“Aye.”
I flipped a hand toward the injury. “It’ll be fine. I landed on it funny last fall. It acts up every so often.”
“Your ankle is the least of my concerns.” Denton stood. “Keep it elevated the rest of the evening. Ms. Rigg can bring your supper out here.”
I didn’t relish the thought of reclining all night in dress clothes. My nylons were already twisted around my thighs and the waistband of my skirt dug in. The tag of my blouse scratched at the back of my neck. But the humble pie I’d already been forced to eat today made the clothes on my back far more comfortable than the bloating in my stomach.
With a final pat on my foot, Denton left the room, the loyal Ms. Rigg just behind him.
Alone in silence, I took a deep breath and leaned my head against the wooden arm of the settee. I stared at the concave ceiling, its perfectly smooth surface the work of an expert craftsman. Brad told me specifically not to contact anyone once I got to Del Gloria. But I couldn’t take it. I was going crazy. I had to talk to somebody. I had to know what was going on back there.
The wood dug into my skull. I looked around for something soft. A green chair nearby offered a matching bolster. I hobbled over and swiped it. Comfortable once more, I drifted back to that morning at the lodge. Just hours before doomsday, Brad had practically popped the question, implying that we’d drive to town for an official engagement ring-and fitting proposal- the next day. But then I’d gotten that call from Candice. She needed the box of photos, the culmination of years of evidence against a prosperous and violent drug ring. And I’d been stupid enough to bring them to her.
I glanced down at my arm. Then she’d shot me. I blinked in concentration, trying to fit the pieces together. That morning Frank Majestic, the local trucking tycoon drug lord, had come to the house wanting to know where my father was-as if I had a clue. Then Candice snuck in, grabbed Frank from behind, and stuck a gun to his head.
My fingers twiddled aimlessly. She was there to save me, right?
But then she pointed her weapon…
The sitting room flashed white.
“Ahhh,” I cried out as pain shot through my arm at the memory.
Gasping for breath, I determined that this time I would see past the white light that blotted out more than twelve hours of my life. But no matter how hard I concentrated, I couldn’t see beyond the blast of Candice’s weapon. It was as if a scratch on a music track merged the echo of the gun with the crumpling of steel on the back bumper of a minivan. Nothing existed between the two sounds.
I blew out air slowly. If I kept up the brooding, I’d fall into a panic attack.
That was why I couldn’t afford to lounge around and nurse my ankle. I flipped my feet to the floor. More than anything, I needed a project to keep my mind off things. It was bad enough I had only one arm going for me. My foot would just have to take a number and get in line.
The staircase beckoned just outside the doors. I hopped on one leg and gripped the rail. Teeth clenched, I made the climb to my bedroom. A long soak in the tub, then jammies and
A knock sounded at the door. I looked up.
“Miss Braddock,” came the housekeeper’s voice, “I have your supper.”
“Yes, come in.”
The doorknob twisted and Ms. Rigg entered with a tray of meat and potatoes smothered in gravy. Silverware rattled as she set the tray on the table next to me.
“Thank you,” I said, mouth salivating.
“Not at all.” She gave me a pursed-lip, flared-nostril, squinty-eyed look and turned to go.
When she was halfway to the door, I got up my nerve. “Ms. Rigg?”
She halted, her back still to me.
“Can I speak with you a moment?” I asked.
She turned. “Did you want something more, miss?”
“Have you already eaten?” I plodded ahead, hoping to win the old gal over.
“Aye.”
“Well,” I tried for a weak spot in her armor. “Won’t you sit and enjoy a cup of tea?”
She looked at the upholstered armchair opposite me as if I’d just insulted her. “I’ll not be shirking my duties.”
“I won’t tell.” I gave her my friendliest smile. “I’d love to hear about your life in Ireland.”
A look of surprise crossed her face. Her fingers fidgeted a moment, as if torn between duty and desire. She shuffled to the chair and sat.
“Ireland,” she said as if speaking the name of her lover.
One hand rubbed along her jaw. Her eyes took on a faraway look. “I was beautiful there. The most beautiful woman in all of Dublin.”
At the memory, her face seemed to become younger. Wrinkles smoothed from her forehead, her mouth grew from a frown to a smile, and the hump on her spine seemed to straighten.
“I loved to dance. You should have seen me in my red dress.” She shook her head and gazed toward the windows, perhaps lost in the memory of an Irish ballroom. “Did you work at the embassy? Is that how you met the Braddocks?” I pictured the bustling streets of Dublin, the young Ms. Rigg in a fifties coatdress and coiffed hair skipping up the steps of an old-fashioned building ready to type letters for the day.
“I was a waitress at a gentleman’s club.” She flicked a glance my way as if to watch my reaction.
I kept my face placid. “I forgot to pour you some tea.”
“I don’t drink it.” She settled back in her chair. “The ambassador would request me at his table.” Her pride was evident. “A generous man, he was.” A shadow fell across her features and her shoulders drooped. “After he returned to America, I contacted him for work. Times were hard and I had a daughter to raise.”
“You have a daughter?” For some reason, Ms. Rigg hadn’t struck me as the motherly type.
“Jane. She lives in Los Angeles now, but she was raised alongside the young professor. He’s always looked on her as a wee sister.”
Perhaps the professor had a heart after all.
“Do you miss Ireland?” I asked.
She gave a vehement shake of her head. “Never knew if you’d live through the night. Revenge. Everything was about revenge. No end to it.” Her eyes glazed. “I had my fill.” The thought seemed to remind her that she wasn’t supposed to like me. Her lips returned to their tightly pursed position. “I’ll be going now.” She stood and smoothed her black cotton.
“Thank you for the meal. I enjoyed talking to you. I hope we’ll do it often.”
Ms. Rigg’s face reddened. “If I thought for a minute you were true kin of the professor, I might agree.” She adjusted the blousy front of her dress. “For his sake I’ll treat you kindly, whoever you are. Don’t ask more than that.” She spun to go.
Sharing tea had been a once-weekly event with Candice LeJeune. But judging from Ms. Rigg’s sudden attitude change, I doubted she and I would ever find common ground.
I poked at the meat on the plate and read awhile longer, grateful that cooking skills and social graces were independent gifts.
Half an hour later, another knock interrupted my tale. “Come in.” I folded a tissue to mark my page and closed the book.
Denton peeked over the threshold. “Take the weekend to rest up. You’re welcome to come to church with me Sunday if you want. You’ve got class Monday morning, eight a.m. I’ll be in meetings, so you’ll have to take the Dogpatch.”
I nodded. DGPTC, pronounced Dogpatch, stood for Del Gloria Public Transportation Carrier, a fancy name for the local bus. I’d found my ticket to ride, a swipe-ngo pass, in the admissions packet.
“Thank you.”
“Good night.” He nodded his head once.
