by J. A. Jance
That week in particular, Phil was grateful for the bit of misfortune that had left Ollie’s little four-by-four with a flat tire. He had noticed it while they were chatting and had changed it for her. The culprit had been a stray roofing nail that had wormed its way through the balding tread of her tires. But the nail, the resulting flat, and the process of changing the tire had been a blessing in disguise because it had given the two of them twenty minutes or so of uninterrupted and utterly blameless conversation. No one was going to gossip about Phil being an everyday hero and changing some poor stranded lady’s flat tire.
Finished with the trim on the living room window, Phil moved on to the kitchen window. With Christine’s grim visage no longer staring accusingly at him through the clean glass, his spirits improved. His whistle returned.
Yes, for the first time in years, Phil Tewksbury felt that life was good. He’d finish painting the trim on the house today. Tomorrow he’d do the same to the garage. After that, he had plans to tackle the kitchen and the bathroom. Only after everything else was done would he bring up the Christmas tree. Now that people could see in as much as they could see out, it was probably time to bring up that troublesome issue and do something about it.
It was time.
13
12:00 P.M., Saturday, April 10
Sedona, Arizona
With more spare time on her hands that she’d ever had, Ali Reynolds had been making a conscious effort to read some of the classics she had previously only sampled or skimmed. After sending the note to Teresa Reyes, Ali tried turning her attention to her current read, Don Quixote, but the words on the page failed to move her. Too much real life had intruded on the author’s fictional adventures.
The brightest spot in Ali’s quiet afternoon was a phone call from B. just before he boarded his plane in Phoenix, heading for D.C. As she ended that call, her phone rang again. This time she recognized Donnatelle’s number.
“I wanted you to know that I made it. I’m here at the hospital,” Donnatelle said.
“How are things?”
“Not so good. Jose is still in the ICU. Teresa can go in to see him once an hour for five minutes at a time, but the girls can’t. I brought them down to the cafeteria with me to give her a break, and to give the girls a break, too. They’re lost. Lucy keeps asking why her daddy is so sick and why can’t she go see him.”
“Sounds like it’s a good thing you’re there.”
“I’m the only one who is,” Donnatelle said. “Teresa’s mother was here for a while before I got here, but she’s not at all well, and she’s afraid to drive. A neighbor drove her here. Someone else is taking her back home to Nogales. What I want to know is where are the people from Jose’s department? Why aren’t they here?”
“They’re not?” Ali asked.
“Not so far. Zip. Nada.”
In her early news-broadcasting days, long before Ali climbed into a spot at a news anchor desk, she had reported on plenty of officer-involved shootings. She didn’t remember a single one where members of the officer’s department hadn’t shown up at the hospital en masse to offer help and support. Why should Jose Reyes’s shooting be any different?
“That’s odd,” Ali said.
“It’s worse than odd,” Donnatelle replied. “If Teresa didn’t need me here looking after Lucy and Carinda, I’d drive straight down to Nogales and give the sheriff a piece of my mind.”
Ali once again noted that Donnatelle had come a long way, baby. “I couldn’t agree with you more,” she said. “How’s Teresa holding up?”
“She’s been at the hospital since early this morning, and she doesn’t have her car,” Donnatelle said. “I offered to drive her home so she could take a shower, change clothes, and maybe a nap for a while, but she’s not leaving.”
“How about the kids?” Ali asked.
“They’re kids,” Donnatelle said, and the truth was, those words said it all. Kids and hospital waiting rooms didn’t mix.
“How long are you going to stay?” Ali asked.
“Until tomorrow morning. After that I’ll have to head back, because my mother has to work tomorrow evening.”
“I’m planning on coming down tomorrow morning,” Ali said. “I may not get there before you have to leave, but I’ll be there shortly.”
“Good,” Donnatelle breathed. “That’s a relief.”
Ali was ending the call when the doorbell rang. Moments later, Leland came into the library announcing the arrival of Edie Larson.
“My mother without my dad?” Ali asked in surprise, but Edie Larson, who’d followed Leland into the room, protested.
“Your father and I aren’t exactly joined at the hip, you know,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you in private before everyone else gets here.”
That sounded ominous. Sitting down to a family dinner with Ali’s kids and her parents wasn’t exactly public, but the anxious look on Edie’s face sent a shiver of worry down Ali’s spine. Whatever her mother needed to discuss had to be serious. Ali’s first thought was that there was some looming health issue. After all, in terms of age, her parents were getting up there.
As usual, Leland picked up on the disquiet in the room. “Would you like me to bring some tea?” he asked.
“Please,” Ali said gratefully.
Her mother sank into one of the easy chairs positioned in front of the fireplace. Unasked, Ali pushed an ottoman into place in front of Edie. The long hours Edie spent on her feet every day meant that she spent a lot of time each evening with her feet up.
“What is it, Mom?” Ali asked, trying to keep concern out of her voice. “Is something wrong?”
“Not wrong, really,” Edie said. “Your father didn’t want us to say anything until it’s a completely done deal, but I don’t think it’s fair to keep something like this from the rest of the family. The kids are coming to dinner tonight, too, aren’t they?”
Ali nodded. “Yes, they are.”
“Good,” Edie said, “so when your father spills the beans about all this, I expect you to act surprised. You can do that, can’t you?”
It was sounding more and more serious by the moment.
“Of course,” Ali said, “but what exactly are we talking about, Mom? What’s going on?”
“We’re selling the restaurant,” Edie announced. “We’re due to sign the paperwork first thing Monday morning. The new owners take over May first.”
Ali’s jaw dropped. Of all the news she might have expected, the sale of the Sugarloaf wasn’t it. Her parents had entertained offers to buy the diner in the past, but for one reason or another, those sales had always fallen through, often because the prospective purchasers had wanted to come in and change everything. Those other times, Ali had always known about the possible sales well in advance. This time neither of her parents had mentioned that a sale was not only pending, it was soon to be a fait accompli. Besides, the sale of almost anything in the current economy was nothing short of amazing.
“Really?” Ali asked a little lamely.
“Really,” Edie replied.
Leland arrived with a tray laden with a teapot, cups and saucers, sugar and cream. He placed the tray on the table, then poured and served the tea before leaving them alone again.
There were a dozen questions Ali wanted to ask at once-all those who, what, where, and when questions she had learned from studying journalism-but she stifled the urge and contented herself with taking a calming sip of tea.
Edie sighed. “For years your father harbored the secret hope that one day Chris and Athena would want to take over the business, but that’s not going to happen. Athena loves teaching, and now that Chris’s artwork is starting to take off, thanks to you, he’s not going to be interested, either. And when it comes to running a restaurant, you’re obviously not a likely candidate.”
Ali had in fact run the restaurant for a week a couple of years earlier so that her parents could take a cruise, but it had taken a superhuman effort on her part and
help from Leland Brooks to make it work. Besides, Edie’s comment wasn’t so much a snide remark about Ali’s lack of cooking ability as it was an honest assessment of her interests and aptitudes. Over the years, Ali had spent enough hours working in the Sugarloaf as hired help or observing from the sidelines to have no desire to run the place. She knew how much work went on behind the scenes-the baking; the cleaning; the ordering; the organizing-all the scut work that no one noticed or appreciated unless it wasn’t done.
“No,” Ali agreed. “I’m definitely not. So who is it? Someone from here in town?”
“Their names are Derek and Elena Hoffman,” Edie said. “Elena was raised in Scottsdale. Her family used to come up here during the summers, and it was always a big treat for them to come to the Sugarloaf for breakfast so Elena could have one of my sweet rolls. Her husband was raised back east somewhere. In Milwaukee, I believe.
“Derek is the chef in the family,” Edie continued. “He and Elena met at culinary school, where they were taking classes. They both dreamed about being able to open their own restaurant. They came out to Arizona last February to visit Elena’s grandparents. Derek has spent his whole life enduring those awful Midwest winters. He thought Scottsdale was splendid, but then Elena brought him to Sedona. He fell in love with Sedona, and he fell in love with my sweet rolls. They came back up last month and made us a generous offer.”
“If they’re just starting out, where’s the money coming from?” Ali asked.
“Elena’s grandfather is bankrolling them. He’ll be a silent partner, but this way they can start in a restaurant that’s already a going concern. For now they’re not planning on changing anything. And they’re cashing us out. The offers we had before always called for our carrying the note. You may not know this, but most new restaurants fail within the first year.”
Ali did know that, and she couldn’t help raising a few objections. “Just because this Derek guy is a chef doesn’t mean he’ll make a great short-order cook.”
Edie smiled. “They’re older than you think. Derek started slinging hash when he was with the marines in Desert Storm, so his initial cooking experience wasn’t so different from that of your very capable Mr. Brooks.”
Leland’s humble culinary beginnings dated from the Korean War, where he’d been a cook in the British marines before immigrating to the U.S. Once here, he served as the man-of-all-work for, first, Anne Marie; and later, Isabella Ashcroft, turning himself into an excellent chef along the way. But knowing about Derek’s military background went a long way toward explaining why Ali’s father would be enthusiastic about having him take over the restaurant.
“Do they have kids?” Ali asked.
Edie nodded. “One-a daughter, Savannah. She’s in kindergarten. That’s always a problem when people move their kids over the summer. They end up not knowing anyone. Derek and Elena want Savannah to have the benefit of the last two months of kindergarten in her new school. That way she’ll have a chance to meet some of her new classmates before summer starts. And I think it’s wonderful that there’ll be another little girl living in your old room.”
“Wait,” Ali said. “You mean they’re buying the house, too?”
“They’re buying the whole thing-lock, stock, and barrel,” Edie said. “The tax rolls consider the restaurant and house to be one property. To sell them separately, we’d have to subdivide, and chances are it wouldn’t be allowed. The city of Sedona would be all over us.”
It was bad enough to think of her parents selling the restaurant, but Ali bridled at the idea that they would no longer be living in the place she had considered home her whole life.
“But you’ll have to move,” Ali objected.
“Yes, we will,” Edie said. “After so many years in one place, that won’t be easy.”
Clearly, the decisions had all been made, and since it seemed unlikely that anything Ali said would make a difference one way or the other, she didn’t voice any more objections.
“That’s great,” she said, hoping she sounded sufficiently enthusiastic. “If anyone deserves to retire, it’s you two.”
“I told you we were selling the restaurant, but who said anything about retiring?” Edie asked. “Your father may have some harebrained idea about hopping in a motor home and taking off cross-country, but I don’t have any intention of making like a turtle and hauling my house around on my back. Cooking meals in a camper doesn’t sound like my idea of a good time, either. I want to go somewhere where someone cooks for me.”
“Where are you going to live, then?” Ali asked.
“That’s one of the little kinks we’re having to work out. The new owners will take over the restaurant on May first, but we’ll have until the end of June to move out of the house. We’re thinking about moving either into a two-bedroom unit or a town house at that new retirement community, Sedona Hills Seniors. They should be ready for occupancy about the time we need to move. Their units come with a full-meal option.”
Ali knew about Sedona Hills Seniors. Touted as “Luxurious Senior Living for Active Adults,” it was being built along the highway just a few blocks west of the Sugarloaf.
“Are you sure you and Dad are ready for such a big change?” Ali asked.
Edie laughed, “More than ready, my dear. The dining room and clubhouse are lovely, and after a lifetime of cooking and serving meals, I’m ready to have someone else serve me for a change. Besides, they do all the upkeep, inside and out. What’s not to like?”
“What about Dad?” Ali asked. “Where’s he going to work on his Blazer?”
“Don’t worry about that. Most of the units come with garages. As long as he has a place to keep his tools, we could go live in a tent for all he cares.”
“Sounds like you’ve thought of everything.”
Edie nodded. “Yes, I think we’re both going to like living there. Best of all, Sedona Hills is inside the city limits.”
“City limits?” Ali echoed. “What does being inside the city limits have to do with anything?”
Edie Larson beamed at her daughter. “I thought you’d never ask,” she said. “I’ve decided to run for mayor. That guy they have now has never been in business a day in his life. He’s been here what? Five years on the outside. I know everyone in town, and I’m hoping you’ll agree to be my campaign manager. I’m also hoping you’ll help me break the news to your father.”
“You mean you haven’t told him?”
“Not yet,” Edie said. “And chances are, he isn’t going to like it.”
14
6:00 P.M., Saturday, April 10
Tucson, Arizona
In the ICU waiting room, time passed with glacial slowness. Teresa’s mother, Maria Delgado, showed up, dropped off by a neighbor who had driven her from Nogales to Tucson. In the early afternoon, Donnatelle Craig arrived as well, having driven over from Yuma.
Initially, the girls were shy around the tall black stranger, but gradually, Donnatelle won them over. The presence of the other two women in the waiting room made it possible for Teresa to spend five minutes each hour sitting at Jose’s bedside.
Some time in the course of the afternoon, Teresa emerged from Jose’s room and was astonished to find her former mother-in-law, Olga Sanchez, striding into the waiting room carrying two gigantic shopping bags with a pair of immense teddy bears sticking out of the top of one.
Teresa had assumed that Olga Sanchez was out of her life for good. And yet here she was, showing up at the hospital as though she had every right to be there, bringing along a treasure trove of goodies.
“What are you doing here?” Teresa asked.
Thin as a rail, Olga wore her lustrous black, streaked with white, hair pulled back into a complicated chignon. From the neck up, she resembled a prima ballerina, but neck down, she was cowgirl all the way, complete with skintight jeans, a western shirt, and glossy snakeskin boots. Her wide belt sported a massive silver and turquoise buckle worthy of a world cage-fighting champion.
&n
bsp; “I just heard about Jose,” Olga said. “I thought I’d come see if there was anything I could do to help, if that’s all right. And I brought along a few things I thought the girls might like. It’s high time I met little Carinda. She’s my granddaughter, after all.”
As far as Teresa was concerned, it wasn’t all right, but for the moment, there wasn’t much she could do about it. That was how Olga operated, all sweetness and light when she wanted something. She had done it with Danny, and she was doing it again with her granddaughters, but today Teresa was too tired to summon any outrage about it; too tired to tell the pushy woman to go to hell; too grateful to have someone else show up at the hospital, willing to help out.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Bringing toys was a good idea. It’s been a long day, and the girls are bored to tears.”
Olga nodded in Maria Delgado’s direction on the way past. Teresa noticed that her mother didn’t respond. That was hardly surprising. Maria had never gotten over her outrage at the way Olga Sanchez had treated Teresa at Danny’s funeral. Even if Teresa was willing to forgive and forget, her mother wasn’t.
Donnatelle had the girls corralled in a corner of the room and was reading to them from the Dr. Seuss book Teresa had stuffed in her bag. They looked up warily as Teresa approached, bringing Olga and her shopping bags.
“This is your grandmother,” Teresa said simply. “Your other grandmother.”
“I’m your daddy’s mommy,” Olga said.
“But she’s dead,” Lucy said.
Jose’s mother had died suddenly a year ago.
“I’m your real daddy’s mommy,” Olga said. “You can call me Grandma Olga. And look. I brought you some toys. Do you want to see them?”
Knowing she’d been outmaneuvered, Teresa paused long enough to introduce Olga to Donnatelle, then she walked away as the girls dove for the bags. With everything that was going on, Teresa understood that she had only so much strength. With that in mind, it was important to choose her battles. This was a fight for another day and another time, when she wasn’t dog-tired and when she didn’t have a possibly dying husband lying in a bed in the ICU. When she was stronger, she would sit down with her daughters and explain this mystery. Teresa had always intended to tell the girls about Danny and Oscar and Olga, but she had imagined that it would be at some time far in the future, when the girls were old enough to understand