“Why not? Yeah, there were people in his life who had a reason to kill him, but that doesn’t mean they did.”
“It doesn’t mean they didn’t either.”
“Well, who would you like to have killed your minister?” I asked. It was certainly a different approach to things.
“You’re not taking this seriously. You’re humoring me to get the money I offered you.”
Unfortunately, that was very close to the truth. Well, not close, actually the truth. Wanting to change the subject, I asked, “Have you made up with Bev?”
“I don’t see where that’s your business.”
“In other words, no.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The following morning, I had a brilliant idea. I’d return the Hessel’s casserole dish. Opal hadn’t wanted to introduce me to the family, so it was perfect. I had a reason to go. Hopefully, this would satisfy my grandmother and she’d pay me. The only problem was, I didn’t know what to do with her. I still wasn’t supposed to leave her alone and she didn’t have any physical therapy scheduled.
I thought about dropping her off at the Conservancy and asking Bev to take care of her for an hour or two, even though they hadn’t made up yet. But that felt too much like a bad sitcom, ‘Mooch drops his grandma off at her friend’s office so the two stubborn women are forced to make up.’ Laughs ensue.
In the end, I decided to just take her with me. It would look less like I was there to ask questions and more like a regular condolence visit. About eleven, I hustled Nana Cole into the car and then drove to the other side of Masons Bay, the north side, and found a road called Revolt that ran along the water. I turned onto it, continuing in a circuitous route until I found Apple Court. The Hessels lived in the third house on the left, fronting on the lake. Well, most of them lived there. Reverend Hessel didn’t live anywhere anymore. He was dead.
Sitting amid a thick grove of trees, the house was built like a Swiss chalet. The bottom floor was part basement, the second floor had a deck hanging off it and the third floor was crammed up under the steeply pitched roof. The property slopped down to a neglected garden and a bit of beach.
After parking in front of the garage, we walked down a winding boardwalk toward the house, my attention focused mainly on how my grandmother was getting on with her walker.
Not well.
“Slow down, Nana,” I said a couple of times. She just couldn’t grasp the idea that she should take smaller steps.
A windowed-door led into the basement and, as it seemed to be the only door, I knocked on it. Nothing happened. I was about to knock again when a voice above us said, “Emma, you’re out and about. And is that your grandson, Mooch?”
Looking up at the deck, I saw the woman from the picture in Reverend Hessel’s box and thought, well, remembered,Oh God. I did meet her.Late-thirties, dyed red hair, crow’s feet around her eyes and mouth, she wore a long jean skirt and a plaid blouse. I sort of, kind of, remembered her coming by and giving me a casserole. I hadn’t invited her in, which I suppose was rude.
“Henry,” Nana Cole said. “His name is Henry.”
“Of course, Henry.”
“I brought back your casserole dish,” I said, my face burning from my grandmother’s laser-like stare. Ivy happened to be the only person in Masons Bay who’d actually used my nickname, so I suppose I should have been nice enough to remember her.
“Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” she said. “I’ve got so many casserole dishes. You can come in, the door’s open.”
I opened it, as Nana Cole said, “Of course we had to bring the casserole dish back. It’s just neighborly.” She looked at the dish I was holding and sighed. “Of course, we’d be better neighbors if we’d filled the dish back up.”
We stepped into a laundry room and then into what appeared to be a family room. On one side, was a staircase to the upstairs. Another held a large window looking out at the lake. The deck was above that.
Nana made an awful racket on her way to sit down on an equally noisy, brown leather sectional. I sat down next to her, making my own crunch. I had already set the casserole dish onto the wet bar.
“You mean, we should have brought a casserole?” I whispered. “Why does she deserve a casserole?”
“Her husband died.”
“Is that some kind of accomplishment?” I said to be obtuse.
“It’s just what you do.”
Now that I knew more about my grandmother, about her first abusive marriage and her second marriage not starting off well, her adherence to rules and social customs made more sense. Life could take nasty turns; she needed something to grasp onto. Well, maybe we all did.
“And stop telling people your name is Mooch. Mooch Milch? Why would you want anyone—”
