There Was an Old Woman

Chapter Thirteen


A little while later, Mina looked out her kitchen window and saw Sandra Ferrante’s daughter walking up the street as she talked on her cell phone. She wondered why she’d decided not to drive her mother’s car. Family could be so complicated.

Cats, on the other hand, made lovely, undemanding companions who required nothing more than food, water, and a little bit of attention. Ivory had emerged from under the couch and threaded her way back and forth across Mina’s legs.

Mina put a package of frozen chicken on a plate to thaw, high on a shelf out of the cat’s reach. She’d make a pot of her mother’s chicken cacciatore. Neither Mina nor Annabelle had been particularly close to their mother, who had been, for the most part, as perfunctory a cook as she was a parent. She’d lavished attention on their brother, and later on his grave after he died at twenty-one in Iwo Jima.

Mina would have liked to have had a child. A daughter, she thought. But she’d been far too old to start a family by the time she and Henry married, though for the first few years they’d tried. So now Brian was the closest thing she had. And she was the closest thing to a parent he had left.

Mina fished the replica of the Empire State Building from her pocket and set it back on the mantel in the living room. It was uncanny how the girl zeroed in on it. She looked out the living room window, across the driveway to Sandra Ferrante’s. The girl had left her mother’s windows wide open. The house must have been in desperate need of a thorough airing out.

At least Sandra Ferrante’s house looked lived-in. The house on the other side had been dark and unoccupied all winter. Why someone hadn’t broken in, she couldn’t fathom. The Jamesons hadn’t even left timers on the lights. Whoever was supposed to be taking care of the property was doing so haphazardly, and Mina had to keep clearing away flyers that accumulated in the storm door.

Now Angela Quintanilla had gone and died, and her house would be empty, too—which reminded Mina. She should write a condolence card and drop it at Angela’s house. If the family was there, she’d stop in and pay her respects.

From a drawer, Mina pulled out the pile of sympathy cards she’d purchased over the years. She hated ones that were religiously preachy, or sappily poetic, or so euphemistic that you couldn’t even tell someone had died. She picked out one with a spray of lily of the valley against a pale blue background. Inside was the message Sorry for your loss.

She settled in her chair and began to write in a careful hand: “Angela was a lovely person, and I was so sad to hear of her—” Mina stopped. Passing? She hated the euphemism. But death felt cruel somehow, though it was perfectly accurate. Not that it mattered. She remembered she’d barely read the condolence cards that she’d received after her Henry and later Annabelle died. Just receiving them had been a comfort.

She finished writing the note, then licked and sealed the flap.

Mina had been to Angela Quintanilla’s home a few times over the years. As she recalled, it was a few blocks up along the water. She could drive, but it would do her good to walk. She tried to take a brisk walk every day, even if it was only to the store and back.

She changed into comfortable shoes and put on her car coat. As she started up the street, on past Sandra Ferrante’s forlorn-looking house, she remembered from the obituary that Angela’s funeral was at St. Andrews. Annabelle’s little memorial service had been held there, too. The turnout had been respectable but sparse. When you died old, not many people who really knew you were left. Mina had been surprised when her new neighbor, that Frank Cutler, had shown up. Though he’d been nice enough, she doubted if he could have picked Annabelle out of an old lady lineup.

After two blocks, Mina paused to rest for a few moments and button her coat. With the sun low it had turned chilly. She’d forgotten how far up Angela’s house was. As she continued walking, she wondered whether the house would go on the market. It was a sweet bungalow with white shingles and candy-apple trim, though it probably needed work. She hoped it would be bought by someone who appreciated its quirky charm. Who’d love the view and want to protect the marsh.

She paused to catch her breath again a half block farther along in front of an empty lot that she didn’t remember being there. She turned up her collar. It didn’t seem possible that Angela’s house was this far away. Was it?

Sure enough, when she turned to look behind her, there was Angela’s house. No wonder she’d missed it. One of the front windows was cracked. Another had a hole in it. Battered asphalt roof shingles littered the ground, and what might once have been chrysanthemums in window boxes were nothing but dried twigs.

A bright yellow sign stuck to the front door read WARNING. Sagging yellow tape strung between sawhorses across the start of a cracked concrete front walkway told passersby to KEEP OUT.

Mina took a quick look around her, raised the tape with her cane, and stepped under it. She marched up to the front door. Where there had once been a doorbell, two wires stuck out of the door frame. She pulled the storm door open and rapped on the front door with her cane. She didn’t expect anyone to answer, but she did want to get a better look.

Wedged inside the storm door, partially hidden by the yellow warning sign taped to the outside, was a smaller official-looking notice, also on bright yellow paper. Across the top it said WORK PERMIT, and below that DEPARTMENT OF BUILDINGS.

Mina plucked it from the door frame and held it close so she could read the fine print. It had been issued a few days ago, Thursday, May 16. That had been the day after Angela died.

Mina felt a chill when she read what was checked off under DESCRIPTION OF WORK.

Demolition and removal.