Phantoms Can Be Murder: Charlie Parker Mystery #13 Page 4

  She moved on, pointing out some flowering border plants, but I found myself wrapping my mind around the idea of this whole other world of which I’d been completely unaware and the fact that my mother stayed in touch with Louisa even though my father would have surely disapproved.

  We’d circled the tiny yard and arrived at the kitchen again before either of us spoke.

  “A refill on your wine?” she asked, holding up the bottle and raising one eyebrow.

  I’m rarely more than a one-glass person but I indicated the halfway mark on the glass.

  “I’ll just put the finishing touches on the salad, if you’re ready.”

  I nodded. She rummaged in the fridge for something and I spotted a stack of envelopes beside the toaster. Plain white, but they were all rimmed with the red and blue stripes that used to be common on overseas mail.

  “Are these—?” I tilted my head toward them.

  “Oh! Yes, those are the ones I was telling you about. Take them.”

  I picked up the stack, probably a dozen of them at most. Across the fronts they were addressed in a familiar script that sent a pang through me. In the upper left corner of each was my address. The postal destinations changed. Nearest the top, there were a couple with Bury St. Edmunds addresses, but farther down I found ones that had been delivered in France, Switzerland, Italy and one in Morocco.

  “You carried these with you all over the world, didn’t you?”

  She gave a far-off nostalgic smile.

  As far as I knew, Mother hadn’t kept any mementos from Louisa. Was it from fear of my father finding evidence of their friendship, or simply that she wasn’t much of a packrat?

  “Here we go, dear,” Louisa said, carrying two heaping plates to the table. “In honor of your being here all the way from New Mexico, I’ve given this a little Southwestern flavor.”

  I hoped that I hid my misgivings about how well she might have accomplished that task. And it turned out that the salad was quite good, with fresh garden greens, black beans, corn, tomatoes, onion, a sprinkling of cheese over the top and a hint of chile-hot in the dressing. I savored the blend of flavors and when my initial hunger abated I finally posed the question that really had brought me here.

  “Louisa, I have to ask . . . Why did I never know you existed?”

  She toyed with the lettuce on her plate. “Bill and I were so different. Firstly, there was the age difference. He was already in college when I was born.”

  I remembered my father as tall, not quite stern but absolutely a no-nonsense man. He was most often preoccupied with his scientific work, an important job during the cold war years of the ’60s. Even when he was with the family he wasn’t really with us. His projects were more likely the place where his inner voice resided.

  “Our parents were not ready to start over in raising another child. Funny, when I think back and do the math they were in their forties. Your grandmother was forty-two when I was born, your grandfather must have been forty-six. But he was one of those men who was old even when he was young.” She cocked her head. “You know what I mean?”

  I wagged my head vaguely. I didn’t remember either of them.

  “He walked like an old man, talked like one. He certainly had the attitudes of one. I was born to an era of rock ’n roll and poodle skirts and my father carried a pocket watch and wore a derby hat. In the western United States, where life tended toward the casual even then, he just seemed hopelessly stuffy.”

  She sipped from her wine and realized that the glass was empty, so she retrieved the bottle and topped her glass.

  “Mother was never a well woman and she died while I was young. Father hired a nanny for me because he had no clue how to interact with a little girl. The nanny was even older than he, and I felt suffocated in that house. In my teens I have to confess I went a little wild. Started drinking, tried a little marijuana, played the music as loud as I could.

  “Anyhow, Bill, your dad, always seemed a lot like your grandpa to me. Bill had married and moved his family to Albuquerque so he could take that government job. Your brothers were young and your mom was expecting you, and then I dropped the bombshell on the family that I was pregnant. Father hit the roof. Bill read me the riot act. Together they planned my life for me. I would enter a home for unwed girls and give the baby up for adoption. I could finish my last semester of high school courses in that place then enter college on schedule with the rest of my friends. No one would know of the family shame because the cover story was that I was going to live with my married brother’s family and attend college there.”

  “Did you? Actually live with us?”

  Our plates were empty and we pushed them to the middle of the table.

  “Their plan worked up to a point. I had no choice about the girl’s home. Father drove me there and hauled me inside. The place actually had grills over the windows and a ten-foot brick wall around the grounds. It wasn’t quite prison but it might as well have been. Unlucky me, I was having morning sickness so badly that I couldn’t even think about jumping the wall until it was way too late. So I resigned myself to stay there those seven awful months. But I also resolved that I would never, ever, ever go back to either my father’s house or my brother’s.”

  “What about the baby’s father?”

  “Never really in the picture. By the time I was certain of the pregnancy he had dropped me for another girl. We weren’t meant to be together.”

  She swallowed hard and her eyes welled up. “They never even let me see the baby. A nice married couple had already signed papers agreeing to take him the day he was born. I heard that there was a nursery on premises where doctors looked after the newborns until they were released to go home, but I never saw the place. For all I know they took him the minute they’d bathed him and put his first diaper on.”

  She let out a long pent-up breath. “Silly, now, after all this time. That little boy is pretty close to your age, and I have no idea where he has ended up. Nothing to be done about it from my standpoint. I’m sure he had a happy life, and it’s certain that it was a more stable life than I could have ever given him. So, no regrets.”

  She stood and carried the plates to the sink.

  “But neither your father nor mine ever forgave you for what now seems like a very minor ‘sin’?”

  “In the beginning it was that way. Both of them wanted to lecture me, to control me. It was I who couldn’t forgive them.” She picked up her wine glass and tilted her head toward the parlor. I followed her and settled into one end of the sofa.

  “Seriously, now with hindsight, I know that giving up the baby was the right thing. It was the principle, that I was forced into the decision with no input. They absolutely did not care how I felt about it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I took off. I’d hoarded the spending money my father had put on account for me at the home. Used it for a bus ticket to New York. Waited tables until I could afford a standby ticket to Paris. Gosh, I was so lucky. It never occurred to me that I could end up homeless or working some street corner. I landed in Paris and went into a restaurant to apply for a job. No idea that a foreigner needs certain documents to get a job. The couple who owned this place were ex-pat Americans and they took me in. Let me work and live above the café. I saved my money, traveled all I wanted to, always had their place to go home to. More wine?”

  I declined. My head felt woozy already. “Louisa! You really did get lucky.”

  She laughed that hearty laugh of hers. “I really did. There were some sad times. It wasn’t long before I heard about Father’s death. I never made peace with him. And then when I heard about Bill and Arlene—that’s when it really hit me that I should have probably settled things with both of them.”

  “But it was done by then.”

  She nodded. “It was. I wrote to your brother and expressed regrets.”

  “And I’m so sorry that he never responded. None of us were angry with you, believe me. We simply never knew.”


  “I know, dear. I know.” She moved to my end of the sofa and gave me a hug, then picked up the wine glasses and headed toward the kitchen. “I’m only glad that we’ve now made connection.”

  I listened to the clinking of glassware in the kitchen and made my decision. Standing in the doorway and watching her set things into the sink, I spoke. “Louisa, I really would like to stay here after all.”

  Chapter 5

  She set me up in the guest room with the loan of a nightshirt and a new toothbrush. We both decided it was hardly worth the effort to walk back to the hotel tonight. It was getting late and a heavy fog blanketed the streets, making the pavement and stone surfaces look glossy and slick.

  “Perfect atmosphere for my ‘haunted Bury’ tour,” Louisa said, peering out the window as she lowered the shade. “Too bad I don’t have another one scheduled until next Saturday.”

  She turned to me. “No rush to get up in the morning. Catch up on your sleep. I have to put in a couple of hours at the tourism office, just until noon, then we’ll have the whole afternoon to play.” She sent an air kiss my direction and bade me goodnight as she closed my door. I eased beneath the soft comforter and must have fallen asleep in something like four seconds.

  The smell of coffee wafted through the air and I rolled over to peek at my watch, which I’d left on the nightstand. It was after seven. With a quick change back into last night’s clothes, a splash of cool water on my face, and a borrowed half-inch of my aunt’s toothpaste I felt ready to start a new day.

  Louisa sat at the kitchen table in her robe, holding a newspaper, with a steaming mug in front of her.

  “Help yourself to coffee, dear, or the kettle’s always ready for tea, if you’d prefer that. I love my tea later in the day but can’t seem to start my engine without coffee first,” she said. “Sleep well?”

  “Like a dead woman. I don’t think I rolled over even once.” I reached for the carafe, one of the few post-1950s touches in the house. She’d left a clean mug on the worktop for me, alongside a small silver bowl filled with sugar cubes and silver tongs to grab them with and a matching pitcher containing—I guessed—real cream. I indulged in all of it.

  “I don’t generally keep everything for a full English breakfast here,” she said, folding the newspaper to the back page. “But we could certainly go out for that if you’d like. Otherwise, there are some store-bought muffins or toast—buttered or with cinnamon.” Her eyes sparkled. “I make a killer cinnamon toast.”

  “That would be perfect.”

  I watched as she sliced bread, slathered it with butter and gave it a generous sprinkling of sugar and cinnamon before placing it on a baking sheet under the gas flame broiler. The resulting combination of soft bread and crunchy topping literally melted in my mouth.

  “Have you thought of selling this stuff and making yourself a fortune?” I mumbled while trying to lick sugar crystals off my lips.

  She laughed. “Too much paperwork to start a business. Besides, this way I keep my house guests coming back.”

  She asked about my life back in Albuquerque although we’d covered some of this ground over the phone before my visit, the parts about my involvement in both Ron’s private investigation firm and Drake’s helicopter service.

  “And he’s actually taught you how to pilot one?” she asked.

  I nodded and watched a proud twinkle come into her eyes.

  “The last few months I have to admit that I’ve only flown enough to stay current. There hasn’t been enough business to keep both of us flying right now. The economy. It’s the reason he had to stay home now.” Thinking of Drake made me realize that if he’d tried to call my hotel room last night I wasn’t there and he might be concerned about that. I wished that I’d made arrangements for cell service over here.

  “You are certainly welcome to use my telephone,” Louisa said when I mentioned it.

  “Later. It must be the middle of the night back there right now.”

  She bustled about, tidying the kitchen, saying that she’d better dress. Fifteen minutes later, ready to leave for the office, she told me to feel free to use her car to bring my belongings from the hotel. The mere idea of negotiating the narrow lanes, many of which were one-way and finding my way back again without damage to the car set my stomach on edge. She handed me a spare house key and I assured her that I could wheel my bag behind me and make it back here.

  By eleven, I’d accomplished all that, checking out of the hotel without a problem although I had a little twinge as I said goodbye to my room in the famed old building. I spread out and made my few possessions at home in Louisa’s guest room, then decided to drop back in at The Knit and Purl and buy the cloth purse I’d seen there for Elsa. There was still plenty of time before meeting Louisa at noon at the tourism office.

  Undoubtedly there was a more direct route, but as I still didn’t have a clear map of the town in my head I found myself using the Angel Hotel as my reference point. I walked the increasingly familiar route back to it, then remembered the way Louisa and I had taken the previous afternoon to the knit shop.

  Once again the small bells tinkled as I opened the door. No one was visible in the shop but I could hear voices from a back room.

  “Hello?” I called out.

  “Be there in a moment.” Dolly peered around a corner from the other room. She gave me that look that says I think I know you but am not quite sure.

  “Charlie Parker,” I reminded. “I was in with my aunt Louisa.”

  “Oh, yes.” Her mouth was pinched in a tight grimace. “Give us a moment. Louisa’s yarn came in this morning. Gabrielle can get it for you. We’ve had a little mishap.”

  I followed her glance downward and saw that she was holding an ice pack against her right hand. Another female voice spoke to her and Dolly turned to give the girl some instructions.

  A young woman came out—early twenties, slightly plump, with a peachy complexion and honey blond hair held up with a clip. She held about ten skeins of heather blue yarn, which she set on the counter near the register.

  Dolly introduced her as Gabrielle Tukson, her assistant.

  “Afraid we’ve had an accident,” Gabrielle said. “Dolly’s gotten a rather nasty burn, just a few minutes ago.”

  Dolly had trailed behind the employee, watching how she handled the expensive yarn and pointing at a price sheet with her injured hand. A brilliant red blotch showed near the intersection of thumb and index finger and spread across the back of her hand.

  “Ow, that does look painful. What happened?” I asked.

  Dolly replaced the ice pack over the red spot. “Tea. I’d just set down a cup that had gone cold, turned to switch on the kettle and make a fresh cup, went back to pick up the cold cup and it was scalding hot. Dropped it, I did. The rim burnt my fingertips and the rest sloshed over my hand.”

  “How on earth—?”

  Dolly stared at the injured hand, her mouth now in a hard line. “It’s just one more unexplained thing around this shop, I tell you.”

  Could Louisa be right about a poltergeist?

  Gabrielle had placed the blue yarn into a bag. “The other thing that’s upset her so is that the cup broke when she dropped it and it was a favorite,” she said quietly.

  “It most certainly was! One from my own grandmother’s set of Spode—her Billingsly Rose pattern. I’m sick about it. Just sick.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said. “Do you need to see a doctor for your hand?”

  Gabrielle gave me a look that said she’d already suggested that.

  “I’ll be all right,” Dolly insisted.

  Still visibly upset, she elbowed her assistant aside and asked whether I wanted to take Louisa’s yarn with me now.

  “I actually came in to buy a purse that I saw before,” I said. “Maybe it would be better if Louisa and I came back later, let you take care of that burn first. I’m sure there’s not a hurry on the yarn and I can get the purse anytime.”

 
“Oh, nonsense,” Dolly said with a big smile. Clearly she didn’t want to see a sure sale walk out the door. “Gabrielle can help you with your purchase, and Louisa can come by anytime to pay for her yarn. I’m not concerned about it.”

  She reached for a small receipt book and winced as her hand brushed against the edge of the cash register.

  I reached for my wallet. “It’s the yellow one with the brown trim and short handles,” I told Gabrielle.

  She wrapped it in tissue and placed a foil sticker with the shop’s emblem to hold the edges of the paper together. Dolly watched the process but she was clearly in pain and when I mentioned again that she might want to see the doctor she didn’t protest.

  Outside, the day had turned warm. Sunshine hit the narrow lane and illuminated the wares in the shops. I strolled slowly along, absorbing the same-yet-different feel of a foreign town—books with sticker prices in pounds, clothing somehow more stylish than ours, newspaper headlines eerily similar to those in the States that featured corrupt politicians, brutal crimes, and the latest foibles of movie stars. By the time I’d meandered my way back to Abbeygate Street, the one place I was beginning to recognize, it was nearing twelve so I angled toward the tourism office where Louisa worked.

  She sat behind a counter in the gift shop. I said hello and handed over the bag from The Knit and Purl with her blue yarn in it.

  “Charlie! So glad you found me. Let me introduce you to my co-worker, Alice.”

  An older woman stepped forward, smiling and nodding, and I got the feeling she knew more about me than I could possibly guess. Either that or she just had a slight tremor and her head nodded all the time anyway. She greeted me so politely that I felt obliged to let her show me around the shop as she pointed out the various maps and brochures a person could take for free.

  “Your aunt conducts the best tours of anyone,” she told me in her high, proper voice. “The historical talks are marvelous but I especially like the scary ones!”