by Vicki Lane
At the front door she was surprised to see Thomas Blake, evidently on his way out. Blake was courteously holding the door open for a thin old man bent over a stout walking stick. Catching her eye, Blake nodded and waited.
Without a word to Blake, the thin old man hobbled through the door, brushing past Elizabeth as she waited on the porch. Something about the old man, was it a scent? his gait? the set of his shoulders? made her look more closely.
Stiff new overalls, a heavy jacket, and an insulated cap with earflaps protected him from the bite of the air, but he had taken the extra precaution of swathing his lower face with a plaid wool muffler. Mirrored sunglasses added a bizarre touch, and as he glanced briefly at her, Elizabeth saw her own reflection. You’re staring at the poor guy, Elizabeth. Cut that out.
“Mornin’,” she said, nodding in his direction and looking away almost at once.
With a muttered and indistinguishable reply, he shuffled away, moving slowly but purposefully toward the parking lot.
“Mrs. Goodweather, good morning!” Blake’s voice rang out in cheery tones. “Well met! I’ve just been calling on our friend.”
How does he do it? Drunk as he was yesterday afternoon, here he is, out and about this early.
“How is Nola?” Elizabeth asked, stepping into the warmth of the lobby. “I just thought I’d come by for a minute.”
Blake let the door swing shut. “I found her much the same, I fear, quite unresponsive. I’m afraid, though, that your trip is in vain. You won’t find her in her room. An aide just collected her and wheeled her away for—what was it? I believe the young woman said hydrotherapy.”
“Really?” Elizabeth glanced at the clock on the wall. A little after ten. “Well, since I’m here, I guess I’ll wait.”
A thought occurred to her. “You know, I’ve been wondering about Nola’s uncle—there was some of his stuff in that box you lent me and it got me to thinking about his murder. I read about it in the paper back then, of course, but I don’t remember anything much except that he lived alone and that the stand had come down in his family. I guess you knew him fairly well, being his nearest neighbor and all.”
Blake’s quick look was guarded, but he replied, “I knew him slightly. He was not the easiest of neighbors. But, as you are undoubtedly aware, his establishment was a convenient source of beer and liquor. And, as you have surely surmised, I did, on occasion, have recourse to his wares, grossly inflated though his prices were.” He raised his hand to the keypad by the door, preparing to tap in the code that would release the lock. “I’m sorry I cannot offer more information. I have an appointment that must be honored.”
“Of course, please, don’t let me keep you. Just one more quick question—did anyone ever call you ‘Cat Man’?”
The steel-rimmed spectacles glittered at her. “As a matter of fact, that was the appellation the river guides bestowed on me years ago.” Blake punched in the code to release the entry lock. “It was kindly intended and preferable to ‘the Troll,’ wouldn’t you agree?”
With a civil nod, he hurried out the door and Elizabeth turned to make her somewhat shamefaced way to Nola’s room.
The door was shut. After tapping at it and receiving no answer, Elizabeth pushed it open. I’ll just wait here till they bring her back from her hydrotherapy, whatever that may be.
Inside the room the television was chattering away, and before it, a figure swathed in a shawl slumped in a recliner chair.
“Nola?” But even as she spoke Elizabeth saw that it was the aide Michelle—sound asleep.
After twenty minutes of sitting on the foot of Nola’s bed and listening to Michelle’s adenoidal breathing compete with the dubious entertainment of a talk show, Elizabeth had had enough. She moved to the door only to be met by an awning-bedecked juice cart blocking the way.
“’Scuse, please.” A sleepy-looking woman entered the room carrying a pitcher of ice and a paper cup filled with a noxious-looking purple liquid. Depositing the cup on the tray table at the side of the sleeping Michelle, she glanced at the unconscious form and spoke loudly. “Here’s your juice, Miss Barrett.”
“That’s not Miss Barrett; that’s her aide.” Elizabeth tried to contain the indignation she felt—on behalf of Nola and every unfortunate enduring the anonymity of institutional care. “Miss Barrett’s having hydrotherapy.”
“Not today, she ain’t. The hydrotherapy unit’s out of whack. They got it all pulled to pieces this very minute. Two fellers been working on it since eight a.m.”
“No, Nola wasn’t scheduled for hydrotherapy today. Let me see—no, there’s nothing at all.” The woman behind the desk looked up with a reassuring smile. “You know, these senile cases wander some; it’s just the nature of the illness. But they can’t get out—all the exits have keypads or alarms. She’s probably in one of the other residents’ rooms—some of these old dears will go crawl in bed with the first man they come to. The widows, you know, they miss their husbands.”
She lifted a phone and spoke into it, then turned back to Elizabeth. “We’ll do a room-by-room search in each wing—if you’ll just have a seat in the living room at the front, I’ll let you know when Miss Barrett’s back in her room.”
As she sat on the shabby imitation Queen Anne love seat, waiting to hear that Nola had been found, Elizabeth found herself gazing at the keypad by the front door. “Press Star-2-3-0-0. Please do not open door for residents.”
Thomas Blake said Nola’d been taken away for hydrotherapy. Did he misunderstand? Who came and got her? And why?
As she stared out the door at the parking lot, its pavement now wet and shining with melting ice, the image of the thin old man Blake had held the door for flashed before her. Mirrored sunglasses, muffler, gloves, hat pulled well down—that could have been anybody—that could have been Nola!
Minutes later she was pressing Star-2-3-0-0, shoving open the door, and sprinting for her car.
The Drovers’ Road XVI
To Speak a Word
I was at the back of the crowd the day they hanged Lydy Goforth. Like many a woman there who’d not have it known that she’d turn out for such bitter sport, I wore a sunbonnet and kept my face hid. Folks had come on foot and in wagons from all around to see the end of the murderin drover boy and, though a murdered woman, I passed unnoticed in the throng.
Lookin back atter all these years, I sometimes think that maybe I could have stepped forward and spoke a word that might of changed things but then I know that it had to fall out as it did. Besides, though I knew for a certainty he weren’t a murderer, it was him had flung me aside for that black-eyed Jezebel and he was the one had brought shame on me. How could I, with a belly too big to hide under my shawl, have stepped up to the scaffold and said, Here I am. I ain’t dead.
Belle was there, in her widder’s weeds with the black veil hidin her face. She was setting in a wagon druv by the sheriff’s brother-in-law and the sheriff’s sister was at her side, pattin her hand and whisperin in her ear. I reckon she could have spoke a word too, though her belly didn’t show yet.
I heard the woman next me tellin her husband that the sheriff was plum foolish over that huzzy and was like to marry her, breedin though she was.
Her man told her not to be an old cat. Hit does my heart good, said he, to see a woman strong for retribution—bearin witness like that at the hangin of her husband’s murderer.
I almost said something at that but recollected myself and moved away from there to where I could see better.
Ish and Mariah had took me in when I run off. I never told them just what happened, though I believe that Mariah suspicioned, for she didn’t treat me the same as before. But I was a woman comin near to my time and that was enough for her kind nature.
I had hid in the woods till I heard the sheriff and the other men takin after Lydy, goin up the mountain, then I slipped along a rocky trail through the woods, careful to leave no sign. When I come to their stand, they was in their little stone house an
d I saw Mariah’s dark face at the window. She flung open the door afore I could call out and folded me in her warm arms. Nor did she ask the first question as to why I come to be there at first light—she just put me into their bed which had a feather tick and blankets that smelled of herbs from her garden. She gave me a bowl of venison stew and some of her honey wine to drink and told me to go to sleep.
Don’t tell no one I’m here, Mariah. Will you promise? I said and she promised solemn though I think that later she come to regret it.
And now I stood watchin as the men brung Lydy to the scaffold and one of them climbed up the steps behind him. The sheriff called for quiet and asked if Lydy had aught to say. He stood straight, castin his gaze round the crowd, lookin kindly surprised that all these folks had come together because of him. Then I seen his eyes light on the wagon where Belle sat.
He stared the longest but she made no sign and he said no word. They laid the noose around his neck and I turned away.
Chapter 45
At Large
Thursday, December 28
The thin old man with the mirrored glasses—that must have been Nola! She looked right at me. Blake could have brought her the clothes and now he’s driving her…where? And why? Why didn’t she just tell the people in charge that she was herself again?
Elizabeth pulled onto the road leading to Dewell Hill and down to Gudger’s Stand. What did Nola say—“Not until his accounts are closed”? Does that have anything to do with those entries that must be blackmail? What the hell is she trying to do?
Everyone in the world seemed to be out on the road today, and most of them were driving too slow. Elizabeth ground her teeth as she saw one of the county’s snowplows pull into the line of traffic ahead of her, lumbering along at a stately twenty-five miles per hour. Passing on this narrow two-lane road was illegal as well as almost impossible, but she found herself inching closer to the car ahead of her and eyeing the oncoming lane of traffic with an eye to opportunity.
None came, but at last she reached the turnoff for Dewell Hill and sped down the winding road. Nola’s cottage, I ought to look there first. Or could he have taken her to her neighbor’s place? I need to check there too.
Nola’s stone house came into view, cold and lifeless in its bleak winter setting. Elizabeth pulled up in front of Lee Palatt’s house. Two fat, long-haired cats stretched out on the stone front steps, taking advantage of the noonday sun. They watched Elizabeth’s approach with mild interest, one of them going so far as to stand up, rub against her jeans, and trill a greeting mew as Elizabeth banged on the door.
It opened almost immediately and Nola’s neighbor peered out. “My heavens…I thought you might be from the sheriff’s office. Mrs. Goodweather? Is something wrong?”
“Nola seems to have disappeared from the nursing home. It’s possible that…a friend came and got her. I wondered if maybe you might have seen her.”
Just as she stammered out her news, Elizabeth was hit with a sudden realization: What if this woman’s in on it? She may know where Nola is and not tell me. Or could she be hiding Nola?
“Nola disappeared? I thought she was dying! Are you sure?” Lee put one hand over her heart as if shocked by the news and then, looking closely at Elizabeth, stood back and beckoned her in.
“Why don’t you come have a cup of tea…or maybe a bowl of soup? I was just finishing my lunch.” Without waiting for an answer, she turned and led the way to the back of the tiny house.
Elizabeth followed. That seemed like genuine surprise. But she could just be a good actor. From the living room, she could see into an immaculate little bedroom, where an orange tabby draped himself languidly across a blue blanket at the foot of the bed.
In the kitchen, a table bore a half-full bowl of soup, a half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich, a glass of water, and an open book—a solitary lunch. Surely, if Nola were here—
“I haven’t seen anything of Nola—but if she’s improved enough to go missing, at least that’s good news. But of course she wouldn’t have come here. Please, have a seat.”
Lee Palatt set a spoon and a bowl of soup before Elizabeth. The enticing aroma floated up to her, reminding her it was past her lunchtime. Five minutes. Have the soup and then go find Nola. “Why’d you think I might be from the sheriff?” she asked between spoonfuls.
“Well, I called them over an hour ago. These two old men had just walked up to Nola’s back door and broken it open, bold as you please.” Her hostess sat opposite her, well launched into her story. “Now, that niece of hers has pretty well cleaned out everything except Nola’s old clothes, so there’s nothing to steal. I guess those two found that out, because they weren’t there long. By the time I called the sheriff’s department and got back to the window, they were gone.”
Lee’s pleasant face was pink with indignation. “They got clean away and small wonder! You know, that woman who answers the phone at the sheriff’s department was downright rude! Said they had enough to do without following up on every call from nervous old women living alone. Well, I told her—”
Elizabeth put down her spoon. “Lee, thank you for the soup. It was delicious but I have to go now. Let me give you my number; if Nola were to come here, you could call me.”
Lee looked up in surprise. “Oh, she’d never come here—I told you she has a thing about cats—absolutely can’t be around them.”
So she’d hardly go to Blake’s place either. But still, I have to go take a look, just to be sure.
The clutter of derelict vehicles in front of the old brick building seemed much the same—some on blocks, long years past use; others on their own tires, looking more or less capable of locomotion. Why didn’t I pay attention to what he was driving back at the Layton Facility?
Elizabeth parked and headed toward the door. One old truck appeared to be the popular favorite among the cats, and its hood was covered with lounging felines. As she passed by it, she laid a hand on the hood—still warm. Aha! The Troll is in!
Repeated knocking finally had its effect. Thomas Blake pulled open the door and stood staring blearily at her. The smell of alcohol was strong. “Miz Goo’weather. We meet again.”
“Yes, we do, Mr. Blake. Where’s Nola?”
He blinked. “Nola? Surely—”
She pushed her way past him into the building and called out, “Nola! It’s Elizabeth. I want to help you stay out of that horrible place. If you’re afraid of someone, I’ll take you to my house. Please, Nola—”
“Belie’e me, she’s not here. Sh—severe allergy to cats precludes her visiting my—”
She whirled on him and grabbed the front of his flannel shirt, pulling him close. “Listen, goddammit, I want to know where Nola is. I’m afraid she’s in danger from whoever it was keeping her drugged in the nursing home. I think they’re afraid of something she knows—something that could destroy them.”
“Please, no violence.” Blake looked down at her hands, still clutching his shirt. “Strongly…deplore violence.”
She released her hold on him; he swayed and staggered to the sofa. A cloud of cat hair rose as he collapsed onto the sagging cushions.
“I told her to trust you—more dependable than a drunk…but she had made up her mind. And when Miss Nola makes up her mind, she’s a…a ver’tible force of nature. Not to be deterred.”
He made a sweeping motion with his hand and repeated himself. “Not to be deterred in her quest. So when she had me take her first to her house and then back to Jim Hinkley’s, I did not protest. Mine not to reason why—”
Elizabeth frowned at Blake. “Why the hell would Nola want to go to Jim Hinkley’s gas station? And where is she now?”
Blake lay back, his eyes drifting shut. “As to where she is now, I could not venture to guess. But I rather suspect that her reason for having me chauffeur her to Jim Hinkley’s was so that she could retrieve her car.”
Chapter 46
A Woman Alone
Thursday, December 28
I don’t argue with Miss Nola. Sure, I was surprised to see her after all the talk there’d been but when she marched into the bay where I was greasing that old Chevy there and said her niece had made a mistake and she didn’t want to sell her little car after all. I just said, ‘Yes, ma’am, Miss Nola,’ and went and got it. She said she’d stop in and settle with me later and in she got and off she went. That way. Toward town.”
It was freedom; it was bliss; it was joy untrammeled to be behind the wheel of her car. To be in control of her body and mind once more. To breathe real air, not the exhalations of others, to see a changing landscape reeling past. Oh, free!
The sight of a police cruiser checked the flow of giddy exuberance, and Nola Barrett slowed to a sedate fifty-five. She took her eyes off the highway just long enough to admire the graceful shape of the Colt .38 revolver lying on the seat beside her. What was it Mother used to say? A woman alone needs a gun. Your granny got this from a feller comin back from the First World War and she give it to me. You take care of yourself now, Nolyda, and take care of our girl when I’m gone.
Nola wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. I tried to, Mama, the best I could. The best doctors, the best nursing care. But what I had to do to pay for that…Mama, sometimes I think you were right about Belle’s curse on Luellen’s line. We’re at an end now—Little Ricky is gone and our Tracy will bear no more children.
The soaring joy of moments ago vanished as completely as if it had never existed, and Nola Barrett drove on, feeling the bonds of her fate tightening around her. And the last of Belle’s evil line died at my hand. Endgame—no winner.
What now, Elizabeth? Nola could be heading to Ransom or to Asheville. Or to Charlotte or New York City or Timbuctoo. She’s an hour ahead of you and could be in another state by now. Or she could have turned down a side road and be doubling back. What the hell is she up to?