Free The Woman Who Fell From Grace by David Handler Page A

“My deepest condolences, Mavis,” he said, hat in hand. “It’s a terrible loss. Just terrible.”
    “Thank you, Polk,” she said softly.
    “She was a real fine old lady,” Polk went on. “Almost like another mother to Mercy.” He looked over at her, coloring slightly. “Hi, Mercy.”
    “Hello, Polk,” she said, sniffling.
    “She was family, Polk,” declared Mavis. “Family.”
    “Speaking of which … ”
    “We’ll be handling the funeral arrangements,” Frederick informed him.
    “Fine, sir,” Polk said. “We’ll need some additional information for the certificate. Date and place of birth, social security number, parents’ names … ”
    “Of course, Polk,” Frederick said, lighting a cigarette. “Whatever you need.”
    Richard got up and started out of the room with his empty brandy glass.
    “Sit, Richard,” commanded Mavis.
    He stopped. The muscles in his jaw tightened. “I merely wished to —”
    “I know what you merely wished. Sit!”
    He drew himself up, steaming. But he didn’t erupt. He submitted. Sat back down, twitching.
    “What do you think happened, Sheriff?” I asked.
    Polk’s clear blue eyes took me in for the first time. “We haven’t met, sir.”
    “He’s Stewart Hoag, the author, Polk,” said Mercy. “Going to be living here for a while.”
    Polk Four looked me over, measuring me unsurely. I guess he didn’t meet many fizzled literary icons. “Welcome to the Shenandoah Valley, Mr. Hoag,” he said, “though I suppose this isn’t what you’d consider a nice hello. She fell, in answer to your question. Those stairs are quite steep and narrow. That’s how they built them in the old days. If you’re not real careful on your way down, it’s easy to take a tumble. Fern was a big lady. She tumbled hard.”
    “The guides always have to warn the tourists to watch their step,” pointed out Charlotte.
    “She must have gone up and down them a million times,” I reasoned.
    “That’s true,” Polk agreed with a reassuring smile. “But accidents do happen.”
    “Oh, Polk, must you be so banal?” demanded Mercy.
    He reddened. “I realize you folks are upset. I’ll not intrude on your privacy any longer.”
    “Thank you for everything, Polk,” said Mavis. “And you’re not intruding. You’ve been most kind. Hasn’t he, Mercy?”
    “Yes, Polk. You’re always most kind,” Mercy said hotly.
    He walked out, singed at the ears. I followed him.
    The ambulance and the doctor were gone. Polk’s deputy was lingering.
    “Any chance Fern’s fall was something other than an accident, Sheriff?” I asked him.
    Polk stopped and stood there looking at me with his hands on his hips. “Such as?”
    “Something other than an accident,” I repeated.
    He frowned and scratched his chin. He had the closest shave I’d ever seen. It looked as if his whiskers had been surgically removed. “You mean like was she pushed or something? Everyone here loved Fern, Mr. Hoag. She was a fine old lady. And this is a fine old family. Mavis, her brothers, Mercy, they’re not that sort of people.”
    “We’re all that sort of people, Sheriff.”
    He narrowed his eyes at me. “You have some mighty strange ideas, Mr. Hoag. Where are you from?”
    “New York City.”
    He nodded, as if this told him all he needed to know. Everyone from New York was crazy. Not like here, where the valley’s biggest luminary wanted to turn her lead character into an alien. “You’ll find things are a little different here, Mr. Hoag. This is a county where justice still has the upper hand. Fern O’Baugh’s death was an accident, plain and simple. Take my word for it.” He started for his cruiser, stopped. “I hope you won’t be upsetting these good people.”
    “I wouldn’t think of it, Sheriff.”
    “Good.” He squared his shoulders, not that they needed squaring. “Mercy … she’s a spirited lady, like her mother.”
    “She is.”
    “She and I … ”
    “I wouldn’t think of that