Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_03 (24 page)

I
T was fairly late Thursday morning when I reached my office. I had
The Clarion
tucked under my arm. I'd scanned it at breakfast. I didn't need to read it. I'd lived it.

The lead story, of course, was Eric March's rescue of me from Dr. Thomas Abbott. Most of the story was Kitty Brewster's eyewitness account, then her subsequent interview with me at the Derry Hills police station. I made it clear that Abbott was guilty of three murders and that he was lifting the gun to shoot me and only Eric's intervention saved my life.

Additional stories focused on Maggie Winslow's murder, Rita Duffy's release, my efforts to clear Rita, and the expected revelations about the book that Howard Rosen had written and Tom Abbott had stolen from him.

But I was finished.

In, of course, more ways than one.

I unlocked my office door.

Two envelopes addressed to me had been slipped beneath the door.

The first bore the letterhead of the Office of the President of Thorndyke University.

I opened the thick envelope. The University's
crest in gold and blue was emblazoned in the top center of a thick white notecard. There was a single line written in a heavy, looping script:

I crossed to my desk, dropped the note in the wastebasket. I sat in my chair and opened the second.

Smooth words. But I knew I'd made an implacable enemy of Susan. I was sure there would be a budget difficulty in the spring which would, regrettably, of course, mean that my position could not be filled in the coming academic year. Her letter was simply a feline means of ensuring I could not complain that I was being dropped because of malice on her part.

No, my days at Thorndyke were over. But that was all right. I know that nothing—for good or ill—lasts forever. I'd had fun here, made good friends, fought a good fight. That was as much as I could ever ask of any job.

I've had many jobs. It might be tough to find a new one at my age. But I had enough savings to be independent and I could always freelance. I could go anywhere, write anything.

Or I could—my fingers closed around a carnation—I could try a new and different life, a life of leisure in a lovely land with a man I enjoyed.

But I had one more task to complete before I called Jimmy.

 

The greenhouse was moist, the air rich with the scent of growing things. The tabby lifted her head. Emerald eyes watched me benignly.

Kathryn Nugent sat behind a worn desk. A cracked leather ledger lay open before her. Slowly, she put down the ballpoint pen. Her oval face was haggard. She said brusquely, “I don't want to talk to you.”

“Mrs. Nugent, I know what happened to your husband.”

Those slender, dirt-grimed hands opened and shut
spasmodically, but her face remained empty, walled against invasion.

I told her, as quickly, as kindly, as gently as I could.

And when I finished, I watched those hands open and shut, open and shut. Tears trickled down her pale cheeks. “If he'd only come home…”

I left then, understanding the depth and breadth of her love.

If he'd only come home
…

At the door I paused. There was a vase filled with carnations.

I reached up and broke one off.

I didn't think she'd mind.

I stepped outside into a dull, raw, gunmetal-gray November day, the carnation nestling in my hand. In the car, I brought the carnation to my face, smelled its rich woody scent.

I thought of Jimmy and sunny days.

I thought of Richard and the incredible joy it had given me to be near him.

I reached for my mobile phone.

“Hello.” Even in that single word, Jimmy's voice was boyish, eager.

“Jimmy.”

“Henrie O. I'm leaving in an hour. You'll—”

“Jimmy, you're a wonderful man. I wish you every kind of happiness.”

“You're saying no, Henrie O?”

I liked Jimmy. I enjoyed him. I treasured him.

I did not love him.

A man deserves a wife who can say, “I love you,” and mean it with every fiber of her being.

“Jimmy, go to Mexico and be happy. I want you to be happy.”

“I would be happier with you.” But, as always, his voice was kind and reasonable.

We talked for a moment more, old friends and now former lovers, and then we said good-bye.

My hand rested on the telephone after I hung up. My eyes ached with tears.

But if I went to Mexico, it would be for all the wrong reasons.

So I wasn't going to Mexico.

I wondered where I would go.

Have laptop. Will travel.

CAROLYN HART
is an acknowledged master of mystery and suspense who has been nominated for and has won multiple Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity Awards for her popular “Death on Demand” and “Henrie O” series. She has written two previous “Henrie O” mysteries:
Dead Man's Island
(an Agatha Award-winner) and
Scandal in Fair Haven
(nominated for both an Agatha and a Macavity Award), and has a fourth,
Death in Paradise,
currently available in hardcover. One of the founders of Sisters in Crime, Ms. Hart lives in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.

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