What the heck was that all about? Should I take the wild statement of a delusional man seriously? Was someone really trying to kill him?
I couldn’t believe it.
I swiped the feathery dusting of snow off my windshield and tried to shrug off my unease as I slid into the cold driver’s seat.
* * *
The next morning, as I opened up Sometimes a Great Notion, I was still troubled.
My store was situated in a former Victorian residence a short distance down on Main Street from our house. Joe and our good friend Angus Backstead, the auctioneer, had made several improvements to the interior, including installing two display windows that jutted out onto the black-painted front porch. The former living room and parlor had been opened up into one space, but I’d kept the dining room intact for consultations with customers. There was a small kitchen and a powder room in the back.
I went through my usual routine of starting the coffee brewing and turning the stereo on, but instead of 1940s jazz, I slipped in a CD of Sinatra’s Christmas songs.
It was time to decorate the store for the holidays, too. I’d stockpiled some suitable merchandise and I clambered onto one of the wide windowsills. My work outfit consisted of a plain T-shirt and comfortable jeans, as I often had to lug boxes around or go up and down the stairs more times than I wanted to count. I’d twisted my hair up into a knot to hide the insidious gray roots that were creeping through the brown, applied some lip balm, and that was about as good as it got.
An antique wooden children’s sleigh would fit well in one corner, and I filled it with boxes that I’d wrapped with scraps of pretty vintage fabrics and decorated with old millinery trimmings, like rosettes and silk flowers. I put a tiny blue spruce tree potted in a red Transferware footed serving bowl in the middle of the window and a stack of hatboxes, each tied with some gold ribbon and a piece of white netting, in the opposite corner.
Refreshing the displays was usually one of my favorite things to do, but today my mind was still replaying the scene in Stanley Bornstein’s bedroom. He’d suddenly seemed so lucid, so intent on trying to get his message across. But what the heck should I do about it, if anything?
And which “she” had he been talking about?
I hated to entertain even a moment of doubt about Ruth. Not only had we been friends for years, but she was a pillar of Millbury society, always ready to help a needy cause.
Although if it was the nurse who had frightened him, why hadn’t Stanley confided in his wife?
I sighed and went over to the other window, where I created a mini dining tableau using a gorgeous Irish linen tablecloth and napkins, some mercury glass candlesticks, bundles of silver flatware tied with holly-patterned ribbon, and a set of six ruby wineglasses.
My store was mainly geared toward sewing notions and fabrics, but I allowed myself the leeway to pick up other interesting items at auction. Everything sold in the end.
A collection of vintage evening bags filled with tiny baubles, spools of thread, and mother-of-pearl buttons completed the festive design.
I’d just lit a couple of clove-scented candles and placed them on top of the Welsh dresser that held my antique linens when the doorbell jangled.
“Good God, it’s cold out there,” Martha said as she hurried in, with Eleanor close on her heels.
I nodded. “I think it’s going to be a hard winter.”
It was snowing out on the street, and a few flakes sparkled on Martha’s shoulder-length hair. She was wearing a voluminous crimson-colored wool jacket that made her look like an older, more imposing version of Little Red Riding Hood, and she was carrying a foil-covered plate. I wondered what deliciousness lay underneath.