Eight
Irene did not want to pull over, but Frances was not going to have a conversation with Marjorie in front of her, especially seeing as how Marjorie was having a meltdown, and Irene was driving fast around the curves and scaring the shit out of Frances.
Frances hadn’t even considered the possibility of Marjorie losing her mind, but apparently, when she was out of touch for a day or so, the woman’s imagination ran wild.
Her phone had been off for the few hours they’d been in the air, and then they’d experienced spotty cell service as they drove into a more remote part of Colorado.
But the moment Frances got a good signal, she saw the missed calls and texts.
What are you up to?
I tried to call but your phone goes straight to voicemail.
Dan says you might have been abducted, that there is a gang of thugs that prey on the elderly in Florida.
Have you been abducted?
Dan says I should call the police.
Frances panicked. She shouted at Irene to pull over, and finally Irene did, into a turnout lane. “God, you are so bossy!” Irene snapped.
Frances got out, breathed in the crisp air, then gazed out at the gorgeous little valley just below as she hit the call button.
Marjorie picked up right away. “Fran? Where are you? I’ve been worried sick!”
“I’m fine,” Frances said, although she had a terrible headache. “I’m just enjoying myself, Marge. You shouldn’t worry.”
“Are you fine? Because you told me you’d only be gone for a few days. Is there a signal you can give me so I can be sure you’re not abducted?”
“How’s this for a signal? I’m not abducted! I’ve had my phone off, that’s all. And I changed my mind. I’m having such a good time I decided to stay longer.”
“That’s great. But I thought you’d at least tell me,” Marjorie said. “You can’t blame me for being concerned. It wasn’t that long ago you were in intensive care.”
“I was never in intensive care.”
“You might as well have been. At your age, you cannot ignore serious head injuries. Just don’t turn off your phone. That’s a terrible thing to do, especially since things have been a little off since you cracked your head.”
“They have not,” Frances insisted. But it was not not true.
“I’m just looking out for you since you have no one else.”
“Excuse me, but I have a son who’s almost as bad as you. And I have friends,” she added with a sniff. She did not have friends. She had Marjorie.
Marjorie snorted because she knew, that, too. Frances winced. The pain in her head was making her cranky. She was lucky Marjorie cared for her like she did. “Look, I’ll call you in a couple of days. I’m having fun with my friend, and I just want to enjoy it.”
Marjorie sighed. “Fine. But you better check in. If you don’t, I’m telling Aaron.”
“Hardly necessary. Aaron knows what I’m doing.” Another lie. Frances was a little alarmed to note it had come so easily. “I’ll call you soon. Love you, Marge.”
“Oh, Fran, I love you, too, but sometimes I don’t know why,” Marjorie said.
Just as Frances was clicking off the call, Irene’s head popped up over the top of the rental car. “What is taking so long? I need a bathroom.”
Frances groaned. “The bathroom thing is getting unreasonable, Irene.”
“I’m seventy-six, Frances. I do not pass up bathrooms. I happen to—”
The rest of her sentence was lost in the violent whoosh of air as a brown car rocked past them on the narrow road, almost knocking them from the turnout lane. Irene responded with a string of expletives.
“What in the hell was that?” Frances asked.
“A drug runner is my guess,” Irene said darkly. “Let’s go.”
“Weird guess.” Frances got in the passenger seat and pulled down the visor. Her new bob had been blasted by the wind and exhaust of that car. She combed her fingers through it, tangling it even more. “Damn it. I wanted to make a good impression.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Irene said, and started up the car.
A few miles later, they turned onto a one-lane pitted caliche road as indicated on Irene’s map.
The car rocked up the path, past some cows grazing in an open field, beneath some towering pines, a few of which were leaning precariously over the lane.
They went up a rise and over, coasting into a small clearing.
A house—at least Frances thought it was a house, but the jury was out—was nestled beneath the trees at the edge of the clearing, smoke curling out of its chimney.
The central part of the structure looked like it had been patched together with Lincoln Logs.
Attached on the right was a two-story stucco-and-wood structure, and to the left, a round silo sort of thing made of corrugated metal.
The three parts, taken together, were a curious mix of styles and materials.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Frances asked.
“Hey … that’s the car.” Irene pointed at the back end of a brown car parked under a metal carport. It was an old-model Cadillac Seville—Frances had driven one just like it in the late eighties; only hers had been pink. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” Irene said. “My bad feeling hasn’t gone away.”
“Should we leave?”
“Not until I find a bathroom.” Irene opened her car door.
So did Frances. She put a leg out, her foot touching the ground, intending to stand. But Irene hadn’t moved. Somewhere, a door shut. “Someone’s coming,” Irene said.
“So, get out,” Frances said.
“Give me a minute—I have to get my game face on.”
“What are you talking about? Your game face is the same as your resting bitch face. You’re not flaking on me, are you?
” Frances really needed to know, as she was half out of the car already.
But Irene didn’t move. She sucked in a very deep breath.
It occurred to Frances that Irene was scared.
That was odd—she’d always considered Irene to be the most fearless among them.
Frances stepped out of the car and shut the door.
She didn’t feel quite as confident as she sounded.
She ran her hands down the legs of her pants and wished suddenly that she’d taken a pain pill, because her head was beginning to throb behind her eye again.
It took her a moment to notice the small woman stalking toward her.
Not Joan, then. Joan was tall and statuesque.
Maybe she’d shrunk with the years? Could someone shrink a full six inches?
The woman was wearing green Hunter boots and a wide, swinging skirt that brushed the tops of them. Her hair was woven into long solidly gray braids. Frances took a few steps forward, smiling, and lifted a hand in greeting. “Hello!”
That’s when the woman snapped a rifle up to her shoulder and aimed it at Frances, startling her so badly that she yelped with alarm.
“Hands in the air!” the woman commanded. “Get ’em up!”
“I think you’re misunder—”
“Get ’em up or I’ll shoot your fool face off.”
Frances needed no further encouragement—she thrust her hands overhead. And then she ducked down, like that was going to save her. Now she was squatting, her hands in the air. It was harder to do than one might think.
“You’ve got no call to be here,” the woman continued, her voice fried with old age. “So, I’m going to count to three while you get back in your car and turn around and leave.”
“May I stand? Because I tweaked my knee on the way down, and I don’t think I can duck-walk to the car.” Where the hell was Irene? How could she have been so wrong about this address? She had three computers, for God’s sake.
“Get moving,” the woman said.
Frances stood up. “I’m so sorry,” she said, hands still in the air. She took a tentative step backward. “We didn’t mean to disturb you. We thought an old friend lived here.”
“Mama? What’s all the racket?”
Now, that voice Frances recognized. Joan appeared, coming from behind the Cadillac. She was tall, and wore her hair in braids, too—but they weren’t as gray as Annie Oakley’s. And she was wearing an outfit that made Frances think of judo.
Joan walked forward, squinting. She pulled a pair of eyeglasses from her braids and put them on, then squinted some more. She stared hard at Frances for a long, tense moment.
“Is it okay if I put my hands down? My shoulders aren’t what they used to be.”
“Mama, it’s fine,” Joan said.
The smaller woman still had her gun trained on Frances. “The hell it is.”
Joan sighed. She walked forward, pausing only to push the nose of her mother’s rifle to point at the ground. “Would you please stop? You could kill someone with that thing.”
“Well, I just might,” her mother said. “I don’t like strangers.”
Joan ignored her and kept walking toward Frances. She still moved like a model. She was trim, her judo top cinched tightly at the waist with a black belt. Her braids were held at her nape with a leather band, and her skin was smooth as milk. Why did everyone look younger than Frances?
“Frances Delafield, what the ever-loving hell are you doing here?” she asked in that silky smooth voice of hers. She used to sing for them down on the beach, ballads and love songs.
“It’s Deluca now,” Frances said. “I got married. Had a family.”
Joan didn’t speak. Her dark brown eyes narrowed. “Are you in trouble? Wait—am I in trouble?”
“Who is that?” her mother demanded.
“An old friend, Ma,” Joan said.
“No, I’m not in trouble,” Frances said, “and neither are you. I mean, that I know of. But Irene has some interesting theories—”
“Irene?”
A throat cleared behind Frances. Irene was literally hiding behind Frances. She stepped out. “Hey,” she said. “Hi, Joan.”
Joan suddenly pushed Frances aside so she could see Irene. Her gaze moved over her, then to Frances, then back to Irene, clearly disbelieving what she was seeing. Her mother joined them, too, peering at them both like she ought to know them and couldn’t place them.
“Uh-uh,” Joan said suddenly, snapping out of her surprise. “You don’t get to show up here after how many years? I’m not playing whatever game this is.”
“That’s what I said, too,” Irene insisted nervously. “But Franny said it had to be this way.”
“I didn’t say it had to be this way,” Frances said. “I just thought it was better if we talked in person.”
“Who are they?” her mother demanded. “Should I shoot?”
“No,” Joan said. “Mama, this is Frances,” Joan said, gesturing loosely. “And Irene.”
Was Frances crazy, or did Joan’s voice soften just a bit when she said Irene’s name? And the way she looked at Irene.
“Well, what are they doing here, uninvited and unannounced?” her mother insisted.
“Fair question,” Frances said. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Harris. We should have called first.”
“You definitely should have,” Joan said, and Irene muttered, “Told you.”
“Amazing. You look the same,” Joan said. She was talking to Irene.
“So do you,” Irene said. “Better, somehow.” She smiled sheepishly.
What, no advice for mature skin? No insistence that Joan don undereye patches like she’d made Frances do this morning?
“I don’t remember any Irene or Frances,” Mrs. Harris said.
“Because you’re ninety-two, Ma. You don’t remember a lot of things.”
Well, one thing the elderly woman remembered was how to wield a rifle.
“What is going on?” Joan asked. “Oh no—did Edie die?”
“No!” Frances said.
“At least not as of last week,” Irene added.
“Wait—how do you even know where here is?” Joan asked.
“Irene’s a hacker,” Frances said, and looked sidelong at Irene.
“Do you mind?” Irene shot back. She looked sheepishly at Joan again. “You might say I keep tabs on people.”
Mrs. Harris pointed the rifle at Irene. “What else do you know?”
“Mama,” Joan said, and pushed the barrel of the rifle down again. “But I would like to know the answer to that, too. Except I think I’m going to need a drink. Come on, Mama. We need to lock that gun up before you take an eye out.”
“You sure?” Mrs. Harris asked, still eyeing them with suspicion.
“Honestly, I’m not one hundred percent sure,” Joan admitted. “But I think it’s okay for now. Think you could whip up some of your homemade ginger beer?”
Mrs. Harris’s demeanor changed instantly. She looked delighted. “I was just in the process of making a batch.” She turned with her daughter, walking slowly, carrying her rifle like a soldier on patrol.
Frances and Irene exchanged a look. Irene made frantic gestures toward Mrs. Harris and the gun, followed by some circular motions at her head, indicating she thought Joan’s mother was crazy. Frances lifted her shoulders to her ears in a universal I-don’t-know motion.
“Look alive, ladies!” Joan called over her shoulder.
They followed.