Spare Change (Wyattsville #1)(42)

Any of the other residents would have noticed the way Clara’s head was cocked to one side, the corner of her mouth curled and one eye flickering like a firefly. But Olivia was a relative newcomer, unaware such actions, along with the tapping of Clara’s right foot, were lifelong habits that clicked on whenever there was any heavy thinking. “What you need is breakfast,” Clara finally decreed, “Meet me in the lobby in a half-hour. We’re going to the Pancake House.”

“Pancake House?” Olivia echoed, thinking a stack of pancakes didn’t seem to be much of a solution. She would have preferred an offer of help, or maybe the name of a charity in need of men’s clothing.

Of course, Clara made no mention of how in the span of ten minutes she could line up a crew of neighbors to clear out every last trace of Charlie Doyle. Not that anyone intentionally wanted to do such a thing, because Charlie was certainly well-liked, but once a man was dead, he was dead—and dead men simply didn’t come back. That was one thing Clara understood only too well, for she’d spent almost six years mourning the loss of her Henry. Were it not for Martha Cunningham taking matters into her own hands, Clara herself might still be in the same sorrowful situation.

The first call was to Peggy Mendel. “Yep,” Peggy answered, “I’ve got a storage room full of cartons, but my tape is all dried out.”

Donna Swift had five perfectly good rolls of tape, and a hand truck suitable for hauling the cartons off to another spot.

Norma Ryan knew a man who lived in the building across the street and was somewhat down on his luck. “He’s about the same size as Charlie, and Heaven knows he could use some nice clothes,” she said. After that she segued into telling how on the coldest day imaginable, she’d witnessed the poor man shivering in a threadbare sweater; halfway through the story Clara interrupted and told her to save it for later.

“Now, you understand what’s to be done?” Clara asked Maggie Cooper who’d agreed to take charge of the operation. “The key is under the mat; so the minute we leave, you girls go in and pack up Charlie’s suits, jackets, trousers, shoes, slippers, pipes, ashtrays, underwear, and, don’t forget the toothbrush. Everything, get rid of everything.”

“Even the ashes?” Maggie asked, “Get rid of the ashes?”

“Lord God, no!” Clara gasped. Charlie Doyle had been a friend, someone she’d dated and on a few occasions allowed certain familiarities. It was one thing to clear away his belongings, but quite another to dispose of the man himself. That was something Olivia was going to have to deal with herself—like it or not.

At ten minutes before eight, the two women met in the lobby and started for the Pancake House. Clara had to stretch out the period of time they’d be gone, so she turned to Olivia and said, “It’s a lovely morning, let’s walk.”

“Walk?” Olivia answered, “…the whole two miles?” She eyed the grey clouds hovering overhead and wondered if perhaps Clara, well-meaning as she might be, was suffering from a lapse in judgment.

“Fresh air gives a person a healthier state of mind.”

Olivia doubted such a claim was true; but once Clara set her mind to something there was no arguing. She gave a shrug and fell into step.

With window shopping in first one place then another, it took almost two hours to reach the Pancake House. And, when they finally got there, Clara told the hostess they were in no particular hurry and would wait for an available booth.

“I’ve a table, right now,” the hostess said.

Clara shook her head. “We’ll wait,” she replied, then she stood there eyeing the overhead clock and rat-tat-tatting her foot like a jackhammer.

Twenty minutes later the hostess said she had a booth ready for them. “Not there,” Clara replied wriggling her finger toward the back of the room, “why, that booth is way too close to the kitchen. We’ll wait for the next one.”

“But…” Olivia stammered.

“Trust me,” Clara insisted, and waved the hostess away.

With the subsequent refusal of two more unsuitably situated booths, they didn’t even glance at a menu until eleven o’clock and when they finally did, Clara flip-flopped for fifteen minutes, deciding whether to have pancakes with blueberry syrup or strawberries and whipped cream.

“Either sounds good to me,” Olivia said.

Clara finally settled on the strawberries. When the pancakes were set in front of her she cut them into tiny pieces and ate so slowly you could have believed she’d fallen asleep between bites. Halfway through, she indicated that maybe the blueberry syrup would have been better after all, so she ordered a stack of those and did exactly the same thing. When she finished the blueberry pancakes, she ordered coffee and sipped it so slowly it became ice cold; then she ordered another cup. In all that time, she never mentioned a word about Charlie or the disposal of his belongings.

“Well,” Olivia, growing restless, sighed, “I suppose we should start home.”

Clara delayed for yet another half-hour, saying she’d probably have to visit the ladies lounge momentarily and then on the walk home, she slowed her steps to a snail’s pace.

“Is something wrong?” Olivia asked.

Clara hesitated for a long time then stopped dead in her tracks, her head cocked and her foot twitching. “How would you feel if you walked back into the apartment and found all of Charlie’s things gone?” she asked apprehensively.