There’s nothing like a good walk to clear your head if you’ve been fired and evicted on the same day. And there were two dogs to encourage me in this kind of thinking. I bundled up in my nineteen-sixties red wool, hooded cape, a vintage find that made me feel like a streetwise Red Riding Hood. I headed downtown to stomp out my frustrations on the sidewalks of Harrison Falls. It didn’t help that signs of Thanksgiving were everywhere. If it wasn’t a pumpkin, it was a sheaf of dried corn. If it wasn’t a Pilgrim hat, it was a cornucopia. If it wasn’t a turkey, it was a . . . well, there were lots of turkeys, none of them real, thank heavens. Never mind that Harrison Falls was done up à la Norman Rockwell, I wasn’t feeling thankful in the least. I did realize that it could have been worse. I could have been arrested or dead or . . . but it wasn’t a situation suitable for celebrating.
I needed to find a way to make a living again and quickly. For sure, the uncles wouldn’t toss me out, but I would need a place of my own before long if I wanted to retain my sanity. I had to keep saving too. That part might prove to be tricky. What could I do to make a bit of money?
On Main Street I stepped into Betty’s Boutique, a vintage clothing shop, to check it out. The fifties and sixties fashions in the window showed well against the backdrop: a framed poster of Norman Rockwell’s famous Freedom from Want, the archetypal Thanksgiving image. I decided not to think about my own Thanksgiving, which was probably going to consist of beans and franks, with Uncle Mick’s signature Heinz ketchup.
I had to find the bright side. I probably had plenty of vintage I could sell on consignment to Betty’s. The shop tended to be pricey and catered to out-of-town and online customers. Normally, I wouldn’t think of getting rid of any of my clothing, but this was no normal time. Betty, the owner, didn’t mind dogs and they were pleased to be allowed to sniff around in this new space with so many scents.
I always liked seeing Betty with her nineteen-fifties pageboy and her cinched-waist outfits, jet-black drawn-on eyebrows, bloodred lipstick and fingernails, plus cigarette holder. Back in the day, I bet that Archie would have been drawn to her. There were many great rumors about Betty’s background. According to wagging local tongues she’d been romantically linked to two of the Beatles, a Scottish lord, and several U.S. senators. Whatever her life had been, for sure it had been interesting. The cigarette remained unlit, of course. I chatted with Betty a bit and then snooped around, enjoying the many racks of sixties and seventies outfits. Fun stuff. Too bad I found lots that I wanted to buy and buying wasn’t in the cards.
Never mind, I made an appointment with Betty for the following week to show her some of my favorite dresses with a “mod” pedigree from the sixties. It might hurt a bit to sell them, but I knew I had to be tough. And in a week, I’d have a better idea of what I really needed to do to get my life back on track.
Betty waved her cigarette holder languidly as I headed out. I grinned back at her. The visit had cheered me up a bit and shown me that I could find ways of making money without Vera and her books.
Next we trooped into Second Time Around to see if there were any pickings. I managed to seem bored after twenty minutes of pretending to browse through other things when I selected three Bobbsey Twins books in great shape from a mess of worthless bestsellers, with their curled, yellowed pages and bent covers. I could sell these without a problem on eBay for at least twelve dollars each and turn a nice profit from a three-dollar investment. It would be more than worth the trouble of listing them.
I tried not to smile as I paid for them. The dogs seemed to be sensing my suppressed excitement. I thought Cobain’s tail would clear the nearest shelf of mismatched glasses and shaky table lamps. I don’t have many vices, but the thrill of a good find keeps me creeping around in dank corners of dusty shops.
Harrison Falls has been improving somewhat of late, and small businesses have been making their way to the downtown area. Some have failed quickly and spectacularly, and others have held on. The Sweet Spot and the Poocherie seemed to have weathered their first couple of years. We gave the candy store a miss, although I waved as I went by. I couldn’t resist strolling through the pet shop, where both dogs got homemade crunchy treats. We missed the young manager, Jasmine, but we’d drop into the Poocherie more often now that I was living in the area.
I figured I’d better enjoy this walk, because it was only a matter of time until everyone in Harrison Falls found out that I’d been fired by Vera. I had to practice keeping my head held high, as befitted a Kelly or a Bingham. It was easier if I didn’t run into everyone I knew all at once.
The walk did me good and as I passed the Hudson Café, I paused. I could see the new owner, Lainie Hetherington, inside. Lainie loved me, perhaps because I was such a good customer. I got a warm feeling every time I spoke to her. My best friends Tiff and Lance and I count it as our favorite place. I could get a job there in a flash. But did I want to go back to the job I had after my first year in college? The job where I’d worked with Tiff and Lance? It had been great that summer, but I hoped my life would continue to be in the book world. I wanted to go forward, not back.
Lainie spotted me and waved. She opened the door and enveloped me in a big hug. As I said, she loved me. I could smell wonderful aromas through the open door. Was that pumpkin pie? For sure there was a tantalizing hint of cinnamon and nutmeg and something baking. It was all part of that Thanksgiving mood on Main Street. I decided to be thankful for the delicious smells in the restaurant.
“How are you?” Lainie said, sympathetically. “You seem a bit down.”
“Nope,” I fibbed. “Not down at all. Couldn’t be better. How are you?”
She shrugged. “The same. Soldiering on.”
“It’s really good to have you here in Harrison Falls. You’ve kept our beloved café afloat.” Lainie had moved to town the past summer after retiring from her therapy practice in New York City. She’d bought the venerable Hudson Café with great ideas to update and expand it, only to discover that her restaurant was soon struggling in the bad economy.
“A person likes to hear that,” she said with a bright smile. “How about a bit of a late lunch?”
“Thanks, I can’t.” I chose not to mention that I wouldn’t be lunching in upscale bistros or cafés until I got my job back or found a really good alternative.
“On the house,” she added with a sparkle. “Cheer you up.”
It was hard to say no to her. For a small person, Lainie’s presence was larger than life. Her silver ponytail was sleekly gathered in the back and her slightly pear-shaped figure was hugged by snug jeans that might have been designed for her. The asymmetrical black cashmere sweater and the large silver hoop earrings and dramatic silver ring gave her a casual glamour that most women would kill for. Classic red lipstick was invented for a woman like her. She was probably almost ten years older than Vera but seemed much younger and more vital. When I’m midsixties I want to look as good as she does, but I knew better than to mention that.
“What are you grinning at?” she said.
“Sorry, I’ve already eaten, but I’m starting to realize how many inspiring women are running successful businesses in this town. It gives a girl hope for the future.”
“Does it now?” She laughed her throaty laugh. “Well, it ain’t all roses.”
I knew that. Lainie hadn’t realized that the café had been in trouble when she’d sunk her life savings into it. The reality of running a restaurant in tough times had been a shock to her.
Still, she had managed to keep the Hudson Café humming along even through the ups and downs.
I said, “It’s your perseverance I admire most. Please tell me it’s worth it in the end?”
“I guess so. I’ve sure learned a lot, like making sure I’m on the premises and not paying other people to manage my investment. You have to take charge of your life and be tough, Jordan. You need to seize the moment.”
I fought the urge to gush about her place as a role model in my life; I didn’t want her to feel put on the spot.
She frowned and two little lines creased her forehead. “What’s wrong, Jordan? You can tell me.”
I opened my mouth to give her my litany of troubles when Uncle Mick’s words echoed in my brain. Never be needy. It makes you vulnerable. If you really require help, turn to your family. This was kind of a Kelly code that Uncle Mick had instilled into my head when I first moved in as a small child. It had stood me in good stead in the schoolyard, where I’d learned to stand up for myself early and often.
I squeezed her hand and said good-bye. “Don’t worry about me. I have a lot of errands to do and these two dogs waiting. I’m a bit distracted. I hope to be back for a wonderful lunch soon.”
A few stores down, I noticed that an abandoned diner had been set up as a food depot for needy families by Phyllis Zelman, Harrison Falls’s most energetic volunteer.
Where Lainie had welcomed me, Phyllis pounced.
“Look at you!” Phyllis said.
I stared. Walter cocked his head and snuffled. Cobain reserved judgment. Maybe it was the close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair or the oversized round black-framed glasses. Or it could have been the track suit with the Nordic sweater over it or the clumpy white running shoes. The thick knitted socks were a possibility too. It was really nippy in the space, though, so I figured all those clothes were a good idea.
“I bet you’ve got lots to be thankful about this season,” she said. At least she hadn’t heard about my unceremonious firing. One good thing.
“Actually . . .”
She raised a hand. “We all have some troubles, but do you have a roof over your head?”
I paused. Not the roof I wanted, but a roof. “Yes.”
“Enough to eat?”
I thought of the cupboard full of mac and cheese. “Yes.”
“So then please don’t complain because you don’t have the latest cell phone or a trip to the Caribbean or new and fashionable clothes.”
I stared at her. “These are vintage,” I said. “I choose to wear them.”
She snorted. “I’m not speaking of your actual wardrobe. I’m talking about your advantages. Lots of people have almost nothing, including not enough to eat. So give some thought to helping us with our Thanksgiving dinner for people who really need help.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’d be glad to help.” All she’d had to do was ask. I would have said yes without the guilt trip.
She wasn’t done, though. “Makes you put your own problems in perspective, doesn’t it?”
It did. But I still had them. They were big enough to me and they weren’t going to disappear without me doing something about them. But never mind; whatever happened with Muriel and Vera, it was a good idea to help with this project, even if Phyllis was a bit of a pain.
She said, “What would you like to do? Collect food? Cook? Serve?”
“I’ll serve. I’d like that.” It seemed a lot more straightforward than figuring out how to collect food or, worse, how to cook it. I couldn’t see that ending well for anyone.
Luckily, I’d already reminded myself not to be needy. So I didn’t really require Phyllis’s approval. And that was probably a good thing. I had to stand on my own two feet. And that wouldn’t prevent me from giving a helping hand to someone else.
I gave Phyllis my cell number so she could leave me a message about where and when to show up. “And,” she said, “there might be a few extra errands required. You never know.”
* * *
MURIEL DELGADO KEPT a low profile on the Internet. I had plenty to do and the first order of business was to try harder to find some information about her. Back in my room alone, I continued searching and I found people with that name in Canada, Europe and South America. Harrison Falls? Zip. Upstate New York? The same. In fact, Muriel Delgado didn’t appear to live in the USA.
Whoever she was, she wasn’t active in the book world as far as I could tell. I tried a few more search engines, knowing that can make a difference, and also tried the image applications. I found nobody even faintly like the tall imposing person with the swirling black clothing who had appeared at our door last night. I shook my head. Was it only last night? Less than twenty-four hours and my life had been turned upside down, sideways and inside out. How could that be? I willed myself to focus on my search. Where there’s a will, they say. But this time, there seemed to be no way.
It wasn’t the sort of quest you could quit. I stared around at my My Little Pony gang and the bookcase with my Goosebumps collection, ’N Sync CDs and well-worn Newsies videocassette. I really needed to get out of that room.
* * *
I WALKED THE dogs through the lingering snow on the sidewalks of downtown Harrison Falls and headed out to the library. I figured Lance was out of town as he still hadn’t answered any of my texts, but I was a big girl with a serious degree and I knew how to use a library.
In my family, we make sure we are always pulled together when we head out. It makes a difference in our mood and in how people react to us. Even those of us who are engaged in legal activities (that would be me) believe this.
I might have been fired, but no way was that going to be apparent to anyone who saw me. I’d ditched the red cape and was wearing wide brown slacks, with dangerously pointy brown boots and a raw angora cable-knit sweater, topped with my green suede fur-trimmed jacket. Earlier in November, I’d spied it in our Harrison Falls Saturday Flea Market with a ratty fur fringe and was lucky enough to find a replacement. It was my late-fall-with-a-bit-of-snow Charlie’s Angels ensemble.
* * *
MY JAW DROPPED as I headed over to the reference desk. Lance glanced up and blinked. I blinked back. I forced a smile onto my face and said. “You’re working today.” A little pang of hurt feelings settled across my chest. Why hadn’t he returned my text?
He nodded.
On my back, I felt the beady eyes of the brigade of elderly women who spend hours in Lance’s presence. Since he’d joined the staff at Harrison Falls Public Library after getting his master’s, interest in local history had exploded. Everyone seemed to have a small, unique research project. I wasn’t fooled.
“Great. I need some help and you are the best.”
“Excuse me,” a quavery voice said at my elbow. “I require some assistance here.”
It would not be an exaggeration to say that Lance leapt to his feet to help one of his posse. Any more enthusiasm and he would have vaulted over the desk.
I did my best to pick my jaw up off the well-worn carpet. Where was my usual over-the-top greeting? The hug? The “beautiful lady” or “mademoiselle”? Some remark about getting lost in my eyes? What was wrong with my Lance?
I felt shaken to my core. What if it was really something wrong with me? Clearly something about me was . . . well, the word “repellent” came to mind. Lance and I had been friends since the summer after our first year in college, when we worked together in the Hudson Café along with Tiff. We were close. We flirted. We were the best of friends. We loved each other. There had never been any coolness between us, let alone the cold shoulder like this. I gingerly pointed my nose to my armpit region, testing for offensive odors.
Literally, I smelled like roses.
Every time I made visual contact with him, he shrugged apologetically and at the same time let his eyes slide away. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he was feeling guilty. But what could Lance have to feel guilty about?
Never mind.
That was a setback, but of course, he wasn’t the only librarian in the world. Still, Lance knew his way through the myriad vertical file materials and historical files and other library magic. If there was a sentence about Muriel Delgado on some yellowed sheet of paper in the Harrison Falls Pub
lic Library, Lance DeWitt would be able to track it down.
Unwilling to admit defeat, I made my way to the shelves of city directories. The service had been discontinued, but volumes were still available up to the seventies. There was only one Delgado. I found a C. Delgado living at 10B Willows Road in the early sixties. After that, a C. Delgado around nineteen sixty-five at 22 Lilac Lane. I found no M. Delgado in any year. Finally in the midseventies, a C. Delgado showed up at 153 Maple Street.
I made a note of each address. At least I had somewhere to start.
I left the library without having made eye contact with Lance again. He didn’t rush after me to make things right. Whatever was going on with him today, I couldn’t deal with it. I put his strange and hurtful behavior behind me and headed off to find answers to my other problems.
But mostly I lay on my bed for the rest of the evening sulking and sniffing. Occasionally I paused to stuff my face with chocolate marshmallow cookies.
The dogs understood that part.
* * *
WHEN I WASN’T walking, feeding and patting the pooches, I spent the next morning polishing up my all-purpose résumé on the off chance that a part-time opportunity might present itself. I found a few lackluster opportunities online and decided to apply anyway. I could not help but notice the complete lack of attention from the man in my life and my two best friends. I had, after all, been unceremoniously dumped from my wonderful job. Surely that was worth a pat on the back. And speaking of pats on the back, Uncle Mick was not around either. I was alone in the world.
A trip to the post office to mail off some résumés to totally unappealing possible employers did nothing to help my mood. Even if I love that historic building. Usually.
* * *
I WAS ALTERNATING between hurt feelings and anger as I eased my beloved vintage Saab in front of Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques and parked. I felt I needed to give Lance and Tiff the benefit of the doubt, as they’d been good and loyal friends for such a long time. Tyler Dekker had his career to think about. And Uncle Mick was probably busy with . . . it was better I didn’t know with what. As I stepped out of the car, an elderly black Cadillac Seville shot in front of me and braked abruptly. Uncle Kev jumped out and left the motor running. This was Vera’s car, of course, and Uncle Kev wouldn’t be paying for that gas. Most likely he wouldn’t be paying for any fuel ever.
The Wolfe Widow (A Book Collector Mystery) Page 4