by Lisa Wingate
The ticket taker smiled as I passed through the gate and handed him my coupon. “Goin’ to the festival?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Nice day for it.”
“Yes, quite.”
He stopped halfway through tearing my ticket. “You’re not from around here, are ya?”
“No, I’m not.”
“You one of them TV people?”
The muscles in my spine stiffened instantly. “Pardon me?”
He finished tearing the ticket, then held both pieces close to his face to examine them. “Them TV people. You ain’t heard? Amber Anderson’s got on Final Five of American Megastar, and they’s gonna be lots of TV people. Supposed to be the biggest thing to happen since Elvis come to Daily.”
“Elvis has been here?” Now, that might be an interesting bit for the Amber story. Maybe this was one of those middle-of-nowhere towns in which Elvis performed before he made it big. Perhaps that had something to do with the decorations in my room.
“Why, shore ’nuf.” Tucking half of the ticket into the collection box, the attendant slapped a hand over the lid, then leaned on it. “Let’s see … that’s been ten, maybe twelve years ago.”
I took a step toward the gate, reaching for my ticket stub. Considering that Elvis had been dead for much longer than that, this probably wasn’t a lead worth pursuing. “Okay … well … I guess I should move on out of the way.” Pinching the ticket between my fingers, I tugged and it slipped free. “Okay, well, thanks.”
He lifted a hand and waved. “Have a great day. Don’t miss the pony pull and the Ferris wheel.”
“I won’t.” I turned around and hurried toward the giant metal cowboy, in search of Carter.
I found him outside the Kiddie Korral. He’d squatted down by the fence and was helping a little boy work up the courage to feed the goats.
“Like this,” Carter said, and slipped his hand through the fence, holding his palm flat, with a few oats inside. “Put the food in the middle, and she won’t nibble your fingers.” A large white goat promptly demonstrated by politely eating out of Carter’s hand.
The little boy giggled and bounced up and down. Beside him, his mother smiled adoringly—either at her son or Carter or both. She poured some animal food onto the boy’s hand, and Carter’s pupil quickly gained a new furry friend. The boy’s mother tucked her hands into her back pockets, leaned close to Carter and said something, then graced him with a flirty smile. Grinning, he shook his head at whatever invitation she’d offered, then moved along.
I followed at a distance as Carter meandered down the midway, stopping long enough to buy himself a corndog, chat with a balloon vendor, enjoy a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade, and watch a trio of kids take a camel ride. After the midway, he moved on to the rodeo arena, looking for all the world like a man enjoying a carefree day at the fair. If he’d come here with any agenda, he certainly hid it well.
As he stood at the fence, casually observing a horseshowing contest, I began, once again, to question my earlier suppositions. He hardly seemed to be scoping out locations, poking around for information about Amber, or waiting for her to arrive. He wasn’t even answering his cell phone, which rang several times. He only checked the numbers with a seeming lack of concern, then tucked the phone back into his pocket. He appeared to have no agenda at all, which meant there was no reason for me to be following him. I did, after all, have work to do.
Even though I knew that was true, I lingered in the shadow of the bleachers, watching him brace a foot casually on the fence as one horseshowing contest finished and another one, involving old men in overalls and harnessed teams of ponies, began.
I found myself moving out of the shadows, wishing Carter would turn around and see me there.
Chapter 12
Imagene Doll
It’s a good thing Donetta’s nephew, Kempner Rollins, is the new coach at Daily High. Without Coach Kemp and his baseball team, the work on the hotel rooms wouldn’t have come along like it did. Those boys came in there and got busy cleaning things out, lickety-split. Up and down the stairs they went, carrying Christmas decorations and boxes of leftover yard sale treasures. Donetta was in such a hurry to have the rooms cleared, she told them to throw that stuff away, wonder of wonders, because Donetta’s a packrat to beat all. She’s the only person I know who’d hoard the leftover junk from a three-day church rummage sale.
She wouldn’t let the boys throw out the prom dresses and tiaras that were stacked in room 4-B, even though I wanted her to. Those things were the flotsam from the last hare-brained Donetta Bradford plan, which was hatched when Donetta heard that the ladies in Betty Prine’s Literary Society planned to ride a float in the Founder’s Day parade, dressed in red hats and purple feather boas, like one of them classy Red Hat Societies. Next thing I knew, Donetta’d decided the gals from our Friday night bunko and book exchange group ought to have a float in the parade, too. She borrowed a flatbed trailer, found us a driver, bummed some hay from the feedstore, and named us the Daily Tiara Bunko and Book Society. She cleaned out every Goodwill store within eighty miles, buying up old prom dresses and used tiaras so that we could ride in style, which we did. We paraded down Main Street like royalty, singing, “Zippity doo dah,” all the way. We won the trophy for most entertaining float and put Betty Prine’s snooty Literary Society to shame.
I thought maybe Donetta would give those dresses to the cheerleading girls when they showed up to help with the hotel rooms, but she put the cheerleaders to work cleaning trim, mopping floors, and getting the furniture dusted. Things progressed along fast, except for a short distraction with hauling out the prom dresses. When Coach Kemp saw his players coming down the stairs in gowns and tiaras, he put a stop to it real quick. He crossed his arms over that big chest of his and told those boys if they liked the fancy dresses so much, they could wear ’em to the baseball game against McGregor next week. The boys shucked their dresses and tiaras and got back to work.
It wasn’t long before Verl had the crew rolling paint on walls. Verl took charge of those kids like he’d done it all his life, and they actually listened to what he had to say. That was surprising, considering that I’d seen more than one of them make fun of Verl when he was staggering drunk around town. Verl’s own grandsons, Andy, Amos, and Avery, didn’t even want him to come to sports events over at the school because his behavior embarrassed them so, and they had enough problems fitting in already. It can’t be easy being the kid wearing hand-me-down clothes that smell like a house with a hundred cats locked inside. Having your grandpa pie-eyed and falling down the bleachers at the ball games doesn’t help, either.
But today, Amos and Avery looked happy, and Andy looked about two inches taller than usual. Even though he was just a sophomore and kind of wiry and small for his age, he outworked the older boys, hauling stuff out to storage and then trotting up the stairs two at a time, looking for more jobs to do. His granddaddy put him to painting, and he lined those edges along the trim boards just as careful and slick as a whistle. Pretty soon, Verl was using Andy as an example to show the other boys how to edge the walls. They took the lessons politely and called him sir and Mr. Anderson. Andy looked as happy as I’d ever seen him.
When I went downstairs to head back to the café for the supper rush, Donetta had just finished a set and style on a lady who lived up toward Waco.
“You done a good thing, DeDe,” I said, and gave her a little hug. “How you got Verl so fired up is a mystery, but it’s sure nice to see.” I slipped back through the wall with a lightness in my step and a happy feeling in my heart.
All through the supper hour, I made a point to say nice things when the crowd made remarks about Donetta hiring Verl. Thanks to Betty Prine’s gossiping, even the countertoppers were talking about it.
“Hope he don-don-don’t take a snort or two and fall-fall-fall down the stairs, down the stairs,” Doyle joked, and I gave him a dirty look. If there was anybody who should’ve had sympathy for Ve
rl, it was Doyle. Doyle sure enough knew what it was like to be made fun of by other folks.
I turned on Doyle, feeling a little self-righteous, even though not a few hours ago, I’d been saying the same things myself. “Well, he’s doin’ a fine job, Doyle Banes, and we might all do well to remember the Golden Rule here.” I looked hard at Betty Prine, over in the corner with that snoot-nosed husband of hers, Harold. “And besides …”
Doyle slid off his stool and started toward the front door. “I’ll be uddd-dogged,” he muttered, looking out the window. “Brothbrother Ervin, ulll-look at that, will-will ya?”
Both Ervin and Harlan Hanson swiveled around just in time to see a big RV truck tool down Main Street. It pulled around the corner beside the café, and we could hear it rumbling in the alley.
“Woo-wee!” Harlan whistled. “Shore ’nuf is a rig, ain’t it? That’s one of the bunch from Miss Lulu’s place, I think.”
Betty Prine stuck her nose close to the glass and tried to see around the corner. “Who’s Miss Lulu got at her place?”
Brother Ervin ignored her and swiveled back around to the counter. “I imagine that’s the people who was out by Caney Creek Church earlier. I hear they asked O.C. all kind of questions about the Andersons.”
Betty cocked her head back, her lips puckering up. “What would a nice motor bus be doing out at Caney Creek, of all places?”
“Ulll-lookin’ for in-information about Am-Am-Amber and her m-m-m-music, uhhh, music,” Doyle chimed in, and I stuck a hamburger basket in front of him to shut him up. The last thing we needed was Betty Prine sticking her pointy nose into this Hollywood business.
Betty gave Doyle a look that could have fried an egg. “Those Anderson children never learned anything at Caney Creek Church but heathenism—all that clapping and stomping around those people do. It’s blasphemy. Every time those Anderson kids came to vacation Bible school, I had to teach them how the Lord’s music is meant to be lifted up. I’m happy to see she has remembered at least some of what I taught her.”
“You been keepin’ up with the American Megastar show, Betty?” No doubt Harlan said that just to annoy Betty. He knew there was no way Betty Prine would admit to watching a show filled with beerdrinking country songs and, even worse, rock-and-roll music.
“Why, no, of course not!” Betty’s face got red, and she stood up, tossing her napkin on the table. Like a puppet on a string, Harold hopped to his feet and went to pay the bill. “What with being president of the Literary Society, I have far too much preparation to do, and besides, Harold and I confine our viewing to programs of moral value. We’d never allow one of our daughters to participate in such a show as that.”
“It’s a uggg-good thing th-th-they ain’t been asked-asked then, ain’t it?” Doyle said, then turned around and gave Harlan a big grin. Betty’s two spoiled-rotten daughters were both so mean-spirited nobody’d ever want them on a TV show.
“Well, I think it’s just wonderful what Amber’s doing,” I said. “Some folks might hear about all Amber’s been through and hear her sing and decide to change their lives.”
Betty spit through the gap in her teeth and rolled her eyes. “As if hearing a story is going to change someone’s life, Imagene Doll.”
“Hard to say,” I answered as she gathered up Harold and headed for the door.
“The para-parables in the uuub-Bible are stories,” Doyle pointed out.
Betty didn’t answer. She just went out the door with her nose in the air and Harold trailing behind her.
“Good point,” Brother Ervin agreed.
Harlan turned an ear toward the rumble of the motor home outside. “Wonder what they’re doin’ out there, parked in the alley.”
Bob came back out of the storage room, where he’d gone when Betty mounted her high horse and charged into the conversation. “Can’t tell,” he said. “I just looked out the rear door, and they were unloading something from underneath their bus. I asked if they needed help, but I guess they didn’t hear, or …”
The front door burst open before Bob could finish, and in came three people—a lady with short-cut blond hair and two fellas following behind her. Before we knew what was happening, they’d marched through the café all tangled in microphones and cameras, come right behind the counter, and caught Bob at the fry grill.
“Sir,” said the lady with the spiky white-blond hair, “do you have any information about the rumors that Amber Anderson has been selected for the Final Five on American Megastar? Any word on plans to hold her hometown reveal during this weekend’s festival?”
Bob stood there like a deer in the headlights, his spatula glinting in the evening sun.
The lady reporter shook the microphone in his face, then brought it back to herself and fired out another question. “Any comment on the rumors that, after a whirlwind romance, Amber is secretly engaged to Justin Shay and they will be arriving here together tomorrow?”
Bob just stood there with his eyes unblinking and his mouth halfway open.
The lady reporter wagged her microphone again. “What about the fact that Amber was recently seen with Shay at a Shokahna rally, and the claim by members of the Los Angeles–based religious sect that Amber intends to convert to Shokahna so the couple can be married in a Shokahna temple?”
Bob didn’t have an answer for that, either. Nothing. Not a word. His lips moved and he made a little gurgle in his throat, but he was choked down like a hot tractor in a July wheat field.
I headed over to the counter. I was starting to feel bad for Bob. I could picture this on Hollywood Undercover, which was what the cameraman’s jacket said. If I didn’t do something, the world’s first introduction to Daily, Texas, home of Amber Anderson, would be Bob Turner, fish-eyed with his mouth open and a little stream of spit dripping from the corner. People would think Amber came from a village of simpletons, and all her chances to make a good impression for America would be spoiled.
“Can I help you folks?” I said, and the reporter swung around so quick she almost boxed me in the nose.
“Ma’am, can we get a comment on the reports that Amber Anderson will be arriving here this weekend to film her Final Five show for American Megastar?”
“Well …” Squinting against the bright light on the camera, I saw my reflection in the lens. My hair was a little offkilter, and my blouse—double knit with red rosebuds and blue daisies in little baskets—was bunched up above my boobs so that I looked like I had two pair. I was appalled, of course, so I grabbed the shirtwaist and pulled, then patted my hair.
The reporter waved the microphone in my face. I reckon she thought I was froze up, like Bob.
I gave what I hoped was a thoughtful yet friendly look. “I can’t say that anyone in Daily has been contacted with official news that Amber has made the Final Five, but being as she’s a hometown favorite, there has been some speculation. An unconfirmed report, I believe you’d call it.”
The lady reporter drew back, surprised, I guess, that folks in Daily knew proper TV terminology. “And what about her alleged secret engagement to Justin Shay and reports that her family members are angry about the marriage and have threatened to disown her should she convert to Shokahna in order to marry Shay? Do you think such a conversion would undermine her credibility as a gospel singer?”
“Well …” That bit about Amber taking up some flaky Hollywood religion got my back up. “I’d have to say that hearing such a thing certainly would be upsetting to her family and the entire town.”
The lady reporter perked up like a barn cat hearing a rustling in the hay. Having uncovered the tail of a scandal, she was ready to dig down and get after the meat. “Can you elab—”
“On the other hand,” I went on, and she swung the microphone back to me, wheeling her chin toward the cameraman to tell him, Keep rolling—here’s a lady with a big mouth.
The camera came a little closer. “Of course, considering that we all know Amber, and have known her all her life, we Daily folks w
ouldn’t be likely to believe such a thing. Amber Anderson is a fine young lady. There may be some things about city life she doesn’t understand, and a young girl can have her head turned, but I’d stake dimes to dollars that Amber Anderson knows what she believes and no Hollywood playboy’s gonna change that. When Amber sings them gospel songs, they come straight from her heart. She’s got a God-given talent and a pure motivation, and I’m sure that bothers some folks whose motives maybe ain’t so pure.”
The lady reporter drew back so that she was a head taller than me. Her chin curled into her neck, and we had a moment of what’s called dead air.
Lucky for her, I was on a roll. “It’s a sad world when folks want to tear down a young girl who ain’t done anything to anybody and is just trying to make the best of herself. Isn’t that a sad thing? I don’t reckon most of us would like to have our lives on the front page. I wouldn’t, would you?”
The lady reporter choked on whatever she was about to say. The fire went out of her eyes, and she stood there looking almost as froze up as poor Bob, the microphone hanging slack in her hand. The cameraman chuckled, and the photographic equipment shook up and down on his shoulder.
“An … any other comments,” the reporter muttered.
“No, ma’am, not a thing,” I said. “Y’all have a real nice day, and thanks so much for stopping in at the Daily Café. Can I get you some coffee?”
Signaling to the cameraman to cut, the reporter heaved a sigh, then collapsed onto a barstool with her forehead in her hand, like she had a headache. “Make mine a double. To go.”
“Coming right up.” I started for the coffee pot, thumping Bob’s shoulder as I went by. Stumbling forward, he belly-bounced off the counter, let out an ooof, then passed gas so loud it made the lady reporter jerk upright and stare in pure amazement.
Since Bob had her attention and he’d finally come out of vapor lock, he decided to introduce himself. He probably couldn’t have picked a worse time. “Howdy, ma’am. I’m Bob Turner, owner of the Daily Café, president of the Chamber of Commerce, and former employer of Amber Anderson. Anything you want to know about Daily, I’m your man.”