The Fool Dies Last, page 17
‘Certainly. It’s at the brownstone. There’s no question about that.’
Sylvia turned to Gerald with a triumphant air. ‘You see? I told you it was at the boutique.’
‘Not the boutique,’ Gram corrected her. ‘The attic.’
Hope groaned. ‘Oh, no.’
Gram responded with an apologetic smile. ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘But there are a hundred unmarked boxes in the attic. Please tell me that you have some clue which one it might be in.’
Another apologetic smile. ‘I’m afraid not.’
Hope sighed, knowing that she was going to be the one who would have to search through all those boxes. And she was going to have to do it with the possible opposition of the attic’s inhabitants, although she certainly couldn’t say that in front of Sylvia and Gerald.
‘I hope this isn’t just an excuse,’ Gerald remarked in agitation. ‘Some concocted pretext because you don’t want us to see the paper.’
‘Are you suggesting that I might have an ulterior motive?’ Gram chuckled. ‘Don’t be a fool.’
Hope didn’t laugh with her.
EIGHTEEN
Some six hours later, as the sun was beginning to dip below the edge of the city, Hope sank down wearily on one of the rattan settees on the back patio of the brownstone. A glass of wine in one hand, she propped her feet up on a corner of the box that contained the new raised bed for the garden. Given the dismal state of Summer’s marriage, there was absolutely no chance that Gary was going to use his illustrious carpentry skills to assemble the bed for them now. She wondered if Nate was at all handy. Perhaps Summer could sweet-talk him into doing a bit of construction work.
‘Hope?’
She jumped at the unexpected voice and, to her surprise, found Dylan standing at the edge of the garden, just outside the wrought-iron fence that separated the rear of the property from the alleyway. He appeared almost otherworldly, illuminated in the orange glow of the horizon.
‘I knocked on the door of the boutique,’ he said, ‘but no one answered.’
‘We’re appointment-only on Sundays.’
There was a brief pause, then he tried again.
‘I could see that there were lights on further inside, so I thought you might be home. Am I intruding?’
Another pause. Hope hadn’t forgotten his appalling remarks from earlier that day, but after spending the afternoon lifting, lugging, and combing through stacks of cobweb-covered boxes in the attic, she no longer had the energy to be angry.
‘The gate is unlocked.’
She didn’t need to tell him twice. Dylan immediately lifted the latch and entered the garden. He found a winding path of flagstones, surrounded by giant pots, towering trellises, and half a dozen beds of varying sizes. Every inch of soil was crowded with herbs and edibles and ornamentals, all flush with fresh spring growth.
‘This is a really nice space you have back here,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ Hope responded politely. ‘We all work on it, Gram included. It’s wonderfully cool on summer evenings when the rest of Asheville is baking like a convection oven.’
‘I can imagine. Your own private oasis in the middle of the proverbial concrete desert.’
As Dylan navigated his way through the labyrinth of greenery, Hope debated with herself. Should she invite him to sit down? Offer him a glass of wine? She had little desire to pick a fight. And she didn’t want to cause any further tensions between Morris and Gram. Gram was presently at Morris’s house attempting to heal the current rift by explaining the secret of the tontine to him.
‘What did you plant today?’ Dylan asked her, when he reached the patio.
‘Nothing. Why?’
‘Well, for starters, you look like you’ve been digging.’
‘Do I?’ Glancing down, Hope saw the streaks of dirt on her arms and shirt. ‘I wasn’t expecting any visitors this evening, so I didn’t bother to tidy up.’ She picked a dust bunny off her shoulder and tucked some stray strands of hair behind one ear. Realizing that there were probably smudges of dust and dirt on her face, too, she remarked ruefully, ‘I must look lovely right now.’
‘I can’t imagine you ever not looking lovely.’
The compliment surprised her. It might have been baloney, but it was still flattering, and any remaining grudge on Hope’s part was temporarily pushed aside.
‘Take a seat, if you like.’ She gestured toward the neighboring settee. ‘There’s an open bottle of wine – along with a few other options – on the potting stand by the patio door.’
Dylan turned toward the stand, saw the extensive collection of liquor bottles and mismatched glasses, and laughed. ‘Those are more than a few options. And that’s the first time I’ve seen a potting stand used as a bar.’
‘It was Summer’s idea. She says there’s no point having a patio if you don’t stock it properly.’
Laughing some more, Dylan took a quick survey of the bottles. He selected a bonded bourbon and poured a generous serving into a chunky square glass.
‘Cheers,’ he said, settling himself on the neighboring settee.
‘Cheers.’
They sat without speaking for some time, sipping their drinks and watching the sun sink slowly out of view. A hummingbird flitted to the crimson feeder for a last drop of nectar. A chipmunk scurried over the flagstones toward its protective burrow.
When he had emptied his glass, Dylan rose for a refill. ‘Another for me. More wine for you?’
Hope nodded.
‘So if you weren’t planting back here this afternoon,’ he said, refreshing their respective beverages, ‘were you helping out at some archeological dig?’
She smiled. ‘You’re not that far off, actually. Except instead of hunting for prehistoric bones and pottery shards, I was searching for ancient documents.’
‘In the garden?’ Dylan remarked incredulously.
‘In the attic – hence the dust and dirt. It tends to accumulate up there. As I told you before, we try to avoid going into the attic when possible.’
‘Because of the rickety stairs and the ghosts, right? Did either give you much trouble today?’
‘No. The stairs were fine. But the ghosts will be restless tonight. I disturbed their space – and their peace, such as it is.’
The last time she had discussed the attic’s inhabitants with him, a befuddled crease had formed in Dylan’s brow. This time he placidly took a sip of bourbon.
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ he asked, returning to his seat and handing Hope a full wine glass.
‘Unfortunately not. The place is jammed with a mountain of boxes, bins, crates, and containers. Almost none of it is labeled or organized in any practical way. There is everything from old rocking chairs and housewares to tattered toys and sporting equipment. Speaking of which, would you believe I found a pair of antique snowshoes? They look as though they’ve been strung with natural rawhide. It’s beautifully done, almost like artwork.’
‘Native American?’
‘That’s my best guess. I have no clue how they got into the attic. But in any event, there is way too much stuff up there, which makes locating one small specific thing – in this case, a piece of paper – frustratingly difficult.’
Now a crease did form in Dylan’s brow. ‘Do you mean the paper that Rosemarie mentioned this morning? The one that Sylvia Norquist was talking about in the park with some mystery man?’
Hope’s eyes widened. ‘You really have an impressive memory.’
‘At times.’ Dylan shrugged. ‘But it can be both a blessing and a curse.’
She looked at him questioningly. Although his face was shadowed by the approaching dusk, she could see that his expression was grave.
‘Remembering too much isn’t always good,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you understand.’
There was such somberness in his tone that Hope knew instantly he was referring to February, and she looked hastily away, grateful for the concealing shadows.
Dylan hesitated a moment, took a large draft of bourbon, and then cleared his throat. ‘I owe you an apology, Hope. I shouldn’t have said what I did this morning. It was unfair and unkind.’
She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. She was too startled by his contrition – and also by her ready willingness to forgive him. It might have been partly because of how tired she was from her efforts in the attic, but Hope knew that it was mostly due to her overall fatigue. She was exhausted from thinking about what had happened in February for so many subsequent weeks and months. Exhausted from turning the events over in her mind a hundred, a thousand, a million times. Dylan was right. Too good a memory was indeed a curse.
After another large draft, Dylan said, ‘I shouldn’t have listened to Rosemarie on the driveway at your sister’s house. It’s not her story to tell.’
With some effort, Hope found her voice. ‘No, it’s not Rosemarie’s story. But it’s also not a secret. Secrets don’t help anyone.’
She thought about Gram’s secret. Morris would have been much happier knowing about the tontine from the beginning. And the police should have been told promptly, as well. Nate wasn’t going to be pleased when he learned that they had kept potentially relevant information about Marilyn and Roberta’s deaths from him.
‘Secrets don’t help anyone,’ Hope repeated to herself. Then she took a deep breath and said aloud, ‘His name was Tom – Tom Ellis – and he was a paramedic. We had been engaged since Thanksgiving. Our wedding was planned for September.’
After a shaky drink of wine, she continued, ‘We had several bad storms in this area during the past winter. The worst one was in February. It was solid ice. Trees and power lines were down everywhere. Most of the city and half of the state were without electricity for over a week.
‘Tom worked almost non-stop for three days. So many people were injured. There were collapsed roofs, chimney fires, broken bones, frostbite. And on the fourth night, it happened. He had been called to the scene of a car accident. It turned out to be only a minor crash. Just a fender bender on a slippery road. But it was pitch-black outside.’ Hope swallowed hard. ‘As Tom was checking on one of the passengers, a driver in the oncoming traffic was distracted by a phone call and hit them full force. Tom died on impact.’
There was silence.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Dylan said.
Hope breathed a sigh of relief. She was relieved to have the story out in the open. And she was relieved by Dylan’s limited response.
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘for not making a speech. I can’t bear to have one more person tell me how grateful I should be that it was a quick death and Tom didn’t suffer. Of course I’m grateful he didn’t suffer! But after the fiftieth person hugs you and tells you it’s all somehow a blessing in disguise, you really want to scream.’
Dylan nodded. ‘I can relate. Even after so many years, whenever anyone finds out that my mom died due to complications from childbirth, they insist on discussing it. It’s never a simple word or two in sympathy. It’s always a grand oration, usually with a good deal of religious sentiment. I know they mean well, but I wish they would step back and realize how difficult it is for me to hear over and over again.’
Hope nodded back at him in commiseration, then she leaned her head against the settee and looked up at the twilight sky. There were only a few streaks of indigo left along the horizon. The first pale stars were beginning to appear.
‘Could I ask you something?’ Dylan said after a moment.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Rosemarie said that you stopped working with the Tarot because of the accident. I’m curious why.’
Hope’s eyes remained on the sky. ‘The simple answer is that I blamed the Tarot for what happened. In truth, though, the cards weren’t to blame. The cards are never to blame. The fault lies with the reader – and the reader was me. I was so busy with trivialities that I didn’t pay attention to the bigger picture. I didn’t see the forest for the trees, as the saying goes.’
‘But is it really possible to see the forest? To see something of actual consequence?’ Dylan replied, his voice heavy with skepticism. ‘I understand that looking at the cards – like reading palms or tea leaves – can make the people who come to your boutique feel better about their lives. You offer them a sense of control and reassurance in a spinning, rocky world. But you can’t honestly think there’s more to it than that. You can’t truly believe the Tarot is able to show anything of genuine import.’
Under other circumstances, Hope might have been offended. Or she might have laughed at Dylan’s naiveté. But not tonight. Gazing up at the heavens, Hope felt more at peace than she had in a long time. Perhaps it was from talking about Tom. Or the extra glass of wine she’d had. Or listening to the evening lullaby of the red-breasted robin perched on the garden gate. Regardless of the reason, Hope’s response was mild.
‘Ask a question,’ she told Dylan, ‘and the cards will answer. We each choose how to interpret that answer, how much significance to give it.’
‘What if I don’t ask a question?’ he rejoined.
‘Then you won’t get an answer.’
‘But what kind of answers could I possibly expect from a bunch of plastic-coated pieces of paper!’
Although Hope couldn’t fully see his face, it was clear from Dylan’s tone that he did not share her feeling of peace. It occurred to her that while talking about Tom had been comforting to her, talking about his mom might have had the opposite effect on Dylan. A little light and a slightly lighter topic seemed a wise choice.
‘It’s gotten awfully dark,’ Hope said, rising from her settee. ‘I’ll get some candles.’
Along with the liquor bottles and drinking glasses, there was also an assortment of candles on the potting stand. Hope collected several and set them in a haphazard row on the resin coffee table in front of the settees. It took her a moment to find the box of fireplace matches that had been tucked behind a flowerpot. Striking one of the long matches, she succeeded in lighting all the candles before the flame reached her fingers.
‘That’s better.’ She blew out the match and dropped it into her empty wine glass.
‘Much better,’ Dylan agreed. ‘Now I won’t trip and fall in my quest for the bourbon bottle.’
Hope smiled, pleased that his mood had brightened. ‘While we’re on the subject of quests’ – she handed him the bottle before returning to her seat – ‘Summer is currently on a mission – in her bedroom, on the internet – to learn everything she can about chandlery.’
‘Chandlery?’
‘Candle making. We’ve had such bad luck with our candle orders for the boutique lately that Summer thinks we should try making them ourselves.’
Dylan refilled his glass. ‘Back in college, I had a girlfriend who made her own candles.’
‘And?’ Hope said.
‘And we broke up.’
‘No, I mean, how were the candles?’
He shrugged. ‘They weren’t much better than the relationship. All the candles tilted. And they made popping and crackling noises whenever we burned them. I think she said it was from air bubbles that had gotten into the wax. One time she scalded her arm so bad while melting the wax that I had to take her to the emergency room.’
‘Yikes.’ Hope frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound promising. Maybe we won’t try making candles ourselves, after all.’
‘If you do, I’m sure that you’ll be better at it than she was. She was never the sharpest knife in the drawer. From everything I’ve seen, you’re smart and competent. You run your own business. That’s impressive.’
It was the second compliment that Dylan had paid her that evening, and it surprised Hope as much as the first. While deliberating how to respond, a flickering candle caught her attention. She looked over at it and saw wax streaming down the side of a leaning pillar.
‘Speaking of tilting candles,’ she said, getting up and hurriedly putting a coaster under the pillar. The top of the table was already scratched and marred from many years of patio use; even so, a puddle of hot wax wasn’t beneficial.
Dylan raised his glass in salute. ‘Crisis averted.’
Hope laughed. ‘Let’s cross our fingers that it’s the biggest crisis we have this coming week. Because we really don’t want a repeat of last—’
She didn’t finish the sentence. Dylan was suddenly on his feet, standing next to her. In one swift movement, he had his arms around her, and his lips were on hers.
NINETEEN
Hope’s first instinct was to protest, but the reflex faded as quickly as it had arisen, drowned by waves of warmth. Dylan’s body was warm, and his mouth was warm, and his tongue had the fiery taste of bourbon. She pressed against him, wanting more. His arms tightened around her, and his kisses deepened. A rush of energy raced along her spine. Dylan’s hands were in her hair, his long fingers caressing the back of her neck. His mouth moved along her jaw and down to the hollow of her throat. Hope’s head spun, lost in sensations of pleasure. It felt good. Almost painfully good. She hadn’t been held – she hadn’t been kissed – in what seemed like such a long time. Since February, since Tom. And then Hope stiffened, abruptly remembering where she was and who she was with.
Dylan’s kisses stopped at her sudden restraint, but his arms didn’t release her.
‘How’s that for a crisis?’ he said, smiling at her.
The question and the smile came leisurely. If he was at all shaken or unsettled by what had just happened between them, he didn’t show it. Dylan appeared thoroughly at ease, one of his hands lingering in her hair. For her part, Hope’s heart was pounding furiously in her chest. Her legs were so wobbly beneath her that she was glad of Dylan’s support.
‘We–we shouldn’t …’ she began unevenly.
‘Shouldn’t we?’ he returned.
Hope looked at him. Reflected in the candlelight, Dylan’s eyes were a glittering midnight blue. She couldn’t read them. Whatever he was thinking – or feeling – it was hidden from her view.
