“Thank God,” Bernie couldn’t help murmuring.

  Eleanor glared at her. “There’s nothing I can tell you about Clara.”

  Bernie opened her mouth to speak, but Eleanor beat her to it once again. “But I’ll let you come in if you want to. Despite your clothes.”

  Bernie looked down at what she was wearing. “What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?”

  Eleanor sniffed again. “Style is a capitalistic notion.”

  Bernie managed to stop herself from groaning.

  “It’s true. Have you ever read a book called The Female Imperative? It’s a treatise on the sexual politics of dress.”

  Bernie nodded. “By Joanne Mau.”

  Eleanor’s smile grew wider. “Then I say no more.”

  Personally Bernie had found the book extremely shrill, not to mention badly researched, but she decided this was not the time to mention it. Instead she said, “Can we agree to disagree?”

  “I suppose that’s possible.” Eleanor jerked her head toward the inside. “What are you waiting for? Are you aware of how much heat costs these days?”

  “Sorry,” Bernie murmured as she stepped inside.

  She looked around as she followed Eleanor through her house. The walls of the living room, dining room, and hallway were lined with books. They were stacked everywhere, on the floors, the tables, and the chairs.

  Eleanor gestured toward them. “I haven’t got around to cataloging these yet.”

  “How many do you have?” Bernie asked.

  Eleanor shrugged. “I’ve lost count.”

  “And you’ve read them all?”

  Eleanor laughed. “Not even close. I was a research librarian before I retired. Now I buy and sell books on eBay. By the way, the only things Clara ever read were soap opera digests. She was a complete moron. One year I gave her a very fine copy of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and I found it six months later underneath a potted plant. There were water stains on the cover, mind you. That was the last time I ever gave her anything.”

  Bernie felt a pang of sympathy for Clara. Poor lady. “And you find your business profitable?”

  “Extremely. Especially biographies and books about food. It’s amazing how many people want to read about eating.”

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it,” Bernie agreed as she followed Eleanor into the kitchen.

  “Right now people want to read about chocolate,” Eleanor continued. “Must be because Valentine’s Day is coming up.”

  Bernie glanced around. From the looks of the place she surmised that whatever Eleanor was interested in reading she definitely wasn’t interested in cooking. There were books piled on the counters, the kitchen table, and the stove top.

  “I use a microwave,” Eleanor explained, reading Bernie’s expression. “Much more efficient. I don’t hold with wasting time. Which brings me back to my cousin. As I said before, there’s nothing I can tell you about Clara. Nothing at all.”

  Bernie leaned against the kitchen counter. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions anyway?”

  Eleanor shrugged. “Obviously I don’t. Otherwise you wouldn’t be standing here now.”

  “Did Clara have any friends?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “She watched television all day long.”

  “She must have done something else,” Bernie persisted.

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “When she went out, where did she go?”

  “The same places most people do, I imagine.”

  “What about her family?”

  “What about it?”

  “Did she have any?”

  Eleanor drew herself up. “She and I were the last of our line, and now there’s only me. Some people would say that’s sad, but I say good riddance to us. It’s time to move on and give someone else on the planet some room.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “And now I think it’s time you left.”

  “One more thing,” Bernie said.

  “Make it quick,” Eleanor said.

  “Would you mind if I looked through her house?”

  Eleanor laughed. “Why would I mind?” she asked. “Look away to your heart’s content. Wait a minute.”

  Eleanor went over and opened the kitchen cabinet drawer next to the refrigerator and took something out. She walked back to Bernie.

  “Here,” she said as she put a key in Bernie’s hand. “I’ve had this for twenty years, heaven only knows why. It’s about time I got rid of it. This is the key to Clara’s front door. And don’t bring it back. I don’t want it. In fact, don’t come back at all. I’ve said all that I have to say on the subject of Clara McDougal.” And with that she escorted Bernie outside.

  Chapter 16

  B ernie turned the van on and sat back in her seat. She weighed the key sitting in the palm of her hand. It probably wouldn’t work after all this time. Surely Clara had changed the lock after twenty years. Not that it really mattered. She could always go through a window if need be. It was not an activity she was unfamiliar with.

  And even if the key did work she probably wouldn’t find anything of value in Clara’s house. The police had probably taken everything of any interest, bagged it, and carted it off to their evidence room when they’d claimed her body. Or possibly not. After all, this wasn’t a crime scene she was talking about. Clara had died, as the saying goes, of natural causes. The powers that be could have just left everything the way it was.

  And she did need to get back to the shop. She really did. There was dough to be made and pies to be baked. And Tim Conner was coming by with an estimate for the new exhaust fan. Plus, she had to go to the bank and make A Little Taste of Heaven’s deposit and get some change. They were running out of dimes and quarters in the shop.

  On the other hand, the weather was good. It was thirty degrees and clear. It wasn’t snowing or raining or icing, and according to the weather report any or all of those activities would not be starting till later in the evening.

  Which meant that the drive up to Clara McDougal’s house would be easy. When the weather was bad it was impossible—okay, not impossible—but it was extremely difficult, especially in her van. She should take advantage of the good weather while she could. It probably wasn’t going to last for long. It usually didn’t this time of year.

  Bernie looked at her watch. If she were quick, she could go through the McDougal house and be back at the shop in under two hours. She reached for her cell. She should tell Libby where she was headed.

  But if she did that she’d spend ten minutes arguing with Libby about what she was about to do. Possibly even more. These days everything threw Libby for a loop. Nope. It was better to just go ahead and do it. More efficient. And as her dad liked to say, it was always easier to ask for forgiveness than to get permission.

  And with that thought Bernie shut off her cell phone. That way there’d be no arguments. Then she put the car into reverse, backed out of Eleanor McDougal’s driveway, and headed for Clara McDougal’s house. The drive took Bernie longer than expected, but she liked going up the winding road with the view of the Hudson River in the distance. The tankers going downstream looked like little toys from her vantage. The road got rougher as she got closer to the McDougal house, and by the time she arrived it was a mass of ruts and gravel held together by a few pieces of tar.

  As Bernie parked her vehicle she wondered what had made Clara live in such a secluded spot. Didn’t she like people? Had something happened to her? Then she shrugged. All she knew was that she wouldn’t want to live up here.

  It’s true the view was lovely, but it was so far up in the hills that you couldn’t even hear traffic, just the sound of the wind through the pines. Bernie knew she was supposed to find that noise soothing, but she didn’t. She found it creepy. That’s why she didn’t go camping. Too quiet, and quiet made her nervous.

  She studied Clara’s house before approaching. The word tidy came to mind. It was her dad’s word, one that she liked. And it fit. The place was tidy, unlike Clara’s cousin Eleanor’s. In fact, it was as far away from hers as you could get.

  The cottage was white with green shutters and an actual white picket fence. The roses in the flower beds next to the house were covered with burlap that was neatly tied in place with twine. Bernie’s mom had covered her roses in late fall too, she recalled. Libby had always helped her.

  Bernie twisted her ring around her finger. She couldn’t help thinking that in the summer this must be a pretty place. She could see why hikers and backpackers would want to stop here before their forays into the woods. She could even picture herself living some place like this on the weekends. Seduced by the view, she shook her head. Who would have thought—usually she was seduced by the Prada window displays.

  She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and whirled around. Three deer were hanging out by a stand of trees gazing at her. She could feel herself smiling. She knew some people called them rodents on long legs, but she liked the way they looked. How can you not like Bambi? She took a step and the deer turned and galloped away. She laughed and headed back toward the house. She climbed the two steps, walked across the porch, and put the key in the lock. It fit perfectly.

  “Amazing,” Bernie said as the door opened.

  She stepped inside and looked around.

  She was standing in the living room. Again she thought of the place she’d just left with its piles and piles of books. By contrast, this place was bright and cheerful. There was a sofa on the far left. It was flanked by a rocker and a wingback chair with what looked like a coffee table made out of pine planks in the center.

  “Okay,” Bernie said to the house. “What do you have to tell me?”

  Then she felt silly. But it was true—houses did speak about their owners. Spaces talked. You just had to know how to listen. Even her dad said that. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath; opening them again, she looked around the living room.

  The furniture looked worn but well cared for. There was a braided rug in the center of the room that Bernie would have bet anything Clara had made herself. Maybe, Bernie thought, Eleanor disliked her cousin so much because she felt inferior to her in some way. Or maybe not. It didn’t really matter.

  Bernie looked at the pictures hanging on the wall. Most of them were decent watercolors of local scenes. Interesting. But there was nothing on the coffee table. Nothing on the floor, except a stain, which Bernie bet marked where the campers had found her.

  “I think I’d prefer clutter,” Bernie said out loud. At least that would be something to go through.

  This is going to be a waste of time, Bernie thought as she headed toward Ms. McDougal’s bedroom. The room was just as tidy as the living room. The bed was covered with a white chenille bedspread. Crocheted doilies covered the dresser drawers. The lamps on the nightstand were of cut glass. The place reminded Bernie of her grandmother’s bedroom. It even smelled liked it. She wrinkled her nose. Maybe talc and rosewater.

  Bernie looked at the picture hanging on the wall over the bed. It was a portrait of the cottage. The signature read Clara McDougal. So she was a painter. Bernie bet that if she examined the pictures in the living room they’d sport Clara’s McDougal’s signature as well.

  Even though she knew she wouldn’t find anything of interest, Bernie opened the dresser drawers and nightstand. Everything was neatly folded and in place. Evidently Clara had favored pastel-colored shirts and sweaters and white underwear. In the closet Bernie found neatly lined up pairs of jeans and corduroy pants, two pair of sneakers, one pair of clogs, and a pair of sandals.

  Bernie sighed as she walked into the dining room. She had half a mind to leave, but as long as she was here she might as well finish the job. Like her dad always said, “If a job is worth doing, it’s worth doing right.”

  The dining room was furnished with two large potted plants—Bernie didn’t know what kind—a small round table, a hutch filled with Rosenthal china and crystal, and a pretty light fixture that had to be, by Bernie’s estimate, at least one hundred years old. It struck Bernie that the one thing she didn’t see in the house was reading material. There were no books, no magazines, no newspapers. There was also no television, radio, or CD player that Bernie could see. Evidently Clara McDougal had lived what used to be called a contemplative life.

  Last room, Bernie thought as she walked into the kitchen. Libby would love this, she decided as she looked around. All the appliances were from the thirties—from the stove to the sink. And everything looked in working order. Bernie went over and turned on the stove’s right burner.

  Yup. It worked perfectly. Things like that were worth lots of money down in New York City. Last year, she’d seen one of them for four thousand dollars down in Soho. She drummed her fingers on her thighs while she looked around. The open shelves were lined with staples arranged in order of size and category. Bernie went over and opened the door to the pantry. Neatly labeled Mason jars glistened in front of her eyes.

  Again Bernie was reminded of her mom. She used to put up preserves each fall. Bernie had loved watching her mom’s eyes focus on the contents of the steaming pots, had loved helping her peel and pick and shell, had loved tasting to make sure everything was just right. But most of all Bernie had loved eating what her mom put up. Each bite reminded her that summer was coming.

  One by one she took the jars off the shelves, studied the labels, and replaced them. They were filled with applesauce, pickled beets, strawberry jam, blueberry chutney, dill pickles, bread and butter pickles, pickled green tomatoes, and stewed red tomatoes. A cornucopia of last summer’s harvest. Somehow it seemed a shame to leave the jars there. She was sure Clara would have wanted better for them. She decided to get a bag and take them with her. Maybe she could donate them or auction them off at the benefit. Somehow Bernie had a feeling that Clara would like that.

  Bernie stepped out of the kitchen and into the little room, the last room in the house. It housed an ancient washing machine and dryer, and a large, oak rolltop desk. A metal sign fixed to the front announced that it was the property of the S&L Railroad Line.

  “Okay,” Bernie said as she traced the sign with her fingers. She wondered where the line had gone.

  The desk looked promising, more promising actually than anything else she’d come upon since she’d entered Clara McDougal’s house. She sat down and pushed the top of the desk up. It let out a loud creak.

  She scanned the interior. There were neat little cubbies, all of them filled with papers or office supplies. Bernie went through the desk quickly. Most of the papers seemed to involve bills, which Clara had evidently paid promptly. She’d either thrown out her junk mail or she didn’t get any.

  On the bottom of the stack of mail Bernie came across a letter from Just Chocolate. It read:

  Dear Ms. McDougal,

  Please accept this box of chocolates with gratitude. We appreciate your longtime patronage and hope we may continue to serve you.

  Fondly, Marnie.

  Interesting, Bernie thought. She looked at the letter more closely. It was computer generated, signature and all. Still, it merited a call. She reached for her cell and turned it back on. When she did she saw that she had a message from Libby. Oh dear. She’d call her after she called Marnie. Then she remembered the chocolates she’d seen in the bowl on the kitchen table. She hadn’t paid them any attention, but now that she thought about them she wanted to see what they were.

  As she went back into the kitchen she suddenly felt tired. What she needed was some coffee. A coffee with cream and sugar. She could almost taste it on her tongue. But that would have to wait till she got out of here. She went over to the table and picked one of the chocolates out of the bowl. If she’d been paying attention she would have realized when she saw it that it looked like Just Chocolate’s coffee almond crunch. She put the candy down, reached for her phone, and dialed Just Chocolate’s number.

  Marnie answered a moment later. Bernie could hear the sounds of people talking in the background.

  “Marnie?” Bernie asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Did you send Ms. McDougal a complimentary box of chocolates?”

  “Yes, we did. We do it twice a year.”

  “Isn’t that a little unusual?”

  “Not really. We do that for all our good customers. I find they really appreciate the gesture. It’s worth the expense.”

  “How good a customer was she?”

  “She had a standing order. Every month we sold her a box each of coffee almond crunch and hazelnut truffles. The lady had good taste. She said two boxes a month were just right. She had one piece of candy each night after dinner.”

  “And how long did she have the order for?”

  “Let me think.” There was a pause on the other end, and then Marnie said, “Maybe four years. Could be five. I’m not sure.”

  “So you knew her?”

  “Never met the lady.”

  “But you just said she had a standing order.”

  “Indeed I did. Her order came in over the phone and we mailed it to her. We do that with lots of our customers. Why?”

  “No reason,” Bernie said. “I just wondered, that’s all.”

  “Does this have anything to do with my husband’s…” Bernie could hear Marnie’s voice break.

  “Not really,” Bernie confessed. The phrase “grasping at straws” came to her mind, although when she thought about it she couldn’t figure out what that phrase actually meant.

  “Then you should focus on what’s important,” Marnie snapped.

  “I’m trying,” Bernie said.

  “Not hard enough from what I can see,” Marnie growled. She hung up the phone before Bernie could reply.

  “Same to you,” Bernie told her even though she had already hung up.

  Although maybe Marnie Gorman was right. Maybe this was a total waste of time. She didn’t know any more about what happened to Ted Gorman than she did before. She also didn’t know any more about Clara McDougal than she did before. Okay. That wasn’t strictly true.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24