by Sharon Short
And surely Tyra would be safe for a day or two, right? After all, the Cruez couple wouldn’t be likely to come into town, where Tyra would be surrounded by people. And without her SUV and Paige, Tyra could only go where I or other volunteer drivers would take her. And after her experience last night, I couldn’t imagine she’d go off walking by herself again.
“Here’s the deal,” I said. “I know who has those papers and I can get them back for you.” In truth, I wasn’t sure who had the papers—the Crookses or Paige—but I’d worry about that later. “But you have to tell me something first.”
Tyra looked wary.
“Why did you come here to Paradise?”
Tyra sighed. “All right. I was going to come here anyway, but then your letter showed up. It made the perfect cover. I’m in town to make a sizable donation to Stillwater. I’m meeting with the director tomorrow to iron out the details—that’s why I need you to take me there. Then I’m going to have a press conference on Friday to reveal my donation. Your wanting to be on my show made a good cover for coming here—that way no one would try to figure out why I was coming here until I was ready to announce my donation.” She gave a pacifying smile. “But I did want to talk with you about possibly being on a future show.”
I decided to ignore that last comment, as unlikely as it was. “You came here just to make a donation to Stillwater?”
“Why, yes,” Tyra said. “What’s so odd about that? I make donations all the time.” She leaned forward, said in a hush-hush tone, as if sharing some insider business secret, “They make a good tax write-off.”
“But wouldn’t sending a check have been easier?”
Tyra glared at me. “This is a sizable donation.”
I thought about Guy. I thought about how upset Vivian had been at the Tyra Grimes T-shirt Verbenia had been wearing. Something didn’t seem right. I mean, I could see that Tyra would want do something that looked really good, to offset the fact that she was about to get in trouble for using illegal labor in her business, but something about it was really troubling me.
So, I blurted out, “Why Stillwater?”
Tyra looked at me evenly, as if daring me to question what she was about to say. “I read about the institution in an article recently. It sounded like a worthy cause.”
“Where was the article published?”
Tyra shrugged, then yawned. “Can’t remember. I read so many things, you know.”
She stood up. “Sorry about all the fuss earlier,” she said. “But now that I’ve told you what you want to know, I trust you’ll track down those papers for me?”
I nodded. Tyra started to the door. Then she turned and gave me her trademark charming smile. “You might try parting your hair in the middle. It would look better, anyway.”
And with that, she let herself out the door.
When she shut the door, I stepped into the living room, asking Owen, “Was I just had?”
But he couldn’t answer. He was fast asleep on my couch. Poor guy. He’d had a long day.
I stared at him, daring myself to wake him up. Then I heard it start to rain outside. Somehow, that just made me feel melancholy—not a good mood for what I’d been thinking of doing with Owen.
So I covered him up with a spare blanket, then gave him a little kiss on the temple, and went to bed myself.
I woke up early the next morning, even before my alarm went off, after a blessedly deep and dreamless sleep. No visits from old Mrs. Oglevee, haranguing me about all I was doing wrong.
I took a shower, noting with a little alarm the wad of hair that tangled itself around my drain stopper. My scalp was even itchier than before, so I put on a generous amount of conditioner, which made my head feel better. Then I toweled off and put on jeans and a plain blue T-shirt, with no one’s name on the outside of it, not even mine. I parted my hair in the middle, blew it dry, and studied myself in the mirror. I had to admit that Tyra was right—a middle part looked better on me than a side part, an admission which kind of made me grumpy, since all my life I’d worn a side part. I told myself it was just a trick of the bathroom lighting that my hair was starting to look a bit more brassy than strawberry blond, a bit more kinky than curly.
I went out to the living room, all ready to make a nice big breakfast to share with Owen. But he was already gone. He’d left the blanket folded up neatly on the couch, but no note.
I told myself, as I went into the kitchenette, that I wasn’t surprised. Or disappointed. Owen and I were really just friends, after all. And unlikely friends at that. Me, a laundromat owner. Him, a professor of philosophy, religion, and literature. Nope, I wasn’t a bit disappointed. But for breakfast I had Choco-puffs cereal, topped with chocolate milk, anyway. And just a dash of chocolate syrup. Plus a leftover chocolate chip pancake.
Then I went down to my laundromat.
I love the ritual of opening up my laundromat in the morning.
Even this morning, when I had so much on my mind—like how poor Elroy was doing, and Lewis being dead, and wondering what Tyra was really up to with Stillwater, and the T-shirts and Billy and Paige and the Cruezes and the Crookses and the missing papers, and of course Owen, and my hair coming out, and wondering if I’d ever hear from Winnie—even with all that on my mind, I felt that little thrill of eagerness I always get when I’m unlocking the doors to my laundromat. Even with my toad painting gone, and my name misspelled to “Todeferne,” and my coffeemaker replaced by a cappuccino machine (all of which I was going to correct as soon as I got the chance), I felt that bit of excitement that comes with opening up my own place of business, with taking in the whole place with one glance and seeing how neat and clean it is, because I always make sure my place is clean each night before I lock up, and there’s something about the quietness at the start of a day—before all the washers and dryers are making noise and there’s people inside my laundromat.
I started back to my storeroom office, to make a sign—leave a message for Josie if you have any laundry questions. I didn’t like it, but I was going to have to leave my laundromat opened, but unmanned today. I didn’t see as I had a choice. I told myself that my laundromat had been all right in my absence on Monday, that my sudden uneasiness was unfounded. I had to open up for my regular customers. Still, I wished Chip Beavy was available to watch it. Or Billy.
I also knew I couldn’t not take Tyra to Stillwater. One way or another, even without Paige around to chauffeur her, Tyra would find a way out to Stillwater, and I wanted to be there to figure out what she was up to. I didn’t believe she just wanted to be nice and give a donation to a place she had just read about in an article. I doubted there’d even been an article. Don Richmond, the director at Stillwater, was always good about letting the families know when news about Stillwater was going to come out. I would ask Winnie to check all the news resources she knew about—if I ever got in touch with her again, that is.
I was almost back to my storeroom, when I noticed, right under a folding table, a lump of dark clothing.
Then I saw the clothing stir. I blinked. The clothing stirred again. And groaned. And started snoring.
So I did the only thing I could think of to do. I went right over and kicked it.
The lump of clothing yelped and quickly unfolded itself to reveal Billy Toadfern, unshaven and unkempt in a wrinkled black raincoat, black shirt, black jeans, and black baseball cap.
Billy blinked up at me, licked his lips, yawned, and licked his lips again. Then he said, “You’re early.”
“Billy, get out from under that table. And tell me what you’re doing here. Plus where you’ve been.”
He crawled out, stood up slowly, his knees popping loudly. Then he staggered forward and hugged me. Suddenly, he pulled away, glancing back at the big glass window.
“Come on, back to the storeroom,” he said, shoving me along. “Before they see me!”
“Who is ‘they’?” I tried to keep my feet firmly to the ground, but Billy pushed me on.
&n
bsp; “Come on! I can’t let them see me!”
So we staggered on back to my storeroom.
He slammed the door shut, began looking around, as if “they” might be back here, too. I knew “they” weren’t. Between my desk and the three shelves, there was barely room for two adult people, and definitely no hiding spots. The only “they” my storage room/office would be able to hide was a few mice, and if any “they” of the mouse kind were back there, I didn’t want to know about it.
I grabbed Billy’s shoulders, shook him, and said, “Billy! Settle down. Now, tell me, what’s going on? Who’s this “they” you’re worried about? Is it the couple from the Red Horse—Aguila and Ramon?”
Billy stopped looking around and focused on me with wide eyes that were fearful.
“How do you know their names? Who told you?”
“I’m not answering that until—”
“Was it a couple? The man—tall, cute, and dark? The woman—short, cute, and blond?”
“Well, um, yes, as a matter of fact, they were just here yesterday . . .”
“What did they say about Aguila and Ramon?”
“That they’re armed and dangerous and—”
Billy cut me off with a loud groan. “Oh, geez, Josie, please tell me you didn’t believe that, that you didn’t tell them anything . . .”
I frowned. “I didn’t really have anything to tell them. Except that apparently you and Paige ran off with Aguila and Ramon, from what I heard. But I didn’t even tell them that.” I didn’t mention that Paige had been writing an incriminating letter to Tyra, since doing so would mean I’d also have to mention I’d been snooping through trash cans in their motel rooms. “Now what is going on here, Billy—”
Billy grabbed me, hugging me really hard. “Oh, Josie, you’re the best! Okay, look, you must not trust these two, must not tell them I’m here—”
I pushed away from Billy, gasped for air, then said, “Why are you afraid of the Crooks pair, for pity’s sake? They’re just writers—at least, that’s what they say they are—although—”
Something in the serious way Billy was looking at me made me stop. Billy usually always has a twinkle in his eye, like he’s not really taking very seriously what’s going on around him, like whatever he’s doing is just for his own amusement. He was that way with the Cut-N-Suck demos. He was that way with preaching. But now, he looked really serious.
“They’re not writers. They’re FBI agents.”
I stared at Billy. No, he really didn’t look amused.
“How do you know that?”
“Just trust me—I do. And it is very, very, very important that you not let them know Aguila and Ramon are around here.”
“From what they said, they’re interested in Tyra Grimes. Billy—what have you gotten yourself into?”
“I’ll tell you sometime—but not right now. Has Tyra said anything about why she’s in town?”
I lifted my eyebrows at that. “Why, because she wants to interview me for her show, of course.”
We looked at each other for a long moment. I sighed. “Right. Okay, it seems she wants to make a donation to Stillwater. She says she read about it in an article, came here with my story as a cover, so that her donation could be a big surprise.”
Billy looked stunned. “Stillwater? She’s here because of Stillwater?”
“That’s what she says. Why did you think she was here?”
“We were worried that it was because of the T-shirts, but if she’s here for some other reason, and if she doesn’t know about the T-shirts, then we can go ahead with our plan . . .”
Billy gazed off, as if he were previewing the steps of the plan taking place in some not too distant future.
All the chocolate I’d had for breakfast suddenly curdled in my stomach. “Uh, Billy,” I said, “just what sort of plan have you cooked up?”
He snapped his focus back to me. “I can’t tell you right now. But you’ve been a lot of help. Just don’t let anyone—especially Tyra or the Crookses—know I’ve been here. Or that Aguila and Ramon are around.”
He turned and stepped to the back door.
“Uh uh, Billy. Not so fast. I’m going to tell everyone—especially the Crookses—that they’re around and that they’re up to something with stolen goods, unless you give me more information.”
Billy turned back around, looked at me with disappointment. “Josie, now, that’s not like you. What’s gotten into you?”
I could have told him that I was still hurting over Tyra using me as a cover for her real reason to come here, a reason that had me uneasy. That I was not looking forward to being the laughingstock of the town once the truth came out that Tyra had never really planned on having me on her show. That I was still sore over Owen leaving this morning before I woke up, without even writing me a note. That I knew just what he, Billy, meant by his question—good old Josie, always the soft pushover, always eager to please, how could that change?
But I have a stubborn streak, too, and getting irked makes it widen, and I was mighty irked at Billy taking for granted that I’d be a pushover for him.
So I crossed my arms and said again, “Billy, I need information. So give it to me. Or else.”
Billy sighed. “All right. What do you want to know?”
“What’s Paige doing with you?”
He looked surprised at that, which made me grin. I was always able to surprise him into telling me stuff, even as a kid, like who his latest crush was on. It worked now, too.
“We told Paige the situation, what Aguila and Ramon are up against,” Billy said. “She’s helping us.”
“Voluntarily?”
Billy nodded . . . and something in his gaze softened. “Paige is really . . . a woman of great depth.”
Uh oh, I thought. Looked like Billy had found his latest crush. But I didn’t want to get sidetracked by pointing out to Billy that Paige was also a woman of great sophistication, and wouldn’t want anything to do with the likes of him. So I said, “Okay, then, did Aguila and Ramon somehow know Tyra was going to be here in Paradise?”
Billy shook his head. “In fact, they’re really upset that she is here.”
“Then why are they staying around these parts? Why don’t they just skedaddle elsewhere? It’s a big country.”
“They’re here to sell the T-shirts. That’s part of the plan.”
Oh fine, now my cousin Billy was helping a pair of illegal immigrants—escapees from a labor camp, true, but still, illegal immigrants who were described as armed and dangerous by undercover FBI agents—traffic in stolen goods. Stolen from an illegal labor camp, true, but that somehow probably made it doubly illegal to be selling them. I couldn’t stand trying to stay all calm and logical, with all of this information—which I had asked for, true—swirling in my head.
“What plan?” I burst out. “Why do they have to sell the T-shirts here? Why do they have to sell them at all? Why, why, why are you hooked up with them at all?”
Billy gave me one of those long, fiery looks he used to give from the pulpit, a look that was always accompanied by silence, like it was now. Just Billy staring right into me. But this time, his stare did not seem to be just for effect. He seemed to really be trying to see something, to be struggling to make a decision from whatever he saw in me. It made me uncomfortable, but I stared right back at him.
At last, he said, “All right, Josie. Here’s what I can tell you. I’m hooked up with them because they need help. Because a young child’s life depends on getting the right help. And right now in my life, helping someone else is what I need to help me, too. Anything else you want to know, I’ll have to show you.”
I wanted to scream again—this time, what child? Show me now! But I still had to get Tyra to Stillwater. So I said, “Fine. How about this afternoon.”
“All right,” he said. “Come to the Red Horse this afternoon, about three o’clock.”
“Why there? You just checked out of there—”
; “Josie, don’t ask so many questions right now. Just trust me.”
Billy moved to the storage room door, opened it, and stuck his head out, looking around. Then he stepped back in and looked at me. “Listen, thank you. You’ve helped more than you know.”
“I don’t suppose you could repay me by watching my laundromat today?”
He grinned, shook his head. “I have my own business to attend to.” Then he pointed his finger at me. “Three o’clock. Sharp.”
He darted out the door again.
This whole situation, I thought, was as wrinkled and knotted up as a bunch of socks stuck in a spin cycle.
I went to work, making sure the lint traps were cleared out, the change machine full, everything in order. I’d be gone for a few hours, I told myself, then I’d go back to paying attention to running my business.
Then, I went to meet Tyra to take her to Stillwater, wondering again what she was really up to. I just couldn’t fully believe her mission here in Paradise was to be a generous benefactress.
11
In fact, Tyra was not in a generous mood at all as we headed up the state route toward Stillwater, even though it was a beautiful spring day—one of those days with an impossibly bright blue sky—and even though I kept diligently pointing out, in the cheeriest voice I could muster, numerous items of local scenic interest: fields being plowed for corn and soybeans, farmhouses and stands of trees, horses out grazing in a field, the Raybells’ free-range chicken farm, Margo Putney’s dairy farm and ice cream stand, and the Bloomin’ Beauties Garden Shop.
I’d say, “Look, Tyra! Horses!”
Or, “Look, Tyra! A tractor trailer!”
Or, even, “Look, Tyra! Mrs. Susy Whitfield’s got out on her clothesline the choir robes from the Second Reformed Church of the Reformation—that’s where my cousin Billy used to preach, but Harvey Welter’s taken over now. ’Course, the choir robes will be wrinkled, because I’m not doing them anymore since Billy was let go from preaching. I always did them at half price . . .”
