by Cate Price
Outside the windows of Sometimes a Great Notion, large flakes of snow were swirling down. “I don’t think you should be going anywhere in this weather, young lady.”
There was a long sigh on the other end of the line. “Daisy, you worry too much.”
“Look, please be careful,” I begged. “And not just with the driving. I haven’t figured out what the heck is going on here, but whatever it is, one man is dead, another is missing, and an elderly woman is fighting for her life over at Doylestown Hospital.”
I bit my lip as I hung up, wondering if I should have kept my mouth shut. PJ was a lot like me in many ways—barreling ahead on her own agenda, throwing caution to the wind, with scant regard for her own safety.
I locked up the store and walked back to the house. Sarah and Peter were leaving in the morning, and we’d planned on one last special dinner. The snow was quickly accumulating. There was about a two-inch layer on the cars along Main Street already, and it had only been snowing for half an hour. When I got to our house, Joe had come outside to make a start on shoveling the sidewalk.
“Why don’t you wait?” I said. “We’ll only have to do it again later.”
“I know, but this way it won’t be so heavy.”
Peter came down the front path. “Here, let me do that, Joe,” he said as he took the shovel from my husband’s hands.
Joe winked at me. “There is some benefit to getting old, eh, Daisy?”
I laughed. “I think I’d better take Jasper out now, instead of after dinner.”
“Don’t go too far. This stuff is coming down fast.”
I hurried inside, clipped a leash on the dog, and slipped on the jacket of Stanley’s that I’d bought at the estate sale. It was much too big on me, but the way it hung down past my knees meant that I should stay pretty dry. I rolled up the sleeves a little, put on my gloves, flipped up the hood, and headed out into the storm.
The creeping greenery along the fence looked like funnel cake dusted with confectioner’s sugar. As we walked down Main Street and headed south on Grist Mill Road, I heard the far-off sound of church bells ringing “O Holy Night.”
No footsteps had marred the pristine surface of the road near Glory Farm. Mine and Jasper’s would be the first. I stood in the middle where no cars were traveling and the snow made everything still. I caught my breath at the black-and-white wonderland. From the largest bough to the thinnest twig, all had a dusting of snow, outlined in white as if by some meticulous artist.
Again, I knew what Eleanor meant. You didn’t have to be in a physical church to experience this overwhelming sense of peace and awe at the beauty of the world.
We turned around and headed for home, the snow falling harder now, and the temperature plummeting with every step. My gloves were getting wet, so I pulled them off and put my chilled hands deep in the pockets of my jacket, searching for warmth.
In the left-hand pocket, my fingers brushed against a piece of paper. Probably an old shopping list or something. When we reached Main Street, I moved into the shelter of the canopy over the bike shop and pulled it out.
As I read the amorous words on the paper, signed by someone named Anna, I realized with a sinking heart that this was an old love letter to Stanley Bornstein, written to him by someone who was obviously his long-time mistress.
I refolded the paper with fingers that were shaking, and not just from the cold. I exhaled against the ache in my chest at the realization that dear, gentle Stanley was apparently not the guy I thought he was.
The snow floated down like silver glitter in the glow of the streetlamps. The vicious little pricks stung my face, almost itchy against my skin. I wiped at them angrily and hurried the last few hundred yards to our Greek Revival, the candle lights in each window calling me home.
I went around the back of the house and came in through the kitchen door, kicking off my snow-covered boots on the tiled floor and hanging the now hateful coat on the hook next to Jasper’s leash. I slipped the paper into the pocket of my jeans and toweled the dog dry.
Sarah and Peter were at the butcher block table, and Joe was at the stove. In between his Christmas decorating, my amazing husband had found time to make one of his specialties: crab cakes with a lobster risotto and snow peas.
“How are the roads outside, Daisy?” he asked.
“It’s getting really bad, and I didn’t see a salt truck yet.”
Joe nodded. “It’s snowing quicker than they can plow. They’ll wait ’til morning to tackle this one. You young people may have to get a later start than you planned.”
Sarah took Peter’s hand, her blue eyes sparkling. “We’re in no rush.”
“Hey, where’s Martha?” I asked. “Didn’t she want to stay for dinner?”
Sarah grinned. “She’s totally exhausted. She shopped until she dropped. Her credit card was howling by the time we were done.” She showed me the clothes that Martha had insisted on buying for her. “They’re for my trousseau, whatever that is.”
I shook my head in wonder. Martha was one of the most generous people I’d ever met, and she treated Sarah like she was her own child.
“How about a toast?” Joe said, holding up a bottle of cabernet he’d retrieved from our wine cellar.
“Daddy, we’ve done so many toasts recently, I think I might have to go to rehab when I get back to New York!”
“Ah, how often is it that your only daughter gets married? And to such a great son-in-law. Your mother and I couldn’t be happier.”
Peter smiled, and I found myself in the circle of Joe’s arms, where everything was okay again. I pushed the matter of the troublesome note out of my mind for now.
A little black cat wound his way around my legs. “Hey, His Nibs is back!”
“He’s the oddest cat I ever met,” Peter said. “I’ve never seen a cat cozy up to a dog that way.”
“Ah, but who doesn’t love Jasper?” I poured some kibble into a dish and set it next to the dog bowl, and we all laughed at the contrast between the delicate crunching from the cat and Jasper’s loud and enthusiastic gobbling as he banged his metal bowl around, scarfing up his food as fast as he could go.
Over dinner, I waited for a lull in the conversation, and then I said, “Sarah and Peter, I want you two to promise me something.”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Promise you’ll always be honest with each other—” At Sarah’s impatient indrawn breath, I held up a hand. “Not only that, but always make time for each other and remember that the relationship is the most important thing in your world. Nothing else matters.”
Sarah smiled. “We’ll be fine. Don’t worry about us.”
I thought about the note again, and prayed she was right.
In our bed that night, wrapped in Joe’s arms, I thought again about how very lucky I was, but how ephemeral happiness could be.
“Whatcha thinking about, Daisy?”
I sighed and snuggled closer. “I’ve been thinking about all the broken relationships surrounding us. And now here’s our Sarah and Peter starting out fresh. What innocents they are. They have no idea of how much they’ll have to face in married life.”
“They’ll work it out for themselves, Daisy.” Joe kissed me as if to break the spiral of my dismal thoughts. “We were much younger than they are now when we got married. Peter has a good head on his shoulders. He’ll keep our daughter in line, or die trying.”
“Poor boy,” I said. “He’s got his work cut out for him.”
We chuckled, and Joe drew the sheets over our heads. I sank gratefully into his embrace, warming my skin against this body that I knew as well as my own, determined to cherish every single moment.
* * *
Late the next morning, the streets were clear enough that Peter and Sarah could leave to go back to New York. We said a tearful good-bye and reassured ourselves th
at Christmas was not that long to wait before we’d be together again.
As I headed down to the store, I thought about Nancy Fowler’s mysterious blank past. I remembered the last time I’d seen the Fowlers at church, and how they were driving Nancy’s Porsche in the snow rather than Frank’s practical SUV. Why? Because it had some serious front-end damage from a hit-and-run?
I still had about twenty minutes before the store was due to open, so I decided to drive over to their house to see if I could get a peek at Frank’s vehicle.
The Fowlers lived south of Millbury, in a wealthy neighborhood near Ringing Springs Park. When I drove down the street, there was a Dazzle Team cleaning van outside the house. I pulled over to the curb a good distance away from the house, pretending to check messages on my phone.
Suddenly the garage doors opened and the Porsche backed out at high speed, with Nancy driving and Frank in the passenger seat.
I quickly slid down in my seat, but they zoomed off in the opposite direction. I popped up in time to see the doors closing on an empty garage.
Chapter Sixteen
I grabbed my phone, ready to call Serrano, but I was still smarting from his recent curt dismissal of my discoveries. I knew he’d insist on some cold hard facts, so I called Dottie Brown instead. I didn’t need much of an excuse to call her. Dottie loved to talk.
“Hey, Dottie, I happened to be driving by the Fowlers’ house this morning and saw one of Kathleen’s vans. I didn’t know that she cleaned for the Fowlers, too.”
“Oh, yes, she’s got quite the business going, my girl does.” Even over the phone, I could hear the pride in her voice.
“That’s wonderful. Good for her. She’s a real go-getter, just like her mom.”
Dottie laughed.
“You know what’s funny, though?” I said. “The Fowlers were driving Nancy’s Porsche. I’m so glad I have my all-wheel-drive Subaru in this kind of weather. I don’t know why they didn’t just take his SUV.”
“Oh, that’s because Frank’s car is in the shop,” Dottie said. “He’s getting the headlight replaced. I think he drove into a pole in a parking garage or something.”
“Ah, I see. Well, good talking to you, Dottie. See you soon.”
Did Fowler really damage his car banging into a pole, or from running down an elderly woman and leaving the scene of the crime? But why, for the love of God? What on earth could Althea have done to him?
I drove back to Sometimes a Great Notion, still puzzled. I didn’t have much time to think about it for the next few hours, though, as droves of customers came in, each searching for the perfect present.
“Oh, I’m already tired of making lists and checking them twice,” said one woman, sighing. “And it’s not even December yet.”
I laughed and helped her find gifts for several of the family members on her list. “Here, try this.” I gave her a pot of hand cream from the lavender farm. “It’s very relaxing.”
She bought a German tape measure with a spring action from the 1920s adorned with a celluloid basket of flowers, and several vintage needle cases and pincushions.
A male customer wandered in next, appearing lost and uncertain, as men often did in my sewing notions store. “I’m looking for a special gift for my wife,” he said. “I know she’s into sewing, but that’s the extent of what I know. I usually buy her jewelry for Christmas, but I’d like to find something different this time.”
He seemed drawn to one of the most expensive items in the store, which was a gorgeous nineteenth-century sewing box and writing desk of black ebony wood with a bone inlay. I opened the carved wood lids to show him the many small compartments for writing and sewing notions. It was lined with the original blue silk, and there was an oval mirror inside the top lid. It even had the original key.
“This one might be a little expensive,” I murmured.
He took a look at the price tag and shrugged. “Cheaper than diamonds. Wrap it up. I’ll take it.”
“It’s truly a magnificent piece. I’m sure she’s going to love it.” I took my time wrapping it so it was ready to gift, finishing the package with my signature peacock-blue grosgrain ribbon. He seemed as happy with the fact that he didn’t have to wrap it as he was with the purchase itself.
At this rate, I’d need to hit some estate sales and auctions soon. My usual wealth of stock upstairs was almost depleted. I could see that the other shops in town were doing a good business, too, judging by the bags I saw customers carrying from the chocolatier and gourmet pantry.
Serrano strode in about half an hour before closing time. “Here, I brought you an early Christmas present.”
He slapped an envelope on the counter. I eagerly opened it and pulled out a stack of glossy black-and-white photos that were obviously from Cyril’s modeling shoot.
I’d been right that the rustic setting would be a great fit. Cyril was standing behind a stack of painted shutters, wiry arms crossed, his long gray hair contrasting with the dark shadows and shafts of sunlight coming through a gap in the side of the barn. Alex Roos had used the vintage camera to perfection, doing justice to Cyril’s tough personality and the rugged face that had weathered a hard life, yet was still striking and sexy in its own way.
Tears pricked my eyes as I looked into my old friend’s face, seeing the familiar belligerent expression. I pretended to study the photos some more, willing the tears to recede before I looked up at Serrano.
“He looks fantastic,” I murmured.
Serrano gestured to the stack. “There’s more. Keep going.”
I flipped through more photos. It was obvious that rebels Alex and Cyril had broken into the house at some point, because there were shots of the interior. Oddly, there were also photos of the land, the outbuildings, the root cellar, and a close-up of a sampler on the wall. It was a tree of life design, again with a rooster in the tree, just like the one that Althea had in her bedroom.
I peered closer at the photo, moving over to stand under the glow of the lamp on the Welsh dresser. “Hey, wait a minute, this is Althea’s house. Alex must have climbed her ladder and shot the photo through her window with a long-range lens.”
“Strange for a guy to be interested in antique needlework samplers, ain’t it?” Serrano’s comment echoed the thought in my head. “I’ve saved the best for last.”
I moved the photo of the sampler to the back of the pile and gasped as I saw the last few shots.
Even though their faces weren’t clear, I was sure that the couple locked in a passionate embrace inside a home under construction was Sally McIntire and Beau Cassell. The next photo was even more graphic, with Sally’s face clearly shown as she threw her head back in ecstasy, Cassell standing between her legs. The last one was Beau Cassell looking directly at the camera, his face dark with anger.
“Holy smokes,” I whispered. He looked like he wanted to kill whoever was on the other side of the lens.
Serrano pointed a finger at me like he was cocking a gun.
Then reality hit me. “Ew. A new construction site is not a very comfortable place to carry on like that. All that sawdust and nails. All those splinters! Jeez.”
“Daisy, focus, please. Haven’t I been saying all along that this guy is my numero uno? By the way, forensics showed that Roos’s body was in the tool chest of Cassell’s truck at some point.”
“I knew it!”
“And after the hit-and-run, I brought Cassell in for questioning again. One of his construction trucks had some front end damage. He blew a gasket, claiming he was being victimized and that his vehicles were parked inside the enclosure that night. But then he admitted that the guys are sometimes careless and leave keys in the trucks.”
Serrano’s lip curled as he looked at the photos of the tryst with Sally McIntire.
“Then he went off on a rant about how his useless little foreman has a lot to answer
for. Neighborhood kids often climb over the fence and mess with the equipment and steal his materials. Maybe one of them took a truck out joyriding.”
“Are there any witnesses to the accident?”
He shook his head. “No, and Althea Gunn is still in a coma and can’t help.”
I told him about the Fowlers driving the Porsche in the snow and Frank’s story about hitting something in a parking garage. To my surprise, Serrano didn’t scoff like he usually did, but said he would check out the local body shops.
After he left, I closed up Sometimes a Great Notion. The note that I’d found in Stanley’s jacket was stuffed in my pocketbook. I’d wrestled with how to handle this all day, but I’d finally decided that it might make Ruth feel better if she knew she wasn’t the only one who had cheated. It might relieve some of the guilt that was weighing on her and give her some peace.
I called Joe to say I had a quick stop to make and drove over to Ruth’s house. Even before I got to the front door, I sensed something different about the place. Like the vacant property at Cassell’s development, this one gave off a gloomy vibe now, with the darkened carriage house, newspapers piling up on the driveway, and the steps that hadn’t been swept free of snow since Kathleen wasn’t coming to clean anymore.
I hadn’t called Ruth to tell her I was coming, not knowing how to approach the delicate matter over the phone. I had to ring the bell a few times before she finally appeared. She actually looked a bit more like her old self, with her makeup done and dressed in her elegant clothes.
“Daisy! What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I—er—just came to see how you’re doing. And there’s something I wanted to show you.”
She opened the front door a crack to let me in. Even standing in the foyer, the house looked bare. Many of the paintings were gone from the walls, and the living room was completely cleaned out from what I could see. She must have shipped the rest of the furniture off to Backstead’s for an auction. Apparently once Ruth had made up her mind to leave, she wasn’t wasting a minute.