The Paper Detective. E. Joan Sims
Читать онлайн книгу.
her for different reasons. Her house had been a quiet refuge during my years as a confused and rebellious adolescent. She and her porcelain doll, Phoebe, had listened patiently to my interminable tales of woe over endless cups of hot chocolate. Now, I thought, was the perfect time for another cup.
I trudged gamely through the dirty snow and ice on the shoulder of the road until I reached her driveway. She had already had it cleared by some enterprising soul, and the going was much easier as I walked up to her house.
Nicholas and Dora Nick had begun to build their big, beautiful home while they were still on their honeymoon. It had taken three years. Nicholas had been killed by a young German soldier before he got to carry his bride over the threshold. Stalwart and brave, Dora had moved in and made a life on the pattern they had planned, minus the six children.
She answered the door shortly after my first knock. “Paisley, love! Come in before you freeze to death.” She looked up at me over little gold-rimmed glasses as I stepped inside her entry hall.
“Your nose is red!” she protested. “How long have you been outside?”
She hurried past me, her tiny figure still trim and neat, firing a barrage of questions without waiting for a single answer.
“When did you cut your hair? I love it. I’ve been thinking about cutting mine but Nicholas wouldn’t like it. Oh, no, he loved my hair long.”
I followed her into the cozy warmth of her parlor and shrugged off my jacket. A toasty seat on the hearth beckoned.
“Just a minute dear while I ask Rosie to bring us some chocolate. Would you like a sweet? Of course you would. You always loved my shortcake. I’ll insist she put some on a tray.”
She came closer and whispered loudly, “She’s been threatening to put me on a diet because she’s gaining weight! Imagine that!”
Dora hurried out to the kitchen and left me to gaze around at a room that hadn’t changed since my childhood. Above the fireplace, a beautiful hand-carved oak mantle showcased several ornate picture frames with photographs of a handsome young man—in and out of uniform. Cheerful red-and-white striped taffeta drapes surrounded the big bay windows and brought out the red hues in the oriental rugs that covered the polished wood floor. Two big sofas upholstered in navy velvet sat in the center of the room, with a square mahogany table in between.
When the fire had warmed me sufficiently, I moved over to one of the sofas and sank back in the soft cushions. My eyes went to my favorite painting, a seascape of the New England shore with a sailing ship in the distance. Nicholas had been from Maine. When I was a child I had never tired of looking at that seascape, and it brought peace and calm to me even now.
Dora came bustling back in the room with Rosie in her wake.
“You still love that silly picture? Why of course you do. Look at your face. You could be ten years old again!”
Rosie Cummins was as rotund as Dora was slender. Her face was as round as a biscuit, and the spotless white apron she always wore barely met around her ample middle. She had lived with and cared for Dora for the last thirty years. They fussed and bickered constantly, but I knew that they were as fond of each other as sisters.
I helped Rosie put the heavy tray down on the table as she babbled on.
“My, my, it’s good to see you, dear. Stay for dinner. I’m making pasties. You used to love them, I remember. Dora loves them, too. But she really shouldn’t…”
Dora’s thin little shoulder squared for the beginning of one of their pitched battles. I leapt in to head it off. I wasn’t up to any controversy.
“I’d love to have dinner with you, but Mother and Cassie will be expecting me.”
“Invite them, too, dear,” urged Dora.
“Yes, do!” chorused Rosie with a grin.
I smiled at their genuine affection.
“Some other time, I promise.”
“Well,” sighed Dora, “at least you can have some cocoa with me.”
Rosie apologized for having to get back to the kitchen. “I’ve something in the oven that needs watching. Come back,” she murmured in my ear as she gave me a hug. “Come back when she’s taking a nap, and we’ll have those pasties.”
Dora made a face at her retreating back and turned to offer me a piece of shortbread.
“Paisley, I haven’t had a chance to tell you how much I loved your friend’s last book. My, it was thrilling!” she said, her eyes shining with excitement. “I do hope you will introduce us sometime.”
I had explained to Dora many times that Leonard Paisley was my nom de plume, that he really didn’t exist, but I think she honestly preferred to believe he was real than to accept the fact that little Paisley Sterling had written such wild and wooly tales of murder and mayhem. I took a tender, buttery mouthful of shortbread and steered the subject in another direction.
“Tell me what you know about Bert Atkins.”
“The ex-Police Chief from Hall County? Yes,” she said answering herself. “He’s a fine man. His wife was a lovely girl. I knew her grandmother. What a shame she died so young. Burt’s never been the same, they say.” She shook her little head with its coronet of white braids. “Made a lot of enemies. Death threats and all. Blackberry jam?”
“What kind of enemies, Dora?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Wicked people with grudges, I suppose. It’s hard being the law in a little town. You grow up with boyhood friends and then have to turn around and arrest them.”
Try as I might, I could get her to say no more. We spoke pleasantly about Cassie’s accomplishments at Emory and Mother’s new wardrobe. Dora told me that she and Rosie had planned to go to Florida that winter but decided against it at the last minute. They wanted to have a white Christmas.
“Well, it looks like you’re going to have your wish. If this keeps up for another three weeks, that is.”
Dora laughed and topped off my cup with some more hot chocolate.
“Why don’t you tell me why you really came, dear?”
I laughed and started to protest, but the words wouldn’t get past the lump in my throat.
Dora patted my hand and then held it in her tiny little one. Her wide gold wedding band gleamed in the firelight. It had been on her ring finger for the last seventy years. She would understand about commitment, and vows, and wanting to believe someone was still alive somewhere. She would know why I rebuffed Bert’s advances. She had probably felt the same fierce desires and yearnings and known the same guilt.
I looked at her frail old-woman’s body and imagined the beautiful young girl made a widow too soon. Dora would know better than anyone why I’d cried all the way home. And why I was crying now.
I told her everything.
Chapter Seven
My step was lighter as I walked back home under a sky brilliant with the cold fire of winter stars. The wind was sharp and cold, and I realized that my new haircut meant I would now have to wear a hat to keep my head warm.
Cassie and Mother were in the kitchen, laughing and talking. I hurried to join them, eager to share in their fun and put aside my selfish, moody introspection.
“How are Dora and Rosie?” asked Mother. “I hear they’re not going to Florida. Maybe they’ll join us for Christmas dinner.”
“Mom, Pam called from New York to see if you had found Leonard yet. I told her I thought so. She said call her if you had and get busy if you haven’t.”
“Paisley, will you set the table, dear? Cassandra, please hand me the soup tureen.”
Quite easily, I was caught up in the comfortable, ordinary things that make up the whole of a