BETTER WATCH OUT Read online

  “Come on in,” I said, hoping I didn’t regret those words.

  “How dare you accuse my husband.” She dropped onto the recliner and crossed her arms over her chest. “We are going to have this out right now.”

  Yep, already regretting my hospitality. I should’ve thrown the woman out. Technically, I didn’t accuse the pastor of anything. I just told Orville that pastor fibbed about the float having been in the lot and that the man’s name was on Jenna’s naughty list—along with the other city council members. Jenna and Mayor Vine had a tense conversation earlier in the day. It was likely she overheard and told her husband about it. Sarah was of the mindset that whatever she knew had to be shared with her husband. Nothing was kept from him.

  “I didn’t accuse your husband of anything.”

  She shook with rage, digging her short nails into the cushions of the armrest. “I know you’re the one who planted the idea in the police’s head that my husband had something to do with Jenna’s death.”

  “All I did was answer questions.”

  She leaned forward, almost nose to nose with me. The trembling stopped, and a calm took over. An eerie calm. “In a way that steered the police toward my husband—and away from yourself. I know what you’re up to, Merry, and it won’t work. You’re trying to save your reputation by besmirching my husband’s good name.”

  From his habitat, Ebenezer shrieked. My guinea pig was a good judge of character. “My reputation isn’t on the line.”

  “I know you were one of the last people to see Jenna alive.”

  A feeling like I had eaten a dozen Christmas cookies in one sitting settled into my stomach. Was that true? Had I—and Eric—been the last people to see Jenna alive? “It’s time for you to leave.”

  Her face turned as red as a velvet bow. “I’m not done talking to you.”

  “I am. I have a class to teach.” I stood and walked to the door. “Goodbye, Sarah.”

  Sarah dug her fingers into my arm. “I will not stand by and allow you to accuse my husband of an atrocious crime.”

  I held her wrist tightly until she let go of my arm. “Leave. Now.”

  “Don’t try and ruin my husband. You will regret it.” She stomped out the door, angrier than when she arrived.

  Gaping, I stared at her retreating form. Had the pastor’s wife just threatened me?

  Eleven

  Around Christmas time, the landscape at Season’s Living always filled me with joy. The staff at the assisted living facility did everything they could to make the environment festive. It was cheerful and filled with the holiday spirit. The trees had white lights that twinkled at night and large white bows made from plastic kitchen garbage bags. It was a project the residents worked on every year. I loved how the director incorporated items the residents created into the seasonal décor. She wanted them to feel it was their home and not just a place where they lived.

  It was why I knew it was the perfect spot for my mom, and why I believed my parents had decided to settle in Season’s Greetings in their golden years. They were planning for a future in which one of them could no longer reside at home.

  I pulled into a front spot near the doors. Fifteen minutes to spare, not a lot of time to set up, but I had it down to a science and the class kits were prepared with everyone’s choice of paint and saying placed in a small box. I texted the director that I was unloading and popped open the trunk then wrestled out my collapsible storage wagon. It was a beast to get in and out of my SUV but worth the effort. With the boxes stacked properly, I only had to make one trip.

  There wasn’t much I could set up until after the class attendees took their seat. The students had ordered their signs ahead of time and I had to match the correct decal to the proper sign, or they wouldn’t fit. The nurses and director wanted the residents to be in control of as many choices as possible. You never knew if there was a falling out between anyone or if a memory loss patient was having a bad day. It was easier for the patient to have some control over their situation on those days.

  I understood that. My mother’s memory slipped in and out every day. Some days she remembered me, other days not. Because the attendees might not have remembered what they ordered, I had brought along a few extra decals and signs. I wanted everyone to be happy with their project and planned on leaving the originally ordered decal and sign behind.

  Carefully, I stacked the boxes and extra supplies into the cart, rearranging a few pieces when the pile started to tip. I should consider two trips. I had created more extra pieces than I realized. I could leave some of the extra in the trunk and return if I needed them. It was either that or make two trips. Something was going to fall if I stacked any higher. My craft supplies already looked like a Jenga one tug away from falling over.

  “Merry, I must discuss something with you,” the stern voice of Pastor Heath reached my ears.

  Nope. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with a Heath again. I pretended not to have heard him and grabbed the handle, beelining for the door. Hitting the key fob, the back hatch lowered. How I loved automatic closing doors and not having to look back. The wheels of my wagon bumped over the curb. The boxes shifted. Please don’t fall. I didn’t want to deal with the pastor right now. A few more feet and I’d make it to the door.

  “Let me get that for you.” Pastor Benjamin grasped the door handle but didn’t open it. “I really need to speak with you.”

  “Your wife already talked to me. I have nothing further to say.”

  He drew back, hand slipping off the door handle. “Sarah talked to you?”

  “Yes, this morning she showed up at my house as angry as Scrooge being asked to donate to a charity.”

  “What did Sarah say?” A nerve along his jaw twitched.

  “She was mad because, according to her, I accused you of an atrocious crime. I tried to explain to her that I was only answering questions the police asked me. It’s not like I could ignore them.” I refrained from mentioning her threat.

  “No, it’s important to answer the police truthfully.” A slight smile curved his lips.

  There was something about the expression that shook me. “I’m running late. Class starts in a few minutes.”

  “Then I’ll get right to the point. Thursday morning, I had spoken with Jenna. But it wasn’t what you think it was about. I had no knowledge of a sign she was making. As the Vice Mayor, I went to talk to her about a troubling discovery with the budget. There was no money for the Christmas parade. It, shall we say, had disappeared. Along with funds for a few other budget items.”

  “What?” How did the Pastor know about it but not Mayor Vine? He hadn’t seemed concerned about the town’s budget considering all the proposals he had laying around. “The Mayor hadn’t mentioned anything to me.”

  “I doubt he would since he suspected Samuel, your husband, had something to do with it.”

  The sick feeling in my stomach intensified. “That’s not true. And, he’s not my husband.” I couldn’t stop myself from adding the disclaimer.

  Samuel was the cheating kind, but I doubted he was the thieving kind. He loved the Christmas parade. And more importantly, Cassie loved the parade. There was no way Samuel would do anything to ruin it or shame his daughter. It was one thing to run around on your wife, and quite another to steal money from the town. One was a moral crime while the other was a felony resulting in prison time.

  “Time will tell,” the pastor said.

  I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the accusation he made against Samuel, or my claim of not being married to the man. Either way, he was wrong on both accounts. My mind slipped to the bank receipts—with large deposit amounts at different banks—Nancy had dropped. “Jenna was the treasurer. She had access to the funds. As only the parade organizer, Samuel didn’t have the authority to withdraw funds from the city’s account.”

  “People’s bank accoun
ts are hacked all the time. Samuel didn’t need permission to get into an account and steal from it.”

  I was done with the conversation. He was wrong. I yanked open the door. With one violent tug, my wagon was over the kickplate and into the main area of Season’s Living. It was freezing inside, either the heat was out, or the director wanted the temperature to match the winter wonderland theme created in the reception and visiting area. I was thankful the pastor didn’t follow me inside, though his words had come with me, shoving out the Christmas joy from my heart.

  Nope. I wasn’t going to let it happen. No one would put a damper on my happiness of spending the morning teaching my mom and her friends a new craft.

  The recreation room of Season’s Living was filled with Christmas cheer. A six-foot tree was filled with ornaments crafted by the residents. A large Santa and Mrs. Claus vinyl decal was on the back wall. I had delivered the decals a week ago and the residents had been excited at all the decorations going up. I loved how happy it made the residents. Especially my mom.

  Warmth filled my heart as I remembered her bragging to everyone that her daughter crafted the decorations. She was always so proud of me. She had been my biggest cheerleader when I mentioned turning my Christmas crafting hobby into a business. Every year, I made new décor for my home and was running out of room. I had wistfully said I wished I could share my love and talent with others.

  “What’s stopping you?” my mom had asked.

  And it was that question, and my mom refuting every excuse I came up with, that brought to life the idea of having a crafting business.

  Residents walked in and took seats. There were six eight-foot-long tables set up for two residents to be seated at. I wanted each resident to have enough space to work on their piece. I was waiting until they all chose a spot before passing out the wooden signs. My mom and her nurse, Bonnie, were the last two to enter the room.

  “Good morning!” I beamed at my mom.

  Bonnie sent a sad smile in my direction and shook her head. My heart grew heavy. I knew what that meant.

  “Morning.” My mom sat in the front, linking her hands together and placing them on the table. She smiled at me, vague and polite. Today was a day she didn’t remember I was her daughter.

  For a moment, I turned my back to the class attendees and blinked away the brewing tears. Pasting a smile on my face, I faced the room and placed the sample signs on the table, arranging and rearranging them while I got my emotions under control. Should believe come before joy or after it?

  Bonnie gently rubbed my arm. “Want me to pass out the class materials for you?”

  I wanted to say no, but I was having trouble uttering a sound. I nodded instead, grateful for Bonnie’s compassion even though I didn’t deserve it from her. Bonnie and I had a difficult relationship. She had been married to Samuel when he died. Making him, and her, a bigamist when he was killed.

  Samuel had meet Bonnie when he came with me to visit my mom. Bonnie had been her nurse, and after we were divorced, I requested a new nurse for my mom. Switching nurses had been extremely hard on my mom so I relented, putting my feelings secondary to my mother’s well-being. It wasn’t like I had been pining for Samuel. It was just that I didn’t trust him, so it made me not trust Bonnie.

  Swallowing the lump in my throat and drawing in short breaths to stave off the tears, I started the class. “Welcome to Christmas crafting with Merry. Today, we will be working on signs. There is a decal to place on the board, I’ll be showing you how to adhere it to the board, then we’ll paint over the entire board with the color in the cup. After a couple of minutes, we’ll peel off the vinyl and the original color will show through. I do have some extra colors and phrase options if you’d like to swap out.”

  I chose my words carefully, not mentioning preorders, so the memory care patients weren’t left confused if they forgot what they requested or even the fact they had signed up for the class. From the corner of my eyes, Angela Bail, Norman’s wife, snuck into the class, heading to a seat in the back row. Angela wasn’t a resident at Season’s Living. I glanced over at Bonnie who shrugged.

  Another nurse walked behind me and whispered, “Day guest. It’s okay.”

  Angela had a heart condition. It must be getting worse and Norman didn’t feel comfortable leaving his wife at home. I was sure Norman was spending a lot of time at city hall trying to figure out where—and what to do—about the missing money.

  If it was true.

  My mom, Gloria, picked up the board in front of her and carefully considered the color. It was snow white. She had wanted a “Believe” decal and wanted to paint the sign Santa suit red, so the word “believe” showed in white. Everyone said I got my Christmas love from my mother. I loved being told that as a child because sometimes I felt out of place. It made me feel even more that I was their Merry.

  She picked up the small lidded cup of red paint beside her and shook it. “I’d like the board in green and use white for the word. I’m not fond of red.”

  I tried to hide my surprise. My mother loved red. It reminded her of Christmas. Santa Claus. Velvet ribbon. Rudolph’s nose. The color of the stocking I had been found in. Red was an “official” color of Christmas. This was something new—my mother forgetting an ingrained part of her spirit.

  I pushed down the troubling thoughts swirling in my head and ignored the slight frown tugging down of Bonnie’s brows. “It’s better to paint the board with the brighter color, have it on top, as some of the color can bleed through if you have the darker color as the base.”

  My mother pursed her lips and twisted them back and forth a few times. “Can I have green instead to cover the white board?”

  “Of course.” I hurried over to my supply tote and grabbed a cup of Christmas-tree green. For my example, I’d make the same sign as my mom, using her original color choices and give it to Bonnie. She could swap it out later if my mother wondered why her sign was green instead of red.

  The class went smoothly, besides my mother not knowing who I was. Angela had the process down and helped the gentleman sitting beside her. He was having trouble peeling up the tape. I should’ve thought of that. Many of the residents had trouble with fine motor skills. I needed to find a way to alter the process so residents with arthritis or other joint issues could still enjoy the craft classes. Crafting was great stress relief and helped the mind.

  The class attendees beamed. Joy filled my heart. Nothing picked up my spirits more than people loving the crafts they created, well besides Christmas. It was time to turn the media room in my house into the classroom I dreamed about. I hadn’t done it because I hated the thought of turning my house from where my children grew up into just a place I lived and used for my business. But it was time. My children had their own lives, were following their own dreams, in Morgantown. Ninety minutes wasn’t too far away. It was time to get my new life fully started.

  “Our class time is over for today. I hope everyone had an enjoyable hour. I’m planning on having a class every month.”

  “Sign me up,” Gloria said. “I never considered myself a crafty person, but I really enjoyed myself.”

  I kept the smile on my face even as another arrow pierced my heart. My mother and I crafted all the time together. It was how we spent our summers. Every special activity, every passion, we shared seemed to have vanished from her head. Hopefully, they were still somewhere in her heart.

  I packed up my supplies, distracting myself from watching my mom walk out of the classroom. Other craft students gathered up their creation and wandered out, talking of their lunch plans. Carefully, I placed everything into my wagon, jostling it to make sure nothing fell off. Everything was secured.

  Angela sat at the table, looking down at her lap, she lifted one hand and swiped at her cheek. She was crying.

  I went over to her. Before I asked if anything was wrong, I plopped into the seat
beside her, deciding the question was unnecessary. Of course, something was wrong, people didn’t look so despondent and cry when everything was all right. I was sure Angela heard the “How are you?” question multiple times a day since her health took a turn for the worse.

  “How can I help you?” I draped an arm around her shoulders.

  She glanced up, fixing a tearful, hopeful gaze on me. “Norman just called me. He’s going to be late picking me up. Can you drive me home? Or to Norman?” She glanced around then leaned toward me and started to whisper. “Lately, Norman’s been dropping me off to visit friends a lot. He didn’t want me home alone all day while he was sprucing up Santa’s sleigh and helping at Harmony Baptist. I get the feeling sometimes I’m overstaying my welcome in some places. I’m becoming a burden to my husband and my friends.”

  I started to argue but Angela looked pointedly at the empty seats beside her. Her friends had left for lunch without her. “I’m sure they didn’t mean to leave you.”

  “They have plans. The facility lets me participate in some events, but they can’t feed me every day. I don’t live here. And…” Her face flushed, and she clasped her hands together.

  And money was tight for her and Norman with all the medical bills. She couldn’t afford to take an Uber and eat out every day. What would happen if Norman was having memory issues? I hated making it more real by giving it a proper diagnosis. Could they afford to move to Season’s Living? Would their children offer to have them live with them in Florida?

  Should I mention it to Angela? Was it fair to worry her about Norman when she had her own health issues? Besides, I wasn’t sure I was right. It was best to talk to Norman first.

  “What’s wrong?” Angela rested a hand on top of mine.

  “Nothing.” I pasted a smile on my face. If Norman refused to see his doctor, then I’d tell Angela what I noticed Friday night.

  “I can tell something is troubling you.” She squeezed my hand. “Is it about the meeting Norman is having with the mayor?”