A Table By the Window

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Need you.”

  The light flicked on. Carley closed and shielded her eyes.

  “Sorry,” Brooke said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Migraine. Fix me some oatmeal and tea?”

  The girl took her arm. “Do I need to call Doctor Borden?”

  “No. Need…eat something.”

  She sat in the kitchen trying to keep her head level while the girl clanged about at the sink and stove. “No butter,” Carley panted. “Fats…worse.”

  Just a teaspoon first. She moved the oatmeal around in her mouth, swallowed. Little by little, she downed a half cup. If she could keep down the half-tablet of Dramamine for fifteen minutes or so, the nausea would clear, and then she could keep down the Excedrin.

  “Thanks, Brooke,” she said forty minutes later, while lying on the sofa with an ice bag at her temple.

  The girl bent over her. “Is it gone?”

  “No. But it’s bearable.”

  “You’re not gonna go to work, are you?”

  “Got to. I think it’s time to hire another hostess.” She gave the girl a weak smile. “I’ll be all right. Now, go back to bed while you can.”

  “My clock’s gonna go off in less than an hour,” Brooke said, sending a longing glance toward the computer.

  “No way. Set it back another hour and go back to bed.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing,” Carley said. “If you can’t sleep, lie there and count sheep.”

  The girl gave her an odd look. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “It’s just a saying.”

  She was able to do more than count sheep, for Carley had to rouse her to dress for work. Forty-five-degree air felt good on Carley’s face as they walked out to the car.

  “Want me to drive?” Brooke asked.

  Carley laughed in spite of the pain. “That would be a trip.”

  Brooke got in on the passenger side. “Hey, I’ve known how since I was fourteen. It’s just I can’t get my license ’til I take driver’s ed, and I figured what was the point without a car? And Mildred would have a fit if I tried to drive her truck.”

  Maybe you should give her the lessons, Carley thought. Once Brooke started college, she would need a little car too.

  Later…think later.

  At the café, she sent Brooke on in to start the tea, and went next door to the drugstore.

  Chester Templeton’s thick lenses made him resemble pictures of aliens with huge eyes. “You’ve never taken prescription medicine?”

  “I’ve tried everything…self-injections, nose sprays, everything. They work, but then a rebound headache kicks in an hour or so later. I gave up four or five years ago.”

  “Well, there you are, Miss Reed. There are better medicines on the market now.”

  And…that’s why I’m here, she thought. Short temper was a common migraine side effect.

  He smiled as if reading her thoughts and said kindly, “I’ll call Doctor Borden’s office and see if they can squeeze you in. I’m afraid he will not prescribe anything until he sees you.”

  “No, thank you,” Carley said. “I’ll call and make a Monday appointment.”

  Even though the migraine would be history by then, there was always another waiting in the wings. It was time to be proactive instead of reactive.

  “How long do they last?”

  She rubbed her temple. “Normally, less than a day. But one this fierce usually hangs on for two, three days.”

  “What are you taking now?”

  “A half-tablet of Dramamine with two Excedrin. They take away the nausea, but only dull the pain.”

  “Take a whole Dramamine tonight,” Chester suggested. “Maybe it’ll help you sleep it off.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  She slogged through the hours.

  “I can take your place,” Brooke told Carley when Tyler arrived for his shift.

  “No, thank you. Three more hours, and I’ll crash.”

  “Well, you don’t have to drive me home now. I’ll walk.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Maybe I should start riding my bike here again?”

  “Let’s talk about it later?” Carley said weakly.

  When she finally arrived at home, Brooke rose from the computer to show her a fig cake Byrle Templeton had brought over. “She said she hopes you start feeling better.”

  “That sweet lady,” Carley mumbled. She wondered idly if pharmacists were held to the same confidentiality rules as doctors. Not that she cared, in this instance.

  “Want some?” Brooke asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Milk?”

  “Um-hmm. And then I’m going to bed.”

  “I’ll light the bathroom heater.”

  “Thanks.” Carley washed the Dramamine and Excedrin down with the milk. By the time she was in her pajamas, she was yawning. From her bed she could see the pencil of light beneath the door. She had to smile. Brooke had been attentive all evening. She could just imagine the girl racing for the computer as soon as she was free.

  Sleep’s gauzy net drew her in without a struggle.

  ****

  It’s about time! Dale thought in the shadow of Mrs. Templeton’s utility shed, as the middle bedroom window next door went black. The soles of his running shoes easing into the grass, he crossed Carley’s backyard. The living room windows were dark as well.

  Not yet. He would need to give Brooke time to fall asleep, for it was logical that she was the one staying up late.

  On his way back to the shed, he wiped his nose on his sleeve. The dark sweat suit was warm enough insulation for the run over here in forty-five degree weather, but not for lurking in shadows. But he had had to dress the part, just in case anyone happened to spot him.

  And he would be running back home. After it was done.

  The shiver passing through him had nothing to do with the cold. He felt the sting of tears, and blinked. He had tried to convince himself that he was paranoid, that Brooke Kimball had not infected Carley with her suspicions, that the request to take the boat out was as innocent as Carley had tried to make it sound.

  And perhaps he could have convinced himself, had he not run into waitress Tiffany Hogan at the bank last Thursday. Obviously she had assumed that relating seeing a certain couple getting cozy at a secluded table in the Old Grist Mill would better her own chances with him. No way. Not when she could barely conceal the zeal in her eyes as she delivered the news that would break his heart.

  He allowed another half hour to pass before easing Mrs. Templeton’s ladder from her shed. The same ladder he had borrowed last year.

  Which window?

  He chided himself for not figuring that out during the long wait. But what was there to figure out? Transom windows made entering through the enclosed back porch impossible. The kitchen window was small, and he would have to clamber over the sink. He was not sure if Carley slept in the front or back bedroom.

  Living room. A good plan, anyway. Give the gas enough time to build, before it hit the stove’s pilot light.

  ****

  Bright light burned into Carley’s eyes. Noise assaulted her ears. Brooke was opening the window on the east side, flooding the bedroom with cold air.

  “Carley, get up!”

  “Why are you—”

  “Get up now!”

  The girl hopped up on the bed and got on her knees to open the front window. Carley eased up on the pillow, and Brooke grabbed her arm. “We have to go outside!”

  ****

  “What happened?” Dean Payne asked, answering his carport door in a dark terry cloth robe over striped pajama pants.

  “There’s gas leaking!” Brooke said.

  Dean looked at the door Brooke had left open. “Gas? Where did it come from?”

  “I don’t know,” Brooke said. “I woke up to answer the phone and smelled it.”

  “Who was it?” Carley asked, lifting one bare foot and then the other on the co
ld concrete.

  “Wrong number.”

  “Come on in the house while we call the utility company,” Dean said.

  Within five minutes, a truck from Mississippi Power sat behind the GL, and one from Tallulah Volunteer Fire Department was parked on the side of the street. Several porch lights were shining down Third Street, and Carley could vaguely make out the forms of neighbors standing at the ends of their driveways.

  “The gas to the living room heater was on,” said a utility worker with Larry on his pocket badge. “You’re lucky it didn’t reach the stove pilot light, or you’d both be toast by now. You must have bumped the lever?”

  Carley, with a coat she borrowed from Gayle over her pajamas and her feet warm in Dean’s socks and tennis shoes, had to take a moment to replay her actions of the evening.

  “Ma’am?” Larry said.

  “She’s on medication,” Brooke said defensively, also wearing clothes borrowed from the Paynes.

  Larry sent a meaningful glance toward the three waiting firemen. “I see.”

  Carley recognized two as customers and lifted a hand in greeting. “I don’t remember going near the heater.”

  “She didn’t,” Brooke said. “And I turned it off after I shut down the computer.”

  “What time was this?” a fireman asked.

  “About midnight.”

  “Brooke,” Carley scolded. “You’re going to work yourself sick…”

  “You think you might have accidentally turned the lever the wrong way?” Dean asked Brooke.

  “No sir. I remember turning it off.”

  “But you had to have been sleepy, right?” Larry asked.

  “Well, yes, sir.”

  Another siren sounded, closer, and then the squad car was stopping at the end of the driveway. Garland got out. “What happened?”

  After a fireman explained, Garland asked Larry, “You didn’t touch the lever, did you?”

  “Well, yeah. I had to turn it off.”

  “Yeah,” Garland sighed, and said to Carley, “I’ll need to look for signs of forced entry.”

  “Forced entry?” Carley said. “That’s impossible. Who would do this?”

  “I still have to look.”

  “We don’t lock the windows,” Brooke said. “We’re always raising and shutting them.”

  The deputy nodded understanding. This was, after all, Tallulah. “Then, I’ll check the screens.”

  Gayle came out, bearing a tray. “Would ya’ll care for hot chocolate?”

  ****

  When Carley answered the door at 8:10 in the morning, Dale walked in and rested both hands on her shoulders. “I just came on duty and blasted Garland out for not calling me.”

  “Well, there was nothing you could do,” Carley said, tightening the belt to her robe.

  “Hey, Chief Dale,” Brooke said from the kitchen doorway. “I’m making pancakes. Want some?”

  A smile diluted some of the worry on Dale’s face, “No, thank you. Good for you, smelling that gas.”

  “Thank you,” she said, sending him a smile before returning to the stove.

  Dale gave Carley an incredulous look, mouthed the word, Wow.

  Then he got down to the bad news. “I called Greyhound. Brad evidently got off the bus somewhere between here and Jackson Tuesday, because he didn’t make the transfer. I called his dad up in Little Rock and got the machine, so I left a message.”

  “Why didn’t he call, when Brad didn’t get off the bus Tuesday night? Or didn’t his mother call up there to see if he arrived?”

  “I don’t know, Carley,” Dale admitted. “The boy was furious when his mother wouldn’t bail him out of jail, and anyway, we’re not talking about the Parents of the Year. Marti’s coming in a little while to dust the outsides of your windows for prints. If it was Brad, I don’t expect to find anything. He was clever enough to wear gloves that time he broke into a house. If I hadn’t seen his flashlight in a window during my rounds, I probably wouldn’t have caught him.”

  “So, he just gets away with it?”

  “Well, we’re still at the if stage. I’ve already put out a statewide all-points bulletin on him, and naturally we’re looking here. But you see? This might be coincidence. He could be hitchhiking to Las Vegas this very minute. Brooke could have accidentally bumped the lever. According to Garland’s report, it was late when she turned off the heater, and she had gotten up early with you the previous morning.”

  Faced with such logic, Carley could only nod. They might never learn what happened. But at least she took comfort in the fact that Dale was taking charge of the situation.

  Chapter 33

  Carley taped a sign—Now Hiring Waiter or Waitress. Inquire Within—to a corner of the café window on Saturday, October 18. Rather than hire a hostess, she had decided to have Danyell and Paula rotate hostessing and waiting tables on a weekly basis. Both had great rapport with customers. She would have more time for the paperwork and would still be able to oversee the dining room without the pressure of being tied to the counter.

  But she would still be tied to the bathroom stalls, for it was only expedient that she be the one to continue the checks and cleanings.

  Three women and one young man came in to ask for applications. If none impressed her during interviews this coming Monday, she would take that as a sign that she should continue hosting for a while.

  Not a bad problem to have. Looking over the dining room of her own café, she prayed, God, you’re so good! Could she ever have imagined that she could be so happy?

  Sunday was the one-year anniversary of her grandmother’s death. There was no grave to visit, but Carley had ordered a bouquet of daisies, chrysanthemums, alstroemeria, bells of Ireland, and baby’s breath for the podium of Grace Community Church. After the worship service, she and Brooke followed the Hudsons to their house, where Uncle Rory had a roast waiting in the oven.

  Beef, not venison.

  The Kemps arrived twenty minutes later, when the table was set and tea glasses iced. Everyone, even Blake, was in a quiet mood as befitting the significance of the day. After lunch Patrick, recently shed of his braces, and Brooke played checkers. There was no hint of a romance between the two, even though Tara had recently dumped Patrick for a football linebacker. It was good for Brooke to learn that she could simply be friends with a boy, Carley thought.

  Dale stopped by the house Monday morning to tell her that Brad Travis had finally contacted his dad after linking up with a cousin in Las Vegas. Peeling a banana at the table, he said, “It could conceivably take six days to hitchhike to Las Vegas, especially when you look like a hoodlum. But if he hustled, he would have had time to come back here for one last bit of revenge.”

  Carley spread some of Uncle Rory’s muscadine jelly on her toast. “So, what does all that mean?”

  He sighed, pulled a string from the banana pulp, and placed it on a paper napkin. “Well, we didn’t find any of his fingerprints, as expected, and no one here has seen him since I drove him to the bus station. We can bring him back here for questioning if you like, but I’d be tempted to keep this on the back burner until we uncover some concrete evidence. If we found no cause to hold him, he would be right back here among us, and might decide to stay this time.”

  Carley shuddered. “No. Let’s do it your way. I’m sure Brooke will agree.”

  “Pity we don’t have the very latest fingerprinting technique yet. I’m going up to Jackson next month for a presentation of crime-detecting equipment. For example, there’s a nanoparticle dust being developed in England, that’s drawn like a magnet to even the tiniest traces of oil, even through latex gloves.”

  “Interesting,” Carley said after a bite of toast.

  He gave her a dry smile. “I’d be more interested if they hadn’t scheduled it the same day as the Tulane game. There’s no way it’ll be over by two, and then there’s still the drive.”

  Brooke came out of her room, tilting her head to insert an earring. She w
as dressed for shopping, in jeans and a short-sleeved coral top appropriate for the mid-eighties temperature expected today. Her brown leather purse hung from her shoulder by a narrow strap.

  “Hi, Chief Dale.”

  “Hi, Brooke.”

  “Can you sit a minute?” Carley asked. “Dale has some information about Brad.”

  “I heard in my room. That’s fine with me, waiting.” The girl took a glass from the cabinet and opened the refrigerator. Holding out the carton of Minute Maid, she said, “Juice?”

  “No, thank you,” Carley and Dale answered in unison.

  A horn honked. Brooke chugged down the glass and laid it in the sink. “Okay if I leave?”

  “Go on,” Carley said. “And remember to get the iron. Make sure it has a clear water-level gauge.”

  “Okay, see you!”

  The front door closed behind her, and the sounds of her footfalls faded.

  “My iron died,” Carley said. “I bought it when I started college, so I guess it served its time.”

  Dale smiled. “You were one hundred percent right.”

  “Well, thank you. But anyone could tell it was broken. It wouldn’t heat.”

  “No, silly. About Brooke.”

  Returning his smile, Carley said, “I knew what you meant. And thank you. But Brooke had more to do with that, than my simply being right.”

  “Who’s taking her shopping? Miz Hudson?”

  “No, Mildred Tanner. Wednesday is Mr. Kimball’s birthday, and they’re going in together for a television for his bedroom.”

  This time it was Dale who shuddered. “I’d rather be tortured than sit in a closed car with that woman. Not only the body odor, but that mouth…”

  “I’ve only seen her from a distance. She and Brooke aren’t close, but I guess they need each other on this project.”

  ****

  November wafted in on cool breezes that coaxed leaves wearing their most splendid colors—red dogwood, tan oak, brown hickory, and yellow sweet gum—to loosen their grips and sail.

  At Annabel Lee Café, the month got off to a bumpy start, brought on by Carley’s hiring Dana Hughs as the replacement waitress with no other qualification than that she was Paula’s second cousin. New employees were expected to make mistakes, but she took out her frustration on customers who complained about order mix-ups. Pep talks in the office boosted Dana’s productivity and attitude for only an hour or so.