Dandelion Summer

by Mary Ellen Bramwell

  . . .

  The guard at the prison was surprised to see them back again. “I can’t just go pull your father out again like that, you know.”

  But Mom was not in a mood to be deterred. “Young man, we were told we could visit today. So, it may not be the regular visiting day, but it is a visiting day for us. Isn’t that right?”

  “Well, kind of. But-”

  “Right. It’s not visiting hour or visiting morning, it’s visiting day. So, we took a lunch break. Thank you for your recommendation, by the way. What a lovely place. So, now, if you’d be so kind, we’re wasting daylight. We would like to visit with William Knight, my father.”

  Her self-assurance was disarming. The guard didn’t say another word to her, just turned to his subordinate and requested they summon Grandpa to the visitor’s room.

  If they’d thought the guard was surprised, it was nothing compared to the look on Grandpa’s face. He dutifully picked up his receiver, but said nothing, waiting for Mom’s explanation.

  “Pop, you don’t want to put us in danger, but I hate to tell you, you already have. If you don’t want to tell us where the ‘item’ is, that’s fine. I won’t ask for its location again. When all this blows over, you can decide when to tell me so we can return it to its rightful owner. But, in the meantime, we have a lot more questions, and we need the answers. I’m not leaving here today without them.”

  “But I don’t have all the answers. I actually have more questions than I do answers.”

  “I understand. Just tell us the things you do know. To start with, tell me about the two witnesses who testified at your trial. Do you remember them?”

  He registered surprise at the question but readily answered. “They were at the bar when we got there. They were really friendly. We struck up a conversation, just normal stuff.”

  “Did they have a reason to lie about what they may or may not have heard and seen?”

  “Boy, not that I know of. Why would you ask?”

  “I just need to know. Is there anything else you can tell me about them?”

  “I don’t think so. When they found out we were World War II vets, they started buying us drinks. They were just a couple of nice young men.”

  “Okay. Did you and George have any reason to argue?”

  He was again taken by surprise but easily answered, “No. We never disagreed about anything other than sports teams.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Mom said, nodding. “Pop, why did you have a knife on you that night?”

  “Wow, I could get whiplash from your sudden changes in direction.” He paused waiting for Mom to laugh, but her face was like stone. “Well, all right. I don’t know. It was my switchblade. I often carried it with me. It’s a habit I developed from the war, you know, like putting my wallet in my pocket in the mornings. It’s funny, though.”

  “What’s funny?”

  “I thought I had mislaid it a few weeks earlier. It seems like one morning I just couldn’t find it. But when they brought it out as evidence at the trial, it was definitely my knife. I guess I was wrong. Maybe I’d left it in the pocket of those pants, or something.” Then more quietly, he added, “Or maybe I was too drunk to know my right hand from my left.”

  Mom ignored the last comment and plowed on, determined. “If you thought it had gone missing, why didn’t that come out at the trial?”

  “My defense attorney said it didn’t much matter. It was clearly my knife. I never tried to deny that. So, he said if we brought up anything about it … well, it would draw more attention to it and would only make matters worse.”

  “Really,” Madelyn whispered to her mom, “a missing knife didn’t strike him as important?”

  Mom rolled her eyes and covered her receiver so Pop couldn’t hear her. “I know. Let me just keep going and see what we can learn.”

  Turning back to face her father through the plexiglass, she said, “Pop, with any murder, there’s usually a motive. That didn’t come out in your trial. Why kill him? Why kill George?”

  He started shaking his head, his calm demeanor from a moment ago evaporating. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything.”

  “Are you sure you did it?”

  His head came up, and he stared into Mom’s eyes like he was deciding if she was serious or not. She returned his steady gaze. “Two people saw me do it. Two people who weren’t drunk as a skunk like I was.” The tears he’d been holding back for a long time started to silently trickle down his cheek, but he didn’t turn away. “I’m so sorry I was drinking—so sorry I ever started drinking again. I don’t know what happened that night, but if I hadn’t been a sad drunk, nothing would have happened.”

  Mom slowly nodded. “I suppose so, and I guess that’s something you have to live with, but I’m not sure you need to live with it in here.” He glanced over at Madelyn for confirmation of what Mom was saying to him. She gave him a faint smile—hopeful, but not certain.

  “I have another question for you, Pop. Who did you tell about the painting? Did you tell George? Is that what you showed him?”

  His face went white, but he nodded.

  “Don’t you find it curious that he ended up dead?”

  He was slow to respond. “So, even if I didn’t kill him, I’m still the reason he’s dead?”

  “No. I don’t see it that way. Whoever killed him is the reason he’s dead. It’s like saying you’re responsible for Tommy’s cerebral palsy. Sure, if you’d never fathered him, he wouldn’t have cerebral palsy, but that’s because he wouldn’t exist.”

  He gave a derisive laugh. “Don’t think I haven’t been down that road a few times.”

  “And it didn’t lead anywhere, did it?”

  “No, you’re right. Your mother used to tell me that too. She’d add that if I spent too much time looking back, asking ‘what if,’ that I wouldn’t have eyes to see how to navigate the road in front of me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “She was right too.”

  “Hey, Grandpa,” Madelyn said, taking the phone receiver from Mom, “What was with Grandma’s will? You said you were celebrating something about her will that night.”

  He got a sheepish grin. “That was technically perjury. We were celebrating the artwork heading back to Europe. I had contacted my lawyer, Ross Musil, about finding a way to get the painting back where it belonged.”

  “So, Mr. Musil knew about it too?”

  “Of course he did. He’d been working on it for a bit, and he called to let me know they’d found its home and we could send it on its way. It was a win. It seemed reasonable to celebrate.”

  “Did a whole bunch of people know about the painting, Grandpa?”

  “No. George, Ross, and I suppose the appraiser. That’s it. That’s why I lied about it in court. I didn’t think anyone else needed to know. Ross had reached out to people in France—to track down the right church, but I don’t think he told them what it was actually about. All the same, I was a little worried. It seemed like suspicious things had started to happen.”

  “Was that what you were talking about in your letter—people following you, that kind of thing?”

  “Yes. I thought I must be imagining things at first, but when it keeps happening, you stop second-guessing and just get scared.”

  “Did you tell your defense attorney, Mr. Bruce, about any of it?”

  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t want to tell anyone else. If I told him about those strange things, I figured I’d also have to tell him about the painting. I didn’t want to do that.”

  Mom took the receiver back. “Pop, did Ross Musil invite you out that night, the night of
George’s death?”

  “Yes, he did. I thought you knew that.”

  “I thought I did too, but he claims he didn’t.”

  “Why would he deny that?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  “Pop, I truly think things are not as they appear. We’re going to find out who’s behind this. I just need to know, is the art safe? Could they have found it when they broke into your home?”

  He shook his head. “It’s safe. They wouldn’t have found it.”

  “All right.”

  Madelyn took the receiver again. “Grandpa, I have one more question. Why isn’t the painting already back in France?”

  “I wanted to return it myself—hand it directly back to a priest in that church at the same place it had been handed to me. Ross learned that the church was still standing. Somehow, it just seemed fitting.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Then all this happened, and it wasn’t possible for me to leave the country. Now it’s not possible to even leave these walls. Ross offered to take care of it for me, but I declined. It was too personal.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “This is such a mess. I should have taken care of it years ago. I just forgot, and now I’m stuck here where it will haunt me forever. I’ll never be able to forget again.” He put his head in his hands.

  Mom reached out and put her hand on the glass. “I love you, Pop.”

  He lifted his head then matched his hand with hers on the other side of the glass.

  . . .

  It was strange driving home, covering the same territory they had just a few hours earlier. Yet it felt like forever ago with all the new pieces they’d added to their puzzle—only they weren’t sure how they all fit together.

  Madelyn shivered to think about everything that had happened to Grandpa once he’d found the art. “You know, Mom, all this talk makes me nervous. I keep looking around, waiting for someone to jump out of the bushes or something. I’ve even imagined we’re being followed. Isn’t that silly?”

  “You saw the brown car too?”

  Madelyn’s eyes got big. “You mean I’m not imagining things?”

  “Well, I thought I was, until you said that. If we both noticed the same thing, I think we better take it seriously. But why don’t we check to be sure.”

  “How?”

  “Just keep an eye out, and see what happens.”

  Mom took the next exit off the freeway. It led to a small town, but rather than following the road into town, she pulled into the gas station.

  A brown car pulled up to another pump on the other side.

  This station still offered the service of pumping the gas for you, if you wished, and Mom signaled the attendant for his help. As he pumped, she reached across the seat and grabbed hold of Madelyn’s hand. It was hard to tell who was shaking the most.

  “Thank you,” Mom told the attendant when he was done. She pulled forward, but instead of pulling out of the station, she turned into a parking spot by the convenience store.

  “Let’s go in and grab a candy bar, shall we?” She was smiling, speaking cheerfully, but Madelyn knew she was anything but.

  When they came out, they both scanned the area around them. No brown car was in sight. With a new spring to their step, they climbed in to head home.

  Pulling back onto the highway, a brown sedan eased out of the shadows and entered the highway right behind them. It was only a moment before Mom spied him in her rear-view mirror.

  “Don’t look back, but we’re not alone, Madelyn. Just stay calm and start praying.” Madelyn had to fight the urge to whip her head around to see for herself. She started to wring her hands while closing her eyes in silent pleadings.

  Home was only three exits away. Mom changed lanes, moving to the left. The brown car followed. She sped up and slowed down, but nothing changed. They tried to sneak a peek at the driver, but he wore a hat that put his face in shadow.

  At the last minute, Mom dangerously veered across traffic to the right to take her exit. The move was too quick for their pursuer. They could see him turn his head to watch as they exited the highway.

  Mom paused at the stop sign at the end of the offramp to catch her breath. “Wow. That was close.” But her relief was short-lived. Above them on the highway, a car pulled off to the shoulder and began to slowly back up to the exit.

  “Mom, look!” In response, Mom swiftly turned right, even though home was left. “Mom, I thought if someone was following you, he tried to hide it, so you didn’t know he was there. But we know he’s there, and he knows we know.”

  “Yeah. It’s not like I have a lot of experience with this,” Mom said as she took a quick right followed by another quick left, “but I think he wants us to see him. He’s trying to scare us.”

  “Well, he’s doing a pretty good job of it,” Madelyn said.

  They grew silent as Mom did her best to shake him, turning down one street after another. Then she mumbled to herself, “I should have thought of this sooner.” Then without explanation, she set out on a decided course.

  “Where are we going?” Madelyn asked after a few minutes.

  “Right there,” Mom said, pointing at the city police station. She pulled into the parking lot. They watched as the brown sedan paused at the entrance then sped away.

  “Madelyn, did you get his license plate number? I was too busy driving to catch it.”

  “I tried, but it was covered in mud. I couldn’t see even a single letter or number.”

  . . .

  The police were helpful. Madelyn feared they might be skeptical, but by the time she and Mom had detailed their evasive maneuvers and the subsequent results, Officer Patterson, the police officer taking their statements, acted both sympathetic and concerned. “Can your husband come to the station to see you get home safely?”

  Mom twisted her wedding ring. “He’s out of town for the summer.”

  “I’m so sorry.” His face started to get red. “You know, ma’am, if anyone tried to scare my wife or any of my children, I … well, I’d have a hard time honoring my badge, is all I can say.”

  “Thank you, officer,” Mom said, relieved.

  “Do you have any idea why you might have been followed?”

  Mom looked at Madelyn before answering. “Yes, I think so. My father is in prison for manslaughter.” She paused to see the officer’s reaction, but he didn’t even flinch. “Anyway, we think he was actually set up. I believe we’re getting closer to the truth, and someone doesn’t want that truth to come out.”

  He nodded his head. “Has anything else happened?”

  “Our home was broken into last week,” Madelyn said, but she had to stop and think—was it really only last week? She shivered at the memory.

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Yes. They came out and wrote it up.”

  “Okay. Let me go get a copy of that report. Sit tight. I’ll be right back.” Officer Patterson got up from his chair, but he turned before leaving, saying, “Don’t worry. You’re safe here. If you don’t see one of us, know that we’re only a scream away.”

  Madelyn started to smile, thinking he was making a joke, but she caught the glint in his eyes. He was angry and clearly determined to protect them since Dad wasn’t around to do it himself.

  . . .

  In the end, after calling ahead to prepare Aunt Dory and the others, they received a police escort home. After safely delivering them to the front door, the officer accompanying them said, “Ma’am,” while tipping his hat, “we’ll have our officers watching the house around the clock for the next couple of
days. We’ll let you know if we see anything. But you be careful. Don’t hesitate to call us.”

  “Thank you so much, officer,” Mom said. If it hadn’t seemed inappropriate, Madelyn would have hugged him and all the other officers they had interacted with that day.

  Stepping into Aunt Dory’s house, the smell of it hit them. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell at all—more like lilacs mixed with vanilla—but it wasn’t their home smell. It belonged to where they were staying, where they were hiding. And while it was a sweet smell, it was darkly sweet, like a luring aroma of a Renaissance painting calling to shadowy, faceless men, who searched for them in the night. It prompted Madelyn to glance over at their house. Mom followed her gaze, and they both shivered.

  It was some time before they calmed down enough to tell their story to the others and a while longer before they’d laid everything out. Mom had debated whether Jillian and Daniel should be privy to it all, but Aunt Dory said, “They’re in as much danger as you. They need to know. Then they can be careful and watchful too.” So, Jillian and Daniel were included in the conversation.

  Even still, Mom drew a sigh of relief when the two of them went off to play in the bedroom. “I can’t believe what they’re having to deal with.”

  “Mom,” Madelyn had to ask the question that had weighed on her mind, “do they plan on killing us? Are they going to kill us like they did Mr. Holliwell?”

  “Oh, Madelyn,” she said, throwing her arms around her.

  “No, they won’t.” It was Aunt Dory’s reassuring voice. They both turned to her, hoping her optimism was warranted. “At least not right now.”

  “What do you mean?” Madelyn said.

  “It’s because of the painting.” Mom and Madelyn both registered confusion. “As long as they don’t know where the painting is, they can’t afford to kill you. It’s why they killed George but left your grandfather alive. George was a loose end. He knew about the painting. But William Knight—well, he was another story. They needed him to lead them to the artwork. Only, clearly that hasn’t happened yet.”