“She killed herself?” Alan asked, horrified.
“That’s what it means,” Miss Logan replied. “She was perfectly fine one day and dead the next.”
“How? How’d she do it?”
She shook her head. “No idea. Don’t even know if it’s true. There was something not right between Mary and Margaret, you ask me.” Once again, she’d managed to shock him. Appalled Alan stood up. He’d heard enough out of her. He wanted to run away, to tell her she was disgusting, but the thought came to him that he better keep Miss Logan on his side in case of more pressing matters, like paternity questions. The Margaret Fisher he knew wouldn’t answer the door without full makeup on; he didn’t see her committing suicide.
She was looking at him from the corner of her eye. “You seem pretty upset for not knowin’ the family.” He decided to keep his ruse under cover for now.
“Well it was an awful story, Miss Logan. I beg your pardon if I’m upset by it. I cannot imagine what the poor husband must have felt, getting that news.”
“Tell you the truth; they didn’t make much of it. The funeral was simple; no one spoke on her behalf except Frank. Mary was the only other person who knew her well enough to say anything, and they didn’t invite her to speak.” Miss Logan leaned in again. “I thought it very strange that they put her in her wedding dress, too. You could see the side seams running along the front of her bodice; the dress was so small. It was a crime Frank didn’t get her something more appropriate to lay in. Being a hairdresser and all, I looked for evidence of the, um, suicide, but couldn’t see anything. Crazy people go to such lurid lengths to end their lives, I thought for sure her wrists would be cut or her neck; something dramatic. But there wasn’t nothin’ to see.” Alan moved away from the table and nodded his head in her direction, but was afraid to open his mouth. She was awful; the little respect he had for Miss Logan vanished for the time being.
Quickly going up to his room, he wanted to think about Margaret for a bit before he drove into Seymour. After he called Noelle, he was going to go to the café for lunch and hopefully hook up with Mary, surely a better source of information about Margaret since she and Ellen had lived with her for a brief time and according to Miss Logan, knew Margaret. He couldn’t associate the Margaret who would kill herself with the one who was so generous and happy back in Saint Augustine. It didn’t meld. Was she that good an actress? Or did his poor treatment of her, the taking of her money and abandoning her push her over the brink? Alan Johnson had just the kind of deluded ego that would make him think he was worthy of driving a woman insane.
“Poor Margaret,” he said out loud. “I’m sorry.” He sat on the edge of the bed and thought about what he’d done with his life, the people he’d used, the lies he’d told. It didn’t feel like he had much choice to do otherwise, always with an excuse. There was still part of him disappointed because he couldn’t get anything more from her, now that she was dead.
He got up and ran a comb through his hair. He could make a collect call from the phone in the hallway downstairs, but he wanted privacy when he talked to Noelle, so he decided to go back to the drug store. Thankfully, the dining room was empty when he walked past, Miss Logan on her way to Seymour. The sulfuric smell of breakfast egg casserole lingered.
“Have a nice day,” Cate said, sitting at her desk, startling him. Annoyed, he forced a smile and said goodbye. He needed to keep it pleasant in case he ran into money problems. It looked like Cate’s rooming house might have to be his address for a while.
Chapter 12
Three cars were waiting for service when Ellen and Frank arrived at the garage the next morning. “Oh boy,” he said. “Busy day ahead.”
“I’ll get the mail,” Ellen said.
“Careful crossing,” Frank said, distracted, nodding his head at the street.
Ellen looked both ways before stepping off the curb. Going into the post office was one of the things she liked least about coming into town with Frank, but never complained for it was such a simple thing to do. Jessie was annoying in that she was always looking for a story. When she handed the mail over to Ellen this time, Ellen didn’t even look at it.
Jessie couldn’t help herself. “You got somethin’ else from that dance academy,” she said nodding her head toward the pile. “I bet they want you two to dance in Beauregard.” Ellen paused, trying to decide if she should laugh it off or give in to Jessie’s curiosity and open the letter.
“You’ll be the first to hear if that’s what it is,” Ellen said respectfully, hurrying out the door. She waved and gave Jessie a little smile so the woman couldn’t complain to the rest of the village that Ellen had been rude.
As soon as she opened the door to the garage office, Frank called to her. “Now I need you to run over to the auto parts store. Are you okay with going?”
“Of course,” she answered, forgetting the letter from Phillip Anderson Dance Academy. The garage was busy all day, and it wasn’t until they were getting ready to leave and Frank scooped up the pile of mail that Ellen remembered the letter.
“Oh! Frank I forgot. We heard from that dance place again,” she said as they walked to the truck.
“The academy?” he replied, snickering. “Such a grand name for a ballroom next to a pool hall. Read it to me if you want.”
She carefully tore the envelope open. “Dear Mr. McPherson. You and Miss Ellen are cordially invited to attend our June Extravaganza. Prizes will be awarded for the following categories…” The invitation listed the possible entries. Ellen looked over at Frank as he drove. There was a slight grin on his lips.
“What’d you think?” she asked. “It might be fun. Something different.” She imagined getting dressed up again and twirling around the dance floor, how good it made her feel to know they danced well together and that people admired them. In Beauregard, onlookers would be strangers, not the gossipers of Seymour. Picking up the letter, she started to read again. “Prize for the couple who wins First Place will receive Five Thousand Dollars Fireworks will follow the dance.”
“If we won First Place, I’d make my own fireworks! Do you want to go, sister?” He was smiling now, pleased that she was asking something for herself, a rarity.
“I think I might,” she answered hesitatingly. “I can wear my dress from graduation.”
“Oh, I think a new dress is in order. This will be our first real dance in the city.” Not that Beauregard was a city. “It won’t make you sad now, will it?”
“You mean Hallowsbrook and all?” Ellen asked and Frank nodded. “Nope, I don’t even think of it, tell you the truth. When I do every so often, I just get mad at her. But that’s all. Not sad, not even sorry. Just mad.” Frank reached out for Ellen’s hand. They weren’t used to touching or gestures of love unless they were dancing. The squeeze of his hand had the immediate affect of comforting her.
“Okay then, it’s a done deal. We go to Beauregard for the June Extravaganza. I might wear my hula girl tie, if you talk me into it.”
Ellen began to giggle, covering her face with her hands. “Oh no, please Frank, not that tie!”
“You talked me into it!” Frank laughed. Reaching the house, they got out of the truck, happy to be home.
Once inside, Frank asked her to start dinner for him tonight. “I’ve got a call to make. I’ll just take a minute.” He’d removed a package of chicken from the freezer before they left for the garage that morning. Measuring flour into a bowl, she added salt and pepper and mixed it with a spoon, straining to hear what he was saying, but his voice was so low and he was speaking so softly, there was no point. She’d make fried chicken. The chicken preparation occupied her so that when he came to her, she jumped.
“Sorry for scarin’ you,” he said. He picked up a fork and pierced the chicken with it but it was too tough. Trying not to laugh, she’d fried a stewing chicken. “Sister, I think we might have a time eatin’ this, no offense.” She paused and looked at the pan with the pieces bubbling in the hot oil.<
br />
“What’d I do, Frank?” Ellen’s hands dropped to her side, and the look of defeat was too much for Frank, so he hugged her to his chest, stroking her hair.
“That’s a stewer’ you got there, that’s all. Cook it up good and crisp and we might be able to get our teeth in into it.” He couldn’t help himself; he started to laugh as he released her, putting his arm around her shoulder. They looked at the pan of chicken and laughed out loud.
“Leave dinner,” he said. “Let’s dance.” She held his hand as he led her into the living room. Putting the radio on, and as smoothly as if they were at a ballroom, Ellen fell into his arms and they started to sway to the music, singing along with the words.
From the field to the south side of the house near the riverbank, the embrace appeared more passionate than paternal, the angle was just wrong, so that the observer, cowering in the tall grasses, blood pressure building would make sure to spread whispers about the stepfather and his stepdaughter and their inappropriate touching around town.
***
The next day was another busy day at the garage. One customer after another brought their cars in for Frank, so that neither father nor daughter noticed groups of women standing at the edge of the building, looking inside at Ellen, or even the baggers whispering. After the stewing chicken mishap of the night before, they decided to cook dinner together from now on. At five, Frank came into the office.
“‘Bout that time, sister,” he said. On the way home, they talked excitedly about the dance in Beauregard, talking about what Ellen would wear.
“I think something with a circle skirt would be nice, something that will twirl,” Ellen said.
“We need to make sure it matches my hula girl tie,” Frank said, laughing as he turned into the driveway.
“I don’t think that’s possible, Frank,” Ellen said happily, getting out of the car. It wasn’t until she reached the porch and as was customary, looked off to the side of the house where the gardens were that she realized something was amiss.
“The peonies are gone.”
“They’ve just fallen over,” Frank said, distracted, unlocking the front door lock that was temperamental in the best of times. Ellen was looking around the yard, to the edge of the wood.
“No Frank, they’ve all been cut. Just the flower heads.” She yanked on his shirtsleeve until he stopped fussing with the lock and looked over to the flowerbeds. The peony bed was one Margaret planted the first year she moved into the house. Ellen tended the flowers with her until she left for Hallowsbrook. She knew the names of each hybrid, what their care involved, how to stake the stems to keep the flowers upright.
Frank looked up from the lock, frowning. “That’s impossible.” But Ellen was pointing at the cut stem ends, and Frank followed her finger with his eyes.
“You’re right,” he said, moving over to the edge of the porch, going back down the steps to the side of the house. “See anything else out of place? I’m callin’ the sheriff again.” Ellen followed him down the steps to the edge of the lawn where the annual flowerbeds started. Frank’s mother had gardens here, and then Margaret, and now Ellen and Frank.
“Oh,” she said sadly. “Look at what he’s done. All the roses, too.” Not a flower left; it was only mid June. The garden was at its peak, everything in bloom, laying in wait for dog days, when the spent blooms would shrivel up and no amount of watering could make them return to the glory days of spring and early summer. Whoever had picked every flower head and bud. It was an ugly, green mess. Frank looked up at Ellen and took her by the shoulder, turning her around.
“He?”
“I suppose it was the man at the edge of the wood.”
Frank frowned, concerned. He couldn’t have her worrying about the stranger. If he in fact was responsible for the destruction of the garden, Frank himself would kill the man with his bare hands.
“Let’s let the sheriff figure it out, okay sister? You put this out of your head right now. We’ll plant more flowers until these plants bloom again.”
“It’ll be forever. He took the buds, too.” Frank scratched his head, not prepared to coax Ellen into good humor; he’d never seen her as distressed, even when her mother died.
“Let’s get inside and call the sheriff,” he said again, gently pushing her toward the house, wishing he’d made her go inside as soon as they got home. What if the perpetrator was lurking in the wood, observing them now? The thought sent chills down his arms.
Submitting to him, Ellen stumbled back into the house distraught. Why would anyone pick her flowers? It had to be personal. It wasn’t as if they lived in town and a passerby might take a pretty flower. No, this was deliberate. Someone had gone out of the way to upset her, the message of the culprit heard loud and clear; he was trying to frighten her. He guided Ellen into the chair that had been Margaret’s so he could make his call. She sat, listening to the droning of his voice, remembering when she was small, laying in bed at night and hearing that same voice followed by the light, musical voice of her mother, how safe it made her feel. She closed her eyes and imagined that sense of safety in the house now.
“They took a report, but there’s nothing can be done,” he said, jolting her out of a trance. “Send a car around every few hours is about it. I reckon we’d better take precautions with the house and truck at night. Make sure we lock the windows and keep the basement door bolted tight.
“You don’t think he’ll try to break in the house, do you Frank?”
“Oh no,” he answered, cursing himself for being so thoughtless. “Just being careful.”
“I was just thinking of momma, how nice it was when she was home. I think I miss her tonight.” Ellen laughed. “That’s a first.” Frank came over to her and kneeled in front of her, his hands on the arms of Margaret’s chair.
“I miss her, too, Ellen.
***
Sally Logan left for her salon soon after breakfast. The new boarder had spiced up her morning with his dashing good looks and interesting conversation, after no one else but Emil for a long time, and she hummed a child’s cartoon song as she gathered her belongings, a new spring in her step walking toward the front hall. “Someone’s in a good mood,” Cate said.
“It’s nice having that handsome man around here after Emil and Mr. Rosen,” she whispered.
“I hear you,” Cate replied, loyalty preventing her from saying more.
“I wonder how long it will take Mary to discover he’s here.”
“Before the week is up?” Cate replied. Miss Logan let out a laugh.
“Jeez, that’s even quicker than I was going to say. But you got it. Before the weekend.”
“Have a nice day,” Cate said. Miss Logan waved and opened the door to the porch, a blast of hot summer air hitting her in the face. The walk to the bus stop loomed ahead, but she concentrated on what lay before her. She loved her shop, albeit in the town of Seymour. The women who worked for her were her family, the customers from the town, her friends. Everyday was full of adventure. But she’d decided she was keeping Alan Johnson to herself. If his name eventually came up, it wouldn’t be because she’d introduced it.
The air-conditioning on the bus wasn’t working that morning. “Are you serious, Hal? It’s ninety out there already.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Logan, I’ll have it looked at as soon as I get into Seymour.”
“It’s a travesty that the only garage for fifty miles is in godforsaken Seymour,” she muttered under her breath.
“Sally Logan, I heard that!” Miss Logan looked behind her and Margo Portland was sitting two rows down.
“Now why on earth didn’t I see you when I got in this hot tin can? Don’t move,” she said when Margo started to get up. “I’ll come back to you.” She was careful walking down the aisle as the bus turned the corner for the highway.
Margo slid over on the seat. “Why’re you in Beauregard so early in the morning?” Miss Logan asked.
“I had files to take to Hallowsbro
ok and Frank’s lookin’ at my car.”
“Gotcha,” Miss Logan said. “I’ve got news. You have to swear you won’t tell a soul. I’m not talkin’ about it at the salon because I want to watch the scene unfold.” She made a dramatic arc with her hand, forgetting the promise to herself that she wouldn’t talk to anyone.
Margo laughed. “I hear you! There’s nothing better than keeping a little bit back for yourself when there’s a story to tell. Do you want to wait and let me find out on my own?” Miss Logan turned her head, shocked.
“You’re kidding right? No! I’m bustin’ to tell someone.” She leaned in to whisper, although no one else was on the bus yet, Hal Baker was a known blabbermouth. “Cate got a new tenant and he’s a looker. Tall, dark and handsome, goin’ through a divorce, lookin’ for work here.” Although she’d love to take a shot at Alan Johnson, she was under no illusions; too old for him at nearing fifty-five. But she’d love it if Margo Portland landed him over Mary. Mary might be better looking, but she was not as smart and didn’t have the personality Margo had. “I want you to get a crack at him before Mary does.”
Margo leaned her head back in the seat and guffawed so loudly, Hal looked in the rearview mirror to make sure everything was okay. “I could never compete with her,” Margo said, regaining composure. “I mean, look at her. She’s stunning. Why didn’t she do more with her life?”
“Her folks left her the house and I guess that little extra income sucked all her ambition up. She didn’t need to make much to get by,” Miss Logan said, sympathetically. She didn’t add, for someone with as much education as you have, you didn’t do you much better, now did you? But she kept her mouth shut about it. “Mary did okay by herself. She certainly doesn’t let any grass grow under her feet.”
“She goes out all the time, weekdays and weekends, yet she never has a boyfriend. What’s that all about?”
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