She couldn’t shake the memory of Mom passing, the soft smile the last thing to die on her face. A smile of faith, of expectancy, of hope—and this on the face of a woman whose husband had abandoned her and her daughter. Whose father had died when she was a little girl. Whose mother was so eccentric she was hard to love. Who was dying of breast cancer and joining a long list of names and statistics.
“Stop.” The tone of Mumsie’s voice brought Aggie’s attention back to her grandmother. The woman had gone ashen, her eyes widening with some emotion Aggie couldn’t tag with an adjective.
“Mumsie?” Aggie pushed her TV tray farther out from in front of her.
“Stop,” Mumsie repeated, only this time there was a distinct trembling to her voice. She gripped the handset tightly, her arthritic knuckles turning white.
“Mumsie, give me the phone.” Aggie’s defenses rose fast at the weakened look of Mumsie’s body. The woman’s spit and vinegar had been exchanged for the pitiful look of a lost puppy that was desperate to be rescued. “Give me the phone!” Aggie demanded again, her whisper coming out harsher than she intended.
“You’ve no right,” Mumsie muttered into the phone. She stiffened, her eyes searching desperately until they met Aggie’s. She clung to Aggie’s gaze. “You’ve no right at all. It is over,” she whispered just as the phone fell from her hands and Mumsie slumped forward, crashing into her plate of food, the TV tray, and sliding to the floor.
“I want to know who called my grandmother. I want a detailed call list. I want the police here now, and I’m reporting harassment!” Aggie paced the waiting room at the hospital.
“It’s eleven o’clock at night, Love.” Collin watched her from his chair.
Yes, she’d called him after she’d dialed 911 and an ambulance had been dispatched. No, she didn’t know why she kept reaching out to Collin when she needed something. Aggie ran her fingers through her hair, black strands falling like silky ribbons around her shoulders. She couldn’t stop her pacing. Couldn’t stop second-guessing everything. Couldn’t stop overreacting when she knew she needed to calm herself. Hydrate. Breathe. Compose.
“I don’t care what time it is. I want the call log.” Aggie bent until she was nose to nose with Collin.
He blinked and then pushed his wire-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose. A ginger stubble shadowed his jaw, making him appear far less English debonair and more like a regular guy. A guy who’d been dragged into the night to respond to an emergency, but who still looked remarkably impeccable in his dark, pressed jeans and a striped T-shirt, with a Mr. Roger’s–style sweater buttoned over it.
Collin’s dimples deepened, and he raised both eyebrows. “Best of luck then,” he quipped.
“Gah!” Aggie straightened and stalked across the room, then turned and stalked back. She knew she was being irrational. But they’d taken Mumsie in for emergency scans. A stroke caused by a blood clot. Of all things! And whoever had called her and whatever they’d said had catapulted the clot straight into its damaging action. At least that was how Aggie saw it. Factual or not, someone was to blame for Mumsie’s current condition.
“Why doesn’t she use a cellphone?” Aggie plopped onto a chair next to Collin.
“Not everyone embraces the rigorous routine of today’s technology.” Collin gave her knee a patronizing pat. “Why didn’t you dial *69 to redial the caller?”
Aggie looked sideways at him. “I’m a Millennial. I have no clue what you are talking about. And please tell me you have a cellphone.”
“Of course I do. You’ve seen it before. What do you think you ring me on all the time?” Collin pulled his phone from his pocket. That’s right. An old-style flip phone. One that for certain wasn’t equipped to browse the internet.
“Good grief.” Aggie sagged back into the waiting room chair and looked to the doors where she silently begged the doctor to walk through. To tell her Mumsie was going to be okay. To release her from the fear of losing the last remaining person in her life who meant something to her.
As if her hopes had conjured him, the doctor entered the waiting room, and of course his face was completely unreadable. Aggie squelched a sigh. Even his eyes were emotionless. He was a walking robot, probably trained that way so he didn’t sway waiting families toward too much hope or too much despair.
“Dr. Patton?” Aggie urged him to update her.
“We’ve stabilized Imogene.” His monotone use of Mumsie’s first name brought Aggie to sharp attention. No one referred to her as that. Come to think of it, everyone she knew called Mumsie, “Mumsie.” It was as if she’d graduated into the name eons before Aggie had been born. “Imogene” seemed foreign, as if they were discussing someone else entirely.
“. . . but she hasn’t regained consciousness yet.”
Aggie registered the doctor’s statement. She stood. “What’s the prognosis?”
Dr. Patton tempered his expression. “It’s hard to say. Her age is a factor here. It isn’t in her favor. Did you know she has congestive heart failure?”
“What?” Aggie blinked. The words came out of left field and smacked her in the proverbial face. She sensed Collin rise to stand beside her. “What do you mean?”
Dr. Patton allowed himself the liberty of a slight grimace. “Ahh, I see. I’m not Imogene’s primary caregiver, but her records state she was diagnosed with the disease over a year ago. While it doesn’t appear to be progressing too rapidly, the stroke tonight may speed up the process.”
“The process of what?” Aggie didn’t care that she sounded snippy—challenging—daring Dr. Patton to say what she knew she abhorred him saying. So she said it for him. “Dying? You’re saying Mumsie is dying?”
Dr. Patton shot a glance at Collin. If she wasn’t already tipped over the edge of rationality, Aggie would wonder if there’d been some desperation in that glance. A plea for help. It seemed Dr. Patton expected Aggie to know far more about Mumsie than she did.
“Is Mumsie dying?” Aggie repeated. Insisted. No. Demanded.
She felt Collin’s fingers take her hand, enveloping her fingers in comforting warmth. Aggie pulled away and crossed her arms in front of her. The touch, the gesture—she didn’t know what to make of it.
Dr. Patton sighed and gave a noncommittal tip of his head. “If—when—your grandmother regains consciousness, we’ll need to run more tests. You’ll need to meet with her primary doctor, and a full prognosis can be drawn up at that point. However, it was a massive stroke. So, I must warn you, there may be some paralysis as a result. She may have difficulty speaking or moving, and more likely than not, walking. All of this has some of the wait-and-see elements.”
“This is assuming she regains consciousness?” Collin interjected with the question Aggie was loath to ask.
Dr. Patton looked between them, then gave a subtle nod. There was honesty in his eyes now. It made him more human. “Sometimes the elderly are just tired. They don’t have enough reason to fight to come out of a trauma like this. You should be prepared, in case she slips away.”
“Mumsie won’t give up.” Aggie shook her head, tightening her arms around herself. Neither Dr. Patton nor Collin knew Mumsie—really knew her. Mumsie was too strong-willed, too persistent to just give up and accept that it was her time to go.
But an old, familiar wave of predilection washed over Aggie. She remembered that night in Mom’s room as she struggled to breathe, to fight, to live. In the end, her body had given up her spirit anyway, regardless of what she might have wanted.
Death didn’t give a person a choice. It just came and stole. Whether you’d finished what you wanted to do with your life or not. Death was a thief, and there was no justice that could imprison it from stealing again. And if God provided hope in the midst of Death’s evil . . . Aggie was willing to beg to see it. Just once.
CHAPTER 26
Imogene
Lola took two steps to Imogene’s one. Imogene could feel her friend darting nervous, sideways glances at her a
s they strode down the sidewalk toward the corner drugstore. The drugstore where Harry Schneider worked the soda bar.
He’s just a kid.
Imogene could hear Lola’s argument in her head.
He couldn’t have done anything to hurt Hazel.
The Schneiders were lifelong neighbors and friends to the Graysons. Besides, Harry didn’t have a vindictive bone in his body—just like Ollie.
Just like Ollie.
Imogene pursed her red lips tighter as she marched toward the door with the cream-painted words spanning the top of the store’s windows that bordered it.
Cigars. Candy. Prescriptions.
And on the other window: Cosmetics. Films. Aspirin.
She reached for the long brass door handle. Lola’s hand on her bare arm stopped her. Imogene met her friend’s concerned eyes.
“Let’s think about this first, Genie.” Lola’s words were almost a whisper.
Imogene shook her head. “There’s nothing to think about. Ida saw them together.”
“Talking. That’s all she said they were doing was talking—if it was even Harry! Heck, Genie, I talked to Hazel the day before she died! That doesn’t mean she said something to make me mad enough to—” Lola cut her sentence off sharply.
Imogene sucked in a breath. All right then. She’d think about it. In an effort to waste time, Imogene glanced at the toothpaste sign in the window, 1 cent. What a waste. They’d used baking soda for most of the war. There was no reason to waste money on paste.
Was a fifteen-second hesitation long enough?
Imogene swiveled her head back to look at Lola, her hand still clutching the door handle. “Well, I thought about it.”
Lola’s expression fell into one of exasperation mingled with worry. “Genie” was all she could get out before Imogene tugged the door open.
The bells tinkled their welcome as the ladies stepped into the drugstore. The long soda bar was the first thing to their left. Stools lined the bar, with only two occupants. Children. Their mouths puckered over paper straws sucking in chocolate malts topped with whipped cream and sprinkles.
Harry’s back was to them. From behind, he looked almost identical to Ollie. When he turned, the warmth in his eyes startled Imogene. She’d conjured him into a ruthless killer. A jealous, thwarted lover. Gosh. Lola was right. He was just a kid. A nineteen-year-old kid like Hazel.
His eyes dimmed a bit as he recognized her. Sadness reflected in them. Not the lingering, soulful kind like Ollie’s, but the kind that hinted he’d lost out on some possibility in his future and had also lost a friend.
“Genie.” He motioned to the stools. “Lola. Have a seat.”
Gentlemanly. Pretty fine for a farm boy.
Lola slid onto a padded stool, adjusted her dress so it fell modestly around her shins, brushing her stockings. Imogene stood beside her but couldn’t sit. If she did, somehow she felt less confident. Less sure of herself. It was already waning fast beneath the questioning look of Harry Schneider.
Cold-blooded murderer?
Imogene exchanged glances with Lola. Okay. Fine. Lola was right. She needed to think first.
“How well did you know my sister?”
Lola’s shoulders sagged as Imogene blurted out the question. So much for thinking.
Harry’s eyes widened. He glanced around and leaned forward on the counter. “Did you want me to step outside for a second?”
“No. Just answer the question.” Imogene rested her hands at her hips and cocked her carefully curled and pinned head of raven-black hair. She summoned her best Hedy Lamarr savvy yet sultry look and softened her demand. “C’mon, Harry, it’s just a question.”
Harry cleared his throat. “I’ve known Hazel since we were kids, Genie, you know that.”
Imogene couldn’t glean any signs that he was nervous, outside of being flustered by her assertive nature.
“Harry, we’re just trying to figure out what happened to her,” Lola interjected.
Harry glanced at her. “I’m s’posed to know? Don’tcha think I’d say somethin’ if I knew?”
Imogene leaned against the bar. “You were seen several times in deep conversation with my sister. At the plant.”
“Yeah? So?” Friendliness fled from Harry’s eyes, but his answer affirmed Ida’s observation that it had been him. “Gosh, Genie, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but just ’cause I talked to Hazel don’t mean I know why she—she was killed!”
The children’s heads popped up from their malts, and their eyes widened. Harry shot them a reassuring grin before returning his attention to Imogene and Lola, lowering his voice now.
“Listen. Hazel was a good girl. You know that. What happened to her—well, she didn’t deserve it. But we were just friends, and I was only trying to help her.”
Imogene pulled back. “Help her?”
Harry glanced at the children again, then nodded. “Yeah. You know? It’s what neighbors do, right?”
Lola reached out and rested her hand over Harry’s in an almost sisterly-like reassuring gesture. “It is, Harry.”
Imogene bit her tongue. Maybe Lola would draw more bees with honey.
“What did Hazel need help with?” Lola asked the same question Imogene wanted to ask, only her voice was gentle, prodding, and far less forceful.
Harry directed his attention to Lola. “That’s just it. I’m not quite sure. She kept talking to me almost in riddles, you know? Kept saying stuff like, ‘If I say something, people I care about will be hurt, and if I don’t say something, people I don’t know will be hurt.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Imogene snapped.
Harry shot her a glance. “Heck if I know. I kept trying to get her to tell me what was bothering her so. She said she couldn’t, but she kept asking me what I’d do. Like she was in some big moral dilemma, and whatever she did, well, the outcome didn’t suit her.”
“So why talk to you?” Imogene pressed, not able to ignore the hurt that Hazel hadn’t just come to her if she was hiding something, or knew something about someone, or whatever the case might have been.
Harry ran his fingers through his hair. The look on his face was not unlike the resigned expression Ollie seemed to tender often. “Probably ’cause I was familiar. Someone she trusted. She didn’t do too much with folks at the plant. She just did her job and went home, you know? I don’t even know what she might have stumbled on to put her into such a tizzy.”
“She worked in laundry,” Imogene mumbled, her mind searching for something—anything—that might help to move her forward.
Harry nodded. “Yeah. The only thing I could gather was that she learned somethin’ about someone. And it pained her—a lot.”
“But what was it?” The question slipped from Imogene’s lips, even though she knew there wasn’t going to be a satisfactory response.
Harry shrugged as he grabbed a washrag to wipe off sticky drips of soda syrup from the bar. “I’ve no idea.” He stopped wiping and looked up for a moment, directly into Imogene’s eyes. “Funny thing is, she mentioned once she never thought the war would come home after it ended. I mean, I lost family and she knew that too, but that wasn’t what she was meaning. It was as though, for Hazel, the war wasn’t over yet.”
Imogene bid Lola farewell at the front door of Lola’s house in town. It was a subdued farewell. Both had expressed theories, conjecture, and Lola had made sure to bring up again the fact the post office had been blown apart. But outside of Harry’s vague account of his conversation with Hazel, there was nothing to take to the police to investigate, outside of what they would already think was a “wild theory.” Still, she’d share it with Chet later, when he came for dinner. If nothing else, maybe it would trigger something in Chet. Something he knew that she didn’t.
Besides, Imogene argued with Lola, while it seemed plausible to them in theory, it wasn’t consistent with Hazel. If she’d known someone was going to plant a homemade bomb at the post office, she surely w
ould have told Chet straightaway. She would have been too concerned for the citizens who so easily could have been seriously wounded or killed.
Such thoughts were swarming in Imogene’s mind as she walked along the road toward the family farm. A robin swooped in front of her and pecked at the gravel. It fluttered away as Imogene’s toe kicked a pebble in its direction.
“Yes. Fly away.” Imogene wished she could too. She needed to work on the dollhouse tonight. But her insides revolted against the idea of once again visiting the scene of Hazel’s death in her mind. But with the little bit Harry had told her, maybe she could see things differently if she looked at them again. Perhaps she could remember what had been in the empty picture frame. Or maybe that was of no importance and something else would surface that would trigger a more logical theory.
She walked faster, but her body felt as though someone had hold of the back of her dress and was tugging her away from the dollhouse at the same time.
There’s something I didn’t tell Harry. Hazel’s voice resounded in Imogene’s mind. She glanced behind her. No one was there, no one pulling on her. It was a vacant, imagined feeling.
“Then what was it, Hazel?” Imogene asked aloud, her voice startling a few sparrows in the long grasses by the road.
Keep asking. You’ll find out.
“I can’t right now. I told Mother I’d make dinner tonight.” But she didn’t want to return to the farmhouse. She didn’t want to force herself to work on the dollhouse, to remember sweeping up the shards of Hazel’s teacup Chet had launched against the wall. She didn’t want to try to stop her mind from spinning, asking why had the teacup been on the table in the first place? Worse, she didn’t want to admit that the only person she could think of angry enough to blow up a government building and potentially even take Hazel’s life was . . .
Ivan.
Hazel’s voice stopped Imogene in her tracks. Her shoes crunched on the gravel. She covered her mouth with her palm, stifling a gasp. Clear as day. She’d heard Hazel’s voice clear as day. She was going crazy. Losing her marbles!
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