Back at the cottage, leaning against the kitchen counter and sipping chilled Matanzas Creek Chardonnay, I relayed my episode to Uncle Richard and my neighbor Horace. As predicted, the place was an olfactory awakening and the Beatles crooned “Hey Jude” through a pair of Sonos portable speakers.
Richard’s daily walking routine kept him trim, and the only giveaway that he had reached the sixty-year mark was that his once-blond dome was now silver. His bright-blue eyes crinkled into a smile as he handed a glass of Ruffino Cab to Horace. My cucumber-chopping neighbor, who was well into his eighties, wiggled his bushy Santa Claus brows and lifted his glass in a toast.
“How was the drive? Could we get her here for dinner?” my uncle asked.
“And a drink,” Horace added. “Sounds like she needs one.”
What should have been a ten-minute drive from her estate to the lake had taken over an hour as I skirted splintered trees, downed limbs, and swales of water. When I finally reached the cottage, relief came not only from getting there but also from the warm glow through the windows—rare among the corridor of houses along the water. Climbing into yoga pants and my well-worn UConn sweatshirt completed the effect.
“Now that I know the route, it wouldn’t take any time at all.”
“It’d be interesting to see the damage around town,” said my uncle.
Richard was a CERT, a Community Emergency Response Team volunteer—always ready to assist the Office of Emergency Management with damage assessment.
“Not me,” said Horace. “The farther I travel from home, the faster I age.”
“Mrs. Arlington is stubborn,” I said.
“Call her anyway,” said Horace. “You’ll feel better. Heck, we’ll all feel better.”
Mrs. Arlington picked up on the first ring. At least her landline was still working.
“Yes?” she inquired with an intake of breath that sounded like dread.
Odd—she had appeared so self-assured earlier. And she didn’t seem aware that it was me calling either. With no power, her caller ID probably wasn’t working.
“Lottie, it’s Winter—from this afternoon.”
Recovering some of her composure, she replied, “Winter. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.”
“Listen, my uncle made this fabulous lasagna, and he insists we bring you a warm meal.”
The silence on the other end felt longer than it was.
“How nice of you,” she said finally. “But really, there’s no need. Diva and I already ate the leftovers, and I have plenty of battery-powered lanterns. Besides, I wouldn’t want you out on the roads, such as they are.”
“It’s really no bother,” I replied hopefully.
The sternness returned to her voice. “Actually, I’m heading upstairs now to finish my memoirs. Thank you anyway.”
I knew conviction when I heard it, so I told her to call if she changed her mind. I repeated my invitation to have her stay with us until the power returned.
“Winter, the obituary you write will be the final version, so please do well by me,” she replied. “There’s more than you need in the envelope I gave you.”
It occurred to me that this might be a woman who thrived on deadlines—her memoirs, her obituary. As a journalist, I could appreciate that. Maybe she had simply chosen to preplan her funeral and Friday was her self-imposed deadline.
And then her comments about being realistic and about spending her last days at home seeped back into my brain.
“I promise I won’t let you down,” I said. “Good night, Lottie.”
“Goodbye, Winter Snow,” she replied. “And thank you.”
“What do you make of that?” I asked.
We were digging into cheesy lasagna out on the deck. The storm had trimmed the warm front, and branches bobbed on the water like tiny shipwrecks, leaves fanning out like lifeboats. No doubt the neighborhood would call for a lake cleanup day soon.
“She’s clearly troubled,” Richard replied.
Horace grimaced through a mouthful. “They say people often know when they’re about to die,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe she had a premonition.”
“Or a death threat,” said Richard.
I looked at the lake and wondered if any bodies lay at the bottom. Shallow and nearly a mile long, Mamanasco was Ridgefield’s largest natural lake. The shoreline still held a few last vestiges of Ridgefield’s more modest era, cottages with small docks and decks dangling over the water’s edge. These had once been summer retreats for folks escaping the oppressive New York City heat. My uncle’s cottage had been one of those before he bought the one next door and renovated, providing enough space for my sister, my mom, and me after our father died. It was now a two-story with a vintage exterior so as not to “fight with the landscape,” as my uncle liked to put it. A small patch of green separated our house from the weathered shack losing the battle against time that Horace called home.
“Why would anyone threaten an old woman?” I asked.
“An old woman with a sizable fortune,” Richard clarified. “Too bad you don’t know who inherits.”
After dinner, Horace promised not to light candles in his tinderbox of a home and said good night, his old-fashioned flashlight wobbling over the grass. My uncle retired to the guest space over the garage, where he still kept some of his things. He would return to Village Square in the morning when the roads were easier to navigate. I suspected his real motivation was to check on Horace again in the morning. His efforts to convince his old neighbor to sell his eyesore abode and move to the age-restricted community where Richard now lived had not been successful. Horace had been on the lake for sixty years and had no intention of leaving at a time when he appreciated the peacefulness the most.
I poured myself another glass of wine, snuggled into a cozy chair in the study, and opened the envelope Mrs. Arlington had given me.
A life well lived, I thought as I read. Born to hardworking parents—her dad a municipal worker, her mom a schoolteacher—Leocadia Wysocki Arlington was the oldest of three. She had a brother and a sister and was the first in her family to have gone to college. Her father had died shortly after she moved to New York City to start a job as a secretary, and two years later her mother followed.
I could find no evidence of her wedding to Roth Arlington and no mention of Henry Harmless, the mystery name Scoop had thrown out. Instead, she went into great detail about her career, noting how she had become one of the first to work with computers and that she eventually ran a department at a time when women were still undervalued.
Leocadia Arlington was currently eighty-one years old. Eighty-one years young was what sprang to my mind. She had been witty, sharp minded, and had a no-nonsense attitude during our visit. Although not overly tolerant of her assistant, she was protective of the girl, especially when I asked if she was thinking of replacing her.
From the computer printouts, I could see she had taken a stab at her own obit and had a real knack for storytelling. If only she wanted a job!
I pulled out my ever-present iPhone and checked the time. It was nine thirty, and I knew my night-owl buddy Scoop would still be awake. When he answered, though, he sounded groggy.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He sighed audibly. “Just a little tired. After the storm, I went out to look for Croak.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Croak’s new home, a four-hundred and sixty-acre parcel the town had protected from high-density development by taking it by eminent domain, was called Bennett’s Pond, though it could easily have been dubbed the second Battle of Ridgefield. The fight had taken place in the courts, with Ridgefield the ultimate victor. Loaded with great hiking trails and the pond for which it was named, it was a town treasure and presumably where Croak now enjoyed his new life. Looking for Croak in that environment would make looking for a needle in a haystack seem easy.
“I thought I might recognize him—you know he had that little mark on his back,” said Scoop.
“And?”
“It was impossible. It was like a chorus of frogs, and not one of the little guys looked like Croak.”
“You should assume that Croak is enjoying his newfound freedom.”
“You’re right.” Scoop sighed again and then asked, “Did you call for a reason?”
“I wanted to pick your brain about Mrs. Arlington.”
“What else can I tell you?”
“You mentioned something about rumors surrounding someone named Henry Harmless,” I said. “Do you have any details?”
Scoop yawned loudly. “Look, the three of them lived up there together. Rumors fly around this town. If you want, I could do a little more homework for you, or we could just ask the Nosy Parkers.”
“I’d prefer to leave them out of it. And whatever you find, I need it before Friday.”
“What’s so special about Friday?”
I stared at Lottie’s photo and thought, Good question.