Asking For Trouble. Millie Criswell
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Call forwarding, e-mail, photographs…There was no end to what those blasted phones could do.
Turning his attention toward the window and the small maple desk sitting beneath it, Aubrey heaved a sigh, dreading what came next. He switched on the metal lamp, sat down and began sorting through the clutter.
In the center drawer he found his mother’s bank-book resting on top of her insurance policy. He was stunned to discover that she had nearly eight thousand dollars in savings, most of which he had provided over the years, to supplement the pittance his father had left.
“Well, well, Mama, you are full of surprises,” he muttered, knowing how happy her vulture cousins would be when they discovered how thrifty Isabel had been. As primary beneficiary of her insurance policy, Aubrey stood to inherit a tiny bit more—ten thousand dollars, which would just about cover the cost of her funeral and burial.
Tossing the policy aside, he pulled out a brown leather portfolio buried at the bottom of the drawer and opened it to discover several yellowed newspaper clippings from The Mediocrity Messenger. He’d never been to Mediocrity, but knew it was a small rural town about a three-hour drive from where he presently resided, in a suburb outside of Philadelphia.
Aubrey didn’t do rural. He was a city boy, through and through. The smell of cow shit gave him hives.
The first clipping was about a historic house that was owned by a family named Swindel. Searching his memory, he tried to remember if his mother had ever mentioned the name and was fairly positive she hadn’t.
He prided himself on remembering names and minute details. It was essential in his business. The little things, the seemingly unimportant things that could make or break a deal, were what counted. And he didn’t lose many deals.
The owner of the house appeared to be a member of the clergy. The paper referred to him as the Reverend Swindel of St. Mark’s Methodist Church. Aubrey didn’t believe in organized religion or luck. Smart people made their own luck. And as far as religion was concerned, he didn’t need some pious man of God pointing out his sins. He knew full well what they were; he just opted not to atone for them.
Setting that clipping aside, Aubrey picked up the next, torn from the society pages, and read:
“The Reverend and Mrs. Josiah Swindel are pleased to announce the engagement of their daughter Iris to Lyle McMurtry, son of David and Louise McMurtry, of the town. A spring wedding is planned.”
It was dated May 1952.
“I know you had a reason for saving all this junk, Mama, but I have no idea why.” He was about to replace the clippings when he noticed the corner of an official-looking document peeking out from some old letters she had saved.
Curious, Aubrey scanned it to discover it was a birth certificate. He spotted his name at the top of the document, which was odd because his birth certificate presently resided in a safe-deposit box at Merchants Bank. The certificate read Aubrey Swindel, not Fontaine.
More than a little confused, his eyes widened as he read the names typed beneath his: Mother’s name: Iris Swindel. Father’s name: Lyle McMurtry.
Swindel. As the meaning became clear, his face turned an ugly shade of purple.
“Sonofabitch!” He’d been deceived. His whole life had been nothing but one goddamn lie after another.
“Jesus H. Christ, Mama! You really put one over on me, didn’t you, you sly old bitch?” He continued staring at the document in disbelief. “How could you have deceived me like this, made me feel like such a goddamn fool? Are you having a good laugh over this? Are you, Mama?”
Aubrey hated surprises and he’d just been handed a whopper. No wonder the old woman had insisted he look through her papers. She wanted him to find this, wanted him to know that he’d been adopted and who his real parents were.
“But why didn’t you just come out and tell me? Why did you hide the truth all these years?”
Because he’d been born a bastard, that’s why. But then, there were those who’d been calling him that for years.
Crumpling the paper, he tossed it against the wall, and then kicked the garbage can so hard it upended, the contents spilling everywhere. He shouted every vile epithet he could think of at his parents, or the people he’d thought were his parents. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
When his temper cooled, curiosity began to get the better of him. Why had Iris Swindel and Lyle McMurtry given him away? Why hadn’t they wanted him enough to keep him? Was he so unlovable, so hideous a human that even his own mother hadn’t wanted him?
He needed answers to his questions, and the only way to get them was to go to Mediocrity and see if his birth parents were still alive. If so, they had some explaining to do.
HARD WORK AND KEEPING BUSY had always helped Beth clear her mind. Her aunts were fond of saying that idle hands were the Devil’s playground. To keep her mind off the problem in her basement, she’d decided that picking pumpkins and gourds from her garden would serve her quite nicely.
Beth was tired this morning; she hadn’t slept very well the previous night. Thoughts about dead men buried in her basement and dreams of Dr. Bradley Donovan finding out about them had crept into her subconscious. Counting sheep hadn’t helped and neither had studying the numerous holes in the ecru lace canopy over her bed.
When she had finally drifted off, Beth encountered bright blue eyes, dimpled cheeks, muscular arms and strong hands capable of healing. And she spent a great deal of time wondering what it would be like to be held in those arms, to feel Brad’s hands healing her aching body and ailing heart.
To dispel those provocative but totally unwelcome thoughts she had tried thinking about Greg, the disastrous marriage they’d had, his infidelity, and all the misery that being involved with a man had caused her. But she knew deep down that Brad Donovan was nothing like the duplicitous, uncaring and judgmental Greg Randall. That would be like comparing a Boy Scout to Hannibal Lecter.
Greg had chewed up her heart and spit it out when it was no longer palatable, and he hadn’t even bothered to wash it down with a nice glass of Chianti. Based on what Brad had said about his marriage to Carol, she didn’t think he was capable of such cruelty. Of course, he was still a man and that said a lot about why she needed to keep her distance. Not to mention that his father might still be an unwilling guest in her establishment!
The ground was cold where she knelt in the dirt, pulling weeds from between rows of vegetables and gathering up the items she needed for her autumn display. She looked up at the clear blue sky, the sun’s warmth feeling glorious on her face.
“It’s a pretty day, isn’t it, Buster boy?” she said to the dog lying next to her, who thumped his tail in agreement. Placing several small pumpkins in the wicker basket, she cocked her head when she heard someone approach. The animal rose to his haunches and then wagged his tail as the visitor drew near.
Shielding her eyes, Beth glanced up to find Stacy Donovan standing over her. Though she smiled in greeting, she was not in the mood to spar with the ill-tempered young girl this morning.
“What’re you doing?” the girl demanded, bending down to pat the dog, who responded by licking her hand furiously, making Stacy giggle. It was the first time Beth had seen her smile, and it transformed her pretty face.
“I’m gathering pumpkins and gourds, which I’m going to use to decorate the front porch.” Beth always festooned the house for the various seasons and holidays, autumn being one of her favorite displays. She used corn husks, scarecrows and pumpkins to adorn the porch and handrails. Admittedly, she was a bit behind schedule this year.
Stacy made a face. “That’s stupid. Why would you want to do that?”
“So the inn will look pretty. Would you like to help?” The offer was pure reflex, not an actual desire to have the kid around. When Stacy shook her head, Beth almost breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’m bored, but not that