Lye in Wait (14 page)

"Huh uh. Is that what started the fire?"

Blakely nodded. "It looks like it. We'll test for accelerants to
make sure, but my guess is someone piled the magazines all together, poured gasoline on them, and tossed a match on it."

"Not that there's any evidence of a break-in left," Ambrose
said.

"They didn't have to break in," I said. "They had the key, remember?" And then I remembered: I had forgotten to tell Ambrose about the missing key. I explained about it now.

"If it was the same person you say you heard in Hanover's
house," Ambrose said.

"`Say I heard?"' I repeated.

He held out his palms. "All right. The person you heard in
Hanover's house."

"Thank you. But you think the arsonist was someone different?"

Ambrose shrugged. "Can't jump to conclusions."

I stood up. "If that's all, then, I have to get back to work"

Blakely said, "Yeah, we're done."

Ambrose studied me like a particularly thorny algebra problem, then abruptly rose and followed Chief Blakely around to
where they'd parked on the street in front of the house.

Kyla went back to labeling the lip balms, and I finished taking inventory. Or tried to. Halfway through counting something, I'd find
myself speculating about what nasty surprises might be in store for
me in the near future if someone was really trying to frame me. I
wracked my brain for anyone who might hate me that much. It
didn't take long to decide the idea bordered on ridiculous. I just
wasn't that important in the scheme of things.

Enough with the persecution complex.

After a while, I gave up and went to find Meghan. I found her
at the kitchen table, paying bills. She didn't look pleased.

"What's wrong?"

She just shook her head.

"Where's Erin?"

"She went over to Zoe's to play."

I slathered peanut butter on a piece of bread for my lunch and
poured a glass of milk.

"Can I help?"

"Not unless you can make that asshole pay his child support
on time."

I sat down and munched, watching her. "It's never going to
happen, Meghan."

She sighed. "I know. Getting mad doesn't change anything. I
could just kill him for dumping Erin off like that yesterday, though.
How could I have been so stupid?"

It took me a moment to figure out what she was talking about.
"You mean marrying him?"

She groaned. "Of course that's what I mean."

I cocked my head. "Why did you marry him?"

"Oh, I don't know. I mean, I thought I loved him, of course.
Maybe I really did. At least I'd have the love-is-blind excuse." She
leaned back in the chair. "But he had that thing, you know. That
boy thing. It's horribly appealing."

"Tell me you're not talking about what I think you're talking
about."

"What? No! He had a kind of little boy... vulnerability, I guess.
You know what I mean."

Actually, I had no idea what she meant. Richard seemed any"
thing but vulnerable. "Well, at least you got Erin."

I know. I guess she's yang and he's yin. I can't have one without the other."

"Well, it does work. He's an asshole and she's an angel."

She laughed. "Yeah. At least I get the angel most of the time. I'd
really hate it if it was the other way around."

I grinned and nodded, unable to speak. I'd eaten my peanut butter too fast and had to drink most of the milk to unglue my mouth.

"How much do I owe you?" I asked once I could talk again.

She told me, and I got out my checkbook and started writing. I
tore out the check and handed it to her. "When do you want to go
over to the funeral home?" I asked.

Meghan stuck a stamp on an envelope and gathered the rest of
the paperwork into a pile in the middle of the table.

"How about now? I'd like to get it over with."

I agreed.

DOWN THE HALL FROM the funeral director's office, organ music
echoed in the chapel. Mr. Crane, dressed in a tasteful dark suit,
leaned over his desk and informed us in quiet tones that Walter's
body definitely wouldn't be released from the morgue in time for
the memorial service. However, they would let us know when they
had access to the body in case anyone wanted to be present for
the cremation. Crane himself offered to perform the honors at the
service; he was an ordained minister and officiated over many of
the nondenominational funerals. Sounded good to us. We chose a
couple hymns and tidied up a few other details.

When we rose to leave, the director asked us whom he should
bill. Meghan and I looked at each other.

"Send it to me," I said.

He nodded and made a notation, and we left.

On the short drive home, Meghan asked, "Do you really want
to pay for Walter's funeral? There must be some other way."

"Maybe I'll get reimbursed. I imagine Walter had enough left
to pay for a simple service and cremation. And what was I going to
do, tell Mr. Crane to send the bill to Tootie? Or Debby?"

She was silent. Then, "If he left everything to Debby you might
find yourself out of luck on the money."

"It'll be fine. I can juggle some things around and cover it if I
have to." And maybe I'd find a will, a safe deposit receipt, a reference to a lawyer, something in the two remaining file boxes to tell
us Walter's financial wishes.

"I'll help. If you get stuck with the bill."

"You don't have to," I said.

"I know."

We were almost back home when I thought of dropping by Caladia Acres for a few moments to check in on Tootie. She could
meet Meghan, and we could fill her in about the fire. Meghan
turned her Volvo around, and we headed toward the north edge
of town.

"Didn't the police tell her about the fire?" she asked.

"Detective Ambrose didn't mention it. After all, the house
didn't belong to her-or to Walter."

"Are you sure you want to be the one to tell her?"

"You want her to read about it in the paper?"

"No. You're right. I have to say, after all you've told me I'm
looking forward to meeting this lady."

We parked and went in. The dahlias on the reception counter were the same ones from Friday and beginning to look a little
tired. No one was behind the desk, so I led Meghan down the hallway to Tootie's room.

The door was open a crack. I knocked. A quiet response from
inside bid us to enter, so I pushed the door open. Tootie Hanover
sat in a wheelchair in the center of the room. Daylight streamed
through the windows, illuminating the colorful carpet, the rumpled bedclothes, and Tootie's vibrant-green silk dressing gown.
Her white braid hung down over one shoulder and curled in her
lap. The disarray of the room and dishabille of the woman surprised me, but her drooping posture and tired eyes shocked me.
She waved us toward the two wingback chairs. Meghan sent me a
questioning look as we settled into them.

"Tootie, this is my friend and housemate, Meghan Bly. She's
been helping with the funeral arrangements and with packing up
Walter's things. In fact, she knew Walter longer than I did."

Walter's mother nodded to Meghan. "It's so nice to meet you,
dear. I want to thank you for all your help." Her voice, so resonant
the day I'd met her, emerged today as a dry murmur.

"It's lovely to meet you, as well, Mrs. Hanover. And I've been
very happy to help in any way I can during this difficult time."

We sat for a few moments, Tootie with apparent indifference,
Meghan trying to reconcile my description of Walter's mother
with the woman she saw before her, and me, completely at sea.

After about a hundred years, I said, "We came to tell you about
the memorial service-the last details that we worked out with
Crane's."

"All right, dear," she said.

Meghan jumped in then, sparing us all my awkward stabs at
conversation, and filled in the particulars. When she'd finished, I
asked if Tootie had heard about the fire at Walter's. She hadn't, but
she barely blinked when we told her.

"We'd already removed some mementos for you to go through,
as well as his files. The fire was unfortunate, but nothing was lost
that we wouldn't have been boxing up for the Salvation Army anyway, and I'm sure the owner was insured," I said.

"Well. I'm glad of that." She nodded to herself. "Yes. Good."

I said, "The police may want to look through the papers."

"All right."

"Tootie? Didn't Detective Ambrose come to see you yesterday?"

She sighed again. "He came. He had so many questions."

But apparently he hadn't told her he thought her son had been
murdered. Well, for once I'd keep my mouth shut.

Meghan leaned forward. "Mrs. Hanover, are you going to be all
right? Is there anything we can do for you?"

Tootie shook her head a fraction. "No, dear. I'm fine."

I stood, at a loss. "I suppose we'll see you at the service tomorrow, then."

"Yes" She gazed at the silver tea set on the side table, her voice
rustling just above a whisper.

Meghan stood. "It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Hanover. Please
take care of yourself."

Tootie nodded without attempting a smile and raised her hand
in farewell. I hurried Meghan to the front desk, where Ann, the
nurse from my first visit, now sat.

"Hi! Are you here to see Tootie again? I'm sorry, I don't remember your name."

"Sophie Mae Reynolds. We've already been to see Tootie. What's
wrong with her? Is she drugged?"

"Urn, no. She's not drugged. But she has changed, hasn't she?
Listen, can I talk to you a minute?" I didn't like the expression on
her face.

"Of course."

Ann led us to a sofa against one lobby wall and sat down.
Meghan and I sat on either side of her. She lowered her voice, so
that we both had to lean in to hear her.

"Tootie isn't doing so well."

"We noticed," I said.

"In the last few days, she's gone downhill. Physically, I mean.
But I think it's more than that. She's giving up"

I shook my head. "I don't know her that well, but she immediately struck me as a woman who was very... determined."

"And she was. She overcame a great deal of her pain through
sheer willpower for years. And never with a word of complaint or
bitterness. But her son's death, well, it appears to have sapped her
vitality, drained away whatever it was that made it possible for her
to meet each day with such resolution."

"Is it that bad?" I asked in alarm. "You make it sound like she's
at death's door."

Ann stood up. "No, no, nothing like that. At least not yet." At
my look of distress she said, "She may recover. They sometimes
do. But I've seen grief wear away at others until they just don't care
anymore. And not caring is a giant step toward dying."

"I ... I don't know what to say."

"I'm only telling you because she doesn't get very many visitors, and she seems to like you. I thought you'd want to know"

"Of course." A part of me didn't want to know, though. Because with knowledge came a kind of responsibility, a feeling I should step in and try to stop Tootie's downward spiral. But what
could I do? I stood staring after Ann until Meghan took my arm
and steered me toward the door.