by Vickie Fee
Trudy returned with our beers. There were four teams of four playing in the tournament. They passed around sheets and seemed to be going over rules or procedures for an inordinate amount of time before they started actually bowling.
When it was our team’s turn, Claire leapt up and grabbed my hand. Trudy hurried to join us and Phyllis trailed along behind. We lined up behind the bowlers and Claire reached down and vigorously patted Arnie’s shoulders.
George was first up. He steadied the ball, did a hopscotch-like move on the approach. He leaned forward, kicking his right leg behind him as he released the ball. He knocked down all the pins, except one. But he picked up the spare.
Claire jumped up and down, Trudy yelled, “That’s how you do it!” and I called out, “Yay, George!” as I timidly waved my pom poms.
George glanced up at us with an appreciative nod as he went back to his seat, but I could tell he was keeping his head in the game.
We rejoined the group in the snack bar. The bowling alley echoed with laughter and the clatter of pins getting knocked down. In between snippets of gossip about people I didn’t know and digging into my background—Where was I from? Had I ever been married?—they shared some stories about Uncle Leon. How he loved fishing almost as much as he loved telling exaggerated fishing tales. How Eartha Kitty had leapt through the apartment window from the fire escape into his arms—and his heart. And how he never talked about his service in Vietnam but quietly slipped a few bucks to any veteran down on his luck, along with never charging them for a movie ticket.
In a bit, Trudy touched my arm and cocked her head, indicating I should follow her. We grabbed a couple more beers and sat down at a table for two.
“Hon, Leon is on everyone’s mind tonight because this is our first tournament since his passing. I hope all the talk about him isn’t upsetting to you.”
“No, just the opposite. I really would like to know more about Uncle Leon, but I haven’t wanted to ask you and George too many questions because I know y’all were good friends. I don’t want to make you feel sad.”
“Aw, Halley, I’m sorry. I’ll be glad to reminisce about your uncle, but you’re right that George may not be ready to stroll down memory lane just yet. I can tell you one thing about Leon—and I hate to speak ill of the dead—but the man was a lousy bowler. George is a serious competitor, so it tells you something about how fond George and the other guys were of Leon that they kept him on their team.”
I looked over at George in his lucky Hawaiian shirt and Arnie in his orthopedic bowling shoes with feelings of affection and gratitude.
“Oh, Trudy. George is up,” I said, hurrying over for cheerleading duty. Trudy came with me and Claire, of course, was already in place. I’d mislaid my poms but pumped my fist and yelled, “Go, George.”
He did his fancy footwork move, ending with the right leg extended back, and scored a strike. We clapped and cheered loudly. Claire was so excited she nearly knocked me over.
George’s team won the tournament, apparently for the first time ever. After they shook hands with all the bowlers on the other teams and collected their awards, George held his tiny plastic trophy aloft and said, “This one’s for Leon,” which elicited a big wave of applause, along with a few tears.
CHAPTER 13
Wednesday morning, I picked up a couple of cinnamon rolls from The Muffin Man and brought them back to the coffee bar to have for breakfast with Trudy. When she arrived at nine thirty I solicited an order from her for a vanilla shot latte and a cinnamon roll, the confection du jour, as a trial run for the coffee bar’s new morning hours starting tomorrow. I showed off the signs I had designed, printed and laminated of the places I hoped would let me feature their specialties at the coffee bar. I was counting on the power of positive thinking by printing them ahead of time. Then I ran my sales pitch by her—the one I’d used successfully at The Muffin Man.
“I think that pitch is just about bulletproof. But keep in mind we’ll need to indulge in a little small talk first. You can’t go straight for the sale, you have to ease into it. This is the South, after all. And when we get to Tudor House Restaurant, let me handle Edgar. He’s putty in my hands. George wasn’t too far off on that one,” she said with a laugh.
I didn’t have the heart to tell Trudy that Edgar had cheated on her this morning by having coffee with Kendra at eight thirty. Wonder how that went?
We set out for our sales calls a little after ten, hoping to catch the owners after their morning rush.
Turned out the Donut Dealer was putty in my hands, or at least he was onboard with letting me showcase his doughnuts one morning a week.
“I think it’s a great idea. My doughnuts are superb,” owner Adam Caine said, raising his fingers to his lips in a chef’s kiss. “My location is not the best in town, so hopefully some new customers will discover my doughnuts through you—as long as you’re flexible about the selection I give you.”
“Of course. Besides, it’s a good idea to mix it up and showcase a variety of choices. I’ll be open for two to three hours Tuesday through Friday mornings. Do you have a preference as to which day?”
I could make this offer because Zeke at The Muffin Man had said he was flexible about his day.
“If it’s available, I’ll take Wednesday. It’s usually a slower day.”
He decided to provide a dozen each week to start, saying we could adjust according to sales.
After we’d left Donut Dealer, Trudy said, “You’re good at this, Halley. Maybe you should’ve gone into sales as a career.”
“I have gone into sales. I’m selling coffee, doughnuts, wine, candy, and movie tickets—so far.”
We shared a giggle and I entered Our Daley Bread Bakery with a big smile. But owner/manager Gisele Daley quickly wiped the smile off my face. After some awkward chit chat, the dour baker reacted to my sales pitch, which had worked brilliantly up to now, like I was trying to snatch her hot cross buns.
Trudy came to my rescue and Gisele finally agreed to think it over for a week or two and perhaps talk to Adam the Donut Dealer and Zeke the Muffin Man to see how it was going for them.
“That could’ve gone better,” I said as we left, feeling deflated.
“Don’t let crabby Gisele bring you down, kid. It wasn’t a firm no. Besides, I’m sure we’ll have better luck with Edgar. Putty,” she whispered, rubbing her hands together.
We entered Tudor House Restaurant and Edgar hurried over to welcome us. I’d never met him but easily recognized him, based on Kendra’s description. Even so, he wasn’t quite what I expected. He was dressed like a country squire with a tweed jacket, brown boots, and a rose boutonniere on his lapel. He greeted us with a broad gap-tooth grin and a posh English accent.
“Hello, Trudy, always a pleasure to see you,” he said, giving her a gentlemanly hug.
“Halley, this is our dear friend, Edgar Wentworth. Edgar, this is Halley Greer, Leon’s great-niece.”
I extended my hand and he gave me a gentle, but lingering, handshake.
“Halley, my sincere condolences on the loss of your great uncle, but we’re delighted to have you join our little community.”
“Thank you, Edgar. I love the restaurant’s décor. I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to visit before now. We were so busy getting the theater ready for the opening.”
“Please, please. No apologies. I’m delighted you’re here now. What can I do for you, lovely ladies? Would you like brunch or tea?”
“We’d love some tea—and some of your delicious orange scones. And Edgar, if you have time to join us for a few minutes, we have a little proposition for you,” Trudy said, batting her eyelashes exactly like George had demonstrated at dinner the other night. I managed to suppress a smirk, just barely.
“Well, now. I love being propositioned by beautiful women,” he said, beaming. “You just make yourselves comfortable
in that corner booth and I’ll be with you shortly.
“You’re a brazen hussy,” I whispered to Trudy, who shot me a sly grin. We scooted into the booth next to each other, leaving the seat across from us for Edgar.
The Tudor House Restaurant was a warm and inviting space with soaring pitched gables, half-timbered walls, a huge brick fireplace, and banks of windows admitting generous sunlight. Dark-stained woodwork and medieval style tapestries completed the look.
“How many rooms does the Tudor House Inn have?” I asked.
“I’d guess about thirty or forty,” Trudy said.
The waitress brought over a pot of hot water, teacups and a variety of teas. Trudy selected Earl Grey and I settled on Darjeeling. A few minutes later Edgar joined us, carrying a tray of scones, along with clotted cream and jam.
Trudy was right. The scones were to die for. She was also right that Edgar was putty in her hands. I was able to concentrate fully on my scones because I barely got a word in as Trudy and Edgar endeavored to out flirt each other. I didn’t peek under the table to confirm it, but I had the distinct impression they were playing footsies. It was a little weird, but all perfectly harmless, and we left with a commitment from Edgar for scones on Fridays.
Fortified by tea and jam-laden scones, Trudy and I headed over to the candle shop to have a little chat with Linda.
When we entered Bell, Bath and Candle we were greeted by the aroma of scented candles and the gentle tinkling of windchimes. New Age music played softly in the background. As we passed a display of handmade soy candles an ample figure swathed in flowing fabrics hurried toward us.
“Greetings, gentle spirits. Hello, Trudy, wonderful to see you. Namaste,” she said, bringing her palms together and bowing her head slightly.
Trudy returned the greeting.
“Linda, have you met Halley yet? She’s Leon’s great niece.”
“Not formally. We exchanged quick hellos the night of the theater’s opening as I was waiting for my glass of wine. Halley, I’d like to try some of your coffee sometime, but I have to end my caffeine consumption by noon or it disrupts my circadian rhythm.”
“I understand completely,” I said.
“Actually, starting tomorrow Halley will be opening the coffee bar on Tuesday through Friday mornings from eight to ten thirty. If you have a chance, stop by for a cup before you open the shop.”
“I’ll be sure to do that. And Halley, I’m so sorry about your great uncle. Leon was a dear man and he is missed.”
“Thank you.”
“Linda, we plan to do a bit of shopping while we’re here, but we actually have an ulterior motive,” Trudy said.
“Oh.” Linda raised her eyebrows.
“The terrible business with that man dying on the theater’s opening night was bad enough. Now, the police have decided it’s probably murder, and they seem to be eyeing Halley as a suspect—which is completely ridiculous, of course.”
“Oh, my, why ever would they suggest such a thing?”
“Well, you know he offered to buy the theater from Leon, like he offered to buy your shop. And—” Trudy paused scanning the room to make sure no one else was around. “—we can’t be sure, but we think Vince also tried to pressure Leon with a bit of blackmail, as well.”
“No, I didn’t know, but I’m not surprised. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Vince Dalton was not a nice man. Did he try to continue his blackmail game with Halley?” she said, looking me up and down.
“No,” I said. “In fact he never even approached me about buying the theater. But the cops seem disinclined to believe me because it turns out Vince was the one who vandalized the theater and nearly delayed the grand opening. They think that suggests it was personal.”
“Mind you, it’s not common knowledge that he was the vandal, so please keep that quiet for now,” Trudy said.
“Of course, you have my word.”
“Linda, I realize this is a delicate matter and I don’t won’t to impose on our friendship, but since Halley is in a tough spot, I was wondering if you could tell us—in complete confidence, of course—did Vince Dalton try to pressure or blackmail you when you refused to sell the shop?”
Linda’s sunny yellow aura turned gray around the edges. She exhaled a deep breath and said, “Yes, he did—twice. Mind you, it wasn’t about anything criminal, just something foolish I had done years ago that would have been quite embarrassing for me if it became public. However, I couldn’t bring myself to sell my shop. I trusted my friends, like you and George, to stand beside me even through humiliation, and firmly told him no. When I refused to sell, Vince tried to make alternate blackmail arrangements with me, which I won’t go into, but which I also refused. I held my breath waiting for him to go public with the embarrassing information he had on me, but he never did.”
Linda’s cheerful countenance returned, and she reached out and clasped one of my hands and one of Trudy’s.
“Thank you. It feels good to release the negative energy I’ve held bottled up inside me for months.”
“That’s wonderful Linda. Thank you. And you can absolutely trust our discretion,” Trudy said. “If the police had found any blackmail evidence among Vince’s belongings I’m sure they would have questioned you about it. They haven’t, have they?”
“No, and that thought had crossed my mind. I also wondered if I have an obligation to tell them about it, what with his death being a murder investigation now. But, while he threatened blackmail on two different matters, he never went through with it, and he had ample time before he died. The way I see it Vince was a bully, but not exactly a blackmailer. All talk, if you will.”
“I see what you’re saying,” Trudy said. “Can you tell us anything else about Vince, like did he ever mention a business partner? And did he tell you what his plans for the shop were if you had sold it to him?”
“He never mentioned a partner, but he did tell me it was a cash offer. Of course, he never showed me any proof of that. And he didn’t say what he wanted to do with the shop—I had a hard time envisioning him selling soaps and candles. But now that you mention it, there was something odd. He honestly seemed more interested in the basement, and there’s nothing special down there.”
“Really? That does seem a little odd,” Trudy said after she and I exchanged a discreet glance.
The tinkle of windchimes signaled someone had entered the store.
“Would you mind if we took a quick peek in the basement while you tend to your customer?”
“I guess not,” she said with a curious look and directed us to an unlocked door beyond a curtain.
We flipped on a light switch before descending the creaky wooden stairs. I coughed after inhaling the dank air mingled with scented soaps and candles. It was aroma therapy, but not in a good way. The dimly lit basement had a few boxes of unopened inventory near the stairs. Against one wall, empty boxes had been collapsed and neatly stacked, along with some pallets, and in a far corner was a pile of stored items that had been there for so long it was covered with a veil of cobwebs.
“What are we looking for?” I asked.
“I don’t know, I guess whatever it was that caught Vince’s attention. I’m just hoping we’ll know it when we see it,” Trudy said.
Three walls had obviously been covered in plaster at some point, there were still bits clinging to the masonry. The third wall, along the side facing the street, was plaster free.
“That’s interesting,” Trudy said as she pulled keys from her purse and flipped on the small flashlight attached to the keychain.
“What is?”
“This wall looks to have been built later,” she said, shining the flashlight at chips in the mortar and examining the wall closely. “No use. I can’t see anything.”
Just then, the door at the top of the stair opened and Linda yoo-hooed to us.
&nbs
p; “Are you two okay down there?”
“Yes, Linda, we’re just heading up.”
Once we’d rejoined her upstairs, Trudy asked, “Do you know if your shop has a sidewalk tunnel?”
“One of the people who conducts those underground tours told me he thinks there might be. But it’s not listed on the property records and there’s no lavender glass in front of the shop. Do you think that’s what Vince was looking for?”
“I have no idea,” Trudy said. “It just struck me that the front wall doesn’t have any bits of plaster like the other walls. Made me wonder if it was added later. Oh well, thanks for letting us look around.”
“It was so nice to meet you, Linda. Hope I see more of you now that we’re neighbors, and I’ll be back to look at windchimes. I think that would make a great gift for my Grammy’s birthday.”
“Lovely. Drop in anytime. And I’ll try to make it by the theater for a cup of coffee.”
I hit my head on some dangling windchimes near the exit.
Trudy and I walked the short distance down the block to the theater, wordlessly dodging our way through a steady stream of pedestrians. Once we were inside the lobby, I turned to Trudy and fired questions at her with machine gun speed.
“What do you think about Linda’s take on Vince as simply an aspiring blackmailer? And what was that all about in the basement? What is a sidewalk tunnel?”
“Whoa, hang on. To answer all those questions I think I’ll need some coffee.”
“Coming right up. A latte with a vanilla shot?”
“Perfect.”
I got busy behind the counter and Trudy pulled up a barstool.
“Linda has a point about Vince not exactly blackmailing her. At any rate, it would be up to her to tell the police. We have nothing to show them. If we said Vince tried to blackmail Linda, she could just deny it.”
“I guess. So what about these tunnels?” I asked.
“You’ve heard of the underground tours they do downtown, right?”
“Yeah, but I don’t really know anything about it.”