Cocktail party?
Who this guy was, John hadn’t a clue; but he hardly knew everyone in town. He’d been living there only a matter of weeks, just long enough to have met a handful of residents. It wasn’t as though he were there to make friends, besides. John was in River Bend to do a job, nothing more, nothing less.
“Do you know where you live?” he asked.
“A house . . . We have a house,” Winston said. “It’s painted yellow, bright yellow. It’s near the library in Coal City,” he said, but he sounded very unsure. “Betty’s sister, she came to stay with us for a while, but I can’t recall her name.”
Oh, boy.
If the man was from Coal City, then he’d been wandering for days. If John’s memory served, Coal City was a small town that sat about an hour south of Chicago. He remembered seeing the exits en route to a conference in the Windy City. That put it about three or four hours from River Bend.
“Are you sure you aren’t from River Bend?”
“I don’t think . . . ,” he started, before he paused and shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“It’s okay.” John sucked in his cheeks as he gazed longingly over Winston’s shoulder at the centuries-old cabin. He itched like mad to get back inside and resume his attempt to pry up the floorboards. But he couldn’t very well rip apart Jacques Lerner’s historic abode while this Winston fellow stood and watched, even if the old guy was addled.
No, he had to be cautious. If he screwed up this gig, it meant giving up everything. What if he carried on and Winston had a moment lucid enough to tattle on him back in River Bend? The town council would surely fire him in an instant, and then everything he’d done to get here would be for nothing.
So John sucked in a deep breath and put his exploring on hold.
“How about this,” he said, setting his hands on his hips. “Let’s take a walk and get you back to town. I’m sure your family’s been wondering where you are.”
“My family? It’s just me and my wife. There’s no one else,” Winston said in a sandpaper voice. “She’s a gem, she is. I’d do anything for her. Her name is—” He stared off into the trees, blinking rapidly. “It’s Betty. Yes, Betty. She’ll be looking for me. We have a cocktail party to attend.”
“Right, the cocktail party,” John said, because he knew it was best to just play along. It wasn’t like you could argue with dementia and win. “All right, Winston. You can lean on me, and I’ll get you back to town.” He walked up to the man and took his arm.
“That’s kind of you,” he said with a vacant smile. “I do feel a bit weak.”
With one last lustful look at the cabin, John started back the same way he’d come, far more slowly with the old man at his elbow. They weren’t even halfway to the edge of the woods and to the dead end of Springfield Avenue when John heard the sounds of snapping twigs and a woman’s voice calling out, “Shake a leg, Sheriff!”
Sheriff?
John panicked. They were definitely out looking for the old guy. For a second he thought about dumping Winston and running for cover.
Hey, calm down, he told himself. He’d done nothing wrong, not that Winston had seen, anyhow.
“I hope we still have time before the party. I think I need to change my clothes,” Winston mumbled, and his chin drooped to his chest, like the guy had nothing left in him.
John tugged at his hat brim, knowing what he had to do. He made sure he had a strong arm around him as they limped along. “It’ll be all right,” he said aloud. “We’ll get you home to change before the first cocktail is poured.”
The old man nodded.
As they rounded a thicket heavy with invasive honeysuckle, John caught sight of a gray-haired woman turned so he could see her purple knapsack. Just beyond her was the sheriff in his tan uniform, shiny badge at his chest, staring in John’s direction with a surprised look on his face.
“Hey there!” he called out to them, his heart thumping as he half dragged a limping Winston forward. “I found this one wandering around the old cabin,” he said between breaths. “If either of you knows where he lives, that’d be a big help. He doesn’t seem to have a clue, and neither do I.”
Chapter 15
“Is that who I think it is?” Helen said, doing a double take.
She stopped in her tracks, giving Biddle a chance to catch up. She heard him panting beside her, but he said nothing, clearly as dumbfounded as she.
For dead ahead of them was a most odd and interesting sight: two grown men emerging from the woods, one looking very much like Jacob Marley, minus his chains, and the other like a wannabe Indiana Jones, complete with scarf nattily knotted about his neck and the signature dark brown fedora on his head.
The score for an adventure movie swelled in her head.
Dum-da-dum-dum, dum-da-dum, dum-da-dum-dum, dum-da-dum-dum-dum.
She breathed softly, “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”
Biddle pushed his hat back to wipe at the beads of sweat on his brow. “So, Indiana Jones found Bernie? I guess Spider-Man was busy,” he said, getting his wind back before he tugged his walkie-talkie from his utility belt.
“It’s John Danielson, the man who took Luann’s place,” Helen said, even though Biddle surely knew it already. He kept tabs on the comings and goings in River Bend nearly as well as she did.
Biddle nodded as the two men came nearer. “He’s a character, all right, and now I think we know which one.”
“I just hope I don’t slip and call him Indy.”
Danielson hadn’t been dressed like Indiana Jones when she’d first met him at the Historical Society. He’d appeared more the Dockers-and-button-down type, and he hadn’t smiled much that she’d noticed. He’d seemed on the shy side, staring mostly at his shoes when he’d told her and Clara that they could no longer sort photos in the upstairs room. Shortly after, he’d installed them in a small office on the first floor that was little more than a walk-in closet lined with file cabinets. A few days later he’d suspended volunteer work altogether, blaming the floodwaters for his decision. “I don’t want anyone taking a risk coming here,” he’d insisted.
“Does he realize shin-deep water is nothing compared to ’93?” Clara had whispered. “We got around by kayak and canoe . . .”
“Um, Deputies, what’s your twenty?”
Helen heard the scratch as Biddle got on the walkie-talkie and connected with Art Beaner and Henry Potter, telling them to cease and desist in the search for Bernie Winston.
“Let the rest of the volunteers know that he’s been located and we’re bringing him back. Art, can you meet us with your golf cart? The old guy looks pretty wobbly.”
“That’s a ten-four, Sheriff,” Art’s voice crackled before the sheriff put the walkie away.
Helen pulled off her knapsack and retrieved a bottle of water, holding on to it as she tramped through the brush after the sheriff, heading toward the pair of men who’d emerged from the thicket and meeting them halfway.
“Here you go,” she said, offering her bottle of water to Bernie. “You look awfully dehydrated.”
“I am parched. Thank you, ma’am,” he said, as if she were a stranger and not the woman who’d been best friends with his sister-in-law for years. He took the bottle in his shaky grip and tipped it between cracked lips. He downed most of it before he stopped and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You seem familiar,” he told her. “You must work for Peabody, too? Are you a secretary?”
“Peabody,” Helen repeated, because the name didn’t click. She glanced at the sheriff, who shrugged.
The Historical Society director tipped back his Indiana Jones hat. “Apparently, Bernie got lost while he was inspecting the coal mines for Peabody. I’m guessing he was an employee a while back.”
Ah, he wasn’t talking about a man named Peabody, but Peabody Energy.
“Oh, he did, indeed, a long time ago,” Helen said, because Clara had told her about living with Bernie and Betty in Coal C
ity when Clara was still in high school. Betty and Bernie had taken her in when she’d had trouble with her stepfather. Bernie was a young engineer and traveled frequently for Peabody. Perhaps that was why he’d wandered off. He’d gone back to those days in his addled mind.
“Are you injured, Mr. Winston?” Biddle asked, taking the man’s arm and looking him over with a squint. “Do you think you can walk back to Springfield?”
“Springfield, Illinois?” Bernie looked confused.
“No, the street, sir, in River Bend,” the sheriff clarified. “Not the city.”
But Bernie only got more agitated. “Where’s my wife? Is she still in the car? Is she . . . Is she looking for me?”
“She’s back at your house with your daughter and granddaughter, and she’s very worried about you,” Helen said, patting his hand. “Now let’s get you home so she can stop worrying. Ellen’s there, too.”
“Ellen?”
“Your daughter.”
He shook his head. “No,” he said. “We weren’t ever able . . .”
“Let’s move it,” Frank Biddle said, cutting him off.
Helen stepped aside as the sheriff and John Danielson bookended Bernie and began helping him through the brush.
“The sooner we get back, the sooner Betty and Ellen will be able to breathe again,” Helen remarked from behind them.
But Bernie seemed not to have heard her.
No matter. She walked behind the three men, watching as Biddle and the fellow from the Historical Society patiently maneuvered Bernie through the woods, sticking to the dry turf despite the tangled vines and twigs and poison ivy.
She listened to the rise and fall of their voices as Bernie constantly asked where they were and where they were going in a never-ending circular conversation. Twigs snapped underfoot as she followed the men, while nearby the creek sounded noisy, the rising waters rushing by.
Every now and then, the sheriff and John Danielson would pause, allowing Bernie to catch his breath. “Walking hurts so much,” Helen caught Bernie saying.
“Your wife said you’ve had two hip surgeries,” Biddle told him. “I guess that would explain it.”
“Hip surgeries? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bernie replied, sounding grouchy. “I’m fit as a fiddle. Except . . . Except for my bum knee. I hurt it a couple years ago in school during football . . . during practice.”
“Right,” Biddle said, humoring him. “You think you can keep going, sir? If I could carry you, I would.”
“No need . . . no need,” Bernie said, defiant. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“Okay, then, let’s move out, though I’m sorry for dragging you through the brush, but the creek’s overflowed . . .”
With every step Helen took on their slow hike back to Springfield Avenue, she felt more and more sympathy for Betty Winston. She thought of the hours and days and months she’d dealt with Joe and his crabby demeanor as he’d recovered from his first heart attack and the surgery that had ensued. She decided that she’d had it easy compared to Betty.
“We’re almost there,” John Danielson piped up as they came out of the woods and into the clearing just behind the houses on the cul-de-sac.
As they trudged toward the asphalt, Helen saw a crowd of a dozen or so neighbors gathered.
“Bring him here, Sheriff!” Art Beaner called from his golf cart. His coonhound sat, panting, in the rear-facing seat. “I’ll get him the rest of the way home.”
John Danielson hung back as Art hopped out of the cart and helped the sheriff guide Bernie to the vehicle. Helen watched as he pulled his brown fedora low over his forehead and faded back, like he didn’t want the attention.
Helen made her way over to him, catching him before he took off. “Thank you, Mr. Danielson,” she said. “For finding Bernie while you were out in the woods, um . . .”
“Hiking,” he quickly filled in for her. “I like getting into nature when the weather’s nice, and I wanted to see Lerner’s cabin. It’s such a strong piece of local folklore.”
“Well, thank goodness you were there,” Helen went on. “The place is lodged in Bernie’s memory, so it must have drawn him. But if no one had been around, who knows how long he might’ve wandered and what could have happened to him.”
“I’m glad to help,” Danielson told her and finally met her eyes. “Like so many people these days, I have family with dementia, so I’m sympathetic. Now I should be off, ma’am.”
“Of course,” Helen said, her gaze on Danielson’s back as he lumbered away, crossing to the far side of the cul-de-sac and climbing into a black SUV.
Then she turned her attention to Bernie, now surrounded by well-wishers.
“What’s the fuss about?” he asked as his neighbors hovered, telling him how lucky he was and how thankful they were for his return. “Is this a parade?”
“Yeah, Mr. Winston, it’s a parade,” the sheriff told him.
“What for?”
“For you,” Biddle said. Then he patted the roof of the cart, and Beaner nodded, driving Bernie down the road.
Helen let out a held breath.
“Okay, folks, everyone head on home,” Biddle said loudly. “Mr. Winston needs to be with his family.”
The crowd began to disperse.
Helen watched the sheriff gesture, shooing everyone on their way. Then he got on his phone, nodding as he spoke, before he put his phone away.
He glanced back at her, giving a jerk of his chin, and she caught up to him as he walked toward his black-and-white. “I’ve got Doc Melville heading to the Winstons’ place now. He’s going to check out the old man, see if he needs further medical attention. Doc said if he’s dehydrated enough, he might need an IV.”
“Good thinking,” she told him.
He grunted. “You need a lift home?”
“No, I’m fine.” At his raised eyebrows she pointed down to her boots. “I can wade through the water on Jersey. It’s only ankle-deep.”
“If you’re sure . . .”
“I’m sure.”
He tipped his hat to her before opening his door and getting inside.
Helen stood by as he drove off, crunching gravel beneath his tires. She started her walk home, an absent smile on her face. She was so glad they’d found Bernie, and he seemed to be in good shape. That was something, right?
As she neared the Winstons’ house, she spotted Doc Melville’s car arriving. The dusty sedan pulled up smack in front and parked with a squeal of old brakes. Amos Melville emerged from the passenger’s side, his medical bag in hand. He was up the front walk and to the porch before Helen could call out to him.
Doc’s wife, Fanny, came out of the driver’s side and slammed shut the door as she looked over at Helen. “Heck of a way to start the week, eh?” she said. A broad smile took shape beneath a bulbous nose. Below a fringe of short bangs her eyes twinkled.
Helen smiled. “At least this story has a happy ending,” she remarked, walking toward Fanny and closing the gap between them.
“How’d it feel to play Girl Scout?” Doc’s wife asked.
Helen scratched her age-speckled arm. “I think a few mosquitoes made a meal of me, but otherwise I’m just fine.”
“I hope Bernie’s all right.”
“He seemed to be faring pretty well physically,” Helen said, hesitating. “But he’s awfully out of it.”
“That’s how Alzheimer’s works.”
Helen looked up at the house. “Maybe I should go inside. I could check on Clara and see if they need me to bring lunch. Or if Sawyer’s there with Ellen, I could take her somewhere to occupy her time.”
“Like the underwater playground?” Fanny said sarcastically.
Helen winced. “You’re right. Maybe the library . . .”
“Water’s gotten past the sandbags and the carpet’s wet. They’ll have to rip it all out. It closed in the meantime.”
“Oh, dear.”
“You should go home,” Fanny told her and
wrapped an arm around her. “You’ve done enough this morning. You look tired, and I’d imagine your muscles weren’t too thrilled at tramping through the woods. Maybe you should lie down for a while and nap.”
Helen nodded. “You’re right. I am tired.”
“You want me to walk with you?” Fanny asked. “I’ll lend you an arm if you’d like.”
But Helen glanced at her friend’s feet. She had on pristine white tennis shoes. “You’ll only ruin your Keds.”
“I can buy a new pair.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, giving Fanny’s arm a squeeze as it came off her shoulders. “Call me later, will you, please? Let me know how Bernie checks out.”
“I will,” Fanny assured her. “Amos has tried to convince Betty to place him in assisted living before, but she resisted. Maybe now she’ll change her mind.”
“Maybe.”
Before she headed off, Helen turned back toward the Winstons’ house. She caught sight of a face in the window, the ghost of a man with dark eyes and wild white hair. He appeared lost even then, looking for a way out.
Sadness swept through her.
She lifted a hand to wave, held it there for a moment. But he didn’t act like he’d seen her. Then as abruptly as he’d appeared, he was gone.
Chapter 16
Jackson Lee had borrowed a pickup truck from his buddy the used-car dealer in Jerseyville, who owed him more on a poker debt than a Cartier pen paid off. He would have driven his Caddy except it sat too low to the ground. He didn’t want to take a chance that the floodwaters would drown his old DeVille when he hit Main Street. He figured it wouldn’t hurt to switch vehicles anyhow, considering he planned a quick trip back to the old Victorian on Springfield Avenue where Bernie Winston lived.
Jackson wanted to get paid on that contract Bernie had signed, and he was itching to grab a paycheck before Bernie went boots-up or got committed, whichever came first. Not to mention the fact that he’d left his flashy Cartier Roadster ballpoint at the Winstons’ place when he’d bolted a few weeks before. It was his lucky pen and the nicest one he’d ever owned. He’d been back a few times late at night, sitting out front and trying to figure out a way in. If he had to sneak through a window to get that sucker back, he’d do it. But maybe he could catch Bernie alone again . . .
Come Helen High Water Page 11
