by Sharon Short
“I know Josie quite well,” Don interrupted.
“Guy over at the greenhouse?” I asked, acting like I didn’t see Tyra now staring from one to the other of us.
Don nodded.
“I’ll just sign in, then, and go see him.”
I turned, walked over to the reception desk, and signed in. By the time I was done, Tyra and Don had gone up the stairs.
I went on out, walked around to the greenhouse. Verbenia was the first person I saw. She was misting little cups that had seedlings in them. She looked up at me, then quickly tucked her chin down to her neck so that her long blond hair fell in front of her pretty face.
Then she stared up again, her blue eyes piecing me together, and finally coming up with a whole she recognized. I was rewarded with a smile. “Hi, Verbenia, I’m here to see Guy.”
“Verbenia hi, hi Verbenia. Josie hi, hi Josie,” she said. “Guy by the pumpkins. By the pumpkins Guy.”
Verbenia is pretty verbal for a resident of Stillwater, but she doesn’t like long conversations, and she doesn’t like to be touched, except by her sister Vivian, who could calm Verbenia down with tight hugs. I sidled down the narrow aisle past her, seeing Charles, who stopped me, as always, to ask me how many miles I’d driven to get here, how long it took me, and the route I’d taken. I told him, and he thought a minute, then told me it had taken me seven minutes and 28 seconds longer to get here than the last time. That’s what Charles did—somehow, he kept track in his head of how long it took people to get to Stillwater, and figured out the difference. He had those numbers for all of the regular Stillwater visitors.
As I moved on, I wondered over the fact that the whole scene with Chief Worthy had only taken seven minutes and 28 seconds. I knew Charles was right. But it had seemed like a lot longer than that.
Fred waved at me, then, in his funny way—he keeps the top part of his arm pressed into his body, then flaps around his forearm like a flipper. Fred never says much of anything. I waved back at him, then saw Guy. He was over with Celeste, one of the activity supervisors. She smiled as I came over.
“Hi, Josie! Guy, show Josie the pumpkin starts,” Celeste said, with a bright but firm tone to her voice. “Show her how the pumpkins are doing.” Celeste is just out of college, but she knows how to handle the Stillwater residents.
At Celeste’s suggestion, Guy picked up a pumpkin plant in its peat pot, carefully explaining how he’d put in the seed, covered it with dirt, watered it, and made sure it got plenty of light, and then a baby pumpkin plant came up. Then he picked up another pumpkin seedling and repeated his explanation. He did that for every plant he was responsible for—thirty-six pumpkin plants in all. He told me the same way, each time, and with pride, each time. And I didn’t rush him at all.
I was glad to listen. It made him feel good. It made me feel good, listening, and glancing around at the others working, some of them watering, some carefully transplanting other plants to bigger pots. It was warm and moist and cozy in the greenhouse, and I liked the sight of all those tables, covered with all those flats of plants, and the smell of green and life and warm and dirt. A greenhouse is the only place I know where you can smell all that at once.
And Tyra Grimes was here. Up to something. And it scared me. Because ever since she came to Paradise, weird things had been happening. I wondered how whatever she was doing here might hurt Stillwater’s precious balance of quiet work and routine. A balance that worked for the residents of Stillwater. A balance that Tyra might turn topsy-turvy.
On the other hand, maybe she really did just want to make a donation to Stillwater. After all, what could someone famous like Tyra gain from a place like Stillwater other than a tax write-off? It was impossible to imagine. Yet Stillwater was the reason she had really come to Paradise. And I found it hard to believe she just wanted to make a nice donation.
Guy was staring at me. He’d gone through all thirty-six of his pumpkin plants, and he was waiting for me to say something.
“They are wonderful,” I said. “The healthiest, most wonderful you’ve grown yet.”
Guy beamed. “Big pumpkins? Big, big pumpkins?”
“Yes,” I said. “They will be very big.”
The others were lining up behind Celeste now. The time to work in the greenhouse was over. I walked with Guy to the end of the line.
“Lunch duty today,” Guy said, letting me know what was next on his schedule. “Wash up first. I’m chopping onions. Sloppy joes. You like sloppy joes.”
“Yes, I do,” I said. His statement was his way of asking me to stay for lunch. But I didn’t know how long Tyra would be staying to talk with Don. And somehow, I didn’t want her to linger here. I wanted to get her away from here as quickly as possible. I was panicking—not going on logic—but sometimes a gut feeling is more telling than logic. So I said, “I’m sorry, Guy. I don’t know if I can stay for lunch today.”
He put his hands over his face, which meant he was upset. I touched his arm, but he pulled away. He kept his hands like that as he walked out behind the others, looking through his fingers spread apart over his face. I followed along, stopping outside the greenhouse. Charles led the group on around to the main house. I stayed outside, went around the back to see how the flower garden was doing. And there I saw Vivian Denlinger.
That was a surprise—Vivian’s a nurse up in Columbus, and it seemed unlikely she’d be able to visit today. But then, it wasn’t like me to be here in the middle of the week, either.
Vivian was wearing a black dress—something else that surprised me. She never wore dresses—always khaki pants or jeans and some simple top. She sat on the bench and stared at the bed of tulips—mostly yellows and pinks and purples. Only a few reds, which was good for Guy. She looked like a lady out of a painting in a book of artwork Winnie’d loaned me once. A lady in a garden, staring at the beautiful flowers, but really seeing something far away. A lady in mourning.
Now, I was still smarting from what Chief John Worthy had said. But nosy or not, one thing was certain—I know something that needs checking into when I see it. And Vivian here on a Wednesday, when she was supposed to be up in Columbus being a nurse, dressed in a black dress like some widow in mourning, definitely bore investigating.
I walked over and sat down on the bench next to her. She had on some thick, cloying perfume—a mixture of vanilla and gardenia—the kind of thing much older ladies wear, along with a hat and a churchy dress, when they want to look fine for some special occasion.
“Hi.” My greeting was gentle, but it still startled her.
“Sorry. You okay? You’re usually not here mid-week, and—”
“Neither are you,” she snapped. Then she shook her head and rubbed her eyes. “Sorry, Josie. I took off today after hearing about Lewis’s death. I’ve really been struggling with how to tell Verbenia and whether or not to take her with me to his viewing in a few days. I think, though, that would be too upsetting to her. I’ll just have to tell her about his death this afternoon.”
I stared at her. Surely there couldn’t be two Lewises in the Paradise area who were dead . . . still, I was taken aback. “You mean . . . Lewis Rothchild? You knew him? You’re going to his viewing?”
Vivian’s expression became guarded. “Yes, Lewis Rothchild. He is—was—a—a friend of our family’s.”
Vivian and Verbenia’s family . . . now, that was a new idea . . . I’d always just thought of Vivian and Verbenia as having only each other. I’d never given any consideration to a dad or mom, or other sisters, or brothers, uncles, aunts, cousins . . . but surely those folks were out there. Still, I’d never seen any of them around. Or Lewis, for that matter. Vivian and Verbenia were so close I just thought of them as having only each other.
I gave Vivian a little pat on her arm. “Then I’m sorry for your loss. I didn’t know you knew Lewis. How did you and Verbenia know him?”
Vivian looked away, tensing up even more than usual. She smoothed her already perfectly smooth hai
r, which was captured in a tight bun. “It’s a long story. But I—we—will miss him.”
Her voice trembled.
“Is that what you were talking to Celeste about? Having to tell Verbenia?”
“That—and that damned Tyra Grimes T-shirt.”
Vivian’s voice shifted from sadness to anger so suddenly—and so completely—that I was again startled. “Yeah, uh, that T-shirt really upset Guy, too. You know how he is about the color red. So, um, did you ever find out how Verbenia got one?”
Vivian’s frown tightened. “Charles’s mother saw this couple selling those T-shirts out of the back of their truck. I guess she’s a real Tyra Grimes fan.” Vivian said that as if instead of being a popular media star, Tyra was a fiend anyone with sense would hate. “I guess the couple gave Charles’s mother some sob story about needing money. So she bought three or four T-shirts. She gave one to Charles—and when Verbenia saw it, she really reacted to it, tugging on his sleeve like she wanted one too. So Verbenia got one.”
Vivian pressed her lips together. She got that faraway look she’d had when she’d been staring into the garden, only this time she didn’t look wistful, just bitter. When she spoke, her voice was nearly a whisper, it was so thin. “I got the T-shirt back. And made it very clear that Verbenia was never to have anything else given to her without my prior approval.”
Suddenly she shook her head, her expression clearing. “So, Josie, I haven’t asked yet—what brings you here today? Don’t you normally visit on a Sunday, too? Everything okay?”
A few seconds passed after I opened my mouth before words came out. Even then, I stuttered. “I—uh—yeah, sure, I normally come on Sundays, but there’s a, uh, visitor who wanted to, uh—”
And then I stopped. Vivian wasn’t listening to me anymore. She was staring beyond me. And her face had gone ghostly white, and hard.
“Vivian?” I said.
She stared.
I turned to see what had made her react so strongly.
It was Tyra Grimes, walking toward us, now yoo-hooing across the lawn at me.
I turned back to Vivian. But she was gone, nothing left of her but a waft of her perfume. She’d left so silently, so fast, I was glad of her perfume. It was the only proof I hadn’t imagined her.
On the ride home, my and Tyra’s conversation was quick.
I said, “So how is it you know Vivian Denlinger?”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“The lady I was sitting with when you came out from your meeting with Don.”
“I only caught a glimpse of her, but I’m sure I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
“Well, she seemed to know you.”
“Everyone knows who I am.”
“No, she seemed to know you. I don’t think she likes you.”
“Hmm. Must have seen the show I did on why soup should always be served as a course unto itself—never as a meal.” Tyra yawned. “Got a lot of complaints about that one. Riding in a car makes me sleepy. I think another nap is in order.”
Tyra’s nap gave me time to think.
What I thought about mostly was Vivian. There was definitely a connection between her and Verbenia and Lewis. There appeared to be a strong connection between her and Tyra—why else would she have such a strong reaction to a simple T-shirt? Or react that way to seeing Tyra? And of course I already suspected a personal connection between Lewis and Tyra. So somehow Lewis, Tyra, Vivian, and Verbenia were all connected . . . and Lewis was dead, while Tyra was planning on making a sizable donation to Stillwater, a fact that should have made Don happy . . . but he’d looked miserable when I’d dropped off Tyra.
This was all new information—but I wasn’t sure how it connected with Billy and the two runaways from Tyra’s labor camp, or with the Crookses being in town, or with Paige apparently running off with Billy, or . . .
My car swerved. I refocused on the road. My head was spinning. Thinking would have to wait.
So for the rest of the drive home to Paradise, I concentrated on driving, on staying calm. Which was a good thing, because as soon as we got back to my laundromat, I discovered that all hell had broken loose—again. And then things got even worse.
12
When we’d left Paradise that morning—Tyra and I—it had been the same sleepy little Ohio town I’ve always known. Three pickup trucks—one blue, one yellow, one red, all rusty—were parked in front of Sandy’s Restaurant. Mayor Cornelia’s lilac Cadillac (she’s a Joy Jean Cosmetics sales representative when she isn’t mayoring) was in front of Town Hall. Otherwise, the streets were pretty empty.
But when we got back to Paradise, I could barely get my car through town. The streets were packed with vans with satellite dishes on top and cars—big, new, shiny ones that I didn’t recognize—parked everywhere there was a niche of space, in front of my laundromat, and in front of Sandy’s Restaurant, and in front of the drugstore and the police department and Town Hall and the theatre. I saw a van that had a little satellite dish on top and CHANNEL 4, MASON COUNTY’S TOP TV NEWS SOURCE on the side (it’s actually Mason County’s only news source), plus two vans from Cincinnati, three from Columbus, even one from Dayton.
Word had finally gotten out—Tyra Grimes was in Paradise.
And so the world had at last discovered Paradise.
We were about to get the fame I’d wanted for my hometown. My wish had come true.
I should have been happy. But there was this sick fluttery feeling in my stomach, and I heard the words Mrs. Oglevee used to say: “be careful what you wish for . . . you just might get it.”
I had to park all the way down by Lewis’s Funeral Home, four blocks from my laundromat. Then, I had to wake Tyra up, which made her grumpy, like a kid who’s napped too long. But when she saw the media vans, a switch went off. She was suddenly Happily Beaming Tyra, Meet-the-Media Tyra, Gracious Tyra.
To get ready for the role, Tyra whipped a lipstick out of her purse and peered into a little mirror while she freshened up her lips, then finger-combed her hair.
“Did you see where they all are?” Tyra asked. She meant the media, of course.
“Everywhere,” I moaned.
“They have to be somewhere big. Where would that be?”
I thought. There’s no really big gathering spot in Paradise—not big enough for all the people who were currently clogging the streets.
“Even during the Beet Festival Parade, the streets aren’t this crowded,” I said. “The only place in town with lots of space is the Paradise Theatre—but it’s closed—or . . .” I stopped, the terrible truth hitting me, then wheezing right back out again in a thin stream of words. “Or . . . my . . . laundromat . . .”
Tyra got out of my car, hurried off without waiting for me. Of course, it wasn’t like I needed to introduce her.
I got out too and started hurrying down the sidewalk—I was mighty worried about what was going on in my laundromat—but I stopped when I saw, on the corner down by the Rothchild Funeral Home, Vivian, staring at me. She looked quickly away and ducked into Cherry’s Chat and Curl.
She’d followed us. That had to be the truth. Vivian wasn’t likely to go in and get her hair trimmed into some chic new style, not when she’d been wearing the same bun for years.
But I didn’t have time to run into Cherry’s to question her—I needed to get down to my laundromat. Now, I kind of wish I had. I could have talked with Cherry about why my scalp was itching all the time. I could have talked with Vivian, maybe even found out what was bothering her, then and there . . . instead of later, when it was too late.
But truth be told, I was more worried about my laundromat at the moment than about anything else—than about Tyra and whatever she was plotting at Stillwater, than about Billy and why he wanted me out at the Red Horse Motel at three o’clock. Toadfern’s Laundromat is my livelihood.
I ran. By the time I got there, I was huffing for breath.
But when I stepped in, what I sa
w took my breath away.
Reporters.
Everywhere.
Like an infestation of ants.
Not just Henry Romar, the publisher/editor/reporter for the Paradise Advertiser-Gazette, although he was there too, eyes wide, taking pictures of all of the reporters. This would be Henry’s biggest scoop—this many reporters had never been in Paradise before.
And it wasn’t just reporters and photographers crowded into my laundromat. As I picked my way through the crowd, trying to get to Tyra, I ran into Mayor Cornelia. And stumbled into Pastor Whitlock, from over at the Baptist Church.
It was so noisy that when I shouted, “This is a place of business! Unless you’ve got something to wash . . .” my voice was picked up and drowned in the thundering voices all around me.
It was so crowded that to see what was going on I finally climbed up on one of my folding tables and stood up on it and peered out over the crowd.
I took in what was going on in the center of my laundromat. There stood Tyra, a little circle of space around her, silent but smiling for camera after camera as reporters jostled to take her picture. She turned slowly, an eye of calmness in the middle of all these people storming around her, like she knew that her worth, in that moment, was in being seen, being photographed, being filmed. She knew it, and she liked it, and she relished it, so she played to it. It made me wonder how it felt to be someone like Tyra Grimes, when she was all alone. From what she’d said in my car on the way to Stillwater, it felt lonely. My thought from my last visit at the old orphanage echoed through my mind . . . two different things, alone and lonely. And not an easy combination to live with.
I could only pick up bits of the questions being hollered—“Ms. Grimes, what brings you to this little town?” “Ms. Grimes, can you address the allegations about illegal workers at your manufacturing site in the California desert . . .”
Tyra held her hand up. The people in the room got quiet, more or less, although there were still people taking pictures.
About this same time, a hefty reporter with a camera noticed me standing up on my folding table, and climbed up too.