Daddy didn’t answer right away, but when he did, his voice was almost a whisper. “Your mother was The One. The only one.”
“So, does this mean you’re not going to marry Darlene?”
“There’ll be time enough to think about that when I get out of here.”
“Don’t rush it.”
“What? Marrying Darlene or getting out of here?”
“Either one.”
Daddy twisted his long body sideways, winced, then rearranged the pillow that supported his back. When he got settled again he said, “Sometimes I feel sorry for her, Hannah. Did you know that somebody tried to poison Speedo?”
“Speedo?”
“Her dog.”
“No! That’s horrible!”
Daddy nodded. And she’s been getting harassing telephone calls.”
“Really? What do they say?”
“Not much in the way of words. Someone breathes noisily for a while, then hangs up. Or, they make a noise like this…” Daddy gave a particularly liquid Bronx cheer. “Then they hang up.”
“Sounds like kids. Forty years ago I tortured strangers with a very fine rendition of ‘Is your refrigerator running?’ ”
Daddy smiled, then shook his head. “Somehow, I don’t think it’s kids.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because she’s also getting nasty cards and letters.”
“Nasty cards?” I sat back in my chair and thought for a moment. When I worked at Whitworth & Sullivan we used to call them Nasty-Grams-the terse communiqués emerging from the office of the office manager slash drill sergeant. But I’d never heard of a nasty card.
“Sick. People are sick,” Daddy snorted. “Don’t know where they buy these things, but they’re sick.”
“Like what?”
“I’m almost embarrassed to tell you.”
“Daddy, last time I looked, I was forty-seven. I’m a grown woman. I think I can take it.”
“First there was an envelope addressed to Darlene in block letters. But the return address was printed on. It said Last Chance Dating Service, and at the bottom of the envelope someone had stamped Application Rejected.”
I stifled a laugh. “But that’s funny! Surely whoever sent that envelope meant it as a joke.”
“Darlene doesn’t think so.”
“That’s it?”
“No. There have been others, and she’s been getting cards, too. Cards with twisted greetings like ‘Is that your face… or are you mooning me?’ ”
This time I laughed out loud. Daddy shot me a withering glance like I was six years old and I’d just knocked over my juice cup for the third time. I forced the muscles in my face to line up seriously. “Has she argued with anyone recently? A neighbor, for instance?”
He shook his head vehemently. “Ouch!” He patted the bandage where the tape wrapped around his right ear. “Not that I know of.”
“How about her own kids?”
“No, they have lives of their own and pretty much keep to themselves.” His eyebrows shot up and his face brightened. “You’re going to meet them, by the way.”
“I am? When?”
“Saturday night. Darlene’s having a party. Seven o’clock.” He pointed a long finger in the general vicinity of my nose. “Be there or be square!”
“Saturday! But will you even be out of the hospital by then?”
“Of course. Unless something turns up in the test results, I’ll bet I can go home tomorrow.”
I must have looked skeptical because he grabbed my hand and insisted, “I’m fine! I feel guilty lying here, like I’m taking a bed from someone who really needs it.”
My father’s predictions came true. On Tuesday morning, Ruth called to report that she’d be picking Daddy up and bringing him home the following day. When the call came, Paul was at work, Emily and Dante were house hunting with Chloe, and I had taken the portable phone to the basement so I could talk to my sister while sorting the laundry. The largest load was soaking in a pink plastic paiclass="underline" two dozen cloth diapers necessitated by Emily’s refusal to pollute the environment with Pampers or Huggies. I had just added the diapers and a cup of Boraxo to the washing machine when the telephone rang again.
“Mrs. Ives?”
“Uh-huh.” I twisted the dial to the fourteen-minute soak-and-wash cycle and pushed it in.
“This is Marjorie Kemper, your father’s next door neighbor? I don’t wish to alarm you, but I know George is in the hospital and, well, there’s a van I don’t recognize sitting in your father’s driveway, and some guy is loading things into it.”
“Ohmygawd! What does the van look like?”
“It’s dark blue and kind of battered.”
“It doesn’t sound familiar. Did you call the police?”
“No. First I called Ruth at her store, but the line was busy. So I called you. I wanted to check if you knew this person before I called the police. Sounds like the answer is no.”
“You’re quite right. Look, uh, Marjorie. See if you can get the license number. I’ll be right over.”
“Can I help?” she asked. “I can block the driveway with my car. And I have a gun.”
The last time I’d seen Marjorie Kemper, she had been wearing a skirted swimsuit and a flowered bathing cap and was doing laps in her backyard pool. I added a gun to the scenario and had to grab onto the washing machine to keep from falling over. “Lord, no, Mrs. Kemper! Just sit tight, keep an eye on the van, and write down anything you think might be helpful.” I was about to hang up when I had another thought. “And keep trying to get Ruth.”
By the time I arrived at my father’s house, just seconds before Ruth and five minutes before the cops, the van was gone and so was the wide-screen television, the VCR, the DVD player, the stereo tuner, the CD player, and my father’s extensive collection of opera CD’s. I threw myself into an overstuffed chair, seriously depressed.
“How am I going to tell him about this? Mother gave him most of those CD’s! This’ll kill him!” With a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I stared at the clean spot on the shelf where treasures such as Wagner’s Ring cycle and Boïto’s Mefistofele had so recently sat. “Is anything else missing?”
“The silver tea service is OK and I checked the silverware drawer, and it’s all there.” Ruth had a sudden thought. “Wait a minute!” She rushed upstairs, but was back in less than two minutes. “False alarm! Mom’s jewelry is still in its box on the dresser.”
“They were after the electronics,” one of the officers, the tall one, said.
“Our neighbor got his license number,” I said brightly, standing up and pointing out the window in the direction of the Kemper house.
The officer shook his head. “I hate to be discouraging, but that plate was probably stolen.”
I leaned against the wall feeling defeated. “Will the insurance cover it?” I asked Ruth.
“I should imagine, but there’ll be a deductible.” She sighed and sank into the chair I had just vacated. “I can’t imagine Daddy living anywhere for long without his opera.”
I ran my hand over a shelf which was not even dusty, then jerked my hand away. “Fingerprints?”
“We’ll dust for fingerprints, ma’am, but I’ll have to be honest with you, I doubt it will do any good. Whoever did it probably wore gloves,” the shorter cop said.
His partner nodded. “Whoever got in had a key. Or the door was unlocked. There’s no sign of forced entry.”
Ruth scowled. “I always lock up.”
I believed her. Ruth was compulsive about locking up, but the police didn’t know that.
“Are you sure?” the short guy prodded.
Ruth nodded her head so vigorously that her long beaded earrings bounced against her neck. She turned to the officer, each word falling from her mouth like a blow. “The doors were locked.” She folded her hands in her lap. “I dread telling Daddy. He’ll think I’m not taking care of his things.”