Chapter 18
Dear Sophie,
My brother gave his wife all their furniture when they divorced. He’s living like an eighteen-year-old again. His house looks like a dorm room. How can I help him without being too pushy?
Big Sis in Fort Couch, Pennsylvania
Dear Big Sis,
You could offer to throw a painting party at his house. Buy fun hats for everyone, set out snack boards, and make fun drinks for your guests. You could also offer to go shopping with him. Whether it’s in a furniture store or a flea market, it’s always more fun with a friend or a sibling.
Sophie
I worked in my home office for a few hours, but thoughts of Orson and the store were never far away.
At five minutes to one, Bernie appeared at my kitchen door. I locked it behind me and slid the keys into a mini cross-body bag that contained a little cash and my phone.
“Where does Doreen live?” I asked.
“Only a few blocks from here.”
“You’d think I would know her. Has she lived in Old Town long?”
He nodded as we walked up to a gray house.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Isn’t this Graham Nye’s house?”
Bernie shot me a sly look. “Indeed, it is.” He tapped the golf club door knocker.
I recognized Doreen Donovan from her photograph when she opened the door. She was pretty, but she appeared tired, and more worn out than the other women in the photos.
“Bernie!” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. “What are you doing here?” She wore a halter top of bright blue colors and white short shorts that couldn’t possibly have been any shorter. High-heeled, leopard print ankle boots covered her feet in spite of the heat.
“Doreen, this is my friend, Sophie Winston.”
I held out my hand to her.
She barely touched my hand with her bony fingers, as though she wasn’t quite sure what to do. Long fingernails glittered in the sun. “I’ve heard of you. You throw all those grand parties, don’t you?”
“I organize some galas, yes.”
“We wanted to talk with you,” said Bernie. “Do you have a minute?”
“Oh, sure! Y’all come on in.”
I’d heard that Graham Nye and his wife had divorced, and his house certainly looked like a bachelor lived there. The living room was sparsely furnished with white walls. A dark brown leather sofa and a giant TV dominated the room. A collection of black-framed golf tournament flags decorated an otherwise empty wall. On a small side table, a resin Santa statuette was putting a golf ball.
“Have a seat. Can I get you anything?” Doreen asked.
“Don’t go to any trouble for us,” I said. “But thanks for asking. I guess you heard about Orson Chatsworth?”
“That was so sad. I was just crushed. I mean, I didn’t know him super well, but he seemed like a nice man.”
“Did you ever buy anything from him?” I asked.
Her eyes fixated on me. “I love that store!”
There was something odd about the way she looked at me when she said it. Because he had left it to me? Or maybe because of the high prices? It didn’t worry me much. There were stores I had browsed in without buying anything, usually because they were out of my price range. Orson’s prices were steep and not affordable for everyone.
Her eyes narrowed. “That’s right! You own it now, don’t you? I should drop by sometime and have a look around.”
“It’s closed right now. In respect of Orson’s passing.”
She nodded.
Remembering what some of the other women had said, I asked, “Did he ever give you a special deal on something you wanted?”
She seemed to hold her breath. “No.”
Why did I get the feeling that she was holding back information? “Where did you meet Orson?”
Wrinkles appeared between her eyebrows. “Why are you asking me that?”
Bernie looked at me, tense.
“Maybe I have you confused with someone else,” I said. “I was told you were friends with Orson.”
“Oh, I was! Let’s see, how did I meet him? I think it was through Joe Bulfin. Yes, I’m sure of it. I was having dinner with Joe when Orson stopped by our table and then joined us for a drink.”
Joe Bulfin had to be thirty years older than Doreen. I supposed it would be rude to ask what on earth she was doing having dinner with Joe Bulfin. But, since I happened to know Joe, I knew how to find out.
“So you became friends with Orson?”
Honestly, the poor woman looked confused. It wasn’t as though I had asked her a difficult question.
She looked to Bernie for help, but I didn’t want him to guide her responses. “Did you work for Orson?”
“No,” she said tentatively.
I smiled at her, hoping she would feel reassured. “What do you do?”
“I’m a model.”
I hadn’t expected that. She was attractive, but her face seemed lined and her eyes tired. “That must be a lot of fun.”
“It’s harder than people think.”
“Have I seen you in advertisements?”
The clueless expression returned. She flicked the fingers of her right hand near her face and then touched them to her shoulder. “Um, maybe?”
She hadn’t worked for Orson, and I had a very strong suspicion that she wasn’t a model. “Did you go out with Orson?”
“No. But he was always real nice to me. Real friendly-like. You know? Some people aren’t nice, but Orson wasn’t like that.”
Bernie made a little production of looking at his watch and tapping it. “Look at the time. I have to get back to the restaurant. Thank you for your help.”
Doreen smiled at him and held his arm possessively as we walked out. She chattered at him, but I was thinking that she had gone around in a quiet arc from not knowing Orson super well to thinking he was a nice man.
When the door had closed behind us and Bernie and I were well away from the house, I asked, “Okay. What’s the deal with Doreen?”
“She had a rough upbringing. I’m told she was raised by her mother. An only child, sort of like Natasha, actually. Except Doreen’s mom was what one might call a shady lady, as opposed to Wanda, who is the salt of the earth. Wanda might believe in crystals and the magic of nature, but she’s as good and honest as they come. Now, mind you, none of this information came from Doreen. People who know her have confirmed that her mom made a living as a scammer and a thief. Little Doreen learned at her feet. It’s just rumor, but some claim that her mother once stole a city bus full of people!”
“What? That’s crazy! Why would anyone do that? Her mother must have a screw loose. I can’t imagine being brought up like that. But I can see how Doreen might have gotten irrational ideas. We all look to our parents for guidance when we’re kids. If that’s all she knew growing up, then I can see why she might take the same path in life. Do you think she conned Orson?”
Bernie shrugged. “She was evasive about how she knew him and what her connection was to him.”
“You must hate seeing her at the Laughing Hound.”
“We don’t have much to steal. It’s not like we use sterling silver flatware. And, I have to admit, she’s generally in the company of a well-heeled gentleman who picks up the tab.”
“That’s what she’s doing at Graham Nye’s house?”
“Yup. She mooches off them.”
“I see. So basically she’s a hooker?”
“I wouldn’t put it quite that way. I don’t think she hangs out on streets or gets paid for sex. I guess in the old days we’d have called her a companion.”
“They don’t bring her to the galas and such or I would have seen her around. What a sad life.”
Bernie wrapped an arm around me and gave me a squeeze. “Some people have it hard. I’m off to the restaurant. Feel like some lunch?”
“I think I’ll pass today. Thanks for the offer, though. And thanks for taking me to see Doreen.”
“Always glad to help. See you later!”
Bernie turned left and headed toward the Laughing Hound. I checked my watch. I had two hours before I was supposed to meet the alarm installer at the store. I kept walking toward Joe Bulfin’s house.
His brick home had been painted a greenish gray. The forest green door shone in the sunlight as did the matching shutters. I could hear the TV on inside and what I thought might be a blender.
I rapped the anchor-shaped door knocker.
Suddenly the sound of the TV died. I waited, assuming he had heard my knock.
When he didn’t open the door, I tried again.
This time, he shouted from inside, “Go away!”
Now I was in a quandary. Did he want to be alone or was something wrong inside his house?
“Joe? Are you all right? It’s Sophie Winston.”
The door swung open. Joe’s pale, fleshy face was flushed and contrasted with his silvery hair. He had the body of a man who worked a lot and didn’t get much exercise. He was nicely dressed in white shorts and a light blue golf shirt. “Sophie! I am so sorry. I, uh, thought you were someone else. Come on in.”
I stepped inside. His home was a bit of a mess, but in a nice, comfortable, lived-in kind of way. As might be expected of a professor at a nearby university, his living room had two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A rolltop desk was piled with papers and a few had been stacked on the hardwood floor.
“I was just making myself a smoothie. Would you care for one?”
“I’m fine, thanks. But don’t let me stop you.” I followed him into a small kitchen. A pizza box protruded from the trash can and an open box of doughnuts rested on the countertop.
As if he realized how it looked, he said, “I try to make healthy smoothies once in a while. Can’t eat doughnuts and pizza all the time. Right? To what do I owe the honor of a visit?”
“I hear you know Doreen Donahue.”
Joe promptly spilled the smoothie he was pouring into a glass. He grabbed a paper towel and wiped it up with a nervous hand. “What has she done now?”