Death of a Highland Heavyweight Page 8

  Before I logged out, I noticed a file titled INSLIST on her desktop. I pondered it for a moment then clicked it open. It was an insurance document listing the items missing and their insured value. I didn’t take the time to read it—wasn’t sure I cared. But in case I changed my mind later, when I wasn’t so weary, I printed off a copy and went to bed.

  ****

  Morning came too soon. I’d slept better than the last time I’d stayed the night, but I wouldn’t have described my sleep as refreshing. Not that it mattered. Once dawn slanted its yellow fingers through my open window, I pushed back the covers and attacked my duties. I walked Caber along the shore—finding three pieces of lime-green glass—made myself breakfast, called Geoff, hunted down Carrie’s cleaning equipment, dusted, vacuumed, straightened, took phone messages—all-around Girl Friday stuff.

  At ten, I presented Carrie with a breakfast tray: a dish of fresh fruit, toasted bagel smothered with cream cheese, and a mug of strong coffee. She looked like a Scarlett O’Hara sitting in her massive bed surrounded by plumped pillows. All she needed was that spectacular bed jacket.

  There was something weird about Carrie, I thought as I left her alone. The way her emotions flipped on and off. Sometimes she seemed truly devastated, and other times…other times it was like she almost enjoyed the attention. As if it was her due.

  I shook my head as I stepped into the shower. Grief was too big an emotion for me. I would never understand it. I would never understand capricious Carrie—capricious being a word my mom often used to describe me, though I don’t consider myself unpredictable.

  With each hour, I seemed to be getting sucked deeper and deeper into Carrie’s life. Any personal plans I might have had for the day—like work, Dunmaglass, Hum Harbour Daze planning—I set aside. After my shower I helped Mimi set up for the post-memorial reception, arranging stacks of dainty luncheon plates and folded napkins, clearing spaces for floral arrangements, ensuring the Hunters’ tea service was ready for use. In other words, I polished the silver.

  With no time left for lunch, I hurried home to change. I allowed myself about sixty seconds in Dunmaglass. I wanted to be sure Ash was ready for a possible influx of customers before and after Claude’s memorial service—which was mercenary, I knew, but necessary nonetheless.

  Then I drove Carrie’s SUV into Antigonish to pick up her mother. I knew, even before I accompanied Geoff while he visited patients in the poshy seniors’ residence where Phyllis Hunter lived, that Carrie’s mom had very exacting standards.

  So I set a fresh box of tissues on the console between the front seats, adjusted the AC until the car’s inside thermometer read a comfortable twenty-two degrees Celsius, and selected a classical music CD from Carrie’s collection. I prayed my efforts would earn me a modicum of civility.

  Phyllis Hunter waited in a wheelchair in the mirrored foyer of the Inverness Arms Seniors’ Residence. She wore a veiled black hat and oversized black mink stole. I was warm in my sleeveless black dress.

  I greeted Mrs. Hunter and her caregiver.

  “She sent you?” Mrs. Hunter grabbed a strand of my hair when I leaned close. “I told her I didn’t want the black one.”

  So I should color my hair? I gently disentangled it from her knurled, arthritic fingers. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mrs. Hunter. But I promised your daughter I’d help her as much as I could. This afternoon’s going to be hard for her.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that? I’ve lost my husband, too, you know.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said automatically.

  “Don’t patronize me, girl. I know you don’t care a hoot about my loss.” She glanced back at the caregiver pushing her chair towards the waiting car. “Hurry up, and get me into that ridiculous contraption, or I’ll be late. If I make it there at all. I told her I didn’t trust this one’s driving.”

  I was sure Mrs. Hunter knew absolutely nothing about how I drove.

  The caregiver gave me an apologetic smile as she assisted Mrs. Hunter into the SUV. I climbed in the driver’s side and double-checked the seatbelt was properly attached—Carrie’d warned me her mother worried about buckles not holding.

  Mrs. Hunter rapped my fingers with her brass-handled cane. “Don’t touch me, girl! I have enough strangers pawing me. Every day there’s someone new in this infernal place. Just get used to one nurse, and they replace her with another.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Is that all you can say? I’m sorry? I assumed your mother would teach her only daughter to speak up for herself, instead of mincing. I’m sorry. I’m trying to help.” She puckered her mouth when she mimicked me.

  I bit back a reply and pulled out of the parking lot. Blessed silence lasted less than a minute.

  “You trying to get us killed, too? Open your eyes, girl.” She pointed at the car stopped at the red light. It patiently awaited its turn to go through the intersection while I proceeded. I had the green arrow. I was supposed to proceed.

  “There’ve been enough deaths around here. We don’t need any more.”

  I kept my mouth shut.

  “Do you think we need more deaths?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She exhaled a blast of air from her nostrils. “I suppose you’re another one of his fans?” I noticed she never used people’s names.

  “You aren’t?”

  “A grown man who tosses telephone poles? Maybe if he’d put in an honest day’s work now and again.”

  “Your son-in-law was a champion athlete.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “Carrie’s very proud of his accomplishments.”

  Mrs. Hunter grunted. “Over-sized biceps don’t make a man.”

  “I don’t mean to disagree, but Claude Oui was much more than that. He was honest, and kind, and he loved the Lord.”

  She sniffed derisively. “He loved the Lord a darn sight more than he loved his family.”

  I thought that was supposed to be a good thing.

  “Honor your parents. That’s what the Good Book says. But he was running off to Africa, wanting my daughter to go with him. And leave me here alone.”

  I almost said I was sorry again. “There are lots of folks at the Inverness Arms. You wouldn’t be alone.”

  “Don’t contradict me, girl.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She stared at me until I felt my cheeks growing warm. “I suppose you’re one of those born-again types like he was?”

  I flashed a sideways glance trying to gage her intent. “I’m a Christian.”

  “And you think I’m not?”

  I kept my sights glued on the road ahead, although our conversation had turned more dangerous than the winding pavement. “I have no idea, Mrs. Hunter. Do you love the Lord?”

  She blew air from her nose. “Trust a MacDonald to think that’s all that matters in life.”

  “I’m sorry?” I bit my lip. I shouldn’t have said that.

  “Head in the clouds, the bunch of you. Not a whiff of common sense. And you, about to marry that missionary.”

  “Geoff’s a doctor.”

  “I know he’s a doctor. Don’t I see him every time he comes by the home? And you trailing along behind like some smitten little puppy.”

  “Panther cub,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Geoff says I remind him of a young panther. Black hair.” I gave it a tug for emphasis. “Brown eyes.”

  Behind her veil, her eyes narrowed.

  I couldn’t resist one last panther trait. “Hunts at night.”

  “The man lives dangerously,” she said. I thought I detected the first hint of civility, perhaps even respect, in her tone.

  19

  I parked in front of the church and accompanied Phyllis Hunter to the heavy wooden doors propped open for the occasion. Across the street a white CBC van, replete with its characteristic red logo, stood with the side panel open and a camera running. I could hear the journalist discussing o
ur congregation’s Trinitarian roots. Like most people who’ve speculated over the years, she was wrong.

  Third Church was called Third because First Church burned down in 1875, and its replacement, Second Church, went the same way in 1922. Third Church, it was hoped, would survive longer, and so far, it had.

  I escorted Mrs. Hunter to the choir room—which doubled as the church parlor—where Carrie waited with Reverend Innes.

  “Mom!” Carrie sprang from the worn plaid sofa, and engulfed her mother in a hug. “Gailynn found you all right?”

  “Of course she did.” Mrs. Hunter patted Carrie’s back. “The girl’s lived here all her life. She’d hardly get lost.”

  I hid my smile. “If that’s everything, I’ll leave you two with Reverend Innes.”

  Geoff would be somewhere in the congregation, holding a seat for me.

  Carrie caught my wrist. “There is something, actually, Gailynn, if you don’t mind.”

  Annoyance bubbled inside me before I could squelch it. “If it won’t take too long. Geoff’s waiting.”

  “I was wondering if you might forgo the service and scoot back to my house to help Mimi with the reception preparations.”

  “I think everything’s well in hand.”

  “I know, but I’d feel so much better if Mimi had an extra set of hands in case something unexpected came up.”

  “Carrie.” Her name was all I dared to say. I mean there was help—the kind I’d already offered—and then there was help—the kind she now demanded. Frankly, she was becoming tyrannical.

  Be charitable, I told myself, she has no one else to call on. “Let me talk to Geoff. I don’t want to leave him alone if he needs me.”

  She nodded curtly.

  There were a lot of people in the sanctuary I didn’t recognize.

  Geoff assured me he’d be fine. Would I? He squeezed my hand—he could tell my patience was growing thin—and promised to join me at Hunter Hall as soon as the service was over.

  I left Carrie’s SUV for her and her mother and walked the few blocks down to Hunter Hall. It had turned into a dreary day, the kind where tumbling clouds blocked the sun, and the cooler August wind blew from the east. Goosebumps spread across my bare arms and I kicked off my shoes and walked faster. Cars parked along every street filled Hum Harbour to the brim. People in funeral clothes eyed me suspiciously as I scurried barefoot in what they surely considered the wrong direction.

  So be it. I had a new assignment for the afternoon—caterer’s assistant. And though I regretted leaving Geoff, spending the next hour with my cousin Mimi wouldn’t be painful. We might look like night and day, well-padded, freckled Mimi with her curly, auburn hair, and straight haired, curve-free me, but we loved each other, and we loved the Lord. Two people couldn’t get more alike than that.

  I’m not sure how best to describe the rest of the day. I could go into excruciating details about the menu Mimi’d prepared, the number of pots of coffee consumed, who came, who didn’t, what they wore, what they said to Carrie, and what they said behind her back—a lot of colorful comments about Carrie’s frogs. Claude’s trophies, strategically placed around the downstairs, received almost as many mentions. I washed teacups, fetched boxes of tissue, restocked bathrooms, emptied trash, and kept Caber from getting underfoot. I welcomed people. I bade them farewell. I couldn’t tell whether Claude’s family came or not. Who knows, maybe that black-haired fellow I first saw in the curling club’s parking lot, whom I today found wandering around upstairs looking for a bathroom, was a relative.

  When it was all done, when the last guest had left, and Carrie’d taken her mother back to Antigonish, I helped Mimi clean up. Geoff helped, too. We returned the house to its pre-reception condition, or as close as we could remember, so that when Carrie finally reappeared, all she had to do was lock the door and go to bed.

  Geoff agreed to take Caber home with him, since Carrie insisted she’d never sleep with the dog prowling and howling all night.

  It was almost ten. The fog had rolled in. The old-fashioned cast iron street lamps the town had installed along Main Street glowed eerily, giving Hum Harbour the flavor of Sherlock Holmes’s London.

  I wore Geoff’s suit jacket over my sleeveless dress. My shoes dangled from one hand—my feet too weary to stuff back into the strappy heels.

  Geoff had unfastened his top shirt buttons, his tie hung loose, and his white shirt was stained and wrinkled.

  Caber plodded forlornly between us.

  Every now and then a vehicle drove by, and we could hear, but not see, a gang of kids carrying on the way teenagers do.

  We’d walked maybe half a block when a man climbed out of a car parked beside the curb. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk, blocking our path.

  Already spooked by the swirling fog, I shrank deeper into Geoff’s jacket.

  20

  The man wasn’t especially tall, but he was built solid as a cement wall. I’m sure it would’ve taken two hand-holding adults to encircle his girth. I didn’t need to see his face to recognize Danny-Boy Murdock.

  “I wanna talk to you,” he said.

  “About what?” Geoff sounded as unnerved as I felt.

  Danny-Boy clicked his heels, drawing my attention to his signature, tasseled loafers. He was known to wear them with everything from his kilt to his shorts. Presently he wore a rumpled suit. “I can’t very well approach Carrie myself,” he said.

  I silently agreed. That would not have gone well.

  Geoff said, “I’m not sure what that has to do with us.”

  “He was my friend.”

  Danny-Boy looked so miserable, standing there with his head hanging down.

  “I’m sorry Carrie’s so hard on you,” I said.

  “I don’t blame her. I haven’t exactly behaved like a friend.” He stepped closer, his slurring words floating on a cloud of whiskey fumes. “And the last time I saw Claude I was a horse’s fanny.”

  “Is that what you wanted to tell us?” Geoff asked.

  “I wanna talk to Gailynn, here, and ask her to talk to Carrie for me.”

  “And say what?” I asked incredulously.

  “That I’m sorry. That I never meant to hurt Claude—neither time. I know we argued and kibitzed around, but we were friends. She’s gotta believe that.”

  “I don’t think she does,” I said.

  Danny-Boy’s massive shoulders drooped. “She’s got you believing I’m a criminal, too?”

  “I have no idea if you’re a criminal. Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t. But I’m not going to be able to convince her one way or the other. That’s up to you.”

  “How am I gonna do it when she won’t even talk to me?”

  I shook my head. I had no idea.

  “If I was parade marshal, maybe then she’d see I’m only trying to help.”

  Geoff gave Caber’s leash a sharp tug. He’d been about to water Danny-Boy’s shoe.

  “Bad idea.” Geoff could have been talking to Danny-Boy or the dog.

  “Why not? I know Carrie’s gonna stew over who’ll take Claude’s place as parade marshal. Other women might forget about something like that, but not our Carrie. She’s conscientious to the nth degree, and we all know Hum Harbour Daze is her baby.”

  “You taking Claude’s place would be disastrous.”

  “Listen, I know I can’t replace him, not in any true sense, but I could fill in for him. I know how important it was for Claude to support Carrie’s projects. That man loved his wife.”

  “I’m afraid the committee’s already nominating Claude’s replacement. It’s just a matter of hearing whether or not that person accepts.”

  Technically that was true. Once I went home and tabulated the votes and asked whoever came out on top whether they’d accept the position, it was just a matter of waiting for their answer.

  “I see,” said Danny-Boy. “In that case, I guess I’ll head home.” Danny-Boy lived a good hour away.

  Geoff placed a restraining
hand on his arm. “You’re not driving are you?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “You’ve been drinking—”

  “One,” he said defensively. Whether he meant one drink or one bottle was up for debate.

  “The police’ll be out in full force,” Geoff said. “I have a futon. You could sleep there.”

  Danny-Boy brushed away his hand, and his offer. “I’m good. Really. I’ll just take my time. Cops won’t even notice me.”

  There wasn’t much else we could do, short of calling the police ourselves, so we let him go. Geoff walked me the rest of the way home and he and Caber bid me goodnight at my door. I didn’t invite them in. Sheba would eat Caber. Not that she’s a nasty cat. It’s just that Caber was so plump and droopy and irresistibly mild mannered, he wouldn’t stand a chance against my twenty-three pound huntress.

  I locked myself and my cat in for the night, made a pot of Mimi’s herb tea, lit a few candles, and treated my cold, weary bones to a bubble bath. I left checking my emails and the entire Hum Harbour Daze parade marshal issue for the morning.

  ****

  Basset howls can raise the dead.

  At least they raised me from a dead sleep.

  Despite my bath, it had taken a good hour to squelch thoughts of Claude’s memorial, Claude’s widow, and Claude’s rival, but I’d finally fallen asleep. And now, thanks to Claude’s dog, I was awake again. I hugged my pillow over my head, but it had little effect. I could still hear Caber’s forlorn, hair-raising howls. With two pillows crammed over my head, I could barely breathe, but Caber’s howls still came through loud and clear. Why wasn’t Geoff quieting the wretched animal?

  I kicked off my bed covers. Pulling my oversized hoodie over my pajamas as I let myself out onto my deck, I didn’t stop to consider what I planned to do about the noise. Probably stomp across the bridge and bang on Geoff’s door until he smothered the dog.

  Not really.

  But what I found—once my eyes were opened and focused—silenced me.