by Carolina Mac
“I had an accident,” I said, catching her staring at my sling.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No, thank you though. The thing I need the most right now is rest but thank you for coming over.” I closed the door and locked it, hoping she was not the first of many newly concerned neighbors that would come knocking. I needed a nap.
CHAPTER TEN
THE morning of Matthew’s funeral, I allowed myself the luxury of sleeping late. It had been a fitful night, my shoulder protesting my busy schedule of the day before. No need to rush. Mr. Barton wasn’t sending a car for me until one o’clock. I lingered in a lilac scented bubble bath until my fingers went pruny, dreading the day ahead. A snail’s pace proved to be my top speed. After my bath, I shrugged on my thick terry robe and ventured downstairs. My stomach was doing flips and I didn’t see the wisdom in eating. Coffee and pain pills were the only items on the breakfast menu.
For the next half hour, I labored at my antique dressing table, putting on makeup with my left hand, removing it with cold cream and beginning again. The gash over my eye was healing nicely. With cover-up and my large hat, it would be barely visible. Lots of blush and eye shadow, shakily applied, would be my saving grace. My biggest challenge, the past few days, was getting dressed. Easing my arm into the suit jacket was a slow and painful ritual. I could manage without the sling for a few hours—and opted to do so—the fewer questions, the better.
As I was slipping into my new stiletto heels the doorbell rang. Game time.
The mirror in the foyer reflected a favorable image as I donned my hat. The bereaved Mrs. Talbot looked appropriately saddened, yet still managed to look hot. Slumping my shoulders, I opened the front door and greeted Mr. Barton. He offered a number of well-intentioned comments, touched my elbow and escorted me to the limo. We rode the short distance to the funeral home in silence. Mr. Barton proved to be an expert in handling the recently widowed. No doubt he graduated top of his class at mortuary school.
When I entered the chapel where Matthew was resting, I was overwhelmed by the number of floral tributes surrounding the coffin. A large bouquet of lily of the valley placed near the head of the coffin unnerved me. I rubbed my clammy palms together and smoothed my jacket. The air was saturated with fragrance mixed with the faint smell of death. I gasped to catch my breath, faltered, missed my footing and Mr. Barton helped seat me in the nearest chair. I bowed my head forward and closed my eyes. I hadn't expected to feel anything but relief this afternoon, but. . . .
“Mrs. Talbot. Mrs. Talbot. Are you all right?”
The ringing in my ears confused me.
“Yes, I think so,” I mumbled. “Where should I be sitting?”
“In the ante-room. It’s for the family. Let me assist you.”
Mr. Barton helped me up and gently escorted me to the small room to the right of the coffin. I was grateful the area contained a sofa. Standing was not an option.
Before the service began, Mr. Barton came to escort me to the casket. He wanted to parade me in front of Matthew for the final glimpse of my loved one before the lid was closed. Could I do it? I had to. I felt the eyes of Matthew’s friends burning holes through me. My hands were shaking, and my legs were made of Jell-O. Bad call on the stilettos. Without Mr. Barton’s arm around my waist for support, I would not have remained vertical.
My head was bowed under my large hat, but I stole a peek at Matthew for the last time. He looked like the man of three years ago, serene and contented. Death agreed with him.
A large number of Matthew’s colleagues attended the funeral. Some brought their wives, and some came alone. They all offered condolences and expressed their shock at Matthew’s untimely demise. I was unable to speak and hoped my silence translated into profound grief in everyone’s eyes.
At the end of the service, Reverend Millbury announced Matthew would be cremated the following week. Everyone was invited to the upper level for refreshments and Mr. Barton whisked me upstairs in the elevator to receive the guests. “I’ll get you a cup of tea, Mrs. Talbot.”
“Thank you. I could use a cup.” I lowered myself onto the sofa and shuddered as I saw Bob Winterstein lumbering towards me. “I heard you fainted, Portia, are you all right?”
“I should have eaten breakfast,” I said pleasantly, “How is Marcy doing?”
“Better—an unfortunate accident,” he mumbled.
“How did it happen, Bob?”
“I’m not sure.” He pursed his lips and pretended to be thinking hard of a good answer. “I had already left for work when she fell.”
“Uh huh.”
You lying piece of shit. You beat her and pushed her down the stairs before you went to work and we both know it.
With the festivities winding down, I sought out Mr. Barton downstairs.
“Will you need me here Monday for the cremation?” I asked.
“No, but you may attend if you wish.”
“Thank you. No. Will you give me a call when the ashes are ready?”
“Yes. I’ll call you. Would you like any of the flowers?”
“No, just the cards in order to write the thank you notes. Could you send the flower arrangements to Shady Pines Retirement Home?”
“Of course. The residents will enjoy them. The car is out front, Mrs. Talbot, if you’re ready.”
The day had been emotional and more stressful than I had anticipated. I went directly upstairs and changed into my sweats. My arm throbbed and my head was swimming, signaling that my pain medication was long overdue. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I opened the bottle, took two with a swig of water and crawled under the duvet.
I woke suddenly—my throat raw from the screaming, my entire body trembling and drenched in sweat. It took me a few moments to realize it was a dream. A gaunt face with sunken eyes had been staring in the bedroom window from the blackness outside. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it had really happened. I switched on the lamp beside the bed and edged over to the window. Nothing out there but the wind. Branches of a maple tree brushed against the glass.
I closed the drapes, went into the bathroom and locked the door. My face was flushed. Perspiration dripped down my neck. I slipped off my sweats and threw them on top of the overflowing hamper, silently vowing to do laundry the following day. I cranked on the hot water and stepped into the shower. After toweling off, I caught an unwelcome glimpse of my body in the mirror. Shit, I’d lost more weight. The scale was staring up at me with those big zeroes for eyes. Note to self, remember to eat properly.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I pulled my robe tighter around me as I descended to the kitchen to forage for food. The wall clock said five thirty. I peered out the window into the darkness squinting to see if anything or anyone was moving. Apex couldn’t get here fast enough with the security team. I jumped when my toast popped up and let out a squeal. All I could do was laugh at myself. Ridiculous.
By the time I finished my juice and toast, the Globe and Mail hit the front porch. As I stooped to retrieve the paper I caught a glimpse of a black truck pulling away from the curb. I watched it drive slowly down the street and disappear. Odd. It was early for one of the neighbors to be going to work. Back in the kitchen I distracted myself with the newspaper.
At nine sharp, Apex Security arrived to begin the installation. I put on a fresh pot of coffee and hung around in case they needed anything. I tackled the laundry and cleaned the bathrooms. Being busy with everyday tasks was comforting.
At three-thirty, Vince came into the kitchen with his clipboard in hand. His dark blue uniform was snug on his stocky, muscled frame and I battled to keep my eyes on his face rather than drifting lower. The Armani cologne that I detested on Matthew affected me differently wafting from Vince’s neck. Inhaling the scent of him, I sensed warmth in neglected areas and reluctantly returned to reality.
“The system has been installed, Mrs. Talbot. I’d like to give you a crash course on how to activate and disarm.”
I nodded. “Let's do it.”
Vince showed me the operating basics and it seemed simple and straightforward. I did a couple of practice runs under his watchful eye. The sympathetic dark brown eyes.
“If there is an intruder, the alarm itself may be enough to scare them off. But as well, the call will alert headquarters and response time will be minimal. Some lights around the property have been set to come on automatically at dusk and others are motion sensitive. I think we have all the bases covered. Here’s a fridge magnet with my number on it, Mrs. Talbot. Call me anytime, day or night.”
“Thanks again.” I shook his hand.
The men loaded the rest of their gear in the truck, the system was activated, and I was safe.
Remembering my intention to eat properly, I went into the kitchen and made a corned beef sandwich on fresh rye bread. A couple of pickles completed my feast. Maybe later I'd spoil myself with a dish of ice cream.
My plan for the remainder of the day included only two things: reading and resting my arm. I had replaced the sling and taken the meds, but the pain only subsided completely when my arm was immobilized. At this rate, healing would take another month.
Carrying my coffee into the living room, I searched for the novel I had been meaning to finish. As I bent to retrieve it from the coffee table, the doorbell rang and I jumped. The hot liquid in my mug sloshed over the brim and onto my hand.
Ow. Shit. Get a grip.
I peeked through the curtain at the side of the door, and Bob Winterstein was standing on the porch staring back at me. He gave me a little wave.
What the hell does he want?
I deactivated the alarm and opened the door halfway. “Hi, Bob. What brings you to this end of town?”
“Just checking on you, Portia. Marcy would want me to check up on you and be sure you were okay.” His bloodshot eyes were riveted on my chest.
I know you’re lying, Bobbie boy. What are you really after?
“I’m doing fine, Bob. Thanks for your concern.”
“What happened to your arm? You weren’t wearing a sling at the funeral.”
“No, I didn’t wear it to the service. It didn’t go with my outfit.”
Bob’s lip curled up into a cruel half smile.
“I was just going upstairs to rest when I heard the bell.” I hoped he would get the message.
“I won’t keep you then. I’m off to the hospital to sit with Marcy.”
As Bob pulled out of the driveway, I scored a clear look at the black truck he climbed into. It was definitely the same make that had been outside earlier. Bingo.
I closed the door, locked it and reactivated the alarm. Bob was creeping me out.
My sleepiness had vanished, replaced by the nagging feeling that I was missing something vital. My nap could wait. Maybe the answer I needed was in the study and I'd overlooked it. Still sitting on the desk was Matthew’s laptop. Worth a look. I pressed the ‘on’ button. Anything with a password was safe from my prying eyes.
Matthew had never shared his computer with me, and I was a novice. I clicked on email and it opened right up. Wow. Two hundred unopened. After reading the first two, my chest was tightening again. Matthew had a life I knew nothing about and it didn’t make me feel better to read about his womanizing in print. Even in death he was able to hurt me. I shut down the computer and closed the lid. If there was a clue in there, I didn’t know how to find it.
Might as well clean out his desk. I opened the big drawer in the bottom that was filled with the stock quotes and started stuffing them into the shredder. I don’t know why he kept all the old prices anyway. When I reached the bottom of the drawer, there was nothing left but one piece of paper caught at the back. As I tugged on it, I noticed there was a tiny latch almost completely hidden in the back seam of the drawer. With the end of a pen, I undid the hook and a false back loosened.
Down on my hands and knees, with my good arm, I removed the thin piece of wood and set it aside. The hidden space was quite large behind the drawer. Dozens of bundles of papers bound with elastic bands sat neatly waiting. I lifted the top one out and pulled off the elastic. I had no idea what they were—certificates of some sort—something about gold. I found a couple of large Ziploc bags in the kitchen, packaged the bundles and stuffed them into my purse to take to the bank.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MR. BARTON called as I poured my second cup of coffee. Matthew’s ashes were ready to be picked up. I showered, pulled on a pair of jeans and eased my arm into a bulky red sweater with a front zipper, thankful that my morning pain meds were working.
When I got to the funeral home, Mr. Barton was in his office shuffling through papers awaiting my arrival.
“I hope everything was to your satisfaction, Mrs. Talbot.”
“Yes, you attended to every detail. Thank you so much.” Matthew was residing in his tasteful urn on Mr. Barton’s desk beside the bill for the funeral. One neat package.
“This is the urn you chose, is it not?”
“Yes, I believe it is.” I had no recollection of what I’d pointed to. I picked up the invoice, pulled my check book out of my purse and filled in the amount.
Mr. Barton accepted the money with a sympathetic smile on his face. “Thank you, Mrs. Talbot. It was a pleasure to serve you.”
I picked up Matthew, all that was left of him, and was a little surprised by the weight of the urn. After carrying him out to my Jeep and placing the container on the passenger seat, I headed home with only one stop. I popped by the bank, accessed the safety deposit box and added the two bags of certificates. They would have be investigated later in the week.
I parked the car in the garage, popped the tailgate and moved the urn from the passenger seat to the back forty. “Wait here, Matthew. I’ll take you for a ride shortly."
THE weather was warm for the first day of May. April showers had given it up to sunshine and blossom scented breezes—perfect for a drive in the country. The deed Brian had given me for the northern property gave away no clue how to get there. Growing up in foster homes in the city limited my knowledge of Ontario to Toronto and its suburbs only. There weren’t many picnics in the country in my childhood. If I found the town of Maynooth, I would have to go the local municipal office and ask for more detailed directions. I changed into a pair of boots, took a warm jacket from the closet and trudged out to the garage.
“We’re leaving now, Matthew. Hold tight,” I called over my shoulder.
At the corner Esso, I filled the tank, picked up a road map, a bottle of water, a Coke and a couple of chocolate bars. Who knew how long I’d be gone? Maybe I’d be lost for days. I unfolded the map, found the most direct route to Maynooth and headed east on the 401.
Three hours later, I parked in front of the Town office. The tiny brick building attached to the post office was staffed by a short gray haired lady in her sixties or seventies, wearing a blue flowered cotton dress. She greeted me at the counter with a welcoming smile. “Hello, dear, may I help you?”
“I hope you can. My husband bought this property before he died, and I would like to take a look at it, but I need directions.” I showed her the survey attached to the deed.
“You passed the side road a way back, honey. You turn around and go back the way you jus’ come. Second side road down, take a right. Third property on that road on the left hand side. Used to belong to an old hermit named Mike King. Might still be a mailbox at the road says King. He died a while back. Was out by the barn choppin’ wood and keeled over dead. Still had a tight grip on the axe a week later when the mailman found him. Heck of a mess then. That’s probably when you folks bought it.”
“Could be. I'm not sure. Thanks for your help.” I smiled.
“Any time hon, just doin’ my job.” She waved as I left the building.
I scribbled down the directions on the side of the map when I got back to the Jeep. Retracing my path, I turned on the second side road and drove slowly until I saw a dented mailbox hanging h
alf off a rotten post. Dried grass and sticks hung out the end indicating a new family had taken up residence. Squinting, I thought the faded lettering could have said ‘King’, but with that much rust obliterating the writing, it could have said almost anything.
I turned the wheel with some difficulty and started up the overgrown path that might have served as a driveway at one time. When I reached the top of the grade my eyes widened. There, in the middle of a clearing, sat an adorable log cabin with a red roof.
I parked the Jeep and stepped out for a look around. There was a porch across the entire front, furnished with a couple of old church pews. A milk can stood in the corner holding a bird house. I walked up the steps and turned the knob, but found it locked.
Around the back was another lower porch with garden doors coming out from the kitchen. A big butcher’s block sat off to one side covered with a scrap of red and white checked oilcloth. There were several outbuildings, a barn with a loft, a board and batten garage, a chicken coop and a green outhouse with a heart cut-out in the door.
I could live here.
Behind the cabin, the woods were dense. A narrow opening through the pine trees revealed a footpath sloping downward. I inched along for several hundred feet before I realized that the path was leading me down to water. Upon reaching the shoreline, I was dazzled by the bright sun dancing on a huge lake. I shielded my eyes with my hand to take in the breathtaking panorama.
The opposite shore was dotted with cottages, boat houses and bunkies. Fishermen in bass boats sat silently in the shady spots trying their luck. A speed boat towing a water skier zoomed by, raising a formidable rooster tail. Boards were missing here and there from the weathered boathouse, and the dock was rotted through in places. Careful where I stepped, I edged out to the end and sucked in a big breath of crisp northern air. It was difficult to comprehend that this was my property. I owned a piece of paradise.
