by J. R. Ripley
Having secured a spot in the public lot, I slammed the door and locked the van. I braved a look at my watch. Wonderful. Now I was twice as late.
This public hearing was important to me. It was the first step in the town’s plan to possibly tear down my home-slash-business and widen the intersection of Lake Shore Drive and Serviceberry Road. For whatever nefarious purposes they had in mind.
Birds & Bees sits on what is known locally, though unofficially, as Upper Lake Shore Drive, the part of Lake Shore Drive that diverges up from the lake and intersects farther up with Airport Road on the west edge of town.
Serviceberry Road is so named because of the wonderful century-old serviceberry trees that the town’s early inhabitants had planted as ornamentals. I loved the thin, ashy gray bark. Drooping clusters of white flowers appeared in early spring. The small dark purple-black fruit the trees bear was attractive to birds.
I ran into Paul Anderson wetting his lips at the drinking fountain outside the meeting room. Water splashed carelessly onto the worn marble floor. “I thought you were in a hurry?”
He licked his lips. “Apparently they’re running late.” He looked at the sheaf of papers in my hand. “What’s all that?”
I frowned at the jumbled stack of papers I’d sandwiched into a manila folder that wasn’t anywhere near big enough for the job. “Statistics, rules. Legal precedents.” Mostly it was notes about how long the house had been there and what it meant to the town historically, but he didn’t need to know that. “Thanks for driving that tank to the parking lot.”
His eyes danced. “Hey, I had no choice.” Paul folded his arms across his chest. “I got a ticket for living on the street. I was told to move it or get it impounded.” His eyes bored into mine. “It seems somebody must have reported me to the police.”
I stepped back. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t report you.” I turned my back on him as a lanky clerk called from the door that the meeting was about to begin. “Not that I didn’t want to.”
I started for the door and bumped shoulders with Paul Anderson. “What are you doing?”
“Going to the meeting.”
I cocked my head. “This is a meeting concerning the fate of my house,” I explained. “My business.”
“I know.”
Paul looked like somebody with a secret, and I desperately felt like squeezing it out of him. “You care what happens to Birds and Bees?”
“Something like that.” He squeezed my elbow and headed up the row of folding chairs. I counted about a dozen people and three dozen chairs. I took the first empty seat in the middle row. I watched in quiet fascination as the bar owner sauntered up to the long table set up at the far wall with a row of microphones and chairs. With luck, the clerk would toss him out on his ear.
Paul shook hands with a man I recognized as a member of the town’s planning commission, then sat beside him, waving to the rest of those already seated.
A slow dread crept over me like a cold fog.
A hand squeezed my shoulder from behind and I spun my head around. “Derek!” I twisted in my chair and whispered, “What are you doing here?” I looked wildly around for his ex, the other Amy. Harlan.
“Hi, Amy.” Derek was in his go-to lawyering attire: dark charcoal suit that his shoulders filled out nicely, crisp white shirt, and a deep red tie. Though a lawyer, with his rugged looks and trim physique, he looked like he could just as easily have been a lumberjack. Or a firefighter.
“I heard about the meeting and wanted to lend my support.” Was it my imagination or were his perfect blue eyes sinking into mine?
I felt myself flush. He did? Derek Harlan wanted to lend me his support? My eyes scanned the seats. There was no sign of Amy Harlan. That was a good omen. Getting into a shouting match—or a wrestling match—while trying to make a case for saving my home and business was probably not a good move.
I also realized that Aaron wasn’t there. Not that I’d expected him. There was nothing at stake for him in this matter. But still, Derek had come and I hadn’t exactly treated him in the nicest fashion. He’d asked me out once or twice, and I’d turned him down cold. I’d also told everyone, including Kim and my mother, that the man was dirt.
In my own defense, that was because I had thought he was married.
Now I knew better. Now I knew he merely had a crazy ex-wife.
“Mind if I join you?”
I shook my head no and scooted over to the next chair to make room. Derek came around, and I caught a whiff of woodsy cologne.
“If everyone is present,” Howard Mooney, the head of the commission, said, looking to his left and right, “we can begin.”
“Don’t worry,” Derek said out of the corner of his mouth, unbuttoning his coat. He patted my thigh in what I’m sure he meant to be a chummy fashion, but I felt the tingle all the way down to my toes. “You’ll do just fine.”
* * *
“I can’t believe it,” Derek said, guiding me out of doors by the arm less than an hour later.
I couldn’t believe it either. I felt numb inside. I watched as Howard Mooney, the chair of the planning commission, left the town hall in a huddle with Mayor Mac MacDonald, Robert LaChance, and Gertie Hammer—the Terrible Troika.
I realized Derek had been speaking. “What?”
“I asked if you’d like to get some dinner.”
Gertie climbed into her big old Oldsmobile Delta ’88. It had started its automobile life as beige but had slowly turned to rust. Black smoke poured from her muffler. Robert and the mayor left together.
Paul Anderson was still inside somewhere. Mooney had explained to those present tonight that the brewer had accepted a last-minute seat on the commission when old Ira Planer and his wife, Erma, retired to Louisiana’s Cajun Riviera. Louisiana is also known as the Pelican State. If I was forced out of business, maybe I’d take my early retirement there. Though I’d never been, I’d read that Louisiana was great bird-watching country.
“What I could really use is a drink,” I quipped.
Derek smiled, showing a set of perfect white teeth. “I know just the place.”
My jaw tightened. “Don’t look now, but I think we’re about to have company.”
Howard Mooney ambled toward us. Like a flamingo’s, his legs seemed longer than his body. I pictured him napping on one leg. His fuzzy black hair clearly was held up with a strong gel or some sort of super glue. “Ms. Simms, I’m sure you understand the position the town of Ruby Lake is in.” His smile was broad and fake. “But we can’t fight progress now, can we?”
“Yes,” Derek Harlan said, his voice hard, “we can.” He placed his hand against the flat of my back. “Shall we go, Amy?”
Derek Harlan was right. He did know just the place. Located on Main Street, a mere block from the square, the interior of Byblos was all soft yellow tablecloths and blue seating, modern yet cozy.
“I must have driven by this place a dozen times or more since returning to town, but never tried it.” I swirled my cabernet and took a sip. Who knew Lebanese food could be this good?
“You like it?”
“Very much.”
“I hear the family is from the city of Byblos, which they tell me is near Beirut.” Derek beckoned our waiter, then turned to me. “How about some dessert?”
“Oh, no,” I begged off. “I couldn’t.” I’d stuffed myself on falafel and vegetables. Derek had chosen the sea bass. I’d grabbed a forkful of that, too. Not to mention polishing off my share of the appetizer, something called warak anab, which consisted of grape leaves stuffed with a mixture of rice and vegetables.
“An order of the baklava,” Derek told the waiter, who nodded and departed. “You’re not going to make me eat it all by myself, are you?” He had removed his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing strong forearms. He reached over and refilled my glass.
“I was surprised to see you at the hearing,” I said. We had refrained from talking business over dinner by mutual agreement.
Neither of us wanted to spoil the meal. But now that I’d had time to get my blood sugar level up and my rage down, it was time to get down to business.
Derek shrugged like it was nothing. “I know how difficult these things can be.” He leaned back as our waiter settled a mouthwatering plate of pastry between us.
Derek slid the plate my way and I settled a couple of pieces of the baklava on my small dessert plate. The filo dough was light and flaky and filled with a delightful mixture of walnuts and pistachios and a sweet rose water syrup.
“In fact,” Derek continued as I chewed, “sometimes I think small-town politics can be more brutal than big-city.”
I nodded my agreement. I knew Derek had practiced in Charlotte, a city of about a million people, before coming to Ruby Lake to be nearer to his daughter. “Thank you. I don’t think I could have contained myself if you hadn’t been there.” More than once, he’d had to lay his hand on my knee to keep me from jumping up and interrupting the proceedings.
I helped myself to a third slice of baklava. The way things stood, my house looked destined to become a public parking lot. The planning commission had agreed that there was sufficient data to proceed with a recommendation for eminent domain, though at Derek’s insistence, they had agreed to allow fifteen days for further public review and comment. I never thought I’d say it, but thank goodness for lawyers.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do now.” If public opinion remained against me or even disinterested, Howard Mooney, as chairperson, would be making that recommendation formally to the town’s officials. That meant he’d be making his recommendation to Mayor MacDonald and the town council.
How cozy.
“You’ve got to get the public on your side,” Derek replied. He helped himself to dessert, probably afraid I’d steal it all before he’d gotten a single taste. “The good part of living in a small town is that once people get to hear your story, you can win them over.”
“If I can get them to care at all,” I said with a frown. I tossed my napkin over my plate to keep myself from eating any more sweets. “I sure wish I knew what the mayor, Robert LaChance, and Gertie Hammer are getting out of all this.”
Derek rubbed his jaw. “Let me see what I can find out.”
“Would you?”
“I’m not making any promises, but I’ll ask around. I know a few people.” He paused with a smile on his face. “And Dad knows lots of people.”
I grinned too. “Your father is quite popular.”
Derek chuckled. “Tell me about it.” He leaned closer. “Do not tell him I told you this. . . .”
I raised my brow and met him halfway. “What?”
“I think Dad likes your mom.”
“What?!” Heads turned. I dropped my chin. “I mean, are you sure?” I whispered.
“I think so.”
I nodded. That made sense. Mom had been seeing more and more of him of late.
“He also said he’s having a blast acting in that musical you all are doing. You know, he’s never acted before.”
“Well, from what little I’ve seen, I’d say he’s a natural.” I stopped talking as Derek settled the check. He returned his leather wallet to the top inside pocket of his suit coat, which he’d draped over the back of his seat. “Too bad the show’s been canceled.”
Derek’s face twisted up, not that it still didn’t look handsome. “Canceled? What makes you say that?”
I shrugged and grabbed my purse. “It’s been a couple of days. I haven’t heard anything since the murder. I assume they’ve shut the production down.”
Derek shook his head as I spoke. “Not at all. In fact,” he said, twirling a very expensive black watch around his wrist, “it’s nearly time for rehearsal.” He stood. “Can I give you a lift?”
“Rehearsal?” I grabbed the edge of the table. My mouth went dry.
“Yes.” Ever the gentleman, he came around and stood by my chair. “Didn’t you get the message?”
“No,” I replied. I rose and stood beside him.
“That’s funny.” Derek rubbed his neck. “Dad got a call from some guy who said he was the director.”
“August Mantooth,” I interjected.
Derek nodded. “Yeah, that’s the guy. Anyway, Dad said he told Amy.” We walked to the exit. “And Amy said she’d call you. . . .”
13
I silently cursed Amy Harlan all the way to the theater.
“Sorry I can’t stick around and give you a ride home,” Derek said as he pulled to a stop. A light drizzle was falling. The rain was silent, but the silver Civic’s wipers chugged slowly from side to side, providing a rhythmic, almost musical soundtrack to our conversation.
“That’s okay. I’m sure I’ll be able to catch a ride with someone.”
“Ask Dad,” Derek replied. “He’ll be happy to oblige.”
A blast of cold air hit me as I entered TOTS via the side entrance. I heard the muffled chorus of “There’s No Business Like Show Business” coming from the other end of the building. Ava Turner’s voice rang out above all others. The woman could still belt out a tune.
Lou stepped out of the shadows holding a red-handled monkey wrench. “Heater’s on the fritz again,” he said, mopping his brow. “I did what I could, but—” He shrugged heavily. Running the theater, as much as keeping the theater physically running, appeared to be taking a toll on the out-of-shape man.
That explained the frigidness of the air. It wasn’t the iciness of the recent murder. It was the night chill creeping in through the old building’s thin walls. Though summer was around the corner, it could get chilly up here at this elevation come nightfall. Even in the apartment, there were nights I still needed the heat and a heavy blanket.
Lou told me everybody was on stage, and I headed that way.
As I rounded the dimly lit hall leading up to the wings on the left of the stage, Nathan Longfellow stepped into my path. He was the size of a small truck, with a dark complexion, shiny black hair swept back in an extravagant pompadour, and bushy black sideburns. He wore a blue and black checked shirt and loose-fitting blue jeans. His fists were clenched.
I gulped. “What are you doing here?” I could hear the sounds of the other actors coming from the stage, along with the occasional bark of August Mantooth as he gave his cast direction. For the hundredth time, I pondered the wisdom of getting involved in community theater. “Shouldn’t you be rehearsing?”
Nathan’s deep blue eyes were bloodshot. “Yeah. So what?” His lips twisted sideways. “We’ll never open anyway. Like Mac says, this play, this place”—the big man waved his fist in the tight quarters—“is cursed.”
“I don’t know,” I said, looking around wildly. There was no way past Longfellow. What if I turned and ran? Would he chase? “The show must go on, right?”
My heart jumped as Nathan slammed the side of his fist against the flimsy wall. “Not this one!” He leaned in close. I smelled alcohol on his breath. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
I shivered despite myself. I’d had some recent experience with ghosts, or at least the possibility of ghosts. I found the subject discomfiting. I pulled my face away. “Are you saying you do?”
Longfellow looked over his shoulder before replying, “It’s like The Phantom of the Opera, you know what I mean?”
I thought for a moment. “Are you trying to say that you think there is somebody or something haunting TOTS?” What was it with actors, even part-time amateur ones, that made them so nuts?
In Gaston Leroux’s original novel, The Phantom of the Opera, the mysterious phantom haunted the Paris Opera, sending mysterious messages and performing malevolent deeds. Lon Chaney had played the deformed phantom in the original silent movie version. Was Nathan Longfellow suggesting a similar situation here at TOTS? That was absurd. Besides, this was Annie Get Your Gun, not The Phantom of the Opera.
“I think,” Nathan said, his voice low and coarse, “that somebody has wanted the show to fail from the begi
nning.”
So I wasn’t the only one thinking such thoughts. “I had heard there were a number of accidents and other incidents.”
Nathan’s snort filled the hallway. “If you ask me, a lot of that was Patsy’s doing.”
“Patsy’s? Why do you think that?” Could she have been responsible for Robert LaChance’s broken arm and Coralie Sampson’s busted foot? It seemed rather unlikely.
“Because she was a wicked woman.” He glowered at me. “And, in case you haven’t noticed . . .” He paused, then said, “The accidents have stopped.” His face was an ugly rictus. “Now that Patsy’s dead.”
Rhonda had suggested the same thing.
He wagged his finger at my nose. “Like I said, she was a wicked woman.”
I couldn’t resist a smirk. “Is that why the two of you stopped dating?” His mouth fell open as I continued. “I heard she dumped you.” I was on a roll as I planted my hands on my hips and added, “In front of everyone.”
“The woman was using me. I do not like being used.” He hovered over me. “By anyone,” he said darkly.
“How exactly was she using you?” I asked, trying to hide the fear this guy was instilling in me.
“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” he said with a sneer. “Oh, that’s right. You can’t. She’s dead.”
Nathan surged past me. “Good riddance to her and to you both.” He spun around, gripping the wall at the corner. “If you don’t think she was evil, just ask our dear director,” he spat. “I bet he could tell you a story or two about Patsy Klein.”
Nathan stomped around the corner toward the wardrobe area. “If he has the guts.”
I hurried in the opposite direction, putting as much distance between myself and the volatile man as I could. At the next corner, near where I knew the dressing rooms were located—not that I had one, being too lowly a member of the cast to warrant my own quarters—I spotted a door slightly ajar.
I crept closer. No light spilled out. All was black. In fact, it smelled smoky, like burnt rubber. I inched the door open and peered inside. I discovered a tiny room, with barely enough clearance to turn around. Pipes and wire skirted up the walls and crisscrossed the ceiling. A dented metal mop bucket, with a splintered wooden handle protruding, sat dully in the corner. An electric panel stood open. It was charred, with scorch marks fanning out from the fuses. A fire extinguisher lay tipped over on its side against the baseboard.