CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

 

 

“Is she here?” Jordan’s nose dripped and his red eyes darted from one corner of my kitchen to the other. It could have been tears or it could have been a cold, or it could have been brought on by the onion.

“Who are you looking for, Mr. Quintz?”

“Call me Jordan. I’m looking for Ida. I’d like to speak with her. She’s known my aunt longer than anyone else and …” He searched the room behind me. “You’ve heard she died, right?”

“I’m so sorry for your loss. She was a special lady.” I choked up and tripped over the last two words.

Jordan’s eyes glistened, and then he skirted by me when he noticed Dad at the stove.

“Harry.” He swallowed my dad in an overly familiar bear hug. “She’s gone.”

Dad’s left-hand patted Jordan’s back. His right hand dangled a large spoon over the hot pot, his arm pinned to his side by the embrace.

“I was just getting to know her,” Jordan said, and rocked my dad back and forth. “And I miss her so much already.”

My dad mumbled a response and Jordan released him.

“I need to talk to Ida. She’s not answering her phone or her door. I thought maybe she’d be here.” He craned his neck, looking over Dad’s head into all the living space he could. “Is she?”

“No. I’m afraid she’s cut herself off for the moment. Her loss is traumatic—”

Jordan spun on me. “And mine isn’t?”

I stepped back.

Maverick’s bark startled Jordan and he hung his head. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t prepared to lose her after just meeting her.” He looked up, penitent. “Please tell Ida I’d like to talk to her. I know they were close.”

Maverick yapped again and a voice howled from somewhere outside, “Gra-ace. Gra-ace.”

I cracked open the door and crept onto our porch. Jordan shoved passed me, forcing me out of his way, and I had a much better view.

Daniella stood in the headlights of her car, wrapped in the black fur jacket and matching headpiece, shaking her fists at the sky, crying out.

Jordan took another look behind me before he clattered down the steps and into the street. It seemed like anger flitted across Daniella’s features, but then her eyes locked on mine. I had to have imagined it. Jordan took her hands in his bear paws, and he looked down at her. They spoke for a moment. Then he led her up the sidewalk and they disappeared into Miss Grace’s home.

I closed the door and shuddered.

In the kitchen, Dad ladled warm soup into a porcelain tureen. “What do you make of that?” he said as he refitted the lid.

I shrugged. “I couldn’t say. But Ms. Jericho? She’s the crazy driver we stopped to help after she drove her car into the ditch. The rich one who sat at Miss Grace’s table at the gala.”

Dad shook his head. “Coming?” He headed toward the adjoining door.

I rapped before I turned the knob. “Ida?” We kept the door between the apartments unlocked for easy access and I’m glad we did.

Something always simmered on her stove or baked in her oven, but not today. Dad centered the tureen on her kitchen table, placing it just so. Maverick darted between us and dashed into the living room.

She sat on the couch hugged by the dark.

“Ida?” I flipped the light switch. I heard the deep intake of breath and her long exhale. “Dad warmed some soup. It’s on your table. You should eat.”

She looked at me with grief so deep I could see her heart beat, then her eyes drifted to Maverick. He sat in front of her. She clasped his head in her hands and gently massaged his chin.

“I just got my friend back and now she’s gone,” she said.

I sank into the seat next to her and hugged her. “You’ve made great memories. And I got to watch the extraordinary dynamic duo of Columbia.”

“But our fight—”

“Not a fight. You both wanted the same thing, and you solved your differences.”

She stopped kneading his chin and Maverick nudged her hand. His ears perked up and then the doorbell rang.

Kindra, Brock, Lorelei, and Galen huddled on her stoop.

“You didn’t answer your door, so we thought we’d try here,” Kindra said, shivering.

Brock flashed a bright smile. “Mrs. Nygren called. Sixteen visitors to the Titanic exhibit used our cache-code for a discount and look.” He held up his phone. “We’ve logged nine favorites.”

Ida’s Christmas lights flickered on, and she joined me at the door. Her lips smiled though her eyes were someplace else.

“Don’t stand outside. Come in and have a cup of hot chocolate and tell us all about it.” Once a teacher, always a teacher.

The four bodies bustled inside and hung their coats on the rack. Ida threaded her arm through Lorelei’s and patted her hand and the rest followed their pied piper of goodies to her kitchen.

Dad lifted his shoulders and hands in a don’t-ask-me gesture and headed after them. Maverick cocked his head and left me holding the door, gazing across the yard at Miss Grace’s house. Dim lights shone through the front room curtains and two windows on the upper floor, looking like a ghostly grimace.

Laughter shoved my gruesome thoughts aside and I decided my sweet tooth needed tending.

Ida would do anything for her students and mine. She smiled and told a story.

“I guess I could be a bit sneaky. For one of my art juries, the piece needed to be utilitarian. For example, we could decorate a hat rack, or a coat stand. I painted a stool. I used them all the time—”

“Of course, you did,” Dad said, tipping his head to gaze at my students over the rims of his glasses.

Four pairs of eyes searched Ida’s kitchen.

She opened her pantry and slid a wooden step stool across the floor. A four-foot-tall handle was secured to the solid square base. “I never expected it, but this piece won the regional competition.”

She smiled. The light scuff marks of repeated use didn’t mar the jewel-toned painting and the students circled the piece and oohed and aahed.

“The auctioned pieces raised funds for the elementary school library and a second-grade teacher bought it as a special reading throne for her kids. On a birthday, or when a student did a superior job at a classroom activity, they won the right to sit in the chair.”

In order to get the full effect, Brock leaned over the rail and stared down at the flat surface. He closed one eye and then tilted his head. “Where are her clothes?” he asked.

Kindra gasped.

The others jostled for the right vantage point to see what Brock had seen and when the giggles subsided, I closed one eye and could just make out the figure of what could have been a naked female hidden among the flora and fauna.

“The stool was just the right size and the teacher used it for about three weeks before one of her students did what Brock did. Just goes to show you never know what might be hiding in plain sight.” Ida became reflective and the big smile withered. “Come to think of it, the young man was Phillip McCall.”

Lorelei broke the stillness. “Brock, can you read a few of the comments from the cache?”

He pulled up the website and brushed his fingers over his phone screen. “Most of them just wrote TFTC.”

“What does that mean?” asked Dad.

“Thanks for the cache,” said Lorelei.

“This one included a long note, ‘Caching with Bronco today. Started in Little Falls and ended in Columbia. Another big day through multiple counties finding great caches. We concluded our day visiting a gold nugget in the guise of a history center. This is a favorite for sure.’ This one reads, ‘Awesome. What we enjoyed most was seeing this historical gem—the Titanic Exhibit—in the middle of nowhere. Who’d have thought!’” Brock glowed. “By George, I think we’ve got it!” he crowed with a slight British accent.

Ida sealed four small individual baggies stuffed with special treats and handed them around. Her phone buzzed. She stared at the face and pocketed the device. “Spam risk,” she said.