Embers (22 page)

O
rel Tremblay had left strict instructions that there be no funeral. It was consistent with the lifestyle of a man who
'
d been known around town as a cranky recluse. But it didn
'
t sit right with Meg. Orel Tremblay had been a good and decent man, and he deserved to have someone mourn his passing
,
whether he liked it or not. Meg decided to have a memorial service in the shed where his beloved dollhouse sat. Nothing elaborate: no more than an exchange of anecdotes over tea by people who
'
d known him.

There weren
'
t many. One of the hospice nurses who
'
d attended him said she
'
d come, and Allie, of course, and the cleaning woman who
'
d come once a week to do for him. Allie wanted to bring Tom Wyler; Meg could hardly say no. But when Allie suggested that Zenobia would also be willing to attend, Meg drew the line.

"
We
'
re not trying to summon Orel Tremblay back from the dead, Allie,
"
she said dryly.
"
The man just
got
there.
"

"
Zenobia wouldn
'
t be coming to channel,
"
Allie argued, ignoring her sister
'
s sarcasm.
"
But she
would
bring a spiritual dimension to the evening. I don
'
t know why you
'
re so afraid of that. We
'
re not getting together to play Trivial Pursuit or something. We
'
re supposed to be memorializing a man
'
s passing.
"

Chastised, Meg agreed to let Zenobia come too.

Comfort baked an extra pan of apple slices for Meg
'
s gathering and arranged them on a pretty plate for her. After supper, Meg, feeling like a teenager who was hosting her first slumber party, carried the Saran-wrapped pastries out to the shed. The fine weather had turned raw and threatening; the first driving pellets of rain bit into her face as she reached the shed door.

Meg noted the padlock still hanging idly from a nail alongside the door, and decided that the insurance people would
not
be pleased by her casual security. Granted, the dollhouse couldn
'
t easily be carried off; but some of its contents might. Yesterday in an antiques guide she
'
d seen a miniature bureau that was valued at eight hundred dollars. Of course, the bureau had once belonged to a duchess. But still. She ought to be more careful.

She bumped the door open with her left hip. Almost in answer to Meg
'
s fears, a strange woman hovering over the dollhouse turned sharply around when she entered.

"
Oh! You
scared
me!
"
the woman said angrily.

Meg, also startled, blurted out
"
Who
'
re
you?
"
People had been asking to see the dollhouse all week, and Meg had obliged them. But this one hadn
'
t asked; Meg would
'
ve remembered.

"
I
'm Joyce Fells. Orel
Tremblay
'
s
niece,
"
the woman said, laying vicious emphasis on the last word.

"
Ah. I see,
"
said Meg. She
'
d been half expecting this.
"
I
'
m Meg Hazard.
"

"
So I assumed,
"
the woman said through compressed lips. Her gaze shifted from Meg
'
s face to the dollhouse and back.

Joyce Fells was of average height, average weight, average age. Forty-five would be Meg
'
s guess. She was dressed from head to toe in polyester shades of pink and blue. The iridescent necklace she wore sparkled with more pink, more blue. Her bag was pink. Her shoes were blue. She looked like one of the tourists who passed through Mel
'
s Gifte and T-Shirt Shoppe.

Except for her eyes. Her eyes had a kind of fierce blue intensity that seemed, at least to Meg, a little on the nutty side. The fierceness, so at odds with the innocent garishness of her clothes, was eerily intriguing.

"
I guess you know about the
...
the disposition of the dollhouse,
"
said Meg, choosing her words carefully. She laid the plate of apple slices on a small card table that she
'
d covered with one of Comfort
'
s red-checked cloths, and readjusted the fan of napkins as she searched for the right thing to say.
"
Or else you wouldn
'
t be here,
"
she added lamely.

She turned to face the full brunt of Joyce
'
s blue-eyed anger, fully aware of what Orel Tremblay
'
s whim had cost his niece: at least sixty thousand dollars, and possibly much more. It wasn
'
t a huge inheritance
—
but for people like them, it was a lot of money.

"
Oh, Uncle Orel
'
s lawyer filled me in thoroughly. I know all about the
disposition,
"
Joyce said, spitting the word out.

The woman sucked in her breath with a pained sound and began circling the house slowly, taking it all in. Meg was reminded of a marsh hawk flying low, searching for prey. Suddenly the woman
'
s hand reached out for the weather vane
— Meg thought she was going to snap it from the gable—and then her hand veered away and came down in a sharp, cutting motion as she hissed,
"
It
'
s
mine!
"

Meg jumped back, shocked by the woman
'
s vehemence.

"
But,
"
said the woman darkly,
"
that
'
s what I get for not minding my own garden. Still
...
this
treatment! Blood
'
s
supposed
to be thicker than
...
Well! Never mind that now. It
'
s a gorgeous, gorgeous piece. God, I
'
ve never seen better. Never. In my life,
never.
Museum quality. No question.
"

Which was just what
Orel
Tremblay
'
s attorney had told Meg when he contacted her after Tremblay
'
s death. He
'
d also implied that Tremblay
'
s own house had been heavily mort
gaged and had little value, and that Meg could expect his bequest of the dollhouse to be challenged. Right now, Meg was convinced of it.

Joyce was circling the dollhouse again. Meg was really afraid that this time she
'
d grab the whole thing in her light blue talons and fly off with it.
"
You sound knowledgeable about dolls
'
houses,
"
she ventured, trying to think of something nice to say.

The woman twisted her head toward Meg with that sharp, hawklike look of hers.
"
Yes,
"
she agreed with a bitter smile.
"
I collect miniatures. It was Uncle Orel who got me interested, in fact. When I was a teenager my mother brought me out East. I saw
this,
and I fell in love with it. Uncle Orel wouldn
'
t let me touch anything, of course, that
—
"

She stopped herself mid-insult and took a deep breath, then seemed to calm down a little.
"
Do you know anything about miniatures?
"
she said with false brightness.

Meg answered truthfully,
"
Almost nothing.
"
She realized at once that it was a dumb thing to say; it only rubbed salt into the wounds of this disinherited expert.

"
Uncle Orel told me that the original Eagle
'
s Nest was filled with bitterness and tragedy,
"
Joyce said, her mouth twitching in a suppressed smile.
"
Are you superstitious?
"

"
No more than the usual amount,
"
Meg hedged.

"
Then you don
'
t believe in bad karma,
"
Joyce said coolly.

It seemed ludicrous to have to listen to a middle-aged woman
dressed in the worst possible W
estern taste talking about
karma.
"
If you mean bad luck
—
no, I don
'
t believe in it,
"
Meg said, flashing a little Yankee orneriness.
"
People make their own luck.
"

"
You don
'
t know anything at all,
"
Joyce said, cocking her head at Meg.

Meg had heard enough.
"
If you don
'
t mind
—
"

She was interrupted by the sounds of a group hurrying through the rain outside. The mourners
—
or coffee klatchers, Meg hardly knew how to regard them
—
had arrived in a pack. Allie herded them in ahead of her: Tom, lugging a thermal carafe of hot tea; the nurse, all business and dressed for her rounds; the poor shy housekeeper, a mousy thing who seemed in awe of Allie; and Zenobia, grand and warm and undoubtedly in some kind of control.

"
Oh! Hello,
"
said Allie to the pink-and-blue intruder standing next to Meg.
"
Are you a friend of Mr. Tremblay
'
s too?
"
She stuck out her hand.
"
I
'
m Allie Atwells.
"

Meg gave her sister a be-careful look.
"
This is Joyce Fells, Allie. Mr. Tremblay
'
s niece.
"

"
Ooh.
"

There was an excruciating silence, and then Allie rallied and said brightly,
"
It
'
s really nice of you to come to our memorial service for your uncle. Lots of people in your shoes wouldn
'
t.
"

Joyce, who hadn
'
t spoken a word, allowed her eyes to open just a little wider, then said grimly,
"
I have no doubt.
"

Apparently she intended to stay. Meg conducted a round of awkward introductions. The dollhouse needed no introduction, of course; it simply sat there, all wonderfully lit from within, serene and bright and magical.

As the small group stood around murmuring forced little pleasantries, Meg felt suddenly daunted by the dollhouse. What was the purpose of it, really? It was absolutely useless; a rich man
'
s folly. Too precious to play with, too tiny to sit in
— it was simply a pretty thing that you owned for a while and then handed off to someone else before or after you died. She felt utterly crushed. The whole impulse behind tonight was so dumb, so futile. They should
'
ve just met in a chapel.

"
I think tea would be a good idea, don
'
t you, Meg? Suppose I pour,
"
suggested Zenobia in a wonderfully rich voice.

Immediately everyone relaxed. It was much easier to talk about Orel Tremblay in between bites of an apple slice. Of them all, it was Millie, the shy little housekeeper, who had the most to say about him. She
'
d been cleaning his house for years, just as her mother, now gone, bless her soul, had done before her.