Upstairs Grace was waiting in the kitchen. It was surprisingly easy to smile at her. “I just took some wood down,” he said. “I’m going back for another load.”
He made three more trips down to the cellar. “The wood box is full and I’ve stoked the furnace as well,” he told her after the last trip. “Is there anything else you need?”
“No, thank you, Reid,” she said. “But I do need you to come back tomorrow. There are some things I need to talk to you about.”
“I could come out about six,” he said. He was confident nothing in his face was giving him away. There was a reason he was such a good financial advisor. Not to mention a damn good poker player.
“That will be fine.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he said.
Reid glanced back at the house in his rear-view mirror as he wound his way down the driveway. That musty, dreary old place would be the first thing to go, he promised himself. And old lizard lips would be the second.
* * * *
Timothy Hawthorne called Reid’s office right after lunch the next afternoon. “There’s been an accident,” the lawyer said.
Reid’s hands were shaking. “I’m on my way,” he said, and hung up. He tried to swallow and couldn’t. Oh, God, he thought. What did I do? What did I do?
He drove out to the house, pushing the car way beyond the posted speed limit.
Hawthorne’s dark sedan was parked by the back door, along with a couple of police cars, an ambulance with its back doors open, and the rescue squad truck.
The lawyer was pacing in the kitchen. “Ah, Reid, you’re here,” he said, offering his hand. He was wearing fine grey leather driving gloves.
“Where is she?” Reid asked. His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears he wondered if the other man could somehow hear it too.
“They’re still down there, trying to get her stabilized before they move her.”
“Stabilized? You mean she’s alive?”
Hawthorne gave him a look Reid couldn’t quite make sense of. “Yes, she’s alive.”
Reid put a hand on the counter to steady himself. She was alive. He hadn’t . . . She was alive. Then the rest of the sentence sank in. “Wait a minute, you said, ‘down there.’ What do you mean? What happened? Where is she?”
“Apparently the furnace stopped working sometime during the night. This morning she must have gone down to the basement to see if she could get it going again. It looks as though she caught her heel a couple of steps from the bottom. I heard them say her hip is broken.”
“You found her?”
Hawthorne nodded. Pacing back and forth in front of the sink he explained that when Grace hadn’t shown up for her appointment he’d telephoned the house. When she didn’t answer his repeated calls he’d driven out to see if everything was all right. That was more an indication of just how much the Frains were worth than because of any great concern for Aunt Grace, Reid thought. Still, he was glad the lawyer had come out.
“She was unconscious when I found her. The mailman arrived just as I did. It seems he’s been bringing her mail to the door instead of leaving it in the community box out on the road—even though it violates the delivery policy the post office put in place last year.” There was a slight tone of disapproval in the lawyer’s voice.
“She wasn’t breathing, but he knew CPR. I called 911, and then I called you. If it hadn’t been for him coming with the mail your aunt would be . . . gone.” He kept running his thumb over the edge of his gloved fingers.
Reid let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thank you, Timothy,” he said. “You saved her life. That, man . . . the mail carrier. I’ll have to get his name. I . . . I want to thank him.”
He heard the sound of voices then and footsteps coming up the cellar stairs. “Easy, easy now, one more step.” The door swung open. A muscular young man lifted his end of stretcher over the top step and into the kitchen.
Grace Frain’s eyes were closed. Her skin was the color of newsprint. She looked small and old. Reid reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’m here, Aunt Grace,” he whispered. He felt a faint squeeze back. Lord, what had ever made him think he wanted her gone?
The paramedics loaded the stretcher into the back of the open ambulance. “I’ll be right behind you,” Reid said to the two men.
“I’ll go.” Hawthorne was behind him in the doorway. He pulled a white handkerchief out of an inside pocket and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “The police are going to want to talk to you,” the lawyer continued. “I’ll be with her. You come as soon as you can.”
“All right,” Reid said. “I won’t be long.” He went back into the kitchen and down the cellar stairs.
The officer in charge was a woman. He introduced himself.
“Your aunt seems to have caught her heel on the step, fell and broke her hip,” she said. “She did hit her head on something when she went down. We’re not sure what, yet. Go to the hospital. I’ll talk to you there.”
Reid started back upstairs. Halfway up he paused and turned. “I’m not so sure that furnace is safe,” he said. “Even if you could get it to come on.”
“That’s not a problem,” the officer said. “I used to work in Goose Bay. This isn’t even chilly.”
* * * *
Timothy Hawthorne was waiting by the triage desk when Reid arrived at the emergency room. The lawyer’s navy wool coat was folded neatly over his arm. His color was back.
“They’ve taken her for a CAT scan,” he said.
Reid sank into a chair and ran his hand across his neck. “I’m going to have to get some help in for her,” he said. “At least in the daytime.”
The lawyer nodded. “That’s going to be expensive.”
Of course cost would be the first thing he’d think of. Timothy Hawthorne was the third generation of Hawthornes to handle the Frain legal affairs. He couldn’t have been much more than his mid-forties, but he dressed and acted like a man twenty years older. Reid had a feeling Timothy Hawthorne had been born old.
“And that furnace will have to be replaced,” Reid said.
“Are you sure you can afford everything?”
Reid looked up at the other man. “What do you mean? There’s all kinds of money.”
“In the Frain trust, yes. But your Aunt Grace depended on her pension for all of her own expenses. It’s really unfortunate that she fell before our scheduled meeting today.”
Reid could hear his heart begin to thud again in his ears. “I don’t understand,” he said, slowly.
“I guess there’s no harm in telling you. Your Aunt Grace was planning on changing the structure of the family trust, having you take over management. As she explained it to me, despite your personal spending habits, she had come to the conclusion that blood is thicker than water. But since she didn’t make our appointment, none of the changes will take effect.”
She was going to give him a chance and he’d almost . . . Reid swallowed. “But what does that have to do with the money, with paying for her care?”
Hawthorne looked almost . . . smug? “All the Frain assets are held in trust. You can’t touch any of that money. My firm manages everything on a day to day basis. When Grace is gone it all goes to several charities. Didn’t you know?”
All of the money? All of the land to charity? That was the Frain Legacy? Reid let out a breath. That didn’t matter right now. All that mattered was making sure Aunt Grace was taken care of. “She can still make changes. As soon as she’s settled in a room you can draw up the papers.”
The lawyer shook his head. “I’m sorry. I should have told you right away.”
“Told me what?”
“Grace had a stroke, in the ambulance on the way here.” The lawyer’s voice seemed to be coming from farther and farther away. “Her heart is strong, but there appears to be massive brain damage. There was bleeding under her skull. So unfortunate that she happened to hit her head on a piece of wood when she fel
l.” He smiled down at Reid. “But at least she has you to take care of her.”
His lizard lips were moving so Reid knew the lawyer was still talking, but Reid couldn’t hear him anymore.
__________
Darlene Ryan is an award-winning young adult author and mixed-media artist who lives on Canada’s east coast. Her teen novels include Rules for Life, Saving Grace, Responsible, and Five Minutes More. She is also the author of the memoir, A Mother’s Adoption Journey and the children’s picture book, Kisses, kisses, kisses. As Sofie Kelly she writes the Magical Cats of Mayville Heights mysteries. Visit her online at www.darleneryan.com
THE CRITIQUE GROUP, by Patricia Gulley
Blood on the Manuscripts, Patti Priestly thought as she watched Lana Kimble open the next submission covered in red ink. This one wasn’t hers, but her turn was coming. Everyone had a chapter in for critique this week, and already the fur was flying. Patti had no idea what had gotten into Lana these days. Well, she did, if she believed the rumors circulating around the moorage about Lana’s husband seeing another woman.
Normally, Lana was the punctuation high priestess, while Betty Opals had a propensity to circle every -ly and -ing word and Joanne Jeffers disapproved of any form of the verb “to be.” Winifred Whitmore worried about too much description and Patti had to admit, she always wanted to know where the story was heading.
Today’s critique meeting started off with Lana calling Winifred’s romantic suspense a virginal delusion, and Joanne’s farmhand mystery clichéd cornball. Next up was Betty’s erotic vampire slayer, and Patti’s ghost story would be last.
The five members of the group had formed after a moorage meeting of their one-hundred-and fifty floating home community, when they discovered that they were all writers of mystery or romantic suspense. Patti and Joanne, who were long time friends, were happy to join the other three and form a critique group and rotate the every bi-weekly meetings between their five floating homes.
Lana added more red marks to Betty’s manuscript before beginning the critique by telling Betty that her heroine sounded like a nymphomaniac on uppers, dressed like a hooker and needed to learn to curse.
“Okay, stop!” Patti shouted, and got approving nods from Winifred and Joanne. Betty stared daggers at Lana. They had gathered at Patti’s house on I row today, and Joanne had brought the goodies. “Let’s eat. Maybe some dessert will sweeten our attitudes a bit.”
They were all in their sixties, with Betty the youngest at 64 and Winifred the oldest at 69. Dressed comfortably in Bermuda shorts and sandals or boat shoes, they trouped into Patti’s kitchen to partake of Joanne’s frosted pistachio orange cobbler. The coffee and tea for hot July were iced.
Winifred leaned her ample hip against a counter. “I think our critiques are getting a little too vicious. We’re supposed to point out problems and give suggestions on how to fix them, not rip each other’s works apart.”
Lana tossed her head, though not a strand of her champagne blonde hair moved. She stabbed a fork into her cobbler and said, “If the work is lousy, it’s lousy! Can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen!” She put a piece of the cobbler in her mouth and chewed it like she had to kill it first.
Betty refused a piece of cobbler. She was always dieting and her thinness bordered on scrawny. Sleeveless blouses did not suit her boney shoulders. She put three packets of Splenda in her iced tea. “And who would know more about lousy writing than you, Lana?”
Winifred, Patti and Joanne completely forgot that frowning wasn’t good for already lined faces as Lana hauled back and threw her fork at Betty. The foul language that followed between the two combatants could have made a hardened criminal blanch. They lunged at each other and only the fast action of the other three women kept them from tearing each other’s hair out. Patti and Joanne pulled Lana into the living room, while Winifred held onto Betty in the kitchen.
“Okay! Let me go!” Lana demanded, then instantly broke into tears.
From the kitchen, Patti heard her screen door slam. Lana collapsed onto the sofa and cried into her hands. What a mess, Patti thought, as Winifred came into the living room to say that Betty left.
Lana looked up. “That scheming little witch! I’ll kill her if she tries to take Stan away from me!” She looked as shocked at her words as the others did. Embarrassed, maybe, she wiped her face with the back of her hand, grabbed her stuff and stomped out of the house.
Patti, Winifred and Joanne stared at each other for several seconds.
“Let’s get our drinks and the rest of that cobbler and go out on deck to relax, girls,” Winifred said. “I think we deserve some comfort gorging after that scene.”
“I guess!” said Joanne. “So, I’m assuming that means the rumors are true?”
“In spades,” said Winifred, more calmly than the statement deserved. “I don’t know who Lana was trying to fool with that comment about ‘if she tries.’ I heard Stan already moved out, though no one has seen him move in with Betty yet.”
* * * *
Early the next morning Patti stumbled to her computer with her first cup of coffee. She liked to begin her day by reading one of her on-line writing lists. Suddenly, footsteps pounded down the ramp and sirens sounded in the distance. She couldn’t look out to the main walkway anymore; a new two story house recently moved in and blocked her view. Moving to her front window, she saw a squad car most assuredly breaking the fifteen-mile-an-hour speed limit. It was followed by an ambulance.
Winifred rushed down the row heading for her house. Patti had the door open when Winifred stepped on to the deck.
Wheezing from the exertion, Winifred spoke in spurts. “Lana. Found her. Between the ramp and deck. Drowned.”
She was stunned. Lana had looked distraught yesterday. Should they have talked to her more?
“Come in and rest a moment while I throw some clothes on,” she said.
Ten minutes later, they turned off Patti’s row at a slow trot onto the main walkway and met Joanne coming towards them.
“I was just coming to get you,” Joanne said, and the three broke into a quick fast walk. Joanne looked and sounded shaken. “A neighbor found her this morning on his way to work. The cops have the row blocked off. I heard a guy who must be a detective—plain clothes—say to one of the uniforms that it looked suspicious.”
“Geez, do you think it could be suicide?” Winifred turned pale and slowed.
“Lana?” Patti asked. Should they tell the detective about the events from the previous day?
“Never! Not Lana!” Joanne said. “I heard that detective say something about ‘the head.’”
Sure enough, when they got there, yellow tape was strung across the entrance to Lana’s row, and two uniformed cops stood guard.
“Any information yet, officer?” Winifred asked, in her best curious-little-old-lady voice, which generally got her what she wanted to know. “We’re her friends.”
“You are, are ya?” the cop answered. “Stay here and I’ll tell the detective. He might want to talk to you.” He turned and headed down the row to Lana’s house.
The detective approached them with a frown.
No introduction. “You knew her? Lana Kimble?”
And in each their own way, they told the detective how they knew Lana, what everyone wrote, and a lot of innuendo concerning the current gossip going round about Lana, Stan, Lana and Stan, Betty, Lana and Betty and the possibility of Stan and Betty.
When he finished scribbling in his notebook, the detective looked up. “And where does this Betty Opals live?”
A brush off. In their best-ditzy-old lady personas, they vaguely waved towards the row Betty lived on. He thanked them courteously, took their addresses, and told them to go home.
Fat chance! They made a bee-line for Betty’s house. When they got there, Joanne leaned on the doorbell and didn’t let up until Betty answered, dressed in a flimsy nightgown.
“Knock it off!”
Before she could s
ay more, the three women began telling her what happened. Betty’s gaze moved from one to the other, then her eyes went wide. They turned. The detective, hands on hips, stared at them.
“I thought I told you to go home.”
“We’re not leaving.” Patti said. “Betty needs us.” And she and Joanne each took one of Betty’s hands.
“Is Stan here?” Winifred whispered.
Joanne gasped.
“Yes, he is,” said Betty.
They all moved into Betty’s living room, the detective clearly displeased. When Betty tried to go upstairs to get Stan, the detective told her to just yell up. Stan came down, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a polo shirt, his full head of white hair still wet from a shower.
“Stan, they’ve found Lana in the river,” Betty said. “It might be murder.”
This was no way to tell a husband about his wife’s death. The detective looked put out. Mildly surprised and upset, Stan asked what happened.
The detective asked if he’d like to sit down, and maybe they could go into another room for privacy.
“No, here will be fine.” Stan hunted through a candy dish, unwrapped one and popped it in his mouth.
The detective’s brows rose. “So, you were here all night. Didn’t go home for any reason?”
“This is a temporary home for me now, Detective. I moved in two days ago. And no, I didn’t go back yesterday. I took what I needed when I left.”
“Did you leave this house at anytime yesterday evening or last night?”
“No, I did not.”
“And you can vouch for this, Ms Opals?”
“Yes, sir, I can. We ate in last night, watched a movie in bed until almost midnight.”
“And neither of you saw Mrs. Kimble last night nor heard anything this morning?”
Fish Tales: The Guppy Anthology Page 24