“But you can’t leave us, Ruby,” a man from the audience said.
Ruby smiled for the first time, a bit of white tooth flashing behind her red lipstick. “That’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid I’ve gotten far too busy with my many and varied responsibilities as mayor.” Still smiling, she raised her index finger and wagged it. “Delegate, delegate, they always say.” Then her lips straightened into their former sternness. “We have two candidates for the presidency. Alveda Hamilton and Jennifer Williams. So, let’s get on with it, shall we? Start the speeches. Time is money. How about let’s go alphabetically.” She turned to look at Alveda Hamilton, who was seated beside her. “Alveda, that means you get to go first. Chop, chop.”
Alveda rose from her seat and launched a stink-eye grenade at Jennifer Williams before she addressed the audience.
“There’s no need to introduce myself. Everyone here knows who I am. My reputation speaks for itself. As the Notchey Creek Chamber of Commerce president and as the Briarwood Neighborhood Association vice president, my leadership capabilities are beyond reproof. Besides that, my husband and I have lived in Briarwood for over forty years. We are of this neighborhood, know this neighborhood … not like some of the new types … not like the ones who try to come in from the outside, thinking they know more than the rest of us.”
This last remark was intended for Jennifer Williams, of course, but the young widow sat stoic in the front row, seemingly unscathed by it.
Dr. Jeremy Griggs raised his hand to speak. “That’s all well and good, Alveda, but what about your platform? What’re you planning on doing specifically for the neighborhood? Why should we vote for you?”
As Jennifer’s therapist, Harley wondered if Jeremy was playing devil’s advocate on her behalf.
Alveda’s eyes narrowed behind her glasses, irritated by the question. “Platform? What am I going to do? Well, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do …” She collected her thoughts for a moment, then continued. “First we have to do something about security. Since he …”
She cocked her index finger in the air for emphasis and chose her next words carefully. “Since Mr. Arson has moved into the neighborhood,” she continued, “there’s been a predictable increase in lascivious behavior on our street.”
“It’s true,” one woman in the audience said. “Remember that one who used the restroom on the Winstons’ tree?”
“Oh, that was just the one,” a man in the row behind her said. “That’s all. Isolated case.”
Alveda cleared her throat. “Ne’er-do-wells infiltrating our neighborhood. Leather pants, piercings, tattoos, smoking, torn blue jeans, and I dare say … body odor. We mustn’t allow it. They mill about on our sidewalks outside our doors, looking for who? Looking for him, of course! And before we know it, they’ll be setting up tents and port-a-potties on our lawns. And what do they do while they’re out there waiting to get a glimpse of him? They litter, they smoke, use curse words, and most likely case our houses, planning to come back and rob us all blind.”
“A little overblown, don’t you think?” a woman in the audience said.
“No, I don’t think so,” a man in the third row said in return. “I agree with Alveda. We don’t know what they’re really up to when they’re out there, what their intentions are.”
In this case, Harley agreed with the woman’s perspective. Alveda’s charges were indeed overblown. While there had been a surplus of paparazzi and tourists in Briarwood immediately following Beau’s arrival, those numbers had greatly subsided in recent weeks. Up to the present, there had been no security threats or upticks in crime because of it.
However, Alveda Hamilton could be very shrewd and enterprising, wielding a great deal of power in Notchey Creek. On the one hand, she constructed absurd gingerbread houses on the sidewalk on Main Street. On the other hand, she had overseen some of the most lucrative and successful city planning grants in the history of Notchey Creek. It was the latter qualities people remembered, and on those they based their overall opinions of her.
In addition, Alveda had lived there so long, had held leadership roles so long, it had turned to cronyism. People seemed to respect her decision-making abilities regardless of their individual merit.
But at least on that night, the room seemed divided on the issue.
“Okay,” Jeremy said, stifling her litany, “and if this is in fact true—that the neighborhood is being overrun—then what’re you proposing to do about it?”
“We are a city upon a hill, Dr. Griggs,” Alveda said. “A beacon of light for the rest of Notchey Creek. We must show them how to live in propriety, how to live with grace and morals.”
“So how do we do that?” Jeremy asked.
“We install security cameras, for one, on each of the lampposts, and we install a security booth at the entrance, have a twenty-four-hour guard to keep watch, let the right people in and keep the wrong people out.”
This time Jed interrupted. “Alveda, Briarwood’s never had a security guard and cameras. Never. And who do you think’s gonna be providin’ all this twenty-four-hour security? Surely not the police.”
“We’ll hire our own security—privately. The shared cost will be added to our association dues.”
This was met with a few grumbles and murmurings from the audience.
“Well, Beau Arson has a security guard,” she said in her own defense. “Why shouldn’t we?”
“He’s a celebrity,” Jeremy said. “He actually needs it—and can afford it. The man’s richer than all of us put together.”
“Well,” Alveda said, “maybe we should make him pay for it then. After all, he’s the reason all the miscreants are here. If it weren’t for him, our streets would be quiet and clean and safe—just like they used to be.”
A few more murmurs and grumblings came from the audience, some nodding in assent, others shaking their heads. Ruby glanced at her watch, and said, “Thank you, Alveda, that’s enough for now. Let’s move onto the next candidate.”
“But I’m not—”
Ruby interrupted. “Jennifer Williams, you have two minutes. Please make it good.”
27
A Woman of Good Business
Jennifer stood from her seat, neatened her red sweater, and addressed the audience. From their earlier conversation on the veranda, Harley knew she was nervous, but she disguised it beautifully. To an outside observer, she appeared calm, collected, and confident.
“As Mayor Montgomery mentioned, my name is Jennifer Williams. And as many of you also know, I’ve purchased 296 Briarwood, just two doors down from here.”
Harley noticed she hadn’t referred to the home as “the Johnson house,” like everyone else in town did. Jennifer was hoping to separate herself from that legacy, as she should.
“I’ve met many of you at one time or another,” Jennifer said, “when I was a child growing up here in Notchey Creek, or now as an adult at my antiques store on Main Street—Modern Vintage.” She linked her hands together, and rested them below her waist. “Now, I know I’m not officially a Briarwood resident yet, but once the house is remodeled and I move in, I plan to spend many years here in this wonderful neighborhood. And I hope, too … at least I’d like to think that as someone who grew up in Notchey Creek and moved away for a time, I can bring a fresh perspective, fresh leadership to the neighborhood association.”
Ruby interrupted. “What do you plan on doing, Ms. Williams? What are your plans?”
Ruby was not playing devil’s advocate, Harley knew. She was doing what she always did—trying to move the proceedings along. One thing could be said for the mayor: She did not like prolonged, unnecessary meetings.
Jennifer considered the question. “Well, for one, instead of closing our gates, keeping people out, I think we should open them wider. Be more inclusive to the greater community.”
This seemed to pique Ruby’s interest, much to the chagrin of Alveda. “And how do you propose we do that?”
“Wel
l … Alveda’s right, but only in one respect. We are a city on a hill. Yes. A beautiful, bright city. One that the citizens of this town look up to, that I always looked up to as a girl growing up here. Let’s not dampen that light with outdated thinking, with proposals that are alienating and ridiculous.” She paused. “And now that Beau Arson’s here, is making his own gestures of hospitality to the town, why shouldn’t we join in, support those efforts with our own?”
“Nonsense,” Alveda said. “Complete nonsense.”
“Alveda, you had your turn,” Ruby said. “It’s Ms. Williams’s floor now. Go ahead.”
“Okay, so for instance, right now, the only thing we really do is the Holiday Home Tours each December, right? And don’t get me wrong. Those are wonderful and great for the historical society. But it’s just one event. We could do so much more. Take Halloween, for instance. Briarwood gets a lot of trick-or-treaters. Well, why not take it a step further. Cordon off the streets to cars, only allow foot traffic. We could even have a dance performance maybe—‘Thriller’ in the streets.”
Alveda gasped. “Our ancestors would roll over in their graves.”
Harley nearly laughed. Alveda had no idea how apropos her comment had been to the “Thriller” reference.
“And then there’s Thanksgiving,” Jennifer said. “We could do something similar, but recreate the first Thanksgiving dinner in our neighborhood. Construct an enormous dining table, long enough to seat anyone in town who’s bought a ticket. We review the history of the day, the significance of the foods the Pilgrims would’ve eaten, things like that.”
Members in the audience whispered to one another, some intrigued, others skeptical.
“But those are just two loose examples,” Jennifer said. “And no one says we have to do either of those specifically. It just points to the bigger agenda. To make Briarcliffe more inclusive to the greater community. To share the beauty of this wonderful neighborhood with our fellow townspeople who live below us. Just like the Sutcliffes used to do.”
Jennifer’s last point about the Sutcliffes had resonated with the audience. It harkened back to a golden age of nostalgia for Notchey Creek, when the Sutcliffes hosted their seasonal parties at Briarcliffe, inviting the whole town to attend and bask in their glorious Camelot. It was a time they would all like to return to, a time when things were better than they were now.
The Sutcliffe reference, too, seemed to have resonated with Mayor Ruby Montgomery. She gave a nod, a slight smile creeping up on her face. It seemed to Harley that while Alveda was Ruby’s friend and associate of many years, and while she questioned the changes Beau Arson was bringing to Notchey Creek, she liked Jennifer’s ideas and what they could bring for the town’s economy.
Ruby asked Alveda and Jennifer to leave the room for a moment. When she called a vote for the presidency, and Jennifer won the majority, Harley wasn’t surprised.
“Congratulations, Ms. Williams,” Ruby said, as Jennifer reentered the library. “You are our new neighborhood association president.”
There would be fallout from Alveda, of course, but Harley wouldn’t be there to see it. Tina needed her in the kitchen, and she reported down the hall directly.
28
Cat Fight
“Oh, thank goodness that’s over.”
Tina drooped at the kitchen island, her floured hand placed to her forehead. The indefatigable Tina, the Rosie the Riveter of catering, was for the first time in her life, tired. Mountains of crusted pans filled the sink behind them, and a parade of dirty dishes cluttered the countertops. At the adjoining breakfast table, Grandma Ziegler slept in a straight-back chair, her head flung back and her mouth open, catching any survival-of-the-fittest flies who had lasted until December. On her shoulder, the unapologetic Petie eavesdropped on their conversation.
Tina rose from her seat and sighed. “You about ready to head out?”
“Just let me get my things from the bar. I’ll meet y’all at the car.”
Harley retreated from the kitchen and found solace in the dark hallway. Past the grand staircase, light from the library doors shone ahead, and she was relieved to find the room now empty, the only life coming from the fire as it crackled in the hearth. What a wonderful respite the library was for Beau in the evenings, spent seated in one of the leather chairs with a book in his hands. Unbeknownst to many, Beau was an avid reader, with classic literature being his particular favorite. He had introduced her to Charles Dickens when she was eight years old.
She gathered her things from the bar, then passed through the foyer, and out the front doors. A few people were still gathered on the porch as they chatted and said their goodbyes. Among them were Alveda Hamilton and her husband, Ernest.
“Please, Alveda.” Ernest stood beside his wife. The two watched Jennifer Williams and Jeremy Griggs as they stood below them on the sidewalk. Jennifer and Jeremy spoke to one another in low, conspiratorial tones, their heads nearly touching. Jeremy was reassuring her about something, and for the second time that evening, Harley wondered if there was something more to their relationship than just doctor and patient. But this seemed to go against Jennifer’s character, at least as Harley knew it.
Jeremy and Jennifer’s closeness seemed to anger Alveda even more, and she stood with her fists tightened on the porch as she glared at them. Ernest took her gently by the arm, as if he feared what might come next.
“Just let it go,” he said.
“I am not letting it go!” Alveda ripped her arm from his grasp and raced down the steps toward Jennifer and Jeremy. When she reached them, she grabbed Jennifer by the elbow and whipped her body around. “How dare you!” she said. “Outdated? Alienating and ridiculous? I’ll have you know I’ve lived in this neighborhood longer than you’ve been alive, know it better than anybody in this whole town, and I’m not gonna sit by and let some, some—usurping slut—who doesn’t belong here come in and ruin it!”
“Alveda!” Ernest said behind her, his face aghast.
A stoic Jennifer Williams merely stared back at Alveda, her beautiful face devoid of emotion. While she did have weaknesses, she was not going to let Alveda see them. Calmly she pulled her arm from Alveda’s grasp and met her gaze. “The voters have had their say, Alveda,” she said. “It’s done. There’s nothing more to be said.”
Jennifer turned away and found reassurance in Jeremy’s arm draped across her shoulders.
As they left, Jeremy looked over his shoulder and said to Alveda, “You’re really pathetic, you know that, Alveda? Really pathetic.”
Alveda would have nothing of it. “Me, pathetic?” she said. “Where’s your wife, Jeremy Griggs? Where’s your long-suffering wife?”
He ignored her, and he and Jennifer headed down the sidewalk, then through the grass. Several strategically placed gates perforated Briarcliffe’s fence. The two obviously planned to take one of those gates as a shortcut back to Jennifer’s apartment on Main Street.
Visual daggers flew from Alveda’s eyes at their retreating backs, her anger still not subsided. When the two disappeared in the woods, she huffed and stomped down the sidewalk, presumably on her way home.
With his head lowered, a resigned Ernest followed in suit, down the steps and along the sidewalk, as quietly as possible.
It would be a late night for poor Ernest Hamilton, Harley thought, and she empathized with the man who had probably suffered the aftermath of Alveda’s tantrums for decades.
At last Harley was alone.
She welcomed the quiet of the now-empty front porch, having had enough drama for one evening. She hurried to Tina’s van, placed her bag in the backseat, and returned to the house in search of Tina and Grandma Ziegler. However, it was not Tina and Grandma she found.
29
Loneliness
Rebecca Griggs had her coat draped over her arm, as if she were preparing to leave. She looked at Harley expectantly.
“Jeremy,” she said. “Have you seen Jeremy?”
The question put
Harley in an awkward situation. She was not sure of the true status of Jennifer and Jeremy’s relationship, nor did she know Rebecca’s views or knowledge of that status.
“Um …” She stumbled over her words for a moment. “He left—just a few minutes ago.”
Rebecca raised her brows. “But he didn’t tell me he was leaving. Where he was going. We were supposed to walk home together.”
“Well, he, um … decided to walk Jennifer home. She had a bit of a run-in with Alveda and …”
“Oh.”
Harley examined Rebecca’s face. There was so much she could have analyzed behind that “oh.”
Rebecca seemed to age in that moment, seeming older than her sixty years. The light in her faded blue eyes, usually a twinkling on better days, had dimmed to a dull sadness. She lowered her gaze to the marble tiles. “Well, I’ll just, um …”
Harley was unsure what to say. She felt compassion for Rebecca, wanted to reach out and hug her. She, too, knew what it felt like to be ignored, cast aside, treated as invisible, when something—anything—was always better. Like an old shoe or the runt of the litter.
“Can I walk you home?” Harley asked. “I sure would like the company.”
Rebecca raised her eyes to meet Harley’s, and the hurt seemed to turn to shame, making Harley feel even worse. “Oh, that’s not necessary, Harley. I … I like to walk alone. Really. It gives me time to think.”
“If you’re sure.”
She gave a nod, but her mind was somewhere else. Her mind was on Jeremy and Jennifer in the woods. Their closeness in their darkness, their secret conversations she wasn’t privy to. “I’m sure,” she said.
Passing by Harley in the foyer, with her head lowered, Rebecca made her way to the front door and embarked on a walk home she might not recall the next day. When she arrived at her mansion with its dark corridors and vacuous spaces, Harley imagined she would climb the staircase, and crawl into her king-sized bed, empty, the sheets feeling even colder than what the December wind allowed. Then she would cry herself to sleep, hoping for a better day tomorrow.
The Ghosts of Notchey Creek Page 9