by Anna Castle
The fresh slap of the chill morning air on my cheeks brightened me up. Lost Hat had its downsides, but this wasn’t one of them. Mornings were delicious: no traffic, no smog, thick dew on winter lawns filling my nose with the smell of wet leaves. I liked to run the length and breadth of the town and watch it waking up. And if I should ever stumble and sprain an ankle, I knew that six people would bound out of their houses and carry me to the clinic.
Moving out here, close to the hillscapes I loved, simplifying my life so I could have quality time for my art: this had been my dream for years. Aunt Sophie and her partner Gertie and I had spent many happy hours over coffee at the kitchen table talking about it, imagining it, working it through. That’s why she left me everything she owned, so I could live the dream.
I would not let Greg Alexander destroy it all.
I could handle doing the website for the museum. I would have done it anyway, if they’d asked. The website was nothing; the website was cake. The problem was that until I got those photographs back, Greg could keep right on yanking my chain. Mariposa Internet Services did websites for lots of businesses in the Hill Country. What if he loaded me down with so much work I didn’t have time for my own projects? What if he escalated from free labor to other kinds of favors, like foot massages — or worse?
A black Suburban drew up alongside me, pacing me. I heard the soft hum of a power window going down. In Austin, this would’ve spooked me enough to lace my keys through my fingers, ready to defend myself.
“Mornin’, Penny. Need a lift?” Ray Benson, owner of the Handy Hardware Store, leaned out the window with a goofy grin on his round face.
“Not today, Ray.”
He did this almost every morning and it always gave him a chuckle. At first, it had annoyed the socks off me, but more and more, I enjoyed the contact. It made me feel integrated, like part of the town. I was the crazy girl that ran in the morning no matter the weather. Ray was bundled up in a quilted jacket and an earflap cap. He waved a mittened hand as he drove off.
Texans. It was all of forty-two degrees with a sky as clear as crystal.
I veered into the street to avoid a stretch of slippery leaves. These slacker homeowners obviously intended to wait until the last leaf was down before they broke out the rake. In Army housing, we picked up each leaf as it fell, logged it in triplicate, and filed it in the appropriate container for disposal. I never thought I would miss those days: the structure, the predictability. Colonel Doctor Dad making all the big decisions.
What would he do if he were in my shoes right now? Tell the truth and take the consequences, no doubt about it. I knew that’s what I should do. I tried it on in my imagination, feet slapping the concrete, arms pumping, breathing deep, plenty of oxygen feeding my brain. I saw myself sitting down and confessing the whole sorry tale. I saw the look on Ty’s face: shock, disgust, disappointment.
Was that a flash of contempt?
Ty was eight years older than me. I was two years younger than his kid sister. That didn’t qualify us for a May-December cruise, but it mattered. He tended to take the lead. Mostly, I had to admit, I kind of liked it. Besides, I figured that angle would soften to nothing over time.
But right now? I’d bet my weight in figurines that losing naked pictures to Greg’s spynet would count in the Penny’s-too-young-for-me column. I could almost hear the calculations clicking through Ty’s brain. First, he’d get me out of my mess, because that’s what big brothers did for their baby sibs. Then, he’d ease himself out of the relationship.
“Oh, no. It isn’t you. It’s me.”
I couldn’t tell him. I certainly couldn’t tell him over the phone. That meant I had a week to get myself out of this mess.
I rounded another corner, heading home. A blue minivan passed me, driving too fast, and zipped into a driveway half a block up. A woman in a down coat and the pink cotton pants of an allied health professional hauled a vacuum cleaner out of the van. She glanced around furtively, glared at me, and then marched the vacuum up the driveway, disappearing around the back of the house. A clandestine housecleaning? What were the odds the house belonged to Greg the Blackmailer?
As I ran past his house, I counted possible fellow victims: Andy Lynch, the insurance guy; RandyMan from the gas station; Lexie, the checkout girl; and now the nurse with the vacuum.
Greg’s net was pretty widely spread. Sooner or later, he was going to pull in a shark. If I played along, hung loose, maybe somebody else would string him up.
Chapter 7
That evening I was lacing up my boots, ready to head over to the museum for the historical society meeting, when my cell phone burst into a lively Bollywood theme. I was startled and cracked my elbow on the end table. Might be time to change that ringtone.
“Penny.” It was Greg. My mood took a dive.
“What?”
“I need you to come by the office and give me a ride to the meeting.”
“Don’t you have a car?”
“I walked to work this morning. For the exercise.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But I got a blister on my toe and I don’t want to walk all the way over to the museum.” A whole quarter of a mile, if you took the scenic route. “So I need you to come and get me.”
I closed my eyes and opened them on my new reality. “Are you ready to go right now? Because I hate to be late.”
“I’m ready. I just have to lock up.”
I fumed all the way over to his office. Didn’t he have other victims to abuse?
I parked with the nose of the truck facing out, ready to roll. It was three minutes before seven. I hopped out and went inside. He was nowhere to be seen.
“Greg?” I sang out. “Let’s get going.”
“Coming!”
He appeared at the far end of the hall, wiping his hands on a swatch of paper towels. He crumpled them up and tossed them out of sight. He was wearing a beautiful Norwegian-style sweater in grays and blues, obviously hand-knit by a skilled craftswoman.
“All set?” he said brightly. Like we were going to a party. Together. On purpose.
I lifted my lips in a smile and went back outside while he closed the front blinds, taking his sweet time about it. He turned the door sign to Closed. It felt like a good three minutes to me.
I took a peek at my watch. Yep, we were now officially late. Demerits all around. Another five minutes and we’d get punishment duty.
We walked to the truck. I got in and fastened my seat belt. Greg opened the passenger door and started to get in and then stopped and looked back at his office.
“Oops! I meant to bring some snacks.”
“Huh?”
“For after the meeting. We always have coffee and people bring cookies and things. I wanted to bring some cakes.”
“Greg. We’re late already.”
“It’ll just take a sec.”
He swung the door shut and limped around to the back of the building. That pesky blister: I got it. I laid my forehead on the steering wheel and took deep, regular breaths. It didn’t help.
I banged my head against the hard plastic. That was better.
* * *
The Long County Museum, once the home of a prominent citizen, was clad in a kaleidoscope of irregular stones in gray, cream, orange, and dark red. White trim outlined the windows and gray asphalt shingles kept the rain out. The stonework was old and beautiful; the rest was new and utilitarian. The annex was a beige metal building with a tin roof connected to the museum by a dog run. Plain, sturdy, economical: these buildings are so boring to look at they’re nearly invisible.
Greg allowed me to hold the door for him, since he was burdened with his box of fluorescent cakes.
I’d never been in the annex before and I could see at a glance that it was vastly more interesting than the museum proper. The museum held tidy displays of the usual Texas history objects: collections of barbed wire and branding irons, sepia photographs of beady-eyed pioneers with hilarious moustach
es, cases of Bowie knives and old-timey guns, cases of arrowheads, cases of rocks.
In other words: Snooze City.
The annex, however, promised boundless joy to the goal-free rummager. The building was divided into two halves. On the right was the meeting area, with a podium at the far end facing irregular rows of plastic chairs. An industrial-sized coffee urn burbled on the refreshment table against the wall beyond the entrance.
Marion stood at the podium. A tall, thin woman with silvering black hair stood nearby, ready to move to center stage. A couple dozen people sat in the chairs. Everyone turned to look at me and Greg as the door boomed shut behind us.
My feet headed toward them but my eyes were pulled to the left, where a glorious chaos reigned. Shelves overflowed with boxes and mysterious objects. Parts of wagons and bits of agricultural equipment leaned against each other on the floor. An open cabinet held enough antique guns to arm a posse. The walls above the shelves were hung with heads and antlers from every species of animal known to the Hill Country: all manner of deer, javelinas, even a cougar. A huge shaggy buffalo head rested on a pallet at eye level. It looked like he had rammed his head through the wall while stampeding down the plains and now couldn’t figure out how to put himself into reverse.
I wanted to root around in the boxes for old photographs, but it would have to wait. The woman at the front was watching me with an expression of displeasure on her aristocratic face. Four senior citizens in the front row, awkwardly half-turned in their spindly seats, mirrored her steely glare. Marion frowned and tapped on her watch.
Gee, was I late?
Nobody glared at Greg, I noticed. He dropped his box of snack cakes on the refreshment table and sashayed up to the second row where he sat on the outside seat and looked around at everybody with a comfortable smile.
One person steadfastly avoided his gaze: Andy Lynch, seated stiffly next to his stiff-backed wife. Seeing him made me wonder how many others in that room were on Greg’s list. My neighbor Mr. Muelenbach waved a cheery welcome and Jim Donnelly patted the seat next to him in the back row. I wiggled my fingers at Mr. M as I slipped into the seat next to Jim.
He was an urban transplant like me, only he’d been in Lost Hat for about twelve years. We’d bonded instantly on the day he walked down the street to check out the remodeling work on my studio. He brought me a Diet Peach Snapple, which, in the universal language of beverages, means I am perfectly harmless.
He was, too. He was happily married with two kids and an Australian cattle dog, so we could have a friendship uncomplicated by sexual wonderings. We got together for lunch once a week to gripe about small-town stuff. We were just venting; we both liked it out here in the boonies.
“Sorry I’m late,” I whispered, earning another frown from the tall woman by the podium. I grimaced a friendly apology at her, which made her eyes louver down a notch. No forgiveness there.
Jim leaned sideway and whispered in a hoarse singsong, “You’re gonna get detention.”
I whispered, “It was not my fault. Greg—”
The sound of a throat being authoritatively cleared cut me off.
I folded my hands in my lap and directed my attention to the front. And immediately noticed that there was a pair of prize-winning longhorns mounted on the wall directly over Marion’s head. It had the extraordinary effect of making her nose look longer, really bringing out the basset hound effect.
I turned my head a fraction and whispered without moving my lips, “What’s with the horns?”
“I’m trying not to think about them.” Jim’s voice was quavery with suppressed laughter.
I willed myself to ignore them, freezing my face into an attentive shape.
The tall woman watched me compose myself. Her glare relaxed into the skeptical watchfulness with which teachers regard troublemakers. It intimidated me for a heartbeat and then I remembered that I was nearly thirty years old and an independent artist/entrepreneur. It would take a sheriff, a warrant, and a really mean judge to put me in detention.
Marion rolled her eyes to express her impatience, provoking an imploded snort from Jim. It sounded painful. Tears collected in the corners of my eyes as I bit my lip to keep from reacting.
“Let’s see. We’re through with the minutes for last time,” Marion said. “We can move on to the agenda for tonight’s meeting, which means it’s time for me to introduce the one woman in Long County who truly needs no introduction: Edith Burwell-Jones, affectionately known to one and all as Burrie, former principal of Lost Hat High School, president of the Long County Historical Society and half a dozen other vital organizations that keep this county thriving.”
A former principal; that explained the disciplinarian attitude.
A ruffle of polite applause arose. Burrie shifted forward a pace but stopped as Marion glanced at her with a broad smile that said Wait, wait: there’s more.
She turned back to the audience. “I just have to tell you all, even though it’s not quite official. Burrie has been nominated for the very prestigious Lifetime Service Award of the Daughters of the Republic of Texas. We’re sure she’s going to win, because she’s so long overdue for the recognition. Let’s hear it for Burrie!”
She raised her hands, clapping encouragingly. The audience responded with enthusiasm, loudest at the front.
Jim leaned toward me and whispered, “Don’t laugh: it’s actually a huge deal. She lives for that stuff.”
“I wasn’t laughing.”
The applause died down abruptly as Burrie took her place behind the podium. Marion tiptoed with the subtlety of a street mime to a seat in the third row.
“Thank you, thank you,” Burrie said. “Thank you, everyone.” Pink spots of pleasure flared on her cheeks. She looked presidential in her Hillary Clinton pantsuit with her steely gray helmet of hair. Her back was as straight as a broomstick. She was taller than Marion, so as she squared herself in front of the podium her head was aligned perfectly between the longhorns.
I sputtered a laugh and Jim punched me in the thigh. “Bully for Burrie,” I murmured, unable to stop myself.
Burrie’s eyes fixed on me and her nostrils flared. I bit my lip, hard. She glared at me for whole seconds before she went on. “Welcome, one and all. We haven’t met for several months and I’m afraid that’s been my fault. I was a little preoccupied toward the end of last year, as many of you know.”
A rumble of sympathetic murmurs.
“Be that as it may, we’re back and we’ve got plenty of exciting events to plan and enjoy this year. That is, if we can come up with some good ideas and somehow manage to agree on one or two of them!”
Scattered chuckles this time.
“My father, the late Judge George Francis Burwell—”
The seniors at the front offered up a round of soft applause. Burrie smiled indulgently but barely paused. “Who founded this organization, died in November—”
The applause stopped abruptly.
“—after a short, but fierce, battle with pancreatic cancer. I would first like to take this opportunity to thank everyone for being so supportive, of both him and me. It meant a lot to us.”
She paused to smile sadly. I found myself smiling sadly back, even though I didn’t know anything about Judge Burwell.
“Well,” Burrie said, “life goes on, doesn’t it? And my father’s passing will add new life to this organization, because he left a generous legacy to the Long County Museum. It’s about sixty-five thousand dollars, to be administered by the executive board of the Long County Historical Society.”
She paused and the crowd, small as it was, went wild. Shocked expressions — What? How much? — followed by applause, cheers and I-told-you-so’s. A happy hubbub all around. Burrie waited for the noise to die down, smiling gently and nodding her head. She had saved up for this moment and now she was getting her money’s worth.
“Thank you again. It’s always a treat to be the bringer of good news. Let’s move on, shall we? That coffee wi
ll be perked before we know it and we’ve still got quite a lot to do.”
Everyone sat back in their seats and faced forward.
“Very good.” Burrie reinforced our compliance with a skill honed through years of addressing high school assemblies. “The question is, what shall we do with the Judge’s generous bequest?”
Indecisive humming from the audience.
“I thought we might use the gift to stimulate interest in the history of Long County. As new people enter our community from outside, we risk losing our connection to our history and thus our very identity.”
Jim nudged me with his elbow. “Do you think she means us?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered back. “I’ve lost my connection to my very identity.”
He laughed, but managed to turn it into a cough. Or probably it was a real cough. Jim caught every bug that went around and suffered mightily from allergies.
Burrie’s eyes caught us and her lips compressed. She went on, “We are looking for fresh ideas and new directions. This is what they call a blue-sky session, folks, so don’t be shy. Anything, no matter how far out, is fair game tonight. Shall we go around the room and let everyone have a turn or should we let people raise their hands?”
“Raise hands,” several voices said together.
“All right then. Who wants to go first?”
One of the seniors at the front raised his hand.
“Ed,” Burrie said, “would you like to come up here and tell us about your fresh idea?”
“Okey-doke.” He rose and I saw that it was one of the gossipy old coots who hung out at the back of DeGroot’s Groceries. He looked like a hillbilly version of Alfred Hitchcock: pear-shaped with bulbous features, a flannel shirt and green suspenders that were losing their snap.