Scheduled to Death

by Mary Feliz

  “You promise you’ll look for Santana?” she asked as the rain turned to hail and wind gusts rocked the car.

  “Right after I introduce you to my nutty family. I promise.”

  “And I can leave whenever I want?”

  “Or stay as long as you need to.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Let’s go.” I smiled, patted her hand, and headed home, where I hoped Max had a fire going in addition to the warm soup and fresh bread. Tonight was no night for anyone to be out alone in the dark.

  After I’d driven a few blocks, I remembered I had a ton of unanswered questions for Ketifa.

  “Ketifa?” I began. “Look, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but I’ve got a bunch of questions. Starting with what you were doing with Santana’s phone. And is there any way we can reach her?”

  Ketifa shook her head. “Santana started getting calls and texts from that guy this morning. They were horrible. Just horrible. She was scared and angry and frustrated and then completely overwhelmed. We were talking in the shed while I transplanted some seedlings. Finally, she just threw her phone against the wall and stomped out. I picked it up so I could give it back to her. She needs it to get her class assignments.”

  “Was Boots really angry about Linc and Sarah’s plan to sell their house?”

  Ketifa leaned away from me with her hand on the car door.

  “I mean, I don’t think she was angry enough to kill anyone. I’m not saying that. I’m just wondering what was going on. Tess and I worked with Linc—Dr. Sinclair—for several weeks to get the house cleared out. He never mentioned an arrangement with Boots or the Plotters. Did Boots think he knew about it and was pretending not to? Or did she think that his mother had never told him about the will?”

  “Boots? She was glad Linc was fixing up the house and planning to marry Sarah. But when she realized they had plans to sell the house, she was furious. Like, stomping her feet and pacing and tearing-out-her-hair furious. She had a copy of Mrs. Sinclair’s will, and she kept waving it around and slapping her palm with it, you know, like she was going to hit Linc over the head until he saw sense.” I nodded, trying to signal to Ketifa that I was listening and she should continue. “But she seemed pretty confident she’d get her way. She told the volunteers to come to work as usual and assume the house and land would still pass to the Plotters as Linc’s mom intended.”

  Ketifa went quiet. I peeked at her, afraid I might put her on the spot again if she saw me looking or if I asked her a question. She shook her head and sighed. “Boots wouldn’t have killed Dr. Sinclair or Sarah. She has a temper, but she’s really sweet underneath. She told us to look out for the professor—you know, because he forgot things when he was busy. We brought him fruits and vegetables and sometimes even started a pot of soup for him that we’d be sure was turned off at the end of the day when we left.”

  I risked asking a question. “And how did Santana feel about Boots? Did she get along as well with her as she did with Linc?”

  Ketifa nodded. “I think so. Boots was working on finding Santana housing. She was squatting in the old shed at the garden. We were hoping to find someplace we could rent together. And Santana hoped Boots would help her get into Stanford. Santana would have done anything for Boots, I think.”

  I wondered if any one person would be able to do all that the girls hoped Boots would do for them. But superheroes come in all shapes and sizes. If anyone could pull off trying to become a one-woman social-service agency, I’d put my money on Boots. I felt sure she’d eventually find Santana a better place to sleep than a rat-infested shed or an unheated basement.

  I pulled into our bumpy driveway and the car lurched to the front door. Ketifa held her belly to protect it and grabbed the door handle to steady herself.

  “Sorry about the bumps. It can’t be a comfortable ride for you. I’m always afraid I’m going to bite my lip or something.”

  She laughed politely. I stopped the car at the front door and rushed to help the very pregnant girl from the car. I wondered if there was actually a father in the picture, but I knew it was none of my business.

  I took her arm to help her up the steps, but she shook off my hand. “I’m okay, really, Mrs. McDonald. I’m pregnant, not sick.”

  And independent too, I thought.

  I held the door for her anyway. “I’ll introduce you to my husband and get you settled in the room that Linc was staying in. You can meet his cat, Jelly. But then I’m going to make sure Santana knows she has a warm place to stay tonight.”

  * * *

  Ketifa insisted on doing some chores to help out, but I hoped I’d convinced her to enjoy the shower and maybe take a nap. If she really couldn’t relax, I suggested she might set the table.

  As I left the room, she stopped me. “Why are you doing this? You don’t know me or Santana, and I don’t think you like Boots much, either.”

  I wasn’t sure of the answer. I hadn’t given it much thought. The girls weren’t that much older than my own kids, though. And I wouldn’t want the boys or any of their friends to live like Santana and Ketifa had been living. Besides, they were exactly the kind of kids that Sarah had been trying to help with her library programs. Helping them was kind of a tribute to Sarah. But Ketifa didn’t need to know that.

  “It’s not supposed to be this hard, Ketifa,” I said. “I just want to help you and your baby.” I started to leave the room again, then turned and looked at her. “I’m sad about my friend Sarah and worried about my friend Linc. There isn’t much I can do for either one of them, but giving you and Santana a place to stay helps me not to worry about them quite so much.”

  I dashed down the stairs and turned on the electric kettle. I hoped that Santana might be more willing to listen to me if I offered her hot tea and a snack on a wet and rainy night.

  I filled Max in on my plans for the girls while I bustled around the kitchen. He shrugged. “My Aunt Kay always had students staying in the house. In a way, we’re just continuing her tradition.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right. Spooky.” I smiled back at Max and gave him a quick hug, wishing we had time for something more—even if it was only a moment to sit on the porch and enjoy a cup of coffee together.

  “Max, I need to leave again to find Santana, the other young volunteer at the garden. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  “Tess will be bringing the boys back soon. If they haven’t eaten, I’ll invite Tess and Teddy to stay for dinner.”

  I gave Max a hug and a kiss. “You’re a gem.”

  “I know.”

  I poured hot water over tea bags in a battered stainless thermos I’d used since before Max and I were married.

  Max put the thermos of tea into one of our canvas grocery bags with the sandwich I made. He pulled a package of chocolate-chip cookies from the freezer and snuggled them in beside the thermos. He handed me the bag and pushed me toward the door.

  Belle snuffled my hand and tried to follow me, but I wasn’t sure where or how I would find Santana, and I didn’t know if she was afraid of dogs. I hesitated. Sometimes a friendly dog could be a good icebreaker. I knelt, scratched Belle’s ears, and buried my face in her fur.

  “Not this time, Baby Belle. I’ll be back soon, though. I promise.”

  Chapter 20

  In earthquake country, it’s a good idea to keep your car stocked with emergency supplies—water, warm clothing, comfortable shoes, first aid, and nonperishable food. While these supplies can be essential in a disaster, they prove helpful in lesser emergencies as well.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald,

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Friday, November 7, 6:00 p.m.

  I parked in the lot as close to the garden shed as I could. Tonight was no time to be ducking through hedges or slogging across the lawn.

  I’d grabbed a raincoat and shoved my feet into waterproof boots before leaving the house, and I’d grabbed
a warm winter jacket for Santana, but we’d both want to limit our time out in the wet.

  I was nearly certain Santana would be holed up in the shed. Elaine and I had looked in the house, and while there was a chance she’d hidden there from us, I thought it was more likely she’d run off.

  Mr. Range Rover had already checked for her at the garden, so she might assume the shed was the safest place to hide. But not in this rainstorm. I wasn’t sure the roof was watertight, let alone the walls or the dirt floors.

  The old shed and its one window looked almost homelike through the rain. Muted light streamed from the tiny window and the door that was partly open. I felt my shoulders relax. The light and open door both meant someone was inside. Someone who was almost certainly Santana.

  I knocked lightly on the door, afraid I might startle the girl. Through the partially open door I could see her tense but then relax when she turned and saw it was me. She took the earbuds from her ears and stood up politely, smiling and inviting me in.

  “Mrs. McDonald,” she said, brushing off her overalls and looking around the surprisingly dry room. I couldn’t tell whether she was checking to see if she’d tidied up or was looking for a seat to offer a visitor.

  “Santana, I’m sorry to interrupt you.” The girl had obviously been catching up on homework. A battery-operated lantern and an ancient laptop sat on a splintered box. Next to them were a calculus book and a dog-eared copy of Hamlet, along with a stuffed backpack that must have weighed nearly thirty-five pounds.

  “It’s fine.” She pulled two five-gallon pails from the workbench and handed me one. She upended the other and sat down. “I’m sorry I have nothing to offer you, unless you’d like some water?”

  Someone at some point had taught Santana excellent manners. I thought accepting her hospitality might put her at ease. “Thank you,” I said, stepping into the room and seating myself on the perch she’d offered. “Or, if you’d prefer, and if you’ve got some mugs, I brought hot tea.”

  She poured water from an old plastic jug into two pastel-colored tumblers of similar age. After wiping them out and drying them, she handed them to me. “I’ve been staying here to make sure no one bothers the gardens at night,” she said. I filled the cups with steaming tea and handed one to Santana. She took it and held it with both hands and breathed in the steam.

  “You’re not afraid to be here alone? After Sarah’s death, I mean. It’s not too cold? I’m not sure how long this old place will stay dry with all this rain.”

  Santana blushed and looked down into her cup. She shook her head.

  “I spoke to Ketifa,” I said.

  She glanced quickly toward Linc’s house and her cheeks blushed a deeper shade, but she didn’t say anything.

  “I didn’t think the basement was a great place for a pregnant woman. It’s too cold, for one thing.”

  Santana stayed silent, so I plowed on, hoping I wasn’t digging myself into a hole. Her gaze darted around the small room like that of a caged animal searching for an exit. What could I say that would soothe her instead of throwing her into a full-scale panic?

  “I offered Ketifa a temporary place at my house. Our attic has two extra bedrooms. I was hoping you might be interested in taking the second one, at least until you can find someplace better. Between my husband and my two boys it’s very much a man’s house. I’d appreciate the company and I expect Ketifa would feel more comfortable with another young woman there.”

  Santana let out a breath. Her shoulders relaxed and she met my gaze. She bit her lip and paused, looking at her cobweb-filled surroundings before speaking. I thought she would snap up a chance to leave the shed, but she shook her head.

  “I need to stay here on my own,” she said. “I used to be in this other place. A place I thought was perfect. I was just starting to feel at home when one of the men who lived there started staring at me and asking me to help him with his car. But somehow it always seemed to have more to do with him rubbing up against me than with getting the car running.” She shuddered. “He gave me the creeps. I’d rather share this place with the four-footed rats than stay in the house with him.” She hugged herself with her arms. “And, no offense, but I barely know you. Why should I trust you?”

  I thought about that for a moment, but I couldn’t come up with a good response. She was right. Why should she trust me? Maybe the answer was for her to get to know me better. I asked if she was warm enough and handed her the jacket I brought.

  Santana took it from me and spread it over her lap like a blanket. She picked up one of the sleeves and held it in two hands, weaving it between her fingers. Her lamp provided dim light, but I could see that her eyes were rimmed with deep shadows, making her look old and tired.

  “Do the rats here bother you?” I moved away from the offer of the room. I’d extend the invitation again a little later.

  She smiled a sheepish-little-kid smile. “I sprinkled some of the birdseed outside the shed to keep them busy so they don’t come inside.” She blushed again and looked away. “I’ve been showering at night at Professor Sinclair’s and eating the food he left. He doesn’t notice stuff like that.” She looked down at her hands. “But there’s not much food left there, now.”

  “We turned off the heat and hot water earlier this week too,” I said. I shivered. “Those must have been some very cold showers.”

  We sat for a moment in silence, sipping our tea.

  “More?” Santana asked and held up the thermos and I was reminded of playing tea party with my niece when she was small.

  “Have you heard anything about Boots?” I asked.

  Santana’s eyes filled with tears. She looked away, twisted the jacket sleeve and moaned softly.

  “It was my fault,” she said in a voice that was almost too quiet for me to hear.

  Silence coaxed the story from her.

  “It was my fault. If I’d gone with him when he started texting me, he wouldn’t have come here to bother Boots and Ketifa. Everyone says Boots tripped over the hose before she hit her head. It was my job to coil up the hoses and make sure the pathways were clear. If I’d done that, she wouldn’t be dead. She shouldn’t be dead.” I was so focused on her feelings, I nearly missed what she’d said about Boots.

  “Did you hear something recently?” I asked. “She was still alive when they put her in the ambulance. No one could say for sure, but the EMTs were optimistic that she’d make a full recovery.”

  She buried her head in her hands, shaking her head. “I never meant to kill anyone. It was an accident.”

  I patted her hand. “I know it was, Santana. I know. You didn’t put the boot scraper there, either. It was bad luck, but I’m guessing you’ll never forget to coil up the hoses again.”

  Santana’s shoulders shook and my throat grew tight as I held her. Where was this girl’s family? She was a great kid, owning up to her mistakes and taking responsibility for them, trying to make it right.

  “And it’s Mr. Range Rover’s fault that Boots was hurt. His alone. You didn’t push her. You didn’t scare her. If you’d gone with him, you might be in bad shape yourself, sharing a room in the hospital with Boots. He shoved Ketifa too. I took her to the emergency room. They sutured her forehead, but she’ll be fine.

  “Her baby?”

  “Cozier than we are right now.” I patted Santana’s back. “The best thing you ever did was leave that guy, Santana. It was very brave. You did the right thing to stay away from him. He’s been stalking you, hasn’t he?”

  Santana sobbed. Poor kid. She was hanging by an emotional thread. I moved my upturned pail next to hers. “If you want, a little later we can call and get an update on Boots’s condition. And when she’s awake I’ll take you to see her. Ketifa told me the two of you are really close.”

  She glanced up with a hopeful look. “Can we do that now? Call, I mean?”

  Teardrops glistened on the ends of her eyelashes. I nodded and texted Paolo.

  His return text arrived quickl
y: Boots still alive. Close monitoring for 24 hours. Many stitches. Lots of bruising. Good chance of full recovery.

  I relayed the message to Santana. She wiped her eyes.

  “Really? She’s going to be okay?”

  “I won’t lie to you, Santana. It sounds like she’s still in rough shape, but they are doing everything they can and keeping a close watch on her. I see no reason to think she won’t pull through. You know Boots. She’s too stubborn. Have you ever seen her give up? On anything?”

  Santana shook her head and tried to smile. Tried and failed. Her brow knitted and her lip quivered. Something still troubled her.

  On a hunch, I asked softly, “Are you worried about Sarah’s death? Afraid you were responsible?”

  Santana nodded and tears streamed down her cheeks. “Sarah was so nice. On a super-cold day last winter she brought us hot chocolate and brownies and a bunch of extra sweatshirts and stuff.” She looked up again, smiling and brushing away her tears. “The clothes were all too big and some had paint and others were torn, but they were warm and we were freezing. She told us to come up to the house if it started raining or we got cold. She didn’t have to do that, you know? A lot of the people who have plots here don’t even notice us. They’d look through us like we’re not there, even when we say hello. I really liked Sarah. But I didn’t know she spent time in the professor’s workroom. I’d only ever seen Linc there, ya know?”

  I nodded without speaking. I didn’t want to say anything to break whatever spell I’d cast that had prompted Santana to give me the details about what she thought had happened.

  “The things I did . . . they were wrong, I guess. But I didn’t . . . they didn’t. Did they?”

  I assumed she was worried that something she’d done had contributed to Sarah’s death.