No Way Out Fern Michaels (e reader books .TXT) 📖

“They are. His mother sent an invitation for me to join them for dinner, but as you have already guessed, I don’t leave the house.” Ellie knew that might open a can of worms for unwelcome questions, but Colleen didn’t push the issue. “Instead, she sent over a wonderful Cuban dish. It was marvelous, a real treat for someone whose cooking skills are as rudimentary as mine.” Ellie remembered how much she had enjoyed that meal.

“Did you know that Hector’s father is a musician? Not professionally, but his guitar playing would blow you away. He and some of his friends play at local events to help raise money for various groups. It’s always a lot of fun. You should come to one of them.” Colleen stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Colleen was embarrassed that she had overstepped.

“It’s OK. Really. You were caught up in the moment,” Ellie reassured her. “Perhaps one day.”

“Well, I’ve already taken up too much of your time. Thank you for talking me down from the ledge.” Colleen was bringing the conversation to a close. She was afraid she might say something out of line again.

“No problem, Colleen. Glad I could help. Call if you need to talk. I’m not going anywhere.” Ellie actually laughed at that last remark.

“Thanks again.” Colleen hung up. She looked for Marge Stiles’s phone number. She wanted to get the name of her new neighbors. Maybe Officer Pedone could give her some information without violating some law. While juvenile records are generally sealed, it was still possible that a story about the incident had appeared in a newspaper or somewhere online.

Chapter Twenty-one

Andy wasn’t sure if he was happy about the house next door being sold and having to get to know new neighbors. It had been vacant for almost a year, and he had gotten used to the quiet. The woman on his left never left her house, so that was also a plus. At least it was as far as he was concerned.

He shuffled to the kitchen, easing past the piles of newspapers. He had to walk sideways to get from one room to another. He was beginning to think that maybe he should call someone to help him go through his things. But he had no idea what was in the house. He couldn’t see anything over the piles of newspapers. He knew there was a vast collection of silver in the cherry dining-room cabinet, but he hadn’t seen the front of the cabinet in, well, he couldn’t remember when.

He boiled a cup of water in his microwave, the only appliance, other than the refrigerator, that worked. He tossed in some instant coffee and milk. Once he had finished the poor excuse for a cup of coffee, he hobbled back to his bedroom to get dressed. He knew he should probably get dressed before he made his coffee, but then he would have to fill in the time he’d save from making the trip back. That was another problem: he had too much free time on his hands despite knowing that he didn’t really have much time at all. It was depressing.

He took out a freshly pressed, button-down shirt and slacks. That was another part of his routine—going to the dry cleaner’s every other week. His house might have been an unsightly mess, but he refused to be one. No one would ever think he was a hoarder based on the way he presented himself in public. When it came to dressing himself, he always looked quite dashing.

Before he had retired and opened his antiques shop, Andy had worked for a fine department store in St. Louis. He started as a tailor for the rich women who would come in for fittings. It was back in the day, when they would come in by appointment and sit in a lounge area as models came out, one by one, to show off the latest styles. Once the customer picked out the style she wanted, Andy would either tailor the dress to fit or make one from the vast selection of fabric the store kept in its tailoring shop.

At age sixty-five, when his eyesight was failing, he decided to leave the world of fashion, move to a small town, and open an antiques shop in a space that he rented for practically nothing. With all of the connections he had made working at the department store, he had a nice list of people who would become his clientele. They would venture out to the country on weekends and visit his shop, browsing the big and small finds Andy had accumulated during the early part of the week. Between Social Security and his pension, he was able to live quite comfortably in his modest two-bedroom house in Hibbing. The additional income from the antiques shop was gravy. It was an extended hobby that kept him busy and afforded him the opportunity to interact with people. When he turned eighty, fifteen years after starting in the antiques business, friends convinced him that it was time to give up the shop. He could no longer travel long distances to scout for furniture, and keeping the shop organized was a chore.

Some of the neighbors helped him with a garage sale the likes of which the town had rarely seen. It was maybe not the biggest, but it was surely one that offered the finest items, not old rusty lawn chairs and broken lawn mowers. But even with the number of antiques he had sold, there were more that had not sold. He and his friend Stuart moved the remaining items into Andy’s house and garage, thinking that one day they would go through it all, do an inventory, and try to sell it as one big lot. But as time went on, Andy started to feel more and more attached to the things he had so lovingly collected. So he kept putting off the task.