Lye in Wait (6 page)

"At least sit down, Tootie," Ann admonished. "Have you taken
your pill?"

Walter's mother ignored her. "Miss Reynolds, please. Have a
seat."

I chose one of the wingbacks and found the seat hard as wood.
As I watched Tootie ease herself into the other one, I realized a cushy
chair would have been more difficult for her to rise from; she moved
with caution, and the careful poker face almost covered the pain
it cost her to move at all. Arthritis had caused my grandmother to
move like that, hunched under the additional illusory weight of osteoporosis. In the photo with the Easter Bunny, Tootie Hanover had
been in a wheelchair. This was one stubborn woman.

The nurse left. Tootie watched me with calm anticipation. She
inclined her head toward me a fraction.

"You were a friend of Walter's?" she asked.

Of course, that was when my inconvenient habit of becoming tongue-tied at the worst possible moment settled over me.
My mind went blank and I tried to think what I could say to this
woman who had just lost her son because he had gone into my
basement, swallowed a glassful of lye, and then made the futile attempt to undo that fatal swallow with water from the industrial
sink he'd installed for me just months before.

"Miss Reynolds-or is it Mrs.?" she prompted.

"Sophie Mae," I said.

"And you must call me Tootie."

The name didn't fit her at all. "All right, Tootie. I, uh...Wal-
ter and I were neighbors. He did some work for me and for my housemate Meghan, on occasion. Like he did for other people
around town. In my mind we were friends. I'm so sorry for your
loss." I hated the last words the second they flew out of my mouth,
so trite and pat. But what else could I say? Sorry your son's dead?
Sorry he did it at my house?

She considered me. "Thank you. But the way you put that'in your mind you were friends'-I get the feeling you're not sure
Walter thought of you as a friend."
"

I didn't mean it to sound like that."

"So why are you wondering if you were really friends now that
he's dead?"

So much for worrying that Walter's mother might be a bit vague.
I made a decision.

"I went over to his house last night." I told her about the door
being open, about discovering her picture there, the intruder who
got away, and about Officer Owens finding me. I told her about
finding the receipts for the donations. I ended with, "So I guess I
was thinking that there's an awful lot I don't know about Walter.
It's not that I expected him to tell me every detail of his life or
anything. But frankly, what I'm the most surprised about is that
he didn't tell Meghan or me about you. I'd think he'd mention his
mother to his friends."

Tootie's gaze had dropped to her lap as I spoke, and when she
raised her head I saw tears in her eyes. "We weren't on the best of
terms."

Oh, God. "I'm sorry."

"So am I, though I doubt he'd believe it." She stopped speaking, and I had no idea how to fill the silence. So I just waited while she gazed into space, remembering. Or regretting. Then her eyes
found mine again.

"When the police told me he died, I wondered how he'd done it.
Not whether, but how. A bullet? A bridge? Or had he finally managed to drink himself to death? Now you come and tell me about
an intruder in his house. About his money, which he apparently
had even more of than I was aware." Bitterness grated through her
voice, delivered from a throat constricted by grief. "But I didn't
think he'd drink drain cleaner. Probable cause of death was esophageal asphyxiation, they said, when I pressed. They were afraid an
old lady wouldn't want to know the details. I had to insist."

"Perhaps they wanted to spare you."

Her narrowed eyes told me what she thought of that notion.
"Miss Reynolds-Sophie Mae-I understand that you knew him,
but really, what is your interest in my son's death?"

I opened my mouth to tell her how I wanted to help with the
funeral arrangements, but found myself saying, "Walter died in
my workroom. I found him. He drank lye in my workroom, and I
want to know why."

Her brow furrowed. "Your workroom?"

I nodded and explained about my soap making and about
finding Walter, couching things as gently as I could while trying
not to insult her obvious intelligence. Her impassive face revealed
no reaction to my words, and my voice gradually trailed off.

This is ridiculous. What are you doing here, Sophie Mae?

"I think I understand," she said.

Maybe, but I doubted it. I didn't even know if I understood.

I stood up. "I'm sorry. I never should have come here. I thought
you could tell me something about Walter that would shed some light on what happened, but I was wrong, so wrong, to ask
you ... please forgive me."

"Sit down."

Reluctantly I perched back on the edge of the chair. I wanted
out of there as fast as possible.

"I don't know if I can help," she said. "As I mentioned, Walter
and I were not on the best of terms. I had judged him for years,
blamed his unhappiness on his own weakness, his insistence on
living in the past, and his drinking. Eventually he visited less often,
and six years ago he stopped drinking and also stopped coming to
see me. Which I've come to accept was the best thing. For him, I
mean." Her eyes filled, and she looked away.

"But I don't have the right to burden a perfect stranger with
my...with that. But I can tell you Walter had grief in his life that
coagulated around his heart, and he shielded himself from everyone. You need to understand that it wasn't personal; it was just his
way.

"He was the last of my children. One son died of cancer, and
another in a horrible accident. Walter was my baby." Now tears
spread across her cheeks, running together in the mass of fine
wrinkles. But her voice remained strong.

"As for the receipts that you found, I knew he'd come into
some money, because he called and offered to put me in a condominium with a private nurse about three years ago. But I said no. I
like it here. The staff is kind and I trust them. I get good, respectful
care, and I like having other people around. I wouldn't want to
live alone anymore. He said he understood, and he bought Caladia
Acres some pieces of new medical equipment and furniture. When
I asked him where he got the money he said he'd made an invest ment that had paid off. I'm glad to hear he gave so much to the
children's charities. He loved children."

An investment. Well, it was certainly possible.

"Meghan's ten-year-old daughter, Erin-she and Walter were
great friends."

"That's good." Tootie suddenly seemed very tired.

"I'll let you get some rest. But there is another reason I came.
Meghan and I'd like to help with the funeral, if you'll let us. We
can phone the funeral home today."

Her smile was thin. "Thank you. I'll take you up on that."

I stood up again. "Thank you for talking with me."

"Will you let me know what you find out about my son?"
The tentative way she asked the question, so different from what
seemed to be her inherent self-possession, broke my heart.

Tongue-tied again, I nodded, then managed to get out a promise to call her the next day about the funeral. I was almost to the
front door when I turned and went back. Tootie's eyebrows rose in
question when I reentered her room.

"I was wondering if you know of any friends Walter might have
had, other people I could talk to."

She shook her head. "He used to do some of his drinking at the
Gold Leaf Tavern down on First Street. But I doubt that he'd gone
in there for a long time."

I thanked her again and left. The rain hung like a curtain in the
air as I drove back home.

I SPENT MOST OF that afternoon meeting with my teenaged helper,
Kyla, about Winding Road Bath Products' participation in the
upcoming holiday bazaars. I hate bazaars and farmers' markets;
spending the day hawking my soap and other products makes me
itch with impatience. But selling retail garners me three times as
much profit as wholesale, so it's worth it. Last summer I hit on the
solution. Since I made so much more by cutting out the middleman, I could afford to hire someone to do the hawking and make
the obligatory appearances for setting up and breaking down the
displays.

We had participated in three farmers' markets each week over
the summer: one each on Saturday and Sunday, and another on
Thursday evening. I paid Kyla an hourly wage and a small percentage of what she sold. Her genuine fresh-faced interest in people,
coupled with that vital, dewy beauty possessed by those under
twenty-in her case nonexistent pores, shining brown hair, and a
metabolism that could have burned jet fuel-attracted customers. She liked talking with them and thoroughly enjoyed herself, while
I escaped the tedium and still turned a decent profit.

I'd applied to and made it through jury selection for five major
holiday bazaars in November and December, one each weekend
for five weeks straight. Kyla had some great ideas for giving our
usual display some Christmas pizzazz, and I had a few new products I wanted to try out on the public to gauge response. One was
a fizzing peppermint and rosemary foot soak. The few people I
regularly used as guinea pigs liked it so much I knew we'd need
more. I added it to my list of items to make.

"Can you work more hours after school?" I asked Kyla.

She shook her head. "Mom doesn't want me to. Grades."

"Well, she's right." Keeping the grades up was more important.
I was just going to have to get used to a few more late nights. The
money would be worth it. My annual product liability insurance
premium, a hefty chunk of change, loomed ahead.

"What do you think about placing these tin snowflakes among
the different items?" I asked.

We finally figured out what we'd need to make the adjustments
to the display, and I sent her off to the craft store for supplies.

The door at the top of the stairs was open, and as I climbed I
heard a man's voice in the kitchen. It was Friday and Erin's father,
Richard Bly, had come to pick her up for their weekend together.

I entered the room to find both him and his girlfriend lounging against the counter, while Erin knelt on the floor, struggling
to fit a book into her already stuffed bag. Meghan stood with her
arms folded, watching her ex.

Richard wore a sweater with jeans and a sleek black leather
jacket. A flip of dark hair curled against his forehead like John Travolta's in Grease, and the rest of it fell in gentle waves to his
collar in back. He had big blue eyes rimmed with lashes a model
would die for, smooth tan skin, and lips that habitually curled in
the slightest of sneers. He was one of the prettiest men I'd ever
seen, if you go for that type. Meghan certainly had. Too bad the
guy turned out to be such an asshole.

This girlfriend wasn't the one who had broken up his marriage.
He always had one around, sometimes more. She fit the type he found
comfortable: her face showed some hard living, her hair was brittle
with bottled color, curling, and teasing, and her makeup had been applied with a palette knife. Skinny but flabby, she stood a little outside
the family tableau and sucked her teeth, staring off into space.

For a long time I couldn't understand why he would screw
around on a woman like Meghan. Then I figured it out. Attractive,
smart, assertive, funny, kind, and practical scared the hell out of
him. It was one thing to bed her in a college apartment, another
to have her on his insecure hands day in and day out. He couldn't
handle it. When I shared my theory with Meghan, she shrugged
and said it didn't really matter now. She's good at moving on. I
hope she finds someone wonderful who can not only handle her,
but also appreciate her.

My love life? Not so hot. Maybe I wasn't as good at moving on.
There had been a series of-what? Guys I dated, I guess. Calling
them love interests would be going too far. And sure, I still missed
Mike sometimes, but I'd recovered from his death. I just wasn't
sure I'd recovered from our life together enough to try to start another one with someone else.

"Hi, Dick," I said.

Richard glared at me. He insists on being called Richard, never
Rich or Rick, and never, ever Dick. So naturally I call him Dick
whenever I can.

I turned to the woman and stuck out my hand. "I'm Sophie
Mae."

She looked flustered and then took my hand. It was like holding a warm washcloth. "Hi. I'm Donnette."

Okay.

"I heard you had a little trouble here yesterday, Meghan," Richard said.

She gave him a warning look, indicating Erin with her eyes. All
she said was, "Yes. We did."

"Terrible tragedy, something like that happening in the house. I
hear it was lye he drank? Sophie Mae, you need to be more careful.
I don't like the idea of you leaving dangerous stuff like that around
where Erin and her friends could play with it."