by N. C. Lewis
Chapter 20
It was 10:45 a.m. when I finished grading the final student paper. In the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of water and refilled Bodie's bowl. Then I called the hound inside. I closed the door and walked along the trail toward the iron gate. Only as I opened it did I remember that Peter Travis was presenting at the Speaker Circle this afternoon. Back to the house, I hurried. From the desk in the office, I grabbed a baseball cap and pair of dark shades, stuffing them into my handbag.
The Speaker Circle sessions took place in a meeting room in the town library. I'd arrived early. This gave time to wander between the stacks of books, search the library database for a good crime novel to read, and chat with the checkout clerk, Carol Kurimbokus, about the proposed plans for a new library.
"You know, it used to be," Carol said with a nostalgic glint in her eye, "that during the weekday afternoons I could settle down and read a good Lee Child book. I've read everything he's written, and James Patterson, too."
I let out a sympathetic murmur. "And now?"
A pained expression creased her face. "From the time we open, the masses pour through the door. The retired folk during the morning, pre-school children midday, and homeschoolers during the afternoon. In the evening it's a free for all. I'm on my feet all day."
Out came another sympathetic murmur. "Oh dear, on your feet all day."
Carol nodded. "I take my lunch with the head librarian hiding behind the reference section." She pointed a thin slender finger to a dimly lit corner on the far side of the library. A round head with a wild bushel of gray hair and nervous dark eyes, munching on a sandwich, peered back. "That's the director, he takes lunch early. Don't stare, he'll think you want something and disappear in the local history stack."
But I couldn't help myself. I stared. Like a gazelle on an African savanna, he leapt out of sight.
"Oh no, now I've got to walk to the local history stack when I take my break."
I mumbled an apology.
"Nowadays," she said sharply, "there is barely enough time to read one of those tiny, paperback BookShots." Another customer waved for her attention. Carol Kurimbokus sighed. "Welcome to the library, how can we best serve you today?" she asked with a halfhearted smile.
Chapter 21
The Speaker Circle meeting room was off to the side, down a narrow hall lined with a billboard advertising free services to the local community. The room was empty besides Millie, the president, and a guest, a thirty-something woman with large, brown eyes, and a long, smoothly brushed, black bob.
"I picked up a flyer at Gregg’s Hardware Store," she said in an excited voice. "I've been looking for work for six months. Mr. Maxwell, my life coach, said joining a society was the ultimate power tool to success. I took his Network Your Way to a Top-Paying Job by Next Week course, three months ago. Oh, I'm Shaneequa Neureiter."
Millie repeated her name out loud as if she was trying to lodge it deep within her memory. "Shaneequa Neureiter, Shaneequa Neureiter, Shaneequa Neureiter."
She wrote out a name tag for the guest. Shaneequa let out a wild yell of delight. "Yippee, I'm in! At last, someone has let me join their society. Mr. Maxwell said that was the hardest part."
"If you enjoy the meeting, I'll give you a membership form," said Millie with an eager smile. It had been several months since the last sign up. The club needed a dose of fresh blood.
Shaneequa tipped her head back and let out a loud cackle. "I am going to love it here. You're my type of people. Why wait till the end of the meeting, sign me up now? Then you can show me the secret handshake, no need to dress up."
"Secret handshake?"
"You know, well, I guess it's a secret," she winked knowingly. "Sign me up, handshake later, I know the drill."
Just then, Roger, wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses, walked in and gave Shaneequa a large slap on her butt. She spun around.
"Well, hello gorgeous, I’m Roger Romantic. The ladies call me Mr. Romantic. Who are you?"
Shaneequa looked down into a pair of dark sunglasses and scowled.
"What the—"
"Oh, Roger," interrupted Millie. "Leave Shaneequa alone, she’s a guest." Roger sighed and shuffled off to a seat at the front.
Shaneequa narrowed her eyes and looked around the room and then at Millie. "I can see this club needs shaking up. Y'all will vote me in as the new president before two shakes of a rat's tail. I've got what it takes to change things around here."
Millie had been president for over four years. Somehow the job had landed in her lap, the other members of the club being too savvy to take on such a thankless role. Millie smiled again. "I think you will make a great president. Once you are confirmed as a member today, I'd be delighted to second your nomination."
Shaneequa rubbed her hands as her eyes danced with delight. "Today, you mean I don't need to dress up in a funny gown or anything?"
Millie slapped her on the back and laughed. "Oh no! Ha-ha-ha-ha." It was a curious little laugh, a mixture of relief and guilt. For it was a little too high pitched, a little too long, and Millie's eyes, open wide with joy, mirrored those of the used-car salesman about to sell a lemon to an unsuspecting customer.
Shaneequa didn't notice, and with the confident swagger of a political nominee in a one-party town, chose a seat at the front. Millie, like a bird eyeing a worm, followed the guest to the front row. It was her role as president to explain things as the meeting progressed.
I sat next to Millie.
Millie let out a long, slow sigh, but didn't speak.
"Well?" I asked.
She let out another sigh, this time exaggerated. Her nose wrinkled as she reached into her handbag and pulled out two sock puppets. One was purple and wore a white shirt with a little black tie–Professor Purple. The other, blue with frizzy, brown curls and a pleated skirt–Madame Bleu.
"Oh, Ollie," said Millie as she opened and closed the mouth of Professor Purple. She was no ventriloquist, her lips moved with each word, and the deep male voice sound quite clearly came from her throat. "Millie didn't get out of the Lilly building until 3 a.m. this morning. In the end Deputy Dingsplat had to let the people go for fear there'd be a riot. And after all that, the newspaper owner didn't want Millie to write an article."
Madame Bleu trilled in a rich French accent. "Oh la la. The owner of the newspaper treats Millie like a bug, she is batted away when not needed."
"Now, now," said Professor Purple, his eyes narrowing. "It is not wholly unreasonable for the owner of the newspaper to ask Johnny Spinner to write an article about the death at the magic show rather than Millie."
"If the owner had a heart, he would never do such a wicked thing," replied Madame Bleu. "Writing is all about the heart, and passion. Millie must write with, how we say in French, avec passion!"
I noticed Shaneequa watching the sock puppets out of the corner of her eye. She edged nervously to the end of her seat.
Just then, Peter Travis walked in. He wore a red, long-sleeved top, with red trousers and red socks tucked neatly into red sneakers. Around his neck, a tie—also red. His outfit, although a little brash, might be easily explained to a visiting guest as eccentric. Even his face, with black streaks like the veins on a tiny insect, might be brushed off by a skilled journalist like Millie. But it was Peter's eyes that gave me the first tinge of doubt about her ability to explain to our guest. A huge pair of red sunglasses covered his face, like something you'd see people wearing in the 1970s, only bigger and more goggle-like. Imprinted on the hideous eye contraption, thousands of tiny octagons, like the eye of a bluebottle fly.
Shaneequa let out a gasp of horror, which was rather unfortunate because Peter took it as a sign of encouragement. He turned toward the guest, peered at her name tag, and his insect eyes flashed like a faulty light bulb on a car, only bluebottle green. "A guest," he said in his normal voice, which was already creepy, "to share our secrets with. Shaneequa, you're going to get the special treatment today." He dropped on all
fours and scurried around like an ant. Shaneequa let out a shriek and ran from the room.
"Glossophobia," muttered Peter, standing up. "That's the fear of public speaking. I saw it in her eyes, made me run from my first Speaker Circle meeting too. She'll be back."
Millie went after her but came back several minutes later empty-handed. She sat down next to me with a heavy thump and let out a despondent groan over losing the future club president. "Such potential to lead," she said to no one in particular, shaking her head.
Chapter 22
An air of excitement hung over the room as it gradually filled with regulars. As usual before a Speaker Circle meeting there were three or four separate conversations going on, and occasionally one of them would get prominent and the others would merge with it. One conversation somehow turned to Mysterious Malcolm's Magical Masquerade show.
Madame Bleu appeared. "It is clear what happened, is it not? Liza collapses and dies during the show. Then Mysterious Malcolm leaps like un kangourou from the stage. The two events are linked, are they not?" Her sock puppet body trembled as she drew out the inevitable Gallic conclusion. "Mademoiselle Liza's death," she said with wide eyes, "was driven by emotion and caused by passion."
Roger leaned toward the sock puppet, nodded and planted a little kiss on her cheek. "Ooh la la," she cried in delight.
"Have they found Mysterious Malcolm yet?" I asked.
"No, it seems he has disappeared into thin air," said Roger.
Millie nodded. "Deputy Dingsplat sure would like to speak with him."
"Yes, I can see why," Roger said. "Jumping off the stage and running off into the night sure doesn't help matters."
I rubbed my chin. "Does Malcolm have any relatives?"
"Nope," replied Roger. "His first wife died of a heart attack several years ago."
"She used to work as his assistant, didn't she?" Millie asked.
"Yep, both his wives worked as his assistants," replied Roger.
"Both wives?" I asked in surprise.
"Malcolm remarried. His second wife was an Egyptian Nubian. I can't recall her name, but she was another beauty. All long legs and curves with gorgeous dark skin, and large deep-brown eyes."
I let out an involuntary huff. "What happened to her?"
Roger scratched his head. Then half closed his eyes. It was several moments before he spoke, and when he did it was in a slow, thoughtful voice. "The magic show went on tour through South America, must have been close to ten years ago. Malcolm found her dead in their hotel bed. I think they were in Argentina at the time."
Madame Bleu turned to look at Roger. "Two wives' dead. Ooh la la, that can't be a coincidence."
"What was the cause of death?" I asked.
Roger turned away to stare at the floor. "Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy," he mumbled through gritted teeth.
"Heart attack!" cried Madame Bleu. "A man like Malcolm, can't help himself. He breaks female hearts at the flutter of his eyelids." She stared into the distance, a sad glaze filling her puppet eyes. "Life is nothing without emotion. Emotion drives actions. C'est simple, Malcolm driven by emotion—"
"Madame Bleu, please, let's not get ahead of ourselves," interrupted Professor Purple. "It is irrational to believe that Liza died of anything but natural causes. Indeed, medical evidence has informed us that is the case for each of Malcolm's wives."
Madame Bleu's sock puppet forehead creased into a knowing frown. "When the death of a beautiful woman is a mystery, it is always as we say in French, un crime de passion. Malcolm broke Liza's heart, and she died from the blow, is that not so?"
Roger spoke up. "Patricia Hampton at the sheriff's department said the medical report is due this afternoon. It should bring an end to all the speculation."
Chapter 23
As Peter was preparing for his presentation, Lenny Crispin strolled into the room and took a seat near the rear. His face looked worn, the events of the previous evening having drawn deep shadows under his eyes. He gave an encouraging nod to Peter, who gave him the thumbs-up.
"Now," said Millie, rising to her feet, "our speaker for the day, Peter Travis. His talk, 'The Movement and Mechanics of the Red Fire Ant, Part Three.' Please join me in welcoming Peter to the lectern."
Roger jumped to his feet clapping and cheering. "Go for it, Peter, don't pull no punches, twenty minutes, thirty minutes, we don't care, give us all you got." The dark shades on his face obscured his eyes, but I thought I saw a mischievous glint through the lenses.
Peter rose to his feet and walked to the table at the front of the room. From behind the lectern, he began.
"Ladies and gentlemen of Medlin Creek. Today, this afternoon, on this very date, we begin our exciting journey into the mechanics of Solenopsis, the fire ant…"
His creepy voice mixed with a monotone delivery made it almost impossible to stay awake. I fished in my handbag for the baseball cap and shades. I'll just shut my eyes for a bit, I thought, just for a few seconds. A moment later, Millie was shaking me.
"Come on, Ollie, he is going outside."
"What?"
"Peter, he's going outside to give a demonstration, let's go."
She took my arm, and I followed her and the rest of the Speaker Circle out of the room. Roger remained seated in the front row, his head flopped to one side and a gentle nasal rumble synchronized to the rise and fall of his chest.
We hurried outside and followed behind a large crowd that rushed down an alley at the side of the library. The bright sunshine and searing heat chased away the last embers of sleep from my mind. Millie disappeared, swept ahead by the crowd.
"Hey," said a voice behind me, "you here to watch the human fire ant?"
I swiveled around to see a stooped, old man with a grizzled, white beard and wild, blue eyes. "Got an alert on my cell phone saying the flash mob meets at the alley, by the side of the library, to see the human fire ant in action."
"There he is," said a tall, thin man with a bushy, gray beard. His finger pointed to a small mound where a figure dressed in red, crawled on all fours. It was Peter, and right behind him was Lenny Crispin, his insect coach, encouraging him on.
"He's going to do it, he is going to enter Sweet Bee Mound," said a stout woman with a sour face, dressed in business attire.
"Sweet Bee Mound," I said, half turning to look at the woman.
"Yes, it's an underground cave, full of sweet little bees, not much bigger than a Texas house fly."
The crowd fell silent as Peter climbed to the apex of the mound. He hesitated, stood up, then flapped his arms like a bird, and hopping from foot to foot, saying, "I can do it, I'm the fire-ant man, I can do it." Then, with a little hop, he clambered into Sweet Bee Mound.
Soundless, the crowd watched at a distance, to see what would happen next. When after several minutes there was nothing but the sound of scraping made by Peter's arms and legs, the crowd crept forward toward the mound.
Suddenly, a huge, gray cloud rose up from the mound like smoke out of a chimney. Only, it wasn't smoke, and it was buzzing with the fury of a desert sandstorm.
"Bees," someone shouted. And indeed, that is what Hill Country Texans often call them. To the rest of the world they are known as wasps, and there was nothing sweet about their buzz. The cloud hovered momentarily above the gathered crowd. Then it descended like a sea mist rolling over the hills.
"Run," shouted the stooped, old man with a grizzled, white beard, his wild blue eyes even wilder.
"My God," yelled the stout woman dressed in business attire. "First a death on stage at the magic show, then a human ant, and now a plague of bees."
"It's nothing but lawlessness in Medlin Creek now that the sheriff's out of town," huffed an excitable young man with spiky, pink hair and a tattoo of a lion on his neck. "Man, you're not safe anywhere these days."
The crowd spilled out of the alley onto the street scattering in all directions. I looked up, puffing hard, as Carol Kurimbokus sprinted back into the library, her arms waving
wildly as a small swarm of bees hovered over her head.
As I caught my breath, Lenny touched my arm. He leaned in close, his musky aftershave hit me like a shot of single malt whiskey. "Where is Peter?"
Too out of breath to speak, I half turned to look back down the alley. Lenny followed my lead. In the distance, close to Sweet Bee Mound, Peter staggered and swayed toward us. Lenny ran forward, clasped Peter by the shoulder and helped him back toward the street.
Back in the library meeting room a few members gathered, most did not return. Roger sat motionless in the exact same position he was in when I left the room earlier. His head was slightly bowed with a rhythmic rumble rising and falling in sequence with his breathing. At the front of the room behind the lectern, Peter took off his goggles and said weakly, "I hope you enjoyed my interactive presentation on the fire ant."
There was a round of half-hearted clapping. Roger jumped up. "Bravo Peter, you gave us the full mother lode and then some, bravo." Then the Speaker Circle meeting was over.
Lenny walked to the front of the room. I admired the way he returned to help Peter.
"Ollie," said Peter, "I hope you enjoyed the presentation. Didn't go as I expected."
"The flash-mob element was a real surprise," I said.
Lenny glanced in my direction and smiled. "Peter," he said, "you did a fantastic job demonstrating ant mechanics."
A cell phone buzzed.
"Oh," said Peter, looking at his phone screen. "A message from Sheriff Hays."
"I thought the sheriff was out of town," said Lenny.
"He is, but we are fishing buddies, you know how that goes." Peter peered at the screen, his lips moving as he read. When he was done, he looked up, pale. "Oh my, that's not good. That's not good at all. Sheriff Hays says Liza was poisoned."