Kingdom by the Sea (Romantic Suspense) (12 page)

“Maybe
Old Chester wouldn't let her
go
on time,” someone else said.

At
that, Stacy Gristol scoffed.  “Wouldn't
let
her?  Edith's been with him
for over twenty years.  I'm sure she can do whatever she wants at this point.”

“But
you see how needy Chester Northgate is these days,” Marge threw in.  (Nicole
couldn't recall Marge's last name at the moment.) 

Without
a doubt, she felt like a spectator since there was nothing she could contribute
to this topic.  All she knew was the name; at the police station the other
night, Donovan had mentioned a “Chester Northgate” as having spotted Nicole's
attacker.

“I
saw him in town the other day and he was practically trailing behind Edith's
skirt,” Marge went on.  “He looked a bit...off.”

“The
man is in his seventies by now,” Betna countered, sounding diplomatic. 

Frail
looking Mimi Frances spoke up.  “The point is—are the two of them doing it or
what?”

Taken
aback, Nicole repressed a sudden urge to laugh.

“Mimi!”
Ginger chastised.

“That
man is ancient,” Ann Winston added.  Presumably a point in the “not doing it”
column.

“Watch
what you call 'ancient',” Mimi replied.

“Fine,
but...I just can't picture it,” Ann said, wincing at the visual.

Stacy
reached for a slice of quiche.  “Little Blue Diamond.  That's all I'm gonna say.”

The
room burst into chuckles.  All this talk about
Chester
and Edith
brought to mind Egyptian mummies, dead sea scrolls, and Viagara, so casually,
Nicole leaned over to Ann and said, “I guess Edith's husband is a lot older
than she is?”

Confused
for a second, Ann shook her head.  “Oh, no—
Chester
's not Edith's husband.  Edith
works for him, as his housekeeper.  Estate manager, whatever you want to call
it.”

Betna
Doyle addressed the room:

“Now
ladies, Edith Winchell is as much a part of the League as anyone here.  We
should applaud anyone who volunteers her time for the good of preserving our
beautiful town and its history.”

Nothing
like a goody-two-shoes to spoil a catty conversation.  There was usually one in
every group.  Per expected, Nicole watched the ladies begin scrambling to
revamp the bitchy things they'd just said.  “No, I'm not criticizing her...” it
began.  “She's an amazing woman, no question,” another back-pedaler said. 
“Every member of our group is appreciated,” someone else insisted.  As the
women continued, Nicole reached for another shrimp.

Just
then the doorbell sounded.  Conversation ceased as Ginger went to get it.  A
few moments later, she returned—with a tall, exotic looking woman by her side. 

“Hi,
Edith!” Elizabeth Parker enthused first.  The others joined in merrily.

Wait
a second. 
Nicole recognized this woman.  Where had she seen her
before?

Then
it hit her.  The coffee shop on
Main Street
!  This was the
same woman who had been staring at Nicole in the mirror. 

Seconds
after Edith Winchell said a brief hello and sat down, Hazel entered the room. 
Nicole realized something then.  It wasn't so much Hazel's size or shape that
made her formidable.  It was the way she seemed selectively omnipresent, the
automatic way she was able to root herself to a spot.

From
there, the meeting became productive.  As Hazel talked about the upcoming
Harvest Parade, as well as the agenda for December's holiday season, Nicole
rose and quietly asked Ginger for directions to the bathroom.

Once
Nicole was out in the center hall, the threads of the meeting seemed to
coalesce into one distant stream. 

Ginger
had said the bathroom was in the corridor past the kitchen, the first door to
the right.  When  Nicole reached it, she discovered it was already in use.  The
door was closed and when she tried the knob, it didn't turn.  She stepped back
a few feet and waited. 

Idly,
she glanced at the framed seascapes on the wall.  There was one that hung
crookedly.  Being organized by nature, Nicole couldn't help but reach up and
nudge it slightly with her fingers.  She accidentally nudged it too much—now it
dipped too far the other way.  “Oh shoot...” she whispered to herself and using
both hands, attempted to get it perfectly straight.  When she lifted the bottom
corners, two photos slid out from behind and fell to the floor.

“Oh,
no,” she muttered and knelt down to put them back. 

She
noticed that both of the photos were black and white.  One was of a man, woman,
and three little girls, all standing in front of a brick house.  Actually...it
looked like Tinsdale.  Had that house been in Hazel and Ginger's family?  Of
course, it made perfect sense.  It had likely been a family home that was later
converted to a private library.  Squinting thoughtfully, Nicole guessed that
the little girls in the photo were Hazel, Ginger, and their sister, Portia. 
Surely the man and woman were their parents. 

The
second photo looked a bit more modern than the first; it had soft muted grays,
rather than stark black and white.  It was a picture of a young couple holding
hands—

Suddenly
Nicole had a burst of recognition.  It was a much younger and happier-looking
Hazel!  Younger, Hazel was still a heavy woman but more stout than massive, and
she was actually smiling rather than looking—at best—pleasantly imperious. 

Then
again, didn't everyone smile for a picture no matter how mean or miserable they
were in real life?

Alongside
Hazel was a short, slim man with glasses.  He wore a bow tie and cardigan
sweater and seemed meekly delighted.  Was this Walt Baker, Hazel's long-lost
husband?

“What
are you doing!”

Guilty
and startled, Nicole whipped around and saw Hazel right beside her.  Damn!  How
had she gotten there without Nicole hearing her?  What shoes did she wear to
accomplish this feat all the time—bad pun not intended?

“Oh...Hazel...hi. 
These fell and I was just picking them up...” 

Hazel
snatched the photos out of Nicole's hand.  “Ginger said you went to use the
bathroom.”

“I
did,” Nicole said quickly, trying to explain—to appease a bull with flaring
nostrils before she started rubbing her foot on the carpet, or something
equally ominous.  “But someone is in there so I was waiting... um...the photos
just fell...”

Hazel
turned the doorknob on the bathroom and gave it a shove open. 

“There's
no one in here,” she stated.  It was more of an accusation than a realization.

“Oh. 
Well that's weird,” Nicole fumbled, “I mean I just assumed because the door was
closed, and I went to turn the handle it seemed locked.”

“It
sticks.
”  Her voice was flat and unforgiving. 

Jeez,
it wasn't like Nicole read her diary.  These photos had been right out here on
the wall, granted not in plain view.  But what was the big deal anyway?  It
couldn't possibly be the photos themselves, which were innocuous.  It had to be
Hazel.  The woman was a grade A uptight witch and a half.  What other
explanation could there be?

“Okay,
well, I'll just use the bathroom then.”

“And
then, if you do not feel inclined to return to the meeting, I would appreciate
you bidding us goodnight rather than meandering around my home.”

With
a touch of exasperation, Nicole said, “Hazel, listen, those photos fell.  I
wasn't snooping around if that's what you're getting at.” 

“Hazel!”
Ginger called from what sounded like the front hall.  It sounded like Ginger's
best attempt at being loud.  “Some of the girls are asking about the Christmas
concert this year—Hazel?”

“I'm
coming,” Hazel said, eying Nicole suspiciously before giving her her back. 

Nicole
swallowed down her frustration.  Come to think of it, Hazel hadn't bothered to
put the photos back behind the frame on the wall.  Rather, she had slipped them
into her skirt pocket before she had turned to go.  Which made Nicole wonder
off-handedly if Hazel even realized that they had been in that frame in the
first place.

Later
that night, Nicole headed home and bumped into Michael on the side yard that
divided her house from the Bloomingdales'.  “Hey you,” he said, surprised.

“Hi...”
she said.  “What savagery I've had to deal with tonight.”

“Why,
what happened?”

“It's
a medium-length story.  What are you doing now?”

“Just
on my way from getting some dinner in town,” he said.

“Want
some coffee?” Nicole asked.  “I was going to make some...”

He
checked his watch, then shrugged.  “Sure, let's go.”

“Here
sit,” she said when they got inside, and motioned to the kitchen table. 

By
the time they were seated facing each other, with hands wrapped around mugs of
fresh-brewed coffee, she had filled him in on her evening.  “I just don't
understand her hostility towards me.  Not to overstate the point, but—aren't I
doing her a favor?”

With
a shrug, Michael said, “Hazel's a bully.  You can't let it get it to you.  It's
a predatory sport and you're the prey.”

“You
make it sound like there is a shark circling around me.”

At
that, Michael paused.  Glanced briefly at his coffee. 

“Let's
put it this way—she sounds like the type who senses weakness and then takes
advantage of it.”

Eyes
wide, Nicole said, “So I'm weak?”

“You're
soft,” Michael corrected. 

“But
why does she feel she has to bully anyone, period?”

He
slouched back in his chair, still holding his coffee mug on the table.  “I can
only tell you how people operate.  Not how they feel.  That's...not exactly my
area.”  Momentarily, she reflected on that.  It was an intriguing, if odd,
comment.  “Nicole, the bottom line is, if you want to put Hazel in check,
you're gonna need to show more confidence.”

“I
have
confidence!” she protested.

“I
know, but the thing with you is, you're so...”  He seemed to be searching for
the right word.  “Unassuming.  Quiet.  Sometimes people misinterpret that as
weakness and so you've gotta push back on them.  Use it to your advantage.”

“How
do you mean?”

He
paused, as if trying to explain.  “Okay—do you play poker?”

Nicole
nodded.  “Sure, I play poker.  Infrequently,” she added.  “And poorly.  Why?”

“Got
a standard deck around here?  I'll show you what I mean.”

Nicole
recalled a deck she had seen in the hall closet upstairs.  Once she'd retrieved
it, she returned to the kitchen and handed it to Michael. 

“Okay,”
he said and began shuffling.  “I don't want to get all philosophical on you
here—”

“Why
not?  I'd like to get philosophical.”

“—but
the most common mistake in poker is a common mistake in real life.”  Curious,
she waited.  “And that is, assuming that all that counts is what you have in
your hand.”

“But
isn’t that true?  If you're dealt a bad hand, then that's it.  You can't do
anything about that.  It's like when you're playing Scrabble and you get five
I's and two U's.  True story, by the way.”

Michael
shook his head.  “You can't change the hand, but you can still win.  By
out-thinking the other players, by deducing their options—by playing
them
,
not your cards.  Here, I'll show you.  But first you've got to cut.”  When she
just looked at him, he nodded down toward the table.  “The deck.”

“Oh.” 
She picked up a chunk of cards, put it aside and topped it with the remaining
pile.  Michael scooped up the deck then and dealt them each two cards.  “So do you
remember all of the hands?” 

When
he proceeded to refresh her memory—
full house, straight, flush, etcetera
—it
was all familiar.  Reminiscent of the summer her family vacationed on Lake
George, when it had rained for three days straight and their dad had taught
them all how to play.

Speaking
with authority, Michael said, “Okay.  You get two cards, and the rest of your
hand comes from what's put on the table.”  He dealt three cards from the deck,
setting them face up in a row.  “First round is three cards down.  This is
called
the flop
.” 

He
flipped another card, set it face-up beside the others.  “This is called
the
turn
.”  He set down a fifth card.  “This final deal is called
the river
. 
So now you've got two cards in your hand and five on the table.  Your job is to
make a good hand for yourself.  Got it?”

“Sort
of...” she said.

Michael
collected the cards, re-shuffled, and then re-dealt.  “Well?”

“Well
what?”

“Why
are you praying?”