by Ann Minnett
Now he not only knew her first name and where she lived, but had charmed her mama. How many Larks could live in Whitefish, Montana? He had all the time in the world to find out and work his magic.
CHAPTER 6
Lark stomped to the car ten paces ahead of and unwilling to speak to her son. His statement to police had infuriated her. She slammed her car door and rigidly waited for her juvenile delinquent to take his sweet time settling into the passenger seat.
"You stole the alarm codes from my computer?" She made him flinch.
"Come on, Mom. You have the lamest password. My birthday? Really?"
Zane's acne had flared up, and he'd messed with it, judging from infected knots and pinhead scabs dotting his chin and cheeks. Pinhead. She wanted to scream it into his face. No, she was the pinhead. Lark hadn't thought about her clients' alarm codes until the detective asked Zane how he had gained entry without the alarm going off.
"You violated my email?"
He rolled his eyes.
"You looked through my business records. Online banking, too?" Her voice grew louder in the confines of the car.
"Mom! Cut it out," he said with sullen arrogance. "I don't care what Aunt Nora writes about her HAWT new hubby." He finger quoted Nora's exact words. "Or—"
"Aha!"
"Mom, I don't give a fuck! Okay?"
She slapped his pimply cheek, shocking them both.
“Stop talking to me like that,” she shouted. “And it's time you start caring about something other than yourself and your pitiful circumstances." She quivered with rage. "You could go to prison."
"They won't send me to prison." He examined his too large hands clasped in his lap. "I'm fifteen."
"Right. How nice for you."
She started the engine. Windshield wipers brushed the accumulated snow off the glass.
"No, lucky you. Your options are juvenile detention or Shodair, which of course would be a blessing to be locked up with a bunch of other juvenile criminals who are also too young for prison." She rammed the gearshift into reverse. "I hear it's a goddam training ground for prison."
Her foot stomped on the gas pedal before either had locked their seat belts. The car accelerated backward and crashed into a concrete stanchion in the parking lot. Zane's head hit the windshield on rebound, and Lark's body slammed against the steering wheel.
"This piece of shit car," she sobbed, "doesn't even deploy airbags."
"Never had them, Mom. Remember?"
She cried harder.
Zane's hand splayed across his forehead. A trickle of blood oozed below his fingers and caught in his thick brow.
"Oh, my God, Zane. Let me see." She pulled his hand away to reveal a gash the length of his palm and a rising knot. "Oh honey." She had no time to cry now.
The car jerked forward when she put it in drive. She rammed the gearshift into park and flailed out and behind the car to check the damage. The back hatch might never open again, and the bumper crumpled upward, obscuring the license plate, but the wreck had moved forward without ominous scraping sounds.
Lark scooped clean snow in both hands. "Hold that there." She pressed the clump against his bleeding forehead.
He yelped, and that's when she noticed his braces had sliced the inside of his mouth.
She jumped in the car and sped off for the hospital.
"Mom! Slow down or you'll kill us both." His entire face streamed a rose-colored mess.
The small hospital's emergency room was quiet when they arrived, but Zane's bloody head wound got people moving. A quick-talking nurse assured Lark that he would be fine and led them to a curtained cubicle. She sat him down and said, "Mama, go talk to admissions, and I'll get Wayne—"
"Zane."
"—I'll prep Zane."
When Lark hesitated, the nurse shooed her away and got busy. Tears pooled in Lark’s eyes with gratitude for the woman's competence. Patty had always listened sympathetically, but her solutions included sage smudgings and crystals and spirit prayers—not the can-do action this nurse displayed.
The nurse gestured with smooth unblemished hands. "Go on. First door down that hall. We'll be here when you finish."
Lark followed directions, thanking God and Obamacare for health insurance that she hadn't been able to afford before. She had dodged a financial bullet over the years because her wiry kid had suffered no more than a broken wrist in pee-wee soccer.
A rotund man in flannel shirt and bolo tie took Zane's information and copied her insurance card and driver's license. He slid them across the desk and presented her a HIPPA disclaimer and billing document for her signature.
Jerry Morgan, his hospital name tag read, smiled apologetically. "There's a three-hundred-dollar deductible for emergency room visits, Ms. Horne."
Her debit card flashed in her hand. Too risky. She nonchalantly extracted her MasterCard instead. She handed it over, hating the knot in her throat, the tension running from the nape of her neck along both shoulders. She had flirted with her limit ever since last Christmas, and within a few days, she'd lost over half her clients.
I'm so damn tired of being poor, she thought, taking up the pen with stiff fingers. Her little finger bent in the wrong direction, toward Jerry. Her ring and middle fingers had swollen, and none of them moved independently. She clamped the pen painfully with her thumb and scribbled a signature on the receipt.
"Oh, my." Jerry Morgan adjusted his reading glasses and leaned over the desktop to inspect her akimbo fingers. "Go on back there." He pointed toward emergency. "I'll start your paperwork and bring it to you."
Lark collapsed into the snazzy office chair that matched the carpeting in the new wing of the hospital. She whimpered until good old Jerry circled his desk, lifted her gently by the elbows, and escorted her to the emergency room.
"Sarah," Jerry Morgan said to the nurse with lovely hands. She held a surgical tray while a young man stitched Zane's forehead. "Mama needs your help, too." The kind man assisted Lark onto the examination gurney next to Zane.
Her hand hurt like a son-of-a-bitch.
* * *
Lark plopped her open purse on the console between them when Zane stopped at McDonald's second drive-up window. She leaned back in the passenger seat, worrying she should watch this kid go through her billfold, but she didn't have the energy.
Zane had insisted on driving them home using the excuse of her broken something-carpels. Her face, too, had suffered injury—a raw scrape from her chin to cheek. She checked the visor mirror and swore that the whole side of her face had already turned purple—due to the dim interior light? Her sore lips puckered. She had sniffled herself dry during the x-rays of her hand. How the hell could she clean houses? Would anyone want her services now anyway?
Zane, with all his bloody drama, appeared in better shape.
What a terrible mother. A terrible caretaker.
He stashed their food on the backseat and dropped some change into her billfold. The car pulled away with Zane hunched over the wheel. He barely drove the speed limit on the way home, but the shuffle from carport to kitchen door took longer than the drive.
"Damn ice,” she muttered.
Zane had a hold of her good arm. "Damn ice," he repeated.
At least they agreed on one thing.
* * *
She took two more pain pills at 3:15 a.m. When she roused again around eight o’clock in a dull daze, Zane had already left for school. She'd have to hurry to arrive on time at the Stanhopes's home, one of the four clients who hadn't bailed on her... yet. Showering and dressing left-handed drove her to bawling frustration. She had no time to eat. Zane hadn't made coffee, and her whole arm hurt like hell. She finger-combed her hair and grabbed a banana for the road.
The thought of her right arm throbbing through four Stanhope bathrooms and dog hair in their beds left her weak, but she was afraid to take more pain medication. She wasted precious minutes to drive through the Cowgirl Coffee kiosk. She ordered black coffee and sloshed d
own one hydrocodone, showing restraint because two would have been so much better. The strong coffee played hell with her stomach from the first swallow. She remembered Zane had eaten her fruit and yogurt parfait (the only vegetarian menu offering late in the day) last night because she was nauseous then, too. She pulled over on Lion Hill Road to eat her banana and calm the acid churning in her belly.
Her left hand shook on the steering wheel. A glance in the mirror revealed she wore no make-up. She liked to wear make-up when working to signify a professionalism about her service—to state this housekeeper takes pride in a job well done. Clients appreciated the effort. In the scheme of today's events, her appearance mattered less than being reliable, and she was already half an hour late. She smeared Cherry Chapstick on dry lips and drove on.
Not that the Stanhopes knew when she arrived. They ran a small law office together in downtown Whitefish, referring to it as Mom and Pop Law, but the sign read, Stanhope & Stanhope. Both typically started their legal day at the office before Lark arrived at their home at nine o’clock on Wednesdays. She suspected they tidied their expansive home before she came each week.
Lark pulled into their circular drive at 9:40 and parked behind Alice Stanhope's humongous white Tahoe.
Shit!
She crawled into the backseat to drag her cleaning satchel from the cargo area, given the tailgate was crimped shut from the collision. The effort strained sore muscles in her back, her ribs, and shoulders. She recalled a kickboxing class Dee had talked her into years earlier. One session had convinced Lark that cleaning houses was exercise enough. Her injured fingers screamed in pain. Three fingertips had turned a gray-blue overnight and swelled to twice their normal size.
A tap on the car hood startled her.
Alice Stanhope peered in through the windshield. The woman's curly gray hair tumbled onto her lined forehead. She lifted a steaming cup in Lark's direction before toddling back inside.
She's going to dump me, too.
The thought shot adrenaline through Lark's body, enervating her stubborn streak. She lodged her cleaning satchel in the foot well of the back seat and found a mashed tissue in the trash pocket to wipe her eyes and blow her nose one-handed. No sense in taking her purse or phone inside for what would be a short visit. Lark walked with woozy dignity to Alice's beveled glass door.
Alice can clean her own damn beveled glass, she thought. The door stood open an inch, inviting her to enter. She pried off her boots in which she had stuffed the loose laces.
"Back here, Lark," Alice shouted from the kitchen.
Lark held her bandaged hand across her chest to ease the throbbing pain. Alice sat in the breakfast nook, sometimes sunlit but today shrouded in gray-clouded glare. A second coffee mug rested on a napkin on the table.
"I apologize for being late, Alice. I—"
Alice waved off the apology and motioned for her to sit.
Lark eased gingerly into the bench seat, as if her butt had been the body part slammed into her steering wheel. Something yeasty in the oven smelled like heaven.
"Listen, Alice. If you're going to fire me, please do it right away because—“
"I'm not letting you go." Alice's alto resonated from her chest.
"You aren't?"
"Why would I let you go?" Alice pushed her cup an inch forward. The older woman's khaki eyes were compassionate and smart.
The oven timer dinged.
As Alice rose from the table, she said, "Have you done something wrong?"
Lark shook her head.
"Have you done a shitty job for us? Broken heirlooms? Gone through our bedside drawers and taken photos of our sex toys to post on Facebook?"
Lark laughed, still shaking her head. Alice was liable to say anything.
"All right, then." Alice donned two oven mitts, placed the pan on the stove top, and dribbled white icing from a small pitcher onto the cinnamon rolls.
Lark's mouth watered.
"My favorites, straight from the can." Alice scooped from the pan with a cooking spoon.
"Agreed."
Once Alice had served them both, she asked, "Do you have a lawyer?"
"Me?"
"Zane. But he's a minor, so potentially you’re both at risk." She motioned with an empty fork for Lark to speak.
Alice's matter-of-fact legal world scared the hell out of Lark. "A young guy from Kalispell met us at the police station yesterday. James Dockery."
"Never heard of him."
"He's new. A public defender.” As frightened and angry as Lark had been, she had the impression that the young Dockery was more nervous—one minute like a puppy eager to please, and the next pompous yet jittery around John, the arresting officer.
"Tell me what happened."
"Alice, I don’t want to bother you with it. You’ve done enough just being on my side. I think it's going to be all right."
"I sincerely doubt that, Lark." Alice plopped a forkful into her mouth. "Mmm, not bad."
"Zane didn't steal the big stuff, and we returned the antique swords."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive." Eating with a fork left-handed—impossible. Lark scraped excess icing off the lump of cinnamon roll and picked it up. She swooned with the sweetness, the tart raisins and grainy cinnamon. Her eyes stung. She said with a full mouth, "Why would you ask?"
"Mason what's-his-name, Zane's buddy, has thrown him under the bus."
"No!"
"They accused your son of masterminding the break-in and robbery. All of it." Alice took her last big bite and pushed the plate away. "Let me help you—help Zane and you."
“Help us?”
“I can represent you better than the newbie who just passed the bar.” Alice’s head wobbled enough to lend an air of arrogance, which Lark found reassuring.
“Alice, I can’t afford you.”
The white-haired attorney leveled her steely stare. “No, you can’t, but we’ll work something out. I want to do this.” She shot her cuffs.
A slow tide of gratitude flowed over Lark's pain and worry. Alice knew her shit and stood one hundred percent on her side. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your offer. Thank you.”
“Smart girl.” Alice swept her plate and cup to the side. She stretched to retrieve a legal pad on the counter. A pen was clipped to it, and under the pen, an envelope.
"Now? What about your house?" Lark waved her club of a hand toward the kitchen island, totally clean except for the cinnamon roll pan.
Alice said, "The house will survive a week until the swelling in your hand goes down." They both examined the bandage. Pale blue sausage fingers poked out the end.
"Let me do something, Alice. It may take me longer, but I need the money."
"Let's call this the paid vacation you never take.” She slid the envelope across the table. The check inside covered a month’s worth of cleaning appointments.
“I don’t know what to say.”
Alice's pen tapped the good arm. "Now. Tell me everything that happened since you found the sword." Pen poised, she adjusted her trademark round glasses which dominated her features.
"My clients are afraid, Alice. They're bailing on me."
"I heard."
"This is our livelihood. This is what I do. What I am."
Alice fetched a box of tissues. She sighed repeatedly while Lark blew her nose. Twice. Lark struggled out of the bench seat and threw the tissues into the trash compactor. She reached automatically for the dirty plates on the table.
"For crying out loud." Alice blocked Lark's good hand. "Sit the hell down and tell me what happened. You're my client now."
Three hours later, Lark checked her cellphone for messages before driving out of Alice's circle drive. Jan Hensen's friend on the Whitefish Library Board had texted she no longer required cleaning services on Wednesday afternoons. No surprise there. The remainder of her week consisted of her nine o'clock on Thursday and her ten o'clock on Friday. They hadn't cancelled.
Y
et.
Lark drove home, longing to rest. She took two pain pills, stretched out on the couch, and pulled a red speckled throw up to her chin. While Alice had a calming effect, their consultation had exhausted her. Alice inspired confidence that, with hard work on Zane's part, this incident would be but a blip in their lives. That's what she had said, blip.
* * *
Rob kept a low profile and liked it that way. Wednesday remained his town day, whether he needed supplies or not. The second Wednesday in January, he and Raven ran errands, bought groceries, and picked up a package from the post office.
Third in line, he took a moment to people-watch the two women behind him in line and the two employees working at the high counter. All older than he and to his eye, unremarkable. No one noticed him until the woman with a gray ponytail past her waist shouted, "Next." She punched buttons on her register as he arrived at her counter. "Got a package?"
He handed over the orange notification slip.
"I can't read this scribble." She held it away from her. "Walker, is it?"
"Rob Whalen," were his first spoken words since hitting town.
She nodded and left for the mysterious back room.
This was new territory for him—both the small-town post office and his growing loneliness. He'd never been lonely. He’d never been one to strike up a conversation spontaneously, but he came to town expressly to eat a tasty meal and talk. To people. What were his prospects when simply speaking his new name made his voice crack?
The postal clerk returned with a large box and a mailing pouch. Verging on giddy, Rob accepted fireproof gloves in the pouch and a wood bin in the shape of a coal bucket in the box. How simple life had turned. Conversation and tools to keep him warm.
The woman recited her spiel about stamps.
“I had no idea of the varieties available in Forever stamps.” He pointed to a sheet of mini-hotrods.