question about going to confession had been her inadequate way of reaching out for help. Then there were her comments to Emily about quitting the shelter and asking for an autopsy. What in the world could all of that mean?
No sooner had those questions arisen in my mind than my cell phone rang. I was surprised to hear my ex-husband’s voice on the other end.
“You okay?” he said. “I heard about Martha.”
“God, do you have your minions and spies everywhere?”
“No, of course not,” Graham said. “But when someone dies in the home of my ex-wife, people tend to tell me about it. I’m sorry to hear about Martha. She was a good friend to you.”
“Yes, she was,” I said, tears threatening again.
“Do they know yet how she died?”
“I thought maybe you were calling to tell me.”
“No,” he said, that deep resonant voice still able to make my heart flutter. “I just…I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I figured Ellen’s death was hard on you, and now this.”
I sighed. “And my mother.”
“And your mother, yes.”
My mother had been a force in my life. Not always a good force, but a force nonetheless. Having been a smoker for many years, emphysema had finally confined her to a wheelchair, and she’d come to live with me. And although we’d shared a challenging relationship while she was alive—meaning that she criticized every decision I made while I mostly ignored her—I missed her.
“Too much death,” I said, taking off my reading glasses to rub my eyes.
“You have had your share. How are you feeling?”
I perked up at that. “I’m fine.”
I knew why he asked. I’d had a lump removed from my left breast over the summer. Fortunately, it had been benign. But Graham’s mother had died from breast cancer, so he was hyper-sensitive about it. “Thanks for asking, though.” I felt warmth rise to my face at the thought that Graham actually cared enough to ask.
“Well, keep me informed…on everything,” he said. “You have my number.”
“Yes. Thanks, Graham. Say hello to Kitty.”
I heard him chuckle on the other end of the phone as he said, “I will.”
We hung up and I relaxed back into the chair, stroking Mickey’s head and thinking about Graham and Kitty. I’d met Graham just after college when I became involved in state Democratic politics. He was an up-and-coming attorney in a Seattle law firm and already planning his foray into politics. He was handsome, intelligent, and charming. How could I resist?
We’d married and moved to Mercer Island. When it became clear after several years that I wasn’t going to get pregnant, we adopted a baby girl from China. Angela was twenty-six now and had followed in her father’s footsteps, landing a job in the King County Prosecuting Attorney’s office in Seattle.
Once Graham became a state senator, he spent most of his time in Olympia. One day, out of the blue, he bought me the old St. Claire home to create, “…the business of your dreams.” It was just a huge, empty, dilapidated building that required extensive work. Once we’d turned it into the elaborate building it was today, he asked for a divorce and then quickly agreed to give me the inn as part of the divorce settlement. I suspected it was meant as a consolation prize of sorts. A few years later, he switched parties and won the election as a Republican, moving into the Governor’s mansion in Olympia, sans me.
Kitty, his thirty-something wife, was cute, blond, and looked spectacular in a pencil skirt and three-inch heels. While that may sound odd coming from the ex-wife, I can’t deny what’s true. While I was at peace with the divorce, the thought of him in bed with that perfect size 0 was enough to make me contemplate lap-band surgery, even if I was only fifteen pounds overweight. After all, it wasn’t the sex that I missed. It was the size 0, which I hadn’t seen since, well, ever.
As much as I hated to admit it, Kitty was the right wife for Graham at this point in his career. I had no doubt he had higher aspirations than governor of a Western state. He had his eye on a cabinet position in the White House, perhaps the White House itself. Well, good luck with that, I thought. I had no desire to live in Washington D.C.
As I got up to reheat my remaining hot chocolate, a cold spot near the sink stopped me. I glanced around. Cold spots were common at the inn. If you’ve never experienced one, it’s like walking past an open refrigerator door. The paranormal investigators had explained that a cold spot usually meant a ghost was near. I thought this might be Elizabeth. She had appeared to me several times in my apartment, and even freaked me out by appearing next to me in the car on one occasion. Her image was never distinct, but rather a kind of milky haze that was always accompanied by the scent of Rose water. She often tried to protect me. That time in the car, she had spun the wheel only moments before I would have hit a deer that bounded across the road. And once, she left a message written in the steam on my bathroom mirror warning me about faulty wiring in a kitchen outlet that could have caused a fire.
Encountering one of the ghosts never ceased to elevate my heart rate. But it seemed that I was alone now, so I turned and put my mug into the microwave. I watched the cup turn round and round, allowing my mind to wander back to what Doe had said about the deaths of two of our friends in less than a year.
Ellen’s suicide in May had bothered me enough that a few days after her funeral I had driven up to the spot where she’d flown off the cliff. I sat there in my own car trying to picture my friend sitting in hers just before she gunned the engine and left this world behind. What could she have been thinking? Martha had never been convinced that Ellen was depressed enough to kill herself. And yet, as I looked at the skid marks that day, the evidence didn’t lie.
And now Martha had fallen face first into her dessert, dying in a way that could only be thought of as a bad joke. I assumed the coroner would discover it had been h
er heart. But as I took out my hot chocolate and leaned against the counter to take a sip, I realized that Martha hadn’t grabbed her chest. Nor had she seemed in any kind of pain. It appeared as if she’d choked on something and then pitched forward. This realization began to explain the need for an autopsy, and I was suddenly glad her daughter had asked for it.
I finished my drink, got into my pajamas and climbed into bed, kicking Mickey, who had burrowed to the foot of the bed. Dachshunds were bred to go underground to hunt badgers and are well-known for their near obsession for burrowing under things. Mickey would often scuttle all the way to my feet, while Minnie usually snuggled under a soft throw I kept on top of the bed. I could see Minnie’s little copper nose poking out from under the throw and reached out and gave it a rub.
I was just about to grab a book, when I was startled by the faint jingle of a song. My ears perked up. I hadn’t heard that song for over a year. It was Rock Around the Clock, the ringtone version played on my mother’s cell phone.
I climbed out of bed and hurried into the front room, trying to remember where I’d put my mother’s phone after she died. I followed the sounds and finally found the gaudy, pink device buried in a drawer. As soon as I picked it up, the ringing stopped. Frustrated, I clicked the button that would show me who had called, but the screen was dead. I snapped it shut and dropped it back into the drawer, surprised the battery had worked at all. When I felt a hand on my shoulder, I spun around with a gasp. The smell of roses flooded my nostrils.
The faint, misty image of a woman floated behind me, the kitchen counter behind her visible through the haze. Elizabeth was dressed as I always saw her, in a white nightgown, with her long, dark braid over one shoulder. Right now her blurred and faintly transparent features were drawn into a grief-stricken mask, and she held her hand over her heart.
“What?” I said, my heart thumping. “Are you worried about Martha?”
She nodded, the hazy outline of her face distorted, her dark eyes bulging and creepy.
“Yes, Martha was a good woman,” I said. “It was her heart, I think.”
