Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Welker thought it was a good sign that Moira had taken so long and had come out with several large bags in her hands. But she’d also emerged with…a tiny little old lady in tow?

Welker grinned. Moira tried to hide it from the world, but she couldn’t keep him off the track any more. She had a really soft heart. Clearly, she’d found someone who needed help, and hadn’t been able to leave the small woman to her own devices.

Welker got out of his car as the pair came closer.

“Oh, my. He is a big one,” the blue-haired woman chirped, her appreciative glance looking more like that of a twenty-year old than that of an octogenarian, which is where Welker estimated the woman’s age.

He smiled and responded, although perhaps the statement was rhetorical?

“My mother fed me a lot when I was growing up. I’m Welker. Pleased to meet you.” He enclosed a small, papery hand in his, and gently gave it a pump.

“Polite, too,” the lady chuckled. “Moira dear, I think you’ve got yourself a keeper.”

Moira sputtered, but before she could rebut the woman’s words, Welker chimed in. “I’m the one who’s lucky,” he answered, sending a teasing look toward Moira.

She squinched up her mouth, but let him have his moment. Feeling lucky, he reached for Moira’s bags, and with only a slight uptick of one brow for him being “gentlemanly”, she actually handed them over.

Score . On two counts.

“You may call me Margaret,” the woman rejoindered cheerfully. “And yes, Moira’s a gem. I hope you don’t mind, but once she found out I was taking an Uber, she offered for you to drive me home.”

“Not a problem, Margaret,” Welker assured her. “But would you like to see my credentials?”

Margaret laughed, an infectious, tinkling sound. “That’s not necessary, young man. Moira has already shown me her Sheriff’s badge, and told me you’re not only a Bangor police officer, but that the pair of you work on a SWAT team together. I don’t see how I could get much safer than that.”

Welker opened the door for the woman and gestured her in while Moira went to the opposite side and slid into the front seat.

“Yes, you’re absolutely risk-free with us,” Welker winked. He liked this feisty individual.

Closing her door gently, he got in and started the car. “What’s your address? I’ll punch it into my GPS.”

She rattled off a street just outside of town with which he was familiar. He was surprised and a little concerned that she lived in a location so sparsely populated.

“Margaret lives alone,” Moira pointedly added to his worry.

“Me and my dog,” Margaret corrected alertly from the back seat. “Not that she’s much protection lately, the poor thing. She’s getting a little long in the tooth.”

“Lady Guinevere is sixteen,” Moira clarified with a slight shake of her head.

Welker could see that Moira wasn’t happy with Margaret’s living situation, either.

“Well, before we leave you off,” he told her, “I’ll exchange numbers with you. I don’t live more than fifteen minutes away, so if you need anything in the future, I’ll be happy to stop by.”

“Oh, Moira. He is a sweet one. He reminds me of my Henry, God rest his soul.”

Ah. She’d lost her husband.

“How long has Henry been gone?” Moira asked softly.

“Ten years now. His ticker wasn’t so good, and gave out in his sleep one night. It was a peaceful way to go, but I miss him every day.”

“I bet you do,” Welker commiserated. “You never get over losing the ones you love. I lost some…good friends while I was in the Navy, and they’re never far from my mind.”

Moira glanced his way with sympathetic eyes because this was news to her; something he hadn’t shared. He wondered if she, too, had lost someone along the way that had made her so…closed off. Maybe when and if she started opening up to him, he’d find out more about who she was, and what had made her so uptight.

The trio made small talk until they pulled up to a neat little bungalow that would need paint before a few more years passed. Other than that, however, the structure looked to be in good condition. The yard was glorious, having been given over to wildflowers, which was a good thing. Itty-bitty little Margaret would have had a hard time pushing a lawnmower.

“Would you care to come in for tea, and a quick tour?” she asked hopefully, as Welker turned the car off, got out, and opened her door.

He and Moira exchanged a glance, and when she nodded, he knew exactly what she was thinking; that the woman was actually quite lonely.

Welker spoke up. “We have plans for later this evening, but we’d love to come in and make dinner for you. I bought all the groceries back at the store, and it would be a shame to hog them all for ourselves.”

Margaret brightened like a kid on Christmas morning, clapping her hands in glee, which Welker was beginning to recognize as her go-to gesture.

“That would be delightful,” she applauded. “I haven’t had company in… Well, let’s just say that my kitchen is spotless. That’s how long it’s been since my stove’s been used.”

“You don’t cook?” Moira asked.

Margaret shook her head a little sadly. “Not any more. I used to enjoy it a lot when I was feeding Henry, but since it’s only me…”

“What do you eat?” Moira asked. They stood companionably in the yard where dozens of dragon flies cavorted, and honey bees buzzed happily amidst the overgrowth.

“Oh, I’m fine with cheese and crackers, or microwaved meals.” She waved a hand dismissively.

Welker wanted to ask if she had children anywhere close, but he didn’t want to get too invasive. Maybe Moira had already sussed it out, and he could get that answer, later.

“Well, be prepared for a delight,” he informed Margaret. “Moira is a chef, extraordinaire.”

The woman in question snorted. “And how would you know? You haven’t tasted any of my cooking yet.”

Welker smirked. “Knowing you, Bliss, you never would have offered to cook for me if you weren’t one-hundred percent sure of your skills.”

Moira ducked her head, seemingly embarrassed.

Hah. Gotcha.

Margaret had been watching the exchange, and seemed inordinately pleased. “Whatever you have planned will be splendid. How much time do you need to make it?” she asked, drawing Moira back out of her shell.

“It’s nothing that will take too long to prepare,” Moira returned. “It’s a simple bolognese with a bean dish on the side.”

“I’m sure it’s going to be delicious,” Margaret assured her again, enthusiastically. “Now let’s head inside to see if I have all the proper cookware for you.”

Welker and Moira took a moment to pull the needed ingredients from the bags in the back of the car, then followed Margaret toward her house.

There was a low, woof, from the other side of the door.

Margaret went up her front steps with a vigor that decried her years. “That’s my baby,” she crooned, then raised her voice. “It’s just me, Guinie,” she sing-songed. “And I’ve brought company.” She turned the knob, and walked in.

Turned the knob ? Moira and Welker exchanged concerned looks before stepping in and receiving head-butts from the oldest, grumpiest looking dog Welk had ever seen. The pup’s girth made it seem like she might have been living on cheese and crackers, as well.

The pooch received her requisite head scratches, farted, then turned to huff and puff her way down a hall.

Moira gave a half-laugh after that explosive exit, but she wasn’t going to let the cause of their combined consternation, go. “Margaret, you don’t lock your door?” she asked, beating Welk to the punch.

Margaret laughed. “Seriously? Of course not. I’ve lived here for over seventy years, and nobody’s bothered me yet.”

“ Yet , being the operative word, Margaret,” Welker added dourly.

“You officers are far too suspicious.” She fluffed them off. “I listen to the news. Did you know there were less than two-tenths of a percentage of break-ins in Maine households last year? That is a higher chance than getting hit by lightning, but not nearly as bad as the odds of dying in a car crash.”

Welker and Moira looked at each other, blinked, then convulsed in merriment.

Margaret was proving to be quite the pistol.

“Margaret, you’re right, but we’d both feel better if you promise to lock your door from now on.” Welker sighed, coming slowly down off his laughing jag.

“Well,” she shrugged, “since the two of you are taking pity on an old woman and keeping me company, I guess I can comply.” She beckoned them toward a doorway that led into a perfect, jaw-dropping 50’s kitchen, complete with green pastel GE appliances, and a Kelvinator fridge.

“Wow. These all work?” Moira asked incredulously as she and Welker placed the food on a black and chrome kitchen table and stared.

“Of course, dear,” Margaret answered, opening a drawer that was overflowing with all kinds of junk. She began digging around. “Now where could they be…?”

“What?” Welker asked, distractedly, still gaping around in awe.

“My house keys. I know they’re here somewhere.”

Welker didn’t bother with a censorious comeback. He knew it wouldn’t do any good, and besides, Margaret was clearly trying to comply with their request.

“Aha!” she finally acclaimed. “Here they are.”

The keyring she withdrew held four keys, and advertised a kind of root beer that Welker had never heard of. How long, exactly, had her locks been out of circulation?

She pulled off two. “One for you,” she held it out to Moira. “And one for you.” She offered Welker the second, then tugged off a third and tucked it into the purse she’d set onto the white Formica counter, that… Yes , had boomerangs on it.

“Now we all have the proper access, so in case I need you for anything, you’ll be able to get in.”

Welker pocketed his key. “I’m going to make sure the lock still works,” he told them as he headed back toward the door.

“If it’s stuck, there’s some spray lubricant in the cellarway,” Margaret called out.

Of course there was. Welker shook his head in amusement and left the ladies to cook.

Twenty minutes later, with the gaseous Lady Guinevere as his helper, the newly greased lock worked perfectly, and the scent of deliciousness—which had eventually overtaken the flatulence odor—drew him back to the kitchen.

“Smells good,” he said, eyeing the pans on the stove, appreciatively.

“I’ve never cooked in cast iron before,” Moira marveled, “but now I’m going to have to get some. It sure beats all the nonstick crap I’ve been using.”

Welker’s mother had several old, black skillets which she guarded jealously. Welk, her favorite son—her only son—had never been able to cajole her into gifting him one. Maybe once she met Moira…

Nope. Sabira, to Welker’s knowledge, hadn’t been able to get her hands on any, either

Moira put a lid on the pan that held a meat concoction, and another that simmered the most gloriously aromatic beans, before looking at her watch. “The pastry is in the oven. It’ll take another twenty minutes, then we can eat.”

Margaret looked more than pleased. “Then in the meantime, I’ll give you a tour.” She was clearly proud of her house that, so far, looked extremely well cared for.

She brought them into a living room—which she called the parlor—where Guinevere was now ensconced on the sofa, snoring. Doilies decorated the back of the impromptu bed, which Margaret referenced as “the divan”. The arms and headrests of two adjacent, overstuffed chairs were similarly adorned.

A large, Victorian piecrust table sat between the trio, and was covered in glass prisms, that with the morning sun would send—Welk imagined—a delightful array of colors swirling throughout the room. An old, tube TV sat between two windows, and was clearly the set still in use by Margaret.

Welker shook his head in wonderment. It was like stepping back in time.

“Through here is my dining room,” Margaret told them, leading them off to their right. “But I haven’t used it as such in years since it’s just me, so you’ll have to excuse the mess. I’ve turned it into my craft room.”

Sure enough the table was covered in old, cut-up magazines, pots of paint, scissors, brushes, and so much other paraphernalia that Welker couldn’t begin to name it all.

“I do scrapping,” she told them proudly, “and add my own artwork.”

Moira walked to a few things that hung on a wall. “These are yours?” she asked incredulously. “They’re beautiful.”

“Just a few of my favorites I couldn’t part with,” she grinned. “I bring my newest creations to a little shop in town that sells them for me.”

To say that Welker was speechless was an understatement. Margaret had to be ancient, but she was still very much engaged with the world.

“There’s a bathroom through that door.” She pointed left as they went back into a hallway, “and two bedrooms up with a full bath.” Stairs led to a landing on the right. “There’s not much to see there besides beds and dressers,” she enlightened them. “So I’d much rather use our time to show you my back yard before we lose the light.”

With September coming to a close, it would be dark very soon.

Margaret opened the back door, which had actually been locked from the inside, thank goodness, and urged them onto a small, covered porch before taking two steps down into the yard. Like the front expanse of once-upon-a time lawn, it was now covered in blankets of wildflowers. But Welker could still see structures hidden amongst the myriad of late-fall blooms.

“Raised beds?” Moira asked.

Margaret got a happy, yet introspective look on her face. “Yes. My Henry built those for me when I turned sixty, knowing I didn’t like to bend down anymore to pick vegetables. But now I don’t use them anymore, since I’m the only one they’d feed.”

It sounded awfully sad to Welker.

They continued to meander down a short, well-worn path that let Welker know Margaret must still come out into the yard, often.

“I sit out here when the weather cooperates,” Margaret told them, leading them toward two vintage patio chairs, one of which looked like it hadn’t been used in a very long time. Obviously, it was where her husband had once sat. “Henry spent a lot of time in the yard, and I feel closer to him when I’m here.” Her face momentarily filled with melancholia before brightening. “He’d approve of you two, I know he would,” she stated with certainty.

“I bet he was a wonderful man,” Moira offered gently.

“The best, my dear. He was…everything.”

Welker could tell the atmosphere needed lightening before they all started bawling, so he swept an arm over the rest of the overgrown clearing which held a few crushed down paths leading deeper into the property. “What’s back there?” he asked.

Margaret regained her aplomb. “A few sheds for tools and such. A root cellar I don’t use any more.” She laughed. “And that’s another story. Henry made sure it would double as a storm shelter just in case we got hit with a hurricane like we did back in ’54 with Carol and Edna.”

Welker wasn’t familiar with either of those storms, but why would he be? He hadn’t been born yet.

“Just to humor his memory, I still keep the cellar stocked with a few canned goods and flashlights, and I also make sure it stays clean in case I need to overwinter some produce. You never know when I might start growing potatoes again,” she teased.

Welker knew she actually kept it up because Henry had built it, and she couldn’t bear seeing it collapse into decay.

“Well, that’s the extent of it,” Margaret finally said. “And it’s a good thing, because I’m thinking our food must be ready by now.”

The three of them sat back, replete.

The food had been amazing, and the conversation even better. Moira had finally grown embarrassed by the non-stop praise she’d received over the sumptuous dinner, and told them she’d never cook again if they didn’t stop.

Welker and Margaret eventually exchanged an impish glance that let Moira know, even if they were finished with the subject for now, she’d be hearing a lot more from them in the future.

When Welker finally looked at his watch, he was surprised that so much time had passed, and sad they’d soon have to leave. “We need to clean up and be on our way,” he informed the ladies. “We have to hit my house so we can change, then we’re due in town in less than an hour.”

Margaret beamed, clearly up to something. “You look fine enough to me, Welker. Maybe it’s only Moira who needs to get spruced up,” she posited.

Yeah. That was true. This wouldn’t be the first time Welk had gone out with the guys after working all day and being a little…aromatic. “Good point,” Welker agreed. “I’ve got some deodorant in my go-bag in the car. I’m fine to socialize after using it. Moira?” he questioned.

“I’m totally gross,” she countered. “I’ve been in these sweaty, stretchy clothes all day, and I’m not going out in public looking like I’ve been at the gym.”

“Well, your new clothes are in the car,” Margaret pointed out, still with that small, angelic smile. “Use my shower and change while Welker and I take care of the kitchen.”

Welk readily agreed. What had the pair picked out for Moira to wear?

Moira only hesitated for a moment before agreeing. “Okay.”

Thirty minutes later the kitchen was spotless.

Welker and Margaret joined smelly Guinie in the parlor where she chuffed and groaned in her sleep, while they each took a chair to wait on Moira.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Welker praised Margaret.

“Pooh,” the woman answered. “You bought everything, drove me home, cooked. I did nothing but?—”

“—welcome us into your charming home,” Welker completed her sentence. “And just to let you know, we plan on coming back. A lot. If you’ll have us. And I have a feeling you might be meeting a lot of our teammates soon, as well.”

Once Welker told the SWAT team about the lovely old woman living alone, he knew they’d all step up to practically adopt her.

Margaret sighed contentedly. “Someone up above must really have been looking out for me today to bring you two into my life.” Her eyes grew a little teary. “I feel like a whole new chapter is about to open up for me.”

Welker cleared the emotion from his throat. “You can count on it,” he responded.

Hearing footsteps out in the hallway, he stood and took a few steps in that direction when…

A vision appeared in the doorway.

Welker stumbled.

The breath left his lungs.

“Moira?”

Was that his voice that had squeaked?