Cupid’s Revenge
by
Melanie Jackson
Version 1.1 – December, 2010
Copyright © 2011 by Melanie Jackson
Discover other titles by Melanie Jackson at www.melaniejackson.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Chapter 1
I knew that Alex was planning something when he arrived home with flowers— very expensive in February— and Chinese take-out with extra pot-stickers. The fact that he wanted to talk to me with Blue present rather than in a restaurant made me think it was either something very good or very bad. Or both.
The odds were against bad, I thought as he set the white paper bags on the counter. After all, he had spent a fair amount of money buying and renovating the other half of the duplex where I lived, turning the left half into an office and spare bedroom which we had yet to use.
The spare bedroom…
“Oh no!” I blurted. “Your parents are coming.”
“Yes, for Valentine’s Day weekend,” Alex said, his face falling. “But I hope you’ll get engaged to me anyway,” he said, taking a green velvet box out of his coat pocket.
* * *
Mrs. Graves had asked me to lunch the next morning. This was not shocking, but she had never done it before so I was curious and even a little bit apprehensive.
Usually I would suggest a picnic since I have a short lunch hour, but it was February in Hope Falls, and with all due respect to Shakespeare, this is the cruelest month— not April. Instead of dining alfresco in the park, we were having sandwiches from Big Daddy’s in a formal dining room. The chair I sat in was large enough that my feet barely touched the floor.
Mrs. Graves kindly waited until we had our food unwrapped before she explained the reason for our lunch.
“Chloe, as you know I have been named the Queen of Hearts this year and they have saddled me with Tara Lee, Shirley Winkler and Missy Everett as princesses.”
I swallowed some tea and started inventing excuses for why I couldn’t get involved. Was it fair to use my future in-laws visit as an excuse? Surely Mrs. Graves understood why I wouldn’t wear a ball gown and a tiara.
“As you also know, the Queen is really just free labor for the annual Sweethearts Ball committee.”
I nodded because I did know this, all too well.
Every year the Sweethearts Ball committee denudes the town of pink and red crepe paper and tissue (and even toilet paper and Kleenex in a pinch) and uses all these dyed dead tree parts to refurbish the Queen gazebo, where the Queen of Hearts and her court sit during the opening of the Valentine’s Day dance which raises money for that year’s chosen charity. The structure is basically a ten by ten square of chicken wire with a pyramid roof and large heart-shaped cutouts on the side. In daylight it looks unspeakably tacky, especially if it has gotten rained on during transport and one can see where the dye from the crepe paper has splotched and run. But at night, inside the old opera house with spotlights glaring into the audience’s eyes, it looks fairly impressive. And it is a town artifact dating from the 1950s so upkeep and respect are expected even if it is now considered—by some— as a silly tradition.
I know a lot about this because Mom and Aunt Dot have been on the decorating committee for decades and I, and my small hands, have been pressed into service decorating the tight interior corners and delicate roof ever since I turned five years of age and foolishly demonstrated that I could make paper carnations.
As a child and teen, it had seemed the height of unfairness that I had been unable to attend the adults-only ball until at eighteen when I had actually wrangled an invitation to the event.
It was dull, dull, dull. Most of the attendees were widows who liked to dress up in ball gowns and listen, but not dance to, Viennese waltzes played by the same string quartet they engaged every year. What few men did attend the dance made a beeline for the cash bar and stayed there, refusing to waltz with the man-hungry widows who often looked a lot like either Liberace or Carmen Miranda depending on their preference for rhinestones or silk fruits and flowers.
Still, there was a certain cachet to being named the Queen of Hearts. Like the Grand Marshall of the Christmas parade, the Queen was selected by a committee of citizens made up of elected officials and she earned her post by being tirelessly devoted to the welfare of the town. Or that was the theory. In reality, the post often went to whichever squeaky wheel was annoying the school board or town council. I think it is a backhanded compliment to be appointed, but if you are the kind of person who likes tiaras and sequin dresses, this was the office to have.
The trouble was that Mrs. Graves is about as un-sparkly a person as I can imagine. Her ‘princess’, Tara Lee, was a much more likely candidate. She was very involved in civic matters and often wore sequins and large jewels to everyday functions. Even Mrs. Everett, who owned the lingerie store, was better-suited than practical Mrs. Graves.
It was no mystery how this miscasting had happened though. Mrs. Graves, as an actual paid writer who was willing to work for the town’s charitable organizations for free, was drafted by Mrs. Winkler to write a fund-raising speech for the local charity, Books on Wheels. Mrs. Winkler had had every intention of delivering this speech herself, since she enjoys hectoring the town council, but she contracted laryngitis on Groundhog Day (at another hectoring that took place outdoors) and Mrs. Graves had ended up having to give the speech herself.
All speeches to the town council are televised on the local cable channel, which nobody watches. But due to some screw-up at the cable company, that night channel 8 was the only station broadcasting at 9 p.m.. Voila! Mrs. Graves became the new face of Books on Wheels.
She might have escaped queendom and the job of working on the toilet paper gazebo had there not also been a confluence of events, a perfect storm of synchronicity riding hard against her. That same meeting the town council had announced budget cuts from the state and the closing of several satellite libraries. Suddenly this revamped school bus, full of shoddy donations the main library didn’t want, became the only place for pre-mobile kids and post-mobile seniors outside of town to check-out books.
“Dear Larry Jackman has promised to be my escort,” Mrs. Graves said. “It’s a hell of a thing to do to a friend, but I couldn’t face it alone. Even at my wedding I didn’t wear a tiara. War brides didn’t in those days.”
I nodded sympathetically, waiting for the other shoe to fall.
“The thing is, I am very afraid that we may not have the gazebo ready in time for the ball.”
Uh-oh.
“At first I thought we were being plagued by bad luck but, Chloe, I think someone is actually trying to sabotage the dance.”
I blinked.
“How so?”
“They keep the gazebo in an old storage locker out by the highway.” I nodded. I’d been there. Often. “The first day we went to work on the gazebo, we found the door open. The hasp had fallen off and we assumed the wind had done the rest. Since there was a lot of rain the night before, three sides of the gazebo got wet and the paper was ruined. The floor was one great pink puddle.”
“Oh no!” My dismay was sincere. The gazebo usually only needs about a quarter of its paper carnations replaced and that can take a solid week of donated evenings for the unlucky volunteers.
“We drove to every craft and dime store in a fifty mile radius and were able to get enough crepe paper to fix it up. All four of us, working eight hours
a day were able to get it back into shape.” Mrs. Graves paused. “Eat your sandwich, dear, or it will get cold.
I complied. I was actually hungry and I love corned beef, but only when it’s hot.
“Then, that very night, someone left the space-heater on inside the locker and it managed to catch the gazebo on fire. I know that heater was off when I left, but whoever came back to work—or something more sinister—isn’t admitting anything.”
I stopped chewing.
“Fortunately, Emmett Spalding saw the smoke and came out with a fire extinguisher and it saved the structure. But the gazebo was completely ruined. We tried to get more paper but everyone wants pink and red for Valentine’s Day so there wasn’t enough unless we mugged every nursery school and kindergarten in the county. Larry was able to get us more online, but this is our last shot. If something else happens, there won’t be time to get more paper or to fix the damned gazebo. Which wouldn’t be so bad except, well, I don’t want it to get ruined on my watch.”
I nodded emphatically and swallowed my corned beef and sauerkraut. Mrs. Graves’ cat, Cleo, sauntered into the kitchen. Having assessed the potential for a bit of corned beef and deemed it likely that I would give her some, she slipped over to my chair and rubbed my dangling foot. I kept thinking while using sleight of hand to pass over part of my sandwich.
“Chloe!” I jumped guiltily. My mom never lets me feed animals from the table. “Is that an engagement ring?”
I exhaled in relief.
“Yes, Alex proposed last night.” I held out my hand so she could admire the ring. It was simple, a band with a channel for eight small diamonds. “His parents are coming to celebrate. Over Valentine’s Day,” I added gloomily. No matter how I packaged the announcement, it didn’t sound good.
“But not his sister or nephew?”
“No, thank God. Gwen and Zack can’t come.” Mrs. Graves and I shared a look. She is one of the few people who had heard about my disastrous dinner with Alex’s sister.
“Well good! You can send them down to the storage locker and they can help with the gazebo.”
I felt a smile tug at my lips.
“Maybe I will. It’s what I would do if they were really family…. Too bad that Dad won the election. He could have kept them really busy working on his campaign, handing out flyers at the landfill, attending Elks meetings.”
“I don’t know where you get this mean streak,” Mrs. Graves said, but her eyes were twinkling. Then she sobered again. “And, Chloe, you’ll come too? Just to look around? It would be kind of a relief to know I’m imagining things.”
“Yes. I’ll come after work. Do you mind if I bring Blue and Alex— if they want to come,” I added contentiously.
“Of course not. Many hands make for light work.”
“Hmph.” The light work thing had never proved true for me, but I might have to help for a while. At least until I got a feel for the group dynamic and some clue about who would want to sabotage the Sweethearts Ball. I didn’t say it aloud, but the most likely culprit was someone close to the event. “Maybe Mom and Aunt Dot can help too. If you are real short of hands. They have tons of experience.”
And speaking of my mother, I really needed to tell her and Dad about being engaged. It was just that I knew the announcement would send Mom into wedding-planner mode and I wasn’t ready to face that battle of conflicting tastes just yet. Mom would want ten bridesmaids all in pink ruffles and I just wanted Blue. And Alex, of course.
Chapter 2
I phoned Alex and explained about Mrs. Graves’ problem. Being a fine specimen of modern manhood he offered to pick up pizza and meet me at the storage locker so I could snoop on a full stomach. I suggested he bring Blue since you never knew when a tracking dog might be useful. Being a fine specimen of tactful manhood, he pretended not to know that I wanted Blue there because I missed my dog.
Cold weather brings out a different kind of parking violator, one I am less likely to ticket. We have a fair number of elderly persons who shop downtown and they tend to park as close as they can to the places they need, since the streets are icy and it is difficult to carry packages up or down steep hills. Jeffrey and I tend to turn a blind eye to their parking infractions as long as they stay out of fire zones and don’t run more than an hour over the two hour parking limit. The chief knows we do this but leaves it to our discretion since he isn’t a fool and enjoys being well-thought of by the senior citizens of Hope Falls who have exemplary voting records.
At the storage facility I found not only Mrs. Graves, but Mr. Jackman, Tara Lee, my mother and Mrs. Winkler. Everyone had red noses to match the pink and red crepe paper they were making into carnations and stuffing into the blackened chicken wire frame. The space heater had not been replaced.
“Chloe!” Mom exclaimed before I had even said hello. “Is that a diamond ring?”
“Hi, Mom. Yes, Alex and I…”
“Wanted to tell you the good news together,” Alex said, as he entered the locker, carrying two pizza boxes and a tray of coffees. Blue rushed over to greet me and I happily abandoned explanations for my mom in favor of hugging my dog.
“Oh, this wonderful!” Mom exclaimed giving Alex a hug that nearly upset our dinner. The others managed to congratulate us in reasonably happy tones considering their teeth were chattering. To be fair, Mrs. Winkler didn’t know us well, so we couldn’t expect ecstasy from her.
“Let’s eat,” Alex said, and chilled people dove on the pizza.
While we munched and slurped I looked around the locker. It was one of the largest of the storage units, a place where someone could store an RV or boat. There were outlets on two of the three walls and some soot marks on the plywood of the ceiling and the bank of florescent lights. The culprit space heater was gone, but there was still an extension cord plugged into the outlet on the south wall. It was an industrial kind and someone had written on it ‘Property of Hope Falls High School’.
“Who brought the extension cord?” I asked and then realized I sounded abrupt. The others were assuming that I was there to volunteer as usual and not investigating anything.
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Graves answered, brows contracting. Everyone else looked blank. Maybe their faces had frozen. “I’m not even sure who brought the space heater.”
I smiled and took another bite of pizza. For the time being I would let assumption stand that I was there as a volunteer and nothing more.
“Well, this was lovely,” Tara Lee lied. Pizza— pig swill— it was all the same to Tara Lee. “Thank you for bringing dinner, Alex. But I really need to be getting on home. I’ll let you young people take the night shift.”
“Me too. I need to get home,” Mrs. Winkler said in her gruff tone. I thought there was genuine relief in her low voice and wondered if it was all due to getting off her feet and out of the cold, or if maybe she had had enough of playing supporting princess when she should have been queen.
Part of me hoped that Mom would leave then, but of course she wanted to talk wedding. Since I was in no way prepared to have this discussion— especially with Alex’s parents coming into town— I decided to distract her by putting other cards on the table.
“Since we’re alone now, I have something to talk to you about.” I turned to Mrs. Graves. “You don’t mind?”
“No. Go ahead.”
“I think you have a saboteur who is trying to ruin the Sweethearts Ball.”
Only Mom looked shocked, so I knew Mrs. Graves had confided in Mr. Jackman.
“But why?”
“How much money will this event bring in?” I asked. “And what happens to Books on Wheels if they don’t get this funding?”
Everyone paused to hear Mrs. Graves answer. Mom had been a volunteer for decades, but Mrs. Graves was a retired accountant and always knew about money things.
“After expenses, probably about seven thousand— and that will pay the bus’s expenses for half a year. If we failed… I suspect someone would rush in and sav
e the day.”
“Only half a year?” Mom asked, looking in dismay at the gazebo they were redoing for the third time. Mom wasn’t great at math, but it must have occurred to her labor was not being all that appreciated.
“Yes, after they pay the driver and for insurance— you know how iniquitous rates are for bus drivers,” Mrs. Graves said. “And fewer people are donating liquor and so on for the ball so expenses are higher this year.”
We all nodded solemnly though I didn’t know if insurance rates for bus drivers were especially bad or if donations were down.
“Who has keys to this unit?” I asked after we had considered the shortcomings of the insurance industry for a moment longer.
My Mom looked serious.
“I do. And Dotty has keys too. So does Tara Lee and Mrs. Winkler.”
“And I have a key. So does the manager,” Mrs. Graves added. “They give them to all the volunteers. At least, all the ones who work here regularly.”
“And this isn’t a new policy?” Mom shook her head. “So basically anyone who has worked on the gazebo in the last 60 years could have a key to this unit?”
“No,” Mr. Jackman corrected. “This storage facility was built in the ‘70s. Not that it narrows the field by much.”
“The key wasn’t used the night of the rain storm though, right? So it might be someone who only recently got a key” I asked. “Did the hasp that fell off look really rusted? Or was it pried off?”
Alex went to the door and stepped outside. He carried a tiny pocket light which he used to examine the wood.
“I can’t be certain since the wood is so weathered and slivered, but it looks to me like force was used.”
“So either the person didn’t have a key at that point, or wanted the damage to look like either an accident or plain old robbery.” I took a sip of coffee. It was almost cold and very bitter. “Then came the fire. Does anyone know how the manager came to spot it right away? I don’t see any smoke detectors in here.”
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