Part 35 (2/2)
”How about the Dockerty Police Department's arrest of the real shooter?” Diana had a cheeky smirk on her face.
”Forgot to say 'alleged' shooter,” said Leda. Patty had to turn sideways to let Leda squeeze into the doorway beside her.
For one perfect moment Orwell felt complete. His three daughters in front of him, all healthy and happy and fully engaged in their lives, a productive day behind him and, judging by the rich scents coming from the kitchen, a fine supper ahead of him. He lifted his gla.s.s a few inches higher. ”I believe I'll thank a benign universe for this day, this moment, these three beautiful faces before me,” he said. He drained his gla.s.s.
”Amen,” Diana said.
”Very nice, Oldad,” said Leda. ”I bring an invitation from the kitchen. Either come now or be banished to the outer darkness where there will be much weeping and gnas.h.i.+ng of teeth.”
Ten.
Wednesday, March 23 ”There you are,” Anya said. ”I thought you had moved on to greener pastures.” The cat was sitting on the fire escape, facing away from her, watching the pigeons on the roof of the Irish House. ”Will you come in, or are you thinking about your breakfast?” One ear twitched. ”Well, if you want to come in, knock like a gentleman.” And, on cue, there was a knock, but not on the window. ”I am closed for the week,” she called out. ”Until next Monday. Or maybe forever.”
”Anya. It's Dr. Ruth. It's Lorna.”
”I am all healed now. I do not need a doctor.”
”May I come in?”
Anya took her time opening the door. When she saw her visitor's face she stepped back. ”Should you be out of the hospital?” Lorna was pulling off dark gla.s.ses and a headscarf revealing a bruise on the left side of her face and a bandage over her right ear.
”I apologize for just dropping by.”
Anya stepped back. ”Please. Welcome to my studio. As you can see, I have no students.”
”That makes two of us. I've cancelled all my patients. May I sit? Please?”
”Yes, of course. I can make some tea.”
”No, I'm fine, maybe later.” She slumped onto the straight-backed chair and took a deep breath. ”The stairs,” she said.
Anya sat on the couch opposite her. ”That one looks fresh.”
Lorna touched her left cheek with a fingertip. ”Yes. It is. After my husband, after they let him go . . . He didn't kill that detective. He had nothing to do with it. They locked him up for three days and he had nothing. . . . When he came back from the courthouse he . . . had a few things to say about what happened. About what I did. What trouble I got him into, what I did to us, to our marriage. Then he hit me.”
”Did you report it? No, of course you did not, you thought he was justified.”
”Something like that.”
”And now you cannot go home.”
”Later today. I stayed in my office last night. He's packing. Packing his things. Someone's coming with a truck. A friend. He's going to stay with a friend for a while, until he finds someplace. . . .” She pulled a wad of tissues out of her coat pocket. ”I didn't know where to wait.”
”I am going to make some tea. And I am going to have a cigarette. Here I smoke when I feel like it. You take off your coat. Sit on the couch, it is marginally more comfortable. And I will not spill hot water on you if you are over there.”
She began to bustle efficiently around the studio, finding some relief in the movement, the small ch.o.r.es. She opened the window to admit the cat, turned on the CD player - Ancient Airs and Dances - took the kettle and the teapot down the hall to the washroom, filled the kettle with cold water, warmed the teapot from the hot water tap. When she returned she saw her guest huddled in the corner of the couch. The orange cat was sitting in her lap and she was gingerly stroking his head.
”What's his name?”
”I have no idea.” She plugged in the kettle. ”Is he making you nervous?”
”A little. His ears are very chewed up.”
”Yes, it is the life of a back alley tomcat.”
”Scars on his head.”
”Just like the rest of us. They heal.” She put three Irish Breakfast tea bags in the pot.
They sat without speaking while the tea brewed and the music played and under it Anya distinctly heard the rasping purr of the big orange cat. She lit a cigarette. ”I have never heard him purr before this.”
”That man, the tall detective, I keep thinking I got him killed.”
”When you have regained your equilibrium, you will of course realize that is nonsense. He was in this town to see me. So I got him killed. He was chasing a bad man, so perhaps that got him killed. There were two other nasty creatures from my past in town, so perhaps they killed him. And in all probability, once you deconstruct the elements of his life, probably he got himself killed. You know that as well as I do. It is hardly ever one thing, is it?”
”I didn't need much coaxing, to run off with him.”
”He was a charmer. Blue eyes, laugh lines and just the right number of freckles to be attractive, but not so many that it looked like an affliction.”
Lorna laughed. Not a big laugh, but a small note of amus.e.m.e.nt nonetheless. ”Yes. Charmed the . . . socks off me in a hurry. Furthest thing from my mind when he walked in.”
The cat jumped to the floor and Lorna emitted a small sad sigh. ”Aaw.”
”He never stays very long. He heard you laugh so he knows you'll be all right. But you may have some cat hair on your scarf.”
”Oh. Oh well, I don't mind. I felt . . . honoured by his attention.”
”Yes, cats have that power, do they not?” Anya reached over to touch the material, a cashmere/silk blend in autumn tones, rust and orange and deep red. ”Hermes,” she said. ”Very lovely. Is it new?”
”No. It isn't mine. I . . . I think my a.s.sistant left it in the office. I'll return it to her. I needed something to hide my head. I have this awful feeling that anyone who looks at me knows everything about me. All my sins, all my failings.”
”All the more reason to hold your head up and look them in the eye.”
”Interesting example of role reversal, don't you think? You helping me confront things? I suppose I'd better get used to dealing with it all.”
Anya opened the window for the cat. The sun was above the Irish House now. In the distance she heard a crow cawing like a maniac. ”I have declared war on all crows!” she called out. ”Be advised, I am sending my personal a.s.sa.s.sin after you. All of you. It is time to pay up.”
”Dockerty Police Arrest Murder Suspect.”
Sam Abrams had given them as laudatory a review as possible without losing all objectivity. Stacy's name was prominent. Adele (as per her request) wasn't identified. Further down the page, mention was made of the dismissal of charges related to Harold Ruth. Orwell was somewhat amused to note that Sam had mentioned Diana by name and even added an adjective, something his writing style rarely allowed: ”capable”; not overly effusive, but telling nonetheless. Orwell's daughter had a fan. And for once, Gregg Lyman wasn't quoted.
”Chief? Mayor Bricknell on one.”
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