Books by Sue Henry

by Henry, Sue

  Buxom Doris Richards, Monroe mused, could have modeled for the figurehead of some eighteenth-century sailing ship, probably British. As a figurehead, she would at least have been silent. But he imagined she would undoubtedly have attempted to organize the fleet and teach Nelson a thing or two had she been available for consultation before the Battle of Trafalgar. Nelson, however, would probably not have tolerated her overbearing superiority and didactic attitude, though she might well have whipped the French and Spanish into surrender in record time, given the opportunity.

  The word harridan came to mind. Why couldn’t the woman ever knock? The door, to his infinite regret, was unlockable. And though he kept it closed, most of the staff ignored the implication, coming and going as though it didn’t exist.

  Complaints to the administrator were useless. She had set her elbows on her desk and made a steeple of her fingers, through which she smiled with fraudulent concern. “We have to have access, Mr. Monroe. What if you had another stroke or a heart attack, and we were unable to reach you quickly? We’re responsible for you now. You must understand that.”

  It had only been a small warning stroke—hardly a hiccup. Even the doctor said so. But it had cost Monroe his driver’s license and precious mobility. Otherwise he was perfectly able to care for himself and, like most senior citizens, cherished his independence. But called upon to provide essential transportation one afternoon a week, his nephew had begun to suggest that he should sell his house and move to an apartment within walking distance of a grocery and pharmacy. When he refused, the term assisted living arose in conversation, and a variety of unwelcome brochures began to clutter his mailbox, extolling the virtues of a succession of what Monroe disparaged as pigeonholes for the almost dead.

  Two minor incidents and the threat of a competency hearing had altered his point of view.

  The first had transpired the preceding February, when he slipped on the return from his mailbox and found himself unable to regain his footing on the icy surface of his walk. A passing neighbor had observed him—mail clenched in his teeth, crawling steadily toward the house, amused at the situation and his own plight—and felt it necessary not only to come to his rescue but to inform his nephew.

  The second incident had involved a stove burner, his ancient teakettle, and an after-dinner nap. The smoke alarm had awakened Monroe to a hot petroleum smell and sent him stumbling to the kitchen in apprehension and with all possible haste. There he found that heat from the glowing electric burner had melted the spout off the teakettle, which had tumbled to scorch a scar into the Formica countertop, filling the air with noxious fumes. A twist of the burner control and a cup of water quickly cooled the neglected source of heat. But the smell was impossible to disguise or get rid of before his nephew appeared the next afternoon. Discovery of the charred spot in the Formica and the teakettle in the trash had inspired the competency threat.

  Weary of defending his autonomy, and secretly a bit alarmed at his own ineptitude, Monroe had given in to the point of a visit to a couple of the detested pigeonholes. From there it had become a slippery slope indeed. Very shortly he found himself installed at the Palmer Senior Center for Assisted Living, the equity from his property and meager savings invested in the promise of a private apartment with personal care he now knew the contract had euphemistically labeled dignified, as it included the unlockable door.

  After six months, Monroe was exceedingly fed up with being treated as if he had lost his brains along with his liberty. As a retired history professor, he knew the value of treating people with respect; he had dealt with his students as adults who were responsible and accountable for their own learning. Appalled at the continued invasions of his privacy, he had finally had enough.

  As he followed Nurse Richards out the front door to the van, already half full of other venerable prisoners of fortune, the hint of a self-satisfied smile twitched his lips. Taking a seat by himself toward the rear of the van, he reassuringly patted the leather backpack and watched the streets of Palmer pass on the way to the local mall.

  CHAPTER 4

  W hen the van pulled up at the mall, Frank Monroe got out with the rest of the passengers, waiting patiently for Shirley Anders, who was nearly crippled with arthritis, to make her way down the steps. When she had finally descended to the sidewalk, he unfolded her walker for her. With a vague smile of thanks in his direction, she turned to make her way laboriously through the automatic doors of the supermarket. Monroe followed her in, glancing back to find Nurse Richards watching like a hawk as her flock scattered, intent on keeping track of them.

  “You have half an hour, Frankie,” she reminded him sharply.

  He ignored her, picked up a basket, and headed for the pharmacy in the rear of the store, where he wanted to have the prescription for his blood pressure pills refilled. He made sure to use the cane he didn’t really need and to walk slowly as he moved away from her. As soon as a quick right turn took him down an aisle out of her sight, he tucked the cane under one arm and picked up his pace considerably.

  Halfway along it, he snatched a bottle of water from a shelf and dropped it in the basket without stopping. It took only a minute or two to locate the soda crackers two aisles away, and on impulse he took a box of gingersnaps as well. Was there anything else on his mental list? Doubling back, he added a couple of small cans of Vienna sausages.

  Even with her walker, Shirley Anders had beaten him to the pharmacy, along with two other pigeonhole residents. They stood chatting as they waited for their prescriptions, completely blocking the counter.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” Monroe apologized, reaching between them to set his basket on the counter. “Coming through.”

  They shifted enough to let him follow his basket and give his name to the pharmacist, who gave him a smile and reached to a shelf behind her for Monroe’s pills. He had been wise enough to call ahead, saving himself precious minutes of valuable time.

  “Want me to ring this up, too?” She indicated the items in the basket as he signed the record book.

  “Please.” He handed her a bill, took the plastic bag that now held his grocery items, and started to turn away.

  “Don’t forget your change, Mr. Monroe,” she called, holding it out.

  “Having a senior moment, Frankie?” From directly behind him, Nurse Richards’s voice held a note of sarcasm.

  Jamming the change into a pants pocket, he frowned at his own stupidity in forgetting it and attracting her attention.

  Swinging around, he confronted her. “No. I was just in a hurry. Half an hour isn’t long enough, you know.”

  The very thought raised his ire. He liked to browse the aisles at the grocery store, or any store for that matter. How could he know what he wanted until he saw what was offered? And why couldn’t they go to a hardware store for a change, where there were hundreds of interesting things to discover, even if he had no particular use for them?

  As he frowned at her, Doris Richards suddenly reached to pull open the plastic bag he was holding and examine what he had just purchased. “Hm-m. Lot of carbohydrates and sugar there. You’d better get some roughage and vitamin C in your snacks, Frankie.”

  Suddenly furious, he yanked the bag from her presumptuous, meddlesome fingers and stomped off toward the produce section of the store, completely forgetting to use the cane. Apples! He had meant to pick up apples and a couple of oranges. It galled him that it had taken Nurse Ratchet to remind him.

  When he had selected two apples, he held them and hesitated. Damn. Now he would have to go back to the front of the store to pay for them—or would he? He took a look at his watch. Ten minutes left before Ratchet started rounding up stragglers.

  “Oh, get the hell on with it,” he muttered in exasperation.

  He hadn’t shoplifted anything since he was a kid, but he hadn’t forgotten how. Seeing only one produce employee neatly arranging celery and no one else close enough to see, he held the plastic bag behind a counter and dropped in the apples.
Heading for the back of the section, he added oranges on the fly as he passed a bin of them. Pausing in front of another bin next to the pair of swinging doors through which produce came and went, he picked up a tomato and pretended to be examining it as he glanced carefully around. This part was critical.

  The produce section was empty of customers, and the celery arranger had turned his back when Frank Monroe slipped through the swinging doors into the shadowy recesses of the back of the store, taking the tomato with him. In for a penny, he thought as he made his way down the narrow aisles between piles of crates and boxes to a rear door, opened it, and found himself in the parking lot, exactly where he had expected to be.

  Fifty yards across it was a Chevron station with a pay phone link to a taxi. With just a little luck, he could be gone before they figured out that he was not wandering somewhere in the store. “Or before they can find and arrest me for shoplifting,” he told himself with a grin, and stepped out smartly toward his goal.

  Let them all stew—especially Ratchet. The state fair was only a few miles away, and he intended to be there shortly to enjoy it.

  S o you met Jess at the Iditarod booth, Frank?”

  “No—I observed her that afternoon in her collision with young Danny. But I didn’t meet her on that particular day.”

  Jessie leaned forward on the sofa in eager recollection. “That’s right. I’d forgotten. You were sitting on a bench and tipped your hat to me.”

  “I did indeed, and you waved back. I knew who you were—watched you race on the television. I thought you handled the result of the pirate encounter very well.”

  “I’d taken a break for lunch,” she recalled. “And speaking of breaks, let’s suspend the story long enough to refill drinks and move around a little.”

  Almost everyone stood up and began to talk to each other, or headed for the kitchen or bathroom, but Jessie hesitated by Frank Monroe’s chair. “It could have been better circumstances, but I’m so glad I met you,” she told him. “Are things any better at the Palmer Center?”

  He cocked an eyebrow wickedly and gave her a self-satisfied smile. “I’ve made it a challenge,” he said. “I’ve taken to periodically propping a chair under the door handle. Doesn’t exclude them from my room entirely, but it’s an impediment with which they’d rather not struggle. Though remarkably colorful in language and laggard in acquiring new habits, most of the staff have now mastered the ability to knock.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect that you’re enjoying yourself,” Jessie said, amused.

  “You could be right,” he agreed. “And to top it off, I lobbied for more time at the grocery. Nurse Ratchet is now forced to wait for an hour.”

  Jessie couldn’t resist teasing. “No more shoplifting?”

  He shook his head, the eyebrow once again figuring in his expression. “I must admit, however, that at the time it was refreshing—made me feel young.”

  “You should have lived a long time ago, when you could have been a pirate.”

  They both laughed.

  “Get settled,” he encouraged. “I have yet to hear the end of this tale and more of your part should come soon, I believe.”

  A t two o’clock that first afternoon at the fair, Jessie sat at a picnic table not far from the Iditarod booth, taking a break for a late lunch and watching crowds of attendees stream past her. The general commotion of the fair was as entertaining as the displays or events on its printed roster, and she enjoyed being an observer as the endless crowd moved around her. Tank lay at her feet beneath the table, content to retreat from the excess of attention he had been receiving throughout the day from adults and children alike. As Joanne Potts had predicted, a lead dog that had guided a sled all the way to Nome was a great draw. While Joanne sold raffle tickets for a bright red Dodge pickup, Jessie answered questions about sled dog racing and sold Iditarod shirts, pins, and posters, autographing one that featured her and her team. There had been little time to rest her knee, so she was glad to sit down and be a spectator.

  It was a sunny day with a few clouds over the spectacular Chugach Mountains that framed the MatSu Valley to the east and south, Pioneer Peak rising sharply against the sky. Area residents, including Jessie, were so used to living next door to wilderness that they seldom noticed it as they went about their daily lives. Now, for a moment, it struck her that there were probably no other fairgrounds with such an impressive setting. Yet no one she could see so much as raised a glance toward the natural panorama surrounding them. All focused on the pleasures of the fair.

  There was certainly enough to retain that focus. Music and shrieks from the midway provided a background for the babble of dozens of passing voices and the blare of a loudspeaker announcing an upcoming skateboard event. From a sound system somewhere came snatches of a tune that Jessie could almost, but not quite, recognize. The smells of popcorn and hot sugar from a cotton candy machine drifted temptingly on the breeze from nearby booths, enhanced with the scent of barbecue from another. Ribs wouldn’t be a bad idea for dinner later, she thought, and made a mental note to remember to pick some up before she left for home.

  From where she sat, she could see people pouring in through the west gate, picking up daily schedules from a kiosk, and wandering along the walkways, immediately entranced with the colorful booths and exhibits. A red barn near the entrance announced an ANTIQUE SHOW—SALE NOW! Next to it was parked a blue truck with the NBC rainbow peacock logo on the side and a large satellite dish on the roof—the local Channel 2 News command center. Not far away was another truck, white this time, bearing the Wells Fargo stagecoach and horses and simply labeled ATM. Jessie imagined a parent with several hungry children who would probably make themselves sick on the whirling rides and have to be fed all over again when their stomachs settled back to earth.

  Besides being a money pit, the fair was a kaleidoscope of bright colors, from the midway flags to a nearby display of oversized suckers and sugary spirals on long sticks. With the sun behind it, the candy practically glowed against the brilliant red background of a protective canvas. Balloons, banners, and streamers bobbed and floated in the breeze. Jessie grinned to see that one vendor at least had taken personal advantage of the hair-dying booth. Standing at the door of his leather goods booth, he smiled and waved as he saw her looking. His long hair had been combed and sprayed into spikes that stood out from his head, each spike a different color, beard done to match in magenta, yellow, and blue. Next door, a long, narrow booth announced its inventory on a bright yellow sign that read ROCKS, FOSSILS & OTHER NEAT STUFF.

  As she contemplated a quick trip to discover what neat stuff meant, her attention was drawn to two mothers passing. One was pushing a toddler in a stroller, the other pulling two older children in a red Radio Flyer wagon across the back of which someone had written Kiddy Limo with a felt-tip marker. Both the children, a boy of four or five and his slightly younger brother, had also had their hair temporarily dyed bright colors—one green and blue, the other red and orange. It stuck out from their heads as if they had been swept up with a rainbow in a whirlwind. Neither looked particularly happy. They sat as far away from each other as they could get, considering the limitations of the wagon, giving Jessie the impression they were no longer sure they were related. Watching them disappear into the crowd, she thought it likely the dye job had been their mother’s idea, not theirs.

  Long lines of people waiting for a turn on the carnival rides had encouraged Jessie to give that part of the fair a pass for the time being, though she would have liked to ride the Ferris wheel. From the top she would be able to see the whole fair spread out below. A quick assessment from the entrance to the midway showed her that the Tilt-a-Whirl and Ferris wheel were popular with parents of the younger set, while older kids sprinted past them, inclined toward more thrilling adventures in speed and centrifugal force.

  Finished with the gyro she had purchased at a nearby stall, Jessie stood up from the table, wadded the wrapper, now soaked wit
h the residue of sour cream, onions, and cucumber, tossed it into a trash can, and wiped her hands on her jeans. Joanne had said to take her time, so with Tank’s leash firmly in hand, she strolled east along the paved walkway between the stalls to see what might be new and interesting this year.

  A colorful display of fabric caught her attention, and she stepped into a booth filled with flags, banners, and piles of bandanas of every color and design imaginable. Selecting a bright orange one, she paid for it, then tied it around Tank’s neck and smiled as he sat up a bit straighter, seeming to feel dashing and dressed up to match the bright swirl of colors around him.

  “There. But I won’t get you dyed to match, I promise.”

  Wandering on up the crowded walk, they soon came to the central plaza, a wide-open space where most of the walkways came together. In the center a sand sculptor was busy creating a replica of that year’s fair logo. A cartoon moose in a space helmet had already been carved and peered out from under his visor toward the top of the pile of wet sand. The sculptor was busy with a trowel, removing excess sand to form the rest of the animal. He was perhaps Hawaiian, or at least from some warmer, sunnier latitude, for his legs below his Bermuda shorts were as deeply tanned as his face. Cooler northern weather had encouraged him to wear a sweatshirt, in contrast to most of the locals who were watching him work. Few of them had on anything heavier than a T-shirt, and several also wore shorts, but their legs were pale in comparison. Alaskans, according to a familiar saying, don’t tan—they thaw.

  Across the plaza, Jessie could see a huge barn labeled FARM EXHIBITS, which housed the livestock. She was tempted to take a look, but remembering that she had canine company, she decided to leave it for another day. As she swung around without warning to start back to the Iditarod booth, she ran flat into one of a trio of nine-or ten-year-old boys who were walking close behind her. In the general noise of the crowd, she had not heard their voices and was unaware of their presence until she almost knocked one of them over.