| |
When Jessie and I left the fire scene and drove back to the newsroom, I didn’t want to talk about Nigel, but I did confess about pulling her research from the trashcan and reading it. I waited for her to ream me out, but she said she was glad to have someone believe in her story after E.J. had shut her down. When I filled her in on the machinations of Johnny Ray Meeks and his gang, we bonded. Not quite Woodward and Bernstein, but a good team. No question in our minds that shack was one of the derelict properties involved in laundering lots of money.
The arson inspector found accelerant along the foundation of the now-collapsed building. As part of the investigation, Sheriff Horne made impressions of two sets of footprints at the scene. I called Abit and asked him to bring a pair of shoes from Nigel’s abandoned belongings; Jessie and I delivered them to Horne. They matched one of the casts. I filled Horne in about Johnny Ray Meeks hounding Nigel (though I skirted his involvement best I could). Horne nodded with what felt like genuine interest as we explained about the money-laundering scheme Jessie had uncovered. I believed Horne had come to trust my judgment, especially after we’d worked on a case together a few years ago.
I struggled with the reality that Nigel—a dear old man who had always been kind and gentlemanly with me and the oldest friend I had after Alex—was gone, either dead or in hiding. I recalled my talk with Myrtle Ledford about everything going swimmingly and felt even sadder. No wonder people were superstitious!
Abit called every day to see if I’d heard from Nigel, and Alex came down from D.C. He planned to take a longer break than usual after filing several big stories about half of Congress trying to steal the people’s Social Security. He needed to get away from all that as much as I needed a break from real estate and fire. And, of course, he was worried about Nigel too.
We took advantage of my day off—sunny for a change—and went for a long walk along the falls trail. As we hiked silently through the forest—even the birds were quiet, except for a pesky brace of crows—the natural calm settled our jangled nerves. Later, over coffee at a small café nearby, Alex tried to cheer me up with pleasant scenarios like Nigel was in the Caymans enjoying himself and his bounty. Or back in D.C. at Churchill Arms, hoisting a few with his mates. But Alex hadn’t seen the charred waistcoat.
Late that afternoon, while Alex worked on his famed Tagliatelle Bolognese (though I didn’t have much of an appetite, even for something I usually begged him to make), I went downstairs to pick up the day’s mail. When I saw the unmistakable British scrawl on an envelope with no return address, my heart hammered while I struggled to open it. I turned the envelope over to make sure the postmark was after the fire and sat down on Abit’s bench outside the store to read.
Dear Della,
I’m deeply sorry to have worried you so—and spoiled our lovely time together. You and Abit are like family to me. Of course I love those with my bloodline, but the other kind—the family of choice—has an ineffable quality to it.
I’m heading home—my real home in Blighty. Not the clever plan I’d hoped for, but it’s a good time to go back and see old friends. My grandson, Jason, who’s studying at Georgetown, will be living in my D.C. apartment, so all’s well there.
Please extend my deepest apologies to Abit and his family. Jason has agreed to head down soon to clean out the room at Abit’s. I left enough of a mess, I don’t want to leave one at the guestroom they so generously shared with me.
I’m sure you’re wondering what transpired at that dilapidated building and how I got there—and more importantly how I got out. I was kidnapped by that blighter, Johnny Ray Meeks, and oene of his mates. They’d tricked me into thinking we were going out to dinner to celebrate a successful swindle. I thought it was the end of my association with them, which is why I’d dressed up; it felt lovely to wear my suit and waistcoat again! But as the evening played out, it became apparent that in their minds we’d just begun.
When I refused to continue (and I meant it this time!), they dragged me out to that miserable shack and tied me to a chair. As the flames began to lick at the walls, I figured I was a gonner. I started to cry as I thought of the wonderful people I’d never see again. With an instinctual gesture, I reached up to wipe my eyes and realized I wasn’t tied tightly. I prefer to think Meeks was just sending a message, trying to scare me. (He did!) I got the ropes off in the nick of time, took off my suit coat and waistcoat and used the latter to bat at the flames and make my escape. Needless to say, I have already called my tailor in London for replacements.
Good news on the RICO front. I heard they caught the thug who’d hired me for that ill-fated forgery. (Aren’t they all, I now ask myself.) That means after things cool off a bit, I can make my return to D.C. (He won’t reveal my connection because that would just add another charge to what is already a sizable list.) Perhaps you will forgive an old fool and have a cuppa with me (or something stronger) when you come to visit Alex. I should be back in D.C. after Jason’s term ends next year.
I miss all of you, but I’m sure you’ve had quite enough of me.
All the best,
Nigel xo
I felt the same way: I missed him and I’d had enough of him. For now. I’d heard from more than one therapist that being able to hold two contradictory thoughts at the same time is key to living a serene life. I was working on that. And I was relieved to see Nigel had resurrected his eloquent voice; his last conversation with me and Abit had been a startling regression.
When it finally sank in that Nigel was safe, I couldn’t move. I just sat on that bench and cried in front of God and everyone. My customers were well acquainted with life’s troubles, so anyone passing by took it in stride. Two women gently laid their hands on my downturned head before walking on. After a while, I went upstairs for a cuppa in Nigel’s honor.
No doubt Johnny Ray Meeks had skipped town too. That’s what criminals do. Unfortunately Sheriff Horne, like E.J. Blakely, thought the whole affair was just some small-time local caper and, after a few modest inquiries, chose to look no further.
I knew they were wrong.