A rustle in the faded velvet curtains by the bookshelves made me jump, breath hitching in my chest as I drew closer.
A black streak bolted from behind the curtain and raced away. A cat. Mrs. Poole had a cat. Probably the wild, one-eared tom that J.T. had been trying to lure to our porch with bowls of milk. I’d told him to quit —we couldn’t afford the milk —but a nine-year-old boy can’t resist a stray. Ross had offered to bring over a live trap and catch the cat. Good thing I’d told him not to worry about it. Letting your new boyfriend haul off your landlady’s pet is a good way to get kicked out of your happy little home, especially when the rent’s overdue.
The glass doorknob felt cool against my fingers when I touched it, the facets surprisingly sharp. “I’m coming in . . . okay?” Every muscle in my body tightened, preparing for fight or flight. “It’s just Tandi Reese . . . from the cottage. I hope I’m not scaring you, but I was wor —” The rest of worried never passed my lips. I turned the handle. The lock assembly clicked, and the heavy wooden door fell open with such force that it felt like someone had pulled it from the other side. The doorknob struck the wall, vibrating the floor beneath my feet. Behind me, the cat hissed, then scrambled off down the stairs.
Picture frames inside the room shivered on the pale-blue walls, reflecting orbs of light over the furniture. Beyond the jog created by the hallway nook, the footboard of an ornate bed pulled at me as the shuddering frames settled into place and the light stopped dancing. By the bedpost, a neatly cornered blue quilt grazed the floor, and a pair of shoes —the sensible, rubber-soled kind that Zoey, with her fourteen-year-old fashion sense, referred to as grandma shoes —were tucked along the edge of a faded Persian rug, the heels and toes exactly even.
The feet that belonged in the shoes had not traveled far away. Covered in thin black stockings, they rested atop the bed near the footboard, the folded, crooked toes pointing outward slightly, in a position that seemed natural enough for someone taking a midday nap.
But the feet didn’t move, despite the explosion of the door hitting the wall. I tasted the bile of my last meal. No one could sleep through that.
The bedroom lay in perfect silence as I stepped inside, my footfalls seeming loud, out of place. I didn’t speak again or call out or say her name to warn her that I was coming. Without even seeing her face, I knew there was no need.
Gruesome scenes from Zoey’s favorite horror movies flashed through my mind, but when I crept past the corner, forced myself to turn her way, Iola Anne Poole looked peaceful, like she’d just stopped for a quick nap and forgotten to get up again. She was flat on her back atop the bed, a pressed cotton dress —white with tiny blue flower baskets —falling over her long, thin legs and seeming to disappear into a wedding ring quilt sewn in all the colors of sky and sea. Her leathery, wrinkled arms lay folded neatly across her stomach, the gnarled fingers intertwined in a posture that looked both contented and confident. Prepared. The chalky-gray hue of her skin told me it would be cold if I touched it.
I didn’t. I turned away instead, pressed a hand over my mouth and nose. As much as the body looked like someone had carefully laid it out to give a peaceful appearance, there were no signs that anyone else had been in the room. The only trails on the dusty floor led from the door to the bed, from the bed to what appeared to be a closet tucked behind the hallway nook, and past the foot of the bed to a small writing desk by the window. Whatever she was doing up here, she didn’t come often. What was the lure of this turret room at the end of the upstairs hall, with its gold-trimmed walls painted in faded shades of cream and milky blue? Did she know she was approaching her last hours? Was this where she wanted to die? Where she wanted to be found?
Could I have helped if I’d checked on her sooner?
The questions drove me from the room, sent me into the hall, gasping for air. I didn’t want to think about how long she’d been there or whether she’d known death was coming for her, whether she’d been afraid when it happened or completely at peace.
Truthfully, I didn’t want anything more to do with the situation.
But an hour later, I was back in the house, watching two sheriff’s deputies walk into the blue room. The deputy in back was more interested in getting a look inside the house than in the fact that a woman had died. For some reason, it seemed wrong to leave them alone with her body. I felt responsible for making sure they gave what was left of her some respect.
I waited in the doorway of the blue room, letting the wall hide all but the view of her stocking-clad feet as the men stood over the bed. They’d already asked me at least a dozen questions I couldn’t answer: How long did I think she’d been dead? When was the last time I’d talked to her? Had she been ill that I knew of?
All I could tell them was that I was staying in her cottage out front. I’d used the term renting to make it sound good. The lead deputy was a thin, matter-of-fact man with an accordion of permanent frown lines around his mouth. He didn’t seem to care much one way or the other. He checked his watch several times like he had somewhere to go.
“Well,” he said finally, the floor creaking under his weight in a way that told me he was leaning over the bed near her face, “looks like natural causes to me.”
The younger man answered with a snarky laugh. “Shoot, Jim, she had to be somewhere up around a hundred. I remember when my granddad retired, Mama wanted to buy the altar flowers for church, to get his name in the bulletin, but she couldn’t. The pastor had already ordered the altar flowers that week, on account of Iola Poole’s birthday. She was turning eighty then, and that was back when I was in middle school. Mama was mighty hot about it all, I’ll tell ya. Granddaddy’d been a deacon at Fairhope Fellowship for forty years, and Mama wasn’t about to be having him share altar flowers with the likes of Iola Anne Poole. Our family helped move that old chapel here to start the church. Iola was just there to play the organ, and they paid her for that, anyway. It’s not like she was a member, even. Mama figured, if Iola wanted altar flowers for her birthday, she could put some at a church down in New Orleans, where her people come from.”
Deputy Jim clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Women.”
His partner laughed again. “You haven’t been down here long enough to know how things are. Stuff like that might not matter much up in Boston, but it sure enough matters in Fairhope. Believe me, if they could’ve found anybody —and I mean anybody else who knew how to play that old pipe organ over to the church, they would’ve. That’s half the reason my mama pushed for that new band director at the high school in Buxton a few years ago; he said he could play a pipe organ. I never saw the church ladies so happy as the week the band director took over at Sunday services and they sent Iola Poole packing.”
“Okay, Selmer, we might as well get the right people out here to wrap this up.” Deputy Jim ended the discussion. “Looks pretty cut-and-dried. She have any family we should call?”
“None that I’d know how to find. And that’s a can of worms you don’t wanna open either, by the way, Jim.”
“No next of kin. . . .” The older man drew the words out, probably writing them down at the same time.
Sadness slid over me like a heavy wool blanket, making the air too stale and thick. I stood gazing through the blue room to the tall bay windows of the turret. Outside, a rock dove flitted along the veranda railing. What had Iola Poole done, I wondered, to have ended up this way, alone in this big house, laid out in her flowered dress, dead for who knew how long, and nobody cared? Did she realize this was how things would turn out? Was this what she’d pictured when she placed herself there on the bed, closed her eyes, and let the life seep out of her?