by E. Joan Sims
“I bet you couldn’t do that again!”
“Why not?” she laughed. “Leonard Paisley could!”
I decided to read the interviews first. That way, I reasoned, the notes would make more sense. By the time I finished with the fifth one, I was bored, hungry, and certain of my initial opinion of Beth’s writing. “Holy cow! What a hack! She should be legally denied the use of the alphabet! I can’t take this anymore, Cassie. Can’t we take a break for lunch, or dinner, or a European vacation?”
She looked up from a manila folder her nose had been buried in. There was an ink smudge on her cheek and her crisp white blouse wasn’t either anymore.
“But what about my idea, Mom? We can’t just give up,” she pleaded. “Not now, not until we’ve read them all.”
I sank back down in my hard wooden chair feeling trapped and resentful. At that moment I didn’t care if Beth had been kidnapped by a Voodoo witch doctor who wanted to turn her into a zombie. I looked around in desperation, hoping to find a way out. That’s when I saw the copier.
“Copies!” I shouted happily.
“What?” she sniffed.
“Let’s make copies and take them home where we can read them at our leisure.”
The dark cloud began to lift from her pretty face. “If you promise you’ll really read them and not just get all leisurely on me.
“Look, Cassie, you’ve sneezed fourteen times in the past hour. Your eyes are red and watery from all this dust and you’re filthy dirty. Not to mention the fact that I’m starving. It just makes sense.”
“Okay,” she decided quickly. “I’ll pull the files and you copy.”
Copies turned out to be ten cents a page. Gladys collected twenty-two dollars and forty cents from me and said, “Ya’ll come back, now. And if you see Michael outside anywhere, tell him I want him to run an errand for me.”
Chapter Nineteen
Reading Beth’s interviews was like looking at a gallery of unfinished portraits. She had an uncanny ability to gloss over the important things and dwell on trivial facts which left the reader with a “so what” feeling. She also had an obsession with other people’s pets. According to her articles, the mayor had a French poodle, the loan officer at the bank adored his ten-year-old boa constrictor, and the three hundred pound high school basketball coach was the proud owner of a Chihuahua puppy. I wasn’t surprised to see that her interview with me touched only briefly on my writing career and focused primarily on the “darling antics of Paisley’s captivating canine as she cavorted through the calla lilies in Anna Howard Sterling’s charming floricultural landscape.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” I groaned.
“Mom,” warned Cassie, “you promised!”
“And you promised me food,” I complained. “Isn’t that chili ready yet?” The raw vegetable tray Cassie had fixed for lunch was long gone, and the mouth-watering smell of cumin and oregano was driving me crazy. It had rained steadily all afternoon, and the air was damp and cold—a perfect night for chili, even if it was vegetarian.
“Ummm,” she said absently. “I’ll go check in a minute. I’m right in the middle of something that might be interesting.”
“Cassie!”
“Oh, all right! But don’t touch my stuff. Bowl or cup?”
“Are you kidding? Bowl! Big bowl! And lots of oyster crackers, please.”
“You mean polenta. Crackers are bad for you. They turn into a gooey white paste in your small….”
“Please,” I begged. “Spare me the gruesome details.”
As soon as she left the room, I stood and stretched. My back and shoulders ached from sitting too long in one position. Then, intrigued by the “ohhs” and “ahhs” I had been hearing from Cassie all afternoon, I took her place on the other sofa and looked over the papers she was reading, careful not to disturb anything.
At first glance I didn’t see anything other than the same sort of drivel I had been subjected to, but then my sleeve caught on the edge of a folder and spilled its more interesting contents out onto the floor.
“Damn!”
“I asked you not to touch my stuff.” Cassie set the heavy tray of food on the hearthside and knelt down to retrieve her papers. We had a short tug-of-war but I managed to keep possession of the one I was reading.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Beth’s interview with ‘Prison Inmate No.1898A’?” I asked. “Were you saving it for dessert?”
She busied herself with our dinner—setting the bowls of steaming hot chili topped with triangles of polenta and a sprig of cilantro on placemats to protect Mother’s table.
“Seriously, Cassie, why didn’t you mention this before? You could have saved us a lot of time.”
She sank down on the sofa, a pleased little smile on her face. “You really think it’s important?”
“Well, yeah!”
“I was afraid you would laugh at me for pointing out the obvious.”
“Nonsense! You were saving it for the moment when I threw my hands in the air and gave up.”
“Guilty,” she laughed. “Eat your chili while it’s hot.”
We discussed the value of Cassie’s find throughout dinner. Her main concern was that I might settle on our convicted felon and overlook someone equally, or even more important.
“It’s for sure he couldn’t have had anything to do with Beth’s disappearance,” she insisted. “He’s in the poky.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
Now it was her turn to groan. “I love it when you so non-committal, Mom. What do you mean by that?”
“Well, you’re right that he couldn’t have abducted Beth himself, but maybe he belongs to some nefarious criminal gang with long arms that stretch….”
“You’re beginning to sound like Beth.”
I threw the papers on the table. “That’s it! I’m done.”
Cassie ignored me. “I suppose he could have arranged for her disappearance, but
somehow he doesn’t look like the ‘crime boss type’.”
“There’s a picture?”
She fished around in several folders and came up with a wallet-sized black-and-white snapshot of 1898A: an obviously unhappy young man who stared defiantly at the camera while he held a plaque against his chest bearing his new name and destination.
“Looks like he wasn’t too thrilled about going to Teddyville,” I observed. “But you’re right. He doesn’t seem experienced enough to run a crime family. Of course, according to this date, he’s been under lock and key for almost six years. He could have learned a lot in jail. I wish we had a more recent photograph. What’s his real name?”
“I don’t know. There’s nothing with his name on it anywhere in Beth’s interview. She just refers to him as ‘Number 1898’.”
“‘A,’” I reminded her. “Don’t forget the ‘A’.”
“Maybe we could call the prison and find out who he is.”
“Let’s do what you said and comb through the rest of these interviews first. As much as I hate to keep reading this crap, you’re right about making sure we don’t jump to conclusions and overlook something.”
Cassie got up and went to the double French doors. “Did you hear a car?” she asked, peering out into the wet, gloomy night.
“Horatio, maybe?”
“I don’t see anything. And I got the idea from Gran this morning that Horatio won’t be coming around much anymore.” She looked at me accusingly. There was deep regret and sorrow in her eyes.
I sank back in the down sofa cushions seeking their comforting embrace.
“I know,” I sighed. “I screwed things up big this time.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
Her voice had the trusting tone of a little girl whose parent still has the power to fix the bike, patch the dress, and soothe the pain of a scraped knee.
“I’m not so sure I can make it better this time, Cassie.”
“You’ll think of something,” she said confidently. “You
always do. Dessert?”
“Absolutely! Wha’cha got?”
“Non-fat vanilla yogurt.”
The yogurt wasn’t so bad, especially with the fat slice of juicy ripe mango on top. But the rest of the evening was a bust. We spent three tedious hours going over and over each of the twenty interviews and found nothing else that raised our suspicions.
“I think ‘1898A’ is our man,” I finally decided. “The rest of these people are just too boring to be bad. God, how do they get up in the morning and face such monotonous days?”
Cassie yawned. “A lot of people find comfort in tedium, Mom. Not many adventurers anymore. I guess all the pirate kings died out with your Mr. Clark Grable.”
“Time to go to bed, Cassie,” I laughed. “Leave the dishes. I’ll wash up.”
Cassie had been very economical in the kitchen. One pot and two bowls later I was done. I hesitated a moment at the door of Mother’s bedroom before I left that side of the house, but when I didn’t hear a sound or see any light in her dressing room, I decided to wait until tomorrow before making a fool of myself again.
The rain was still falling in a steady rhythm against the roof. I slipped on some pajamas and crawled under the covers in anticipation of a cozy night, but two hours later I was still staring at the hazy outline of the ceiling fan in the darkness above me.
I had made a lot of mistakes in my life—said many things better left unsaid, but this time I had topped them all. I had hurt my mother deeply, and although he didn’t know it—for I’m sure she didn’t tell him what I’d done—I had destroyed Horatio’s only chance for happiness. Horatio was my best friend, too. It was something I had never realized before, but it was true. I relied on him—his knowledge, his experience, and his wisdom. And I enjoyed his company more than any other’s despite the thirty years between us. I truly wanted him to marry Mother and be an official member of our family. So why had I opened my big mouth and spoiled it all?
Was I selfishly concerned that Horatio would take something away from me—take my place in this house? Change the group dynamic so that I was less important, less loved? I lay there and did some deep soul-searching while it rained.
The rain stopped shortly before dawn when I finally fell asleep on a pillow wet with tears and a heart heavier than ever. All I had discovered was that I didn’t know myself as well as I had thought.
Around ten the next morning I stumbled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and dry-mouthed. Mother was standing at the sink so I gave up on a glass of water and opened the refrigerator to see what else I could find to quench my thirst. I’ll swear to my dying day that I never laid a finger on that egg carton, so how a dozen eggs ended up splashed all over the floor I’ll never know. Mother flashed “thoroughly disapproving look number two” in my direction, lifted the hem of her dressing gown and swept imperiously out of the kitchen without a word.
I grabbed the orange juice carton and defiantly drank directly from the mouth. Most of the juice spilled on my pajamas but I got enough down to give me the energy to clean up all the mess. Half a roll of paper towels later, I knocked on Mother’s dressing room door.
“Whoever it is,” she called, “go away. I want to be alone.”
Knowing that most people who say they want to be alone really just want attention, I opened the door and stepped inside. Mother was propped up in her ivory damask chaise reading a book. The glasses she hardly ever used were perched on the end of her nose. She looked at me over the thin gold frames as though I were a bug.
“I haven’t seen you in a couple of days,” I mumbled. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Well,” she demanded angrily, “are your satisfied?”
“Mother, don’t you think it’s time to call a truce? I’m really sorry. Won’t you forgive me?”
“Why should I?”
“I can’t think of a reason, other than I love you and Cassie—and Horatio—more than anything else on this earth and I want us to all live together and be happy,” I pleaded humbly.
She took off her glasses and put down her book. She made me wait a long time for her answer. I stood there holding my breath.
“Paisley, this isn’t about a broken teacup. Or a dozen wasted eggs, although I do wish you would be more careful. Horatio Raleigh is a fine man. He deserves to be treated with the utmost in dignity and respect. I’m sure you’ll agree with that?”
I nodded my head like a parrot, hopeful that she was on the right track, the one I was praying for. “Absolutely, that’s why….”
She held her hand up and I shut up.
“He wants to marry me. I cannot marry him.” Her hand wilted and fell gracefully back to the book in her lap. “It’s unfair to accept his attentions and allow him to keep hoping I’ll change my mind. I care far too much about him—respect him too much to use him that way.”
I opened my mouth, but she stopped me again.
“You had your chance, too, Paisley. Last year a good man was in love with you, and I think you loved him. Yet you wouldn’t marry him, either. So you see, we’re really not so different you and I.
“There’s one big difference between us, Mother.”
“What?” she asked skeptically.
“You know where your husband is.”
She took a deep ragged breath and picked up her book again.
“Paisley, you have said quite enough about things that are really none of your affair. I would greatly appreciate it if you would say no more.”
“But….”
“Enough!”
And she waved me angrily out of the room.
Chapter Twenty
I dragged my sorry self into the shower and emerged feeling only slightly less rotten. I didn’t even fuss at Aggie when she took up residence on my down pillow. In my woeful frame of mind, I didn’t want to be responsible for depriving anyone else of their heart’s desire.
The new lavender silk blouse in my closet shamed me even more. I chose a blue chambray shirt instead, and slipped on a linen jacket because I wanted to go to town. I wanted to see Cassie. My daughter could nearly always jolly me out of a bad mood. But this time I knew she’d be far from sympathetic. I was supposed to have fixed things with Mother, not make them worse. So, when I got to the end of the driveway, instead of turning towards town I headed out to the country with Watson’s windows down and my hair blowing wildly in the morning breeze.
The fields of soybeans, sorghum, and tobacco were growing like crazy. Kitchen gardens in back of farmhouses were thriving as well. Small boys with handmade signs sold the excess of their bounty at vegetable stands on the sides of country lanes. Most of them smiled and waved when I passed them without stopping, but when one mooned me as I drove on, I had to laugh. After a while, I began to relax and enjoy the ride.
I drove for over an hour, meandering over narrow roads with one lane bridges, and finally over a dirt track to the bird sanctuary at the beginning of the “creek” part of Teddy Creek. It was there in the reeds and marshes where the osprey and wild ducks nested that the stream was born—where it began it’s journey—before it grew in size and force and emptied into the Cumberland River at the site of the prison by the same name.
I sat and watched the birds for over an hour. I would have stayed longer, but I was hungry and it was long after noon. Regretfully, I whispered goodbye to the family of ducklings I had been spying on, and turned to back in the direction of the main road. I felt much better. In my reverie, I had formulated a plan of sorts.
I passed an orchard on my way into town and impulsively stopped for a basket of fresh peaches and a sack of “peach leather.” I had almost finished the rich, chewy strips of the dried fruit by the time I pulled up in front of Bruce Hawkins’ law office.
The pretty blonde who was acting as his temporary receptionist told me Bruce’s aunt was on vacation in New Zealand. She offered me a cup of really good coffee while she regaled me with anecdotes about the transfer of powers.
“You would
n’t believe it,” she giggled. “It was like handing over the keys to Buckingham Palace! And I swear, I still can’t open all the files. I know the old… er, she held out on me.” Her pretty smile soured and turned into an unattractive pout. “How’s a gal supposed to do her job without the proper equipment?”
I thought the sudden arching of back and thrust of bosom was an answer to her own rhetorical question until I realized another client had quietly entered the office. I watched as Blondie swing her hips in the man’s direction and offer him the same cup of coffee but with lots more sugar.
Bruce turned bright red when he poked his head out to ask for the next client and saw me. He ushered me inside with a stammered apology.
“Paisley, eh…well, when my aunt….”
“Don’t bother, Bruce,” I teased. “She’s probably your niece, or something.”
“But she is!”
“You’re kidding!”
He laughed and motioned for me to take a seat in the chair opposite his desk.
“Megan Flaherty. She’s Mary’s sister’s youngest. She’s on, er…hiatus from college.”
“Dropped out?”
“Yeah,” he admitted with a big grin. “Tremendous loss to Fraternity Row, I imagine.”
“How is Mary?”
“Fine, Paisley—wonderful in fact.” His grin extended almost to his ears. “We found a house,” he announced proudly. “The nursery is this color,” he said pointing to a robin’s egg blue paint spot on his wrist.
“A boy! Congratulations, Bruce.”
He was still blushing with pride when he asked, “What can I do for you today?”
I stood and walked over to the window wondering how I should frame the question. Finally, I decided to speak plainly. I turned to face him.
“Tell me the names of your clients—the ones Beth Davis was blackmailing.”
Bruce looked truly astonished, then pained, and finally relieved. “You’re joking, right? Paisley, you’re really a trip!”
“I’m not joking, Bruce,” I assured him.
“But….”
I sighed dramatically and flopped back down in my chair.