Ida took a sip of her tea, frowned, and added more hot water. "So, the police let you keep the dragon?"
"They know who I am and where I live. If they find any family he might have, they know I want to give the statue to them." I tasted my orange spice tea and let the warmth stream down my throat. "Truth is, I'm really shook up. Do you mind if we talk about something else?" I had to get the vision of his body, sprawled on the pavement, out of my mind. "How about you? Has your nephew arrived yet?"
She leaned back against the chair, her starched linen dress crinkling with that scrunchy sound good linen always makes. Ida always dressed up when she went out; it was just her nature. She adjusted her glasses, making sure they were still attached to the chain that looped around her neck. "He's due in on the bus this afternoon. I'm hoping to introduce him around this weekend, if he's up to it."
"Why don't you start by bringing him over tonight? I'd love to meet him." I knew vaguely that her nephew had been in trouble but wasn't sure just what he'd done.
She smiled at me, obviously relieved. "Thank you, I was hoping you wouldn't mind if I started with you. He's only been out of prison a couple of days, you know, and there are bound to be adjustment issues." She toyed with her cup. "I'm just sorry Caroline died before she could come to her senses and give him another chance."
"How long has it been now? A year?" When her sister had died, Ida had been reticent about her grief; she wasn't a woman given to histrionics. I'd made sure, though, that the kids and I spent a lot of time at her house, and she'd seemed grateful for the company, always welcoming us hi with brownies or a loaf of freshly baked bread.
She bit into a gingersnap and tapped the side of her mouth with a napkin. "Caroline died almost a year ago. Since she was already a widow, she left me all her money. I put it away in a revocable trust fund, in hopes that Oliver would take me up on my offer to come stay with me while he gets his life back in order. I figured that he'd need a good start once they let him out. He's a good boy, Emerald. Once I see that he's really serious about finishing school or that he gets a good job and holds it for a while, then I'll sign over the trust fund to him. I just don't believe his mother should have cut him out of her will."
It didn't seem right to me, either. "What on earth did he do to make her so mad?" I couldn't imagine Ida offering Oliver a place in her home if he'd committed some horrible crime.
She sighed and set down her cup. "Oh, nothing so terrible, but the fact that he got arrested was enough for her.
Oliver was in the middle of his sophomore year at Oregon State University when he got involved in a cannabis club. He was growing marijuana for medical patients—it's supposed to be legal there, you know. But the federal authorities didn't see it that way, and Oliver was sentenced to three years."
'Three years ... that's a long time out of a person's life," I said.
"Yes, it is, but since the trial took a year and he was in jail during that time, he's actually been locked up a total of four years. Caroline wouldn't post bail for him. I didn't know about any of this until after he'd been sentenced. She didn't want the family to find out what had happened." She folded her napkin and shook her head.
"How did you find out?"
Ida poured herself another cup of tea and returned to the table. "Oliver started writing to me when he was in prison, once he realized his mother had disowned him."
What a nightmare. "I can't imagine turning my back on my children for something like that," I said.
She shrugged. "That's what my sister was like." Flipping through her wallet, she pulled out a grainy picture of a young man, blond with the barest hint of a mustache. "He sent me this a couple of months ago. The quality of the photograph isn't very good, so it's hard to see what he really looks like, but I sincerely doubt that they let the inmates pose for glamour shots." She gave me a rueful smile.
"When's the last time you actually saw him?" I asked.
"Oh, it must have been right before he turned thirteen; that's when Caroline sent him away to boarding school in France. After boarding school, Oliver attended a private university in Switzerland for two years until he quit without telling his parents and showed up one night on their doorstep, suitcase in hand. He hated the pretentious attitudes at the school. My sister was furious. She gave Oliver an ultimatum; he could immediately enroll at OSU or head out on the streets. He went back to school, but it was only a few months before he was arrested."
Ida shook her head. "That boy always did set things atwitter. He's a born crusader against social injustices." She stared into her cup, sobering. "I'm afraid I haven't been much better than Caroline. When I first found out what he'd done, I was so disappointed in him that I didn't have the heart to go visit. And then ... well, we started writing, but I've just never managed to make the time, what with one thing and another." Her voice trailed off, and I knew she was feeling guilty.
I rested my hand on hers. "Don't beat yourself up, Ida. You're going to help him now when he needs it, and that's what counts." I knew that Ida missed her own son who had moved to Japan a few years back to teach English. She must be looking for a way to make up for that sense of loss. "So he's going back to school? How old is he now?"
"He had almost two years left to go when they raided his apartment, and he's agreed to enroll at Western Washington University this fall. What with waiting for the trial and all, he just turned twenty-six, so it's not too late, by any means. I'll pay his tuition and give him a place to live as long as he keeps his grades up and stays out of trouble. He has to finish his degree within the next two years, and then he can get on with his life. He was an art history major, though I'm not sure whether he'll go back to that or not." She glanced at her watch and gathered up her things. "Why, here I've gone and talked your ear off, and he should be in on the Greyhound in less than twenty minutes. I'd better run!"
I waved her out and, when Cinnamon returned, vacated the counter. "I'm going to finish up some paperwork." I headed into the office, making sure that I had the dragon with me. I could hardly wait until six o'clock rolled around.
KIP POPPED HIS head into the living room as I sat cross-legged on the sofa, trying to repair a hangnail. "Mom, I need to get the tools out of the shed so I can work on my bike chain."
"The key's on the Peg-Board in the kitchen, next to the spare house key. Don't lose it." I waved him off as he nodded and disappeared. I heard him say something to Miranda, who was in the kitchen fixing dinner, then the sound of the back door slamming. I winced. One of these days he was going to shatter the window panes, and then I'd be taking the money out of his allowance for weeks.
I aimed the remote and punched on Channel 7. Oh joy. The news was on, and there was Cathy Sutton, our perpetually perky local reporter who had the aplomb of a self-satisfied cat and the personality of a thorn bush.
"At approximately three o'clock this afternoon, Daniel Barrington, a former resident of Victoria, British Columbia, was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver while crossing Main Street and Third. Police are looking for a beige van, which witnesses say made an illegal left turn before hitting Mr. Barrington. The van's speed was estimated at forty miles per hour. Paramedics hastened to the scene but were unable to save his life. Mr. Barrington appeared to be transient, with no permanent address and no next of kin. He had just exited the Chintz 'n China Tea Room, where he is thought to have purchased a tarot reading."
Her coanchor, good old Jack Sullivan, raised his eyebrows. "The Chintz 'n China? If I remember right, that's the shop owned by our local heroine, Ms. Emerald O'Brien."
"That's right, Jack." Cathy flashed the camera a smooth grin that was never quite reflected in her eyes. "In fact, witnesses say that Ms. O'Brien was hailing Daniel as he crossed the street. He turned to answer her right when the van sped around the corner and hit him."
Jack frowned. 'Too bad Ms. O'Brien couldn't use her fortune-telling powers to warn him about speeding motorists."
Fortune-teller! Jack Sullivan was always making snide cracks that left a sour taste in my mouth, but this was the first time one of them had been aimed at me. I almost choked on my Talking Rain, and the sparkling water spurted out my nose, the carbonated bubbles stinging all the way. Fortune-teller indeed. First thing tomorrow I'd write a letter to the station and complain.