by Mary Maxwell
I swiveled my gaze from Harper to Darby. “Is that what Meredith’s upset about?”
“Well, yes.” Darby looked at the floor. “I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I saw her turn signal blinking. And I knew she wanted the spot. But she was blabbing to her passenger and not making any attempt to turn in and park. So I figured…” She shrugged and her phone started buzzing again. “See! I told you; every sixty seconds, another call from my mother-in-law.”
She reached into the purse and came out with her wallet. “I should pay for the cupcakes and get out of your hair.”
I walked over to the wire rack where special orders were stored. I lifted the boxes marked DARBY FRANKLIN from the middle shelf, carried them to where she waited and placed them carefully on the counter.
“Ted’s going to be so surprised!” she said, handing me three twenty dollar bills.
“Let me go out front and get your change,” I said.
She shook her head. “That’s fine. Maybe you could put it in the jar by the register for the St. Mary’s food pantry.”
“How thoughtful!” I slipped the money into my back pocket. “Thank you, Darby. Can I help you carry those to the car?”
“I can manage, Katie.”
I picked up the boxes anyway and moved toward the door. “I can use a little fresh air,” I said. “And I can also run interference if Meredith ambushes you outside.”
She giggled as we stepped through the door. “Well, it sounds like that’s all finished now. I’ll give her a call as soon as I get home. Maybe invite her over for coffee next week.”
“That’d be a nice gesture. You could put the feud to rest once and for all.”
She narrowed her gaze. “It wasn’t a feud, Katie. It was a…well, it was a misunderstanding.”
As we walked down the row of cars, I asked Darby if she’d heard the news about Tipper Hedge.
“No, I’ve had my hands full at home. What happened?”
I gave her a quick recap, leaving out some of the details about the woman I’d found on the kitchen floor. When I finished, her eyes were locked on mine and her face had gone pale.
“That’s the most awful thing I’ve ever heard,” she said. “And I just saw Tipper last Friday. She came by to see the baby and have lunch.”
“I saw her night before last,” I said. “In fact, she and her new boyfriend were supposed to come over to Blanche’s for dinner. But they didn’t make it.”
“Well, I don’t know what to say. I’m just…you know? I mean, we see things like that on TV all the time, but they happen to other people.”
I nodded, feeling the knot of dread in my stomach again. “I know. Other people in other places. But sometimes…” A tear slipped down Darby’s cheek. “Oh, sweetheart! Come here.”
I shifted the boxes and wrapped her in a sideways embrace as she began to cry. We stood in the chilly air for a few seconds before she pushed out of the hug.
“Sorry about that,” she said. “It’s hormones. And the lack of sleep.”
“Understandable. I should let you go so you can get out of this cold and back home with that new little one.”
Her car was a few spaces away, so we walked to the trunk. I waited while Darby opened it, and then put the cupcakes inside.
“Thanks again, Katie!”
“You’re so welcome,” I said. “Enjoy the goodies. And say hello to everyone at your house, okay?”
She opened her car door and then stopped. “Didn’t something bad happen there a few years before Tipper bought the house?”
The question was out of left field, so I smiled and asked Darby to refresh my memory.
“It was, like, eight or nine years ago,” she said. “You were in Chicago. Your mom and dad were running Sky High. And the house was owned by…oh, shoot! What was their last name?”
“Oh, that’s right! The Flanagans lived there for the longest time.”
Darby nodded. “Yes! The father worked for First Regional Bank until he quit to open some kind of tourism business. And the mother…I think her name was Hannah. Does that sound right?”
Hearing the name triggered a deep memory from the past. My mother and Hannah Flanagan were good friends when I was younger; playing bridge once a month, talking on the phone most evenings to trade local gossip and taking art classes at the community center on Saturday afternoons.
“Yes, it was Hannah Flanagan,” I said. “And her husband was Dell.”
“That’s it! And they had two boys…” Darby nodded as she tried to remember their names. “Daniel, maybe? And the other one was…”
“Dermot,” I said. “They were a few years older than us.”
“Like, five or six,” Darby said. “They would’ve been in high school when I moved here.”
“And you said something happened?” I asked. “Something bad?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, I never heard the whole story. But it involved the younger brother.”
“Dermot?” I said. “Wasn’t he the youngest?”
“Yep. But…I can’t remember…” She nibbled on one thumbnail while trying to recall details about the incident at the Flanagan’s house. “Was it an argument?” she continued after a few moments. “Like, maybe a fight between Dermot and his dad that involved a gun? It’s all so long ago...”
“You know what, Darby? You need to get home to your new baby. And I’ve got four special orders to finish by the end of the day. I’m going to call my mom later and get the scoop from her. I know she’ll remember. Now that we’re talking about it, I’m really curious to find out what it was.”
“Especially considering what just happened there,” Darby said, getting into her car. “Will you call me if there’s news about Tipper?”
“You can count on it,” I said. “And give that baby a big kiss for me!”
CHAPTER 16
When my mother answered the phone later that afternoon, she was humming an old song by the Beach Boys.
“Hey, mom!”
“Hi, sweetie,” she said cheerfully. “Can you name that tune?”
“Yep.”
“Can you solve the riddle with just one guess?”
“Um…Brian Wilson is coming for dinner later?”
She moaned. “Wow, Katie! Your deductive skills are fading fast.”
“What can I say? I spend all day in a kitchen, making pies and cakes. Then I spend half of most nights on the bookkeeping.”
“Why don’t you just hire someone to do that for you, sweetheart? Maybe a retired accountant who wouldn’t mind working a part-time job? I’d be happy to make some calls and see if—”
“I’m fine, mother! I’ve got this.”
The silence that followed was heavy and flat, something that I knew all too well from our occasional disagreements.
“You still there?” I asked finally.
My mother sighed on the other end.
“Mom?”
She answered with another agitated grumble.
“Okay, so I can sit here and carry on both sides of the conversation if you’d like,” I offered. “But I would much rather—”
“If you don’t want my help, just say so.”
I smiled. “Some things never change, mother.”
“Like your bad attitude?”
My smile became a hearty laugh. “If I have a bad attitude,” I said, “which I don’t believe that I do, where do you think it comes from?”
“How should I know?”
“My DNA, mom. I learned everything I know from you.”
She scoffed. “And your father.”
“Right,” I said. “And him, too. But I don’t have a bad attitude. I really appreciate the suggestion about hiring a part-time bookkeeper, but I want to…” I caught myself and took a deep breath before continuing. “No, I need to do things my own way. It’s one of the first lessons I learned from you when I was a little girl.”
“How to be difficult?” she groused. “I hardly think so.”
I took anoth
er breath and counted to ten. “Should we maybe talk another time? It sounds like you’re having a grumpy day.”
She muttered something about my father.
“What was that?”
“Your father and I are having an argument,” she said. “He thinks our trip to California should be postponed because there’s a bocce ball tournament in Rosemary Beach.”
“I didn’t know dad played bocce ball.”
“He doesn’t. And that’s actually the entire point of the thing. He suddenly announced one morning at breakfast that he’s thinking about learning the game. And I told him that reminded me of the time a few years ago when he was thinking about taking up skeet shooting.”
“Didn’t he take out the neighbor’s kitchen window the day he bought his equipment?”
She chuckled at the memory. “My point entirely. Not to mention that we’ve already booked the plane tickets.”
“I didn’t know you guys were going to California.”
“I planned to tell you kids,” my mother said. “But then your father started going on about bocce ball and Rosemary Beach and how I’m denying him the opportunity to learn something new at his age.”
“He’s not that old.”
“You’re preaching to the choir there, Katie. I tell him the same thing every morning when he’s drinking his laxative and taking his baby aspirin and—”
“Mom?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Can I ask you a question about something?”
“Does it involve bocce ball?”
I laughed. “No, I wanted to ask you about the Flanagans. They’re the family that used to live in that house on Hanover that my friend Tipper bought about three years ago.”
“Dell and Hannah?”
“Yes,” I said. “And they had two boys, right?”
“Well, I’d say one boy and one hellion. That Dermot was always getting into trouble—at school, at church, during summer camp. I remember one time when you were maybe eight or nine; it was the year that your sister broke her leg ice skating. Anyway, Dermot took a can of lighter fluid and a box of matches out to the shed in their backyard. He threatened to burn it down if his parents didn’t buy him a new skateboard like his best friend had.”
“What happened?”
My mother snickered. “What do you think happened? He was grounded for a week.”
“So…no skateboard?”
She laughed again. “Not until he stole one from Anderson’s.”
“He really was a hellion,” I said.
“Still is, according to Hannah’s last email. He’s been living in Albuquerque, shacked up with some girl and barely holding down a job for more than a couple of weeks. His brother had to fly in from Boston to bail Dermot out of jail about three months ago.”
“For what?”
“Assault and disturbing the peace,” my mother said. “He ate forty-two dollars worth of food at a diner and then left without paying the bill. When the manager followed him into the parking lot, Dermot took a swing and knocked out the poor guy’s front teeth.”
“That’s horrible,” I said.
“I agree. And who knew that one person could eat forty-two dollars worth of anything at a diner?”
“You’d be surprised, mother. A truck driver came into Sky High a couple of days ago and ate four omelets, two muffins and a slice of Nana Reed’s Perfectly Peachy Blueberry Pie.”
“Oh, was it Tuck Bradshaw?”
“Yep. You remember him?”
She cooed warmly again. “He was one of my favorite customers, Katie. Sweet and funny; always telling nice stories about his wife.”
“Ex-wife now,” I said. “And the stories aren’t so nice anymore.”
My mother sighed. “All things must pass. I’m sorry to hear that Tuck’s a single guy again.”
I laughed. “He’s not single, mom. They’re still together. It’s just that Jeannie decided she—”
“Hang on, Katie! Your father’s hollering from the other room.”
While I waited for my mother to return, I checked my list. I still needed to go to the bank, buy noisemakers for a retirement party we were catering and check in with Trent to get the latest on Tipper.
“Sorry about that, honey,” my mother said as she came back on the line. “I’ve got to hang up now. Your father decided we’re going to the Olive Garden to negotiate the final decision on our trip to California.”
“Well, good luck with that,” I said. “Tell him I say hi, okay?”
“Of course, Katie. And I’ll also tell him that you think we should leave our plans alone. The bocce ball thing is an annual event; he can go next year.”
I didn’t want to engage my mother in a discussion about using deception to get her way. We’d been down that road enough times in the past for me to know it was a lose-lose situation.
“Okay, then,” I said. “Have a good—oh, shoot! Mom? I wanted to ask you if Dell and Hannah were still in the area.”
“What?”
I repeated the question. “Well, of course,” she said. “They sold the house on Hanover and bought a cute little townhouse on University Place. It’s right over there by the tennis courts that the mayor wanted to turn into a parking lot.”
“Okay, thanks!” I said. “I could’ve found out by asking Blanche Speltzer, but I thought it would be more fun to call you.”
“That’s sweet,” my mother said. “Why’d you want to know if the Flanagans were still in Crescent Creek?”
“It’s a long story. Probably best to tell you another time. I don’t want to keep you and dad from the unlimited breadsticks.”
She giggled. “Good point, sweetheart. I’m so glad we had a chance to talk, even if it was only for a moment.”
“Me, too. I love you, mom.”
“I love you more,” she said. “Now, forever and always!”
CHAPTER 17
The tennis courts on University Place were blanketed with snow from the storm that had moved through the area during the night. A woman and two toddlers were making angels in the blanket of downy white flakes as I drove by on my way to see Dell and Hannah Flanagan. It was a hunch. And maybe a long shot. But I wanted to ask if they’d heard from their son Dermot lately.
I parked in front of the two-story townhouse, walked up the curving brick pathway and knocked on the door. Two brightly-colored garden gnomes stood beside the entrance, glaring at me with creepy yellow-orange eyes. One had a small hand-lettered sign around its neck: Go away if you don’t like happiness! I was smiling at the tiny statues when I noticed a small dot of blue on the ground next to the pair. As I leaned down for a closer look, the door suddenly opened. A short woman with curly gray hair stood in the entry vestibule. She was dressed in a plaid flannel shirt, faded jeans and heavy wool socks.
“Yes?” Her voice was soft and her eyes twinkled above the reading glasses at the tip of her nose. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Mrs. Flanagan?”
“That’s what they tell me,” she quipped with a slight roll of her shoulders. “Are you with the neighborhood watch group?”
I shook my head. “No, ma’am. My name is Kate Reed. You and my mother were friends when—”
Before I could finish, she clapped her hands and motioned for me to come inside. “Oh, my word! Is it really you, Muffin? Audrey and Darren’s little girl all grown up?”
I winced at the childhood nickname—something my brother had started when he was a toddler—and stepped into the entryway.
“Oh, Katie! You are so pretty now!” She squeezed my chin between one thumb and forefinger, turning my head from side to side. “I mean, c’mon! I’d kill for that complexion!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Flanagan.”
“You know,” she said, lowering her hand and taking one step back, “I think the last time I saw you was the farewell party that your parents had at Sky High before you moved to Chicago. Do you remember that? All of the tables in the dining room pushed to one side so everybo
dy could dance and kick up their heels?”
I nodded. “I do remember that night. It’s one of my favorite memories from back then.”
“And your brother!” She snickered and removed the reading glasses. “That little Brody was a firecracker! He got a couple of beers from some of the older kids, got himself drunk and proceeded to vomit all over the—”
“Yes, I remember that, too!” I interrupted, hoping not to rekindle any more unsettling mental images of my younger brother’s handiwork on the desk in the Sky High office. It had taken my father a good four hours to clean up the mess and freshen the air enough to make the room habitable again.
“Well, how are you, Muffin? And how’s everyone else in the Reed family these days?”
“Everyone’s great,” I said. “Brody’s in San Diego. Olivia’s in Denver. And my parents are—”
“Permanent snowbirds! When your mom told me they were moving to Florida, I about had a stroke! How can they leave the mountains for a bug-infested wasteland filled with old coots waiting to die?”
I forced a smile and shrugged. “I don’t think they quite see it that way. They’re having the time of their lives. They’ve made a bunch of great new friends, toured some of the state’s historical sites and—”
“Cup of tea?”
I’d forgotten how much Mrs. Flanagan loved to interrupt someone when they were talking. It had been the only thing my mother ever griped about when she and my father came home after having dinner with Hannah and her husband Dell.
“That would be lovely,” I said.
“Follow me into the kitchen then, dear. Pork Chop’s out with Daisy.”
I didn’t want to ask, but I guessed Pork Chop was her nickname for Mr. Flanagan and Daisy was the family dog.
“They just left about ten minutes ago, so we should have a good half hour to visit before all hell breaks loose.”
We went down the hallway, around a corner and into a sunny room decorated with a large gallery of framed family photographs.
“Daisy’s just three months old, so we’re still working on our boundaries and potty training and just about everything else.”