A Table By the Window

by Lawana Blackwell

On cue, his wife returned, perching cup and saucer on the edge of the desk. Carley thanked her and moved both to her left.

  “You’re left-handed?” Mr. Malone said.

  “Yes.”

  “So am I.”

  Loretta groaned. “You’re not going to give the poor girl the speech, are you, Stanley?”

  “Of course not,” the attorney replied, but the disappointment in his expression betrayed that he had been poised to do that very thing.

  “What speech?” Carley asked.

  Sending his wife a glance laden with reproach and apology, he said, “It’s simply a documented fact that we lefties lose an average of seven years of our lives, just because of the frustrations of living in a world geared to righties.”

  “Tell that to your Grandpa Malone,” Loretta said. “Ninety years old and still mows his own lawn.”

  “But has he ever tried to use a pair of scissors?” Carley asked. “Or a manual can opener?”

  “There you go!” the attorney chortled, and Loretta even smiled.

  Carley decided she liked Mr. Malone as well. It took her a little longer with older men, for childhood had left her with a thick streak of cynicism. But even the horror months with Huey Collins had not quenched the longing for a father, which had been with her for as long as she could remember.

  When Mr. Malone asked Loretta for one of the Realtor’s cards, she offered to go ahead and make the appointment. Through the door came the squeak of a chair and, presently, her barely audible voice. Stanley passed a fee sheet across his desk, showing the hours he had worked for the estate, and payments made to Mr. Wingate, an insurance company for homeowner’s insurance, and Lockwood Funeral Home.

  “That last statement is so high because they shipped Miz Walker’s body up to Washington after the memorial service, to be buried alongside her husband. He had a prearranged policy, so there’s no bill from up there.”

  “I see.” Carley stifled the surge of disappointment by telling herself that the memory she would carry back to California would be of where her grandmother had actually spent the last four years of her life, rather than of a headstone.

  “You okay?” the attorney asked, studying her.

  “Yes.”

  He nodded and continued. “There is no inheritance tax in Mississippi on estates less than a million dollars. Combined, everything reduces the cash portion of your estate to one hundred and thirty-nine thousand, seven hundred and thirty-three dollars.” He smiled. “And six cents.”

  Carley shook her head in wonder. “And I was hoping for enough to pay off my student loan and credit card.”

  “I gather it’s enough to do that?”

  “Way more.”

  “Well, you’ll still want to check those figures yourself. I’ll give you a calculator and a little privacy.”

  “I’m sure they’re accurate,” Carley said.

  “Never assume anything when you’re dealing with finances, Miss Reed,” he advised, pushing out his chair. “Money can bring out the worst—in people you would never suspect.”

  Chapter 5

  “Is it all right if Kay Chapman comes by the house at nine in the morning?” Loretta asked after Carley signed the papers.

  “That’s fine, thank you.”

  “Very good. Let’s take my car to your new house, and I’ll bring you back for yours later.”

  Loretta steered the Town Car on what she called the back way, toward the school, then south, followed by another right turn onto Third Street. She turned into the driveway of the third house on the right, sending a trio of squirrels scattering. Carley stepped out of the car.

  The house was white frame with forest green shutters. Concrete steps rose to the left side of the covered porch, flanked by two iron pots of winter-blooming yellow daffodils. Above the steps was a white door with long glass panels on either side and a transom overhead. At the right end of the porch, a wooden swing hung by chains, faced sideways in front of a window.

  A delightful aroma wafted Carley’s way. She drew in a lungful and turned to Loretta.

  “Sweet olive,” Loretta said before she could ask. She nodded toward a tall green shrub with tiny white blossoms between the driveway and house. “They bloom in winter, and folks plant them by their porches because they smell so good. By the way, the Paynes live there on your left. Stanley gave them a key and asked them to keep an eye on the house. They refused payment out of respect for your grandmother.”

  Carley looked at the two-story pale green wooden house, the empty driveway parallel to hers. “How kind. I’ll be sure to thank them.”

  On the porch, Loretta unlocked the door and handed Carley a ring with two identical keys attached. She smiled. “You first.”

  “All right.” Carley stepped into a long living room with braided rug on a hardwood floor, blue toile print sofa and wing chairs heaped with pillows, a coffee table and two end tables with lamps. Floral prints decorated ten-feet-high buttery yellow walls.

  Loretta, coming in behind her, flicked on the light switch. “Good. I called the utility company yesterday. You should have gas and water too.”

  “How thoughtful of you.”

  “That’s the beauty of small-town living. But I’m afraid the telephone goes through Hattiesburg. They can’t turn it back on until next week, so I said never mind. All you young girls have cell phones anyway.”

  “Actually, I don’t,” Carley said, smiling at the “young girl” reference. A cell phone was one of those expenses she could not justify in the past, not with debts still hanging over her. “But I’m sure there are pay phones?”

  “In the library. And you’re welcome to come to the office and use ours.” Loretta ran a finger through the dust on an end table. “That’s what happens when a house sits empty. I’ll give you the number for my cleaning service if you like.”

  “I kind of enjoy dusting.”

  “Then you’ll have a good time.” She motioned to a brown space heater sitting out a bit from the back wall. “We have more cold weather coming. Do you know how to light them?”

  Carley was vaguely familiar with their workings, for a couple of the houses her mother had rented had had them. “I think so.”

  “I’ll just refresh your memory before we leave. I’m sure there are matches in the kitchen. The piano must have sat between the windows. Mrs. Walker left it to the senior citizen center. That’s where her television went too.”

  They meandered about the house. Leading off the living room was a bedroom with a black iron bedstead, a chair upholstered in sage green, and a chest of drawers.

  Beyond that door, a short hallway ended at a bathroom, with doors on each adjacent side. The room to Carley’s right had no bed, just a long table, a wooden chair, and tall piece of furniture with drawers and a mirrored door. “That’s a chifforobe,” Loretta said. “They’re very sought after by antique collectors. This was probably Mrs. Walker’s sewing room. I do recall that the serger machine went to Mrs. Hudson.”

  Through the open doorway of the opposite bedroom, Carley looked at the afghan folded over a quilt at the foot of a cream-colored iron bedstead. A hairbrush and bottle of Jergens lotion sat upon an old bowfront dresser with round mirror. Goose bumps prickling her arms, she turned and walked back down the hall with Loretta following.

  Against the back wall of the living room, an open arched doorway led to a kitchen three times as roomy as the one in Carley’s apartment. The refrigerator doors were propped open with a broom. Loretta helped Carley roll it out so that she could plug it in.

  “The china cabinet must have gone here,” Loretta said of the empty space beside it. That went to Sherry.”

  “Sherry?”

  “I forgot, you’re still learning who everyone is. Sherry Kemp is Mrs. Hudson’s youngest daughter. I’m not sure how many other children there are.” She twisted the cold water faucet. After a sputtering noise, water ran from the tap. “Good. But you’ll need to leave it dripping during nights when the weather’s below
freezing. I noticed a thermometer on a porch post.”

  “Dripping?” Carley joined her at the sink.

  “Just enough to keep it moving.” She turned the cold water so that a long drip plopped from the tap every half second or so. “Most frame houses have exposed pipes. They’re probably wrapped, but even so, you don’t want to take a chance on their freezing and bursting.”

  Beyond the kitchen was a wide sunny room housing a sagging sofa and chair of faded green velveteen, and a washer and dryer. Carley was looking out the back window when she heard, “Come see, Carley.”

  She followed the voice to her grandmother’s bedroom. Loretta stood in front of a chest of drawers against the near wall, out of sight range from the hall. Three photographs in identical silver frames were arranged on an embroidered scarf. Loretta handed her one of two white-haired women with arms linked, standing in front of a shop window. One woman smiled as if on the verge of laughter, the other smiled only with her eyes, as if struggling to maintain decorum for the photographer.

  “This is your grandmother,” Loretta said, tapping the glass over the more serious-looking woman.

  “Really? And my Aunt Helen with her?”

  “It is indeed.”

  The framed portrait in the center was of an older man with strong chin and eyeglasses. “He must be my grandfather.”

  “Hmm. Probably so.” Loretta took it from her and handed her the last frame. “Look at this one.”

  Linda, smiling and beautiful, stood beside a mechanical horse as she held an unsure-looking red-haired child in the saddle. Tears stung Carley’s eyes.

  Loretta patted her shoulder. “This isn’t the one Mrs. Walker brought to the office. Would you like me to help you look for more?”

  As tempting as it was, Carley had a more pressing wish. “Thank you, but I’ve kept you here long enough. But do you think you could show me where to find my aunt before we go back for my car?”

  “Why, of course,” Loretta said. “I have all the time in the world. That’s the beauty of having your own husband for your boss.”

  Auld Lang Syne Antiques sat shoulder to shoulder with The Katydid and Three Sisters Antiques, on the west side of Main Street between Second and Third Streets. A bell tinkled softly over the door as Carley followed Loretta inside. Shelves and glass-fronted cases displayed everything from ironware to wooden bowls, depression glass to pottery, toys to silverware. They gave off faintly musty aromas mingled, appropriately, with that of potpourri. At the counter, an angular-faced woman with chestnut hair was wrapping tissue around a bowl and pitcher for a woman wearing a cranberry-colored cloak.

  “Pam Lipscomb,” Loretta whispered of the woman behind the counter. “Works for Mrs. Hudson. Her daughter’s in Iraq, bless her heart.”

  “Miss Helen?” Pam said over her shoulder.

  A curtain moved to the side and a woman of about seventy came through a door carrying a box. “This should do it, Pam.”

  “We have more customers.”

  “Oh.” The woman handed her assistant the box, looked up, and went stone-still.

  “Hi, Mrs. Hudson,” Loretta said, gently nudging Carley forward. “This is Carley.”

  The customer turned with bemused expression as Carley’s great-aunt hurried around the counter and opened her arms. “Oh, goodness, child!”

  “It’s good to meet you, Aunt Helen,” Carley said, caught off guard by the embrace.

  “And it’s wonderful to meet you.” Aunt Helen’s silvery hair smelled of a fresh perm, her shoulders of Estée Lauder’s White Linen. “What I wouldn’t give to have Cordelia here!”

  “I’m sorry I never…”

  “Shush now. None of that.” She stepped back a bit, holding Carley at arm’s length. She was full-figured, an inch or so taller than Carley, and wore a black wool sweater and gray skirt that stopped between calf and ankles. Below the tear-lustered hazel eyes, her soft cheeks were faintly rouged. Pearl earrings clasped her earlobes.

  “Aren’t you pretty as a picture!” she exclaimed. In spite of the “shush,” her voice bore no trace of a Southern accent. It had a strained texture that sometimes comes with age, but was nonetheless pleasing to the ears.

  “Mr. Malone said you talked Grandmother into looking for me. Thank you for that.”

  “Oh, but it didn’t take much talking, child.”

  It was as if a piece of the hodgepodge puzzle that had made up Carley’s life so far snapped into place. She had a history extending beyond Linda. And perhaps it was a good history after all. Her happiness mingled with sadness…over what might have been. But this was not the time for rumination. Not with her aunt’s arm around her shoulders.

  “Will you be comfortable in the house?” Aunt Helen asked. “Because you’re more than welcome to stay with us.”

  Carley had to think about that one. The oddness of staying in an unfamiliar house where her grandmother had died, versus a home that would surely be as warm and hospitable as was her aunt. But for over a week?

  She had only one experience as a houseguest. During her first year on staff at Sacramento High, co-worker Diane Paxton invited her to share Easter vacation in her parents’ rustic cabin near Lake Tahoe. The Paxtons were lovely people, but the lone bathroom was an add-on—right off the living room, with a two-inch gap at the bottom of the door. Evenings trips to the bathroom were torture, with six people sitting about a Monopoly board and no TV set to provide background noise and at least the illusion of privacy.

  That would probably not be a problem at Aunt Helen’s. But what if her husband smoked? She could not afford to spend a couple of days in bed because of a migraine. And once she accepted, she would be locked in for the remainder of her visit. It seemed safer just to thank her and say, “I’ll get more work done at the house if I just stay there.”

  “I understand,” Aunt Helen said.

  The bell jingled. Two women entered, chatting. Aunt Helen excused herself and went over to greet them. Loretta nodded at Carley as if to say, Perhaps we should leave?

  Carley nodded back. As the women started browsing shelves, Aunt Helen returned to invite her for supper the next day. “I wish we could tonight, but Patrick—our grandson—has an away game in Purvis. You’re more than welcome to come with us.”

  “Thank you, but tomorrow would be great,” Carley said. “I can take my time unpacking and make some plans.”

  “Of course. I’ll just come for you after I close up shop.”

  “How about if I just drive myself? Then no one has to bring me home.”

  Which meant she could leave as soon as politely possible if the evening proved a disappointment. But she hoped that would not happen.

  Aunt Helen showed no offense, and took a business card and pen from the counter. “I’ll write my address on the back.”

  “Why don’t I just show her?” Loretta offered. “I have to drive her over to the office anyway.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Aunt Helen said, but still handed Carley the card. “Just in case you get lost, dear.”

  A person would have to have no sense of direction whatsoever for that to happen in this town, but it was nice to be fussed over. Loretta drove back up to Fifth Street and took a left in front of an ice-cream-cone-shaped sign that read The Sweet Tooth in front of a white shop. Four houses down, Aunt Helen’s was tan brick with white shutters and doors. A black Dodge Ram pickup truck occupied a space in the double carport.

  “Mr. Hudson’s home,” Loretta said, turning the Town Car into the driveway. “Would you like me to introduce you?”

  “May we not?” Carley said. “I’d rather wait until Aunt Helen is here.”

  “I understand.” As Loretta backed out the car and nosed it toward Main Street, a yellow sedan came from that direction. The woman behind the wheel and Loretta exchanged waves.

  “Do you know everyone in town?” Carley asked.

  “Just about.”

  “That must be nice.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Loretta sa
id, stopping at the stop sign and looking in both directions. A pickup truck advanced from the north, a red Volkswagen from the south, so she waited. “Most times it is. But with Stanley being the only attorney in town, that’s not always nice. Shared inheritances sometimes bring out the worst in people.”

  “Does he only handle wills and real estate closings?”

  “Goodness no. He does it all, even criminal defense. Thankfully, we have so little crime that he hardly ever sees the courtroom.” She sighed. “But there are the few rotten apples. A few years ago a minister’s wife, Gwen Stillman, who served on the Keep Tallulah Beautiful committee with me, was picking up litter in front of their church when someone in a car hit her and kept on going. Her baby girl was sitting in a stroller just a few feet away…”

  Her voice trailed to silence as she pressed the gas pedal to cross Main Street.

  “I saw the poster in Corner Diner,” Carley said.

  “They’re all over town. People take this very personally. After all this time, it doesn’t look like even Dale will solve this one. It had to have been someone passing through, someone who knows to stay clear of here.”

  Before Carley could ask, Loretta looked at her and said, “Forgive me. Dale Parker is our chief of police and statewide hero. He brought in the Highway 98 serial killer seven years ago. You’re probably too young to remember, but it was all over the national news.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t watch much news when I was younger.” At eighteen, schooling and work had dominated Carley’s life.

  “Warren Knap is his name.” Loretta pulled up in the driveway of the law office, switched off the key. “He was from Tylertown, mind you. Not here. And his current residence is Parchman Prison. He killed four women in five years; three in their houses after following them from businesses along the highway, and another in the woods after she ran out of gas. He left a McComb church secretary for dead with ten stab wounds, but she recovered after weeks in critical care.”

  “How was he caught?” Carley asked.

  “Dale was just a rookie policeman in Hattiesburg—it’s a college town thirty miles southeast of here. He recognized the suspect in Shoney’s, even though the composite sketches weren’t all that detailed, and the man was wearing a toupee. Anyway, after Dale brought him in, he could have been elected governor of Mississippi. He was given the Police Medal of Honor and thirty-thousand dollars in award money. Our chief of police was retiring, and so our Board of Aldermen offered him the position.”