by Vickie Fee
“Then I guess I better head back. Thanks again.”
“She plans to stay in Leon’s apartment,” George interjected.
“Oh, Halley, you can’t sleep in that trash heap,” Trudy said. “Please spend the night on our sofa. As Leon’s oldest friends, the least we can do is show his heir a little Southern hospitality.”
After I politely declined the offer, Trudy said firmly that she’d be by in the morning to help me clean up the apartment. Having seen the state of the place, I didn’t decline that offer.
We exchanged phone numbers, Trudy insisting I call day or night if I needed anything. We said our goodnights and I started making my way back, forging up the steep hill we’d come down on our way to George and Trudy’s place. The sun began to dip behind the mountains and a slight breeze stirred the sultry August air. As I walked past the bar I could hear off-key karaoke as some drunks belched out the chorus of Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again.”
Heir. That’s how Trudy had referred to me.
I suppose that’s what I was, although I hadn’t thought of myself in those terms. “Beneficiary” was the word the attorney had used. People joke about a rich uncle dying and leaving them a fortune. This rundown theater and trashed apartment wasn’t exactly a fortune, but it was all Uncle Leon had. Why did he leave it to me—a great-niece he hadn’t seen in twenty years?
CHAPTER 2
Back at the apartment, a quick look in the bedroom convinced me that the mattress should be burned. The worn leather recliner in the main room seemed like the safest bet as a place to sleep for the night. I cleared off the pile of dirty laundry and empty beer cans and draped a beach towel from my suitcase over it.
After changing into my pajamas, I settled into the recliner with my robe as a blanket and turned off the table lamp. A streetlight cast a blue glow in the room. I’m not usually the jumpy type, but in a big, empty building by myself, knowing there was no lock on the apartment door, my eyes refused to close all the way. Through a fringe of lashes, I stared into the glassy eyes of a deer head mounted high on the wall.
Giving in to paranoia, I got up and pushed a stack of boxes against the front door and grabbed a golf club I’d seen leaned against a bookcase. With it propped beside the recliner, I climbed back into my makeshift bed and managed to close my very tired eyes, but still couldn’t sleep. It didn’t help that since I’d turned out the lights I could hear the same scratching and squeaking sounds I’d heard earlier.
“Kindly spirits,” I whispered to myself.
I was nervously humming no tune in particular when I saw a whir of motion out of the corner of my eye. Something appeared to leap from behind the loveseat toward the dining table, making a hissing sound. I grabbed the golf club, sprang out of my chair, and knocked the lamp off the table as I switched it on.
Standing in the batter-up position, I stared into the bright green eyes of a calico cat, who stared back indifferently, sporting a black patch over one eye and a brown patch over the other.
The obviously well-fed cat jumped down from the table and walked purposefully to the kitchen before disappearing under the skirted microwave stand. I pulled back the fabric to see a full water bowl and an empty food bowl. A search through the cabinets turned up some cat food, which I shook into the bowl.
“How did you get in here?” I asked to no reply.
I looked behind a lumpy loveseat, which was under a window against an outside wall. A small swinging pet door exited to the fire escape.
This must be Uncle Leon’s cat.
Although the apartment had a stale odor, it didn’t smell of cat urine, which led me to believe the cat was housebroken. I knelt and held out my hand, not expecting much. But the kitty walked right up to me, and I scooped her into my arms without incurring any scratches.
“Tomorrow, I’ll have to ask Trudy what your name is,” I said, stroking her soft fur.
Back in the recliner, she seemed content to curl up on my legs, and I finally drifted off to sleep.
Sunlight slashing through the blinds woke me. My four-legged companion was gone.
Uncle Leon’s coffeemaker, like everything else in the kitchen, would require a thorough scrub before use, and I wished I had packed my French press. I raked my fingers through unruly dark curls, pulled on yesterday’s jeans and a fresh t-shirt, and smeared on some lipstick before slipping on my shoes. With cash and key tucked in my pocket, I headed out in search of coffee.
A place called The Muffin Man up the hill at the end of the block caught my attention. It seemed like a safe bet. As I opened the bakery door, I could smell deliciousness. Dough baking, sugary vapors, cinnamon, nutmeg—and coffee. The man behind the counter, the Muffin Man, I presume, had a pleasant face and the physique of the Pillsbury Doughboy. After I placed my order for a cinnamon roll and large coffee, I heard my name. When I turned, Trudy was standing behind me, her wild, steam-infused hair from last night pulled up into a tidy bun.
“I was on my way to your place and spotted you coming in here,” she said. “That cinnamon roll smells enticing. After breakfast we can tackle cleaning.”
I wondered how long it had been since she’d seen Uncle Leon’s apartment and if she realized a hazmat suit was in order.
“That’s sweet of you, Trudy. But you have a business to run, and you already made me a lovely dinner.”
“Nonsense. I was cooking supper anyway. Besides, it’s better for my and George’s relationship if we don’t spend too much time in the shop together.”
Trudy and I collected our orders and sat by the door in bistro chairs with curlicue metal backs at one of the few empty tables in the place. A tall guy in khaki shorts, wearing a t-shirt stretched taut over rippling muscles, walked in and stared at me as he spoke to Trudy. After taking note of his baby blues and strong jawline, I looked over to Trudy.
“Hi, Nick. Please join us. I’d like you to meet Halley Greer.”
“Hello,” I said.
“Nice to meet you, Halley.” He reached over to shake my hand as he took a seat across from me.
“Halley’s the new owner of the theater. She’s Leon’s great-niece.”
“Well, congrats,” he said. “Do you plan to stay or sell?”
“Halley only just arrived, Nick,” she said with the instructive glare of a kindergarten teacher.
“Oh, of course. I apologize. It’s just…you look so young. What could you know about running a business?” he said, digging a deeper hole for himself with every word.
Despite the fact he was obviously a little dense, and lacking in social graces, even he realized he’d been offensive.
“I’m sorry. Let me start over. I’m Nick Raiford and I run Ozark Trail and Stream down the street, selling bikes, kayaks, rock-climbing, and camping gear and such. I’m also a kayaking and backpacking guide. If you decide you ever want to speak to me again, stop by. I’d be glad to talk to you about the local business and tourist trade,” he said, getting up and slinking toward the counter. A few moments later, with a large coffee in hand, he shot me a smile and a weak wave as he left.
“Nick’s not a smooth talker, but he’s a nice guy once you get to know him,” Trudy said, as if reading my thoughts.
“I’m sure he is.”
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to get to know him better or not, but I still enjoyed the view as he walked away.
Back at my apartment—my apartment. I’d only just arrived yesterday but was already thinking of this as my new home. Trudy and I made surprisingly quick work of making the place habitable, although I’d still have stacks of boxes to sort through.
After working at a frantic pace all morning, I felt worn out, while my co-cleaner, who I guessed to be about forty years my senior, wasn’t even winded.
Maybe I should sign up for her yoga class.
“I have to get back to the gallery. George has a medical appoi
ntment. It’s with an acupuncture therapist,” she said in a near whisper. “But don’t tell him I told you.”
Trudy started to leave but stopped at the door and turned around. “I almost forgot. I’ve arranged a date for you for a late supper tomorrow night.”
“Who with?” I asked, afraid she was scheming to push me into the arms of Nick from the bakery.
“Kendra Williams, who owns the escape rooms business across the street. She’s a doll, and probably about your age. She’ll phone you to arrange the details. I’ll see you later. Oh, and here’s a little something for you,” she said, tossing me a baggie of homemade cookies.
I stretched my legs out on the faded green sofa and savored a couple of bites of a scrumptious oatmeal chocolate chip cookie. I’d been dying to look through some of Uncle Leon’s personal papers, hoping to learn something about my benefactor who, despite the blood relation, was a stranger to me.
I sat down at the desk, opened the top drawer and leafed through business cards, sticks of gum, expired coupons—nothing personal. The drawer stuck as I tried to close it. When I pulled it out, something fell from the wooden slide underneath. A black and white photograph of Uncle Leon and his late wife. I had only vague memories of meeting him as a child and didn’t recall seeing photos, since my mom was largely estranged from her relatives. But the family resemblance was undeniable. Uncle Leon favored my mom—and my brother, Josh. I brushed my fingers tenderly over the photo. Tears stung my eyes.
“That’s enough of that,” I said to myself. I put the photo in the drawer and wiped my eyes with the hem of my t-shirt.
As eager as I was to dig through Uncle Leon’s personal effects, if I seriously wanted to take over the theater I needed to look at the financials. I grabbed a key ring lying on the desk and headed down to the business office just off the lobby. It turned out to be almost as big a mess as the apartment. The desk was piled with papers—and not in neat stacks. I tried the filing cabinet first, thinking there might be some semblance of order there. Thumbing through, I found a folder labeled “tax returns.” The most recent return I saw was from three years ago, but that would at least give me an idea of the theater’s revenue. It wasn’t nearly as much money as I had hoped. I reminded myself that the building not only housed the business, but also provided me a home. I excavated papers on the desk and in the file cabinet for hours, sorting them into stacks, before dragging a pile of files upstairs with me.
I plodded up the steps to the apartment and discovered a key in the lock and another dangling from a string attached to it. Apparently, George had changed out the lock while I was gone.
I drank a beer I found in the fridge and polished off the rest of Trudy’s cookies as I pored over papers, crunching numbers late into the night. I fell asleep in the recliner with my notebook computer on my lap and papers strewn about the floor.
I’m not sure when I had fallen asleep, but it was in the afternoon when I awoke. My feet were leaden as I got up to face the day—and the harsh financial realities that had come into focus in the wee hours of the morning.
The attorney who had sent me the key had asked me to call him in a day or two when I’d decided whether I wanted to keep the theater or put it up for sale. I desperately wanted to keep it, but I had no money to invest in fixing it up. I had no clue how to run a theater and no clear idea what my expenses or projected income would be. I could ask the lawyer if he had any suggestions, but didn’t hold out much hope. No matter what happened I would not call my parents asking for money. Partly because I was too proud. And partly because I knew they wouldn’t give it to me.
I steeled myself to call Mr. Hamish of Hamish, Davis, and Weltner.
His secretary seemed keen to put me right through.
“Hamish here.”
“Mr. Hamish, this is Halley Greer, Leon Baxter’s niece.”
“Hello, Halley. So, what do you think of Utopia Springs?”
“It’s charming, and the people I’ve met are very kind. And I love the old theater and wish I could make a go of it. I even have some ideas. But after looking over Uncle Leon’s ledgers, not to mention my own bank account, I just don’t see any way I can finance it. I guess I have to ask you to put the theater on the market for me.”
I choked back tears, preferring not to have an emotional breakdown on the phone with an attorney I’d never met.
“Halley, I haven’t seen your bank account, of course. And I don’t know which of your uncle’s ledgers you’ve been looking at. What I do see on the papers in front of me is a small trust fund that Leon set up in the event you decided to keep the theater. It’s not a fortune, by any means. But if you’re prudent, it should be enough to get the business up and running and tide you over for a bit until you can start showing a profit.”
I suddenly forgot all about not wanting to get emotional on the phone with a stranger.
“Yes, yes…thank you, Mr. Hamish. And Uncle Leon, wherever you are, I LOVE YOU!” I said, punching my fist upward in jubilation. I realized the hand I had pumped over my head was the one holding the phone.
“Mr. Hamish, are you still there?” I asked sheepishly.
“I’m still here.”
“Sorry. I got a little carried away.”
“Understandable. But I need to advise you that there are guidelines for the administration of the trust fund. I’m not exactly handing you a blank check. And if you really want the theater to succeed, it’s going to require hard work.”
“That’s fine. Just tell me what I need to do.”
“My office is in Fayetteville, but I’ll be passing through Utopia Springs Friday on my way to a conference. I’d like you to put together an informal proposal outlining your plans for the theater. I’ll meet you at the theater at, say, ten a.m.?”
“Perfect. I’ll see you then. And thanks again, Mr. Hamish.”
I stuffed the cell phone in my pocket and realized my hands were trembling. Owning a theater wasn’t a dream I remembered ever having, but it felt like a dream coming true, nonetheless.
Uncle Leon’s cat suddenly appeared and rubbed up against my leg. I realized I had forgotten to ask Trudy her name. I reached down and gathered her into my arms.
“Good news, kitty. Looks like I’ll be able to continue feeding you. And myself.”
CHAPTER 3
My cell buzzed and a bolt of dread shot through me, half expecting it was Mr. Hamish calling back to say he’d made a mistake about the trust fund.
“Hello?” I answered nervously.
“Halley, hi! This is Kendra Williams. I own the escape rooms across the street. Trudy decided we should be friends,” she said with a giggle.
“Oh, hi, Kendra. Trudy means well, but I don’t want to impose. Not that I don’t want us to get acquainted. Just, if this is a bad time…”
“No, tonight’s great—if you don’t mind eating a late supper. Tonight, and every weeknight except Monday, we close at eight. On weekends, we’re open until ten. I’m afraid I’m not a good cook, like Trudy, but I have pizza delivery on speed dial. If you’re game, come on over to my place around eight thirty.”
“Okay, sounds good. Can I ask you a really random question? I forgot to ask Trudy. What is Uncle Leon’s cat’s name?” I asked as the kitty nuzzled my neck.
“A nicely filled out calico?”
“Yeah. Did he have more than one cat?”
“No. But a scrappy orange tabby has followed Eartha Kitty through the pet door more than once.”
“Eartha Kitty?”
“Yeah, like the planet with an ‘a’ on the end. It’s a play on the name of some singer from back in the day. Eartha Kitt. She played Catwoman on the old Batman TV show. You’ll have to ask Trudy to explain it sometime. So, I’ll see you at my place later tonight?”
“Yes. Wait. Where is your place?”
“I live above the shop, like you. Come
around to the alley door.”
Talking about dinner, especially a late one, inspired me to do some grocery shopping. The only things in Uncle Leon’s fridge that didn’t have to be thrown out were four six-packs of beer and an unopened jar of mustard. So I walked to the market a couple of blocks away.
Since my cooking skills were minimal, my grocery bags were filled with eggs, milk, cereal, bread, mayo, deli meats and salads, a couple of frozen dinners and ice cream. Oh, and cat food.
I made a sandwich for myself and got down to work on my business proposal for Mr. Hamish. After scribbling lots of notes, I got as far as realizing that I didn’t know how to write a business proposal.
I noticed it was almost time to meet Kendra, so I freshened up and put on some lipstick before heading out.
On the walk over, I pondered whether it would seem inappropriate to run my business proposal by Kendra, since we’d never met. But I was dying to tell someone my ideas, and she did own a business in town. My game plan was to make polite small talk and hold off on talking business until after dinner.
I tugged on the back door to Hidden Clue Escape Rooms, and it opened.
“Kendra?” I called out with one foot over the threshold.
In a moment I heard a stampede of footsteps as she ran down from upstairs.
Kendra, a blonde who emitted positive energy like sunlight, was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with the same logo I’d seen on the front of the building.
We exchanged hellos and handshakes.
“I’ve never been to an escape room before. There was one in Nashville some of my friends went to, but I never got around to it.”
“Would you like a peek at the new room I’m working on?”
I nodded and followed her down the hall and through a doorway into another time. My guess was the Victorian era.
“This room looks incredible,” I said, my eyes scanning the room and taking in the green velvet curtains with gold cords adorning a wall. A brocade settee, parlor chairs, a roll-top desk holding important-looking papers, a skeleton key, and a safe in the corner. On a pedestal was a beautiful necklace laid out on velvet under glass.