by E. Joan Sims
We got some postcards from Mother and Horatio in the mail. Scenes of the beautiful sea and lovely sky and perfect white sandy beaches where they had decided to spend a romantic interlude. For a moment that old jealousy sneaked up behind me and whacked me in the heart—yearning searing my lonely soul; but I threw the cards down on the kitchen table for Cassie to see and grabbed my jacket. Time for a drive down to the lake to clear out the cobwebs and cleanse the soul. I had no time for a could-a-been, or what-if.
The wind was high, but not as high, or as dangerous as it had been on my last visit, so I drove down to the waters edge and found a spot overlooking Teddy Creek Bay. The sun was shining brilliantly overhead, causing the white hulls of the little sailboats to gleam brightly against the dark water of the lake. Fishermen trawled around the edges of the bay, stopping at decent intervals to pull up their heavy nets, full of the ‘catch of the day.’ It was a beautiful sight. Who needed to go to some stupid old beach in the Bahamas, I thought? We have it all right here.
Ruminating on the ‘catch of the day’ made me realize I had skipped breakfast. I was really hungry now that my little pity party was over, and I needed food fast, but not fast food. I bounced my little car back over the rocks and pebbles on the beach, taking no heed of the advice of the last mechanic who had told me to, “Take it easy. You’re not driving a tank, you know!” and headed for the closest place serving fresh fish.
I was seated in a comfortable corner booth, once again overlooking the lake and all its beauty, when I had an unexpected visitor.
“Well, looky here, how lucky can a mate get? Lunch with a good looking sheila like Paisley Sterling. Can‘t get any better than that—unless it‘s with her lovely scheming little daughter.”
He slid into the bench opposite me, grinning like a shark from the old Merrrie Melody cartoon movies. I was immediately aware of the fact that he was more than a little tipsy. His breath stank of bourbon and he looked like he had slept in his clothes. I was furious.
“I think you’d better leave before I make a scene,” I whispered loudly. “The owner’s a friend of mine,” I lied. “He’ll kick you out in a second if I say so.”
“I think not, Paisley love. Because Mick is a friend of mine. Just bought the place last month, as a matter of fact. Turning it into a ‘shrimp on the Barbie’ franchise this summer, he is. With me as one of them fancy financiers.”
I must have turned a tad pale because he took great pleasure in continuing, “Didn’t expect that, did you, love? Me owning a piece of ‘your friend’s’ restaurant?”
“No,” I stammered, “my mistake…”
“You mean your lie, don’t you, love,” he added in a nasty voice.
“Yes, my lie,” I admitted. “But your lie is bigger than mine. Veterinarian, my hind foot! That’s a much bigger lie any day. It may even be fraud…and practicing medicine without a license is a crime! You are up to no good, admit it!”
My voice had raised an octave, and the few remaining late lunch guests were staring at the corner booth with fascination.
He sat back and grinned—self-satisfaction plumping out the new hollows in his cheeks and making him appear somewhat handsome again. The dark circles beneath his eyes were almost hidden behind the expensive aviator sunglasses, and his sallow skin looked healthier in the late afternoon light. But it was still easy to see that Huntley Haverstock had seen some rough days lately, and I would bet, even rougher nights.
“But I am a vet,” he said with a Cheshire cat smile. “A real vet with a real license and all the trimmings. You can check, if you like, with Immigration. All the necessary papers signed, sealed and delivered to your government and mine. Bonafied, I am,” he boasted. “Bonafied!”
The declaration seemed to take all the steam out of him. His head began to droop and the fresh and feisty look melted away like wax exposed to a flame. Huntley Haverstock was ill. I told him so.
“Not ill,” he differed sadly. “Just sick. Sick and tired of hate and revenge and a life wasted trying to fulfill someone else’s wishes instead of my own.” There were self-pitying tears in his voice when he continued. “I’m a right mess, I am, Paisley Sterling. A right mess.”
“Look, Huntley, let’s get you something to eat and maybe some coffee…”
“Ha! Coffee won’t help me now. But I’ll tell you something that will help you and especially that uppity little lily-white sheila of yours.”
“Now just a darn…”
“Stay away from Simmons,” he whispered urgently. “Stay far away and maybe you’ll come out of this alright.”
“But…”
“And keep your nose out of something that happened so long ago it should have been forgotten.”
Having said that, he lurched up from the booth and out of the restaurant. By the time I paid the bill for my uneaten lunch and followed him to the parking lot, his big white SUV was gone.
“Well, how do you like them apples?” I asked a fearless beady-eyed seagull who was perched on the post by my car.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t convince Cassie to eat out with me at the Dairy Queen—not even for the “healthy” side of the menu.”
“A person can gain weight from just breathing in that place, Mom. You should really have gotten that out of your system by now. My, goodness, I feel like I’m dealing with a four year-old sometimes.”
“Wow, you really know how to hurt a person,” I teased.
“It’s true and you know it.”
“Well, maybe, but it is the only game in town, and I don’t feel like driving down to Sallie’s; and Gran’s kitchen is so clean and all—it would be a real shame to go and dirty up the counters or any of the dishes that took so long to wash.”
“Didn’t you eat lunch down at the lake? Fish, I thought? That’s what your note said, anyway.”
“Yeah, well…you might as well know.”
She turned around, her long shining hair swirling around her lovely face. “What? Know what?”
“My super-duper, eco-friendly, low-cal lunch was disturbed by your ex-boyfriend, the suspected drug dealer.”
“Huntley? Huntley’s still in town? Wow, I don’t believe it.”
“Well, he’s here—and here to stay. He’s bought part ownership in a little seafood restaurant near Minton on the lake, and I guess he plans to live there permanently.”
“Minton, hmmm. Well, that’s far enough away…”
“He looked awful, Cassie.”
She sat down heavily on the kitchen chair—concern evident on her face.
“He’s been on a bender. I’m almost positive. And he’s lost weight. I thought he was ill, but he denied it. Said something about living a wasted life.”
“Poor guy,” she mused.
“Well, the poor guy seems to have it in for us—you in particular, and he warned us to stay away from William in no uncertain terms.”
“That’s odd.”
“I thought so too. I mean, how would he even know William?”
“I guess I could ask him Saturday night.”
“You’re still going out with him? After Huntley’s warning and all?
“Mom! A warning from the likes of Huntley Haverstock…a warning from him not to see someone with William’s credentials?”
“You mean good looks, don’t’ you, Cassie?”
She stalked off like I knew she would. I had perfected the ability to push everyone’s buttons over the years, and I needed some time alone to think…preferably on a full stomach.
Heeding Cassie’s advice about not breathing in calories, I ordered at the drive-in window and ate in my car. I had ordered the grilled chicken salad again in honor of my health conscious daughter, and found it somewhat cumbersome and unwieldy to handle behind the wheel of the little compact. Not for the first time did I miss Watson. The big green Jeep Cherokee had gone to a fiery grave, but it had been fun to drive, and had much more room inside for everything—including a fas
t food feast.
The days were getting shorter as late autumn approached, and the lights in surrounding businesses along that strip of highway began to pop on like lightening bugs. Across the street from the Dairy Queen was a yard ornament emporium. Just a Quonset hut, really—with concrete geese and gnomes and other assorted creatures captured in cold grey stone. Mother had purchased one or two years ago for the farm, but I had never really liked them. To me, they appeared paralyzed—frozen by some evil wizard in the midst of their frolicking.
I noticed they had a new section featuring wooden lawn furniture—swings, benches, and one lone windmill that served as a flowerbox. For some reason, the windmill held my attention—knocking on the door of my memory like a vacuum cleaner salesman desperate for a sale.
“Windmill,” I muttered. “What is it about that silly windmill? Oh, my God! Windmill!” Huntley Haverstock is in the windmill!”
The cardboard salad bowl and all the bits and pieces I hadn’t eaten went flying to the floor when I jerked the car out of the parking lot and down the road towards home. There was a movie I had to see, and pronto.
Foreign Correspondent was there on the library shelf along with Only Angels Have Wings, Without Reservations, and all my other very favorite movies. It had been a long time since I had indulged in a night of popcorn and the old black and whites, but I remembered it took a few minutes into the movie before reporter Joel McCrea, and Harry Davenport, as his editor, agree upon a nom de plume for McCrea’s character, Johnny Jones. But there it was: ‘Huntley Haverstock’—big as you please!
What in the world, I wondered, had caused our little friend—no pun intended—to choose the name of that character—a hero no less—sent to another country to secure secrets about an impending war? I had always been a little bit infatuated with “Johnny Jones” and it didn’t sit well with me to have his fake name besmirched by the likes of our “Huntley.”
I had to find out who he really was, and pronto!
But first, I had to finish the movie. I particularly loved the thrilling part where Joel/Johnny/Huntley’s trench coat sleeve gets caught in the gears of the big Dutch windmill and he nearly gets caught by the Nazi spy.
“Wow!”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The State Veterinary Board wouldn’t budge. Privileged information they said—not for the public.
“Rats!”
Not to be undone before I even started, I called a friend at the Experiment Station outside of town. The University of Kentucky Research Center employed most of the Ph.D.’s in western Kentucky. I had made friends with several of them, and Jerry was one of the best.
“How’s the serpent dog?” he chuckled. “Need any info on rabies?”
“No, Jerry, not yet—but there’s still time. She’s young.”
I could see him sitting in his big messy lab surrounded by dogs and cats of all sizes and breeds—happy as could be—following his bliss.
“Still love the job, Jerry?”
“Oh, you know!” he laughed. “How can I help you, Paisley?”
“I need to know the names of any recent additions to the roster of vets in the state.”
“You mean recent graduates?”
“No…I don’t think so, just recent additions from out of state or even out of the country—say, Great Britain for example.”
“Sounds like you already have someone in mind. What are you up to, Paisley, pet?”
“Nothing, really,” I lied.”
“You know this information is not for …”
“I know, I know—the public, yada yada yada.” I decided to use Cassie. It wouldn’t be the first time. “Let’s just say a concerned mother wants to know about her daughter’s new friend.” Huntley was right. I was beginning to prove his assessment of me in spades.
I could practically see Jerry smile over the phone. He had three daughters himself, and was as protective as a papa bear.
“Well, in that case…hang on a minute.”
I sat there holding my breath—wondering what Huntley was really up to—while Jerry fiddled around with his computer. He always acted like it was a complicated machine way beyond his comprehension, but I knew otherwise. He was a genius, plain and simple.”
“Okay, Paisley? You still there?”
“Yep! Fire away.”
“Last year, or this year? Or both?
“Is it a long list? Somehow, I wouldn’t think so.”
“You’d be surprised. Lots of docs come here from other countries for further training in specialties that aren’t offered in their countries. And some come for research at the Station.”
“How about this year, then.”
“Robert Timothy Andrew Alesworthy, Pierre Andres Benoit…”
“Wait a minute!” I couldn’t believe my ears.” Alesworthy?”
“Yep. Robert Timothy Andrew, no less.”
“Where from? I mean where did he come from? Great Britain?”
“Well, in a manner of speaking. He comes from Australia. Has a pretty little bunch of degrees from the University of Melbourne, as a matter of fact. Smart lad.”
I was astounded. I sat there thinking and then just to be sure, I asked, “Any Haverstocks on that list for the last two years?”
He was quiet for a moment and then told me that there was no Haverstock listed within the last four years.
“Sorry,” he added. “Guess I couldn’t be of much help.”
“Oh, you’ll never know, Jerry! Thanks a bunch.”
I sat back in the kitchen chair and breathed deeply. No way could I have ever suspected that Huntley was Jane Alesworthy’s son. It was downright unbelievable! That must be why he came back to Rowan Springs—to see his mother. But how had he ended up in Australia in the first place? I was practically bursting with questions when Cassie came home and found me lying on my stomach on the library floor with a big piece of poster board and a handful of markers making an outline of characters in our little melodrama.
“Oh, is it activity hour at the Meadowdale Nursery School?”
“No, smarty—it’s show and tell. Sit down here on the floor and I’ll show you and then you can tell me what you think.”
Chapter Thirty
Cassie was as astounded as I was. And she had even more questions.
“That little worm! What in the world is he up to?”
“My thoughts exactly!”
Aggie was delighted to have her mistress back home, and even more delighted that she was down on her level. She tugged and pulled on Cassie’s jacket until Cassie gave in and played with her for a few minutes. But when she grabbed a red marker in her mouth and went running, I shouted something obscene and Cassie jumped up to catch her before any damage was done. Aggie and a red marker spelled trouble in any language.
Cassie came back, her cheeks only slightly less red than the dog’s from her exertions. She held up the remnants of a chewed up red mess dripping with doggie spit.
“You don’t want it back, I suppose?” she asked. “I’m really sorry, Mom. She wouldn’t let it go.”
Aggie followed behind her, looking as chastened as she ever got—her little black lips ringed with bright red ink. I couldn’t help it. I laughed until I was hurting. The dog gave me her frostiest stare and left the room in a huff—headed no doubt, for my bed and whichever down pillow was her favorite of the moment.
“That red stuff better not come off on my pillows!”
“No, Mom. It’s a permanent marker. It won’t even come off my dog.”
That was even funnier. This time it was my daughter who gave the frosty look and huffed out of the room, leaving me all by myself with the ever increasing mystery du jour.
It was late—way past library closing time, besides I didn’t need their records when I had my own computer. I decided to google ‘Huntley,’ ‘Jane Alesworthy,’ and any other names I could think of that might shed some light on things. It wasn’t until I got to ‘James Arthur Poole’ that I hit gold.
; It was just a small paragraph in the Weiuca Weekly obituary section—not much to show for a long life. But James Arthur was deceased—had been for six months. He died at home in The Sunset Trailer Park. He lived alone as well—a widower—no mention of any progeny. He was found by a neighbor who checked in on him from time to time to make sure he was taking his heart medication. James was a double amputee—diabetes.
“Hmmm.”
I fervently wished that Horatio wasn’t having so much fun in the sun with my mother. There was no one else I could mull this new information over with. Andy was out of the question. He had already warned me off in no uncertain terms, and Cassie was mad at me because I laughed at her dog; but wasn’t she always begging to get in on my snooping and sneaking around? Wasn’t she the one who wanted so much to be included as a partner in crime?
Now, I decided, was the time to test her—to see if her desire to be number one son to my Charlie Chan—Tonto to my Lone Ranger—Cato to my Green Lantern…
“Not until you apologize for laughing at poor little Aggie,” she protested.
“That’s just plain childish! You can’t have it both ways, baby. Either you’re grown up enough to help me or you’re not.”
She pursed her pretty lips and then stuck out her tongue at me to make her point, and finally agreed.
“Ok, but do try not to make fun of Aggie in the future. She’s sensitive, and …”
I couldn’t help it. Not for love nor money could I hold it back. The great loud bark of a laugh startled even me.
Chapter Thirty-One
Apparently Cassie’s desire to become my part-time partner didn’t run that deep. Once again, I was treated to two backsides—one slender and lovely and one fuzzy and white.
“Congratulations, old girl,” I muttered. “You’ve done it again.” Only this time I put more of the blame on Cassie. She was really acting out on an adolescent scale, but I decided it had more to do with her not wanting me to comment further on her Saturday date than anything else.