“Ooo ave ids?”
I jumped, turned, and shrieked. In the door of the guest room stood a monster. White from head to toe, the lower half of its face was covered with—
Pete lifted off his hood and pulled down the respirator. “Sorry about that.”
I put my hand to my chest. Heart still working, adrenaline still flowing—I was, in fact, alive.
“I always wear the hazmat—hazardous materials—suit when I’m working.”
“Sure.” I tried not to be offended that he was scared of my germs. “Safety first.”
He flashed me a boyish grin. “Just wanted to tell you I’m all done out there.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the living room and kitchen.
“Great. Thanks.”
He shuffled from one foot to the other. “I was surprised to hear you say something about kids.”
My tired brain made a small leap. “This isn’t my house,” I said. “It’s a friend’s.” Somewhere in the back of my head I heard a dry chuckle.
“Oh.” Pete looked puzzled, and I realized that, though I’d given him one answer, I’d created a whole list of new questions.
“Do you want some help with that?” Pete gestured at the bulging garbage bag.
Reflexively, I started to refuse the offer, but then I thought of Gus’s comment. “That’d be great. Thanks.”
He took the bag. “I’ll dump it in my van. No, not a problem. I rent a big Dumpster, and it’s not even half full.” With no obvious effort he lifted the bag, a weight I would have had to drag.
I took one last look around the bedroom and went into the study. Spot lay down in the doorway with a sigh. I waded through the mess, sat in the desk chair, and started flattening papers. A faint whistling grew louder and louder, turning into an off-key rendition of “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.”
Pete poked his head inside. “Whoa. You’ve still got quite a mess in here.” He’d stripped off his white coverall and was back to khaki pants and denim shirt. “Do you . . . Um, I mean . . . would you like some help?”
I looked at him. He must have been sorely in need of business. Though I knew what that felt like, spending more of Gloria’s money didn’t seem right. “Well . . .”
“Off the clock, I mean,” he said hurriedly.
“Oh.” Now I was the puzzled one. Why on earth would he want to spend what was left of his evening helping a stranger tidy a room that wasn’t even hers?
He interpreted the look on my face correctly. “I just like to clean things,” he said, shrugging. “And if it’s helping you or watching the Wild lose another hockey game, well, lead me to an empty garbage bag.”
“We could do both.” I nodded at a small television tucked into the end of a bookshelf. “And who says the Wild will lose? Their new goalie is hot right now.”
Pete’s face lit up. “A fan! Now I’m staying for sure.”
With Pete’s help and garbage-hauling expertise, we straightened up the room before the end of the first intermission. We parted amicably at the curb, with his climbing into his van and my crossing the street and walking up to Marina’s house.
My children, up past their bedtime, were whiny. I gathered up their belongings while Marina pestered me for details. “Are you okay? Are you sure? How tall do you think that guy was last night? Do you remember anything? Did he take anything?”
Guiding a sleepy Oliver out the door, I told her I’d call her the next day. Once the kids were in the car and buckled in, I patted my coat pocket and felt the reassuring crackle of paper. I didn’t know if Mr. Grip had taken anything or not. But I had.
After dropping the kids off at Ezekiel G. the next morning, I rushed back home. Some things are best done in privacy. “Please open at eight,” I said, dialing the phone. “Please.”
The phone rang two, three, four times. I looked at the paper I’d taken from Agnes’s house and double-checked the number. No, I’d dialed correctly. I was about to hang up, when there was a click.
“Hunter Clinic, this is Brooke. How may I direct your call?”
“Um.” The pat little speech I’d prepared vanished out of my head, gone away as if it had never existed. I knew I should have written it down. “Good morning, Brooke. My name is, uh, Gloria Kuri.”
“Yes?” When I didn’t instantly respond, she went on. “Are you a patient here, ma’am?”
“Oh.” She started to say something, but I jumped ahead. “No, I’m not a patient. My sister was.”
“I see.”
“My sister was Agnes Mephisto. She died more than three weeks ago.”
“She did? I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you.” It dawned on me that Brooke had no clue Agnes had been murdered. “It’s been hard on all of us.” I made a sniffling noise. “I was wondering . . .”
“Yes?”
I detected sympathy, and my rehearsed speech swam back. “Agnes didn’t want to trouble anyone with the details of her illness. She was so brave.”
“I’m sure she was. The patients here amaze me.”
When I’d come across an invoice in Agnes’s files from the Hunter Center, a little buzz had set off in the back of my brain. The Hunter Center. The Hunter Center . . . At home, a Google search had yielded the information I’d expected, but not wanted, to see. Due to privacy laws, I knew Brooke wouldn’t tell me anything specific, but maybe I’d find out enough. “We’d like to make a donation,” I said, “and we want it to go to research.”
“Lots of people donate to the American Cancer Society,” Brooke said.
“We were hoping to send a check to a more specific organization.” Agnes had been living with cancer. No wonder she’d been pushing so hard on the addition.
“Oh, I see what you mean. Let me see a minute.” I heard the sound of a keyboard tap-tapping away. “Mephisto, Agnes?” Her voice went quiet. “I probably shouldn’t say—you know how that HIPAA stuff goes—but I don’t see how this could hurt.”
“I won’t tell a soul where I got the information. Cross my heart.” And hope not to die.
“If I were you,” she whispered, “I’d send my money to the American Brain Tumor Association. And I’m really sorry about your sister. I know she didn’t have long, but this was really fast. She seemed like a nice lady.”
Brain cancer. Poor Agnes.
I sat at my desk and stared out at the golden autumn morning. A few leaves hung tight to tree branches, swaying slightly to and fro. They were bright orange leaves, more brilliant by far than any leaves I’d ever seen.
Oh, Agnes.
There were places to go and people to see, but I sat there for a long while, mourning a woman I’d never known.
Chapter 19
“Are you seeing him or what?”
“Shhh!” I tried to hush Marina. We were sitting at the kitchen table, and Jenna and Oliver were with Zach in the Neff family room watching Saturday cartoons, but if so inclined, little pitchers did indeed have big ears.
“Why?” Marina continued at normal volume. “Is he some big secret?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“There isn’t one.”
“Dear, dear Beth.” Her voice took on a Southern drawl. “Ah can always tell when you’re lying.”
My fingers shot up to feel my earlobes.
Still in belle mode, Marina said, “He is remahkably handsome—yes, indeed, he is. But your brainy little head doesn’t turn at mere good looks. Or does it?” Her eyebrows arched.
“I knew him in kindergarten.”
“Yes, mah dear, you said so.”
“Quit with the Scarlett O’Hara bit, will you?”
“Ooo, Beth is a little uptight this morning.” Marina put her feet up on the chair next to her, an act she knew was guaranteed to make me edgy. “Problems sleeping? Maybe your pretty boy will come in handy, because I bet I know what you need. How long has it been?”