Free Gourdfellas by Maggie Bruce Page A

Manchester Herald . I didn’t mention to my brother that I also spent a quarter of my earnings on a spectacular piece of glass, cranberry with undulating silver waves, that would live on my windowsill until I needed to come up with a special-occasion gift for a very good friend.
    “And just to be clear,” I said, “it’s not hovering to ask if you need anything. Besides, I do have other things to do than sit around and watch you veg out in front of the television or play Spider on your laptop. Oh, before I forget—you think you’ll be up to a houseful of beautiful, intriguing, smart poker players on Friday night?”
    “If I’m not,” he said, “that probably means you should rush me to the emergency room. Sure, it’ll be great to meet your friends.” Neil waved a fistful of prescriptions at me. “I have enough to last me a day or two. Doctor Reichman said that I need to start the physical therapy tomorrow. Today I’m allowed to slide by with a couple of leg lifts.”
    I took the papers from him. By the look on his drawn face, Neil was likely to spend at least part of the afternoon napping. That would be a good time for me to drive into town, get his drugs, pick up the new respirator mask that Bob James at Primitive Originals had mailed, and still be back before my brother noticed my absence.
    “I’m going to make a quick run into town. I’ve got my cell phone. Call if you need anything. Here’s the remote and today’s Hudson Register .”
    “My leg’s broken but I can still see,” he said, grinning. “This seems like the perfect place to get some rest. It smells good here, like the air is green. And it’s quiet—no car alarms, no Mom. But you—you look so tired, Lili. You can’t let this murder thing interfere with your sleep.”
    I didn’t want to talk about my insomnia or my suspect status. Instead, I kissed his forehead and headed for town, happy that he was comfortable, glad that I could give him this space for a while.
    “ I can have these for you in ninety minutes.” Mr. Trent peered at me over the top of his granny glasses. With his short-cut gray hair, pink skin, and white jacket he looked like a pharmacist in a television commercial. But Joseph Trent’s jacket had fraying sleeves and a couple of faded stains that spoke of years of wear, as did the runner that led from the front of the store to the prescription counter at the back. He tugged at the surgical glove on his right hand and went on sliding pills into a bottle.
    “I don’t mean to rush you, but if you could get to it sooner, I’d really appreciate it. I left my brother home alone, and he’s not so great on his crutches yet.”
    Mr. Trent counted out the last three pills, stripped off the latex glove, and then looked up at me, frowning. “He should have someone with him.”
    “I can’t be in two places at once.” Who was he to tell me how to take care of Neil? I turned away to give myself time to regroup so that I wouldn’t yell at this well-meaning but officious man.
    “You haven’t been sleeping well, have you? Those circles under your eyes, they’re new.” Suddenly, the same Mr. Trent who was so ready to berate me sounded concerned, solicitous—and he had nailed one of the reasons for my curtness.
    “No. It’s been a rough week. I—” Why hadn’t I thought of this before? Maybe I didn’t need to spend the early hours of every morning playing computer solitaire or watching bad movies on TV. The man behind the counter was a pharmacist, after all. “Is there something you can recommend that would help me sleep?”
    Mr. Trent folded his arms across his chest and shook his head slowly. As his brows knitted together in concentration, I realized that I was in for a lecture. When he stepped from behind the counter, I looked down at his shoes. They were scuffed and worn. Backing up two steps, I forced my gaze to meet his.
    “If you’re asking me to suggest drugs, forget it. Go to that new Walgreens down the