Tried & True (Mayfield Cozy Mystery Book 5) (17 page)

“I’m sure you can find a replacement.” Matt grinned down at me. “Come on, Ms. Ingram, walk me to the door.”

So I did.

Matt offered his arm to help me limp down the stairs. When we reached the kitchen, he stopped and set his expandable file on the table.

He rested his hands on the outside of my arms and held my gaze. “You’ll be here, right?”

“Well, I have to ask Walt, because now—”

“You’ll be here,” Matt interrupted. It was a proclamation, stated with utter confidence. “Walt’s crazy in love with you, in case you hadn’t noticed. So you had better be here.”

I’m pretty sure I turned bright pink.

Matt sighed, and his gaze darkened into serious scrutiny. “You’re very like him, you know.”

And I knew the subject had just changed to Skip. “Yes,” I whispered. “And it scares the hooey out of me.”

“Well, that’s a start.” Matt gave me a little squeeze, retrieved his file folder, and let himself out.

oOo

Walt had silently disappeared immediately after our powwow with Matt. I gave him a few hours, but then I went to him.

I was worried about how he was taking the sudden weight of Mayfield ownership. It must have been quite a shock. It’s a large, derelict property and could easily be a financial drain. It’s also much more than one man can manage on his own, although he’d certainly been giving it a valiant effort.

I also felt more explanations were due. On the drive to the bunkhouse, I tried rehearsing a few lead-ins to the conversation I was anticipating, but they all dead-ended abruptly. I decided letting Walt guide the discussion would be the best course.

I found him in his office, tipped back in a chair with his feet propped on the corner of his desk. He was staring absently at the bookshelves on the far wall, but he jumped up when I knocked on the doorjamb.

“Nora,” he said hoarsely. He took my hand and drew me into the room. He latched the door behind me.

He was still holding my hand, studying it, tenderly stroking my fingers.

“Uh,” I said. “Um, I thought—” His blue eyes were so intense, so disconcerting. “Uh,” I tried again. “Well. Actually, what were you thinking?” I asked in a rush.

“About how I’ve wanted to kiss your scar for a very long time.”

“Oh.” I blinked. All that wasted worry about how a conversation would go. I stepped into him and wrapped my arms around his neck, and he kissed me. Much more than just on my scar.

I was damaged goods. And the damage went way beyond the scar on my lip. But Walt specializes in restoration. In fact, I’d say he thrives on it.

EPILOGUE

I needed this chunk of my life to make sense. So I built a narrative that gave me some relief because I wanted to still think well of Skip—in some form—for myself and for Loretta’s sake, but I also had to let him go.

I wouldn’t have cared about Skip’s infertility if he had told me. We were both a little old to be trying to make our own babies anyway. I would have been delighted to adopt. I had assumed that was Skip’s inclination too, given the explicit goals of the foundation he’d started—to care for orphans and neglected children the world over. It was one of the reasons I’d liked him so much.

So here’s what I came up with:

I now think Skip considered his life not too significant to lose. That his level of acceptable risk was off the charts because he had no one immediately and personally connected to him except an alcoholic mother whom he didn’t expect to live much longer.

Then I came along and changed some of that. But the plan for taking down his money-laundering clients in the most effective—but nowhere near legal—way had already been set into motion, and Skip had no way out but through, especially considering that by instigating this gig he had also become a criminal.

Skip realized I could be useful to his plans, but he also found a way to get me out of permanent attachment to him with the annulment. A Plan B—or C, or D—I suppose. Just a bit more finagling for the king of finagling. Falling in love (maybe only fondness?) was a bump in the road, but I didn’t present a complete detour.

As a side note—I called the lawyer who had processed the annulment, and he confirmed my suspicions. He’d never met Skip. Everything had been handled via email, phone calls, and FedEx. The lawyer had been happy for the easy money—he’d filled out some forms, trotted over to the courthouse a couple of times. Signed, sealed, delivered. He didn’t say so, but I suspected Skip had included a generous bonus to make sure there were no hang-ups.

But like all good schemes—including those of the master strategizer, Skip—nothing went right from very close to the beginning. Perhaps the greeting committee who met Skip on that Cozumel beach brought bad news. Because, given the number of times I’ve reviewed my memory of his words and demeanor during our first few married hours together, I’ve become convinced that he did know the thugs were with us in Mexico, that perhaps he’d even arranged the meeting himself. I suspect that at least a couple of those four guys were also in his pocket, unbeknownst to their employers.

Was he a criminal? Yes.

Was he a criminal with good intentions? Probably.

Did his actions—the ones he initiated himself and the ones he helped me take—cause the removal of several really bad guys from society? Yes.

Was he a murderer? Possibly. I knew he was capable of killing someone, even if the bullets I’d seen him fire weren’t the definitively sole cause of death.

Will the FBI continue to chase him? No doubt—as a matter of principle. As has already been made abundantly clear, the FBI and I tend to have a different approach to just about everything.

So do I want to see him again? No.

As much as I’d hated the idea of Skip’s philandering, I realized that I had really wanted to see a piece of him in Emmie. I was free of that tether now too. But that didn’t change Emmie one bit. Now she really was completely alone in the world, except for me. And I claimed her with my whole heart.

I still couldn’t quite reconcile Skip’s statement that I was in a better place than he could have ever given me when he did, in fact, give it to me, and to Walt—if indirectly—in the form of title to property. Unless by
place
he meant relationship. But he had also, again very indirectly, caused me to meet Walt. And Walt was undoubtedly a source of refuge, my rock—and a very good place to be.

As you can see, dwelling too long on
what ifs
and
maybes
is a philosophical and perhaps psychological miasma. Like everybody else on this planet, I’m just going to have to live with the surrounding ambiguity.

oOo

A couple days after the memorial service, Des asked to meet with Loretta and me. He arrived wearing civilian clothes and looking more relaxed than I’d seen him in a very long time. He also brought a packet of papers, and I have to admit the sight of yet another set of documents spread out on our kitchen table made me a little queasy.

But they were beautiful documents. They were Tarq’s will and an accounting of all his worldly goods. Des, as Tarq’s executor, got to inform Loretta that she now owned the cabin and the little parcel of wooded land and meadow it sat upon.

I wept with her. The best kind of tears. This courageous, knocked-about woman had only known displacement, and now her gift from Tarq was a permanent home. A place where she could paint the walls any color she wanted and plant a garden and hang pictures and rest.

That afternoon, we did something both nonsensical and perfect. Loretta and I put on our grubby jeans and trekked through Mayfield’s woods until we found a little Douglas fir sapling that was struggling in the shadows of its much taller neighbors. We dug it up, keeping the muddy root ball intact.

Then I drove Loretta, the sapling, and all her clothes and personal items out to the cabin.

We dug a hole at the head of the grave of Tarq’s faithful Labrador, Ollie, and planted a little piece of Mayfield at Loretta’s new home.

Loretta retrieved the canister containing Tarq’s ashes from the truck and energetically flung his ashes all over Ollie’s grave and the new tree—a generous dousing. I stepped back and tried not to cough as fine particles drifted on the breeze.

“There,” she sniffed. “I didn’t think he’d go for a flowering bush. Too foofy.”

I hugged her, and we cried a little bit more, and then we moved her belongings into the cabin.

“Make a list,” I told her, “of things you want done. Painting, repairs, landscaping, whatever you need. Walt and I—and I’m sure we’ll have an abundance of volunteer boys—we’ll come and get you squared away.” I grabbed her hand. “Are you going to be okay here by yourself?”

She nodded vehemently. “Nora, I can’t even tell you what this means to me—” She broke down in rough sobs. “I’m going to be your nosy neighbor.”

I chuckled. “I’m counting on it.”

I would never tell her, but I absolutely was planning on returning the favor. Loretta had relapsed into alcoholism too many times to count, and I worried about the solitude becoming too depressing for her. I’d be stopping by plenty, keeping my eye on her, just like my old routine. We’d include her in every event at Mayfield and lots of non-events too. As far as I was concerned, she was Emmie’s grandmother.

“There’s something else,” Loretta said. “I have one more thing I need to do as your mother-in-law.”

My mouth fell open, but she hurried on. “I know what’s in your pocket, and I know that you need a good place to get rid of it. And that place is not Mayfield. Come with me.” She tugged on my hand, pushed through the back door, and pulled me across the meadow toward the tree line.

She led me to a swollen creek several yards deep in the trees that I hadn’t even known was there. “Here,” she announced. “He’s my son, so his ring can stay here on my property, somewhere—” She flitted her hand across the gurgling water. “Give it a heave.” Then she backed up a couple steps and pressed her fingers over her eyes. “Go on.” Her words were muffled by her palms. “Do it. I don’t want to see where it lands.”

I almost wanted to laugh, but it seemed like such a solemn ceremony to her. Maybe it was an Alcoholics Anonymous strategy or something, this casting your worries and your past pain into the water. Or maybe it was just Loretta being Loretta.

I slipped Skip’s wedding ring out of my pocket, aimed downstream, and chucked it—high and arching, glinting briefly in a stray ray of sunlight that penetrated the forest canopy. I didn’t even hear the
ploop
when it landed—the creek was gushing too noisily.

“Done,” I said.

Loretta linked her arm through mine as we returned to the cabin. “That’s right, darling. All done.”

oOo

There is nothing hyphenated about my new last name.

Walt and I married a couple weeks later. No fanfare, just a small ceremony in the large main room in the mansion—the one with the floor to ceiling windows and amazing view and fireplace. In other words, it was lovely.

Clarice had outdone herself with cleaning and polishing and cooking and decorating. And all the best people I know were there, including Josh who flew in especially. Matt was invited, but he sent a nice card instead. Didn’t want to wear out his welcome, I suppose.

Walt and I are now in the process of adopting a few of the boys who need it most. These are the boys who don’t have a parent or other family member who is working within the judicial system to re-earn guardian responsibility, to demonstrate trustworthiness and the ability to provide. Eli and Thomas are on the list. Bodie also, even though he’s legally an adult now. We thought he might enjoy having a real family to come home to, and so we asked him. And he cried, and we cried, and it was agreed.

Emmie also. Her paperwork is more complicated, but we’re plowing through with the help of Maeve Berends, the county clerk.

I’m grateful for Skip’s generosity in giving me the freight terminal. It’s a wonderfully healthy business. I’ve been working with Hank to invest where needed to increase the terminal’s capacity and to keep the equipment and infrastructure in good shape. But there’s profit left at the end of every month, and Walt and I are using that steady flow of funds to renovate and improve Mayfield, particularly the mansion so that we can accommodate more boys. Maybe girls, too.

We’ll have to see how it goes, hire staff, fence in more pasture for animals. I think cows are up next.

I also still have the gold bars in reserve.

Instead of a phone, I carry a camera around with me everywhere now. I send a new stack of photos to my dad every couple of weeks—pictures of Mayfield, the boys, Walt and me, Emmie, Clarice, Gus, Loretta, the mountains, the animals (including a selfie with Orville, the potbellied pig!). Arleta arranged for a large cork board to be mounted on the wall in Dad’s room, and she said that he spends hours every time a set of photos arrives, pinning and rearranging the display to his satisfaction.

Gus sure hangs around a lot. He’s been teaching the boys who are interested (which is most of them) how to take apart, service, and reassemble small engines. We have a little tractor that works now, along with a mower attachment it can pull, and a few generators for when winter storms knock out the power. There’s a possibility those things with the metal roll cages and wheels that Gus and Walt think they’re hiding (but I’ve been snooping) in the old root cellar building will be functioning go-karts by summer.

What this all really means, though, is that Clarice has to feed Gus quite frequently. I don’t think she minds.