Читать книгу The Paper Detective - E. Joan Sims - Страница 9

Chapter Six

The next morning I was awakened by the sound of the county tow truck pulling Watson into the drive in front of Bert’s cabin. I grabbed my clothes and ran barefoot to the outhouse where, thanks to my host, my warm bird bath was waiting. I washed and dressed quickly. I couldn’t wait to get home.

Danny and Bert were on the front porch drinking steaming mugs of coffee and sharing a joke when I walked out. They cut their laughter short when they saw me. My cheeks burned when they avoided looking my way, leaving me little doubt as to the target of their humor.

“Good morning, Danny,” I said a little too brightly. “Thanks for rescuing Watson. How is he?”

Danny cleared his throat, “Seems fine, Mrs. DeLeon. You may want to check the alignment some time soon, but nothing’s bent underneath. Good thing you got out when you did. That exhaust was clogged up tight.”

“Yeah, so I’ve been told.”

I turned and looked directly at Bert for the first time. Despite his joking around, he looked tired and drawn. It was obvious that he hadn’t slept well.

“Thanks again for your hospitality, Bert. I’ll be in touch about our arrangements as soon as I call my agent.”

I turned to go down the steps and heard the dog whine.

“Bye, Murphy.” I said as I ruffled his furry ears. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

I slid twice on the icy path as I hurried to the car, but the tears didn’t start until I banged my knee against the door trying to get in. I averted my face as I backed out of the drive so Bert wouldn’t see me crying yet again. When I stopped to make the turn, I thought for a moment I heard my name in the cold crisp air. I looked back at the cabin, but the two men had gone inside. I spun the tires in the snow as I made my getaway.

“Damn!” I shouted as I banged on the steering wheel. “Damn, damn, damn!”

It was almost noon when I got home. Mother was in the kitchen making fruitcakes. The strong, sweet smell of cinnamon and nutmeg made me want to puke. I stormed through her domestic domain with barely a, “Hello, Mother, I’m home.” Her only response was an elegantly raised eyebrow.

I slammed my bedroom door and threw my clothes in the corner as I stripped down for my first whole bath in two days. Steam filled the bathroom as hot water filled the tub. I doused the water liberally with some of Cassie’s flowery bath salts and sank down in the fragrance and the heat. I didn’t turn the faucet until my limbs floated off the bottom, and even then I let the water continue to trickle to keep my bath hot.

Slowly, the hurt and anger began to disappear as my muscles relaxed. I deliberately avoided investigating the reasons for my feelings. They were better off tucked away. Out of sight, I decided, out of mind.

I had almost fallen asleep when I heard Cassie calling at the door.

“Mom, are you decent? Can I come in?”

I laughed. “I am in the bathtub, you know. Never mind, come on in, pumpkin”

The door opened, letting in a slight draft of cold air.

“Shut the door, for Pete’s sake!”

“Wow, Gran was right. She said you were in a mood. What happened out there in the woods with your mountain man?”

Cassie sat on the chair by the vanity. She looked at me curiously through the mist when I didn’t answer right away.

“It’s like a steam room in here,” she said wiping the perspiration off her upper lip. “Are you all right, Mom? I mean, he didn’t take advantage or anything, did he?”

The tears started up again, and before I knew it I was crying as hard as I had all the way home.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I sobbed. “I can’t stop crying.”

“Oh, Mom, maybe we’d better call the doctor. Danny said you hit your head pretty hard. Bert thought you had a concussion. Maybe you need x-rays or something.”

I sniffed and blew my nose on the washcloth. “No. No doctor. I’ll be fine.” I tried smiling to reassure her, but my heart wasn’t in it. I really was a very poor actress.

“Have you had breakfast?”

This time my smile was genuine.

“You sound like Mother,” I chided. “No, come to think of it, I didn’t. And I am hungry. Think maybe you could bring me some soup?”

Cassie fixed a tray for me while I dried my hair. Two days without a comb had made the curly auburn tangles almost impossible to brush out. Once again, I made the decision to get a haircut as soon as possible.

I looked in the mirror at my reflection. My face was flushed bright pink from my bath. Green eyes stared solemnly back at me over a ridiculously pert little nose. I swore softly as I realized once again how unfair it was for a forty-two-year-old woman to still have freckles.

I combed furiously at a tangle, and the pain almost brought the tears back to my eyes. The scissors in the cabinet were too much of a temptation. I decided impetuously that I could probably do as good a job as anyone in Rowan Springs. Holding up a twisted, tangled lock, I took an experimental whack. It was easier than I thought. The scissors were sharp and made a whispery little sound as I continued to snip away. The sink slowly filled with hair as my head got lighter. When I had finished, I ruffled the short, tousled cap of curls that remained with satisfaction.

“Goodbye, Raggedy Ann,” I whispered.

Cassie loved my new haircut.

Mother was appalled.

“Paisley, darling, why in the world didn’t you have the self-control to wait for a decent hairstylist?”

“Well, Mother, let’s see. Number one, I have no self-control. You’ve told me so a hundred times. And number two, there is no such animal in Rowan Springs.”

“Gennie does a very competent job on my hair, thank you very much,” she huffed.

“Yes, she does,” I agreed. “But that’s because you have beautiful silver-white hair, and you’ve spent years making her perfect that French twist.”

“Well…” she smiled, pleased with the compliment.

“Besides, I like the way I cut my hair. It feels great.”

“If you want to look like Shirley Temple…”

I interrupted her angrily. “I’m not Shirley Temple, and I’m not Raggedy Ann! I’m me, Paisley Sterling. And if I want to shave my head and paint it blue, I’ll do it.”

I stormed out of the kitchen and grabbed my jacket from the hall closet. It would take a bracing walk in the snow to cool me off. I was more than a little surprised that my boiling point was so low.

The fields and the lane were covered with snow and prohibited a walk in the woods behind the farm. Instead, I went around to the front of the house and down the driveway. Off in the distance I could see smoke from our neighbor’s chimney. Dora Nick was ninety years old. She had been a friend to the women in my family for four generations. We all loved and admired her for different reasons. Her house had been a quiet refuge during my years as a confused and rebellious adolescent. She and her porcelain doll, Phoebe, had listened patiently to my interminable tales of woe over endless cups of hot chocolate. Now, I thought, was the perfect time for another cup.

I trudged gamely through the dirty snow and ice on the shoulder of the road until I reached her driveway. She had already had it cleared by some enterprising soul, and the going was much easier as I walked up to her house.

Nicholas and Dora Nick had begun to build their big, beautiful home while they were still on their honeymoon. It had taken three years. Nicholas had been killed by a young German soldier before he got to carry his bride over the threshold. Stalwart and brave, Dora had moved in and made a life on the pattern they had planned, minus the six children.

She answered the door shortly after my first knock. “Paisley, love! Come in before you freeze to death.” She looked up at me over little gold-rimmed glasses as I stepped inside her entry hall.

“Your nose is red!” she protested. “How long have you been outside?”

She hurried past me, her tiny figure still trim and neat, firing a barrage of questions without waiting for a single answer.

“When did you cut your hair? I love it. I’ve been thinking about cutting mine but Nicholas wouldn’t like it. Oh, no, he loved my hair long.”

I followed her into the cozy warmth of her parlor and shrugged off my jacket. A toasty seat on the hearth beckoned.

“Just a minute dear while I ask Rosie to bring us some chocolate. Would you like a sweet? Of course you would. You always loved my shortcake. I’ll insist she put some on a tray.”

She came closer and whispered loudly, “She’s been threatening to put me on a diet because she’s gaining weight! Imagine that!”

Dora hurried out to the kitchen and left me to gaze around at a room that hadn’t changed since my childhood. Above the fireplace, a beautiful hand-carved oak mantle showcased several ornate picture frames with photographs of a handsome young man—in and out of uniform. Cheerful red-and-white striped taffeta drapes surrounded the big bay windows and brought out the red hues in the oriental rugs that covered the polished wood floor. Two big sofas upholstered in navy velvet sat in the center of the room, with a square mahogany table in between.

When the fire had warmed me sufficiently, I moved over to one of the sofas and sank back in the soft cushions. My eyes went to my favorite painting, a seascape of the New England shore with a sailing ship in the distance. Nicholas had been from Maine. When I was a child I had never tired of looking at that seascape, and it brought peace and calm to me even now.

Dora came bustling back in the room with Rosie in her wake.

“You still love that silly picture? Why of course you do. Look at your face. You could be ten years old again!”

Rosie Cummins was as rotund as Dora was slender. Her face was as round as a biscuit, and the spotless white apron she always wore barely met around her ample middle. She had lived with and cared for Dora for the last thirty years. They fussed and bickered constantly, but I knew that they were as fond of each other as sisters.

I helped Rosie put the heavy tray down on the table as she babbled on.

“My, my, it’s good to see you, dear. Stay for dinner. I’m making pasties. You used to love them, I remember. Dora loves them, too. But she really shouldn’t…”

Dora’s thin little shoulder squared for the beginning of one of their pitched battles. I leapt in to head it off. I wasn’t up to any controversy.

“I’d love to have dinner with you, but Mother and Cassie will be expecting me.”

“Invite them, too, dear,” urged Dora.

“Yes, do!” chorused Rosie with a grin.

I smiled at their genuine affection.

“Some other time, I promise.”

“Well,” sighed Dora, “at least you can have some cocoa with me.”

Rosie apologized for having to get back to the kitchen. “I’ve something in the oven that needs watching. Come back,” she murmured in my ear as she gave me a hug. “Come back when she’s taking a nap, and we’ll have those pasties.”

Dora made a face at her retreating back and turned to offer me a piece of shortbread.

“Paisley, I haven’t had a chance to tell you how much I loved your friend’s last book. My, it was thrilling!” she said, her eyes shining with excitement. “I do hope you will introduce us sometime.”

I had explained to Dora many times that Leonard Paisley was my nom de plume, that he really didn’t exist, but I think she honestly preferred to believe he was real than to accept the fact that little Paisley Sterling had written such wild and wooly tales of murder and mayhem. I took a tender, buttery mouthful of shortbread and steered the subject in another direction.

“Tell me what you know about Bert Atkins.”

“The ex-Police Chief from Hall County? Yes,” she said answering herself. “He’s a fine man. His wife was a lovely girl. I knew her grandmother. What a shame she died so young. Burt’s never been the same, they say.” She shook her little head with its coronet of white braids. “Made a lot of enemies. Death threats and all. Blackberry jam?”

“What kind of enemies, Dora?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Wicked people with grudges, I suppose. It’s hard being the law in a little town. You grow up with boyhood friends and then have to turn around and arrest them.”

Try as I might, I could get her to say no more. We spoke pleasantly about Cassie’s accomplishments at Emory and Mother’s new wardrobe. Dora told me that she and Rosie had planned to go to Florida that winter but decided against it at the last minute. They wanted to have a white Christmas.

“Well, it looks like you’re going to have your wish. If this keeps up for another three weeks, that is.”

Dora laughed and topped off my cup with some more hot chocolate.

“Why don’t you tell me why you really came, dear?”

I laughed and started to protest, but the words wouldn’t get past the lump in my throat.

Dora patted my hand and then held it in her tiny little one. Her wide gold wedding band gleamed in the firelight. It had been on her ring finger for the last seventy years. She would understand about commitment, and vows, and wanting to believe someone was still alive somewhere. She would know why I rebuffed Bert’s advances. She had probably felt the same fierce desires and yearnings and known the same guilt.

I looked at her frail old-woman’s body and imagined the beautiful young girl made a widow too soon. Dora would know better than anyone why I’d cried all the way home. And why I was crying now.

I told her everything.