by Harry Kraus
“Okay, I’ll talk to Ms. Childress. If her testimony jibes with yours, you’ll have nothing to worry about.” He shut his briefcase. “But if it is as you say, why would this daughter have written such a scathing letter?”
Claire put up her hands. “I have no idea.”
She followed Mr. Dogget to the front desk, and he exited through the lobby. Then she returned to her desk, where she phoned Jimmy Jenkins. She rested her head in her hand as she listened to the recording. “You’ve reached Jimmy Jenkins. I’m not here right now, which means I’m out feeling the wind on my Harley. Leave a message after the beep.”
She sank onto her desk chair, which was still warm from its last occupant. How could things have gotten so confused? “Dr. Jenkins? This is Claire. I need you to call me about an urgent matter as soon as you come in. I’m at the office.”
John sat in his favorite Brighton restaurant for lunch, a diner called Mom’s Place, where the waitresses, young or old, all salted their hair and told you to eat your vegetables. The booths were seventies décor, and eight-track tapes tiled the far wall. At Mom’s Place, you paid for the verbal abuse and were rewarded by generous home-style portions heaped onto your plate from casserole dishes. You wouldn’t even dare ask for dessert unless you cleaned up your plate.
John lifted a steaming forkful of lasagna and inhaled. Heaven. As he chewed, he glanced at his fingernails. Once after he’d worked in his father’s garden, a waitress at Mom’s had sent him to the washroom to scrub his nails before she’d take his order.
Ami slid into the booth across from him. “Mind if I join you?”
“Uh, well, I was about done.”
She waved her hand at the waitress. “A couple of others are coming from work. Might as well make it a community table.”
John looked around toward the door. No one was following her. For the time being, it would appear that they were dining alone, something he wanted to avoid. He took another bite of lasagna, then looked up to see his waitress, a middle-aged woman wearing a name tag that read “Momma Darlene.” Her hands were on her hips. “What’s the idea, not warning me that you were bringing home a date?”
John reddened beneath her gaze. Her voice was loud, attracting the smiles of the other patrons.
“Starting to eat before your guest is just plain rude.” She looked at Ami and took her cheeks in her hands. “Oh, you poor sweet thing. My son has no manners.” She winked. “But I can see he has good taste in women. It’s been thirty years since I had a killer figure like you.”
Ami giggled.
“What would you like, child? How about a new boyfriend?”
“This one is fine,” she said, glancing at John. “Bring me the same thing he’s having.”
“The lasagna? I wish I could eat it. With all that cheese, it has a million calories,” Momma Darlene said. “If I ate that, I might as well stick it right on one of these hips.” She looked at John and shook her index finger. “And no comments from you. You’re the reason I look this way. I looked like this twiggy here until I got pregnant with you!” With that, she stormed toward the kitchen to the applause of the guests at the other tables.
John, however, hung his head. The last thing he needed was for all of Brighton to think he had a new twiggy girlfriend. He waited for the others from work to materialize while Momma served Ami and told him to eat his green salad. “It aids good bowel function,” she said.
As John finished his salad, Ami pushed her lasagna around on her plate. “I’m so glad we’ve gotten to know each other.”
John glanced around, wondering where all the spit went when your mouth gets dry. He cleared his throat and nodded, then watched uneasily as her eyes began to sparkle with tears.
She blotted her eyes with a napkin. “I’ve never been able to trust men,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Just interacting with you has given me some hope.” She sniffed. “You know, that all men might not be jerks.”
“Certainly you don’t think all men are — ”
“Not all men,” she interrupted. “My stepfather was a jewel.” She paused and leaned forward. “I hated my real father. It’s surprising after his abuse that I could ever love a man.” She let her eyes linger on his. In a flash, her expression hardened. “He’s in prison.”
John squirmed. Where were the others she’d promised? He looked at her. Certainly this model of physical perfection couldn’t lack for men. “I’m sorry, Ami.”
“You’re so kind, John.” She reached for her water glass and brushed his hand with hers. It seemed so accidental, but he had to fight the urge not to pull his hand away. “That’s what I love about you,” she added.
“Ami, I — ” He looked around again and kept his voice low. “You know I’m engaged.”
“I know that. And maybe that’s why I’m not afraid of you. We can be friends. And I know you’re not just dying to take me to your bed.”
“Of course not.” His voice was urgent.
“Here you are.” He looked up to see Ju Phan and Bob Estes, both part of the sales force for e-patient software. Bob frowned. “Are we interrupting? We can wait for another table.”
“Don’t be silly,” John said, hoping they didn’t notice Ami’s tears. “Have a seat.”
John listened as Momma Darlene marched up, spouting her grief again. “What’s this, you guys show up late for dinner and expect to eat?”
They laughed and ordered the daily special, meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
When Darlene served them, John handed a ten-dollar bill to Ju Phan and excused himself. To his dismay, Ami followed him outside into the parking lot.
“I just wanted to say that I appreciate you not betraying my confidence. Those guys don’t need to hear of our relationship.”
“Our relationship? Ami, we’re friends,” he said, holding up a hand. “Right? Friends.”
She smiled. “Of course. I appreciate that so much.” She held open her arms, offering a hug.
He stood unmoving for a moment, while she let her hands freeze in the air like a statue. “Come on, friend,” she coaxed.
He returned the hug, trying unsuccessfully to keep an inch between them. Once in his arms, she kissed his cheek and pulled his ear to her mouth. “I know how you really feel,” she whispered.
John backed away, releasing her. “How I really feel is that I wish you’d realize that you are my secretary, not my girlfriend.”
She pirouetted on her heels and headed back to the door of the restaurant. “Oh, I understand perfectly, John. I can feel everything you think.”
She disappeared, leaving him staring at the front of the restaurant, feeling exposed, wondering just what messages he’d been sending. Of course he was attracted to her. She was drop-dead gorgeous. But he was in love with Claire McCall. This girl meant nothing to him.
Except fire. And temptation.
And desire.
That evening, Della arrived at Jimmy Jenkins’s house to mingle with a set of who’s who in the Apple Valley. Charles Lamb, mayor of Fisher’s Retreat, stood next to the grill giving Jimmy advice on how to marinate the salmon. His wife, Grace, chatted with local wildlife artist Julie Westerly. Judge F. Walter Gifford sat on a porch swing talking to town-council member Joseph Martin. Elizabeth McCall, the newly reinstated chairman of the board of McCall Shoes and Della’s mother-in-law, played stand-in hostess, serving merlot to anyone whose glass was half full.
Della hadn’t understood just what a few guests meant to Jimmy. Immediately, she felt outclassed and underdressed. Of course, finding herself in the same social circle with Elizabeth was new, and she found herself throwing her shoulders back and attempting to appear worthy. When the mayor retreated to his wife’s elbow, Della moved in on Jimmy, talking to him in hushed tones. “Claire has been trying to reach you half the day.”
He nodded. “I got her phone message. I got home after the office was closed.” He furrowed his brow. “Is there trouble?”
“Claire is in some sort
of quandary with the state board. Evidently, Nancy Childress’s daughter reported her for suspected euthanasia of Richard Childress.” Della glanced over her shoulder.
“That’s crazy,” he said. “Why?”
“She doesn’t know. But the board is taking this pretty seriously. Some investigator was in the office today, demanding to see Richard’s file, questioning Claire like she was some criminal.”
“Oh, dear.” He shook his head. “Euthanasia?”
Della nodded. “With the morphine you gave Nancy. The morphine Claire agreed to prescribe to protect you.”
Jimmy’s eyes flared. “You can’t think that I would have let her do that if I’d have thought anything would ever come of it, Della. I was protecting Richard and Nancy, so they wouldn’t look like they had morphine without a prescription.”
“Whatever,” Della huffed. “But now Claire is in trouble.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” Jimmy said, stroking his chin. “Nancy told me that Richard died without her giving him one dose of the morphine.”
“So why would her daughter make such an accusation?”
“I don’t know. She’s not exactly a stable person. She was very close to Richard.”
“Not exactly stable?”
“She’s schizophrenic. I’d heard she was doing well, but I know Nancy had some concerns that Richard’s death might send her off into delusional thinking.”
“Apparently.”
They looked up as Elizabeth approached.
Jimmy leaned toward Della and whispered, “Tell Claire not to worry. I’m sure Nancy can clear up any concerns the board may have.”
“Hello, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth smiled and lifted her glass. “Here’s to your daughter and my granddaughter,” she said.
Jimmy chuckled. “What has the McCall princess done now? Become the first Stoney Creek female to graduate from medical school? Solve a medical mystery that has plagued the town for generations?”
“Better than that,” Elizabeth said, motioning for the others to gather around. “This is a fitting forum for announcing a new development for our town.” She topped off the wine glasses. Again. “To my granddaughter,” she said, raising her glass.
The mayor coughed. “What are we celebrating?”
His wife shushed him. “Let her speak.”
“As many of you know,” Elizabeth began, “our little shoe company has been the largest employer in this area for the past fifty years. But dwindling sales and competition from foreign companies have forced us to cut jobs, and set us on the edge of Chapter 11. Eventually, the final solution to our problem appeared: the sale of our company to a large foreign company which would have ensured a huge increase in our production and provided even more jobs to our community.”
Elizabeth continued. “But with Leon’s death, and apparent bad legal counsel, the deal was lost. The Japanese firm had a sudden case of cold feet and withdrew the offer.”
Jimmy frowned. “What happened? What does Claire have to do with all of this?”
Elizabeth swirled the liquid in her glass. “After Leon’s death, his lawyer, an oily man by the name of Alfred Pittington, pled with my granddaughter to make an appeal to Mr. Sugimoto, the official from the Japanese firm which had shown interest in our company.”
Elizabeth smiled and sipped her merlot, comfortable being the center of attention. Her eyes sparkled beneath a snowcap of hair.
The judge cleared his throat. “Come on, Elizabeth. Get to the point. What are we toasting?”
“Before Leon’s death, I sold him my shares in McCall Shoes, resigning my position on the board. But Claire insisted that if she was to intervene, I’d need to be reinstated to the board and allow my stock shares to be sold back to me at their depreciated value.”
The judge groaned as Elizabeth paused again to sip from her glass.
“Well, about a month ago, Claire spoke to Mr. Sugimoto, urging him to take another look at our company, asking him to note the changes in board leadership as evidence that we were making progress on the issues that troubled him.” She did a slow celebratory turn, holding the wine bottle in the air like a torch. “Well, today Mr. Sugimoto signed an agreement to purchase McCall Shoes. Our company is saved.”
“And half the workers of Stoney Creek,” the mayor added.
The judge lifted his glass. “Here’s to Claire McCall.” He stopped with the glass just short of his lips. “Wait a minute. Just how does Claire McCall have such influence over Mr. Sugimoto?”
Elizabeth laughed. “Let’s just say she helped him through a delicate medical procedure, and became a trusted friend in the process.”
Della traded glances with Jimmy and shrugged.
Margo closed the leather-backed Bible when she heard the crunch of gravel in the driveway. Kyle was home. She whispered a prayer, “Please God, not another silent evening,” and crossed the room, pausing as she listened to the slam of his car door. She met him on the front porch. He kissed her and looked at the yard. “Did you mow?”
Margo looked around. The lawn that had been straggly that morning was trimmed even and short. The scent of cut grass still hung in the air. She shook her head. “I was gone all afternoon. I went to Brighton to look at a dress for Claire’s wedding.” She walked around the yard. Every blade stood manicured, even the grass next to the fence.
“It looks great.” He scratched his head. “Kelly?”
“She’s at soccer practice. She hasn’t been home all day.”
“It couldn’t be Casey. She’s afraid of the mower.”
“Whoever it was did a professional job.” A chill played on the back of Margo’s neck. “You don’t think — ”
“What’s wrong?”
“That maniac who escaped from prison. He used to mow the grass at Claire’s office.”
“You think he mowed our grass?”
Margo fought a tide of rising fear. “I don’t know. But Claire said someone stole the mower from the shed behind her office. And her maintenance man, the one who escaped from prison, was the only one who knew where she hid the key.”
“But why would he mow the yard?”
She shook her head slowly. “He must be sending a message. He knows where I live.” She looked at her husband. “He did the same thing at Mom’s. Call the police, Kyle.”
He wrinkled his nose. “And say what? That someone mowed our yard?”
“Tell them that this Tyler freak is still loose. Tell them that he is still in the area.”
Kyle put his arm around Margo’s shoulders. “Calm down, honey. You don’t know any of this. Maybe it was Henry Smith from down the street. He probably called to see if he could mow and when you didn’t answer, he just went ahead and mowed.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. There has to be a logical explanation.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “Before I call the police, let me at least check with Henry.”
Margo allowed Kyle to walk her into the house.
Kyle picked up the phone book and traced his finger down a long list of Smiths. After a moment, he dialed. “Mrs. Smith? Kyle Stevens here. Just a question. Did Henry come down here to mow today?” He paused. “Okay, okay. Sure . . . thank you.” He set the phone down and looked at Margo. “His mother said he was out mowing this afternoon. She’s not sure where.”
“Why didn’t you talk to Henry?”
“He’s out playing basketball with his friends.” Kyle walked to the window.
Margo followed, looking at the grass along the fence. Her stomach churned. Henry never trimmed along the fence.
Chapter Fifteen
As the last of the other guests disappeared, Della urged Jimmy to call Claire. “Here,” she said, dialing her own number and handing him the phone, “I’ll do the dishes. You talk to Claire.”
She listened to the one-sided conversation as he paced in the next room. Jimmy encouraged Claire not to worry. He was sure Nancy Childress would put the rumor ab
out euthanasia to rest. The state board would have no choice but to close the investigation.
When he returned, Della smiled. “Thanks.”
He picked up a wet serving tray. “I’ll dry.”
“I didn’t realize you were such a good cook.”
“Miriam trained me.” He set down the tray in his hand. “How’s Wally?”
She sighed. “Horrible.”
He picked up a plate. “I’m sorry.”
She felt her emotions begin to tangle. She loved Wally. She hated what he had become. She enjoyed Jimmy’s company. She despised that she enjoyed his company while she was still married to Wally. She looked at him, angry because of the turmoil in her soul. “Wally wants to die, Jimmy. He just lies there, trapped in a body that won’t cooperate, his arms flailing about like a drowning man swinging for a rescue rope.” Her hand went to her mouth to hold back a sob. “Claire and I must have talked to his neurologist a hundred times. He just keeps increasing his antidepressants as if some chemical can soothe him, but it never seems to help.”
Jimmy put the plate on the counter and faced Della. As she began to weep, he coaxed her to lean against his body, absorbing first her tears and then her fists against his chest. Della hated herself for wanting this man, hated the fact that she was still unable to give into the passion she had pushed away for so many years of obedience to her vows. She knew he understood her agony. It was the quiet knowing of two people who had shared a secret for many years.
Slowly Della’s tears subsided and she surrendered to rest her head against his chest. Jimmy lifted his hand to her hair and held her against him. After a minute, she raised her head to meet his eyes. When he leaned his head toward hers, she placed her finger against his lips and shook her head. “Not while Wally is alive.”
Friday morning, Claire sat at her desk thumbing through Ami Grandle’s medical record. Jimmy’s memory about her was correct. She’d been seen in the office throughout her childhood, and her chart contained one sad entry after another. Claire read Jimmy’s reports of a battered, sexually abused child who fought with depression and self-esteem. The last entry reflected Dr. Jenkins’s report on a complete psychotic break that Ami had during nursing school. She had been so out of touch with reality that he had a rescue squad pick her up from the office and take her to Brighton University for psychiatric care.