by Meera Lester
Before Abby could speak, Paola called to her.
“La policía . . . muy rápido.” Paola let go of the nurse’s hand to hug Abby. “Gracias, mi amiga, for coming.” She adjusted the blue print scarf around her head, which hid the missing section of bone the size of tea party gingersnap. Scarves would be part of her daily attire now. Paola led Bernie, the nurse, and Abby into the kitchen. There she stood next to the sink and pointed out the window at the illuminated backyard. Whatever had triggered the sensor when Paola and Abby were on the phone would remain a mystery. But now, Abby reckoned, the officer who’d stopped her out front had probably gone around to the back to check the rear of the house and the yard. His movement likely had tripped the sensor light.
An hour later, Bernie and his partner—a twentysomething cadet who carried no gun—had done a thorough search of the property and found nothing. Before they left, they checked Jake’s phone, jotting down the number that had been recently calling. They wrote out Paola’s and the nurse’s statements for the incident report. And they instructed Paola to keep her doors locked and to dial 911 if there was further suspicious activity.
Abby put her hand on Paola’s arm. “Listen, why don’t you consider discharging the nurse for tonight and coming to stay with me and Sugar for a few days?” She struck a lighthearted tone. “The couch bed is almost as comfortable as mine. And in the morning, I’ll prepare us a big breakfast, farmette style—fresh-squeezed orange juice, rosemary potatoes, sausages, chunks of French breakfast cheese, toast, and homemade wild plum jam. Whaddya say?”
The cops regarded Paola for a reaction that didn’t immediately come. “Abby’s right,” said Officer de la Cruz. “It might be good for you to stay somewhere else tonight. I doubt whoever had been out there will be back, but you never know. Sounds like you’ll be in good hands over at Abby’s place. Personally, I’d never pass up that breakfast she’s offering.” He stole a glance at Abby, which she disregarded. No way did she want Bernie to think she might have the slightest interest in starting something with him or inviting him to breakfast. Her focus was now completely on Paola and moving past the dark events of this evening.
Paola smiled. “Abby is my sister and my angel.”
Abby escorted the officers to the door. “Thanks for taking a look around,” she said. “We’ll be leaving soon, too.”
* * *
The kitchen clock wall above Abby’s sink read nine o’clock straight up when Abby had finished locking the doors for the night. She and Paola had changed into pajamas and robes. Preparing the sofa bed with clean sheets and pillowcases took more time than usual because Sugar considered it a game. On Abby’s upswing, Sugar would see the billowy sheet and launch herself at it. This new game went on for several throws, until Abby redirected Sugar to a legitimate toy—a chewed-up rag doll that had a pocket for tucking in a treat.
“I love it here,” Paola said.
“You and me both,” Abby said. Although she and Paola were in the cozy living room, Abby could hear the wind chime beyond the master bedroom window clanging. Abby said, “That wind is bone-chilling cold and strong as my grandmother Rose’s favorite hot toddy.”
“Toddy?”
“It’s a little drink my grandmother would whip up on cold nights. Generally, it would include her favorite Scottish whiskey, some water, herbs, and honey,” said Abby. “But I’m going to make us something less potent to help us sleep.” Abby walked to the kitchen to take out a pan and a jug of milk and set about warming the milk. She wondered how to explain to Paola not to be alarmed that the twiggy branches of the twenty-foot elm would scrape across the roof with the wind gusts. Then, there would be the pitter-patter of raccoon paws across the rooftop as the animals made their way to the Brown Turkey fig tree on the northwest side of her place. And the pine tree, too, would drop cones with a thud whenever the wind blew hard.
Abby poured the warm milk into a teacup and added honey. She walked back to Paola and handed her the cup. “Try this.” After returning to the kitchen, she poured a cup for herself and again rounded the kitchen counter to sit at the antique dining table. Addressing Paola, she said, “The stone house in back has a bad roof. Pieces of corrugated tin break off sometimes in a wind gust. It makes a fierce racket.”
Paola smiled but said nothing, apparently content to sip the beverage.
Abby sipped her milk and wondered how to explain mid-century roofing material that would snap off and blow away. What words could she substitute in Spanish for polycarbonate and corrugated aluminum? She decided not even to try to explain all the sounds that might wake Paola.
Paola looked up from her teacup and nodded. “We’ll be fine.” She lowered her gaze and finished her warm milk in silence. After she set aside the teacup and yawned, she asked, “Extra pillow, por favor?”
“Of course,” said Abby. “Two aren’t enough?”
“I want to wrap one. I brought Jake’s pajamas.” Her dark eyes grew shiny, and her expression became melancholy. “Maybe I see him tonight.”
“In your dreams, you mean?” Perhaps Jake’s pajama shirt still carried the scent of his soap and his body. That, too, would soon be gone. Abby looked at her tenderly. Unable to fathom the depth of Paola’s suffering, Abby could easily understand this small act of love.
“In dreams, yes,” Paola said, lifting the sheet to crawl into the bed. “You think it is strange?”
“No, I get it,” said Abby. She set aside her teacup and rose to fetch the pillow. Sugar bounded up from resting on her haunches under the table to follow Abby. “Oh, I almost forgot,” Abby said. “Ordinarily, Sugar sleeps at the foot of my bed. I don’t know how she’ll behave, since I rarely have guests. Feel free to call me to come get her.”
Paola smiled. “Not necessary.”
From the closet in her bedroom, Abby took the extra pillow from the shelf. She found a freshly washed pillowcase and wrestled it on. That Paola would beckon Jake to visit her in her dreams seemed touching. What if it worked? Abby wondered whom she would summon. Her thoughts conjured images of Ian Weir, Jean-Louis Bonheur, and Jack Sullivan. No, if she could invite anyone into her dreams, it would be that enigmatic Lucas Crawford. She placed the pillow on a chair and pulled out a comforter from a zipped storage bag. After taking the two items to the living room, Abby handed the extra pillow to Paola and spread the comforter over the bed. While Paola wrapped Jake’s gray-and-blue-striped flannel bedclothes around the pillow, Abby did a final check of the door and window locks.
“Sleep well, my friend,” said Abby, her hand on the light switch. “Tomorrow’s a new day.”
Paola had already turned away from her to embrace the pajama-clad pillow.
Abby murmured, “My grandmother Rose would say, ‘In this world, when we doubt too much and dream too little, we miss the sweet mysteries of life.’ And doesn’t love always begin with a mystery?” Abby flipped off the light. “Sweet dreams, Paola.”
How to Make a Garden Wind Chime from a Pot Lid
What country garden would be without a wind chime hanging from a branch of a tree or a garden shed? It’s easy to make a chime using old pieces of silverware and hanging them from a pot lid that has a handle or knob.
The tools you’ll need are a felt-tip pen, scissors, and a drill with a bit (to make small holes in the pot lid and the silverware pieces). The materials needed include a nine-inch round pot lid with a handle, a spool of fishing line, ten small washers, and old forks, knives, and spoons (ten total). Find these at tag sales, thrift stores, and consignment shops. Beads will add color and interest.
Use the pen to mark places on the pot lid and the silverware handles for holes and drill them. Cut the fishing line into ten pieces, each measuring twelve inches, and tie a washer on each piece of line. Thread the pieces of the line through the top of the lid so that the washer holds each line in place. Add beads to each piece of fishing line, on the underside of the pot lid. Tie a piece of silverware at the end of each line. Hang the chime using fishing line or
a piece of cord or wire threaded through the pot lid handle.
Chapter 17
Smoke is a by-product of combustion—so
where there’s smoke, you can
bet there is or was a fire.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
Abby huddled under the bedcovers, trying to make sense of the dream she’d just had. In the dreamscape, she’d been standing in dense, damp fog. Her left hand rested upon a fence post. A raven descended and perched on her hand. Her dreaming mind sensed a familiarity about the bird. Its presence, though ephemeral, transmitted an indefinable heaviness of energy that penetrated her being. In some ways, it felt akin to the weight of grief or unexpressed love when a person bottled those feelings inside. The bird stayed only long enough for her to sense that burden. Without warning, it lifted off the post and took flight. But the dark and heavy encumbrance that the dream presence had brought stayed with her.
Cocooned in blankets and a comforter, Abby listened to the howling wind and a tarp that must have ripped away from its moorings and now whooped, slapped, and flapped. She’d stretched it over an old frame to create a makeshift potting shed on the southeast side of her house, near the herb garden that she and her late friend Fiona Mary had designed and planted. Beyond the windows, these noises added another chorus to nature’s cacophony. As Abby thought about it, she had likely incorporated the flapping sound into her dream as the bird flew away. But why had her sleeping mind conjured the symbol of the archetype trickster in the first place?
Her grandmother Rose believed the raven to be a messenger. And that black bird, with its shaggy throat feathers and bowie-knife beak, portended bad tidings, failure, and loss. Remembering the terrible misfortune that had befallen poor Paola, now sleeping in the other room, Abby surmised the dream might have simply been her subconscious throwing up an image to represent the darkness associated with death.
Sugar stirred. Wide awake, her ears shot up. “What is it, sweetie?” Abby asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She glanced at the clock. The hands indicated it was a little past midnight. Sugar bounded to the living room, barking her head off. Abby rolled from under the warm bedcovers. After tucking a small penlight on the bedside table into her bathrobe pocket, she trotted after Sugar to see who or what was calling at this late hour.
Paola awoke. “What’s going on?”
“Shhh.” Something caught Abby’s attention through the art deco glass panes. Out beyond the porch, a red circle glowed. Someone was smoking a cigarette. Who was there, and why? Heart thumping, Abby recoiled against the wall. She leaned down and touched Sugar, but there was no comforting the dog. She continued barking.
A second or two later, Abby stooped and again peered through the glass. The cigarette burned brighter, as though someone had just taken a drag. Then it darkened. Abby’s stomach knotted. Her back and neck muscles tensed. Adrenaline pumped through her. Perhaps the prowler had watched them leave Paola’s house and had followed them to the farmette. Abby’s skin went prickly hot. A sudden suffocation claimed her. A bigger question loomed—what was going to happen when the smoker finished that cigarette?
Abby watched. The cigarette torched a rag, and the rag blazed. The intruder tossed it onto a blanket she had spread over each of her blood orange trees. What the . . . ? My God. He’s going to burn down the place.
If she’d been alone—just her and Sugar—she might have loaded her gun, slipped out through the kitchen, and crept around to the front to see who was standing in her driveway. Having Paola inside complicated things. Although her young friend had regained mobility and was healing fast, she was still in recovery mode. One thing Abby knew for certain. She would protect Paola and Sugar regardless of the risk to her own life. But there wasn’t a moment to lose.
“Sorry,” Abby whispered as she touched Paola’s shoulder. “But we have to go. Put on your shoes and bathrobe. No lights. Wrap yourself in this comforter.” Paola started to ease out of the bed. She reached back for the pajama-covered pillow.
“Leave the pillow. There’s no time.”
“Why? Where are we going?” Paola stood adjusting the scarf over the vulnerable part of her head.
“I think your phone-call stalker has followed us here. So now we’ve got to hide.” Abby helped Paola put on her robe and tie it. “Here are your shoes. Slide in your feet. And then wait here.”
Abby hustled back to the bedroom, where she yanked her cell phone from its charger. She tapped the side button to bring up the lighted dial and then tapped the number for county communications.
“Dispatch. What’s your emergency?”
“Abigail Mackenzie here. It’s a prowler. He’s set a fire near the front porch.”
“Mackenzie. You called before. Same address?” asked the dispatcher.
“No. Send fire and police out to the Henny Penny Farmette at the end of Farm Hill Road. There’s a chicken on the mailbox.”
“Are you inside the house?”
“Yes, but not for long.”
“Emergency vehicles are on the way. Can you stay on the phone with me?”
“Sorry. Can’t,” said Abby, then hung up. She pushed her feet into her house slippers and tried to think of where to hide. Preferably, as far from the house as possible. Her thoughts latched onto Henry’s RV. Thank God, he’d come back on schedule. This time, he’d parked the RV behind the oleander bushes, where it couldn’t be seen. She snatched the blanket from her bed and wrapped it around Sugar.
After carrying her swaddled dog into the dark kitchen, Abby whispered to Paola, “Follow me.”
Next to the oven mitt, on a hook, Abby located the RV key. Pushing the key deep into her robe pocket where she’d put the cell phone and penlight, she one-handedly unlocked and opened the sliding glass door. Throwing the blanket off Sugar, Abby held the dog by her collar. The two women slipped onto the dark patio, with Sugar yipping her high-pitched alarm. After sliding the door closed, Abby reached for Paola’s hand while attempting to restrain and quiet Sugar. Steering clear of the backyard’s wet grass, Abby chose to lead Sugar and Paola along the flat terrain of the gravel path. They passed the garden swing and followed the path to the end of the chicken run.
“Where are we going?” Paola whispered.
“There’s an RV hidden in the back. We can hide there.”
At the end of the run, next to the metal gate of the chain-link fence, Abby peered into the black pitch, trying to make out the shapes of the oleander bushes. The wind’s whistle through tall pines and pin oaks sounded more like a roar. Gusts lifted and smacked the eucalyptus branches and their long strands of leaves against the ridges of trunk bark. A broken piece of aluminum roofing rattled as the wind lifted and dropped it.
“Gad, what’s that smell?” Paola asked.
“Skunk spray and manure.” Abby held her breath against the stench and hoped that no raccoons, bobcats, or other wild creatures might be roaming. But then again, it was a frosty night, made colder by the wind. So maybe not. She smelled smoke now, too.
After unhooking the metal gate, Abby struggled with Sugar and also tried to help Paola through. Tripping over an exposed root, Paola stumbled and then leaned against the gnarled trunk of the pepper tree. Abby had forgotten about the root and stumbled, too, but quickly recovered. She tried to guide Paola away from the tree. Disoriented, Paola turned in the wrong direction and latched onto the chain-link fence for support. It rattled. Sugar continued her high-pitched yip. Abby froze. Surely, the intruder had to know the dog was out and behind the house. She hoped Sugar’s barking would strike fear in the prowler. If he believed the dog would find and attack him, he might flee. She stole a glance back at the house.
Flames licked the sky. Showers of red sparks rained down. The muscles in Abby’s chest tightened. Rising anxiety threatened to paralyze her. Refusing to let tears come, she cried out softly, “Oh, my God, no. Please, not my house!” Swallowing the lump in her throat, Abby forced herself to turn away. She whispered to Paola, “Keep cal
m and keep moving. Our lives depend on it.”
Pop . . . pop . . . pop. The sound stopped them in their tracks. Then a loud explosion erupted. The two women huddled together. Grasping Paola’s hand, Abby tried to sound reassuring. “Loud noises can’t hurt us. Don’t let go of my hand.”
“I won’t,” Paola said. “But that fire. It’s your house.”
“God help us,” Abby whispered.
Sugar’s high-pitched yipping reached a frenzied pitch. Abby picked her way toward the oleander bushes. “Quiet,” she commanded Sugar as she struggled with the dog.
They stepped behind the six-foot-tall oleanders. Abby’s teeth chattered. The cold night wind penetrated the thin fabric of her pajamas and robe. “Hold on to my belt,” she told Paola. “This way.”
Afraid the intruder would detect them if she turned on the penlight, Abby lead Paola in baby steps across the landscape she knew by heart. Still, being familiar with the terrain didn’t make the going any easier. She worried that Paola might trip again. Falling could cause dire consequences for someone with a piece of her skull out. Abby extended her hand in front of her and walked with outstretched fingers until they touched cold, damp metal. Running her hand up and down, she felt the rectangular box of the taillight where it jutted out from the rear of the RV. Slowly, Abby inched her way around and felt for the entrance door on the side. Reaching into her robe pocket for the penlight and key, she realized the items were in the other pocket.
“Can you hold Sugar real tight until I can get the key out?” asked Abby.
Paola whispered, “Sí.”