I heard him say how sorry he was for her loss, and he kissed her gently on her cheek. For the first time, I saw a tear glisten in Augusta’s eyes.
We climbed the four rickety stairs to the weather-beaten porch as if they were the final steps to the top of Mount Rainier. Ryan pulled open the old wooden screen door, and I handed Augusta’s key ring back to her.
She put the keys in her pocket and pushed the house door open. “Don’t ever lock it but at night. Nothing worth stealing. And keys get lost, you know.”
She pointed left. “There’s the parlor. Have a seat.”
Then she shuffled farther along the hallway to a scarred pigeonhole desk leaning against the back wall. I watched her rummage in a compartment and pull out a book.
I’d only been in Augusta’s house a few times before, usually dropping off books for a club meeting. Once I came by to pick up donations for the flea market supporting the Christmas Toy Fund. This was the first time I had a chance to look around the outsized but sparsely furnished living room. A couple of rattan settees piled with flowered cushions, a lone recliner and a small box-shaped television all touched the edges of a beige sisal area rug. A coffee table of etched glass with a base made of driftwood sat atop the rug.
“Sit down, sit down.” Augusta gestured to the settees and settled herself into the recliner. I was plumping a cushion to support my back when there was a soft knock on the screen door. Ryan offered to answer and came back with Cady carrying takeaway boxes.
“Bridgy sent your lunch.” He raised the box in his left hand. “She wants you to keep your strength up. And the other box is cookies and pastries for your friends who stop by. Where’s the kitchen?”
I jumped up and reached for the boxes. “I’ll take care of it. Miss Augusta, can I get you anything?”
No response. Since we’d arrived at the house, Augusta seemed to have gotten even smaller. Once she’d sunk into her seat, she looked for all the world like a child sitting in a grown-up’s chair. I thought her skin was losing color, and I could see the energy had faded from her eyes.
I touched Augusta’s shoulder. “Perhaps you’d like a drink. Water? Tea?”
Augusta leaned her head forward as though it was reaching for a thought. “Look in the dining room breakfront. Ought to be a bottle of Buffalo Trace corn whiskey. I’ll take a couple of fingers.”
Ryan quickly covered his guffaw with a cough.
“Either of you boys want a taste?”
Cady and Ryan politely declined. Augusta told me to feel free to help myself, cautioning that I might want to add some water if I wasn’t used to “likker.”
I easily found the half-full bottle with the pale gray label featuring a fiercely charging buffalo and brought it into the kitchen. The drinking glasses were in the third cabinet I tried. I took one, wrapped two fingers around the base and poured the amber liquid to about a finger and a half. More than enough.
I was putting the bottle back in the breakfront when I heard a new but vaguely familiar male voice and wondered if I should have left the whiskey in the kitchen to serve to folks stopping by to console Augusta.
I stepped into the parlor just as the vaguely familiar voice expressed sincere condolence to Miss Augusta.
Lieutenant Frank Anthony.
He was standing with his back to the doorway but turned at the sound of my step, gave me a curt nod and continued speaking.
“The sheriff’s department is sorry to intrude at such a difficult time, but we have a few questions to ask you.”
I slid past him and handed Augusta her glass of bourbon. She set the book she’d been holding on the coffee table and reached for the glass. Examining it with a critical eye, she said, “You must have a child’s hands if you think this is two fingers of corn likker. I might be needing a refill.”