by J. R. Ripley
“Eight hundred dollars a month. Paul said it should be two months, maybe three.”
“Great,” I said, drawing the word out.
“Something wrong?” Kim said, grabbing a greasy breaded leg and resting it on a paper napkin that she carried over to the kitchen table.
“What’s wrong,” I began, taking up a chair across from her, “is that you didn’t ask me first.”
Kim chewed and swallowed. “It just sort of came up quick. I ran into him on the street, and he mentioned he was looking for an apartment.” My friend smiled. “You were the first person I thought of.”
“Lucky me.”
“Hey.” Kim wagged the half-eaten chicken at me. “I did you a favor. Not only do you collect some extra money, but you get to work on the guy.”
“Work on the guy?”
“Yeah.” Kim nodded. “You know, get him on your good side.”
“Why would I want to do that?” I crossed my arms.
“To get his vote on this eminent domain thing.” Kim reached into the bucket for a second piece. “You did say he was on the committee.”
“Robert LaChance suggested I relocate Birds and Bees to a commercial property he owns. He said he’d give me a good deal.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I intended to stay right where I am.”
“All the more reason to get Paul on your side.”
I leaned back in my chair. “You may have something there.”
Kim nodded quickly. “I know I do. It’s only short term until he gets his house fixed up. You,” she repeated, “need to get on his good side because you need his vote. That’s why I suggested you to do the musical, too. Good community relations. Like the senior birdseed thing. We have to get people around here to know you, to like you.” She grinned lopsidedly. “The way I do.”
“Good idea,” I grudgingly admitted.
“Not too many people liked Patsy Klein from what I’ve heard, and look what happened to her.” Kim rose, washed her hands in the sink, then toweled dry.
“I’ve been wondering about Patsy,” I said, resting my chin in my hands. “Where is she from? What sort of a person was she?”
“Ask Jerry.”
I pulled a face. “Like he’d tell me. No,” I said, rising, “I think I’ll ask August Mantooth. He’s the one who must have hired her.” I opened the back door and said good-bye.
“Where are you going?”
“Rehearsal, remember? Another little mess you’ve gotten me into.”
Kim laughed. “You’re enjoying it, and you know it.”
“Really?” I raised my brows so far I thought they’d stick in the up position. “Am I enjoying the fact that Craig Bigelow is in Ruby Lake and staying with Paul Anderson in the apartment you rented him at Birds and Bees?”
Kim looked aghast. “Oops.”
20
“Mind if I put up a flyer?” I’d brought a handful with me. I kept a box of them in the van, never knowing where I might find myself.
“Why not?” Lou’s eyes quickly perused the paper. “Everybody else does.” He wore a light tan jacket over tan trousers and a pale pink polo shirt with the white TOTS logo. Lou was not the flashy type—unlike a lot of show people. I guessed that was why he preferred to stay behind the scenes.
“Thanks.” We stood side by side in the small ticket booth up front. Lou was slicing open a cardboard box of playbills in the theater window. The box resting on his knee began to topple as he twisted to make room for me to get by. “Ouch.”
“Careful,” I said.
Lou looked at his already bandaged thumb. “Yeah.” He explained there had been a surge in ticket sales since the incidents and murder. “What with the changes in cast, including you, young lady,” he said with a smile, “I thought it best to revise the playbill.”
Using my fingernail, I picked at the roll of tape I’d brought with me and affixed the flyer to the side of the ticket window. The window shades were up, and the street and square were teeming with tourists and locals alike.
Lou laid the box cutter on the wooden ticket taker’s stool and grabbed a handful of playbills from the box. “Not that it matters now.” He gave the Annie Get Your Gun playbills a straightening tap against the ticket counter and dropped them down beside the ticket slot. “Waste of money.”
“Why do you say that?” I looked back toward the dark lobby. “Where is everybody anyway? Rehearsal starting late today?”
Lou twisted. “Didn’t you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“It doesn’t look like there will be a show.”
“Why not?” I gasped.
“August pulled out,” Lou said, wearily. He patted the stack of playbills. “You think if I set them out that folks will take some? Maybe like a souvenir or a memento?”
“I don’t know, Lou.” I tossed the roll of tape back in my purse. “But go back. August is pulling out?”
Lou nodded. “Leaving town.”
“But he can’t do that. Everybody is counting on him. They’ve all worked so hard.”
Lou held open the door to the ticket booth as we passed into the quiet lobby. “Try telling him that. I tried, and he didn’t listen or didn’t care. He says this whole murder thing has changed everything.”
“But Mr. Mantooth said he didn’t believe in curses.”
“I guess he changed his mind.” Lou looked around the lugubrious, quiet space. “I can’t say I blame him.”
I tailed him to his cluttered office off the lobby. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”
“Yeah.” Lou looked at me from behind his desk. “If this theater season fails to open, I can look for a new job.”
I told Lou how sorry I was to hear about everything.
Lou sighed. “It seems like nothing is going right around here.” He picked up a sheet of paper. “Know what this is?”
I shook my head.
“The estimate on getting the electrical updates made and the repairs from the fire.”
“You can’t postpone the repairs?”
“Without them, we won’t pass inspection. And without a passed inspection, the theater remains closed to the public.”
Poor Lou. His troubles were mounting by the hour. “TOTS must be insured.”
“Sure, but we’ve got a five-thousand-dollar deductible.” He thwacked the estimate. “According to Mr. Calderon, repairs will run double that. And that’s not counting the repairs to the HVAC and roof that he insists this old place needs.”
I whistled. Cassius Calderon was a local general contractor and owner of CC Construction. He was the best in the area and, as they say, as honest as the day is long. So I knew whatever price he’d quoted Lou had to have been more than fair. Probably on the low side even. I’d had need of his services over at Birds & Bees, and any other contractor probably would have charged double what he had billed me for.
Lou crumpled the paper and threw it across the room. “Maybe I shouldn’t even bother. With the show closing, this place is likely to follow.”
“What do you mean?”
“The town treasurer told me there were no extra funds for the theater. The town’s reserves for such things, as he put it, are tapped out.” He frowned. “They’ll probably turn this old place into a flea market.” Lou looked like he’d swallowed a bug. “Or worse yet, bulldoze the place.”
“No,” I said. “They wouldn’t do that, would they?”
Lou only shrugged dejectedly.
In truth, who knew what the town would do with the old theater? Look what certain town officials wanted to do to my house. What plans might they come up with for the TOTS location, perfectly situated as it was on prime town square frontage?
They might sell it to one of those drugstore chains or one of those other franchises that dotted the landscape everywhere you went.
“Without the theater,” moaned Lou, “I don’t know what I’ll do.” He gave me a forlorn baby-pelican look. “I don’t know how to do
anything else.”
“Don’t worry, Lou.” I gave the theater manager a hug. “I’m not going to let Annie Get Your Gun die. I’m not going to let TOTS close either.”
“That’s nice, Amy, but I can’t imagine what you can do to stop it.” He grabbed a fancy letter opener carved to resemble a peacock feather and slit open the top envelope on a teetering stack of mail. “Bills,” he muttered. “Bills and more bills.”
“Cheer up,” I said, “maybe there are some requests for tickets, season tickets even, in that pile.” That reminded me that I had promised Mr. Buchman, Jane’s dad, that I’d introduce him to Ava Turner. I wasn’t sure now that I could deliver on that promise.
“One can hope,” he admitted.
“All we need is for the show to go on, right? Keep the money coming in? That will keep the town officials happy?” I said, hopefully. “I’m sure we can work something out with Mr. Calderon, too.”
Lou appeared dubious.
“A payment plan of some kind. That’s what we need.”
“He’s a contractor—he’ll never agree. What we need is a miracle.”
I smiled. I explained how I’d been in a similar pinch and Mr. Calderon had worked out a payment plan that was acceptable to the both of us, one that I was still making monthly payments on.
“There’s still the little problem of Patsy Klein’s murder,” Lou reminded me.
“And Miss Turner’s safety,” I added.
“Oh?”
I explained how it was likely the person who’d accidentally stabbed the wrong woman would try again to kill Ava Turner.
“That’s a scary thought,” Lou said with a shiver.
“Don’t worry,” I said again. “I’ve got a few ideas. I’ll talk to Mr. Mantooth and see if I can get him to agree to stick with the show so we can open as scheduled. And,” I vowed, standing in the office doorway, “I’ll find our killer.”
For the first time, I thought I saw hope in poor Lou’s eyes. “Thanks, Amy.”
I made my good-byes but hadn’t gotten to the front door when I hurried back. I popped my head in the door as Lou sliced into another envelope. “Where exactly do I find Mr. Mantooth?”
“Ruby Lake Motor Inn.” Lou savagely tore open the letter. His eyes scanned the page, and he muttered something about the high cost of electricity. Looking up at me, he said, “If he hasn’t left town already.”
21
I drove out to Rolling Acres the next morning. I didn’t have an appointment, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I’d come to do them a favor. They’d be thrilled to see me.
In the van, I had several selections of birdseed, one bag of fruit and nut mix, one bag of cracked corn, and one of straight-up unshelled black oil sunflower seeds.
I hadn’t had time yet to have any donor plaques made for the feeders, like Eli Wallace had requested, but I had sourced a local jeweler-slash-trophy-shop whose owner insisted they could handle the work. He’d also said he’d give me the plaques at his cost once I had explained the nature of the program to him.
I also carried two bird feeders. I’d mount one on the pole I’d brought. The other I’d hang from one of those trees outside the activities center that I’d spotted the other day.
I found an empty space in the guest parking area off to the side and checked my hair and makeup in the rearview mirror. Perfect, or at least as good as it was going to get.
I smoothed out the wrinkles in my tan twill skirt and matching blouse and walked to reception. I had wanted to wear something suitable to the occasion. Plus, I remembered how immaculately the woman up front had been dressed the first day I had shown up. I was determined to look as professional as she had. I’d even put on my pearl earrings and matching necklace. My folks had given them to me as a high school graduation present.
Cold air wafted over me as I entered, sending goose bumps up my forearms. The elegantly dressed brunette was behind her ornate walnut desk, hands clasped atop the blotter. She managed a small smile. “May I help you?” Her wavy locks were fashioned into a loose chignon today.
I matched her smile. “Hi. Ms. Bryan, wasn’t it?”
“Bryant,” she corrected, emphasizing the T.
“Oh, right. Sorry.” I felt my face heat up. “I’m Amy Simms. I was here visiting Floyd Withers a few days ago.”
Ms. Bryant-with-a-T pursed her lips. Her lipstick shade matched her plum dress. “I do remember.” She rose. “Are you here visiting again? I’m not sure if Mr. Withers is available.” She made for the computer.
“No,” I said, following her steps. “I mean, yes. But what I’m really here for is this.”
She looked at her elegant, manicured fingers a moment before taking the flyer and brochure from my hand. “I see. Are you here seeking a donation?”
“No, nothing like that. In fact, I’m here to give.”
“Give?”
“That’s right,” I said quickly. I nodded toward the parking lot. “I’ve got birdseed and feeders and poles and stuff. Everything’s ready to go!” I smiled broadly.
Ms. Bryant narrowed her gray-blue eyes at me. “Go where exactly?”
“Outside.” I waved toward the back of the property. “I thought I’d set a couple of feeders out on the back lawn where residents can see them from the activities center. Of course,” I said quickly, “if you can think of someplace better to put them, I’d be happy to oblige. They’ll fit just about anywhere.”
Tiny tsk-tsk noises came from the woman’s throat, sounding like a sparrow twittering in the brush, as she shook her head no. “I am sorry, but I couldn’t allow you to install bird feeders, Ms. Simms.”
My face fell. “Why not?”
“Because there are rules.” She paced silently to her seat and laid my homemade flyer and brochure carefully on the furthest corner of her desk. “I promise you, I will submit your idea to the board of directors.”
“Then what happens?” I asked, looking down at my wrinkled papers.
Ms. Bryant sat. “If the board approves, you will be allowed to install your bird feeders on a trial basis.”
I twisted my lips. “How long will that take?”
A highly polished fingernail traced an invisible path atop the desk blotter. “Ninety days is—”
“Ninety days?!”
She eyed me coolly. “Ninety days is typical, Ms. Simms.” She leaned forward. “There are rules and regulations. These things take time.”
“Not to be vulgar, but some of these people don’t have a lot of time.” Were we really arguing over sticking a couple of bird feeders outside on their lawn? “It’s only a couple of bird feeders, for crying out loud.”
“All our contractors must abide by our written policies, Ms. Simms.” Ms. Bryant’s hand reached for the brochure and flyer. She silently pulled open her top desk drawer and dropped them inside. I watched them disappear as she pushed the drawer shut. I was beginning to wonder if they’d ever see the light of day again.
“But I’m not contracting anything,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to hide the frustration I was feeling.
“I’ll be sure to convey your thoughts to the board.”
I decided to leave before I said anything else that she might convey to the board. If she and the board knew what I was thinking, they’d never allow the feeders. In fact, they’d probably ban me from returning to Rolling Acres.
I stood, fists planted on my hips, fuming, while the sun blasted me in the face. It had been like an icebox inside. I couldn’t believe the woman had been so obstinate about a couple of bird feeders. I was trying to do her and, more importantly, the residents a favor, a good deed!
Well, I was not going to let Ms. Millicent Bryant and her precious board of directors stymie me.
I threw open the back doors of the van, took a quick and surreptitious look in the direction of Ms. Bryant’s window, and got busy. It took me two trips, but I managed to haul the feeders, the pole, the baffle, and all three bags of seed out to the backyard of the ret
irement center without anybody noticing me.
If they did see me, they didn’t care. Either way, I’d install the feeders first, then ask permission. If I waited for my request to go through proper channels, it could take months.
I found the perfect spot for the hanging feeder on a low, sturdy branch of an old pin oak. The feeder was squirrel proof, meaning that anything heavier than a medium-sized bird, like a blue jay, would cause the bar along the bottom to fall, shutting off access to the food.
I twisted the bird feeder pole into the ground in a soft spot near a field of petunias, then thumb-screwed the baffle to it before affixing the feeder atop. The baffle would keep squirrels and other critters, including snakes, from climbing up.
As I screwed the feeder to the base using a small screwdriver I’d brought for the occasion, I heard a banging noise. Startled, I dropped the screwdriver in the tall grass and glanced guiltily toward the main building.
Bright sun reflected off the glass. I couldn’t see a thing inside. Hurriedly, I dug through the grass, grabbed the screwdriver, and finished the job. I shoved the screwdriver in my pocket as the side door beside the window eased open.
I gulped, fearing the wrath of Millicent Bryant and perhaps the entire board of directors of Rolling Acres.
A small, lightly dressed man stepped out on the paved walkway. He brought his hand up over his eyes. “Amy?” He tilted one way then the other. “Is that you?”
“Floyd?”
A second man came barreling out, propped up with a wooden cane. “I told you that was her!” bellowed the man with the cane.
“Karl?”
“Quick, bird lady!” Karl said something I couldn’t catch to Floyd. I saw Floyd peek back inside, then wave. “Come on,” urged Karl. “The coast is clear.”
I scurried inside and took up a seat at one of the card tables with Floyd and Karl. I hadn’t realized it, but I was out of breath.
“Breathe,” Floyd said.
“Yeah,” said Karl. “You look like you’re about to croak.”
I clutched my hand to my chest and forced myself to take a couple of regular breaths.
“Is that my Della’s old bird feeder?”