The Death of Perry Many Paws (9 page)

I lingered at the kitchen table, picking at the coffee cake and drinking another diet soda. I popped a vitamin and a calcium chew and felt virtuous. After absentmindedly rinsing off the breakfast dishes, but not going so far as to actually wash them, I wandered upstairs and made my bed then flopped on it. I debated whether to unmake it and get back in, versus the effort of having to remake the bed once I finally got out. What would Cam think if he came home and I was still in bed? He was able to get up and go to work every day despite having a murdered uncle and an empty-nest. Grace was able to work at the bookstore all day despite having marital problems and a possibly rabid stepson. My mother-in-law’s brother had been murdered and she was still able to get dressed in her cashmere and pearls and play bridge.

I closed my eyes and thought about a conversation Grace and I had had many years ago. I’d been upset with Claudia about something she’d done that I perceived as especially selfish and self-centered. Grace tried to soothe me by telling me that the world was full of old souls going through their last incarnations as well as new souls who were experiencing life for maybe only the fifth or sixth time. She felt
that Claudia stood out as a new soul. Even though she was chronologically older than us in this lifetime, her soul was actually much younger. Claudia had an immature soul’s view of the world—that people fell into classes, that there was only one right way of living, that intolerance was a sign of good breeding, that appearance was important and that judging others harshly elevated you. The world revolved around you and your needs and your desires. The young souls are so in love with themselves that they are unable to love anyone else. The young souls were the first ones into the Titanic’s life boats; the old souls stayed on board and played “Nearer My God to Thee”. I tried to remember this when dealing with Claudia so I could be patient.

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. I knew I should be writing and revising the outline of my next Perry Many Paws book, so I could keep Tim, my editor, off my back. Cam had convinced me that I should honor my contract with at least one more Perry book adhering to the successful format. Then I could branch off to another creative endeavor far removed from Perry and his friends. I knew he was right but I didn’t want to just bang out a book to honor my contract. I wanted to be excited about the story and to write it with the usual enthusiasm I had when the writing muse struck. Right now I was totally blocked and couldn’t think of a single adventure for Perry other than possibly solving the murder of Squeaky Squirrel, found surrounded by her winter nuts with a letter opener in her neck. I knew better than to even mention that to my editor. Until this murder was solved and my family’s and friends’ lives were back on the right track, I wouldn’t be able to write anything fit for a child to read.

I went into the bathroom and decided to brush my teeth until I could think of something useful to do. If I lost all the enamel on my teeth I would have no one to blame but my indecisive self. Then I came up with a plan. I would return to Franklin’s cottage and remove some of the more valuable books. Cam hadn’t gotten around to scything
through the brush so he could get his truck in to take anything out, so it was all just sitting in there. It probably didn’t matter but bringing a few of the books home, as many as I could comfortably carry, would be something more positive than lying on my bed. Plus I needed the exercise.

I also wanted to talk to Syra to find out more about her mother. Syra never mentioned her parents and now that I had seen her mother’s picture and knew she was a childhood friend and fellow adventurer of Franklin’s, I was curious to know more. Deciding to accommodate my current I’m-not-a-very-brave-person persona with my I’m-curious-about-things-that-are-none-of-my-business trait, I called Syra and asked if she would go with me to the cottage to pick up the books. Being a good friend, she agreed.

October is my favorite month. October creates her perfect weather by borrowing the dying summer warmth of September and combining it with the exhilarating chill of November. Today the weather was leaning more toward a November chill so Syra and I quickly walked to the cottage, not wasting any breath talking. The cottage was just as we had left it two days ago, which was an enormous relief. I had no wish for any more surprises. I turned the heat on as soon as we entered and Syra and I headed for the study to pick out the books we wanted to take back to the house.

“This place could be really cozy if it were redecorated. It’s small but just right for one person,” Syra mused as she pulled down books, stared at them and then reshelved them. “It’s very picturesque. It would feel good to sit out here in a winter storm, and feel like you were all alone in the world even though you knew civilization was just a short walk away. What are you and Cam going to do with it now?”

“If I can’t get rid of the haunted feeling and my last vision of Uncle Franklin, I’d just as soon tear it down,” I said. “Besides, we have
so much unused space in the house that we don’t need to put guests out in the woods.”

Syra starting taking the first-edition Jack London books off the shelves and piling them on a small table. “I’m sure you want to get these books out of here as soon as you can. I think they should have first priority.”

I nodded. I’d meant to take them with me when we were cleaning last time but had gotten involved with the photo. I took
The Call of the Wild
and began to page through it. The pages and the bindings had the feel of old friends that had been visited many times. The lack of dust indicated that Franklin had read them recently and I wondered for the millionth time about the man who’d lived alone, re-reading favorite books and avoiding all human contact. Had he been retreating from a world he found too loud and confusing? Or was he hiding from something or someone? And had the person he’d been hiding from all these years finally found him? What had Franklin done that had driven someone to murder? Whatever it was, it had to have happened a long time ago because he hadn’t left the cottage or the property for decades. Decades is a long time to hold a grudge, to let it simmer and stew until it boils over in a murderous rage. It was impossible for me to match the man I’d known with any youthful indiscretion that would have resulted in murder seventy years later. From what Claudia and Sybil had said, he’d seemed like a normal kid with a good imagination, a joy of the outdoors and a keen sense of adventure that he shared with his friends. What had happened?

I dug back into my purse and pulled out the photo of the five children and laid it on the desk.

“Is this the same picture you found when we were cleaning out the cottage on Saturday?” Syra asked as she picked it up and casually looked at it. I watched her face for a sign of recognition but she set
it down without registering any emotion at all. “It’s funny to think of kids running around in those outfits, isn’t it? They seem so well dressed for playing outside compared to what kids wear now. They’re like miniature adults.”

“Maybe today’s kids would be better behaved if they dressed like little adults,” I suggested. “I took the photo to Claudia and she was able to identify everyone in it. She actually remembered the day it was taken.”

“No kidding? That’s great. Who are the little people? Is one Franklin?” Syra handed the picture to me and leaned closer, munching on a cookie from the supply Bing had given her for our outing.

I pointed to the handsome boy with the big smile. “Believe it or not, this is Franklin. Claudia said he would’ve been around fifteen when this was taken. The two little girls are Claudia and her friend Sybil …”

“You’ve got to be kidding! That sweet little thing is Claudia? She looks so innocent and precious, even lovable. And Sybil is adorable. Who are the other two older kids?”

“The boy is named Edmund Close and he was a good friend of Franklin’s.” I pointed at the seated girl and watched Syra’s face. “This is Hetty Foster, also a friend of Franklin.”

Syra set her cookie down and slowly took the picture out of my hands bringing it up close to her face. She stared at it for a full minute. Her expression didn’t change at all. Then she handed the picture back to me. She continued munching on her cookie.

“That little girl looks like a handful, doesn’t she? So different than the prissiness of Claudia and Sybil. I wonder what became of her.”

What became of her? I wanted to yell,
she’s your mother
, that’s what became of her. Did she really not know that was her mother? If she did know it was her mother, why not say something? The more I watched her, the more I was convinced that she had no idea that the tomboyish girl in the picture was her mother. Should I tell her?

She began to talk about her latest doctor appointment and the new series of exercises she had started since last time we spoke. She was totally normal and comfortably talking while I was fidgeting all over the place. If she weren’t so wrapped up in her new exercise plans she would have noticed that I was inattentive and agitated. But she didn’t notice and the longer she talked about her physical limitations and how she was planning to overcome them, the less courageous I became until the thought of confronting her about her mother seemed totally out of the question. I let the perfect moment pass.

ince Cam and Grace were both working all day, it only seemed right that I make dinner. I wasn’t enthusiastic about doing it but was driven by guilt and a sense of fairness. I make an excellent beef stew and it’s a good comfort meal that is perfect on a chilly fall evening. I really should have started the stew in the morning and let it simmer all day but it was one of those dishes you could hurry along by parboiling the slow cooking vegetables and cutting the potatoes into smaller chunks. I could have it ready by six o’clock and bake up a batch of baking powder biscuits, too. We could have leftover chocolate cake and ice cream from last night for dessert. A person never tired of chocolate cake and ice cream. I didn’t have any salad ingredients so I thawed some frozen strawberries and mixed them into yogurt, sprinkling a little granola on top for a side dish. That stretched my culinary skills about as far as they could stretch without breaking.

I had half an hour before anyone came home so I took my knitting into the library, lit the fire in the fireplace and settled into my leather chair to knit and think. Knitting is a very relaxing pastime as long as you are knitting something you are familiar with and you don’t have to count stitches. I was making a large tote bag that I would eventually felt by boiling and agitating the wool. Right now, pre-felting, it was huge, almost like an afghan lying across my lap, and it was cozy
to work on when it was cold. I felt calm for the first time all day. Occasionally I held it up, trying to picture how small it would get after felting and trying to figure out when I should stop knitting. The last one I’d made had been three feet tall before I felted it and was strong enough to carry a six-pack of soda, a couple of books, my purse and other miscellaneous things I threw in. It was so strong I could fill it until I could barely pick it up and hoist it on my shoulder and it still hung tough. As long as you didn’t throw a set of steak knives in there it could carry anything.

The thought of steak knives slicing through the felted wool pushed my thoughts back to Uncle Franklin. It was probably easier to shove a sharp letter opener into an old man’s body than through felted wool. Now that was a pleasant thought. I wondered if I’d ever be able to go longer than thirty minutes without thinking about his murder. If there was resolution, if I could understand who and why, it would be easier to have closure and move on. Right now it was a huge gaping unresolved mystery, like a pond of quicksand that was beginning to suck my friends in. Ryan’s bloody shirt. Syra’s mysterious mother. Cam’s family. Like Alice I was becoming curiouser and curiouser.

I thought about calling Diane to see if she mentioned anything about the policeman and whether she seemed as obsessed with him as Grace thought she was. Diane was a very stable person but she was also stretched thin dealing with her parents and five children, three of them still at home. I could see how a woman could become sucked dry by her family and need something special just for herself. What I couldn’t see was someone like Diane, whose life revolved around her family, jeopardizing their welfare for an affair. You don’t devote yourself to something and then turn around and risk losing it all to get some relief. I could see her taking a vacation by herself or with her friends. Or maybe taking a college class. Or Tai Chi. Possibly
horseback riding. But not an affair. That was not how Diane dealt with life.