What people are saying about

Luisa Buehler

 

The Station Master: A Scheduled Death

 

"It has come time for Janet Evanovich to take a lesser seat–to move over for Luisa Buehler, whose characterization, setting, plot and twists in The Station Master are simply enthralling.  If you like your suspense cozy to medium boiled, Buehler has cooked up an excellent dish for her fans.  I highly recommend The Station Master and this series for its unique sleuth, strong voice, and crisp storytelling."

–Robert W. Walker, author of City for Ransom

 

"Cutting-edge cozy.  The Station Master is filled with long-buried secrets, elaborate twists, and nail-biting suspense.  Buehler and Marsden just keep getting better and better."

J.A. Konrath, author of

Bloody Mary: A Lt. Jack Daniels Thriller

 

"Grace Marsden returns in Luisa Buehler's charming The Station Master and proves once again that neither errant husbands, erstwhile lovers, nor a case of OCD can prevent her from ferreting out the truth.  A skeleton in an antique trunk is the starting point, but the end result is a fine blend of intrigue, vivid description, and quirky but compassionate characters.  Don't miss it."

Libby Fischer Hellmann

Author, the Ellie Foreman series

 

The Lion Tamer: A Caged Death

 

"…a veritable shot of adrenaline.  …you are drawn into her roller-coaster ride…Good job, Mrs. Buehler, The Lion Tamer is great mystery."

–Roundtable Reviews

 

"The Lion Tamer: A Caged Death reminds the reader that sooner or later a mystery reveals itself no matter how hard the guilty partner tries to bury it.  …guilt and regret keep the story moving at an interesting pace.  Buehler has a talent for creating dimensional characters right down to their daily-living routines and ever-surfacing emotions.  This book is a keeper."

–Denise Fleischer, gottawritenetwork.com

 

"a fast paced mystery that romps through DuPage County and surrounding areas.  ...you'll recognize numerous local landmarks referenced in the book–places like Cottage Hill Jewelers in Elmhurst, Good Samaritan Hospital and other local haunts (better you discover them yourself than for us to give them away!)

DuPage Woman Newspaper Central Edition

 

"With her second book, The Lion Tamer, Luisa Buehler offers us a curious heroine, a handsome husband, a dashing ex-lover and a skeleton or two.  Welcome to the engaging Grace Marsden's world, where romance and mayhem vie for her attention–much to a reader's satisfaction and delight!"

–Sharon Fiffer, author of The Jane Wheel Mysteries

 

The Rosary Bride: A Cloistered Death

 

"…a stylishly written novel evocative of Barbara Michaels and Teri Holbrook. Luisa Buehler presents a fascinating cast of characters, an engrossing tale of old wrongs, long-kept secrets, and murder."

–Denise Swanson, author of the bestselling

Scumble River Mysteries

 

"…a twisty, taut, compelling story of love gone wrong, a fascinating, haunting tale."

–Carolyn Hart, author of Pulitzer Nominee,

Letter from Home

 

"My favorite kind of book–old sins cast long shadows.  When a long-dead woman is found behind the fireplace at Rosary College, new crimes begin to happen…suspenseful and poignant."

–Barbara D'Amato, author of the Cat Marsala series


Books by

 

Luisa Buehler

 

 

The Grace Marsden Mystery series

 

The Station Master: A Scheduled Death

The Lion Tamer: A Caged Death

The Rosary Bride: A Cloistered Death

 

 

 

 

Coming Soon

 

The Scout Master: A Prepared Death


 

 

 

 

Luisa Buehler

 

The Station Master:

A Scheduled Death

 

Book Three

 

 

Grace Marsden Mystery series


This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

 

Echelon Press

9735 Country Meadows Lane 1-D

Laurel, MD 20723

 

Copyright © 2005 by Luisa Buehler

ISBN: 1-59080-458-9 Paper

ISBN: 1-59080-459-7 E-Book

www.echelonpress.com

 

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.  For information address Echelon Press.

 

First Echelon Press paperback printing: November 2005

Cover Art © Nathalie Moore

2004 Ariana Best in Category Award winner

 

Printed in USA


 

Dedication

 

To Gerry and Christopher

who are always there, offering love and practicing patience.

 

 

 

Acknowledgments

 

This is a work of fiction, but like the pearl that grew around a single grain of sand, this story developed around a modicum of fact.  I am grateful to Kris Guill, owner of Jefferson Hill Tea Room, John Reeder, owner of Book Nook News, and Carl Grumbles, past president of the Lisle Heritage Society for sharing their stories.  A special thank you to Officer Cindy McNaney of the Lisle Police for clarification on procedures.  The 'armchair sleuths,' reference librarians at the Lisle Library, rate high marks and thanks for the details they gathered.  It is in the details that a story comes to life.


 

 

 

All Aboard!

 

Magic music of the iron rails humming, engaging the imagination, changing to desire for adventure.

 

Holidays, honeymoons, and homecomings, each beginning with a ticket to ride.  The end of the line is a beginning in reverse…

 

Unless the ticket to ride is one way.


 

 

 

Chapter One

 

 

 

       The nightmare hardly came anymore.  Mornings dawned sweet and rested, most mornings.  Not this one.  The gut-wrenching fear, the prickly sweat tore me from a sound sleep.  I slipped from under the covers to the floor panting through the residual panic of the nightmare, hoping I wouldn't wake Harry.

       My breathing calmed.  I gently lifted my side of the covers and slid between still warm sheets.  I lay awake waiting for the time to pass and my nightgown to dry.

 

       "We fly home in three days, Grace.  It's time.  We can't hide here any longer."

       The pain at the thought of home still gripped my heart.  It was crazy to think rushing off to another continent would heal me.  I feared leaving; afraid that the healing joy I'd felt these past months would vanish if I crossed borders.  My mind had created a 'Brigadoon' and now I panicked at the prospect of crossing that bridge back to my life.

       "Grace?  I said we're leaving in three days.  Is there anywhere else you want to visit before we go?  Any church jumble you haven't plundered?  Any brass rubbings you've missed?"

       My husband's attempt at gleaning a smile from me failed miserably.  I hated myself for the topsy-turvy emotions that plagued me even during idyllic outings with Harry and his family.  They had been patient and loving through these past months.

       Harry and I arrived on their doorstep with one day notice and one suitcase.  The maniac who once had been Harry's friend, but who had stalked me with deadly intent, had destroyed our home.  Harry's parents, William and Dorothy Marsden, swept us into theirhearts and life in the blink of an eye.  They had readied the entire upstairs for us.  We slept in Harry's old room and used his sister's adjacent bedroom as a sitting room.  Both rooms had been left as they had been all those years before.  Hannah's room still held the fragrance of lavender sachets in the drawers and armoire; Harry's room so typically boy even to his initials carved onto his desktop with his first Swiss army knife, H.N.M., Harry Nicholas Marsden.

       Tears welled up in my eyes and my hands sought the comfort of a length of yarn tied to my belt loop.  I kept my eyes on my hands while I looped and braided ten series of knots hoping the routine would calm my nerves and give me time to master my emotions.

       Harry tipped my chin up and looked into my eyes.

       "Pansy purple," he pronounced.  He leaned forward and brushed his lips against my cheek.

       Even without the tears my mood would have been apparent.  My personal physiology reacts to high emotion by changing the color of my eyes from a lavender shade with gold flecks to a deep pansy purple hue.  My personal barometer makes it difficult to lie or hide much.  Everyone who knows me can read me like a book.

       "Gracie, please.  We have to put this behind us.  We did it once before.  We can do it now."

       Harry turned his cornflower blue eyes away from my face and glanced out the window past the flower boxes attached to the sills bursting with color and tumbledown charm in the form of Verbena, Petunia, and Celosia.  His gaze continued across the neatly manicured lawn to the stone pillars at the macadam road that marked the Marsden entrance.

       "It's lovely here, no doubt old girl, but it's not our home.  We need to make peace with where we belong.  Only way for that to happen is to go home, Gracie.  And what about those job offers?  People are waiting on you, love."  He teased me now.  "You would make a wonderful event planner.  Ask your family.  Your brothers told me you were always planning their lives."

       Harry's emphasis on planning brought a smile to my face as I remembered the countless birthday parties, prom parties, school events that I had planned and participated in with the reluctant help of my brothers.

       "Even Barb sent you a letter about joining her on some project."

       Our neighbor in Pine Marsh had mailed me a notice about a position for an event planner/marketing designer for a Naperville PR firm that would be handling a big event in Lisle for their Depot Days celebration.  Barb as vice president of the Heritage Society, the group hiring the PR firm, had already talked me up with the firm.

       "Yeah, everyone thinks I ought to get a job.  Even Karen suggested I look into teaching a writing class at Trinity.  Does my unemployed status annoy people?"  I was being facetious since my full time job was writing children's books.  I had finished the fourth in my "Mick the Monster" series shortly before our lives had been slammed into the Twilight Zone by a maniac bent on revenge.

       "People care about you.  They love you.  I love you.  That's why we need to go home.

       "Why?  We can stay here, not this house, but in Arundel or maybe Bath.  We could open a bookstall on the river.  You were a publisher in England before, you can do it again.  Or you could finish writing your book on plants.  Plants are better here.  Roses, you could grow wonderful roses here."

       Harry placed two fingers against my lips to halt the torrent of wishful thinking spewing from my mouth.  I took his hand in mine and kissed the top.  His hands had been burned in the explosion that damaged our house.

       They had healed remarkably well especially after we arrived in Arundel.  A great aunt, Mildred, knew a lady friend who bottled the most marvelous honey from healing bees.  I scoffed at the story.  Harry's response had been different.  My cosmopolitan husband listened and followed her instructions.  It was imperative that he travel with her to the hives and thank the bees for their help.  I stood in amazement as my world traveled, high tech gadget guy, agreed to drive an hour then walk the three miles to the recluse's cottage to thank the bees.  Harry told me the bee lady knew the honey would work because the bees 'voices' grew hearty in the hive when Harry thanked them.

       Those bees deserved Harry's heartfelt thanks and mine too.  Within weeks of using the honey salve, the tops of his hands had grown smooth and supple.  The tightness and pain he had lived with had lessened.

       "I want to go back to the bee lady and thank her bees."  I looked up at Harry and tried a true smile.

       "I've already thanked them, darling."

       "I want to thank them for helping you and I want to ask her if I can thank her in advance for someone else."  I stood up and walked to the window.  With my back to Harry I lobbed my request over my shoulder.  "Karen sent me a note on things back home.  She mentioned that Ric is still in rehab.  The department is forcing him to retire on full disability.  She says the therapy isn't going well; so much scar tissue.  I thought I'd bring home the honey for him to try."

       Ric Kramer, my best friend's brother, had been injured in the same blast that hurt Harry.  Ric owed his life to Harry.  An awkward balance since Ric and I had once been close.  Each time Ric reentered my life my marriage seemed to suffer from the encounter.  I now mentioned Ric for the first time in three months.  I felt I needed to act now.  I turned to catch Harry's reaction.

       "Of course we'll bring him the honey.  I'll ring Aunt Mildred this morning and arrange the outing.  Wait until you see the bee lady, Gracie.  It's like she's from another time; like when those Druids you're so fond of telling me I'm related to ran amok."

       He left the room to call his aunt from the kitchen, the only room in his parents' home with a telephone.  Harry's good humor at my suggestion surprised me.  The line from the Snoopy comic strip ran through my head, 'You're a good man, Charlie Brown.'  A good man indeed.  Six foot tall, a trim, athletic build, blond hair streaked platinum from summer sun, and a dazzling smile.  A young Roger Moore, of the Simon Templar era, my friends had decided when I first met Harry.  His crystal cut English accent nailed their choice.

       Harry walked toward me from the kitchen.  "Aunt Mildred says we can motor out there tomorrow with her.  She'd like a visit with Morgana."

       "The bee lady's name is Morgana?  Wasn't she Merlin's nemesis?"

       "I'm joking, darling.  Her name is Maeve Flood.  Thought 'Morgana' would amuse you."

       My husband's sense of humor still escaped me at times.

       "Maeve?  Doesn't sound like an English bee lady.  I thought her name would be something like Hyacinth or Minerva."

       "I think it's a perfect name for her; a touch exotic for the English recluse.  She's one of those 'inner sight' people, according to Aunt Mildred," he added.  "Some people think she's a bit odd, talking to the bees and all, but I found her charming.  She was thrilled to find out I lived in America; asked more questions about Pine Marsh than a realtor.  Said she'd always wanted to visit Illinois; don't know if she was being kind or casting for an invitation for lodging.  I told her to contact us through Aunt Mildred if she ever made plans.  Wait 'til you meet her; she's going to absolutely eat you up."

       Harry's infectious smile didn't touch my heart.  I kept thinking about the fairy tale Hansel and Gretel and the witch in the woods.

       "I told Aunt Mildred what you wanted to do.  She thought that refreshingly generous of you.  She doesn't think your thanks will be enough, but the honey will still help somewhat."  Harry's face grew somber.  "Maeve told her before that only the person who needs the healing or someone who loves that person can thank the bees."

       I'm certain my eyes flared purple as I realized what Harry implied.  The mere mention of Ric a few minutes earlier had wedged him between us again.  I felt guilty for feeling that I qualified.  "I'll be sincere and hope for the best with the bees."

       "Don't worry.  I'm certain the bees will hum beautifully for you."

       His quiet voice reminded me again that he has never felt truly certain of my heart of hearts since that time so many years ago when I found comfort in another man's arms and heart.  After being told that Harry was dead; I had turned to Ric.

       "Harry, please.  Then you thank the bees.  You saved his life.  That should count for something with the damn bees."  My voice faltered.

       "Don't insult them or they won't help no matter how much you uh, care for the good Inspector Kramer.  They may have scouts sucking nectar from the petunias, checking you out."  Harry waved his hand toward the window box where a bee busily visited each bloom.

       My husband's mood shifted as quickly as a stray cloud across a beaming sun.  His mood swings had swelled and crested about eighteen months after his 'return from the grave.'  The doctors had warned me and his family that his mind was trying to balance itself from the horror he'd been through after a South American gang he was trying to break kidnapped him.  Harry had lived a different life before our marriage; a life I didn't suspect until he disappeared on a 'business' trip to Rio de Janeiro.

       I recognized this adjustment and decided not to belabor the point.  "All right then.  Let's sneak past their sentry into the kitchen and put some lunch together for a picnic.  I'd like to walk to the ruins you showed me last month."

       "Excellent idea."

       "What's an excellent idea?"  Dorothy Marsden walked into the room from the kitchen.

       "Good morning, mum."  Harry planted a dutiful kiss on his mother's cheek.  Dorothy beamed at her son.  She appeared to have grown more animated and younger with each passing day since our arrival.  Her soft gray eyes gleamed and her gentle mouth seemed less pursed.  Dorothy wore her silver hair in a soft chin-length bob.  Even her hair shimmered as though lit from within with its own light source.

       I knew my presence wasn't the cause of her metamorphosis.  Harry's effect wasn't limited to his mother.  William Marsden seemed to also have strengthened in his son's presence.  William had suffered a heart attack several years earlier, when the erroneous news of his son's death had reached him.  Each time we visited since Harry's rescue, William had seemed buoyed by the time we spent with them.  This visit had lasted much longer.  I'm sure they felt as though their son had moved back home.

       "Gracie and I are planning a walk to the ruins."  He smiled at his mother.  "First, we are planning to cop the Edam, sourdough, pickles, and a tiny bit of that sausage we bought in Bath.  And some fruit.  Those pears from the market.  And the cherries.  They were sweet.  Anything for you?"  He arched an eyebrow in my direction.

       I laughed at his bill of fare.  Harry could snack all day and never gain an ounce.  I came from a corned beef and pasta genetic coupling.  My mother's lean, Irish genes were most apparent in three of my brothers.  My father's Morelli genes settled in me and my older brother Mike Jr.  He looked exactly like our father.  We always pushed away from the Morelli tavola well before our siblings Joseph, Glen, and Marty.

       "I thought you'd want to enjoy the day outdoors so I had Mary pack a hamper for you.  You'd best check if the pickles are in there."  Dorothy's soft voice filled with warmth as her maternal instincts were satisfied.

       Mary, a local lady who worked in the neighborhood for several older couples, would come in and do housework and some cooking.  She had been a godsend when William had first become ill.

       "Pickles are gone.  Ate the last one last night," William Marsden said from the front porch.  Posed in front of the window box, he looked every inch the English Cottage Gardener.  For the umpteenth time I wished for my camera.

       Dorothy chided him.  "Then you've eaten half a jar of pickles, William, cause that's what I put up after supper.  Your blood pressure will be sky high and I won't be rushing you off to hospital when you faint away."

       "Nonsense, I'm fit.  I have this minute returned from a brisk walk into town and back.  I've been to the chemist.  They've one of those blood pressure machines.  Took my turn.  132 over 80.  Shows what you know."

       He certainly did look fit.  William Marsden, at seventy something, looked like an older version of Harry or rather Harry a younger version of William.  He was not quite as tall as his son, but every bit as ramrod straight.  At his age, his build was trim and his bright blue eyes as clear as a mountain stream.  I smiled as I recognized Harry thirty odd years from now.

       "Sorry, son.  I left those olives Hannah always sends.  Don't care for them myself.  Don't know why she keeps sending them."

       "I'd best check to see what else you've devoured.  Your appetite hasn't been this hearty in years.  I'll have to remind Mary to buy an extra hen for tonight's supper."  Dorothy finished her sentence more to herself as she bustled into the kitchen.

       "Your mother loves fussing over the two of you.  She's planning some sort of dinner tomorrow night for the only people left in Arundel who haven't met you, Grace."  William stepped into the room and removed his lightweight fedora.  His close-cropped gray hair bore the slight indentation of his hatband.  He ran his hand over his hair.  "Come to think, that dinner is a surprise.  Your mother will have my hide if she finds out I let it slip.  Be surprised when she tells you.  There's a good pair.  I'd best be back to my chores."  He smiled as he turned to leave.

       William's chores, I had discovered, consisted of walking their Yorkie, Duncan and puttering in his vegetable garden.  I vowed to follow him around and take pictures of his garden.  My dad planted a garden every year.  I'd have to show him people plant things other than tomatoes, bell peppers, Melrose peppers, sport peppers, zucchini, and eggplant.

       A thought occurred to me.  "You haven't told them we're leaving, have you?"

       "Not yet.  I didn't want to spoil the fun they're having fussing over us.  I was going to try to tell them tonight."

       "Try to tell them?  We're leaving in three days, Harry.  I thought I was the last to know."

       "I've had a hell of a time telling anyone.  I knew you'd be nervous about going home and I knew they'd be disappointed that we're leaving.  We have to go home."

       It almost sounded like a question.  I shook my head in resignation.  "Yes, we have to go home.  We'll tell them tonight after supper, but before your mom starts playing the piano and we all start singing.  I couldn't do it then."

       "Agreed."  Harry put his arms around me and rested his chin on top of my head.  I snuggled into his arms.

       A good man indeed.

       A loud crash from the kitchen broke the mood and our embrace.


 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

 

       "Naughty, nasty boy!"  Dorothy Marsden admonished the rotund Arlo, swiping with a flyswatter at the spot he'd recently occupied.  Arlo's timed retreat from the table top to under the potato bin where Dorothy couldn't reach him was not rushed.  The imperturbable orange short hair never scampered.  His dignified escape lacked decorum as a length of sausage hanging from his furry mouth muffled his loud chirp of accomplishment.  "Nasty, old thing.  I don't know why William tolerates his tomfoolery.  Never see Annabelle or Star causing mischief."

       Harry and I stood in the doorway of the kitchen.  The room, generous by Arundel cottage standards but tiny by comparison to the kitchen I barely used in Pine Marsh gleamed spotless in the morning light.  I marveled at all the delicious dinners and scrumptious baking Mary and Dorothy produced in this tiny space.  The oversized wooden farmer's table dominating the room served as prep area and staging area for all the meals served from this kitchen.  The wooden expanse, usually scrubbed to a pine shine, looked like an unscheduled dinner prep was underway.

       Dorothy turned to face us after realizing she couldn't reach the triumphant tomcat even with the aid of the swatter.  "That animal is exasperating.  Your father knows he's a troublemaker, but he insists on letting him have the run of the house.  Why do I put up with him?'

       "Arlo or Dad, Mum?"  Harry's question caught Dorothy off guard and she narrowed her gray eyes before she answered.

       "Don't make me choose, not right this moment."

       Harry and I burst into laughter.  Dorothy couldn't stay angry long; it wasn't in her nature.  She laughed with us and moved to clean up the mess William's cat had made.

       "Let me get those."  I stooped down and retrieved the scattered fruit from under the table careful to avoid the shards of crockery smashed on the floor.  I collected apples, pears, and a kiwi and placed them in the sink to be washed.  Harry brought out the broom and dustpan and swept up the broken crockery.

       "Harry dear, dump that under the downspout at the corner please."  Dorothy indicated out the back door.  "We're trying to keep the puddles away from the foundation.  Since your father lured that awful animal home last year, we've been adding to the pile on a regular basis."

       Her comment caused another round of laughter.  "You won't be laughing when you see what's left of your lunch."

       Dorothy pointed to the overturned straw hamper on the table.  The basket, similar to the ones I'd purchased for my sisters-in-law for Christmas presents, lay on its side with the contents mindlessly pulled from the interior.  Arlo had shredded the wrapper on the cheese.  The olives, ripped from their plastic wrap, lay strewn on the table unappetizingly coated with orange fur.  A few pieces of fruit were deemed eatable; the rest traveled to the compost bucket under the sink.

       "There's still plenty, Mum.  Don't worry we won't starve," Harry assured his mother.  She seemed appeased.  I thought the fare looked a little skimpy for two appetites, but then I always ate more than my husband.

       After we had been married a short time Harry had announced to my dad, ' I'd rather clothe her than feed her, Mike.'

       In retaliation I had asked Karen my best friend to take me shopping; a dream come true for my 5'10" pal with great fashion sense who had been itching to outfit me for all the years we'd been friends.  There had been no comment when I handed Harry the receipts from Nordstrom and Saks.  He still refers to that spree as the day Oak Brook Mall declared Gracie Marsden Day and established a shopping scholarship in my name.

       "Plenty," I echoed.  I'd eat my sandal strap before I admitted there wasn't enough for me.  When Dorothy turned away from the table to ask Harry when we planned to return, I surreptitiously stuffed two breakfast rolls from a basket on the sideboard into the picnic basket.  Harry spotted my slight of hand and grinned.

       "We'll be back around three; will we be in time for tea?"  Since Harry's return he'd fallen comfortably into his old habit of afternoon tea.  It was a lovely custom, giving everyone an opportunity to relax and catch up with each other.  The Marsdens had been dears to stock their pantry with coffee for me.  They unboxed a relic of a percolator from the fifties, when post war America influenced a trend.  It worked beautifully.  I remembered a similar one that my dad used when I was young.

       "Of course, dear.  We'll wait tea for you and Grace."  Dorothy beamed at her son.  I hated the thought that we would shatter her happiness later this evening.  She knew we couldn't stay here forever.  We have a life across the pond.  We have problems to work out back home.  I shook my head slightly to stop the thoughts.

       Harry noticed my movement.  "All set, love?"

       "Yes."  I smiled at him.  "All set."

       "Excellent.  Then we're off."  He lifted two lightweight slickers from the peg near the back door.  "Might sprinkle."  He held one out to me and draped the other over his arm.  I dutifully took my 'second skin' and slipped a water bottle holder over my shoulder.  Our basket held a tasty Riesling, but I wanted to chug not sip when I became thirsty.

       "Oh, wait.  I want to get my camera.  I'll be right back."  I hurried through the living room to the back hall and up the stairs.  I swooped into our room and stopped in my tracks.  There on our bed lay a resplendent, snoozing Arlo flanked by Annabelle and Star.  Apparently William's tomcat didn't repulse Dorothy's two calico ladies.  My camera lay under Arlo's sizable head, being used as a pillow of sorts.  This would make a great picture.  Not to be.  I quietly approached the bed.  Star lifted her head and meowed hello.  Arlo's eyelids opened cautiously.  Two tawny eyes apprised me.  I moved closer and explained my situation.

       "Arlo, I need to take my camera.  Nice kitty boy, let me get this hard lumpy camera out from under your head."  I'm not sure why I talked to the orange mound except that the two girls had been extremely friendly toward me even spending some nights on the bed while we slept.  Arlo had shown no signs of liking me.

       "Gracie.  What's the hold up?"

       Arlo's head snapped up at Harry's voice.  "Okay, Arlo.  You heard him.  He'll be up here any minute."  Arlo stood and stretched insufferably long, never moving from his spot.  A second before Harry appeared in the doorway the cat lumbered to edge of the bed and plopped to the carpet.  He brushed against Harry's leg as he left the room.

       "Hullo, big boy.  So here's where you've gone off to."  Harry looked at the two remaining felines.  "Can't blame you old boy," he called after the retreating tomcat.  "C'mon Gracie, no time to play with the cats now."  Harry walked to the bed, patted each Calico, and picked up the camera.  I followed him down the stairs hoping the rest of the morning would be normal.

 

       Idyllic, more like it.  The well-worn footpath we traveled led us through meadows teeming with wildflowers blooming with abandon.  I recognized the small, white flowers of Feverfew and Marguerites, and the bright purple and pink Dames Rockets, although those weren't their English names.  Harry identified all of the flowers and pronounced their botanical names.

       "Did your firm publish a book on wildflowers once?  Where did you learn all this?  And why do the English have different names for everything?  Seems snobby of them to change our names."

       Harry smiled at what he referred to as my American view of the world.  "Could it be possible that those pesky colonists changed the names?  Did you ever think of that possibility?"

       I hadn't.  "If they did, it makes perfect sense.  Why would anyone call something as pretty as a Christmas Rose, Hellebores?"  I smirked and crossed my arms in a position of case closed.

       Harry laughed and threw his head back, shouting up to the skies, "I love this nutcase, Grace Elena Morelli Marsden."

       Idyllic indeed.

 

       The time flew by and we found ourselves back at the cottage shortly after three o'clock scurrying in the back door like a pair of truant children.  Our intention was to freshen up in our room before tea.

       "My sister is here," Harry said pointing to a travel bag on the floor next to the table.  It was indeed Hannah Marsden's travel bag; a gift from us last Christmas.  We burst into the living room expecting to hear chatter and laughter.  The scene was not at all what we expected.

       Dorothy and William Marsden sat side by side on the burgundy and tan striped sofa while their daughter sat opposite them in one of the taupe hued wingback chairs.  The silence and serious faces frightened me.  Harry spoke first.

       "Hans, what are you doing here?  It's great to see you, isn't it Mum, Dad?"  Harry looked from face to face waiting for someone to say something.

       "What's wrong, Hannah?  Is it my dad?"

       Hannah reacted then.  "Oh, no.  Everyone is fine.  Sorry, didn't mean to give you a fright."  Hannah looked at her parents, oddly quiet across the room.  Dorothy should have been fussing around her daughter.  They looked sad instead of elated at her arrival.

       "I didn't know they didn't know you were leaving tomorrow after next.  I wanted to get to you before you went home.  Didn't mean to jinx your timing."

       "Not your fault, Hans."  Harry moved toward his parents.  He sat down in the other wingback chair.  "I didn't know how to tell you, Mum.  Grace and I owe you so much for taking us in.  I felt like we were betraying you by leaving."

       "Tish.  Owe your parents for taking you in?  Is that the nonsense they teach in America?"  William's voice sounded husky with emotion.  Dorothy's eyes welled up with tears.

       Her voice trembled a little.  "We knew you'd have to go back.  We didn't want to face that time.  It's been grand having you here.  It's wonderful that Hannah has come visiting too.  I can't remember the last time you were both at home."  She paused; her face lost some color as she probably did remember the last time her children were under her roof.  It had been during Harry's convalescence.  She seemed to push the memory from her mind and turned her face to Hannah.  "Come along, Hannah, help me with tea.  Goodness, look at the time."  Dorothy stood up and motioned her daughter toward the kitchen.  "William, Duncan needs his afternoon walk.  Oh, Harry dear, will you nip upstairs with your sister's bag?"

       Everyone had their assignment.  Except me.

       I saw the look exchanged between brother and sister.  I knew Hannah well enough to realize that she wanted to talk to Harry alone.

       "Dorothy, let me help you, and Hannah can settle in before tea."  I smiled at Hannah.  She understood my ploy.

       "Thank you, dear.  How thoughtful.  Actually tea is no bother but my mum always said, 'tea made by two is twice blessed for the rest.'  Come along then."

       Now I knew why Harry came up with what I called 'britcoms,' anecdotal phrases with a British flavor.

       Hannah and Harry were up the stairs before I walked through the kitchen door.  I wished I could be a fly on the wall, but I knew Harry would fill me in later.  I hated waiting until later.

       My curiosity was bursting when ten minutes later the family gathered in the living room.  Dorothy carefully poured each of us a cup of tea.  It was a pleasant ritual, anticipating the taste of the delicious aroma wafting from the ceramic spout as it released its brew du jour.  The filling of Dorothy's cup signaled us to begin.  Harry and Hannah stayed too quiet for my taste; something was wrong.  I was dying to ask but I knew better.  Dorothy apparently didn't notice their changed demeanor as she regaled Hannah with all the news of the district, news that would have been in her next letter.

       I had already heard the update.  My mind wandered to what news Hannah could have shared with Harry.  I tried to catch his eye but he avoided looking in my direction.  Usually, teatime with the Marsdens was fun for me; reminiscent of English Country House mysteries I'd read.  I could imagine myself a great niece of Miss Marple visiting St. Mary Mead.  Today, I could hardly wait for teatime to be over.  I sat staring off into space, idly twirling a lock of my shoulder length hair around my finger.

       My twirling, twisting and braiding had started in childhood.  A diagnosis of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder at least identified my dysfunction and allowed my family to find a way to live with my quirks.  I usually kept a length of yarn with me at all times, but hair would do in a pinch.

       Harry's first words since he sat down prompted a small yelp from me.  I jerked my hand down forgetting it still held my hair.  My surprise was genuine.

       "What did you say?"

       His face showed no emotion.

       "We're leaving in the morning.  Our flight leaves from Gatwick at ten o'clock."

       Dorothy and William looked crestfallen.  First, they thought they had two days left with their son; now he would be snatched away after only a few more hours.  I felt sorry for them.  A lump formed in my throat.  I hated to see them upset; such sweet, wonderful people.  My father-in-law's brave voice interrupted my thoughts.

       "I guess our girl brought you some news.  You do what's best, son."  William reached out a hand and placed it on Harry's shoulder giving his approval.  Dorothy's reaction was another thing.  She looked miffed.  I remembered what William had let slip earlier, the party she had planned.

       "Harry, couldn't we put it off one more day?  I mean we're visiting the bees and all tomorrow and we'd still be home one day earlier than planned.  We could be all packed and ready to leave first thing."