by Cassie Page
Before he’d won the lottery, Charles’ idea of a fancy ride was a souped-up Ford pickup. Now he lectured to elite car clubs from Pebble Beach to Monte Carlo on the distinctions in engine size between a 1932 Stutz Bearcat and a 1928 Hispano Suiza, which he pronounced Soooza. He would not trust just anyone handling his cars, so he had hired a classic car dealer to help him drive and set up the cars. Olivia said, “You’re paying them big bucks. Let them do their job.”
“Hmm, she muttered to herself, “that’s what Cody just said to me.”
One by one, the drivers negotiated the cars up a ramp and onto a low platform the construction team had set up. The spectators today would have a 360-degree view of the interior and exterior of the treasures, while a wide apron ensured the painstakingly restored finishes were out of reach of pastry-slicked fingers and accidental coffee spills. Charles and Olivia hoped the cars would titillate the attendees and induce them to open their checkbooks to support the museum.
The rare specimens would give the spectators a taste of the 102 remarkable machines around which the museum was designed. In addition to the ancient Mercedes, Charles had on view a1936 Auburn Custom Boattail Speedsterwith its classic v-shaped rear end. The third car, however, was in Olivia’s mind, the showstopper of the trio. An impossibly elegant 1935 Brewster Riviera with long, sweeping Art Deco lines and a gleaming hood ornament that appeared ready to sail off into the fog-shrouded morning. It was not hard to imagine a Hollywood peroxide blond in the back seat, wrapped in white fur and primping her marcelled hair.
As a designer, Olivia appreciated the car’s sleek lines, spotless chrome and elegant interior. It boasted a small bar and built-in bud vases, for which Olivia had ordered miniature roses to give a taste of the elegance that once surrounded these fine automobiles.
Her friendship with Charles had enlarged her vocabulary and she was becoming familiar describing the dual cowls in the collection, meaning the cars with back seats that had their own windshields, as well as Phaetons, the open car design that preceded convertibles with soft tops. She couldn’t speak knowledgeably of the V16 engines under some of the hoods, reputed to be silent as cats, but she was ready to praise the bug-eyed headlights, spare tires embedded in front fenders and rumble seats as examples the automotive art of bygone days.
Sometimes when she drove her used pickup down Darling Boulevard, she imagined she was sitting in the back seat of one of Charles’ exquisite cars in a driving costume, a white silk scarf flowing behind her and champagne glass in hand. Her chauffeur would be behind the steering wheel up front, at least a football field away.
The men gave a thumbs-up when Charles had the last car centered between two chalk markers. He set the brake and closed the door carefully, polishing the handle before he descended the platform to greet Olivia.
His clothes were as elegant as the car. Armani suit, silk ascot and handmade Italian shoes. Some locals laughed at his attire behind his back, joking that he wore suits and ascots even when he was just putting gas in his car.
Olivia knew that before he came into his wealth he had owned only one suit in his life, the won he wore to marry Ellie. It remained in mothballs until he pulled it out for her funeral a few years later. He was trying to find his way with all this wealth. He wanted to fit in. He had educated himself in many ways and had hired a personal dresser/shopper who was responsible for his extravagant but often inappropriate wardrobe. And who, Olivia guessed, made a bundle on commissions from the expensive stores he convinced Charles to patronize. Charles hopped off the apron and tipped an imaginary hat at Olivia, then pointed to the Brewster Riviera.
“So. Whadda ya think? A beauty, am I right or am I right? I paid a bundle for this baby, but it was woit it.”
After all the months she had known Charles, she still couldn’t get over the contrast between the posh clothes, the sweet nature and the working class New Jersey accent. At a party several months earlier to interest backers in the museum, a thoughtless host had once asked him if he ever considered elocution lessons.
In all innocence Charles said, “What’s wrong wit the way I tawk,” and no one ever mentioned it again.
Given his wealth, his accent never stopped anyone from including him in their charity events with lots of photo ops and solicitations for donations. Private parties, though, were another thing. Rarely was he invited to a tycoon’s dinner table. As a result, he and Olivia had become Friday night pizza buddies. They were good friends by now, and on their way to becoming true confidants.
Olivia answered him admiringly. “Charles, it looks like it just rolled off the assembly line.”
He glowered at her. “Whadda ya tawkin about, assembly line? This car was hand made. There are less than a dozen like it in the world.” Woild.
She put up her hands in a defensive move. “I should have known.”
He spoke out of the corner of his mouth now, so as not to be overheard. “Listen, Olivia, ya got security set up, right? Ain’t nobody gonna touch these babies.”
“Right you are Charles. I’ve arranged for the Homecoming King and Queen from the high school to sit in the front seat. The boy’s on the football and wrestling teams. Nobody will mess with him. Plus, there will be extra security for the Governor and the fire department is sending over the hook and ladder and paramedic unit just in case.”
“Okay. Just so’s people know the score. Look but don’t touch.”
“It’s on the sign describing the cars, Charles, I have taken care of every last detail personally. I guarantee, nothing will go wrong this morning.”
“Gotcha, Olivia. I knew I could depend on you.”
Promptly at eleven Olivia would kick off the ceremony with some brief welcoming remarks. The Governor was the drawing card, but Charles would make the big speech. They’d gone over it for hours. She’d tried to improve his pronunciation, but he was tone deaf when it came to his accent.
Olivia hoped the media would see through to his gentle nature and philanthropic spirit and overlook his diction, which would have been right at home on the Sopranos. She fingered her jade broach for luck, sending up a quick prayer that the media interviews she had set up would be kind to him.
Charles would turn over the first shovelful of dirt, then the other participants would take their turns, ending with Bailey Logan, the Governor. Maestro Cavelli would bring the ceremony to a close by belting out God Bless America. Allowing for some schmoozing afterwards, Olivia and Charles should be in the Governor’s limo by eleven-thirty, heading over to Hugo’s for the invitation-only lunch Charles was hosting for the Governor and the other dignitaries.
She remembered she’d left the printed programs in the truck and texted Cody to bring them to her when he got back.
Olivia wondered how many of the dignitaries actually shared Charles Bacon’s dream of a museum to celebrate the finest in art and automobiles, which he called America’s art, even though many cars in his collection had been made in France, Italy, Germany and other countries. Olivia knew that many attending today were stunned to discover that a blue-collar worker such as Charles would devote himself to developing a cultural landmark. But Charles had told her that as he began to acquire his celebrated automobiles, he remembered something Ellie had said many years earlier.
Neither Charles nor Ellie had made it past high school, but she had once declared that if she had her life to live over she would be one of those people who could walk into a museum and tell you who painted the pictures just by looking at them, and read a poem and tell you what it meant.
That memory gave birth to the museum. He resolved to learn the history of every item he displayed. Olivia wondered what it would be like to be loved that deeply. Would she ever have it with Matt Richards?
The woman with the baby interrupted her reverie. One of Scott’s men seemed to be urging her to leave, but the woman was resisting. Olivia hoped that problem would get resolved without her intervention.
“OliviA?”
She turned to the familiar
voice trilling her name. She seemed to be a moving target today. Russ Bowers, the head of the architectural firm who designed the building sang at her when he was annoyed. He pointed to the architectural rendering behind the podium.
“And what is that, may I ask,” the end of his sentence rising in disbelief.
During the months they had worked on the design committee Olivia had noticed that Russ always had a petite, curvy assistant in tow. The interns rotated like annuals in a spring garden, all pretty but never seeming to last very long. Today was no exception as a new young blond trailed several paces behind him.
“Why Russ,” Olivia said, keeping her voice even, hoping to deflect a battle, “that is the rendering of the museum. I’m not sure what you mean.”
Russ, fortyish, was very fit with obviously tinted blond hair. Olivia’d been tempted a time or two when she was peeved with him, to ask if they had same colorist, since his highlights matched her own. He pointed a manicured finger at the easel.
“That is NOT the rendering I approved. Where did that come from? Who switched it without my permission?”
Olivia stared at the sketch, then at the architect. “Russ, that is what you sent over this morning. Or someone from your firm did.”
The man’s eyes popped with indignation. “You’re telling me that someone from my office sent this over? With that hideous font? That’s a draft, not the final.”
Russ had his phone out. Olivia had seen him petulant and petty in meetings as he tried to get his way, but now his eyes were dark and full of fury as he waited for someone to pick up his call. He muttered under his breath, “I will kill the person responsible for this. And they know I’m not above that.”
Bad choice of words, Russ my boy, Olivia thought. The architect was brilliant, but he’d had more than a little trouble with domestic violence in his past. Public apologies had assured the investors that he was reliable. Personally, Olivia did not like working with him, but his design was better than anyone could have hoped.
She noticed the line of mud on the cuffs of his expensive suit and clumps of dirt on his shoes. She assumed he had been touring the grounds with his assistant. To get that filthy they must have found a very secluded spot back in the forest. She left him to sort out the problem.
There didn’t seem to be anyone left to badger her. She found herself in front of the rectangular patch of earth where Charles and the other dignitaries would each dig up a spadeful with one of the beribboned shovels to officially launch the construction. Scott had assured her the earth would be easy to turn over. Judging from her head banging with the contractor this morning, Olivia knew she had to double-check everything. Like Goldilocks’ porridge, the earth shouldn’t be too hard or too soft. She stuck her toe into the soft ground to test it. It appeared to have been recently dug up and turned over, then smoothed flat. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure this patch was just right. That pleased her enormously.
1:5
Eventually the tarp was laid, the flower arrangements placed at each end of the podium and Cody and Scott’s helper had set up the fifty chairs and centered a program on each seat.
Scott had changed his clothes and Russ agreed to make peace with the flawed rendering. He dropped his sour demeanor when she suggested he make nice with the gathering crowd of attendees, where a potential client or two might be lurking.
She breathed a sigh of relief. The groundbreaking was coming together, every detail in place. She had a few minutes to spare before the Governor arrived. She counted off the dignitary list, then checked the number of chairs on the podium. A horrified look spread across her face.
“CODY!”
There were no chairs on the podium!
Cody came running over. “We didn’t account for chairs for the speakers. They can’t stand around up there for an hour!”
Now Cody looked ruffled.
“Call Bethany,” she said.
Cody nodded. “She has more chairs in her storeroom. But if I get a speeding ticket, you’re going to have to square it with your detective friend.”
“GO!” Olivia ordered.
Her detective friend. Matt Richards. Not the right time to think about Matt, Olivia, she told herself as she checked in with Carrie, covering the long table Cody had set up for her with a white linen cloth. Carrie was slinging coffee makers and boxes of pastries onto the table.
“Have the servers arrived, Carrie?” she asked, admiring a tray of mini croissants, tiny fluted brioches and petit fours set next to crystal bowls of Tupelo honey, orange butter and The Salted Caramel’s famous blueberry jam.
Carrie worked behind the counter at the café, but had a little business on the side setting up for parties and scheduling servers, dishwashers and bar tenders. She picked them from the roles of her many friends and old high school buddies. Everybody loved the enthusiastic, cheery and gossipy Carrie. She and her crew worked all the charity events in town. Olivia never put on an event without her.
Carrie beamed a broad smile at her. “On their way. And don’t worry. I have plenty of food. Half the people will be on diets or looking for something stronger than coffee.”
Olivia shook her head. “Well they’ll be disappointed today.”
The Governor’s aide had said no to champagne. It made the Governor look bad if someone overindulged and got out of hand at a morning event. Olivia was glad not to have to worry about it. All she had to do now was change into her good shoes, watch the seats fill up with the invited guests and wait for the Governor.
And hope Tuesday arrived in time.
Olivia noticed that a corner of the banner on the chain link fence was coming down. It was intended to shield the delicate eyes of the bigwigs from the heavy equipment stored behind it, the guard dog’s pen, communication sheds, Scott’s trailer and the crew’s portable toilets, two of which had been camouflaged behind the podium for the attendees’ use this morning. She looked around for someone to tack the banner back up. She didn’t want it flapping if a breeze came up. Before she got very far, she heard a plaintive voice.
“Can you help me, please?”
She turned around and faced the one person she didn’t want to see right then. The young woman who’d been wandering around the site holding a red-faced blond toddler squirming for release from her mother’s arms.
Still, Olivia gave her a welcoming smile. “Yes? What can I do for you?”
The woman didn’t resemble anyone on the guest list. She was too young, too bedraggled. She was also near tears.
“I’m looking for my husband. He didn’t come home last night.”
Olivia stared back at her, perplexed. “I don’t understand. I don’t know how I can help you. Why would you think your husband is here?”
“He works here. He’s in charge of the logging. And his truck is parked down the road.”
Oh, Olivia, thought. Him. She didn’t actually know the logger by name, but she and Charles had exchanged a few words with him on one of their visits to the site. She had a bad feeling as the woman struggled to hold back tears. Was she going to get hysterical looking for a husband who might be in a bar or some other woman’s bed? She felt sympathy for her. How could she not as the woman juggled the wiggling child needing her nose wiped, a diaper bag slipping down her arm, a tote bag hanging off one wrist. She wore scuffed, cheap shoes, a sagging peasant skirt and a faded sweatshirt hoodie. Nevertheless, someone else had to handle this poor woman’s problem.
“Come with me, Mrs., uh, what is your name?”
“Victoria Fisher. My husband is Jed Fisher. He’s worked here for a few weeks.”
“Well, I’m happy to meet you, Mrs. Fisher, though I wish the circumstances were different. My name is Olivia Granville. Let’s find the contractor, Scott Pierce. He can help you.”
Victoria shook her head. “No, not him.” Her baby tried to escape from her arms, lurching towards Olivia. She anchored her child more tightly under her arm. “Just a minute, sweetie. Mommy will get you you
r binkie.”
She dug into the diaper bag while she spoke to Olivia. “No, not Mr. Pierce. I’ve tried him, but he won’t help me. Says he doesn’t know where Jed is, and it isn’t his problem.”
Olivia sympathized with Scott, despite his nasty attitude. He had as much to do today as she did, preparing the site for the guests, only to undo that work after the ceremony so his men could get back to excavating for the foundation and underground garage. He’d been hard at work when she arrived at six a.m. He didn’t need a hysterical woman on his hands any more than she did.
For a moment, Olivia wished Hank were here, her PA. She would have taken good care of the woman. But Hank wasn’t here, and the woman needed assistance. Olivia queried her.
“Well, why would you think it is? His problem, I mean.”
Olivia tried to hide how distracted she was, then decided to send Victoria Fisher to the security detail at the gate. It was a private company hired by Scott to protect the site after hours. They were filling in this morning doing crowd control. Surely they would know how to handle this.
“Could your husband be with friends or family?” she asked.
Olivia was getting anxious. She needed to move on. A workman walked by. “Excuse me for just a moment, Mrs. Fisher.”
She snagged the man and pointed to the sagging banner on the fence. “Do me a favor and pin that back up? It’s still not right.”
The man looked clearly annoyed, but did as she requested.
Victoria tapped Olivia on the arm to get her attention again. “He’s not. I’ve checked with everyone. This was the last place he was at.”
The woman started to cry. Olivia caught the diaper bag sliding down her arm and slipped it back onto her shoulder, moved by the woman’s distress.
“How do you know that?” Olivia had an urge to stroke her hair, to comfort her but thought it would appear patronizing.