“Cosmetologist,” I corrected. Though, judging by my children’s appearance, perhaps she did mean she wanted to be a star gazer.
Preston gave me a somber nod. “I can’t believe all of this. My God. We were eating dinner with him just last night.”
“Did Stephanie leave?”
“She had some errands to run. I came to take Tiffany home.”
“Look what Tiffany bought me.” Nathan held up a black comb.
“There was a machine in the lobby,” Karen explained. “She says you owe her a dollar.”
“You owe me twelve-fifty for lunch, too,” Tiffany said.
“You should rethink your career choice. You might make a successful lawyer.” I handed her two twenties. “Keep the change.”
Now I’d be forced to bring my children to the police station. With our makeup and hairstyles, we’d make quite a trio.
By the time we got home from the police station, it was late afternoon. Two police vehicles were parked in Lauren’s driveway and the house was circled by police tape. There was a message from Jim on my answering machine. He was going to visit a manufacturing plant on another Philippine island, where he’d be until Thursday. He told me the city and hotel name, but though I played it back twice, a blip on the line rendered Jim’s voice unintelligible.
I supervised the children’s baths, necessary to get their faces and hair restored to their natural state. At some point last year Karen had decided she hated bathing. She often came up with excuses for why she shouldn’t have to get into the tub. This time she told me she didn’t need baths because she sweated water, which washed her. Even in my emotionally drained state, I recognized a good try when I heard one and told her so.
As the children were drying off, I called Lauren. No one answered, but I left a message that I was here for her and wanted to help in any way I could.
Not only did I wish Jim were here to help me and Lauren through all of this trauma and tragedy, I wished my mother were here. To cheer myself up, I sketched myself in a kitchen. In my drawing, the phone rings off the hook, pots boil over on the stove, toys are scattered across the floor, and Karen and Nathan are running in circles around me as I cry in frustration: “I WANT MY MOMMY!”
After completing my doodle, I stared out the window at Lauren’s house, trying to fathom what she must be going through, and realizing how unimaginable that really was. My mother once told me she would rather die herself than have anyone else in the family die. A teenager at the time, I’d thought she was nuts. Now I suspect motherhood naturally turns the sanest of us into martyrs. Though I could not begin to fathom the emotional agony that Lauren was currently experiencing, I knew that much of her pain was not derived from her own terrible loss, but from that of her daughter.
To my surprise, I saw her and Rachel leaving the house with an officer. Even from this distance, I could see her shoulders shaking with sobs as she and Rachel got into the back seat of the squad car. The sight was heartbreaking, and I started to cry as well.
Karen skipped into the room. “I’ve got to help Nathan,” she said, giggling. She grabbed the blunt-tip scissors.
“Wait,” I said. “Why do you need scissors?”
She charged back up the stairs and called behind her, “His new comb is stuck in his hair.”
Chapter 9
Welcome Home
Mrs. Kravett used to read us poetry. Almost all those poems I’ve long since forgotten, along with the poets’ names, but one line that stayed with me was Carl Sandburg’s allusion that fog comes on little cat feet. This night plodded by on elephant’s feet.
Carolee had checked in on me at my home twice. I told her I felt physically exhausted but doubted I would be able to sleep. She told me, as I’d already assumed, that it wouldn’t be wise to take sleeping pills on top of my concussion. So I’d suffered, listening to a distant thunderstorm, counting the car lights that passed my window throughout the night.
Earlier I’d managed to get the comb out of Nathan’s hair. The result had been wild, unmanageable curls on the top of his head, which made him miserable. So in the morning, Sunday, we went to get his hair cut. Afterward he seemed satisfied with his close-cropped hair, though he still spent a good half hour in front of the mirror trying to decide if one ear or the other needed to be lowered.
When we returned, the police tape around Lauren’s house was gone. I spotted her through her kitchen window. After phoning a few times and getting no answer, I needed to go over there and speak to her, if only for my own peace of mind. That meant hiring a babysitter, and Carolee had already mentioned she was working today. I got hold of Tiffany and she gleefully agreed to babysit once again. Her mother was going to drive her to my house. I successfully battled the urge to spruce up in her honor.
Stephanie accompanied her daughter to the door. They wore matching mother/daughter reflective Ray-Ban sunglasses. “Knock knock,” she said, after I’d already answered the bell. “Just had to tell you what a delightful time I had yesterday talking to Karen at the hospital. God sure smiled on you the day she was born.”
He also had a belly laugh the day Nathan was born. I kept my thoughts to myself, suspecting that Stephanie wouldn’t understand that I loved my children equally, despite Nathan’s more challenging personality. We made arrangements for me to drive Tiffany home later, then she gave me one of those wiggly-finger waves I so hated and left.
After muttering a few instructions to Tiffany, mostly about not altering my children’s appearances, I walked next door.
Lauren was home, but didn’t answer the door. I rang the doorbell incessantly, figuring sooner or later she’d look through the window and see it was me. Cracks and dents along the jamb were plainly visible, as if the door had been hastily repaired after the police kicked it in yesterday. It could probably now be opened with one good push.
Finally I heard the metallic click of the deadbolt, and the door creaked partway open. It was Rachel. Her hair was uncombed. The hollowness in her eyes and sallow expression reminded me of how Karen looks when she’s got a fever. One hand tugged on her plain pink turtleneck as if searching for a blankie. She sucked on three fingers of her other hand. Her magenta stretch pants were wrinkled and rode up one calf. She stared at me.
I instinctively bent down to her eye level. “Hi, sweetie. I’m so—”
“Rachel,” Lauren yelled, “don’t open it.”
“It’s me.”
Lauren rounded the corner. She looked like Bette Davis in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? I had to bite back a gasp.
“I don’t want company. Not even you. I’m sorry.”
She gripped the edge of the door with both hands as if fully intending to slam it in my face. Rachel disappeared inside.
“I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. Can I bring over dinner for you tonight or—”
“I can still cook and take care of myself.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” My throat ached as I battled my emotions. Why was she treating me like this? What could I say? “Is there anything I can do? Can I watch Rachel for you, or—”
“No. Thanks. Goodbye.” She shut the door.
I went back to my house, utterly dismayed and hurt. I tried to tell myself I shouldn’t take it personally; who was to say how I would treat Lauren had our positions been reversed? Yet this was so unlike the Lauren I thought I knew so well. Something was very wrong.
A question tormented me. Did Lauren think I killed Steve?
As soon as I opened the door, Tiffany said, “Hey, you’re, like, back early. You’ve only been gone five minutes. That’ll still be five dollars, you know.”
“All right, then. Since I’ve hired you for an hour, I may as well use it. I’ll be back in fifty-five minutes.” I grabbed the phone book, planning to use the map inside.
With nearly an hour of free time, I decided to locate Mrs. Kravett’s house. With luck, I might be able to talk to one of her family members, give my condolences, and confess how badly I�
��d behaved as her student.
Her house was located in an adjacent county, east of Carlton. I found the address listed in the phone book, and was stunned to discover that it was a gated mansion. I parked at the top of the driveway and got out of my car. Gaping at the picturesque manor, complete with manicured lawns, flower gardens, and hedges, I considered my options. I was going to have to leave; I was not well-dressed enough to walk into a house like this. It was impossible to fathom that Mrs. Kravett had been living like British royalty by night and working in Carlton High by day.
An electronic click startled me. “Can I help you?” a disembodied voice asked.
I looked around, deciding that the nearest of the two stone lions that, atop their tall brick pedestals, flanked the driveway was the source of the voice.
“Not really. I’m Molly Masters. Molly Peterson when Mrs. Kravett knew me. I’m one of her former student’s and—”
“I’m Phoebe’s sister. I’m glad you came, Molly. I assume you are here about the will?”
“Will? What will?”
“Didn’t you get the notice? It was sent three days ago.”
Frankly, I felt stupid talking to a lion statue, but I didn’t know where else to look, so I stared at his old, chiseled features and said honestly, “I’m sorry, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t get any notices about a will.”
“Hang on a minute, dearie.”
The lion stopped hissing. I glanced at my lowly maroon Corolla and played with the idea of getting into it and driving away.
At length, I could see a short, squat, white-haired lady make her way down the driveway toward me. At this distance she looked just like a living version of the body I’d recently viewed. I didn’t know the proper protocol, but decided to walk toward her to spare her the footsteps.
We met a third of the way down the driveway. She studied me at length, then said, “Hello. I’m Ellen Steinway, Phoebe’s sister. I must say I’m confused. The lawyer won’t be here for another two hours. Yet you say you haven’t been notified. So my questions are, why not, and what are you doing here?”
This was spooky. She not only looked and sounded like my former teacher, she talked like her. Just as I had in class, I found myself befuddled and apologetic. “My notice about the will must have been delayed in the mail. I was just driving by, realized it was her house, and stopped. I’ve been out of town for a number of years.”
“So I’ve heard. Since you’re here now, come on in.”
I followed her into the foyer and looked around. “This is palatial.” The remark was not unlike saying, “This is a big car” while stepping into a limo.
“Phoebe used only a couple of the rooms. The rest…well, you can see for yourself.” She opened a carved oak door and I peeked in. The room was dark, the furniture covered with dustcovers. It appeared to be hunkered down for a sleep, Rip VanWinkle style.
“I’m amazed by all of this,” I said. “When she was teaching, I had no idea she lived in a place like this.”
“Oh, she didn’t, dearie. The money was Bob’s, and they had been saving it and investing. Guess you could say he had the Midas touch. Four years back, when his lung cancer was diagnosed, they realized the time had come to spend some. They bought this old mansion.”
I’d heard of saving for a rainy day, but if the house was any indication, we were talking Noah here.
“So you live here now?”
“Oh, my goodness, no. I’m going back home to Seattle as soon as the estate is settled.” She shuffled through the arched doorway into an enormous room that housed a grand piano and sat down in an antique ladder-back chair. Though I followed, I felt too edgy to sit.
“What will become of the house?”
“It’s going on the market. Some investor will buy it.” She crinkled her nose, and added, “Who’ll probably flatten the house and put in a hundred condos.”
“Why did you think I was here for a will reading? Surely I’m not in it. I was just one of her students from a long time ago.”
“Won’t you be surprised, dearie.” She had a wheezy little laugh, at my expense, apparently. Then she cleared her throat and said, “About a month ago, when Phoebe heard you were coming back, she made out a new will. We discussed it over the phone many times, so it’s no surprise to me. She left a sizable portion to me, as her only survivor. The bulk goes into a scholarship program in her husband’s name.”
“That’s wonderful. But what—”
“Don’t rush me. I’m getting there. A committee of teachers will choose student candidates each year. They supply that list of candidates to one person, who has the final say and handles the dispensations. You.”
“Me? But that’s absurd! Why on earth would she pick me for such a role? She doesn’t even…we hadn’t seen each other in seventeen years. She didn’t even like me!” Not to mention my accidentally launching a school-board investigation over the false charges of her striking a student.
Ellen Stein way laughed, which caused her to have a brief coughing fit. “That’s just what Phoebe said you would say.”
She led me to an oak roll-top desk against the far wall. With the toe of her orthopedic shoe, she tapped a large cardboard box next to the desk. “You may as well take all of these papers with you. They’re copies of legal documents, and reports and work from current deserving high school students.”
The papers in the box would fill a file cabinet. Perhaps Mrs. Kravett had chosen me for the job to avenge my poem. This must be what Mrs. Kravett had wanted to discuss with me just before she died.
“I have a friend who’s a lawyer in Denver,” I said. “I’ll call him and have him contact Mrs. Kravett’s lawyer and see if they can get this resolved.”
“Oh, dearie. There’s nothing to be resolved. It’s all set and everyone’s quite pleased.”
“Everyone?”
“Except maybe you, Molly, but you’ll get used to the idea. This has all been rather sudden, I suppose.”
That was an understatement.
“I spotted you leaving the funeral, and asked a woman who you were. She told me your name.”
“What woman?”
She looked reflective for a moment. “The name escapes me. She was pretty, a couple of years older than you, wears lots of makeup.”
“Stephanie Saunders?” I grinned, loving the idea of anyone thinking I looked younger than Stephanie.
That’s the one.” She put her hands on her ample hips and narrowed her eyes at me, a pose straight from her sister’s repertoire when appraising an uncooperative student. “Are you a writer?”
“No, well, not exactly. I write greeting cards.”
“Aha. I recently sorted through my sister’s desk. She kept a file of predictions for her former pupils. Would you like to see your class’s?”
“I’d love to.”
She unlocked the roll-top and stared. “I don’t remember leaving this in such a mess. I must just be getting old.”
She flipped through some papers till she found the ones she wanted. She gave one to me and waved several papers folded together. “There’s a copy of the will here, too. I’ll just drop it into your box.” She tottered over to the box and flipped the will into it.
I scanned the list for my name and read Mrs. Kravett’s prediction. She had me down for either a newspaper columnist or a television sitcom writer. I continued to read the predictions. Stephanie’s was fashion model or politician’s wife. Denise was listed only as a future house wife. That surprised me.
“She hit the nail on the head about that Tommy Newton. He’s your backup if you refuse to lead the scholarship board.”
I fought back a smile. I had an out! Tommy had teenagers of his own. He’d be great at selecting scholarship recipients!
She narrowed her eyes at me and added, “Though I’m sure you won’t let my sister down by backing out on her like that.”
“Oh, well, I—” Damn. She was right. I couldn’t let Mrs. Kravett down. Agai
n. “No, I won’t.”
She glanced at the paper in my hand and chuckled. “That boy Tommy’s a sly one.”
I referred to his name. He was down as an accountant or a policeman. Those two fields seemed completely incongruous to me.
“What makes you say that?”
“He figured out she’d given up on life after Bob died. Nobody else in this town did. Certainly that rotten boy Jack Vance didn’t realize it. Of all the people to wind up her boss!”
“But he’s the elementary school principal.”
She pursed her lips. “He must have changed jobs. He ran the high school for five years.”
As she was speaking, I looked up his prediction. Insurance salesman.
“Teaching was all she had left. She put her heart and soul into her classroom. When Bob died last April, I came out to stay with her for a couple of weeks. She let her nurse go, the housekeeper, started closing up all the rooms. Just kept one gardener.”
“What did the nurse look like?” I asked, suddenly suspicious about Carolee.
“Black woman. Middle-aged. Why?”
“I was just wondering if she was someone I knew, that’s all.”
“I had a devil of a time, getting her to take her medication. Had to have the doctor threaten her with hospitalization.”
“Was she on a lot of medication?”
She took digitalis once a day, and Lasix every third day. Course, I only remember that because I was with Sergeant Newton when he took the pill bottles, and he asked me about them.”
“About whether she’d been taking them?”
She nodded. “He was asking me all about Phoebe’s medication. The prescription bottles from the bathroom are the only thing the police took with them, at least in my presence.”
I tensed. Maybe Mrs. Kravett was murdered, after all.
“I wonder why he took those.”
“He asked for my permission to do an autopsy, and I said that was fine as long as he gave me the results. They discovered the medicinal levels in her bloodstream weren’t right. That boy Tommy asked me if it was possible she’d stopped taking her pills on purpose.” She snorted. “Of course it was. Her husband died. She had no children, no family except me. And look at me. I’m seventy and have only one lung left. Once that rotten school principal railroaded her out of her job, what did she have to live for?”
Death Comes eCalling Page 9