by Patti Larsen
“You go talk to Ruth,” she said. “She’ll fix you right up. There she is, now.”
I turned and watched a tall, large woman in a white dress with a stethoscope around her neck exit the office, her giant feet squashed into big sneakers. There was something so familiar about her face, past the chin length bob that did nothing for the blockiness of her features, the faint gloss she wore on her lips as if convention called for it, the way her big hands seemed more suited to construction than nursing. But it was clear her role and I left Peggy to go talk to the grumpy looking woman who glared at me like I was interrupting her perfectly orderly day.
“I’m Fiona Fleming,” I said, offering my hand which disappeared into the massive one she extended, the firmness of her shake so violent I was happy to have my fingers back in one piece.
“Ruth Wilkins,” she said. And my entire world froze while she frowned down at me.
“Pete’s sister?” Had to be.
“Better than being his murderer,” she said.
***
Chapter Twenty
I wasn’t expecting that kind of response, considering I’d just found out the looming woman was the victim’s relative, though the more I stared up at her the more their powerful resemblance turned me into a stuttering, stammering idiot.
“Mrs. Fleming’s things are in the office,” Ruth said, brushing past me with the kind of presence a freight train might command, even the lightest touch from her big arm making me feel bruised. “Good day to you, Miss Fleming.”
I watched her lumber away, caught Peggy’s unhappy frown and head shake and shrugged it off. I had to live in this town and encounters with those who knew Pete—for better or worse—were going to happen. Hopefully the more time between his death and some other scandal would ease the discomfort of being thought of as the primary suspect.
I was dreaming of course. Reading residents had long, long memories.
The office was about as nicely lit as the foyer with the same buzzing, flickering fluorescent lights and the exact old vinyl tile now grayed out and flecked with who knew what. A clunky desk tucked in one corner, ancient gray filing cabinets lining the back wall and a heavy wooden door with a smoked glass pane dominating the top center in the far corner with “Ruth Wilkins, Administrator,” etched on it.
So, head nurse and the boss? I nodded to the young woman behind the desk as she blinked at me past her thick glasses, stringy dark hair puddling in unattractive chunks on her narrow shoulders. She picked absently at a cold sore at the corner of her thin mouth while I glanced around. Noting the large photograph of who had to be staff behind her, Ruth’s giant form filling the middle of the image with a grimace likely meant to be a smile.
No one else looked happy to be there.
“Can I help you?” The receptionist’s voice matched the rest of her, high pitched and rather wheezy. She inhaled from a blue puffer, still staring while I offered a quick smile, feeling like I had, indeed, wasted my time. Well, it was mine to waste, wasn’t it?
“I’m here for Iris Fleming’s things.” Both of my hands clenched at the straps of my purse over my shoulder and I had to force an inhale and relax them before I lost circulation. Why was I so wound up? The smell of this place wasn’t helping, nor the awkward encounter with Ruth. And knowing I’d come on an errand that would likely end with a box of old nightgowns and regret made my shoulders sag.
“Right. Just a sec.” The young woman stood, tugging at her ugly brown cardigan, the pockets laden to overflowing with used tissues and a box of what looked like breath mints. I glanced away as she shuffled in her practical shoes across the office about as fast as a turtle might hustle to a pile of boxes in the corner near Ruth’s office door. Searching for a distraction, I studied the photo behind the desk, recognizing the receptionist where she squashed up against her boss with the most awkward smile I’d ever seen. And spotted a face I hadn’t expected.
I knew her, but not personally. That pretty blonde in the second row with the big eyes and unhappy expression. I’d seen her yesterday leaving the Wilkins’s house. Sneaking out the side yard and driving off like she didn’t want to be noticed.
So she worked here, did she? Well, good for her. This was a small town, after all. People were connected to places and each other in oddly layered ways. Still, I couldn’t help my curious mind’s pondering as the receptionist shuffled back to the desk and deposited a small cardboard box, sealed shut with a single strip of packing tape, one end flapping loose as if it had been too much effort to fix it. In big, messy capitals, IRIS FLEMING glared back at me from the surface.
“ID please.” I fished out my wallet, showed her my New York driver’s license which she squinted at a moment before shrugging like it didn’t matter anyway. “Sign here.” The young woman produced a pen with the end chewed to a flat line, still moist from her mouth, I could only imagine, and a battered clipboard with a sheet of paper clinging under the wobbly clamp. I put my wallet away before accepting the pen from her, scrawling my name as fast as I could, hoping the cold sore she bore wouldn’t transfer to my fingers from the pen and planning to douse myself in cleanser from the dispenser on the way out.
I left, heart heavy, two pumps of clear gel making my skin dry out as I rubbed vigorously, using my shoulder to push the glass door wide. There was no sign of Peggy and just as well. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, not with the last worldly possessions of my grandmother from her deathbed tucked under one arm.
I sat in the car a long moment, the box in my lap, staring down at her name and the loose flap of dirty tape and wondered if this was what life came to, in the end. My fingers grasped the tape and jerked, pulling loose most of her name with it when it tore the top of the box’s surface free, the flaps popping open. Only then did I realize they’d recycled this box, that someone shipped something innocuous and unimportant in the container that held the last bits and pieces of Iris Fleming.
Fury gave me a pounding headache, instant and overwhelming and I had to fish in my purse for a tissue as tears flowed. I blew my nose for the woman I barely knew and emptied the offending box out onto the passenger’s seat, tossing the cardboard in the back so it wouldn’t touch Grandmother Iris’s things ever again.
I was right about the spare nightgown, the faded slippers. A single hair clip with a butterfly on it, costume jewelry at its finest. My fingers trembled as I touched it and, on impulse, I pinned it in my hair before setting aside the pale pink housecoat and stopped in surprise when a folded letter fell out of the pocket and slid down between the seat and the console. A bit of grunting and swearing and I had the envelope, staring down at it and the crease that divided my father’s name in two.
I should have just taken it to him, let him open it. Addressed to him or not, though, I felt closer to Grandmother Iris in that moment than I ever had and my fingers tore open the flap before I could stop myself.
And found myself absorbed in the contents:
Dear John,
You were correct about Pete Wilkins, and in exactly the way you expected. I’ve heard enough rumors in this place to uncover he is not only a fraud and a liar but he really has been using the elderly as a means to acquire property.
So Grandmother Iris was investigating herself, was she? Even gravely ill and on her death bed. Well, I came by my nosiness honestly.
I suspect many things I can’t prove, but you must investigate Ruth Wilkins as well at this juncture. She and her brother have been speaking frequently behind closed doors and I’m certain she is part of his crimes.
That would make sense. I frowned at Grandmother Iris’s scribbled handwriting and had to forgive her the messiness. She’d been in a terrible state. Would I even have been able to form a sentence in her condition, post stroke, let alone write an entire letter?
Pete isn’t the one acquiring the signatures. Whoever is doing it, I will uncover the truth. But they only target those who have not had their power of attorney removed as you suspected so the sign overs
are legal and binding. I will attempt to play dumb and perhaps take the risk of Petunia’s if the opportunity presents. If so, I will find a way to tell you in my signature who it is had me sign.
I gasped and looked up, staring out the windshield and shaking. Grandmother Iris knew exactly what she was doing. But, sadly, it sounded like she’d actually signed over Petunia’s. I needed another look at what she’d written. Because from the sounds of things the whole case against Pete and his underhanded takeover of property could rest in my grandmother’s signature.
For now, be well and be brave, as always.
My love, Mother
I needed to take this letter to Dad. That’s why, five minutes later, I parked outside the sheriff’s office and carried it inside. And handed it to Crew Turner instead.
Traitor.
***
Chapter Twenty One
The hard, wooden chair was about as uncomfortable as I remembered it from a few days ago but this time at least I felt like I had the upper hand. Crew read through the letter a few times while I fidgeted and tried not to demand he run out and investigate not only Pete Wilkins but his sister, Ruth. Instead, my foot bobbing at the end of my crossed legs, I shifted positions about three million times while sighing over and over again.
When Crew finally looked up, he had that pinched, unhappy expression I’d come to discover was his expression of choice. Or maybe it was just with me. That unsettling thought vanished as he leaned back in his own chair, springs creaking, and set the letter in front of him.
“You could have taken this to your dad,” he said, soft, subdued.
“I know.” I shifted again, but this time out of discomfort I was even here. The fact I had turned coat and brought the evidence to the new sheriff wasn’t lost on me. “But Dad isn’t in that seat anymore, Crew. You are. And he doesn’t have the power to do anything about it.” I left that hanging. Hoping, “You do,” left unsaid, didn’t need to be.
Crew nodded, frown smoothing out. “I do appreciate your faith in me.” Irony there, and some sarcasm. “But I’m not sure what I can do with the word of a woman who had suffered a major stroke and was dying in a nursing home when she wrote this.”
“Seriously?” I gaped at him, wishing now I had taken the letter to Dad after all and screw this useless excuse for a—
“However.” Crew cut me off with one raised index finger. I distinctly disliked him in that instant, so much so the very sight of him made me want to throw something at his handsome face. Mess it up a little. Leave him something to remember me by while I languished in prison for assault.
I sat back, arms crossing over my chest while he seemed to mull things over.
“How much do you know about your father’s case against Pete Wilkins?” I wasn’t expecting that question and it jerked me out of my sullen anger.
“Nothing,” I said. “Feel like filling me in?”
Crew drew a breath before shaking his head. “He never told you anything?”
“You’ve met John Fleming, right?” I grunted a swear word.
Crew laughed then and I forgot for a moment I was supposed to hate his cowardly guts. Because he had this velvety laugh that had warm edges and the kind of depth that stirred things long left unstirred.
“Fee, I need to be honest.” He settled then, rubbing at his face with both hands, looking tired and a bit vulnerable. How refreshing. And made me listen even more than the chance I might find out what the hell was going on. “I’ve read the information your dad had against Pete. Pretty solid case, for all. But it fell apart because John lost his distance.” Crew hesitated. “You’re not throwing a hissy fit?”
I rolled my eyes. “Just spit it out.”
“Frankly, I’d have reopened the case, gone looking for new evidence. Except Pete Wilkins is dead.” He fixed me with that blue eyed gaze. “And to be completely honest you and your father are at the top of my suspect list. Well, John, anyway.”
I opened my mouth to protest but Crew shook his head and stood, coming to my side, taking my hand and pulling me to my feet. I was acutely aware of how close I stood to him then, of the scent of the aftershave he wore, the fact he used the same laundry detergent as we did at Petunia’s. And that he really, really was delicious.
“I don’t think you killed Pete,” he said, voice low and deep. “But I need to cover all my bases. Okay?”
“You think Dad did it.” Well, wasn’t I moving and shaking along the same lines? Guilty, guilty, guilty.
“I think I’m going to thank you for bringing evidence to my attention and get back to my job.” He grasped me lightly by the upper arm and guided me to his office door. I let him, knowing it was foolish to try to push him at this point. And that if I was going to get anywhere proving Dad didn’t kill Pete I had to do it on my own.
Crew must have sensed where my thoughts were or just guessed I wasn’t done because he looked down into my eyes, his own full of sincerity and all my resentment toward him leaked out of me.
“I’ve asked you to stay out of this,” he said, “and I know now that’s not going to work. But Fiona, if you get hurt because you’re poking around in things that aren’t your problem, your father will kill me.”
I shrugged. “Then you two stop being idiots to each other and find out who killed Pete.”
I left then, feeling a bit like I’d won a victory, positive of one thing. If my dad did do it, I’d be the first to know. Because no way was I stopping now.
It wasn’t hard to become so absorbed in my next steps I barely remembered driving back to the B&B, nor parking my car in the driveway or even entering the foyer. But the sight of Daisy flapping her hands at me, eyes wide and cheeks pale but for two bright pink points caught my attention and pulled me out of my thoughts quickly enough.
Petunia joined us as Daisy hurried to me and whispered in my ear, the pug sitting firmly on the toes of my shoes.
“I couldn’t make her leave,” my old bestie whispered loud enough I’m sure they heard her upstairs. “I’m sorry.”
I glanced in the sitting room as she gestured with what I’m sure was meant to be a subtle motion but looked like frantic flailing. And found Pamela Shard sitting on the old fashioned sofa smiling at me.
“Miss Fleming,” the newspaper woman said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
***
Chapter Twenty Two
She didn’t rise or try to pursue me and she didn’t have to. Small town. I could run and maybe try to hide, but eventually I’d have to face her. With a small sigh I shuffled out from under Petunia’s warm butt and entered the room, offering my hand.
“I’m not going to tell you anything,” I said with a smile.
Pamela laughed while Petunia grunted her way onto the sofa next to her. The fact the well-dressed reporter took the time to scratch the pug under the chin and behind her ears was at least proof she had a heart buried under there. I sank into the chair opposite while my visitor leaned toward me, hands now clasped before her, dark blue suited elbows on her skirted knees.
“Why don’t I talk then,” she said, brown eyes on the amber side in the light from the tall windows. “About the fact you no longer own Petunia’s.”
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. She went on while I struggled to survive.
“I know all about it,” Pamela said. “I’ve been working on an exposé about the whole sordid and horrible affair. Legal, despite the lack of ethics behind it.” She winced then as if wanting to say more before she jabbed one finger in my direction and sat back to pat Petunia, her tone turning from smug confidence to a hint of compassion. “Your grandmother was a great woman, Fee. I knew her for a long time. And I always trusted her judgment.” She held my eyes. “She told me she wrote your father a letter about what she’d uncovered, that Pete Wilkins had accomplices.” She said his name as if she had her own axe to grind with him. “But she died before I could find out who was part of it.”
“Ruth, she thought.” I shook my head, looked
away. Didn’t matter what I said now.
“You read the letter?” Pamela’s hopes spiked and then clearly fell as she sighed. “So no evidence.”
I shrugged, paused. “Maybe,” I said. And made a decision to trust her with the last bit I hadn’t shared with Crew. “I’ll be right back.”
Less than a minute later the two of us sat, Petunia between us, on the sofa in the front room, staring intently at Grandmother Iris’s signature. “She said it would be here.” Frustrating, not knowing what I was looking for. It just looked like her name to me.
“This is wrong.” Pamela shook her head, squinting at the line of scrawl. “This isn’t Iris’s normal signature.”
Well, there was that. “She had a stroke. That might have changed her handwriting.” A long shot. “Could I use that to contest the sign over?” Maybe it wasn’t her writing after all? Come to think of it, the more I looked at it, the more I realized Pamela was likely right. This signature lacked the kind of shaky unsteadiness that marked the handwriting from the letter I’d given to Crew. No way did Grandmother Iris’s palsy steady so she could sign so cleanly.
“Possibly.” Pamela sat back with a sigh. “Certainly makes things interesting from a legal point of view. Except, Fee, I think this proves your grandmother didn’t get to sign. Or finger the person who actually gained the signatures. Because stroke or no stroke, she would have followed through with her word, especially to John.”
“Personally, I’m okay with that,” I said. “If it means Petunia’s is still legally mine.”
Pamela nodded then, faint smile unhappy. “There is that blessing,” she said. “The only trouble is all the other victims aren’t so lucky.” Why did she sound like she took that personally? If I’d learned anything, everyone in this town had something to hide.