Mourning In Miniature (38 page)

“I’d like to be here when you do,” Skip said.

June gave him a playful poke. “You wish. What I don’t get is how Cheryl knew Gerry would go to bed and leave the skylight open?”

Skip’s explanation brought me no comfort. “It didn’t have to be open. Cheryl has a retractable system just like Aunt Gerry’s, so she was aware that it could be pried open relatively easily even without the electrical power.”

Nice to know.

Rosie and Larry stopped by one evening with candy and
flowers. “These really are from Dad and me, Gerry. It’s not a trick.” Her smile seemed relaxed and her good humor restored. She told me she needed just one more thing before she could start over.

“I’m hoping for your forgiveness, Gerry. I can’t even count the things I should apologize to you for.”

“Don’t bother, Rosie. Just get back to work and get busy with that list of books I gave you last week.”

She gave me a hug, then produced the order for the books. “Done,” she said. “And they’re on the house.”

“For the rest of your life,” her father added.

Every year that I taught I gave an end-of-year prize to the student who’d made the most progress. Today the prize would go to Rosie.

 

 

To add to my store of candy, Beverly brought her own
homemade divinity, which I loved.

“Gerry,” she started, then teared up. “I’m so sorry—”

I cut her off by stuffing a piece of her own delicious candy into her mouth.

 

 

There was no note of apology from Barry for stealing my
purse. He’d convinced Skip he had no idea that Cheryl killed David. I believed him and almost felt sorry that he’d essentially lost two of his closest friends. I had a note from Ben Dobson, no return address, saying,
Nice work, lady. Sorry if I scared you. I knew I could count on you,
which I took to be his admission to leaving the incriminating bank record in my car.

Ben didn’t know that he should have directed his praise to Larry Esterman, who had taken control of that piece of evidence.

One afternoon, Henry and Taylor paid a visit to my
specially arranged lounge chair in my atrium. My face had turned a sickly yellow hue. My back was on the mend, but my family decided I needed to lounge a little while longer.

Maddie and Taylor spent most of the time in the kitchen, preparing a special lunch that I wasn’t supposed to have anything to do with. Maddie had cajoled June into taking her grocery shopping, so I had no idea what the menu would be.

“Frozen pizza,” I guessed, when Maddie came by with plates for the atrium table.

“Nope,” Maddie said.

“Hot dogs,” Henry said.

“Nope,” Maddie said.

I thought Taylor might be an easier mark, but when she came in with the napkins, she was humming a song—“America the Beautiful,” I thought.

“Taylor?” Henry said. “What’s up?”

“Maddie told me you’d try to pump me for information, so I decided to sing. ‘. . . For amber waves of grain . . .”

With the girls so busy, Henry and I had time to talk. He was an easy person to be with, as was anyone willing to discuss the best way to install lighting in a dollhouse. He seemed delighted to hear that I might need his help—my crafters group had pitched in and bought me a complete, up-to-date lighting kit for my largest dollhouse.

In the spirit of all the apologies floating around my house, I felt that Henry was due one from me.

“I was focused on only one thing, and that was doing whatever it took to exonerate Rosie. Otherwise, I’d have been hanging around your workshop full time.” I cleared my throat. “I mean—”

“You can’t imagine how glad I am to hear that,” he said.

“Lunch is served,” said in unison by Madison and Taylor, saved us from an awkward moment.

What a treat. The girls marched in with a small-scale version of our brunch at the Duns Scotus. They crowded the small atrium table with platters of shrimp, salads, cold cuts, rolls, and fruit. The biggest tray, which needed its own side table, held desserts—brownies, cookies, and enormous éclairs, the likes of which we hadn’t seen outside of a five-star hotel.

I couldn’t imagine what the spread had done to Maddie’s funds. She must have known I’d have that reaction—Maddie leaned over and whispered to me. “Don’t worry, lots of people chipped in to pay for this.”

The girls stood together, hands folded in front of them, cleared their throats, and began an obviously rehearsed performance. “Why did the witch need a computer?” Maddie asked.

Silence, except from Taylor. “She needed a spell check.”

The suspense was over.

The laughter and applause all around filled the atrium as we dug into the best meal of the summer.

 

 

I was always glad for the approach of fall, when it was
time to return to school, whether I was the student or the teacher. I loved the smell of newly cleaned classrooms and a just-opened box of chalk and the feel of new books and polished furniture.

I no longer taught in a regular school, but once unbearably hot weather and summer vacations were over, my crafts classes at the Mary Todd Home and my weekly tutoring went into full swing. In a week, I’d meet a new GED student to replace Lourdes. I knew she’d need me less and less.

And who didn’t long for the rash of holidays just around the corner, ripe for festive miniature scenes, with witches, turkeys, and Santas galore.

Ken used to say that, like most East Coasters who relocated to California, I missed the idea of seasons, not the seasons themselves. But he’d been thinking of endless chores like raking leaves and shoveling snow. (I managed to romanticize even scraping ice from windshields.)

This Labor Day brought the usual gathering to my home for a traditional barbecue, with the welcome additions of Nick, Henry, and Taylor. Richard and Mary Lou would be driving home from Tahoe and stop here first. The downside was that they’d take Maddie home to Palo Alto at the end of the day.

The highlight of the afternoon was to be the unveiling of Maddie’s technology camp project.

Maddie was beside herself with excitement, spending a great deal of energy for days before, polishing her work and preparing her presentation. She wanted us to gather around the computer in her room to watch the game she’d designed.

At ten in the morning, Maddie made an announcement to me.

“I’m going to clean my room,” she said.

I liked the game already.

“Can I help? I could vacuum for you,” I offered.

She shook her head. “I’m afraid you’ll find my DVD and play the game without me.”

“You have no respect,” I said, going for the tickle area.

Maddie came out several times in the next hour, with requests I’d never heard cross her lips: “Do you have any dust cloths?” “Can I serve refreshments in my room?” “Do you have a bigger sponge?” and, finally, “I need a big trash bag, Grandma.”

“Do I get a preview of the game?” I asked. “Everyone will be here pretty soon.”

With everyone milling around my house, the most recent
crime scene in town, there was bound to be some talk of Cheryl, who was awaiting trial for the murder of David Bridges.

Linda had been following every word in the press, with its daily revelations about the marriage of society couple, Walter and Cheryl Mellace, and the business dealings of Mellace Construction. She summed it up for us. “Cheryl expected a moment of romantic exhilaration in Joshua Speed Woods, where she would give herself to David again after all those years.” She released her hands from their position in front of her bosom and opened her arms. “But David couldn’t give up the sweet deal he had going with Walter, who had company on the side himself. If only Cheryl hadn’t wanted more than a marriage held together by their status in the community and their children! Poor David”—now Linda raised her hands over her head, as if they held a trophy—“that was the end of David. It’s the stuff of Hollywood.”

I thought I heard a few groans and an “Amen.”

 

 

After lunch, we all crammed into Maddie’s bedroom, as
clean and sweet smelling as it was when I’d prepared it for her a month ago, but hadn’t been since. I couldn’t figure out where she’d put all her worldly goods. Her desk had only the computer on it; her two night tables held pitchers of Linda’s ice tea and lemonade mix and plates of cookies I recognized as Beverly’s chocolate chip.

Maddie dimmed the lights and a hush fell over us. She clicked on an icon on the desktop of her computer.

We heard the music first. The theme from
The Pink Panther
. Soon, a title sequence appeared on the screen, in rainbow colors.
A Good Team
, it read, while small graphical images floated by. I saw a piece of rope, a silver candle-stick, a small revolver, a knife, a wrench, and a section of lead pipe.

“I get it,” Linda said. “The weapons from
Clue
.”

“Shhh” came from many sources in the room, especially Richard and Mary Lou.

Next up was a room that looked familiar. My atrium? Not a photograph but a pieced-together room, almost like a comic book, but more realistic, with all the elements of my atrium—planter beds, ferns, blooming plants. Was that even the same chair-and-table set? It certainly was the identical floor plan of walls, glass doors, and a patchwork slate floor.

On the screen, a man entered from one of the patio doors. A whoop erupted when we saw that the head of the man was Skip’s, from a photograph. The head and body were only loosely connected, but there was a large, unmistakable LPPD detective shield in the center of the man’s chest, and a magnifying glass in his cartoonlike hand.

The rest was no surprise.

Out I came from the left patio doors, and out came Maddie from the right, both also holding magnifying glasses.

The three of us walked around the patio, inspecting leaves, grass, and furniture, bending now and then to get a closer look. After a while, the Maddie character found a piece of paper in the bushes and held it up. The screen went blank except for the image of a treasure map, followed by another dark screen with the word
Aha
! How fitting, I thought, an updated version of silent movie placards.

After another minute or so of action in the atrium, with more “evidence” being turned up, we heard the voice of the real Maddie coming from the Maddie on the screen. I could see that I needed a whole new vocabulary if I was to participate fully in the twenty-first century.

“I used an object-oriented program to create my video game,” the screen Maddie said. “Choosing predefined motions, I was able to model the actions of avatars of three detectives—a man, a woman, and a teenager.”

“A teenager?” Mary Lou interrupted.

“It’s fiction,” Maddie, the preteen, said.

“What’s with the detective work? Is there something going on that I should know about?” Richard asked.

“Shhh,” Skip said, but the narration was over anyway.

The presentation ended with a bow from all of the players, and a roll of credits: written and produced by Madison Porter.
The Pink Panther
had played throughout the game, at various levels of volume.

In the dim light I looked over at Richard and Mary Lou. I didn’t even try to hide my tears. Maddie’s production had taken less than ten minutes to watch, but we couldn’t have been prouder if it were an Oscar-winning feature film.

Maddie switched the lights on and smiled at her audience. “If anyone has any questions, I’d be happy to answer them to the best of my ability.”

In fact, there were questions from the more technically literate of the group, and there were more viewings of the video. I’d have to wait to watch it again when my vision cleared.