Stranded (20 page)

Since we had the pickup, we drove out to Nick’s Garage to check on the motor home. Nick had dragged it around back of the shop, more out of the way. It looked the same as before, dejected. We went around by the post office before heading home. A few things had been sent on from the Arkansas mail-forwarding outfit. A letter from niece DeeAnn and another from grandniece Sandy, and one from old friend Magnolia Margollin too, with a Phoenix postmark. She and Geoff had been living full-time in their motor home since selling their home across from mine on Madison Street back in Missouri.

Oh, and a postcard sent direct to general delivery here in Hello. I didn’t have to turn it over to know who it was from. Who else would send a postcard with the picture of a giant sponge—a giant sponge wearing giant sunglasses—on it? But I waited until we got home to read the message, savoring the anticipation.

15

Back at the house, I turned up the thermostat on the heat pump and read the postcard. Pleased as I was to hear from him, I still felt a twinge of annoyance. Mac MacPherson, the Postcard Man, has never written me a real letter.

This message was brief, as usual. It said he’d be leaving Florida soon. He had an assignment from a travel magazine for an article about an unusual theme park in Texas, and then he might head up to Colorado. Not a statement that he was definitely coming to Hello, of course. Mac tends to be very cagey about pinning himself down. But maybe he’d be here before long.

My first impulse was to call and tell him how to find us if he came to Hello. He did say he was very much looking forward to seeing me again, which, from Mac, qualifies as a fairly strong commitment. But on second thought I decided to leave finding me in Hello to Mac’s ingenuity. If he wanted to find me, he certainly would. I wanted to see him again, but I wasn’t going to look as if I were panting and drooling with expectation. (I wasn’t, was I? Well, maybe just a tiny increase in respiration rate.) Then, after reading Magnolia’s letter, I instantly grabbed our cell phone and punched in the numbers she’d provided.

“Ivy, it’s so good to hear from you!” Magnolia exclaimed. I could see her in my mind’s eye. Her formidable, Victorian-style figure enveloped in yards of gauzy swirls that always seemed to have a life of their own. Her changing hair color. Insulation Pink. Raspberry Red. Rainbow. And her accessories—earrings or hair decoration or necklace—all magnolias, of course. “Are you going to tell me where you are?”

I’ve been cautious about that. The Braxton mini-mafia surely knows about my relationship with Magnolia and Geoff, and I wouldn’t put it past them to try to get to me through these friends. That wouldn’t be easy, given that the Margollins are also often on the move, but they’ve had a couple of suspicious encounters. I’ve always figured it would be easier for them to keep the secret of my whereabouts if they didn’t know where I was.

“Why don’t you just tell me all about your new home? You’re actually going to give up RVing and settle down in Phoenix?”

“Oh, Ivy, we love it here! Right now there’s one of those roadrunner birds out in the yard. He comes almost every day to eat the hamburger balls I toss out for him.” Magnolia gushed on about their southwestern-style home with tile roof, built-in barbecue, and a yard full of saguaro, cholla, and ocotillo. “And Geoff is going to try to get some magnolia trees started for me too.”

Back home in Missouri, their lush stand of her namesake trees had been almost famous, and I figured if anyone could grow magnolias in the desert, it would be Geoff.

“So, what about your genealogical studies?” I asked. Magnolia has long been involved in researching her family’s history and happily claims connections to everyone from American Indians to French royalty. “Have you made any new family discoveries?”

“Oh my, yes. We have these wonderful Hispanic neighbors, and I do believe I’ve discovered a family connection from when one of my French ancestors married a Spanish adventurer. We may make a trip down to Mexico one of these days for further research. We aren’t giving up the motor home just because we have a house now.”

“You’ll probably locate some distant cousins.” Sometimes I wonder just how distant a connection can be and still be recognized as a cousin. Is there such a thing as a thirteenth cousin? Or a twenty-seventh?

“But that trip will have to wait. First we have to go back to Missouri to do something with all the things we left in storage there.”

“When will you go?”

“Quite soon, probably. Although it depends on the weather.”

I pulled up a rough mental map showing Phoenix, Hello, and Missouri. Connecting them didn’t exactly make a straight line. “You know, if you didn’t mind making a detour up into Colorado—”

“Ivy! You’re in Colorado? Where? That’s hardly out of our way at all!”

I hesitated, but a desire to see my old friends won out over worries about Braxtons. “It’s this little town called Hello, up in the mountains.”

I gave her instructions about how to find the McLeod house once they got here. “And it’s possible Mac MacPherson may show up too.”

“Mac,” she marveled. “We haven’t seen him in months. Is he still traveling the country in his motor home?”

“Still writing articles about odd events and places. Footloose and fancy-free.”

Magnolia muttered something unintelligible but grumpy sounding, then added, “If that man had any sense, he’d grab you before someone else does.”

Bless Magnolia. She’s always had an exaggerated idea of my effect on elderly males and how eager they are to rush into wedded bliss with me.

We chatted a few more minutes, and then she ended with, “So we may see you before long.”

“Come any time. I’m looking forward to it.”

Kelli stopped by the library at the end of the week. I think she did that because she thought if she came to the house too often we’d feel she was snooping on us and how we were taking care of her house. I was at the computer installing the new software and figuring out how it worked. Someone had rounded up an old desk, and we’d moved the computer into the library section for my use. Victoria Halburton and Myra Fighorn were manning the reception desk today. Earlier, Victoria had made a sly remark about the Café Russo, to which I’d responded that Norman and I had greatly enjoyed our dinner there.

“You didn’t find him just a little, oh, odd?”

“No odder than many people in Hello.” I made a meaningful perusal of her overdyed black hair, which had a strong resemblance to dismembered crow wings.

Kelli ignored the main desk and strode through to my area. “Looking good,” she said approvingly. “I just wanted to let you know that I called Kansas. I don’t know if it will do any good, but I asked them to put a rush on the birth certificate.”

“Thanks. We appreciate that.”

“And I asked Chris if he knew anything about Hiram having money in a Bahamas bank, but he said he didn’t. Actually, Hiram didn’t necessarily involve either Chris or me in his financial affairs unless some legality was involved. And, as you said, it may have been a long time ago.”

True. Although the whole Bahamas thing struck me as peculiar. “What about the divorce?”

“I have a lawyer friend in Texas checking for me. We may have to publish a legal ad in a newspaper down there when Abilene files for divorce, but we can do it using my friend’s name and office address, and Boone will never find out anything about Abilene’s whereabouts from her. I should know more in a day or two.”

“Good.”

Kelli smiled and gave a little wave as she left.

A big storm blew in on Saturday, and the ladies at the Historical Society decided to close at noon. Heavy white flakes were coming down like an overturned bucket of snow cones by then, but in spite of the weather I was surprised when Doris Hammerstone offered me a ride home. She’d never shown any sign of helpfulness before.

“Why, thank you. I’d appreciate that very much.”

I helped Doris with her coat and steadied her going down the front steps, where three inches of snow had already accumulated. But once we were in her car, the situation changed. Doris might be tiny and bent over, and the streets might be slippery with snow, but she wheeled that big old Lincoln around as if we were in tryouts for the Indy 500. I gulped and clutched the seat belt as we squirreled around corners, barreled up the hill, and finally skidded into the driveway at the McLeod house.

Doris seemed unruffled by the fact that we’d barely missed the hedge around the yard. “I do like a car with power,” she said, her tone complacent.

I hastily gathered my gloves and purse and wits, relieved to be home in one piece. I put my hand on the door handle, but she seemed in no hurry to rush off. She leaned forward and peered up at the third floor of the tower, where the raw blotch of plywood was faintly visible through the wind-driven blur of snow.

“That’s where Hiram fell?”

“Yes. He landed on the brick walkway below. No one seems to know why he and whoever killed him were up there.” I wanted to hear her thoughts on this, but I didn’t want to let on that I knew she and Hiram had once been married, in case that was a touchy subject. So, in what I hoped was a discreet way, I added, “Have you ever been up there?” as if I thought she may have been a guest there sometime.

She skidded around my tactfulness the same way she’d skidded around street corners. “You mean up there to push Hiram out the window?” she snapped.

“Well, uh . . .”

“Or up there back when he and I were married? Because someone told you we were married, didn’t they? Who was it? Lucinda?”

I dodged the question, not about to admit she was correct about Lucinda. “I’m sure no one thinks that you—”

“You don’t have to murder someone personally, you know. You can hire a killer. I could have done that.”

I had to make an effort to keep my mouth from dropping open at this surprise suggestion. But I managed to say, “Did you?”

“No, I didn’t kill him, either personally or hired.” She sounded a little cross about it. “Though, if I’d thought of it, I might have back when Hiram and I were married. I certainly had reason enough.” She leaned back, her momentary flash of spirit seeming to fizzle. The car was cooling rapidly, our breaths already clouding the windows.

I waited, hoping she’d elaborate, but what she said when she went on was, “But that was a long time ago, and it all turned out for the best. Dan and I had many happy years and four children together.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“So, to answer your question, yes, I’ve been in the ballroom, but no, not for many years. Hiram and I threw some rather lively parties up there. Hired a band and everything. Hiram was quite a fancy dancer back in those days.”

“Something tells me you were probably a rather ‘fancy dancer’ yourself.”

Doris’s sly pixie smile confirmed that, although what she said was, “But I heard the ballroom had been closed off in recent years.”

“Which makes it all the more puzzling why he was up there.”

“Ask Kelli Keifer. She should know.” The statement wasn’t venomous, but it was certainly on the sour side. Doris lifted her elbow and swiped at the condensation on the window.

“You think Kelli killed him?”