The Coach House (30 page)

The paper said the break-in was being investigated. Had she left anything behind that could tie her to it? She couldn’t think of anything. Feeling guilty and ashamed for what she had done, yet grateful for the much needed respite, she tried to get the mental image of a frightened sixty-three-year-old out of her mind. Marie wondered where the old woman could have been hiding while she was in her home for all that time.

Thoughts of everyone she had let down at Marshall Field’s tormented her—Mr. Bakersfield, Esther, Catherine, especially Catherine who had shown unwavering faith in her from the very beginning.
How can I ever face them again?
She wondered what they thought about her, how they were covering her position at the store. She hoped Esther was okay.
I have to do something to rectify the situation.
She dozed off before she could formulate any further thoughts.

Marie rubbed her eyes after waking up for the umpteenth time between cat naps. She looked out the window. “Welcome To Kansas, the Sunflower State!” the sign read. Wheat fields were as far as she could see in every direction. She watched them in a trancelike state for several miles until the conductor announced the Kansas City stop.

The train station paled in comparison with Chicago’s Union Station. No more than a couple thousand square feet, it was comprised of one ticket agent, seating for maybe twenty-five people, and a run-down newsstand. Marie bought a local paper and took a seat in the rear of the room, away from the other people. She turned to the real estate section.

ROOM FOR RENT
1401 Crane Blvd
$11 per week
KC3-1-455

A middle-aged woman sat down beside her. Marie felt the woman looking over her shoulder and glanced over at her. Her face was pale, almost lifeless. Marie gave her a sympathetic smile and resumed her reading.

“I would stay away from that part of town,” the woman said.

“Excuse me?”

“That neighborhood isn’t for you.” She pointed to the room-for-rent ad and shook her head.

“Where should I look?”

“It will cost more, but I would either go to Atchison or St. Joe’s, somewhere up in that area. Beautiful neighborhoods and safe ones, too. Where are you from, dear?”

Marie gave the woman a curious look. “Chicago.”

“Running from someone, are you?” The woman’s eyes were vacant but sincere.

Marie hesitated. “Why do you ask that?”

The woman gave her a faint smile. “I’ve been around long enough to tell when someone is scared and feeling all alone. They’re usually running to or from something.”

Marie guarded any reaction to the woman’s words. “Are there busses that go to Atchison?”

“I’m sure there are, but I don’t know much about them. The agent might be able to help you.”

Marie got up from the bench and extended her hand to the woman. “Thank you for your help. I appreciate it.”

The woman’s hand was cold and limp. “Good luck to you, honey.”

The agent gave Marie the information she needed for the bus ride to Atchison, and when she looked back at the bench where she had been sitting, it was empty. She turned back to the agent and asked him what he knew about Atchison.

“Charming little town,” he told her. “Right on the Missouri River. Lots of old Victorian homes, horses, and parks. It was Amelia Earhart’s birthplace, you know,” he boasted. “Some beautiful churches up there as well. Be sure to check out St. Benedict’s Abbey if you go there.”

Marie thanked the man and headed toward the bus station, three blocks away. She thought about the doleful woman on the bench and wondered if she had been sent to her by some higher power. She regretted not getting her name.

It was an hour bus ride. The countryside was largely wheat fields interrupted only by an occasional cattle farm or stretch of prairie. As they neared Atchison, horse farms dotted the roadsides, and as they neared the center of town, it became more residential—a far cry from Chicago.
Probably a good thing.

The train station agent had been right. Lots of old Victorian homes painted in lavish, colored paint complete with wraparound porches, hanging baskets, and window boxes in full bloom. Wrought-iron porch furniture provided a quaint setting for that early morning cup of coffee or evening glass of wine in the wake of the setting sun.

The bus stop was in the center of town. Marie found a drug store, bought the local paper, and walked across the street to a small park. It was almost four o’clock. There were no rooms for rent in the real estate section. She flipped through the rest of the paper and found several ads for bed and breakfast. One in particular caught her eye.

Al & Rita’s Bed & Breakfast

$4 per night

Adjoining antique store

AT6-9035

Marie called the number and was told there were vacancies.

She walked down cool tree-lined streets to the B&B, breathing in the air that was fragrant with mid-May flowers, the breeze soft and refreshing on her face. A cardinal sang its signature tune from high up in a tree welcoming Marie to the neighborhood. Could it be the sky was brighter here, the trees greener? The innocent laughter of a child ringing out from behind one of the homes interrupted her thoughts. She smiled blissfully as she continued down the sidewalk.
This could be it
—
my new home.

A thirty-something woman in a wheelchair greeted Marie at the B&B. Slumped way down in the chair, her shoulders so uneven, Marie wondered how she could keep her head up straight for any length of time.

“Hello. I’m Rita. How can I help you?”

“I’m Marie Costa. I called a few minutes ago looking for a room.” She hadn’t thought about using a fictitious name before blurting out her real name and hoped she didn’t later regret it.

“Ah, yes. Come right this way.” The foyer of the home was spacious, easily accommodating the baby grand piano, two love seats, and a large buffet. The natural wood floors and woodwork provided a warm and inviting background for all the antique furniture. Marie’s interior design background kicked in.
With a few minor changes, this house could be a showplace.

Marie followed Rita to the registration area. A portion of the counter had been cut out and lowered so she could comfortably work from her chair.

“How many nights will you be staying with us?”

“I’m not sure. I’ll be looking for something more permanent in town, and I don’t know how long that will take. At least a week I would think.”

Rita looked up at Marie, curiously. “Well, you can have your choice of a room on the second floor that faces the street or the room on the third floor that faces the back of the house. I can give them to you for the same price.”

Marie took the third floor room, which had been furnished with a plantation décor that hadn’t quite hit the mark in Marie’s opinion. Still, it was fairly large and antiseptically clean. She hung her modest collection of clothing in the closet and put her other things in the dresser drawers.

The backyard was expansive, and Marie’s bird’s-eye view allowed her to see it in its entirety. A walkway, flanked by small trees led to a pond at the back of the property, fifty yards or so from the house. A screened-in summerhouse was situated near it.

Marie hadn’t eaten since breakfast and decided to venture out into the business district to find a restaurant. But first she went into the B&B’s detached garage that had been converted into an antique store. No one was inside, so she rang the bell on the counter at the front of the shop.

A variety of items had been placed in display cases, on shelves, and on pieces of furniture. Others had been haphazardly deposited on the floor. Good quality antiques were mixed in with what some people considered junk. There didn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason as to how items were displayed.

“Hi! Can I help you?” Rita wheeled her chair toward Marie. “Oh, it’s you. Did you find your room satisfactory?”

“Oh, yes. It’s very nice. I thought I would browse your antiques before finding a place to get some dinner.”

“Well, I’m afraid I don’t pay much attention to this place, so excuse the mess. It’s all I can do to keep up with the B&B.”

“You must be very busy.”

“That I am.” Rita’s voice trailed off to another place. “If you’re not fussy, I can put together a sandwich for you. That’s what I was going to fix for myself anyway.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t impose on you. I’ll just find a place in town to get something.”

“Okay, but it wouldn’t be an imposition. Besides, maybe I can be of help in your finding a permanent place to live. I’ve been here my whole life and know a fair number of people.” She smiled. “And, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

Marie was grateful for the offer. “Well, okay then. You’re on!”

Marie finished looking around the shop and followed Rita to the kitchen in the main house where everything had been modified to accommodate her wheelchair.

They chatted while Rita prepared the sandwiches. “How long have you been doing this?” Marie asked.

“The B&B you mean?”

“Yes.”

“My husband and I bought it fifteen years ago.”

“Oh. So the two of you manage it together? That’s nice.”

“Well, we did for the first five years. Then we were involved in a car accident. He died, and I ended up in this thing.”

Marie looked at Rita’s solemn face. “I’m so sorry.”

“Please don’t feel sorry for me. I manage. Where did you come from, Marie?”