Peony Street (4 page)

Sarah Albright introduced herself to Claire with a glare and flared nostrils. She was petite and striking, with short dark hair and big dark eyes. She was dressed like a TV detective in close fitting but business-like dark pants and jacket, a white blouse unbuttoned about two more buttons than was appropriate, and high-heeled pumps. Claire instantly cast her as a ruthless, corrupt cop with no conscience, able to seduce and then kill her victims without hesitation.

“You being related to half the people in this town makes no difference to me, Miss Fitzpatrick,” Sarah said. “Being the ex-chief’s daughter doesn’t work in your favor, either. This town’s been run into the ground through lax law enforcement. Anytime I’m called in you can count on the bar being raised.”

“You can spend your time insulting my client’s family and bragging about yourself, Detective Albright,” Sean said, “but you only have fifteen minutes in which to ask questions pertinent to Mr. Tupworth’s unfortunate accident. After that we’re leaving.”

Claire was impressed by Sean’s assertive confidence. Scott stood smirking in the doorway. Sarah gave Sean a vicious side-eye, but then produced a notebook, turned on a tape recorder, and formally questioned Claire. Claire responded to each question with facts if she had them but no speculation, just as Sean had instructed. When Claire told her about discovering she’d left her phone in the cab Sarah said, “How convenient for you.”

After she ran out of questions Sarah curled her lip in contempt.

“The victim didn’t just show up here and get killed without it involving you somehow,” she said. “It’s just a matter of time before I know why and how.”

“Charge her with something or we’re leaving,” Sean said. “You have no reason to detain her and she’s not planning to leave town.”

“We’re keeping her handbag, carry-on, clothes, and rental car,” Sarah said. “It’s all potential evidence.”

Claire looked helplessly at both Sean and Scott.

“She can do that,” Sean said. “Sorry, Claire.”

“Don’t leave town,” Sarah said, and left the room with Scott behind her.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” Claire asked Sean.

“Television,” Sean said.

“What do I do now?” Claire asked.

“Go home, get some sleep, and try not to worry too much. Don’t talk to anyone about what’s happened and don’t let Sarah question you again without me present. I’ve got a friend in the DA’s office in
Pittsburgh and I’ll ask him what we should do next. Meanwhile I’m sure Scott will get this all sorted out.”

“I wonder why Tuppy was here,” Claire said. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Sean said. “All that matters is we can prove you couldn’t have killed him.”

By noon Claire was in her mother’s kitchen eating tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten white bread, orange-colored processed cheese slices, or soup from a can. It tasted wonderful.

Claire was concerned about her mother. Delia Fitzpatrick was a tall, willowy brunette who had always worn clothes well. She was very particular about her appearance, modest as her wardrobe budget was. Today her gray roots were showing and the faded cardigan she was wearing was stretched out and baggy over her too-thin frame.

“How are you doing?” Claire asked her.

“I’m fine,” Delia said, but without turning around to make eye contact.

“That woman from the sheriff’s office is scary,” Claire said. “I think if Scott and Sean hadn’t been there she might’ve smacked me around.”

“Sarah’s aggressive,” Delia said, “but Scott can handle her.”

When Delia finally sat down, Claire got a good look at the dark circles under her mother’s eyes and the deep lines on her face. Mackie Pea jumped up on Delia’s lap and gave her a quick little lick on the chin before settling down.

“I always wanted a little dog,” Delia said, “but your father was bitten by a dog as a child and never got over it.”

“When will Dad be home?” she asked her mother, who was now holding Mackie Pea upside down on her lap, rubbing the little dog’s belly while she murmured with pleasure.

“This is your father’s schedule,” Delia said, “he gets up at 5:00, watches the twenty-four hour news and weather channels for a half hour, and then he gets his bath and shaves. I take him to the bakery with me at 6:00, and then Scott picks him up there and takes him to breakfast. After that Scott takes him to the service station, where your Uncle Curtis watches him until the bar opens at noon. Then your cousin Patrick looks after him until I pick him up at 5:00, after I get off work at the Inn. We come home, have dinner, and then he watches television until he falls asleep in his recliner.”

“I didn’t know he needed babysitting like that.”

“He falls,” her mother said. “Someone has to be with him in case he loses his balance.”

“Why doesn’t he use a walker?”

“He says they’re for old men.”

“He’s still stubborn; that much hasn’t changed.”

“Ava says he’s like a huge, cranky toddler.”

Ava was the widow of Claire’s cousin Brian.

“You just said you were working at the Inn. I thought you were working for Ava at the B&B in the afternoons.”

“That’s a long story for another day, after you’ve had a bath and a good long sleep.”

“I’m all for that,” Claire said, “but I’d like to wait until I’ve seen Dad.”

Delia was quiet, and Claire said, “What?”

“I want to prepare you for how your father’s changed,” her mother said, “but I don’t know how.”

“His memory’s bad, you said, but he isn’t paralyzed or anything, is he?”

“No,” Delia said. “He’s had a series of small strokes, not any big one. He’ll know who you are, but he may not remember as much as you’d like. He gets confused easily.”

“I can handle that,” Claire said. “Poor Dad.”

Delia was quiet again.

“There’s more,” Claire said. “Just tell me.”

“No,” Delia said. “I’ll let you see for yourself. Just remember, he’s still your father, but he’s different. He can’t handle problems anymore; he can’t tolerate tension of any kind. It agitates him when things change. Try not to worry him about anything.”

“Like what happened last night.”

“Let’s not mention it,” Delia said. “He can’t help and it will only upset him.”

Claire reflected that her dad had always been the first one she’d gone to for advice when she was in trouble. She couldn’t imagine that he wasn’t still that strong, protective, invincible man who took the sensible long view in any situation.

“I don’t want to worry him,” Claire said, “but it would take a miracle to keep a secret that big in this town.”

“Your father’s very well thought of. People around here know his condition and they protect him.”

“Let’s hope that protection extends to his daughter.”

Her mother left to pick up her father at the bar. When she brought him back Claire was surprised at how bedraggled he looked. His shirttail was hanging out and his undershirt was stained. He did recognize her and seemed glad to see her. She hugged him tightly, and when she kissed his cheek she noticed his shaving had been more miss than hit.

“What a nice surprise,” he said, and Delia steadied him over to his recliner, where he sat down heavily.

He took a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket and wiped his face, which was red and sweating. His jowls sagged and his eyes were bloodshot.

“Where’s Pip?” he asked her.

Claire looked at her mother. Delia shook her head.

“Still in
California, I guess,” Claire said.

“The heck he is!” her father said. “He was in the Thorn last week. He’s grown his hair out long, looked like a hippie. I told him he needed a haircut. He thought that was funny but I was dead serious. What’s the point in being married to a beautician if it’s not the free haircuts?”

Claire looked at her mother.

“Claire’s had a long trip getting home,” Delia said. “Let’s let her lie down and get some rest.”

“You go on and get a nap,” her father said. “When Pip gets here we’ll feed him some supper.”

Mackie Pea ran into the room and jumped up on her father’s lap. Claire was relieved and amazed when her father just laughed.

“Well, who is this little doggie?” he said.

She made introductions and her father tucked Mackie into the crook of his arm and rubbed the furrow between her eyes. She could hardly believe this was the same man who used to say you couldn’t trust any dog and he couldn’t see why people kept them.

“You wait ‘til old Chesterfield gets a look at you,” he told the little dog.

“I can’t believe
Chester’s still alive,” Claire said. “Where is he?”

“He’s around here somewhere,” Delia said. “You might want to be careful with him and Mackie.
Chester can be vicious.”

“Now, Delia, don’t you talk that way about my cat,” her father said. “Ole
Chester’s a good cat.”

Claire took Mackie Pea from her father and went down the hall. Her mother followed her back to her old bedroom. Claire could tell her mother had cleared a hasty path to the bed. It looked as if they had been using the room for storage.

“If I’d known you were coming I would’ve cleaned,” Delia said. “I’ll work on it tomorrow.”

“I can clean my own room,” Claire said, and kissed her mother on the cheek. “We’ll get caught up good and proper at dinner.”

“I have to go back to the Inn after I feed your father his lunch,” Delia said. “I’ll drop your father off at the bar as I go. You need your rest.”

“Wake me up when you get home, then,” Claire said.

“We’ll see,” Delia said.

Claire walked down to the bathroom at the end of the hall. The three-bedroom, one-bath house seemed even smaller than she remembered. The bathroom was tiled in the original 1950’s jade green. Some of the tiles were cracked now; all of them were dingy. Claire’s mother had always been so house-proud, it concerned her how shabby and untidy everything seemed to be.

While she took a long hot bath Claire mentally renovated and redecorated the bathroom. Afterward she rooted around in the towel cupboard until she found a new toothbrush, and then brushed her teeth.

‘I could spend some money updating the house, maybe get some help in to clean it a couple days a week,’ she thought. ‘Dad could probably use some physical therapy and a nutritionist.’

When she went back to her room Mackie Pea was not there, and she found the little dog curled up in her father’s arms as he reclined and watched the local midday news. She stood in the hallway, reluctant to disturb them.

On the television the female news anchor had big eighties hair and heavy, dramatic makeup. Dark burgundy blush had been applied like war paint up each cheek and smoke-colored eye shadow extended up from her lash line to a slash of white beneath her two narrow, penciled-on eyebrows. Her lips were outlined four shades darker than her frosted lipstick.

The weatherman was the same one she remembered from childhood, only now his hair was snow white. The newsroom set was dated and the lighting was all wrong, throwing shadows at odd angles and flattering no one. There were awkward pauses between segments and the anchors couldn’t seem to get through one sentence without stumbling over a word.

The commercial that aired on the break was for a local car dealer dressed up in a gorilla suit.

“We don’t monkey around with our prices!” he claimed.

Claire sighed. It was like going back in time.

She noticed her father was holding his mouth in an exaggerated frown, and was subtly nodding his head. It looked as if he was keeping time to music she couldn’t hear. Her mother came up behind her and touched her arm.

“He does that thing with his head when he’s agitated. If you touch him or talk to him he stops. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it.”

“What’s wrong with his mouth?” Claire asked.

“That started after the last fall,” Delia said.

“Isn’t there anything they can do?”

Delia led Claire back into her bedroom, closed the door, and sat on the edge of her bed. Claire got undressed, put on the nightgown her mother had placed on the bed, crawled in and pulled the covers up. She felt 30 years younger in doing so. This was what she and her mother had done every night when she was a child.

“Tell me more about what’s going on with him,” Claire said.

“He fell a few weeks ago and then couldn’t get up. Hannah’s little boy Sammy was here with him and went to get help. We haven’t left him alone since then.”

“When did all this start? You just told me about it at Christmas.”

“We first realized something was wrong about a year ago. Your Uncle Curtis and I both noticed he couldn’t seem to remember anything, and sometimes struggled to find the right word, but Ian got angry if we mentioned it. One morning last October I found him sitting in the car in the driveway, crying. He couldn’t remember how to start the car.

“Doc Machalvie examined him and he failed a short-term memory test, so we went to Morgantown and they did more tests. An MRI showed he’s had multiple little strokes, probably over the past couple years.”