Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_01

I
don’t consider myself an angel, avenging or otherwise, but I can’t always accept fate as the answer. Timing makes all the difference.

There exists a rather charming school of thought that the motorist who looms out of the fog at precisely the right moment or the fatherly old man who takes a lost child’s hand and leads her to safety are heaven-sent messengers.

Unknown to themselves, of course.

It was the episode in the hotel lobby that made me, Henrietta O’Dwyer Collins, ponder the imponderable and my role in it.

Had I come downstairs one minute later, Willa Benson would have been sitting pretty.

But I was strolling past the reception area a few minutes after eight with nothing more in mind than a
leisurely jog. Midway down the polished pink-and-white-marbled hallway, my right shoelace flopped loose. I propped my Reebok on the edge of the heavy blue porcelain planter. As I tied the lace, I glanced at the mirror that reflected me in navy sweats and, behind me, the hallway and the ornate mahogany front desk.

That’s why I saw the sleek, satisfied, sly look on Willa Benson’s plump face as she turned away from the front desk and looked down at the envelope in her pudgy hands. What made it doubly interesting was the contrast between that unguarded expression, one of malice laced with amusement and contemptuous pleasure, and her usual demeanor of chirpy congeniality as she dealt with the needs of Mamie Duvall, the frail, elderly woman whom she served as a companion.

So I yanked on the shoelace, reworked it, and continued to watch the mirror and the pink-cheeked, motherly-looking woman with the envelope in her hand.

What made it triply interesting was that she didn’t open the envelope. Instead, she moved out of sight of the clerk, ripped the envelope—the unopened envelope—in half, then stuffed the pieces in her purse, still looking pleased and satisfied in a thoroughly nasty way.

I suppose most people might have seen all of the above and shrugged, thinking it none of their business, no matter how intriguing. Not I. As soon as the elevator door closed behind Willa, I walked to the lobby desk.

There are clerks and clerks. This young lady had a big smile and she always tried to please.

“Any messages for me, Anita?”

“No, Mrs. Collins. I just sorted the mail.”

I half-turned, then paused. “Oh, Mrs. Duvall’s expecting an important letter. I told her I’d ask.”

“It’s on its way to her right now. The lady who’s with her, Mrs. Benson, just picked it up.”

So I was right. This was mail for Mamie Duvall—not for her canary-faced companion.

I breathed an audible sigh of relief. “Oh, I do hope it was the letter from Sheila, the one she’s hoping for.”

“Well,” Anita said brightly, “it was postmarked from Phoenix—and it looked like a woman’s handwriting.”

“That’s the one.” I beamed. “I believe I’ll go right up and talk to her.”

As I waited for the elevator, I saw my own reflection: dark hair silvered at the temples, dark eyes that have seen much and remembered much, a Roman-coin profile, a lean and angular body with an appearance of forward motion even when at rest—and the angry light in my eyes. I can’t abide meanness. And I didn’t need a minute’s consideration to decide that Willa Benson was up to something very mean indeed.

I didn’t go to Mrs. Duvall’s room, of course, but to my own and my telephone. Sometimes you pick up as much by what people don’t say as what they do, and I figured I had a line on Mamie Duvall.

I’d played bridge several evenings with a trio of elderly women, one of whom was Mrs. Duvall. Mamie Duvall was a soft-voiced widow with a pale, aristocratic
face, mournful blue eyes, and a, sad droop to her mouth. She had the least to say, but she listened hungrily to the other players’ tales of family and friends. Bonhomie was encouraged at Monahan House, an amiable, quietly friendly compound in the Shenandoahs offering golf and horseback riding, tennis and croquet, gently spectacular views of wooded ridges and valleys, sedate activities—bird walks, bridge, guest lectures—for guests, even spa waters for wan health-seekers. Not, actually, my usual kind of vacation spot, but an old friend owned it, and I’d come for a week’s visit. I was leaving tomorrow. So, I understood, was Mrs. Duvall.

I had a laptop and modem with me. It was child’s play to tap into the hotel system. I pulled up the Duvall registration: Mrs. Marguerite Duvall, 2903 Egret Marsh Road, Pensacola, FL 32505. Ten minutes later, courtesy of the Pensacola library system, I had the telephone numbers of her neighbors on either side and across the street. I did a little more exploratory work—newspaper morgues are so helpful—and came up with the date of death for Marguerite’s husband and, more important, the obituary list of survivors: his daughter, Pamela Duvall Wilson of Phoenix, Arizona, and one grandson, Thomas Charles Wilson, also of Phoenix.

Dolly Garrison, who lived across the street from Mrs. Duvall, never suspected I wasn’t a long-lost cousin of Mrs. Duvall’s trying to get in touch. “Why, it’s the funniest thing. First Mamie’s daughter called, oh, a couple of days ago, and now you! Pam says her mother’s number is unlisted! Why on earth! Nobody I know has an unlisted number….”

I worked fast. Needless to say, I missed my jog, but by the end of the day I knew all about Marguerite Duvall, her daughter, Pam, and her grandson, Tommy. I knew about Mamie Duvall’s broken hip and the woman, Willa Benson, who’d answered her ad for live-in help. But the real low-down came when I talked to Pam. “I’ve written and written….”