The Recluse Storyteller (7 page)

* * *

“‘He’s coming to.’

“Red Hat started slowly moving his head, feeling like someone had crushed it with a hammer. He heard voices jousting back and forth with one another at some highly animated level, yet he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

“‘That’s quite a lump. Perhaps we should have called the doctor.’

“‘Don’t be silly. We have to talk our way out of this one ourselves. Sir, are you all right? Sir?’

“Red Hat opened his eyes to see two wide-eyed grandmothers staring down at him with a heavy dosage of concern on their faces.

“‘Where am I? What happened?’

“‘Oh good, he is alive. I didn’t know what we would have done if we had killed him,’ said the one who was one year older and one inch taller than her younger sister.

“‘Where am I?’ Red Hat repeated.

“‘Don’t worry. We’re taking good care of you. You were the unfortunate victim of a flying flower pot.’

“‘Most unfortunate. We haven’t hit anyone in years. It was most careless of us.’

“‘What? Who are you?’

“‘Oh, for land’s sake, sister, we have been very rude to our guest. We haven’t even introduced ourselves.’

“‘What would Mama say, indeed!’ said the younger.

“‘I’m Priscilla, and this is my sister, Florence.’

“‘Where am I?’ Red Hat persisted in a very disoriented manner. He thought nothing of Quinn, or the key, or the daughter he left behind that morning.

“‘You are in our apartment, of course.’

“‘3C.’

“‘We thought about calling the ambulance.’

“‘And police.’

“‘Police?’ Red Hat perked up and raised his head from the couch. ‘Ouhhhh!’ he murmured, putting his hands on his head. He felt woozy and somewhat sick to his stomach.

“‘No, don’t try to get up. You’ve had quite the head trauma.’

“‘Three and half pounds of earth from the third floor. It was a dirty business.’

“‘Oh, sister. You are too funny. I love your earthy sense of humor.’

“They both shrugged their shoulders in identical full-body giggles. The groggy Red Hat lifted his head slightly.

“‘Wait, what happened?’ Red Hat looked more dazed than ever, staring at these two eager old ladies who rollicked like school children at the adventure in which they were currently embroiled.

“‘Priscilla, you tell it.’

“‘All right. I was repositioning the petunias on the balcony ledge when sister here came out with the broom and dust bin. She had just swept up a marble.’

“‘Marble?’ Red Hat asked, looking more perplexed than ever.

“‘I’ll admit it. I wasn’t being very careful, said Florence with a sheepish grin on her face.

“‘She backed out and—’

“‘This is where it gets a little ridiculous. It’s a small balcony, but I bragged to Priscilla that I could still hit a marble with a broom stick. It’s something we used to do as kids all the time.’

“‘I shouldn’t have doubted Florence. She was a softball champion back in the day. Could have hit a pea out of a canon.’

“‘Sister, stop exaggerating so.’

“‘Anyways, she picked up the marble and—’

“‘She swung with all her might and hit the darn thing. It went flying across Fifth Avenue. But—’

“‘My back-swing was reckless. The broom swung around and hit Priscilla in the back of the head. She lost her balance and pushed against the ledge, which hit the flower pot, sending it sailing through the air.’

“‘And hit you right square on the head.’

“‘I was really hit by a flower pot?” asked Red Hat still rubbing his head.

“‘That’s right. It was terrible. I thought you were dead. You just fell right over like a love-sick puppy.’

“‘We rushed down to help and found you there lying alone.’

“‘Shameful how people just walked right by without saying a word.’

“‘How did I get up here?’ asked Red Hat, still trying to piece together the madness.

“‘We carried you. It was no small feat. You could stand to lose a few pounds.’

“‘We did wonder about the ambulance. But sister was sure you were okay and just needed to rest. And look, she was right.’

“‘We were quite frightened for a moment when all the police showed up at the building.’

“‘Police?’ Red Hat finally inched his way up and leaned his back against the sofa arm.

“‘Why, yes. We thought for sure that they were coming for us.’

“‘We blamed Mrs. Tinsle in 3A. We thought she saw us carrying a strange man into our apartment.’

“‘That does sound scandalous,’ said Priscilla.

“‘Indeed, it does,’ concurred Florence.

“‘But soon the buzz came around the building about the murder.’

“‘What is this neighborhood coming to?’

“‘Murder?’ asked Red Hat. ‘What murder?’

“‘Poor old Mr. Quinn from the first floor. Murdered.’

“‘Quinn? Wait, wait. It’s coming back to me,” said Red Hat as he stood up. ‘Quinn.’

“‘Did you know Mr. Quinn?’

“Red Hat quickly remembered his change pocket and reached in to feel if the key was still there. It was.

“‘Quinn and key and … What time is it?’ snapped Red Hat.

“‘It’s one-thirty.’

“‘One-thirty! I’m two hours late.’

“He quickly went to the door of the balcony, which had hosted the famous pick-up marble game, and looked down over the ledge. Three police cars blinked their lights out front. He turned around and walked back into the apartment, holding his head the entire way.

“‘Is there another way out of this building?’

“‘No, just the front door.’

“‘And the fire escape, of course.

“‘Well, I can’t use the fire escape. Think. Think. What am I going to do? Think.’

“‘Now Mr., ahh, Mr … What is the problem? Perhaps we can help.’

“‘We do owe you. We really don’t want you to tell the police on us.’

“‘That’s not likely,’ said Red Hat as he continued pacing around the room, trying to think of a way to make up for lost time. Montleone would not be pleased.

“‘That poor Mr. Quinn. And to think that he is our neighborhood security liaison. I mean, really.’

“‘Maybe this is just the beginning. Take out security in preparation of the big attack,’ said Priscilla.

“‘Oh, you do let your imagination run wild, sister.’

“‘Quinn was the neighborhood security liaison? With whom?’ asked Red Hat skeptically.

“‘The police, of course.’

“‘Think. Think.’ Then Red Hat came up with a brilliant idea. ‘Okay. Can you two play the part of my long-lost aunties?’

“‘Do you mean like pretend?’

“‘I haven’t done that since I played Martha Washington in the community Fourth of July celebration when I was in third grade.’

“‘This does sound exciting. What should we do?’

“‘All you need to do is escort me, arm in arm, right out the front of the building.’

“‘And then you will forgive us for hitting you with a flower pot?’

“‘Yes, I will most definitely forgive you for hitting me with a flower pot. Just walk me out onto the sidewalk, past the policemen, and just so long there are not any other old ladies on balconies, I should be fine after that.’

“‘Let’s do it,’ said Priscilla giddily.

“‘And mister. Don’t forget your red hat,’ said Florence. ‘I shouldn’t be so nice to a Cincinnati fan, but I’ll forgive you.’

“‘Thank you,’ said Red Hat.

“‘But only because I hit you on the head with a flower pot,” she hunched over a little and let out a loud giddy laugh.

“He put the cap on his head, and then thought better of it, shoving it into his back pocket. ‘Let’s go.’

“The two old ladies each grabbed one of Red Hat’s arms and whisked him out the door, past the scornful, prying eyes of Mrs. Tinsle, and down to the landing on the first floor outside Quinn’s apartment.”

* * *

Margaret felt exhausted, and as they stood outside Quinn’s apartment, waiting to see what would happen next, she fell fast asleep.

Chapter 6

Cornered by Cans

Mrs. Trumble was not about to let it go. She called up Margaret’s aunt Janice, recounting in four different ways the incident at the door, which in her words “inflicted irreparable physical and emotional harm.” She demanded reparations, which to Janice seemed strange if her wound was, in fact, irreparable.

“She’s a menace to the whole neighborhood. Mr. Cheevers just told me that she threw a flower pot at him from the balcony. She’s going to kill someone.”

“Mrs. Trumble. I find that highly unlikely that Margaret threw a flower pot at Mr. Cheevers. She is not a violent person at all. She just keeps to herself.”

“Not violent? What about my broken fingers? Tell each of them that she’s not violent.”

“I’m sure it was an accident. She must not have realized that your fingers were caught.”

“Not realized? Mrs. Jowarski, if you will not take this incident seriously, then I will have to talk to the authorities.”

“Mrs. Trumble, that is completely unnecessary.”

“To you maybe, but not to me. What will it be? Are you going to act or am I going to call the police?” asked the determined and passionate Mrs. Trumble.

“No, don’t call the authorities. Let me talk to her.”

“Talking isn’t enough. I want action.”

Aunt Janice was getting tired of putting up with the ridiculous accusations and tried to think of something to placate Mrs. Trumble.

“What if we do this? Margaret has a very small circle of people that she interacts with. Why don’t I ask them all to come together for a meeting to see if they think the same way as you do? How would that be?”

“Okay. I can accept that.”

“Good. I’ll call everyone today and try to set it up for some evening this week. I’ll be in touch,” Janice said as she hung up the phone without saying goodbye.

There would be a meeting.

* * *

Reverend Davies had a hunch, so on Tuesday night at eleven-thirty, he told his wife that he was going shopping for a lost parishioner. She rolled over in a half-daze and went back to sleep. The reverend snuck out, arrived at Full Brands Market at 11:45, and started walking the aisles over and over with his empty shopping cart hoping to get lucky.

Margaret entered the store at 12:10 and started her speed shopping. Reverend Davies was making his third sweep through the canned food aisle when he finally sighted her. Now he wondered how to proceed. He didn’t want to have another chase down Grand Street, so he thought he would try something a little more subtle. He picked up a can of corn and purposely rolled it towards Margaret who was stooped over, looking at the bottom shelf. The can hit Margaret in the shoe, and she quickly looked down and picked it up.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Reverend Davies said, purposely not looking directly at Margaret. “It slipped out of my hand.”

Margaret had picked up the can and handed it back towards the reverend when she finally recognized who it was.

“Thank you very much ... Oh, it’s you! Margaret. I’m sorry to hit you with the can of corn. Thanks again.”

He turned his cart around and started walking away. Margaret kept her eyes on him until he finally turned back around and walked a couple of steps toward her.

“You know what’s funny? This reminds me of the can that you dropped. And now I’ve dropped one, and you gave it back to me. I guess we are even. Have a nice night.”

He smiled at her, turned around, and started pushing his cart in the opposite direction. As Margaret watched him walk around the corner of the aisle, she could think only of Reverend Taylor on the ridge looking at the dead bodies. As he went out of sight, Margaret backed right into a shelf full of cans and closed her eyes. She had wondered if the presence could be felt elsewhere, and now she realized that it could. Cans started falling in all directions, smacking the floor with a spattering of ‘clunks’.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
She felt each one as they loudly echoed off the floor, jolting her into her storytelling state.

“Jackson had quickly slid down the ridge and attended to the little girl. He yelled for me to call for the medic, but I froze in fear and shock at the destruction I had caused.”

One of the Full Brands employees quickly arrived on the scene thinking she had had a heart-attack and collapsed up against the shelves.

“Miss? Miss? Are you all right? You’re knocking the cans onto the floor.”

“My rifle butt was against the ground, with the barrel pointed directly up at me. I stared into the small dark hole that could bring me relief with one quick flick of my finger.”

“Miss?” said the female employee shaking Margaret’s arm, trying to wake her from her trance. Margaret flung her arms back into the shelf which sent another dozen cans falling onto the floor. One hit Margaret right on the foot—the same place as the can of beans Reverend Davies sent her.