by Mary Bowers
“He was a great man, and she was such a lovely lady,” I said. “It’s a terrible loss.”
“He centered my world,” Adam said. “With my art degrees and my lack of maturity, I was the worst kind of arrogant novice. I thought I knew what I was doing and anybody who disagreed with me was simply ignorant. It’s embarrassing to realize how obnoxious I must have been when I threw myself into this career. Then I met Grant Rosewood and I realized I knew nothing. Nothing. He tore down all the artificial concepts I’d learned in college and rebuilt my mind, reopened my eyes, made me begin again at the beginning. He made me what I am today.”
“He was a father to us both,” Carmen told him, and he turned and smiled at her weakly.
I thought it was so generous of her, being willing to share a father with whom she’d felt such a tenuous connection herself. Grant hadn’t understood her work, and art was the most important thing in the world to both of them. Instead of drawing them together, it had set them apart. It was so sad.
And it occurred to me then for the first time that with Maida dead, the handling of Grant’s estate was up in the air again. Carmen was the logical one to inherit the executorship. And with her obvious affection for Adam, he would be the one handling Grant Rosewood’s final works after all.
Of course, it wasn’t the time to mention such things, but with such sorrow all around me, it made me feel a little better to think it was a possibility. Maida, with the responsibilities she’d had because of her husband’s death, had surely been advised to make a will right away. And now, she was dead. I wondered what was going to happen because of that, and I wasn’t worried at all that I was never going to know. Somehow or other, the information would seep into the Tropical Breeze information pool and everybody would know, maybe even before the will could be officially read.
“So you’re going ahead with the opening of Artwerks?” I asked Adam. “I think that’s a good idea.”
He gazed around and shrugged. “We’re open. Now I just have to get the word out. A nice, elderly lady named Bernie came by yesterday and interviewed me for the local newspaper, but I gather it’s got limited distribution.”
“The Beach Buzz,” I said, and he nodded. “That was Bernie Horning. She’ll do you proud. There’s nobody who promotes Tropical Breeze like Bernie. And then there’s something else.”
I paused to consider if this was the right time, and I decided it was. “My friend Lily Parsons is going ahead with her program, Orlando Sizzles! She was going to include Maida, but of course . . . well, now Lily is hoping to do a segment on your gallery instead.”
“She called me yesterday. I’m expecting her tomorrow.” He didn’t sound very excited about it, but that was hardly surprising.
“Oh, good. She said she was going to get in touch with you, but I didn’t have much time to talk to her this morning. She’s doing a segment on my shelter later today. I don’t suppose you’re feeling up to being in the interview with Adam,” I said to Carmen.
“We were discussing it before you came in,” she told me. “No, I won’t go on-camera, but Adam is going to feature some of my work. I brought a few more things. I guess I’m going to be very interesting now, with all that’s happened.” She seemed a little dazed.
“And Joy?”
“What about her?”
I looked from Adam to Carmen and back again. “Will you mention her . . . thing?”
Adam looked away and Carmen smiled and shook her head.
“I don’t know how we’d work it in,” Adam said, “and I won’t be representing her installation anyway. I wasn’t involved in that project.”
“Of course,” I said. “Silly of me. Well, I’d better go. It’ll take a least a couple of hours for them to make me pretty for the video camera.”
They gave me weak smiles, which was all the joke deserved, and I left them together. It should have made me feel better about leaving, knowing I wasn’t leaving anybody alone. Florence had Jelly, and Adam had Carmen. But something was making me uneasy, as if I should have said something, or seen something, but I’d missed it.
Outside, I looked back through one of the gallery’s front windows and saw them standing apart, inside the shop. Carmen was talking earnestly, almost passionately, all the while moving closer to Adam.
Chapter 14 – Showtime!
The videographer and the perky Ms. Treena Hilliard had arrived by the time I returned home. I could tell, because there was a happy-looking van in the driveway in front of Cadbury House. The location van had lots of antennas and a custom skin in bright colors, announcing the station that carried Orlando Sizzles! The names of the shows the station carried were sprinkled around the van, each with its own bright color. Orlando Sizzles! was in orange, and the “O” was a little fireball.
I’d done publicity shots for the shelter before, and I had already decided which particular animals to single out for the presentation. There was Coco the Schnoodle and Mister the yellow tomcat, and as a bonus, we had Rollo the parrot.
In a “What could go wrong?” moment, Treena decided to start the action with a face-to-camera intro, having Rollo sitting on her left shoulder. Unlike other bold and brash parrots I have met, this particular bird mostly wanted to be alone, and he opened the act by dropping a pile of slime onto Treena’s shoulder.
She was wearing something in primary blue that had been basically painted onto her body, and when she realized what that warm feeling meant, she got squeaky, jerked away from the parrot and told him, “This is a Hermès, and it’s the first time I’ve ever worn it!” Rollo was unrepentant.
His wings had been clipped and he couldn’t fly, so when Treena jerked her shoulder away, Rollo fluttered to the ground. He wasn’t hurt, so I decided to let him walk around muttering to himself until he calmed down again. At that point, we all agreed that Rollo would be making a quick cameo and then retiring from the stage.
The cleanup on Treena’s dress wasn’t working, so she changed into a basically identical one in primary yellow that she had hanging in the van. After that, I held Rollo for the rest of his brief television debut. I did not begin the intro the same way Treena had, by saying, “Ahoy there, mateys,” but nobody seemed to care by that time.
“Welcome to Orphans of the Storm,” I told the camera with Rollo on my left shoulder and Treena standing to my right. Bad composition – the bright red parrot would have been perfect in the center of the shot, between the two blond ladies, but Treena was through with Rollo and vice versa. “I’m Taylor Verone, this is Rollo the parrot, and Treena and I would like to invite you to meet some of our animal friends.” I tried to say it with an exclamation point, the way Treena would have, but I have a hard time with exclamation points unless they’re for real. I opted for warm and friendly instead.
Next up was Coco, who had been standing off to the side witnessing the parrot debacle. Coco is a little doll, and especially empathetic. She didn’t understand why Treena hadn’t wanted to be pooped on, but she did understand that this female human was upset. The little toy dog set about trying to make it all better with wiggles and kisses, and Treena eventually melted and went back to the exclamation points.
I began to feel better about the shoot. Treena wasn’t resonating with me, but I didn’t want her upset, and Coco was showing lots of personality and really engaging with the camera.
Finally, we brought over Mister, a street-wise feral with clear green eyes who didn’t bother to hide his boredom. He wasn’t afraid of humans, but he didn’t crave attention from them, either. “Feed me and go away,” seemed to be his motto, but he had inscrutable feline leadership qualities that kept the other ferals in line, more or less. Since he’d decided to board with us, we’d had fewer midnight fights over territory and girls. Though he was unadoptable, I decided to include him as a way of showing that Orphans of the Storm went beyond sheltering adorable housepets. With our ferals, we make every effort to trap them, neuter them and release them.
After the false start, everyth
ing went smoothly, and about the time Treena’s bouncy blond hair extensions started getting on my nerves, she was headed for the van and the next stop.
I went over to Lily and deadpanned, “I want the poop shot included.”
“Yeah, the boss will love that,” she deadpanned back. “It’s just our style. Listen, I didn’t get a chance to ask you how Florence was today. Is she still upset about Maida?”
“I think stunned is a better word,” I said. “Maida was only her neighbor for a couple of weeks. She didn’t really get to know her all that well. Another volunteer is with her, so I think she’s got what she needs to get through the day.”
“Good. We’re off to do the bit on Paranormal SWAT now. Want to come?”
I kind of did. I shouldn’t have, and I wouldn’t have, but Lily said, “You know Ed is going to much easier to handle if you’re there.”
She was right. “Let me just scrape off some of this make-up and I’ll get in my car and drive up there. I’ll be there not long after you.”
I went to work on my face, and when I finally looked like myself again, I grabbed my purse and got into my SUV for the drive north to St. Augustine’s Anastasia Island, where Ed lived and worked out of a very big house facing the beach.
* * *
Dobbs let me in the front door of Ed’s house, and as we walked toward the living room I heard Treena ask, “Is this house haunted?” She was standing next to Ed at the far side of the open living space, with a wide view of the Atlantic Ocean for a backdrop. On the balcony outside, a tray with a frosty pitcher of iced tea and a couple of filled glasses had been set out, for context or something. We’re in Florida, the set-up seemed to say. Have a cold one.
Looking over the scene, I decided it hadn’t been all bad that Rollo had ruined the blue dress. Yellow against the ocean was much better.
The slider to the balcony had been opened, and gauzy white curtain panels rippled gently in the breeze at the edges of the viewfinder. The videographer was giving his shoulder a rest and using a tripod stand, and Dobbs and I came up and stood silently beside him. Lily was at his other side. I looked at how the picture was framed up in the viewfinder, and thought it was very artsy and nice.
Stiffly, Ed turned from Treena to address the video camera. “Yes, Treena. Yes, it is haunted. The original owner was a woman named Frieda Strawbridge, and she has never left.”
“But . . . if you’re an expert ghost hunter, why haven’t you gotten rid of her?”
A reasonable question, I thought, and I already knew the answer. We’d never discussed it, but I knew how Ed’s mind worked.
“It’s her house,” he told Treena simply. “It’s a matter of respect, and also, professional curiosity.” Turning back to the eye of the camera, he said, “Besides, she’s an interesting subject. Not like other etheric entities I have encountered. She is neither insane nor confused. In fact, she’s unusually willful. Shocking at times, yes, but I try to be ready for her. In life, of course, she was deeply intimidating to me, but now that we live together, I like to think we’ve rather grown used to one another.”
Out on the balcony, a sudden gust of wind tipped over a full glass of iced tea. I would have bet big bucks that being full like that, it was too heavy to tip over, even in a high wind. The drink splattered across the travertine tilework and the plastic glass rolled around and then went flying off the balcony to the sand dune below, as if flung by a hand.
It was a woo-woo moment, and Treena took full advantage of it to explain how all tingly and shivery she was. She tried to get Ed to feel her goosebumps, but he declined.
“Was that her?” she asked him, all agog.
“Probably just the wind,” Ed said dampeningly. “We paranormal investigators try not to get carried away with events that can be explained scientifically. Throwing glasses around was not Frieda’s style, though she never had a fondness for plasticware.” He gave the balcony an uneasy second look, but tried not to look worried.
“You knew Frieda in life?”
“Oh, yes. It’s part of the story of how I came to live in this beautiful house.”
“Really? She left it to you?”
“Well, Treena, it’s more complicated than that. The houses in this little enclave were actually a real estate speculation by Frieda, and I bought one of them. We were neighbors. I saw very little of her while alive – she was above me, socially, and never hesitated make a point of it. But once she was dead, things got really interesting. You see, her daughter went insane and began dancing on the beach.” He was settling in for an extended saga, and I saw Lily tense up. They were there to talk about Paranormal SWAT, not hear disjointed tidbits about Frieda Strawbridge and her dancing daughter.
But Treena was hooked, and without looking for direction from Lily, she asked, “Did Frieda drive her daughter insane, or was she just that way to begin with?”
Ed considered. “Perhaps a little of both. Dolores – the daughter, you know – was also a neighbor of mine, but she had a negligible presence, even when she was alive. She’s dead now, too, of course. Dolores doesn’t haunt, though, at least, not at this house.” He paused and took a speculative glance to his right, decided not to go there and went on with the story. “Yes, Frieda was difficult in life, but in death she became an active nuisance. No, nuisance isn’t the word; it’s not strong enough. What am I trying to say?”
We all began to wonder, and on the other side of the videographer, Lily began to vigorously signal to Treena, making circular motions, then pointing to the dry-erase board she was holding. Picking up her cue, Treena redirected Ed to what his work was about now.
“How did you come to decide on the name Paranormal SWAT for your business?”
“Ah, yes, that was the suggestion of my apprentice, Marvin Sterling Dobbs. Come here, Dobbs. I think it would be best if you explained this part.”
Dobbs bounded into camera range looking all sparkly and fresh, and Ed managed to slither out of the frame and get away. He came right at me, hooked my elbow and moved me across the living room and into a stairwell before Lily could stop him. Helpless while the camera was rolling, Lily rotated sharply, puffed herself up, then stayed where she was and kept supervising the shoot.
I looked at Ed expectantly, boxed in by the walls of the stairwell. It was an interesting move on his part, kind of like a scared puppy cowering back into its nice, safe crate.
“You were in Maida Rosewood’s house?” he said, intent on getting to the point during these few stolen moments. He knew he’d be shagged back across the room eventually. “After she made the transition? How was she? Was she still there?”
“She was dead, Ed. The detective took me into her house briefly.”
“Good man. I’d never have expected a policeman to be so intuitive. What information were you able to share with him?”
“Maida had called me. No, not that way, Ed. On the cellphone. In the middle of the night, not long before she was killed.”
He was awed into temporary silence.
“She was upset about something,” I went on, “but I never figured out what it was. She was fairly incoherent.”
“A trance would give us the answers we want,” he said. “Or hypnotism. Same thing, really.”
“Been there, done that. The cops sent me to a hypnotist that afternoon.”
“Amazing perspicacity. What cop was this?”
“You’ve met him. Remember that time at Castle Moon? It was Marty Frane.”
“Ah, good, good. He respects your abilities. I must congratulate him when I see him. Perhaps you’ll remain for the interview?”
Confused for a moment, I said, “The interview seems to be proceeding over there without you.” Dobbs was doing beautifully, and if Ed wasn’t the oddball that he was, I would have suggested he get back in front of the camera before Dobbs stole the show. Ed’s hope, of course, was that Dobbs would go ahead and steal the show, so Ed could go hide to his office and get back to work.
“Not that inter
view,” he said. “The one with Detective Frane.”
“Frane? When’s that going to be?”
“We have an appointment here at four o’clock. A little over an hour from now. And as you are already here . . . .”
Lily was suddenly looming up beside us, and we realized that the video camera had been paused and the others were waiting for Ed, across the room.
In an icy voice she said, “Would you care to put in an appearance at your own appearance, Dr. Darby-Deaver?”
“Dobbs seems to be doing nicely.” Ed straightened his glasses, harrumphed a little, gave up the struggle and went back across to the frame-up with the artistically floating curtain panels and the nice, wide ocean view.
* * *
“No, I think we are done here,” Ed told Lily a little later on, when she suggested one more try without Dobbs upstaging his mentor. Ed checked his atomic wristwatch. “Actually, I have an important appointment with a man who will be arriving in eighteen minutes. Just enough time for your delightful crew to pack up and leave. Thank you. Thank you all.”
The blond hair extensions toodle-oo’d and bounced out. Greg, efficiently packing up his minimal equipment, wasn’t far behind her.
“Well, thank you, Ed,” Lily said finally. “I know this wasn’t easy for you. Suggestion? Go ahead and promote Dobbs, here, to Vice President in Charge of Public Relations. He’s good.”
“And excellent idea. Dobbs, you’re a Vice President. Goodbye now, Lily. Goodbye. Thank you very much.”
I could see that he was going to talk her right out the door, just to keep her from suggesting anything else, so I took a deep breath and went to the long, low sofa in the living room and draped myself into a corner, putting my feet up. I’d been looking forward to getting a breather between interviews, but no such luck. Ed came back with Marty Frane by his side, telling the detective he was seventeen minutes early but there was no need for him to wait outside in his car, come in, come in.
