“You may have the … Mauve Room, second floor, third door on your left,” she interrupted me. She tapped a key, then sat back and studied the screen. “It's vacant now, thank goodness. Had a nice couple in there for the weekend, she's a systems analyst from Boise, he's a broker from Missoula. Both married, but not to each other, obviously. I could tell. They were rather noisy….” The computer beeped. She looked at it and frowned. “How long will you need the room?” She didn't wait for me to answer. “You'll have to share a bath with Jewell Matthews, but that shouldn't be a problem. Jewell's on a walking tour of England until the end of August. And she's a schoolteacher, quiet woman. Sexually repressed, of course.” The computer beeped again. Millie tapped another key, and nodded in satisfaction.
“Perfect, I've got you all set up. Since you're working for Jess, we'll just leave your departure date open, shall we?”
I didn't know what to say. I'd never faced an octogenarian femme fatale psychic who was a computer hacker before.
“Of course, you might also like the Tower Room …” Millie murmured to herself rather than to me. “It's got the Widow's Walk, you know. Lovely view. I'd have to obtain Elma Van Roan's permission first. But she probably won't mind. Just doesn't like men much. Gave the doctor from Denver no end of trouble.”
“Elma Van …”
She slipped the pair of half glasses back on as she pulled up an accounting ledger or something on the screen. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. Her nails clicked noisily.
“Van Roan. Elma's the ghost who lives on the third floor. She's partial to the Tower Room—she and Reverend Van Roan slept there back in the eighteen eighties.”
“The Mauve Room will be fine,” I said quickly, not wanting to disturb Elma. In fact, now that I knew there was a ghost in the house, I wasn't sure I wanted to stay here at all.
She quoted me a rate that even I could manage on what Jess was paying me. ”That will include the room, housekeeping, and meals on your off days, the run of the place. You're responsible for your personal laundry, Inez will take care of sheets, towels, and so forth, but you have to carry them to the basement. Local calls are free but I'll bill you for long distance.”
I asked her what I owed her for the deposit and counted it out into her hand. As she wrote out the receipt, a huge, white long-haired cat sauntered into the room. Millie stopped writing and smiled. The cat strolled over to her, rubbed against her leg, and purred loudly. Millie gave a husky laugh and stroked the cat under his chin.
“You devil. It's not nice to remind me about that,” she said coyly, as if talking to a … well, a real person. Her cheeks colored brightly. “Juanita, this is my fourth husband, Paul Hillman Daniels. He was just telling me how fondly he remembers our trysts on this settee I'm sitting on, the rogue. Paul, you are too much!”
I said nothing, and nodded. Living at Millie Tilson's would be different.
Millie Tilson's mansion operated as a bed and breakfast/ rooming house and it seemed to be making her some money. Tourists used it as home base for trips into the national forests around here. Honeymooners liked the Tower Room for those special nights. And ordinary folks, like me, used it as a “boardinghouse” kinda place. There's room for everyone. And as cozy as it is, it's pretty huge, so you can be alone when you want to or be up under people when you want to.
I guess “mauve” means pinkish, 'cause Millie's Mauve Room had wallpaper on the walls with a border that was pinkish in color with tiny flowers. The pink draperies hung from ceiling to floor and were swept up on the sides. There was a huge poster bed in the center, with a white chenille-like bedspread, and a pillow on it that had letters. Needlepoint, I think it was. I leaned closer to read it: “Wild Women don't get the blues.” I wondered who had stitched it. Millie Tilson had been a “wild woman” in her younger days, but I couldn't picture her sitting still long enough to do needlepoint. The dresser was covered with lace doilies and a vase of flowers was set at the end. I gently touched one of the petals. Real flowers.
I had never had a room like this. I had never even seen a room like this. I read about four-poster beds and fresh flowers in vases, but it hadn't been a part of my life—until now. I fell back on the bed and looked at the ceiling. It was domed, and sculptured with flowers, too. I had found a romantic heroine's paradise way out here in little Paper Moon, Montana.
I closed my eyes.
I wondered what kind of heroine I would be. I tried to imagine myself in the Regency, but that didn't work for me. The Colonial era wasn't appealing—everyone knows that the Puritans had no sense of humor and were no fun at all. The 1860s had their own issues. The Roaring Twenties might be fun. Or maybe the 1880s in the West, like where I was now. I thought about how I would look with bobbed hair, or wearing chaps herding cattle on horseback. Both prospects were pretty funny. I decided just to be myself in the present and see where that road took me.
I ended my little daydream, pulled out my notebook, and tried to take in all that had happened to me since the day before yesterday.
Chapter Nine
Paper Moon was about the tiniest place I'd ever seen in my life. Considering that I hadn't ever been anywhere.
The town is perched on the hillside of a small mountain, which sits at the bottom of a big mountain, surrounded by a dense forest, so all that's visible from a distance are the steeples of its two churches.
The center of town has only two main streets, some stores, the churches, and a gas station. Everything looks like it's left over from the last century: small, white, green-shuttered houses, and gas pumps like I've only seen in old movies. Many of the people around here farm, work at the Wal-Mart in Mason, or commute to Missoula, which is east and over an hour away. Not much industry in Paper Moon, although a paper plant just north of here stinks up the air a lot. Some folks work up there and the plant runs two shifts.
And that's another thing I've noticed about this part of the country. The distances! People will drive long distances at the drop of a hat, and for no reason at all. It's nothing for Mignon to drive four hours just to go shopping. I guess they're used to it. Montana is such a long, empty state, it takes at least two hours to get anywhere. I had a lot to get used to.
The Paper Moon Diner sits off the highway on the edge of town, across from a tired-looking Best Western and the gas station. It's noisy in the front because the trucks roar past on their way north toward Captain or Glacier, or east to hook up with I-90 and Missoula.
But I would come in the back way, and from the porch you could see Arcadia Lake at the bottom of the hill, quiet and blue. The birds called to each other, and there was almost always a deer or two looking around, then bending their graceful necks to get a drink. The lake is surrounded by huge pine trees and the quiet beauty of it mystifies me every morning when I open up. I take my breaks out here. Probably will until it gets too cold, if I haven't moved on by then. But then, after seeing all of this, I don't know if I can go back to a city of concrete and steel.
When I opened the diner that next morning at six, my second day in Paper Moon, I found a note from Jess on the counter. He told me that he had bought the food I asked him to and put it away in the pantry (in the back) and in the refrigerator, which was behind the counter. He told me that his young cousin Carl would bus and wash dishes until noon. He told me that Mignon worked Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, 6:45 to 2:45; that Rosetta Hanson worked Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, same hours. He said he'd be in by 6:30. Had the nerve to ask me to fix him an omelet with onions, tomatoes, and mushrooms in it. Told me where to find the change for the cash register and that Roy Porter, Abel Long, Fish Reynolds, and Bud Smith would arrive for coffee at seven sharp. In fact, Jess's little note was downright chatty—for him. He told me just about everything I needed to know.
But he forgot one thing.
He forgot to tell me about Dracula.
I opened the diner with the keys Jess left in the fourth geranium pot on th
e right in front of the handicapped parking space on the side of the diner. I came in, locked the door behind me, and turned on the lights. Fiddled with the dial on the old radio at the end of the counter until I found the only station in the area that didn't play country and western, then read Jess's note. I pulled out the bacon and sausages, left them on the counter to soften, washed up and got an onion to chop for the hash browns I knew Abel Long liked. Had just put two pots of coffee on and was about to light me a Kool when I heard it.
Soft, sliding, clicking sounds in a rhythm coming across the floor toward me. I froze and a lump formed in my throat.
I was not alone.
There was someone—or something—else here.
“It.”
Lord, I didn't want to think what kind of wild beasts might live in Montana. Wolves? A bear? I shivered. Felt my blood run cold.
I couldn't imagine how it had gotten in—whatever it was—since the doors were locked this morning and I hadn't seen any windows broken. But there was no time to think about that now.
I didn't want to turn around without a weapon, so I grabbed the big iron skillet from the back of the stove, and held it tight. In the corner of my eye, I could see the front door of the diner. I tried to figure out how far away “It” was in case I had to make a run for it. Then I turned around. Slowly. Gripping that pan like it was a baseball bat, I held my breath.
There, in the middle of the floor, stood the biggest, blackest, most vicious-looking rottweiler I'd ever seen in my life. His tongue was out and his eyes were glued—on me. I tightened my grip on the frying pan. I was scared shitless. I knew that those dogs could rip your throat out and tear you into bits. I said a quick prayer and braced myself for a fight. The dog studied me for a moment, then lunged.
It was over in two seconds.
I was tackled and knocked to the floor by a one-hundred-pound hush puppy who tried to lick my face off (yuck!) and wanted me to rub his stomach and scratch him behind the ears. He was so cute. I found myself giggling. Now, I haven't giggled for twenty years.
The screen door slammed and I heard Jess's voice.
“I see you've met Dracula.”
“I ought to knock you out,” I growled at him (not seriously) as I picked myself up and dried my jeans off with a kitchen towel.
His eyes widened and he looked surprised.
“What did I do?”
“Nice of you to tell me you had a guard dog. He coulda killed me!”
Jess grunted.
“Yeah, well, you don't look too bad off. Like you've been licked to death, that's all.”
“That's beside the point,” I shot back, still grinning and scratching that fool dog behind the ears. “He's a rottweiler. He's an attack dog. Aren't you, Dracula?” I crooned. Jess rolled his eyes. Dracula closed his in ecstasy. “He's supposed to tear throats out and rip men to shreds. Aren't you, sweetie?” The hardened attack dog nuzzled my hand enthusiastically.
I could tell Jess was not convinced.
“Hummph. That dog never hurt anybody in his whole life, and everybody around here knows it. I only keep him in the diner at night on the outside chance that some foreigner tries to break in. I figured maybe Dracula would scare him off.”
I looked at Dracula's eager brown eyes as I petted him on his large, boxlike head.
“I don't think so,” I told Jess. “I coulda walked off with everything. He didn't even bark.”
Jess whistled and the dog came running, tongue out, tail wagging eagerly.
“Likes women for some reason,” he grumbled, kneeling down and patting Dracula vigorously. The dog was in hog heaven. “Don't know why.”
“We smell better,” I said, washing my hands, sniffing the air. Something hit my nose like a boulder. There was a definite stench there. It was coming from Jess's direction and, whatever it was, it wasn't gonna go well with my scrambled eggs and waffles. “Speaking of smell …” I walked slowly toward him and the odor got stronger.
Jess looked around innocently wrinkling his nose.
“I don't smell anything.”
His dark eyes twinkled. His expression was serious but his eyes were laughing at me.
I held my nose.
“Whew, it's no wonder! What have you been doing? You smell like shit!”
Jess chuckled. Something I thought I'd never hear.
“Manure, Mrs. Louis. Manure. Delivered some to my sister this morning. She's putting out flowers, needs to add it to her beds.”
I scratched my nose.
“Manure, shit, whatever. Either way, you need to get out of here before you stink up the place and run all my customers off.” I fanned a towel at him. “Shoo! Go on, get out of here!”
He beamed at me with a wide, lopsided grin that reminded me of a scarecrow standing in a cornfield I'd passed back in Indiana. It was a silly grin, but nice. I smiled in spite of myself. I had gotten the feeling that Jess Gardiner was as stingy with his laughter and his smiles as he could be with conversation. Thought I'd better take advantage of it while it lasted. Encourage it if I could.
“Your customers? I thought I was the boss of this place,” he said with a raised eyebrow.
“There's been a reorganization.” I held my nose and fanned the towel again. “Now get out and take a shower. And don't take forever. Omelets don't keep that good.”
“Umph,” said Jess, still grinning. He and Dracula disappeared out the back door. I chopped up my onions, mixed up some pancake batter, and heated up the griddle. Scrambled eggs for myself and Carl, made Jess's omelet, and toast. Fried up two pounds of bacon. I was finishing my first cup of coffee when Abel Long walked through the front door with his wife, his mother-in-law, and his chiropractor at seven A.M. sharp. He wrinkled his nose, and sniffed the air a little. I tried not to laugh. Then Abel said “Hey, Juanita!” and ordered the works for everybody. And it went on from there, just like I had lived in Paper Moon, Montana, all my life.
I opened the diner at six forty-five every morning, went off duty at two-thirty, took off on Sundays for sure (since the diner was closed) and one other day of my choosing. Since I wasn't used to having a choice about much of anything, I worked six days straight the first two weeks I was there. Mignon had to remind me that slavery was illegal in the United States and assigned Mondays as my “off ” day.
I practically ran the diner. Folks around here, and the truckers and the tourists and the state police, loved my cooking, so Jess had no problem with anything I did. Mignon said he made more money in the first two weeks I was here than he had for the past two months. Jess didn't say thanks directly.
But I did get my raise.
I changed the menu to “home style/Southern” for breakfast and “reg'lar food” for lunch. Mignon and one of her friends designed new menus on the computers at the community college. They call it “Juanita's Meal Deals.” Eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, grits (I send away to Georgia for these), etc. are standard fare. Lunch is mostly hamburgers, chili, and fish sandwiches if I can get the fillets fresh. Dinner is Jess's shift, and I leave that pretty much alone. He manages to get a respectable crowd for dinner even if he does serve food I can't pronounce. A lot of the artsy crowd drive up from Missoula, and we do get tourists who consider themselves “sophisticated” and familiar with “nouvelle Montana Continental cuisine,” as Jess calls it. (Whatever the dickens that is.)
Rosetta got strep throat the third week I was here, so I worked the dinner shift for a couple of nights. Just about drove Jess crazy and almost got myself fired. But I had fun. Couldn't keep a straight face all night. I'd forgotten how much fun giggling could be.
I can't pronounce half of the stuff Jess has on his dinner menu. I watch him cook it up and most of it looks pretty and smells really good. It tastes good, too, though I hate to admit it. But the names of these dishes are just beyond me, with their “oh juice” this and “flambay” that and every other word being a “
de.” I get all tongue-tied. And those were the easy ones. That was bad, since it was part of my job to tell the customers about the nightly specials. Actually, I did all right until Thursday night. Then Jess decided to get fancy. And I got stuck on some of the words.
Like “shiitake” mushrooms, for instance.
I knew I was in trouble when the diners came in. “Yups” I call them. You could tell by the skinny, wire glasses the man wore, the plaid walking shorts the woman wore, and the perfect, precise way that they looked at the menu, as if they were going to take notes in class. The man made a big show about ordering the wine, sniffed the cork every which way, and swished the wine around in his mouth like he was using Listerine. I thought he was going to pull out a toothbrush. His wife beamed at him like a headlamp. Behind their backs, Mignon pretended to stick her finger down her throat.
Then, it came time to go over the menu. I brought their drinks and took a deep breath. I had been having trouble with this one item all night.
“I'd like to take a minute to go over this evening's specials if I may. Chef has prepared rainbow trout with a lemon bernaise sauce with shallots, herb rice, and asparagus. The trout is fresher than fresh—caught today.” And that was no lie—Abel Long had reeled them in around eight this morning. “And the tornados of beef sirloin served … oh … oh …”
Damn. This was the part I hated most. Couldn't remember if they were “tornados” of beef or “tornedos” of beef. Either way, I was confused. They just looked like steak pieces to me. And the “oh juice” part was a problem, too. I had been fumbling with the words all evening. I decided to give it up.
I cleared my throat and started again.
“Sorry. Tornedos of beef sirloin, served with juice, spiked with a little wine, and not that cheap bootleg homegrown stuff either, Chef is using a special California Merlot; steamed green beans with sweet butter and lemon, and wild rice with shitty mushrooms.” There. Finished. Glad it was over, I exhaled.
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Yup's eyes were as big as saucers. Mr. Yup's wine had apparently gone down the wrong way, and he was coughing.
Dancing on the Edge of the Roof Page 9