“Whether they’re worth anything is what you mean.” She cast her niece a glance of reproach. “Don’t think I’m ignorant. I’m not too old to know what you’re up to. You want all this for yourself!”
“Now, Aunt Flossie, we’ve been over this several times already.” Claire pulled a sheet of paper from her purse and set it on the table beside Flossie’s chair. “Here’s the paper for you to sign. A lawyer in town was nice enough to draw it up. It’s not a proper will—you’ll have to have her help with that. But it does allow you to specify what you want to happen to the house and all its possessions after you’re gone. This is a legal document, and all you have to do is fill in the blank here, and sign it.”
“Well,” Flossie said, crossing her arms. “Sounds like trickery to me.”
“It’s not a trick. After I leave, you read it over and sign it if you want. Even if you don’t sign it, I won’t inherit any of your possessions, Aunt Flossie. I’m not your next of kin. My parents and their siblings have that role.”
“They all deeded this house over to me. It’s mine.”
“That’s right, and you get to decide what happens to it.”
Claire sighed and leaned back on the settee. How many times had she tried to explain this to her aunt? Nothing seemed to dent Flossie’s certainty that everyone was out to get her. She was skeptical of the hard work that had gone into making her house fit to live in. She distrusted the people who had given so much of their time and labor without expecting anything in return. And she still believed her niece was conspiring behind her back.
Perhaps this was all part of the mental illness that had plagued Aunt Flossie since the death of her husband. Claire had made appointments with both a medical doctor and a psychiatrist in the nearby city of Springfield, but those examinations would have to wait until after the holidays. She certainly hoped the professionals could come up with a way to ease the fear and unhappiness that resided in her aunt’s heart.
“Why don’t you open your present, Aunt Flossie?” Claire asked. “Tonight’s Christmas Eve. I wanted you to have something special.”
Flossie muttered nonsensical fragments of sentences as she went to work picking at the bow. Sadness crept into Claire’s heart as she watched the thin fingers plucking and pulling at the red ribbon. She had no doubt medical and psychiatric care could help her great-aunt. But Claire sensed that the greatest healing needed to occur in Aunt Flossie’s soul. After more than fifty years, the woman still clung to her bitterness. She hadn’t forgiven those who had murdered Hans and his parents, and the vines of hatred had choked every last fragment of kindness, hope, faith and love from her heart.
“It’s a robe,” Flossie said, lifting the warm blue chenille garment from the box. She frowned as she examined it. “I don’t need another bathrobe. I got one already.”
“Yes, but yours is—”
“How come you didn’t bring me a fruitcake, like everybody else?” she sneered. “Or a chicken casserole? I’ve only got about fifteen fruitcakes, five casseroles and now two bathrobes! What would make you think—”
“I don’t know, Aunt Flossie,” Claire snapped. “I don’t know what would make me think you needed something to replace that old pink rag that hangs in shreds from your shoulders. I don’t know why fifteen people bothered to bake you fruitcakes. Or why five of them brought casseroles. But most of all, I don’t know why you’re so determined to think the worst of everyone! The people of Buffalo have reached out to you with love and generosity—”
“I’ll tell you why I think the worst of everyone. You said it yourself. They’re all rotten.” She pushed the gift box and the robe onto the floor. “Rotten to the core.”
“At least they’re making an effort at kindness. They’re not sitting around wallowing in their rottenness. Most of the people who have helped you are Christians, Aunt Flossie. Christians don’t practice evil. They don’t welcome nastiness in their lives. If they find it, they confess it, ask forgiveness for it and get back to trying to be obedient to Christ.”
“Well, la-dee-da. Take your blue bathrobe and go on home. I don’t need your sermons.”
Rob’s words to her the last time they had spoken echoed in Claire’s thoughts. She did have a tendency to preach, and maybe people didn’t appreciate it as much as she wished. Obviously her sermonizing had turned Rob away. Something had.
Though his last touch had been a kiss and his last words had sounded like a tease, Rob had not made any effort to contact her all week. She thought she understood why. He wasn’t willing to surrender his pain. Like Aunt Flossie, he wanted to cling to whatever held his heart so tightly locked away. That was Rob’s choice, and as much as Claire now wished she could change him, she knew he had to live his own life. And she would live hers.
“I promise I won’t preach at you, Aunt Flossie,” Claire said. “I’m through with that. I just want to tell you a little story. The end of a story, really.”
“Which story? I’m in no humor for fairy tales.”
“This is not a fairy tale. It’s the truth.” Claire picked up the blue robe and folded it as she spoke. “It’s the end of my Stephen story. He was my fiancé.”
“The one who jilted you? As far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of the story.”
Claire swallowed at her aunt’s painful words before she could go on. “It’s not the end of the story,” she said in a low voice. “There’s more, and you’re going to listen to it.”
“Get on with it, then,” Flossie said. “I don’t have all night.”
“Until last week, I didn’t want to let Stephen off the hook. Ever. I thought he ought to suffer for what he had done to me. His betrayal hurt me so badly that I wanted him to hurt, too.”
“Serves him right.”
“But then it occurred to me that my anger, resentment and bitterness wasn’t hurting Stephen at all. He’s having a fine time writing his books and dating whichever woman currently admires him the most. I’m the one who’s been doing all the suffering—isolating myself in my little house, surrounding myself with comforts that don’t really help and trying to keep well-meaning people from getting too close.”
“I know you think I’m just like you,” Flossie growled. “I got your point—and it is a sermon, by the way.”
“No, it’s not, because it has a happily-ever-after ending.”
“You said it wasn’t a fairy tale.”
“It’s a true story. You see, last week when I was over here—”
“Sure, I saw you kissing that man who stole my guns. So you’re getting married. Happy wedding bells.”
“Married?” Claire gasped. “I’m not marrying Rob West.”
“Why not? It’s obvious he’s sweet on you—grabbing you and smooching you like that. And right in my kitchen, too!”
“Aunt Flossie, Rob is not sweet on me. We haven’t talked for a week. There’s nothing going on between us, I assure you.”
“No? Hans never kissed me that way till after we were married. So if there’s nothing going on, let me tell you what. You better get something going on, or the both of you will wind up like me, sitting in a big old house with nothing and nobody.”
“Well, that’s my point.” Claire shook her head, trying to clear it. “Not my point about Rob. I’m talking about Hans and Stephen.”
“Hans and Stephen? They never even knew each other. What kind of craziness are you on about now, girl?”
“I’m trying to tell you that I forgave Stephen for hurting me. I did it the other day, in my house, on my knees, by myself. I forgave him for all the pain he caused me, and I asked God to help me forgive him again when the hurt came back to haunt me. Which it does.”
“You saying you want me to forgive that police chief for stealing my guns?”
Claire gave a cry of exasperation. “This is not about Rob! I’m asking you to forgive the men who killed Hans so many years ago, Aunt Flossie. Forgive Hans for dying. Forgive everyone who ever hurt you. Let it go! Get down on
your knees and beg God to help you forgive everything that’s ever been done to you. Just release it all. Your bitterness won’t make anyone else suffer—you can only keep hurting yourself. And hurting everyone who cares for you.”
Flossie sniffed as she picked at a string on her bathrobe. “Not much of a happily-ever-after ending,” she said finally. “I thought I was getting invited to a wedding.”
“Well, you’re not. I don’t need Rob West or any other man to make me happy. I like Rob. I do care about him, but I—”
“Oh, you love him. Just admit it.”
“I am a contented woman with a good life. Besides, I have you to love now. You can’t escape me, Aunt Flossie. I’m here for the long haul.”
“Happy day.” Flossie eyed her niece from under her scowl. “Well, go ahead and open your present. Might as well get it over with.”
“You have a present for me? I didn’t expect—”
“Yes, you did. Don’t try to deny it.” Flossie handed Claire a familiar box. “There. You can have that.”
“A fruitcake,” Claire said, gazing down at the colorful picture of nuts and candied fruit embedded in a brown cake. “Oh, thank you, Aunt Flossie. I really appreciate your sharing—”
“It’s not a fruitcake! Open the lid!”
Jumping to obey, Claire lifted the lid of the fruitcake container to find the jewel-inlaid music box that Hans had given to his wife so long ago. The diamond-encrusted blue enamel sky glittered as she opened the box and watched the shepherds and kings circling the baby Jesus. As sweet music filled the room, Claire shivered at the beauty of the scene.
“Oh, Aunt Flossie,” she said softly. “This is too much.”
“I figured you ought to have it before one of those people who keep tramping in and out of my house decided to carry it off. You never know what folks will do. They’re liable to have stripped me blind, for all I know. I bet you most of those hand-knotted Persian wool rugs are gone.”
“They are gone. That’s exactly right. Gone to the trash, because they were ruined by the cats.” Claire rose from the settee and went to her aunt’s chair. Kneeling, she slipped her arms around the frail old woman. “Thank you, Aunt Flossie. Thank you so much for thinking of me at Christmastime. I know you’ve been overwhelmed by…”
Claire paused at the sight of two glowing green eyes shining out from under a chair near the fire. The eyes blinked once. Then again. Claire pulled back and faced her aunt.
“Aunt Flossie, there’s a cat over there.”
“Homer and Virgil,” Flossie said. “Right beside the fire. Their favorite place.”
“Yes, but you have another cat, don’t you? It’s hiding under a chair behind you.”
“It is? Well, poor little thing. Come here, kitty, kitty!” Flossie turned her head and began calling in a high-pitched voice. “Come here, Sweetpea. That’s her name. Sweetpea is the yellow one. Is that cat yellow?”
Claire stared at her aunt. “You mean you have more than one?”
“Just a skinny, tiger-striped fella. Came up to my back door yowling his head off last night. It was so cold. Did you ever imagine cats would like fruitcake?”
“Oh, Aunt Flossie!”
“You know, people drop their cats off right here at my house, because they figure I’ll look after ’em. Sweetpea showed up today right after lunch when everybody had gone home for the day. She’s so pretty. Look at her, creeping up on us like that. See her little white paws? Why, aren’t you a sweet girl!”
“Aunt Flossie, you can’t have these cats!” Claire said. “No wonder it still smells so horrible in here. Where’s the litter box?”
“What litter box?”
“Oh, Aunt Flossie!” Rising, Claire grabbed her purse and pulled out her cell phone. In moments she had dialed the police department. Thank goodness it was Christmas Eve, and no doubt the chief would be taking the night off. At least she had one thing to be grateful for.
“Chief West here,” a voice said. “What can I do for you tonight?”
Claire stared at her phone for a moment as though it had betrayed her. “It’s me,” she said finally.
“Claire?”
“Aunt Flossie has two more cats, Rob. I’m sorry to bother you, but—”
“I’ll be right over. Try to keep them in the parlor.”
Pressing off her phone, Claire stared at her aunt. The yellow cat had leaped into her lap and was curling up for a nap. How could they deny this lonely old woman her only comfort? But how could they allow the cats to return?
The place still reeked, and despite all that the volunteers had done, it would take months to restore the mansion. Claire had been upstairs only once, and she was thankful to find that the closed door had kept away the cats. But broken windows had allowed bats to take up residence, and piles of guano littered the valuable antiques. If she couldn’t keep the cats out, the house would quickly return to its former state. Rob would condemn the building. And Aunt Flossie would have no choice but to move out.
“You can’t keep Sweetpea,” Claire said gently. She knelt beside her great-aunt. “I know you love cats, Aunt Flossie, but they need proper care. That means shots, neutering and most of all litter boxes. What happened to the box we set up for Homer and Virgil?”
“Oh, it’s over there where you put it. Someplace… I don’t know.”
“It has to be kept clean, Aunt Flossie, or the cats will stop using it.”
“I don’t care what they do. Let ’em have the run of the place.” She looked up and squinted at the red lights flashing outside. “What now? Wonderful, it’s your boyfriend come to call. Next thing you know, you’ll be spooning right here in the parlor.”
“Aunt Flossie, we were not—”
“That thief. See if you can get him to give me back my guns.” She stroked the yellow cat’s head. “Ain’t that right, Sweetpea? We need to have some protection from all those do-gooders who keep barging into our house.”
Claire stood as Rob stepped into the parlor. “I didn’t think you’d be working tonight,” she said.
“Figured I’d let the other boys have the evening off. They’ve all got families.” He shrugged as he turned his attention to Flossie. “Evening, Miss Ross. Who’s that you got there in your lap?”
“Sweetpea.” Flossie glared at him. “Thief!”
Rob chuckled. “You can have your guns back, Miss Ross, as long as you agree not to fire them inside city limits again.”
“What good is that? How do you suppose those Union soldiers would have fared if they hadn’t had their guns when the Confederates attacked the town?”
“They didn’t fare too well even with their guns, ma’am. The Rebs burned down the courthouse and the Methodist church anyhow.” Rob winked at Claire. “Isn’t that right, Miss Ross?”
Claire couldn’t help smiling at his reference to their project. “That’s right, Chief West.”
“Oh, now it starts,” Flossie said. “The two of you moonin’ over each other like a pair of doves. Coo…coo…coo. Cuckoo is what you are. Well, get on with your courtin’ and leave me—”
“Aunt Flossie,” Claire cut in quickly, “Chief West has come out here to take Sweetpea and the tiger-striped cat to the shelter.”
“Felix is his name, and you can’t have either one of ’em. They’re mine. They came to live with me.”
“We’ll figure out what we can do about Sweetpea and Felix after we get them over to the shelter,” Rob said. “Jane Henderson and Dr. Bloom both need to have a look at them. Let me see that little gal there. Come here, Sweetpea.”
Rob lifted the kitten into his arms and ran his hand down the small creature’s scraggly fur. Claire’s shoulders sagged in relief. Reaching out, she stroked her fingers over the poor animal.
“She put fruitcake out for them,” Claire whispered. “There’s no telling how many more will wander over here. Rob, I just don’t know what to do. Can you smell that awful odor? Already the cats have stopped using the—”
&
nbsp; “Wait a second!” Stiffening, he lifted his head and breathed in. “Here, you’d better take this cat.”
“Rob? What’s going on?”
“Dispatcher,” he said into his shoulder radio. “This is Chief West. I’m at Ross Mansion. I’m going to need all the backup I can get. Send my men over here—everyone—and alert the highway patrol and the sheriff.”
“Backup?” Claire said. “So far it’s just two cats, Rob. You’re not going to need the highway patrol and the sheriff.”
“That smell, Claire. It’s not just cats. There’s another odor underlying it.” He studied her for a moment. “You smell that?”
“It smells like just cats to me.”
“It’s not. That’s the odor of a methamphetamine lab.”
While Rob watched out the window for his backup to arrive, Claire calmly kept her great-aunt talking, carrying on a conversation about the past. Though he knew it could be dangerous to remain in the house, he had no desire to alert the methamphetamine manufacturers that something was up. If his suspicions were correct, they had grown accustomed to seeing his squad car parked outside, and they had chosen to brazenly continue their illicit activities right under the noses of Buffalo’s good citizens. A few minutes ago Flossie had given Rob her permission for the authorities to conduct a search, and as long as she kept up her chatter, he hoped no one would suspect what was about to occur.
Castigating himself for failing to note the odor earlier, Rob wondered where the lab was hidden. It could be in a residence nearby. Or the carriage house on the mansion’s grounds. Or possibly somewhere in the old building itself. The basement, perhaps? Or the attic? It was clever of the criminals to choose this spot. The building was centrally located, yet the odor of Flossie’s cats masked the smell of the drug dealers’ operation.
As Flossie began some sort of harangue about fruitcake, Rob’s assistant chief, his corporal and three of his five patrolmen pulled up to the mansion all at the same time and all within five minutes of his call to the dispatcher. Good. His first priority now was to get the two women to safety and secure the site. After that, his men could scour the area for the source of the meth odor.
That Christmas Feeling Page 9