A Table By the Window (44 page)

Aware that Blake's older sister had died of breast cancer as a young woman, Carley was touched by the sentiment in his expression. “What a pleasant memory.”

“Yes.” Eventually, humor glinted his eyes. “Dollars to donuts says you haven't seen it.”

She shrugged. “You'd win that bet. But I read it twice in high school.”

“You
have
to see the movie,” Sherry said. “Gregory Peck was
born
to play Atticus Finch. You too, Brooke. We'll lend it to you.”

“When will you start your online classes?” Patrick asked Brooke after the food arrived. Initially timid in each other's company, the two were beginning to converse in small degrees.

“I started Friday night,” Brooke said.

Uncle Rory gave her a sage smile. “The day you found out you passed the test, eh?”

The girl flushed with pleasure.

“She's at the computer every morning when I wake up,” Carley said.

“You mean she's a teenager who doesn't like to sleep in?” Blake said with a wink at his son.

Still flushing, Brooke said, “Dad said I slept through a tornado that took the barn when I was seven. I guess I sleep so deep that I'm all rested up when morning comes.”

****

Monday, CPA Bruce Laird confirmed Carley's optimism about being able to give her employees a portion of the profits next month, at the end of the first quarter. “It was wise of you not to borrow money,” the elderly man drawled. “Every penny above your expenses is gravy. Unfortunately, Uncle Sam loves gravy, but you're still doin' just fine. Enough to hire that hostess whenever you're ready.”

Brooke was enthusiastic about her classes, and new employee Tyler showed signs of being just as diligent at the sink in the afternoons. On Tuesday, as Dale paid for his hummus, pita bread, and mixed-green salad, plain, he leaned over the counter to say, “As of two hours ago, Brad Travis is on a Greyhound headed north. He'll be in Little Rock tonight.”

Carley thanked him. Brad, hovering in the back of her mind, had been the only barrier to a perfect week.

****

The latent stress of the whole Brad Travis episode finally caught up with Carley at 4:00 the following morning, when her right temple throbbed as if a nail were imbedded in it. She made it to the bathroom in time to throw up, and when there was nothing left but dry heaves, she rinsed her face with cold water and sat on the side of the bathtub, wishing she could die.

Eventually, slowly, she got to her feet. With slow, measured steps she went to Brooke's door and opened it.

“Brooke.” She panted, leaned against the frame. “Brooke!”

In the dark there was rustling, feet thumping to the floor. “Carley?”

“Need you.”

The light flicked on. Carley closed and shielded her eyes.

“Sorry,” Brooke said. “What's wrong?”

“Migraine. Fix me some oatmeal and tea?”

The girl took her arm. “Do I need to call Doctor Borden?”

“No. Need…eat something.”

She sat in the kitchen trying to keep her head level while the girl clanged about at the sink and stove. “No butter,” Carley panted. “Fats…worse.”

Just a teaspoon first. She moved the oatmeal around in her mouth, swallowed. Little by little, she downed a half cup. If she could keep down the half-tablet of Dramamine for fifteen minutes or so, the nausea would clear, and then she could keep down the Excedrin.

“Thanks, Brooke,” she said forty minutes later, while lying on the sofa with an ice bag at her temple.

The girl bent over her. “Is it gone?”

“No. But it's bearable.”

“You're not gonna go to work, are you?”

“Got to. I think it's time to hire another hostess.” She gave the girl a weak smile. “I'll be all right. Now, go back to bed while you can.”

“My clock's gonna go off in less than an hour,” Brooke said, sending a longing glance toward the computer.

“No way. Set it back another hour and go back to bed.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” Carley said. “If you can't sleep, lie there and count sheep.”

The girl gave her an odd look. “Why would I want to do that?”

“It's just a saying.”

She was able to do more than count sheep, for Carley had to rouse her to dress for work. Forty-five-degree air felt good on Carley's face as they walked out to the car.

“Want me to drive?” Brooke asked.

Carley laughed in spite of the pain. “That would be a trip.”

Brooke got in on the passenger side. “Hey, I've known how since I was fourteen. It's just I can't get my license 'til I take driver's ed, and I figured what was the point without a car? And Mildred would have a fit if I tried to drive her truck.”

Maybe you should give her the lessons,
Carley thought. Once Brooke started college, she would need a little car too.

Later…think later
.

At the café, she sent Brooke on in to start the tea, and went next door to the drugstore.

Chester Templeton's thick lenses made him resemble pictures of aliens with huge eyes. “You've never taken prescription medicine?”

“I've tried everything…self-injections, nose sprays, everything. They work, but then a rebound headache kicks in an hour or so later. I gave up four or five years ago.”

“Well, there you are, Miss Reed. There are better medicines on the market now.”

And…that's why I'm here,
she thought. Short temper was a common migraine side effect.

He smiled as if reading her thoughts and said kindly, “I'll call Doctor Borden's office and see if they can squeeze you in. I'm afraid he will not prescribe anything until he sees you.”

“No, thank you,” Carley said. “I'll call and make a Monday appointment.”

Even though the migraine would be history by then, there was always another waiting in the wings. It was time to be proactive instead of reactive.

“How long do they last?”

She rubbed her temple. “Normally, less than a day. But one this fierce usually hangs on for two, three days.”

“What are you taking now?”

“A half-tablet of Dramamine with two Excedrin. They take away the nausea, but only dull the pain.”

“Take a whole Dramamine tonight,” Chester suggested. “Maybe it'll help you sleep it off.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

She slogged through the hours.

“I can take your place,” Brooke told Carley when Tyler arrived for his shift.

“No, thank you. Three more hours, and I'll crash.”

“Well, you don't have to drive me home now. I'll walk.”

“Thank you.”

“Maybe I should start riding my bike here again?”

“Let's talk about it later?” Carley said weakly.

When she finally arrived at home, Brooke rose from the computer to show her a fig cake Byrle Templeton had brought over. “She said she hopes you start feeling better.”

“That sweet lady,” Carley mumbled. She wondered idly if pharmacists were held to the same confidentiality rules as doctors. Not that she cared, in this instance.

“Want some?” Brooke asked.

“Yes, please.”

“Milk?”

“Um-hmm. And then I'm going to bed.”

“I'll light the bathroom heater.”

“Thanks.” Carley washed the Dramamine and Excedrin down with the milk. By the time she was in her pajamas, she was yawning. From her bed she could see the pencil of light beneath the door. She had to smile. Brooke had been attentive all evening. She could just imagine the girl racing for the computer as soon as she was free.

Sleep's gauzy net drew her in without a struggle.

****

It's about time!
Dale thought in the shadow of Mrs. Templeton's utility shed, as the middle bedroom window next door went black. The soles of his running shoes easing into the grass, he crossed Carley's backyard. The living room windows were dark as well.

Not yet
. He would need to give Brooke time to fall asleep, for it was logical that she was the one staying up late.

On his way back to the shed, he wiped his nose on his sleeve. The dark sweat suit was warm enough insulation for the run over here in forty-five degree weather, but not for lurking in shadows. But he had had to dress the part, just in case anyone happened to spot him.

And he
would
be running back home. After it was done.

The shiver passing through him had nothing to do with the cold. He felt the sting of tears, and blinked. He had tried to convince himself that he was paranoid, that Brooke Kimball had not infected Carley with her suspicions, that the request to take the boat out was as innocent as Carley had tried to make it sound.

And perhaps he
could
have convinced himself, had he not run into waitress Tiffany Hogan at the bank last Thursday. Obviously she had assumed that relating seeing a certain couple getting cozy at a secluded table in the Old Grist Mill would better her own chances with him. No way. Not when she could barely conceal the zeal in her eyes as she delivered the news that would break his heart.

He allowed another half hour to pass before easing Mrs. Templeton's ladder from her shed. The same ladder he had borrowed last year.

Which window?

He chided himself for not figuring that out during the long wait. But what was there to figure out? Transom windows made entering through the enclosed back porch impossible. The kitchen window was small, and he would have to clamber over the sink. He was not sure if Carley slept in the front or back bedroom.

Living room
. A good plan, anyway. Give the gas enough time to build, before it hit the stove's pilot light.

****

Bright light burned into Carley's eyes. Noise assaulted her ears. Brooke was opening the window on the east side, flooding the bedroom with cold air.

“Carley, get up!”

“Why are you—”

“Get up now!”

The girl hopped up on the bed and got on her knees to open the front window. Carley eased up on the pillow, and Brooke grabbed her arm. “We have to go outside!”

****

“What happened?” Dean Payne asked, answering his carport door in a dark terry cloth robe over striped pajama pants.

“There's gas leaking!” Brooke said.

Dean looked at the door Brooke had left open. “Gas? Where did it come from?”

“I don't know,” Brooke said. “I woke up to answer the phone and smelled it.”

“Who was it?” Carley asked, lifting one bare foot and then the other on the cold concrete.

“Wrong number.”

“Come on in the house while we call the utility company,” Dean said.

Within five minutes, a truck from Mississippi Power sat behind the GL, and one from Tallulah Volunteer Fire Department was parked on the side of the street. Several porch lights were shining down Third Street, and Carley could vaguely make out the forms of neighbors standing at the ends of their driveways.

“The gas to the living room heater was on,” said a utility worker with
Larry
on his pocket badge. “You're lucky it didn't reach the stove pilot light, or you'd both be toast by now. You must have bumped the lever?”

Carley, with a coat she borrowed from Gayle over her pajamas and her feet warm in Dean's socks and tennis shoes, had to take a moment to replay her actions of the evening.

“Ma'am?” Larry said.

“She's on medication,” Brooke said defensively, also wearing clothes borrowed from the Paynes.

Larry sent a meaningful glance toward the three waiting firemen. “I see.”

Carley recognized two as customers and lifted a hand in greeting. “I don't remember going near the heater.”

“She didn't,” Brooke said. “And I turned it off after I shut down the computer.”

“What time was this?” a fireman asked.

“About midnight.”

“Brooke,” Carley scolded. “You're going to work yourself sick…”

“You think you might have accidentally turned the lever the wrong way?” Dean asked Brooke.

“No sir. I remember turning it off.”

“But you had to have been sleepy, right?” Larry asked.

“Well, yes, sir.”

Another siren sounded, closer, and then the squad car was stopping at the end of the driveway. Garland got out. “What happened?”

After a fireman explained, Garland asked Larry, “You didn't touch the lever, did you?”

“Well, yeah. I had to turn it off.”

“Yeah,” Garland sighed, and said to Carley, “I'll need to look for signs of forced entry.”

“Forced entry?” Carley said. “That's impossible. Who would do this?”

“I still have to look.”

“We don't lock the windows,” Brooke said. “We're always raising and shutting them.”

The deputy nodded understanding. This was, after all, Tallulah. “Then, I'll check the screens.”

Gayle came out, bearing a tray. “Would ya'll care for hot chocolate?”

****

When Carley answered the door at 8:10 in the morning, Dale walked in and rested both hands on her shoulders. “I just came on duty and blasted Garland out for not calling me.”

“Well, there was nothing you could do,” Carley said, tightening the belt to her robe.

“Hey, Chief Dale,” Brooke said from the kitchen doorway. “I'm making pancakes. Want some?”

A smile diluted some of the worry on Dale's face, “No, thank you. Good for you, smelling that gas.”

“Thank you,” she said, sending him a smile before returning to the stove.

Dale gave Carley an incredulous look, mouthed the word,
Wow
.

Then he got down to the bad news. “I called Greyhound. Brad evidently got off the bus somewhere between here and Jackson Tuesday, because he didn't make the transfer. I called his dad up in Little Rock and got the machine, so I left a message.”