Lucky Stuff (Jane Wheel Mysteries) (16 page)

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“Breathe new air,” said Jane aloud. The house was quiet when she woke up, dressed, and made coffee and toast. It wasn’t like her parents to sleep in, but Carl’s death had shaken their world. Jane leaned over the sink and peered into the African violet plants on the window sill and pressed her nose up against the screen, repeating, “Breathe new air.”

“Who you talking to, honey?”

Don padded into the kitchen, wearing a robe and slippers. He reached over for a mug from the maple cup tree on the counter and held it out for Jane to fill.

“I can’t remember the last time I was dressed before you, Dad,” said Jane, filling his cup to the tiptop. Don had trained her to pour a full cup. As someone who never messed with cream or sugar, he liked to know he was getting his money’s worth.

“I can’t remember the last time we didn’t open up on a Friday,” said Don.

“I can’t remember any time that mom slept this late,” said Jane.

“She’s not sleeping,” said Don.

Jane’s dad pointed out the kitchen window that faced the side yard. “She’s out there pulling weeds. Nope, she’s out there … well, I’ll be damned.”

Don had seen his wife bending over and, accustomed to seeing her doing one chore or another, initially assumed she was tracking an errant dandelion making a late fall appearance. Jane joined her dad at the window and echoed, “I’ll be damned.”

Nellie had found a tennis ball somewhere and was throwing it for Rita. Bending over to pick up the ball, Nellie paused for a moment, plucked out something from the grass, then threw the ball again. Rita ran out for the long one and jumped and caught it. Nellie waved her in with one hand, staring down at whatever she had found on the lawn.

Jane and Don stared at each other. Nellie, their Nellie, playing fetch with the dog? Don nodded as if agreeing with an offstage voice and when Jane gave him her what-gives expression, he laughed. “I guess you can teach one old dog new tricks.”

“What’s so damn funny?” said Nellie, coming into the kitchen to wash her hands.

“What did you find on the grass?” asked Jane, covering for her dad.

Nellie unclenched her left fist and dropped a four-leaf clover on the counter. “I told you I find them all the time. Even in that little patch of weeds behind the tavern.”

Nellie elbowed Jane away from the toaster, removed two slices, buttered them, and had two more toasting before Jane could protest. Since she knew she wouldn’t get near the counter again, Jane gave up and sat down, spreading her toast with peanut butter and strawberry jam.

“Since you and Rita are getting along so well, can I leave her here while I drive up to Evanston? I’m walking through the house and tagging stuff for the movers. I left a message for Tim and he’s picking me up in the van so I can bring a few boxes, but there’s not much…”

“No, he’s not,” said Nellie. “He left the van in the driveway for you an hour ago.”

“Oh no,” said Jane.

“Here,” said Nellie, handing her a note that had obviously been folded, unfolded, and refolded.

“Want to just give me the gist?” said Jane.

“Moby or somebody wants him to work today on the place settings for the roast. Lucky and his writers are going into an all-day meeting, so they can have the studio space to themselves and Tim’s sorry, but he’s sure you’ll be fine. Then he apologizes again for the movers he got you the first time. Says your stuff is now heading back to Iowa or someplace.”

Jane had already taken a large bite of her toast. She now reminded herself to chew it and swallow carefully. Nellie was peering at her, waiting for her to say something. Nellie had chastised and scolded and tsked-tsked and shaken her head over each new object she had seen Jane unpack—either here in Kankakee or on the rare occasions when Nellie had visited Jane and Charley’s house in Evanston. Nellie didn’t approve of clutter or unnecessary dust catchers. Whenever Jane protested that the objects she found told her stories of the people who had left them behind, Nellie snorted. “Why the hell you need somebody else’s story?” she’d ask. And Jane, never coming up with a satisfactory answer, would simply shrug.

“Yup,” said Jane, after she swallowed. “It appears that my stuff has truly taken off without me.”

“Lowry,” said Nellie shaking her head.

Jane was surprised that Tim was taking the heat—not that he didn’t deserve it—and that Nellie wasn’t saying “good riddance” and telling her how she should thank her lucky stars.

“I’m sorry to hear that, honey,” said her dad. “I’m sure you’ll get everything back.”

Jane took a sip of coffee. Her father had a scratch pad in front of him and was making a list. At the top, he had titled it
CARL
, printed in all capital blocky letters. She felt a breeze coming in through the window over the sink and stood, deciding to grab a sweater to bring with her to Evanston. Jane reminded herself that she now had one cardigan, not a closet from which to choose.

“No, Dad, I probably won’t get it back,” said Jane. “It doesn’t matter, though,” she whispered, laying her hand on her dad’s shoulder. “It’s only stuff.”

*   *   *

A few minutes later when Jane was ready to leave for Evanston, her father was on the phone, fielding another call from a customer, answering questions about Carl and the
CLOSED
sign on the EZ Way Inn. Jane blew him a kiss and picked up the keys to Tim’s van. Rita was curled up under the kitchen table, and she began to disentangle herself to come with Jane, but Jane held up her hand the way Officer Mile had taught her when Rita had first wandered into Jane’s life. “Stay,” said Jane. “Stay with your buddies, Don and Nellie. I’ll be home before you know I’m gone.” Jane knelt down and gave Rita a good ear rub, then headed for the garage door.

Jane had thrown a few essentials into her just-in-case for her trip to Evanston, but realized as she chose a pen and notebook, her cell phone, and the digital camera Tim insisted she use instead of the one in her phone so she could document what was left in the house, that she was traveling ultra-light. No extra sweaters, notebooks, earrings, scarves, books; no roll of duct tape, no bungee cords, no folded up canvas bags, or envelopes packed with clippings of wish-list objects. Her bag looked curiously squashed in the middle. Was it time for a smaller just-in-case? Just in case?

As Jane was musing about the pared-down life and the odd feeling of lightness it bestowed upon her, she realized that one item that she carried everywhere with her as personal baggage had not been lost in the move. It occupied its own corner of the front seat of Tim’s van.

“Mom, get out of the truck,” said Jane.

“Number one, you shouldn’t be driving through Chicago alone,” said Nellie, scrunching her already small form into a tiny woman in the shape of a fist in the front seat. “Number two, you don’t want to go through your house for the last time by yourself. Number three, you need somebody to make sure that real estate woman isn’t out to screw you. Number four…” Nellie hesitated, looking down at the ring finger of her left hand. The only jewelry Nellie wore was a thin gold band. She pointed to it now as she finished. “Number four, I can’t be in the house all day alone with your dad. He’ll be calling people and people will be calling us and I just can’t think about Carl all day long like your dad can. He’s good at all this and I’m not.”

That might not have been Nellie’s longest speech, but it was close. And it was certainly one of the more revealing. Carl’s death had made everyone look in some kind of a crazy funhouse mirror, but instead of delivering distortion, it made things crystal clear.

“So my pathetic homelessness is your distraction for the day?” asked Jane.

“Yup,” said Nellie, opening a brown paper bag on her lap. “And I brought snacks.”

“Number one, I drive in Chicago by myself all the time. Number two,” said Jane, starting the truck, “Melinda will be there and possibly the new buyer, so I won’t be alone to collapse in a sobbing heap on the floor.” Jane continued, backing out of the driveway, “Number three, if Melinda was screwing me, she’s already done it since I’ve signed and agreed to the offer, and number four? You’re good at so many things, Mom, I think you can let Dad handle this one.”

“And he can call me on this damn cell-phone thing whenever he has a question,” said Nellie, pulling a phone equipped with the largest keypad Jane had ever seen out of the paper bag. “I texted him we were on our way to Chicago, so let’s see how long it takes him to figure that one out.”

Jane had forgotten that Nellie, who never liked to talk or answer personal questions, became a complete chatterbox once they were in the car driving down a highway. As long as Jane drove silently, Nellie played navigator and entertainer.

“Look at the way that woman drives, will you. What the hell does that billboard mean anyway? That woman’s hardly got any clothes on, how’s that supposed to sell scotch whiskey? Watch out, that guy’s going to change lanes, I can tell the way he’s bobbing and weaving in his seat, see? I told you. Want a Fig Newton? I don’t give a damn what you say, this is the best cookie in a package. They never get stale, you notice that? What the hell they put in these things anyway, they never get stale?”

“So, Mom, since we’re on the road and you need to keep me company, tell me more about Herman Mullet.”

“What the hell is guar gum?” asked Nellie.

“I’ll tell you if you tell me more about the whole Boing Boing episode. Lucky Miller claims not to remember anything about that time and he’s here trying to get the whole story back, so maybe you can help.”

“Yeah, I brought that book with us,” said Nellie, pulling Belinda St. Germaine’s heavy volume out of her bottomless paper bag.

Had Nellie taken on the role of overpacking a just-in-case?

“Have you read any of it?” asked Jane, knowing her mother’s answer. Since Jane was a child, Nellie had railed against reading as the tool of the devil. “It’s laziness pure and simple,” Nellie would shout when she caught Jane holed up in her room, hiding out with the latest Nancy Drew mystery.

“Yeah, I read the first chapter or so,” said Nellie. “Claptrap.”

Jane held her hand out for another Fig Newton and made her own childhood memories promise to shut the hell up for a while.

“They way I see it,” said Nellie, “if a memory isn’t pressed in good enough, you lose it or if something bad happened, you just don’t want to remember it. But this idea that you have to go back to where you lost it? If you can’t remember it, how do you know you’re in that right spot? Lucky Miller changed his name, which says to me that he didn’t want to be who he was as a kid. That says to me he did something bad. What happened bad while he was here? Dickie Boynton burned down his garage, ran off, and got himself drowned. Herman might want to forget that since Boing Boing was his friend, but…”

“But Herman’s family moved away right after the fire, before he knew Dickie drowned,” said Jane, exiting the highway. “Did you ever hear any news about Herman after he moved away?”

“Slow down,” said Nellie, sliding over in the seat.

“Sorry,” said Jane. “We’re almost home … I mean, we’re almost at the house.”

“No, I mean slow down on Herman and Dickie. Before we had these things,” Nellie said, holding up her cell phone, “people wrote letters and postcards and such. Maybe Herman wrote to Dickie and…” Nellie stopped. “What the hell am I saying? Two guys who hung around on the playground wouldn’t become pen pals all of a sudden. That isn’t how things worked.”

“No,” said Jane. “But maybe Mr. or Mrs. Mullet kept in touch with somebody … or … hey wait. We keep trying to come up with stuff Lucky forgot, which is impossible because we can’t know for sure what he’s blocking. But what about the stuff he remembers? The places he’s trying to recreate like Mack’s? And didn’t he get the bowling alley all fixed up for a shoot? Seems like somebody or something from what he remembers might lead us to what he doesn’t remember.”

“Just as good an idea as what’s in that book,” said Nellie, dropping it on the floor next to her feet.

“Okay, we’ll save this discussion for the way back. Now it’s time to switch gears,” said Jane, pulling up to her house, looking not quite familiar with its giant
FOR SALE
sign, already with a large
UNDER CONTRACT
banner running across its face, planted firmly in the front yard.

Nellie was opening the door before Jane could get her seat belt unfastened. Melinda stood on the porch with a giant convenience-store drink cup in her hand. Over her shoulder, Nellie cautioned Jane. “You just let me do the talking.”

13

Jane expected the walk through the house to be strange. After all, she had lived on Hartzell Street with Charley for almost twenty years, raised Nick there. In fact, she had been anxious about Nick’s reaction to this. It was one thing to tell him the good news about a quick sale, but to tell him she’d be walking through their home for the last time? She had called him yesterday, trying to reassure herself that he wasn’t just saying that he was pleased about the sale. He was such a good kid, Jane reasoned, that he just might be suppressing his own feelings about the house to make life easier for her.

“Mom, I am so okay with this. Please. I loved the house. I loved being there with you and Dad. But now, I’ll just love being with you and Dad wherever you both are, okay? Honest. You’re the one who likes the walls and floors, Mom.” Jane could almost hear the smile in her son’s voice. “You like having a place to put things or hang things. Me, I’d rather be in a tent. Or maybe once in a while in a classroom.” Jane could hear boys yelling in the background. “I got to go. Soccer practice. I love you, Mom, and I’m happy about the house. So’s Dad. I told him last night in an e-mail and he said he’s happy we’re all moving forward.”

Nick’s happy. Charley’s happy. And the really odd thing, the strange part about walking through the house? Jane realized she was happy.

It was so unlike her.

“Beatrice is meeting us here in a half hour or so if that’s okay with you,” said Melinda, staring at her phone. “I’m supposed to text her either way.”

“Beatrice who?” asked Nellie, opening up the bottom doors of the built-in corner hutch.