by Maggie Pill
“Ben was never mean,” Pansy said, “His friends are weird, though.”
“Like who?”
“Nobody hurt us,” Iris said firmly, and once again, Pansy closed her lips tightly. “Nobody touched us, nobody messed with us. It was like a deal, you know? We helped out on the farm, and Ben kept us together.”
I wondered what was in it for Ben. Was he a good man who’d felt obligated to care for Rose’s daughters?
“What happened to your real father?” I asked.
Rory shot me an irritated look, and I recalled I wasn’t the interviewer. He waited for Iris to answer, though.
“He died,” Iris replied. “Daisy was only one.”
Barb picked up on the purpose of my question. “So your mom gets Social Security for the three of you?”
Iris nodded, and Barb gave me a glance of approval. The likely reason McAdams had kept Rose’s departure a secret was financial. He wanted the money meant for the girls’ welfare.
Rory took the lead again. “Did your mom and Ben ever argue?”
Before Iris could answer Pansy said, “Mom was going to leave him.”
“Did she say that?”
“Well, no, but she’d cry sometimes.” With a pained expression she added, “We just didn’t think she’d leave us too.”
Rory sensed it was time to back away from the mother’s betrayal. “Okay. We know your mother disappeared last month. When did Ben leave?”
Iris licked her lips, and Pansy spoke again, so abruptly the lie was obvious. “We got up Tuesday morning and he was gone. We didn’t know he was leaving and we don’t know where he went.” Pansy glared into empty space, meeting no one’s eyes. Iris examined her hands, clasped in her lap.
There was a brief silence, and Daisy seemed to feel the need to fill it. “He dis-dapeared,” she said, raising her hands as if to indicate a magic trick.
“What did he take with him?” Rory asked.
Pansy looked to Iris, who said after a pause that seemed too long, “The suitcase and some of his stuff. His razor, a pair of jeans, and some shirts.”
“And his toothbrush,” Pansy put in as if that were significant. “He packed his toothbrush.”
Rory asked more questions, but that was all the information he got. They got up Tuesday morning and found Ben gone. That was all they could tell us, or all they would tell.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Retta
As usual, I was the last to hear what my sisters should have told me right away. I’m always reachable by phone, either directly or by text, and while I can’t keep up with my granddaughters in speed, I’m pretty fast and I answer right away. Faye barely knows how to text, and she often turns her phone off because she thinks it saves on the battery. As for Barbara Ann, she refuses to be “on call 24/7” so she ignores her phone when she feels like it. I’ve given up trying to explain the importance of communication to them.
By the time Faye called, it was almost four o’clock. They’d brought the Isley girls into town and sent for Rory, who got little more from them than Faye and Barb had. After all that, they remembered they have a sister who’s been taking care of the old place for years, sends them a check every quarter, and might like to know what’s going on out there.
What they should have done was bring the girls to me. In the first place, they knew me, at least a little bit, since I was the person they rented from. In the second place, my home is set up for little girls, since my daughter Alys and her husband Chuck bring Peri and Pola up from Bloomfield Hills at least twice a year. Though Barbara’s house is big, it has almost no guest space. She occupies the upstairs and Faye and Dale live downstairs. The Smart Detective Agency (Oh, how I dislike that name!) offices take up a couple of rooms at the front. That leaves only one skimpy room for guests. I suspect that’s how Barbara Ann likes it.
Faye insisted the girls were fine with them. “The little one loves Buddy,” she told me, “and he’s taken to her too.”
That was a surprise. Buddy, not the loveliest of dogs by a long shot, has focused totally on Faye since she rescued him from freezing to death on a deserted road. I’ve tried to be nice to him, as has Styx, but Buddy has the nasty temperament common to strays.
“Don’t let her get her face near that dog,” I warned. “He might bite her.”
Faye laughed out loud. “Right now they’re curled up in a chair together eating cheese crackers. I think Buddy knows she needs a friend.”
The words friend and Buddy together in a sentence wouldn’t have occurred to me, so I changed the subject. “I’ve been thinking about Rose Isley. I know where the shop she used to have is, and I wonder if the landlord might know if she has family somewhere.”
“It can’t hurt to ask,” Faye said. “I’m going to start supper, but call me if you find out anything.” I smiled at the enthusiasm in Faye’s voice. She enjoys nothing more than having people to cook for.
I almost pushed the end button, but I heard her say, “Wait! I wanted to let you know Cramer is going to start moving into the bunkhouse tomorrow after work. He wants to get it done over the weekend, so I told him to pick up the key from you tonight.”
“I’ll drop it off on my way through town,” I promised.
“Okay. Dale and I still plan to go out there after supper. I can’t let my horses spend their first night in a new place alone.”
“You’re going to leave Barbara with three little girls?” The image of my old maid sister dealing with that was cause for both humor and alarm.
“She says she’ll be fine.”
I ended the call, shaking my head. Faye had become a horse owner. Barb was acting as surrogate mother to three kids in crisis. I was heading out to investigate what was certainly a puzzle and possibly a crime. A person never imagines how life can change after fifty.
I remembered Rose Isley’s yarn shop because it had shared space with Ellie, a tailor I use for alterations. People think it’s great being petite, but just try buying pants that fit or a coat that doesn’t drag on the ground. Ellie’s great at refitting my garments so I don’t look like I’m wearing my older sisters’ clothes. Not that I ever would.
The building, old and saggy, had once been a mom-and-pop grocery store. When that failed, it sat empty for years before finally re-opening as a craft mall. The rooms are divided among crafters from stained glass artists to weavers to stone-cutters, and they take turns minding the store. Some had carved out a niche for themselves, as Ellie had with sewing and alterations. Others, like Rose, had to give up the struggle.
Ellie was putting things away, and checking my phone, I saw it was almost five. “I won’t keep you,” I promised, “I just want to know who the landlord is for this building.”
Looking over her half-glasses, Ellie grinned. “That would be me.”
“Really? I didn’t know you were in property management.”
She shrugged modestly. “A few years back the guy who owned this place got sick and wanted to unload it. After we dickered a little, I got a price I could afford. I figured I’d charge rent instead of paying it, and so far it’s worked out okay.”
“That’s great, first because you’re doing well and second because I have questions.”
She closed the cash register drawer and removed the key. “I’ll try to help.”
“Didn’t Rose Isley rent from you for a while?”
Ellie nodded. “When I bought the building, she had two rooms on the west side. She did beautiful work, but Rose has no head for business.” She ticked off items on her fingers. “In the first place, she practically gave her stuff away. In the second place, she’d get caught up in something she was working on and forget there were orders she was supposed to get done. And in the third place, she often closed up in the middle of the day because of some event at church she felt obligated to help with.” Ellie set a box of buttons under the counter. “People appreciate artistry, but they also expect common sense.”
“So Rose’s business failed.”
“Then she met Ben McAdams.”
Ellie put things away as we talked. “I suppose he was good for her in some ways because he forced order onto the chaos that was Rose’s life.”
“They did well together, then?”
She gave a snort of disagreement. “I said in some ways. In others, not so much.” A box bumped into place on a shelf below the counter. “I met Ben the day he came to help her move her stuff out. He was nice to look at, but kind of nutty.”
“In what way?”
“Well, I saw right away why he lived out in the boonies. He looked like Jeremiah Johnson, and he barely spoke to me. Later, when he thought I couldn’t hear, he made a nasty crack about me making money off other people’s labor.” Ellie held out her arthritic hands. “Do these look like I sit back and rest while others toil around me?”
“So Rose left the co-op and went to live with Ben?”
“Right. She still makes lovely things, but they sell them from home or at craft shows.” Ellie grimaced. “They eliminated the evil middle-man: me.”
“Did you talk to her after she moved out?”
“Once. We met on the street, and Rose seemed really glad to see me. She said things were fine. Ben was fine. The girls were fine. Her work was fine.” With a gesture, Ellie swept away all that fineness. “I think she was miserable, but she didn’t know how to change things.”
“Too bad,” I murmured.
“It’s hard to know who to blame,” Ellie said. “A man like Ben is domineering, but maybe he gives a woman like Rose the structure she lacks. I worry about those poor girls, though. Just because their mother needs someone to tell her what to do every second doesn’t mean they need it too.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Barb
As Faye cooked dinner for the girls, she dealt with no less than three hot flashes. Sweater on, sweater off, back door open, back door closed, and so on until the meal was ready. Despite frequent wardrobe changes, she created a delicious meal of home-made chicken tenders, fries, and corn.
The Isleys dug in eagerly, not the least bit shy about filling their plates. My sister has a way of making people feel at home. There’s no magic phrase, gesture, or action, but there’s never a stranger in Faye’s kitchen.
There was hardly room at Faye’s refinished oak table for six of us, but we managed. Iris, the perfect lady, sat demurely next to me and made polite conversation. Seated between Iris and Dale, Pansy ate like someone who’s been living in the woods should, and Faye made sure she had enough of everything. Daisy sat between Dale and Faye, and Buddy plopped himself next to her chair. From time to time I heard sounds that indicated he was eating, and Daisy’s delight with what she thought was a secret was all too obvious. Iris tried to signal her to behave herself, but Daisy was having too much fun to notice. Catching Iris’ eye I winked, and she relaxed a little.
Once we finished the meal, the girls began what seemed to be a familiar routine for them, clearing the table and stacking the dishes in the sink. Iris ran hot water in the sink and began washing. Pansy rinsed the dishes and set them on a clean towel. Little Daisy put the ketchup, ranch dressing, and barbecue sauce into the refrigerator and gathered up the placemats, shaking the crumbs into the garbage.
“We have a dishwasher,” I protested.
Pansy glanced at the appliance as if it were an alien likely to zap her with a death ray. “Faster this way.” I guessed she hadn’t used one before.
“I often do dishes that way myself,” Faye said. “It’s restful, having your hands in warm water, and quiet, too, because everybody leaves you alone for ten minutes.”
While the girls worked, Faye brought out the bag she’d packed for a night at the farm. Daisy seemed nervous about her departure, but Faye told her, “I have to leave Buddy here. Can you watch him for me?”
Daisy happily agreed, and Faye showed her where his food and treats are stored, cautioning that he didn’t need as many as he thought he did. “We don’t want him to get fat,” she said, and I rolled my eyes just a little. Faye spoils the dog, and Dale tries to curry his favor by sneaking him treats. Buddy wouldn’t get any fatter under the care of a six-year-old than he does with his mom and dad.
Faye signaled me after she said goodbye to the girls, and I followed her onto the back porch. “Don’t worry,” she told me, though it was obviously she who was worried. “Rory’s bringing the sheriff over in the morning.”
I smiled at the idea that Rory and the sheriff were my relief squad. “We’ll be fine. Take the time you need with your horses.”
“Cramer is bringing his stuff out tomorrow after work, so we plan to spend the day clearing the bunkhouse out for him.” She frowned. “We might not get back until late. I don’t know about supper—”
“Faye, that’s what Pizza Hut is for. One phone call and they bring supper right to your door.”
She didn’t argue, but I guessed she thought I didn’t fully understand the nutritional needs of growing children. Dale was already in the car, so she gave me a quick hug and hurried around to the driver’s seat. As she got in, he handed her a pair of sunglasses, which she put on. It was after six, and they were heading east. I didn’t think she needed them, but apparently Dale did.
Back inside, the girls had cleaned the kitchen and swept the floor. Despite my assurances to Faye, I had a moment of doubt. What time should they go to bed? Was I supposed to suggest activities? Board games? Reading? I had no idea what today’s kids do with their evenings.
Pansy solved my problem. “Do you have cable?”
“Um, Faye does. I don’t watch much TV.”
“We’re not allowed to, either.” Daisy spoke as if some adult had forbidden television to me. “But when we get to, we like Nickelodeon.”
“Well, you’re welcome to see if you can find it.”
Minutes later, I stood in the doorway to the guest room while Pansy scrolled through the TV offerings with an ease everyone under thirty seems to possess. She found the station, which was playing a show I was vaguely familiar with, SpongeBob Squarepants. I stood for a few minutes watching them settle on the bed together. Pansy controlled the remote, Iris took Daisy under her arm, and Buddy jumped up beside her and settled in with a sigh.
“We’re good,” Pansy assured me. “Do whatever you usually do at night.”
Telling myself that kids who’d spent the last three days on their own probably didn’t need my direct supervision for an evening of television, I said goodnight and went upstairs.
It was a pleasant evening, and the upper story had heated during the day, so I opened the window in my bedroom to let in cooler air. I was as surprised to see the cat as she was to see me, and we both froze for a second. By the time I realized she was there, she was gone.
Maybe it was having a houseful of abandoned kids, but I felt sorry for the animal. Going to my refrigerator, I found some leftover Tandoori chicken and shredded it into a plastic bowl. In a second bowl I poured water, having read somewhere that adult cats don’t need milk. It took some doing to get the screen out of the window, but I figured it out and set the bowls on a spot where the porch roof met the house wall. Pulling the curtain aside I anchored it with a book, turned off the lamp, and waited.
It took a while, but the cat came hesitantly along the roof, sniffing at the wind. When she found the food, she fell on it with a fury, growling to herself as she tore at the meat. The beast was starving.
I had a moment of disgust for neighbors who had let such a pretty little thing go hungry, but the cat probably hadn’t approached anyone. Well-camouflaged in shades of brown, black, and gold, she could easily melt into the background simply by lying still.
Once the meat was gone, the cat lapped up the water. I watched, fasci
nated by the efficient, reverse cupping action of her tongue. We’d had cats as kids, almost a necessity in a house with an abundance of places where mice could get in. Usually there’d been one or two inside cats and many more in the barn to keep the rodent population down. The barn cats were feral, hard to catch and viciously defensive, and I recalled many scratches on my arms from catching them. Remembering how soft their fur felt, I moved my hand toward the stray, hoping to pet her.
The cat was gone in a heartbeat. Leaning on the sill I looked outside, but there was no sign of her. Feeling disgruntled that my attempt to be kind was rejected, I wrestled the screen back into place and retreated to my desk to do some night work.
My current project involved quotation marks, and I reread the letter I’d written.
To the management of Marty’s Market:
In recent trips to your store, I have noticed signs that say such things as “FRESH” PINEAPPLES and “REAL” WHIPPED CREAM.
Apparently the idea is to emphasize the words real and fresh, but emphasis is more properly shown with italics, bold print, or underlining.
Quotation marks surround words that are not the authors’ own. In addition to their obvious use around formal quotations like “War is hell,” they can be used to show a writer’s disagreement with what is said. For example, I don’t agree with what the “experts” say about cholesterol. Putting the word experts inside quotes indicates disagreement with calling them that. The marks also let readers know when a writer is being sarcastic or humorous: His “remedy” for a cold was a pint of whiskey.
In either case, the quotation marks mean the writer doesn’t want the reader to accept at face value the word or words inside them. Therefore, when you put fresh and real in quotes, you’re telling shoppers either you don’t believe or don’t mean your pineapples are fresh and your whipped cream is real.
Since this is not the message you intend, I suggest you follow the rules of punctuation.
A Frequent but Disappointed Shopper
