by Maia Ross
Julian’s hands were clenched into fists, but he kept them down at his side. Very calmly, he said, “This is not just a Van Oot evening, Richard—”
“Dr. Van Oot, to you.”
“Then it’s Dr. Harper to you. The Harper family also sponsors this dinner. And I have every right to be here.”
Then somehow Irma appeared. I didn’t know how she did it; it was like she was a magnet for conflict. I felt her gently push in front of me.
“Hey, Dickie?” she said softly. “If you don’t stop, you and I are going to have a serious problem.” She reached over and straightened his left lapel. “You got that?” she added, as if she was just a friend fixing his suit. Then she stepped back, her weight on her toes.
Fourteen—Irma
Young Julian was pale as a sheet, the poor thing, and Violet’s nostrils were flaring. I’d never liked Richard Van Oot; he’d always been a poor sport, which is why he’d once whacked me in the head with a croquet mallet for no good reason at all. And he didn’t give a fig about Scooter.
Was it wrong that I hoped he’d take a swing at me? With his current legal issues, Richard would have to do some serious tap dancing to explain hitting a septuagenarian during a regatta kickoff party at a country club.
“You,” Richard said with contempt. There was a small depression between his eyes, the scar more to the left than to the right. It had been blurred by time, but it was still there. I smiled every time I saw it. Why wouldn’t I? I’d given it to him. In my defence, he’d just whacked me on the noggin with that croquet mallet.
“Me,” I replied tartly.
I glanced at the people milling around with drinks—drinking being the main occupation of the islanders—pretending not to listen.
“You need to get out of here, missy,” Richard said with a sneer. He was cradling a brandy snifter protectively like it was his baby. And why not? He loved liquor more than he’d ever cared about his family.
“I’m fine where I am,” I said evenly.
“I can get you thrown right out of here.”
“I’d like to see you try. And I do wonder what your dear cousin Charlotte would think about it if you did.”
Anger rippled over his features, and there was a long pause where he met my eyes.
“I hear you bought into Renée’s, Richard.” I took a step closer. “And that you have an insurance snafu you’re trying to sort out. Funny timing with that robbery, don’t you think?”
He stepped closer. And so did I.
Softly, he said, “I hear a dead body showed up in your driveway. Why don’t you try to wriggle out of that, you pathological ninny.” He drained his glass, placed it on a convenient side table with a thump and turned on his heel. He barged down the hallway, bumping into Agnes O’Muffin even though there was loads of room. I mean, honestly, who collides with eighty-seven-year-old librarians on purpose?
I watched him go. It was feeling ever more conceivable to me that Richard had orchestrated the robbery. Maybe he’d told the robber to dump the van near my house to throw suspicion on me, and the robber didn’t realize he was bleeding to death. Tunnel vision was always a problem in those kinds of circumstances.
Richard knew about my family’s military background but not the exact truth about me, although I probably shouldn’t have told him that I could kill him with my thumb that one time. I wondered who Richard could have talked into carrying out a broad-daylight robbery. And if any of his employees hadn’t shown up to work lately.
“Classic narcissistic rage,” April said slyly to me. She’d been hovering on my left flank. I exhaled as quietly as I could; I’d known someone was there and I’d been about to turn around and scoop their legs out from under them. But April was a lovely girl and I was glad her legs had been spared, especially in those heels. Tonight’s shoes were black with flimsy soles. If an active shooting broke out, I’d have to knock her right out of them and drag her out of here. The proper footwear could be a life or death decision, Mother always said, and she wasn’t just being pedantic.
“Rather,” I agreed, watching the spot where Richard had been standing for a moment before turning to face her. To Violet, I added, “Why don’t you take Julian—”
“You got it.” Violet ran her hand down Julian’s arm before folding her fingers into his and tugging him away.
“How are you, dear?” I said to April.
“Quite well, thank you.” Her smile took up most of her beautiful face. She was only fifty-four but looked at least ten years younger, although it really didn’t seem as if she’d had much work done, if any. Not that I was against a little nip and tuck if it was understated. Nettie hadn’t been lying when she told Julian we’d partied in New York City in the seventies. We’d seen A Chorus Line on its first run.
“Business good?”
The left side of her mouth quirked up. “Can’t complain. How about you?”
“It’s lovely being retired. So much gardening to think about. I’m quite enjoying my training for the island half-marathon.”
“I figured. I’m doing it too, actually. What are your times like?”
“I honestly don’t know.” I laughed. “Violet has foisted some wonderful new high-tech tools on me; she loves showing me the graphs, although I tend to judge my runs based on whether I’m still alive at the end. Tell me, April, how do you and Richard get along?”
She raised a flute that looked like it was filled with a black velvet; half Guinness, half champagne. I vividly remembered the single time I’d tried one; they were wretched.
“I haven’t spoken to my father-in-law since James died.” Her eyes welled up and she looked away.
I wasn’t exactly sure of the details, but I knew her husband, James—Richard’s only child—had been in a single-car accident the night of his death six months ago. Island scuttlebutt whispered that he’d had propanifen on board, although I was also aware that many single-car accidents were actually suicides. What a nightmare Richard’s company had unleashed on us, I thought, squeezing her arm. We stood in silence for a moment.
“I see Charlotte all the time, though.” She leaned forward conspiratorially, “And I’m lucky; she’s a very generous lady. She even lets me grab a bottle of wine or two from the cellar when I visit. It’s my very favourite room in the house.” She grinned.
“Mine too.” I smiled at her as we started walking back to the dining room. All this excitement and the band hadn’t even tuned up yet. “How would you assess Richard’s threat to Julian? If I can entice you to put on your psychiatrist hat for a moment.”
“You always were close with Julian, weren’t you?”
I smiled at her subject change. “His grandfather and I were good friends. And Julian was always such a lovely boy.”
“I heard there’s been some…discussion around the care Scooter got at the clinic.”
Unease rippled through me. “What a sad situation,” I said noncommittally. “So what do you think? Is Richard just blowing off steam? Or is he a threat to Julian?”
She chewed on her lip thoughtfully. “Speaking purely hypothetically, since he’s obviously not my patient, Richard’s always had a volatile temper. And it’s not optimal that he’s losing his cool in public like this, although I guess you could chalk that up to him being upset about what happened to Scooter.”
“I wasn’t aware they were close.”
“I don’t think it’s about that at all. Richard just doesn’t like anyone taking away what’s his, if you know what I mean. Look, I’m dying for another drink. Do you want one?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
She saluted me with her glass before heading to the bar. I didn’t blame her for wanting some lubrication to deal with a Van Oot family function. Scooter, Richard, and Charlotte were all that was now left of the original family tree, although there was a passel of distant cousins flitting about.
As I stood there, I turned her words over in my head. Then I wondered if Richard had enticed someone into robbing
Renée’s store for the insurance money. But why would the robber have kidnapped Scooter? Was he just collateral damage? Did Boris fit into all this somewhere? Richard was being sued by multiple parties, and I wondered what that had done to his financial situation. My real estate expert, Laverne, had said he’d just put his house on the market. Did he need the cash? Charlotte doted on Scooter. With him out of the way, did that mean more money for Richard? The family estate—Gray Gables—had been left to Charlotte, not Richard. The story behind that had never actually been told, but I was sure he’d do just about anything to get his hands on it.
It was all slim. Too slim. But I’d once investigated a senator’s wife who pushed their maid out of a second-storey window because she’d over-starched the tablecloths before a big event. People were simply unknowable. The maid survived, thank goodness, because of the swimming pool under the window—not that the senator’s wife was aware of it.
I turned the thought of Richard’s involvement in recent events over in my mind while I walked back to Charlotte.
She was still in her seat near the front window, the teacup now resting on the cushion beside her. She looked a bit...well, old. I was a big believer that age was just a mindset, but right now she looked every inch an octogenarian. Her normally sharp eyes were tired and dull. She was slumped in her seat, wrinkling her outfit, which wasn’t like her. Alarm knifed through me.
“Are you all right?” I asked. She smiled at me in response, but you couldn’t rip a complaint out of the woman with the jaws of life, which is why I kept prodding. “What’s wrong?”
She rubbed her eyes, which looked red, the poor thing. “My stomach is a bit upset. I think...I might just be hungry. I haven’t eaten in a while.”
“Do you want me to get you something?”
She wrinkled her nose. “No, thank you. Everything here is a little too rich for me, I’m afraid.”
I smiled and said, “I understand. How much longer do you have to stay?”
“I could leave any time. Nobody even notices I’m here.”
“Let’s go, then. Do you want to finish your tea?”
She shook her head. “It’s the same one I usually get, but it seems…bitter today. Have you tried it?” Was it my imagination, or was she slurring her words?
I shook my head. “It’s probably too weak for me. Just leave it and we’ll blow this popsicle stand.” She gave me a tired smile, nodded. I reached forward and gently pulled her up. She seemed smaller, standing, and worry tugged at me. Was she really this tiny, or was my memory going? “Charlotte,” I said, before realizing I didn’t know what to say next. “Is everything all right?” I finally settled on, inadequacy lodging in my core.
“I just don’t know, Irma.” She shot me a polite, pained expression. And then she passed out and bounced on the floor.
I hot-wired Stu’s truck and drove her to the clinic myself, obviously. The ambulance would have taken far too long. Imogene called ahead to tell them we were coming, and by the time I’d parked, three nurses were clustered around us, two of them strapping young men who lifted Charlotte out of her seat like she was a packet of baloney. I felt almost giddy watching them. Thank goodness the police had finished their investigation and the clinic was open again.
“Good evening, Irma,” Kendelle said. She was sitting at Reception and looked very grownup beside the newly appointed ceramic sculpture on the desk in front of her. It was a beaver captaining a small Laser sailboat, the boat heeled over on its side, the beaver grinning toothily. All the businesses in town liked to show their regatta spirit, which was lovely.
“Hello, dear. Who’s on duty?”
“We’re going to take good care of Charlotte,” she said primly, and I felt a surge of pride run through me. Kendelle was a lovely girl, granddaughter of Mo Chang, the island’s music guru, and a smart, hardworking young lady. There was something so satisfying about seeing the children of people I’d known my entire life coming into their own. Even though my life had taken me all over the world, my family had always had roots on Beaver Island. I’d had a complicated life, but that was part of why I liked it here; things were so much simpler. Or they were normally, at least.
“I know, dear. Who’s on duty?”
“Dr. Harris.”
My spirits lifted even more. Angelique Harris was the daughter of one of the island’s oldest families, from a prominent shipping dynasty in Barbados. Excellent marksmen. I knew she’d find out what was wrong with Charlotte in a jiffy.
“May I speak with her?”
“Of course, she’s with Charlotte now. Do you want to wait?”
“Yes, thank you.” I looked at the chairs in the waiting room. They were made of plush, creamy leather and were divinely comfortable. They were the kind of chairs that trapped you. “I’m going to pace in the parking lot for a bit, dear. Could you please come and get me when she’s free? I don’t want to take up too much of her time.”
“Of course.”
So I paced. How could I not? I did not approve of chairs; they sucked the life right out of you. And I could never sit still when I was worried. Charlotte had looked so tiny and fragile. I tried to focus on my surroundings as I marched around the parked cars. The sun was setting over the lake.
“Irma?”
“Dr. Harris!” I said, delighted.
“Angelique, please,” she said, her cheeks rounding into a smile. She was wearing her hair in a new style; shoulder-length braids. Her tawny complexion was radiant against her white doctor’s jacket. She, also, looked very grown-up.
“It suits you, being a doctor,” I said.
“I sure hope so after all those years of study.” She grinned. A graduate of Harvard Medical School, and tri-lingual, she practiced mostly in Montreal now, helping out sometimes at the Beaver Island clinic in the summer. “Charlotte is resting at the moment. We’re running some tests.”
“Any idea what’s wrong with her?”
Angelique frowned. “Her heart rate is elevated, and she was complaining of fatigue, dizziness, stomach upset, and some eye irritation, but she doesn’t have a fever, and preliminary tests don’t point us in any one direction. We’ve drawn bloodwork and put a rush on it, but it has to go off-island to be tested. It won’t be back for a few days. In the meantime, we’re probably going to give her some activated charcoal. If she’s ingested something that’s not agreeing with her, that’ll sort it out.”
“Could she be anemic? She gets monthly infusions for her ankylosing spondylitis, but she still gets anemic sometimes.”
“It’s in her chart. We’re looking at everything, Irma. Don’t you worry.”
“You’re not using any of the new IV stands on her, are you?”
She shook her head. “They’re all in storage.”
“Excellent. May I see her?”
“She’s sedated presently. I’m sure she’d be happy to see you tomorrow, though.”
“Of course, Dr. Harris,” I said.
“Angelique,” she corrected me gently.
“Yes, dear.” She reached over and caught my elbow with her arm. Together, we did a lap around the parking lot. She was wearing sensible shoes and kept up with me, and well she should. Angelique would be one of my competitors in the island’s upcoming half-marathon.
At the front door of the clinic, she said, “Thanks for helping me stretch my legs,” and released my arm.
“You’re very welcome.”
She hugged me and went back inside. I should have felt happy watching her. Charlotte was in excellent hands. But I didn’t. Nothing felt right these days. An agent’s life was at the most risk when they transitioned in or out of their “real” lives. But this was my real life now: a civilian on a little island somewhere. And civilians kept gardens and sailed and kept their nose out of other people’s business. It occurred to me, fleetingly, that I might actually fail at retiring, if these kinds of brouhahas kept up.
After a deep sigh, I climbed into Stu’s truck and went back to pick him and
Violet up before he threw a protest on the Club’s ninth hole.
Fifteen—Violet
The sun was blaring directly into my eyeballs because I’d apparently forgotten to shut the blinds last night. A cold shower and some strong coffee didn’t improve my mood much. After more coffee, I steeled my nerves. I had to ask Irma for a drive.
After easing my way down the house’s majestic staircase, I knocked on the wall outside Irma’s flat. The door was open and her apartment was packed with mementos—but neat as a pin—the walls covered with framed photographs. And there were enough doilies to make a rope you could escape out of a third-storey window with. I plopped myself in her easy chair. It was on a swivel so it could turn toward the beautiful brick fireplace that took up half the south wall of the apartment, or to face the window, no doubt so Irma could spy on the people coming up the street.
The living room ran into a small kitchenette and eating area, everything military-neat, even the doilies on every single surface and the knickknacks over the doorframes and on the window ledges. Some of the framed pictures were old and black and white. Tiny beavers accented the décor: stuffed ones in baskets, a few framed cartoons, some ceramic sculptures. The other furnishings were shabby chic, some of them antiques, all of them very comfortable.
The rest of the main floor was taken up by the massive staircase, the main kitchen, the formal dining room, and the parlour. It was the home of someone who lived well and enjoyed life. The kind of home I’d always wanted to make for myself.
“Helloooo,” Irma trilled from deep within the apartment. She came out of the back room holding a power drill and wearing a smile. Her hair was wet but still somehow perfect. “How are you this beautiful morning?”
“Eh,” I managed, and Irma grinned.
“I just got back from a run. Invigorating! Did you have a late night, dear?”
I nodded. “I have to admit, I did not think Julian could drink that much. He looks so innocent and sweet.”
“Med school,” Irma said wisely.