by J. L. Wilson
“Her husband was just killed.” Richard’s voice was sharp and admonishing, much like my old grammar school teacher who would remind me young ladies don’t talk that way, Tucker. “She has a great deal on her mind.”
“I understand that. Let her know if I can help, I’ll be happy to.” I hung up before he could so I could have the last word with that arrogant son of a bitch.
I dragged the dirty clothes in the laundry basket to the basement steps and opened the door. Two small furry bodies plummeted ahead of me, flinging themselves onto the steep steps without concern for life or limb, theirs or mine. I followed more sedately, laundry basket bumping behind me, and scooted into the laundry room, closing the door firmly. This room wasn’t finished in any sense of the word. I had visions of tiny kittens worming their way into the wall studs only to end up trapped in the ceiling.
I got the Bad Darks started and came back into the exercise room. The kittens were tumbling around my treadmill. When I headed for the stairs the phone rang again. I didn’t recognize the number on the display, but I figured, hey, it’s my day off. I have time.
“Hello?”
“Tucker, this is John Smalley. I’m not bothering you, am I?”
For some stupid reason, I started to blush. “No, John. It’s my day off. What’s up?”
“I heard about someone being shot at the factory. I’m sorry to ask, but, was it your friend?”
His honest sympathy brought tears to my eyes. It also reminded me of his willingness to help in any way he could. “Yes, it was,” I said with a mental prayer that I could trust him.
“I’m so sorry.” There was a long pause. “I’m sure his death and PJ’s death must have you shook up. PJ died at the pub, didn’t he?”
“He died in the parking lot, but yes, it was pretty gruesome.” I drew in a long breath. “I saw his body. I don’t know if I’ll ever forget it.”
“Some things, well, they’re hard to forget. I was in the Army when I was younger.” Once again there a long pause. “I saw some combat time overseas. It can be, yeah, it can be gruesome.”
This was a new side of John to me. “I didn’t know that, John.”
“I got out of high school and wasn’t sure what to do with myself. So I figured I’d join the Army and see the world.” He sighed a long, soulful breath. “Well, I saw the world and decided Barnsdale, Iowa, seemed awfully good in comparison.”
“I can only imagine.” Good heavens, think of it. Young John, sent overseas to fight. How did it shape his decision to become an organic farmer? How did it shape his decision to go for a degree in Philosophy? There were sides to John Smalley I never guessed.
“The reason I called is because I have an idea I wanted to talk over with you. I mentioned it to Rob and he suggested I call you since you have experience. Would you have some time this afternoon to come to the farm? There’s something I want to show you that has to do with the idea.” He sounded off-hand and diffident, like it really didn’t matter if I showed up or not. Was it a ploy or did he really want to see me?
“Uh, maybe. What kind of idea?”
“Do you have a minute? I can give you the outline of the plan and you could think it over and we could talk about it. I guess you could call it a, um, a business opportunity.”
This was intriguing. Somehow I never associated John Smalley—large, burly, slow-moving John Smalley—with a business opportunity. “Sure, I have time. Let me go upstairs, though, where it’s comfortable.”
I glanced over my shoulder. The kittens were sprawled on the treadmill, Cayenne on his back and Café ready to pounce. They would be fine. I went upstairs. “Go ahead, John. What’s the idea?”
“I guess you could say you gave me the idea,” he said while I settled myself on the couch and propped my legs up on the coffee table. “When you mentioned your friend at the Yoke and they were gathering evidence about—”
“I never said that,” I interrupted. “I said I had a friend who was working there.”
“I know, but I assumed . . .”
“It’s probably not, um, good to assume that.”
A long pause. “Okay. Anyway, I have this idea. You and Alan did such a great job setting up the Acorn. I hoped you could give me advice. I want to do something similar.”
“You want to open a bar?” I eyed my toes, wiggling on the coffee table. Maybe I should try some nail polish. As soon as I considered the idea, I dismissed it. I didn’t have the time or the patience to fuss with polish.
“I want to open an organic destination.”
“A what?”
“Here’s the thing. Old Horace Pyle is retiring from farming and his farm is for sale. It’s right next door to mine. Well, sort of next door. You know what I mean. It’s near.”
“Sure.” I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, but some kind of assent seemed right.
“So I was going to buy it and turn it into a B&B. I could set it up as a destination vacation. City people could come here, stay on a farm, help run it. When it’s harvest time, they could bring the produce to your restaurant and maybe Alan could show them how to cook it. It would be like a total organic experience for people. We’d have sheep and could do some shearing and maybe I could find someone to teach spinning or knitting.”
“I can do it,” I said, my brain processing through the points of his plan and seeing good and bad areas to address. “My grandma taught me when I was a girl.”
“Wow. Yeah. That would be great. It could be like a working vacation for some people. Maybe we could do one of those community agriculture things, where people buy shares in the farm.”
“You know, I read about B&B places in England where they do that. People pay to go stay at the farm during a certain time of the year like, you know, for planting or harvesting. And it helps pay for the farm.”
“See, I knew you’d have some great ideas. Everybody thought you were crazy to open a pub in an old glove factory, but look at it. It’s the best place in the entire county. Do you think—I mean, I was hoping maybe you and Alan and I could form some kind of business partnership and figure a way to get this idea off the ground.”
I barely heard him. I was already envisioning an old-fashioned farmhouse with a big wraparound porch, painted white with blue shutters. Of course, Horace Pyle’s house might not be anything like that, but it was a good image, regardless. A red barn would be nearby with sheep in a pen and cattle grazing on a hillside.
It would take renovation, of course, but I was accustomed to that. Heck, Alan and I turned a glove factory into a brewpub. We’d need additional plumbing for bedrooms, a big kitchen where Alan could prepare breakfast and . . . wait a minute. If Isabel Fitz was interested in working, maybe we could recruit her.
“. . . expand my operation anyway, so this seemed like a natural for me.”
“I’m sorry, John. I guess my imagination ran away with me. What did you say?”
“I said I wanted to expand my farming operation anyway, so when Horace told me he wanted to retire, it seemed like a sign that I should consider it. What do you think of the idea?”
“I think it has some real legs.”
He laughed. “Does that mean it’s doable?”
“It means we can at least stand it up and take a solid shot at it without the idea falling flat on its face.” I laughed, too. “It has legs.”
“Do you think you’d have time to come here sometime today? Horace is willing to let me come over to his farm. Maybe once we see it, we’d have a better idea if it has legs.”
“Sure.” I glanced at the clock in the kitchen. “Heck, I could come any time, I guess. What’s best for you?”
“I have to go to Des Moines this afternoon, so the sooner, the better, I guess.”
“Why don’t I come now?” The laundry could wait. The things in there could sit until I got home. I would round up the kittens and go see him. That reminded me. “Hey, John. I inherited a couple of kittens. Do you need any barn cats?”
“Kitten
s? No, I like to get my barn cats as adults from the pound. I’m sure you can find a home for them, everybody wants kittens. Let me call Horace and see if we can go over there in the next hour or so. He mentioned he might go to town to visit his daughter, so I’ll call right now and see if I can catch him.”
“Okay, sounds like a plan. I’ll see you soon.”
I hung up the phone, buoyed by the idea of a new project. Be cautious, I reasoned while I changed clothes, trading sweatpants for jeans and my T-shirt for a loose summer blouse. Don’t get in over your head. Make sure to talk to Alan about it. Get his okay, too.
Mental notes bounced through my brain while I shooed the cats from the basement, locking the door before heading for my car. As I drove north, my mind played with various B&B scenarios. I traveled in England twice and each time stayed in farmhouse B&Bs. If we could duplicate such a thing here, it might not be a huge attraction but I was sure it would pay for itself.
I turned right and headed east on County B, driving carefully on the rain-slicked paved road. John’s farm was four miles outside of town, about two miles off the county blacktop. The ribbon of asphalt in front of me was dark gray, with deep ditches on either side which in turn led to farm fields and cattle pastures. I envisioned how a B&B operation might work, seeing in my mind’s eye a house amidst the green fields with people sitting on a porch.
I can blame the accident on my preoccupation. I topped the hill and started to slow for the stop sign ahead. It was a four-way stop, with traffic coming from York ahead of me, from west of town on my left, from John’s farm on my right, and me coming from the south. A long gray sedan sat on my left at the sign. The windows were dark so I couldn’t see why the driver sat there, not moving. Since no other traffic was on the road, he was probably lost.
I stopped at my stop sign and flipped on my turn signal to make a right turn onto John’s lane. As I did, the car on my left surged ahead. Two thoughts careened through my brain right before the impact: That’s Guy’s gray car, isn’t it? And Oh, shit. This is going to hurt.
I was right on both counts.
Chapter 12
“How many fingers?” An insistent voice spoke from somewhere above me.
My head hurt. It hurt really bad. And my neck hurt. I was stiff, and bruised, and banged up. I was starting to recognize the feeling. Lord knows I should recognize it after the past week.
“How many fingers?”
I cracked one eye slightly open and closed it immediately when bright light zeroed in on my brain and exploded there.
“Miss Frye? I need you to open your eyes.” That damn insistent voice spoke again.
I cautiously allowed my left eyelid to creep upward. Light swam into view then a dark silhouette replaced the light. “Huh?”
“Please open your eyes. Tell me how many fingers you see.”
I eased open my other eyelid and squinted. “Three.” I squinted some more. My vision cleared and I saw who it was. “You again?” I asked.
The emergency room doctor regarded me with somber dark eyes. “Yes, me again. Now close your eyes.”
Asshole. First I open them then I close them. Make up your damn mind. “Huh?”
“What do you hear?”
Very, very soft. A chiming sound. “Bell?”
“Good. Now rest.”
I can do that.
****
“. . . mild concussion. Bruised ribs and two broken fingers, more bruising on her shoulders from the seat belt, a gash on her forehead. All in all, she’s lucky.” I didn’t recognize the voice for sure, but I decided it might be Owen’s.
“Lucky?”
Oh, I knew that voice. It was Alan, sounding as outraged as I’ve ever heard him. He was working up a full head of steam and getting ready to blow.
“Yes, lucky.” Yep, that was Owen. Calm, quiet. “The ditch wasn’t full of water. It’s been so dry lately that when the car rolled, it didn’t fill with water.”
“Holy God,” Alan said. “I never thought of that.”
I peeked through my eyelashes, trying to analyze what I saw.
White walls.
Metal scaffolding around me with blinking lights and bottles and tubes.
Two men at the foot of my bed.
“Oh, shit,” I whispered. “I’m in the hospital, aren’t I?”
“Damn. We didn’t mean to wake you.” Alan leaned over me, his face lined with worry. “Sorry, Tucker. You should be resting.”
“I think I already have.” I smacked my lips, sensing that sweaters-on-the-teeth feeling. “Where am I? When is it?” I tried moving my head but it felt like I was wedged into place. “What’s going on? Why can’t I move?”
Alan’s hand was warm on mine where it lay on the sheet. “They have pillows along your neck to keep you from moving. You have a concussion and they want you to lie still.”
“Where am I?”
“Barnsdale Hospital,” Owen said, coming into view. He moved behind Alan to regard me over Alan’s shoulder. Now that I could focus, I could tell Alan sat in a chair on my left, next to the bed. “John Smalley found you in a ditch not far from his house.”
“In a ditch?” I tried to sort through the conflicting images pounding through my brain, keeping time with the headache throbbing there. I was doing laundry. I got a phone call and I drove somewhere . . . I gave up trying to remember. “What happened?”
Alan squeezed my hand gently. “John said you and he talked this morning. You were going to drive to see him. When you didn’t arrive, he got worried. So he drove to town and that’s when he saw your car, in the ditch.”
“Damn. What time is it?”
“Almost eight at night. You were knocked out.”
I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate. “A car hit me, didn’t it?” A sudden memory of a dark gray car closing in on my driver’s door loomed in my brain.
“What car?” Owen asked.
“The one that probably left a big swatch of gray paint on my door.” I closed my eyes again. “It shouldn’t be too hard to find, Owen.” I opened my eyes to see him smiling at me.
“Thanks for confirming it, Tucker.”
“Was that a trick, Owen?” I whispered.
“A small one. Do you remember anything else?”
“It wasn’t raining. I didn’t have my wipers on. I was at John’s corner and a car was sitting at the stop sign. When I went to turn, it hit me.”
“Was there anything with you in the car?”
“Hmm?” I blinked groggily, struggling to make sense of what he said.
“Did you have a purse with you? A wallet? We didn’t find any identification on you. The hospital found your insurance papers through their computer system.”
“I had my purse with me. I always take it when I drive. Damn. Did somebody steal my purse? Why? I only carry one credit card and I don’t carry much cash.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Owen said soothingly. “You can contact the credit card company in the morning.”
Alan’s hand tightened on my hand again. “Why did you go to John’s farm, Tuck?”
I struggled to remember. “It was something about a farm sale and property in England. I’m not sure,” I said, my voice sounding weak even to me. “I think it was . . .”
****
The next time I opened my eyes, it was dark. I saw blinking lights near my bed and a night light over a sink. For an instant, I panicked. Where was I? Who was I? Why was I here?
Reason reasserted itself. I was in a hospital room. I wore a hospital gown, pale blue with white flowers. I was in a car accident. My car! How badly was it banged up? I needed to talk to my insurance agent and find a replacement car until it could be fixed.
These mundane worries helped my heart resume a normal rhythm. What time was it? I struggled to see the clock on the wall but the light was too dim. I wiggled my hands around on the bed, finally discovering a remote control device. I vaguely remembered somebody saying something about pressing a button if I ne
eded anything.
Well, I needed a bathroom, for one thing, and answers for another. I squeezed the gadget in my hand and pressed buttons at random. I soon discovered some of them raised me, some turned on the TV, some adjusted the volume, and yes, one of them summoned a large female nurse, who appeared at my door with a startled expression on her face.
I explained my need for a bathroom and she explained the bedpan. I reiterated my need for the bathroom and she firmly suggested the bedpan. I tossed the remote control at her and started to climb out of the bed. She was about a foot taller than me and probably weighed close to two hundred pounds, but at that moment I was willing to take her on for the chance to get to a toilet.
“You shouldn’t move yet.” She hurried to my side. “Wait a minute. I need to get gloves.”
“You’re just touching me, you’re not, you know, touching me,” I said while I wavered by the side of the bed. I saw the bathroom, tantalizingly close, but I knew better than to make for the doorway on my own. I was wobbly and slightly woozy. With my luck, I’d do a header and land on the tiled floor and really mess up my face.
“Hospital policy. Wear gloves at all times. It’s a lot easier now that we don’t have to check on latex allergies because we have these non-allergenic gloves. There we are, hang on.” She snapped a pair of gloves in place and came to my side, gripping my left elbow and helping me lurch for the potty.
“Are latex allergies common?” I asked, more to keep my mind off my churning stomach than from curiosity. I will not puke. I will not puke, I repeated like a mantra. If I puke they’ll keep me here forever. I will not puke. It seemed to work. My guts began to settle and I focused on what the nurse said.
“. . .than you think. Of course, I suppose it’s like allergies to nuts. People are mildly allergic and they blow it out of proportion. They don’t get a chance to be exposed to it so they can get over it. Nuts are in so many things nowadays. Of course, latex is, too, but not like it used to be. For some people the allergies are life threatening but for others it’s a mild problem. Why yesterday they brought in a patient who . . .”