Nightingale Way

Nightingale Way

February Alexandria, Virginia
Catherine Ann Blackburn heard the grandfather clock on the landing chime twice and knew she’d delayed the moment long enough. She had a special visit to pay this afternoon. She’d better get moving. She saved her work, blew out the cinnamon- scented candle burning on her desk, and rose to leave her home of?ce. The phone rang, but she allowed the answering machine to pick up. She crossed the hall to her bedroom, where she stripped out of her jeans and George Washington University hoodie. Inside her walk- in closet, she stared at the racks of clothing and debated which of her cemetery dresses to wear. She had four from which to choose. Cat spent way too much time in cemeteries.
A year and a half ago she’d joined Arlington Ladies, an organization of volunteers who attended military services at Arlington National Cemetery in order to make sure that no soldier was buried alone. When she paid her respects to the fallen, Cat represented the thanks of a nation for the soldier’s service and sacri?ce, and she was proud to do so. No one should be laid to rest without someone there to note the passing of a life. Not a soldier, not an old man or woman. Not a baby. Grief washed over Cat and she shut her eyes, accepting it. Today was a day for remembering, the one day of the year when she allowed herself to wallow in her heartache. Today she wasn’t going to Arlington, but to Rose Hill Cemetery in Hagerstown, Maryland.
She scanned her closet’s contents again, but nothing felt right until she spied the red cashmere sweater. Forget the black dresses. Today, she’d wear red— the color of love.
She donned the sweater and a pair of gray wool slacks. She had just slipped into her shoes when she heard her doorbell ring. Immediately she tensed. Surely this wasn’t her dad, not after the lecture she’d given him last year. You’d think that after ?ve years, George Blackburn would get the fact that she needed to do this by herself.
Her bedroom window overlooked the front yard, so she glanced outside. The only car in her driveway was her white Mercedes convertible, a recent gift to herself for having won the Goldsmith Prize for Investigative Reporting for her series on fraudulent charities. Nor did she see her father’s eight- year- old Volvo station wagon at the curb. When the doorbell rang again, followed by three raps against the wood, a pause, then two additional raps, she relaxed. That was her next- door neighbor’s usual knock.
Marsha Wells, the bubbly stay- at- home mother of a second- grader and a toddler, stood on the stoop. She began speaking the moment Cat answered the door.
“You won’t believe this. It’s the most horrible thing.”
Concerned, Cat waved her inside. “What happened? Are your kids okay?”
“They’re fine. This isn’t about us. I spoke to Janie from Paw Pals a few minutes ago. Boy, was she furious.”
Janie Pemberton was the director of Paw Pals, the canine rescue organization that was another of Cat’s volunteer causes. “Something to do with Paw Pals?”
“Indirectly. She says she’s stumbled upon a dogfighting ring operating here in town. Some prominent people might be involved.”

Copyright © 2012 by Geralyn Dawson Williams