by Liz Turner
“I’ll tell you who it was in a minute.” John rushed into his parlor and grabbed the book. Banging it onto the table, he flipped through it rapidly, licking his finger as he flicked the pages. “Aha! Here it is: Edward Abbey. Fancies himself a new Thoreau. Like I said, a bad influence.”
“John dear, do come have dinner,” Sheila said. “Put that book back at once and have your stew!” She seemed a little agitated. “It doesn’t look good to disrupt dinner this way!”
Hallie would have expected any man to reply with some indignation at Sheila’s near-maternal tone of voice. John, however, simply gave her a soppy grin. “Whatever you say, my dear.” He put the book on a side table and sat back down.
Conversation ensued, quick but general, which surprised Hallie. Not a single mention had yet been made of the Historical Club. Perhaps they would talk about it after dinner. She was about to mention it herself, when the door flew open, and a flushed young man with an open collar walked in. Hallie’s eyes took in the shapelessness of the left side of his coat and instantly guessed from the way the lad balanced himself that he had lost his arm—and that it was a recent loss.
“Henry.” John’s voice dripped with ice. “How kind of you to join us. I didn’t know we’d be expecting you.”
“Now John—” Sheila sounded nervous.
“Father.” Henry nodded at John, and his eyes took in the others. “Didn’t realize today was a day for celebration.”
“It isn’t,” John said. “My friends are here to discuss the creation of the Warrenton Historical Club.”
“Friends. Sure.” Henry gave a cynical laugh.
“Won’t you have a seat, Henry?” Gladys asked.
Henry seemed to stand a little straighter as her eyes fell on him. His voice, which had been brittle as he spoke to his father, turned polite. “No thank you, ma’am.”
“Call me Gladys.” Gladys smiled. “‘Ma’am’ is what you called me when I was your math teacher.”
“And a terribly scary teacher, too.” Henry flashed her a grin that gave his face a youthful glow. “I’m sorry to disturb you. Would it be possible for me to speak to my father alone?” “Can’t it wait?” Sheila asked. “We’re in the middle of dinner.”
“It can’t wait.”
“John, this is ridiculous. The stew will get cold,” Sheila said. “Surely Henry can wait fifteen minutes!”
“Yes, I’m sure he can,” John agreed. “Henry, go up to my office. I’ll join you there.”
Henry’s jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed. However, he didn’t say the words he was clearly longing to. “Alright, father.” Swinging around, he walked out of the room.
“Oh, surely he could have eaten with us,” Gladys said sadly.
“He’s at a stage in life where any contact with whom he calls ‘old people’ leaves him miserable,” John said. “Did I mention that everybody above the age of thirty is old to him?”
Laughter spread across the table.
“Oh, I remember when I was young enough to think thirty was middle-aged,” Edith said. “I was such a child back then.”
“Rubbish,” Bert said. “You were born an old soul, Edith. I’ve never known a more responsible woman. First you cared for your grandmother, and then your mother. You’re always involved in some charity or other, too.”
“I agree.” Gladys nodded. “I’ve never thought of you as young and carefree. You always struck me as sensible and steady. Bert—now, there’s a man who’s remained a child far longer than he should have!”
“I won’t deny it.” Bert laughed. “My bachelorhood is the envy of this town. Half of you call me childish, and the other half wish you could be as childish as me!”
Sheila looked down her nose at him. “Don’t you think you should outgrow it? Settle down with a nice woman?”
“Tend to the home-fires?” Bert laughed. “I prefer to live as a Casanova, madam, and my line of business gives me plenty of opportunity to do so. Even if Warrenton is a small town. I’d tell you about some of my escapades, but Gladys would probably clonk me on the head with a stick if I did!”
“Oh, I would not,” Gladys said. “I’m at an age where curiosity is greater than social niceties for me. Out with it, rascal!”
Sheila and Edith looked equally horrified at this and squealed that Bert must stop. He laughed and gave Hallie a wink. “Well, my title for oldest singleton in town is now resting with a new champion. So, tell us, Hallie, are there no men in your life? No love story?”
Under the table, Hallie’s hand clenched into a fist. She pinched her thigh tightly, hoping the pain would distract her from her emotions. “No love story,” she lied with a laugh. “I’ve had a rather boring life, dedicated to service.”
“Come now—I know a lie when I hear one!” Gladys declared. “I can see it in your eyes, Hallie. You’ve had a tumultuous past, haven’t you?”
“She served as a doctor in the war, after all,” John said. “The war is full of romances. Something about being so close to death makes life and love seem more precious, I imagine.”
“Is that so?” Edith asked. “Do tell.”
Hallie cleared her throat. “I—well—I must say that there’s a peculiar sort of bonding that happens when you’re so close to danger all the time. I feel a depth of understanding between my war colleagues and me that will last forever. I can’t put it into words.”
Gladys looked at her through kind eyes. “I suppose it was very hard on you.”
“Harder on others,” Hallie said. “I escaped with all my limbs intact—that’s more than I can say for many of my friends.” She bit her lip, hard. What an idiot she was! John’s face had turned grey at the mention of lost limbs.
His head bowed a little, and he said, “I tried to stop Henry from enlisting. He never listened to me.”
“Nor should he,” Gladys said. “America needed heroes like him. We’re all very proud of your son, John.” John nodded, struggling to maintain his composure. The rest of dinner was eaten in silence, and it wasn’t until dessert was brought in—cherry pie with custard—did anyone say a word.
“Well,” Sheila said, her eyes bright as she eyed the pie. “I know I said I was dieting, but I can’t help but feel that a little piece of pie never hurt anyone.”
Edith cut her an extra-large piece and placed it on her plate. “There, now you can say I forced you if anyone asks.” She laughed.
As they finished and headed back into the parlor, John excused himself and walked upstairs. Hallie noted the determined way he walked and wondered what serious talk father and son were planning on having.
Sheila caught her by the elbow and drew her away. “Come, let me show you John’s pride and joy—his collection of books.”
“He’s a very literate man, I could tell,” Hallie said.
“Oh, John is an egghead! You’ll never see him without his head poking into a book. Why, even at dinner I had to force him to set his book aside, remember? It gets positively dreary sometimes.”
“I rather think it’s a good habit.” Edith smiled.
“Well, it is, if you’re a librarian,” Sheila said. “But he’s a busy man who should spend time relaxing after work, instead of poring over books. I keep urging him to take a nice long vacation, but he never listens.” They’d walked up to the bookshelf which stretched from the floor to the ceiling and held dozens of books bound in leather with gold embossed titles.
Hallie picked one at random and smiled. “Darwin: On the Origin of Species,” She said out loud. “Good book.”
“Survival of the fittest.” Edith smiled and nodded. “A good book indeed—and a true one, I think.”
“Not so,” Sheila said. “The fittest aren’t the ones who survive. The smartest are. I mean real smartness, not book-smartness. For instance, the people who survived the war and thrived from it were the smart ones—those who could look at the world with clear eyes, with no sentimentality, and see where the future lay.”
“If that’s th
e cost of survival, I don’t want to pay it,” Gladys said, coming up to them. “I’m from a different generation than you lot, but I do believe that morals, not happiness, ought to be the foundation for a life. These days, it seems everyone disagrees.”
“I don’t see why those two can’t coexist,” Bert said. “A life that is moral can be happy.”
“Ah yes, but a life that is based on chasing happiness is not always moral,” Gladys said. “The temptation to give in to wrong is often too great.”
Hallie was about to say something when a sudden crash from above made everyone look to the ceiling. There was a bang as a door slammed shut and then the sound of heavy boots coming down the stairs.
Hallie looked at the others, and as one, the group moved to the parlor door, in time to see Henry storm downstairs. Gladys attempted to follow him, but Henry had already left the house before she could say a word.
Chapter 3
A Midnight Call
H allie was disoriented and fuzzy as she shot out of bed to answer the phone. At first, her confused mind thought she was still at war and that this was the Captain calling to evacuate the building.
It was only when the third squeaky “Hello! Dr. Hallie! Hello!” reached her ears that the fog in her mind cleared a little.
“Yes,” she said. “Speaking.”
“It’s terrible—come quickly, please! You have to do something.” The voice on the phone was high and shrill that of a young man in trouble.
“Slow down,” Hallie said, fully alert now. “Take a deep breath, friend.”
The voice on the other end paused, and Hallie could hear a deep inhale followed by a loud exhale. “My father is in trouble—he’s clutching his stomach and… and I don’t know what to do. Please come here immediately.”
“Henry?” Hallie asked, recognizing the voice at last. “Is this Henry Blackstone?”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Stay calm. I’ll be right down,” Hallie said, infusing her “doctorly” tone into her voice, the one that she knew had a calming effect on people. “Get some lukewarm water and try to sponge his head if he’s developing a fever. I’ll be there soon.”
“Hurry, please!”
Hallie had opted to sell her childhood home, a fine Victorian mansion on Pleasant Street, soon after the death of her father ten years ago. When she’d made the decision to return to Warrenton, she had therefore decided to live on the first floor of a two story Greek revival townhouse. Gladys Dean was not just her friend, she was also her landlord.
As Hallie headed to John’s house, she glanced at her watch and noted that it was two am. She wheeled out the new bicycle she’d bought, hoping not to disturb Gladys, and noted with surprise that the light in Gladys’s room was still on, visible through the thin lace curtains that covered the window. She paused for a moment, staring at the red-brick house with its creeping green ivy and neat square garden bordered with yellow flowers. Was something wrong? Should she go check on Gladys?
The memory of Henry’s urgent pleas spurred her, however, and within a second, she’d made up her mind. She was cycling top speed down Crest Road, headed towards Washington Street, where John lived. After a quick shortcut through Morton’s field, Dr. Malone found herself for the second time that night in front of the large mansion that John Blackstone called home. Leaving her bicycle with its wheel still spinning on the driveway, Hallie sprinted up the steps to the main door and knocked sharply three times.
Almost immediately, she heard the clunking of boots running down the stairs, and within minutes, the door was yanked open by a panting Henry. Hallie took a step back and stared at the boy. After he’d stormed out at dinner, the party had more or less ended, with everyone making their excuses to go back home. John regretfully assured them they’d talk about the club some other day. At the time, Hallie had suspected that the father and son had had a row—after all, Henry’s face had been red with fury, and John had looked ashen.
But right now, Henry was the one who looked pale. He had tear streaks running down his cheeks, and his lower lip was trembling violently. Henry absently clutched the sleeve of his missing left arm, and said to Hallie, “He’s in bad shape. I’ve never seen anything like it! My father has the constitution of a Clydesdale.”
“Come on. No time to waste.” Hallie pulled him along as they ran up the large marble staircase that dominated the front hall. Absently, Hallie noticed that the parlor door to one side of the hall was open and a fire roared inside. The thought was pushed out of her mind as she entered John Blackstone’s bedroom.
It was a large square room plastered with rich damask wallpaper, with a Turkish rug in the center and a chestnut roll-top desk on one side. One wall had French windows leading to a semi-circular terrace. Directly opposite the window was the bed.
John lay stiff on the bed, his face white. Hallie knew before she had taken two steps into the room that the man was dead. She checked his pulse, looked at his watch, and estimated that he had died no less than five minutes ago. As she stepped towards the bed, her feet clanked against an iron bucket. Looking down, Hallie noted that John had vomited blood sometime before he died.
“Awful,” Hallie muttered. She opened her briefcase by the deceased’s feet. Without noticing it, her years of training took over. As she wrote down her notes and briskly asked Henry to call an ambulance, she no longer thought of John as the man who had hosted her earlier that night—the man on the bed in front of her was simply, “the body”.
The curtains hanging from the open windows twisted as a sudden gust of wind blew in. Hallie looked up with a start as Sheila entered. The woman’s skin looked pale silver in the moonlight, as did the lace nightgown she wore. Her eyes were wide as she stared at John.
“So, it’s over,” she whispered. “He didn’t make it.”
Henry, having finished the call to the hospital, came back in through the bedroom door. “They’ll be here in ten minutes.” He paused abruptly as he caught sight of Sheila and in a nasty voice, said, “Spare me your crocodile tears. I’ve enough on my plate!”
She seemed lost in her own thoughts. Her eyes met Henry’s, but she only gave him a quizzical look before her heavy lids swooped down. Her entire body shuddered once and then slumped to the side as she crumpled to the floor in a faint.
Chapter 4
Breakfast and
Brainstorming
I t wasn’t until five am that Hallie was able to head back home. Sheila had recovered from her faint quickly, but Henry had looked as though he might have become hysterical. Hallie had stayed to console him for an hour at the hospital, and finally, after giving him a mild sedative, managed to slip back home. She thought she would probably catch a nap for an hour or so before she headed back to check on the two.
To her surprise, however, when she reached her house and tried to open the door, it swung open on its own, and a pale-faced Debby Norris stood there.
“Debby?” Hallie asked, surprised, “Why are you up so early?”
Debby was the housekeeper for both John and Gladys, round-faced and wavy-haired. She lived in the basement of Gladys’ house along with her young son Oswald. Her hair had escaped the tight bun she usually relegated it to and hung in little curls around her face. Her normally merry and twinkling eyes looked shadowed.
“Dr. Malone! Where have you been?” Debby asked, surprised. “Gladys called me late last night, saying that she had stomach troubles and needed to get to the hospital. We both tried to contact you, but you were nowhere to be found.”
“The hospital!” Hallie clutched her elbows immediately. “Is she alright? I’ve just come from the hospital—I didn’t realize she was there!”
“Were you unwell?” Debby asked.
Hallie shook her head slowly. “Henry Blackstone called me last night, saying that his father was having trouble. By the time I reached their house, John was dead.”
Debby put a hand to her heart, and her mouth opened in an “o”. “My goodness!” As the message s
unk in, her eyes began to fill with tears. “Dr. Malone—you don’t think—Gladys is so old—”
“Nothing’s going to happen to her,” Hallie said, with more confidence than she felt. “I’ll make sure she’s fine.”
Behind her, the sun’s first rays had escaped the horizon and were slowly dissolving across the sky, turning it violet with streaks of orange. Hallie felt exhaustion sweep over her, but ignored it in favor of action. In minutes, she had phoned the hospital and asked to speak to the doctor in charge. Dr. Livingstone was the chief of medicine at the hospital. Years ago, he’d been an intern under Hallie’s father. Now, he was considered an excellent doctor with an eye for details and a tendency to scold those who didn’t take care of their health. He was also known for his love of puns and boisterous nature.
He answered the phone almost immediately. “Not a thing to worry about, Hallie! Just indigestion. She’ll be right as rain by midday and ready to tear down walls by tomorrow. I’ve given them all a sedative, and they’re sleeping it off at present.”
“Them?” Hallie asked. “Who else?”
“You don’t know?” Dr. Livingstone sounded surprised. “Bert Bigelow and Ethel Hastings have suffered stomach troubles too. Food poisoning, no doubt. Eat any stew at your dinner last night?”
“You know about the dinner?” Hallie asked.
Dr. Livingstone laughed. “Everyone who’s anyone in town does. The Historical Club was John’s pet project for a year now. Another one of his crazy ideas. I’m sorry for you about losing John, by the way. He was a good man, even if he tended to have a higher opinion of himself than one should.”
Hallie hung up after promising to meet Dr. Livingstone soon. So Gladys was alright. Relief coursed through her body. She’d only been back in Warrenton two days, but she was already quite fond of her blunt and surprisingly youthful landlady. It would have been quite a blow if she’d ended up meeting the same fate John did.
After reassuring Debby that Gladys would be alright, Hallie seated herself in a comfortable leather armchair by the downstairs parlor window. With a textbook in her hand, she began hunting for the page she wanted.