Lilac Avenue
Authors: Pamela Grandstaff
| Lilac Avenue |
| Rose Hill [6] |
| Pamela Grandstaff |
| (2013) |
Hill after working in Hollywood for twenty years, she never dreamed she
had come home to stay. Three months later she is working at the Bee Hive
Hair Salon, sleeping in her childhood bedroom, and wondering what to do
with the rest of her life. When one of her customers is murdered,
Claire is determined to find out who did it and why. She’s also learning
that when a situation feels familiar, it may be a sign to run in the
opposite direction.
Police Chief Scott Gordon doesn’t believe
Rose Hill’s crankiest octogenarian died from natural causes, but he
dreads calling in the Sheriff’s homicide detective Sarah Albright to
help him prove it. He’s finally engaged to the love of his life, and he
doesn’t want anything, or anyone, to rock the leaky boat that is his
relationship with Maggie Fitzpatrick. Everyone in town has an opinion
about their wedding, but the person whose opinion matters most – Maggie –
doesn’t want to talk about it.
It’s June in Rose Hill, and
along with the warm sunshine and blue skies have come political
upheaval, shocking scandals, and an outbreak of mysterious murders.
Lilac Avenue
by Pamela Grandstaff
For my father, John R. Grandstaff
1934-2012
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articl
es and reviews. Copyright © 2013 Pamela Grandstaff. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
- Tuesday
Mamie Rodefeffer used her cane to clear the aisle of feet as she lugged her tote bags between the crowded tables at the Mountain Laurel Depot Diner. She dumped the bags on the floor near the chair at her usual table, a tiny two-top next to the beverage station. She liked the view, fuzzy as it was, that she had from there, and the frequent opportunities it provided her to abuse the wait staff. She peeled off her raincoat, so threadbare it no longer repelled moisture, which still left several cardigans to warm her bones. At ninety-seven years of age, and skinny as a skeleton, she was always cold, but lately she never could seem to get warm.
That hussy, Phyllis Davis, ignored her for as long as she could,
and had the temerity to take a coffee pot around to all her other tables before she finally got back to Mamie’s.
“What can I ge
t ya, Mamie, dear?” she said.
“I’ll have
a cup of fresh coffee, very hot, with three sugars and two tablespoons of real cream,” Mamie said. “None of that powdered stuff.”
“We
’ve got half and half,” Phyllis said. “Sugar’s on the table, like it always is.”
“When I was young we used silver tongs to take sugar cubes from a china bowl,” Ma
mie said. “We used honey when there was a war on.”
“Mm
hmm, fascinating,” Phyllis said. “What do you want to eat?”
“I’d like one egg, coddled for four minutes, and brioche French toast with real maple syrup.”
“I know that’s what you ate with your silver spoon a hundred years ago,” Phyllis said. “But here in the real world today what are ya having?”
“It doesn’t matter
,” Mamie said. “Whatever they make will be underdone or burnt.”
“So, o
ne egg over easy and white toast with real butter,” Phyllis said, and started to walk away.
“Not so fast,” Mamie said. “I’m thinking of trying something different.”
“I ain’t got all day,” Phyllis said. “I’ve got other tables, ya know.”
“Something sweet,” Mamie said. “Do you have any pastries?”
“I’ll check,” Phyllis said.
Mamie took off her walking glasses and put on her reading glasses. She felt around in one of her tote bags until she found
the paperback with a bookmark in it. She opened it and held it close to her face. She could barely make out the letters. She fished around in her handbag for her page magnifier, and using that and her reading glasses, she could read, albeit one word at a time. It was worse than an inconvenience, this blindness; it was agonizing.
Around her she could hear voices, jumbled conversations
overlapping the sounds of utensils scraping plates, glassware clinking. Being legally blind for most of her adult life, Mamie had developed keen hearing. She scanned the room, and tilted her head so subtly that she was sure no one could detect it. One particular conversation pricked her interest. She knew that voice very well. It was a woman known to have very accurate information and a compulsion to share it. The topic was one that not only interested Mamie, but was about one of her nephews.
“
They fired Knox,” the woman was saying. “I heard this from someone who was in the meeting when it happened. Had Roy escort him right out of the bank in broad daylight. Misappropriation of bank funds, they said, and multiple conflicts of interest. That secretary got the sack, too. She’ll land on her feet, no doubt, looking like she does.”
“Is
his wife still in the booby hatch?” the woman’s breakfast companion asked.
“The second wife is,
” the woman said. “Her son was at Eldridge and ran over some tourist back in April. He was high on drugs. That was when Knox was still planning to run for the United States Senate. I guess Knox locked Meredith up in his office safe to keep her mouth shut, and when she came out she was so crazy she tried to kill him. Then there was a huge scandal over the back room deals he was doing with the mayor, and he decided not to run for office. They closed the wife’s tea-room; there’s a ‘for sale’ sign in the window.”
“Where’s the first wife?”
“That’s a wild story,” the woman said. “Had you heard she was in a car wreck a few years ago and Knox shipped her off to rehab? Well, let me tell you, when Anne Marie came back from rehab she was nutty as a fruitcake. She’s a professional psychic now; living out in California, making millions. She’s written some kind of book, and she has her own resort or something, where people go to get their fortunes told and have spa treatments.”
“I bet Knox wishes he had some of her money now.”
“He probably has millions stashed in some off-shore account,” the woman said. “You know how shady those politicians are.”
“There’s his Aunt Mamie over there. We better keep it down.”
“Don’t worry about that. She’s blind as a bat and deaf as a post,” the woman said. “I can’t believe she’s still alive.”
“I hear
d she’s broke.”
“I heard that, too,” the woman said. “It’s a shame, really. She was once the richest woman in this town
but she’ll die a penniless spinster.”
“I heard
during the war there was a man who worked for her father, a foreigner.”
“That’s true,” the woman said. “So sad. Poor old Mamie.”
“Mean as a snake.”
“Oh, yes, that she is,” the woman said. “Bitter probably, over her sad life.”
Mamie felt the sting of moisture in her eyes, and groped for her handbag to get her handkerchief. She took off her reading glasses and lay them down on the table.
“What’s the matter, Mamie?
” Phyllis asked, as she set down her coffee cup and saucer with a clank.
“I have something in my eye,” Mamie said. “Please excuse me.”
Mamie put on her walking glasses, picked up her cane, and made her way to the restroom. Once in there, she removed her glasses, splashed cold water on her face and then patted it dry with a paper towel. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the cold tile wall.
She thought of
Nino, with his dark eyes that could melt her with longing, or break her heart with sadness. She thought of the baby, so red and squalling, the only glimpse she had of it before it was whisked away. She thought of her father, who afterwards never looked at her with the same doting devotion, but with a begrudging contempt, as if she were just one more entry on the Glassworks books, forever in the debit column.
Before the scandal
, her mother, or the woman she’d thought of as her mother, had only had kind words for her in public, or before the audience of their servants. In private she avoided Mamie, and seemed not to be able to stand to touch her. After the scandal her mother’s manner had turned from benign neglect to frosty disdain, barely concealed even in public.
Afterward
, Mamie escaped into the world of her books, and only surfaced into the real world when it could not be avoided. She resented any intrusion into her fantasy life, or any impediment to her access to more books. The books were her sanity, her salvation. If they were taken away, she didn’t know what she would do.
Back at her table, her egg was cold, her toast was burnt. She didn’t even try the coffee.
“Phyllis,” she called out.
“I’ll be there in a minute, Mamie,” Phyllis answered in a harried tone. To someone else she said, “I think she’s getting touched in the head.”
Mamie was furious, so angry she trembled. She gathered up her belongings and knocked over her chair in her haste to stand.
“Keep your girdle on,” Phyllis said. “I’m coming.”
Several people laughed.
Mamie struggled to put on her raincoat and button it up. She grabbed her cane and stuck it out in front of her.
“Watch out,” she heard a man say. “She’s coming through.”
She heard their laughter;
she could imagine their looks. She was just a crazy old lady, someone to laugh and roll their eyes at. She hated them, all of them.
“Mamie, you didn’t pay,” Phyllis called out.
“I’ll pay for it,” she heard the gossiping woman say. “Poor dear, can’t even afford her breakfast.”
Mamie was relieved to get out of the restaurant, away from the people. She could smell the river, and the moisture in the
cool air felt good on her face. She turned toward the glass factory, where she had worked so many years ago, in the accounting office during the war. So many handsome, strong young men were taken. By the time the war was over there were only old men and young boys left, too old or too young for her. Not that she wanted any of them, and they only wanted her money.
Mamie made her way up
Pine Mountain Road as much from memory as what was left of her sight. She knew where every hump in the sidewalk was, every tree root that might trip her, every puddle she might step in. Not much in Rose Hill had changed over the years, because no one could afford to change anything. Now, outsiders were buying up old homes, tearing them down, and building condos to rent to tourists or students. The property taxes kept going up, and eventually the new people would demand better streets and safer sidewalks. Mamie knew that soon everything was going to change, and then, as blind as she was getting, she wouldn’t know where she was.
“Good morning,
Mamie,” Ed Harrison said from the doorway to his newspaper office.
“My paper was late this
morning,” she said. “Fifteen minutes late.”
“Tommy’s gone on a vacation with his friends,” Ed said. “It’s just me rolling and delivering this week.”
“I don’t pay for a late paper,” Mamie said. “I will deduct it from my bill.”
“Have a nice day,” Ed said, and Mamie could hear the smile in his voice.
Mamie crossed the street, ignoring the screech of brakes and horn honking that accompanied her progress. They all drove too fast, and everyone knows pedestrians have the right of way. She felt her way into the post office and greeted the postmistress, Sadie, who smelled strongly of the cheap perfume she always wore.
“I’ll take
my mail,” Mamie said.
She
felt for the correct key on her key ring, and then handed it to the blurry form of the postmistress.
Sadie took the key and brought her mail
back, saying, “There you go, hon.”
“You will address me as Miss Rodefeffer,” Mamie said. “I resent being
spoken to in that familiar manner.”
“Sorry, Miss Rodefeffer,” Sadie said.
Mamie heard the impertinent woman laughing at her with another customer as she went out.
“Poor old Mamie,”
she said.
Mamie felt with her cane all the way to the curb and
in between two parked cars. She listened, and didn’t hear any cars approaching. As soon as she stepped out into the street, however, someone grabbed her arm, pulled her back, and almost knocked her off her feet. There was a screech of brakes and a horn honked before a car zoomed off.
“Carefu
l, lady,’ the young man said. “You almost got hit.”
“Take yo
ur hands off me,” Mamie said, “before I call the police.”
“You’re okay now,” he said as he let go. “I’ll make sure you get across.”
“I don’t need your help,” Mamie said. “I need to be left alone.”
“Geez, what a grouch,” a young girl’s voice
said.
“She’s just old and doesn’t feel good,” the young man said. “You’d be grouchy
, too, if you were her.”
Mamie gained the far curb, muttering about the impertinence of the young people who had just helped her safely cross the street.
“Let them run me down,” she muttered. “It would be a relief.”
The bell above the door to the bookstore tinkled, and Mamie bange
d her way in, knocking over a display perched close to the entryway.
“Jeanette,” she demanded. “Jeanette, there seems to be something in the way
over here.”
“Oh m
y, so there was,” Jeanette said. “Why don’t you leave your tote bags with me, Miss Rodefeffer, while you look for a new book?”
“Nonsense,” Mamie said. “You’ve got the list, you know what
I have and haven’t read. Pick out something you think I’ll like. You’ll probably be wrong, but try anyway. I’ll wait here.”
Mamie’s heart was thumping in her chest. She had recently been
publicly banned from this store by the owner, an ill-tempered piece of Irish trash named Maggie Fitzpatrick, so she was hoping to slip in and out unnoticed. The morning manager, Jeanette, was just as stupid as they all were but willing to sell her books, nonetheless. Mamie used to sit in the café every morning and enjoy a cranberry scone and coffee, overpriced as it was, but she didn’t dare push her luck since she’d been banned. It was more important to get the books.
“
Here are three new ones you haven’t read,” Jeanette said, and Mamie could hear her drop the books down on the counter. “I’m afraid we can only take cash, Miss Rodefeffer. Your last check bounced.”