A Strange Conversation

Chapter Ten

Janelle’s speedometer registered ten miles an hour as she drove down Poplar Road. All the houses were two story colonials, differing only in the color. A few had front porches, some had shutters on the upstairs windows. Janelle admired the well-kept homes. Leafy trees overhead dappled her car in the late afternoon sunshine.

She finally reached number 252 and parked the car on the opposite side of the street. Gray shutters accented the upstairs windows, and a porch with gray spindles ran the width of the house.

But this house wasn’t well kept like the others. The paint on the shutters was chipped, the porch looked rickety. In the front, an array of roses, marigolds, and zinnias added some color but the lawn looked dry with brown patches amid the green.

A woman in a wide-brimmed straw hat knelt in front of a patch of marigolds, weeding. Her short-sleeved housedress revealed thin arms with flaps of skin that jiggled as she moved.

Janelle frowned. This couldn’t be right. Why would Ben Thorne, the president of a company, live in such a run-down house? And who was the old woman? Perhaps Helga wrote the wrong address in her Rolodex.

Well, there was only one thing to do—check it out.

She strolled up the walkway to the house. The woman continued weeding the flowerbed, and Janelle cleared her throat. “Excuse me.”

The woman craned her neck up to gaze at Janelle from under the hat. Gray hair stuck out beneath the brim, and creases lined her face.

Janelle smiled. “I’m sorry to bother you. I was just wondering—does Ben Thorne live here?”

“Oh, Ben! He’s my nephew.” The woman rose and dusted black dirt from her hands. “He’s not home yet, but come up to the porch and wait. We’ll have some lemonade.” She walked up the steps. On the right side of the porch, two white wicker chairs with faded cushions sat side by side.

Janelle took a step back. “Oh, no, that’s all right. If he’s not home—”

“Nonsense! Have a chair.” The woman grasped the doorknob of the front door. “My name is Ida. Ida Thorne.”

“I’m glad to meet you. My name—” She couldn’t tell this woman her real name. What if she told Ben? “Just call me Nellie.”

“Nellie.” Ida smiled and the lines in her face deepened. “Now you sit down, Nellie. I’ll be right back.” She entered the house and the door closed.

Janelle shrugged. She sat on a wicker chair and gazed out at the front lawn. A soft warm breeze caressed her face. She relaxed. Maybe Ida Thorne could give her some information on Jed’s murder.

A black cat jumped up on the porch railing and sat down, its long tailing swishing.

Eventually the front door opened. Two more cats, a brown calico and a black and white tabby, exited with Ida Thorne.

“Here we are.” Ida held two tall glasses of lemonade and handed one to Janelle.

“Thank you.” Janelle took a sip, trying not to pucker at the sour taste. “Your flowers are beautiful.” The tabby cat brushed against Janelle’s leg.

“Well, thanks. It’s my hobby. My husband, Frank—he died a few years back—Frank got me started growing flowers. Roses, at first. But now I’ve tried several different kinds.”

Janelle didn’t want to talk about flowers. Ben might drive home any minute. “So Ben Thorne is your nephew, and he lives with you?”

“Ben, yes.” Ida smiled. “He’s such a sweet boy, my nephew.” Her smile faded. “But he’s so seldom home. He used to live with his father in the family mansion. Rosewood Manor, that’s what they called it.”

“Oh.” So that was Rosewood Manor.

“Mr. Thorne built Rosewood when the boys were small.”

“The boys?”

“Jed, Frank, and Elliot—the Thorne brothers.” The black cat jumped onto Ida’s lap. “You see, Frank was my husband. He was the one who got me started growing flowers.”

Janelle nodded. “You told me.” She drummed her fingers on her glass. “So Ben moved in with you when Jed died?”

“Yes, Ben’s my nephew. He moved here from Rosewood Manor.” Ida gazed at the tree on the front lawn as she stroked the cat.

“Does Ben have any siblings?”

“No, he’s an only child. He used to live at Rosewood Manor, the family mansion. Frank and I lived at Rosewood when we were first married. Then we bought this house, and Frank said he wanted roses in the front. Well, I didn’t know anything about growing roses—”

“Why did Ben move here? Why didn’t he stay at the mansion?”

“His father died.” Ida took a sip of her lemonade. “Ben didn’t want to live by himself in that big old house, so I invited him to live with me. He’s only been living here… oh, I don’t know how long it’s been.”

“Probably about three weeks, since Jed was murdered—”

 “Murdered?” Ida sat forward, sloshing lemonade onto the porch floor. The black cat jumped out of the way. “No, no! He died of a heart attack! He wasn’t murdered. Died in his bed and Ben found him the next morning.” She rubbed her forehead. “But he was old—almost ninety-five, I think. He started the company back in 1941.”

Janelle raised an eyebrow. “You’re thinking of the first Ebenezer Jedadiah Thorne.” She gripped her glass, trying to exert patience. “He was the one who started the company.”

“Yes, my father-in-law started it back in the ‘40s. I don’t remember what year.” Ida’s voice trailed off. “Do you know, some people used to call him ‘old Scrooge.’ ” She laughed and actually slapped her knee. “Yes, he was a miser, all right. But I never called him that. No, ma’am. He was Mr. Thorne to me.” She became serious. “But do you know what some people called him? They called him ‘Scrooge.’ You know, the character in Charles Dickens’ story. Just because his first name was Ebenezer. Can you imagine?”

Janelle wouldn’t glean much information from Ben’s aunt. She glanced at her watch. “Oh, look at the time! I’m sorry, but I must leave.” She stood and handed the woman her almost-full glass. “Thank you for the lemonade.”

Ida looked startled. “You’re leaving already? But you can’t go!” She frowned. “What was your name?”

“Nellie.”

“You’re not a newspaper reporter, are you? Lands’ sakes! We had so many crawling around here a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, no, Ida. Nothing like that.”

“Then what are you doing at my house?”

“I’m Ben’s friend, remember?”

“Ben.” Ida sat back and seemed to relax. “He’s my nephew, and such a sweet boy.”

“Thanks for your hospitality.” Janelle descended the porch steps. “It was nice to meet you.”

“Goodbye.” Ida’s brows dipped. “I’m sorry, but I must be having a senior moment. What was your name?”

“Nellie.” She strode down the walkway and crossed the street to her car.

As she drove away, she glanced at the house. Ida Thorne still sat there, holding two glasses of lemonade, a befuddled look on her face.

That woman’s memory was suffering from more than a senior moment.  

* * *

Dead as a Girdle will continue on Monday.

Until then, have a wonderful weekend!