by Judy Alter
Which left both of us speechless again.
****
The next morning, the girls and I rushed out to my car, running a bit late for school. There, propped against the tire under the gas tank, was a half-empty bag of sugar. Some had poured out into a little pile, which the ants were busily attacking. I knew all the horror stories about sugar caramelizing in the engine and gunking it up so badly the only thing to do was replace it.
I groaned. “My car’s ruined.” Then, more decisively, “Em, run get Mike. He’ll have to take you girls to school.”
Mike, bless him, came at a run, and I began shouting as he hit the door. “My car’s ruined. Sugar in the gas tank.”
“Probably not. That’s an urban legend. It may gum up the filter. First thing to do is drain the tank and see if there really is any sugar in the gas.” Then, turning to the girls, “Get in my car.” And he backed out of the driveway as fast as he dared.
I called Anthony, who was on his way to work on the guesthouse anyway. He shook his head and said, almost to himself, “Who does this kind of things? Sometimes, Miss Kelly, they leave the sugar as a kind of bad prank. I’ll go get a bucket and drain the tank, see if there really is sugar in it.”
I was reassured that he and Mike had the same approach. He got an empty garbage can out of the shed, and I watched fascinated as Anthony siphoned the gas out of the tank, praying he didn’t get any in his mouth as he sucked to get the suction going. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, and soon gas was flowing into the garbage can. Thank heaven I hadn’t just filled the tank, and it was at most half-empty.
Mike came back and peered into the garbage can but I thought it too dark to tell anything. Both men stared at the steady stream of gas.
“Wouldn’t it all sink to the bottom of the tank?” I asked tentatively.
“Not necessarily,” Mike said. “Sugar doesn’t dissolve in gas, and this should stir it up. I don’t see anything. Did you try to start the car?”
I shook my head.
Mike threw up his hands, while Anthony hid a grin. “If you don’t try to start it, you don’t know if any damage has been done.”
“What if I do start it and it kills the engine forever?”
Mike rolled his eyes and cast a sideways glance at Anthony, who tactfully looked away. “It won’t, Kelly, trust me.” They poured a portion of the gas into a clear glass container—had Mike really gotten my water pitcher from the kitchen?—and held it up to the light. Even I could tell the liquid looked clear. With a large funnel, they poured the gas back into the tank and ordered me to start my car. I wasn’t sure if it would explode and blow me to smithereens or exactly what would happen, but I climbed in, took a deep breath, and turned the key. The engine balked, the sound it makes when it doesn’t have enough gas.
“Keep it in park and hit the gas,” Mike called.
This time, with a vision of speeding through the guesthouse wall, I did as he told me, and the engine caught and purred.
Mike walked up to the driver’s window, leaned in to kiss me and said, “We’ll talk about this tonight. Who knows? Maybe one of Maggie’s friends was pranking you.”
I knew that wasn’t true. This was the kind of thing that boys did, not girls, and Maggie didn’t have friends of the opposite gender, at least not who knew me well enough to pull this kind of prank.
All the way to the office, I clung nervously to the steering wheel, half expecting the car to stall in the middle of a street. You’d think I was driving twenty miles, but it was less than a five-minute drive on back streets. With a sigh of relief, I pulled in behind our building and stumbled into the office.
Keisha glanced up at me and then, deliberately, at the clock. She looked at me again and must have seen how pale I was. “You okay?”
“Car trouble,” I said lamely and explained about the bag of sugar.
“At least it’s not as bad as setting the guesthouse on fire.” She got up and poured me a cup of coffee. Keisha was a gem, because she honestly didn’t feel diminished by serving coffee.
“But it’s a pattern,” I said. “Someone’s out to get me again. I’m tired of being chased.”
“I’m gonna figure it out, Kelly. You just relax and take care of that baby. Now, let’s talk about something brighter. How did the girls take your news?”
It dawned on me I’d never told her about the baby. When I came back from a long lunch with Mike, she was out driving the neighborhood looking for rental properties. Her sixth sense had kicked in all along, and she knew. But the girls’ reaction wasn’t exactly a bright subject with which to begin talking about my pregnancy.
“Not with unbounded joy. Em thought we were getting her a kitten, and Maggie was a bit embarrassed. But they began to come around. I think outfitting a nursery and buying baby clothes will draw them into it. I hope.”
“It will,” she said confidently.
Sometimes I wished she wasn’t so darn smug about that sixth sense.
Once I settled down to business, I was all efficiency. “Keisha, let’s talk about rental properties some more. Want to drive me around to see the ones you spotted yesterday?” I think she was disappointed I wouldn’t just let her offer a contract sight unseen, but that wasn’t the way I did things.
“Sure,” she said. “I didn’t just fix on houses with For Sale signs but picked some that were poorly kept. I figured the owners weren’t interested in the house, and if we could get one cheap enough, Anthony could fix it up for a rental.”
Keisha knew I didn’t miss her use of the pronoun, “we,” instead of “you.” She was making herself a partner in the business. As well she should. Except that it would require a bit of ego-squelching for me. Kelly, you have a lot on your plate—a new baby, a possible stalker. You need Keisha to take more responsibility. My other side argued, Okay, as long as she knows I make the final decisions.
Keisha gave me a long look, and I knew she read the thoughts going through my mind. Neither of us said a word.
So we drove—Keisha knew better than to choose the ramshackle duplexes that I thought should be on the demolition list. She had spotted five houses—two of those contemporary red brick small bungalows with garages opening to the street, that now peppered the neighborhood. They were newly enough built that I thought they’d be in reasonable condition if the tenants hadn’t trashed them. Two others were modest frame houses that I would like to renovate but I couldn’t afford to do that to every house in Fairmount—still they would need a fair amount of work before I’d lease them. The final one—which I knew she saved for last—was a charmingly redone Craftsman. Small, it featured horizontal boarding painted a pale yellow with moss green trim on windows, door and the covered porch. Organza curtains hung in the windows.
“Young couple lives here, and they adore the house. But his business is sending him to England for two years. They want to lease but have it to come back to. I didn’t know if you wanted to get into property management…but if you do, I think José and I might move into this one. That apartment of mine is gettin’ awful small.” Eyes straight ahead, she didn’t look at me as she said this. “That is, after we get married!”
I screeched so loud she almost ran into a parked car.
Chapter Three
Keisha concentrated on her driving, eyes on the road, not looking at me. But she said, “Kelly O’Connell, don’t you tell a soul. José don’t know about this yet.”
At that all thoughts of a new baby, sugar in my gas tank, and the burned guesthouse flew out of my mind, and I hooted. “What? When are you going to tell him?”
She was unperturbed. “That boy is as good as gold, but he’s not much on coming up with new ideas. I have to sort of coax him along.”
The thought flittered through my brain that we might have a joint announcement party Sunday night—our baby and the engagement of Keisha and José, but I guess the latter was out of the question.
“So when’s the wedding?”
She never hesi
tated. “When’s your baby due?”
“Late May, early June,” I said, wondering what this had to do with the price of eggs.
“Well, we got to get married well before that, so you can host a shower. I want a big, fancy do, with all the trimmings.”
She was not embarrassed about announcing what she wanted, and I quickly figured Claire would help me. Claire was the world’s best hostess.
We arrived back at the office, settled in our chairs, and discussed rental properties. I decided on one of the new brick houses and one of the redo ones. The current tenants could stay until Anthony was ready to work on it, when he finished the guesthouse—which was progressing slowly. Then I told Keisha she ought to lease the Craftsman she wanted but only if there was a provision for lease-to-buy if the owners’ long-range plans changed. It happens. And I’d advise her on writing that into the lease. I supposed José’s opinion didn’t count.
“When are the owners moving?” I asked.
“Not till April,” Keisha said smugly. “It will all work out fine.” She had this figured out long before she told me, and I wondered how she knew the house was available. It didn’t have a For Lease sign in the yard. Yes, I thought we should go into property management, but not with that house. It should be Keisha’s own private deal.
We worked together on figures, and I told her to make offers to buy the two we decided on. Then I turned my attention to the announcement party Sunday night, making a list of people. It was so chilly these days that instead of asking people to bring things and making poor Mike stand out in the cool night grilling hamburgers, I decided to make a big pot of chili. Well, maybe it would take two pots, but we could do it. I’d need someone to make the second pot of chili, two people to make cornbread, and two or three to make a salad. These days, since we’d taken Sheila and Don into the fold, there were twenty-one of us. Cooking was getting out of hand.
When I went out to my car to get the girls from school, I smelled the strong odor of gasoline but didn’t see anything. Tried to start the car, but the gas gauge flashed that red “Empty” alert at me. Hadn’t Mike and Anthony put all the gas back in my car? I wish I could say logic made me walk around the car but it was just puzzlement. But there, on the other side, under the gas tank door, was a large wet puddle—gasoline. It ran toward the street in small rivulets.
Furious I stalked back into the office and asked Keisha to get the girls. Then I called Anthony, who said he’d fill a gas can and come as quickly as he could. Then I threw the phone book—the first thing that my hand touched—hard against the wall. Glad it wasn’t my iPhone or something breakable.
Having vented myself, I sat down and gave in to tears—not bawling but tears running down my face, sniffles of self-pity.
And the office door opened and Claire walked in. One look at me and she demanded, “What the hell is going on?”
I wiped my face with a tissue and said, “You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Tell me.” She planted herself in my visitor’s chair.
I shook my head. “I’ll tell you most of it Sunday night. We’re having a potluck dinner. You don’t have a date, do you?”
“I do now. With you.”
“Good.” I hiccupped. “Can you bring a big batch of cornbread?”
She shrugged. “Sure. I make great cornbread, lots of sugar. But I don’t think I can wait until Sunday.”
Just then, Keisha and the girls came in. “Claire,” Em said delightedly, “have you heard Mom’s news? Well, I guess it’s Mom and Mike’s news together.”
Claire raised an eyebrow at me. “No, sweetie, I haven’t, but I don’t think you’re supposed to tell me. I have to wait until we all have Sunday dinner.”
That totally distracted Em. “Are we having everybody for dinner?” She clapped her hands when I nodded.
The thought of the dinner was already beginning to make me tired, and I was weary of secrets.
“Can I tell, Mom? Can I? Please?” I nodded, and she burst forth with, “Mom’s going to have another baby!”
If Claire hadn’t already been sitting down, she would have fallen. Her jaw fell open; she gripped the arms of her chair and stared at me. “Really?”
“Would I make that up?”
Claire was the one person who knew not to do an instantaneous dance of joy. “You okay with it?”
I nodded. “Not at first, but I am now. I’m beginning to get excited. It’s just…there’s so much else.”
At which propitious moment Anthony barged in the door with his gasoline can. “Mike said to wait until they can try for fingerprints,” he announced loudly.
While Claire said, “What’s going on?”
Keisha said, “Get that thing out of here, old man. You want to burn us all up.”
He gave Keisha a dirty look and went to put the can in the parking lot.
“I’ll tell you, Aunt Claire,” Maggie said with a weary tone. “Mom’s done it again. Somebody’s stalking her. That’s why our guesthouse burned.”
So there we were—Claire looking less put together and sophisticated than usual, Keisha still miffed at Anthony, the girls uncertain, and me on the verge of tears—in short we were all a mess. And just then, a well-dressed youngish man walked in—looked like a banker to me. Suit, conservative tie, polished shoes, briefcase in one hand. His hair, brown without a trace of gray, had been expensively cut. I pegged him at thirty-five at the most.
He took in the scene for a long, silent moment and then managed to say, “I’m looking for Kelly O’Connell. Have I…have I come to the right place?”
I brushed the tissue over my face again, rose from my seat and held out my hand. “You have. I’m Kelly O’Connell. How can I help you?”
Claire quietly vacated the visitor’s chair, going to sit by Keisha, and I invited the gentleman to sit down. His hands, as he fingered his briefcase, were long, delicate, and pale. I figured he either worked at a desk all the time or played a musical instrument. He definitely did no physical labor, and I doubted he worked out much.
“I represent the law firm of Bachman and Bannister,” he said, deftly whipping out a card that he had obviously had up his sleeve the whole time.
I read the card. His name was Benjamin Cruze and though the card didn’t say it, I surmised that he was a junior partner in this lofty law firm. “What can I do for you?” I asked, now thoroughly puzzled.
“We represent the late Robert Martin, and you are named in his will.” Once again, his movements were smooth as he pulled out a letter, this time from the inside pocket of his suit coat. “I thought it best to deliver this in person.”
It was a formal letter informing me that I was left a bequest of one half of the estate of Robert Martin. I read it twice and then raised my eyes to him in utter confusion. “Why me? I don’t think I know Mr. Martin…er, knew him.”
“He’s left you this generous bequest for the education fund of your daughters….”
I wanted to ask what education fund, because one thing I worried about was that neither Mike nor I had the wherewithal to put aside college money for the girls.
“Why would he leave me money?”
He cleared his throat, and his hand tapped nervously on his briefcase. “Ummm, it’s a bit irregular, but he is Jo Ellen North’s father.”
Jo Ellen North! The woman who had killed my ex-husband and tried her damnedest to kill me. Of course. It all came back to me now. Jo Ellen was serving a long prison sentence at the women’s penitentiary in Gatesville. I knew the very mention of her adored father leaving me money would send her ballistic. Last I knew he was a broken man, his murdering wife in last stages of Alzheimer’s and he himself so frail, after living through his daughter’s trial, that he required twenty-four-hour care.
Benjamin Cruze went on, his monotone voice never changing inflection. “With guards, paid for by the family, Mrs. North was allowed to see her father before he died and then, later, to attend the private memorial service. She was….” He paused, app
arently searching for the words to put it delicately, “upset that you had been remembered in her father’s will. She claims you ruined his life and, of course, hers, since she’s imprisoned.”
“But won’t the bulk of his estate go to her?”
“Only the remainder after your half and a few minor bequests, and that in a trust until, if and when, she is released. It will be invested for her. Our law firm will manage the account. She will get a small monthly allowance for things she needs to purchase in the penitentiary—whatever personal clothing is allowed, stationery, things like that. But there’s no guarantee she’ll ever see the rest of the money.”
“Is it an enormous amount of money? I…I can’t accept it. Can I just refuse and forfeit the money?” Sorry, Maggie and Em, but you’ll have to earn scholarships.
“Yes, you can disclaim the money. It will revert to charities, although I cannot tell you what charities. Martin specified the entire trust would not revert to his daughter. I guess he suspected you’d do something like that, but remember, he wanted you to have the money.”
I was floored. Why would Robert Martin leave me money? In trying to identify a skeleton found in a house I was renovating, I followed lead after lead until I found that Martin’s wife, Jo Ellen’s mother, had killed her husband’s pregnant lover, and Jo Ellen had witnessed the murder when she was a young child. Jo Ellen didn’t much care about her mother, but she was fiercely protective of her father, which is what led her to try to kill me…in front of my girls. But it was now old history—six years old at least. And Robert Martin had to face the secret he’d hidden for so many years. His wife was then already in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s and died soon after.
“Why? Robert Martin and his family had reason to hate me. I…ah, uncovered the skeleton in their background. Quite literally.”
Cruze had an answer ready. “Mr. Martin’s message with the bequest says it is a way of thanking you for helping an old man live with his conscience.”
I could feel my color rising, right along with my anxiety. This couldn’t be real. My hands grew clammy, my heart beat rapidly, and my head felt light. I managed to sound calm as I said, “I…I can’t think about this anymore right now, Mr. Cruze. Thank you for coming to see me. I’ll be in touch.” I stood by way of dismissal and offered my hand.