The Inheritance. Janice Carter

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      CHAPTER TWO

      ROSLYN HANDED a ten-dollar bill to the cabbie and bent over to pick up her luggage, receiving a wake of puddle spray as the taxi peeled away from the curb. It was the final indignity in a long day of exasperation, irritation and white-knuckle flying. The brief flight from Chicago to Des Moines had been plagued by nonstop turbulence and pitching in the midst of a thunderstorm. On arrival in Des Moines, Roslyn discovered she’d missed her bus connection to Plainsville and would have to wait another two hours.

      “There’s a crop dusting outfit that uses a local farmer’s field for landing and takeoff. I could find out about chartering a plane, if you like. Though—” the information clerk had snapped her chewing gum thoughtfully as she turned to squint out the window “—you might wanna wait for the bus.”

      But Roslyn had already decided she’d rather walk than get on another plane. A farmer’s field? Only in Iowa.

      The stopover gave her an opportunity to call Randall Taylor’s law office to confirm arrangements about getting into Ida Mae’s house. His secretary informed her that the key had been left under the front doormat by a clerk who lived nearby. By the time the bus to Plainsville pulled into the station, Roslyn was ready to sign over the deed to the other beneficiary without taking another step into Iowa.

      She was soaked before she reached the sweeping veranda of the large house standing in darkness yards away from the rain-slicked pavement. It was almost ten o’clock on Tuesday night, and Roslyn had noted during the short ride from the bus station on the other side of town that Plainsville was quieter than the Exchange after a market dive.

      When the taxi had pulled up to her aunt’s home— “The Petersen place? No kidding? You a Petersen?”—Roslyn also noticed that the houses on either side of her aunt’s were already in darkness.

      Between mumbling to the cabbie— “Yes and…uh, no, not really”—and muttering to herself that everything in Plainsville appeared to have shut down for the night, Roslyn had little chance to take in more than the general shape of the house. But from the covered veranda, she paused to look out to the street, observing for the first time a waist-high fence she’d bet was white picket, framing an expanse of property whose borders she couldn’t see.

      The neighborhood was unlike any she’d seen in the city, where lots were much smaller. Here the homes were scattered like giant building blocks, surrounded by huge trees and sprawling front lawns. Randall hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said the Petersen house was on the outskirts of town. Roslyn couldn’t be certain in the rainy night if the road ended less than a mile beyond or not, but she bet it did. In fact, she guessed her aunt’s place was probably just a stop sign away from being called a farmhouse.

      Roslyn stooped to lift up the edge of the bristle mat at her feet, and her fingers touched a small envelope. She tore it open and shook out a set of keys.

      After two attempts, she managed to turn the key and the door swung open, complaining in a low-pitched creak. Roslyn stepped into the dark interior. She felt around the edges of the doorjamb for a light switch and released her breath in a long whoosh when she located and flicked on three lights. The porch, the hallway and the staircase leading from the entry flashed into existence.

      Sixty watts, she thought, straining to see beyond the narrow field of illumination. She turned back for her suitcase and briefcase, closing the door behind her. From somewhere within the house she could hear the steady tick of a pendulum clock.

      “Hello?” Roslyn’s voice cracked slightly, and she tittered. Whom did she expect to answer? All the little critters that inhabit dark places when people aren’t around? Better not go down that path, she warned herself. Especially when you’re spending the night here alone.

      She stared down at the envelope in her hand, realizing that there was a folded paper inside.

      Dear Miss Baines,

      Sorry I couldn’t meet you at your aunt’s but I had to take my son to his karate lesson tonight, and no one else was available. I arranged for Miss Petersen’s housekeeper—Mrs. Warshawski—to open the house for you and make up a bed in one of the bedrooms. She also said she’d buy a few provisions—coffee, tea, milk etc.—for you. Mrs. Warshawski worked for your aunt for twenty-five years, and Mr. Taylor asked her to stay on until the will was settled. She lives on the other side of town but will be there to meet you in the morning.

      Enjoy your first evening in Plainsville and feel free to call me at Mr. Taylor’s office if you need anything else.

      Sincerely,

      Jane Baldwin

      Roslyn picked up her suitcase and headed for the staircase, too exhausted to explore. All she wanted was to find the bed that had been prepared for her, dig out the miniature bottles of airline Bourbon that she’d tucked into her purse and crawl under the covers.

      TIME TO TURN OVER, Roslyn thought, and bake the other side. She flung an arm across her eyes, shielding them from the glare of a Caribbean sun that penetrated even through closed lids. Her mouth was so dry. She tried to move her lips but they were stuck together. A tall frosty drink. Had to be somewhere close, she thought. At my elbow. Her eyes blinked open.

      Not the Caribbean, she realized at once. Sunlight streamed from the window opposite the bed she was lying in. Roslyn slowly flexed the fingers of her right hand, thick and lifeless from lack of circulation. She rotated her head gently on the pillow, scanning the room and wondering for a brief but scary moment where on earth she was.

      The decor of the room helped fix the setting—chintz everywhere and clunky dark wooden furniture. Gilt-framed portraits of people in various periods of dress were arranged on one wall papered with tiny purple violets. Two pastoral landscapes hung on the opposite. The double bed she was sprawled in had once been painted white. A long time ago, she decided, craning round to view the wrought iron headboard, slightly chipped and splashed with dots of rust.

      Plainsville, Iowa. Not the Caribbean at all.

      Roslyn struggled to raise herself onto the thick feathered pillows beneath her head. Doing so, she knocked the night table with her left elbow and the two empty miniature Bourbon bottles clinked onto the floor. Roslyn winced at the noise, and her head fell back onto the pillows, banging against the iron bed frame.

      She raised a hand to rub the tender spot. The travel alarm clock propped against the lamp on the night table indicated nine o’clock. Back in Chicago, she’d have been hard at work for an hour.

      Suddenly the complete emptiness of the day loomed before her. She was in a small Midwestern town, a place she’d never even heard of until last week, lying in a strange bed in someone else’s house. She’d committed herself to staying five days and didn’t have the least idea what she would be doing here.

      Roslyn groaned, wondering how she’d gotten herself into such a ridiculous situation. What little she knew about Iowa came from grade school geography. She recalled green undulating hills, flat lands and farms. Lots of farms. She only hoped Plainsville contained a good bookstore and coffee shop.

      She groaned again, then stretched, raising her bare arms above her head СКАЧАТЬ