Precisely at that moment, a disheveled Lawrence Klinger rushed into the room. He ran to the chapel doors and flung them open, disappearing inside. He was soon followed by a grim-faced Dr. Bingham.
Betty Ann was first to reach the doors. Opening them a crack, she peered inside. I joined her and together we watched in awe as Lawrence Klinger caromed the length of the runner. He then threw himself upon the casket. “Vivian, darling, forgive me!” he cried as Dr. Bingham hovered nearby.
As we watched, a raspy voice behind us demanded, “What’s going on?”
We turned to see a short, squat woman with a bulldog face glaring at us. A crowd of cronies had formed around her. Impulsively, she made a grab for the door.
Betty Ann turned, hands on hips, her body blocking the entrance. “It’s a personal matter, folks. Let’s give the family some privacy.”
This did not go down well. The woman moved closer, her upturned face inches from Betty Ann’s chest. “I saw you gawking at them. Now move aside.”
When B.A. failed to move, the woman snaked her hand around her and yanked the door knob. The door flew open with a klunk, hitting the back of B.A.’s head. Immediately the crowd surged past, only to stop at the entrance and gasp at the spectacle of Lawrence Klinger prostrated upon the coffin.
“Are you okay?” I asked a stunned Betty Ann. Her answer was blotted out by a shrill scream arising from the reception area. The bulldog woman and her gang, hearing this, reacted like a pack of dogs. They turned and charged out the door, knocking Betty Ann’s head once again.
“Are you okay?” I repeated, pulling her away from the door.
“I think so.” She shook her head to clear it. “Let’s see what’s going on.”
We rushed to the reception area to find Veronica Klinger sprawled on the rug. Her thin legs in smoke-colored hose looked as substantial as chop sticks.
“Call 911!” somebody shouted.
“I’ll get Bingham,” I told B. A. and raced back to the chapel. On the way I passed a distressed Mr. Koski, muttering to himself.
When I reached the chapel, Mr. Klinger was on his feet. Dr. Bingham, his arm around the man, was guiding him away from the coffin. In the stillness, my voice rang out. “Dr. Bingham, you’d better come. It’s Mrs. Klinger. She’s fainted.”
He stopped and stared. Then he half-dragged his companion to a nearby bench where he sat him down, whispering something in his ear. Then straightening his tie, Dr. Bingham strode to the door. When he passed, he was so close I could count the beads of sweat dotting his bald head.
That night Boston’s premier psychiatrist was certainly earning his fees.
Five
Yvonne’s voice rang out in the office: “Rose, I’ve got you the most delicious story. You’ll adore it.”
“What is it?” I’ve discovered that the things Yvonne adores are usually pretty lame.
“Are you familiar with the Phippses of Hemlock Point?”
“Last time I was at Hemlock Point I was trick or treating. They called the cops on me.”
“Seriously.”
“I am serious. They’re paranoid out there. How threatening is a twelve-year-old dressed like Cindi Lauper?”
“Now listen. You must have heard of Lester and Myrna Phipps of the Miles O’ Tiles chain? Their stores are all over the country.”
“I’ve seen the stores. Who hasn’t? I can’t say I know the owners.”
“Then you’re in for a treat. I’ve just learned that their dog won Best of Breed at the Westchester Dog Show. Isn’t that fabulous? Mrs. Phipps said she wouldn’t mind if we did a story on him.”
“What about Coral? She loves rubbing elbows with the Hemlock Point crowd.”
Coral’s got the Boston Flower Show, unless you’d rather switch with her.”
“No, that’s fine. I’ll stick with the dog. “Fighting city traffic and huge crowds just to look at flowers was too painful to contemplate. “What breed, by the way?”
“I’m not sure.” She stuck a pink Post-it on my desk. “Here’s Mrs. Phipps’ private number. Be sure to call soon. We don’t want her changing her mind.” She was halfway to her desk when she turned. “I forgot to ask about the wake.”
“It was absolutely packed.”
“But you were able to pay your respects to the family?”
“I did, prior to Mrs. Klinger passing out in the middle of the room.”
“She didn’t! What happened?”
“The EMTs took her away. This morning I called Mr. Koski for information. He said Mrs. Klinger is doing okay. Apparently, she was on a new medication and hadn’t eaten the entire day. They think that’s what caused it.”
“That poor woman,” Yvonne said. “Imagine having to endure your child’s wake.”
“Imagine not eating all day.” I turned back to my computer monitor but couldn’t concentrate. It was a good time to broach the subject. Yvonne and I were alone. Furthermore, I’d done her a favor by attending the wake. She owed me one. “Yvonne, can I ask you something?”
“Why, of course.”
“Are you aware of the controversy surrounding Settler’s Dunes? It seems everyone’s talking about it. Now they’re pressuring the city council to hold a hearing.”
“Well, of course I’ve heard. What a silly question.”
“In that case, why haven’t we written anything about it?”
She gave me a look of exasperation. “For one thing, we’ve been too busy covering a murder. Everything’s taken a back seat to that, in case you’re not aware.”
“I realize that. We’re also moving on, news wise. I’m covering dog stories, Coral’s doing flower shows, and Stew’s interviewing the graduating high school jocks. Meanwhile, Settlers Dunes is a hot issue, one that impacts the town in a big way.
“All these years we assumed the town owned the land. Instead, it’s been in a family trust held by the Frosts. Recently an unknown fact has come to light. The last remaining family member has the right to sell the land.”
“I’m familiar with the history, Rose. I might not be a native, but I do stay informed.”
I ignored the sarcasm. “His name is Dwayne Frost. Those in the know say he’s considering selling. Do you know what this means? It’s like you’re ten years old and you discover the people you call Mom and Pop aren’t really your parents.”
“Come now, isn’t that a trifle dramatic?”
“Not really. Settlers Dunes is where the town’s earliest residents built their houses. They put their fish shacks right on the beach. It’s where my friends and I learned to swim.” It is also where teenagers go to make out, smoke pot and drink beer, but I didn’t see any point in mentioning that.
“Again, I might not be a local, but I’m aware of Settlers Dunes’ significance.”
“Are you aware that every few years when the tide washes the sand away you can see the foundation lines of those early houses? Some people think it should be protected as an historic landmark.”
“That’s typical of this town,” Yvonne said. “Everyone has an opinion, yet nobody’s willing to follow through on it.”
“The Colonial Dames want the town to buy the property.”
Her laugh was shrill. “This town couldn’t afford a new roof for the Homer Frost House. How on earth can they buy five acres of oceanfront property?”
“It seems Martha Farley and Bunny Alfano aren’t worried about raising the money, not that they’re openly discussing it. Those two are tight as clams at low tide. I wonder what bank they’re snuggling up to.”
“That’s none of our business. At the moment it’s nothing but rumors. For all we know this Dwayne Frost has no intention of selling. Think of it, his ancestors created a trust to benefit the town. What civic minded person would undo all that goodwill?”
She waved a hand dismissivly. “Don’t be so impetuous, Rose. When and if the town holds a hearing, we’ll cover it. In the meantime, I’m not going to lose my head just because a bunch of busybodies are overreact
ing to gossip.”
I felt my cheeks burn. That happens when I get my wrist slapped, unseemly at age thirty-nine. “Forgive me,” I said, “I forget that Martha Farley’s real estate business is our biggest advertiser.”
“That’s a cheap shot, and it is not the reason.”
I pressed on. “Is it because Bunny is Chief Alfano’s brother?”
She sighed. “I’ll have you know that Victor Alfano hasn’t spoken more than ten words to his brother in as many years. Now, my dear, I’ve got work to do, and I’m sure you do as well. I will not discuss Settlers Dunes at this point.”
“Okay.”
A deafening silence followed until Yvonne, perhaps feeling guilty for chastising me, spoke. “You’re a young, single woman, Rose. Keep in mind that I’m a widow who’s responsible for my eighty-five-year-old mother. If anything happened to me, she would be shuttled off to some… home.” Her voice wavered. She reached for a tissue and blew her nose.
Muffled sobbing followed. Now it was I who felt guilty, and yet, Yvonne can be a convincing actress when it suits her. She’s been involved in community theater for decades. In fact, she keeps a framed review on the wall of a 1979 performance of A Streetcar Named Desire, where she played Stella. Although I was curious to learn what was behind her reluctance to tackle the Settlers Dunes issue, I decided to back off for the time being.
“I’m sorry.”
It was a good opportunity to pay a visit to Stella’s Sausage Kitchen. My objective was two-fold: to interview Stella about a potential pig-napping and to talk to Brandi, the new waitress. The young woman had been on my mind ever since my conversation with Doris Zack.
I arrived after the lunch crowd had cleared out and thus had no trouble finding a parking spot. At Stella’s I never worry about locking my car due to the fact that the cops eat there. As I got out of the Jetta, I glanced up at the trio of pigs inside a chain link enclosure. Pink plastic haunches gleamed in the sun while their big, cartoonish eyes gave them a look of sweet innocence. I took out my camera and climbed the rise to snap a couple of shots.
Inside the restaurant, Stella was hunched over the cash register counting receipts. She gave me a nod, saying, “Be with you in a sec.”
I jumped up on a stool near a couple of men wearing Granite Cove Ice Company uniforms. They were polishing off plates of fried calamari. Otherwise, the place was empty of diners.
Swiveling around, I checked out the bulletin board above the coat rack, looking for new entries. The board’s surface was covered with photos of Stella’s customers under the banner Our Regular Hogs. I scanned the familiar faces of those scarfing down sausage, eggs, and sweet fried dough. Needless to say, Attorney Spencer Farley was not among the so-called hogs.
Stella slammed the cash register drawer shut. “What can I do for you, Rose?”
“I was hoping to do a story on the pigs, and if Brandi’s around, I’d like to talk to her, as well.”
Stella shook her head. “The poor kid took that doctor’s death awful hard. She was so broke up I made her go inside and lie down. Just between you and me, I never put much stock in airing your dirty laundry to a stranger. Where I come from, you take your problems right to the source, our Savior Jesus Christ. You don’t need a third party to tell your business to.”
When I nodded, she went on. “I suppose it’s different for kids today. They grow up learning about these subjects in school, like psychology.” She rapped her knuckles on the counter. “Now you sit down here, and we’ll talk. You want a Coke? Coffee? How about a root beer float?”
“You know, I haven’t had a root beer float since high school. I didn’t know they still made them.”
She chuckled. “They don’t, but I do. Gimme a minute.”
I moved down and climbed up on a stool at the end of the counter. I watched her put ice cream, seltzer and syrup in an old-fashioned metal container that in our part of the country is called a frappe cup. After a steady blast from the soda nozzle, she stuck a straw inside and placed the container in front of me.
The first sip of vanilla and root beer transported me back to the Tick-Tock, a downtown luncheonette patronized by generations of high school kids until the fast food chains arrived. “It’s a dream. I’m spoiled for life, Stella.”
“That’s on me.” She untied her apron. “I got a few minutes before I get going on my American Chop Suey. What do you want to know?”
“I need a little background on those pigs of yours for the story. I took some great pictures outside. The light was perfect.”
“Good. While you’re at it, make sure you write down what’s gonna happen if anyone lays a hand on my pigs. I put up with it last year. It was supposed to be a big joke, one of my stolen pigs turning up at the wharf wearing a cap and gown. The high school kids had their fun. This year’s different. If they need to pull a prank, let ‘em go back to spray painting the horse’s hiney on that statue in the park.”
“The Homer Frost statue,” I said. “I’m afraid that’s pass?.” I took out my notepad. “You said the pigs came from Ohio, is that right?”
“Uh huh. Steubenville, Ohio, the home of Dean Martin.”
“How did you happen to acquire them? Were they in your family?”
“Nah, my family sold farm equipment secondhand. See, what happened was about three years ago I was driving down to visit my brother in Wheeling, West Virginia. It was late spring, and I was pushing it ‘cause I didn’t want to be driving on those roads after dark. Going through Steubenville, I passed an old amusement park all boarded up, kinda seedy looking. A sign out front said they were closed for good. I didn’t pay much attention. I was watching the road. At that hour there’s muskrats that’ll run right out in front of you.
“I’d just about passed the amusement park when out of the corner of my eye, I saw the pigs. The sun was setting at the time. They were all lit up and glowing like.”
She pursed her lips. “This is gonna sound strange coming from me. I’m not the type who’s impulsive. That’s why I can’t explain. It’s like someone took control of my steering wheel. I pulled over to the side of the road to get a better look at the pigs.
“They were behind a metal fence. I walked over to the entrance, but it was all locked up. On the sign there was a phone number that I copied down. Then I took another look and drove off.
“The next day I called the number from my brother’s house. I talked to someone who gave me another phone number. The man who answered said yes, he owned the pigs. When I asked if they were for sale, he hemmed and hawed. I figured he was surprised someone was interested in them. He gave me a load of bull crap about a company that owns a miniature golf place that might buy them.
“I knew he was blowing smoke up my wazoo, so I said give me a call when you know for sure. Then I hung up.
“That night I said a prayer. Those pigs meant a lot to me the minute I laid eyes on them. You might say they were the children I never had because God had other plans for me.
“Two days later the guy called, said he’ll sell me the pigs. My brother Gene thought I’d gone off the deep end buying three plastic pigs, each weighing at least a hundred pounds. I spent the rest of my vacation calling movers to haul them back to New England.”
“Where were you living at the time?” I asked.
“I was living in Kingston, New Hampshire and running a food concession at a race track nearby. I wasn’t making much money. Folks at a race track don’t want meatballs, sausage and peppers. They want beer. The concession’s lease was coming up for renewal, and I didn’t know what to do.
“While I was trying to make up my mind, a friend called. She had two tickets for a whale watch cruise out of Portsmouth and asked me to go. I had nothing better to do that day. I thought a day on the water would take my mind off things.” She rolled her eyes. “I learned the hard way that me and boats don’t mix.
“We weren’t out on the sea an hour before it started raining hard, so we all went down below to the galley. That
was worse, the rocking and tipping. I was about to lose my lunch. Someone told me to go up on deck, keep my eyes on the horizon.
“I wasn’t alone up there. Another passenger was at the railing puking his guts out. I told him to move over and joined him. After awhile we were starting to feel a little better. We got to talking, us two survivors in a storm. He said he was from Cape Ann and had a little restaurant in Granite Cove he was thinking about selling. He and his wife wanted to move to Daytona Beach to be near the grandkids.
“I told him my situation, how I was thinking of giving up my concession at the race track. He said why not come to Granite Cove and check out his place. The people there don’t want fancy food, he said. If you can cook, you can make a living.
“Long story short, I drove down and looked this place over.” She leaned on the counter and gazed around the room. “I knew me and my pigs had found our new home.”
“That’s beautiful, Stella. Sounds like you were destined to come here.”
She stood up. “You understand how I feel about this place. Wish I could say the same about Mayor Froggett and Chief Alfano. I warned them I’d take matters in my own hands if I had to. That’s the way we do it back in West Virginia.”
“What did they say?”
“They said ‘talk to your lawyer,’ so I did. I asked Mr. Farley why I couldn’t get my fence electrified to keep the little buggers out. He said I’d be liable if anyone got hurt.”
When she slammed a fist on the counter, I jumped. “Doesn’t that frost my ass! Some creep trespasses on my property, and I end up getting sued.”
“I’m sorry, Stella. That’s what we’ve come to. We’re a litigious society.”
“Cal Devine said I could lose my business if I set out traps. Honest, I’d pitch a tent outside if I knew what night they were gonna pull their idiot prank.”
“Probably the kids won’t even come here. Seems to me they’d be foolish to try it again, knowing you’re watching. Besides, you’ve got the police keeping an eye on the place. Not only that, I’ll write a story that’ll make them think twice.”
Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky Page 7
