Read Online Family Vault by Charlotte MacLeod - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlotte MacLeod
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more’n I have to. Doctor’s orders.”
Sarah didn’t believe that for a moment. Any woman who could tramp around the stores in those murderous boots must be rugged enough for anything. However, she wasn’t about to start an argument.
“Where would I find him?”
“Straight upstairs and turn to your right. Tell him I got coffee on the stove.”
The woman stepped back and disappeared into the murky recesses of the house. The stairway was directly inside the front door, steep and dark and covered in a runner that ought to have been replaced ages ago. Praying she wouldn’t catch her toe in a worn spot and break her neck, Sarah picked her way to the top.
The old man’s door was shut. She knocked and called, “Mr. O’Ghee,” but he didn’t answer. Perhaps he’d got up and left the house while his landlady was shopping. Now that she’d come this far, she might as well make sure.
Barging into strange people’s bedrooms was not the sort of thing Sarah had been brought up to face with equanimity. She had to fight with herself to turn the knob and push the door open.
Tim O’Ghee was in. He lay sprawled half out of a narrow iron bed, his eyes and mouth half open, his face shrunken and still. He would not be wanting coffee, then or ever.
Sarah wasn’t frightened, only sorry. She had seen plenty of dead old men, grandfathers, great-uncles, cousins twice and thrice removed. They had died in their own comfortable beds, most of them, or in hospitals with trained nurses in attendance and relatives around to make sure they got decently buried. Moved by pity, she reached out and touched one of the stiff, yellow hands. It felt like wax that had been kept in a refrigerator. The cold drove her back to the head of the stairs.
“Mrs.—oh, what is your name? Please come up! Something’s happened to Mr. O’Ghee.”
“What’s the matter?” The blonde wig gleamed in the dusk below. “What happened?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead.”
“What do you mean, you’re afraid?” The strident voice grew harsher. “Either he is or he ain’t. You sure he ain’t in a coma? Tim’s a diabetic. You better stay with him while I get the doctor.”
Sarah knew the old man was beyond any earthly need of her company, yet common humanity demanded that she not run out at a time like this. She started to pull the spread over him, then decided she’d better not touch anything until somebody came.
At least she didn’t have to stand right over him. She went to the one narrow window and stood looking out, but there was nothing to see except brick walls, and these were too unpleasant a reminder of that other brick wall which she and Tim O’Ghee had seen together.
A prickling began at the back of her neck and inched its way down her spine. Surely it could be no more than a tragic coincidence that this little man who’d appeared so chipper less than twenty-four hours ago, this man who’d known Ruby Redd and the men who bought her drinks, should so suddenly be lying here dead?
Sarah had surprisingly little time to wonder. Hardly five minutes later, she heard voices on the stairs.
“Caught me on the bleeper,” the doctor was explaining. “I was in the car on my way to the hospital. Checked back on the CB and my office told me to come here. Lucky you caught me when you did. Where is he?”
“Right in here.”
The landlady ushered a man with a leather satchel into the room, flipped her head at Sarah, then at the door. “Okay, miss. Thanks for staying.”
It was a clear invitation to leave but Sarah didn’t budge. The doctor, obviously in a rush to do what he must and get on, hardly seemed to notice she was there, although the room was so small they were almost on top of one another. He bent over the body, tried to lift an arm and found it stiff with rigor, made a perfunctory gesture at rolling back the eyelids, then straightened up.
“That’s the story, Mrs. Wandelowski. Too bad, but the poor old guy’s been living on
Sarah didn’t believe that for a moment. Any woman who could tramp around the stores in those murderous boots must be rugged enough for anything. However, she wasn’t about to start an argument.
“Where would I find him?”
“Straight upstairs and turn to your right. Tell him I got coffee on the stove.”
The woman stepped back and disappeared into the murky recesses of the house. The stairway was directly inside the front door, steep and dark and covered in a runner that ought to have been replaced ages ago. Praying she wouldn’t catch her toe in a worn spot and break her neck, Sarah picked her way to the top.
The old man’s door was shut. She knocked and called, “Mr. O’Ghee,” but he didn’t answer. Perhaps he’d got up and left the house while his landlady was shopping. Now that she’d come this far, she might as well make sure.
Barging into strange people’s bedrooms was not the sort of thing Sarah had been brought up to face with equanimity. She had to fight with herself to turn the knob and push the door open.
Tim O’Ghee was in. He lay sprawled half out of a narrow iron bed, his eyes and mouth half open, his face shrunken and still. He would not be wanting coffee, then or ever.
Sarah wasn’t frightened, only sorry. She had seen plenty of dead old men, grandfathers, great-uncles, cousins twice and thrice removed. They had died in their own comfortable beds, most of them, or in hospitals with trained nurses in attendance and relatives around to make sure they got decently buried. Moved by pity, she reached out and touched one of the stiff, yellow hands. It felt like wax that had been kept in a refrigerator. The cold drove her back to the head of the stairs.
“Mrs.—oh, what is your name? Please come up! Something’s happened to Mr. O’Ghee.”
“What’s the matter?” The blonde wig gleamed in the dusk below. “What happened?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead.”
“What do you mean, you’re afraid?” The strident voice grew harsher. “Either he is or he ain’t. You sure he ain’t in a coma? Tim’s a diabetic. You better stay with him while I get the doctor.”
Sarah knew the old man was beyond any earthly need of her company, yet common humanity demanded that she not run out at a time like this. She started to pull the spread over him, then decided she’d better not touch anything until somebody came.
At least she didn’t have to stand right over him. She went to the one narrow window and stood looking out, but there was nothing to see except brick walls, and these were too unpleasant a reminder of that other brick wall which she and Tim O’Ghee had seen together.
A prickling began at the back of her neck and inched its way down her spine. Surely it could be no more than a tragic coincidence that this little man who’d appeared so chipper less than twenty-four hours ago, this man who’d known Ruby Redd and the men who bought her drinks, should so suddenly be lying here dead?
Sarah had surprisingly little time to wonder. Hardly five minutes later, she heard voices on the stairs.
“Caught me on the bleeper,” the doctor was explaining. “I was in the car on my way to the hospital. Checked back on the CB and my office told me to come here. Lucky you caught me when you did. Where is he?”
“Right in here.”
The landlady ushered a man with a leather satchel into the room, flipped her head at Sarah, then at the door. “Okay, miss. Thanks for staying.”
It was a clear invitation to leave but Sarah didn’t budge. The doctor, obviously in a rush to do what he must and get on, hardly seemed to notice she was there, although the room was so small they were almost on top of one another. He bent over the body, tried to lift an arm and found it stiff with rigor, made a perfunctory gesture at rolling back the eyelids, then straightened up.
“That’s the story, Mrs. Wandelowski. Too bad, but the poor old guy’s been living on
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