Mrs. Ingstrom was in the kitchen at the rear, making coffee in an old drip Melitta. She glanced at me as she picked up the pot and a couple of thick-sided white mugs and started out of the kitchen. "We'll have our coffee in the front room. I've got all the other things out there. Everything else is packed or tagged for the auction this weekend."
I regretted the lunchtime coffee more than ever. I'd be vibrating by the time I got back to the office, at this rate of consumption.
I followed her out to the living room—"the parlor" when the house was new, I supposed. She waved me to a seat in front of the unlit fire-place. All the knickknacks and personal bits were either gone or sported prominent lot tags. Most of the furniture had been shoved to one side.
She started pouring coffee. "Help yourself to the shortbread."
I picked up a small piece and I could smell the butter at arm's length. I could gain weight just breathing near it. I nibbled.
Mrs. Ingstrom put a mug of coffee down in front of me and pushed forward a sugar bowl and matching creamer. She gave me a small, strained smile. "It's a good thing I hadn't packed up the sugar, yet."
Sneaking up on the scalding coffee, I asked her about the organ.
"I was surprised at how easy it was to find," she said. "Chet had quite a few papers on his desk and I had to sort through them first. I thank God he was such an organized record keeper. But I just… If I had to go through every piece of paper, I'd never make it. It's been awful, just… awful," she quavered, and then began to cry. "Oh, why? Why, why?" She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
I froze and sat there a moment. Self-conscious, I scootched along the sofa next to her and put my arm around her shoulders.
I patted her arm and murmured automatically, "Please don't cry. It's all right."
She sniffled and wiped her eyes with the hem of her skirt and hiccupped, "No, it's not."
I handed her a napkin from among the coffee things. She blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes again, talking while she covered her discomfort with pats of the napkin.
"It's just terrible, is what it is. The company always seemed to be doing so well, and we're not extravagant people. We never lived above our income. Chet was always frugal. It ran in the family, I suppose. And then so many things went wrong all at once and, somehow, the company just couldn't stay afloat. All the bills and the creditors and the contractors with their lawyers and lawsuits, and then the tax men. It was a nightmare. It's still a nightmare—it's worse! If Chet had just died, then the company would have been sold all as a piece, but instead, this horrible bankruptcy was already tearing the company into shreds. And then this! Well, all I can say is thank God Chet had a will or we'd be in a dreadful mess…" She sniffled again and shook her head.
She mumbled past the napkin, "I'm afraid I'm making a spectacle, of myself. I'm just overwhelmed… At suppertime I keep expecting to hear them coming up the back stairs and into the kitchen, stealing a taste out of the pots, their clothes smelling like bilge water and diesel oil, laughing and teasing me for complaining about them. And do you know what's worst?" she asked, turning toward me.
Her eyes seemed to look into someplace I'd been too recently. I was startled and stammered, "No, what?"
"I'm afraid they will! It's not that I don't believe they're gone—I can never, for a moment, forget—it's that the house can't seem to forget them… like the shape of them is worn into it, the same way walking up and down wears away the front step."
She leaned forward, glancing about as if she thought someone watched us, and whispered, "I'm almost glad I'll be selling the house. What would I need it for, except to plague me with these awful ideas?"
She sat back. "There. Now you think I'm a crazy old woman."
I remembered the shape of the cat upstairs, and shook my head. "No, I don't. Is it safe to guess that Tommy and your husband were both born in this house?"
She nodded and sniffed.
"I'd probably leave, too, if I were you. It's hard to live with ghosts."
She sighed. Her shoulders loosened. "Thank you. I'm glad someone understands. I'm afraid to tell my friends and family. I'm afraid they'll think I'm trying to make Chet and Tommy disappear. They all think it's the bills that are making me sell, or the sheer size of the place.
"Let them believe what they want. It doesn't hurt you," I suggested.
Mrs. Ingstrom nodded, then straightened her skirt and sniffed one last time, seeming to shift a weight off her shoulders. "Well, now you've put up with me acting like a watering pot, let's see what I can do for you."
She picked up a manila file folder that had been lying on the table and handed it to me. "The bill of sale is in here and a copy of the original bill of lading for the lien that was attached to it. I thought you might want that, too. I don't need it, since it's so old and long gone that not even the tax men are interested in it."
I flipped open the folder and scanned the papers within, then smiled at her. "Thank you for all your help, Mrs. Ingstrom. I'm sorry about what you're going through and I appreciate your digging into your husband's records for me at a time like this."
"It was pleasant to be doing something that wasn't for an estate lawyer or a bankruptcy lawyer or a tax accountant, for a change. I hope it helps you."
"I'm sure it will," I said, rising. "Thanks again and thanks for the coffee, also."
She rose to escort me to the door. "It's the least I could do. And it was so nice to see you again." She saw me out, acting the part of hostess on autopilot.
Once back in the Rover, I sat in the driver's seat and fiddled with the seat belt, tired. From the corner of my eye, the Grey flickered, giving the house a writhing patchiness—its own personal fogbank. The cat, who now sat on the porch, was solid as a stone and staring at me with malevolent yellow eyes. Mrs. Ingstrom waved to me. I waved back and drove away.
I just drove for a few blocks and let everything in my mind drift. I felt a bit out of sync with something I couldn't place and still under the weather. Maybe I had the famous flu RC had gone on about. Frowning, I headed back to the office. It wasn't a solution to the problem of Cameron Shadley, but all I could think of was to call this Philip Stakis and try to make some ground on that case while I could.
No further depredations had been attempted on my office and no shady characters lurked in the alley or my hallway. I flopped into my desk chair and tried the phone number I'd got from Mrs. Ingstrom. No answer, no voice mail. I would try again after six. I typed up my notes, poked around my computer a bit, then checked my messages.
"Hi, Harper, it's Mara." She sounded more Irish than usual and rather hesitant. "I'm after wanting to mend our row this morning. I've been more the head teacher than the friend, I'm afraid. Anyhow, the little one's at Granna's and Ben and I were hoping you'd come for dinner this evening. A nice, grown-ups' evening with no dirty nappies. I do hope you can come."
Interesting. I couldn't say I was angry at Mara. It wasn't her fault I'd freaked. OK, yes, she pushed, but… what could I expect?
I looked at the phone and thought a while. Stanford-Davis hadn't called and none of my other messages included dinner invites. I wanted to talk to the Danzigers, anyway. I picked up the phone and dialed.
"Hello?"
"Mara?" I checked.
"Harper! I'm so glad you called. Did you get my message?"
"Umm… yeah, I did. Look. This morning… sucked, but it's not your fault. And dinner would be nice."
She let out her breath. "Good. Food will be ready about six or six thirty. Ben's on for lecture until five and I thought—that is, I was hoping you might come just a touch early so you and I could get in a chat before Ben's oratorical powers are fully recharged. Sound all right?"