by Cathy Ace
“Are you alright?” Bud asked Ellen. She was clearly shaken, but uninjured, it seemed.
The truck was lying in the ditch at an angle of about twenty degrees, with Bud’s door facing the ground. He opened it, but I could see he wouldn’t be able to push it far enough to get out that way. I felt for my buckle, popped it, and grabbed the little white purse that had slithered across the seat—my phone was in it. I managed to push open my door, up into the air, and I wiggled up and out.
I finally made it to the ground. “Stay there, I’m going to see if I can help,” I shouted at Ellen and Bud.
I heard Bud yelling back, “No,” as I ran toward the blazing car.
But there was nothing I could do. It was quite obvious that the two figures in the car were beyond help. The whole thing was ablaze. I just stood there, numb. Fighting back the tears and rage, I felt so totally and utterly useless. Then I gave in, and let the emotion wash over me.
I remembered the phone call I’d received about my parents’ accident—word for word, pause for pause, sob for sob. I remembered the trip back to Wales from Canada, to make the arrangements; the funeral, the hymn singing, the smell and feel of damp in the church; the crematorium, the softness of the vicar’s hand shaking mine. Then there was the reception, the warm sandwiches, the smell of flowers dying in vases. My sister Sian’s uncontrollable crying. Our hugs, our shared sense of loss, the smell of the photo albums as we’d sorted through them and divided up the photographs. I don’t usually let myself relive it all. Too painful. Now, I couldn’t stop myself.
Finally, I dragged myself back to reality. Poor Gordy and Marlene. How awful. They were such lovely people, so full of life. I hoped they’d died instantly, before the explosion or the flames, and wondered why they would have had an accident there, on a corner they must have driven around so many times over the years. Then I remembered the puddle of yuk on the road I’d side-stepped back at the MacMillans.
Oh Lord—brake fluid!
Tea and Brandy
MY VISUALIZATION OF BRAKE FLUID on the roadside was interrupted by the screeching arrival of Colin MacMillan on his bicycle. He took in the scene from beneath his lime-green cycling helmet, open-mouthed. Turning to me, horror-stricken, he mumbled, “I heard the bang. The explosion. I thought it was you.” He was clearly distraught.
“No, we’re all fine,” I managed, still crying. “Ellen says it’s the Wisers’ car?”
Colin nodded. “I’ll call 911,” he said, pulling his cell phone from his pocket.
“No—I’ll do that. Could you see if you can help Ellen out of the truck? I’m too short.”
“Sure,” he nodded. He picked up his bike, and laid it carefully on the side of the road.
I made the call—why didn’t I stuff a hanky into this damned stupid little purse?—and Colin managed to get Ellen out of her truck. He helped haul Bud out, too.
The next half-hour was a blur of sirens, paramedics, police, and a creeping sense of the tragedy that we’d witnessed. I told a young officer about the brake fluid I’d seen back at the MacMillans’ house, and he noted it, looking concerned. I didn’t go into the whole Annette Newman/Stacey Willow thing. Everything seemed to be moving at half speed, me included, and I suspected that the three of us who’d been in the truck were feeling the effects of shock. Luckily, none of us had sustained any injuries, which was something of a miracle, given the broken windshield, if nothing else.
Pat Corrigan arrived on the scene in his car: the sirens had alerted him to the fact that something wasn’t right, and he’d driven down from Anen House to see if he could help.
The fire had been doused, the road was cordoned off, and the medics were done with us, as were the police—for the time being—so we were allowed to leave. Colin headed homeward on his trusty metal steed, and Pat drove us back to the B&B, where Lauren was anxiously hovering on the front doorstep.
She ushered us into the house, then settled us in the lounge. I could hear Pat explaining what had happened. It still didn’t seem real. We’d only left the MacMillans’ lunch about forty-five minutes earlier. It was all so fast. So . . . final.
Lauren brought a pot of tea and three brandies. There wasn’t much talk, just a general numbness. We all drank the tea. I drank my brandy first.
“We’ll host the wake here, of course,” announced Pat, breaking the gloomy mood, “if that’s okay with you, Ellen?”
Ellen nodded. She studied her still-full brandy glass.
“Sure we will,” agreed Lauren. “No two people were more full of life. It’ll be a grand party. A big one. Such long, loving lives. There’ll be a lot of folks that’ll be wanting a last knees-up with Gordy and Marlene.”
It might seem to be an odd way to think of it, but I totally get the Irish thing of wanting to celebrate lives, not cry over death. I think it’s a great idea—it’s even psychologically sound. The thought of a party reminded me about the dinner we were due to attend at SoulVine Wines that night.
“Do you think the dinner tonight will go ahead?” I asked. Somebody had to.
“How about I call the Souls and find out?” suggested Lauren. She certainly came into her own when there was someone to fuss over. Ellen nodded. Lauren left the room.
We were still all sitting there, silently, when she returned. “Well, bad news travels fast. They know all about the Wisers and they’re going ahead. Serendipity says that everything’ll go to waste otherwise, and Sammy Soul thinks it’s the best way to honor two fun-loving people, and I cannot disagree with him.”
We all half nodded. Lauren was in her element. “Now listen up, you three. You’ve all had a terrible shock, so this is what I suggest. Pat, you’ll drive Ellen home. It’ll be a while before that truck of yours is on the road again, Ellen, so you should get off to your own place, have a long, hot shower, or a bath even, and get yourself ready for the evening. Bud, Cait, you should do the same. Pop up to your rooms, why don’t you, and get relaxed. Clean yourselves up, then maybe have a bit of a nap. You don’t have to be there until eight, so you’ve plenty of time. Right. Come on with you all, let’s be moving and doing.” She clapped her hands, and we all seemed to snap out of our stupor.
She was right, of course. Sitting about wasn’t going to help at all, and the thought of a soak in the bath upstairs was very appealing. We all did as we’d been told. Bud and I hugged each other, for a long time, at the top of the stairs, before agreeing we were each headed for our own bath.
“You okay?” he asked, as I turned to go. “Really okay?”
I nodded. “I had a bit of a thing back there. About Mum and Dad. It brought it all back.”
He pulled me back into his arms again. “I did wonder,” he whispered.
I nodded. I pulled back, recalling what Bud had said at the lunch. “What was it that Ray and Gloria told you about the Wisers? Something to do with Annette?”
Bud looked puzzled. His expression changed. “Oh, right. They’d mentioned to Ray and Gloria, when they were having lunch down at Faceting for Life one day, that they’d taken it upon themselves to collect Annette’s mail and they’d put it in the old apple store with all her other stuff. Apparently, Colin was right: that’s where all her things are, and all her mail, it seems.”
I nodded. “And that’s it?” I said, somewhat underwhelmed.
Bud nodded. “Okay then, Miss—how about we both go and get cleaned up and sorted out, eh? Give ourselves an hour or two to relax and rejuvenate? At least we have a bath each to use.” He smiled, but he looked tired.
“Right-o. See you in a while.” We squeezed each other’s hands as we separated and went to our own rooms.
Once inside, I stripped off Ellen’s mother’s dress, and dropped it onto the slipper chair in the corner of my room. I hoped that the sound of the running bathwater, and the warmth of the billowing steam, would begin to ease my sadness. It didn’t. I cleaned off the bits of makeup that had mingled with smuts of ash on my face, washed my hair, wrapped it in a fluffy towel an
d soaked in the deep bathtub for the next ten minutes, trying not to think of anything. Trying to not remember.
Puckered fingertips told me it was time to get out of the bath, dry off, and sort out my hair. Then I lay on my bed in my waffled robe staring out at the still glittering lake. The permanence of nature, the frailty of life. I shook my head. It was no good, I wasn’t going to be able to catch a nap. I looked at the clock: 4:55. I got up, pulled on the pants and shirt I’d planned to wear to breakfast the next day, and padded over to Bud’s room.
I knocked. No answer. I opened the door quietly, and there he was, in his waffly robe, sleeping like a child on top of his bed, flat on his back with his hands curled like otter paws. He looked adorable. I didn’t want to disturb him. I closed his door as silently as I could, went back to my own room, grabbed a pair of flats and my purse, and tiptoed downstairs, where I headed to the kitchen in search of a Corrigan.
“Hey, you’re looking a bit better,” said Lauren as she looked up from the bowl in which she was mixing something yellow and creamy.
“I feel it,” I replied, smiling. “Thanks for everything. You’re great in a crisis. A bath was just what I needed, though I’m pretty restless now.”
“That’ll be the shock,” she observed knowingly. “Funny thing, shock. My mother was a nurse. Often talked about shock, she did. And it’s come in handy at last.”
“I wondered if you could help some more?” I asked.
“Sure thing, what’s it to be?” Lauren wiped her hands on her full-body apron.
“There’s an old apple store, behind the hill?” Lauren nodded. “Is it locked do you know?” I guessed it was. “Do you have a key?”
“To be sure it is, and we do, though why you’d be wanting to tramp down there I don’t know.” She walked over to a small cupboard on the wall. Inside were two rows of hooks, six of which had keys hanging on them. She pulled off a single big, iron key, which she handed to me.
“Ellen’s stored all of Annette’s belongings there, and she said I could take a look at them,” I lied.
Lauren shrugged. “Do you know where you’re going?” I shook my head. “Go out the back door, past our place, then there’s a path that’ll take you there. It’s only about ten minutes away, and it’s quite well done up—you know, a few lightbulbs, power, and so on. Though that old lock might take some work. It’s one heck of a key, to be sure. I haven’t seen one like that before. Big enough for you?” She laughed. The key was about six inches long, and its shaft seemed to have been welded into a huge old iron doorknob. I wondered how big the lock would be!
“Thanks, Lauren,” I said, heading to the back door. “I won’t be long. Tell Bud where I’ve gone, and I’ll be back by seven—that’ll give me half an hour to sort myself out before I leave. You know, put a bit of slap on the old mug?”
“You Welsh! Always putting yourselves down, you are. You should be more like us Irish and revel in the beauty God gave you!”
“I did when I was your age, Lauren, but just you wait and see how you feel about makeup when you’re forty-seven, not around thirty. You’re young yet—enjoy the collagen while you’ve got it!” I called back as I left, and I chuckled as I headed out past the double-wide, which looked very homey, and found the path Lauren had described.
The path wasn’t wide, but at least I was going down it, not climbing up. Unfortunately, that meant I had to look down the steep incline. I focused on my feet, which was a shame, because it was still such a beautiful day, though there wasn’t much warmth left in the sun and a few clouds were starting to bubble up in the west. I really didn’t know what I hoped to find at the apple store. While I didn’t know what it would look like, it was quite clear that I’d reached it when I got there. It was something like an old log cabin built onto the side of the hill, with a spacious, flat area in front of it, and a wide, if rugged, track leading down the remainder of the hillside. The structure itself had no windows, just one large door, covered with an iron gate. An old iron padlock secured a bolt to a big metal plate that was set off to one side of the doorway. The padlock was massive.
Come on, Cait, don’t hang about, I told myself, so I pushed the key into the lock. It turned easily and the lock fell open. I pulled it off, slid back the metal bolt it had been holding, and popped the padlock back onto the U-shaped hook on the end of the bolt for safe-keeping. I pushed the key into my purse and pulled open the heavy gate. It made soft, metallic scraping sounds as it swung open, but there didn’t seem to be any problems with the hinges. The wooden door itself wasn’t locked, it just had a thumb-lever latch, which was also in good working order. I stepped into the cabin and felt the cool, dry air inside. The place still smelled of apples. Lovely.
As the light from the northern sky fell onto the smooth dirt floor ahead of me, I allowed my eyes to adjust to the dimness, then looked around for a light switch. Stupid! Just ahead of me a light bulb attached to a simple wire had a little chain hanging down beside it. I pulled the chain, and the bulb lit. I repeated this three times as I walked further into the cave part of the apple store. Ellen’s father had been very clever. He’d managed to turn a natural depression in the cliff face into a wonderful storage space about forty feet deep, including the ten feet or so of the cabin, and at least forty feet wide. It was big, airy, and very dry. Ideal for apples. The wooden door swung itself shut, but I patted the heavy key in my purse and looked around.
The scene was reminiscent of what we’d seen at Ellen’s apartment—row upon row of stacked plastic storage boxes, each bearing a label. At one end there was a bit of a jumble and some pieces of furniture, so I headed there first.
A small wooden cabinet caught my eye, upon which there sat a plastic box, filled with mail. Annette’s mail, delivered here by the Wisers. I picked up the box and realized it was standing not on a simple cabinet, but on a wind-up gramophone player. I couldn’t resist! Recalling my grandmother’s old machine, which I was never allowed to play, I opened the little cupboard door in the front of the cabinet to reveal a stack of hard, black 78 rpm records in tattered paper jackets. I enjoyed feeling their considerable weight in my hands. Just like Gramma Morgan’s!
I pulled the “Moonlight Sonata” from its cover, and wound the handle. I placed the record on the bed, worked out how to lift and swivel the needle-holding arm, and set the record in motion. As I lay the needle onto the spinning disk, a rasping sound, interspersed with clicks, echoed around the apple store, then the long-dead fingers of Paderewski beckoned me to join him on a magical journey. By the time the needle was bumping around in the center of the disk, I was crying my eyes out. It’s been an emotional day, and Beethoven’s nothing if not cathartic, I told myself.
I scrabbled around in my purse for a hanky. Of course I didn’t have one—note to self, must pack hankies in purse—so I used my sleeve. Not pleasant, but necessary. I set about finding my specs and began wading through Annette’s mail. A lot of it was rubbish—Why would the Wisers bother bringing that here to store? Some was clearly from institutions I guessed Ellen was now dealing with on behalf of her dead sister, and there was one very intriguing, boxy package. It had been opened. The sender’s address was in Newfoundland, and it had been delivered by courier, not Canada Post. I knew what it was before I looked inside. It had to be the James Sandy snuff box.
My fingers trembled as I opened the end of the package that had already been split apart. Inside the outer box was a fat roll of bubble-wrap, which, uncurled, revealed a green velvet pouch. I could feel the snuff box inside, but I hardly dared open it. Finally, I took the little treasure out of its soft envelope. It sat easily in the palm of my hand and was exquisitely plain, except for the signature which had been, so the story goes,, burned into the wood with a hot iron nail. James Sandy.
I opened the lid, which moved easily and showed a hinge and a liner without a single dent or abrasion. It was as close to perfect as a used item could be. I peered into the packaging again, and found a cardboard and plastic wallet.
Inside, protected against the elements, was a letter written in spidery copperplate that was difficult to read in the dimness of the apple store. I could at least tell that the signature, James Sandy, was the same as on the snuff box. Wow! Grail indeed!
I wondered how much Annette had paid to be the proud owner of a box she’d dreamed about, and I read through the copy of the paperwork that bore the logo of the courier company that had delivered it. Then it dawned on me—someone must have signed for this package. The courier wouldn’t have just left something this valuable on the doorstep. The date of delivery was two days after Annette had died. The signature on the paperwork was Annette’s. Annette’s! Exactly the same as I’d seen on the suicide note. Exactly the same as on her will. And exactly the same as the facsimile of Annette’s signature that Ellen had shown me on the artwork for the wine label.
How could Annette have signed for a package two days after she was dead?
This is important! I’ll talk to Bud about it.
I looked at my watch. Six o’clock. I couldn’t dawdle! I picked up the snuff box and put it back into all of its packaging, shoved it and the signed receipt into my purse—just as well it’s as big as it is!—turned out the light as I went, then pulled open the big wooden door. The metal-barred gate had swung shut, so I pushed it outwards. It wasn’t budging. I pushed again. I turned the light nearest the door back on again, and tried to peer out, but I could only fit my nose between the metal bars. I rattled the gate. Nothing. How on earth has it got stuck?
“Hello?” I shouted. “Anybody there?” Don’t be stupid, Cait! Of course there’s no one there!
I rooted around in my purse for my cell phone. I’ll call Bud. He’ll come and help me. My cell phone wasn’t to be found. I dumped the entire contents of my purse onto the floor of the apple store and spread everything out. It wasn’t there.
You stupid woman! It’s still in that little white purse you took to lunch!
