Twenty-two
Nadine put aside a box filled with prairie-style nightgowns wrapped in their original but yellowing cellophane. Searching the attic was both physically uncomfortable and emotionally demoralizing, because although each box could hold the secret they needed, too often she found herself sorting through something like empty plastic containers of L’eggs hosiery. After a week, they’d found nothing.
When her phone buzzed, she almost pounced on it. She badly needed a break.
Raj quit , Lisanne texted.
What?
There was an opening in sports, and he applied. They gave the job to Kyle.
It took Nadine a second to place him. The intern?
Former intern and current sports reporter for the Herald.
Nadine shook her head. Raj lived sports. He was goalie for his university hockey team.
I know that , wrote Lisanne. You know that. They asked if he knew what an assist was.
Oh, that hurt. Good for him then. Where’s he going?
TSN. He figured he’d give television a shot.
We’ll take him out for drinks when I’m done here , Nadine wrote.
How’s the secret assignment going?
It’s going. Haven’t found what we need.
And Wes?
Fine . To stop the questions, Nadine picked part of Lisanne’s big story she could talk about without envy. How’s Ying?
Brilliant. She mentioned an ex. It was a girl.
And?
I casually mentioned my ex, Becca , replied Lisanne. Making progress. Neither of us are fully out at work so I’m going slow.
Seems wise.
Got to go, Hetty called a meeting. Daniel changed his mind and told her she couldn’t hire that writer she wanted.
This would infuriate Hetty. Daniel had been promoted over her to become editor in chief last year, despite the general understanding among staff that Hetty was perfect for the job and Daniel was not.
Grateful the conversation with Lisanne had been limited to a straightforward bit of gossip, Nadine opened the next box to find a collection of obituaries in an unmarked folder. Curious, she sat down in the chair they’d covered with an old sheet. All of them had notes in Dot’s hand or a line or two highlighted. On some, the ink had disintegrated the paper, as if Dot had held the highlighter on the page as she read.
Nadine went through the collection, reading each one to appreciate how they brought people to life for one last hurrah. She’d been reading more obits in her spare time since her talk with Dot and had slowly seen what could have been done with the lives that passed by her desk.
She’d seen what she could have done with Dot Voline.
These obits weren’t limited to the editorial items written by reporters at major news sites. There were also death notices from the back of the paper, usually written by grieving family and focused on the basics: cause of death, family members, appreciation of health care professionals, and funeral arrangements. Touching details colored in the small black-and-white photos that headed most of the clippings, such as the woman who had the same pot stewing for thirty years to serve as the first course for every dinner. Dot’s note read, What happened to this perpetual stew?
What did happen? Did the eldest son take it to continue the tradition? Did they eat it at the funeral before covering the pot one last time? The obit, like death, left more questions asked than answered.
Her phone rang. It was her mother. “Where are you?” she demanded.
“What?” Nadine closed the folder. “What’s wrong?”
“Nadine, are you okay? Are you safe?” Her mother sounded upset.
“Yes? What are you talking about?”
“We’re at your apartment. You’re not here, and we were worried. There’s mail piled up in front of the door.”
“I’m out,” she said, confused. “I’m sorry, Mom, did we have plans? I must have missed it in my calendar.”
She could hear her father rumbling in the background, then fading as her mother moved away. “No, no, we wanted to see you because we knew you were on vacation.”
Nadine felt the anger building. She’d answered all her mother’s texts promptly, yet that wasn’t enough. “Are you upset because you came by my apartment without checking to see if I’d be there and I wasn’t?”
“I don’t like that tone, Nadine. We’re looking out for your safety. You’re a young woman living alone, and I don’t feel good about it, not these days. I’m glad you’re coming home.”
“I didn’t say I was moving back, and also I’m not a young woman. I’m thirty.”
“You know it’s the best choice.”
Wes came into the attic and looked at her quizzically. She turned away and lowered her voice. “Mom, I am fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“We always worry about you. Where are you?”
“Enjoying my vacation, and I have to go. Bye, Mom.” She hung up the phone and held her hand palm out to Wes. “Before you ask, it was my mother, and I have zero desire to talk about it.”
“Fine by me,” said Wes. “I came up to tell you dinner was ready early.”
Nadine wouldn’t tell Wes for fear of inflating his ego, but she loved it when he cooked. The food was always stellar, and unlike her, Wes had mastered the complicated art of synchronizing cooking times to make sure the dishes made it to the table when they should. Tonight, he served gazpacho with tomatoes from the garden, followed by a vegetarian paella. Every bite was perfectly seasoned, and once Wes found out she hated green peppers, they’d never reappeared.
“Amazing as always,” she said, seeing him cast her an anxious glance as she ate. He relaxed slightly and smiled when she took another spoonful.
When they were done, Nadine went to the fridge. Alerted by the click of the container top opening, cats swarmed into the kitchen.
She counted them up and frowned.
“Wes, have you seen Erma?”
“Not since lunch.” He looked around the kitchen as if the cat could be hanging from the ceiling, then joined her for a recount. “Only three, and Erma loves eating.”
Erma never missed a meal and had made a habit of slapping Wes in the face with her paw at six thirty in the morning if they hadn’t yet been fed, which he complained about regularly. She’d also learned to open his door, but when Nadine offered to show him one of her mother’s tricks for keeping hotel doors safe, he’d refused. “I don’t want her to feel unwelcome in her own house,” he’d said. “What if she’s lonely and misses Dot?” Nadine had felt bad enough to start leaving her own door open a crack in case a cat needed company.
“Let’s check around.” Wes looked under the table as he spoke.
They did a complete scan, one of them watching a room for movement while shaking a bag of treats as the other checked behind curtains and under furniture.
“I feel Erma would like the porcelain room,” said Wes.
“She’s a destructive animal.”
“She is not.” Wes defended her. “She likes the colors.”
To their relief, Erma was not in the porcelain room knocking over small side tables filled with Royal Doulton. Nor was she in the fashion room, where Nadine checked under the ornate skirts as a portrait of the cats in Elizabethan dress looked on. “The Diors are safe,” she reported, panting slightly as she rose to her feet.
“I believe those are House of Worth,” he said.
“Really?” She looked back in. “I didn’t realize you were so into fashion and design, but you know a lot.”
“I like it, but I also remember a lot from my stories,” he said, crossing his arms. “They impact us on a daily basis, so it helps me when I’m putting things in context.”
“It’s impressive.”
“Oh.” He looked at her in surprise, then frowned slightly as if he didn’t believe her.
Erma wasn’t in the library or the attic or the conservatory. They went back to the kitchen and opened another container of food. Overfeeding the cats was worth it to flush her out.
Wes paced in alarm. “Do you think she got outside?” He stared out the window. “She’ll be scared. She’s too small. What if there are raccoons? Coyotes? Those billionaire’s dogs we keep hearing?” Before she could answer, Wes held up his hand. “Wait. Do you hear that?”
Nadine tilted her head to hear better. “No.”
Wes turned in a slow circle. “I heard a noise.”
“From where?”
“I don’t know.” He walked to the left, then back to the right.
Nadine went to the door and listened. “Too bad we didn’t teach the cats to play Marco Polo.”
“I was great at that game,” said Wes absently. “Hold on. There it is again.”
They stood by the window and listened until a faint scratching came from the door.
“That must be her,” Wes said.
They speed walked through the kitchen and took up positions in the salon, Wes near the library door and Nadine close to the conservatory. “Erma?” called Wes. “Ermikins kitty cat?”
“Ermikins kitty cat?” asked Nadine.
Wes looked faintly embarrassed. “It’s what she likes to be called.”
It seemed he was right, because another meow drifted in. “The library,” said Wes, dashing through the door.
The sound was louder here. Nadine zeroed in on a section of panel to the left of the door. “Is Erma in the wall?” she asked.
They pressed their ears against the wall. “She is. Like some sort of Lovecraftian rat.” He raised his voice. “It’s okay, Erms. I’m here.”
Another imperious meow.
“Wait a minute.” Nadine stared at the wall, then up to the secret entrance to the attic as a distant memory of an old murder mystery came to her. Like Brent had done the first time he’d shown them the attic, she ran her fingers along the panel until she found what felt like a depression. She pressed it, and with a smooth slide, the door rose to reveal a dark hole.
A black streak leapt out and into Wes’s arms, purring and headbutting him in the chin. “Erma!” He lifted the cat up to look in her face. “You bad cat. How did you get in there?”
When she jumped out of his arms to stalk away, they turned to stare into the wall.
“It’s a dumbwaiter,” Nadine said. “Look at the pulleys. They used it to move things from one floor to another.”
“There’s a basement we didn’t know about?” Wes looked down in shock, as if he could see through the floor.
She took her phone and turned on the video. “Let’s find out.”