Dial M for Meat Loaf (15 page)

26

By five, Cora was home searching through the basement, looking for a place to hide the money. On the drive back from Melvin DuCharme’s cabin, she’d decided to split it up, hide it in several different places just in case. Just in case
what
, she didn’t want to think about. She was a whole lot jumpier now than she’d ever been before, but that was to be expected, she told herself. Her husband had just been blown up. And furthermore, she’d encountered a Peeping Tom in the woods. Since she was about to become privy to the secret that had gotten Kirby killed, she needed to be especially careful. Maybe it was time to get out of town.

As she packed the last of the money behind a loose brick in the laundry room, she heard the doorbell ring upstairs. “Fudge, fudge, and double fudge,” she muttered to herself, trudging up the basement steps. The last thing she needed right now was company. True, she hadn’t visited with her women friends much lately. They were starting to wonder what was going on. The reason she knew was that on Saturday afternoon, she’d had her hair done at Nola B’s Beauty Nook and that’s what Nola B had told her. Cora needed to invite a few of them over for coffee one morning soon. But that meant she’d have to run down to the bakery to get a coffee cake. Clean the house. It was always something when you were a woman. Cooking. Cleaning. Shopping. Laundry. Staying attractive.

“Hold your horses,” she called, hearing her visitor bang on the front door. When she drew it back, she found a strange man standing on the front steps. She quickly made sure the screen door was locked. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” said the man. He had chilly eyes. “My name’s Angelo Falzone.”

“You’re not from around here.” He wasn’t tall, but he was still imposing. Thick neck. Hair combed straight back from a hard face. The milky-tea-colored sport coat and black polo shirt made him look like a million bucks. And even through the screen, she could smell the expensive aftershave.

“No, I’m from New York. I’m in Rose Hill . . . on business.”

“Business,” she repeated, inspecting the word for its true meaning. “Anyone ever tell you you look like Tony Soprano?”

“Who?”

“On HBO.
The Sopranos.
Don’t you ever watch TV?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Suddenly, she recognized him. He was the same man she’d seen the other day at the Prairie Lights Cafe—the one who’d been out in the front yard talking to Kirby the day before he blew up. “What do you want?” she asked curtly, backing up a step.

“To talk. Privately.”

“About what?”

“John Washburn.”

The name struck her like a blow. There was no way on earth she was letting a man who looked like him into her house. “Sorry. I’m busy.”

“It’ll only take a minute.” He put his hand up to the screen.

Now she was frightened. “If you don’t go away, I’ll call the police.” She closed the door, one note short of a slam. Watching through the picture window in the living room, she saw him trot back out to his car. She gave an involuntary shudder.

After he’d driven away, she walked around the house making sure all the windows were closed and locked, and all the blinds pulled. There was no use taking any chances. Passing a mirror, she saw that just above her wiry eyebrows, her forehead was smudged with dirt. So were her arms. The first order of business was to take a shower and change into clean clothes. She couldn’t think when she wasn’t tidy.

After getting out of the shower, she put on a freshly pressed cotton housedress and white cotton ankle stockings, tucking her feet into her pink terry-cloth slippers. She spent a few minutes in the kitchen fixing herself an egg salad sandwich and a cup of Folger’s Instant, then she sat down in the TV room with her cat next to her in the chair. She lifted her feet up on the footstool and took the letters out of the envelope—the one she’d found buried with the money.

There were eight letters in all. Munching on her sandwich, she sorted them by date. Except for the first one, they were all written to a man named Gilbert and signed by someone named J. D. John D. Washburn, no doubt. These letters must have represented some sort of threat to him, so much so that he was willing to pay one hundred thousand dollars to keep them under wraps.

Winthrop settled in for a nap as she began to read through them, but each time she came to an important revelation, she cried “Oh—my—God!” waking him up. It seemed that John Washburn had been involved in a bank robbery in his youth. His friend, Gilbert, had killed a man and gone to jail for it. John had escaped capture and become a traveling salesman. He’d also been married to at least three women besides Mary—at the same time! And even more startling, from certain inferences in the letters, Cora concluded that he may have murdered two of them. “Oh—my—God!” said Cora, again and again. No wonder he didn’t want these letters made public!

She read them through a second and third time, just to make sure she had all the salient points straight in her mind. By now the sandwich plate was empty. Taking a last sip of coffee, she stuffed the letters inside the envelope and leaned her head back. Kirby was a fool. He should have been more careful. John Washburn was a dangerous man whose entire life was based on deception. The Bible had plenty to say about a man like that, and none of it was good.

Poor Kirby, thought Cora, stroking her cat. As much as he liked to think otherwise, he wasn’t a smart man. Cora might not be an Einstein either, but she was cagey. She had to come up with a plan to protect herself from the Washburns, and she had to do it fast. But her eyelids were so heavy. She usually took a nap in the afternoon, but today she’d missed it. Before she knew it, her eyes had closed and her mind began to drift to thoughts of dancing hundred dollar bills.

When she finally woke, it was dark. She was disoriented for a few seconds, not sure where she was. Then she remembered. She was in the TV room with the packet of letters still in her lap. The lighted clock next to her said that it was nine-twenty-seven. She usually turned lights on in the evening, but tonight the house probably looked like nobody was home. She wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

As she was about to switch on a lamp, she heard a noise. Winthrop jumped off the chair with a yowl, as if he’d been touched by a live wire. It sounded as if someone was rattling the back door. My God, Cora thought, somebody was trying to break in!

Tucking the envelope under her arm, she rushed down the hall to the kitchen. Sure enough, someone was outside, twisting the handle. Cora could hear her heart thump inside her chest.

And then the noise stopped.

Standing in the dark, Cora fiddled with her hearing aid. Where’d he go? she thought, creeping to the kitchen window overlooking the back porch. She peeked through the curtains, but nobody was there.

She swung around as she heard a clunk followed by a scrape. Someone was trying to get in through the TV room window! Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a scream. Think, she ordered herself. Don’t be a silly old woman. Where’s the shotgun?

Her heart sank when she realized it was outside in the trunk of the Chevy.

Screw the money. It was time to call the police. She grabbed for the kitchen phone and dialed 911, then pressed the receiver to her ear. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!” The line was dead. Whoever was outside had cut the phone line. She was all alone!

Her mind disconnected. She rushed out of the room, up the stairs, and into her bedroom. She had to hide. But where?

The closet! It was long and narrow, stuffed with clothes, but at the end, there was a crook in the wall where she could fit herself. He’d never find her there.

That’s when she heard the glass break. Where was her cat? “Here, kitty kitty,” she whispered, knowing it was useless. Winthrop had dozens of places to hide. He’d be fine. She was the one who had to disappear. Fast!

Furiously messing up the bed covers, Cora balled up some of Kirby’s old clothes and stuffed them under the blankets, then grabbed the wig she wore when her hair wouldn’t cooperate and draped it over a pillow, covering it with more blankets. She stood back to see if she’d succeeded in making it look like someone was sleeping in the bed. As she did so, she heard a muffled crack downstairs in the living room. He was inside! An instant later the stairs began to creak.

Grabbing the manila envelope off the bed, Cora mashed herself into the closet and closed the louvered door. She held her breath, but instead of pushing all the way to the far end, she peeked through a crack in the louvers. She knew it was stupid, but she had to know who was after her. It couldn’t be John Washburn, not unless he’d had a miraculous recovery.

Holding her breath, she saw an arm thrust itself through the doorway. Three quick bullets struck the sleeping form. Cora had seen enough TV shows to know a silencer when she heard one.

Instead of fear, her eyes lit with rage. If she only had her shotgun, she’d show him what she was made of. Inching slowly toward the rear of the closet, she could hear the intruder start to take the room apart. He was looking for the letters. He was right about one thing. She’d have to be dead to part with them now.

27

“When are you leaving for Rose Hill?” asked Bram. He was lying on the couch in Sophie’s office.

Sophie was busily digging through her filing cabinet, looking for the notes she’d made for her next restaurant review. Sometimes, her biggest work-related problem was keeping her two jobs separate. This morning, she wished she had only one office and only one set of filing cabinets. “I’ve got some work to do here at the hotel, so probably later this afternoon.”

“I wish I could come with you.”

“You do?” She was a bit surprised.

“Can’t trust a bigamist around a pretty woman.”

“I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about.”

“You never know.”

“I’m only going to be gone one night.” She walked over to the couch and looked down at him.

“So? Can’t a fella miss his best girl?” He took hold of her hand and pulled her down next to him.

She loved the attention, but she couldn’t ignore the feeling that something was wrong. “What is it, honey? I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me. I don’t mean just today, but for the past couple of weeks.”

“There is.”

“What?”

“You’re going to think I’m overreacting.”

Now she was really getting worried. “To what?”

“My age. Sophie, I don’t want a birthday party this year.”

She was so relieved, she started to laugh. “But you love parties, especially when you’re the center of attention.”

“I’m not joking. I’d like to forget them from now on.” He sat up. “I’m too old for a birthday party. It’s pathetic the way I dote on them.”

She still had the sense that he wasn’t giving her the full story. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.” He pushed off the couch and stepped over to the chair where he’d draped his sport coat. Fishing in the front pocket, he removed a roll of Tums and popped a couple into his mouth.

“Another greasy grilled cheese?” asked Sophie.

“Why do you insist on this notion that I eat grilled cheese sandwiches. I don’t. I haven’t had one in years.”

“Then why the Tums?”

“It’s just a little heartburn.”

“You know, sweetheart, Rudy had a bleeding ulcer a while ago. Maybe you—”

He cut her off. “I don’t have an ulcer.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t bite my head off.” She paused, watching him press a hand to his stomach. “Look, I promise I’ll let everyone in the family know that there won’t be a birthday party for you this year
if
you agree to see a doctor.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“It’s a simple request.”

He sat down next to her. “For your information, I saw a doctor.”

“When?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“And?”

He brushed a strand of strawberry-blond hair away from her forehead. “The usual. The receptionist flirted with me. I flirted back. The nurse flirted with me. I flirted back. Same old same old.”

“You know what I’m asking.”

“You want the blow by blow?”

She elbowed him in the ribs.

“All right. The doctor looked in my ears. Apparently, I have unusually lovely ear canals. He tapped my knees, shined a light in my eyes, asked me how I felt. Oh, and he had a different nurse take my blood.”

“Did she flirt with you?”

“I suppose you could call it flirting. She bit my neck instead of using a syringe, which I thought was a little odd, but what the hell do I know about all these new medical techniques?”

It was difficult to get a sense of what really happened from all his silly blather. “Are you healthy?”

“We’ll know in a week when the tests come back. You’ll call me when you get to Rose Hill tonight, right, Soph?”

“When I’m out of town, do I ever
not
call you?”

He kissed her nose. “Stay out of trouble.”

“Don’t I always?”

Instead of his usual comeback, something to the effect that she rarely made any attempt
whatsoever
to stay out of trouble, he just looked at her, frowning slightly. She knew that he often deflected his fears and frustrations with humor. Whatever was bothering him at the moment, Sophie had an intense desire to protect him, to keep him safe from harm.

As she sat wrapped contentedly in his arms, it struck her that perhaps he was thinking about Nathan. She didn’t want to say Nathan’s name out loud. Instead, she took her own less-than-direct route. “I love you, sweetheart.” She squeezed him tight. “That will never change.”

“I won’t let you go,” he whispered.

“To Rose Hill?”

He pulled back and grinned. A good sign. When he refused to be playful, that’s when she got really frightened.

“No, you have my permission to go.”

“Kind of like a hall pass from the teacher when we were in grade school.”

“Right. But I may have something to say about other places you might want to go. In the future.”

“I’m happy right where I am.”

It was the kind of conversation married people often had when they didn’t want to spell something out, but they wanted to get their point across. Message received, thought Sophie. She traced the line of his jaw, pressing a finger into the dimple on his chin. “My handsome, sophisticated, complicated man.”

“That’s right,” he said, nuzzling her hair. “And don’t you forget it.”

When Sophie breezed back into her office after lunch, she found an unexpected visitor standing by the window.

“Nathan,” she said, coming to a full stop just inside the door.

He turned around. “You never returned my phone calls or answered any of my letters. Why?” There was no preamble. No hello, how are you? He just launched into what was on his mind. He didn’t seem angry, just baffled.

He looked tired, thought Sophie. His brown hair was shaved short, and his hands appeared rough, like he’d been doing a lot of physical work. Other than that, he seemed fit. He was wearing his usual jeans, chambray work shirt, boots, and thick leather belt. If she had her dates right, he’d been out of prison now for several days. She had expected to hear from him, but she hadn’t figured on him showing up at the hotel.

“You know why I didn’t answer your letters or return your calls,” she said, wishing they’d had a few seconds to greet each other first, to normalize the situation. But Nathan had never been one to beat around the bush. He wasn’t polished or urbane, like Bram. He didn’t use words to hide behind. He said what he thought, unless there was a good reason not to. It was something Sophie had once loved about him. Now, it made him seem dangerous.

“You told me we could be friends,” said Nathan, taking a few steps toward her. “I know I hurt you last spring, but I’ve explained all that. You said you forgave me. Can’t we put it all behind us and start fresh?”

“You don’t want a friend, Nathan, you want a lover.”

“I want you to be my wife, Sophie. We’d be married right now if you hadn’t been sucked in by that crazy Jesus Freak cult. And then, when you were finally free, you went and married somebody else.”

“Nathan, when I married Bram, I hadn’t seen or talked to you in over twenty years.”

“I know it’s not simple.”

“That doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“But you love me. I know you do.”

It might be love he saw in her eyes, thought Sophie, or it might just be a bad case of indecision. Nathan thought he knew her, but he didn’t. She was a middle-aged woman with an entire life behind her, not the seventeen-year-old blank page he’d fallen in love with. As much as she still cared about him, as much as she was still attracted to him, she didn’t need this kind of complication in her life.

“You know, Sophie, I spent years cooking in France and Italy. Women there get married, settle down. Then they take a lover. It’s commonplace, even expected.”

“It’s not commonplace in Minnesota.”

“Europeans aren’t tied heart and soul to all this puritanical crap Americans are so fond of. They don’t have the same love-hate relationship with pleasure. It’s a healthier way to live.” He hesitated, then reached out to touch her hand. “We were close last spring. Why can’t we be close again?”

“You get right to the point, don’t you?”

“I’ve been locked up for months, Sophie. What do you expect?”

“I expect you
not
to come on to me like a character in a soap opera. I expect a little civility, a little understanding.” She moved behind her desk and sat down. Seated, Nathan didn’t tower over her in quite the same way. She hated being a shrimp. “We’ve already had this conversation. I’m married, and I love my husband. If you can’t respect that, then you need to leave.”

Nathan lowered himself into a chair. “Okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have exploded at you like that. I’ve made mistakes in my life, but loving you isn’t one of them. Don’t ask me to stop, because I won’t.” Pausing for a moment, he added, “But I do respect your feelings for your husband. Your loyalty is . . . admirable.”

“It’s more than loyalty, Nathan. That’s what I need you to understand.” He hadn’t given in, she knew that much.

His expression lightened, signifying a change of subject. “I did a lot of thinking these last few months, about you, and about New Fonteney.”

She nodded, wondering where he was going.

“I wondered for a while if I should open my own cooking school, but I’m not a teacher, Sophie. I’m a chef. And I’ve been away from it far too long. I want to get something going for myself again. I spent the past few days talking to people about renovating the main hall at the monastery, turning it into a spectacular dining room. I can finally put everything I’ve learned to use. I’ve got a great architect now, and I’m working with a contractor. It’s time.”

“A restaurant,” she repeated. It didn’t come as a complete surprise, and yet now that it was about to become a reality, she could feel the excitement growing inside her.

“I’d love for you to come out to the site and see the plans. We’re going to break ground in late October.”

“That’s . . . incredible.”

“I know.” He grinned. “I want to call the restaurant Chez Sophia.”

She just stared at him, feeling both touched and alarmed.

“It’s just an idea, but I love the sound, the feel of the name. It’s exactly right for the image I want to project. A mixture of French and Italian cuisine. Classic, yet warm, approachable. Like you. And . . . it’s a way to honor what we once had. That’s very important to me. It makes me feel like we’re still connected on a deeper level than mere friendship. Not that friendship isn’t good. I mean, it’s great to have friends. You can never have too many.”

He was babbling. He was also manipulating her and she knew it, but she was flattered nonetheless. “I think you better give it some more thought.”

“Sure,” he said lightly. “Nothing’s written in stone. What do you say? You want to drive out to the site with me sometime soon? I should get my first set of blueprints by the end of next week.”

It was tempting. But before she could answer, her cell phone rang. “Give me a second,” she said, finding her purse and clicking the phone on. “This is Sophie.”

“Is this Sophie Greenway?” asked a man’s voice. “The one who works for the Minneapolis
Times Register
?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“The name’s Morey Hall. I met your son last week. He was asking about Jim Newman, a guy I used to know. Had a picture of him from way back.”

Sophie had to quickly change gears. “Yes, Mr. Hall. I’m delighted you called.”

“Your son, Rudy, asked me to find out any information I could on Viola Newman. Her maiden name was Little. Viola Little. She was our town librarian from the late fifties to the late eighties.”

Sophie picked up a pen. “Is she still alive?”

“Sure is. My wife knows for a fact that she’s living in a nursing home somewhere in the southern part of the state. I checked around a little, but I couldn’t locate her.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’m just grateful to know she’s still alive. Do you have any idea how old she’d be?”

“Well, let me think. Oh, I suppose maybe eighty. Maybe a tad older.”

Sophie wondered if her memory was still intact. “This information is a huge help, Mr. Hall.”

“I understand from your son that you’re trying to find her husband. I always thought he was a decent guy, a hard worker, but when he took off on her like he did, my thoughts changed. I started seeing him for the slicker he was.”

“Slicker?”

“You know. Con man.”

“Do you know anything about their marriage?”

“Just what I told your son. When Newman married Viola, he moved into her house in town. Nice little colonial on a quiet street. The place was torn down a while back. Viola was a classy lady, Mrs. Greenway. Way too good for the likes of Newman.”

Sophie could hear a horn honk in the background.

“Oops. There’s a customer. I gotta run.”

“Thanks so much, Mr. Hall.”

“If you find that Newman, give him a kick in the rear from me.”

“I’ll do that.” She smiled. “Good-bye, and thanks again.” When she looked up, she saw Nathan studying her.

“What are you up to now?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Just an inquiring mind, huh?”

“It’s business.”

“Right. Are you going to answer my question?”

“What question was that?”

“Will you come out to the monastery one day soon to see the plans for the new restaurant?”

She felt the familiar trap door open beneath her feet. “I’ll . . . think about it.”

“I hope beyond the shadow of a dream.”

“Excuse me?”

“John Keats.”

“I take it you still read poetry.”

“We like to think we change, but we don’t.”

“Is that Keats, too?”

A mischievous grin spread across his face. “No, Sophie. That’s Nathan Buckridge. Feel free to quote me.”