Darned if You Do (3 page)

A
T
midafternoon, the power was still out in Excelsior. Clouds had thickened again, and though the violent storms had passed, there was occasional heavy rain and a chill wind. Between that and some of the trees having been largely stripped of their leaves, suddenly it looked, and felt, like November, though it was not yet October; not a pleasant situation when houses and stores were without heat and light.

People had begun cleaning up their yards, whether just picking up debris by hand, raking up leaves and twigs, or, sick at heart, bringing out or borrowing chain saws to cut apart a favorite tree downed by the storm. Some had to borrow or rent pumps to empty flooded basements.

Word began to spread around town that the building that housed Crewel World, ISBNs Bookstore, and Sol's Deli over on West Lake Street had lights and power. And in that building you could get warm things to eat and drink. So now and again people would put down their tools and come to the needlework shop for a cup of hot coffee or tea, or drop into Sol's Deli for a hot bowl of soup and a sandwich. Even the two proprietors of ISBNs, who normally did not allow food or drink in their bookstore, bought some croissants from Sol's and borrowed a coffeemaker from Betsy's kitchen and offered rolls and coffee to browsers seeking a literary escape from their problems.

The talk in Betsy's shop was not only about whose favorite tree was down, whose roof was damaged, and whose basement was flooded, but about the strange accident that had befallen Tom Riordan. The top third of a big tree had fallen into his bedroom—while he was in bed! He had a broken leg, went one rumor. He had a concussion, went another.
And
a severely broken arm,
plus
broken ribs,
and
a bruised liver went a third. It was awful, they all agreed in shocked voices, and sad, and everyone hoped he would make a full recovery.

An ad hoc Monday Bunch meeting took place at around three o'clock that afternoon.

Everyone around the table—Alice, Bershada, Cherie, Phil, Doris, and Emily—expressed sympathy for Tom Riordan and exchanged rumors.

Listening curiously, but contributing nothing, sat a new member, Grace Pickering. She and her sister, Georgine, had come to Excelsior in the middle of August and rented a house on a month-to-month basis. They were from Jacksonville, Florida, experienced travelers, enjoying the novelty of living in the far north. Grace liked to crochet and was pleased to find the Monday Bunch. At thirty-five, she was the older of the two sisters, attractive, with sparkling green eyes and lots of dark auburn hair that fell in an artless tumble over her shoulders. She declared that she and her sister wanted to experience a white Christmas before they moved on, probably to Santa Fe. Betsy's store manager, Godwin, was sure there was something tragic in their background, because the two were so closemouthed about their past. All he knew about them was that they claimed to make a living buying antiques and collectibles and selling them on eBay. But Betsy told him not to be silly. No one who could crochet joyous fine lace like Gracie Pickering could have a secret sorrow.

“It's just too bad Jill isn't here with us today,” said Bershada. “She could tell us the real facts about poor Tom.”

“Why's that?” asked Grace. She was wearing thick magnifying glasses and using a fine pale blue thread to crochet a microscopic doily fit for a doll's house.

“Her husband was first on the scene in Tom Riordan's house,” said Emily. Seeing Grace's puzzlement, she continued, “Oh, don't you know Lars is a police officer?”

“She used to be a cop herself,” said Phil. He was nearly finished with a needlepoint canvas of a fat old witch riding a bicycle.

“No, really?” Grace looked up from her work, eyebrows raised in surprise. She'd met tall, fair-haired, quiet Jill.

Alice said in her usual blunt way, “She could've told us if it's true that his house is filled with garbage.”

“Well, it's not,” said Bershada. “There's no garbage in it, just . . . things. It's mostly old things, a lot of them not exactly useful, but it's not garbage.”

Emily said, “I hear there are books stacked all up and down the stairs. I don't know how those ambulance people got Tom down from the second floor.”

Bershada said, “Books, you say? I'd love a chance to sort those books.” Bershada was a retired librarian.

“There's boxes of toys, too,” contributed Phil in his loud, deaf-man's voice. “Oil cans. Birdcages. Cases of canned cat food. Sets of china. Audiotapes. Auto parts.”

Grace asked, “So you've been in there?”

“No, but someone has, and he opened the curtains and lifted the blinds, so you can look through the dirty windows.”

“I told him not to go over there,” said Doris, his wife. “But he wanted to see.”

“Why not?” said Phil. “And I wasn't the only one. I practically had to stand in line.”

“I think it's rude to stare into people's windows,” said Alice without looking at Phil, who snorted.

“There's a great big flying red horse on the living room wall,” he added, unrepentant.

“‘Flying red horse'?” echoed Betsy, who was working with Godwin on their Christmas window design.

Godwin smiled at her. “You know, the gasoline sign. Mobil used it years and years ago, and then stopped, but now they're using that old Pegasus again.”

Grace said, “The old ones are very collectible. Some of them fetch hundreds even thousands of dollars.”

“Really?” said Godwin. “And there's one on Tom Take's wall! I wonder where he got it?”

“Collectible!” barked Phil, snapping his fingers. “That's what Tom is, he's a collector. There's a TV show on cable about these two guys who drive all over the country looking for barns and sheds full of stuff these collectors have, er, collected. They'd purely love to visit old Tom.”

“Are there dead birds in the cages?” asked Emily in a small, worried voice.

“No, of course not,” said Phil. He grinned broadly. “But I saw a live mouse in the kitchen. He was bold as brass, sitting up on the edge of the sink, sniffing the air.”

“Oh, ugh!” said Emily. “I hate mice!”

“Maybe he's Tom's pet,” suggested Cherie.

“Naw, pet mice are white, this one's gray.”

Alice asked, “Did you see anything of yours?”

“What kind of a question is that?” asked Grace.

“Didn't you hear me? His nickname is Tom Take,” Godwin said to her. “Because he finds things, sometimes before people have lost them.”

“Tom Take,” said Cherie, frowning. “I've heard him called that, but isn't that also the name of a character in a children's book?”

“No, a character in a comic strip,
Little Orphan Annie
, from back in the thirties.” For reasons that no one, not even he, understood, Godwin was a fan of old radio shows, old cartoons, old movies, and old comic strips.

Phil said, “I talked to some other people looking in the window. Morty Hanover said he recognized a rake he lost a couple months ago. Said his boy painted the handle with house paint and the rake in Tom's house had a handle painted the very same color.”

Emily said, “Why don't they just unlock the doors and let people in to look for their stuff?”

Doris laughed. “And how would you keep people from just taking anything they want?”

Emily looked a little shocked at this jaundiced view of Excelsior's citizens, but then she nodded. “Well, I guess maybe you're right. But Morty should be able to get his rake back, at least.”

Phil said, “Maybe he can buy it back at the garage sale.”

Grace, interested, asked, “Who told you they're going to hold a garage sale?”

Phil snorted. “Well, they got to do something. That house is an epidemic waiting to start, the way it is.”

Bershada asked, “Who is ‘they'?”

“I don't know. Whoever winds up in charge,” said Phil.

Betsy said, “The city will likely order Tom to clean it out.”

Bershada said, “Since when is Tom one to take orders from anyone but his own self?”

That brought a chorus of agreement from everyone who had ever had anything to do with Thomas “Take” Riordan.

*   *   *

“S
O
when do you think the power will come back on out here?” Godwin asked, bringing a fresh cup of coffee to Bershada, a handsome African American woman with dark skin, shapely lips, and a narrow, low-bridged nose. Her hair was covered with a deep red hat shaped like a turban.

The rest of the Monday Bunch had departed, but she was still seated at the library table in Crewel World, doing some hand stitching. Betsy was in the back, brewing a new urn of coffee.

Bershada was working on hemming a thick square of fabric about eleven inches on a side but with a deep, round indentation in the middle. “And what is that thing, anyway, a quilt square? And are you going to be able to make it flat, or is it ruined?”

“It's supposed to be shaped like this,” said Bershada, holding it up with both hands cupped underneath. “When you heat up soup or stew in the microwave, you put the bowl in this, so you don't have to use pot holders to take it out. Plus, it keeps the soup warm while you eat it. Plus, if the soup runs over, it doesn't get all over the inside of the microwave. My friend Karen showed me how to make one, but I don't know where she got the pattern.”

“Say, that's clever!” said Godwin, putting the mug of coffee in front of Bershada. He was a slim, handsome fellow, his blond hair a little enhanced, his skin a little smoother and fresher than nature intended at his age, which was coming up on thirty. “May I have a closer look?”

“Of course.” Bershada tucked the needle across a corner and handed him the fabric square. He felt its thickness, about that of a pot holder, between his thumb and forefinger. She was using brightly colored material in a printed pattern of turtles and hedgehogs on the top side, and a deep, solid blue on the underside. Darts going from the corners toward the middle made it dished.

“What's the material?” he asked.

“A hundred percent cotton,” she replied. “With the thinnest cotton batting available in between. You have to use cotton because artificial fabrics melt in the microwave.”

“Could you make me one? I'm not all that fond of handwork, and we don't have a sewing machine.”

“I'm going to make a batch of them to sell at our church's Christmas fair. This is my practice piece.”

“Great, put me down for one—no, two—and bring them to me here.” Godwin didn't go to church except for weddings. “Now, back to my original question: When do you think they're going to get busy here in town now? How long are we going to be kept freezing in the dark?” He looked around. “Well, in every other place but here. Rafael and I may bring our favorite blankies over tonight if the power's still out in town.”

“I talked to the mayor, and he says it's possible we won't get electricity back in Excelsior until late tomorrow or even the day after. There's power out all over the county—in several counties, in fact. They're working day and night, but they'll bring the most densely populated areas back on line first, so that must mean people in Minneapolis are first in line and people out in the country are going to be without power for a week.”

“Well, that's sucky,” said Godwin. “Fair, but sucky for farmers. Especially the one who put his generator up for auction.”

“They may call in people from upstate or even down in Iowa to help get it done sooner,” said Betsy, coming out to the front. “Though there was similar damage down around Des Moines as a result of a storm like ours.”

“How do you know that?” asked Bershada.

“Connor's paying attention to the radio news.”

“That man of yours has been a real blessing, and not just to you!” declared Bershada. She checked her watch. “Uh-oh, I have to get on home. My grandson's got the grill fired up and we're cooking a lot of our meat from the freezer and having the neighbors in for a late picnic.”

Godwin watched her go out the door and said to Betsy, “There's a great case of making lemonade when you're handed a whole bushel of lemons!”

T
OM
Riordan figured that in a couple of days he'd be up and around. He was strong, still pretty young. If they'd just stop filling him up with those painkillers, he'd be all right.

Right now he was swimming in a dark sea of oxycodone. He knew he had a broken leg, but he'd seen people with broken legs walking around in a kind of boot. Why couldn't they give him a boot?

He was in a real mess, that he knew. He remembered a tree falling into his bedroom—he was pretty sure that hadn't been a dream—trapping him in his bed, and someone refusing to lift the tree off him—and he thought maybe that someone was Sergeant Lars Larson. But maybe not, maybe that part was a dream. Lars Larson was normally a good man, less inclined than many to pick on him.

He needed to get back home, to lock his doors and keep people out.

Lots of people had come into his house—into his own private house! And now they knew about his things. His very own, valuable things. They'd pick up his things, move his things, handle them, maybe damage them.

Steal them.

How long had he been here? A day or two. Or maybe longer? Maybe days and days and days. Surely not so long as a month, but too long. He had to get out of here.

That might be hard to do. He knew it wasn't just a broken leg. Despite the shots and pills, he hurt in many places. His leg was the worst. Or maybe his head. And it even hurt to breathe.

They said he had to stay here. But he could lie in his own bed and set an alarm clock to remind him to take pills, couldn't he? He had an alarm clock; several of them, actually. Maybe more than several—numbers had never been Tom's strong suit.

On the other hand, this bed was really comfortable. He hadn't realized what an uncomfortable bed he owned until he woke up in this one. Maybe they'd give him this bed.

No, probably not.

Maybe he could somehow take this bed and sneak it over to his own house. But there would be no way to get it up the stairs, so he'd have to camp out in his living room.

Though his living room was already crowded with his things.

His things. He could just see people walking through his house right now, picking up his things, handling his things, breaking his things.

Stealing his things.

He had to get out of here.

He could stay at home, take the pills they kept giving him. Set an alarm clock so he'd know when to take the next one. Couldn't they figure that out?

He needed to go home and run those people out of his house.

Those people were taking his things.

Maybe he could figure out a way to take this really comfortable bed home with him.

He was smart. He could think of a way.

His head hurt.

His leg hurt.

But maybe . . . sure.

Meanwhile . . . sleep awhile . . .

*   *   *

T
HERE
were five people sitting around the oval table in one of the hospital's smaller meeting rooms.

“The one good thing about this case is that Mr. Riordan has health insurance,” said Mr. White, the hospital administrator. “It's not really first-class insurance, but he's got solid catastrophic coverage. He was in good physical condition for a man his age when this happened, and it looks as if he'll make a good recovery. But”—he raised a forefinger in warning—“mentally, he's shaky. He doesn't understand how badly he was injured and insists he can finish healing at home. Even with a full-time nurse, which he's very unlikely to hire, I wouldn't release him just yet. And anyway, his house is not fit for human habitation.”

“How about a nursing home or rehab center?” suggested Ms. Crowley, the RN in charge of his care.

“No,” said Dr. Vandermay, Riordan's physician. “He insists he must go to his house, to protect it. He thinks thieves are eager to enter and steal his belongings.”

Judi Mormon, the hospital's social worker, spoke up. “Mr. Riordan is a collector,” she said, “or, as they're sometimes called, a junker or hoarder. I spoke with a psychiatrist who is knowledgeable about these cases. I told him that the team who rescued him reported that every room of that house is packed with junk. I spoke with Mr. Riordan myself, and he claims to know every item, where it came from, and how much it's worth. He's very symptomatic, according to Dr. Morrison. The house is probably unsafe; it needs to be emptied out, fumigated, washed down, and painted. In all likelihood, it will require rewiring and replumbing, too. But Mr. Riordan says it's fine and he has no plan to either fix it or sell it.”

Dr. Vandermay said, “We can't possibly allow this patient to go back into that house until it's safe for him to live there.”

Nurse Crowley said, “I can say with complete confidence, and in agreement with Judi, that he thinks his house is fine the way it is—well, except he plans to sue the neighbor whose tree fell on his house to force her to repair his roof. And he thinks she'll be glad to do it, because she's a friend.”

“That right there tells you his state of mind,” said Mr. White. “He needs someone to take the responsibility for his continuing care and to straighten out his domicile.”

That suggestion brought immediate agreement.

Then Nurse Crowley said, “All right, who?”

“Doesn't he have any family?” asked Mr. White.

Ms. Mormon said, “No immediate family. He lists as next of kin a cousin who lives in Indiana. Her name is Valentina . . .” She looked for and found a page in a thick file. “Shipp. Spelled with two
p
's.”

“Is this Shipp woman in charge of his trust?” asked Mr. White. “I assume he must have one. His family must know about his situation.”

“He does have a trust, you're right,” said Ms. Mormon. “But it's handled by an attorney in Excelsior, Jim Penberthy.”

Mr. White asked, “Has Attorney Penberthy been notified of Mr. Riordan's condition?”

Ms. Mormon smiled. “I would think he knows by now. Riordan is a well-known figure in Excelsior, and the town has an excellent grapevine. On the other hand, I don't think he's been officially notified.”

“What about Mrs. Shipp?” asked Dr. Vandermay.

“Unless Mr. Riordan contacted her—which is unlikely—she has no idea,” said Ms. Mormon.

“In that case, it appears we have some communicating to do,” said Mr. White. “Ms. Mormon, I'm appointing you to find out if Mrs. Shipp would be willing to serve as a conservator, and if not, who else Attorney Penberthy would recommend. I want you to expedite this, if you will, and report back to us via e-mail as soon as you have a name or names. This meeting is adjourned.”