The new ice bag leaked as well. My brain is leaking, too. Oh, well. I’m hallucinating.
The bell tinkled several times. Sandy chatted happily, and I ignored everything, closing my eyes, letting my brains leak with the icy water.
“Hey you! This is my shop. You better get out or I’m calling the coppers.”
“What the?” I peeked out from under the bag. That odd-looking, loudmouth woman stood over me. “Go away. You’re not real.” I put out a hand to push her away, but my hand went through her blouse. “Eww!”
“Jaysus! Don’t touch me.” She floated backward, flickering in brighter colors.
I should have my head examined. She’s a beautiful hallucination. Unreal. She must be figment of my brain damaged imagination.
“You okay?” Sandy asked, looking over the swinging doors.
“No. I’m not okay. Do you know someone named Fanny?” I wasn’t about to tell her I was seeing a weirdo, with a lilted Irish brogue, who thought we had invaded her shop.
Sandy pushed through the door, her fists akimbo, cocking her head. “Odd? Why do you ask?”
“It’s nothing.” I leaned back onto the ice bag. A trickle of cold water tracked down my back.
“You’re in pain, aren’t you?”
“Not much.” I closed my eyes so I couldn’t see the odd image.
“Don’t lie. I know better. But you know what, while I was squatting, I noticed someone wrote in your shiplap.”
I cracked open an eye. Sandy’s vacant expression said everything; she wouldn’t lie to chop down a cherry tree.
“Yeah? What did it say?”
During the renovations, the bathroom’s nostalgic nineteenth century shiplap walls became a point of contention between Teddy and me. The shiplap was irreplaceable old-growth tight-grained hardwood.
We almost had a full-blown argument over the shiplap, but Teddy backed off and let me have my way. He wanted to replace the shiplap with sheetrock and plaster, but I couldn’t stand the idea and insisted on keeping the original woodwork. I allowed him to repaint the bathroom walls, but only because he wouldn’t strip the paint from the original wood like I wanted.
Sandy stood next to the bathroom door. “C’mere. It says Fanny Doyle. Come look.”
“Are you joking?” I knew better than to ask. Not only was she meticulous and couldn’t tell a lie; she didn’t have a sense of humor, either. Although she would enjoy wrapping a person in a full body cast.
Horrified, I struggled up from the sinking sofa. “Someone wrote on the walls?”
“It’s more like someone signed the wall with a pocketknife.”
“Into my shiplap? With a pocketknife?” I asked, but thought scissors. Someone… Fanny Doyle, who wasn’t a real person… had some nerve carving their name into the shiplap’s new paint.
I left the leaking ice bag behind. “You aren’t kidding, are you?”
“Of course not.” Sandy didn’t chuckle; even she knew she didn’t have a sense of humor. “Why would I joke about something like that? It’s right above the toilet paper holder.”
It was a tight squeeze into the bathroom, so I stood half in and half out of the closet size room. In front of the toilet, I leaned over and peered at the scratched lettering—Fanny Doyle.
Sandy leaned over my shoulder, and I backed from the tight space. “I need air. Don’t remember seeing that.” Surely, I would’ve noticed the carving before now?
Sandy moved over to the workbench and leaned against it, crossing her arms. “I wasn’t joking. Who do you suppose did it?”
I headed for the sofa. “Dunno. Nobody I know.”
“Teddy, maybe?” Sandy asked. She would blame him before anyone.
Was there a medical explanation for what was happening to me? I knew a concussion caused pressure on the brain, but was there also a psychiatric explanation? Had Sandy finally driven me mad with her constant anxiety?
“No telling,” I felt weak-kneed and headed for the sofa. I noticed a big wet spot on the sofa back, and sat on the spot. I didn’t want to give Sandy another thing to fuss over.
The bell tinkled, saving me. Sandy grinned, whirling from the room. “Stay right there. I’ll be right back.”
I drained the leaking bag, refilled it with the last of our ice, double bagged it and pressed the bag against my nose standing at the sink.
There couldn’t be a real woman dangling the scissors from her finger standing in the stockroom. She was obnoxious and no one, but me, heard her speak. Seeing the graffiti carved into the lovely shiplap was disconcerting. I must’ve read the name and after I whacked my head on the sidewalk, I associated the name with the hallucination. Made perfect sense.
“Boy, I’m a mess.”
“You’ve made a fine mess of my nice shirt shop. Get out!” Fanny ordered.
“Hush-up, you.” I glanced up but didn’t see Fanny, giving my imagination a name.
“I won’t hush. I’m calling the coppers. Lock you up.”
You’re not real. Go away.
My imagination was correct. I needed locking up, a good dose of anti-psychotic meds and a long nap. I grabbed my purse and shoved open the security door, yelling, “I gotta go.”
Sandy yelled back, “Go to the emergency room.”
4
Back to Work
First thing the next morning, when I entered the back door the welcoming aroma of fresh coffee filled the stockroom. “Hey, I’m here.”
Until the wee hours, I laid in my recliner icing my face and the goose egg, popping ibuprofen, and researching concussions and hallucinations online until I fell asleep in my chair. My enthusiasm had paled for day two at the Row, but I was a trooper. Calling in sick wasn’t appropriate, and I wouldn’t play hooky.
Who would hold up my end of the bargain?
I knocked about and Sandy called. “What’d the doctor say?”
“It’s nothing. Only a bump. No permanent damage.” I hadn’t gone anywhere near St. Vincent’s emergency room. Lying to her wasn’t right, but if I told her the truth, she would pout because I ignored her advice. She was, after all, knowledgeable about medical matters. Not to burst Sandy’s nursing bubble, but I wasn’t the only person who abhorred emergency rooms.
What I discovered online about concussions sufficed my curiosity. Most likely based on my symptoms, I have a concussion. There wasn’t much a doctor could do, I would recover. I read online that brain damage may take months or even years before symptoms occur. Football players and heavyweight boxing champions who experienced traumatic head injuries often wouldn’t exhibit symptoms until decades after the initial damage.
I was lucky, my brain damage happened immediately. I wouldn’t have residual and long-lasting effects from the bump.
“Getting coffee,” I called. Sandy had her radar ears pinned on my movements, she already knew I was pouring a fresh mug.
Holding a steaming mug of coffee close, I went over to the bathroom door, closed my eyes, and leaned against the doorjamb.
After the remodel began, Teddy accidentally leaned his elbow against the bathroom’s dry rotted window frame and pushed it out. That’s when we had the row over the shiplap; that I won. I found a frosted window small enough to fit the space on sale at Home Depot and he fumed while he installed it, because he wanted to rip out the wall.
I needed to see the graffiti a second time. Frankly, I wasn’t sure I should believe my eyes. I was seeing things, which weren’t there.
I had to look and so I opened my eyes. “No way.”
The graffiti had been carved deep into the old wood and it wasn’t new. I ran a finger over the lettering making sure I felt it, instead of trusting my blurry vision. The new paint had spilt over the letters and curled back from the exposed wood. Teddy must’ve overlooked the letters when he painted the bathroom. Surely, if he saw them, he would have mentioned it.
“Weird. That explains that.” The words were real, but it didn’t explain why or how I saw Fanny Doyle. I left the bathr
oom, faked a chipper smile and pushed through the clacking swinging doors.
Sandy was outside setting out the chalkboard easel. When I stopped in the open door, she asked, “Better?”
Last night, a blast of early autumn air cooled the valley. In the hill country of Arkansas, a taste of fall always teased us with hints of cooler weather. A breeze would wash through, but the hottest Indian summer would follow it, until winter socked in the valley. With the door open, the crisp breeze caught the shop’s fragrances. I hope that the scents would attract customers instead of bees.
“Super-duper.”
Sandy stepped back admiring the sign. “Welcome is enough, isn’t it?” She had written WELCOME in fluorescent orange chalk on the blackboard.
“That’s bright. Eye-catching.” I sat on the junk store bench, squinting in the bright morning sun.
Sitting in a warm ray of sun, shading my eyes, I watched the early morning bikers and speed walkers travel along the promenade. The walkway follows the volcanic springs running underneath and along the mountain behind Bathhouse Row. In the early morning, locals took advantage of the walkway, before it filled up with dawdling tourists.
“I want it to be noticeable. Come inside.” Sandy hitched her chin toward the open door. “I sold a couple more bath bombs and soaps after you left. Not bad for the first day, huh?” Inside, she showed me the receipts.
I smiled. “Nice. Almost four-hundred. It sure added up fast, didn’t it?”
She gathered the printed invoices and clipped them together. “We need more. Bills to pay.”
I slipped onto the stool behind the counter, fingering the back of my head. The goose egg had stopped throbbing, but underneath the skin, a squishy pocket sloshed when I shook my head too hard.
She patted my shoulder as she squeezed between the stool and shelves behind me. “We’re in good shape. You taking ibuprofen?”
“Yeah. Didn’t sleep much. I could use a nap.” I was sleep deprived, but not because of my headache. It wasn’t the first time I laid awake worrying in my recliner until I fell asleep. But like my concussion, I’d get over it.
“Maybe you should—”
“Well, howdy do!” Myra Gardner’s raspy smoker’s voice cut off our conversation. She walked into the Row like she owned the place… in a big way she did, we signed a two-year lease.
Her flashy diamonds and jingling bangles couldn’t be missed. At one time, she sang cabaret at the Ohio Club. Something happened to her vocal cords… I heard whispers of a benign tumor… and she gave up her singing career. Considering her real estate holdings in Hot Springs, she was singing like a canary when she deposited her rental receipts.
“Myra, sugar, how good of you to come visit.”
“I’ve heard about how fab the place is.” Myra smiled, shutting the door.
“Hey you.” She kissed beside my cheek and squeezed my fingers with one hand, waving with the other. “Darlin’s, I adore what you’ve done with this old dump. You know, I’m expecting a grand, grand opening celebration. Maybe we should have a parade?”
News travels fast in this gossipy little town. During the remodel, she had dropped by on occasion, but it’d been weeks since she visited. I knew she would make an appearance, waiting until we opened so she could gush over the finished product.
“Who is that goose?”
I whirled, jerking my hand free of Myra’s hold. “Whatttt? Who said that?”
“I said who is that goose?”
“Who said what?” Myra looked bewildered, taking a step backward.
“Oh, my!” My heart churned, and I grasped my throat, holding my heart so it wouldn’t leap from my chest. “What did you say?”
Myra crumpled her double chins. “I said we should have a parade, but I was joking. Don’t get so upset.”
Sandy grimaced, grabbing Myra’s elbow. “Don’t mind her. She had a little accident yesterday. Knocked her noggin on the sidewalk. She’s been talking to herself ever since. Come look at the lotions.”
“Okay, I will.” Myra winced from her grasp but gazed into the far corner.
I followed her gaze across the shop. “What can you see?” There stood Fanny, flickering in bright colors. Lordy! I was in worse shape than I thought.
Myra snapped from her weird gaze. “It’s nothing. You say you fell?”
She had to see the woman; she was staring right at her. “That’s right, I fell off the ladder. It’s nothing… really.”
“Uh, I suspect a concussion by the way she’s acting.” Sandy waved at the showroom tables, redirecting Myra’s attention. “So? What do you think of the decor?”
“Those chandeliers are divine. Shall I buy champagne and christen the ship?” Myra crowed. She was counting on our shop to attract other renters to the building and wanted nothing less than an outstanding remodel.
In an antique shop on Central Avenue, we discovered the used matching chandeliers. Rewired and cleaned, their faux crystal chandeliers twinkled over the showroom tables as the soaps emitted glorious sweetness. The Row gleamed, preening for Myra’s approval.
Picking up a bar of Black Lily Shea soap, she sniffed. “Interesting. What’s this? Black soap?”
“You could tar and feather somebody with that muck!” Fanny barked.
My eyeballs rolled at Fanny’s outburst. Under my breath, I hissed. “Shut up, would ‘ya?”
Myra caught my eye roll. “Guess you don’t like black soap either?” She put the soap bar back.
Sandy’s eyeballs bulged, and she urged Myra toward the shelves. “Its Black Lily Shea soap. Very good for the skin. Come look. I adore the Lemon Ice salt scrub. Great for dry, flaky skin.”
Myra glanced at her dry, freckled old lady arm. Sandy shrugged, guiding her toward the lotions. In the corner, Fanny tapped her invisible toe loudly. I scowled at her and mouthed go away, but whirled back in time to watch Myra squirt sample moisturizer onto her arm.
“Patti, how do you like being retired?” Myra asked, rubbing in the lotion.
“Oh, fine. I hardly believe I’m out of there. I do miss Bubba though.”
Everyone in the county, inside the department and out, loved Bubba Smith. He was a kind, gentle soul, except when it came to the law. He had a reputation of hangin’ bad guys high, even in modern times.
“Wasn’t he a sweetheart? His replacement… Dick. Eh, not so much.” She pinched her nose, and I understood her opinion—Dick stinks.
“He isn’t that bad.” He had let Teddy and I go without much decorum.
Mayra smiled. “Let’s let the jury decide Dick’s fate.”
“It’s a dream come true working in a soap shop.” I rearranged the moisturizer bottle she put back on the shelf.
“Jaysus! Dream. Not in my shirt shop. Get out!”
“Oh, no.” I shook my head at Fanny’s new outburst. I hoped yesterday’s visions were a fluke and I wouldn’t hear her… it… this figment of my imagination, again.
“Guess you won’t miss all the drama?” Myra asked.
Over the years, I shared some juicy police stories with her. She loved the crimes of passion and hearing my renditions of bad boys resisting arrest and good girls gone wild, trying to visit their men. Jail wasn’t a romantic place, but my exaggerated versions of what happened behind closed doors were entertaining.
“Not in the least.” Shaking my head, I jostled the goose egg. Even though the throbbing had subsided somewhat, the residual wonky headache behind my eyes remained reminding me of my fall and my overactive imagination. “The place was a nightmare.”
That wasn’t entirely true, I was an adrenaline junky. The hustle inside the sheriff’s office kept my energy flowing. Some days, I didn’t get much typing done for all the hubbub. The remodel of the Row had been fun, but hardly exciting. A crazed kid handcuffed to a rickety wooden chair banging his head on the wall beat mixing bath bombs any day.
“You girls aren’t breaking the rules yet, are you?” Myra asked, rolling her eyes up.
San
dy glanced up. “Oh, no, I never go up there.”
She meant the empty upper floors of the Dugan-Stuart Building over our heads. Myra’s liability insurance wouldn’t cover us or anyone else snooping about upstairs. When we signed the lease, she warned us about the dangers of the vacant building. She had planned to convert the space into expensive condos with a view of Bathhouse Row along with other retail shops in the basement. So far, we were her first tenants.
Grinning, Myra picked up a bath bomb. “You ladies seen Al yet?”
Sandy shrugged. “Pfft. Are you talking about Al Capone?”
“I should’ve told you the building's history. Rumor has it; Al Capone once had a gambling room upstairs.” She gestured with dramatic eye rolls. “He loved the bowling alley in the basement.”
“What bowling alley?” Sandy frowned, glaring at me, but I shrugged. Now wasn’t the time to mention that fact, that I had snooped upstairs and down and knew about the antique bowling alley. It’d make a great pizza joint with old-timey bowling for the tourist.
“Argh! Where is he? Al owes me for three shirts!” Fanny glimmered beautifully in the far corner. She appeared more defined than yesterday; in fact, she’d changed a lot, my brain damage had switched to ultra-high-definition mode.
“Boy, I wish you’d hush-up.” I couldn’t stop my mouth from responding to her.
“No, I won’t. I want my money.” Fanny held her palm out, and at least she had hands.
Smirking, Myra whirled about at my outburst. “Really? Guess I’ve overstayed my welcome?”
Realizing my mistake, I cried. “No, no, I didn’t mean you. My ears are buzzy. Doc said it’d go away.”
I better get control of these outbursts.
“Sorry. I need more painkillers.”
Sandy huffed. “That’s a good idea. I brought another bottle.” She reached under the counter, rattling the pill bottle before she set it on the counter.
“I got an MRI last night. Nothing’s going to fall out.” I cocked my head back and forth to demonstrate my brains weren’t leaking from my ears, even if my sanity was. I was telling so many boldfaced lies my nose was going to grow.
Bath Bombs & Beyond Page 3
