by Arlene Kay
“We’re here to see Dr. Fergueson,” I said firmly but politely, dispensing with social niceties. “We have an appointment. Persephone Morgan and Babette Croy. You know, the Therapy Dog group.”
I stand five feet, nine inches tall, but Nurse Ross topped me by at least four inches and fifty pounds. Babette had a mighty spirit but was vertically challenged. She angled away from the door and cowered behind me.
“Oh,” grunted the nurse. “Wait here. I’ll check.”
The anteroom contained several soothing seascapes and a framed diploma certifying that Joan Fergueson had earned a doctorate in Philosophy from Westport University. The name of the institution was unfamiliar, but that was no surprise. With my humble, hard-won bachelor’s degree, I was scarcely an expert on graduate education.
“She has some nerve,” Babette whispered. “Do we look like kidnappers or somethin’?”
I refused to speculate. Soon enough, the private office door opened and an attractive, middle-aged woman emerged and ushered us inside. She wore a conservative gray business suit and no jewelry save a gold circle pin on her right lapel. Dark, lustrous hair was expertly fashioned into a sensible bob and tamed with a clip. Except for a trace of powder and a hint of lip gloss, her face was unadorned. The overall look was austere but not unpleasing.
“Ladies. Forgive me for not meeting you. I’m Joan Fergueson.” She glanced down at our dogs and smiled. “They’re lovely. So well mannered. Better than some of our residents, I’m sorry to say.”
Babette had finally found her voice. “Where is everyone? Did we pick the wrong day?”
Dr. F. immediately switched into soothing mode. “Not at all. Today is Tuesday and many of our residents catch the bus into town. They shop for groceries, have lunch…you know. Fun stuff.”
That made sense. It also came as a relief. These people weren’t prisoners after all, and a day away with friends was an antidote to depression. Maybe life at the Falls wasn’t so grim after all. I checked my watch. Unlike Babette, I had a business to run and bills to pay. “Charity begins at home” may be trite, but it resonated with me.
Dr. Fergueson sensed my impatience and reacted immediately. “I’m sure your time is valuable. Let’s gather the rest of your group and I can answer any questions and discuss how we operate at the Falls. This Therapy Dog program is relatively new for us. Please grab a seat.” She buzzed the restaurant and ordered tea. “Fortunately, our food service here is top-shelf. Most residents enjoy it, although they have the option of cooking their own meals.”
Kate and Rolf nodded to Dr. F. and joined us around the conference table. When the tea service arrived, Babette’s spirits surged. She spooned honey on her plate, bit into a scone, and sighed. “These are terrific! Homemade, I bet.”
That pleased the administrator. “It’s a specialty. Help yourself.”
Unlike my pal, sweets have never tempted me. I can take them or leave them. Still, good manners dictated that I sample the offerings. I nibbled a scone and went back for more. No need to feign enthusiasm. They were delicious.
Joan Fergueson sat at her desk, tapping her computer screen. “Let’s see.” For a moment she frowned but quickly recovered. “Oh yes. Mrs. Croy has Irene Wilson. A lovely woman. Former teacher and dog breeder.” She turned to Kate. “You’ve met your resident already. Clark Wingate, one of the few males at The Falls.” She bit her lip as she faced Rolf Hart. “I’m sorry to tell you, but there’s been a change to your assignment. Mrs. Whitman is no longer with us.”
A moment of silence was shattered by Babette’s question. “Did she leave just this place or the earth entirely?”
Dr. Fergueson winced. Apparently, she preferred to speak euphemistically about the recently departed. “I’m afraid she was quite elderly. Frail. A sad fact of life around here, but we try to celebrate each day.”
Rolf shrugged, as if it was immaterial to him. “I wondered when I didn’t hear from Sara. She was quite a character, you know. Stayed up on everything and everybody around here. I suppose you’ve assigned a new partner for me?”
Joan tapped the computer screen once more. “Mr. Jennings, a former developer. One of our younger residents. You’ll have much in common.”
I waited patiently for her to mention Magdalen Melmoth. Instead, she continued watching the screen and tapping those keys. Joan Fergueson was no ingénue, and her evasive manner puzzled me. After all, what was the big deal about one elderly resident? “We may have to switch your person, Ms. Morgan,” she said with a saccharine smile. “Not to worry. Our residents signed up to participate and we have a long list.”
“Really? I met Magdalen this morning and she was charming. My dogs liked her immediately. I’d love to work with her.”
The good doctor hesitated, weighing the options before her. “Well, if you’re sure. Ms. Melmoth can be difficult. Fanciful.” She obviously wanted to say more, but discretion won out. That made me probe further.
“Oh? She seemed very lively to me. I took that as a good sign.” I folded my arms, as if the issue was settled.
“It’s nothing. Just don’t believe everything she says about her lineage. Delusions of grandeur, you know. It’s this genealogy craze they advertise. So many residents have signed up. Another way to feed illusions, I suspect.” Fergueson’s dismissive manner annoyed me. Everyone needed some fantasy life, even a pensioner. I could empathize with the need to connect, even if the results were somewhat suspect. Most folks hoped for bragging rights to noble antecedents, but no one welcomed a criminal or castoff swimming in the gene pool. Many families were blessed with both.
“I’m sure you’re eager to get started,” said Dr. F. “So, if you and Mrs. Croy have the paperwork ready, we’ll be all set.” I presented our bona fides and flashed what I hoped was an engaging smile her way. Somehow, winning this small battle in the bureaucratic wars pleased me immensely. Our dogs wore badges, proof that they had graduated from basic and intermediate obedience as well as earned their CGC, or Canine Good Citizen certificates. That assured officials that they had both good manners and temperament and had received the necessary insurance. After witnessing Nurse Ross’s gruff manner, I wondered if she could meet the same standards.
Dr. Fergueson rose, indicating that our audience had ended. “Very well, then. I’ll ask Nurse Ross to introduce you.” Her handshake was stiff and unauthentic, but that was fine with me. No sense in lingering. Nurse Carole Ross lumbered into the office and tried herding us out the door at an unseemly pace. Powered by that scone sugar surge, Babette finally showed some spunk, holding her ground and strutting out in front of the pack. I patted Keats and Poe for reinforcement and meekly followed suit. Had I foreseen the danger awaiting us, I would have clutched them for support and galloped out the front door to safety. But because I lacked the gift of second sight, I dismissed Joan Fergueson’s churlish behavior and forged ahead.
Our adventure at the Falls had finally begun.
Chapter 2
Babette bonded immediately with Irene Wilson over a shared love of books and dogs. She stepped into the cozy studio apartment, sized up the tasteful furnishings, and beamed at its occupant as if they were old friends. Clara sealed the deal by approaching Irene and licking her hand.
“That’s a good sign. She’s particular. Doesn’t do that with everyone,” Babette said. “Clara likes you.”
Irene, a woman in her eighties, was a tall, imposing figure with light brown skin, neatly coiled gray hair, and large, expressive eyes. Her years in the classroom and stately bearing lent her an air of authority. She grinned at Babette and chuckled. “Kids and dogs—my specialty. For years I bred springer spaniels. Showed them too, even at Westminster. Shucks. Sometimes I had more luck with canines than my human pupils, but I loved them all. Still do.”
I excused myself after explaining that I was seeking Magdalen Melmoth. A momentary frown flashed across Irene’s face, but she quic
kly banished it.
“Be gentle with her. Mags is one of my best friends here. My only friend, actually. I don’t want her to get hurt.”
I was intrigued. “Anything else you can tell me?”
Babette had little patience for delay and tact was seldom her strong suit. “Come on, Irene. Spill. You can trust Perri. Don’t worry.”
Irene bit her lip as she framed her words. “We all have our illusions, even as we age—especially as we age. Just let her talk. Mags …she’s a sweetheart. Not an ounce of harm in her.”
“Good to know she has a friend like you. We’ve already met.” I wagged my finger at them before heading out the door. “Behave, you two, or I’ll report you to Nurse Ross.”
* * * *
Magdalen Melmoth’s flat was a one-bedroom directly down the hall from Irene’s. She answered the door and immediately waved us in.
To my surprise, her head bowed, as if she was too shy to make eye contact. “Oh, Perri. Ms. Morgan. I was afraid you weren’t coming after meeting the powers that be. I made tea.” She pointed to a beautifully embossed silver tea set. “Don’t often get the chance to use this old relic. It’s kind of like me. Put on the shelf. No use to anyone.”
Keats and Poe eyed the goodies on the tray but settled into a sit-stay without complaint. Their good manners were a constant rebuke to me when I felt tempted to overreach. Breeding triumphed over baser impulses every time, and all three of us waited before diving in.
The interior of Magdalen’s flat was art deco, surprisingly modern and tasteful but austere. Reminiscent of a monk’s cell or a convent, it yielded few clues as to the identity of its occupant. The only exception was color: buttercup yellow walls and red lacquered woodwork. One side of the room contained a lovely chinoiserie bookcase filled with red leather-bound volumes.
“You look surprised,” she said. “Not exactly what you expected, is it? You probably envisioned relics and family pieces.”
I shrugged. “It’s obvious you enjoy nice things. I’m fascinated by your library.” I walked over and scanned the titles. Most were classics—Shakespeare, Austen, Tolstoy, and Wilde, although to my surprise, three contemporary books by a certain Wing Pruett were also present. I flushed and turned away, hoping Magdalen had missed my reaction. Unfortunately, she had not. I suspected there was very little in life my new friend missed.
She poured tea and passed the tray of sandwiches my way. “Forgive me, dear. That was my little joke. You see, I read about you and Mr. Pruett, and when you volunteered for this assignment, I couldn’t believe my luck. Forgive me, won’t you?” Before continuing, Magdalen unwrapped two meaty bones, placed each on a Limoges saucer, and shared them with my dogs. “Treats for everyone today,” she said brightly. We sipped our tea in silence before my hostess continued. “Now, let me explain myself.”
I didn’t know what to expect. Why hadn’t I heeded Joan Fergueson’s warning and found a nice, uncomplicated animal lover with no agenda? Stubbornness and pride were the bane of my existence and always had been. Always would be.
Magdalen reached over and patted my arm. “Don’t worry, dear, I’m not a lunatic. Not really. Just a determined woman. At my age, a woman on a mission is either feared or discounted.”
I faked a smile. “No problem. Tell me more.”
She dabbed daintily at her mouth and began. “How much do you know about Oscar Wilde? His life, not just his magnificent prose.”
“Just the basics.” I hesitated to mention the sensational legal action that had placed the great man in Reading Gaol. After all, Magdalen was a lady from another generation when such matters were not discussed.
She nibbled a smoked salmon sandwich and watched me closely. “Does genealogy interest you at all, Perri?”
I shook my head.
“You’re still young. When you get to be my age, it’s comforting to know your heritage.” Magdalen chuckled. “After all, I might be meeting some of them fairly soon.” She leaned over and stroked Poe’s silky coat. “Funny, isn’t it? Pedigree dogs like these fine specimens come to us with extensive family trees. Most humans don’t.”
Against my will, I began to question Magdalen’s mental state. The conversation was bizarre as well as confusing, and I wasn’t certain what she wanted from me.
“Where do I fit in?” I asked, “not to mention Wing Pruett.” Pruett, an acclaimed investigative journalist and my romantic partner, inspired fantasies in many women. Magdalen was way beyond his usual demographic, but anything was possible. I had proof positive that Pruett’s physical assets far exceeded anything DC scribes even hinted at. That memory made me smile.
Magdalen suddenly clenched her hands and rose to her feet. “Listen closely, Perri. I want you both to undertake a mission, one of historical significance. A quest of sorts.”
The Therapy Dog guidelines never mentioned anything like this. I sought to placate Magdalen while I plotted a quick exit strategy. She was confused. Had to be. Buttonholing a complete stranger made no sense at all. Only the thought of Nurse Carole and Dr. Fergueson kept me glued to my seat. To ward off their sneers, I allotted Magdalen more time to spin her fantasy.
“What is it that you think we can do for you?” I asked.
Her sweet smile told me I had already lost the battle. “Bring him here. You see, I have a secret.”
I visualized Pruett’s reaction, and it wasn’t pretty. When it came to business, he was hard-nosed and data-driven. “Don’t be mysterious, Magdalen. Give me more details.” My tone was too harsh, and immediately, guilt welled up in me. After all, I was charged with comforting Magdalen, not confronting her. Suppose she cried or fainted? I would never survive being bounced from the Therapy Dog Program on my maiden voyage for brutalizing a resident.
Fortunately, she was made of sterner stuff. “Research is his specialty, right?” Magdalen was clearly enjoying herself. “Okay, then. Dig into the background of Oscar Wilde before you come back here. That should get your juices flowing.”
I tried to hide my disbelief. “The famous writer?”
“Yes, dear. I believe he was my grandfather and left me a valuable legacy.”
Gaping like the village idiot was unseemly, but I couldn’t help it. “Legacy?”
Magdalen was thoroughly composed, unlike me. “Quite a coup for a hotshot author, don’t you think? Mr. Pruett will get full access to everything I own. I’ll sign any necessary legal documents.”
Keats put his face in Magdalen’s lap, looked up, and watched her with sad, soulful eyes. Poe edged closer to me.
“I don’t know what to say, Ms. Melmoth.”
Once again, her manner floored me. “Don’t worry, dear. Tell Mr. Pruett that I have an original, unpublished manuscript written by my grandfather. That should pique his interest.” Magdalen placidly sipped her tea as she watched me closely.
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t worry. You soon will. My health is fine, but after all, I’m no spring chicken. Someone trustworthy. That’s what I need. Before it’s too late.”
I rose slowly, uncertain of what to do. For some reason I fumbled in my bag for a business card and handed it to Magdalen. “You can contact me in case your schedule changes or something.”
“Thank you, dear. Nicely done. That’s important for a businessperson, especially a woman.” Magdalen placed it in a lovely bronze box with elaborate engraving on it. “Perhaps we could meet here next week,” she said. “That will give you time to do some research. I understand Mr. Pruett is very thorough.” Magdalen smiled, as if she was sharing a secret joke. “Time, you know, makes slaves of us all. No need to prolong things. As the Bard said, ‘Delays have dangerous ends.’”
Chapter 3
“Sounds like she’s nuts,” Babette said. “Maybe ole starchy drawers Fergueson was right about Magdalen after all. Too bad. I really liked her. Magdalen, I mean, not the drago
n lady.”
Buoyed by the success of our dogs and their program, we left the Falls in high spirits. A round of musical chairs, tricks, and meet and greets received a warm welcome from the residents. Once again, I was awed by the power of the canine-human connection. Outwardly timid ladies hugged and kissed our dogs with a zeal they never would have shown to strangers. A few reminisced about beloved dogs and cats that had shared their own lives. In the face of that reaction, my prior reluctance to participate felt petty and mean-spirited. I was now a true believer. Even the songs Kate had shared with the group gave me a warm, family feeling that, as an orphan, I had missed out on.
Babette and I sat in my living room, sipping cider and awaiting the arrival of Wing Pruett. I’d phoned and sketched out the basics for him, and to my surprise, he was intrigued enough to change his plans and pop on over. That inspired Babette to order pizzas from her favorite gourmet spot and brew barn burners, a lethal mixture of cider, brandy, and whiskey that tasted harmless and kicked like an entire mule team.
“How are things going between you two?” Babette asked. When it came to romances, particularly mine, no area was out of bounds for my pal. Privacy was an overrated barrier in Croyland. She ignored my frown and plunged in immediately. “Any hint of wedding bells? I’ll need to make arrangements, you know. Give me plenty of notice.”
I chose to ignore my ill-mannered but well-intentioned pal. “Things are fine between us. Don’t you dare mention wedding bells when he gets here. He’ll think I put you up to it.” Actually, that topic was verboten in my household. I’m a self-sufficient, single woman, thirty-two years of age, with eyes firmly fixed on my future. Whether that future included a certain investigative hottie and his darling daughter remained an open question, one that I was reluctant to broach. Three years ago, when my fiancé, Dr. Pip Hahn, succumbed to cancer, I banished all thoughts of romance. The pain of that loss still haunted me, and the wound was remarkably raw. No sense in mentioning it to Babette, the ultimate pragmatist. Her response—which she frequently voiced—was simple: get over it. Pip’s gone, so live your life. What she couldn’t or wouldn’t understand was my refusal to obliterate him from my heart. His memory sustained me and kept Wing Pruett’s less-desirable habits at bay. It was a complicated and occasionally painful dilemma.