The Curious Case of the Cursed Spectacles Read online

  At moments I felt that I had created my life out of negatives. I hadn't wanted Walter, my ex-fiance. No, I'd convinced myself, or let him convince me, that he was perfect. I'd been living with Uncle Mason when I met him. I was in my last year at college. Walter told me he wanted to go into politics. I was sure he'd be great at it. He had charisma and exuded a strength. Everyone who knew him thought he would do well.

  We went together for that year and toward the end of it, he proposed. Surprised, and having no idea what I wanted, I accepted. It was the thing to do. But, as the big day approached, not long after graduation, something, I have no idea what, caused me to take a hard look at the future I'd have with him. I'd noticed him changing in his relationship to me and I found it spooky that he was gradually taking charge of me and becoming very much like my father. And, over time, around him, under his influence, I was becoming very much like my mother. That terrified me.

  I'd left home to be away from my parents and in the same way, five years ago I walked away from a man who was probably the best candidate for a husband I'd ever meet—a man who offered a secure and prosperous future.

  Uncle Mason was terrific about it. After graduation, and the fiasco of me not turning up at the wedding, being too much of a coward to face him and tell him I wouldn't marry him, Uncle Mason let me stay with him. "Take some time and work out who you are. If you aren't going to be Walter's girlfriend or wife, which I think is selling yourself short, then you decide who you want to be." He didn't hassle me at all and I was grateful for the space he gave me. "Someday you'll find your purpose in life," he said. That was it—a mild and vague encouragement that made me feel a little better for a time.

  Now I wondered if he was wrong. Unless my purpose was sorting mail I hadn't found one; if that was my purpose, well I wanted a refund from life. And I hadn't even achieved that—I'd suffered a serious setback. Given that physical mail, as an entity, seemed almost archaic, it wasn't much of a purpose.

  To be fair, he had never suggested it would be a grand purpose. I had just assumed that.

  So I didn't have a wide circle of friends. That's why, when my phone rang it sent a chill up my spine. You hear people saying, "who could that be?" when the phone rings, but they usually mean, "which of the people I know could that be?" For me it was more literal. No one called me.

  I didn't recognize the number, and I answered still feeling apprehensive.

  "Ms. Cecelia Parish?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you the niece of Mr. Mason Parish?"

  "Yes." I didn't like the sound of this.

  "My name is Martin Wright. I'm the administrator at the Destiny's Point Regional Hospital. I'm afraid that your Uncle was brought in last night. He's in critical condition. You are listed as next of kin."

  "I am?"

  "Yes. He isn't conscious and we need you to come in and authorize his treatment and take care of other paperwork."

  The idea of Uncle Mason being sick was a shocker, much less being in critical condition. He seemed old, and I had no idea how old he was, but he'd been super healthy and I'd always thought of him as one of the immortals. He had been the same as long as I could remember—an ageless presence who had things under control. It never even occurred to me that he might be getting on in years or have any sort of frailty at all. "Uncle Mason is in critical care? What happened?"

  "I really can't talk about medical details over the telephone, but if you can come in..."

  "I'll leave on the next train."

  "Then I'll see you in the morning?"

  "You'll see me as soon as I can get there."

  "I'll be in the office in the morning."

  I've heard it said that there's an app for everything these days. I couldn't find one that would tell me what was going on with Uncle Mason, but there is one that lets you book trains and flights at the touch of a button, assuming your credit card isn't maxed out. It will even tell you what means of transport will get you wherever you want to go the quickest. In this case, buses left more frequently, but the next train would get me there more comfortably and faster. Although Destiny's Point isn't big enough to have an airport, the westbound train passes right through it. The train doesn't stop unless someone buys a ticket to the town, and when you arrive, there isn't any actual train station, just a switching yard where the train stops to let you off or pick you up. The town is about two miles down the road.

  So I bought a ticket on the next train—that gave me enough time to microwave a frozen dinner, eat, pack a bag, and get to the station if I took a taxi.

  This trip would play havoc with my budget even if I was still working, but I'd worry about that later. First I had to see Uncle Mason and find out what happened. I wished I'd stayed in touch with him. Somehow it felt like that might've made a difference.

  Chapter Two

  It was dark when the train dropped me off at Destiny's Point. The switching yard is lit with one dull yellow street light, but I didn't need any light to picture exactly what it looked like.

  I could picture the town itself too. Destiny's Point was an old colonial town with narrow winding streets that were just right for horses and carriages. The buildings were packed in tightly, as if they were huddling together for protection. Maybe that's exactly what the idea had been, with the buildings themselves forming a wall to shield the occupants from outsiders. If that was the intention, it hadn't worked out too well during the War of 1812 when the town had been captured by the British, but it was charming to look at.

  The place itself was quaint, parochial and behind the times—pretty much any times since the American Revolution. I'd enjoyed my time there. It had been a good place to be when you wanted things quiet and safe. The people were, overall, friendly in that reflexively neighborly way small towns can be when they are at their best. If riled, they could be nasty.

  In case you doubt that... can you say Salem witch trials?

  Of course that was long ago and not here, but still, small towns can feel clannish. And they can be vulnerable... as if their existence is tenuous. It probably is, too. What keeps a small place alive? Entropy is always fatal.

  So it was a mixed blessing, this town of Destiny's Point. Picturesque and impractical it didn't fit well into the modern age. That fact had always tickled Uncle Mason. "The Chamber always promotes this town by talking about our Colonial heritage," he would chuckle. "They'd do better to talk about its real advantages, and tell people that it is totally unsuited for the modern world. I can't accommodate cars and box stores and it isn't likely to change."

  His analysis was right too. Most of the residents weren't big on change and neither was the place—it resisted improvement. It's location, hemmed in by the sea and mountains, was part of it. Without a lot of open land to expand into, and with historical societies clamoring to protect every existing shed and lean-to in sight, there wasn't any way it could change much.

  For those who preferred the contemporary, they chose to live outside of town in a modern subdivision called Sea Vista Bungalows. As with most new things, the name was for marketing purposes and meant nothing—it had no view of the sea and none of the houses even vaguely resembled a bungalow. It consisted entirely of more or less identical ranch-style homes in one of three floor plans. This was the housing of choice for the commuters from the city who lived there. It had its own shopping malls, schools, police and fire departments, and the freeway ended there, far away from Destiny's Point.

  There as a natural division. The people in Sea Vista Bungalows never came to Destiny's Point and the only reason any of the 8,000 residents of the town had for going to the subdivision was to buy cheap gasoline or a gadget from the electronics store. Even then they made the trip to VB Shopping Plaza, made their purchases, and then beat a hasty retreat.

  All this flooded back as I got off the train, feeling my face caressed by a gentle but cool salt breeze blowing in from the ocean. That breeze sent a stab of a chill through me. I'd forgotten about those breezes and I realized I was
underdressed for the ocean front. Along with that chill and the salt smell, tons of memories, both good and bad, came pouring back. The times I'd spent here had left a mark on me.

  Before I'd arrived, while seeking the wisdom and advice of my smartphone, I'd discovered that Destiny Point had arrived in this century in a way that was incredibly useful to me—they now had an independent taxi driver who operated through an app service. He was free despite the fact that I was arriving well after midnight. I arranged for a pickup at the switchyard and, when I stepped down off the train, bag in hand, I found a young man with a serious face, frizzy yellow hair, and the name of Steve waiting for me. He was sitting in one of those cars that looks for all the world like a large toaster. This particular toaster was bright yellow. As I climbed down the steps of the train he came over to take my bag.

  "Good morning, Ms. Parish. I'm Steve, your driver for this fine morning here in Destiny's Point."

  I nodded at the toaster. "That's your car?"

  "She sure is. Do you like her?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "I call her Amana, after the appliance manufacturer," he said.

  "Do they make toasters?"

  He laughed. "I have no idea. I don't pay much attention to such things, but she didn't go for being called General Electric. This seemed to work better. Where am I taking you at this early hour?"

  "I need to go to the hospital," I told him.

  He looked at me. "I hope it's not an emergency."

  I thought he sounded like he hoped it might be. "Not for me. I got a call... My uncle was admitted last night. I didn't find out until this afternoon when they called and told me I better get over here." I made a face to express my distaste. "Paperwork."

  He mulled that over as we walked to the car. "Last night... Oh, of course. I remember that. Parish! I should've made the connection."

  "What connection?"

  "A white male named Mason Parish was brought in right about midnight suffering from severe chest pains. There was an arrhythmia."

  "You were there?"

  "By day I'm an ER intern." He saw the question in my eyes. "Interns don't get paid much, especially in a small town, so..."

  "...by night you drive for hire."

  "Student debt is a cruel and crippling thing."

  I sighed. I'd managed to avoid that burden, at least, courtesy of my parents and Uncle Mason. "At least your loans paid for a useful degree that gives you some hope of making money one day."

  He pointed a finger at me. "A business major, right?"

  "History."

  He groaned. "Even worse. My heartfelt condolences."

  He went straight to the hospital, letting me off out front. "Take my card," he said, holding one out. "My cell number is on it. In case you have transportation issues. For medical emergencies call the hospital."

  "I get it. Thanks." He seemed like a nice guy.

  I went to the front desk and when I explained I'd been asked to come in, the duty nurse told me that Uncle Mason had been brought in because of his heart.

  "How is he now though?"

  "All I can tell you is that he had a heart attack. I can't say any more, other than to tell you his condition is very serious."

  "You can't or won't tell me more."

  "I'm not allowed to tell you anything else. It's an insurance thing."

  "Figures."

  "You can talk to the doctor tomorrow and get the details." I got the impression that she rather liked knowing more than she was allowed to tell, but then I was in a bad mood, and short on sleep. "Can I see him?"

  "This is certainly not standard protocol," she said and then sighed. "But Mr. Wright told us you'd be arriving and left instructions for us to let you see him even though it is outside of visiting hours." She emphasized her point by glancing at her watch. "It's seven am."

  Allowing a visitor to see a patient outside the posted times, making an exception to the rules, obviously had her stressed out, so I thanked her profusely. "Sorry I couldn't get here earlier. I caught the first train from the city right after Mr. Wright called," I said, although trying to justify myself made me feel like an idiot. I hadn't done anything to try and inconvenience her.

  "Mr. Wright said you could see him briefly." That was all I was going to get, so, when she grabbed a clipboard I followed her down the stunningly white hallway to his room. "He was conscious earlier," she said pointedly, emphasizing how inconvenient my tardy arrival was. "He might be asleep now."

  "That's okay. I just want to see him."

  "Mr. Wright will be in his office at eight," she said. "He needs you to sign some paperwork, discuss the case."

  "Fine. That's why I'm here."

  She pushed open a door. "Here is our patient."

  A frail and almost ethereal version of Uncle Mason peered at us from a white bed. Seeing he was awake, she called out: "You have company, Mr. Parish." The woman managed to mix a singsong with inflated cheerfulness as we went in the room. I would've sworn she was about to say, "yoo-hoo," or something equally perky, but Uncle Mason frowned and gave her a 'don't you dare' stare. "Thank you, Edsel," he said.

  "My name is Ethel, and you know it, Mr. Parish." She sounded downright flirty.

  "Sure I do," he said. "But I'm sick. You have to make allowances." He reached out to me and I took his hand. "So, kid, they managed to drag you back from the city?"

  "Kicking and screaming. They said you were giving them too much trouble and needed a family member to slap you around."

  "Edsel here does that just fine." I enjoyed seeing her flinch. "But I'm glad you're here. I don't have a lot of time, apparently, and there are some things..."

  I took his hand and squeezed it. It felt cold. "We'll have plenty of time to talk." That seemed like the right thing to say.

  He nodded. "Good, because these meds they give me... they don't stop the pain, but they make it possible to sleep through a world war. You still know it's going on, but you are out." I saw his eyes lose their focus.

  "Well, they are taking effect. I'll come back during visiting hours and we can talk about whatever you want."

  The nurse smiled her approval. "We should let him sleep—he needs his rest. Mr. Wright will be here soon."

  He looked bad and I wondered how much time Uncle Mason had left. His face was white and he had to work hard to keep the mischievous sparkle in his eyes. I wondered why the nurse thought he needed his rest. What did she think he was resting up for? Was there some benefit to being a well-rested corpse or did she really think a little sleep was the cure for a bad heart? I didn't ask. I didn't need to be making enemies at the hospital. Not now. I needed them doing their best for Uncle Mason.

  When we got back to the front desk we found that Mr. Wright had arrived. "I checked the train schedule and guess you might be here now," he said, which seemed considerate. We went into his office and he called in Uncle Mason's doctor. We sat down and had a predictable meeting where I learned that the damage to Uncle Mason's heart was bad.

  "I'm shocked he didn't have problems before this," the doctor said. "A heart that weak doesn't happen overnight."

  "And there's nothing you can do?"

  He shook his head. "His valves are shot and replacing them would buy him time, but I advise against surgery. I don't think he's strong enough to survive it."

  "And if we don't operate, how long does he have?"

  "Each case is different, so I can't say how long he has left. We will keep him comfortable, however."

  "I don't want him in pain, but is there a good time to talk to him when he won't be drug addled?"

  "Mornings are best." He glanced at the clipboard. "He gets the heavy stuff at lunch time."

  After the doctor left, Mr. Wright got me to agree to skip surgery, although it made me feel a bit like a traitor. Given that decision he needed my signature on forms that said they weren't to take any extraordinary measures to keep him alive. "He has a document to that effect, but you are next of kin..."

  "And
you don't want to be sued."

  He flinched. "We wish to make certain that we all want the same thing."

  "And that it is documented."

  "Yes, of course."

  So I signed papers. They were going to run tests on him that day and learn more. "All covered by insurance," Mr. Wright said sounding pleased that Uncle Mason had the forethought to have ample coverage for such vital necessities before he died. "I think that's everything," he said. Except for billing the insurance company, it was clear that Mr. Wright was finished with Uncle Mason.

  That was fine. I needed to get settled too.

  On my way out of the office, Nurse Edsel handed me an envelope. "A Mr. Wiggens said to be sure to give this to you when you arrived."

  "Thanks." Again, I patted myself on the back for not pointing out that she was giving it to me as I was leaving, not as soon as I arrived. I hated leaving all the good jibes on the table, but I'd be a good girl so they didn't take it out on Uncle Mason.

  The envelope held a note and a business card. The card said: "Jeffery Wiggens, Attorney at Law." It had a phone number and an email address. The note was handwritten, asking me to call him when I got in and signed JW. Jeffrey Wiggens, I assumed.

  So I called. A sleepy voice answered. As it was nine, I assumed he wasn't exactly a day person. "This is Cecelia Parish. You left a note inviting this call."

  He cleared his throat realizing it was time to go to work. "I'm your uncle's lawyer," he said.

  "I'd guessed that. Do we need to meet?"

  "You are at the hospital?"

  "I am."

  "I'll come down there and pick you up... I have some things I'm supposed to give you."

  "I have nowhere to go," I told him.

  "I can be there in about fifteen minutes."

  "I'll be wearing a pink carnation."

  He laughed. "Just stand near the door and you'll see my truck when I get there."

  After we ended the call I realized that he'd said he'd pick me up but not where he was taking me, almost as if he thought I'd know. Well, I'd know soon enough. So I waited in the waiting room. I made an aborted attempt to drink a cup of some tepid black liquid that I got from a machine that had been maliciously mislabeled "hot coffee." Whatever it was, it wasn't coffee. Motor oil, perhaps.