by Sherry Lewis
The door slammed behind him and Fred listened to his footsteps until they faded away. He looped his coat over a hook on the backdoor and lowered himself into a chair.
He unlaced one boot and stared at the back of the door, as if its painted surface could tell him what to do. Douglas might be a grown man, but he was acting like a child. Why? Was it just the boy’s personality? Or was it because he was the youngest of the four children? Had he and Phoebe pampered him? Had Phoebe been too reluctant to part with him as he grew older? Would he have been so . . . spoiled if he’d been the oldest? If he’d been Joseph?
Fred knew Joseph wouldn’t act so impulsively. Neither would Jeffrey. In fact, they wouldn’t have acted this way at eighteen. Fred admired Joseph and took great pride in Jeffrey’s accomplishments, but he had to admit neither of them had ever been as full of life as Douglas. But that zeal, if uncontrolled, would land Douglas in a heap of trouble.
Fred kicked off his other boot and pushed to his feet. Half of him wanted to let Douglas lie in whatever mess he created for himself. The other half didn’t want the boy to be humiliated. If Douglas wanted any chance at all to save his relationships with Suzanne and Alison, this wasn’t the way to go about it.
If Phoebe had been here, she’d have known just what to do. She’d had a way with their youngest son that Fred had never been able to match. And he obviously hadn’t gotten any better at dealing with the boy since Phoebe had passed on. The chances that Douglas would listen to anything Fred said were slim to none. Used to be, his word carried a lot of weight with the kids, but not anymore.
Well, maybe by morning Douglas would be willing to listen to reason. But the knot in Fred’s stomach told him that if Douglas didn’t rein himself in soon, there’d be hell to pay, and Douglas would expect Fred to help pay it, as always.
FOUR
Next morning, Fred stomped the mud and snow off his boots and slipped out of his heavy coat. Even on a morning as nippy as this one, he could still get outside for his daily constitutional around the lake. It started the day off right, got the blood pumping through his veins, and kept him feeling young. Younger than seventy-two, anyway.
He’d wanted Douglas to walk with him, but since he’d heard the boy sneak in sometime after two in the morning, he’d decided to let him sleep. They’d have other chances. Douglas would probably be around for quite a while, at least until something new lured him away.
Fred hung his coat on the book by the door and poured himself a cup of coffee. The can in the cupboard indicated that it was a brand of decaf, and Margaret didn’t put up a fuss anymore as long as she believed that’s what he drank. Fred didn’t see any reason to disillusion her. She was a wonderful daughter, but she had an irritating tendency to coddle him and to poke her nose into places where it didn’t belong—like his kitchen cupboards. After her first couple of raids on his pantry, Fred had started locking the house when he went out—for the first time in his entire life.
He held the cup in his stiff fingers and let the warmth seep into his bones. Checking the clock on the stove, he stifled a sigh. By the time Douglas dragged himself out of bed, the day would be half over. Of course, sleep might do the boy some good. Maybe when he woke up he’d have tripped over a dose of common sense.
Fred found his reading glasses on top of the refrigerator, tucked the Denver Post under one arm, and walked into the living room. Opening the curtains to let the sun in, he settled in his rocking chair by the front window and browsed through the paper until the sound of Margaret’s car distracted him in the middle of a story about a man and his grandson who’d been killed in a drive-by shooting.
“Listen to this,” he said without looking up when he heard her come in from the kitchen. “It says, ‘Seventy-four year-old Enrico Chavez—’ “
“Where is he?”
At the strident sound of Margaret’s voice, Fred lowered the paper. A little taller than Phoebe had been, Margaret was a striking woman. With her dark hair and usually serene face, she often made Fred think of Olivia DeHavilland—until she got angry.
She waited impatiently for his answer, her eyes radiating that peculiar golden light that had always signaled irritation in her mother. She must have heard about last night.
“Are you asking about Douglas?” Fred asked.
“Yes. Douglas. Where is he?”
“In bed.”
“At this hour?”
“It’s not that late.”
Margaret crossed the room and stood over him. “Were you with him at the Four Seasons last night?”
Fred answered with a cautious, “Yes.”
“And you let him act like that?”
“Well, now, I wouldn’t say I let him do anything. And I couldn’t hardly stop him, could I? It all happened so fast. One minute we were talking, and the next minute he was on the other side of the building, shouting at Suzanne and Garrett—”
Margaret turned away and shook her head in disbelief. “Suzanne and Garrett? And now Douglas? It’s like they’re all sixteen years old again.”
“Hormones,” Fred said and shook out a section of the paper.
Margaret glanced back at him. She looked confused. “What did you say?”
“Hormones. It was hormones then and it’s the same thing now.”
Margaret perched on the arm of the couch. “Suzanne and Garrett. I couldn’t believe it when I heard. And you can bet Janice Lacey didn’t waste any time calling me this morning to fill me in.”
“It wasn’t as bad as she made it sound.” Fred could say that with conviction since nothing was ever as bad as Janice made it sound.
“No?” Margaret narrowed her dark eyes as if assessing the truth of his statement, seemed to accept it, and shifted her attention to the mug in his hand. “Is that decaf?”
“What else would it be?”
She hesitated over that for a moment the turned away again. “Maybe I’ll have a cup.”
“Help yourself.” She was only forty-six. At her age, a little caffeine wouldn’t hurt her any.
Fred pushed out of the chair and followed her into the kitchen. He might as well get breakfast started. With Margaret making all this racket, Douglas would be up any minute. “Are the kids in school already?”
“All but Deborah. She’s got that flu that’s going around.”
“You should have brought her with you.”
Margaret looked shocked. “I don’t want you to get it! I’ll bring her by when she’s feeling better.” She stopped with her hand on a mug in the cupboard and tiled her head as if she heard something.
A second later, the kitchen door opened and Douglas shuffled inside. His hair poked straight up and his face was puffy from sleep. He sent Fred a blurred smile and kissed Margaret on the cheek. “Morning Pop. Sis. Is there any coffee left?”
“Of course.” Margaret stepped away from the counter to give him room.
“What’s for breakfast?” Douglas asked as he took her place. “I’m starved.” He wore only a white undershirt and a pair of too-large sweatpants hanging from his waist, and he moved in that fuzzy, unfocused way of someone not completely awake. Blinking rapidly several times, he peered into the bottom of a cup as if trying to decide whether he’d found a clean one.
Fred started to open the refrigerator, but Margaret stepped in front of him. “What’s for breakfast? Dad, don’t tell me you’ve been doing all the cooking since he’s been here.”
Douglas blinked again and tried to focus on the coffeemaker. “What’s the matter with you this morning?”
Maybe Douglas didn’t remember how his mother had looked when she got angry, but the expression on Margaret’s face should have warned him that trouble was brewing. He poured coffee into the mug, added sugar and stirred. “Where’s the milk?”
Flinging open the refrigerator door, Margaret snatched the milk carton from the shelf and slammed it onto the counter. “I don’t believe this! Do you expect Dad to wait on you like this when I’m not here?”
Finally, Douglas began to realize something was wrong. He hesitated for a moment with his cup halfway to his lips before taking a wary sip, watching Margaret over the rim. “Are you made at me or something?”
Margaret shot an exasperated look at Fred. “He wants to know if I’m mad at him.”
Fred dug a handful of potatoes out of a sack near the door. “She’s mad you, son.”
“Why?”
“Janice Lacey called her this morning to tell her about last night.”
Douglas looked embarrassed. “Oh.”
“Oh? That’s it?” Margaret’s voice grew shriller with each word.
“What do you want me to say?”
She threw her arms up in the air and looked at Fred again for help. “Well, something more than ‘oh.’”
Douglas took another sip and looked around for the table. “Okay. How about, ‘I was right.’ I don’t want Suzanne to have anything to do with Garrett Locke.”
“Since when did you become her keeper?” Margaret opened a cupboard door, rooted around for a moment, and pulled out a box of high-fiber something-or-other she’d expect Fred to eat. “I can’t even imagine how foolish you looked last night, carrying on that way.”
“Is that what Janice told you?”
“Among other things.” She sighed and yanked a bowl out of the cupboard.
“Well, I don’t care.” Douglas located the table, sat and rubbed his face with one hand. “If Suzanne could even think of getting involved with Garrett again, she obviously needs someone to tell her what to do.”
Margaret tried reasoning with him. “Look, Garrett might not be the nicest guy in the world, and maybe Suzanne is making a mistake by going out with him, but it’s none of your business anymore. What’s the matter with you?”
Douglas put on an indifferent face and made a show of studying the cereal box. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s none of your business.”
“Well, you have to talk about it. You can’t come home and act any old way you want, and leave Dad and me to deal with the mess when you waltz away again.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Douglas said stubbornly. “I’ve come home.”
“That’s what you say now, but you’ll find some reason to leave. You always do.”
Fred pulled out a chair and positioned himself between the two of them, “Now, Margaret—”
“He’s not the one who’s going to have to listen to everybody talking about him.”
“Is that what this is all about?” Douglas shoved the cereal box away and leaned back in his chair. “You’re worried what people are going to think? Since when does that matter to you?”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“You’ve changed, Maggie,” Douglas said, cutting her off.
“I have not. And it’s not about what people think. It’s about you screwing up again. You’re thirty-six years old and you still haven’t grown up.”
Fred didn’t like the turn this conversation was taking. “Now listen you two—”
“Why?” Douglas demanded. He pushed his fingers through his hair and his face darkened. “Because I don’t act like you?
“No, because you’re irresponsible.”
“And if anybody would know about being responsible, it’s you.” If Douglas had said that in any other tone of voice, it might have been a compliment.
Margaret turned a deep shade of red and opened her mouth to retort, but Fred didn’t want to hear what she had to say.
“Enough! Both of you.” He slammed his fist on the table to make sure they knew he meant business. Both of his children shot him a surprised look, but it had shut them up. “I don’t want to hear one more word.”
For one long moment they both stared at him. It wasn’t until they heard the pounding on the backdoor that Margaret reluctantly dragged her eyes away. After the intensity of their argument, the silence hung heavily in the room as she walked toward the door and pulled it open.
From where Fred sat, it took him a few seconds to focus on Doc Huggins’s face. “Doc? What are you doing here?”
“Fred.” Doc wiped his feet on the mat and nodded to Margaret. “Maggie, Doug. Mind if I come in for a minute?”
Margaret answered before Fred could. “Of course not.”
Doc checked in at a few years younger than Fred did, but he had the disposition of a cantankerous old man. For some reason, he’d decided to share his diagnosis of Fred’s condition—nothing more than a minor episode with his heart—with the entire town. He’d cautioned everyone to help Fred cut back on caffeine, cholesterol, and sodium.
Fred hadn’t forgiven him for it, either. No matter what Doc said, Fred did not intend to spend the rest of his days eating cardboard-tasting cereal, salad without dressing, and an endless procession of chicken parts dressed in low-fat sauces. Things had gone too far when Liz Hatch, down at the Bluebird, had started rationing his egg consumption.
Doc pulled off his hat and made a vain attempt at smoothing what was left of his hair. “I wanted to stop by and tell you the news myself. Told Enos I thought it should be me, considering your dad’s health.”
Panic flashed across Margaret’s face. “What’s wrong? Is it one of the kids?”
“No, nothing like that. Don’t’ worry. Far as I know, the kids are all just fine. But why don’t you sit down here by your Dad?” Doc settled his bag on the table and leaned an arm across it, but the look on his face convinced Fred that the news wasn’t good. “I’ve just come from Locke’s store. Considering what happened last night, I thought maybe you ought to be told right away.”
Fred’s pulse stuttered. “Told what?”
“Rusty Kinsella called Enos over at the sheriff’s office first thing this morning. Seems he went in early to open the store and found Garrett in his office—dead.”
Margaret gasped, but Douglas didn’t make a sound.
Fred didn’t need to ask the next question. He knew, just the way he’d known he was looking at a murder victim when he found Joan Cavanaugh in the lake last fall. But he asked anyway, “What happened to him?”
“He’s been murdered,” Doc said. “Somebody hit him in the head and crushed his skull.”
FIVE
A stunned hush filled the room, broken only the ragged sound of someone’s breathing. Fred couldn’t be certain it wasn’t his own. “Any idea who did it?” he croaked.
Doc shook his head. “None. Yet. Enos is still going over the scene and looking for clues.”
Margaret murmured something Fred couldn’t make out. Douglas didn’t speak, but a muscle in his jaw clenched and unclenched repeatedly, betraying his anxiety.
Garrett hadn’t been a likeable fellow, but Fred couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to kill him. Maybe there had been some sort of trouble at home—except that the Locke family had been whittled down to almost nothing, what with Richard’s death last year. Maude had been gone at least ten years and now, with Garrett gone, that left just what’s-her-name, Garrett’s sister. And an ex-wife somewhere or other—it seemed like she and Garrett’s daughter had been gone a good five years. Would one of them have wanted Garrett dead?
Or was it something else? “Any problems at the store that you know of?” Fred asked. “Was it a robbery?”
Silence greeted his question. Silence and three pairs of narrowed eyes.
Margaret broke the silence first, leaning toward him, her face tight. “Don’t even think about sticking your nose into this, Dad.”
Doc cleared his throat pointedly. “As a matter of fact, Enos asked me to make it perfectly clear that you’re not to go getting any big ideas this time.”
Ideas! They made him sound like an old fool. The thought of Enos sending such a message with Doc—the idea of Doc’s coming by at all—made Fred angry now that he stopped to think about it. “Why are you here, Doc? Why have you made a special trip to tell us about the murder?”
Doc scowled and puffed out his chest like the old blow-hard he was. “I thought you
ought to know.”
“Why?”
“Why not?” Doc demanded. “After last night . . . I mean with Doug and Garrett fighting again . . .”
Douglas’s face flushed an angry red. “We had an argument. So what?”
“The way I heard it, you were fighting in the parking lot.”
Douglas looked so volatile, Fred cut in before he could say something they’d all regret. “Well for Pete’s sake! They got a little testy, that’s all. Nothing more to it than that. It was all over in a minute. Garrett and Suzanne went on their way. Douglas and I came home.”
“We were worried about all the excitement,” Doc said. “We thought that with Douglas’s visit and last night’s trouble—and now this. Well, Enos and I both thought I should be the one to break the news, just in case.”
Fred hated the way people fussed over him as if they expected his heart to give out any minute. He’d had that one little scare, but that had been more than a year ago and he’d been fine ever since. “Well you’ve told us,” he said, “and I’m still alive.”
Doc’s face puckered into a tight scowl, but Margaret spoke up before he could say anything more. “Don’t get upset with Doc,” she said, patting Fred’s hand. “People care about you, that’s all.”
“Nothing but a crotchety old fool,” Doc muttered. He snapped his case shut and shook his head. “Show a little concern and what does it get you? Snarled at by a crotchety old fool. You have my sympathy, Maggie, having to deal with this all the time.”
Fred snorted to show what he thought of that, and Doc jabbed a finger right in Fred’s face. “You just remember what Enos said about keeping your nose out of his investigation.”
Fred met Doc’s holier-than-thou expression and his obnoxious finger with a look of innocent surprise. “Then you’ve ruled out the idea that he might have killed himself by whacking himself on the head?”
In spite of herself, Margaret’s lips twitched. “Don’t start in on Doc. It’s not his fault you were the only one who believed Joan Cavanaugh didn’t commit suicide.”