Read Online The Readaholics and the Falcon Fiasco by Laura Disilverio - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Disilverio
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hadn’t been there before suggested that no one was taking care of the place. The ladder was still nailed to the tree and the house, and after a moment’s hesitation, I kicked off my pumps and began to climb it, glad I was wearing slacks and not a skirt. Hauling myself upward vertically was harder than when I was a teenager, and I was puffing a bit when my head and shoulders rose through the hole in the floor into the tree house. I swiveled, surveying the interior. To my surprise, two of the beanbag chairs were still there, although something had chewed through them and scattered the pellets so the chairs sagged like mostly deflated balloons. A decade or more of snow and rain and sun had rotted the denim coverings in places. A musty smell suggested that animals—squirrels, mice, weasels, or others—had appropriated the beanbags.
A rustle from above made me jerk my head up, and I almost fell off the ladder. Grabbing at the floor to steady myself, I saw that it was only a wren, busy making its spring nest atop the cupboard in the tree house. It eyed me warily and then flew out the structure’s one window.
“I’m only going to be a minute,” I called after it. “Then you can come back and finish your nest.” I stood gingerly, my head not quite brushing the roof. The tree house was smaller than I remembered, probably only nine feet square. The floor creaked under my feet and I tested each board before putting a foot down as I crossed to the cupboard. I was curious to see if anything remained init. Back in the day, Ivy had kept nail polishes up here, her journal, cigarettes, love notes from her various boyfriends, and a couple of books and magazines—including a
Playgirl
or two—that she hadn’t wanted her parents to find. I suspected now that they’d known all along what was out here. The door stuck, but I jerked hard on the knob and it popped open. Nothing. Well, nothing more than a spill of burnt orange nail polish, as glossy and slick as ceramic. I ran a finger over it.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I moved to the window, an open square cut in the wall. Careful not to lean against it—I could see from the way the wood bowed out around it that the wall wasn’t sound anymore—I peered out at the evergreens and just-budding aspens, wondering why I’d come here. The place was filled with happy memories—I didn’t remember ever fighting with Ivy here—and it made me melancholy. Even though Ivy probably hadn’t been here in a decade, it still made me sad to think that she’d never climb up here again to sneak a cigarette or ogle the smirking men displayed in a
Playgirl
spread. It’s possible a tear or two slid down my face as I said a prayer for Ivy and left, glancing over my shoulder once or twice until the trees hid the hideaway from view.
* * *
My next stop was city hall, a three-story, square stone building erected in the 1930s as part of FDR’s Depression-era construction plan. Intricate stonework prettified the façade, but the interior was a characterless warren of long halls lined by offices.Even recently applied cream paint—the sharp odor still lingering—couldn’t make the structure seem welcoming. Kerry’s office was here, as were the offices for other city employees, including the chief financial officer. Ivy had worked there for coming up on seven years and had enjoyed it. The administrative assistant who had taken over Ivy’s duties had called Eventful! late yesterday to tell me she was now responsible for overseeing my work on the offsite I’d been going to talk to Ivy about the day she died.
Kirsten Wiggins was in her midtwenties, at a guess, with a lanky build and a long, narrow face made longer and narrower by straight brown hair that fell past her shoulders.
“Clay’s going ahead with the offsite,” she told me, leading me down a hall lined with offices on both sides of the second floor to a small conference room. “Even after . . . Well, the business of
A rustle from above made me jerk my head up, and I almost fell off the ladder. Grabbing at the floor to steady myself, I saw that it was only a wren, busy making its spring nest atop the cupboard in the tree house. It eyed me warily and then flew out the structure’s one window.
“I’m only going to be a minute,” I called after it. “Then you can come back and finish your nest.” I stood gingerly, my head not quite brushing the roof. The tree house was smaller than I remembered, probably only nine feet square. The floor creaked under my feet and I tested each board before putting a foot down as I crossed to the cupboard. I was curious to see if anything remained init. Back in the day, Ivy had kept nail polishes up here, her journal, cigarettes, love notes from her various boyfriends, and a couple of books and magazines—including a
Playgirl
or two—that she hadn’t wanted her parents to find. I suspected now that they’d known all along what was out here. The door stuck, but I jerked hard on the knob and it popped open. Nothing. Well, nothing more than a spill of burnt orange nail polish, as glossy and slick as ceramic. I ran a finger over it.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I moved to the window, an open square cut in the wall. Careful not to lean against it—I could see from the way the wood bowed out around it that the wall wasn’t sound anymore—I peered out at the evergreens and just-budding aspens, wondering why I’d come here. The place was filled with happy memories—I didn’t remember ever fighting with Ivy here—and it made me melancholy. Even though Ivy probably hadn’t been here in a decade, it still made me sad to think that she’d never climb up here again to sneak a cigarette or ogle the smirking men displayed in a
Playgirl
spread. It’s possible a tear or two slid down my face as I said a prayer for Ivy and left, glancing over my shoulder once or twice until the trees hid the hideaway from view.
* * *
My next stop was city hall, a three-story, square stone building erected in the 1930s as part of FDR’s Depression-era construction plan. Intricate stonework prettified the façade, but the interior was a characterless warren of long halls lined by offices.Even recently applied cream paint—the sharp odor still lingering—couldn’t make the structure seem welcoming. Kerry’s office was here, as were the offices for other city employees, including the chief financial officer. Ivy had worked there for coming up on seven years and had enjoyed it. The administrative assistant who had taken over Ivy’s duties had called Eventful! late yesterday to tell me she was now responsible for overseeing my work on the offsite I’d been going to talk to Ivy about the day she died.
Kirsten Wiggins was in her midtwenties, at a guess, with a lanky build and a long, narrow face made longer and narrower by straight brown hair that fell past her shoulders.
“Clay’s going ahead with the offsite,” she told me, leading me down a hall lined with offices on both sides of the second floor to a small conference room. “Even after . . . Well, the business of
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