by Molly Macrae
“No.” She picked her papers up from the table. I hadn’t looked at them, but I believed her when she said they showed Reva Louise had been helping herself. “No,” she said again, tapping the papers into a stack. “That was something else. Entirely. Nothing to do with Reva Louise.”
That I didn’t believe.
Chapter 20
Mel successfully ignored my most skeptical look, one I knew I didn’t need to practice in a mirror. She certainly didn’t need to practice “studied casual.” She got up and sauntered over to her desk with her papers and turned back to me and clapped her hands together. “Time for you to skedaddle, Red. I’ve got a café to bring back online and Lord knows I need to sell a lot of lunches to make up for the money Reva Louise took.”
“Do you think you could get the money back from Dan?”
“Mm.” She fluttered a hand. “Iffy. Remains to be seen.”
I let her shoo me out of the office. I didn’t think blocking the doorway until she coughed up the truth about the theft was likely to work. We went back through the kitchen, still rich with the ghosts of onions chopped.
“What’d you do with all your chopped onions?”
“Did you like that? Talk softly and chop with a sharp knife—that’s my motto. That and a bag of onions get me out of therapy free. You should try it. The onions went in the freezer. And you want to know the best part? Reva Louise hated onions.”
Carl had nodded off, but he came to with a snort and a confused look when Mel smacked the bulletin board in the hall near the back door. It made me jump, too.
“Sorry, Red.” Then she called, “You awake there, Carl? You might want to get up and walk around. Did you know that when you’re sitting like that you’re barely burning more calories than you will be when you’re dead? Come on over here and give us a consult.”
“I thought I was on my way out the door so you could reopen,” I said.
“We’ll get to that. But the name Prescott finally ran a bell. Not too tall, right? Expensive suit and the bright eyes of a sales rep who’s discovered new territory?”
“Sounds like him. Where did you run into him?”
“Where else? Here. About a week back. Midmorning. Coffee, black, and one of Reva Louise’s espresso muffins. He ate and drank, didn’t linger, asked if parking was ever a problem downtown, and on his way out picked up two cheese Danish and a refill on the coffee to go. I see weight gain in his future if they were both for him.” Mel called her ability to describe customers by their eating habits her “mental menu and meal ticket memory.” Most people who stopped in town for any length of time found their way to Mel’s, and if they stopped in often enough or during a lull, there was a good chance she would remember more about them than they might imagine.
“Did he offer you any business cards?”
“That’s what rang the bell.” She smacked the bulletin board again. Half of it was covered in business cards from all over the map, a low-tech but colorful form of business information exchange. People were welcome to pin and unpin as they liked. There were hundreds of cards and cards covering cards. “I saw him adding to the collection,” she said.
“This might be where Reva Louise got the card she had, then.” I hadn’t realized how prejudiced I was toward J. Scott Prescott until there was a logical and uninteresting reason for Reva Louise to have the card in her hidey-hole pocket. Or how disappointed I would be. I started scanning the board for Prescott’s pasteboard trio.
“You can leave that for Carl,” Mel said.
“Really?” I looked at Carl. He stood beside Mel and smiled sweetly with a set of too-white dentures.
“Nothing wrong with my eyes,” he said. “And I’ve got all day. Tell me which card you want.”
I described Prescott’s realty card, offering to run down to the Cat and get the one we had if that would help.
“No need. If it’s here, I’ll find it.”
“While you’re at it, Carl, look for Snappy Small Engine Repair, too, will you?” Mel asked. “No idea what it looks like. Or if it exists, for that matter. What do you think? Are you up for the challenge?”
“My doctor tells me a challenge is good for an aging brain.”
“And what do you tell your doctor?” Mel asked.
“An aging brain is a challenge.” He carefully interlaced his arthritic fingers and stretched his arms in a slow-motion limbering-up exercise. “Cards might fade, but they can’t hide,” he said. “Stand back, gals.” He creaked toward the bulletin board and Mel patted him on the back. But not too hard.
“Snappy?” I asked.
“Dan Snapp’s dream, according to Reva Louise. His own small business.”
“Yeah? And what are you thinking?”
“Wondering if it was his dream or hers or whether that matters. It would take a certain amount of money to get even a smallish small business off the ground.”
I ticked expenses off on my fingers. “Rent, inventory, supplies. He might need tools or some kind of equipment, advertising. Maybe that’s why she took Prescott’s card. And why she needed money. But was her . . .” I glanced at Carl’s back. “Was her self-help program going to bring in enough to start a business?”
“I think that program was healthy and starting to grow,” Mel said. “But even if it wasn’t, I’m sure every little bit helped. And rent wouldn’t have been a problem. She liked the idea of Dan setting up shop in one of the outbuildings at their place.”
“Sally Ann said Reva Louise was all about potential. If I’m thinking of the right place, potential is about the only thing going for it. At the curve on Spring Street, right? Wasn’t there some guy back twenty or thirty years ago who thought he could make a living raising ostriches out there? I remember Granny taking me to see them.”
“You’re talking about Pokey Weems,” Carl said, trying to look over his shoulder at us. That didn’t work out. He teetered and Mel latched onto his elbow to help him turn around. “Pokey always has an eye out for something new. I remember away back when he thought he was one of them, what were they? Beatniks. This was away, way back. He sent off for a bongo drum and wrote bad poetry. Pokey’s mama was what we called ‘artistic’ back then, and he picked it up from her.”
“Carl, are you wandering here?” Mel asked. “Why do we care what Pokey Weems was doing fifty years ago?”
“Who’s Pokey Weems?” I asked.
“Are you going to listen or not?” Carl asked. “You’re talking about this fellow Snapp’s place, and so am I. That was Pokey’s family home place. His granny still lived there, and he took it into his head to turn one of the buildings into a coffeehouse or roadhouse or some such. She wouldn’t let him use the barn because she still kept a few pigs. And the loom house was the only other outbuilding near big enough. And it’s none too big. And I’ll tell you what else was wrong with that harebrained idea. The place wasn’t plumbed and no one liked Pokey’s booze, his bongos, his coffee, or his poetry. He had his girlfriend knit him a black sweater with a neck to it. Except she didn’t knit any better than he wrote poetry and the thing looked like hell. He lost a bit of money on that place. Lost the girl, too. I could’ve told you back then Pokey Weems wouldn’t amount to much. But if you’re interested in where this fellow Snapp’s setting up business, look in Pokey’s old roadhouse.”
Mel nudged me with her elbow. “Mayor Palmer ‘Pokey’ Weems.”
“What’d I tell you?” Carl had an old man’s raspy cackle. “He’s finally reached bottom. He’s a politician.”
I laughed long enough to be polite, then asked, “Did you call it a loom house?”
Carl’s laugh sputtered to a stop. “Say what?”
“It sounded like you said Pokey turned the ‘loom house’ into his roadhouse.”
“It’s what they used to call it,” Carl said.
“Do you know why?”
“One of those old names. I doubt anyone calls it that anymore. I haven’t heard anyone mention the place in years except when they
want to get a rise out of Pokey.”
“What are you thinking, Red?” Mel asked.
“That I have a reason to go poking around Pokey’s granny’s place. Identifying an authentic antique loom house in Upper East Tennessee is right up my alley.”
• • •
There were a number of thoughts and questions from that visit to Mel’s that I needed to get down in my notebook before they flew out of my head. Or before they were covered over by new thoughts and questions the way the business cards were on Mel’s bulletin board. In fact, there was a whole string of questions about business cards. What would it mean if Carl did find one of Prescott’s real estate cards? That Reva Louise got hers directly from Prescott? That she was a client? Or had she helped herself to a card from somewhere else? Or had he simply pinned more than one card to Mel’s board? And what would any of that mean or matter?
My toe found a stone and I kicked it down the service alley, thinking and trying to keep the new strands from snarling before I reached the Cat’s back door. Ardis wouldn’t be in for another hour. That would give me time to jot away, barring unforeseen Geneva dramas. But maybe Geneva would be up for acting as a sounding board if I filled her in while I made my notes. Arriving at the Cat ahead of Ardis would also give me some meditative lap time with Argyle, not to mention time to fill his bowl with crunchy, fishy brunch and clean his pan.
The only signs in the alley that there’d been a festival in town the day before were a couple of abandoned cardboard cores from spun cotton candy. Not bad, I thought, picking them up and carrying them to the Dumpster we shared with the florist across the alley. I lifted the bin’s heavy lid and made myself peek under my arm across Depot Street to where Reva Louise had been standing. Had fallen. I was surprised to see the Tent of Wonders still in the parking lot. The Dumpster lid slipped from my fingers and clanged shut. I was glad it hadn’t slammed on my other hand. By reflex, I flapped that hand anyway, shaking off the near miss and glad it was alive, attached, and able to look silly flapping around my ear.
“You all right?” a voice called.
The clanging lid had disoriented my ears.
“Ms. Rutledge, isn’t it? Didn’t catch your hand there, did you?”
The voice came from across Depot Street. I looked. Aaron Carlin stood in front of his tent. He could only waggle a couple of fingers in greeting. His arms were otherwise occupied, balancing a gigantic, curved antler.
• • •
“Are you sure they don’t exist?” Geneva asked. “After all, you were quite rude about my existence when you first met me.”
“That’s true, and I’m sorry I was rude.” We were in the study and I’d told Geneva about the antler Aaron Carlin told me came from the world’s largest jackalope. “But jackalopes are different, Geneva. They’re imaginary. They’re tall tales.”
“And tall antlers, too, unless you are exaggerating.”
“Exaggerating is kind of the point. That’s what Aaron was doing. I’m pretty sure what he’s got is an elk antler and the whole Incredible Tent of Wonders is an elaborate joke.”
“I don’t understand his joke,” Geneva said. “Why don’t we go see his elaborate wonders together and you can explain everything so I can laugh, too?”
“He packed up the exhibits and he’s taking the tent down. We’ll have to go see it the next time it comes around.” It was easier telling her that than trying to explain why explaining jokes made them no longer funny.
“Write that down, then,” Geneva said. “So you don’t forget. Put it in your notebook. That will make it serious and official.”
I hadn’t even dropped my purse on the desk yet, or myself into the chair, but she came to hover over my shoulder, so I pulled out the notebook and flipped to a blank page. I wrote ITW w/G so she’d be happy and go sit with Argyle in the window seat and I could stop shivering from her cold touch. But she didn’t move away. She reached her arm around me and pointed at the note.
“You’d better spell it out or you might forget and think it means Imaginary Textile Workshop, and I’m not interested in attending one of those.”
“It’s my own shorthand. I’ll remember. Besides, I only got to see the antler. I wanted to see the other wonders, too, but he didn’t invite me in.”
“How rude.”
“That’s okay. I would’ve slowed him down. Technically he should’ve packed up and left yesterday like the rest of us. He said a deputy already came by once this morning and told him to clear out or he’d get a ticket.”
“How rude.”
“You seem particularly sensitive to all things rude this morning.”
“I believe it is important to have a sense of propriety.”
“Ah.”
Propriety, yes; personal space, not so much. She was still hanging over my shoulder. I slipped sideways and turned to face her. Argyle, in the window seat, gazed at her wispy form, too. Now she was the center of attention, in the center of the room. She straightened and struck a pose. It was difficult to see the expression on her face, but she clasped her hands in the middle of her chest, and although I couldn’t see her feet, I felt certain her toes were turned out.
“Rudeness is an interesting topic,” she said, instructing her audience of two. “Shall we now consider the Case of the Rude Deputy and the Ticket for Loitering with a Tent?”
“Well, rude might not be exactly the right word for threatening someone with a ticket, but I do think it’s interesting that the police let him keep the tent up overnight in the first place. Of course, that might be because they couldn’t find him last night, or maybe they talked to him last night but gave him a grace period because the guys helping him weren’t available yesterday. Except he didn’t seem to have anyone helping this morning.”
“Did you offer to help him?”
“I did. He said he was fine.”
“It’s too bad you did not insist. Then you could have looked through his marvels as you packed them up and then you could have told me about them. Now I will have to wait.”
“Sorry.”
“How long will I have to wait?”
I was beginning to lose track of why I’d thought using her as a sounding board was going to be a good idea.
“How long will I have to wait?” the Maven of Good Manners repeated.
“Aaron said if the folks over in Jonesborough will let him, he might set up during the Storytelling Festival in October. I’ll let you know if I hear anything. In the meantime the tent is packed up, so let’s focus on something else.”
“Good. Here is something else rude that we should discuss. Murders. Murders are extremely rude, and murderers are people who have lost all sense of propriety, either in the heat of a moment or somewhere else along their wicked way. There.” She pointed at me. “I caught your attention with that, didn’t I?”
“I hadn’t thought of murder and murderers as being rude, but I can see your point. Don’t you think some murderers have a veneer of propriety, though?”
“Yes, they do. I see your point as well.” She acknowledged the point with a bow. “They come into our lives with velvet in their voices and silken manners. They catch our eyes and bid us to follow them when it is hardest to resist.” She was really getting into her description. Her hands remained clasped in front of her, but she spoke with such animation that she was having a hard time keeping them still. “And then,” she said, “and then he draws us farther and farther along, using all his pretty ways and wiles.”
“His?”
“And it is such a slender path to tread,” she said, not answering my question, if she even heard it. “That slender path between what might be and what should not ever be. You spoke of propriety? He wore that veneer of propriety just as he wore his fine frock coat. And that meant he was sneaky and slithering. Sneaky and slithering are also rude. Rude and evil.”
“Geneva, honey,” I asked softly. “Who are you talking about?”
“The murderer, of course.”
&nbs
p; She continued standing in the middle of the room, hands clasped, but she didn’t billow and didn’t sound particularly agitated. I, on the other hand, was feeling plenty agitated. Hadn’t she told me the evening before that she hadn’t seen the murderer? Did this mean she had? Or that I just hadn’t asked the right questions? She could be so literal. And touchy. But if she could identify this shooter in a frock coat . . . I had visions of a lineup and Geneva hovering in front of each person as she inspected his or her veneer. No need for a two-way mirror with her. She could hover nose to nose and no one the wiser. I tried not to sound ruffled or too eager.
“Geneva, did you see him? Was he wearing a fine frock coat?”
“They both were. And we were wearing our dotted lawn.”
Dotted lawn? Oh no. Her memory had slipped. She wasn’t talking about yesterday’s murder at all. But when she’d described that long-ago double murder, she’d said the young woman—Mattie—was wearing pale, dotted lawn. Was this another part of that traumatic memory? And how would she react if I tried to dig further into that memory? If I dared, then I would need to go with care—to use my silken manners and put velvet in my voice.
“I wish I could see you in your dotted lawn, Geneva. You must look very pretty.”
“I will never be as pretty as Mattie with her chestnut hair. And never be as loved.” Her voice started to rise. “But neither shall I ever be as horrified or covered in blood. . . .”
Argyle, who never usually minded her moans and groans, drew back into the corner of the window seat, his ears flat.
“Geneva, Argyle and I are here—”
She wasn’t listening. Her wispy figure pulsed and swelled. “He shot them. I know he did. On his evil, sneaking feet he followed Mattie and Sam with his shotgun.” She swirled at me, surrounding me. “We need to find them,” she wailed. “We need to get there first to warn them and I didn’t. We need to find them and stop him!”
“Geneva, we will, we will. We’ll try.”