“What about the extra number this week?” Marion cried. “It was Duncan’s turn, but he decided not to play.”
Glenda was digging in her purse. Her hands were trembling. Sweat popped out on her forehead. She pulled out her wallet and unzipped the special compartment where she kept the tickets.
“Duncan told me the Powerball number he had chosen. He was about to hand me his dollar, then put it back in his wallet. I was so used to buying five tickets that when I got to the convenience store and pulled out a five dollar bill, I thought what the heck? I bought the extra ticket and used Duncan’s Powerball number…I’m sure it was in the 30s.”
“I can’t take it,” Marion cried. “What was it? Hurry up Glenda!” she croaked.
Glenda dealt out the tickets like a deck of cards. “Let’s all take a look.”
In the dim light of the votive candle, the tickets were hard to read. Marion bent over, straining to decipher the Powerball number on the ticket in front of her. An otherworldly grunting sound emanated from the depths of her being. “Oh, my God!” she finally screamed as she jumped up, waving the ticket. “WE WON! WE WON!”
“Are you SURE it’s 32?” Glenda shouted.
Marion’s hand was shaking so much the ticket fluttered to the floor. Tommy reached down and grabbed it. “It’s got the number 32!” he boomed. “It’s 32!”
By now, everyone in the tavern was on his feet.
“The four of us get to split 180 million bucks!” he shouted as he lifted the diminutive Marion off her feet and spun her around.
Wait till Harvey hears about this, Glenda thought wildly as she and Ralph hugged.
“How about one of those group hugs?” Marion cried as the four of them put their arms around each other, laughing, crying, and still not believing.
This can’t be true, Glenda thought. How can it possibly be true? Our lives have changed forever.
“Drinks for everyone,” the bartender cried. “But you guys are paying!”
The foursome fell back into their chairs and just looked at each other.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Marion asked as she wiped the tears from her eyes.
Glenda nodded. “Duncan.”
“It was his Powerball number,” Ralph said.
“Yes, it was,” Glenda confirmed. “I would never have picked 32. But I decided to throw in the extra dollar. So you all owe me a quarter!”
“I’ll even pay you interest,” Tommy promised.
They all laughed, but immediately their expressions turned serious. “We should share this with Duncan,” Glenda said. “The poor guy. He wouldn’t even treat himself to a burger tonight. And without his number, we wouldn’t have won.”
“And we wouldn’t have won if you hadn’t thrown in that extra dollar,” Marion said. “How can we all ever thank you?”
Glenda smiled. “We’ve been in this together for years, and now we’ve been blessed. Let’s start our own Festival of Joy. I can’t wait to hear Duncan’s reaction.” She pulled out her cell phone. Duncan’s numbers were in her list of contacts. She tried his home phone and his cell, but he didn’t pick up either one. She left a message for him to call immediately, no matter what time it was. “That’s strange,” she said when she hung up. “He certainly sounded as if he were going straight home. I wonder if he knows yet that our numbers won and thinks he’s not part of it.”
“He might think that you just played our four dollars and we lost out,” Tommy said.
At that moment the bartender came over, uncorked a bottle of champagne, and started to pour it into four glasses. “Time to celebrate. I’m sure none of you are planning to go to work in the morning.”
“You bet we’re not,” Marion said. “This is the new Mrs. Conklin’s big chance to run the whole show. Let her try and bake a cake as good as mine. Good luck, honey!”
They clinked glasses as they nodded in rapturous agreement at the thought of the expression on The Skunk’s face when she heard of their good fortune.
But Glenda couldn’t put the nagging worry about Duncan out of her mind. He had been so upset about not getting a bonus, and now he wasn’t answering his phone.
Could anything have happened to him?
2
Alvirah and Willy Meehan were leaving the Pierre Hotel in New York City where they’d just attended a fundraising dinner for one of Alvirah’s favorite charities. Alvirah had been so busy talking to everyone who stopped by the table to say hello, she barely had a bite of food. Willy, who had ended up eating both their meals, was more than ready to go home. It was nearly eleven o’clock and the cocktail hour had started at six. Even the emcee of the event, by the time he finished reading the raffle numbers, seemed a tad weary as he thanked everyone for coming.
It wasn’t a long walk to their apartment, but Willy hailed a cab. The night was cold, and Alvirah was wearing high heels. They were also getting up early to drive to a Christmas festival in New Hampshire with their close friends, the private investigator Regan Reilly, her husband, Jack, head of the NYPD Major Case Squad, and Regan’s parents, suspense writer Nora Regan Reilly and her husband, Luke, a funeral director. As Willy started to speak to the driver, Alvirah tugged his arm. He knew exactly what that meant. She was hungry. Always agreeable, instead of saying 211 Central Park South, he gave the address of the all-night diner they favored at times like this. “Leo’s, 45th and Broadway.”
Alvirah sighed contentedly. “Oh, Willy. I know how tired you are. But I’m starving. I’ll just get a bowl of Leo’s delicious minestrone and a grilled cheese sandwich, then I’ll sleep like a baby.”
It was not in Willy’s nature to say that Alvirah always slept like a baby, no matter what she had or hadn’t eaten before bed. But he certainly knew she’d barely had a chance to swallow a morsel tonight. Sometimes he thought she worked harder now than when she was cleaning houses and he was repairing leaky pipes. A few years ago, when they were in their early sixties, they’d won 40 million dollars in the lottery. These days Alvirah wrote a column for the New York Globe, involved herself in numerous charities, was the founder of the Lottery Winners Support Group, but most of all had perfected her nose for sniffing out other people’s troubles. That he could have done without.
Because of her work as an amateur detective, Alvirah had been injected with poison, had almost been asphyxiated, and had jumped off a cruise ship to escape gunshots.
It’s a miracle she doesn’t suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Willy thought, as the cab pulled up to Leo’s.
“We’ll make this quick, honey,” Alvirah promised as Willy paid the fare. “We can sit at the counter.”
Inside Leo’s they were almost knocked out by the odor of a strong cleaning solution that was being sloshed around the floor by a bored looking worker. A yellow sign warned, “Caution. Wet Floor.”
“Oh boy,” Alvirah groaned. She turned to Willy as they were about to sit down. “I didn’t think they used that kind of eye-stinging junk anymore. There aren’t many things in this world that can kill my appetite, but the smell of that stuff is one of them. Let’s get out of here.”
Willy was thrilled. He couldn’t wait to get home. He could just visualize getting under the covers and leaning back into his pillow on their big comfortable bed. At that moment, Leo came out from the kitchen. Willy waved at him. “We’re not staying.”
“Leo, what kind of insecticide are you using in that bucket?” Alvirah asked.
“It’s pretty awful,” Leo agreed. “The new supplier talked me into it. It’s supposed to kill every germ known to man.”
“I’ve got news, Leo. It’s killing me,” Alvirah said, as she started toward the exit. But she hadn’t taken three steps when she started to slip on the wet tile. In a futile gesture, Willy lunged to steady her. Alvirah managed to break her fall by grabbing a stool, but her upper body snapped forward, and she hit her head on the Formica countertop.
An hour later they were in the emergency room of St. Luke’s Hosp
ital, waiting for a plastic surgeon to close up the cut above her left eyebrow.
“Mrs. Meehan, you’re one tough lady,” a young intern had said admiringly after he read her X-ray. “You don’t have a concussion, and your blood pressure is fine. The plastic surgeon will be here any minute, and you’ll be good as new.”
“I want his references,” Alvirah said, raising her good eyebrow. “Just tonight I saw enough blank faces to know there’s at least one lousy plastic surgeon on the loose in this city.”
“Don’t worry. Dr. Freize is the best.”
Dr. Freize might have been the best, but his words that were meant to be caring, rubbed Alvirah the wrong way. As he finished stitching her wound, he said softly, “Now I want you to go home and rest very quietly over the weekend.”
Alvirah’s eyes flew open. “We’re going to New Hampshire in the morning for a Festival of Joy. I don’t want to miss it.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” Dr. Freize agreed. “But you must consider your age.”
Alvirah bristled.
“I keep reminding Alvirah we’re not spring chickens,” Willy tried to joke.
“You’re not,” the doctor confirmed. “You must take my advice. Stay home.”
3
Agitated and heartsick, Duncan drove home to his tiny rented house on Huckleberry Lane. Twenty minutes from Conklin’s Market, his abode was located at the far end of a heavily wooded dead-end street.
“No bonus!” he kept exclaiming as he gripped the wheel of his “previously owned” eleven-year-old SUV. “No bonus! How am I going to pay for Flower’s ring?” He’d spotted the ring in the window of Pettie’s Fine Jewelry last June, and even though he and Flower had just met once, after having found each other online, he already knew she was the one. The setting of the ring was shaped like a flower with a little diamond in the center and semiprecious stones in the surrounding petals. Mr. Pettie had begrudgingly agreed to accept a modest down payment and set it aside until Christmas.
Now what was he going to do? He could put the ring on his credit card, but everyone knew that if you didn’t pay the balance in full at the end of the month, you were socked with sky-high interest charges that just kept on accumulating.
Last month a pair of investment experts had come to town to conduct a weekly seminar on financial planning that would wrap up before Christmas. Duncan, already planning for his future with Flower, had eagerly signed up for the course. After last Wednesday night’s class, the experts, Edmund and Woodrow Winthrop, cousins in their early fifties, had called him aside. “We have been given the opportunity to buy shares in an oil drilling company that promises to return ten times our investment within the year. It’s a home run,” Edmund whispered.
“A grand slam!” Woodrow corrected.
“There is room for only one more person to invest $5,000. From the financial statement you filled out for us, we see that you have $5,000 in your savings account. Having it sit in the bank like that, Duncan, you’re losing money. We like you. You’re a hard working, conscientious young man, and you deserve an incredible opportunity like this…”
“I…I…I…don’t know,” Duncan stammered.
“Your concern is understandable,” Edmund said soothingly. “We’re each putting in a hundred thousand. That’s as much as the company officers will let us invest.”
“A hundred thousand each!” Duncan had been awed.
“I wish they’d let us put in more,” Edmund said. “But that’s the law. Duncan, if you want to get in on this, the offer closes tomorrow at noon…”
The next morning Duncan was at the bank when it opened, switched all the money from his savings to his checking account, then drove to the house where the Winthrops were living and conducting the seminar. With mixed emotions of anticipation and anxiety, he handed them the check. It was the first time Duncan had been late for work in years.
Now he had no bonus, no savings, and Flower’s ring was still sitting in the safe at Pettie’s. She was flying in from California late next week, and he planned to propose to her on Christmas Eve.
As he got closer to home, the light snowfall was becoming thicker, but Duncan barely noticed. When he pulled into his driveway and turned off the engine, it made a sputtering noise that was new to the car’s various creaks and groans. Another worry, Duncan thought, as he got out, slammed the door behind him, and made a dash up the slippery path.
Inside the chilly house, which Duncan now kept at a thrifty 64 degrees, he shrugged off his coat and threw it on the couch. The first thing he spotted were all the notes he had taken at the financial planning course. They were on the dining room table where he pored over them after every session. Edmund and Woodrow’s lecture last night had been about how people waste their hard-earned money. He recalled every word.
“Do you know how much money you spend a year on those cups of coffee you buy every day? Make a Thermos of coffee and bring it to work or keep it in your car,” Edmund had counseled, his thin face set in a worried frown. He’d taken off his glasses and, twirling them for emphasis, intoned, “Every time you walk out of your house without a Thermos, you’re cheating yourself of money that will add to the comfort of your retirement.”
Woodrow, his beefy face always wreathed in smiles, interrupted his cousin. “Excuse me, Eddie,” he said, “but I have a question for our guests.” He pointed at the seventeen Branscombe townspeople attending the seminar. “How many of you rinse out those plastic bags in the refrigerator and reuse them?”
No one had raised a hand.
“Just what I thought!” he boomed, then spotted one hand timidly ascending into the air. “Mrs. Potters, I’m so proud of you.” He got up from his chair, hurried over, and reached for the elderly former school teacher’s hand. She beamed as he raised it to his lips.
“What I was going to say,” she said sweetly, “is that I did start saving plastic bags and reusing them, but I found it didn’t always work out that well. I put my late husband’s leftover birthday cake, the last birthday cake he ever had on earth, in a bag that had been used for Roquefort cheese, and let me tell you, it was the first time I ever heard him use a swear word.” She smiled up at Woodrow, who had dropped her hand.
“Thank you for sharing that with us, Mrs. Potters,” he said. “But the occasional little glitch on our path to financial wisdom is to be expected.”
Mrs. Potters nodded briefly. “I suppose.”
Woodrow hurried back to the front of the room. “Folks, we’ll wind up with some final useful hints that you can take home, mull over, and hopefully act on. Buy washable clothes! Dry cleaning is expensive. And for goodness sake, and most important, don’t waste your money on lottery tickets. You may just as well take a match to your money and burn it. Good night, everyone. We’ll see you next week. Drive safely. Remember, walk whenever possible. It’s good exercise and it saves gas.”
Duncan, because of their kindness in letting him in on their investment, and feeling something akin to being the teacher’s pet, had gone up to them after class. “Hey, guys, I love your advice, but I can’t agree with you about the lottery. A group of us at work buy tickets together. We all throw in a dollar twice a week and like the ad on the commercial says, ‘Hey, you never know!’”
Edmund and Woodrow had shaken their heads with amused disdain. “Duncan, that’s 104 dollars a year that you could invest in something that promises a real return.”
But Duncan was happy and in love and looking forward to seeing his Flower. “I have to play just one more time,” he said. “I just feel lucky. We play the same numbers always but take turns on selecting the Powerball on our last ticket. Tomorrow is my day to choose. My birthday is next week and I’m turning thirty-two, so that’s what I’m going to play.”
“32 huh?” Woodrow said with a grin.
“32!” Duncan crowed. He recited the rest of the numbers slowly, as if he were chanting, “5, 15, 23, 44, and 52. We’ve been playing them for years.”
“5, 15, 23, 44
and 52,” Edmund repeated slowly. “I suppose they stand for birthdays and anniversaries and street addresses.”
“Or the day someone’s tooth fell out,” Woodrow laughed heartily.
“No, not that,” Duncan laughed with him. “But the numbers 5, 15, 23, 44, and 52 do mean something to each of us.”
“So what,” Woodrow said. “We still think you’re wasting your money. I hope when we see you next time, you’ll be able to tell us that you resisted temptation.” He slapped Duncan on the back.
Now, standing alone in his little house, Duncan was anxious to talk to Flower but decided he should wait until he had calmed down. She was so sweet and kind, and so sensitive to his feelings that she would know right away by the tone of his voice that he was upset about something. And what could he tell her? That he didn’t get the bonus he expected, had invested all his savings, and now didn’t have the money to pay for her engagement ring?
Disgusted with himself, he threw down his cell phone, went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a bottle of beer. He took it into the living room, plopped down on his La-Z-Boy, leaned back, and sighed as the foot-rest rose and snapped in place. From here he had a perfect view of the picture of Flower he had taken on their first date at a restaurant on the wharf in San Francisco. When he walked in, she had been sitting with her hands folded on the table, looking out at the water. She heard him approach the table, turned, and smiled, a small sweet smile that lit up her face and Duncan’s heart.
They had started talking and never seemed to stop. With so much in common, including hippy parents, they had traded stories of falling asleep at protests, eating organic food, and changing schools numerous times when they were growing up. Flower had been named Flower because her parents worked for a landscaper. “It could be worse,” Flower had laughed. “My father wanted to name me Shrub.”
“Mom and Dad named me Duncan because they met at Dunkin’ Donuts, waiting in line for takeout coffee,” he told her. It was unbelievable to him that after such a nomadic childhood his parents were now living in an over-55 community in Florida, and enjoying bingo nights.
Dashing Through the Snow Page 2
