by Tracey Quinn
“Oh, my, I didn't notice him,” said Jenny, the town librarian.
“I didn't want to interrupt your conversation,” said Tabitha, a legal secretary who shouldn't be lying like that.
“I didn't want him to beat me up and kill me,” Tom added. “It would be a shame for him to have to go back to prison for another six years.”
“I thought he was all crap and a yard wide,” declared Audrey, who owns the organic grain mill here in town. “All that snake-oil sales talk about life coaching! You seemed to be gobbling it all up.”
“Well, I wasn't going to be rude to him like some people I know,” I replied.
“Of course not,” Audrey said. “All the books on manners say you should never be rude to a wife-beating, bullying, murderous lout.”
As Lloyd had said, Roger Travers had arrived and it was at this point that he walked through the door. I cringed. I think everyone in the diner cringed. Roger isn't a bad guy, it's just that...
“Hey, Dani, can you guess what day of March is the scariest?” he asked, grinning broadly as he came over to the counter. Roger is about 5'8” but wears shoes with lifts to make himself look taller. Today he was wearing a gray suit with red pinstripes, yellow dress shirt and orange tie, reflective gold sunglasses pushed up on his head and the usual gold pen over his ear. When he perspired the pen turned his ear lobe green.
I sighed. “No, Roger,” I replied. “I'm afraid I can't.”
“Well, Ides say it was the fifteenth! Get it? The Ides of March, the fifteenth!” he said. He looked over at the Needlework Club. “Did you guys get it, the Ides, the scariest day of March?”
“Yeah, that's a good one, Roger,” said Tom.
“Can I get you something to eat?” I asked quickly. People usually don't talk with food in their mouths. Of course, with Roger, who knows?
“No, don't have time today. You know how I am, busy, busy, busy. Type A personality and all that. I pop a TV dinner into the ol' microwave and I'm good to go. Just stopped by to give you the good news.”
Politeness overcame reluctance and I asked, “What's the good news, Roger?”
“Just the greatest opportunity for you to get out of the old 'nose to the grindstone' business and hit the big time! Get the point?” He turned to the Needlework Club again. “We don't want Dani's nice nose ground to a point on the old grindstone, do we, folks? Get it?”
“Right,” said Tom.
“Anyhow, the Travers & Constable Municipal Airport will be officially opening next week!” I knew what was coming next. “We wanted to call it the Constable Travers Municipal Airport but people kept calling the sheriff's office trying to book flights! Because they thought I was a constable! Get it?”
I got it. I had only heard that joke a hundred times or so. Somehow Roger had convinced old Zeke Constable, who had made a lot of money as a land developer in Pumpkin City back in the day, to invest in his vision of building an airport on Roger's family farm. Zeke and his much-younger wife Kristi would come into the Breezy Spoon for lunch once or twice a week, and there was plenty of gossip around town that Kristi was sweet on Roger and that she had convinced Zeke to back him. Of course, there was also plenty of gossip around town that Zeke was a spy and the Pumpkin City Mall was really run by the KGB, and Roger was blackmailing Zeke into giving him money. This was a town that liked to gossip.
“I'll lay my cards right on the table,” Roger continued. “I'm here to offer you the chance to be the first pilot to sign up. We've bought our first airplane and I'd like you to come and try it out. If I like what I see, the job is yours. How about it, Dani? The Cadillac awaits you,” he said, turning and making a sweeping gesture toward the door with his arm.
Roger drives a huge old Cadillac convertible, shiny black with red upholstery. It matches the image that Roger always tries to project; big man in town, big deals on the front burner, and always full of great new projects. I had the feeling that projects weren't the only thing he was full of.
“Roger, I know how to fly helicopters; I don't know how to fly airplanes,” I said. “There's a difference.”
“Don't be modest, Dani. If you can fly one you can fly the other,” he replied confidently. “Let's just shake hands on the deal; with you on board, this project will really take off! Get it? Airplanes? Take off?!”
Brendan Hurley came out of the kitchen and waved to me. Brendan is one of my cooks and also the husband of my best friend Tammy. “Sorry to interrupt, Dani,” he called, “but you have a phone call. I think it's the bank.”
“Oh, sorry, Roger, I'll have to take this.”
“All right. I'll get back to the old sweatshop but be sure and give me a call right away. You wouldn't want to miss out on a sweetheart deal like this,” he said. He turned to the Needlework Club again and said, “Hey, folks, I'll be taking reservations for local flights in about ten days as soon as I get this operation off the ground. Get it? Off the ground? At the airport?”
Now, here's the thing. I don't hate Roger Travers, I don't despise him, I just wish he would go away, like forever.
After he had left, I said, “You are my knight in shining armor, Brendan, but don't tell Tammy I said that.”
“Does that mean that you want to increase my profit sharing for this month?” he asked.
“You're next in line right after my car payment and the electric bill.”
“Look on the bright side,” Jenny said. “At least Roger made Lloyd Duval run for the door!”
“Good Lord,” I said, “I wonder if Kitty knows Lloyd's back in town.” Kitty Benson is Lloyd's ex-wife and she works as a waitress at the Breezy Spoon during the morning shift so that she can be with their six year old son Timmy after school. Lloyd hadn't wanted anything to do with Timmy and he had relinquished his parental rights right after he went to prison. Still, Kitty has been dreading the day when Lloyd would be released from jail, although as far as we knew that day was supposed to be another two years from now. So why was he here in East Spoon Creek City instead of the state prison?
I decided to call my brother Bob and find out. Bob is a year older than I am and he's the deputy sheriff here in town. He's also been dating Kitty for the last few months, so I knew he'd be none to happy about Lloyd's sudden reappearance either. He wasn't.
“Early release because of jail over-crowding and because Lloyd's been such a jolly good fellow for the past couple of years,” Bob explained. “Apparently he hasn't slaughtered anyone recently so he's free to come back to town and make us all feel safe in our beds at night.”
“Does Kitty know he's back? He hasn't come by her parents' house, has he?”
“Her parents are out of town so she's been staying with the McGees for the last few days, but yes, she heard that Lloyd's in town. She isn't exactly jumping for joy over it and neither am I.”
Kitty's mother is the cousin of Laurie McGee, wife of Gene McGee who owns McGee's Market. Laurie sometimes babysits Timmy while Kitty works, and Laurie and Gene have become very attached to the little boy, and Kitty too. Lloyd would be wise to steer clear of the McGee's house, for Gene has made it clear on more than one occasion just what he thinks about Kitty's ex and what he'd do if he caused any more trouble for her or the child.
“It's possible that Lloyd may have changed his ways,” I said. “People do.”
“He said something to make you think he's a solid citizen these days?”
“Well, he's starting a life coaching business and says he plans to help people and try to make up for all the stuff he did in the past.”
“And you believe him?” Bob asked.
“I think... I mean... well, no,” I said, “ but I'm probably biased because I care about Kitty and it's hard to forget what he did to her.”
“He's an SOB and I wouldn't put anything past him,” Bob replied. “Let me know if he tries to see her at the Breezy Spoon. She sure doesn't want to talk to him.”
I told him I would let him know if Lloyd came back. After Bob hung up I went back to wri
ting the dinner specials on the chalkboard. Tonight we were featuring pan seared pork chops, mini baked potatoes topped with cheddar, and a choice of garden fresh green beans in toasted walnut butter or caramelized squash rings. A tossed green salad was available along with the choice of buttermilk biscuits or apple cream cheese muffins. There were two dessert options, chocolate short cakes with strawberries and bananas topped with whipped cream and/or ice cream and the other was peach pecan pie.
I had just finished when Mark Adams, the man I love and also pay rent to, came into the Breezy Spoon. Mark had moved to East Spoon Creek City about six months ago and bought the old Henderson house, which consists of two apartments, and put up one for rent. I was renting a room from nosy Mrs. Hamsky at the time and was tired of having her rifle through my belongings, so I rented the room in Mark's house.
Mark's a firefighter, he's about six feet two, has a blond buzz cut and hazel eyes, and he definitely works out. I am happy to say that we've fallen in love with each other. We've only known each other for about six months, but I'm 34 and he's 38, and at that age six months is long enough to be pretty sure about each other. Now I will admit that I've been engaged three times and broke off the engagements, but that was because I saw the movie Showboat when I was a teenager and fell in love with Howard Keel. For the past 16 years no one measured up to Howard until I met Mark. Sorry, Howard.
Today Mark was wearing a wrinkled tee shirt, grimy blue jeans and sneakers, and from the look on his face he'd had a challenging day so far. Also, his eyebrows were gone.
“I'll take all that,” he said, gesturing towards the dinner specials, “plus a couple gallons of coffee. Better serve it at arm's length, I didn't take time to shower.”
I looked up. “Mark, your eyebrows! What happened?”
“Edna Carswell,” he replied, wearily, as he sat down in a booth.
Edna Carswell is a really nice lady when she's sober; she even volunteers to read books to children at the local library and she works two days a week at the soup kitchen. No one actually goes to the soup kitchen because the soup is really bad, but it's the thought that counts. The problem is, Edna isn't sober all that often. Every now and then she loads her car trunk with booze and cigarettes, proceeds to get roaring drunk, lights a cigarette and falls asleep in her bed.
After several increasingly perilous rescues, Walt Baxter, the Fire Chief, had told her that she was risking her life and that of the firemen by doing this. That apparently didn't phase her, so he said that he was going to start fining her $5,000 every time it happened. Of course, he didn't have the authority to do that, but he hoped it would get her attention.
“Her bed was on fire?” I asked. “I thought Chief Baxter threatened her with a fine if it happened again.”
“Nope, not the bed,” said Mark. “She made sure that wouldn't happen again. This time I found her in the dining room where she had tied herself to a chair with the belt from her robe and what appeared to be either a weather balloon or an enormous bra.. Apparently she didn't want to fall off the chair. There were two empty 40 ounce bottles lying on the dining room table along with the remnants of some burning copies of Playgirl. It appears that Edna has a sensual side.”
“They still print that magazine?”
“No clue. You'll have to research that yourself. Anyhow, the fire was pretty intense and it was impossible to untie the knots with my gloves on so I had to pick up Edna, chair and all, and head for the door as fast as I could.”
“Don't tell me you had to go back for her cats again this time,” I said.
“Oh, no, Edna doesn't have the cats anymore. When I picked her up she pulled my oxygen mask down because she was afraid I wouldn't hear her. She wanted to tell me that she had a dog that needed rescued. The dog, however, didn't need to be rescued because it was having intimate relations with my left boot all the while I was carrying Edna to the ambulance.”
I really, really tried not to laugh.
“You can laugh, but it wasn't so funny for the next door neighbor who was standing out in his front yard having a cigarette. The dog charged at him and the guy barely outran him to his front door,” said Mark.
“So the dog is vicious?” I asked.
“No, I think he just wanted the cigarette.”
Chapter 2
East Spoon Creek City, population 1200, whose town motto is You've Got To Live Somewhere, was founded by two men who, well, had to live somewhere. Back in the early 1800's a man named Samuel Brown stopped by a creek, decided it was a good place to make booze and sell it to passersby who were heading west. One of the travelers, Albert Sholes, was a peddler and he was tired of riding all over the countryside selling pots and pans. The two went into business together and opened up shops and the town grew up around them over time. The descendants of Brown and Sholes still live in town and have carried on their family traditions of feuding with each other and occasionally taking breaks from the feuding to cook up underhanded schemes together, which inevitably go wrong and lead to more feuding.
My great-great grandfather Seamus O'Shea came to East Spoon Creek City not long after it was first founded, and opened a blacksmith shop. My grandparents are in their eighties now and still live on the farm where our ancestor's old shop stood. Grandpa O'Shea was in the Second World War and will gladly pull up his shirt and display his shrapnel wounds to anyone who will look. One of them is actually a scar from his gall bladder operation, but he says that it should count as a war wound since he probably got gall stones from the inedible food he had to eat while he was in the service.
My parents lived in town too, but recently they bought an RV and have been driving around the country searching for the perfect spot for an affordable vacation home where the family can get together in the summer. So far nothing has worked out, but they're still looking.
The morning after Lloyd Duval returned to town I got a text from Mom saying they're heading to Centralia, Pennsylvania because they were told that it's in some kind of record book, it has some unusual sights and the land prices are well below average. I've never heard of it but it sounds good. Pennsylvania has those beautiful mountains, not to mention Hershey Park and the outlet malls. What could go wrong?
Mark came into the Breezy Spoon around noon. As he sat down in a booth, he said, “I hear that Roger Travers came in yesterday and offered you a job piloting a plane that looks like it's made out of cardboard and spit.”
“He did that very thing,” I replied. “Apparently it's the same experimental model that a celebrity was flying when he went to meet his maker. He said it was hard to find a copy of it. I guess he just got lucky.”
“Well, who knows, he might survive. By the way, neither of us has to work tomorrow night. Why don't I come down to your place and we can watch a movie? I'll bring soda and Cracker Jacks.”
He almost had me there. Cracker Jacks were my favorite. They were also my gateway drug to those huge tins of popcorn that you get at Christmastime. The quaintly decorated tins have three flavors of popcorn separated by cardboard dividers. Butter flavored, cheesy, and the quintessence of all good things in life, caramel corn. The only problem was I never could figure out what to do with the empty tins. I mean, they're too good to just throw away and the charities won't take them. I've actually sneaked over to various thrift stores in the middle of the night and unloaded dozens of them in the back alley by their receiving door only to find them stacked on my front porch the next morning. Stupid security cameras.
I thought about Mark's suggestion and I said, “That would be great, but I probably should go to Lloyd's lecture tomorrow night to see what the life coach is up to. The whole thing sounds suspicious to me. Of course, that means I'll have to chance walking in the dark, all alone by myself on these mean streets without a companion.”
“Sounds dangerous,” he said. “You'd better stay home and watch a movie with me instead. I'll even let you make out with me, cuddle and talk about feelings.”
My brother Bob had just walked in
and made his way through the lunch crowd to the booth where we were sitting.
“Dani's scowling,” he said. “Do you need a personal protective order?”
“Not yet,” Mark replied. “Apparently she wants to cuddle and talk about feelings but you know how shy I am about displays of affection.”
“I do know that about you,” said Bob. “How many times in the past has she been emotionally aggressive with you and I've seen you clutching your pearls with one hand and pressing the back of your other wrist against your forehead? It's a downright pitiful sight to behold.”
“Well, you know I've led a very sheltered life, yes I have.”
“I'm aware of that,” Bob replied. “Those tours of duty you did in the Middle East left you unprepared for people like Dani. What's the situation here? Will she allow you to have any food?”
“You mean like today's special which, according to the menu board, seems to be chopped sirloin burgers with red onion jam, fresh corn on the cob with adobe butter, garlic french fries, and cappuccino cupcakes with buttercream frosting?”
“Possibly, only I'll want extra dill pickles,” Bob said, sliding into the booth. “By the way, how did those tests go yesterday?”
“Everything was fine,” Mark replied. “It's just a precautionary thing that they're required to do with smoke inhalation.”
“Wait, wait, wait!” I interrupted. “Do you mean you went to the hospital again and didn't tell me about it?”
“It was no big deal,” Mark shrugged. “Besides, it wouldn't have been any use telling you; you're banned from the hospital.”
“You always say that! No one can be banned from a hospital!” I turned to my brother. “And why didn't you call me?”
“What he said,” Bob replied.
“Once and for all I am not banned from the hospital! That incident a few months ago when you were in that accident and I was trying to find out if you were all right, I may possibly have lost my composure a bit---”
“I think one of the interns that you knocked down may have broken his nose. The screaming frightened a pregnant woman so much that she went into labor,” said Mark.