Old Maid's Puzzle

by Terri Thayer

  I sank into Gussie's chair, like I'd been shot. The idea that Gussie, sweet Gussie, had killed someone made me weak. But I'd seen her fierce loyalty. To her grandson. To Celeste.

  I glanced to the house next door. From here, I could see directly into Celeste's dining room. A light was on now. I sat up.

  I could see her shadow drifting elegantly across the plain white curtains. Even alone, she was dressed in silky pajamas. I wondered what someone looking in my window would see. Ragged flannel boxers, tank top so stretched out it was dangerously close to being obscene and me, slumped in my armchair, eating right out of the cereal box.

  Celeste picked up a china cup and saucer, heading for the kitchen. As she moved away, another figure was revealed, seated at the dining room table. This face was in complete profile to me. It was a very familiar silhouette. I looked at the honeymoon souvenir plaques on the kitchen wall. The same nose. That same chin.

  Gussie was at Celeste's.

  Relief flooded me. I'd get to her before the police did. Find her a good lawyer. Get her some help.

  I let myself out of the back door. I walked through the split in the fence, thinking about these two women, so close, yet so different. Celeste and Gussie proved that quilting brought people to gether. There was no way that they would have become friends without their mutual interest in sewing. Celeste was too lady-of-themanor type, Gussie too frugal and middle class to be part of her social scene. But Gussie had gone to Celeste when Celeste needed her.

  I knocked on Celeste's back door. A curtain twitched, but I couldn't catch sight of Celeste's face. When she didn't open the door right away, I knocked again.

  "Celeste, it's Dewey," I called out. I know she didn't want company, but I needed to talk to Gussie. I tried the door. It was locked. I peered in the side windows, seeing only the slice of the kitchen visible from there. No activity. Just the still beauty of the wood and slate, illuminated by the under-counter lights.

  I stamped my feet on the porch. I wasn't dressed for an October night. The temperature had dropped, the air had grown chilly. I shivered.

  My phone rang. It was a text from Buster. "Where are you?"

  Not where I was supposed to be. I put the phone back in my pocket and banged on the door again. I wasn't going back to QP until I'd settled things with Gussie.

  Celeste opened the door slightly. "Dewey, what are you doing out there? Please stop."

  "Celeste, thanks." I made a step to cross the threshold, but Celeste kept the door mostly closed. She was in bare feet, and had added a floor-length, navy blue quilted robe. Yellow silk pajama pants peeked from under the hem.

  Her hair was down, flowing around her shoulders. The long white tresses made her look like an ethereal fairy godmother.

  "I need to talk to Gussie," I said. "I've got news about Jeremy." I didn't, but I knew it would get me in the door.

  "Gussie's not here."

  Celeste was protecting her friend. From me? "I saw her, just a few moments ago. Sitting at your dining room table. I could see her clearly."

  Celeste shrugged, her elegant shoulders lifting slightly. "You're mistaken, Dewey. Go home." She began to close the door in my face. I stuck my foot out and stopped the door.

  "Wait, Celeste," I said. The door was squashing my toes. I fought not to pull away. I squared my foot, trying to jam it in farther. The door opened a fraction more. I leaned in. Celeste's face was grim.

  A sharp noise emanated from the kitchen. I started, and Celeste looked sharply over her shoulder. We both let out a sigh of relief when it became apparent that it was only the automatic ice maker, cubes tumbling inside the refrigerator with a clang. I took advantage of Celeste's loosened hold, and pushed open the door. She stumbled back, but she was no match for me.

  I skirted her and headed for the dining room. The Mackintosh dining room table and chairs were majestic. Straight backed, and elegant. Like Celeste. But empty.

  One of the chairs was pulled away from the table. A delicate tea cup sat on the matching saucer. A slightly sweet smell came out of the cup.

  "There. That's where I saw her!" I said.

  Celeste was unfazed. Her arms crossed over her chest. Her earlier fatigue seemed to have gone, replaced by keen, glittering eyes and hardened resolve.

  She said, "You saw me, having a cup of tea. Can't I have a snack in my own home? You should leave, Dewey. I told you I didn't want company.

  "I can help Gussie," I said. "She'll be okay."

  "She's not here." Celeste insisted. She held the kitchen door open as though I should scoot outside.

  I ignored her and walked into the living room. I stood in the middle, turning slowly, trying to figure out where Gussie could have gone. Something about this room was out of whack, I could feel it. Celeste watched me from under the dining room arch. Her eyes tracked to the upstairs. The crown molding was at least twelve inches deep. The wood shimmered.

  I headed for the magnificent mahogany staircase and listened. I didn't hear anything. "Mind if I look upstairs?"

  Celeste shrugged, an elegant shrug. Her outfit looked some something a Katharine Hepburn character would wear in an AMC movie. Or maybe Barbara Stanwyck.

  "Suit yourself. You know what's up there. Four bedrooms, two baths," she said.

  Plenty of places to hide. Was Celeste hiding Gussie?

  I walked carefully up the stairs. I listened, but didn't hear the floors creak as though someone was up there.

  Celeste called up the stairs, "Be warned. I didn't make my bed today."

  The first door off the hall was her bedroom. Not only had she not made her bed, but the clothes I'd seen her wearing earlier were in a heap on the floor. Celeste must really be distraught.

  "Would you like a divining rod, Dewey?" Celeste called pleasantly, as though I was a favored grandchild on a scavenger hunt. "Are you looking for oil or water?"

  I didn't let her needling bother me, but I was beginning to wonder if Gussie was on the road to Redding with her money. Surely if she'd been driving, the police would have picked her up by now.

  No. She had to be here. I'd seen her. But what if she didn't want to be found?

  The rest of the rooms were in perfect order, looking more like museum dioramas than lived-in spaces. I opened closets, wardrobes, armoires, anything big enough to hide a person. No sign of Gussie.

  Larry's clothes were still in the closet in the spare room. Two tan corduroy jackets, Hawaiian shirts, shoes on the floor. It looked like he'd never left. Poor Celeste, having to deal with his debris.

  Celeste was waiting for me when I came out of the guest room, eyes narrowed.

  "I'm sure Gussie will turn up in the morning," she said. "She's probably gone to her daughter's."

  "You think?" If so, what had I seen through Gussie's window? A shadow? A figment of my imagination? I'd been so sure.

  Celeste opened the door to her bedroom. "Dewey, I'm tired and I'm going to bed. I haven't forgotten I'm to be at the store tomorrow to quilt on the Old Maid's Puzzle"

  The Old Maid's Puzzle. "Why were you so willing to give Gussie up to keep your man?" I asked her.

  Celeste sneered at me. "You don't know the first thing about it.

  "I know that Gussie loved you and you betrayed her. Gave her up to a con man." Driving her to murder.

  Celeste grimaced and held her side as though in pain. "You have no idea how I tried to protect that woman. She wouldn't listen to me. She insisted she knew what she was doing. Insisted that Larry had all the answers. Long after I knew what he was, she couldn't accept it."

  Celeste's pain seemed to get stronger. She was nearly doubled over now. Her voice was raspy. "It's worse than you know. Selling the pottery and the silver wasn't all that Larry inflicted on me."

  She rubbed her hand along the door, the jamb darkened by the hands that had passed over it. Her pride of ownership was palpable.

  In a soft voice, eyes unfocused, she continued. "He forged my name on a new deed of trust and mortgaged the house wit
hout my permission."

  I froze. A house like this should be worth over a million dollars.

  Her eyes flitted down the wainscoted hall. "I don't own this house anymore, Dewey. It's going into foreclosure next month."

  The house. That struck me like a blow. She loved her house as much as I loved mine. How would I feel if my house was ripped out from under me? What would I do?

  A chill shuddered down my spine, making me wince from the force of it. I felt the specter of losing my own house. Not being able to pay my bills. Forced to sell.

  I knew Celeste had been hiding something. I just didn't know what. The truth of it was making me queasy.

  I felt nauseous and turned away. I needed to orient myself. Celeste had opened the double doors to her bedroom, behind me. The low railing overlooked the living room below. I had a clear view of the downstairs from here.

  She moved farther into her bedroom, picking up the clothes she'd shed earlier. Her voice was icy and carried in the stillness of the rooms. "Do you think I care about the things that he took? I would have given him anything. Furnishing this house used to be my life. But when you get old, you lose your lust for objects. When you have everything, what more do you need? I needed Larry. He screwed that up."

  I felt dizzy. I grabbed the railing for support. The living room looked out of whack to me. There was an imperfection in the room. The fireplace inglenook was lopsided.

  A log dropped into the fireplace, sending up a shower of red cinders. I stared at the fire, feeling my equilibrium return.

  Behind me, I heard a closet door open and close. I forced myself to focus on the fireplace and realized what was wrong. There had been two cozy spaces on either side of the fireplace when I'd been here as a teen.

  I said, "You only have one inglenook. All of these houses have two, one on each side of the fireplace."

  Celeste crossed the room quickly and joined me at the railing. "The architect was into asymmetry," she said.

  "But you're not," I said.

  The inglenook would be big enough to conceal a person.

  I started down the stairs when I heard a grunt and felt the air move as something flew by my head. I ducked instinctively. I turned. Celeste was wielding a closet rod, the iron bar raised again. I stumbled, and she hit me square on the back of the head.

  I saw stars. She was closing the space between us, growling now, a primal sound coming from deep within her.

  In that instant, I realized how wrong I was about Gussie.

  Celeste knew which plants could be used for evil. She was a master botanist. She'd poisoned Larry, Tim Shore, and now Gussie. That was the smell coming from the tea cup. Poison.

  There had been no chance to save Larry or Tim Shore, but Gussie was a different story. With a different ending, if I got to her fast enough.

  I pulled on the banister to help me get upright. Celeste was rearing back, the rod held high. I threw my shoulder into her belly, and heard the rod fall down each step.

  Celeste was quiet. She'd had the wind knocked out of her and was lying in a heap on the landing. I raced down the steps and to the blank wall on the right side of the fireplace.

  I rapped on the paneling. It was a good match, very close to the wood everywhere else in the room, but now I could see the grain was more striated, the color a deeper shade of red.

  I held my breath and leaned against the paneling, trying desperately to hear anything. Blood was coursing down my neck from my head. I fought off dizziness.

  "Gussie," I yelled. I thought I heard a whimper. "Gussie!" I said louder.

  I pushed desperately on the paneling. There had to be a hidden door. I could hear Celeste breathing heavily. I took a quick look. She was lying on the landing, trying to pull herself down the steps. I didn't think she'd be able to get to me, but I picked up a fireplace poker, just in case.

  I pushed on the paneling again and a door sprang open. Perfectly cut into the paneling, the seam of the door matched the seams of paneling. I crawled into the space.

  Gussie was snoring lightly, her small form stretched out on the built-in bench. She was dressed in sweats. I was glad to hear her snoring. She was alive!

  I pulled my cell out of my pocket. This time I skipped Zorn and called Buster directly.

  "Come. I need your help."

  Hours later, I lay in bed next to Buster. He was murmuring gently, trying to lull me to sleep. He avoided my head after I'd cried out when he'd accidentally brushed past my stitches. I'd refused to stay overnight at the hospital and he'd told the paramedics he'd look after me. Any dizziness or vomiting, he'd promised to bring me straight back.

  He'd been quiet most of the night. I knew he hated seeing me in danger, but there was nothing he could do about it. I knew he was struggling with his inner demon. The one that wanted to lock me in an ivory tower and leave me there. I didn't want to deal with that particular demon tonight.

  We'd been lying on my bed for an hour. I was flat on my back, and he was on one elbow, rubbing my arms, my feet, my belly. He was fully clothed, although he'd taken off his tie. I was in my rattiest pair of pajamas. The good ones, a cute baseball-style shirt and matching pin-striped pants were lying on the end of the bed. I'd laid them out for the sale that was starting in five hours.

  I'd given my story to Zorn and checked in on Gussie, who was recovering from a dose of digitalis, and came home to sleep. But sleep wouldn't come.

  I was almost relaxed. Each stroke of Buster's lured me close to releasing the tension inside me. My skin, which had felt like it was on fire, calmed as he soothed me.

  I zoned out, trying to keep myself from thinking too much about the night's events.

  "Want to talk?" Buster said. He delivered a soft kiss on my forehead.

  I told Buster what I was thinking. About the ultimate sadness of these two friends torn apart by a scheming man. A woman disintegrated by her love for the wrong man.

  My voice was small and quiet. Buster leaned in to hear.

  I said, "You were right. A relationship is not about the sex. The sex is beyond the point. You being with me tonight. Caring for me. This is what counts."

  He kissed the back of my neck.

  I continued, "I'm sorry I was so focused on what was missing"

  Buster laughed a little. "I'm not sure I thought about it quite that much. I just wanted to get to know you while not being blinded by lust."

  "How about now?" I said, my voice husky.

  Buster's hand stilled on my belly. He leaned in, and I felt his breath tickle my neck. "What about now?"

  "Are you blinded by lust?"

  He didn't answer right away. I turned on my side so I was face to face with him. His chin was dark with the day's beard, his lips a deep red in contrast. In his eyes, I saw concern. And now confusion.

  I could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, faster than it was a minute ago.

  "Nooo..." he said, so carefully I had to laugh.

  I pushed myself up on my elbow. "It's okay if you are. A girl likes to be able to blind her guy once in a while."

  He didn't answer me. I undid my top button. "You have to admit this is pretty sexy. You and me alone on my bed in the middle of the night."

  "You with your possible concussion," Buster said. "So damn hot."

  I kissed him. "It was a lucky hit. I was only out for a couple of seconds."

  Talking about tonight was not the route to take. Buster closed his eyes and groaned. The thought of me lying on Celeste's floor was too much for him. I had to bring him back to the present.

  I kissed him again, this time slowly and deeply. I crept closer, entwined his strong legs with mine. I felt him surge and knew I was getting somewhere.

  I reached for him. He moved back so quickly, his knee hit me painfully.

  Ow!" I said, laughing.

  He turned red. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to"

  I kissed him again, until he gasped for breath. His eyes were bright and shiny, and a tiny bead of sweat trickled down h
is cheek. I licked it off.

  "Too hot?" I said.

  He lay back and let me unbuckle his pants. I unbuttoned his shirt, taking my time. His chest rose and fell. He closed his eyes, savoring my touch.

  "Are you feeling okay?" he asked. He was trying again to be the super-considerate boyfriend, although by the look on his face, I didn't think he really cared. He was pretty close to being beyond control.

  I kissed his bare chest where the V-neck of his undershirt left it bare.

  "Buster?"

  "Hmmm..." he said, unable to put together a coherent word.

  "Yes," I whispered in his ear. "Yes, yes, yes."

  TWENTY

  I GOT TO THE store about five minutes before the "Butt Crack of Dawn" sale was to start. It was still dark. The parking lot looked strangely empty without Shore's van or the CSI van. It hadn't been this quiet since the beginning of the week. All tangible evidence of the havoc that Frank Bascomb and Tim Shore had visited on the shop was gone. The long-term damage had yet to be measured.

  From the emptiness of the lot, the QP anniversary sale was the latest casualty.

  There should have been a long queue of quilters in their pajamas here by now. There should have been giddy laughter at being up and out so early, and takeout cups of coffee. There should be women, ready to spend their money on their favorite hobby, in my parking lot.

  I had the key in the lock when a figure came up the sidewalk and turned into the parking lot. My heart set up a hammering sound. I tried to cry out but no noise came. I was wishing I hadn't snuck out on Buster, leaving him asleep in my bed.

  A familiar voice cut through the morning gloom. "Hey, sis"

  My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would jump out of my chest. I pressed on my sternum. "Jeez, Kevin. You scared me."