by Kathy
"For all I knew she was planning to buy a diamond necklace." Cliff flipped the sign over, from "Open" to "Closed." "Ready, Meg?"
"I ... yes, I guess so." Cliff was obviously prepared to hang around until she was ready. Perhaps it was just as well; she needed time to think over what Riley had told her, away from the distraction of his presence. If he ever looked at her—for her—the way he had looked when he spoke of Dan, she wouldn't be able to think at all.
"Go ahead," Riley said. "I'll lock up."
"Thanks. I'll be in early."
It was as close as she dared come to a request that they continue their interrupted discussion. She couldn't even give him a meaningful look; Cliff was watching her with the bright-eyed interest of a squirrel (or some other rodent) and to turn her back on him would only pique his curiosity.
Riley was slow to reply. "Yeah," he said at last. "That would be a good idea. We could finish the—the inventory before we open up."
Cliff gave a snort of laughter and Meg turned on him, knowing she would blow up if he made another of his stupid jokes. At least Riley had gotten the point. "Come on, Cliff. Let's go."
As they walked to her car Cliff said, "Congratulations. You seem to be taming the lion."
"What makes you think so?"
"Hey, don't go defensive on me. All I meant was that he seems less prickly. You were right and I was wrong, and I'm man enough to admit it. Didn't you notice that I've adopted your method?"
"You're spreading the honey a little too thick," Meg said.
"We'll see. Want me to drive?"
"No."
Cliff didn't argue; he got into the passenger seat and let himself slump. "I'm beat. We put in a hard day's work this afternoon. Have you asked Riley about the rings?"
Meg's foot hit the brake harder than she intended. "Fasten your seat belt. No, I haven't asked him."
"Look, I'm willing to admit that he may not be responsible for the other incidents. But the rings point directly to Riley. It could be that we've misinterpreted his meaning—that we're condemning him without giving him a chance to defend himself."
"It could be. What's come over you, Cliff? You're awfully tolerant and high-minded all of a sudden."
"Seems out of character, does it?" Cliff smiled lazily. "I'm a much more complex person than you realize, coz. The truth is, I've been talking to some of the guys about Riley—"
"The good old boys at the Golden Calf, you mean?"
"What other guys are there? Turns out there is a certain diversity of opinion. He even has a few defenders. They say he's surly and unsociable—though not, I admit, in those words—but they don't know anything to his discredit."
"Some defenders," Meg murmured. She signaled for a turn and swung into the driveway.
"The ones who dislike him have personal reasons for doing so," Cliff went on. "Like our buddy Tom. He made some crack about Debbie hanging around the store all the time, and Riley took offense. My informants agreed that Tom had no business insulting his wife in public, and that Riley had every right to punch him out. He—Riley—said she was only looking for a job and a few kind words."
"Riley hangs out at the Golden Calf?" Meg asked. His explanation could be the simple truth, she supposed. Or was that wishful thinking?
"He never was one of the regulars, just dropped in occasionally. He hasn't been back since he decked Tom."
Darren hadn't mentioned the guys at the Golden Calf. Was that because some of them had a kind word for Riley, or because Darren wouldn't have been caught dead in such a place?
Meg brought the car to a stop. "I'll never understand men," she said. "Hearing that story seems to have changed your opinion of Riley, and yet you went ahead and hired Tom."
"What does that have to do with it? He's a good worker, and he needs the job."
Meg shook her head. "Men."
"You don't have to understand us; just adore, admire and respect us." Cliff reached for her. She eluded his hands and got out of the car. Cliff followed suit, grinning his infuriating grin. "Come on back and inspect the work, why don't you?"
"Well—maybe I will." Meg glanced at her watch. By tacit consent the tea ritual had been abandoned while Mary was in the hospital. It wouldn't have been the same without her. In fact, Meg thought regretfully, the charming old custom had no place in the modern world; people were too conscious of calories and cholesterol to indulge in an extra meal.
Cliff expanded at length about his arduous labors as they walked toward the cottage. "Getting that back gate open was one hell of a job. It will have to be replaced; the lock was rusted solid, and both hinges had broken. At least Casey can get his equipment in that way, which will save wear and tear on the landscaping. Oh, and you'd better have a talk with Jeb McComber, he's pissed because you co-opted Dennis without asking him first. He's been in charge of the outdoor staff so long he thinks he owns the place."
"I knew I should have consulted him," Meg admitted. "I just wasn't in the mood for an argument. Gran has a battle with him every year when they discuss the planting schedule. She says he has a fixation on foxglove. He. . . . Why, Cliff! You really did get a lot done today."
From where she stood at the gate the cottage was still hidden by trees and overgrown shrubbery, but a wide swath had been cut through the weeds, exposing the remains of a graveled drive. The difference was as much psychological as physical; it exposed the once isolated house, opened it to the present day. As they approached, Meg heard voices. "Who's there?" she asked.
"The guys were still working when I left. I thought they'd have gone by now, but I guess. . . ."
The other workers had gone, leaving only Tom, but he was not alone. The truck parked by the side of the cottage was not a heavy-duty pickup, but a sleek little Camaro. Meg didn't recognize it, but there was no mistaking the identity of the man who was hastily getting into the driver's seat. Rod Applegate. Tom stood by the open door on the passenger side, waiting for the third person to get in. The third person was Candy.
Tom had followed Candy into the truck and closed the door by the time Meg reached it. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, confronting Rod.
He hadn't quite the nerve to start the engine and drive off. His hand dropped from the keys. "Hello, Meg. How've you been?"
"I asked you what you're doing here."
Candy leaned across her ex-husband and glared at Meg. "No call to be rude, is there? We came out to get Tom. His truck's in the shop."
She was dressed as if for a party, in a low-cut blouse whose neckline bared bony shoulders and a patch of reddened skin at the base of her throat. Her lipstick had been applied with a lavish hand; it glistened like fresh paint and some of it had transferred to her teeth, which she bared at Meg in what might have been meant as a smile.
"Yeah, that's right," Rod mumbled. "Came to get Tom. Well—see you around." The engine roared as he applied a heavy foot to the gas.
The truck bounced forward and disappeared behind the cottage, following the now-open route toward the back road. Meg turned to Cliff.
"I want a barricade across that gate," she said.
Cliff shrugged. "I guess I could rig something. Not much sense in it, though; there's nothing here worth stealing."
He walked toward the house. Meg started to follow, and then saw something she had failed to notice in her concentration on the intruders. Her soft cry of distress brought Cliff back to her side. "What's the matter?"
"The rose. Why did you cut it down?"
The leaves had already begun to wilt. Amid the tangle of stems, dying blossoms lay like rusty bloodstains.
"What rose? Oh—that. We chopped down all the vines, the woodwork underneath had rotted. It wasn't worth saving, Meg, it had gone wild."
He was right on both counts. The rose would have had to go. The demise of a flower was a minor loss, in comparison to the others the cottage had suffered. I'm just in a sour mood because of that bitch Candy, Meg thought, climbing the porch steps. They didn't have to come for Tom,
he could have gotten a ride home with the other man. It was just an excuse to pry. I'll bet she went through the whole house. And she and Rod seem to be back together again. They deserve each other.
"Found the keys," Cliff announced, displaying them.
"Where were they? I looked all over."
"Dad had a set. You know him, he never loses track of anything."
There was no need to unlock the front door; it was already open. Cliff ushered her in with obvious pride. "What do you think? Looks a hundred percent better already, doesn't it?"
It did look better; without the furniture the house was just an empty house, not an abandoned home. The floor was inches deep in dead leaves and plaster dust and scraps of paper, but the improvement, if not one hundred percent, was considerable. Meg gave Cliff the praise he deserved, and he expanded visibly. "Come on upstairs. No, it's safe; the steps are solid. This is a well-built house."
Besides the landing there were three bedrooms and two baths on the second floor. Cliff sounded like a realtor with a prospective client as he showed her around. "Lots of closet space, you see. Nice view from this window in the master bedroom. You'll want to install a new bathroom. With sauna and hot tub, naturally."
"I don't know about the sauna." His enthusiasm had infected her, she was beginning to have visions of flowered wallpaper and Victorian draperies. Country Victorian—it would suit the demure look of the cottage. "One of those old claw-footed tubs, and matching fixtures?"
"Not old, it's more trouble than it's worth to have them reporcelained and repaired." Cliff pursed his lips and studied the room thoughtfully. "They make excellent reproductions these days, including the classic john with the overhead tank and pull chain."
He had a lot of good ideas. They were deep in a discussion of lace curtains versus blinds when they heard a voice from below. "Meg? Are you there?"
"It's Uncle George." Meg's voice dropped to a whisper. She and Cliff stared at one another like disobedient children caught in the act. "How did he know. . . ."
"He saw your car, I suppose. Stop looking so guilty, you're infecting me. We haven't done anything. Dad! Hey, Dad, we're up here."
Meg went to the landing. George was at the foot of the stairs, looking up. "Oh, Cliff is with you," he said, smiling. "I was afraid you were here alone, and I was a trifle concerned."
"Come on up," Cliff said.
"No, thanks. I don't trust those stairs."
"We'll come down," Meg said. "The stairs are fine— see?—but we were about to leave anyway. Cliffs been giving me some ideas about decorating. Hasn't he gotten a lot done?"
She was talking too much and too fast, in an attempt to cover her lingering sense of discomfort. George appeared to be more at ease than she. Glancing into the living room he said, "Yes, he has. I expected it would take more than a day just to get rid of the furniture. This is certainly an improvement."
Meg went to him and slipped her arm through his. "Do you really feel okay about this, Uncle George? You needn't come out here if it brings back unhappy memories."
"I've been here a number of times, honey. Once or twice a year, to check for damage." Glancing at his son, who stood at the foot of the stairs with one hand absently stroking the carved newel post, he added, "Cliff was the one who refused to come near the place. I'm glad he's gotten over that. Once you face things you find they aren't as bad as you thought. Right, son?"
Cliff made a sour face. "Right, Dad. Sometimes they're even worse."
"You volunteered for this, buster," Meg said.
"I wasn't referring to this little job. It's turning out to be rather satisfying. Bringing order out of chaos, so to speak."
"Just be careful," George said anxiously. "There are a lot of potential hazards in a job like this. The wiring must be defective—"
"I'm not stupid enough to mess with the wiring," Cliff answered. "That's a job for Casey and his crowd." His voice softened. "Don't worry, Dad. I know what I'm doing and I don't take chances."
"Of course. Well, are you two ready to go? I thought we'd have an early dinner so we can go to the hospital."
They followed him out the door, which Cliff carefully locked. Meg teased him, pointing out that the back door had no lock, and reminding him of his promise to put a chain or barricade across the bar gate. "For the psychological effect," she added. "I know there's nothing you could do tonight that would constitute a permanent barrier."
"There's nothing I can do tomorrow or the next day," Cliff said. "I told you, you're going to need a new gate."
"And a new porch and a new kitchen. And a new teddy bear."
Cliff groaned and raised his hand to cover his eyes. "I was hoping you wouldn't bring that up. When's the funeral?"
"I don't get it," George said with a bemused smile. "Is it a private joke?"
Meg explained. She could see the humor of it now. "I called poor Cliff a very vulgar name," she said, laughing.
George didn't laugh. "So that's what happened! I'll never forget that damned bear, we tore the place apart looking for it. I distinctly remember searching your room, Clifford; in spite of your protestations of innocence I suspected you had something to do with the case. What possessed you to do such a thing? And to tear up the floor—"
"Oh, for God's sake!" Hands in his pockets, head down, Cliff kicked furiously at a loose stone. "All I did was pull out a few nails. It made a perfect hiding place. You always blamed me for everything. She wasn't so perfect, you know."
His voice had risen to a near falsetto—the high-pitched sexless tones of a young boy. "Cliff," Meg said in alarm.
"She used to do things and then I'd get blamed," Cliff whined. He turned his head and gave Meg a broad, mocking smile. "Come on, admit it, coz. Remember the time you dug up all the bulbs McComber planted and let me take the rap?"
"I remember," Meg admitted. "I was searching for treasure, I think. Okay, Cliff, we'll call it square. Neither one of us was a perfect kid. You were a tease and a bully, and I was a smug, spoiled brat. Isn't it amazing we turned out so well?"
She smiled at her uncle, inviting him to join in the cessation of hostilities. His answering smile was perfunctory; the glance he gave his son was more critical than amused. Once again Meg found her sympathies veering toward Cliff. Perhaps he had not lived up to his father's expectations, but a perpetual air of disapproval was no way to encourage a child, or a man, to greater accomplishments.
The same thought seemed to have occurred to George. During dinner he joined in the discussion about the renovations, commending Cliff's ideas and adding a few of his own. He even made a mild joke about the deceased teddy bear. "Let me know when the services are to be held. Pots of honey in lieu of flowers, I presume?"
After dinner they went straight to the hospital. The room to which Mary had been moved was in reality a luxurious suite, its specifications having been drawn up by Dan when he gave the money for the new hospital wing. He had been characteristically blunt about his motives. "It's for me and my family. I don't give a damn if the President of the United States is in there, if one of us needs a hospital room, you kick him out."
Mary was still being carefully monitored, but the equipment didn't seem so obtrusive amid the flounces and finery. Her own lace-trimmed muslin sheets had been brought from home and she lay against the embroidered pillows like a porcelain doll, her face carefully painted by Frances, her silk bed jacket as elaborate as a wedding gown. A lacy cap covered her hair; the doctor had stood firm and refused her demand for a shampoo and set.
Frances was sitting by the bed reading aloud. She raised her hand in a demand for silence, and went on reading. Gran's eyes were closed; her hands were folded on her flat little stomach. She looked like a particularly elegant effigy on a tombstone by Delia Robbia.
Frances's voice was a slow drone, encouraging sleep. It was several seconds before the content of what she was reading struck Meg. "A phosphorescent figure, like a mummy, was growing out of the door in low relief. It drew out and grew slowly
, and rounded. ..."
"Frances!" Meg exclaimed.
Gran's eyes popped open. "Hello, darlings. You must have crept in like little mice. How nice to see you."
"You were asleep," Frances said in an accusing voice. The accusation was directed at Meg, who scowled back at her. "What kind of a bedtime story was that? Ghosts and mummies—"
"Oh, it's a lovely book," Gran said cheerfully. "The Uninvited, by Dorothy Macardle. A brother and sister buy an old house on the coast of Cornwall. It is haunted, of course. But I won't tell you any more, you must read it for yourself, and anyway I want to chat with you. That silly old doctor says you can only stay for fifteen minutes."
Meg pulled up a chair. "Does the silly old doctor know Frances is regaling you with horror stories?"
"Oh, darling, it's not a horror story, it has a happy, romantic ending, just the kind I like. Now tell me all about what you've been doing."
It was a little difficult to comply with the request. They had agreed Mary wasn't to know about the work on the cottage; it might not bother her, but there was no point in taking chances. In fact, none of the subjects that really interested Meg were safe topics of conversation. "I've just been working," she said lamely. "Everything is fine."
"Except for Mrs. Flockey." Cliff came to lean on the back of Meg's chair. "I was in the store this afternoon, Mary, when she came in to pick up some tacky piece of jewelry, and I had to look at five thousand pictures of her grandchildren. They all look like guppies." He made a face to illustrate his point— mouth pursed, eyes popping.
Mary giggled delightedly. "They aren't very attractive children. I'm afraid. They take after their father."
Cliff carried the burden of the conversation, regaling Mary with the tidbits of local gossip she loved. When the nurse put her head in to warn them their time was up, Cliff said teasingly, "I'll tell you the rest of the dirt tomorrow, Mary. There's a rumor running around town that the Bells are splitting up."
"Again? Well, darling, I do appreciate your keeping me up-to-date. Frances is no help at all, she refuses to leave the hospital." She raised her hand to hide a yawn.