When his brother, Vinnie, had phoned recently and asked, “So, how goes the countdown to moving day?” Jacob told him the thing he was most anxious to finish was folding himself up “like origami to fit into the cramped and noisy tin can of an airplane.”
Just when he’d begun to believe he’d handle the transition from Philly to Partonville with flying adult colors, he came across that scene in front of Harry’s this morning, an event that reminded him how much Partonville seemed nothing like the rest of the world. A handshake on a fair-and-square campaign? Is that really what Sam Vitner was carrying on about? Of course it made Jacob chuckle to picture presidential candidates performing that ritual, then sticking to it. Down and dirty campaigning was more like it these days. Where have integrity, honesty and representing the people gone? On the upside, he mused, perhaps those very questions served as part of the catalyst to move him back to Partonville. It’s not that he’d lost his honesty and integrity, but in the long run, helping fat cats get fatter had eroded his sense of mission. He felt a kind of purpose that stirred his emotions when he thought about helping the people in his mom’s little town. Mom’s little town. Will it ever feel like mine?
He flipped a few more pages, read a travel piece, then shut the magazine, stuffed it back in its compartment and closed his eyes. He was tired. Not enough sleep—again. His mind drifted to the fact he hadn’t seen Katie. He had this niggling feeling she was somehow going to be caught up in this mayoral ruckus. He recalled Sam Vitner leading a personal charge against her mini mall once before. But then he’d watched Katie work her magic at the annual Happy Hookers (rug hookers turned bunco players) Christmas party out at the farm, heard the verbal blow-by-blow presentation she’d given to thwart the enemy, so to speak. She’d followed a plan his mom had played a hand in scheming. What a pair of headstrong, determined and clever women.
His mom. He was going to keep focused on her. No matter what kind of trouble the people of Partonville seemed to be stirring up, he simply would not allow himself to be sorry about this move. Besides, if Katie did get caught up in the strife, he was glad to imagine he might become her ally, of sorts. He smiled thinking it might be the City Slickers against the locals. Brother! Sounds like the Hatfields and the McCoys! But the odds were always better when there were two against . . . however many.
Then again, how bad could it really get in Pardon-Me-Ville? He smiled and nodded off, all but shaking his head at the ridiculous notion of a feud.
9
C olton Craig held the receiver to his ear with his left hand; the thumb and index finger of his right hand were wrapped around an expensive imported cigar. He took a slow drag, then watched the smoke curl into the air after it passed through his lips. He was leaning back in his ergonomic leather chair, gazing out his office picture window onto Hethrow, in large part a metropolis created by Craig & Craig Developers’ own careful planning, business savvy, shrewd dealing and hard work. (Colton and his brother’s firm had helped develop Hethrow from a small town nearly off the map into a major city split by the interstate highway.) He was engaged in a relaxing early afternoon chat with one of his old Chicago friends, Carl Jimson. Their friendship had been limited to Christmas cards the past couple of decades, but when Carl started making occasional trips to Partonville and realized he’d be within a short distance of Colton, he gave him a call and the two had dinner a couple of times, maintaining somewhat closer phone contact after their reunion of sorts.
Since both men were in related fields (Carl an architect and Colton in commercial real estate development), their conversations usually wandered around to their latest interesting architectural discoveries. Today was no different. After breezing through casual personal chit-chat, Colton recapped the unusual design features he appreciated in the new, privately held hotel he’d stayed in during his recent vacation to Jamaica, saying that management had made wonderful use of what he could only describe as octagons throughout. “Lobby, rooms . . . it was like walking through a clever puzzle.”
“It’s wonderful when aesthetics marry purpose,” Carl said, then added that one of his clients had just announced a chocolate shop would complement an element of his design.
Unbeknownst to Carl, word of the confectioner coming to the mini mall had already spread throughout the greater Partonville area. The confectioner’s sister, a freelance journalist, had immediately sent out press releases announcing that Sheldon Prescott had finally found a space for his long-time vision, Alotta Chocolatta.
“Carl,” Colton said, leaning back a little farther in his chair, “this is interesting news, especially on the heels of the phone call I received yesterday.”
“Oh?”
“Even with a chocolate shop, it sounds like Kathryn Durbin’s going to have a run for her money, which she’s spent plenty of already.” Nobody in the commercial real estate business referred to her as Katie, most not even knowing that Katie, not Kathryn, was her given name. When she’d thrown her hat in Chicago’s cutthroat development arena decades ago, she believed Katie sounded too . . . casual or flip or something, so she’d printed her business cards with Kathryn Durbin and that’s the way she remained. “I’m still hard-pressed to understand what’s driving her with this . . . what’s she calling it? A mini mall?”
“Yes, a mini mall, soon to have a name. But how’d you know I was talking about Kathryn?” Carl usually held client information close to his vest.
“Wild guess helped along by a recent press release I read in our Daily Courier.”
“Oh. Well, you said you couldn’t figure out what’s driving her and I’d say it’s a keen mind for business. And don’t forget, she has a brilliant architect on the job, so you can be sure her interior building design is going to be noteworthy on its own.” Colton heard the smile in his friend’s voice.
Carl Jimson’s reputation as an architect was excellent. And he was glad to have an opportunity to finally work with someone often referred to as Kathryn Durbin, Development Diva. Katie contracted him from Chicago thinking her plans would be more secure from the likes of Colton Craig, a man who’d played a hand in her losing her position in the windy city. She didn’t know Carl and Colton were old buddies. Throughout the years Colton had occasionally mentioned Katie’s name to Carl, but Carl had no idea the two had become Big Gun adversaries down here in the northern part of southern Illinois. Carl also had no idea his shrewd friend started taking notes the minute Ms. Durbin’s name came up.
In its day, Partonville had been the center of attention in the area; but once the interstate and automobile plant came to Hethrow, the boom was on and Partonville suffered. After a couple of decades of huge growth, west was now the only direction left for the Craig brothers to expand. Dorothy’s Crooked Creek Farm had been their target. They’d made Dorothy a silent offer, hoping to buy her out, annex the property and keep their expansion marching clear through the Partonville square, which was dying out anyway. But then Katie bought Crooked Creek Farm out from under them—and moved onto it. Colton and Katie had always played the same cutthroat game, each beating out the other over the years. But up until the last twenty-four hours, he couldn’t figure out what she thought she was up to, moving onto a farm, acting like the Lone Ranger, pretending to save Podunk Partonville from evaporating into extinction by investing in a long vacant building on a dying square. The only thing he knew for sure was that big money was her target, and after that surprising phone call, he finally had the proof.
Colton didn’t want to shut off Carl’s information, which was, at least thus far, known by him anyway, but now that he’d acquired the under-the-table news, he forced himself to stay casually inquisitive so as not to raise any suspicions. “Oh, that’s right. She’s running a contest, isn’t she? Kathryn Durbin running a contest. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“That contest is more than it appears. She’s rallied the residents with it. Good business, if you ask me. And
honestly, I think her endeavor’s going to have a big payoff. She’s a shrewd businesswoman, Colton, and when the rehabbing finally comes to an end and the shopkeepers get set up, she’s going to have a good drawing card there, a draw I think might help sell the whole town—which,” and he stopped to chuckle here, “might one day rival the likes of Hethrow.” Of course he was kidding, but even the insane notion of it irked Colton.
Or had Kathryn drawn Carl, one of the best in the business, into some bigger plan Colton didn’t yet know about and perhaps he was being baited? After all, Carl had a reputation for getting involved with major expansion projects.
Colton took another draw on his cigar and this time blew the smoke out the side of his mouth. “She’s a worthy opponent, but then that’s no surprise. Truthfully, I’ve always found her fortitude quite attractive.” Since Colton was known as a twice-divorced womanizer, Carl had no doubt about that. “Maybe you’re not aware of it, but Ms. Durbin and I have gathered a few decades’ worth of dueling history in the commercial real estate game. Although when she left Chicago I’d won the last round, I believe she’s positioning herself to try to best me here in my own territory, or at the very least give me a run for my money.” Sounding unsure for the moment was better bait.
“Come on, Colton. I hardly think a mini mall in a town of fourteen hundred people is going to rival Hethrow.”
Maybe Carl wasn’t in on anything bigger than that one project. Either that or he was very shrewd. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I’m sure by this morning it’s already become public knowledge.”
“About?”
“Seems our Ms. Durbin’s aligned herself with Gladys McKern. She’s quite the . . . character. You familiar with her?”
“She’s the mayor of Partonville, right?”
“At least for now.”
“And that means?”
“I received an anonymous phone call yesterday—at least the caller thought it was anonymous, apparently never having heard of caller I.D., which doesn’t surprise me for a Partonville resident—advising me that not everyone in Partonville is happy with the new mall, and furthermore, they’re ready to do battle against the way Katie, as he referred to her, has been sewing up properties in and around Partonville.”
“And?” Carl was clueless as to what Colton was driving at, and why should he care anyway? He wasn’t even from the area and he was hardly her confidant. She’d hired him to work on a building and he did. End of story. Still, his curiosity was piqued.
“And the caller went on to say somebody needed to put a stop to it.”
“By?”
“By ousting the mayor—who was clearly in Ms. Durbin’s pocket, according to my caller—this coming election and getting someone in who had their own deep pockets and connections. Somebody who could come up against her, so to speak, is the way my caller put it. Somebody who could keep Partonville from becoming Durbinville.”
“You’re kidding me, right? They think she’s trying to turn Partonville into Durbinville?”
“I kid you not. But most importantly, they think she’s a shyster and they want someone to help stop her.”
“And that savior would be?” As if he hadn’t guessed.
“The caller perceived me to be the money machine and himself to be the new mayor, although like I said he didn’t identify himself right off, since he was,” and he stopped here to chuckle, “trying to be anonymous, remember.”
“And the caller was?”
“Sam Vitner, the guy who owns Swappin’ Sam’s. You familiar with him?”
“Not that resale place on the edge of Partonville with the toilets sitting out in the front lawn?!” If there was one key thing about Swappin’ Sam’s, it’s that it was impossible to miss. But the chaos of its appearance had indeed lured Carl right in for a look-see and a brief chat with Sam. The place reminded him of a junkyard his dad used to take him to when he was a kid. Oh, how he loved prowling through that place with his dad, watching him pick up this and that, then listening to him tell all about what it was for, how one relative or another used to have one, or what it was replaced with when progress came along. He adored his dad. He’d have listened to him talk about anything just to spend time with him, feel him reach down and grab his hand, playfully bonk him on the head, tuck him in to say his prayers.
“Exactly that place.”
“And this guy thinks he can beat out McKern for mayor?”
“He said he already has a base of solid supporters and that his posters were going up last night. He said I should have a look in the window at Hornsby’s Shoe Emporium today. He said once people knew he was running against— and this is a direct quote—‘Mayor Turncoat, it would be easy pickens from there on in.’ ” Colton’s spot-on imitation of Sam made Carl laugh.
“Kathryn doesn’t know about this yet?”
“If those posters did go up last night, I imagine everybody in Partonville knows. Like all two-bit towns, they have quite the grapevine.” Carl didn’t like the tone in Colton’s two-bit dig, especially not when he’d just tangentially invested his reputation in a piece of Partonville. But then, that was Colton. He’d always been smug. “What she doesn’t know—at least not to the best of my knowledge, unless Vitner felt the need to brag about our possible alliance—is that now I know what she’s been up to regarding all those surrounding properties. And Carl, I’m assuming this conversation we’re having is confidential.”
Carl didn’t respond right away. He didn’t like the odd turn of events here and felt himself to be in a hard place between a client, who was paying him and whom he rather liked, and a friend, who he also knew could be somewhat snaky to get what he wanted. He hoped Colton hadn’t just played him. Then again, what did he have to lose anyway? “Of course,” he finally said.
“Well, since you’re working with Kathryn, at least until the building is done, I know you well enough to understand—and respect—your loyalty. And by the way, how could you not be on the side of a smart, beautiful, leggy woman like that?” They chuckled in agreement.
“How, by the way, did you respond to Vitner’s proposal?”
“I told him what I tell anyone who says they’d like to join forces with Craig & Craig Developers, which is of course I’m interested.”
“So he’s going to be like . . . a snitch? Or, what?” As far as Carl could figure, Colton would have no interest in saving Partonville, not when there was more money to be had mowing it down and turning it into a Hethrow subdivision. He doubted Vitner had thought about that when he’d made his alliance.
“Let’s just say he vowed to try to break the tentacles of trust the townsfolk have with Morgan Realty, Katie Durbin, as he kept referring to her, and Gladys McKern in order to get people to let him know—and therefore let me know—when they’re thinking about selling. People should have some fair-market competition for their properties, which, up until Sam’s thoughtful meddling, the whole dumb lot of them hadn’t considered, it seems.”
Carl’s stomach was swiftly sinking. The whole dumb lot of them? He’d grown to admire Ms. Durbin’s tenacious attempt to help the people of Partonville take a stand against what—who—he now understood to perhaps be one of their aggressors. He recalled the homey feeling and courtesies he’d enjoyed at the Lamp Post motel on each of his stays. Even though he found Lester K. Biggs, the crotchety guy at Harry’s Grill, a tad terse, he hadn’t missed the collection jar Lester kept out on his counter for one local family or another, or the way the locals gathered around the U and, for better or for worse, shared pieces of their lives, teased each other, stood together in the end. He happened to be in town around Rick Lawson’s death and had witnessed an entire population grieve the loss of one of their own. City life had its advantages, but who in his gated community would truly miss him if he were gone? Carl was raised in the country, his father, now deceased, was a second-generation dairy farmer in Wis
consin. Partonville had made him lonesome for that sense of oneness he used to know as a kid, and that had given him a feeling of protectiveness and satisfaction in investing in such a place, no matter how small—or remunerative—his contribution had been. “If I may ask, how does this all pertain to the mini mall, Colton?”
“How does all this pertain to the mall? you ask, Carl. Well, I’ll tell you what Vitner told me. Through her alliance with Herb Morgan’s long history as a trusted independent Realtor, Kathryn’s been purchasing any and all properties as soon as word-of-mouth reaches Morgan that somebody’s thinking of selling. Vitner said she’s paying Morgan a finder’s fee, using him as a buyer’s broker. She’s been buying old houses within the town itself, reportedly having some vision to morph some of those old homes surrounding the square into ‘quaint shops nobody can afford to shop at,’ is the way Vitner said it.
“But here’s her loophole . . . or my gift, I should say: I just learned through Mr. Anonymous that she’s also secured four out of the six farms she needs to tie my hands from ever expanding in that direction, unless I one day pay her a fortune for it, which I’m sure is her real game. Honestly, Carl, the woman is all smoke and mirrors. A few months ago she had me convinced she was talking to farmers about a Preservation Easement Program or some such nonsense. Instead, she’s been buying and tying! She’s temporarily sewn up those four farms through an option to buy them at a later date, and with upfront money—and with a confidentiality clause in it while she goes after those last two farms. Now I know why my land scouts have been getting the cold shoulder, which I might never have known until Vitner told me. He knows about it because the landholder of one of the biggest farms—and a key piece she needs to lock me out—didn’t like her offer the way it stood and figured he could probably hold out for more. Then the guy got a little big-mouthed about it to Sam one day, who’d already decided he’d had enough of Ms. Durbin, and Vitner became determined to shut her down—shut the, and I again quote him here, ‘whole dang lot of them down.’
Dearest Dorothy, If Not Now, When? Page 8