A House by the Side of the Road (27 page)

She gestured at the hand-lettered description of the flatware on a small white card in the box. It included a price. “Ninety-six hundred doesn't really reflect its rarity.”

Meg smiled calmly. She selected a teaspoon and held it, rubbing her thumb along the floral pattern on the handle. Her eyes moved over the contents of the box. “Oh, how nice,” she said. “There are twenty-four teaspoons. That's often a help.”

Ginny nodded. “It is, isn't it? But actually, there are twenty-three. One must have gone down a garbage disposal.”

No, thought Meg. It's quite unharmed. “I love the shape of the bowl,” she said. “You could easily use these spoons to eat grapefruit.”

*   *   *

She stared at the ceiling above her bed. Who had inherited Mrs. Ehrlich's china? Had it also been switched for a much less valuable set? What else had been stored in the attic? She sat up and pushed pillows behind her back. Who had access to Mrs. Ehrlich's attic? Besides the Ruschmans. Jack. Mike. John Eppler. And those were just the people Meg knew. Hannah Ehrlich could have had any number of friends in and out of her house. She could have had a cleaning lady. She could have …

She groaned and got up. Only a short time ago she had opened her eyes every morning and felt a surge of pleasure. She wanted that feeling back but swam instead in a state of constant foggy confusion.

She pulled on her robe and went into the kitchen to let the dog out and make coffee. The sun, low in the sky, slanted through the window, reflected off the floor, and brightened the creamy white of the smooth old cabinets. Meg wished Christine were sitting across the table from her, drinking coffee and helping her think. She was so tired of being alone. Would she feel so isolated if she hadn't had the weeks of camaraderie? Was it better to never have something than to have to regret its loss so bitterly? If her thoughts could only produce something sensible, she could try to get it back. Until then …

The phone rang. Meg sighed miserably and went into the living room to answer.

“Barbara Stanley,” said a woman's voice. “I got your message. Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner. I ran a check on those plates, but there's nothing. Her address still comes up as yours, and there's nothing in the system showing a recent ticket. I'll keep checking and let you know if anything changes.”

“Thank you,” said Meg. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem. Have you had any more trouble?”

“No,” said Meg. “I haven't been startled even once since Friday night.”

The woman's voice took on mild amusement. “Discovered any more switched dresser drawers?”

“Not a one,” said Meg.

I have, she thought, discovered what I believe to be some switched sterling silver flatware. Would that pique your interest a bit more? She was tempted to say it, to change the smugness in the detective's tone.

But, even if she weren't worried about Dan's possible involvement, what was the point in telling the police her suspicions? Where could they go with them? All she had was her memory of an unusual voice and the knowledge of a silver teaspoon that matched a set in an antique store owned by the daughter of the dead woman's neighbor. The tape that might have justified a search warrant to turn up that set was gone.

Mrs. Ehrlich. It turned, inevitably, on her. How conveniently she had died.

*   *   *

“Hmm…” said the young man in the shop with the “Dog Grooming” sign, giving Meg a doubtful look. “We can surely make her look better, but…”

The dog sat calmly at Meg's left side, looking around. Yips came from a back room, and there were the sounds of running water and dryers.

“What did you have in mind?” the young man asked.

“Just what you said,” said Meg. “Make her look better, less scruffy. The only thing I don't want her to end up with is one of those mustaches that look so fetching on schnauzers and miniature poodles but would just make her look like a wanna-be.”

“What
is
she?” he asked.

“Believe it or not,” said Meg, “a dog.”

Halfway down the sidewalk to her car, she nearly collided with John Eppler, who, although looking straight ahead, seemed not to have seen her.

“Pardon me,” he said automatically and then, recognizing her, “Oh! Sorry Ms. Kessinger.”

“Meg!” said Meg. “Unless I have to call you Mr. Eppler for the next twenty years.” She should just give up and accept the fact that the use of first names did not come easily to the man.

Mike jogged across the street, coming onto the sidewalk behind John Eppler. “Meg,” he said. “Morning, Mr. Eppler.”

John Eppler turned and regarded Mike, then turned back to Meg. “Be seeing you, young lady,” he said and walked away.

“What was that?” asked Meg, looking curiously at Mike. “Hard feelings?”

He grimaced. “Evidently.”

Meg gazed at him, but he did not continue.

*   *   *

Fill-in-the-blank sentences, thought Meg. Just do some straightforward, fill-in-the-blank sentences. Easy, fast. No, not fun, but they get the job done. The light verse, the rhyming phrases, the word-play exercises were all more interesting, but they required so much thought. She didn't have the mental stamina.

She tapped out a sentence for
appease.
“A person who is afraid to ask questions cannot_______his curiosity.” No, that wouldn't fly. In modern-day educational publishing, “a person” required “his or her.” Too clumsy, too bulky. Oh, well, it was a crummy sentence anyway.

Mike would know, or ought to know, what kind of medicine Mrs. Ehrlich had taken, but Meg was afraid to ask him. A jumpy heart. What did a person take for a jumpy heart?

The dog barked once from the front yard, an “Oh, hello” bark, and Meg turned her wrist to glance at her watch. Three-thirty already? She turned off the monitor and got up, yawning. Some physical activity would be good, and it was encouraging to see Jane's determination and Harding's steady progress.

Jane was setting the porch chairs out onto the lawn and watching the smaller dog wriggle adroitly out from under Harding's sprawled form. She called him when Meg emerged from the house, and he got up reluctantly and came to her. She snapped the leash onto his collar and began the exercise.

“Watch,” she said. “I think he's getting better.”

Meg sat on the porch steps, watching the girl and the big sturdy dog. The child paced around the chairs as Harding struggled to understand that he was supposed to remain near her left leg regardless of which direction she turned. “Harding! Heel!” she said, attempting to complete a figure eight.

“He is indeed getting better,” said Meg.

“Well, not about everything,” said Jane ruefully. “He got the leftover meat loaf out of the fridge this morning while Mom was at the store. And a carton of sour cream. And we can't find a package of bratwurst we
know
was in there last night or a huge bunch of grapes…”

“Forgot the clamp, did she? Your mom?”

Jane came to a stop and the dog looked up at her. She looked sternly back. “Harding! Sit!” He dutifully sat. “Uh-huh,” she said. “But she's madder at him than she is at herself.”

Something clicked in Meg's mind. “Jane, when Harding ate Mrs. Ehrlich's pills, did he have to go to the vet?”

“No.” The child started pacing again, the dog at her side. “The vet just said to watch him. She said just one of each of the pills probably wouldn't hurt him.”

“Do you remember what he ate?”

“I remember the aspirin. She always took a baby aspirin, the little tiny ones that taste like orange candy. That's probably why he thought her pills would be good. And she took alfalfa—lots of it, but
that
doesn't hurt dogs. She said it was for arthritis. Mom was worried about the big pill, the heart pill.”

“What was that called, do you know?”

Jane gave two quick tugs on the leash as she turned to the right; Harding adjusted his direction and went with her. “She called it ‘my heart pill.'”

“Ah, yes. For her jumpy heart. What did it look like?”

Jane stopped and thought. Harding looked around. “Sit!” said Jane. “Ugly. Brown and green, I think. Kind of big. Why?”

“Oh,” said Meg, leaning back on her elbows, “I wondered if dogs will eat just any old pill. It sounds like they will. I guess I'd better keep my medicine up high.”

“
Your
dog might not eat it,” said Jane. “
Harding
would, but a normal dog probably wouldn't.”

“You're calling my dog normal?”

“Just compared to Harding,” said Jane. “But she looks
more
normal with her new haircut.”

She did. Grooming had emphasized the terrier strain in the dog and given her head a more attractive shape. More attractive, Meg had to admit, not actually attractive.

“You know,” said Jane, “if you're worried, you could use one of those reminder boxes, like Mrs. Ehrlich, with all the separate lids that snap shut. I don't think your dog would figure out how to open them.” She giggled. “Though she could ask Harding to do it for her.”

*   *   *

Jack's house was small and gray, its door a deep purple. Trim at the edge of the roof matched the door, and the path from the driveway was old bricks, laid in a careful pattern. His pickup was parked on the side of the house, but he didn't answer Meg's knock. She was a little early; maybe he was out back. She was turning to go down the porch steps when the door behind her opened.

“Meg,” he said. “I was just getting out of the shower.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm early. I walked, so I wouldn't have to pick up Mike's car later, and it didn't take as long as I expected. This is so nice of you—driving me all the way to Allentown.”

He smiled. “No problem. If you're not put off by being entertained by a man in a bathrobe, come on in.”

He stepped back and she went past him, smelling something woodsy that she assumed was his shampoo. His damp hair stressed the clean lines of his face. The doorway was not quite wide enough for her to avoid brushing against the thick terry cloth of his navy-blue robe.

“I like your door,” she said.

“Artists can get away with purple,” he replied. “Sit down. I'll just be a minute. Want something?”

She thought it better not to answer that question honestly. She shook her head.

He selected a compact disc and put it in the player, and
The Goldberg Variations
began softly as he disappeared into what Meg assumed was the bathroom. Most of the house was one large room, the slate floor near the door giving way to parquet in an intricate design of varying shades, partly covered by a beautiful old rug. A fireplace occupied the wall to her right, octagonal wooden columns framing it and supporting the mantel. The wall above was paneled in the same wood that surrounded the fireplace. One painting hung over the fireplace—dark trees against a golden sky.

Meg sat gingerly on a pale gray leather couch that felt like butter beneath her hands and leafed through a copy of
Gentlemen's Quarterly
she found on a small table. Jack returned in blue jeans and a work shirt, this one with regular buttons.

“You find that outfit in here?” she asked, closing the magazine.

“Yeah. I get all my style tips from the pros.” He winked at her.

Meg got up. “I have to admit,
GQ
is not what I expected to find at your house.
Road and Track,
maybe. Or
Handyman.
Even
Architectural Digest…
”

“The subscription was a gift,” he said. His mouth twisted disparagingly. “It usually goes from the mailbox to the trash.”

Ah, thought Meg. Stephanie probably didn't approve of work shirts with fanciful buttons. She looked at the painting over the fireplace. “That's beautiful,” she said. “Did you paint it?”

“I wish. No. Hannah Ehrlich left it to me. It puts my own work to shame.” He looked at the painting and smiled. “It amazes me to own something so beautiful.” He turned his eyes to Meg. “Ready?”

Meg preceded him out of the house and got into the pickup. When they had turned out onto the road to town, she looked over at Jack. “Your house was a surprise.”

“What did you expect?” He shifted into third gear and glanced at her.

“I don't know. Something less elegant?”

“A cabin maybe? With plank floors and pelts stretched on the wall?”

Meg laughed. “Maybe.”

He moved his shoulders, then sat back and spoke quietly. “I did most of the work on the place while I was … involved with a woman, a woman named Stephanie, who cared about, cared a lot about, elegant things. I'm just who I am. Can't do much about it. But I thought we'd be sharing the house, so I made it the way she would like it.”

“Did she?”

He nodded. “It was me she didn't like so much. Put a man who likes to work with his hands in a nice house, he's still a man who likes to work with his hands.”

He looked at Meg and smiled, his expression changing from somber to playful. “But I've talked about myself enough. Why don't
you
talk about me for a while?”

“Okay.” She glanced at the speedometer. “Do you always drive so slowly?”

“No. On superhighways, I sometimes get up near fifty.” He rubbed his jaw. “Tell you the truth, I don't know what everybody's hurry is.”

Meg quit trying to resist asking the question she wanted to ask. “Do you enjoy working with Dan?”

He looked at her in surprise. “Of course. He hasn't had a lot for me lately, but anybody'd enjoy working with Dan.”

“You don't have different ideas about how to do things?” Silently she added, Or what's ethical and what's not?