Chapter 4

 

To my chagrin, Earl Brubaker, not Rosalie, answered my knock. It was clear from his rumpled khakis and a once-upon-a-time-navy golf shirt that he hadn’t been to bed yet.

“Kate!” Earl gaped at me in surprise. “What the hell are you doing here this time of night?”

I gaped back. The seconds ticked past. Earl posed a good question. Too bad I didn’t have a good answer. Or, for that matter, any answer at all. I shifted from one foot to the other. “I couldn’t sleep and happened to notice your light was on. What’s that old saying, ‘Misery loves company’?”

“And your point is . . . ?”

“I’m the ‘company.’” I beamed him my brightest smile.

Judging from the man’s dour expression, my feeble attempt at humor went right over his head. He stood planted in the doorway like a mighty oak, unsmiling, silent. The man always put me in mind of a basset hound with his sad brown eyes and droopy face. Tonight was no exception.

I frantically scanned my limited repertoire for a plausible excuse for my late night/early morning visit. “Could I borrow a cup of sugar?” I winced at hearing those words pop out of my mouth. How lame can you get?

“Sugar?”

Sugar seemed a foreign word to Earl. Maybe I should have tried a simpler request. Maybe flour, or simpler yet, salt. But I was on a roll now. I had regained my footing. “Yes, sugar,” I ad-libbed. “I thought I’d bake a nice batch of chocolate-chip cookies for Sheriff Wiggins and his men. They couldn’t have been nicer this afternoon.”

He dragged a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt over his stubbled jaw. “Sure, I guess,” he mumbled. “Come on in.”

“Thanks.” As I followed him to the back of the house, I glanced around, nonchalantly I hoped, but saw no sign of Rosalie. At least I hadn’t disturbed her with my sudden need for nocturnal companionship. She wasn’t as gullible as her husband. She would have seen through me in a flash.

Earl switched on the kitchen light. Dirty dishes were piled high in the stainless steel sink. The granite countertops were cluttered with newspapers and stacks of mail. Strange, I thought. This wasn’t like Rosalie. She might not have been much of a cook, but the woman kept her kitchen spotless. My sense of uneasiness crept up a notch. What the heck was I doing in Rosalie’s kitchen with her husband in the middle of the night?

Earl shuffled across the room. “Who did you say you were baking cookies for?”

“Sheriff Wiggins and his deputies. They were awfully patient with us this afternoon.” I clutched my robe tighter around my neck. What had I been thinking to head over here in my pajamas at this ungodly hour? Heaven knew if Jim were still alive, he’d have had a conniption fit at my calling on a neighbor in my nightclothes.

“What happened this afternoon?” Without waiting for an answer, Earl poked his head inside the pantry and began rummaging around.

“You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

I let out a sigh. Surely he must be the only person within a fifty-mile radius who hadn’t heard the news. “My friends and I found an . . .” I fumbled for a suitable word. While I could call a spade a spade, and an arm an arm, not everyone had my fortitude. “We found an odd . . . part . . . on the golf course this afternoon.”

“Found some art?”

Please, Lord, not again, I prayed. Not another man in need of a hearing aid. Maybe I should go into the business. Probably make a fortune. I sighed and took the easy way out. “That’s right, Earl. We found some art.”

He emerged from the pantry triumphantly clutching a half-empty bag of sugar and handed it to me. “No need to get all worked up.”

Now that I had the sugar I really didn’t need, it was time to go. “Well, thanks for the loan. I’ll replace it next time I’m at Piggly Wiggly.” As eager as I’d been earlier to trot over to the Brubakers’, I was now even more eager to trot back home.

I turned and headed for the door with Earl trailing behind. “Sure glad I didn’t wake Rosalie,” I said over my shoulder. “Tell her I said hello.”

“I would, but Rosalie isn’t here.”

I stumbled to a halt, nearly tripping over the sill. “Isn’t here?” The possibility hadn’t occurred to me.

Earl’s hand was on the door, poised to close it. “She’s in upstate New York visiting the grandkids. Should be back next week or so.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t go with her.”

“I’m not big on little kids,” Earl admitted grumpily. “Last time our daughter visited, her youngest picked all my prize orchids for a bouquet. Sure hope by their next visit he’ll be old enough to tell the difference between a dandelion and a phalaenopsis.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Phalaenopsis? Give me a break. Most adults, much less children, probably had never even heard the word. Poor child. No wonder Rosalie left a curmudgeon like Earl behind when she took off to visit the grandkids.

Home again, I dumped my chamomile tea, which had grown stone-cold in my absence, down the drain. So much for it being as soothing as a field of wildflowers.

Feeling as restless as ever, I wandered into the library. Calling the small room a “library” always seemed ostentatious. When I think of library, I think large. Large and filled floor to ceiling with books. That hardly describes a room the size of a guest bedroom with a solitary magazine rack. Our builder kept correcting me whenever I referred to this space as a den. Dens, he insisted, were passé. Family rooms, he informed me, were now called great rooms. And every new home, he had said, absolutely must have a master bedroom suite.

Well, la-di-da, I had said.

Besides the aforementioned magazine rack and Jim’s recliner, the library/den is also where we keep the computer. Now that Jim isn’t always sitting in front of it playing solitaire, I’ve learned how to surf the Net. Who knows? Someday I might even have my own Twitter account. Wouldn’t my granddaughters, Jillian and Juliette, be impressed? They’d think their grandmother was “hip.”

Do youngsters still use that expression? Here in Serenity, mention hip and people instantly associate it with replacement.

I powered up the computer and surfed until I found just what I was looking for. A honey of an electronic marvel called the Sandman. Clinically tested, the Sandman is a device guaranteed to help people achieve deeper states of sleep and relaxation. It emits sounds. Waves on a beach, rain on the roof, wind in the willows. It can even be programmed to sound like a thunderstorm. Not exactly Jim snoring, but I’d wager it’s a close second.

Satisfied with my purchase, I stifled a yawn and turned off the computer. As I made my way through the darkened house, I noticed a light still burned at the Brubakers’. And once again, I thought this odd for a man who liked to retire early.