by Lexi Eddings
Even an indie director.
Judith walked on, wishing she’d left her heels in New York. They didn’t work well on cobblestones. There were sidewalks a-plenty, but many of the crosswalks were paved in brick laid in a herringbone pattern. The effect was charming, she had to admit, but oh so treacherous for her red-soled designer pumps.
Maple Street turned out to be aptly named. Trees on either side of the lane had blazed into glorious color.
“Not bad,” she murmured. “It’s not New England, but it’s not bad.”
There. The camera’s mic should pick that up.
That kind of commentary would make her more likeable, wouldn’t it?
At first, the street was lined with older homes, but then after a block or two, businesses began to pop up, interspersed between residences. She passed by Unique Boutique, a women’s clothing store with surprisingly cute outfits displayed in the window.
A fellow with a small “man bun” and scraggly beard was sweeping the sidewalk in front of Cooper’s Hardware on the next block.
Whoa! Shades of Deliverance.
Despite looking like a cross between a Duck Dynasty reject and an old hippie, he stopped sweeping to let her pass. The man nodded to her and smiled.
“Have a nice day, ma’am.”
Ma’am! What is it with these Okies?
Michael Evans had called her ma’am, too, and way before she deserved it. She hadn’t been quite thirty when he first ma’am’d her on camera. Now that she was knocking on forty, and arguably might have earned a “ma’am,” she still hated the word. It reminded her how old she was without very much to show for the passage of years.
But because she knew she was being recorded, she found herself saying “You, too” back to the broom man.
Finally, she reached her destination—the local newspaper office, such as it was. She pushed open the ornately carved Victorian door of the Coldwater Gazette, expecting a sedate atmosphere and the smell of old newsprint.
Instead, she stepped into minor pandemonium. A phone was ringing, with no one bothering to answer it because almost everyone already seemed to be talking on their headset phones. The clicking of keys on multiple keyboards beneath the multiple one-sided conversations sounded like an infestation of insects.
However, one conversation wasn’t one-sided.
“I’m telling you, Wanda, we can’t run this ad.” A blue-haired matron scuttled after a woman who was skinny enough to fit in on Fifth Avenue. Unfortunately, the woman—obviously named Wanda and just as obviously in charge—ignored Judith as she strode past on the way to a cubicle occupied by a bespectacled kid. He flinched as Wanda drew closer.
He’s gotta be the resident techie. They always have that “startled mouse” look whenever anyone notices them.
“Are you listening to me?” Blue Hair waved a piece of paper and then began reading from it. “For rent: one bedroom in my house. Possible bathroom and kitchen privileges for the right tenant.”
“What’s wrong with that?” the fashionably thin Wanda asked.
“We could be sued. That’s what’s wrong. You can advertise a property and give all the specifics you want to about the place, but you can’t advertise for a particular type of renter.”
“Mrs. Chisholm didn’t specify any particular type,” Wanda pointed out.
“She said the ‘right tenant.’” Blue Hair repeated, poking her finger at the offending page. “That means she’ll be discriminating against anyone who fits her idea of ‘wrong.’ I’m telling you, Wanda, we can’t run it. Unless you want to lose the Gazette in a lawsuit.”
“I don’t see the ACLU lining up outside our door. Besides, Mavis Chisholm has a fabulous old house. She’s right to be picky about who she chooses to accept as a boarder.”
“She can be choosy by running a background check or credit report. She can refuse to accept a pet, but knowing Mrs. Chisholm, she’ll reject a renter if she thinks their eyes are too close together. Then she’ll be in hot water and we’ll be there with her.” Blue Hair arched a brow at the woman who was obviously her boss and shook her head in disapproval. “You know I’m right.”
Judith would never have gotten away with that with Louise.
“All right,” Wanda said. “Tell Mavis we can’t run her ad, but we’ll do a little scouting for her on the QT and come up with someone she’ll find acceptable.”
Blue Hair gave a pursed-lipped smile of triumph and flounced back to her cubicle.
Judith filed the information about the available room away for future use. If this Mrs. Chisholm’s house was anything like some of the charming older homes she’d walked past on Maple Street, she’d happily give up her situation at the Heart of the Ozarks motel for a more bed-and-breakfast-type arrangement.
For the moment, though, Judith was being totally ignored by the entire office staff. However, it wouldn’t do to go all “I’m walkin’ here!” on them. Professional. Likeable. Those were the watchwords.
“Ahem,” she said.
No one even glanced in her direction.
“My computer is being stupid again, Deek,” Wanda said accusingly to the shivering techie.
“What did you do to it?”
“What do you mean, what did I do? It’s the computer that’s not working.” Wanda’s voice strayed upward half an octave and doubled in decibels.
“What was the last button you pushed?”
“I don’t care what button I pushed. The computer should do what I meant!”
“I quite agree,” Judith said, matching Wanda’s pitch and loudness. “Whether it’s a computer or an employee”—she shot a scathing glance at Blue Hair—“anything that doesn’t work should be replaced.”
Deek gulped loudly enough to be heard across the room.
“Oh, for pity’s sake, I’m not going to replace you, Deek. Just go reboot my computer and fix it,” Wanda said to the kid, who skittered across the chopped-up space and disappeared into the only office with a door. Wanda walked over to Judith.
“Sorry for the general confusion. You caught us on one of our low-staff days.” She held out her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Wanda Cruikshank, publisher of the Coldwater Gazette. And you are Ms. . . .”
“Actually, it’s Doctor.” Judith shook her hand and then fished out a business card. She’d only had a hundred made up, but they looked pretty impressive, if she did say so herself. “Dr. Judith Hildebrand.”
She’d worked hard for that PhD, even if it was in a slightly esoteric field. She might as well use it. Like a club, if she had to.
“And how can we help you?”
“I’m doing research on the sociological impact of small-town life, particularly as it relates to young males aged fifteen to twenty.” That should cover the age range that would include Michael Evans when he lived here last.
“We do a whole section on high school activities once a week.”
“Commendable,” Judith said because she needed the woman’s help. Privately, she couldn’t imagine anything more stupefying than reading about the antics of a bunch of pimply faced hicks on such a regular basis. “However, I need to track certain markers and behaviors over time, going back several years.”
She pulled out a tablet and pretended to scan the page that popped up for data. Actually, it was the horror novel she’d been reading on her Kindle app.
“I think a decade or so will give me a sufficient baseline,” she said importantly. “Of course, your paper will be recognized in the acknowledgments section when I publish my findings. Might I have access to your digital archives for the purposes of my research?”
She’d type in “Michael Evans,” do a search, and in a few minutes, she’d know a good deal more about the man who ruined her career. And how he came by that scar he didn’t want to talk about.
“We should be able to work something out, but I warn you, our archives probably won’t be what you’re used to.”
I wouldn’t be surprised if they still use dial-u
p modems out here. But Judith didn’t have to worry about getting on the Internet. The data was no doubt on a couple of flash drives someplace.
Wanda looked at her wristwatch. “Most of what you’re looking for is probably in the dungeon.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“That’s our affectionate term for the storage area in the basement. The paper has only been digital for the last three years. Before that we recorded editions of the Gazette on microfiche, and the really old stuff is still hanging in paper files.”
Judith was no stranger to having to dig through things to get dirt on a subject. Once when she worked a temp job as part of the negative research team for a political campaign, she routinely went through the opposition’s garbage. She was grateful she didn’t have to climb into a Dumpster after the old issues of what was surely a ghastly local paper.
“Working through your basement stacks will be fine. Now if you’d be so good as to direct me to—”
“Hold your horses, Missy.”
“That’s Doctor. Dr. Judith Hildebrand.”
“Great, you’re a doctor,” Wanda said. “I’m betting you can’t do a thing for my sciatica.”
Judith shook her head. “I’m not that kind of doctor. The work I do is”—covert, sneaky, downright mean, and just shy of slander if I do it right—“scholarly research.”
“Well, scholarly or not, I can’t turn you loose in our files unsupervised. We have our own organization system here and, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re bound to mess it up.”
Judith flinched in surprise. She’d never considered that her request might be denied. She expected these hayseeds to be overawed by her credentials and fall all over themselves trying to help.
“But don’t get your knickers in a knot, Dr. Hildebrand. Lacy is off today, but she’ll be back tomorrow,” Wanda said. “She can help you then.”
“Lacy?” Years ago, when Michael Evans’s reality episode was being shot, he mentioned having a sister named Lacy. If this is the same Lacy—and face it, how many Lacys can there be in a town of this size?—I can get close to Evans through his sister without him suspecting a thing.
Could Judith be that lucky?
“You say her name like you know her,” Wanda said shrewdly.
“No, it’s just that Lacy is a rather unusual name.” Judith made a mental note to walk warily around Wanda. It was tempting to downgrade her estimate of a person’s intelligence if they spoke with a Southern accent. Wanda might sound like a simple country girl, but there was obviously nothing simple about her mind.
“Lacy might be a tad unusual, but Hildebrand isn’t exactly Smith either.”
“No, you’re right. I meant no disrespect.”
“None taken. Lacy will do a good job of steering you in the right direction. She’s in charge of our ‘ago’ columns, so nobody knows more about the old editions than she does.”
“‘Ago’ columns?”
“Yes, we reprint old stories from past issues,” Wanda explained. “You know, five years ago, ten years ago, fifteen and so on. It’s like literary recycling, but our readers love it.”
Judith thought calling anything about this local paper “literary” was pushing it. She doubted she’d be able to stand reading through the Coldwater Gazette once, let alone slog through repeats from years past. But if she could find some clue in old news stories about how Michael Evans got that scar across his ribs, it would be worth the trouble.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll be here at nine o’clock tomorrow.”
“You’ll be here at seven if you want Lacy’s help,” Wanda said in a take-no-prisoners tone. “Fridays are her busy days, what with taking Thursday off. It’s her catch-up day and the day she plans all the features she’s responsible for in next week’s editions. As it is, I’ll have to call her tonight and get her to come in early for you.”
Why would this Lacy person come in to help a total stranger? If they asked Judith to reimburse her for her time, she’d have to give some plausible excuse of why she couldn’t. Maybe she could convince them that her grant to do this research was still awaiting approval, but she’d been assured it was being fast-tracked and she’d pay as soon as it got the green light.
“Do you think she’ll come in early?” Judith asked.
“Sure. I’ll call you if she can’t.” Wanda glanced at Judith’s card again to make sure there was a cell number on it. “Her mother’s got cancer and just started treatments, so if she needs Lacy for some reason, all bets are off. But other than that, I’m sure Lacy’ll be here. She used to live in Boston and really slurps up any chance to talk to anybody from back East. That is where you’re from, isn’t it?”
“I’m from New York,” Judith said with a sniff. Only someone from fly-over country could lump Boston with the greatest city in the world.
“Well, that explains it,” Wanda said dryly.
“Explains what?”
“Those shoes. We only wear heels that high for weddings and other special occasions round here, but mincing along on those things every day is misery for the sake of it. Wear something sensible tomorrow. You’re like to break your neck on the stairs to the basement in those things.”
Judith would have gone off on her, railing at Wanda for being a fashion reject who couldn’t rock a pair of designer heels if they were made specifically for her feet, but then she remembered that she was being recorded and thanked Wanda Cruikshank for her concern.
She headed back toward the Heart of the Ozark, striding like a New Yorker, in her red-soled stilettos. She did just fine, thank you very much, until she reached one of those crosswalks paved with bricks laid in a herringbone pattern. One of her heels caught in the grout and snapped right off. She stumbled a bit but didn’t fall.
She almost wished she had. Anything not to have destroyed her best pumps. It was all she could do not to collapse onto the road and weep. Those shoes had cost eight hundred dollars. Ten years ago.
She’d never be able to afford replacements.
She picked up the sad, broken remains of her footwear, toed off her good one, and walked barefoot the rest of the way. As she neared the motel, a thought struck her that made her smile.
At least I learned one good thing today. Michael Evans’s mother has cancer.
Chapter 14
They say a relationship without trust is like a
rusted-out vehicle. You can stay in it till
the bottom drops out, but it won’t take you
anywhere. I had a truck like that once. And a husband.
—Glenda Scott, whose estranged husband makes
a pretty good part-time gardener and handyman.
She’s not sure she dares count on him for anything else.
“Are you really going to let your mom have her way about the bridesmaid dresses?” Heather asked as she and Lacy climbed the iron staircase that led to their side-by-side apartments. They were in and out of each other’s places so much, they often joked about asking Mrs. Paderewski, their landlady, to put in an adjoining door.
“Don’t worry about the dresses,” Lacy said.
They’d had lunch with Lacy’s mother and then spent several hours poring over bridal magazines for ideas about how to decorate everything from the church vestry to the groom’s pickup. Mrs. Evans and Lacy had seemed to agree on pretty much everything except the color of the bridesmaids’ dresses. Then before that discussion could escalate into a full-blown fight, Lacy had folded.
“That pink dress your mom wants will be the kiss of death on me.”
“And that particular shade doesn’t work with my palette at all, but I only said OK to humor her. Actually, I caved on almost everything. Take her idea for paper napkins at the reception instead of cloth. I mean, folding the napkins into origami cranes is craziness for the sake of it.”
“Then why did you let her think you’re all right with it?”
“She is going through a lot right now, you know. I don’t want to argue with her abo
ut the small stuff,” Lacy said. “I may not get my way with anything else, but when the time comes, I’ll make sure the bridesmaids’ dresses are navy.”
“Good.” Heather hadn’t been keen on standing beside Lacy at the altar rail in shocking pink. She’d look like a gigantic breast cancer awareness ribbon. Hmm . . . maybe that’s why Mrs. E is so set on that shade. “Don’t feel guilty for getting your way sometimes. It’s your wedding, after all.”
“How naïve you are,” Lacy said, shaking her head. “It may be my wedding, but it’s Mom’s production. She’s determined to make a statement with it. Shirley Evans and Wonder Woman are cut from the same cloth. She’s out to show folks that she can put on the wedding of the decade and still whup cancer’s butt in her spare time.”
“Guess she feels a little out of control, so she’s controlling what she can,” Heather said.
“That’s the charitable view. Except for allowing me to pick the color palette—which she’s playing pretty fast and loose with—she’s charging ahead with everything else. Full-blown formal everything, with a reception at the Opera House. This wedding is going to scream Shirley Evans.”
“What kind of wedding did you want?”
Lacy sighed. “Something simpler. Smaller. It would have been nice to use the chapel instead of the big sanctuary. Or something even tinier. When I was a little girl, I imagined walking down the staircase in my family’s house and getting married in the living room surrounded only by my closest family members and friends. Mom’s set on inviting most of the county.”
“Why don’t you tell her what you want?”
“Are you kidding? People are still talking about Crystal’s wedding. Mom feels honor bound to up the ante. Besides, the invitations have already been sent.”
Heather’s shoulders slumped. “Then I better get used to the idea of looking like a giant bottle of Pepto-Bismol.”