Chapter 11 #2
At the mention of Owen, something hummed to life in Frankie’s midsection.
A fluttering of wings that reminded her of the tiger swallowtails descending on the coneflowers on a warm afternoon.
Her fingers fled there on instinct, pressing down as she shook off the unexpected reaction.
It was because of their history, she told herself. A general curiosity, nothing else.
“I think I might do just that,” she told the ladies.
If Mrs. Blunt was the best, then that’s who she needed to enlist. It had no bearing on her decision that she could think of worse ways to spend a lunch than seeing Owen again.
Frankie pulled up at the address the Word Birds had given her ten minutes later.
The house was a small, yellow two-story cottage with a wrap-around porch and green shutters that was set back from the street and surrounded by a thriving garden.
No one was outside, but a tarp with paint supplies on the side of the building lent truth to what Irma had said about Mrs. Blunt keeping Owen busy.
The delicious scent of fried bacon drifted past Frankie as she marched up onto the porch and knocked on the screen door.
“Hello?” she called out.
“It’s open,” Mrs. Blunt called from somewhere inside the house.
Frankie hesitated for a beat, but then she let herself inside.
Wood floors and white wainscoting. Doilies and framed pastorals.
Mrs. Blunt’s wheelchair stood tucked into a nook beneath the stairs leading to the second floor on her left, and to her right was a bulbous chest of drawers topped with a vase full of fresh-cut flowers next to a portrait of an older gentleman.
Frankie jumped when Owen stuck his head out a doorway past the stairs.
“Hi,” he said. “Grams says to come on back. We’re in the kitchen.”
“Hi,” she said back, but he’d already disappeared, leaving her the only option to follow him.
“Frankie, dear—I thought it was you!” Mrs. Blunt lit up as Frankie stepped into the modest kitchen. She was wearing a light-green dress today, but it was covered by a frilly patchwork apron. “Have you come for lunch?”
“Um…” Frankie’s gaze went to the stove, where a pan with eggs and bacon sat next to a casserole dish of hash browns. Her stomach rumbled.
“Owen, get her a plate, will you? She’s starved,” Mrs. Blunt said from her seat at the table.
Frankie could have protested, but since she suspected both her stomach and Mrs. Blunt would take offense to that, she nodded her thanks instead and sat down in the only empty chair.
Clearly, Mrs. Blunt was still intent on feeding her.
“That’s very kind,” she said, finding her voice again. “How is the knee?”
“I’ve graduated out of the wheelchair completely,” Mrs. Blunt said with a grin. “Now I’ve got this instead.” She hoisted a purple crutch from her side, wielding it precariously through the air. “I should be spick and span in a jiffy.”
“That’s great,” Frankie said.
“Here you go.” Owen set a plate in front of her, then took his seat.
“Thanks.” She let her gaze linger on him before picking up her fork. He’d shaved today, and his complexion had more color than when she’d seen him last, as if he’d spent the past several days in the sun. It made him look more like himself. Stronger. It also made his irises bluer.
“So…” Mrs. Blunt looked between them, a glint in her eyes. “To what do we owe the pleasure of Frankie Lavigne come to call? Did those hot cross buns have you wanting more of my prized cooking?”
Frankie smiled, swallowing a mouthful of hash browns. “As delicious as they were, Mrs. Blunt, I did have another reason for stopping by.”
“As suspected. And call me Thora. We’re all friends here.”
“Very well. Thora.” Frankie nodded. “I don’t know if you’ve heard yet, but I’ve decided to throw a fundraiser for the school—an auction—and I’ve had a few, um… questions come up in relation to some of the items we’re intending to include.”
“What kinds of questions and what kinds of items?” Thora asked without hesitation, her keen attention leveled on Frankie.
“It’s some of Mom’s old things.”
“Okay…” The old woman leaned forward. “And?”
“And I hear you’re a maven at research, so I’m hoping you can help me.”
“No, I mean—and what kinds of questions do you have about her things?”
“Oh.” How was she going to explain this without explaining it? She reached for her water glass and drank. Set it down. Picked it up again.
Thora reached out and patted Owen’s hand. “I believe the chairs should be ready for a second coat now, dear. Would you mind?”
He looked from Thora to Frankie, then stood without objection. Either he was okay being dismissed, or he was the politest grandson this side of the Mississippi.
Once he’d left, Thora angled her chair more fully Frankie’s way.
“I didn’t send him away because I think he’s loose-lipped, just so we understand each other,” she said.
“He’s a good boy, and I trust him implicitly no matter what some folks about town might say about him.
” A brief but pained expression came over her before she caught herself.
“But you seem to have something on your mind that’s hard to name, so I figured I’d clear the room before you burst. Now tell me—what’s got you bothered? ”
Frankie wavered between stating her errand and asking who was talking about Owen and saying what, a protective urge rising within her, but since she had no claim to him anymore, she also had no reason to think Thora would share. Her own conundrum it was then.
Frankie explained about the notebook they’d found and why it didn’t add up but left out the other questions not relating to the song that had arisen since the funeral.
When she was done, her hands were twisted in her lap and her mouth dry.
The words she’d spoken hovered between them: “I need to know if the story Estelle told about the song is true.”
She might have said “the song and me,” but she couldn’t bring herself to do so. If she focused on the song alone, an item at arm-length’s distance, the threat shrank from a tiger to a feral tomcat.
“Hmm,” Thora said, her face tipping to the ceiling. “Estelle, Estelle…”
“Maybe it’s nothing,” Frankie said, the urge to backtrack overwhelming now that it was too late.
Thora smacked her palms down onto her thighs. “Well, let’s find out, shall we?” She grasped the table and pulled herself to standing. “Be a dear and hand me my crutch. And my purse too—it’s on the counter over there.”
Frankie did as asked before following closely behind as Thora limped to the front door.
“I’ll have Owen drive me since I have all afternoon, and you don’t,” the old woman said.
“I don’t?”
Thora paused to look over her shoulder at Frankie. “You have a school to run, no?”
“Oh.” Frankie shrugged to right herself in the whirlwind that was Thora Blunt on a mission. “Right.”
“Ah, my apron.” Thora untied it, pulled it over her head, and tossed it aside. “Close call. That would have had the whole town in a tizzy. Owen!” She pushed the screen door open and stepped out onto the porch. “Owen, where are you at? We’re going for a drive.”
“Um, and where are we going?” Frankie asked, taking Thora’s arm to help her down the porch steps.
Thora squeezed Frankie’s hand, her eyes crinkling in the sunlight. “To the library of course. It seems we have a mystery to solve.”