Cavanaugh Strong. Marie Ferrarella
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you leave me no choice. I hope you’re decent because I’m coming in,” Lucy announced, putting her hand on the doorknob.
“I wouldn’t do that,” a pleasant, albeit somewhat condescending and authoritative, voice behind her said before she could turn the doorknob and let herself into Henry’s room.
Surprised, Lucy turned around to see Amanda Wright. The rather attractive, statuesque dark-haired woman, who volunteered a couple of days a week at the home, was standing almost directly behind her.
“Henry likes his privacy,” Amanda told her.
Lucy’s back went up. She resented this woman, in her early fifties, presuming to know her lifelong friend better than she did.
For the sake of peace, Lucy took a breath in order to subdue her temper and then said, “Honey, Henry and I go way back. I knew him when he used to smile,” she added after a beat.
Amanda raised her chin. Taller by five inches, the woman gave the impression that she was looking down at her. “Henry told me that he wasn’t feeling well after breakfast. I suggest that you let him rest,” the volunteer told her. “Perhaps even come back later for your little visit.”
Lucy had a sudden urge to scratch the woman’s eyes out, but she didn’t. “And I suggest he tell me so himself,” she countered.
She might have been smaller than the younger woman, but Lucy was nothing if not full of sheer grit and determination. She’d come up the hard way and had triumphed over her circumstances. She was not about to allow this woman to dictate to her.
With a deliberate movement, Lucy turned her shoulders around and opened the door.
Fully dressed, appearing to have decided to take a quick nap, Henry was lying very still on his bed.
Too still, Lucy thought, a chill shimmying up and down her spine.
Until just a short time ago, before his surgery had taken place, her friend had been a rather robust and healthy man, especially given his age. However, he had always complained about his inability to sleep. Henry was a light sleeper at best, prone to waking up even if there was the least, inconsequential noise somewhere in the vicinity. That was the reason why she’d gotten him a set of earplugs as a housewarming gift when he had moved into The Home.
“See, he’s asleep. You need to leave,” Amanda told her, taking her by the arm. The woman looked as if she was ready to hustle her out of Henry’s room.
Shrugging out of the woman’s hold, Lucy silently counted to ten in an effort to rein in her temper. She’d had just about enough of this know-it-all woman.
“I’ll be the one who decides what I need or don’t need to do,” Lucy retorted.
Putting her hand on Henry’s shoulder, she was about to gently shake her friend awake when she suddenly froze. A coldness swept over her, initiated by the coolness of Henry’s skin. She could feel it beneath the thin light blue polo shirt he was wearing.
Fear began to do a soft-shoe through her. She did what she could to block it and the thoughts that were simultaneously being generated.
“Henry,” Lucy said, raising her voice. “Wake up. Henry?”
But even as she repeated his name, the sinking feeling inside her chest told her that no amount of calling was going to get her childhood friend to open his eyes.
Henry Robbins was dead.
That made two, she thought numbly.
“Momma, Lucy’s late.”
Six-year-old Melinda O’Banyon’s knees were sinking into the sofa against the large bay window facing the front walk. The little girl, a miniversion of her mother down to her light red hair, was kneeling there, staring out onto the cul-de-sac street. Having made her announcement, Melinda leaned her forehead against the windowpane and continued to stare out at the semideserted area.
For the moment, no one was leaving or going anywhere.
Detective Noelle O’Banyon pushed thick red bangs out of her eyes and glanced at her watch. It was coming on to eight o’clock in the morning. If she was going to be at the precinct on time, she was going to have to be leaving soon.
Hurry up, Lucy.
“She’s not late yet. She has five minutes before she’s late,” she told her daughter.
Even as she reassured her daughter, a degree of concern slipped in and hovered along the perimeter of her mind. This wasn’t like Lucy. Her grandmother wasn’t just punctual, she was notoriously early. Always. For the woman to be on time was highly unusual. For her to be late was equal to the Second Coming: it hadn’t happened yet.
Noelle felt for her cell phone in her back pocket, debating giving the woman a call. She knew that Lucy would take it as an insult, a silent insinuation that she might have slipped and needed a keeper, but nonetheless, hearing Lucy’s voice would ease her mind.
Granted, her feisty, petite grandmother looked and acted not just years but decades younger than she was. Still, the fact of the matter was that the woman, who had insisted that Noelle refer to her as “Lucy” rather than any acceptable generic title befitting her station in the scheme of things, such as “Grandma,” “Nana” or, God forbid, “Granny,” was getting on in years—even if she refused to acknowledge it.
“Lucinda is my given name,” her grandmother had revealed, the first time their association took on a more permanent quality. “But you can call me Lucy. No one else does,” she had added by way of making that their own special secret.
Her grandmother was then and continued to be now a live wire, with as much if not more energy as the six-year-old great-granddaughter she currently cared for whenever the need arose. And lately the need arose frequently because Noelle had been promoted to the rank of detective a scant six months ago.
That last development had Noelle thinking of taking another crack at trying to convince her grandmother to give up the apartment she was renting—the one she stayed in only approximately half the time—and just come live with her.
Her last attempt at convincing Lucy had been a failure.
“You’d save money and it’d be easier on you,” Noelle had coaxed, thinking the argument more or less made itself.
She’d thought wrong.
“I’m not interested in saving money or ‘easier.’ I’m interested in my independence,” Lucy had responded, cutting the discussion down before it had any time to take root. “I’m the one who taught you about that, remember?” she’d said.
Slipping on her shoes, Noelle glanced over toward her daughter. Melinda was still on the sofa, diligently keeping watch.
C’mon, Lucy, where are you? Noelle thought impatiently.
Though she didn’t like to dwell on it, the simple fact was that Lucy was in her late seventies and things had a tendency to happen to people at that age.
Lots of things, Noelle thought, biting her lower lip as she carried on a heated internal debate as to whether or not to call her grandmother.
“Whether” won.
Taking out her cell phone, Noelle began to press the series of numbers on the keypad that would successfully connect her to her grandmother’s smart phone.
She’d just pressed the last number and was waiting to hear the sound that would tell her the call had gone through when she saw Melinda suddenly jump up and down on the sofa.
“She’s here! She’s here!” Melinda declared in a triumphant voice.
Scrambling off the sofa, the redheaded pint-size dynamo made an instant beeline for the front door, apparently ready to throw it open.