The Inheritance

CHAPTER TWO

ROSLYN HANDED a ten-dollar bill to the cabbie and bent over to pick up her luggage, receiving a wake of puddle spray as the taxi peeled away from the curb. It was the final indignity in a long day of exasperation, irritation and white-knuckle flying. The brief flight from Chicago to Des Moines had been plagued by nonstop turbulence and pitching in the midst of a thunderstorm. On arrival in Des Moines, Roslyn discovered she’d missed her bus connection to Plainsville and would have to wait another two hours.

“There’s a crop dusting outfit that uses a local farmer’s field for landing and takeoff. I could find out about chartering a plane, if you like. Though—” the information clerk had snapped her chewing gum thoughtfully as she turned to squint out the window “—you might wanna wait for the bus.”

But Roslyn had already decided she’d rather walk than get on another plane. A farmer’s field? Only in Iowa.

The stopover gave her an opportunity to call Randall Taylor’s law office to confirm arrangements about getting into Ida Mae’s house. His secretary informed her that the key had been left under the front doormat by a clerk who lived nearby. By the time the bus to Plainsville pulled into the station, Roslyn was ready to sign over the deed to the other beneficiary without taking another step into Iowa.

She was soaked before she reached the sweeping veranda of the large house standing in darkness yards away from the rain-slicked pavement. It was almost ten o’clock on Tuesday night, and Roslyn had noted during the short ride from the bus station on the other side of town that Plainsville was quieter than the Exchange after a market dive.

When the taxi had pulled up to her aunt’s home— “The Petersen place? No kidding? You a Petersen?”—Roslyn also noticed that the houses on either side of her aunt’s were already in darkness.

Between mumbling to the cabbie— “Yes and…uh, no, not really”—and muttering to herself that everything in Plainsville appeared to have shut down for the night, Roslyn had little chance to take in more than the general shape of the house. But from the covered veranda, she paused to look out to the street, observing for the first time a waist-high fence she’d bet was white picket, framing an expanse of property whose borders she couldn’t see.

The neighborhood was unlike any she’d seen in the city, where lots were much smaller. Here the homes were scattered like giant building blocks, surrounded by huge trees and sprawling front lawns. Randall hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said the Petersen house was on the outskirts of town. Roslyn couldn’t be certain in the rainy night if the road ended less than a mile beyond or not, but she bet it did. In fact, she guessed her aunt’s place was probably just a stop sign away from being called a farmhouse.

Roslyn stooped to lift up the edge of the bristle mat at her feet, and her fingers touched a small envelope. She tore it open and shook out a set of keys.

After two attempts, she managed to turn the key and the door swung open, complaining in a low-pitched creak. Roslyn stepped into the dark interior. She felt around the edges of the doorjamb for a light switch and released her breath in a long whoosh when she located and flicked on three lights. The porch, the hallway and the staircase leading from the entry flashed into existence.

Sixty watts, she thought, straining to see beyond the narrow field of illumination. She turned back for her suitcase and briefcase, closing the door behind her. From somewhere within the house she could hear the steady tick of a pendulum clock.

“Hello?” Roslyn’s voice cracked slightly, and she tittered. Whom did she expect to answer? All the little critters that inhabit dark places when people aren’t around? Better not go down that path, she warned herself. Especially when you’re spending the night here alone.

She stared down at the envelope in her hand, realizing that there was a folded paper inside.

Dear Miss Baines,

Sorry I couldn’t meet you at your aunt’s but I had to take my son to his karate lesson tonight, and no one else was available. I arranged for Miss Petersen’s housekeeper—Mrs. Warshawski—to open the house for you and make up a bed in one of the bedrooms. She also said she’d buy a few provisions—coffee, tea, milk etc.—for you. Mrs. Warshawski worked for your aunt for twenty-five years, and Mr. Taylor asked her to stay on until the will was settled. She lives on the other side of town but will be there to meet you in the morning.

Enjoy your first evening in Plainsville and feel free to call me at Mr. Taylor’s office if you need anything else.

Sincerely,

Jane Baldwin

Roslyn picked up her suitcase and headed for the staircase, too exhausted to explore. All she wanted was to find the bed that had been prepared for her, dig out the miniature bottles of airline Bourbon that she’d tucked into her purse and crawl under the covers.

TIME TO TURN OVER, Roslyn thought, and bake the other side. She flung an arm across her eyes, shielding them from the glare of a Caribbean sun that penetrated even through closed lids. Her mouth was so dry. She tried to move her lips but they were stuck together. A tall frosty drink. Had to be somewhere close, she thought. At my elbow. Her eyes blinked open.

Not the Caribbean, she realized at once. Sunlight streamed from the window opposite the bed she was lying in. Roslyn slowly flexed the fingers of her right hand, thick and lifeless from lack of circulation. She rotated her head gently on the pillow, scanning the room and wondering for a brief but scary moment where on earth she was.

The decor of the room helped fix the setting—chintz everywhere and clunky dark wooden furniture. Gilt-framed portraits of people in various periods of dress were arranged on one wall papered with tiny purple violets. Two pastoral landscapes hung on the opposite. The double bed she was sprawled in had once been painted white. A long time ago, she decided, craning round to view the wrought iron headboard, slightly chipped and splashed with dots of rust.

Plainsville, Iowa. Not the Caribbean at all.

Roslyn struggled to raise herself onto the thick feathered pillows beneath her head. Doing so, she knocked the night table with her left elbow and the two empty miniature Bourbon bottles clinked onto the floor. Roslyn winced at the noise, and her head fell back onto the pillows, banging against the iron bed frame.

She raised a hand to rub the tender spot. The travel alarm clock propped against the lamp on the night table indicated nine o’clock. Back in Chicago, she’d have been hard at work for an hour.

Suddenly the complete emptiness of the day loomed before her. She was in a small Midwestern town, a place she’d never even heard of until last week, lying in a strange bed in someone else’s house. She’d committed herself to staying five days and didn’t have the least idea what she would be doing here.

Roslyn groaned, wondering how she’d gotten herself into such a ridiculous situation. What little she knew about Iowa came from grade school geography. She recalled green undulating hills, flat lands and farms. Lots of farms. She only hoped Plainsville contained a good bookstore and coffee shop.

She groaned again, then stretched, raising her bare arms above her head and wrapping her hands around the curving loops of the headboard behind. The patchwork quilt fell away, exposing the silky top of her sleeveless ice-blue nightgown. No wonder she’d been shivering all night. Flannel was definitely a must for Plainsville, Roslyn decided, even in late April. But the wash of sun spilling over her and onto the hardwood floor was inviting. She flung off the quilt and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

A heavy thud from outside stopped her cold. Roslyn looked over to the window. She hadn’t bothered to draw the curtains the night before, guessing there were no neighbors close enough to be spying on her. She padded across the room reaching the long rectangular window just as a man’s head popped into view.

Roslyn stepped backward, one hand automatically covering her mouth and the other vainly attempting to sling back the spaghetti strap of her nightgown. The man outside the window grinned and waved a hand. Roslyn noticed then that he was standing on the top rung of a ladder. Suddenly he raised a fist clenched around some kind of tool which he tapped against the window frame.

Roslyn swung round to the bed, grabbed the quilt to wrap around her and ran from the room. She took the stairs two at a time but when her bare feet thumped onto the floor at the bottom of the staircase, she stopped. She didn’t know the layout of the house. God, she didn’t even know if there was a telephone. No. Wait. The note from the secretary mentioned something about a phone call. But where the heck…?

She pivoted left, then right. The size of the house daunted her. Better to aim for the front door, straight ahead. She snapped the dead bolt and pulled hard. Last night’s storm had left behind puddles. Roslyn shoved her feet into her pumps lying where she’d kicked them off last night and rushed onto the veranda.

She clipped down the slick cement steps onto the narrow strip of sidewalk that curved toward the rear of the house. Roslyn marched along the path, barely noticing the sunlight bouncing off damp patches of grass, puffing sprays of mist into the morning air. She heard voices ahead and as she came around the corner of the big frame house, she saw two men—one lounging against the bottom portion of a long aluminum ladder and the other scrambling down the rungs.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she snarled at them.

HE GUESSED right away who she was. Ida’s lawyer had called from Des Moines over the weekend to say that the niece—great-niece?—might be visiting for a few days to check the place out before deciding to move in or not. He hadn’t dreamed she’d come so soon.

All the rain they’d taken over the last four days had got him to thinking that he hadn’t cleaned out the gutters and eaves troughs after the winter. Last fall he’d noticed a few weak spots in the old copper troughs and had dictated a mental note to himself to repair them for Ida. So he’d persuaded Lenny to come along and hold the ladder for him while he cleaned out the troughs. He was still chuckling when he plunked a foot onto the grass at the base of the ladder.

“Should’ve seen the look—” he said when a vision whirled around the end of the house.

She looked even better in full sunlight, he thought; her hair a swirl of reds and coppers burnishing out from her pale face like an electrified halo. And the face. The white skin translucent enough to reflect hints of spring all around them. He could paint that face! Though, he swiftly amended, not with that particular expression on it.

He held up both palms, dropping his trowel onto the ground. “Sorry about that, Miss. Uh…I was just about to clean out the eaves troughs—”

“The eaves troughs?”

Either she’d never heard of an eaves trough or she found his explanation ridiculous.

“I used to work for Miss Ida Mae. Well, we were friends, too. Anyway, I did a lot of odd jobs for her and after the rain this week, I thought I’d better get at those—”

“Eaves troughs.”

He stopped then, realizing that the glint in her eyes had more to do with anger than sparkles from the sun. He wondered if his own embarrassment was as obvious as it was starting to feel because she stared at him until he imagined he’d been the one caught parading outdoors in a nightie instead of her.

Then her gaze abruptly shifted, zigzagging from a point behind him, to the ladder, to Lenny, back to him and finally, to the tools lying on the grass.

“J.J.’s Landscaping and Garden Center,” she muttered. Obviously she’d noticed his truck.

“That’s me—Jack Jensen. And this is my nephew Lenny, who’s helping me out today. And you must be the niece.”

She seemed to be in a daze. “The niece?”

“Ida’s niece—or is it great-niece?” Jack turned to Lenny. “Is that what she’d be called? Great or grand?”

Lenny gave him a look as mystified as the niece’s, and Jack swore at himself for babbling.

“Jack Jensen?”

Jack and Lenny both turned back to the woman. Disbelief was all over her face.

“You mean, you’re the other beneficiary?”

Jack wasn’t certain of the insinuation in her voice but he caught Lenny grinning at it. “Yeah, I guess that’s right. And you would be Miss—”

“Baines,” she said. “Roslyn Baines.” She stuck out her right hand, releasing the quilt she’d been clutching. It dropped to the ground.

The nightgown shimmered in the sunlight, its filmy blue fabric undulating against her long slender legs and body like ripples in a mountain stream. Jack and Lenny looked down at the ground. There was a fluttering sound as Roslyn swooped to retrieve the quilt. When they both dared to raise their eyes, she was heading toward the front of the house.

“I’ll finish this up another time,” Jack hollered after her.

She paused, turning around only long enough to say, “Come into the house when you’ve put your things away,” then disappeared around the corner.

There was a moment’s silence that Lenny finally broke. “Geez,” he said.

Jack nodded, staring at the end of the house. “You can say that again.”

THEY TOOK their time putting things away. Roslyn peeked out the bedroom window as she snatched clean clothes from her suitcase and carried them into the bathroom across the hall. A room she figured would be safe from accidental sightings. Then she had to smile. What a sight she must have presented!

Humiliation swept through her. Granted, she’d been startled and perhaps a tad frightened, which came from spending her whole life in Chicago. People who accessed apartments from ladders or fire escapes in the city were usually emergency personnel or cat burglars. Or worse—the stuff of nightmares. But when she’d taken in their smirking faces and the name on the beat-up truck in the drive, the fear had sizzled into anger.

Roslyn knew from personal experience that her temper could be awesome, although its effect was definitely diminished when teamed with a flimsy nightie. Padding across the cool tiles, she slipped a pale lavender shirt off its hanger and buttoned it up, letting it hang loose over her black jeans.

The single window in the bathroom gable telescoped out over the roof. Bending low from the waist, she could just see the front of the truck. The men were leaning against the hood, talking. Part of a ladder extended over the cab of the truck. So they were finished, but not exactly rushing to her front door.

Roslyn sighed. Who could blame them, after such an unfriendly greeting? She closed the last button on her shirt and realized she’d left her makeup bag in the bedroom. If she didn’t hurry, they might decide to leave. For some inexplicable reason, she was loath to have her first meeting with Jack Jensen—the other beneficiary—hang on such a sour note.

Abandoning makeup, she fought with her hair, twisting it through an elastic band. A quick brush of her teeth and her toilette was complete. One last glance in the mirror on her way out the door made Roslyn realize that no one in her office would even recognize her at that moment. But for Plainsville, she thought wryly, it would do. She headed for the first floor.

The hesitant tapping at the front door almost made her laugh. Were they afraid of her now? She pulled hard on the heavy door, calling out a hearty “Come in.”

A short, plump woman of about sixty stood before her. “Miss Baines?”

“Uh, yes. Sorry,” Roslyn stammered. “I—I was expecting someone else.”

“You were?” Disbelief echoed in the voice. “Mr. Taylor’s secretary asked me to be here by nine at the latest. And,” she peered at the tiny watch face on her thick wrist, “I make it to be five minutes to…on the dot.”

“No, no, you misunderstand. You see—”

“There was no misunderstanding at all, from what I recall.” She squinted hard at Roslyn. “Unless you changed the instructions without letting me know.”

Roslyn sighed. “Please, come in. You must be my aunt’s housekeeper. Mrs.—?”

“Warshawski. Folks call me Sophie.”

“Sophie. Nice to meet you. I’m Roslyn.” She extended her hand, which the other woman ignored. “Mr. Taylor’s secretary mentioned in her note that you’d be coming by this morning.”

“So there was a note!” Vindication rang in her voice.

Roslyn looked past the woman’s shoulder to see the men staring up at her from the bottom of the veranda steps. The one who’d introduced himself as Jack had a smile on his face that seemed almost pitying. There was an exchange of glances between the two of them that Roslyn couldn’t read. Perhaps telepathic agreement that the woman from Chicago was indeed a major nutbar?

Weary of explanations, Roslyn swung the door open wider and made an ushering motion with her left arm. “Please! All of you, come on in.”

Mrs. Warshawski frowned, then hesitantly peered round her shoulder. Her face softened. “Jack! Didn’t see you standin’ there.”

He nodded. “Mornin’, Sophie. Hope you brought some coffee.”

The woman beamed. “Sure did. Even a dozen biscuits right out of the oven.”

Lenny took the steps two at a time and plucked the canvas bag out of Sophie’s hand. “I’m starvin’. Let’s go.” He crooked an arm through Sophie’s and the two squeezed past Roslyn and headed into the house.

Jack paused on the door stoop.

Up close, Roslyn felt dwarfed by his height, a good four or five inches more than her own of five-nine. It was a sensation she hadn’t experienced many times in her life and it made her feel strangely vulnerable.

“Sophie’s baking is legendary,” he explained, giving an apologetic smile for Lenny’s rush into the house.

His eyes crinkled in weather-etched lines. Dark as midnight, but kind, Roslyn decided. He swept off the faded baseball cap to reveal a thick head of short, black hair.

“Well? Shall we join them?” He grinned down at her and before she could reply, was halfway down the hall.

Roslyn slowly closed the door. She was beginning to feel like a character in a quirky novel. Not Alice in Wonderland exactly, but close enough. She recalled a title from her college days. Yes. More like Stranger in a Strange Land.

Their voices led her along the wood-paneled hallway to a kitchen she was seeing for the first time. She watched from the door. The three were bustling about the large, airy room as if they’d spent their whole lives in Ida Mae’s house.

They went about the task of making coffee, getting plates and mugs out of tall, wooden cupboards and extracting jam jars and plastic containers from Sophie’s canvas bag in a routine that appeared to have been performed many times. All the while, snippets of conversation ricocheted off the walls. Bits of talk beginning with “Did you hear that…?” or “Well, I never…” and even “I guess you knew that…” were followed by occasional lapses into brief silence.

Finally they noticed Roslyn, turning almost as one toward the doorway. Jack placed the cutlery he’d just taken from a drawer onto the rectangular harvest table in the center of the room and took a step toward her.

“Miss Baines—please come and sit down. We…uh, well I suppose we got carried away there. Thinking it was like old times when we’d gather for coffee on a Saturday morning with Miss Ida Mae after we’d done the yard work. Sophie here always made a pan of biscuits or cinnamon buns, and Lenny and I—or Miss Ida, if Lenny wasn’t with us—would get the coffee ready.” He stopped. “I’m babbling. Please,” he pulled out a ladder-back chair from the table, “sit down. We’ve forgotten our manners. This place is your home now.”

Silence doused the energy in the room. Sophie’s lips tightened, and Lenny gazed out the window. Roslyn returned Jack’s smile and perched stiffly on the edge of the chair. When the coffee was poured and the biscuits set on a platter, the three other chairs were pulled out in unison.

Roslyn sipped carefully on the hot brew. “Since I’m only here a few days, I’d like to visit Plainsville’s main attractions,” she said to break the silence.

Sophie’s face smoothed into a smile. “Not many attractions so to speak, but I’m sure Lenny could drive you around the center of town. We’ve got some shops and restaurants that some people drive all the way from Des Moines to visit.”

Roslyn hastily interjected, “I’m sure Lenny has plans for the day. I can wander into town myself. The ride from the bus station last night didn’t take longer than twenty minutes.”

“You musta got Morty Hermann,” Lenny stated.

Sophie shook her head. “That man. He’d cheat his own mother.”

“One of our three cabbies in town,” Jack explained. “Unfortunately, he takes advantage of newcomers. The ride here from the station should only have taken five or ten minutes, max.”

“Oh, well,” sighed Roslyn. “That happens all the time in Chicago, unless you know exactly where you’re going.”

“You’re right. Happened to me a few times,” Jack agreed.

“You’ve spent some time in Chicago?” Roslyn asked.

“A bit,” he said. “I lived there for almost ten years.”

“Oh,” was all that Roslyn could think to say, feeling foolish for assuming he’d spent his whole life in Plainsville.