Fit To Curve (An Ellen and Geoffrey Fletcher Mystery Book 1)

by Bud Crawford

  "Who was that extraordinarily handsome young man?" Honoria asked, arriving at the table just as the porch door closed behind Marti. "And why are we giggling?"

  "He's a client of Harold," Stephanie said.

  "If I weren't afraid of giving offense, I'd say Harold is a lucky fellow." Honoria cocked her head, smiling at Harold.

  "That's the giggling. We may have established Harold isn't so much phobic as driven by uncommonly high standards." Ellen said. "Sorry, Harold, that was way too much. Giggling destroys my judgment. But, Honoria, now you're blushing."

  "Sorry, child, I was just floating, forgot my manners. Why has that man made us all giddy? And I didn't even speak to him." She sat in the chair James had vacated.

  "You're looking at me? I'm supposed to explain?" asked Geoff. "Okay, I'll try, of course. He has a wide open energy with none of the usual barriers, just instinctive seduction. He senses what people want, knows that if he can give it to them, he'll likely get something back that he wants. There just don't seem to be any limits or filters, so your imagination kind of goes wild."

  "I wouldn't be surprised," Ellen said, "to find a long line of husbands, and maybe a few wives, that have no love for James."

  Geoff said, "I'd guess if he sensed that person A wanted to do something he also wanted to do, he wouldn't hold back because of possible distress to persons B or C. If it even entered his mind, he'd be sure he could work out a deal later with B and C."

  "I don't know what to think," Harold said, "except that he turned up, in one afternoon, two coins I've spent several years looking for. I'm not sure how he did it and I'm not sure why."

  chapter fourteenth

  Ellen suggested dinner at a restaurant they'd seen during the trolley tour, in one corner of the Grove Arcade, an enormous three story gothic/deco indoor/outdoor shopping mall built decades before there were malls. Jerry and Dwight and Ross joined them at the last minute, so they showed up without a reservation seeking a table for eight. The staff was accommodating, and had them seated within twenty minutes, which they spent cheerfully enough shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar. It was called Carmel's, and though totally different in style from Salsa's where they'd had lunch, it was run by the same chef. That was an interview no longer optional, Ellen thought.

  They learned at dinner that Andy Ross was just this week transferred to Asheville from Phoenix, assigned to the National Weather Data Center in the basement of the Asheville Federal Building. He was staying at Juniper House until his furniture arrived the first of next week. Meanwhile, he said, he got to eat Alistair breakfasts at taxpayer expense. His job was to sort out a hundred years of data that the Weather Service had collected from all its stations and deposited in Asheville. The challenge was: first, get it digitized; second, mine it to extract past climate trends; third, develop algorithms for projecting those trends into the future.

  The waiters pushed four four-person tables together for the eight of them, two on each side. Ellen and Stephanie had their backs into the corner of the room, Geoff and Harold were at the opposite end, the others between the separated couples. Ellen and Stephanie spoke softly, mostly to each other. Conversations up the table were more boisterous, except for Harold, who muttered to himself, drawing graphs on napkins. He declined Dwight's and Andy's and Geoff's offers to help solve the problem, whatever it was.

  Jerry explained why they still had several days of oversight ahead at the building going up in Gastonia. The low-bid electrical contractor who started the job didn't believe in following blueprints, or didn't know how. The electricians currently on the job were competent. They would have been fine if they'd been on from the start. But they weren't up to working from the current mess backwards to the original plan. The idea was to salvage as many components and conduit runs as possible, working out small adjustments with the architect. A great job, Jerry said, no screwing boxes to the studs, no bending tubes, no pulling wires — only thinking and pointing, while others did the work.

  The food was varied and daring and tasty. Four bottles of wine later, everyone was pleased. Ellen got the bill, as arranged, in exchange for her tablemates' reviews. The bill came about a minute after they'd declined dessert. Ross had an errand downtown. The rest of them ambled back together, across the expressway bridge into Montford. It was about a quarter mile from the bridge to Juniper House.

  Alistair was waiting, with Toni and Marti. The Farley sisters were already seated in the far corner of the parlor, quietly eating and reading. Honoria brought her dessert and a glass of brandy and joined them. They talked for a while, then she pulled the knitting from her bag and they returned to their books. She leaned back to knit and watch the room.

  dessert was as extravagant as it had been the night before, but entirely different. Alistair made popovers, softly chewy inside, flaky crisp outside, even though there was scarcely enough pastry to define an inside and outside. The fillings were fresh churned vanilla-bean ice cream and lemon sorbet. There were two sauces, a dark sweet chocolate and a still darker bitter chocolate, for drizzling or drenching. Ross arrived in time to claim the last popover.

  By midnight all the guests had retired. The parlor and kitchen clean-up was done. Marti had gone to her room, and Alistair was about to join Toni, after locking up. He was almost content, the day had run nicely for Juniper House and its guests. He was dreading a little the talk he had to have tomorrow with Marti. Wait for the guests to disperse after breakfast, he decided. Harold was a prig, but Marti did have to hold it in around the customers. He didn't know whether her provocative presentation was innocent or deliberate. She'd always been that way, and he'd never known how to read it. Bring her trouble either way and he wasn't doing her any favors pretending not to notice. He couldn't ask Toni, she wasn't Toni's kid. A little squirmy, but he could handle it. It was just business, after all.

  He wished he could figure out how to say something about the slimeball boyfriend. Mister Seth with the limp fingers, won't look you in the eye. No job, alternating flush and tapped out. Pretty obvious what he did for money. Medical student, my ass. But Alistair knew he could only make things worse, stepping into that. She was nineteen. He couldn't run her life. She was just like her mother had been, law unto herself.

  He took a final turn through the kitchen, double-checking that breakfast was ready to go. He took four pans of dough from the refrigerator, set them on the counter covered with cotton towels for a slow rise overnight. He poured a small tumbler half-full of Glenlivit and carried it into the bedroom. Toni was not quite asleep. He undressed, draping his clothes over the straight-back chair, pulled on his pajamas and reading glasses. He settled against the bolster, book open on his belly, sipping his scotch. Almost content.

  Something was off, in the Juniper zeitgeist, but he couldn't name it. The Fletchers were okay. Good to have last year's mystery cleared up. Stephanie Alden is a pretty kid. Husband's a little strange, old for her, attitudes a bit twisted, but not a bad guy. Needs to unwind, quit kicking upstream all the time. The Herters are unnerving, their abrupt shifts between bumptiousness and quiet intensity. Maybe it was a German thing. Ross is one odd duck. Can't quite get a handle there, but no apparent threat to anything. The Farley girls were always odd, they'd stayed a couple times before. Kept to themselves, never let anyone else get close, pretty sure they're harmless. Dwight and Jerry let their hair down when they come to Asheville. They have to stay pretty closeted at home, working construction. A ton of tension bound up in their situation. Be awful, having to pretend all the time about something so central. Toni was doing good, better than good. Her hip replacement, back in December, was fully rehabbed. She was getting stuff done again, not all the time in pain. He turned to look at her back, wrapped in the blankets. Her graying hair, loose for the night, frizzed out in all directions on the pillow. He brushed his hand over her hair, pressed softly down to feel the globe of her skull against his palm.

  Two empty rooms. That was excellent in April. Solidly in the black last year, according
to the tax returns he'd just filed. First time for that. He sipped his scotch. Maintain situational awareness, something's skittering, just out of sight. He lifted his book, a new biography of Ben Franklin. Some kind of a life that man lived. O, hell. He was content enough.

  chapter fifteenth — wednesday

  Nobody but me, James thought, stretching his arms and legs long on the diagonal of the little bed. The sun was up just enough to flash a bright trapezoid across the ceiling through the east-side window. That's cool, nobody I have to chat up first thing. I'll get that kid Marti up here tonight, other things being equal. Almost grabbed her yesterday, but I didn't necessarily believe the nineteen-year-old part. I checked, she is. Also Alistair's just a step-daddy, and I should be pretty well done at Juniper House by this evening. Anyway, big A obviously knows she's out of his control or she wouldn't be dressing like she is or coming on like she did with me. Wouldn't want that guy mad at me, might end up in the casserole. He looks tough, Alistair does, not just big.

  I do need to get my ass in gear. The book-collector's all the way down in Cashiers, and I need to confirm with Mr. Fancy Cook. That's just a phone call, but it will take a little while to play my line out and reel him completely in. Can't use my cell on the roads here, no services and suicidal besides. I'll need to light somewhere to make the calls. That should settle things with step-dad, too, if I can make part B work. Stephanie, pretty Stephanie, she's a pluckable chippie, done just right; but it would be a tricky dance now, working with Harold and the coins and all. Besides I need to set my hook the rest of the way for my fee-con con. File her under way hot, catch you later. I'll present my little token, just to make the link, and let it marinate. He stood, crossed into the kitchen to press the coffee maker on. He danced naked into the bathroom, singing the off-to-work-we-go song from Snow White, the Disney version, pretty much in tune.

  ~

  Today, Stephanie thought, wide awake hours before she meant to be. She turned on her side, towards Harold, but not touching. I'll tell him today. No reason to wait longer. I'm way past when I miscarried last time. And he's going to be happy, right? He thinks he will be. So I'm hesitating, why? Okay, she thought, I got it. That's the wrong question. It isn't him I'm wondering about, it's me. I've been here before, here at this choice. Was I right, that time? I guess so, a grown man by now, as grown as I was then. Is that it? All guilty, all curious? Something like, if I don't know how he turned out, do I have any business doing it again? Was I responsible then? Or most horribly irresponsible, casting him off into the bull rushes? Made my choice, didn't I? Shit. Completely different situation now, no connection, except through me. Through me, in the most central and intense way imaginable. I surely do remember that part. Except I was alone then, so very alone. This time the choice goes: if Harold is spooked, what do I do? Independently of him, because that could happen, too, what do I do? Figure that one out, everything else falls in place. She inched closer to her husband, touching now, spooning softly into his back so she did not wake him. She closed her eyes, and was back asleep in seconds.

  ~

  Mary-Beth disengaged her arm, then her leg. She lay still a second then slipped out from the covers. Be cool if she swapped before Beth-Ann woke, it was fun sometimes doing the game on each other, second-derivative fun. She ran a brush through her hair, put on the outfit they'd set last night and went quietly into the hall. She closed the door behind her, walked down the stairs, and shut the front door gently enough the bell didn't sound. Alistair was already clattering in the kitchen. That was pretty good cover. She walked to the street and around the corner before she checked her watch, squinting close in the fuzzy gray light: five-fifteen. Right on. Going to be pretty today, when the fog burns off.

  ~

  Ross saw Mary-Beth go down the stairs. He had just got in, having climbed up the trellis in back to the balcony outside his room. His senses still hyper alert, he heard the soft snick of her door and stepped up on the chair to look through the transom. She didn't seem especially furtive, just actively not drawing attention, kind of like they always were, those two. He stepped down. Someday pretty soon he was going to have to figure out whether he was getting anywhere with all his sneaking and snooping. Was he eliminating possibilities, developing narratives, or just spinning his wheels? Sure as sugar he had not yet found him any actual factual facts. Hell's bells! Five messages stacked up on his Blackberry. There were way too many time zones involved in this process. But as he read and responded to each one, the elements of his day began to coalesce. At least he wouldn't spend it all sitting in one place. Thing now is to crash till about eight-thirty. He found the alarm icon on the phone and set it. He'd be a little late for breakfast, but with time enough to find out where everybody was headed.

  ~

  Geoff turned around slowly, scanning the enormous room, the Winter Garden of the Biltmore House. He lifted his eyes higher and turned again. The edges of the roof, this room had its own roof, were twenty-some feet high. The center rose up twenty feet more. A faceted dome of glass panes was suspended by arched oak timbers socketed into a ring of stone pillars, about forty feet across. The timbers cradled a grid of metal frames, each one closing or opening by the action of metal rods that extended to swiveling joints reaching out to the perimeter stonework. Further linked rods descended the flutes of the stacked stone columns until they came within reach. Significant chore, to open or close all those, especially more than once a day. Look for a tall strong guy, the under-butler of atrium adjustments. Atrium, Garden Room, Winter Garden. Perfect entry hall for a major museum, huge beyond reason in a house for one man, a wife and daughter. Besides, this wasn't the Entrance Hall, they'd just been there. It was also huge and grand. The Atrium made up one side of that hall, the right side as you walk through the front door, sorry, the Main Entrance. To the left, according to the floor plan in his hand, a ninety-foot-long Tapestry Gallery led to the library. Straight on was the Music Room, fanning right to the Salon and Breakfast Room. Due right, the far side of the Atrium, was the Main Dining Hall, with a ceiling twice as high as this one, eighty feet to the top, the notes said. There was another explanation, Geoff thought. Maybe the rooms were normal size, but the Main Entrance radiated an electronic field, like the Star Trek transporter, that just shrank everyone to ten or eleven inches tall.

  He looked at Ellen. "Holy shit," he said. "Everything I said earlier, rushing breakfast, wrecking my carefully planned day — wipe the tapes."

  "Done," she said. "I'm at this moment erasing every thing I've ever heard about this place. It's beyond beyond. It's a flat-out assault on the senses, a splendid battery."

  "But," Stephanie said, "it's still assault. It stuns you. Is it a palace or a house or a museum? What does it mean?"

  "Ten years since my last visit," said Honoria, "but it is not like seeing your old primary school, and thinking how little it has become. This place always gets larger."

  "Besides the big picture," Mary-Beth Farley said, in a clear and easily audible voice, "look at the stuff down here on the floor with us. That fountain is absolutely spectacular, spraying over the bronze boy and his goose. Anybody with just that one object would have an amazing house."

  Harold said, "I take back what I said about the hype. It isn't hype. And I really want to see the library."

  "What I can't do," Geoff said, "is establish any context. Like Stephanie said, where do you put these pictures, into which filing cabinet in your brain? Does it make you happy, envious, angry, awestruck?"

  Beth-Ann Farley said, "It's like Alistair's breakfast this morning, absolutely delicious, but nothing you'd ever make for yourself, even if you could."

  "Well, let's look around this room a little," Ellen said. "Remember there's acres of them on this floor, plus three upper floors, the basement and the subbasement. Two-hundred-fifty rooms. Outside, the stables, where they put out hay for the visitors for lunch, I think. And the green houses, the dairy, the farm, the winery and the restaurants. Also the walled garden
, rose garden, azalea garden, Italian Garden, French Garden, the ponds, the river, the forests."

  There was no objective way to say how much time was enough time, the right time, for checking out the artwork and plants and structure of the Winter Garden. Ellen stirred the group, after about fifteen minutes, and led them into the Dining Hall. That room, big enough to hold a strip mall, was eighty feet from floor to ceiling, with three fireplaces, all walk-in high and big enough to roast an ox whole. There was seating for sixty-four, along the table in the center of the room. Somewhere, there had to be sixty-four matching sets of china, glasses, napkins and flatware. More than one set, probably: one for everyday, another somewhat festive, then a fancy set for state occasions? The Cloisters in New York has such tapestries on the walls and the Louvre does. A touch of color high up, just below the roof: a flutter of battle flags. Real flags that real men had fought and died under.

  Almost more interesting than the works of art, Geoff thought, were the background things. The hinges on the doors, for instance, each one as large as a volume of the Britannica. Every door has a matched set of three or four, little symphonies of brass and steel. Along the opposite edge of the door, just as elaborate, just as beautiful and perfectly aligned: the door latches, locks, and handles. The giant wood doors themselves, high wide and fancy, clearly conceived together, but not the same.