Peony Street

by Pamela Grandstaff

  It was Hannah; Sam handed the phone to Scott.

  “Hey, Lone Ranger,” she said. “I was wondering when you would get around to calling in your old pal Tonto.”

  “I apologize for not thinking of it sooner. You know how it offends my law abiding sensibilities to collect evidence through illegal activity.”

  “Not me. I’m the Masked Mutt Catcher. I do some of my best crime fighting that way. Garnet Bloomenthal is your key granny in this case. She was up and on the scanner all night Friday, and she took notes. Claire’s boyfriend made one call at around two a.m. to a woman he called ‘Miss Clairol.’ He said he left a book with her daddy and no offense, but he was getting the bleep out of Rose Hill. He may even have called our beloved hamlet creepy.”

  “Will she talk to me?” Scott asked.

  “No way,” Hannah said. “She knows she’s breaking the law. She may be ninety-three but she’s no dummy.”

  “At least we know he was alive at 2:00 and not with Claire.”

  “I’ll keep poking around,” Hannah said.

  “Thanks,” Scott said, and handed the phone back to Sam.

  As Sam put it back on the table it buzzed again and Sam answered.

  “That’s great,” Sam said, and motioned to Scott for something to write with.

  He wrote down some information and thanked his friend before he terminated the call. He turned the paper around and slid it to Scott.

  “The estate agent had the phone, was holding it for ransom against some unpaid bill they claim Claire owes them. Rodney was able to convince the agent that cooperating with the American Embassy was a smarter course of action. The phone will be on the next flight to DC. A courier will pick it up there and drive it straight to you. You should have it by five o’clock.”

  “That’s outstanding,” Scott said. “I’ve seen you do this kind of thing before, but it always impresses the hell out of me. Rodney must owe you some huge favor.”

  “It’s not about favors,” Sam said as he stood up. “It’s something you can only understand if you’ve been where we were and went through what we did. Those of us who made it out alive have a bond that no one can sever. There are only a handful of men and women left from my unit, but each one of us knows all we have to do is call, and whatever we need one of us will move heaven and earth to get.”

  “Claire will really appreciate it,” Scott said.

  Sam shook his head.

  “This was all you,” he said. “You can’t tell anyone I did this.”

  “I can’t do that,” Scott said. “I can’t take credit for something you did.”

  “Think of it as my gift,” Sam said. “Claire needs someone to look out for her in the long term and I wouldn’t mind if it was you. If making you look like the white knight helps that along, I’m honored to assist.”

  Scott was speechless. Sam shook his hand and left the house. Scott watched his friend walk up Sunflower Street until he disappeared into the fog.

  Chapter Six - Monday

  Claire woke up to her father outside her bedroom door, calling her name. It was still dark out. Claire scrambled out of bed, scaring Mackie Pea, who yipped. Claire put on her robe and slid her feet into slippers.

  “What is it, Dad?”

  “Your mother’s sick,” Ian said. “She needs you.”

  Claire hurried past her father into the hallway.

  “She’s in the bathroom,” Ian said, and then went back to the living room.

  Claire found her mother sitting on the edge of the bathtub, a cold cloth on her forehead. The room smelled like she had been ill. Her mother’s face was pale and her skin was clammy to the touch.

  “Mom,” Claire said, as she knelt next to her. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think your Aunt Alice may have food poisoned me,” Delia said.

  “Dad seems alright.”

  “He didn’t eat it. He hates her cooking so she bakes frozen fish sticks for him.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “When I stand up I get dizzy. I need you to help me get back to bed.”

  Claire grasped her mother around the waist and Delia put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. Her mother swayed and Claire steadied her. They slowly made their way to the bedroom and Claire helped her get in bed.

  “I’m calling Doc Machalvie,” Claire said.

  “It’s probably just salmonella,” Delia said. “I think most everything that was in is now out, so I just need to sleep it off.”

  “I’m calling him,” Claire said, “just to be sure.”

  “It will rattle your dad too much,” Delia said.

  “Too bad,” Claire said.

  Claire went to the kitchen and looked up Doc’s number in the slim Pendleton County phone book. He answered on the first ring and was in their house within 15 minutes. Claire’s dad was agitated, so Claire sat in the living room and talked to him until Doc came back.

  “Is Liam sick?” her father asked her for the tenth time.

  “No, Dad,” Claire said. “Mom’s sick but she’s going to be alright.”

  After a few minutes Doc came back down the hall and sat down on the couch next to Claire. He gave her a quick hug.

  “Nice to see you, young lady,” he said.

  “What’s wrong with Liam?” Ian asked him.

  “He’s fine,” Doc said without missing a beat. “It’s your wife I came to see.”

  “What’s wrong with Delia?”

  “I think she’s caught a virus that’s going around,” Doc said. “She’s let herself get run down and her immune system is weak. She needs to rest, drink lots of fluids, maybe some broth when she feels up to it. Good thing Claire’s home to look after her.”

  “Claire will take care of her,” Ian said.

  Claire could tell he was still agitated because he was holding his mouth in that exaggerated frown and was swinging his head.

  “Could I trouble you for a cup of coffee?” Doc asked Claire, and nodded toward the kitchen.

  “Of course,” Claire said, and jumped up to accommodate the request.

  “Get Doc some coffee, Claire Bear,” Ian said. “It’s the least we can do.”

  Doc followed Claire into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Claire filled and started the coffee maker and then offered him some of Bonnie’s cinnamon rolls, which he seemed delighted to accept.

  “Doris won’t let me have anything this good in the house,” Doc said. “I think a little treat once in awhile is actually good for a body.”

  Claire quickly calculated that Doc must be at least seventy years old, but he looked and acted like someone much younger. He had delivered Claire and her brother. He was with Liam when he died, and had grieved along with them.

  “You doing okay?” he asked her as she poured the coffee.

  “I’m fine,” she said, “but my parents seem to be falling apart.”

  “I’m glad you came home. Your mother has worn herself out working and worrying about your father. I bet she didn’t tell you she took out a mortgage on this house to pay for his medical expenses. I think Knox probably took advantage of your folks, interest-wise.”

  “That slimy weasel.”

  “Knox Rodefeffer is the stinkiest polecat in a family of skunks, that’s for sure,” Doc said. “I’ve known him since he was a boy; he was a spoiled brat then and his sense of entitlement has only grown, along with his stomach.”

  “I’ll jerk a knot in his tail, don’t you worry about that,” Claire said. “I won’t leave until I’ve got everything whipped back into shape here.”

  “I’m going to be brutally honest with you, Claire. With your father it’s going to be a progression of small strokes and general debility, although a more severe stroke could happen at any time. As bad as it sounds, the most we can hope for is that his body fails before his mind is completely gone. If not, eventually it will be too much for your mother to deal with and he’ll have to go into a facility. Delia’s going to need you for more than a c
ouple weeks.”

  Claire opened her mouth to say she could hire help, but the pointed look Doc was giving her stopped her.

  “I have money,” she said instead. “I can pay off the mortgage.”

  “Good,” Doc said. “That will help relieve her mind. She’s got to slow down, but I don’t think she will unless you stay and help.”

  “I really don’t want to move back here,” Claire said. “I’ve got plans…”

  Doc shrugged.

  “Have you ever heard the saying that if you want to make God laugh tell him your plans?” he said.

  “It seems like the whole town is conspiring to keep me here.”

  “None of us wants to grow up but eventually we have to, or someone will suffer the consequences. I know you don’t want your family to have to suffer for you not taking responsibility.”

  “It’s just so depressing,” Claire said. “I know I’m whining; sorry.”

  “I’ve got pills for that,” Doc said, and Claire laughed.

  “I’m not joking,” he said. “If it gets to be too much and you can’t cope, come see me. There’s nothing wrong with asking for help.”

  Claire thanked Doc and saw him out. Her father was already back to sleep, and Claire covered him with a blanket. She took a big glass of water down the hall to her mother, who was also sleeping. She set the glass on the bedside table and looked down at Delia. She looked so much older, so frail, and so vulnerable. Claire knew Doc was right; she had to stay.

  At five o’clock in the morning Claire woke up her dad so she could start living her mother’s day. With him bathed and shaved, and her mother bathed, hydrated, fed some dry toast and sent back to bed, Claire looked for clothes suitable to work in the bakery.

  After considering and rejecting everything she’d brought in her carry-on bag, she went through her closet; it was like an archive of unfortunate fashion choices from the past 30 years. In amongst the hip-hugging bell bottoms and skinny-legged Capri pants she found some faded straight leg jeans, a Fitzpatrick Bakery sweatshirt, and some work boots she’d purchased back in the 90’s when grunge was in fashion.

  After she dressed Claire pulled her long dark hair up into a knot on top of her head so she wouldn’t have to wear the dreaded hairnet. She put on one of her father’s insulated Carhartt canvas jackets, put Mackie in her Louis Vuitton carrier and then caught sight of herself in the mirror over the mantle. She looked like a redneck kidnapping some rich person’s dog.

  Claire’s father was standing by the door, waiting for her. She set Mackie’s carrier down so she could comb his messy hair and wipe shaving cream off his earlobe. She helped him get his coat zipped up, took him by the hand, led him out of the house, and locked the door behind them. They then walked arm in arm down the street, slowly, as if he was a child who had not quite mastered balance. Mackie Pea was jostled in her carrier but she didn’t make a sound.

  “You need a walker,” Claire said.

  “Walkers are for old people,” Ian said.

  “I’m getting you one this week,” Claire said. “I’m also cutting your hair and trimming those eyebrows. You look like Boxcar Willy.”

  “You didn’t use to be so bossy.”

  “You didn’t use to be such a mess,” she said, and then immediately regretted her words. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

  “I’m glad you came home,” he said, patting her hand. “Your mother needs your help.”

  They arrived at the bakery at just past six o’clock and found Scott there drinking coffee and eating donuts.

  “This is how stereotypes are created,” Claire said.

  Scott looked her up and down.

  “That’s an interesting look for you,” he said. “Where’s Delia?”

  While Claire was explaining about her mother being ill her father began to tug on Scott’s jacket.

  “We’re late,” Ian said. “We need to go. I don’t want anybody to get our table.”

  “Alright, let’s go,” Scott said. “Although I think Phyllis will hold our table for us.”

  He winked at Claire, wiped his mouth, downed the last of his coffee, and took Ian by the arm.

  He called out “thank you” to Bonnie and Ian shushed him.

  “Don’t you call that she-devil out here,” Ian said. “I’ve had enough of her lip to last me a lifetime.”

  “Dad,” Claire started to admonish him, but Scott shook his head at her.

  “C’mon, partner,” Scott said. “Let’s go get some breakfast.”

  “I’m working Mom’s schedule,” Claire said. “If you need me I’ll be wherever she would usually be.”

  “I’m taking my mom to Morgantown for tests later this morning,” Scott said. “I probably won’t be back before five.”

  “I hope it goes well,” Claire said.

  “Thanks,” Scott said, and helped her impatient father out the door.

  Claire took a deep breath and looked down at Mackie Pea. Bonnie was not going to like this one bit. Quietly she looked up a number in Bonnie’s phone book and then used the bakery phone to call Skip, who said he would be glad to come down and get Mackie Pea. He arrived just as Bonnie came out of the kitchen with a tray of cinnamon rolls. The warm air of the bakery was redolent with the scent of cinnamon, sugar, and butter.

  ‘I’m gonna gain five pounds today,’ Claire thought to herself.

  “There’s the sailor home from sea,” Bonnie said when she saw Claire.

  She came around from behind the counter and stood with her hands on her hips.

  “Your mother called me this morning and said you were working for her today but I didn’t believe it. What’s that dog doing in my bakery?”

  “Skip’s mother is going to look after her,” Claire said.

  She hurriedly thanked Skip and handed him the carrier. Mackie Pea looked curious but not worried as they went out the door. Skip looked odd wearing his police uniform and carrying the fancy pet carrier, but then Claire didn’t know anyone in Rose Hill who wouldn’t; it didn’t fit in here.

  Bonnie Fitzpatrick was not a big person, and Claire was always surprised to be reminded of that. In her imagination Aunt Bonnie was huge and terrifying. She was actually much shorter than Claire, round in figure, with beautiful white curly hair and sharp blue eyes.

  Having been married to an alcoholic for almost fifty years (and having feuded with her mother-in-law for half of those years), Bonnie had an iron will that had been forged into steel. There were many stories told about her famous temper, and the tongue lashings she had been known to deliver were legendary; consequently everyone tip-toed around her.

  “Let me look at you,” she said, and Claire felt incredibly self-conscious, like she was twelve. “You’re too thin, but we’ll fix that. C’mon back to the kitchen. I can tell by those fancy fingernails you’ll be worse than useless, but poor help is better than none at all. Put on an apron and wash your hands.”

  For the next six hours Claire worked harder than she ever had in her life. Everything was heavy: the enormous trays of baked goods, the deep stainless steel bowl of the huge electric mixer; even the wooden rolling pin she used to roll out the croissant dough was a heavy wooden dowel the size of a baseball bat.

  Throughout the morning Claire consumed at least one of every donut, croissant, scone, and cinnamon roll that wasn’t deemed perfect enough to sell. Her Aunt Bonnie kept putting bits and pieces on a plate for her and Claire ate until she felt like she might burst. Each bite was so rich and delicious it made Claire’s eyes roll back into her head in ecstasy.

  The kitchen was stifling hot, stuffy, and the pace was brutal. By the end of her shift Claire’s back ached, her feet were sore, her head hurt, her stomach stuck out, her skin was clammy with perspiration, and she wanted nothing more than to take a bath and crawl into bed.

  Her Aunt Bonnie, on the other hand, never broke a sweat. During a short lull she sat on a stool behind the cash register and sipped some strong, black coffee while Claire guzzled ice water and nibbl
ed on a broken scone.

  “Patrick said you had a fight with the tea shop owner,” Claire said.

  “Yankee cheapskate,” Bonnie said. “She asked me to bake some tea cakes for her shop but then wanted to pay me half the agreed upon price.”

  “She’s a piece of work, alright,” Claire said. “I can’t imagine why she’s lowered herself to work in retail.”

  “The rumor is she needs the money,” Bonnie said. “Evidently she lost a lot of money in the stock market crash and you know how stingy Knox is.”

  “Yet she acts like it’s beneath her to take money from customers.”

  “She’s one of those Yank bahookies that trace their ancestry back to the Mayflower, like that’s something to brag about,” Bonnie said. “Being related to them that were kicked out of one country only to do mischief in another is naught to be proud of.”

  Aunt Alice came in for her shift and said, “I went over to see your mother, Claire, and she’s very ill; she really shouldn’t be alone. I’m afraid of what might happen.”

  Claire grabbed her coat and ran all the way home, only to find her mother dressed, sitting at the kitchen table having a cup of tea and reading a newspaper.

  “You know how Alice exaggerates,” Delia said. “She loves to stir up trouble.”

  Claire took a shower, dried her hair, and then looked through her carry-on for something suitable to wear to work at the Eldridge Inn reception desk. The fashionable designer clothes that were perfectly suitable for LA, New York, and London seemed too showy for Rose Hill. All of a sudden they looked to Claire like costumes from a chick flick shot in Manhattan. It would be about a fashion magazine editor who’s engaged to a Wall Street barracuda but ends up falling for the irritatingly charming, scruffy musician/artist/writer whom she is accidently handcuffed to/trapped with/rescued by after a ludicrous series of unlikely mishaps. They were not clothes for a real person with a real life in a small town with no dry-cleaner.

  Out of the time-traveling closet of dated fashions she pulled a pair of black wool pants and a charcoal gray twin set she could wear with her mother’s pearls. Her swollen feet refused the heels she tried to push them into, so she wore black ballerina flats. She applied and then wiped off her favorite bright red lipstick. As soon as it was on she realized it just didn’t work here. It looked garish, not glamorous.