I nodded, remembered to close my mouth after noticing two men on ladders painting the deep crown molding of the foyer, and headed for the one room that I’d been in before.
What a difference! The room had once been Thurlow’s den, or sty, if you want to be specific. It had been painted a dark green with an overlay of yellowish brown from tobacco smoke. Newspapers had been strewn around, a dog bowl overturned, and a suspicious odor wafted through the stench of cold ashes in the fireplace. Ronnie, Thurlow’s old spotted Great Dane—named, I’d been told, for Thurlow’s favorite president—had lain sprawled out between a listing sofa and a threadbare recliner, adding his own peculiar reek to the general miasma.
I stood for a moment in the doorway, deeply impressed with the transformation. Helen had chosen a pale-yellow paint—the room was on the north side of the house—with shiny white on the moldings, windows, bookcases, and fireplace mantel. The furniture was either new or newly upholstered, and a lush Oriental rug covered the floor. A lady’s desk stood between the front windows, an indication to me that this must now be used as a morning room.
“Julia,” Helen said, coming in behind me. “How nice to see you. Won’t you have a seat?”
“My word, Helen, you’ve done marvels with this house. Every lover of fine architecture should be grateful to you. How are you? And how is Thurlow?”
She smiled, and I thought to myself that she looked, well, blooming, and in her role as chatelaine of the manor, well she should. Her face with its rosy glow was so different from the strained expression that I’d noticed the last time I’d seen her. But, of course, free-floating anxiety is greatly reduced when you know where your next meal is coming from. And Helen most certainly now knew whence hers was coming.
It didn’t take long for us to conclude our business—I, to explain the purpose of my visit, and Helen, to sign the petition.
“We want to improve the neighborhood,” she said, putting the cap back on her pen, “not degrade it. Why in the world anyone would want to disrupt a quiet residential area like this, I don’t know.”
“I don’t, either,” I said, “although you know that we’ll be labeled selfish and uncaring of needy children. And that’s probably the least of it.”
“I’m fully aware,” Helen said with a knowing smile, “of how committees pumped full of righteous eagerness to do good can run rampant over anyone in the way. I’ve been in on that too many times.” As, of course, she had. If you’d ever wanted anything done, you knew to ask Helen to chair a committee.
“But,” Helen went on, “you should keep this in mind, Julia. I’ve made it my business to get to know Thurlow’s immediate neighbors—something he’s never bothered to do—but I’ve done it because I’m interested in urging a beautification effort by all the homeowners. And if Madge’s group starts labeling us as child haters, we should point out that most of the homeowners here are retired teachers, nurses, and social workers. They’ve spent their lives helping children, and now this Johnny-come-lately group is intent on devaluing their largest and, possibly, only investment—their homes.”
“Excellent point, Helen!” I exclaimed, intending to use it as soon as I needed it. “Now, I know you’re busy, but how is Thurlow? Should I look in on him before I go?”
“I’m sure he would like to see you, but I’ll tell you, Julia, he’s not doing well. His casts are off, but he was immobilized for so long that he’s having to learn to walk again.” Helen stood and, motioning me to follow, headed for the door. “He’s upstairs. I have him downstairs most mornings, and out in the yard if the day is pleasant. But he’s slow recovering from his fall, and at his age . . . well, I’m sure you understand.”
I followed her up the stairs and into a large, nicely furnished room, free of clutter and neatly arranged—all except for the occupant of the bed. Propped up by a number of pillows, bushy headed and sallow faced, Thurlow snarled at the muscular man in white who sat by his bed.
Helen, smiling, walked up to the bed. “Look who’s come to see you, Thurlow.”
He glowered at me, then his face cleared. “Well, well. If it isn’t the Lady Murdoch. What brings you to my bedside, madam?”
“I’ve come to see how you are, Thurlow,” I said, keeping my distance, for he had a tendency to put a hand where he shouldn’t. “And to wish you well. How are you?”
“Oh, just fine, can’t you tell? Here I am, laid up in bed with two broken legs, meals of lettuce and carrots, and painful contortions forced on me by this oaf here.” And he flung his arm out at the man beside his bed.
Just as I started to repeat some inane get-well-soon Hallmark comment, the maid appeared at the door with a message for Helen.
As soon as Helen went out in the hall, Thurlow’s hand—as quick as a snake—grabbed my arm and pulled me close. “Get me outta here,” he hissed. “She’s robbin’ me blind!”
“Now, now, Mr. Thurlow,” his minder said, prying Thurlow’s hand from my arm. “Let’s not hurt the lady.”
Helen called to me—she was needed by the painters—so I turned to leave after a last look at Thurlow, who now lay back, gaunt faced and subdued, on the pillow.
—
My walk home was disturbed by questions and possibilities concerning Thurlow’s welfare, although to wonder about Helen’s integrity was as distasteful to me as to wonder about Sam’s.
And, I reminded myself, Thurlow was not the most trustworthy of tale tellers. In other words, if he could stir up trouble or get what he wanted, Thurlow could and would tell a bald-faced lie without turning a hair.
Still, I mused, it would be well to keep a sharp eye out for
