It's Marple, Dear Read online

  “Yeah,” I answered. “Truce, as long as I feed you.” I padded after him and filled his bowl from a bag of cat food I found under the sink. I poured fresh water into his water dish, then searched for coffee. I found none, but plenty of tea. Since when had Mother given up coffee? I can’t function without it. Before going out to the old folks’ home, I needed to fill my tank, mine and the car’s. That meant a stop by one of the fast food places for java, and a gas station along the way.

  After lugging my biggest suitcase in from the car, I took a quick shower, re-bandaged my war wounds, and gazing in the mirror, examined the bags under my eyes. I slathered lotion on, the kind that (hopefully) delays the signs of aging. At forty-eight, I still look relatively wrinkle-free, but it’s never too early to take preventative action. I yanked the shower cap from my head, and brushed my dark brown hair, trying to tame its unruly nature. Finally, I settled for a hairband, pulling it back into a ponytail. I’m alright looking, basically even features. Lips, nose, and ears not too thick and not too thin. My only good feature is the blue of my eyes. They contrast with my dark hair and golden skin tone. My ex-husband called them ‘unexpected.’ But then, he only lasted six weeks, so what did he know. I like to think I married Daniel on a whim. He was a college chum, and should have stayed that way. A month and a half after we’d said our vows before a justice of the peace, he found a piece he liked better. Like my parents had, we parted amicably. We’re still friends, and he’s happily married. I’m still looking, but half-heartedly. I’m not too anxious to repeat those six weeks with another man.

  Jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers completed my morning ablutions. “So long, Football,” I said to the cat as I left the house. The Kia mewed to life with a sound only a little louder than the cat’s laughably teeny voice. I grabbed a coffee at a drive-thru and sped out of town.

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  Old Timer’s Town is about a mile out of Angel’s Rest. It’s nestled in between desert hill and desert dale. Like most places, it sports a rock and cactus garden out front. The prickly pears were huge, and probably would have killed me if I’d slid into one of them.

  I studied the windows, wondering which one harbored my mom. “Okay, Mother, I’m here to spring you,” I said. “I hope you’re ready for this.” Really, I hoped I was ready. There isn’t much for a travel writer to write about when she’s stuck in a tiny desert town and saddled with a senile mother, to boot. I needed to have a serious talk with myself and figure out my options.

  Right now, my only option was to head for the door. I approached with caution. Cacti lined the walk, their evil looking spines guarding the front entrance. My elbow throbbed as I passed. I pushed the outer door open and entered the darkened lobby. Fresh, cool air pulsed in through two vents high on opposite walls. I could smell a hint of lemon and pine. Just in front of the left air grate, a small plastic machine said ssssss and emitted the fragrance. I approached the lobby window and pressed a button that said ‘push here.’ I felt a bit wonderlandy as I read other signs that stated ‘switch here’ by the light switch and ‘twist here’ by the thermostat. Beyond the glass window, I read one that said ‘music,’ but apparently nobody turned that one on because the sign didn’t say ‘push,’ or ‘switch,’ or ‘twist,’ so no one could figure out how it was done.

  Music would be nice, I thought, as the little machine said ssssss again, and I caught another whiff of lemony pine. While I waited, I noticed that the door into the facility had a key code pad. I turned my back on the window, and looked the way I had come. The outer door also had a key code pad. What? I walked over to the door and pushed lightly. Then I pushed harder and it still wouldn’t open. Now I really felt wonderlandy. When I turn around, I wondered, will I see a bottle on the table with a sign that says ‘drink me?’

  I heard the hiss of the window opening, and I spun around with a guilty start. Guilty of what, I don’t know. Do thoughts count?

  A tall, rather nice looking, though stern, woman with just beginning to gray brown hair piled high on her head stood on the other side. “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to pick up my mother. Jane Murphy.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. Her voice was polite, even nice, but her eyes roved critically over my appearance. Suddenly, I wondered if I should have worn something a bit better. But, no! Why should I try to impress this woman? Once my mother and I cleared the door I’d never see her again. She consulted a file on the desk. “The doctor will see you in a moment. He has a few items he wants to go over with you.”

  “Sure,” I said. She pointed toward the seating arranged by the front window. Suddenly nervous, I sat and waited.

  Several dog-eared magazines later, the door buzzed, and the same woman tucked her head around the corner. “Miss,” she said. “If you’ll follow me.” She turned sharply on her heel, not waiting for any comment from me. So, I complied.

  The other side of the door seemed like a different world, altogether. The hall we traversed passed a closed door marked with a large white ‘physical rehabilitation’ sign, followed by a long observation window. Several gray-haired men worked on machines. Another teetered precariously while hanging onto what looked like parallel bars, but were designed to help him keep his balance while walking. On the left was another long window looking into a dining room.

  We paused at the end of the hall, and I noticed that three other halls radiated from a central desk, rather starfish-like. The hall directly to the right sported another of those white signs under a giant number two, this one labeled: ‘rehab.’ I glanced back at the hall we’d just exited. It was numbered ‘one.’

  We crossed behind the desk, and she paused at an office door. She tapped twice, then opened it a hair. She spoke to someone inside in muffled tones, then held the door wide, and stepped aside.

  “Doctor Wilson will see you now.”

  “Thanks,” I said and slipped past her.

  The doctor was ripped. His sleeves were rolled up and his bulging forearms were lined with weightlifter veins. He was a nurse’s dream. She could really get… er… draw blood. I almost laughed, after all, who notices a man’s arms first? And is turned on by them? Besides Olive Oyl? Golden eyes intruded but I pushed last night’s cowboy out of my thoughts. I focused on the doctor. He was sitting, his elbows resting on the desk and his fingers steepled the way politicians always hold their hands. My gaze rose to a firm chin, and full, almost too perfect lips. He was grinning. I jumped past his straight nose and stopped at chocolate brown eyes. He was drop-dead gorgeous. Dark and handsome.

  “Ms. Murphy?” He lowered his hands, and the grin spread even wider. I blushed like I’d been caught raiding the cookie jar.

  “Yes,” I choked out, and had to clear my throat. “I’m here for Jane Murphy.”

  Dr. Luscious opened a file folder that lay on the desk. It was rather thick, I noticed. Yet, my mother had only been locked up in here for a few days. My fingers itched to flip through the fat file. As I craned my neck, he cleared his throat. Again, I blushed, and sank into the chair across the desk from him. At this angle, I couldn’t read the file, but could still make out the odd chicken scratch of his penmanship. Backward leaning, incredibly tight, pointed lettering. I gave up, and glanced back at his Ken doll features.

  “Now that I have your attention,” he began, and, maddeningly, I blushed yet again. His lips curved in a half-smile, but his voice was all business. “Your mother,” he consulted the file as if he couldn’t remember her name, “Mrs. Jane Murphy, has several issues you need to be aware of.”

  “Sure,” I said. As I leaned forward in my seat to appear earnestly intelligent, he leaned back, casually, in his.

  “First, there are her physical issues. She is suffering from mild osteoporosis…” He went on and on through a litany of elder weaknesses that I would have to look up later. Luckily, he’d already written them down for me and slid a sheet of paper across the desk. I took it and tried to look ‘knowing’ as I scanned the list. “Of course, there are
signs of dementia, as well. She exhibits sporadic episodes of forgetfulness.”

  I twisted my lips to the side in what I knew looked like half smile, half smirk, and tilted my head to the right as I lifted my shoulders. It’s a gesture I began shortly after my family split apart, and it’s landed me in hot water uncountable times—my ‘smart-alec’ look, my dad always said. It’s also completely involuntary. I always realize I’d begun the motion when I feel the dimple deepening in my right cheek. What it really means is that I’m uncomfortable or confused with what I’m hearing.

  “What sort of things?” I asked, trying to remember what the book Elder Nanny had said. Suddenly, I knew I’d have to read a few more books. “Does she forget how to get dressed? Or does she forget where the bathroom is?”

  “You need to understand that she has had a series of mini-strokes. These have left her with a vague confusion. If the strokes continue, her confusion will become more noticeable. If you find you need help with her, don’t hesitate to give me a call. My number’s on that sheet.” He indicated the paper he’d given me, and I dropped my gaze. Of course, it was in the letterhead.

  I nodded dumbly. “But these strokes aren’t happening right now?”

  “No, we’ve got them under control with medication. There’s a list of medications and instructions for their use attached to the note I gave you.”

  I flipped up the sheet and scanned the second page. All seriousness, now. I definitely needed to buy more books.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, and paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. His expression became concerned and caring. “Her visit here was precipitated by a rather unusual event.”

  “An unusual event,” I parroted. What hadn’t my siblings told me? I looked at him questioningly. “You mean, she didn’t just have a mini-stroke?” That’s what Earl and Emma had told me.

  “Your mother did have a mini-stroke,” he confirmed. “But she had just had quite a shock. You see, she found a dead body.”

  I shook my head. I couldn’t believe what he’d just said. “A… a… dead body? One of her friends?” Imagine the shock of finding a friend… dead. My poor mother, I thought, and I’d never thought of her that way before.

  “No, you misunderstand me. She found a body down at the river.”

  Chapter Three

  “Whose car is this?” Mother ran her fingers across the plastic faux leather dashboard. “There’s barely enough room for my legs, and I’m not one to take up much space.”

  She was right. At barely five feet and skinny as a rail, she didn’t take up much room. But, her unending questions did. I wanted to ask about the body she’d found, but thought I should work it in carefully so I wouldn’t cause her any more distress. After all, finding it had landed her in the hospital, and culminated with her stay—for rehabilitation—in the old folks’ home.

  “It’s a rental,” I said instead. I dug through my purse for my phone. It was probably dead by now.

  “I don’t like the tan.” She still fingered the car’s plastic and cloth interior. “It reminds me of those khaki pants your father always wore. Does he still wear them? I’m sure he does. He’s not one to change.”

  He still wears khaki, but before I could respond she threw out a doozy. “Is your boyfriend coming here, too?”

  My hand paused in its search. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said. Well, it was true… now. My once upon a time live-in, Joshua Gray, didn’t want to leave his career for the uncertainty of my current trip to New Mexico. He had achieved quite a bit of success as a wildlife photographer, with regular contributions to all the biggest magazines. Including my own story in Continental Geographic.

  “Oh.” She was quiet for a second, and I hoped the interrogation—which she’d begun the second we climbed into the car—had ended. I marveled at the difference between my mother IN the car, and in the doctor’s office. She’d been nearly mute in there, giving no hint to this opened floodgate of speech.

  She’d shuffled into Dr. Wilson’s office and hovered at the door. The nurse actually had to lead her by the hand, and lightly press on her shoulders as she sank into the chair beside me. She had glanced at me quickly, before focusing on her tightly clasped hands.

  Does she recognize me, I had wondered?

  “Mrs. Murphy,” Doctor Wilson said, and her eyelids fluttered upward. He propped his forearms on his desk and leaned forward. His eyes searched hers. “Are you comfortable going home with your daughter?”

  She nodded, but remained mute.

  She looked weak, introverted. In other words, nothing like the brash woman I remembered. She had piled her gray hair atop her head in an old-fashioned bun, which only served to accentuate the long leanness of her face and nose. Even her ears seemed to hang like thin pendulums, barely covered by the fluff of white atop her head. The style definitely made her look old. Of course, I thought. She IS old. Look where we are—in Old Timers’ Town! But, she just didn’t look like the mother I remembered.

  Dr. Wilson signed release papers and slid them across his big desk toward her. She snatched them, rose quickly from her chair—rather too quickly for a frail, old lady, I thought—and clutching the documents like they were her lifeline, she shuffled toward the door. But, just before reaching it, the papers fluttered from her hands, and scattered across the floor. She bent, and gathered them together, then slipped out to wait by her suitcase in the hall.

  Minutes later, I tossed the suitcase into the backseat. Several of my own bags still occupied the trunk. In the back of my mind I hoped I’d be flying out again soon. No use lugging them into the house just to haul them out again. But, the doc hadn’t made it sound possible. Mother needed someone to keep an eye on her, and I knew my siblings weren’t up to the task. Didn’t want the task, actually.

  Speak of the devil, the twins were at the house when we arrived. I spied their faces peering out the crack between curtain panels—crazy, curly, shoulder-length red hair and ruddy skin—their eyes the only difference between them. His are brown, hers more greeny-hazel. Oh, and he’s slightly taller than my five-foot-nine, her a smidge shorter. I tried to school my features, but I’m afraid they were as foul as my thoughts.

  “What are you doing here?” I grumped a rather uncharitable opening to our first face-to-face conversation in years. “Er, hi,” I added lamely. I like my siblings, I really do. But sometimes they irk the bejeebers out of me.

  “Why, hello,” Mother interrupted. “You two know Raymond, don’t you? He’s here for a short visit.”

  Earl snickered, and Emma twittered behind her fingers. “Hey,” said Earl, stepping forward and offering his hand. “We own the western wear store on the square.” I actually grabbed his palm and shook it! Then I punched him in the arm and glared.

  “It’s the mini-stroke thing,” Emma said as Mother headed into the kitchen to make some tea. She rolled her eyeballs. “You’ll get used to it. Just play along.”

  “But she knew me a few minutes ago,” I said.

  “She gets confused. Sometimes she knows us, sometimes not.” Emma set her purse next to mine on the table. I glanced around for my phone. Where in the heck had that little piece of plastic they call a telephone disappeared to!

  “I don’t know who she thinks we are,” Earl continued. “At least she remembers that we have a store. But, she thinks we’re someone different. You too.”

  “Obviously,” Emma giggled. “Raymond!”

  I grimaced. “I see,” I said. But I didn’t. “The doc warned me about this.” And, by everything holy, how was I a Raymond?

  “Isn’t he dreamy?” Emma sighed like a teenager.

  Now it was my turn to roll eyes. Even if I agreed, which I did, I’d never say so. Mother came back with a tray and made her way to the green wingback chair in the living room. “Come sit, Raymond. Get reacquainted with our friends.”

  “I’m Mary Sue, Mother.”

  Earl jabbed me in the ribs.

  “Raymond is a writer,” Mother said
, as if I hadn’t said a word. At least she got that right.

  “You have to go along with it,” Emma whispered. “At least you’re her nephew. You get to be related. We’re just people who run a store.”

  “Yeah, but I’m a man?”

  “A very important man, according to her. She’s been anticipating your arrival all week.”

  “But what’s going on?” I asked. “Is she remembering people from her past?”

  Emma pointed to the bookshelf next to the TV. Novels and films filled the shelves to overflowing. Agatha Christie.

  I could tell my mouth had dropped open when it clicked shut with a snap. “She thinks she’s…”

  “Yep,” Emma said. “Miss Marple. And you’re her nephew, Raymond.”

  My jaw must have hit the ground. “Ah,” I finally said. “That’s what’s behind the goofy hairdo and wardrobe.” We both pivoted toward mother and I could actually see it. She’d become a caricature of the world’s most well-known, old biddy crime fighter. Bun, shapeless flour sack dress, and all. I sighed. My life hadn’t simply changed, it had gone bonkers.

  “Well, she’s settled.” Earl left Mother’s side and crossed the room. “You should make her something to go with her tea. She likes little sandwiches. Or cookies. She calls them biscuits.”

  “You’re leaving me alone?” I could hear the panic in my voice.

  Earl guffawed. “No. We’re leaving you with her.” He swung his thumb up over his shoulder hitchhiker fashion. “It’s your turn now.”

  “My turn? Why is it my turn?” I shifted my gaze her direction and lowered my voice. But she seemed completely unaware of our conference at the door.