Scarecrow

by Robin Hathaway

  CHAPTER 10

  Becca directed me to her house. When we came to a road with a field filled with charred cornstalks on one side and an empty field surrounded by a dark wood on the other, I leaned over the steering wheel.

  “Turn right at the next driveway,” she said.

  I was experiencing déjà vu that wasn’t déjà vu. I really had been over this rut-filled driveway before and I knew it led to a silver farmhouse. Last night, in fact. But now it was daylight and I could see that the farmhouse wasn’t silver. It was ordinary pine wood from which the paint had worn away. The sun had bleached it and the wind had weathered it until it had acquired a special sheen. At night, when the moonlight played on it, it had looked like polished silver. Today, it looked more like tarnished pewter. The gingerbread on the porch was as fragile and faded as antique lace. The real lace curtains hanging in the tall windows on the porch were the color of cream, and the rippled window glass reflecting the last rays of the sun was gold.

  The dog, which had seemed so ferocious the night before, pushed open the screen door and ran up to the car to greet Becca. He was a beautiful weimaraner, the same shade of tarnished pewter as the house. Becca greeted him with a big hug. I patted him gingerly. “Nice boy.”

  “Girl,” Becca corrected. “Her name’s Elsa.”

  I squatted and fondled her ears. She rewarded me with a long lick, from my chin to my forehead.

  “Down, Elsa.” Becca led us both up the porch steps. “Aunt, I’m back.” She pronounced aunt to rhyme with haunt.

  A woman in her mid-fifties came to the door. She wore a long black skirt and a colorful silk blouse. A cluster of silver bracelets jangled on one arm. Her hair was gray, cut in a style I’d seen only on Fifth Avenue.

  “This is Jo. She’s a doctor.”

  Her aunt smiled and gave my hand a limp, ladylike shake. “It was kind of you to bring Becca home. Please come in.” She had a soft, lilting voice with the trace of an accent. “I was just about to have a cocktail. Won’t you join me?”

  “I’m sort of a mess.” I glanced down. My jeans had acquired some new brown stains and my sneakers were muddy from the day’s adventures.

  “Nonsense. This is the country.” She took my arm and drew me inside.

  The room she ushered me into was anything but country. The living room had shelves of books that soared to the ceiling. The furniture was old leather in dark shades of red and brown. These pieces rested on a worn Oriental rug. But the lamps were what gave the room its warmth. Converted oil lamps with glass shades—amber, ruby, and emerald. The exterior of the house gave no clue to its interior.

  “Juri?” The aunt called. A door opened at the other end of the elegant room. I didn’t immediately recognize the man who had given me directions the night before. Tonight, instead of work clothes, he was wearing cream-colored slacks and a dark blue jersey. He came toward us, bearing a tray with a cocktail shaker and two glasses.

  “I’m going to change,” Becca announced. “I’ll have a Coke,” she told Juri on her way out. She disappeared through another door and I heard her running up the stairs.

  “Sit down, dear. We’re having Gibsons, but we have Manhattans or white wine if you prefer.”

  The whole scene was out of sync. Why was the living room of a rural farmhouse decorated to resemble a New York brownstone in the thirties? I wasn’t alive then, of course, but I’d seen those movies. It wasn’t just the room and choice of cocktails, but the aunt herself. She seemed to emanate the aura of those old movie stars—Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Claudette Colbert. And Juri, who last night I had taken for a farmer, tonight appeared in the role of debonair valet/boyfriend.

  “White wine would be good,” I said. The leather chair I crawled into was unbelievably soft. I imagined spending rainy afternoons there, curled up with a book from one of those shelves. Elsa arranged herself at my feet. Juri brought my wine in a glass etched with delicate flowers. I thanked him. He turned immediately to making a fire in the fireplace—the final touch that would make the room perfect.

  Becca’s aunt settled in the corner of the sofa nearest me and raised her glass. “To your successful Bayfield practice!”

  I stared.

  “Oh, news travels fast in these parts. Becca’s boyfriend told his mother and she called me just before you arrived.”

  I took a deep swallow of wine. Not my usual screw-top variety. This one had definitely come with a cork.

  “Whatever made you choose Bayfield?” Juri, finished with the fire, looked at me over his Gibson.

  “I didn’t.” I took another deep swallow.

  My hosts waited politely.

  “I came here by accident, and then one thing led to another …” My explanation sounded lame, even to me.

  “Where are you from?” asked Juri.

  “Manhattan. Well, I grew up in Queens.”

  “And where did you train?”

  “New York Hospital.”

  “And your specialty?”

  “Family medicine.”

  “Bayfield will be a bit of a comedown for you, won’t it?”

  “It depends what you mean by come down.”

  “Well …”

  His third degree was beginning to irritate me.

  “And where will you have your office?”

  “That’s still to be worked out.”

  “And your patients?”

  I paused. I wasn’t about to divulge the whole “motel doctor” scheme, which had sounded crazy to me less than twenty-four hours ago. “That remains to be seen.”

  “Juri, that’ll do.” The aunt finally exercised her hostess authority.

  Becca appeared in fresh jeans and a pale blue turtleneck. She made a pretty picture stretched out on the rug next to Elsa, until she said sharply, “Where’s my Coke?”

  “Oh, sorry, Bec.” Juri leapt to his feet and went to fetch it.

  Why was a teenager giving orders to a man in his fifties?

  When Juri returned, he brought a plate of cheese and crackers as well as the Coke. He passed the plate around and I suddenly remembered I was ravenous. The cheese was not supermarket cheddar, but a delicate blend from some far-off, exotic place. “This house is beautiful,” I said, steering the conversation away from myself and my personal affairs. “May I ask how long you’ve lived here?”

  “Twenty-two years,” the aunt said. “Since my marriage. But my husband’s family built the house in the eighteen-twenties.”

  “That old?”

  “In this neighborhood, that’s new. Many houses are pre-Revolutionary. Some are owned by descendants of the original families. I’m still considered a newcomer in these parts—especially now that Richard’s gone.”

  Juri cast her a look I couldn’t read.

  Becca jumped up and took my empty glass. I thought she was going to refill it. Instead she handed it to Juri. “She’d like another,” she said.

  “No, I think I’d better be getting back.”

  “Oh, why?” Becca looked at her aunt meaningfully.

  “Won’t you stay for supper, dear? We don’t often have visitors. It’s such a treat for us.”

  My stomach was grumbling and I was sorely tempted. But my father always told me, “Leave while you’re still wanted.” I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. But if dinner was of the same caliber as the cheese and wine, it might be worth sticking around.

  “Oh, please stay, Jo.” Becca’s plea tipped the scale. Was it just that morning I had caught this kid trying to run away from home? What lay beneath the surface of this elegant household that would drive her to such a desperate act? “That would be nice,” I heard myself say.

  Becca grinned. The aunt smiled the correct smile of a 1930s hostess. Juri left the room with my glass.

  We moved to other topics. I was telling them how New York City was thriving despite September 11th when I became conscious of rumblings from above—as if someone was moving furniture. At one point it became so loud, we all glanced at the ceil
ing.

  The aunt frowned. Becca wrinkled her nose. I plowed ahead with statistics on the increasing tourist trade in Manhattan.

  Juri returned with my wine, but instead of rejoining us, he headed for the kitchen. Becca began tossing pretzel nuggets to Elsa, who deftly caught them in her mouth.

  “Not too many,” Juri said over his shoulder. “You’ll make her sick.”

  Becca continued to toss them, as if she were deaf.

  “What are you studying at school?” I attempted to distract her.

  She cast me the disdainful look my question deserved. “Readin’, writin,’ ’n’ ’rithmetic.”

  “The local school only provides the basics,” the aunt said.

  “They don’t even have a gym.” Becca glowered. “Their idea of exercise is to run around the playground.”

  “There are plenty of ways to exercise on your own,” I said. “I have some books. I even have a video I could lend you.”

  “We don’t have a VCR,” she said. “Or a TV.”

  My eyebrows shot up.

  “The reception is poor down here,” the aunt murmured.

  “Couldn’t you get an antenna?”

  “She thinks TV is the work of the devil,” Becca said. “She wants me to read those!” She waved her hand at the shelves of books.

  No TV? That could cause any teenager to leave home. I was saved from getting involved in a family argument by a resounding crash. Startled, we all looked toward the kitchen. Juri stuck his head out the door—“Sorry!”—and ducked back again.

  I put down my glass and went to see if I could help.

  “No, thanks.” Juri pushed me quickly out of the kitchen, but not before I caught sight of a box of dried prunes on the counter. I hoped that wasn’t dessert.

  On my way back to the living room, I glanced in the dining room. Although not illuminated yet, through the shadows I made out a table set for five.

  CHAPTER 11

  Becca was alone when I returned to the living room.

  “Come on, Jo,” she said, “Let’s take Elsa out to play.”

  I followed her and the bounding dog outside.

  The evening air was cool and fresh, smelling of fallen leaves and the salt marshes nearby. A purple streak on the horizon was all that remained of the day.

  “Fetch, Elsa!” Becca threw the ball across the field. We watched the dog roll after it like gray silk.

  Drooling and panting, she brought the ball back. “Good girl.” Becca wiped her hand on her jeans and threw the ball again. The dog disappeared into the murky twilight.

  “Do you have houseguests?” I asked, casually.

  “Oh, yeah. This couple came yesterday. My aunt takes in refugees now and then. Helps them get settled. But these two …” She made a face.

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  Becca shrugged. “They—”

  “Dinner’s ready!” The aunt’s voice rose from the porch.

  She grabbed the ball from Elsa and we went inside.

  Wall sconces cast a mellow glow over the dining room and its furnishings. Art Deco came to mind. The curtains were gray silk. Black-and-white abstract prints donned the walls. The table and chairs were of raw polished wood. Black woven place mats bore chunky white china and silverware with a geometric design. An arrangement of feathery reeds and marsh grasses filled a squat orange vase—the only touch of color in the room. The five place settings, which I had expected to increase to six, had been reduced instead to four. Apparently Becca’s houseguests would not be joining us.

  Juri served cold salmon, quivering tomato aspic, and steaming rice with almonds. Why wasn’t Becca helping to serve? Juri also filled the wineglasses, even giving Becca half a glass, in the European tradition.

  When Juri was seated, the aunt cut a small piece of salmon, placed it in her mouth, and chewed as if the fish had spines.

  Juri brooded over his plate in silence.

  Becca ate with the speed and gusto of a normal teenager.

  I picked at my food.

  “I’m sorry the weather isn’t better.” The aunt roused herself. “It’s beautiful here in the spring.”

  The autumn weather suited me just fine.

  A heavy silence settled over the table. I would have almost welcomed Juri’s earlier interrogation. The clink of silver against china increased in volume as the meal wore on. I should have followed my earlier instinct, and left before dinner. My fears about the dried prunes proved groundless; a delicious crème caramel appeared for dessert. But the atmosphere was no warmer. When the last bite had been consumed, I politely excused myself, pleading an urgent errand.

  Becca’s eyes held a mute plea that I couldn’t answer. She followed me out to the car.

  “You could have stayed for coffee,” she said plaintively.

  “If you need me, here’s my cell phone number.” I scribbled it on a scrap of paper.

  She snatched it and ran back to the house.

  I was torn between sympathy and irritation. Sympathy—for a kid who shared a house with two self-absorbed adults and no TV. Irritation—at her sassy mouth and lousy manners. She was spoiled. I wondered if the aunt was aware of her niece’s extracurricular activities. Or was that standard teenage behavior in the new millennium?

  Something Sophie’s parents would never have to worry about.

  Where had that come from? I pounded the steering wheel until my hand was numb.

  As I drove down the driveway, I remembered my visit of the night before. The harsh, sexless voice that had called out the window to Juri certainly hadn’t belonged to Becca’s lethargic aunt. It must have been one of the refugees. Prunes! An image of the bright brown and yellow box rose before me. Not the favorite fruit of most people. Yet, I had seen that box twice in the past few days. There couldn’t be too many foreign people in a remote area like Bayfield who fancied prunes. If my hunch was right, it was easy to understand why Becca’s houseguests hadn’t come down to dinner.

  CHAPTER 12

  When I walked into the motel, Mr. Nelson was poring over the newspaper.

  I greeted him. “I saw our buddies today.”

  He looked up, puzzled.

  “You know. The ones who skipped without paying.”

  “Oh.”

  I’ve seen patients on their way to the OR show more enthusiasm. “But I let them get away.”

  “Good.”

  “But they walked off with a night’s rent!” I was indignant.

  “It’s only money.” He went back to his newspaper.

  It’s only money. The words vibrated in my head. It was not a common Manhattan expression.

  “Look at this.” He shoved the paper under my nose, jabbing his finger at the lead headline.

  HUMAN SCARECROW REMAINS A MYSTERY

  I bent to read the article.

  The body disguised as a scarecrow, discovered in Saul Perkin’s field last week, remains unidentified. After …

  My mind was too full of my own affairs. I couldn’t concentrate on the small type. “Mr. Nelson—”

  “Paul.”

  “Paul—could I have a word with you?”

  “Sure.” Caught by the earnestness of my tone, he laid the paper aside.

  “Could you give me the names of those motels that might need my services?”

  He looked as if I’d told him he’d won the lottery.

  “This is just temporary. A sort of experiment.”

  He nodded enthusiastically.

  “There will be a slight delay,” I rattled on. “I’ve got to get a New Jersey medical license, narcotics licenses, and change my malpractice insurance. And I’ll need some time to arrange my affairs in New York—”

  “I understand.” He was still looking at me as if he was five years old and I’d just handed him a double-decker ice cream cone. All chocolate.

  “Then there are the arrangements down here. I’ll need a small office, a place to stay, and—”

  “No problem.” He grinned. “This en
d will be easy. You can have one of the cabins out front for an office, and any room in the motel is yours.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I won’t be able to pay rent for a month or two—”

  “No rent for the office. That cabin’s been sitting there, taking up space, since the forties. As for the room—the rent can wait. And if you want to make any changes, you know—paint it, bring in your own furniture—that’s fine, too.”

  “I don’t know what to say …”

  “Not another word. You’ve made me a very happy man.”

  And indeed, he seemed changed. Before, he had seemed surrounded by a gray aura, bowed down by some invisible weight. Now he even looked younger. As I turned to go, he stopped me. “By the way, my wife thinks you’re great.”

  “I hardly spoke to her.”

  “She says you have steady eyes.”

  My gaze automatically dropped to the floor.

  “You’d be surprised how many shifty eyes we get in here.”

  I thought of the Pillsbury couple. “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “When will you be leaving?”

  “Tomorrow, at the crack of dawn.” I was glad to escape. Too much adulation made me queasy. Or was it my empty stomach? I had barely touched my gourmet dinner.

  At Harry’s Bar and Grill (apparently the only food-and-watering place for miles) the bar was horseshoe-shaped, and the stares of the bulls across from me seemed less intent than the night before. Could they be getting used to me? Except for one stare, which was even more intent. Recognition dawned. Robin Hood. I quickly bent to my beer and hamburger.

  A few minutes later, I was conscious of someone sliding onto the barstool next to mine. “Does this remind you of Manhattan?” His voice was as cool as shaved ice—useful for conning females.

  I turned. “I beg your pardon?” Why did this guy get under my skin? One word from him and I was talking like a New York socialite.