Gourdfellas (8 page)

“So you agree? That they may not work too hard to find someone else.”

He leaned back and clasped his hands across his belt, eyes droopy and mouth quirked into a smile. “You sound like a lawyer. I didn’t say that. I happen to know that Anita, Marjorie’s self-indulgent daughter, stands to inherit a comfortable house, ten acres of land, a lucrative business, and who knows what else. She lives in Tennessee in a small town and has a husband who hires on with a logging company when he feels like working. Our Anita didn’t show up on time for work this morning. Rolled in about two hours late.”

“Do the police know this?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. I only just heard that last part myself. And I didn’t say our local law enforcement agency is incompetent. I just think it’s prudent to be precise and thorough.”

^“
He Said yes, and I didn’t even have to badger him much.”

My friend Karen, who knew how to smile with her voice over the phone, said, “That’s great, Lili. I know how much you wanted that. I’m just disappointed because it means you won’t be hanging out here in Brooklyn with me.”

Our visits were always wonderful, satisfying . . . and difficult to end. Even after a year, Karen and I missed the almost daily contact we’d grown so accustomed to when we lived within walking distance of each other.

“So, you’ll have to come up and help me keep my brother entertained,” I said as lightly as I could.

“Ach, you forget so soon. A working woman can’t just pick up and go off on a whim. It’s a big responsibility, this new job. I love my old folks. My new lady thinks I’m her friend Tatiana from Moscow and she wants to play Russian rhyming games with me. I’m so lucky. The bills get paid, I get to paint, and then I work four days a week with Alzheimer’s patients who just want someone to come into their world and share it with them.”

This time, I could picture her cheeks lifting in a real smile, her big brown eyes glinting with pleasure. “You know, I could see it in your face when you talked about those people last week.”

“Can’t help it,” she said. “But how did you get Neil to go along with your plan?”

“All he needed to hear was that I was uneasy because that rifle had fallen out of my ceiling and a murdered woman had been found a quarter mile away, and I was suddenly high on the list of suspects, in the pretty green eyes of the law. Told me that he’d get copies of his prescriptions and detailed instructions for the physical therapist from his doc, and then he’d be there to support me. Keep the suspect company.”

“What about the Mets?” A note of worry crept into her voice. “Such gnarly timing.”

“The Mets are being good to him, at least for now. His agent’s got them convinced that he’ll be back for the last quarter of the season. They’re even giving him a car and driver to bring him up here. ETA is noon on Monday.”

“Which means that you can go to New Hampshire. That’s so perfect! You’ll have at least one less worry on your mind. And that will make the gallery opening even more fun. Besides, who can have a bad time drinking champagne, eating lovely cheese and grapes, and being surrounded by admirers who want to know everything about your gourds? May you sell all your wares to total strangers who then tell all their friends and increase your sales until you need to hire apprentices to do . . . whatever a gourd apprentice might do.”

Even if she rolled her eyes whenever the G word came up, Karen knew how to celebrate, and for that I would always love her.

My brother’s cheekbones were as prominent as a Russian Cossack’s and his dimple a little harder to see because he had less flesh than usual. But his spirits were good, and he managed on his crutches as though they’d become a part of his body.

The driver who carried his bags into the living room looked around, his expression shifting from dismay to pity. I read volumes into that look. What was the newest second baseman of the Mets doing in a place like this when he could be getting home massages, takeout from Whole Foods, and visits from his mates? The driver set Neil’s bags in the corner, refused my offer of coffee, and hurried away from this luxury-free zone and headed back to his leather-seated, climate-controlled limo as quickly as he could.

Neil wobbled as he made his way to the corner of the sofa. I’d arranged a few things on the end table to make him comfortable—a tray with a carafe of water and a glass, some grapes, a couple of Civil War histories I knew he hadn’t read, and a bell, which he jingled and then set back with an amused shake of his head.

“I have to go over the rules with you. You’re not gonna hover. You’re not gonna ask me twelve times an hour how I’m feeling. And you absolutely will not listen in when I’m on the phone.” His grin lit up the whole living room as he propped his leg on the pillow I’d set on a chair in front of the sofa.

“Wouldn’t have entered my mind. To listen in, I mean. But now I may have to. Does this mean someone special is going to call? Tell.”

But he smiled his canary-eating smile and said, “How was the gallery opening?”

“Better than I expected. I’ll show you the article when it comes out.” Not only had I sold nine pieces, I’d been interviewed by a reporter from the
Manchester Herald
. I didn’t mention to my brother that I also spent a quarter of my earnings on a spectacular piece of glass, cranberry with undulating silver waves, that would live on my windowsill until I needed to come up with a special-occasion gift for a very good friend.

“And just to be clear,” I said, “it’s not hovering to ask if you need anything. Besides, I
do
have other things to do than sit around and watch you veg out in front of the television or play Spider on your laptop. Oh, before I forget—you think you’ll be up to a houseful of beautiful, intriguing, smart poker players on Friday night?”

“If I’m not,” he said, “that probably means you should rush me to the emergency room. Sure, it’ll be great to meet your friends.” Neil waved a fistful of prescriptions at me. “I have enough to last me a day or two. Doctor Reichman said that I need to start the physical therapy tomorrow. Today I’m allowed to slide by with a couple of leg lifts.”

I took the papers from him. By the look on his drawn face, Neil was likely to spend at least part of the afternoon napping. That would be a good time for me to drive into town, get his drugs, pick up the new respirator mask that Bob James at Primitive Originals had mailed, and still be back before my brother noticed my absence.

“I’m going to make a quick run into town. I’ve got my cell phone. Call if you need anything. Here’s the remote and today’s
Hudson Register
.”

“My leg’s broken but I can still see,” he said, grinning. “This seems like the perfect place to get some rest. It smells good here, like the air is green. And it’s quiet—no car alarms, no Mom. But you—you look so tired, Lili. You can’t let this murder thing interfere with your sleep.”

I didn’t want to talk about my insomnia or my suspect status. Instead, I kissed his forehead and headed for town, happy that he was comfortable, glad that I could give him this space for a while.

^“
I can have these for you in ninety minutes.” Mr. Trent peered at me over the top of his granny glasses. With his short-cut gray hair, pink skin, and white jacket he looked like a pharmacist in a television commercial. But Joseph Trent’s jacket had fraying sleeves and a couple of faded stains that spoke of years of wear, as did the runner that led from the front of the store to the prescription counter at the back. He tugged at the surgical glove on his right hand and went on sliding pills into a bottle.

“I don’t mean to rush you, but if you could get to it sooner, I’d really appreciate it. I left my brother home alone, and he’s not so great on his crutches yet.”

Mr. Trent counted out the last three pills, stripped off the latex glove, and then looked up at me, frowning. “He should have someone with him.”

“I can’t be in two places at once.” Who was he to tell me how to take care of Neil? I turned away to give myself time to regroup so that I wouldn’t yell at this well-meaning but officious man.

“You haven’t been sleeping well, have you? Those circles under your eyes, they’re new.” Suddenly, the same Mr. Trent who was so ready to berate me sounded concerned, solicitous—and he had nailed one of the reasons for my curtness.

“No. It’s been a rough week. I—” Why hadn’t I thought of this before? Maybe I didn’t need to spend the early hours of every morning playing computer solitaire or watching bad movies on TV. The man behind the counter was a pharmacist, after all. “Is there something you can recommend that would help me sleep?”

Mr. Trent folded his arms across his chest and shook his head slowly. As his brows knitted together in concentration, I realized that I was in for a lecture. When he stepped from behind the counter, I looked down at his shoes. They were scuffed and worn. Backing up two steps, I forced my gaze to meet his.

“If you’re asking me to suggest drugs, forget it. Go to that new Walgreens down the road. Cut rate prices—half my customers left. What they’re finding out is that nobody there cares about anything except making money. Thank goodness the rest of my customers still want to do business with a member of the community. Someone who knows them.”

I nodded, not knowing for sure whether I really wanted his advice or just a quick in-and-out to buy what I needed.

“I can give you something, though, a natural herbal remedy.” Joseph Trent’s face relaxed a little. “It’s called valerian. Try it first. And make sure you get at least forty-five minutes of exercise every day. Learn some kind of meditation or a relaxation technique where you do deep breathing. No caffeine after noon. And be sure you drink a glass of warm milk at bedtime. I’ll have your brother’s meds ready in fifteen minutes. And I’ll get you those capsules. Here,” he said as he went behind the counter again, reached down and handed me a brochure about good nutrition, “read this while I’m working on your order.”

Of course, he was right, even though I bristled at his condescension. Until the night of the casino hearing, my usual pattern was to read for half an hour, fall asleep instantly, and stay asleep for seven hours. I didn’t need drugs. I’d look up valerian on the Internet when I got home. A glass of warm milk—that sounded so Laura Ingalls Wilder. But even though my little house wasn’t on the prairie, treating my insomnia with such a homey remedy felt like just the right thing to do.

I was digging in my purse for my credit card when someone called my name. I turned to see Connie Lovett standing beside the lotions and skin creams, her face paler than usual. Even though a fuchsia and violet scarf covered her head and her nylon jacket matched the energetic hues of the scarf, something about her felt colorless, listless, as though all the vibrancy had seeped out of her. But she managed a smile as I approached.

“Hey, Lili. I’ve been sketching designs, and I think I know what I want to do on that gourd we cut.” She waved a prescription and looked over at Mr. Trent, who nodded at her and went on typing Neil’s label. “Can’t tell if the new chemo is working. It’ll take about a month to see any results, the doctor tells me. Meanwhile, I figure it’s my job to enjoy myself. How’s your brother doing?”

The way news seemed to travel—almost like that water in my ceiling—was one aspect of country life I might never get used to. If it were anyone but Connie I might even try to trace the path of the news about my brother’s accident and his recuperation at my house, just to satisfy my curiosity. Nobody else seemed to be bothered by relative strangers knowing the intimate details of their lives, but maybe that’s what made small town life work—fewer secrets meant better behavior.

“He’s getting used to the idea that it might be a while before he can play ball again. Listen, I’d better get back with his medication before he hobbles down the road to see what’s keeping me. See you Tuesday.” I hugged her, taking care not to squeeze too tight.

“Ten o’clock. See you then.” In the few minutes we’d been talking, some color had crept into her cheeks. Looking at her at that moment it was easy to forget that she was facing a life-threatening illness.

Easy for me to forget. I’d wager that little fact was present every second in some corner of Connie Lovett’s mind.

I drove home lost in a blur of thought, and tiptoed my way up the back stairs and then through the kitchen to the hall so that I could peek into the living room. As I’d hoped, Neil lay on the sofa, eyes shut and mouth open. His gentle snores made me smile. I was about to put the sleeping remedy in the medicine cabinet when the phone rang. I grabbed it before it could ring a second time.

“Oh dear, poor Marjorie. And so close to your house. What’s going on, Lili? She takes a strong stand in favor of the casino and gets killed? They said that Marjorie’s body was found by a couple of teenagers walking in the woods about a quarter mile away from your house. You go away for three days and come back to find a rifle in your kitchen?” Nora’s concern, as much for Marjorie’s murder as it was for me, pitched her voice several notes higher than usual.

I shifted the telephone to my other ear and pulled a couple of yellow leaves off the basil plant on the kitchen windowsill. “Sheesh, news travels fast around here. Except, the rifle was in my bathroom ceiling.”

“You don’t have to keep a rifle in your ceiling. If you’re feeling like you need protection, it would be much easier to buy a dog or just pick one up from the pound. Okay, bad joke. You sound shaky. You all right?”

My throat swelled. The tight place in my chest expanded, and I took a huge deep breath. I hadn’t realized the depth of my distress, hadn’t checked in with myself in days.

“It’s everything. My brother. Marjorie, of course. Connie Lovett and what that illness is doing to her. Finding the rifle.” Delivering a catalog of woes was supposed to help lighten the burden, but the more I spoke the worse everything seemed.