by Eve Fisher
Something in Bo’s voice made Paul feel that perhaps Bo wasn’t as unconcerned as he seemed.
“Maybe you should give it a try,” Paul said. “I’ve always found it a great comfort.”
Bo looked at Paul. “Now that’s what pastors usually say about it.”
Paul chuckled.
“All that stuff about repentance and sin...” Bo squinted into the sunshine. “I don’t know. Seems to me sometimes that religion’s nothing but a way to make you feel guilty about everything.”
“That’s the message a lot of people hear,” Paul agreed. “But the real message is that God loves us unconditionally. We have a hard time accepting that because most of our ideas of love fall pretty short. But I think if we look around, we can find all kinds of things to be grateful for. Like right now, for the sunshine and for just being alive.” Paul looked at the tree-covered hills before them, the green so fresh it seemed to be drinking in the sunlight.
Bo glanced over at him. “You preach a pretty good sermon, Pastor. Are they all that short?”
Paul chuckled. “No, but I try to keep the message clear.”
“Maybe I’ll come down one day and listen to one.”
“You’d always be welcome,” Paul said earnestly.
“I’m not so sure about that.” Bo frowned. “I run a bar. What would the good folks of your church say to that?”
“I hope they’d say ‘welcome.’ I know I would.” The two men looked in each other’s eyes for a moment.
“Yeah, well, what you say and what they say might be different,” Bo said. “But maybe...” He gestured back toward the door. “Your friends are all in there tuning up. That’s why I came out here. Sounds like a bunch of cats to me.”
Paul laughed and hoisted his guitar case, then went inside.
“There you are!” Joe called out.
Paul noted that he was beaming.
“Come on and get yourself tuned up and ready to go!”
Skip was fingering his banjo. “Listen to this,” he said and went into a rollicking version of “Rocky Top.” As he sang the chorus, Paul realized once again that Skip really did have a fine singing voice.
“That was great,” Paul said when Skip finished.
“I’ve been practicing like crazy,” Skip said. “I can hardly wait to get out in front of a real audience. Can you?”
“Frankly, yes,” Paul said. “But then I don’t have your voice or talent.”
“Well, that means we need to practice some more,” Joe said.
Sam raised his eyebrows at Paul, who nodded. “Let’s try it, then. ‘I’ll Fly Away,’ one more time.”
They played the gospel song three times, bungling it each time at the transition from the verse to the chorus.
“This is hopeless,” Sam grumbled. “Come on, let’s concentrate.”
“I am concentrating!” Skip protested.
“I know you are,” Sam said. “I’m talking to myself.”
“We don’t sound very good, do we?” Paul asked.
“Like I said, this is hopeless,” Sam repeated.
“Sure sounds like it,” an old, cracked voice called out from the other side of the room.
Paul looked up. There, sitting at a table, a coffee mug in front of him, his arms folded, legs crossed, and a frown on his face was the last person, other than Kate, whom Paul wanted to know about his musical attempts: Old Man Parsons.
“I don’t know as I’ve ever heard worse fiddle music in my life, Sam,” Old Man Parsons continued. “And as for that guitar...”
“How about me?” Joe asked.
“You should’ve quit singing about forty years ago,” Old Man Parsons responded.
“You’re right there,” Joe said cheerfully. “But all it says in the Bible is to ‘make a joyful noise unto the Lord.’ Doesn’t say anywhere that it has to be in tune.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t say you should bust people’s eardrums either!” Parsons replied stoutly.
Joe laughed.
“Here I was hoping for a quiet cup of coffee and maybe a game of euchre.”
“Later,” Joe said. “We’ve got to practice.”
“I’ll say you do,” the old man grumbled.
Joe pulled out a harmonica. “Let’s try it one more time, guys.”
The harmonica might have worked, Paul thought, if Joe had had more breath for it. As it was, it sounded as wheezy as Bo Twist. Then one of Skip’s banjo strings broke with a loud snapping twang. Skip waved everyone quiet and pulled out another string from his case and began to restring his banjo. Paul ran his fingers up and down his guitar neck. He’d originally planned for the Copper Mill Players to be a surprise for Kate. Now he was so embarrassed that he hoped Kate never heard about it at all. But with Old Man Parsons in the audience, his hopes for privacy were pretty much shot. Word was going to get around town fairly quickly. He glanced over at Sam, and the two exchanged a rueful look.
Paul leaned over and whispered, “So much for keeping this a secret.”
Sam nodded. “Yep. I think we just made the front page of the Chronicle. If I’m going to be famous, I’d like to be good.”
“Wouldn’t we all.”
“You know, I thought this was going to be a piece of cake,” Sam added. “I’m starting to wonder if I was this bad thirty years ago.”
“Me too,” Paul agreed. “I was in a little bluegrass band with some friends in high school. I know we thought we were good, but I can’t tell anymore. So much for nostalgia.”
“Yep. If I’m going to recapture my youth, maybe I should just take up stock-car racing. The noise couldn’t be any worse.”
“No, but the damage would be.”
They both chuckled.
Skip, who had finished restringing his banjo, leaned in and whispered, “Is there any way we can get Old Man Parsons out of here? He’s not exactly being an encouragement.”
They all looked over at Old Man Parsons, who was shaking his head. They watched Bo Twist come in and sit heavily down beside him, laughing at something Old Man Parsons said.
Sam sighed. “He’s just being himself.”
“I know,” Skip said. “That’s what I mean.”
KATE, MEANWHILE, was spending her afternoon running errands, among them checking her inventory at Smith Street Gifts.
“We’re nearly sold out of the sun catchers,” Steve Smith told her, waving at the depleted display hanging on the window. “The cardinals and bluebirds went quick as a flash, and I had a couple of requests for robins. You think you could do some of those?”
“I don’t see why not,” Kate said. “They’d be lovely. I’ll try to get some worked up in the next couple of weeks.”
“We’ll sell right out,” Steve said. “Are you working on anything new?”
“Well, I’ve got a couple of ideas. I’m working on a new piece for my son, based on C. S. Lewis’ Narnia Chronicles, but that’s copyrighted, of course. I can do a private piece, but nothing for sale.”
Steve nodded.
“But I was thinking of some small animals, perhaps, for children. Like a Noah’s ark, only...” Kate broke off, the idea of a large Noah’s ark suddenly blossoming in her mind. A large central piece with the ark and the waves, and then little sun catchers of animals accompanying it, to be hung all around the windows. That could really be delightful.
“Hot idea?” Steve asked.
Kate nodded, smiling widely. “I think I’m going to have to get sketching, Steve. And fast.”
Steve laughed.
Kate turned to go and almost ran into Matt Lawson. “Oh, excuse me,” she said. “Hello, Matt. How are you doing?”
“Pretty good. I just ran in to get a card for Dad’s birthday. It’s next week.”
Kate smiled encouragingly.
Matt stumped over to the card section and then turned around and asked, “Any word about Mrs. Blount’s investments?”
Kate gulped. She glanced over at Steve, but he had gone to the far side of the sto
re, where he was restocking wrapping paper and ribbons. “No, nothing yet.”
Matt nodded. “I thought about it after you left. I don’t know anything about what happened, but it will be good to have it cleared up. I don’t like having my name mixed up in things.” There seemed to be a slight strain of anxiety in his tone, and as he glanced around the store, Kate got the distinct feeling that he was nervous. “It’s not good for business,” he said.
“I understand.” She noted that once again Matt hadn’t looked her in the eyes, and she remembered her theory about Asperger’s. “Did you hear that Amanda Bly is in the hospital?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Dad told me all about it. He took her there. Do you think I should get her a card?” he asked.
“I’m sure she’d appreciate it,” Kate assured him.
Matt nodded.
As Kate started to walk away, he grabbed a card out of the rack. “Will this do?”
Kate turned back and looked at it. It was a birthday card, humorous, designed for children, and rather garish. “Well...” she began.
Matt’s eyes flickered toward her, and Kate suddenly realized that he was mutely asking for help.
“It needs to be a get-well card,” she said, “and I think maybe something a little more feminine for Amanda.”
“Hmm.” Matt quickly glanced at Kate, then at the rack, then back at her again. “Do you mean flowers?” he asked.
“Yes,” Kate said. “Flowers are good.”
Matt’s mouth tightened as he looked some more, then he pulled out a card with lilies covered in glitter.
“And something quieter,” Kate advised.
“This is hard.”
“Here, let me help you look,” Kate said. She looked around and found a pretty card with purple lilacs on the outside and simple get-well wishes on the inside. She handed it to Matt.
“Oh.” Matt took the card and studied it closely, as if memorizing it. “Quiet?” he asked.
Kate nodded.
“Okay,” he said, then looked in Kate’s general direction and added, “Thank you for helping me.”
“You’re welcome, Matt,” Kate replied, smiling. She started to leave but then had an idea. She turned back and said, “You know, Matt, I’ll be going to see Amanda later tonight. If you’d like to go ahead and sign the card, I’ll take it with me.”
Matt shook his head. “Mom told me that I should always mail cards. She said if you don’t, they’ll think you’re cheap,” he recited.
Kate smiled. Matt seemed to memorize everything. That must be the way he lives, by memorizing all sorts of little rules and regulations that he can live by, trying to fit in. It was rather heartbreaking. And at the same time, Kate remembered that she’d be picking up Amanda’s mail for a few days, so she’d see the card when it came. “I understand,” she said, feeling guilty. “It was just a thought. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.”
Kate shook her head as she walked down the street to the library. She had to find a book on Asperger’s and read up on it as soon as possible. When she went inside, she saw Livvy standing at the circulation desk, glasses on, checking out books for a little boy. They waved to each other, and Kate went to the computer terminals that housed the library catalog, where she found two books on autism. She wrote down their call numbers and went to the stacks. They were both on the shelf, and she began leafing through them. One was strictly about severe cases of autism, so she put that back. But the other was about the different levels of autism, the means of diagnosis, and behaviors. She took that one and went to the circulation desk to check it out.
Livvy looked at the title and smiled. “Research?”
Kate nodded. “I thought I might as well look into it,” she said.
“Good idea. How’s Amanda?”
“She’s doing fine.” Kate quickly gave Livvy the information she had.
“Well, give her my love and tell her that we’re all praying for her,” Livvy said, handing Kate her book and her library card.
“I will. Thanks!”
Kate put the book in her car, which was parked outside the gift shop, and then went over to the Mercantile to pick up some odds and ends. As she walked out, Emma came running up to her.
“Kate!” she cried breathlessly. “Kate!”
“Emma, what is it?”
“The checks,” Emma gasped. “The copies. They’re here. Inside. Come with me.”
Kate followed Emma into the ice-cream shop and then to the back room, its long wall covered in pantry shelves that held all the supplies Emma needed. A large stainless-steel table stood in the center, in front of the double sinks. The right third of the storeroom was swallowed up by the walk-in freezer. In the left-hand corner was a tiny office cubicle. Emma’s penchant for yellow didn’t have much opportunity for expression in this rather industrial room, but she had tacked yellow fabric, tie-dyed in a glowing sunburst pattern, to the cubicle partition. Behind it was an old metal desk, covered with paper as Ada Blount’s chairs. Kate smiled to herself. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Emma went over to the desk and looked around. “They were here just a minute ago,” she said, rummaging through the papers on her desk. “Sit down while I find them.”
Kate perched on a stool and waited.
“Where on earth did I put them? Here they are!” Emma handed several sheets of paper to Kate.
Kate’s hands were slightly unsteady. This was what they’d been waiting for. She looked through the copies and read, first silently, then out loud, the name, written in bold, black handwriting on the endorsement side: “John Matthews.”
Kate looked up at Emma. “Well, that’s certainly not what I expected.”
“Maybe not, but it’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s Tom Matthews!”
“Emma,” Kate said, “it says John right there.”
“So what? I’ll bet that’s just an alias. What if he uses an alias for all the N-Life stuff? You know, so he doesn’t have to report any income to the IRS?”
Kate was amazed at Emma’s imagination. “But we don’t have proof of any of that. Do you have anything Tom ever signed?” she asked.
“You mean to check the handwriting?” Emma asked.
Kate nodded.
“I’m sure I do. Hold on a second.”
Emma burrowed into the pile on her desk like a groundhog, papers sliding off around her, some falling onto the floor. Kate bent down and retrieved them, setting them as far away as she could from Emma’s rooting. Finally Emma rose, red-faced and triumphant, holding an invoice in her hand.
“I knew I had something!” she cried. “Here.”
It was an invoice for N-Life products. Any other time, Kate would have been stunned at how many vitamins and supplements Emma bought, but at the moment she only had eyes for the signature: “LuAnne Matthews.” In a very lacy, feminine script.
“Emma, this is LuAnne’s signature,” Kate said gently.
Emma’s face fell. “Darn it. I know I’ve got one with Tom’s signature somewhere. I’ll keep looking.”
“You do that,” Kate said. “But I’ve got to get going. I need to pick up Amanda’s mail.” She put a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Meanwhile, I’m working on another idea. Can I have one of these?” she asked, holding up the check copies.
“Of course,” Emma said.
“Thank you. Be sure to keep the rest in a safe place. I know it’s hard, but just be patient. We’ll get to the bottom of this yet.”
Emma nodded.
“I’ll see you later.”
“Later, Kate.”
Kate walked out of the shop, putting the precious sheet of paper—her only evidence—in her purse. Poor Emma! It was frustrating enough for Kate; she could only imagine how frustrating it was for her. Kate got in her car and drove over to Amanda’s house.
Amanda lived in a little Victorian gem that was even more postcard perfect than Ada Blount’s. It was painted dark gray, with white trim and dark red faux shutter
s around the windows. Below the windows were black window boxes that in summer were full of bright red geraniums. Instead of bridal wreath, Amanda had white hydrangeas, and her minuscule white-picket fence was overgrown with honeysuckle.
Inside, the place was immaculate. The cream walls in the living room were hung with English landscape paintings, and the furniture was a delicate blue. Kate picked up the mail that was lying on the blue and white doormat. There was a news magazine, an AARP bulletin, and half a dozen pieces of junk mail. She stacked them neatly on the hall table, where she would remember to pick them up when she was done.
Then she went into the kitchen, a sunny, white room with a coffee-colored tile floor and coffee-and-white-striped curtains. There were still a couple of dirty dishes in the sink from Amanda’s breakfast the day before, so Kate washed and dried them. She found the cupboard where they belonged, and then she tackled the refrigerator. The butter would last, but she gathered the milk and other perishables and put them in a bag from the Mercantile. She’d take them over to the Bixby house where others could use them.
The house was so quiet that she could practically hear her heart beating. Kate took the full bag of perishables and set it by the hall table. Then she went into the bathroom, which was next to the bedroom, where she picked out the toiletries Amanda had asked for, as well as a few other items she thought Amanda might like. Kate also spotted a light bathrobe hanging from a hook behind the bathroom door and decided to take that to her as well.
Finally she went into the bedroom. The bed was still rumpled, probably from Amanda lying down before Junius arrived. She remade the bed and looked around to see if there was anything else that needed tidying. She noticed that a pair of shoes was sitting out, and she put them back in the closet. Then she looked over at the bureau. Lying on top of it was her silk scarf.
Chapter Eleven
Kate looked at the scarf as if it were a snake. It couldn’t be...Then she gingerly picked it up. It certainly looked like hers. She had bought it back in San Antonio fifteen years earlier, and she couldn’t imagine that Amanda could have its duplicate. She looked it over carefully—the same pattern, and yes, there was that little worn spot in one corner, where she’d caught it on a nail one windy day. It was her scarf. So how had Amanda gotten it?