by E. Joan Sims
“Pinky swear, Cass,” I warned.
“So where does the money come from, you think?”
“What money?” For a minute I was confounded. Had I missed something?
“The money Huntley, or Andrew is using to finance Mick’s shrimp place, of course?”
“Damn! You right. How in the world did I miss that?”
“Gosh, maybe I am your partner in crime after all!” She smiled. “And don’t forget,” she continued after a moment, “your Ph.D. friend said Andrew had several degrees from the University of Melbourne. Higher learning doesn’t come cheap.”
“You right about that, too, Cassie. Way to go, partner.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Amazingly enough, I slept through the night again—without any tornado induced nightmares. Seems I might be getting used to the little devils. And from the look around the farm on what had turned out to be one of those beautiful clear autumn days—bright sunshine and lovely blue skies—no bad weather had come our way.
“I watched the radar on the weather channel the whole time you were missing, Mom. It was real scary but very localized. Just the land between the lakes and the little towns surrounding were the only ones affected.”
“Lucky me.”
“Very lucky you! And don’t you forget it. That makes two near misses now, doesn’t it?”
“Mmfff.”
“Good breakfast?”
“Yummy!”
“Celedia did emphasize the art of making an arepa.”
“Delicious, honey. I’d forgotten how good they are. And this white Mexican cheese from Morgantown was definitely worth the trip. I reached for another little hot South American corn cake and slathered on the butter.
“Too bad butter is so bad for you,” she admonished.
“Now don’t you start, missy. Best breakfast I’ve had in years, and I want to enjoy it without any guilt.”
“Really, Mom—the best?”
Cassie floated out of the kitchen on a cloud of pride while I cleaned up. I was in such a great mood—with my satisfied tummy and my joy in being home unscathed—it took washing a whole sink full of dishes before I realized this was the day. Cassie’s date with William the Weird was tonight—unless I could derail it somehow.
“But think how much fun it will be! We haven’t gone shopping together in ages, and we could stay in one of those big fancy hotels near the mall and just spend money to our heart’s content. And eat…we could eat anywhere you want…even that vegetarian place you’ve always wanted to take me to.”
“Well…”
“Come on Cassie! Gran and Horatio won’t be back until next weekend and it’s really kinda lonely here without her to bitch at me about something. Say ‘yes’—please?”
“What about Aggie?”
“Well…we could try that new doggie farm they’ve been advertising in the paper. ‘You leave ’em—we love ’em.’”
“Yes, but Aggie’s got specials needs.”
“Ha! It’s high time she got over ‘her special needs.’”
“You’re losing me, Mom. Besides, I don’t want to break my date with William at the last minute. That’s really bad form and even you have to admit it’s rude.”
“Well…yeah, but clothes, Cassie…and shoes. Don’t forget shoes.”
“I have an idea. We could leave early tomorrow morning. We would still have almost a week to shop and play. I’ll make reservations now. How about that new Hilton Inn Suites behind the mall?”
And she turned around to her computer and left me to wander out of her room like a zombie. How in the world did I ever get myself in such a mess? Cassie’s South American grandfather used to quote an old saying about losing the goat and the rope. Looks like I had done just that.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I spent the rest of the afternoon working half-heartedly on my ‘cast of characters.’ The big piece of poster board I had been using was almost full of names and notes and looked very colorful even without the red marker.
I propped the cardboard up on the hearth and sat back against the sofa to take it all in. Several things began to stand out—and lots more questions appeared unanswered.
For example: why had Jane been living in the house on Market Street instead of with her brother’s family in Minton? When a possible answer occurred to me I jumped up and turned on my computer to search the teacher rosters in Rowan Springs at the time. Sure enough, Mary Jane Alesworthy taught world history to the high school students at Saint Anthony’s for three years during the same time Eliza and Abigail Poole were students in lower school. Jane could well have been one of the teachers mentioned in the newspaper article. She would have known the children from living in the same house and most likely would have spoken to their father about their illnesses.
Maybe she was even having an affair with James Poole instead of the live-in housekeeper. No, I decided—she was recovering from losing her fiancé in an accident. Romance was probably the last thing on her mind. And speaking of the housekeeper—who was Margaret and where had she gone?
I couldn’t remember if I had gotten to Margaret’s name when I was perusing the Internet the other night. I did seem to remember stopping when I found James Poole’s obituary. Maybe one of my little search engines could find Margaret Nance Whitelaw.
It was only a small paragraph—really only an afterthought in an article written by a reporter over a decade ago. It was listed as an unsolved mystery—a ‘cold case’ from the past that intrigued him. He wrote that someday he would like to refer to the case in a novel about ‘ladies of mystery.’ Margaret Whitelaw was acquitted of murdering two children in 1954. Since then she had eluded all efforts to locate her. According to the writer, the case was never solved. Someone got away with murder.
Where, indeed, had Margaret gone?
There was something else I had forgotten. I had never looked up the name of the police chief at the time. I could call Andy Joiner and ask him for the official records but I was positive he would refuse. And what in the world made him warn me off this business in the first place. All the principals in my little cast of characters—with the exception of mad Queen Jane and Andrew were dead—who was left to cause mayhem?
When the smell of overheated cardboard hit my nose, I snatched the poster away from the hearth and lay it on the coffee table to cool off. I swapped places and sat down in front of the fire to warm my back. The evenings were getting chilly and we had not turned on the furnace yet. The fire felt good.
“Wow! It’s burning up in here,” noted Cassie as she breezed in looking too good for her own good in camel slacks and turtleneck sweater to match. “And it smells funny—like something’s burning.”
“Well, it’s not, and I’m cold,” I grumbled.
“I’m all packed,” she announced gaily. “Didn’t take long. I left a lot of room in my suitcase for all the new duds you promised me. You ready for our trip?” she asked, checking her hair and makeup in the mirror.
“I will be by the time you get back. What time did you say that was, anyway?”
“Didn’t say, Mother dearest,” she answered pointedly.
“You said something about Les Miserables?”
“The show’s over at eleven, but William mentioned something about a late dinner near Barkley Dam somewhere.”
“Where…somewhere?”
“Don’t know, and I’m a big girl now. I don’t have to tell you where I am all the time. And you certainly didn’t bother telling me where you spent the last thirty-six hours.”
“Cassie, I told you what happened.”
“Just sayin’…Oh, don’t be such a worry wart. I’ll text you and let you know when I find out myself. Okay?”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Wishing whole-heartedly that I had never ever said anything about a shopping spree in Atlanta, I got up from my warm spot in front of the fire and hunted out my suitcase. Inside there were still a few things from my last trip—socks, new underwear stil
l in the plastic package, and my extra toiletries. Packing wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
I messed around in the closet for a bit and finally decided on the usual jeans and sweaters. Maybe, I thought, I should replenish my wardrobe as well. But then where did I ever go to show off new clothes? And what did I really need. The answer was nothing. So I took out the few things I had in the big suitcase and put them in a small carryall. I added a new Michael Connelly paperback for those nights when Cassie was sure to visit friends from Emory, and I was done.
Grabbing a quick bite from the kitchen, I headed back to the library for some more Internet sleuthing. For a moment it struck me as strange that Aggie had not been dancing around me while I fixed my ham sandwich. She usually begged for a tidbit whenever the refrigerator door opened. When I entered the library I found out why.
She lay on the floor in a puddle of brightly colored doggie vomit—panting heavily, and covered from head to toe in blue, green, yellow and orange marker ink.
My first instinct was to call out for Cassie, but she wasn’t here. She wasn’t here, and I had no idea where she was or when she would return. Aggie was my problem, and I had better do all the right things—and fast.
Picking her up gently, I saw right away that she didn’t even have the strength to growl—much less bite me. And that was bad—really bad. Her little black lips were pale and her tongue was dry. From the quick look I had gotten of what she had thrown up and what was missing from the box, she had to have ingested three—maybe four markers. Her heartbeat was slow and heavy and her little chest barely moved when she took quick shallow breaths.
The dog was dying. And it would be my fault. I did the only thing I could think of—I wrapped her in a big fluffy towel and got in the car and headed for the vet’s office as fast as I could go.
Doctor White had returned from vacation. I had seen that in the newspaper last week. I hoped and prayed that he was keeping late hours, because both Lanierville and Morgantown were too far away. From the deteriorating look of her condition, Aggie would be dead long before I could get to another vet in either town.
The lights were out when I pulled up in front of the animal hospital. I honked the horn a few times and then got out and banged on the door—in frustration more than anything. When a light went on somewhere in the back of the building I almost wept with relief. I grabbed Aggie’s barely warm little body from the car, and burst inside when the door opened. I almost dropped her along with my jaw when I saw who opened it.
“Why, what brings you here, Paisley love?” asked none other than Huntley Haverstock in the flesh. “Ah, looks like Cassie’s deadly little dingo is in big trouble.”
But from that moment, Huntley/Andrew was all business. He gently lifted the dog from my arms and ran back to the surgery with her. I thought he would object to my following, but he started asking for things immediately.
I did the best I could. Stumbling around the unfamiliar surgery, I fetched tubes and needles and things I didn’t even want to know the names of—or how they were to be used. For two hours or more, Andrew worked feverishly—and expertly—to save Aggie’s life. When he had done all he could do—when she was cleaned out and hooked up to a saline solution and something else to help steady her heart rate, he sat back on his stool and looked up at me.
“I think she’s going to make it.”
“She’d damn well better make it, you crazy little Aussie!”
And with that I slid down on the cold floor and cried my eyes out.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“I deserved that,” He admitted. “Well, maybe not just right now. I did a really good job of saving that miserable little beastie’s life, you have to admit. But I did deserve that for all the trouble I’ve caused you and Cassie.”
“I do, and you did,” I wailed.
He came around the surgery table where Aggie lay breathing peacefully and gave me a hand up off the floor. “What’s say me and you go put on the tucker-bag? Eh?”
“What?” I snuffled.
“Supper. I’m starving after that little act of heroics and you look a bit down in the mouth yourself. There’s a place down the road. I’ve gotten quite attached to it since I came here. It’s called the Dairy Queen. Maybe you’re familiar…”
I laughed. “You bet! But what about Aggie? We can’t leave her here by herself. What if she wakes up and rolls off the table—or has a relapse?”
“Don’t worry. John, Doctor White’s assistant, had an early date tonight which is why I was still in the office when you came. He’ll be here any minute now, and I’ll make sure he knows to keep a close eye out for any change in her condition. We won’t be far away—couple of blocks really—and I’ll check back to see how she is before I go home tonight.”
I was too tired to argue, so when the young man arrived, I listened with half an ear while Andrew filled him in on the treatment Aggie had received and the things to look for if she were to get sicker. As we walked towards the front door, I handed him my car keys.
“You mind driving? I’ll feel better after we eat, but right now I don’t trust myself.”
“Sure, if you have any petrol left,” he said, cocking his head toward my compact.
And as he spoke the car—whose engine I had left on in my haste to get help for Aggie, sputtered and died.”
“Drat!”
“So we’ll go in mine.”
It went against all my instincts—of all the things I had warned Cassie about—‘don’t get in a stranger’s car’ ranked number one. But I was tired and hungry, and honestly didn’t know what else to do. Everyone important to me was out of pocket at the moment. Surely the man who just saved my dog’s life wouldn’t turn around and endanger mine.
I gave him a wan smile and waited while he brought his Land Rover from the back of the building. Shutting down all the primitive centers in my brain that fired away when danger was near—when the pterodactyl hovered overhead, or the saber-toothed tiger was on the prowl—I climbed into Andrew’s SUV and headed blithely towards my other major nemesis—the infamous Dairy Queen.
It was almost closing time, but since we were both apparently very good customers, they let us come inside; and while they mopped and cleaned, we ate cheeseburgers and fries without any trepidation whatsoever.
Neither of us spoke until the last bit of ketchup had been swabbed up by the last fry, and then we both started at once.
“How did you…?” I began.
“It’s time I came…” said he.
We both laughed—exhaustion heavy in our voices. I motioned for him to continue.
“Can I trust you, Paisley? I mean I did just work my butt off to save your little dingo’s hide. Some would say you owe me.”
I thought for a moment. I wasn’t quite sure I trusted Andrew, but I did know that come what may—I could always be counted on for doing the right thing whatever that was. I told him so.
“Then I guess that’ll have to do. After all, I’ve done nothing wrong—to anyone but myself. And I’ve screwed that up royally.”
“What?”
“My life. I wasted my whole life trying to live for someone else—trying to get revenge for someone else.”
“Who, Andrew? Who have you been ruining your life for?”
He looked at me for a moment and then out into the night. I saw ghosts fleeting in his eyes. I shivered and wrapped my arms around my shoulders. I felt as cold as his voice was when he spit out the answer.
“My mum. My poor sweet miserable deluded little mum.”
Chapter Forty
As much as they wanted our continued good business, we could tell the DQ was ready to say, “Nite, nite” to its best customers.
We helped clean off our table; grabbed “to go” cups, and headed back to Andrew’s SUV. I was so tired I could barely climb inside. The night had gotten a bit chilly and Andrew turned on the heater without being asked.
“Guess you’re not used to this cold weather?”
&nb
sp; “Heater feels good,” he mumbled. “Actually everything here is aces with me. Mainly because it’s not “there” where she suffered so much unhappiness. Well, she did here too, but that was long ago, and seems another world.”
“Tell me, Andrew. Tell me what you mean.”
“The truth is, I was the one who suffered in Oz, and I’m just beginning to realize how much.”
We had pulled up behind the animal hospital and sat there with the big engine running quietly enough to hear the sound of frogs and crickets in the adjoining field. I discovered I was a little surprised that I could hear them somewhere else besides the farm. And then Andrew dropped a real surprise in my lap.
“She never killed those two little nippers, you know. She was completely innocent.”
“Margaret Whitelaw is your mother?”
“Meg Whitelaw was my mother. She’s cactus now. Stone cold dead, and I hope she’s finally found the peace that eluded her in life.”
“Oh, Andrew, I’m so sorry.”
He turned around and faced me with anger in his eyes. “How could you be sorry? You never even met her. Never even knew how fragile she was. How tormented. She was a wonderful lady, but she couldn’t let go of the hate that consumed her. Not even after she married Dad and had me and a fine life—even if it was in the back of Bourke.”
“Where?”
He hung his head, and I hear a little sniffle. I was astounded. Huntley Haverstock never cried. But poor Andrew did. I let him have a moment to pull himself together and then asked all my questions—the ones I had been boiling over with.
“So the ‘back of Bourke’ is a long way off—as in a long way from Melbourne?”
“Right you are.”
“And you mother went to Oz—Australia—after…”
“After she was acquitted of two murders for lack of evidence,” he spat out. “Two murders that someone else committed—someone she was too scared of to point the finger at.”
“Is that someone still alive?”
“Not anymore!” he laughed grimly.
