As usual, this set off a discussion, which might have gone on for some while if not for Betsy. She reached back in her memory for remnants of Robert’s Rules of Order, and said loudly, “I call the question!”
“What does that mean?” asked someone.
“It means she wants an up or down vote on the question,” said Billie. Betsy was surprised; she didn’t think Billie would know. “Which is, snack or work?”
“Snack!” shouted half the committee, and most of the others nodded or shrugged acquiescence. The two who disagreed sighed but said nothing.
Roger, whom Betsy recognized as Billie’s older son, came from behind the bar with a tray bearing an assortment of crackers and cheeses, and tiny sourdough sandwiches filled with chicken salad. He put it at the junction of the tables and pulled out a notebook.
“First drink’s free,” announced Billie. That broadened the smiles.
“Summer ale?” requested someone.
“Out till next summer,” said Roger.
“Red ale, then.”
Betsy was dismayed when almost everyone ordered beer or ale. Nothing, in her opinion, was more likely to further slow things down than a round or two of beer.
She ostentatiously ordered apple cider, and because she was thirsty, she drank almost half of it at once before she realized it was hard.
To soak it up, she ate a miniature chicken salad sandwich and two crackers—the cheese on them was a pale Irish cheddar—and asked for a cup of tea.
A few minutes later Roger came back with her tea and another tray laden with oranges and apples. “Dessert,” he announced without a trace of sarcasm.
Billie said, “Did you bring something to Ryan?”
“No, was I supposed to?”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. Here, I’ll do it.” Billie rose and put three of the tiny sandwiches into a paper napkin. She took them and the orange she had picked for herself over to the booth. Joey had already been served a huge roast beef sandwich and a very large glass of dark ale.
“Thank you,” said Ryan, surprised, when presented with the food.
“You be sure to eat that orange,” said Billie in a fussy mother voice.
“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled—he had a very sweet smile—and made a little show of digging his fingernails into the skin of the fruit.
Billie came back to the table, and the meeting resumed its slow drag.
About half an hour later Betsy’s eye was caught by Joey coming back from the bar. He had two of The Barleywine’s extra-tall mugs, brimful with beer so dark it was almost black, the heads scanty and cream-colored.
Guinness? wondered Betsy. She had thought The Barleywine served only beers made right on site. She glanced over at the board on which the varieties were listed and realized it wasn’t the famous Irish stout but The Barleywine’s own Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark Ale.
But why had Ryan switched from Coke to ale? It must have been because Joey was buying—small-batch brews were more expensive than commercial brands.
Two hours—two hours!—later, the meeting was finally drawing to a close. Even the most die-hard opinion wielder was now more anxious to go home than to make her opinion known.
“And now, the last thing,” started Billie to a chorus of relieved sighs, “is parking for the horse trailers for the Sheriff’s Posse—”
She was interrupted by a man’s voice singing in a slurring baritone, “For it’s witchcraft, wicked witchcraft, and although I know it’s strictly taBOOOOOOO . . .”
When Betsy saw Ryan McMurphy slide clumsily out of the booth a minute earlier, she thought he was going to leave. Instead he was walking unsteadily toward the bar, voice raised in song. The sweet smiler was gone; this man had a wicked gleam in his eye. Leona had relieved Roger, and was talking with one of the three men in casual office dress sitting on stools, when she heard him and looked up, alarmed.
“It’s such an ancient pitch, but one you’ll never switch, for there’s no meaner witch than you!” Ryan was gesturing theatrically at Leona as he approached, paraphrasing the actual lyrics of the song.
Billie quickly rose and moved to intercept him, but he made a surprisingly deft dodge to avoid her. Ryan went to an empty stool and leaned across it, bracing one hand on the rounded front edge of the bar.
“I’ll have a pint of porter, please,” he said, careful of his pronunciation.
“Oh, Ryan, for corn’s sake!” said Leona. She looked over at his vacated booth, where Joey was sitting with a half-empty glass of stout, looking surprised. “You know we don’t sell liquor to you anymore! Has Joey been buying for you? Well, no more. I think it’s time for you to go home.”
“Oh, yeah? I don’t gotta. An’ I jus’ wanna let you know, Leona Cunningham, I’m still, I’m still on ta you.” He pointed a thick forefinger at her.
“Well, I’m glad to know that, but we’re still not serving you,” said Leona in a calm voice. Like Billie, she wore a dark blue Barleywine T-shirt under her light-colored apron.
He turned fast to grin fiercely at Billie, who, standing too close behind him, took a step backward. But she said bravely, “I also think you should go home, Ryan.” Her voice was hard and tight.
“Why? My money’s as good as anyone’s!” he said.
“Because you’re drunk.” Billie looked around Ryan at Leona. “I thought we agreed we weren’t going to serve him any liquor.”
“I haven’t sold him a beer all evening,” said Leona.
Joey Mitchell called from back in the booth, “My fault!”
Ryan executed, badly, a complicated bow toward Joey. “An’ I . . . I thank you.”
“Plus,” said Leona to Billie, “you’re the one who invited him.”
“He told me he quit drinking.”
“An’ you ’nvited me to talk ’bout the fire truck,” said Ryan. “So now what, you gonna try an’ throw me out, Billie Leslie Lesbian?”
Billie, who was in fact married and a grandmother, said, “You want me to call the cops like we did last time you were drunk in here?”
“You an’ what army?”
“Awwww, Ryan, why don’t you go home and sleep it off?” growled the largest of the three men occupying bar stools.
Ryan, without warning and with amazing swiftness, struck the man on his shoulder hard enough to knock him off the stool. This made the other two men climb down and back into a corner, where they stood on reluctant alert for a brawl.
Leona suddenly had a very small baseball bat in her hand.
Lars rose from his place at the committee table but just stood behind his chair, watching.
Billie reached into an apron pocket. “That’s it, I’m calling the cops right now,” she announced, bringing out a cell phone.
“Now wait, now wait, I ain’t done nuthin’!” shouted Ryan. “It was a accident! Anyway, it was self-defense! You put that away, jus’ gimme a beer and we’ll forget, forget all about it.” He bent to help the fallen man to his feet. “There, see? No harm done.”
“Don’t touch me!” said the man, but not loudly, shrugging off Ryan’s hands. He backed away to join his companions in the corner.
“Go home, Ryan,” counseled Leona.
“I can’t. An’ you know I can’t,” he said, his voice suddenly turning sad.
“Why not?”
“The wife threw me out.”
Betsy, sitting in riveted silence with the rest of the committee, had forgotten that. She had seen his wife at church two Sundays ago, sorrowful and angry, two shamed-looking little girls with her. It was enough to make a person think prohibition wasn’t such a bad thing.
Ryan was saying, “Come on, gimme, gimme a beer. Jus’ one ver’ little one?”
“No,” Leona said. She had put the bat down but not away. “Where are you staying?”
“In Shelly Donohue’s basement. Got a nice room down there.”
Betsy was shocked to hear this. Shelly was a local school teacher who also worked part-time in Crewel World. The “nice room” was
doubtless Shelly’s sewing room. Who had persuaded Shelly to let him stay there? Betsy could not imagine Shelly volunteering to do such a thing.
Leona said, “It’s stopped raining. Why don’t you walk—”
“No,” Ryan said sullenly. “It’s cold out, an’ I’m thirsty. Gimme a beer—gimme a beer an’ I’ll go.”
“We’re not going to do that.”
“For Chrissake, it won’t hurt you to be kind to a thirsty man! Harv has a kind heart, he’d give me a beer if I asked him. Him an’ Shelly, they’re good friends, like a port inna storm—not like you!”
That’s right, thought Betsy. Shelly’s boyfriend had moved in with her. His name was Harvey Fogelman.
Ryan’s tone had turned belligerent again. “Witch woman!” He glared at Billie. “I bet she’s converting you to be a witch, too, ya little witch! A lesbian witch, the worst kind! The kind that’d let a man die of thirst, wouldn’t even spit on him if he was on fire with thirst.” He sniggered. “Thassa good one.”
“Listen to me,” said Leona and he turned clumsily back to face her. She leaned just a little bit forward, drawing his bleary attention. Her voice was low and intense. “Walk over to Shelly’s, Ryan. Walk. It’s only three blocks away. You’re right, she and Harvey are your friends, and you need a friend right now. You’re tired, you could use some sleep. Your eyes are all red, and your face is flushed. You’re tired, very tired, you must surely want to walk just those few blocks in the cool evening air, then lie down. You want to lie down and sleep, you need some sleep.”
He started to nod in agreement, then his eyes widened in alarm.
“A hex! You’re trying to put a hex on me! No, no, no you don’t!” He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a metal ring, heavily laden with charms ranging from a rabbit’s foot to a pewter, Egyptian-style eye. He jingled this so wildly at her that she backed away. “Ha! You know it, you know this blocks hexes!” He repeated the gesture. “See? I bet it burns your eyes! Now, come on, Burning Eyes, try again, try ta hex me! You think I’m Adam Wainwright? No way! Come on, take your best shot! I dare ya! I double dog dare ya!” He laughed raucously, then stopped abruptly. “I didn’t think so!” he concluded, less certainly, because she was merely looking coolly at him. He turned toward Billie, who had put on the same cool expression. “Hah, hah, hah!” he sneered derisively and made his uncertain way to the door.
“Hold it, McMurphy!” said a voice so laden with authority that Ryan halted instantly. Even in plainclothes, there was no mistaking Lars Larson for anything but a cop.
Ryan said at once, “I’m not drunk,” a lie so patent that several people snickered.
“Maybe not,” said Lars agreeably, “but your license is suspended. You’re not driving tonight.”
“Who says I’m driving?”
“I saw your car out front,” Lars said. “How did it get here unless you drove it? Give me your keys.” He held out one very large hand.
Ryan looked at the hand for a few seconds, then up at the square-jawed face with its implacable sea gray eyes. When exerting his authority, Lars looked very much like a man whose ancestors had gone a-Viking.
Without another word, Ryan reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small set of keys.
“These the only ones you have?” asked Lars, taking them.
“What, you think my protection ring can start my car?” retorted Ryan.
“Fine. Come down to the station with a friend who has a license and I’ll give these back to you,” said Lars.
Still without saying anything, Ryan turned and went out, pulling the door shut hard behind him.
Lars returned to the table and so did Billie. The Committee heaved sighs of relief. Once again, Billie tried to conclude the meeting, but her words were cut short by a squeal of tires braking too hard and the ugly crunch of metal being torn and crushed.
Before anyone else could even decide to move, Lars was out the door. The men who had been sitting at the bar ran out after him, as did Joey Mitchell. The other committee members rose as one.
After about a minute, Betsy went to the door. Cars had stopped in the street, their headlights shining in a pouring rain. A wind had sprung up, turning the rain into silver lances splintering on the street and sidewalk. A dark sedan and one of those pickup trucks so big it had twin tires in back had collided. The car, naturally, had gotten the worst of the encounter. It was facing the wrong way, apparently having been struck with enough force to spin it around. Steam was coming out from under the crookedly lifted hood and fluid was making a puddle under the engine compartment. One front tire was no longer vertical. The truck, which was white and had a farm or company name on its door, was still running, a streamer of exhaust fluttering out. Its bumper and right front fender were crumpled and torn.
Lars, accompanied by one of the men from The Barleywine, was speaking through the broken window to the driver of the car. It was clear from the slow patting gestures he was making that he was telling the driver to sit still—and another patron was on his cell phone, doubtless summoning an ambulance.
But then Lars stepped back, the car rocked slightly, and the passenger door opened.
Ryan McMurphy stepped out, raised his arms in a touchdown stance as the ring of charms—which had proved an excellent cover for a set of keys—tumbled over one hand, and gave a victory cry so loud Betsy could hear him all the way over to the brew-pub door: “Ta-dah!”
Three
I WISH they could keep him—but of course he’ll be out as soon as bail is set.” Shelly Donohue was speaking as she examined a small overhead projector for sale in Betsy’s shop. It was late Friday morning. She was trying to keep her voice calm, using the projector as an excuse not to look at Betsy, but Betsy could sense her anger and frustration.
“I’m just amazed that Ryan wasn’t injured in that accident last night,” said Betsy. “I suppose it was because he was so drunk.” She remembered how often she’d read of drunks climbing out of car wrecks without a scratch on them, a phenomenon no one could explain. Ryan had certainly been celebrating his near escape, though his triumphant stance in the glowing, rain-lanced street had quickly been taken down by the strong grip of Lars. Ryan had only added to his problems by struggling to break free.
Betsy gestured at the projector, which was sitting on top of its box. “This is the last one I have, but it’s been here so long I’m prepared to cut you a deal in addition to your employee’s discount just to get rid of it.” Designers often used a projector to cast a picture onto a piece of even-weave fabric or canvas. Shelly, after years of stitching, was moving into designing cross-stitch patterns.
“It’s good news for me, I suppose, that there aren’t a lot of pattern designers in the area.” Shelly was about thirty-five, more striking than beautiful, with lovely big eyes and masses of brown hair pulled into a careless bun. Her figure was voluptuous and there was a long string of brokenhearted third and fourth graders in her educator past. She was divorced, childless, and she shared her house with a sweet dog, and, currently, with her live-in boyfriend, Harvey, whom Betsy had not met.
Shelly turned from her examination to say, “I actually believe Ryan has a guardian angel who specializes in drunks and fools. Of course, he’ll tell you it’s the hundred and one protective charms he carries.”
Betsy said, “I should have been suspicious when Lars asked for Ryan’s keys and Ryan pulled that little ring out of his shirt pocket. But he said there were only charms on the big ring. I wonder how long he’s been carrying two sets of car keys?”
“For about a week less than people have been demanding his keys when he’s drunk—which is for the last two years, at least. How much for the projector?”
Betsy named a price a fraction over her cost, then said, “I bet you’re right about the angel. When he climbed out of that smashed car and did his little dance, I was just amazed. But I had to laugh when Lars reached out and took hold of him. He looked so surprised—I guess his talismans aren’t proo
f against police officers. I heard he was charged with driving under the influence, resisting arrest, driving with a suspended license, and failure to yield. The bail on that should be substantial. Maybe he won’t be able to afford it.”
“I wish. I know he called Harv to ask him for a loan, but I happened to pick up the other phone when he called, and I told Harv he better not spend one nickel on that man.” Shelly sniffed in frustration, not anger. “But Ryan will manage. He always does. He’s a senior auto mechanic and they make good money. You know, that surprised me.”
“What, that he’s held on to a good job?” Betsy was leading the way to the cash register.
“No, that he got drunk last night. After Luella threw him out, he really seemed determined to quit. He’d been sober for almost two weeks—I wonder what happened?”
“Now I think about it, at that meeting he’d been praised for getting that fire truck fixed and coming up with the idea of ghostly firefighters. So it’s funny he fell off the wagon, isn’t it? And why did you take him in anyway? Because he promised to stay sober?”
“I didn’t want to take him in at first. I was too mad at him on Luella’s behalf. She’s a nice woman and Ryan gets really ugly when he’s drunk. But Harv and Ryan went to community college together. Who would’ve thought the ‘old school tie’ mentality reached all the way down to a community college?” She laughed just a little, mostly at herself for sounding like such a snob. “But I agreed to it because Ryan swore up and down he’d quit drinking for keeps. I think Luella making him leave home was a real wake-up call for him. He loves her, and loves his kids.” She paused as if to gather her thoughts, then shrugged away whatever those thoughts might have been. “What’s the total?” she asked, gesturing at the items on the checkout desk.
She’d selected two pieces of canvas, three colors of canvas paint—the kind that doesn’t rub off easily or run when it gets wet—three squares of eighteen-count linen, a square of fourteen-count Aida cloth, a tablet of graph paper, and a pair of Gingher scissors.
“Do you need floss?” asked Betsy.
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