Читать книгу The Cradle Robber - E. Joan Sims - Страница 10

Chapter Seven

Cassie returned some time around four. By then, Mother had several Thermos bottles full of hot cream of potato soup and my picnic basket full of homemade cornmeal muffins ready to go. I didn’t have the heart to turn her down when she asked me to drive her to the homes of her elderly friends. Some of them still had no electricity, and it was almost dinnertime.

Cassie went straight to her room without speaking to either of us. I figured she had at least one more day of silence in her, maybe two. I carried the goodies to the rental car and put them in the trunk. When I climbed into the driver’s seat I noticed some papers tucked under the front seat. I pulled one out and read it with amusement bordering on fury.

Cassie had been busy. She had printed up some flyers offering a reward of far too much filthy lucre for her lost puppy. Aggie was described as “loving and sweet, with a friendly disposition.” She had even managed to find a photograph of the dog that seemed to meet that erroneous description.

I wondered vaguely if tornado insurance would cover “lost dog rewards.” Maybe Cassie had five hundred big ones to throw around like that, but I certainly didn’t.

My daughter had also used up all the gas in the rental car. I grumbled about her lack of consideration all the way to the filling station. As usual, Mother defended her actions even though she herself had fussed about Cassie’s lack of thoughtfulness earlier. It was going to be a long afternoon.

It was even worse than I imagined. Every street we turned down was full of fallen trees. Crews were busy clearing the main street from the highway into town, but it was obvious it would be a while before they got to the side streets. We had to walk to almost every house on Mother’s list. By the time we were down to the last Thermos, we were both pooped.

“Looks like Miss Lolly’s street isn’t too bad,” I observed gratefully. “With a little maneuvering, I can drive you right to her front door.”

“Thank goodness! I was wondering where I was going to hide you. Now you can wait in the car. You don’t mind, do you, dear?”

“I’m getting pretty damn tired of paying for childhood sins at this late date,” I admitted with a sneer.

“Spray painting her cat was more than a simple peccadillo, Paisley. And you know how old people are. They remember more of the past than the present. In Miss Lolly’s mind, the incident with her cat happened just yesterday and not over thirty years ago.”

“Well,” I sighed, “I don’t like her either. She smells like stale talcum powder and her hair looks like a used Brillo pad. You need any help with the basket?”

I parked the car in the driveway under the spreading limbs of a big oak tree that had been spared by the storm. The Parsons sisters had lived in this big old house all of their lives. Their papa built the house with the spoils of his thriving lumberyard back at the turn of the century. For years it was the largest, most beautiful house in Lakeland County. When Papa Parsons passed away, the house started to die, too. It was rumored that the sisters were difficult to please, and painters, roofers, and yardmen often failed to answer their calls for help. Gradually, the green expanse of lawn died while moss grew in thick green patches on the roof. The white paint on the intricate gingerbread trim began to peel and flake off. The grass that no longer flourished in the front yard poked up healthy and vigorous between gaping cracks in the driveway. In short, the Parsons’ Mansion had turned into a big decaying grey elephant that nothing short of a deep pocketful of money and lots of love could revive. The sisters might still have the money, but they were both dried up little spinsters and definitely bankrupt in the love department.

Mother’s head and torso vanished behind the green leaves of the big oak as she climbed the steps to the front door. I lay back in the seat and watched her feet as I idly eavesdropped on her conversation.

“Hello, Miss Lolly,” Mother greeted the old woman brightly. “How did you and Miss Hannah weather the storm?”

“Hummpf!”

Never at a loss for words, Mother continued, “Looks like your street was lucky. Not too much damage here.”

“I suppose,” the old woman admitted reluctantly. Her voice was high and thin and full of decades of sour disapproval.

“I brought you all some hot soup and corn muffins.” Mother waited politely for a response, and getting none, pressed on. “I hope Miss Hannah is well?”

Suddenly Lolly Parsons turned on her talking machine.

“Yes, yes, but of course she’s fine. Fit as a fiddle she is! Why do you ask?” she inquired nervously.

“Why, er, the storm,” stammered Mother. “It sometimes puts people out of sorts. Even Paisley was…”

“Paisley Sterling! That young rascal! Is she with you!”

“She’s, ah, waiting in the car,” admitted Mother reluctantly.

“Well, she’d better not put a foot on my lawn! That’s all I have to say! You and John really failed to do your duty with that child. Spare the rod and spoil the child. Your Paisley is a perfect example of that.”

“Miss Lolly, I’ll have you know that Paisley is quite a successful novelist!”

“Not in my book! Did she help you make these corn muffins?”

“Well, no.”

“The soup?”

“She peeled the potatoes.”

“Keep it!”

A dry, withered, old arm snaked out the door, grabbed the picnic basket off the stoop, and quickly pulled it into the house. I heard the front door slam, and saw Mother’s right foot stomp once with vexation. By the time she got to the car, I was laughing out loud.

“Stop it, Paisley!” she ordered as she blotted her damp upper lip with a dainty linen handkerchief. “My, it’s gotten hot!”

“You just got a mite agitated, that’s all. By the way Mother, thanks for the ‘successful novelist’ bit.”

“Why in the world did you ever have to mess with that old hag’s cat?” she asked crossly as she checked her makeup in the mirror.

“Because it was there!” I answered with an evil grin.

We decided to take the leftover Thermos of soup to Andy Joiner. Mother was quite fond of our Chief of Police, and I knew he would be working overtime because of the storm. His wife, Connie, had probably sent him lunch, but it was already dinnertime.

This time, I left Mother resting in the car while I ran into the police station. It was absolute bedlam—with phones ringing off the hook and people scurrying in every direction shouting clipped orders to each other.

I hugged the Thermos to my chest and backed into a corner out of the way, I finally spotted Andy standing in the middle of a group of firemen and policemen. They were crowded in front of a large wall map of Lakeland County. Andy was obviously giving out work assignments. I knew he wouldn’t welcome an interruption now if I were bearing champagne and lobster tails.

I turned to leave and ran smack dab into Horatio Raleigh, knocking a large brown envelope out of his hand. We both stared down at the floor where glossy photographs of an obviously very dead gentleman were scattered.

“Oh, my!” stated Horatio.

I bent down hurriedly and picked up the pictures before Horatio could get to them. “My indeed,” I observed wryly. “Since when does a tornado victim have his throat slit from ear to ear?”

“Please, Paisley! Keep your voice down.”

I put my head closer to his but didn’t soften my voice.

“Relax. There’s so much going on in here nobody would notice if we both stood here stark naked.”

Horatio raised an elegant eyebrow and looked around the room.

“I suppose you’re right, my dear,” he laughed.

“And Andy doesn’t have time right now for anything. Why don’t you come out in the car and share these photos with ghoulish little old me. You know how I love tidbits like this for my books.”

“I shouldn’t,” he protested. “This is strictly a matter for the police.”

“You look tired, Horatio. How does some of Mother’s delicious cream of potato soup sound to you?”