Hand of Evil

“Oh,” Edie said. “No wonder you look a little green around the gills.”

“She wants me to buy her house.”

“Arabella has a lot of nerve calling it her house,” Edie said. “She may have lived in it, but it was always her mother’s house. Anna Lee Ashcroft was a nice woman. And if you do decide to buy it, that’s how I’d think of it-as Anna Lee’s, not as Arabella’s.”

Ali was quiet for a moment. Finally she said, “I never really knew that Aunt Evie and Arabella were good friends. From what Arabella told me, I guess they were. She said it was because of that friendship that she and her mother started the scholarship thing-that to begin with, the whole point was to benefit me.”

“Arabella was always a conniver,” Edie said. “I think she was after your Aunt Evie and saw you as a way to get Evie into her clutches. She might have succeeded, too, but Anna Lee warned Evie away. And then she went ahead and set up the scholarship fund so other girls would benefit from it, too, not just you.”

“Wait a minute,” Ali said. “What kind of clutches? What do you mean?”

“Oh, forever more, Ali,” Edie said with a laugh. “Just because your Aunt Evie stayed in the closet all her life, don’t tell me you didn’t know about it.”

Learning that bit of Aunt Evie’s history hit Ali hard. And knowing how Richard Masters and Curtis Uttley had used the Internet to victimize and ensnare Crystal didn’t help. The whole chain of events had cast a pall over Ali’s life and over her interest in cutloose as well. She could no longer look at what happened on the Internet as being harmless and she wasn’t sure if she was helping or making things worse.

She drifted into a strange lassitude. Her interest in blogging seemed to have dissipated, but she had no idea what she was going to do instead. She did some random posting, but without having her heart in it. When she finally heard from Velma T, she read the message with a heavy heart.

…so the second opinion concurs with the first one-that there’s not that much to be done for me. There are experimental protocols-expensive procedures-that I could possibly qualify for, but most of those wouldn’t be covered by insurance. So, my son and his golfing buddy doctor were right about my prognosis and their why- bother attitude, but I will insist to the death-which may be sooner than later-that they were ABSOLUTELY WRONG!!! not to tell me. It’s my life. My decision.

So, here’s what I’m going to do. I’ve got that book about a thousand things to do before I die, and I’ve also looked into one of those luxury round-the-world tours that will hit a bunch of them at one fell swoop.

There’s one that leaves Las Vegas, Nevada, on March first and lasts for twenty-five days. Private jets and first-class hotels all the way. By the time it’s over, if I’m not dead or dead broke, I should be close to it.

Maybe, Ali thought, I was wrong to be worried about Velma’s financial situation. She continued reading:

When I called to inquire about reservations, it turned out that there was only a single pair of accommodations left on the trip. Since I was a single, I thought that left me out, but then the reservations lady came up with a wonderful idea. It seems there was another person who had inquired about that same trip, another single, who’s a retired schoolteacher from Washington State. So we ended up booking our trip together. Her name is Maddy Watkins. She’s quite a bit younger than I am, but we’ve been e-mailing back and forth, and she sounds delightful.

Thank you for encouraging me not to stand around waiting for life or death to happen. If I die somewhere along the way, my son can damned well pay to have me shipped home. And if I get home and I’m still feeling well enough and have any money left over, I may book a cruise, too.

I miss your blog. I know something bad must have happened, and I know you’re not ready to say what it is. Just know that you’ve made a huge difference in my life and probably in lots of other lives, too.

Love,

VELMA T IN LAGUNA

On a sunny evening in March, Dave Holman came by for dinner. While Athena and Chris laughed and cooked in the kitchen, Ali and Dave sat outside on the front porch on the swing, sipping some of Paul Grayson’s very expensive wine. They were spending more and more time together these days. Ali wasn’t sure where the relationship was going, but for now she was comfortable with it.

“The custody hearing’s next week,” Dave said, draping one arm around her shoulder. “We’ve hammered out an arrangement that seems reasonable, and we’re pretty sure the judge will go along with it. Richey will be a senior next year, and he’ll stay in Vegas to finish high school. After that he’s planning on joining the Marines.”

“Like father like son,” Ali said.

Dave nodded. “And the girls will spend half the summer there, then they’ll come live with me and go to school here. They’re thrilled. Of course, it means I’ll have to find somewhere else to live, but with Roxie paying child support…”

Ali was astonished. “She’s agreed to pay child support?”

“That’s what I said. It’s a reasonable arrangement. And I have to give Gary Whitman credit. He’s the one who came up with the idea and convinced Roxie that it was doable. After what happened to Crystal, I think he wants the girls out of Vegas even more than I do. When Richard Masters agreed to a plea bargain and Crystal no longer faced having to testify, Gary was so relieved that I thought he was going to burst into tears.”

Ali said nothing. After a pause, Dave added, “It really chaps my butt.”

“What does?”

“Gary and I aren’t ever going to be friends,” Dave said. “But he isn’t that bad a guy. Maybe he’s not the best businessman who ever came down the pike, but he’s a better husband to Roxie than I ever was, and she’s happier with him than she was with me. I just have to make sure he’s not a better father.”

Again Ali had nothing to say. She found that happened to her often these days.

“Speaking of fathers,” Dave continued, “I saw yours today. Bob’s worried about you.”

“He is?” Ali asked.

“And so am I,” Dave said. “You’re depressed, Ali. You’re not yourself. You’re not even blogging anymore. You’ve been through a lot. Have you ever heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?”

“Of course, I’ve heard of PTSD,” Ali said dismissively, “but it’s got nothing to do with me.”

“Yes, it does,” Dave argued. “Your father and I have both been around it. We know the signs. You need to see someone. You need help.”

“No, I don’t,” Ali declared, ducking out from beneath Dave’s arm. “All I need is some sleep. You and Dad need to mind your own business. And since I’m not feeling very sociable at the moment, maybe you should just go.”

“No deal, Mom,” Chris said, materializing silently in the open doorway behind them. “Dinner’s on the table, and Athena and I say Dave isn’t leaving.”

The next day, it was all Ali could do to drag herself out of bed. By midafternoon, she was still in her robe and worrying about getting dressed before Chris came home from school when the doorbell rang. When she looked through the peephole, she was surprised to find Leland Brooks standing there in all his rhinestone cowboy glory. He looked tanned and fit and surprisingly chipper. The Rolls, shiny as ever, was parked in the driveway behind him.

At first Ali wasn’t going to open the door. He rang the bell again though, and she opened the door.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for dropping by this way,” he said. “I came over from Prescott to check on the house, and I wanted to see you.”

Grudgingly, Ali invited him inside.

“I’ve had a letter from Miss Arabella,” he said. “Several of them, in fact, all of them asking that I intercede with you on her behalf and beg you to reconsider your decision about purchasing her place.”

“I thought that was all set,” Ali said. “I thought a developer was going to take it and tear it down.”

“He thought so, too,” Brooks said, “but that was before some of the neighbors got together and had it placed on the National Historical Record. The house is considered second-generation Frank Lloyd Wright and all that. Then there was another possible buyer, but his offer fell through. The house failed the inspection-rather miserably, I’m