Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(26)

Two days later, Olivia arrived back in Wyattsville driving a Ford Fairlane, equipped with air conditioning, a static free radio and customized floor mats. “Where’s Charlie?” the neighbors asked. “What have you done with his lovely convertible?”

When Olivia explained how Charlie died of a massive heart attack and had to be brought home bottled up inside a silver urn, everyone raised an eyebrow.

“Charlie was never sick a day!” Clara Bowman said.

“A day?” Maggie Cooper sneered, “Why, not even five minutes!”

“And what about his convertible?” Henry Myerson asked. “Charlie loved that car. Are we supposed to believe that died too?”

“It did,” Olivia answered. “Not died exactly, but boiled over in such a way I thought it was going to explode.” She was about to explain how she found herself stranded at the side of the road in North Carolina and had no choice other than to trade Charlie’s car in for a more practical replacement, but by then all the neighbors had turned and walked away. “I’m sorry,” she sighed tearfully, but no one was listening.

Olivia pulled the luggage from the car and tugged it through the lobby of the building. She heaved and pushed to maneuver the things into the elevator, then one by one dragged the suitcases and cartons of souvenirs to the far end of the seventh floor hallway. Not a single person came to help—husbands who suggested lending a hand would be the neighborly thing to do were quickly shushed by their wives. “Help that hussy?” they’d snarl, “the woman who murdered Charlie?”

Once the last of the bags had been carted into the apartment, Olivia closed and bolted the door behind her. She fell upon the bed—the same bed where Charlie had kissed her mouth and made love to her, the same bed where he’d promised to love her for a thousand years. How, she wailed, could he have misled her with such a foolish promise when in truth he had less than a thousand heartbeats to offer? And, how could she, a woman with such a practical nature, have given up everything and waltzed off like a love-crazed schoolgirl? Now here she was, all alone in an unfamiliar place, with neighbors who banded themselves together and turned against her as they would a person carrying the plague.

By morning Olivia had decided the boundary of her new world would extend no further than the threshold of Charlie’s apartment. For almost three weeks, she cracked the door open early in the morning, stuck her arm out far enough to retrieve the daily newspaper, then locked herself inside. She used an outdated carton of powdered milk for her coffee, ate tins of Spam and baked beans for supper, and once she’d finished the only can of orange juice in the freezer, simply did without fruit. With her life turned topsy-turvy as it had been, the balancing of five basic food groups seemed of little concern.

Three weeks to the day Olivia arrived back in Wyattsville, there was a knock on the apartment door. “Who is it?” she called out.

“Clara Bowman,” the voice answered.

Olivia slid back the bolt, opened the door and without saying a word, stood there looking Clara square in the eye.

“I hate to intrude,” Clara said frostily, “but I believe I left my yellow sweater in Charlie’s closet and with the weather turning somewhat cool…”

Olivia swung the door open and motioned Clara inside.

“Thanks.” Clara strolled over to the hall closet, rummaged through a jumble of hangers, and tugged loose the sweater. “This is it,” she said tucking it under her arm. With one foot already out the door, Clara turned back to Olivia and asked, “Are you alright?”

It was a fair enough question, for Olivia had developed the look of a ghost. Where there had once been a fullness of face, she had turned gaunt; her eyes were rimmed with red and a grey ash of sadness had settled upon her. “I’m fine,” Olivia answered politely.

“But, you don’t look…” Before she could carry on with the thought, the door swung shut. Clara, a woman known for her keen observations, was not about to let a question go unanswered. She rang the bell for a second time; then pounced forward when Olivia opened the door. “You don’t look good!” she said pushing her way back into the apartment.

“Excuse me?” Olivia stammered in a somewhat indignant fashion.

“You look sick.” Clara replied and tromped through to the kitchen. “Like a person who’s not been eating!” She yanked open cupboard after cupboard and glared at the almost empty shelves. “No wonder,” she snarled, “look at this, not a crumb of food fit to eat!”

“It so happens, I like canned soup.”

“You like getting scurvy? Because that’s what people who don’t have fresh fruits and vegetables get!” Clara was shorter than Olivia but almost twice as wide, and built like a fireplug. She charged from the kitchen into the living room; “Why, this place is a mess,” she exclaimed, “…there’s a month’s worth of newspapers that need throwing out!”

“I’m not finished reading them,” Olivia answered.

“You’re finished!” Clara scooped up a huge armful of papers and stomped out the door, grumbling how it was shameful the way Olivia had been treated when she was so obviously distraught over the loss of her husband. “It’s Maggie Cooper’s fault,” she huffed, “Maggie never sees the good in people.” With that Clara disappeared down the hallway, but five minutes later she was back, bing-bonging the doorbell for a third time. She was carrying a laundry basket full of food. “You locked me out,” she said when Olivia opened the door.