by Sharon Short
The furniture—instead of being lined up against the walls—was at a jaunty angle beneath the window. The beige curtains that had hung limply on either side of the window had been taken down and rehung, now as a scarf swag, the two halves joined with an arty rosette knot. The curtain rod was gone. The swag hung over two metal scarf holders—except on closer examination, I saw they were serving forks, taken from my kitchenette, the tines stabbed into the drywall, the ends bent up to form the hooks.
Books had been artfully stacked under the lamps on the end tables. My pale yellow throw pillows—usually wadded into either end of the couch—were now prettily turned so they were diamonds rather than squares. And Tyra had found a black magic marker and quickly sketched orchids on them.
My magazines were now on the coffee table in two stacks, but twisted, to make twin spirals. And on top of and around each spiral were a menagerie of origami animals, created, I could see, from pages torn from the latest issue of The Star Reporter.
And, curled up on my couch—sleeping peacefully, snoring softly—was Tyra Grimes.
I stared at her for a long moment. And then I did the only thing that I could think to do. I went to my bedroom and retrieved my maimed quilt and spread it over her.
Remember Mrs. Oglevee—my eighth-grade history teacher? The one who made me write 100 times over, “I’m proud to be a Paradisite” when I shared my theory about the true history of Paradise? Who lectured me all the while about how that very pride should come from Paradise being on the Ohio map every single year since 1844?
If it hadn’t been for me dreaming that night about old Mrs. Oglevee, maybe things would have turned out all right. Or at least, a little better. Maybe, if I hadn’t dreamed about her, I wouldn’t have made the phone call later, that led to Billy getting thrown out of his apartment and moving to the Red Horse, and we would have just one murder in Paradise later on, instead of two. Maybe. The saying “Hindsight is 20/20” isn’t really true. Sometimes, it’s just as hard to look back and see what you should have done as it is to look ahead and see what you should do.
Anyway, after tucking Tyra Grimes in, I found myself in my kitchen, staring at the super-large family-sized jar of peanut butter in the cabinet. Then I found myself carrying the jar and a spoon into my bedroom.
And then I started eating the peanut butter.
Oh, Lord—Tyra Grimes, really here? And me? On her show?
Now, don’t get me wrong. I know my stains. I was nervous about the show, but not panicked. Not too panicked, anyway.
I ate some more peanut butter. I read once that longlasting protein counteracts panic. So I thought, if I just have a big helping of peanut butter, and kind of let it work overnight, I’ll wake up in the morning unpanicked.
But even after two spoonfuls, I still had the nagging sense that something wasn’t right. For one thing, Tyra wanting to come here two days before filming. What in the world would I do with her for two days?
I ate more peanut butter.
And what about this Paige Morrissey? I didn’t know a thing about her.
A double-dip into the peanut butter . . .
I ate peanut butter until my jar was empty. Then I licked off the inside of the lid. I put the jar and lid and spoon on my nightstand, then tried to read The Idiot’s Guide to Home Decorating and Style in General. Somewhere in the middle of the chapter on “How To Accessorize With Candles Without Appearing Either Tacky or Ghoulish,” I dozed off.
And then, Mrs. Oglevee showed up in my dreams.
There she was, at the foot of my bed, looking just like she always had. Tiny. In a frilly, prim pink blouse and a straight navy skirt, and brown orthopedic shoes. Except now she was carrying a large wooden spoon. And wearing a starched apron that was crisp and white, not a stain on it, so I couldn’t even make cleaning recommendations to show how far I’ve progressed since junior high.
To make things even worse, Mrs. Oglevee—who’s been dead six years now—was wearing a Tyra Grimes wig of auburn curls. The wig was askew, so one ear stuck out and one was hidden.
Risen-from-the-dead, Tyra-wigged Mrs. Oglevee shook her wooden spoon at me and squeaked, “Well, Miss Toadfern, I can see you haven’t changed a bit.”
“Yes, I have. I’m a business owner. And a stain expert. And—” I sat straight up in my bed, in my dream, at least—in real life, I reckon I was sweating and tossing and turning. “Why are you dressed like that, anyhow?”
Mrs. Oglevee snorted. “Don’t you remember when I substituted in home ec? When Mrs. Mendenball was off on maternity leave? You were even more pathetic at home ec than you were in history. You sewed right through your thumb, trying to finish up the class project, what was it, a skirt, a muumuu, a—”
“Vest,” I muttered. “It was a vest.”
“Don’t interrupt me! You always were an insolent child.” She licked her lips. “You sewed right through your thumb and broke off the needle! Do you realize the expense of sewing machine needles? Of course not! You were always bad at economics, too. You only have the laundromat because your aunt and uncle had no one else to leave it to! If it weren’t for that, you’d probably be broke, living in the streets, homeless in Paradise . . .”
“What do you know? You’re only here because . . .” Well, why was she here? My tummy ached. “Because I ate too much peanut butter!”
At the words “peanut butter” she shrank back for a second. But she recovered and hollered, “I’m telling you, Josie Toadfern, you need to call this whole thing off with Tyra Grimes! Just send her home, or you’ll end up regretting it!”
Now, this was too much. The ghost of Mrs. Oglevee, also against Tyra’s visit?
I groaned. “Oh . . . my tummy hurts. I wish I hadn’t eaten so much of that peanut butter . . .”
Mrs. Oglevee yelped before I could finish my moaning. What was her problem with peanut butter?
But she was starting in on me again. “Do you really think you can handle yourself on national TV? Quick—what’s the proper presoak for grass stains on denim?”
I moaned.
“You’ve never been good at thinking on your feet.” She cackled. “So before you embarrass yourself and Paradise, send Tyra home, tell her you’re sorry, you just can’t do it. . .”
I tuned her out, because my brain was starting to itch with the memory of Mrs. Oglevee substituting for home ec, and the annual home economics eighth grade tea, and how Mr. Humphries, the junior high principal, was the honored guest, and how Mrs. Oglevee had assigned me to make peanut butter cookies, because, she said, even Josie Toadfern couldn’t mess those up—while all the other girls got to make fancy little cakes and fancy little sandwiches and fancy lime Jell-O salad.
Yet somehow, I used baking soda in the peanut butter cookies when I was supposed to use baking powder. Or maybe I used baking powder instead of baking soda? In any case, when Mr. Humphries took the first bite of peanut butter cookie—because he got to sample everything first at the eighth grade home economics tea—he started coughing and choking and wheezed out peanut butter cookie crumbs all over Mrs. Oglevee’s face.
So now, in my dream, I looked right at Mrs. Oglevee, and smiled, and hollered, “Peanut butter!”
Mrs. Oglevee whimpered and threw her arms up to shield her face—and kind of faded. So, of course I just kept right on yelling, “Peanut butter” over and over again, until she disappeared all together.
And me, I woke up, sweating and thrashing and screaming, “Peanut butter!” So much for longlasting protein counteracting panic attacks. After a few seconds—when I realized with relief that I had not awakened Tyra Grimes—I made my next big mistake.
I called Winnie Porter again.
This time she answered, and I told her how Tyra was here, asleep on my couch, and how she’d redecorated my living room, and how her assistant Paige was staying at the Red Horse, and how I’d eaten too much peanut butter and then dreamed about Mrs. Oglevee.
Then Winnie said, “Don’t you worry, sweetie. I’ll t
ake care of everything.”
So I went back to sleep—this time, without dreaming.
And woke the next morning to the sound of all hell breaking loose.
4
Truth be told, I’m not sure what all hell breaking loose actually sounds like.
But when I woke up the next morning, my head was throbbing. I looked over at my clock. It was 9:30 A.M. on a Monday morning—an hour and a half after I was supposed to open up my laundromat. My first dim thought was that I’d forgotten to set my alarm. My second thought was that I had a peanut butter hangover.
Then I realized there’s no such thing as a peanut butter hangover and that it wasn’t my head throbbing, but music—loud jazz—in my laundromat, right below my apartment.
I moaned as I sat up. What was going on? Then I saw The Idiot’s Guide to Home Decorating and Style in General where it had fallen to the floor—and it all came back to me. Tyra Grimes was here. In my apartment. Asleep on my couch.
At least, she’d been safely asleep on my couch last night. . .
I forced myself to stand, my stomach feeling as though it had reshaped itself into a giant peanut. I pulled my light blue robe on over my Tweety Bird nightshirt and shoved my feet into my matching Tweety Bird slippers. I waddled into my living room—it’s not easy to move fast when you feel like a giant goober. No Tyra.
I blinked. Maybe I’d imagined the whole thing?
No . . . the tabloid origamis were still scattered artfully about, the forks-turned-window-scarf-holders still poking out of the wall, the tiny, tiny black suitcase still there, the jazz music cranked up a notch downstairs. Oh, Lord, what was the woman doing to my laundromat?
I lurched out of my apartment, down the tiny hall, and out the door to the metal stairs, galumphing down them to the front of my laundromat, where I came to an abrupt stop. My stomach roiled again, this time partly from shock at what I saw.
My laundromat’s front window had been scrubbed clean of my store name and logo, the grinning toad amid ferns. Now, my plate glass window proclaimed—in fancy calligraphy and gussied up misspelling—Josephine Todeferne’s Laundrette.
Plus, two big clay pots—filled with geraniums—had appeared on either side of my door. The sight of them made me nervous. I’m terrible with plants, as Rocky—my only house-plant, this poor viny thing with six leaves—would attest if it could talk. (I named it Rocky in one of my purest moments of optimism.)
But right then, I wasn’t feeling the least bit optimistic. I was mad. Tabloid origamis were one thing . . . but Tyra Grimes didn’t have any right to mess with my business. So I charged in, hollering—for the second time in less than twelve hours—“What in the hell do you think you are doing? Stop!”
But Tyra wasn’t in my laundromat.
In a way, my laundromat wasn’t in my laundromat, either.
In fact, if it weren’t for the dozen washers and dryers—which are pretty hard to disguise—I wouldn’t have recognized my own place. The jazz came from a small stereo on the folding table which had once held Billy’s Cut-N-Suck demo machine, but which was now covered with a white tablecloth and held, besides the stereo, the weirdest looking coffeemaker I’d ever seen. Billy’s Cut-N-Suck was nowhere in sight.
The metal utility shelf with small boxes of laundry soap and dryer towels had disappeared. In its place was an oak bookshelf.
Winnie was by the cash register, arranging a bouquet. Owen stood in front of the bookshelf, his arms full of books, his forehead glistening. Both grinned at me expectantly.
Winnie trotted over and hugged me, enveloping me in her favorite black shawl and the scent of patchouli. “Josie, I’m so glad you finally woke up!” she shouted over the music. “See, I told you not to worry! I told you I’d take care of everything!”
I wriggled free and went over to the boom box. I turned off the music. Suddenly the only sounds were just the weird coffeepot—hissing. And me—breathing hard.
“I couldn’t help but wake up,” I said. “I’m surprised the whole town isn’t awake. What’s going on here?” I stopped. “Where is Tyra?”
I looked around, panicked. Oh Lord. What if my friends had gone totally mad, maybe tied Tyra up in the storeroom while they wrought these bizarre changes? There’d be a lawsuit, I’d go out of business, I’d be drummed out of town . . .
“Tyra was down here earlier—excited about our changes. She said it would make a lovely backdrop for her show,” Winnie said, her voice drained of excitement now. “Paige Morrissey—her assistant, quite a lovely woman—came by to pick her up. They’re shopping in Masonville for tonight’s entertaining.”
I looked over at Owen. He stared pointedly at a book. I looked back at Winnie. “Entertaining? Tonight?”
“Yes,” Winnie said. “They thought a little salon-style soirée would be nice, in the upper rooms over the laundrette. Just a few people. I provided a guest list of the upper echelon of Paradise society. The mayor, of course, and Lewis Rothchild since he’s the wealthiest business owner in town, and—”
I glared at her. Winnie stopped talking. Her chin quivered. I was unmoved. Since when did Winnie use such hoity-toity language?
“What’s next?” I asked. “Stenciling the washers and dryers? Maybe with lilies. I remember reading in the Idiot’s Guide to Decorating that lilies are always a sophisticated choice.”
Winnie’s chin quivered hard enough now that her little bell earrings literally tinkled. Owen looked up from the book, and I could see the pain in his eyes. But I went on.
“Or maybe we could make washer-and-dryer cozies. Kind of like super-sized tea cozies. Embroider them little flowers. God forbid this place should actually look like a laundromat on TV, talking about how to get out stains . . . God forbid that. . .”
By now, Winnie and Owen looked positively hurt.
I staggered over to a folding chair and plopped down. At least they hadn’t yet replaced my practical metal folding chairs with chaise lounges or whatever is considered refined seating.
“Josie, you were panicked last night and. . . well, what did you expect?” Now Winnie’s voice was quivering, too. “I took the day off for this, and Owen doesn’t have classes until afternoon.”
I sighed. “All I wanted was a little moral support.”
“Well,” Winnie sniffed, “not all of this was my idea.”
Owen smiled nervously. “I have to admit, after Winnie called me at two o’clock this morning, I came up with the cappuccino machine and the bookshelf and the books. And the music.” He was warming to his subject now, forgetting that I was mad. “I wanted to create an intellectual waiting area for patrons to enjoy between loads. Winnie and I compared notes on our ideas and went to Big Jim’s 24-hour Warehouse up in Masonville, got what we needed, and got to work.” He beamed at me. “After all, you love reading. So isn’t it a wonderful idea for you to encourage reading among your patrons, between loads? To lift the intellectual level of Paradise?”
I peered for a moment at the books on the shelf behind him. They were paperbacks, but classics. Jane Eyre. War and Peace. Of Mice and Men. I recognized them as paperback extras from Owen’s house—he was on a mission to replace all the paperbacks he’d collected with hardcover volumes. That mission was one reason I found him endearing. Usually.
I turned to Winnie. “And where is Billy’s Cut-N-Suck?”
“Well, he took it with him. When he left.”
Now, this was alarming news, because I couldn’t think of anywhere else Billy could go. His car still wasn’t fixed.
“Why did Billy leave? And where did he go?”
“We explained the situation quite clearly to Billy right after we got back from Masonville—”
“You woke him up at, what, four in the morning?”
“No,” Owen said. “He was just getting back from the Red Horse Motel—some woman in a white truck dropping him off.” Owen frowned, shook his head. “He didn’t look happy. He was upset by something—which is probably why he took our news so po
orly.”
“Your news?” I said.
“Now, Josie,” Winnie said. “You know Billy can’t be here while Tyra’s here. He’ll spoil the whole ambience. And wouldn’t it be better if Tyra had her own suite, rather than you having to sleep on your couch?” I’d envisioned Tyra continuing to sleep on my couch, but I didn’t bother to explain that. “So we told him he needed to move in with Owen, while we redecorated your spare apartment to get it ready for Tyra—as a Bed and Breakfast.”
“Just what am I supposed to feed her? Pop-Tarts?”
Owen ignored my question. “Billy went into a rage, something about people with too much power hurting people with too little power. He said if Tyra Grimes came here, there’d be real trouble—which was pretty odd, considering he was wearing his Tyra Grimes T-shirt. Then he took his Cut-N-Suck and walked off, saying he was going back to the Red Horse Motel.”
I groaned. Now the list of people predicting trouble if Tyra came to town was made up of Lewis Rothchild, Vivian Denlinger, the ghost of Mrs. Oglevee, and my nutty cousin Billy Toadfern. And Tyra was already here. Oh, Lord, was she ever here.
I groaned again.
“Maybe a nice cup of cappuccino will help you,” Owen said.
He trotted over to the weird coffeemaker and in a few minutes came over to me with a mug filled with frothy stuff. I don’t function well without coffee in the morning, and if I didn’t take a sip I was liable to say something really, really hurtful to these two dear people who I loved very much and who were now making me crazy.
So, I took a sip. And right off, I started choking. All that white frothy milk on top was deceptive. The essence of the stuff was a thick liquid, riddled with coffee grounds.
I half swallowed, half chewed to get the mouthful down.
Owen grabbed the mug from me. “Must be the flubberguster,” he said. Or something like that. He was muttering about mechanical parts. I stared at him, but he didn’t notice.
This was Owen? My philosophical boyfriend? My society’s-obsession-with-pretenses-will-undermine-us-all boyfriend, who was currently teaching the Art of Angst (or maybe it was the Angst of Art) at Masonville Community College? I didn’t recognize him.
