The fragrance of the flowers lured Casey forward. Inside, she found a surprisingly small space with a stone floor and walls, stacks of decorative pots, and a bevy of garden sculptures. The plants here were green; color came from cut flowers that stood, grouped in kind, in tin vases of various sizes and heights. A stone slab marked the checkout counter. Behind it, writing out a sales slip, was a pretty woman wearing a white cotton shirt and jeans— Daisy herself, judging from her sense of command. She looked to be in her mid-forties.
Casey waited her turn without any feeling of impatience. Though the store was a fraction of the size of her own garden, it conveyed the same sense of peace. Plants did that, she decided. They were natural and beautiful. Aside from the poison ivy type, they weren’t hurtful as humans could be.
“May I help you?” Daisy asked.
Casey stepped up to the counter. “I’m Casey Ellis, Connie Unger’s daughter. Are you Daisy?”
The woman broke into a broad smile. “I am,” she said, and held out a hand. “I’m so pleased to meet you. We adored your father.” Her smile faded. “I was so sorry to hear about his death. He was a very sweet person.”
Casey nodded. “He left me the townhouse. I just wanted to tell you how spectacular the garden is.”
Daisy smiled again. “Thank you. That was Jordan’s doing.”
“Is he here?”
“Now? No. He should be back soon, though. I know that he has to clean up for an appointment at four.” She tossed a glance at the ceiling. “His phone’s been ringing.”
Casey mirrored the tossed glance. “Is that the office?”
“Oh, no. He lives up there.”
“Ah.”
“It’s so much better having someone right here. He answers the phone off-hours and all.”
“Ah.”
“I believe he was hitting your place after his appointment. Would you like me to leave him a message?”
“Nah,” Casey said with a casual shake of her head. “It was nothing important. I’ll catch him when he’s at the house. I’m glad I stopped by, though. The shop is a delight.” She took a business card from the holder by the register. It had the name of the shop drawn in elegant scrollwork. “Really pretty.”
Daisy smiled. “Thanks. Stop by again.”
“Will do.” Casey slipped the card into her pocket and went out the door feeling that the shop, and Daisy, were new friends.
As she headed back toward the townhouse, though, her thoughts turned to Jordan. Funny. She had assumed that her garden was the focus of his day. Naturally, she had wanted to think that. Seeing the flower shop, though, feeling the buzz of activity, hearing Daisy talk about phone calls and appointments, she realized that she was only one of the stops he made in his day. He was a busy man. He had a whole other life that had nothing to do with her garden.
Well, so did she.
She gave him one last chance. When she arrived at the townhouse, though, and found him nowhere in sight, she went inside and put overnight things in her gym bag along with the three installments of Flirting with Pete. She spoke softly with Angus for a minute from the door to Connie’s room. She told Meg that she might not be back for a day or two. She stopped in at Connie’s office for a map.
Then she put her bag in the trunk of the Miata, climbed inside, and headed for Maine.
Chapter Seventeen
The farther Casey drove from Boston, the more urgency she felt. Caroline was laboring for breath again; Casey called en route and learned that. The doctors were monitoring her for signs of infection. In patients like Caroline, infection was one of the major causes of death.
Casey debated turning around and driving back. But she couldn’t bear feeling useless— still, yet, again. Besides, if Caroline had taught her anything, it was to act on her beliefs. She might not approve of Casey’s cause, but she would approve of Casey’s going after it. Connie, conversely, would approve of the cause— at least, the part of it that involved Jenny Clyde.
It wasn’t often that Casey had the approval of both of her parents, and this felt right. She couldn’t back off now.
So she kept her foot on the gas and the car headed north. An hour into the drive, she passed through the southeast corner of New Hampshire. By then, she had returned a call to one of her yoga friends, who was concerned when she hadn’t shown up at class the night before, and to a client who wanted to reschedule an appointment.
When she entered Maine, the highway opened up. A number of cars turned off at the outlet stores in Kittery, then again at the Ogunquit exits, then again when she hit Portland, but by the time she passed the two-hour mark, even Portland was behind her.
She stopped, filled the car with gas, checked the map, and drove on. By the time she reached Augusta, three hours had passed, she had picked up a new client through a referral, and, phone calls notwithstanding, she was tired of the highway. It was another hour yet, though, before she reached Bangor. At that point, she left the highway, trading speed for interest. The road north now had one lane in each direction. As fate had it, she ended up behind a rusted pickup with Maine plates, going on the slow side of thirty miles an hour.
She ruled out honking as a city thing. She ruled out passing as suicidal. More wisely, she executed a few deep yoga breaths, paced herself comfortably behind the pickup, and took in the scenery. Pines and firs hugged the sides of the road, greens and blues in such subtle variations that the palette was entirely soothing. She passed the occasional open field with a farmhouse, lean-to, or garage. She passed the occasional little home so neatly tucked into the woods that she wouldn’t have seen it had she been driving faster. She passed the occasional lake.
She nearly missed Abbott. Forty minutes off the highway as she cruised at under thirty miles an hour, it was little more than a bump in the road that included a Grange Hall, a post office, and a convenience store. Famished by now, she pulled up in front of the store. Three boys in their late teens, wearing earrings, tattoos, and evil-looking tee shirts, slouched on a bench in front cupping cigarettes in their hands, as though tendrils of smoke, alone, wouldn’t give them away.
Casey could identify with rebellion. She had been there herself. But she wouldn’t want to tangle with this trio in a dark alley. She pictured a young Connie, in Ruth’s words “puny and brilliant,” and couldn’t help but think that if the boys in town had been as rough looking in his day, he wouldn’t have had a chance.
Trying to look as unassuming as possible, Casey parked the Miata, went up the wood steps, and on into the store. She was relieved to be inside not only because of the boys, but because in addition to shelves of packaged foods, there was a counter with a short-order cook. Climbing onto a stool with a cracked leather seat, she gave a quick glance at the handwritten menu board and ordered macaroni and cheese and a Coke. Being the only customer there, she didn’t have long to wait— only as long as it took for the woman to turn to the pots on the burner, scoop up a ladleful of the stuff, and glop it on a plate.
“Just passing through?” she asked when she slid the plate in front of Casey.
The macaroni and cheese was crusted on top. It was comfort food, and Casey felt in need of that. “I don’t know,” she said, fork in hand. “That depends. I’m looking for information on a family by the name of Unger. They lived here a while back.”
The woman put her elbows on the counter and frowned. “Unger? Huh. I’ve lived here all my life. That’s forty-five years. Never heard that name, though.”
Casey would have guessed that the woman was older than forty-five. She looked weary in an expansive, worldly way. Prominent lines between her brows and shoulders that sloped steeply suggested that she had borne the weight of big worries for far more than forty-five years.
“You may be too young,” Casey said. “I’m guessing that this family left town fifty-five years ago, give or take.” She ate a forkful of macaroni and cheese.
“You need to see Dewey Heller. He’s seventy, but he’s been town clerk for the last hun
dred years. His office is down back of the Grange Hall. If anyone would remember, he’s the one, but he’s long gone for the day now.”
“Can I go to his house?”
“You could.”
Casey waited. When nothing more was forthcoming, she said, “Would you tell me where he lives?”
The woman shook her head. “He’d fire me. He owns this place.” She shot a quick glance around. “It was a general store until he hit sixty and lost interest. He doesn’t take kindly to pretty people in fancy sports cars. That’s a nice one out there. Aren’t you worried our boys might decide to take it for a spin?”
Casey swallowed another mouthful of macaroni and cheese. Then she smiled. “I’m a city girl. That car has every antitheft device you’ve ever heard of and then some. No, that’s not a problem. The problem is that tomorrow’s Saturday. Will your town clerk be in then?”
“Nine to eleven. He takes Monday’s off to make up for it.”
That appeased Casey, but only briefly. She still had the rest of the day here in Abbott, and couldn’t bear the thought of wasting the time. “If I can’t talk with the town clerk today, what about the police department?”
“Department?” The woman gave her a wry grin. “Try officer. One. Uh-huh, you could talk with him, but he’s young. He’s only been in town ten years. It’s hard to keep them, when you can’t pay them much.” She glanced at the door. “Well, give it a try. Here he comes.”
The khaki-clad officer was named Buck Thorman. A year or two older than Casey, he was tall, blond, and well built. The cook made the introductions and went to another part of the store. Straddling the stool two down from Casey, Buck asked the kind of questions that cops in small towns could be expected to ask when a stranger showed up.
Casey indulged him. Yes, that was her car. No, she hadn’t bought it new. Yes, it had a stick shift. Overdrive, yes. Cassette, no; CD, yes. One-twenty-eight horses, thank you. No, she never drove over eighty.
“So why’re you here?” he asked when the important stuff was done.
“I’m tracing my family tree. It includes people by the name of Unger. They lived in Abbott a while back.”
“Must have been a big while back. I’ve never heard of any Ungers.”
Casey didn’t point out that he hadn’t been in town but ten years, which wasn’t all that big a while back. He was preening now, still straddling the stool but with his back to the counter and his elbows braced there in a way that showed off the breadth of a muscled chest. She felt no attraction at all, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. She was here for a purpose. If he could assist her, she would let him think what he wanted.
“How about Clydes?” she asked. “Darden Clyde? MaryBeth Clyde?”
He scratched his chin. “Now, that’s familiar. Where did I hear that name?”
She held her breath. After a minute, he gave a bewildered shrug. “What about a town called Little Falls?” she asked.
The officer pursed his lips, shook his head. “No Little Falls. I know Duck Ridge, West Hay, and Walker. I know Dornville and Eppick. Little Falls? Nope.”
Casey let out a short breath. She was getting tired of dead ends.
“Want a tour of town?” he asked, as though that might ease her disappointment. “Abbott’s not a bad place.” He leaned closer and said under his breath, “Not very exciting, which is why the good kids leave and we’re stuck with the geniuses out front.”
“Don’t judge a book…,” she cautioned. “I was a rebel once. So where do the ‘good kids’ go?”
He shrugged with his mouth. “Bangor, Augusta, Portland. There’s more to do there. More jobs. Me, I’m just paying my dues here, if you get my drift. It’s a pretty dry place, never much by the way of interesting crime.” He snapped his fingers and ended with his pointer aimed her way. “That’s why the name’s familiar. Fourteen, fifteen years ago there was a murder involving a pair of Clydes.”
Casey’s hopes rose. “That’s it,” she said with enthusiasm. “Husband and wife. Fourteen or fifteen years ago?”
“Don’t quote me on that.”
“It happened in Little Falls.”
Officer Thorman shook his head. “Well, that could be, but there’s no Little Falls around here. Maybe it’s in another part of the state.”
“Do you remember where it happened, from the murder coverage?”
“Nah. I mostly remember the trial, and it would have taken place in Augusta or Portland. I might’ve paid heed if I’d been older, or if it had involved international stuff, like terrorism. But domestic violence?” He stretched out long, solid legs and gave a long-suffering sigh. “I grew up hearing about domestic violence. It gets boring after a while, whether you’re seeing it around you or trying to police it. A couple more years here, then I’m going for the FBI. But hey, tell you what. Let me show you around town, and it’ll make my week. Hell, it’ll make my month.”
Casey did want to see Abbott. Her father had grown up here. Casey had no cause to doubt Ruth on that.
Finishing her macaroni and cheese, she poured the Coke into a take-out cup, paid the bill, and, while Thorman warned the trio of boys that if they so much as touched the Miata he would bust them for the pot they’d been smoking right there on the bench two days before, she slid into the passenger seat of the cruiser.
Heading off on a side street, he drove her first to the local garage and introduced her around. Next, he drove her past the Laundromat and past an appliance repair shop. Then he drove her past the stone ruins of a large building on the banks of a stream.
“That was the shoe plant,” he explained. “I’m told that at one point most everyone in town was connected to it in one way or another.”
Casey was intrigued. Pivotal stuff had gone on in these plants.
She imagined that Connie’s mother— her grandmother!— had worked here, and felt the twinge of a connection. She might have liked to get out and explore the plant, but Thorman drove right on, this time to the schoolhouse— and she did get out here. She couldn’t resist.
“All closed up for the year?” she asked, gesturing him to pull up at the cracked cement walk.
“Closed up for good,” he replied. “The kids go to a regional school.”
Leaving the cruiser, she wandered around the old frame building and tried to imagine Connie here. Harvard Yard this was not, but that actually made Connie easier to understand. He, too, was a dichotomy— the successful professional versus the shy and lonely child, grown to boy, then to man. She could see Connie here, sitting on the ground at the base of the gnarled gray oak, watching the other kids play.
When she returned to the cruiser, the officer drove her up and down streets that were lined with very old houses and very old trees. Houses and trees were both shabby, though Casey imagined they weren’t always that way. The houses were small, sensibly built, and spaced comfortably apart. Those that were larger weren’t vertically so. Rather, they were like trains, with additional cars hitched on at the left, the right, or the back.
There were people here and there. Some were old, some young. Some sat on porches, others sat on steps. The occasional child ran across a front yard or climbed over an oversized tire or crate.
Fascinated, Casey made him drive slowly, then directed him over the route a second time. This time she was looking for flowers, peering around to see backyards when there were no flowers in front. If Connie had re-created his native Maine in Boston, those flowers ought to be here. But they weren’t. She saw trees and grass. She saw ragged shrubs. She saw rocks and moss and dirt.
Disappointed, she sat back with a sigh. The officer returned her to the Miata.
“How about dinner?” he asked just as she reached for the door handle.
She smiled. As grateful as she was for his time, she didn’t want to encourage him. Besides, hadn’t he said that the tour would make his week? Dinner wasn’t necessary. “Thanks, but that macaroni and cheese filled me up. Besides, I’m exhausted. I have phone calls to make an
d papers to read, and I need sleep after that. I didn’t see a motel here.”
He brooded, but just for a minute. Taking the rejection with grace, he said, “Nope. Not here. Not next door in Duck Ridge either.”
She waited. He didn’t go on. It struck her that this was an Abbott game.
Finally, patiently, she asked, “And the town after that?”
“There’s a place there.”
“A ‘place’?”
“Bed-and-breakfast.”
“Can you give me directions?”
*
What the West Hay House lacked in personality it made up for in quiet, which was just perfect for rereading Flirting with Pete. Casey was the only guest. She had her choice of bedrooms. She had her choice of bathrooms. She even had her choice of breakfast muffins. “I only make one kind each morning,” the innkeeper explained before she went up to bed, “so you might as well decide.”
She chose blueberry, and they were surprisingly large, moist, and good. She took that as a promising sign.
Indeed, it was. Returning to Abbott well before nine the next morning, she explored the town again, this time on her own. She stopped at the school again and walked through the playground. She stopped at the ruins of the shoe plant and wandered among the stones. Then she drove to the residential area. More people were visible today, doing Saturday chores, tending to their houses, their lawns, their cars. Her own car didn’t pass unnoticed; many eyes turned her way.
She smiled, nodded, and didn’t let herself be rushed as she drove slowly up and down the streets, imagining which house had been Connie’s. The one she settled on was a small frame house painted yellow with white trim. The paint was faded both there and on the picket fence out front, and the yard had a neglected look. But there was a rocking chair on the porch. She imagined her grandmother rocking there. The woman would be petite, like Casey. She would have white hair, a wrinkled face, and a gentle smile. She would be wearing a flowered dress and a white apron, and she would smell of homemade bread. Anadama bread.
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