The Ghosts of Notchey Creek

  Harley considered the stranger peering back at her. In essence, she knew it was her, the same expression behind her brown eyes, dark hair, the same high cheekbones. And yet it was not her. It was a version of herself she would show the world for a few hours until she returned home in the evening, and washed all of the magic down the sink. Then she would be her same ordinary self again.

  Regardless, Reg had done her job and a wonderful one at that.

  Harley Henrickson was transformed.

  “Thanks, Reg,” she said with a smile. “You outdid yourself.”

  78

  Of Sow’s Ears and Silk purses

  The pink dress fit like a glove.

  Unfortunately, Matilda’s dress fit like a glove too, and the pig looked like a change-heavy piggy bank squeezed into a Barbie doll dress.

  As Harley peered down at the three-hundred-pound animal in her pink polka-dot satin dress with puffed sleeves, a rhinestone tiara on her head, she realized Matilda did not care if she looked ridiculous or not. She was going to Beau’s New Year’s Eve party, and she was going for one thing and for one thing only—food.

  And food she would get.

  Oh, if we could all have such confidence, Harley thought.

  Harley decided she should have the same outlook, not only about the dress and the party, but also about her life.

  She straightened her Molly Ringwald dress, and slipped her feet into the kitten heels Tina had loaned her. Tina had pressed her to wear a pair of three-inch stilettos, and Harley had drawn the line, pointing out the fact she could not walk in them.

  The kitten heels were challenging enough, and she hobbled through her little cottage, trying to keep her balance.

  But, oh, it had been a good day, and it would be a better night.

  A killer had been caught, and a woman who had been entombed for over thirty years had at last been laid to rest in peace.

  Justice had been served and peace reinstated.

  Beau dropped any charges against Samantha Jacobs, barring she returned all items stolen from Briarcliffe. She did so, and following Jennifer Williams’s memorial service, she left town for parts unknown.

  Justin Wheeler and Heather Knowlton left town, too.

  Beau was in the process of selling the valuables from Briarcliffe’s safe room and intended to donate the money to the town. He also bought the building formerly housing Modern Vintage and planned to turn it into a music school, offering free music lessons to low-income children.

  Meredith and Mariselle Roberts’s remains were sent to New York, where they were buried in the family plot beside their parents.

  Henry Trainor was in prison, awaiting trial.

  The Small Town Christmas Festival went off without a hitch. Tater and Floyd’s float won the parade contest, and what was left of Alveda’s gingerbread house was incinerated on the farm. Mr. Gumdrop and Miss Sugarplum were still missing.

  Opha Mae Shaw danced the Electric Slide in her muumuu when Beau Arson sent her a personal invitation to his New Year’s Eve Ball.

  And as for Beau’s recording studio, the plans were going forward, but this time with a new architect.

  Harley walked to the closet by the front door, and removed the wool coat she reserved for Sunday mornings. She guided her arms through the sleeves and buttoned it to the chest, informing Matilda it was time to leave.

  The pig, already with dreams of sugar plums and junk food in her head, did not hesitate.

  Their red 1958 Chevy carriage awaited outside.

  79

  My Huckleberry Friend

  Briarcliffe’s ballroom was packed with people. The gold-painted walls and white wainscoting, the majestic chandelier and balloons suspended above the crowd, and the intricately set tables surrounding the dance floor brought the party to life with impressive elegance

  Guests sipped cocktails, snacked on silver plates of appetizers, and danced without coordination on the dance floor. Above them on the stage, a Trans-Siberian Orchestra-type rock band played holiday songs with a touch a loud rock and roll.

  The revelry reminded Harley of a scene from a Jane Austen novel, like the Netherfield Ball in Pride and Prejudice. However, this ball held a mix of the town’s most refined, along with those of the less refined. Mullets, beer bellies, and camouflage tuxes intermingled with designer suits and dresses. Cans of Skoal chewing tobacco rested inside suit breast pockets, and crystal punch glasses were substituted with spit cups.

  It was truly a slice of egalitarian society.

  Harley and Matilda entered the ballroom. Before Harley could take her place along the wall—as she always did at dances and parties—Tina, Grandma Ziegler, and Petie scuttled over.

  What was left of Tina’s dress was red leather, with matching stiletto boots that came up to her mid-thigh. Grandma Ziegler wore her signature faux fur coat, the only thing visible beneath it were her little bird legs in control-top pantyhose and white Easy Spirit sandals. She held a small plate in her hand filled with fried appetizers topped with Easy Cheese. In the other hand she held a gin martini, which she somehow sipped and chugged all at once. On her shoulder, Petie wore his little elf costume, giving Harley the same smug look he always did.

  “Oh, my gosh!” Tina said. “Look at you!” Her gaze lowered to Matilda. “And look at Matilda!”

  “Big porker,” Petie said.

  Grandma looked Harley up and down. “You clean up nice, Harley.”

  “Big nerd,” Petie said.

  Tina did a little dance in her stiletto boots. “I thought I’d never see the day. But you know, I always said to Aunt Wilma—even when we were kids, I said, you know, that Harley, she’s got lots of potential.”

  “What’s underneath the coat?” Grandma asked.

  With reluctance, Harley unbuttoned her wool coat and removed it. She draped it over her forearm, and allowed them a full perusal of her dress.

  Tina squealed, and Grandma Ziegler laughed.

  “Hey,” Grandma said, “ain’t that the one—you know, the dress that little red-headed girl wore, the one that was in all them movies back in the eighties—always used to play those geeky parts but got all the hot guys. You know The Supper Club, the Rat Pack … that one.”

  Tina rolled her eyes. “Molly Ringwald, Grandma. In Pretty in Pink. And it was The Breakfast Club and the Brat Pack, not whatever you just called ’em.”

  “Whatever,” Grandma said, dismissing her with a wave of her hand. “You weren’t even born then, what do you know?” She looked to the bar. “I’m gonna go get a refill on my martini. I’ll catch yinz later.” She peered down at Matilda. “Matilda, you wanna come, too? You know Beau’s got you your own buffet table, don’t ya?”

  Harley surveyed the line of buffet tables stationed along the wall, filled with grilled meats, side dishes, and desserts. Sure enough, at the end of this fleet of rich foods sat a long table, about a foot tall. Junk food of every persuasion sat displayed on silver platters along with a table tent sign that read, “Matilda Henrickson.”

  The pig followed behind Grandma and Petie without hesitation. Luckily, her next vet appointment was not until the spring.

  Tina turned to Harley. “You look beautiful, buddy. And I’m proud of you, you know that? I really am. ’Cause I know you didn’t wanna, but you did.”

  “It’ll make Aunt Wilma and Opha Mae happy,” Harley said. “That’s all that matters.” She looked around the room. “Where are they anyway?”

  “Well, Aunt Wilma disappeared inside the tattoo booth a little while ago and—”

  “There’s a tattoo booth?”

  “Uh huh,” she said, pointing. “Over there.”

  Sure enough, across the room and stationed against the wall was a tent with a sign posted to the closed flap that read: “Complimentary Tattoos.”

  Oh, bless.

  “And then Opha Mae was on the dance floor … or at least she was earlier.”

  Oh, she was still there, all right. In the center. In her reindeer muumuu. Do
ing The Twist out of beat to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.”

  Harley smiled. “Looks like she’s having fun.”

  “I ain’t sure she’s gonna remember too much tomorrow. Had a few Cosmos—heavy on the vodka—thought they were Shirley Temples.”

  Harley examined the other people on the dance floor, and her eyes widened.

  Uncle Tater and Floyd were each dancing with women about their age. Uncle Tater wore a University of Tennessee orange tux and matching top hot, his pant legs tucked in white cowboy boots. Floyd wore green Dickies and a red-and-green striped bowtie, his loafers doing a surprisingly good Moondance away from his date as he grinned at her.

  Harley had a feeling The Shed would be at full occupancy later that evening.

  “Anyway,” Tina said, “I’m gonna run to the ladies. I’ll catch back up with you in a few.”

  Harley decided she would visit the punch bowl, get something to sip on while she pretended to be comfortable.

  She was nearly there when she collided with the wall that was Jed Turner. He wore a navy silk suit, with a Super Bowl ring glittering from his fourth finger.

  “Jed?” she said, regaining her balance.

  He studied her for a moment, a perplexed look on his face. Finally, he said, “You look all right.”

  “Thanks,” she said, unsure if that was supposed to be a compliment. “I guess.”

  He neatened his suit and looked away, seemingly uncomfortable. “Good job on the case,” he said. “Again.”

  “I didn’t do it alone,” she said with kindness.

  “Naw. Naw, I guess you didn’t.” He cracked a small smile. “I guess we make an all right team, huh?”

  She returned his smile. “Yes. I guess we do.”

  Cheri appeared beside him, nearly as tall as he was in her four-inch stilettos. Quite a feat. Luckily they were inside, away from the wind, or she might have blown away. Her face, hair, and dress were all the same shade of pale, white almost to the point of translucency. She raised her brows, looking down at Harley’s dress, then forced a fake smile.

  “Jed,” she said, “you think we can head out soon? I’m due back in New York tomorrow, you know.”

  Before Jed could answer, Harley interrupted, looking past them. “I’m sorry, but I think I just saw Aunt Wilma come out of the tattoo booth.”

  “What?” Jed said.

  But Harley was already past them, making her way across the room. “Bye, Jed. Bye, Cheri,” she said.

  Aunt Wilma had emerged from the tattoo booth in her muumuu. Her Tammy Wynette wig was tilted to one side of her head, and she walked a bit funny.

  “Aunt Wilma?” Harley said.

  Wilma gasped. “Good grief, young’un. I didn’t even recognize you.” She readjusted her wig. “Boy, I tell you what though, that Reg Atlee’s worth her weight in gold, ain’t she? We gonna set you up for exhibit in the Ripley’s Believe it or Not. Eric Winston seen you yet?”

  “No.” Harley placed her hands on her hips. “And did you really get a tattoo?”

  Wilma hesitated, a guilty look on her face. “Might’ve done.”

  “Aunt Wilma!”

  “Well, it ain’t like anybody’s gonna see it. Nobody but your Uncle Buck.”

  “What?”

  Aunt Wilma reached around to her backside, preparing to lift her muumuu when Harley stopped her. “No, not here,” she said.

  “Well, all right then,” she said. “Have it your way. And for your information, it’s a heart on my right cheek—real cute—says “Buck” in the middle. Did it for our anniversary.”

  Oh, bless—again.

  “I’m a little bit itchy though,” Aunt Wilma said. “I think I’m gonna run to the mower, get me some cream.”

  Wilma moved past Harley, and when she turned around to watch her great-aunt leave, she found Eric Winston and Clarissa Addington standing before her.

  Impeccably tailored, handsome, and barbered as always, Eric wore a black tux, his sandy-brown hair neatly styled. Beside him, Clarissa was tall, willowy, and sophisticated in a red silk gown, her thick blond hair styled in a chignon. A string of pearls graced her long, slender neck, and a pair of diamond studs shimmered from her earlobes. She reminded Harley of a young Grace Kelly—the embodiment of class and beauty.

  Harley stood before them in her Molly Ringwald dress, her white carnation corsage drooping on her chest.

  “Harley?” Eric said. “Goodness, I almost didn’t recognize you. You look …”

  “Beautiful,” Clarissa said, finishing his sentence. “Absolutely beautiful.”

  Harley smiled at her. “And so do you.”

  But then again, she always did.

  “Harley, this is Clarissa,” Eric said. “Clarissa, this is Harley.”

  The two women shook hands, and Eric said, “We were just about to go dance. Where’s your date? You all could join us.”

  “I don’t have a date,” Harley said.

  As usual.

  Harley Henrickson felt depleted in that moment, remembering all of the times she had stood against the wall at so many school dances, knowing none of the boys would ever ask her to dance, would never want to lower themselves by being seen with her. She was never even anyone’s last choice because she was never even considered a choice at all.

  Eric took Clarissa’s hand in his. “Well, you ready to show them how it’s done out there?” he asked her.

  But Clarissa’s gaze was somewhere else. Someone was approaching from behind, and she watched said person over Harley’s shoulder with amazing interest.

  Moments later, Harley felt a presence hovering over her, tall and strong, and she looked up to find Beau Arson standing there.

  Or at least she thought it was Beau Arson.

  He wore a black tie and tails, with his dark waves neatly trimmed and pulled back. He had shaved his beard, revealing a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and an arrestingly beautiful face. Harley had seen that face once before, in the hallway of Briarcliffe, in a portrait of Beau’s father, James Sutcliffe.

  A slight smile arched Beau’s lips as he gazed down at her, and Eric interrupted the moment, extending his hand past her to shake Beau’s. “Amazing party,” he said.

  Beau gave a subtle nod of agreement, looking at Eric, then Clarissa. In his deep voice, he said, “I came over to ask …”

  Eric, interpreting what he thought to be his meaning, turned and peered at Clarissa as she stood beside him. He squeezed her hand. “Sorry, Beau, but I’m afraid she’s taken.”

  Beau gave a cursory glance at Clarissa, then his gaze returned to Eric. “No,” he said simply. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

  Then his eyes fell on Harley, and they remained there. “I like your dress,” he said.

  “It’s, um, Molly Ringwald’s dress—from Pretty in Pink. It’s the one she wears at the end of the movie—at the prom.”

  The edges of Beau’s mouth curved in a subtle smile. “Yeah. I think I may’ve seen that one.”

  He turned to look at the band on stage, and catching their attention, he gave a signal with his right hand.

  They stopped the song they were playing, and seconds later, the opening notes of Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark’s “If You Leave” permeated the ballroom.

  Beau returned his attention to Harley and smiled. “Harley Henrickson, would you like to dance?”

  If Harley Henrickson had been wearing her glasses, they would’ve fallen from her face in that moment. “But I … I don’t know how to dance,” she muttered.

  “Me neither.” He shrugged, then followed it up with a smile. “But how hard can it be, right?”

  With her lack of coordination, it could be very hard.

  He extended his arm and took her hand in his, escorting her to the dance floor, not saying goodbye to Eric and Clarissa who still watched them with wonder.

  They found a spot in the middle of the dance floor. He gently placed Harley’s arms on his shoulders, and she had to stand on her tiptoes
to clasp her fingers behind his neck.

  They swayed to-and-fro, and she wondered if it might be better for her to stand on his feet like a child would, allowing him to do the dancing for both of them. But after a few moments, they settled into a comfortable if awkward routine, like two inexperienced teenagers at a high school dance.

  “You look nice tonight,” he said at last, his breath falling warm on her hair.

  “You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said in return.

  This was an understatement.

  “I feel like an idiot.”

  “I always feel like an idiot.”

  He gave a small laugh and gazed down at her with fondness. “I haven’t had a chance yet, you know—to thank you—for what you’ve done … again.”

  Harley was touched by the gesture, but said in return, “You don’t have to thank me. You know that.”

  Beau stopped dancing then, and peered down at her intently, his dark-blue eyes searching her face. He lowered his hand and cupped it beneath her chin, then tipped her chin upward, so he could peer into her eyes. His voice was at a near whisper. “Why do you … why do you do all you do for me?”

  Harley lowered her eyes to her pink satin shoes, the ridiculous polka dots and lace smiling up at her. Then she raised her eyes once again to meet Beau’s.

  “Because you’re my friend,” she said. “My very first friend.”

  Harley was not sure what exact emotions she’d aroused in Beau Arson, but for one who rarely showed his feelings, his eyes expressed so much to her in that moment.

  Without speaking, he drew his hand and rested it to the back of her head, then drew her face toward him, so that her cheek rested against his chest. And then the two continued their awkward, yet somehow coordinated dance, swaying to and fro, as the music continued and the bodies swayed around them.

  80

  All is Calm, All is Bright