Gown with the Wind

by Stephanie Blackmoore

  “That’s too bad he’ll be late. This would be the perfect occasion to propose.”

  I dropped my phone back into my purse with a little yelp and stared at my sister. “Do you know something I don’t?” My heart began to beat a frenzied rhythm in my rib cage. If there was one thing I couldn’t handle, it would be a showy engagement. Or any engagement, for that matter. I was happy to lose those thoughts and attend to the small fires that needed to be put out before the actual movie showing began. We ran out of shrimp cups and needed to bring out more, and had to attend to a flooding toilet in the bathroom Jesse had repainted, as well as find an attendee’s missing cell phone. Rachel and I handled each mini crisis with smooth aplomb.

  I edged closer to a corner, where Jacqueline was having a heated discussion with Rhett. I tried not to openly snoop as I retrieved an empty bottle of wine someone had dropped on the floor.

  “And you can stop moping about her.” Jacqueline’s tone was pure acid as she strode away from her husband. I wondered who the her in question was and carried on with my tasks. It was finally time to take our seats in the theater. I settled in a plush red-velvet chair with my sister, who blended into her seat with her similarly hued dress. I saved a spot for Garrett and felt myself relax as the lights dimmed. Alma had employed old-fashioned ushers, who moved down the aisles with flashlights to guide latecomers to their seats. The ushers reminded patrons to turn off their cell phones, and before the lights dimmed, Alma walked before the red curtain at the front of the theater.

  “I wanted to thank everyone who helped make my dream come true to remodel and reopen The Duchess theater.” Alma beamed a nearly incandescent smile over all seated in the audience. “I’ll be showing one of the greatest films ever made, based, of course, on the incomparable novel by Margaret Mitchell. I hope it brings you as much joy as it has to me over these long decades.” Alma shuffled off the stage as she received a rousing round of applause, and the theater finally went black.

  “Thanks for saving me a seat.” Garrett slipped in beside me moments before the opening credits rolled, and I squeezed his hand in the darkness.

  I soon got lost in Margaret Mitchell’s world. The sweeping score set the tone, reinforced by the panoramic vistas of a South long gone, if it ever really was the way it was depicted in the film. I found myself alternatively carried away by the emotions of Scarlett, as played by Vivien Leigh, to questioning the historical accuracy with disquiet for certain scenes viewed through the lens of the present. There was no doubt it was a grand film, with a history all its own. It was gorgeously and sweepingly shot, but there was enough to be uneasy about too. I watched the film with fresh eyes, at once extremely entertained, but also questioning. I saw the points of both Alma and the protestors.

  I squeezed Garrett’s hand harder as Rhett and Scarlett, larger than life, began their treacherous drive with a purloined carriage out of Atlanta as it fell, Melanie and her newborn in the back. Garrett slung his arm around my shoulder and pulled me in close. I involuntarily bit my nails as the poor horse on screen balked at walking among the burning embers of the city engulfed in flames. I watched with bated breath as Rhett gave the horse makeshift blinders, and they barely crossed. It was so believable, I could almost feel the heat and smell the flames. It was a truly magnificent movie, and I felt transported, my heart racing.

  “What’s that smell?” Rachel’s bell-like voice rang out over the theater, and several people turned around to shush her.

  Gasoline.

  A slow flame licked up the edge of the curtain surrounding the screen, mirroring the flames depicted on film. The accelerant used quickly caught on, and the screen itself was soon engulfed in flames, both real and cinematic.

  “Fire!” Someone voiced what we’d all just seen, and pandemonium officially broke out. Someone pulled the fire alarm to add to the melee, and the stampeding began in earnest. Rachel grabbed my arm, but we were soon separated. I felt stilettos jab into the top of my foot, and stumbled before Garrett hoisted me to my feet. The smoke was thick in the air, and I coughed as my eyes filled with tears.

  “Wait.” Garrett’s voice was eerily calm as he pulled me lower to the ground and guided me down a row of seats. I could barely make out his actions as he poured some of his lemonade onto a napkin and pressed it to my face. The tangle of limbs of theatergoers pushing and shoving to leave finally abated in what must have been a mere minute but seemed like a lifetime.

  “All right. Keep your head low. Are you ready?” Garrett spoke to me through a series of racking coughs, and we made a run, or rather a crawl, for it. We’d finally reached the exit to the lobby when I heard a weak cry to my left. I dimly wondered why it had started to rain on the inside of the theater, when I realized the sprinkler system had kicked in. Garrett pulled my hand as he desperately crawled the last few feet to the door. But I couldn’t leave the person behind.

  My lungs screaming for clean oxygen, I felt around me until I connected with something.

  Alma’s cane.

  The distinctive silver top, fashioned as an acorn, was immediately recognizable. I dragged her small body toward the door with some inner reserve of strength and made it to the threshold.

  After that everything went black.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I awoke on the sidewalk, cradled in Garrett’s arms. Right where I’m supposed to be.

  The protestors were gone. The sky was a black-velvet canvas with a smattering of sequin stars. A brisk wind rustled in from the west. But what should have been a lovely evening was unquestionably, irrevocably ruined.

  I was exhausted from dragging Alma from the smoke-filled theater. My muscles ached and my feet were sore from taking the brunt of so many stampeding, panicked theatergoers. My lungs were searing, and my eyes felt like a watery, rheumy mess. I was thankful for the oxygen mask first pressed to my face by the paramedics, and now by Garrett. All around me, women were shivering in their evening gowns and light wraps, boleros, and pashmina scarves. The night had grown cooler than expected. I shook violently, and realized I was freezing, having gone from the heat of the engulfed room, to getting doused by the sprinklers, to finally making it out into the now-cool night.

  “Take this.” Garrett shouldered off his jacket and tenderly wrapped my shoulders in the smooth wool.

  “You’re all right!” Rachel appeared at my side, and the oxygen mask fell to the concrete, forgotten, as I hugged and hugged my sister. I swiped away more tears and stared in disbelief at the black smudges left on my hands.

  “Alma!” I suddenly remembered who I’d gone back to save and tried to stand on woozy legs.

  “Sit down.” Garrett gently pushed me back to the front stairs of the theater, then gently turned me around and pointed to the top of the steps. There sat Alma, with her own oxygen mask firmly tied to her face. She gave a weak wave, and an even feebler thumb’s-up.

  Thank goodness.

  She was going to be okay. I’d thought she’d been unconscious when I dragged her out of the theater, but now I wasn’t sure.

  “Are you all right?” Truman’s face appeared close to mine, and he peered intently into my eyes.

  I nodded and tried to stand, helped by Garrett. We stood with arms wrapped around each other, taking stock of what had happened.

  “This was most definitely arson.” Truman could barely contain his anger, his usual investigator’s attitude stretched too thin over the past week with its murder and attempts at murder.

  “It was the protestors.” Alma had slowly made her way down the steps to where we were, moving down each stair as she sat and held on to the railing. She stared up at us with reddened eyes and dirty, sooty water marring her once-fluffy corona of white hair.

  “Unless one of the protestors disguised themselves as a theatergoer, I don’t think that’s the case.” Truman was gentle in offering his opinion, but it still made Alma wince.

  “All I’ve worked for is gone in a cloud of ash and rain.” Alma appeared her true age of nin
ety for the first time since I’d met her. The strain from seeing her dream to fruition, then watching it all go up in literal smoke was too much for her. She began to weep.

  “I have some good news.” The fire chief knelt in front of Alma and gently lifted her chin from her hands. “Believe it or not, it could have been much, much worse. The fire was mostly contained to the curtains and the screen. Luckily, your sprinkler system kicked in. There’ll be some water damage, and cleanup, and you’ll need to repaint. But you should have The Duchess up and running in no time.”

  Alma’s tears slowed to a dribble, and she thanked the fire chief profusely. “You’re a true hero.” She took in her granddaughter Becca, who had made her way over to see her grandmother. “Not like Eric.”

  “Grandma!” Becca took a step back from Alma and placed her hand over her heart. “I won’t have you besmirching Eric’s name.”

  Uh-oh.

  Keith let out a guffaw, which turned into a string of coughs. “Why not? It’s me you’re marrying, not Eric. If you can even remember that.”

  I took note of Keith’s protestations, but my embattled mind was really interested in what Alma had said. What had she meant when she’d stated Eric wasn’t a true hero?

  “It’s time to go.” Garrett gently steered me to his car. Rachel slipped into the back, and we traveled to Thistle Park in his Accord, leaving the rented van we’d used to ferry over the food behind the theater. It seemed like ages ago, not mere hours.

  Rachel ducked into the bathroom for a shower, and I waited my turn as Garrett wiped off my face and hands with a washcloth. His touch and his gaze were tender and full of affection and care. I nearly laughed at my previous worry about getting engaged.

  Of course I want to be with Garrett.

  “I’ll be glad when this week is over, and you’re done with Keith and Becca and her whole family as clients.” Garrett let out a low chuckle and seemed to read my earlier thoughts. “If Keith and Becca are any indication of the sanctity of marriage, I can understand why you’re hesitant.”

  He bestowed a tender kiss on my lips an hour later, after I’d showered, choked down some tea, and crawled into bed. As I fell asleep, I made quick plans for tomorrow. I’d skimp on breakfast fare, as our only current guest was Piper. I hoped she wouldn’t mind I’d now be serving muffins, bagels, and bacon instead of the elaborate breakfast I’d posted on the B and B menu board. As I drifted off, a kitty cat ensconced on either side of me, I thought again of Garrett. I was so happy he was a part of my life, and that I was a part of his. There was no one else I’d rather want by my side.

  Despite the events at the theater, I drifted off to sleep with a smile lilting at the edges of my lips.

  * * *

  “What in the world happened?” Piper gasped as she alighted on the bottom stair of the back steps leading into the kitchen.

  Rachel and I shared a glance, taking in each other’s red eyes, which was what Piper was no doubt commenting on.

  “There was a fire at The Duchess theater’s reopening.” I moved to bring a plate of muffins and bagels into the dining room, when Piper stopped me.

  “Sit down and relax.” She clucked over Rachel and me like a mother hen and remained in the kitchen rather than taking the food to the dining room, where the B and B guests ate. She poured us the coffee we’d made to serve to her. “You poor girls.”

  She sank into a chair opposite us and her exquisitely shaped brows knitted together in concern. “Is everyone okay?” Her green eyes widened as she awaited the answer.

  “Thankfully, yes. I had to go back to get to Alma, but everyone made it out.”

  A flood of relief washed over Piper’s face. “I don’t think this town can take any more tragedy.” She selected a poppy seed muffin and stood. “I hate to grab and go, but I want to be there when Eric wakes up for the day.”

  “I’m so relieved Eric is doing better.” I heard the grateful note in my voice as I met Piper’s eyes. I would carry the image of her fiancé in the gazebo with me forever, and was thankful that he seemed to be on the mend.

  Piper offered me a warm smile and smoothed down an errant lock of her pixie cut. “He’ll make a full recovery.” Her perfect 1940s movie-star smile dimmed a few watts. “I just wish he’d stop criticizing himself for not being able to remember what happened in the gazebo.”

  I felt my eyebrows involuntarily shoot up. “He doesn’t recall who shot him?”

  Piper shook her head, her frown now deeper. “He remembers following Pickles into the gazebo, and then waking up in the hospital.” She blew out a puff of air that made her bangs rise from her forehead, then settle back. “Truman questioned him for hours, but it was all for naught. He can’t produce a single detail.”

  We sat in silence for a whole minute, digesting this info, if not our food. Piper glanced at her delicate antique rose-gold watch and winced. “I really should head out.”

  Rachel and I bid Piper goodbye and tucked into the food she’d left mainly untouched. I was surprised at how famished I was but didn’t relish the scratchy feeling still present in my throat.

  A rat-a-tat-tat on the back kitchen door made my sister and me jump.

  “It’s just Truman.” Rachel stood to let him in and poured him a cup of coffee as he sat down across from us.

  “My son assured me you two were doing just fine, but I wanted to see for myself.” Truman doled out a gentle smile for me and my sister before helping himself to a bagel and a tub of cream cheese.

  “We’d be better if we knew the person creating all this mayhem was behind bars. No offense.” You could always count on my sister not to mince words.

  “And I agree.” Truman didn’t seem offended and took a vicious bite of his bagel. “The attempts on people’s lives are ratcheting up. Alma, Felicity, and Eric’s attacks were on them alone. Whoever did this last night didn’t care how many people they took out in their quest to wreak havoc.”

  A clammy feeling of dread welled up in my chest as I realized what Truman had just said. “You think the person who set fire to the theater meant to kill one person, and they were willing to kill everyone present to make it happen?” I was stunned at the escalation of terror being wrought upon us.

  “It’s not a stretch.” Truman took a slug of coffee and set the cup down with some force. “But right now, I have to admit there are too many possible suspects for this latest incident.”

  “I bet it was the protestors.” Rachel echoed Alma’s sentiment and reached for her own bagel.

  “We’re looking into it,” Truman admitted. “But my guess is, it’s more personal.” He scratched at his chin and seemed to ponder whether to share his theories with us.

  I tried not to look too eager and carefully studied my coffee before raising the cup to take a sip. I’d just give Truman a little nudge.

  “There’s Tanner.” I sat back and waited, turning Truman’s interrogation technique around on him.

  “Alma’s husband tried to block his achievement of tenure.” Truman took the bait. “Maybe he wanted to destroy the theater because it was originally Glenn’s dream to open it too. It seems like a stretch, but it’s somewhat plausible.”

  “Or he wanted to get back at Alma herself, not just destroy the theater.” I considered the possible motive. “Maybe he was mad that Alma wouldn’t sell her collection to his fiancée.” My reasoning sounded lame even to me.

  “Or,” Rachel mused, “he thought Alma murdered Felicity and was getting back at her.”

  We all chuckled at the thought of tiny Alma overpowering Felicity. I was glad the motives attributed to Tanner weren’t airtight. His despair over the death of Felicity seemed genuine, and I didn’t want to consider him a killer.

  “But Tanner’s not out of the woods concerning Eric’s attempted murder,” Truman said. “I just can’t prove it yet.”

  I hoped he was wrong.

  “But Tanner wasn’t in the gazebo when Eric was shot,” I reminded Truman.

  The chi
ef raised his brows. “That’s not what some of my sources have said.”

  Interesting.

  “What about Samantha?” Rachel retrieved her bagel from the retro chrome toaster and slathered it with a healthy dose of cream cheese. She turned her inquisitor gaze on me. It was double effective with her eyes still red and irritated from the fire. “Wasn’t she ticked that Alma gifted her Gone with the Wind collection to Becca?”

  I shook my head vigorously. “No, it can’t be Samantha.”

  Or you just don’t want to believe it could be Samantha.

  I couldn’t imagine the sweet woman wanting her own grandmother dead, even if Alma had rankly favored Becca by gifting her her prized collection. But a series of concerning details marched with precision through my head.

  “What aren’t you telling us?” Truman’s tone was gentle. “C’mon, Mallory.”

  I took a deep breath, already regretting my words. “Last night, I noticed Samantha went into the actual theater way before anyone else. Like when people were still milling around in the lobby drinking and eating.” I frowned and wiped up a trail of poppy seeds from a bagel. “But that doesn’t mean she was up to no good. Maybe she just wanted to take a peek into the theater.”

  Truman and Rachel exchanged glances that told me I’d just said something more significant than I’d meant to.

  “And there’s more.” My voice got even quieter. “When Alma didn’t show up for Keith and Becca’s initial tasting, we all rushed back to Tara to check on Alma.” I reflected for a moment to confirm what I was about to say was true. “Everyone rushed up the path to get to the front door and make sure Alma was okay.” I swallowed and met Truman’s eyes. “Everyone except Samantha.”

  “So it was like she already knew Alma was in trouble.”

  Maybe.

  Truman filed away the info in silence and nodded for me to go on. I realized the tables had turned. I’d wanted him to spill his insight and information, and he’d somehow gotten me to do the very same.