Page 45 of Home Body
He tittered. “You most likely didn’t even notice the quiet, little man sitting at a desk doing the books. That’s my brother. He couldn’t call me fast enough to let me know two beautiful, inquisitive young ladies were in town looking for that dastardly baby doctor. Good luck.”
Back in the car, they talked about what to do next. Should they surprise the old nurse by unexpectedly dropping in and peppering her with questions? Or should they try to figure out more before contacting her. Deciding they had no way of learning more, at least not now, they decided to start by driving by her place.
Borden Road was easy enough to find, being one of the main county roads out of town. Only two miles away they saw the unmistakable carriage house, the kind built in the 1800s with large fieldstones people cleared from their land so they could build and farm. There was no traffic, so Kenyon pulled over so they could take it in.
Unkempt, it’s glory days as a prosperous spread were over. The typical white country house, with its fieldstone foundation and front porch, needed paint. The bushes and trees neededtrimming. And one side of the carriage house door begged for a new hinge.
A woman appeared around the corner of the house. Badly stooped and laboriously shuffling, she didn’t notice them at first. But when she raised her head and spied them spying on her, her mouth opened in a shriek. The “cantankerous old crone,” as Mr. Steinburg had called her, spun around and disappeared behind the house.
Dalia jumped out of the car. Kenyon hollered, “No! Dalia! We said we’d wait.” When she got no response, she turned off the engine and hopped out to follow her friend, who’d already trudged halfway up the dirt driveway. Dalia also disappeared as she turned a corner around the house. By the time Kenyon caught up, Dalia stood at the back door, pounding to be let in.
“No, Dalia. Come on. We can’t do it like this.”
But Dalia was on a holy tear, as if an insatiable dragon inside her had been released. “Let me in!” Dalia screamed.
Kenyon tried to take her arm to pull her away but was sloughed off. Obviously, the old woman had made it inside before Dalia got to her. Kenyon had no doubt that meant trouble.
“Dalia, she might be calling the police.”
“Let her call them. You hear me?” Dalia yelled at the door. “We don’t want to hurt you. I just have some questions. Why are you so afraid of a few questions?”
“Dalia, she’s an old lady. You’re scaring her to death.”
Dalia calmed down, her voice low. “She’s not afraid of us. She’s afraid of my questions.”
“You don’t know that.”
The shrill of a siren pierced the air. A sheriff’s cruiser sped into the driveway and jerked to a stop. Two deputies got out, a man and a woman.
“Ladies, you’re trespassing,” the woman said.
“We just…” Dalia tried to explain.
“It doesn’t matter,” the man insisted. “You’re breaking the law. You’ll be coming with us.”
“What? Wait. No.” Kenyon twisted around, looking for someone else, someone with better sense, to show up and save them.
“Come on. Get in.” The woman pointed at their cruiser.
“No. We can’t,” Kenyon objected again. “I mean, my car. What about my car?”
“We’ll have it towed.” The man had no mercy.
Within minutes Dalia and Kenyon found themselves behind bars in a cell at the one-room county jail. The deputies had vanished, having gone right back out to hit their beat. A young woman at the desk cracked her gum and stole glances at them. Her shimmery blue eye shadow and spidery false eyelashes detracted from what might be a pretty face.
“I’m so sorry.” Dalia sat on the saggy cot with her head in her hands. “This is all my fault. I lost my temper. Now you’ve seen me twice at my very worst. Crying like a baby at the trailer and invading an old lady’s property. You must hate me.”
Kenyon had been pacing the cell and plopped down on the cot. “Nah. It isn’t like you haven’t seen me at my worst. Drunk, devastated, and out for revenge at my wedding-funeral.”
They couldn’t help but snicker.
“Hey.” The desk girl came up to the cell and wove her forearms through the bars to rest them on a crossbar. Her fingers sported bright purple talons. Her hair with a pink streak down each side was pulled into curly pigtails. She popped her gum. “I’m Prissy. What’s a wedding-funeral?”
“Oh,” Kenyon said, “that’s just a joke. My fiancé cheated on me and I left him at the altar during our wedding.”
“Geez. That’s awful. Some men sure can be dickwads, can’t they?”
“Yes. Some sure can be.”
