Trouble in Queenstown by Delia Pitts

Author:Delia Pitts
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

My father patted the ball cap on his head, then raised it again. “Ivy,” he said, triumph warming his voice.

“Dad, this is Ingrid,” I said, crouching to bring my face to his level. “She’s a friend.”

He waved the hat like a flag, hiking his eyebrows. “Ivy,” he cooed. His gaze caressed Ingrid’s face.

The girl looked at me. I shook my head and shrugged. I had no explanation for my father’s outburst, for his cheerful expression and squared shoulders. He smiled, years dropping from his face as energy flowed through him. Like Ingrid, I wanted answers. I hoped a mix of hot food and lively talk would draw meaning from Evander’s clouded mind. I pointed toward the dining room doors, urging Ingrid to lead the way.

The Glendale supper wasn’t as good as my nose and stomach imagined it would be.

The blocky yoga instructor joined us for the meal. “I’m Laurette Brandt. I fill in when Keyshawn has the day off. Usually I stick with chair yoga, pottery, and watercolor painting classes.”

I was glad for her assistance, but I missed Keyshawn Sayre. His presence both calmed and stimulated visits with my father. Without Keyshawn, I expected the time to drag.

Laurette wheeled Evander to a table for four, cooing and clucking as they rolled. I bristled as she patted his shoulder and stroked his neck. Like he was a lapdog. But he didn’t seem to mind, so I kept shut. Ingrid and I gathered grub from the islands of hot and cold food at one end of the dining room. We distributed our bounty onto three plates, setting the dish with the smallest amounts of food in front of Evander. Laurette drifted toward the buffet, returning three minutes later with a heaping platter.

As he picked at the pot roast and speared his beans one at a time, my father stared at Ingrid.

“Ivy,” he said for the fifth time. He lifted the cap and doffed it in Ingrid’s direction. Then louder, “Ivy.”

“Dad, I told you this is Ingrid.” I struggled to come up with a reason I was hanging out with a sixteen-year-old. To compensate for his skimpy appetite, I shoveled up a double load of mashed potatoes. “She’s a friend. She works part time in our office after school.” That sounded almost plausible. I swallowed the potatoes in hope.

He said, “Ivy.” This time followed by a grin as he flourished his hat at the girl. Evander had his flirt on.

When I frowned, Laurette took pity. “He thinks she’s Ivy,” she whispered. “You know, Ivy Hannah.” She bowed her head. “Poor thing.” I wondered if she meant my father or the dead woman.

“Why in the world would he think that?” My voice rose, but Evander looked past my ear toward the diners at the next table.

“Ivy used to come here every week. She was a regular volunteer. Usually Thursdays, when Keyshawn was off. Part of her church’s outreach program. Your father and Ivy became fast friends.”

Now I was intrigued. I lowered my fork beside the turkey pot pie.

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