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Rocking Horse Antiques was one of the most popular destinations in the trendy village of Coppin’s Locks. It rubbed shoulders with the Thirsty Toad Pub, Bonita’s Bakery and Tea Shop, Shakira’s New Age Emporium, clothing, gift boutiques, and St. Paul’s church with majestic steeple that cast a reflection over the Mill Pond. On weekends, throngs of shoppers drove from far and wide on the major highways, and then turned off to continue their journey along the twisting secondary roads that eventually brought them to the small village. While the downtown core was a shoppers and diners delight, many visitors ambled up the hill towards the residential section of the town towards the red brick Victorian mansions, field stone homes, and New England style clapboard houses. Others unloaded bikes or laced up hiking shoes and set off to enjoy the rail trail that had once hosted the regional railways system, and now devoid of railways ties and trestles, offered nature lovers miles of pastoral countryside to explore. Coppin’s Locks was indeed a little slice of heaven on earth.
“My, my, you girls always seem to end up finding the most unusual things,” said Mrs. Honor as she walked into Rocking Horse Antiques a few days after the discovery of the dead baby at the Brewster estate, “and I am not talking about rare antiques today,” she added with a chuckle. As the unofficial historian of the area, Mrs. Honor, despite being over 80, had a mind like a steel trap. She could reach back into her memory vaults no matter the decade and haul out the names, places and dates of events from the area. And, if she wasn’t involved with the event personally, she always knew somebody who was. She had written countless small brochures on the Coppin’s Locks area, and enjoyed digging into the past. She was also the owner and dispenser of small tidbits of gossip, and most of it ended up containing a fragment of usable truth. Monica and Erin had recently called upon the kindly, frumpy resident when they had discovered the dead body of longtime resident Dr. Bill Whitehall in the old mill at the bottom of his garden. She had been able to help with one alibi, and had unknowingly given the girls some much needed information about a suspect.
“Well, that was one discovery we could have done without,” said Monica gravely unpacking some heavy silver table settings that she had bought at an estate sale in nearby Keysville. “The police are looking into it of course.”
“Is this one case that Police Chief Van Dyck will look into solo, or do you think he might ask you gals to help out?”
Erin, who had just come in the backdoor of the store with a load of business supplies heard the remark and laughed. “Even if he is looking into it, I suspect that Monica and I might do a little digging on our own. I think that there just happens to be an antique sale in Lexington, Kentucky in a few weeks that we might have to go to!”
“That is where the Brewster family moved to isn’t it?” said Mrs. Honor diving into her huge handbag for the old ski goggles that she wore when riding her three wheeled bike, her only form of transportation.
“Yes, the son Giles still lives there just outside of Lexington. Maybe he’ll agree to see us and answer a few questions,” answered Erin.
“There was a daughter too, you know,” said Mrs. Honor examining an old pine armoire with ornately curved door handles.
“Yes, we were told her name was Mary,” said Monica, “but apparently she is in an institution. She got kicked by a horse and was never normal again. You know a lot of what went on in this area so do you recall the family at all or what happened?”
“Well, I didn’t know them personally. They travelled in rather different circles than I did of course. But I do recall that when they left, it caused quite an uproar in the area. They had employed so many people from around here: A cook, maids, nanny for the children, gardeners, and of course stable staff to take care of the horses. The merchants in the area really benefited from having the Brewsters here. They bought all their building supplies from local companies, the grocery stores were delighted when the Brewsters held a party and ordered in specialty items. The party suppliers and catering company were called upon many times in the summer months for the big get-togethers. Guests came from all over and from different states, even as far away as England.”
“Tough for local businesses when a family like that leaves the area.”
“It was terrible,” agreed Mrs. Honor, “and all the merchants they dealt with really felt the change.”
“Why did they leave so quickly?” asked Erin patting Haggis absentmindedly. “Did anybody ever find out?”
“Well, people love to gossip of course and there were all kinds of rumors. Some people said he was losing his money in the mining business, but that can’t be true because we heard he had bought another huge house in Lexington. Other people said he just moved to be closer to the heart of horse racing in Lexington.”
“But, why would anybody leave a beautiful estate like his here to just rot away? You would think that he might have kept it in good shape even if he didn’t want to sell it.”
“Nobody ever really found out the truth. Now, there was one woman from here who went to Lexington with them when they moved. Her name was Wilhelmina Thompson and she was nanny to Giles and Mary. They were all very fond of her apparently, and Mr. Brewster, being a kind man, kept her on in the house long after she was needed as a nanny. She would help with the parties, direct the younger staff members, dabble in the garden, and acted as Mrs. Brewster’s secretary.”
“Is she still alive?” asked Monica. “Maybe we should go and speak to her.”
“As far as I know she is still alive. After Mr. and Mrs. Brewster died in Lexington, she moved into Giles’s house and helped out there.”
“Since she was from here, did she ever come back to visit?” said Erin finding a few pieces of chocolate bar in the bottom of her huge carryall that needed eating.
“Well, funnily enough every once in a while people around town would say that they were sure they had seen Wilhelmina walking on the back country roads going towards the Brewster estate. Rather a forlorn looking woman apparently. But that was years ago. Anyway, let me know if I can help you girls at all?” said the woman as she unlocked her bike and hopped on the seat.
“Oh, we will,” said Erin enthusiastically. “I have a feeling that Monica and I will have to do some digging. We want this poor baby to have a proper burial. But most of all we want to find out the truth behind the death.”
“Good luck ladies,” came the cheery reply as Mrs. Honor pedaled up the road towards the main street.
“Actually, what we need to find out is if that baby died from natural causes or....”
“You are right,” agreed Erin, “and we should call Van Dyck and ask him if he has got the autopsy report back.”
“What was that quote from A.A. Milne who wrote Winnie the Pooh?” asked Monica walking back to a mahogany armoire and folding linen tablecloths from a recently closed summer resort. She enjoyed peppering her conversations with the odd quote, and thought for a moment before answering her own question. “Ah, I remember, ‘The smallest things take up the most room in your heart.’”
“Well, somebody, some Mother must have loved that small baby. It’s up to us to try to get to the bottom of this.” said Erin, “I wouldn’t feel right if it went to its grave with nobody there to say a prayer for it, and leave some flowers.”
***
The old fashioned Bakelite phone that had once graced the rector’s office in a nearby church rang shrilly in the otherwise quiet Rocking Horse Antiques. Monica, sitting at the desk grabbed the receiver. “Rocking Horse Antiques,” she said.
“Ah, good a real person; not one of those ‘press one for this’ and ‘press two for that’ systems. Can’t stand them.” answered a rather breathless male voice.
“Oh, we are much too small for all that fancy stuff,” laughed Monica, “besides this old phone is a relic and couldn’t handle anything technical like that. No, how can I help you?”
“Ah, yes. My name is Page. Michael Page. My wife Janine and I take care of a Mr. Andrews. Peter Andrews. You may know him. He lives in Deerfield Cottage on Ivy Lane.”
Monica thought quickly of the houses on the small narrow road, and remembered the doll house like cottage with large oak trees and perennial gardens. “Yes, I do as a matter of fact. I don’t know Mrs. Andrews very well, but I have driven past the house. Very nice it is too.”
“Ah, yes, charming spot. Lovely old home. Now, Mr. Andrews is over 80, and we have been helping him over the past few years. A few months back he asked us to move into his house as he had had a stroke and was finding it hard to cope alone.”
“Right,” answered Monica sensing where this conversation was going.
“We gave up our small apartment and moved in. Works well all around. Now, Mr. Andrews does have some items to sell here in his house. I was wondering if you could come and have a look at some of them? Create a little cash flow for him. Is this something you might be interested in?”
“Certainly,” Monica assured him. “We do this frequently. It is normal for antique shops to source many items from situations such as yours.”
“Oh, good,” came the breathless reply, “now when is good for you?”
“How about tomorrow? My associate Erin O’Malley will probably be the one to go to your house. Is 1:00pm alright with you? Just after lunch?”
“Excellent. Mr. Andrews may be asleep but we can cope with everything. He sleeps most of the time. Finds talking hard since the stroke. Can’t move around a lot.”
Erin was looking forward to her afternoon meeting at Deerfield Cottage. Despite being doll house small, the house was one of the oldest homes in Coppin’s Locks, and the gardens were bursting with overgrown perennials that had been there for decades. The siding was cedar shingles that had colored naturally over the years, the roof was black metal, and the windows, originally wood, had been replaced with a more modern efficient polyvinyl style. A porch ran all the way around the house but the planters that might have been bursting with summer color were full of dead weeds, and flowers. Erin felt sad looking at the neglect, and one of her frissons of foreboding passed through her.
She knocked on the door at exactly 12:59 and waited for what seemed to be ages before the door opened.
“Hello, come in,” said a tall balding man who introduced himself as Michael Page. “My wife will be here in a minute. She is just settling Mr. Andrews down for his afternoon nap.”
Erin introduced herself but the man didn’t offer to shake her hand or suggest she have a seat. The man turned his back to her, and stood at the kitchen window facing the garden. He didn’t say a word. She continued to stand but began to feel a little awkward. “What kinds of things does Mr. Andrews wish to sell?” she finally asked hoping to break the silence.
“Old wooden hotel signs, bar signs, lobby signs, you know the kind of thing,” the man answered in his clipped, rather abrupt way of speaking. “There are also some interesting old farming tools. Oh, and some magazines and books. Then the usual bits of silver, china pieces and some old kitchen utensils.”
From a room at the back of the house, Erin heard talking that seemed to get louder and louder. Then there was a slapping sound. “Is everything alright back there?” she asked Mr. Page.
“Yes!” answered the man curtly, “Mr. Andrews can be difficult at times. He has had a stroke and gets obstinate.” Just then a woman, supposedly Janine Page bustled in the room giving the door behind her a decisive pull. She was as thin and tall like her husband and her short grey hair was sticking up on end. “Pleased to meet you,” she said quickly extending her hand, and avoiding Erin’s gaze. Erin had never before seen a married couple who looked so alike with narrow ferret like faces and small beady eyes. Erin shook the hand and thought that the woman seemed agitated, and very out of breath for having just dealt with an old man about to nod off to sleep.
“That’s a very lovely old nurse’s watch you have there,” said Erin looking at the gold watch with a dark blue enamel frame that hung upside down from a bar on Janine’s chest. The woman’s hand flew to the item nervously. “Yes, nobody wears this kind of nurse’s watch anymore, upside down and all that, but it is still useful. Got it in a yard sale. Now some of the items are in here,” she said abruptly changing the subject, and indicating a door at the back of the kitchen.
They all went into the living room, reminiscent of an English country house parlor from the 1940s. There was a fieldstone fireplace, the armchairs – old fashioned, overstuffed and comfortable – were covered in faded rose designed chintz, and there were small side tables dotted here and there. The shelves covering one wall were full of books from floor to ceiling, and a window seat with cushions offered a wonderful view of the perennial borders in the garden. It was like stepping back in time.
“This is divine,” said Erin. “I might be back in my native Ireland. Our lounge looked like this.”
“Well Mr. Andrews was set in his ways,” agreed Michael, “Never wanted anything to change. He lived in the past. Now here are the magazines and books and other items.” He pulled out three large boxes that were sitting on the window sill and opened the tops. Erin peered inside and began to pull out the items: Some mismatched china, old silver plate candle sticks, and a nice rose bowl. The magazines were from the 1930s and 1940s and included some mint condition publications from England, and North America: Post magazine, The Field, and Country Life. There were some old mystery books from long forgotten writers, and as a bibliophile, Erin would take a closer look at them once back at home or in the store; she got the distinct impression that the Pages wanted her out of the house as fast as possible.
“Now the signs and farm tools are outside in the shed,” said Michael pulling the French doors that opened to the overgrown garden. The garden shed was a miniature replica of the house, and inside ornate wooden street and store signs from a bygone era, and some tools were laid on the large potting table.
“My, oh my,” laughed Erin touching the old signs gently. “I wonder how and why he collected these?”
“I don’t think he did,” said Michael. “I think that when he inherited this place from his Aunt Mrs. Clyde, he found them here in the garden shed. I suspect that Mrs. Clyde’s husband was a builder, and maybe he ended up with these old signs when he was renovating. I asked him once about them but he was dismissive. He didn’t want to talk about them. Do you think they are worth anything?”
“Oh, somebody will enjoy these for sure,” said Erin enthusiastically. “They would be great on a barn or stable wall, or in a country house on the walls as conversation pieces.” Then, on a whim Erin asked, “Now before we go any further, are you sure that Mr. Andrews has agreed to sell these items?”
There was silence for a long minute. The Pages looked at each other. “Well, nobody is going to use any of this stuff anymore,” said Mrs. Page sullenly. “When the old man, I mean Mr. Andrews dies, then we will be stuck getting rid of these things anyway, so what is the difference.”
Erin made a grimace, and her inner voice that often spoke to her when something was not quite right was beginning to whisper inside. However, she felt uneasy with Michael Page and she was reluctant to annoy him. Finally, she shook her reservations aside and said, “Ok, well if you are sure that Mr. Andrews doesn’t mind.”
“He couldn’t care less,” said Michael emphatically. “Just more junk to take up space and get rid of.”
They discussed prices for a few moments, and agreed on a figure. “I can take these items away today if you want,” said Erin.
“That’s fine with me,” answered Michael abruptly, “now wait here while I go unlock the garden gate. You can back up your vehicle down the laneway and we can load things up.”
As Michael and Janine walked into the house, Erin continued to get that twinge of unease that she had felt before. Her Mother Mary, and her maternal Grandmother Helen had also been blessed (or was it cursed?) with the ability to sense when something was wrong. While Erin didn’t talk about her sixth sense to many people, Monica knew about it, and Haggis also connected with her from time to time in an almost telepathic manner.
Trying to bring herself back to the task at hand on earth, Erin went over to the back of the house to admire the massive pink peonies that were giving off the most delightful fragrance just under a window. As she was leaning over to get a heady blast of scent, she felt as if somebody was watching her. She quickly glanced up to the window and gasped. An old man, lying on a bed that was pushed up against the window, began to tap with his finger on the glass. He was trying to say something but of course Erin heard nothing. “What?” asked Erin pointing to her ear. She glanced at his face that was slack all down one side from his recent stroke.
“What are you doing?” demanded Michael’s voice from the laneway. Erin wheeled around quickly. “Just enjoying these peonies,” she replied guiltily. “They are really magnificent.”
“Don’t go near that window. That’s Mr. Andrew’s bedroom. He sleeps at this time of day.”
“Sorry,” said Erin sheepishly moving away from the window.
Michael glared at her, and silently began to load the wooden signs and boxes into the back of the store’s Land Rover. The air suddenly seemed frosty, cold and decidedly unfriendly.
“Thanks so much. Please call us again if you find anything that you want to sell,” said Erin as she put the car in gear and pulled away. Oh boy, what is going on there she thought as she drove down the short driveway. We have an agitated woman, a paranoid man, and an old man who looks frightened and scared. Something is wrong, very wrong.”
***
Patrick, Lawson, 6’2”, with a touch of distinguished grey at his temples, was the love of Monica’s life, and the man who wanted to marry her if the moment to pop the question ever seemed right. The first time he had attempted a romantic proposal was one month ago as he had rowed Monica across the Mill pond one sunny evening. He was just about to lean forward and pop the question when a canoe nearby had flipped over and he had dived into the water to rescue two tattooed teenagers and a small dog who had thanked him by biting his finger.
He had just come in from the garden at Arkle Cottage, the name of Monica’s Cape Cod style house, and had caught the tail end of Erin’s story. “That is quite an interesting tale. So you really think there is something odd going on over there?”
“You know me,” laughed Erin settling down on the double seater sofa by the window, “I get these sorts of vibes when things don’t seem right. The lady was a bundle of nerves, then the old man sitting in bed waving to me frantically, and finally the man couldn’t get me out of there fast enough.”
Patrick got a cold beer out of the fridge and sat on the edge of a century old hand carved butternut chair. As a detective who lectured at a nearby college on his specialty — blood spatter analysis — he and Police Chief Van Dyck often consulted on cases. The two had become good friends over time as Patrick’s visits to, and eventual weekend stay overs at Monica’s house had become more and more frequent. Patrick had first seen Monica through the store front window arranging things at Rocking Horse Antiques months ago. He went back week after week to talk to her, and finally asked her out to dinner. That was the start of a wonderful friendship that had blossomed into a love affair for the 40 year old man who had survived a messy divorce, but was ready to love again. The divorcee with the winning smile found Monica’s former life as a world class rider fascinating as it was so very different from the world of policing and crime. “Huh, that is a little perplexing,” agreed Patrick. “I wonder if it’s a case of elder abuse; it is a common crime these days.”
“Maybe I can think of an excuse to get back in there,” said Erin popping a brownie bought from Bonita’s Bakery and Tea Shop into her mouth. She sighed with delight at the rich chocolate taste that flowing through her mouth.
“Oh boy, here we go again,” laughed Patrick in mock shock standing up to help Monica lift a large bag of potatoes from a cupboard, “The two gals from the antique shop going where no man has gone before to solve crimes and to make the world a better place!” Both girls laughed out loud at Patrick’s teasing.
“Anyway, Erin do you know anything about the old man?” asked Monica as she began to peel carrots.
“Nothing really at all,” said Erin. “We always said hi to him when he was up and about and walking around town, but over the past year or so we have seen him less and less. He was always very polite but never said much about himself. Very quiet fellow. I gather he inherited the house from his old aunt, a Mrs. Liz Clyde that he hardly knew. She died, and he appeared, moved in and became a part of the village life.”
“How long ago was that?” asked Patrick.
“Long, long before we moved here,” said Erin scratching Haggis’s white tummy. “I think somebody said something about the late 1950s.”
“Maybe there will be something interesting in the books and boxes you got from his place,” added Monica, “like that old photo of the twin servant girls we found in the bureau from Dr. Bill,” she said referring to a clue they had used to help solve a recent murder in the village.
“Did I mention the shoes?” asked Erin. “Now that was creepy. In one of the boxes were shoe boxes holding two pairs of brand new but old fashioned ladies lace up walking shoes. We used to call them brogues in Ireland.”
“Obviously belonged to Mr. Andrew’s wife,” commented Patrick.
“No, that’s the weird thing; he never married,” said Erin, “and the shoes were brand new so obviously the old auntie had never worn them.”
“Ha, trust Erin to go to a house to get some old books, and dusty old signs, and come back with a mystery,” laughed Monica.
“Well, you hooked yourself one heck of a mystery last week too,” came the fast retort from the sofa where Erin was deciding between another brownie, and a butter tart. “Finding a doll and a baby in a box in a hay loft. Now if that isn’t strange, I don’t know what is.”
“I must say that’s a real head scratcher and very interesting,” said Monica, “and, it’s not just a ‘maybe mystery.’ It is a most ‘definite mystery,’ and possibly a murder.”
“And, you two Snoop Sisters are not going to get mixed up in that are you,” said Patrick gravely. While he helped the girls from time to time with their sleuthing and investigations, he would have preferred that they kept their prying and poking to friendly chats and questions with people on the street, or poring over old newspaper clippings. Haring around the countryside and asking pointed questions was a task he always felt was better left to the police. But, he also knew that the girls loved a challenge, and with the Police Chief ready to acquiesce and accept that their sleuthing had created some very positive results, asking the girls to stop completely was a useless request. “Have you spoken to Van Dyck?” asked Patrick. “What does he say about you two getting involved?”
“He came by the store yesterday and we had a chat,” said Monica tossing salad in the kitchen. “He knows that the baby might have died of natural causes, and in that case the only real crime is not giving the poor wee thing a proper burial. The second scenario is that the baby was killed, but he says there are no trauma marks on the skull or other bones. He said that he would keep us informed when he knows more. So Patrick my love, Erin and I promise to keep you in the loop every step of the way, and we will include you if danger is imminent and we need a strong man to help and protect us!”
Patrick laughed loudly and even Haggis got into the act and began to bark. But Erin was suddenly very quiet. The word ‘help’ that Monica had just said had triggered an idea, and the more she thought about it, the more she was sure that old Mr. Andrews had been trying to say, “Help me!” from his bedroom window.
***
“Erin, listen,” said Monica breathlessly as she shoved an old pine carpenter’s box aside with her foot, “I know that Patrick doesn’t really like it when we get involved in mysteries all the time, but that baby at the Brewsters has got me thinking.”
“I hear you,” came the muffled reply from Erin who was head first in a large box full of antique bone china finger bowls. “I am just not sure how we can proceed.”
“I think that we need to go see Mrs. Honor. I forgot to tell you that she called and left a phone message the other day on my cell phone. She said that she has been thinking of the baby and has something that we might find interesting to hear.”
“If there is anybody in this town with nuggets and tidbits of information, it is her,” said Erin shaking her long red hair that looked as if she had just walked through a cedar hedge and a wind tunnel. “She is a wealth of historical knowledge,” she added smoothing down her oversized shirt with the rip at the pocket corner, and two buttons missing.
Three hours later, Erin, Haggis and Monica were settled in Mrs. Honor’s living room. Every inch of space was covered with tiny china figurines, knick knacks, plastic mementos of travel, and souvenirs. There was also a faint layer of dust over everything, and Monica and Erin suppressed giggles and surreptitiously wiped the inside of their tea cups when their hostess went into the kitchen to fetch a plate of cookies.
“Now, I did a lot of thinking about that poor dead baby,” said Mrs. Honor as she poured tea, passed plates, and offered cookies and cake slices. “I think that you should go and see a lady called Enid Black. She was head nurse at the Bellevue Hospital at Keysville which served this whole area for years. She might know about births and deaths, and I think she was head of the maternity section. But there was something odd as I recall going on there. I can’t remember what exactly because it was years ago, but I seem to remember some talk. Just some whispers here and there. She might be able to enlighten you.”
“When did the hospital shut down?” asked Erin swallowing a slightly stale piece of maple cake.
“Oh, at least 30 years ago,” came the reply as Mrs. Honor, broke a cookie in two and slid one half to Haggis who was lying at her feet. “The hospital was declared unfit. It was originally built at the turn of the century so it was out of date in every way imaginable. The electrical system, the plumbing, and heating were all well past their best by date. I hear that it is just a rotting hulk, and the town council want to tear it down. There were plans to do things with the building but nothing happened. The place is too far gone now.”
Just as the girls were ready to leave, Mrs. Honor dug into the large pocket of her apron and produced a photocopy from an old newspaper. “I almost forgot this,” she said offering it to the girls. Monica and Erin looked at the copy, slightly askew, and gasped. The old Bellevue hospital was shown in its heyday with trees, shady pathways and bushes creating an almost pastoral look to it. Nurses with tall stiff white hats, and long white dresses of a bygone era stood around the lawn with patients in old fashioned style wheelchairs. The second photo showed an ugly building, clearly abandoned and unused with broken windows, sagging doors, and cracked brickwork.
“That is something out of a horror movie,” said Monica in disgust.
“Yes, it is. Somebody who had gone into the old place to get rid of some squatters told me that there is nothing left but crumbling walls, water filled hallways, leaking roofs, boxes full of old files, and broken bed frames.”
“Squatters,” said Monica in alarm, “why would people want to live in a dark, damp, gloomy place like that?”
“Oh, these weren’t human squatters,” laughed Mrs. Honor, “the Pest Control company was called in. They found a nest of snakes and a large family of raccoons. Nasty critters. Dangerous. And rats too. Big, hairy rats!”
***
Emile Smyth, as handyman and furniture wizard was a key member of the Rocking Horse part time staff, and was one of the best things Monica and Erin had found in Coppin’s Locks. He was almost completely deaf, but often told the girls what people had said in the store about a certain object, its condition or price thanks to his ability to lip read. He could take the most decrepit chair or table and transform it into an item worthy of the store name. He also understood how old furniture was put together, and managed to find old nails and screws in the right style, era and color so that a buyer always had an authentic piece.
“Emile, when you have finished that, can you carry these boxes of china to the front of the store. Joanne will be here soon and she is going to place them,” said Monica referring to her neighbor who often helped out in the store, or fed Haggis, and Monica’s two donkeys if the girls were away “Erin and I have to go speak to somebody in Keysville.”
Emile answered in a slightly monotone voice and continued to rub his special and secret compound of beeswax and something else that only he knew onto a pine table top. The transformation after a few applications along with some elbow grease turned the dullest furniture into a warm and glowing article that was hard for any shopper and antique lover to resist.
Two hours later Monica and Erin drove down the main highway towards Keysville. Monica’s Mother Joyce lived in the quiet town and while she had sold the large family home after her husband, plastic surgeon Dr. Michael Goodwood, had died a few years ago, she loved the town and wished to remain there. She bought a small condo, and enjoyed being able to close the curtains, lock the door and take off on the trips and travels whenever she wanted.
“We’ll just drop in to see Mother for just a few minutes,” said Monica shifting gears in the elderly Land Rover that was making grinding noises when going from third to fourth gear.
“Has she got any trips planned?” asked Erin popping a sour cherry ball in her mouth, “or is she going to stick around until after the Christmas in July weekend?”
“Monica laughed. “I figure she is about due for a trip. Every three months is about right, and she has been home since April’s trip to Paris. By now she’ll be getting restless, and the travel bug will be beckoning. I told her we might be dropping over the other day so she is expecting us.”
Monica knocked on her Mother’s door, but there was no answer. She tried two more times, and then checked to see if her Mother’s BMW was parked in the garage. It wasn’t there.
“Where can she be?” asked Erin suddenly noticing that there were wavy car tire tracks down the side of the driveway and crushed flowers in the bed. “She agreed to meet us here. She would have called if she was going to go out, I am sure.”
“I am worried,” admitted Monica who knew her Mother was a stickler for being on time and keeping appointments. “I am going to call her cell.” There was no answer on Joyce’s phone so Monica left a message. A few minutes later she called, and left a second message, but this time slightly more frantic.
“What shall we do? Enid Black is expecting us right about now,” asked Erin.
“I am sure that there is a good explanation,” mumbled Monica only half listening. “I am probably being paranoid.”
The girls got into their vehicle, and began to drive away. Erin was very quiet, but it wasn’t because she was lost for words. When she had been walking around the back of Joyce’s house, she had seen a small white card lying on the ground. She had picked it up and read it. Erin winced inside, but she knew if she showed it to Monica, she would panic, and come to all kinds of conclusions. Erin put the card in her pocket and decided to keep her mouth shut.
***
“Now, remember, we are writing a history of the old hospital for a writing class on history of the region,” said Monica. “That’s our reason for the visit.”
Enid Black lived in a very modern house made of cement and glass. It was unusual, and certainly noteworthy though not really to Monica or Erin’s taste. It sat on a street where it stuck out like a cow at a sheep shearing contest; all the other homes were old style with shutters, warm wooden siding or field stone. The girls parked under a large tree, got out and walked along a gravel path to the front door that screamed art deco. The bell rang, and footsteps came tapping down an inner hall.
“Welcome, welcome,” gushed Enid Black, extending her hand. “Do come in. I am looking forward to chatting about the history of the old hospital. Now what were your names again?”
The house was as modern inside as it was outside: Chrome, glass and minimalist furnishings had been the decorator’s delight. The girls were given a house tour and made the appropriate ooh and ahh sounds that Enid Black was obviously used to hearing. She was a large woman in her early 80s, and as tall as Monica at 5’9”, but where Monica was slim like a model, Enid Black had suffered from too much good living and too few walks around the park. Her blue rinsed hair showed grey roots and clashed with her bright red lipstick, while her yellow dress was stretched alarmingly. She was certainly colorful if nothing else thought Monica.
“My father George was a successful contractor, and he built this house,” she said proudly. “It was considered very avant-garde at the time. Actually it is still pretty modern even by today’s standard. Now let’s have some tea, and you can ask me all about the hospital,” she said passing around tea cups and cake.
“Well, can you give me some of the history of the place? I gather it was built around 1900, and closed about 30 years ago?”
“Yes, it was considered very contemporary at the time of construction. And, the gardens were really lovely too. Some of the WWI and WWII veterans convalesced there. They enjoyed the pathways outside, and the large bright rooms inside for socializing.
“Why has it fallen into disrepair? Why wasn’t something else done with the building after the hospital facilities were moved?”
“Oh, there were ideas, and plans to make it into senior housing, or low income housing, or office space, but there were no investors I guess. The renovations and restorations would have been very expensive. The plumbing, and electrical were out of date, and with the stringent building codes, the cost to do a complete overhaul was immense. It was not a very nice building at all. Perhaps when it was built it was ok, but as time went it, all its flaws and faults became obvious.”
“Was it just a general hospital, or were there special services?” asked Erin eying a chocolate cookie bursting with oversized chips.
“We had a special ward for children, another ward for the elderly and a maternity ward for mothers and babies. It was a nice place to work; everybody knew everybody else, and it was rather like a big family.”
“You were head nurse there?” asked Monica hoping to turn the conversation to more personal issues.
“Yes, I was head nurse there in the maternity department. I adored the babies.”
“You must have been upset when the place closed down. Your job disappeared with the stroke of a pen,” commented Erin.
“Oh, it was so sad when it closed. We were devastated. We knew it was coming of course, but it was still a shock. I recall that last day when we closed the ward doors, shut the offices down, and signed out for the last time,” came the fast reply as their hostess grabbed her tea cup, and took a hurried sip with downcast eyes.
Did Erin imagine it or was there a very subtle change in Enid Black. It was almost imperceptible but it was most certainly there. It wasn’t grief or sadness. It was fear.
“What did most of the staff do after?” quizzed Monica.
“Most of them got jobs at the new hospital. For myself, well I was due to retire,” said Enid and then added quickly, “now perhaps I should tell you about the old architecture of the building.”
Erin got the distinct impression that Enid Black was trying to change the direction of the conversation, and for the next ten minutes, Monica and Erin heard all about the long dark hallways with poor lighting, the small hospital rooms with tiny barred windows, and the miles of halls in the dark, damp basement.
“Sounds awful,” commented Erin, “like those deserted insane asylums and hospitals they show on the TV ghost shows where there are cold spots, eerie voices, and moaning noises.”
“It is pretty scary, I must admit,” agreed Enid, “I went back once years and years ago. I took my gardener with me, and we got in through a broken door. Even he was nervous!”
“Why on earth would you want to go back into a place like that?” asked Monica.
Erin saw the flash of nervousness in Enid eyes again. It was fleeting but it was there.
“Oh, no real reason, just curious to see what was going on in the old place,” said Enid putting her tea cup back on the tray. Her hands were trembling ever so slightly.
Monica, who had also noticed the nervousness in the woman, went back to the safety of asking questions about the hospital; its good points, failings, and the lovely gardens. They left a few minutes later and certainly saw the relief in their hostesses eyes as she closed the door behind them.
“Now, was it me or did you get the impression that she was very uncomfortable when she talked about leaving the hospital?” asked Erin adjusting her seat belt.
“Yes! Big change in her wasn’t there? She got very fidgety. And, did you see her hands shake a little when we asked her why she had gone back to the hospital after it closed,” said Monica gently putting the vehicle into third gear as they drove on the country road towards home.
“Why on earth would an elderly lady be remotely interested in going back to a deserted old hospital that was falling down?”
“I bet I know,” said Monica with certainty, “she was going back to get something, or find something that she had left behind, something that she didn’t want anybody else to get.”
“You know,” said Erin chewing a caramel she had found lurking in the bottom of her large handbag, “I get the impression that Head Maternity Nurse Ms. Enid Black was not the squeaky clean person she would like us to believe she is.”
