In a Dark Season (15 page)

“Merry Christmas, Sallie Kate.” Elizabeth hurled herself into the tiny breach afforded by her friend’s pausing for breath. “Is there anything you need me to see about for you while you’re gone?”

“Well, honey, I’m kinda worried about Nola. I went by the nursin’ home today and they’ve put her on oxygen. I visited with her a while but, except for that she was havin’ trouble gettin’ her breath, she was about the same—still not making much sense. She was sayin’ something about fog and little cat feet but I couldn’t make anything out of it. Anyway, I asked this girl at the nursin’ station and she said Nola’d had a real bad episode of chokin’, but that she was stable now, long as they kept her on the oxygen. So then I wanted to know had they gotten in touch with Nola’s niece about her breathin’ problems and Miss Nurse turned all snippy on me, said that the Layton Facility
always
observed proper procedure and she really couldn’t discuss her patient with a nonfamily member. Honey, Nola looks real bad.

“And on top of everything, those RPI people (you know, Ransom Properties and Investments—the big developers) have done a kind of end run around all the rest of us real estate people. They’ve about got the county commissioners convinced to condemn the property there at the old stand ‘for the good of the County’ so RPI can get their fancy development underway. Those no-good county commissioners are just rarin’ to pull that eminent domain thing. Honey, they’re talkin’ about a takin’!”

Chapter 17

The Dying of the Light

Tuesday, December 19

W
hy the hell are you still living in Weaverville, Hawk? I thought that you and your lady were—”

“Thanks for coming by, Mac. I figured you still weren’t sure how private your phone was, so…” Pointedly leaving the sheriff’s question unanswered, Phillip stood back to let Sheriff Blaine into his house. “I wanted to run something by you before I left for class.”

Mac held up a white paper bag from which emanated a promising aroma of sage and pork grease. “I brought the sausage biscuits from Sadie’s Place. Do you have the coffee ready?”

In the kitchen, Blaine glanced around. “I don’t know how you can stand all this pink, Hawk. Of course, the blue curtains
are
a nice touch. Would that be baby blue or sky blue? Or maybe powder blue? I have a hell of a time remembering which is which. And look at those ruffles! Three rows of them! Must be a bitch to iron. Still, if it’s…”

Phillip poured the coffee and waited for his friend’s humor to run its course. The cutesy country décor of this rented house never failed to amuse Mackenzie.
And I keep telling myself that it’s not permanent, that I can live with it another few months. But by god, I’m sick of pink and blue and ruffles and leering teddy bears.

“…maybe get some tips from you for spiffing up the jail. I know I read somewhere that pink walls can make the prisoners calmer and easier to handle—”

“Mac, what do you know about that guy who hangs out at the Gudger’s Stand bridge? Lives in that old brick building? Lizabeth was talking to him this morning and something he said, something about noticing her daughter, has got her all stirred up.”

The sheriff reached for his coffee mug and rolled his eyes. “I guess I don’t even want to know why Miz Goodweather’s talking to Tom. Has she been over checking out the silo too?”

God knows,
thought Phillip. “So what about this guy? Is he a squatter? Local fella or what? Lizabeth said he sounded educated but smelled like booze. And this was just an hour ago—a little early for a drink.”

“Unless you’re an alcoholic. Tom’s a serious drunk—gets up, takes a drink or two to get a nice little buzz going, then works on it the rest of the day.” The sheriff crumpled up the wrapping from his sausage biscuits and lobbed it toward the plastic-lined garbage pail in the corner of the kitchen.

Phillip watched as the wadded paper dropped dead center into the receptacle. “So you know him. Does he have any history on him? Any criminal record?”

“It’s not a crime to be a drunk—as long as you don’t drive. But to answer Miz Goodweather’s question: there’s nothing to link Tom Blake with any of these ongoing investigations.” He cocked an eyebrow at Phillip. “It
is
her question, isn’t it?”

Phillip shrugged. “Inquiring minds, et cetera.”

Mackenzie put his elbows on the table. “Tom Blake’s an interesting story. He’s the last of a prominent local family—the family that owned Wakeman’s—you know, that hardware store downtown—and quite a few other businesses in the county. Tom’s no squatter—he holds the title to that old ruin he’s living in.”

“So he’s not a bum—just a drunk.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty much it. I checked him out when I first took office. You know, scruffy-looking guy, no visible means of support, and hanging around that park that’s full of kids and paddlers in the summer—I was definitely suspicious. But there’s never been a complaint against him—he just likes to watch the river and what’s going on.”

“No job?”

“None that I’ve ever heard of. His folks are dead and I guess they left him enough to live on. Story is, he was a career officer in the army in the seventies, and then, all of a sudden, he was back home with a drinking problem. But like I said, he’s never caused any trouble—you tell your lady not to worry about it.”

“I’m worried about Miss Barrett—the lady in 167.”

The woman at the nurses’ station looked up from the computer screen, her fingers momentarily paused in the air above the keyboard. “Yes? What’s the problem?”

Ignoring the unspoken message sent by those hovering fingers, Elizabeth plunged ahead. “Well, Nola’s just recently been put on oxygen but she’s still struggling to breathe. Her eyes are red and her nose is runny—does she have a cold? Or could it be an allergy? She seems miserable and I know she can’t communicate very well…”

“And you are…?” The raised eyebrow accused her.

“Just a friend. But Nola’s only relative doesn’t live around here and I thought…”
I thought I ought to check on her. I even made a special point of coming early rather than the usual visiting times. I’ve heard of the neglect and sometimes even abuse that can go on in these places. And with Nola unable to speak for herself…
“I thought I’d drop in.”

Elizabeth had punched the button to let herself in the front door of the Layton Facility and had hurried through the hallways, crowded with rattling carts of wan-smelling breakfast trays. Nola’s door had been shut, but she had pushed it open and peeped in to see her friend gasping for breath and struggling to sit up in her hospital bed.

“Nola! Let me help you!” Elizabeth had rushed to the bedside and assisted the wheezing, panting woman to raise herself. She had placed two pillows behind her friend, checked the oxygen line to see that there were no kinks in it, and had readjusted the little two-pronged nosepiece to lie more easily on Nola’s face.

The older woman had said nothing as she was being ministered to, but, turning piteous, red-rimmed eyes on Elizabeth, had clutched at her hand, gripping it tight as she struggled for air. After a few moments, her breathing seemed to improve and the grip relaxed.

As before, Nola Barrett had summoned up words from her capacious store of memorized verse.

“O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall

Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap

May who ne’er hung there.

Her dry rasp of despair pierced Elizabeth’s heart.

“Nola, please! Just lie back and catch your breath. I’ll go talk to the nurse and see what they can do to make you more comfortable.”

The woman at the computer heaved a little sigh and looked past Elizabeth. “Miz Barrett’s guardian is aware of the situation. Layton Facility appreciates your concern and will make every effort to provide your loved one with professional, compassionate care in a—”

“Mrs. Goldwater?”

There was a tap on her shoulder and Elizabeth swung around. The thin, henna-haired young woman was regarding her with ill-concealed annoyance.

“Tracy! I didn’t know you were still in town. I was just in with Nola. She seems—”

“She’s failing, Mrs. Goldwater,” Nola’s niece said flatly. “The doctor says she’s just given up. Of course, that’s obvious, considering she tried to kill herself.” Tracy’s gaunt face was devoid of emotion as she delivered this pronouncement. “It’s kind of you to come to see her, but it’s not necessary, you know. She has round-the-clock care—an old friend of hers has seen to that. And she’s probably not even aware of you.”

Elizabeth stiffened. “Oh, but she is. She talks to me. Haven’t you heard her quoting poetry?”

“Talks to you?” Tracy sniffed. “Is that what you think it is? The doctor says it’s just babbling. There’s even a medical term for it—‘lalorrhea’—diarrhea of the mouth, he called it.”

She shifted the manila envelope she was carrying to her other arm. “How about those quilts of Aunt Nola’s, Miz Goldwater? Have you had time to look at them? I’d like to have some idea of how much they might bring.”

“It’s ‘Goodweather,’ actually. But I’d rather you just said ‘Elizabeth.’” Struggling to maintain the appearance of civility, she forced her mouth into the semblance of a smile. “I’ve started mending them and I’ve talked to a few places that deal in antique quilts. If you like, I’ll follow through and try to get you the best price I can. I’d feel I was helping Nola in some way.”

Tracy’s eyes narrowed and she was silent for a moment. Then, with a dismissive shrug, she replied, “Whatever—one less thing for me and Stone to worry about.”

She turned and headed down the hall for Nola Barrett’s room. When Elizabeth followed her, Tracy glanced back in apparent surprise but said nothing, merely raising her eyebrows.

Nola was still sitting up but her eyes were closed and she was breathing loudly, with a regularity that suggested sleep.

“Where the hell’s that aide Miz Holcombe hired? She’s supposed to be here all day till the night duty girl comes on.”

With scarcely a glance at her aunt, Tracy whirled around the small room, tidying, rearranging, watering the poinsettia and the other flowers and plants that crowded the windowsill.

Elizabeth picked up her jacket and the book of poetry she had brought to read to Nola. The young woman continued her frenetic activity, her face set in a disapproving frown.

“Tracy, I heard that the county commissioners were talking about using eminent domain to get control of the Gudger’s Stand property. Is that true?”

The frenzied movement slowed, then stopped. Tracy’s cold gray eyes turned to Elizabeth. “They’re looking into it. And it would suit me just fine. If they did that, the house and the land could be bought by RPI right away, without having to wait to figure out exactly who it belongs to. Of course, everyone knows it comes to Aunt Nola—it’s just going to take a while to prove it. But if things drag on too long, RPI is likely to take all that money somewhere else. If the county does a taking, the money will go into escrow until it can be proved that Aunt Nola’s the owner.”

“But that won’t help your financial situation now…it could be months or years before…”

“I know that. But an interested party has offered—” Tracy bent to retrieve an empty plastic cup from the floor at the foot of the bed. “You’d think that for what she’s being paid that girl could pick up stuff. Anyway, if you want my opinion, Miz Goldwater, the sooner they tear down that creepy old house, the better. It’s never brought anything but bad luck to my family—and there’s that pretty afghan on the floor.” She reached into the narrow space between the bed and the wall and pulled out a beautiful web of soft blues and purples and lavenders.

“Well, I was wonderin’ where that had went to.”

Elizabeth looked up to see a chubby young woman in bright blue scrubs and an orange-and-pink top standing in the doorway and peering at them from under thick dark bangs. A stale whiff of cigarette smoke clung to her.

“Nola was takin’ her a little nap and I just slipped out for a…I wasn’t gone but a…well, she don’t hardly ever…”

“Michelle”—Tracy’s tone was sharp as she cut short the aide’s stumbling explanation—“has my aunt had any more of those choking spells?” She cast a chill, accusing eye on the flustered young woman. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d try to keep this room a little neater,” she added, folding the afghan precisely and placing it on the vacant bed.

The aide bustled in and made a great show of rearranging Nola’s bedcovers and checking the oxygen line. “No, not to say
chokin’.
She breathes easier some times than others but she ain’t had nothing you’d call a
spell.
That nice doctor come by yesterday—no, it was the day before that—and he was here when she was took kind of bad, but he got her straightened out and said it wasn’t nothing unexpected. It was him ordered the oxygen.”

“Who else has been to see my aunt?” Tracy demanded of the hapless Michelle, who was bumbling around the little room in search of something to do.

The aide screwed up her face in an effort of memory. “Well, the juice lady and the speech therapist was—”

“I don’t mean the people who work here.” Tracy was obviously exerting great control over her temper.
“Visitors,
did Nola have any visitors?”

“Oh, yes.” Michelle’s pudgy moon face brightened. “Those twins, Arval and Marval, come by with some more cookies from Miz Lavinia Holcombe. And a nice lady named Lee…Nola’s neighbor, she said she was. A couple of ladies from the church. I think that was all…No, there was one more, a funny old man who looked like one of them homeless people you see.”

Michelle wrinkled up her nose in distaste. “He smelled like he might of been drinkin’ too. But he talked like an English teacher, more big words than you ever heard.”