Abigail called at eight thirty that evening.
“Jenny Weston?” The voice was cool. She didn’t give her name, as if expecting Jenny would, of course, know who was calling.
“I don’t mean to be cryptic, Jenny,” she went on. “I told your mother I would call you back when I could. What I meant by that was, when I was alone. I do seem to have people around me at all times. They mean well. Alfred and Carmen take such good care of me, but there are moments . . . well . . . when I do have private business to attend to. Not that I’m complaining. Please don’t think I don’t value the friendships that I have. Especially after, well, my brothers let me down so badly, turning on the family the way they did.”
“Did you want to come here and talk?” Jenny finally broke in, afraid the woman would wander forever and never get to the point. There was something almost charming about Abigail’s meanderings—an open, talking-to-remind-herself feeling to it.
“Yes. That’s why I called. I’m very sorry your little friend’s been dragged into all of this. I truly doubt she has anything to do with my brothers’ deaths. The story goes back such a long way. But I’m puzzled, truly puzzled, how it came to this. I’ve been racking my brains. Over and over again I’ve been asking myself, is there something different I could have done? They were always such independent thinkers, you know. I’ve done my best, but that’s neither here nor there. What I was contemplating was, my dear girl . . . I hope you appreciate how difficult this is for me . . .”
“What’s difficult, Ms. Cane?”
“Why, everything I’ve been telling you. Haven’t you been listening?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Then you should understand why I’m being so cloak-and-dagger. I must protect my family’s reputation. Murder’s never been a part of our lineage. I hope you understand and respect that fact, even as we speak of murder.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Cane. I—”
“I will be over to see you tomorrow evening. Precisely eight o’clock. That is unless my companions have other plans for me. They do carry on about my health and welfare—especially at times like this, when I’m under such stress. But then, I can come up with reasons to go off on my own for an hour or two. I’m not a prisoner, you understand. Nothing of the sort. Just . . . when people care for you as deeply as my secretary and attorney care for me, well, you understand. I don’t like to disappoint them. But this is different. So much history. And you do understand, I hope, not a word of anything I divulge to you can be passed to another living soul. I’ve chosen you because you’ve somehow insinuated yourself into the middle of Cane business.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” Jenny protested.
“No blame on your side. How could I blame you for having this whole ugly business thrust on you? Why—”
Enough was enough. “I’ll see you at eight o’clock tomorrow evening. You know where we—?”
“Don’t be silly. I know everyone in town. Eight o’clock.” Abigail hung up.
When Jenny told Dora that Abigail was coming the following evening, Dora was thrust into a frenzy of vacuuming, baking, and dusting.
“What time did you say she was coming? Eight o’clock? That doesn’t give me near enough time. I should make new cushions for the rockers. What kind of tea does she drink, do you think?”
“Mom, enough. She’ll never notice.”
“But this is the first time she’s come here.” Dora wrung her hands. “Abigail Cane! Why, that’s like the Queen of England visiting. Everything must be right.”
She headed toward the kitchen. “Queen Abigail of Bear Falls—for heaven’s sake. Imagine that. Coming here. How Jim would laugh at me.”
She muttered all the way out to scour her teapot.