“I didn’t. Bob thought the doll was a giant catnip mouse, I guess, and ripped it open a few nights ago. I woke up to find its stuffing and these on the floor.”
Prudence picked up the green glassy lump. “Huh. I haven’t seen a piece of this since I was a girl. We used to dig for it where the old glassworks had been. We thought we were archaeologists or something.”
Gerry took the fist-sized lump. “So it’s glass?”
“Slag. Leftovers.”
“It’s pretty.” Gerry put the lump down. “Prudence, I have to go to the bank. Will you be all right?”
“I’ll be in good hands,” Prudence smiled, as the Honour Guard slunk in and, one by one, leapt onto her bed.
Gerry parked in front of the bank. As she walked to its entrance, she saw the old black pickup truck parked there as well. Her eyes widened as she saw, painted on the tailgate, a mass of tiny grey skulls.
After explaining her need, she waited in a little sitting area off to one side. A tall, redheaded man was talking to the cashier dealing with business accounts. As he leaned against the counter, chatting to the girl, Gerry felt her cheeks grow warm. Bea was right. She did feel something for Steve Parsley. She assumed he was on an errand for the Parsley Inn, using his brother’s truck.
When he’d finished and was on his way out, he noticed her. He smiled. “Gerry! Sorry I haven’t called. It’s been so busy at the inn.”
“That’s okay,” she replied in what she hoped was a calm voice. “How are Phil and the kids?”
He sobered immediately. “Still very shocked. The body hasn’t been released so the funeral is on hold. It’s very disturbing for them.”
“I’ll bet.” She took a deep breath. “Steve, I should have asked you this before. What were you and Betty Parsley arguing about after church just before she was attacked?”
There was a second as he blinked, and then his face went blank. “I don’t know what you mean. I never go to church. Unless it’s for a wedding. Or a funeral.”
She was taken aback and somewhat relieved. “Oh. Maybe it was Ralph. I don’t know you well enough to tell you apart.”
“I’ll ask him,” he replied smoothly, “but I doubt he was actually in the church.” He laughed. “We were dragged there every Sunday by our parents. We’ve both had enough church to last our lifetimes.” He looked thoughtful. “But I’ll certainly ask him. Yes, I’ll do that. See you, lovely lady.” And with a wave, he sauntered off.
Gerry concluded her banking. When she got home, she phoned the police. It might mean nothing — Steve and Ralph Parsley might be innocent of Betty’s death — but it was time she shared what she’d seen.
18
When Gerry hung up the phone, she realized someone other than she had been active in the kitchen. Cake had been sliced and tea made. “I don’t believe it! She’s recuperated already?” She made her way upstairs and was surprised to hear another voice as well as Prudence’s. She tapped at the partially closed door. “It’s me.”
“Come in,” called Prudence. Lucy Hanlan sat on a chair by the bed.
“My brother had to go to the hardware store,” Lucy explained. “He brought me. We’re going on to a movie after. I thought Prudence might be up to it, but now I see her…”
“I’m feeling much better. But not washing, dressing and going out better.” Prudence had tidied away the contents of Margie’s box, except for the diary, which lay on the bed. “I hope you don’t mind, Gerry, but I read little bits of Margie’s diary to Lucy.”
“Such a long life,” Lucy commented.
Gerry said, “Remember when you were here before, Lucy? We were talking about the bones in the woodshed.” Lucy nodded. “I didn’t tell you this yet, Prudence. Father Lackey called me the first day you were ill. He thinks the name of our bones may be Cormac McCormack.” Gerry concentrated on Lucy. “Ring any bells?”
Lucy shook her head. “No McCormacks in Lovering now. It’s an interesting name, though.”
Gerry cocked her head to one side. “You mean because of the repetition?”
“Oh, gosh, no. That’s common, or used to be. Neil McNeil or Donald Macdonald. No, I mean its meaning. Cormac means raven. Raven, son of raven. He was probably a dark man, and son of a dark man.”
“Prudence, are you all right?” Gerry half-rose. Prudence had paled and had one hand pressed to her chest.
“No, no. I’m — just — tired.”
Lucy rose immediately. The doorbell rang. “That’ll be my brother. Well, I hope you recover in time for your holiday. Take me with you, eh?” As Lucy preceded Gerry from the room, Prudence mouthed, “Come back quick.”
Gerry saw Lucy out, then took the stairs two at a time. “What? Is it your heart?” Prudence, head bent, was flipping through the pages of G.G.A. Margie’s diary.
“I’ve been reading ahead. But remember she starts by talking about her mother, how she calls Margie her little raven, her little crow?”
“Yes, yes. Oh.”
“Now. Read this.” Gerry read silently to herself:
One day, shortly before my brother Albert was born, and my mother subsequently died, she allowed me to play with her doll. Her mother had made it for her and she treasured it. Father was away on business.
After a while, Mother unbuttoned the back of the doll and took out a carved wooden heart, a lump of green glass and a black feather.
She’d been very ill during this, her most recent pregnancy, and sometimes I would find her holding the doll and weeping. She handed me the three objects and said, “These were given me by my very best friend in the world.” I knew at once that it could not be my father who was her best friend, as my mother seemed to shrink inside herself whenever he came into a room or approached her.
She continued, “He, he had to leave. This is a jewel he found and gave me.” My ten-year-old hand took hold of the slag, my ten-year-old brain imagining it to be a huge emerald. Next she handed me the wooden carving. “This is his heart, he gave me before, before I married your father. And this —” She caressed the black feather. “This is his spirit, the spirit of Cormac.”
“She named him!” Gerry exclaimed. “She named Cormac!”
Prudence waved her hand. “Keep reading!”
My mother let me handle the objects for a few more minutes. I especially liked the green glass. Soon we replaced the objects inside the doll and buttoned it back up. My mother made me promise not to open the doll again until I was a grown-up lady.
“How will I know I’m grown up?” I asked. “When you get married,” she smiled. “Then you can open the doll. But you must never let your father see what’s inside. Promise?” I promised, and I kept my promise, except I didn’t wait until I got married.
My mother died of a fever, an infection, I guess, a few days after Albert was born. I and the servants looked after him. When I was sixteen I decided that wearing long skirts and being a surrogate mother to a six-year-old boy, as well as serving as my father’s housekeeper, qualified me as grown up. I opened the doll.
Sometime between our conversation and her death, she’d sewn it closed. I carefully ripped out the stitches and put my hand inside. I felt wood. I felt glass. I located the feather. But there had been something added. My mother had written me a letter. I read it right away, read it again, scarcely believing the contents, then fulfilled her request to me in two ways. I burnt the letter. And I never discussed any of what I’d learned with my father.
Gerry groaned. “Oh, Prudence. How terrible. She burnt it. What do you suppose it said?”
“I don’t know. Full disclosure? Telling her she was Cormac’s child?”
“Have you finished the diary?”
“No.”
“Keep reading! I’m going to Cathy’s for supper tonight. I’ll bring you some soup before I go. Try and finish the diary tonight.”
Later, walk
ing to Cathy’s, Gerry was fizzing with excitement. They might learn everything tonight! One mystery might be solved! As she went up the wide steps onto Cathy’s house’s veranda, she remembered the second to last time she had been in the house. She remembered Betty Parsley.
She knocked and the door opened almost immediately. “Oh! Hello.”
The woman who stood there was tall and thin and nicely dressed in tight faded jeans and a pink cardigan over a matching pullover. Little pearl earrings glowed softly. Her makeup was discreet. The woman put out a hand. “I’m Markie, Cathy’s sister. You must be Gerry. Let me take your coat.”
“Thank you. Cathy didn’t tell me — I didn’t know —”
“I had a few things to wrap up in Arizona, so had to let Cathy return alone. It was good of you to look after her that first night. What a dreadful experience for you, finding the body.”
Gerry found herself seated on the sofa in the living room, a gin and tonic in her hand and a bowl of macadamia nuts being pushed towards her. With a sigh, she leant back and relaxed. “You’ve got Cathy’s way of making people feel at home. Does she need help?”
“Nope. It’s all done. She’s upstairs. I made her take a nice hot bath. And I’m going to have a whisky.”
They heard the tentative kerplop, kerplop of Prince Charles descending the staircase. He landed at the bottom, paused, and then clicked his way into the living room over to Gerry.
“Hello, Charles, old man. Recovered from your flight?” Gerry gave him a nut. He took it to the hearth rug, where he lay and carefully nibbled. “So what is it you do in Arizona, Markie?”
“I’m a designer.”
Gerry looked at the sophisticated woman across from her. “As in, interior designer?”
Markie laughed. “I design aircraft. I’m an engineer as well as a designer. And you? I’ve heard how you’re a commercial artist with a successful comic strip. That’s quite an accomplishment for someone so young.”
Gerry mumbled something, feeling embarrassed. It was almost as if Cathy’s sister was flirting with her!
Just then, Cathy entered the room: a calm, well-dressed, even well-coiffed Cathy. Gerry rose and hugged her friend. “Okay, now I know I’m underdressed.”
“Nonsense.” Cathy sat on the sofa and Markie brought her a glass of sherry. “I wanted to thank you for our Christmas presents: the little painting of the bluebells on my lawn in the spring, and Charles’ jacket.” Cathy kicked off a shoe and stroked Charles with her foot. “It makes him look very handsome.” Charles grunted. Markie’s eyebrows rose in amusement as she and Gerry exchanged looks. “How’s Prudence?” Cathy asked.
“Coming along. Ate soup for supper. Sitting up and reading. I take it you had a good trip before you heard about Betty?”
“It was wonderful. We did the galleries and shops. We drove out into the desert. We ate in all kinds of restaurants. And when Markie had to work, I just lazed in her garden. It’s so interesting, Gerry. It’s designed with stones and cacti and succulents, no lawn, but clumps of wild grasses. It never needs watering but it’s beautiful all the same.”
“Not like gardens here, eh, Sis?” Markie held up her glass. “Like another?”
“Yes, why not?” Gerry replied. “Thanks.” She scooped up a handful of nuts.
Cathy jumped up. “Oh, Gerry, you’re hungry! Well, you girls bring your drinks into the dining room and I’ll serve supper.”
Gerry and Markie sat at the beautifully appointed table.
“That reminds me,” Gerry said as Cathy brought in the soup. “I’m having a potluck on Saturday night. I was hoping you might cook a bird, Cathy. You don’t have any guests coming, do you?”
“No. January is slow and I planned to take a few weeks off after my vacation. I’d be happy to cook a bird. Chicken or turkey?”
“Well, at least a dozen are coming. A turkey, I think. I’m going to do a roast beef with garlic. And the dessert. This soup is lovely.” Cathy had made a creamy butternut soup and swirled in a dollop of cilantro-infused yogurt.
The main course was a gorgeous chicken curry with a spiced rice side dish and several little chutneys and sauces. They finished with mango ice cream.
“I’m in heaven,” Gerry sighed. “I hadn’t realized how much I miss Indian food.” This led to a discussion between Gerry and Markie about their favourite restaurants in Toronto, where it turned out Markie had lived many years previously. While they were still sitting at the table, Gerry remembered Prudence and rose from her seat. “I’m sorry to eat and read — I mean run — but I really should check on Prudence.”
As they said their goodbyes at the door, Gerry kissed Markie on the cheek. Markie flushed and held her hands. “Very nice to meet you, Gerry,” and Gerry thought she saw a pleading look in Markie’s eyes.
When she got home, Prudence was asleep, the diary on her coverlet. Gerry hadn’t the heart to wake her, nor did she take the diary to read herself. For once, she’d be patient. This was Prudence’s project. There was no hurry. She went to bed.
She was just dozing off when a crash downstairs jerked her upright. Prudence hadn’t woken, so Gerry went to investigate. “Dratted cats! Now what have you knocked over?” Drowsy innocent faces greeted her in the dining room. “Go back to sleep,” she told Harley and Kitty-cat, patting their enormous heads.
“It must have come from in here,” she muttered, moving to the living room and found the cause of the ruckus. Bob lay stretched to his considerable length on the mantelpiece. “Why, Bob, why?” She felt the mantelpiece; it was warm from the now extinguished fire. “Oh well, I guess that makes sense. But my plant!”
She knelt and collected bits of broken clay pot. “Lucky you didn’t brain the kittens with this,” she scolded. Bob yawned and went back to sleep.
She threw out the shattered pot, got an empty plastic yogurt container for the poinsettia. “Bruised but not broken,” she murmured to it as she resettled its roots. The rest of the pot, dirt, and the now crisp cedar branch Christmas decoration she swept up and dumped into the garbage. Something small and white gleamed up at her.
She picked up the finger bone and put it in the pocket of her robe. “I know where I’m going to put you,” she told it and went back to bed.
When she woke up again, it was morning and, on the way back from the bathroom, she smelled coffee, eggs and bacon. She clumped downstairs to find Prudence, dressed, serving breakfast. “Well?” she demanded.
“Well what?” Prudence loaded her own plate, leaving Gerry to serve herself.
“Well, did you finish the diary?”
“Huh. After you left, I fell asleep and I slept for close to fourteen hours. I read nothing. I feel fine, though. Thanks for asking.” She gobbled her food.
Gerry felt queasy looking at Prudence’s plateful of food and sipped her coffee. “Cathy made Indian food. And I met her sister, Markie.”
“You mean her brother.”
“No. She was definitely a woman. Markie.”
Prudence opened and closed her mouth.
Gerry reacted with some alarm. “Prudence! I knew you shouldn’t eat that rich food! Are you feeling ill again?”
“Mark Stribling. Was the boy. Who disappeared. Who I had a crush on. In high school.”
“And you think? Oh.” Gerry thought for a moment. “She’s tall and thin.”
“Like Cathy’s father. Cathy takes after her mum. You read about it but you don’t expect —”
“No. Well. I’ve invited them both to dinner on Saturday.”
“It’s good I’m prepared. Otherwise, I might have appeared startled and embarrassed myself.” Prudence took her dishes into the kitchen and Gerry heard her running water.
“Prudence, I don’t want you working today. If you can help me clean on Saturday that would be great, but till then…”
“I know,” said Prudence, app
earing in the doorway holding a dishrag, “until then, I’m the designated reader.”
Gerry grinned sheepishly. “So much is happening. I’m going to spend the morning with my cats. I mean my imaginary cats. After I clean the litter of my real cats.”
“Already done,” Prudence said airily, and returned to giving the kitchen a thorough wipe down.
Gerry cursed under her breath and immersed herself in cake-jumping cats for a few hours. Now, where had she left off?
“The ladies of Crumpet compete to see who can create the most fantastic cakes for the cats to jump.”
There was a pause as the others digested this news.
“We could do that.”
The others jumped. Again it was Languida who had spoken.
“We could do that. I could be the assistant to the cats who jump, set up the cakes and measure heights and so on. And you,” she turned to Latooth, “are such a good baker, I bet you could design some amazing cakes.” Latooth blushed and sat up straighter. Her jewellery clanked.
“Max, you could show the young cats how it’s done, at first. You’re such a good jumper.” Just to prove it, Max jumped over two chairs and Lady Ponscomb in quick succession, upsetting all three.
“And you, Your Majesty,” here Languida curtsied prettily to Queen Atholfass, “would give your Royal Assent and Patronage to the whole affair.”
“Never mind that,” said the Queen snappishly, her full tail thrashing. “We must challenge Crumpet for the Championship!”
As she righted the last chair and shook herself free of dust, Tess, Lady Ponscomb, plaintively asked, “And I, Your Majesty, what am I to do?”
“Ponscomb, stop whining! You’re in charge of publicity. And now, you may all leave me.” With that, Queen Atholfass dismissed her court, curled up and had a ten-hour nap.
19
This is so much fun, Gerry thought. She drew a heavy line under the text. That was the end of the first bit. Now she needed an end-of-chapter sketch. She drew the Queen, nose tucked under her tail, asleep on a large cushion. Her crown reposed on a smaller cushion nearby. The other characters tiptoed out of the room through various doors and windows.
The Cat Vanishes Page 18