by Joan Hess
“Wasn’t it a lovely ceremony?” said Elsie McMay.
I nodded, but it seemed more was required of me as Elsie caught my arm and dragged me out of the flow. “Lovely,” I said weakly, “and Dahlia certainly made a … large bride. I need to run along now.”
“Your mother was acting awfully peculiar, wasn’t she? I don’t know when I’ve seen her seconds shy of being late for a wedding, and then to look like she dressed in the dark. Did she hear bad news about kinfolk? Did that cousin of hers in Texarkana finally die and leave her something?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure we’ll all hear the details.” I squirmed free and fled to the front lawn. As far as I could tell, there had been no explosion of crime in Maggody, Arkansas, during the last hour. Then again, a goodly portion of the seven hundred fifty-five residents had been at the wedding. The rest of them were doing what they usually did, which wasn’t much of anything. The hippies who owned the Emporium Hardware Store were out back unloading crates. A drunk was slumped in the doorway of the pool hall down the road, oblivious to the hound sniffing at his shoe with wicked intentions. A car was parked in front of Roy Stiver’s antique store, above which I resided in grimy, isolated splendor in what was quaintly called an efficiency apartment. Catty-corner to that, the redbricked PD sat serenely in the midst of its weedy, unpaved parking lot, the yellow gingham curtains flapping in the autumn breeze.
I headed for it to check for messages from the dispatcher in the sheriff’s office. After I’d assured her that it had been a lovely ceremony, she made it clear that nobody had anything to convey to the Maggody chief of police (being me) and most likely wouldn’t anytime soon, since the sheriff had gone fishing and the deputy left in charge had started a poker game in the locker room.
Which was okay with me. I settled back in my cane-bottomed chair, propped my feet on the corner of the desk, and allowed myself the minor pleasure of replaying the highlights of the wedding ceremony. The demands of my position were typically no more rigorous than this, although we’d had a few upsets since I’d slunk back home to sulk after a nasty divorce. Back home from Manhattan for those unschooled in Maggodian lore, and within shouting range of my mother, the infamous Rubella Belinda Hanks. Not that she shouted all that much; she preferred oblique barbs about my appearance being dowdy enough to put off any man worth his mettle, about my disinclination to socialize with same, and particularly about my smart mouth and woeful lack of respect—especially when she and Estelle went out of their way to help me solve crimes. Lucky me.
She was shouting this time, however, as the door banged open and she whirled into the room like a dust devil. “You ain’t gonna believe this! I couldn’t believe my eyes, and I had to get out my glasses to make sure of what it said!” She banged down an envelope and put her hands on her hips. Everything about her was atwitter, from her suspiciously blond curls to her grandmotherly face and short, stubby body. She looked like a respectable matron of some fifty odd years (the precise number was an issue of debate), but there was something about her that kept the would-be rowdies at the bar and grill—and yours truly—leery of pushing her beyond some hazy limit.
I cautiously picked up the envelope and noted the return address. Prodding, Polk and Fleecum Marketing Associates had a Madison Avenue office, the location not too far from where my ex had toiled with clients during the day and embroiled with female friends in the evenings. Only in retrospect had I realized his office was the only one equipped with a sofa bed.
“Why’re they writing you?” I asked, not yet courageous enough to take out the letter.
“Because I won a contest, that’s why.” Ruby Bee snatched the envelope from me, pulled out the letter, and made a major production of squinting and blinking at it, no doubt aware that she’d gotten me curious and was in a position to make me suffer.
“That’s nice,” I said with a yawn. “It was a lovely ceremony, don’t you think? Dahlia’s dress must have taken twenty yards of fabric, but—”
“A national cookoff contest, if you must know. I read about it in one of my magazines and upped and decided to enter just as a lark. I used my chocolate chip bundt cake recipe, the one you get all slobbery over, and just threw in a cup of Krazy KoKo-Nut so it’d qualify.”
“A cup of what?”
Ruby Bee shot me a look meant to discourage jocularity. “Krazy KoKo-Nut. It’s this nasty stuff made from soybeans that’s supposed to taste like real coconut. I wouldn’t use it if you paid me, but the contest rules said your recipe had to have KoKo-Nut in it, along with your three proofs of purchase. I thought about giving the flakes to Raz to feed his sow, but I figured he’d be madder ’n a coon in a poke if she got a belly ache. You know, I’m beginning to wonder if there isn’t something a mite unhealthy about that relationship …”
“So what did you win?”
“An all-expense-paid trip to Noow Yark City to compete in the cookoff a month from now. It’s for me and a companion, and the KoKo-Nut people are paying for the airplane and the hotel where we’ll be staying right smack in the middle of Manhattan.” She puffed up just a bit, and she made me wait a good ten seconds before she continued. “There’ll be cocktail parties and a press conference, and when the winner’s announced, the president hisself of Krazy KoKo-Nut presents the ten-thousand-dollar grand prize.”
My resolve cracked, and I croaked, “Tell me you’re making this up, Ruby Bee. Please, tell me this is a joke.”
“It’s all in this letter, every blessed word of it.”
I held out my hand, trying not to whimper. “May I read it?”
“Thought you wanted to talk about Dahlia’s wedding dress and wasn’t-it-a-lovely ceremony? You, missy, can suit yourself. I got more important things to do, like shopping and packing and practicing my recipe.” She flapped the letter at me as she left.
“You’ve got your maps?” Eilene Buchanon said as she bent down to peer through the car window. “You just be sure and stick to the route I drew, and don’t go gallivanting off on some side road that’s likely to deadend in a swamp. And call collect every other night, and don’t talk to strangers, and be sure and keep an eye on the gas tank, and—”
“Ma!” Kevin protested. “I am a married man now, and you can’t treat me like a kid anymore. I aim to take care of my bride in a befittin’ manner.”
His bride belched softly from the passenger’s side. “That wedding cake sure was tasty, wasn’t it? Come on, Kevvie, we got to get started. Just imagine going to Niagara Falls on our honeymoon! I can’t think of anything more romantic.” She belched again, dreamily and with a look of bovine contentment that made Kevin feel like a frontiersman in buckskin.
“Mrs. Kevin Fitzgerald Buchanon,” he said as he patted her hamlike thigh while stealing a peek at her wondrously pendulous breasts—his to have and to hold from this day forward.
Earl came out of the house and thrust a sack at Kevin. “Here’s some cans of oil in case you run low. Make sure you check it every time you gas up, along with the water in the radiator, the tire pressure, and the fan belt. This ol’ heap’s on its last legs.”
“I can handle it, Pa,” Kevin said in his Daniel Boone voice. After all, he and his goddess were setting forth into the wilderness, in a manner of speaking. Neither of them had ever been farther north than Springfield, Missouri, and that had been in a rusty blue church bus with the choir. This was different. This was an adventure … a love quest.
“Do you have a sweater?” asked Eilene. “It might be chilly at night, and you don’t want to run the risk of getting sick in some unknown place so far from—”
Kevin cut her off with a steely look. “Good-bye, Ma and Pa. My wife and I are leaving now.” He glanced at the object of his adoration. “Are you ready, woman?”
“I might just visit the little girls’ room one more time. That pineapple sherbert punch was so good I couldn’t seem to get enough of it.”
Thus the wagon master was obliged to lower his whip and listen to his ma for anot
her ten minutes before he was finally allowed to round ’em up and ride ’em out, rawhide.
Geri Gebhearn was finding it increasingly difficult to read through the file, since the words were distorted by the tears that filled her eyes and tumbled down her cheeks to linger on her chin and then plop like gentle rain upon the page beneath.
An outsider would be perplexed to see this display of unhappiness in such a pretty young woman, dressed in discreetly expensive clothing, her short dark hair expertly styled to draw attention from her square jaw and emphasize her exceptionally large (although currently watery) brown eyes. Her body was sleek and slender, her jewelry not one carat less than twenty-four, and her keys to an Upper East Side condo and a forest green Mercedes tucked in her hand-sewn leather briefcase beside her desk.
Her desk was in a spacious office on the twenty-seventh floor of a Madison Avenue building, and although the view was not intriguing, it was hardly the interior of an airshaft. On the opposite side of the door was a gloomy yet competent secretary who took dictation, juggled meetings, winnowed calls, picked up Geri’s dry cleaning, and made reservations at chic restaurants. She came in at nine and left at five, and she never cried.
“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” Geri muttered, not at the splattered file but at the framed photograph of a handsome young man. Like her, he was perfect—except for his sudden desire to date some slutty girl he’d met in Barbados whose father owned a dumb insurance company in Providence.
She turned the photograph face down and tried to pay attention to the work at hand. It was utterly absurd to have this dropped in her lap like a chunk of plaster from the ceiling; she’d been out of college for less than four months and was only beginning to feel able to make valuable contributions during the interminable meetings. Now that beastly Scotty Johanson had betrayed her, all she wanted to do was go home to Hartford and … No, not home to Hartford, where Mother would insist the best cure for a broken heart was participation in whatever charity fund-raiser most recently had begged for her renowned expertise. To the summer house on Cape Cod, where she could lie on the wicker chaise lounge, paint her fingernails black, and drown out her sorrows with Tab.
But noooo. Her boss had walked in not two hours ago, told her she was to handle the KoKo-Nut account, and walked right out on his way to LaGuardia and some Caribbean island. As if she could just cancel her hair appointment and her lunch with Giselle, as if her late afternoon aerobics class was inconsequential, as if she had nothing better to do than immerse herself in the marketing of some product that, from what was mentioned in the photocopied ads in the folder, consisted of synthetics. Geri hated synthetics (with the exception of rayon, of course). She hated her boss, she hated her secretary, she hated her father for making her work while everyone else was at the club playing tennis, and she hated Scotty Johanson for being such a low-down, devious, horny bastard.
Her hand trembled as she picked up the receiver and punched for an outside line. Daring him to answer, she dialed her ex-fiancé’s number. She was disappointed when the machine clicked on and a sultry female voice repeated the number and invited her to leave a message at the sound of the beep.
“I’m delighted you and your new friend have become intimate so quickly,” Geri purred. “But from what I’ve heard of her, I’m not totally surprised. I left a tortoiseshell brush in the bathroom. Be a sweetheart and pop it in the mail, and please make every effort to have a really nice day.”
She replaced the receiver, dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, and glared at the next page in the folder. Not only would she be obliged to deal with synthetics, she would have to deal with people of uncertain backgrounds. Five of them, to be precise, and all under her immediate supervision to participate in a cooking contest. For three days.
She hit the intercom button. “Meredith, cancel my hair appointment and the lunch reservations, and try to catch Giselle before she leaves the gallery. Oh, and get my mother on the line so I can let her know I won’t be home this weekend. Mr. Fleecum has simply ruined the next month of my life.”
“Yes, Miss Gebhearn. There’s a Kyle Simmons on the line to speak to you. Shall I put him through?”
“I cannot take any calls the rest of the day. Mr. Fleecum’s notes are indecipherable, and the contest is next month. I suppose I’d better run down my liaison at the KoKo-Nut office and—”
“Mr. Simmons is from that office,” Meredith interrupted without inflection. “He says he’s from promotion.”
“Then put him through,” Geri said crossly, “and don’t forget to cancel everything.” She drummed her fingers on the desk while various clicks and buzzes came through the line, mentally cursing Mr. Fleecum for his treachery.
“Miss Gebhearn?” said a male voice with no hint of upper-class nasality. “This is Kyle Simmons at KoKo-Nut. I suppose I’m the … well, just yesterday I was assigned to this contest thing. I was given your name and told to …” His shrugs and grimaces were almost audible; his gulps were.
She was not in the mood for charity. “I’m very busy, Mr. Simmons. What is your point?”
“We’re supposed to coordinate the contest. I mean, your marketing firm is in charge, but I’m representing our company and sort of overseeing things.” He cleared his throat unhappily. “I’ll present the prize at the end.”
Geri shuffled through the stack of papers. “According to what’s here, the president of KoKo-Nut is going to be doing that very chore. It’s so very kind of you to offer, Mr. Simmons, but we’ll just pass on that. The media will respond so much better to …” An articulate adult, she concluded to herself.
“That would be my father, and last night he suddenly announced he had to take a business trip. I’m afraid you’re sort of stuck with me.”
“Then I guess I am, Mr. Simmons,” Geri said, attempting to insert a note of enthusiasm and failing miserably. “My boss just gave me the account this morning, and I’m still trying to sort it out. Why don’t I give you a call later in the week and we can set up a meeting to review the initial plans?”
There was a long silence, during which she could hear him breathing over the background clatter of the city. “I was … I was thinking we could do it sooner than that,” he said.
“Fine, Mr. Simmons, we’ll schedule it for”—she consulted her calendar—“the day after tomorrow, say tennish?”
“I’m in the lobby of your building.”
It was a good thing the secretary could not see Geri’s expression, which was not at all appropriate for a Vassar graduate from a very good family whose mother, at that precise moment, was mailing embossed invitations to a gala for Opera Relief.
“How very clever of you, Mr. Simmons. Please come right up and we’ll get started immediately.” She replaced the receiver and began to flip through the pages in the folder, wishing she’d done so earlier instead of obsessing over Scotty and the slut. Now her eyes were pink, and she would be facing the client with unsightly splotches on her cheeks and hair that was days overdue for a trim.
When the door opened, she finished the page before looking up with a coolly professional smile. It faltered as she took in Kyle Simmons, the scion of Krazy KoKo-Nut, Incorporated, but her years of cotillion training served her well.
“Please sit down,” she murmured, gesturing at the chair across from her desk. “Would you care for coffee?”
Kyle Simmons hesitated in the doorway. He was in his late twenties, but he had less poise (and more gawkiness) than a junior high school boy who had never dared glance below a girl’s collar. His face was small and angular, with a pointy chin and recessed eyes that were blinking as if he were in a sandstorm. Thin dark hair was slicked down like a glittery skullcap. His overcoat was rumpled, and his tie quite the wrong color for his shirt. On the other hand, Geri instinctively noted, his watch was outrageously expensive, his briefcase was more expensive than hers, his shoes were Italian, and his suit had never hung on a rack.
“Please sit down,” she said, then waited until he�
�d done so and repeated her invitation for coffee. He shook his head with such alarm that she toyed, albeit briefly, with the idea of offering him a soda pop and a cookie. “Well, then,” she continued, “I’ve only had the account a few hours, but I think I have a grasp of the immediate concern, which, of course, is the contest a month from now.”
“Next week.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Simmons, but—”
“Kyle. Call me Kyle.”
“Then I beg your pardon, Kyle, but the contest is four weeks from tomorrow. Two of the finalists have sent their acceptances. As for the other three, it might be expedient to fax them some sort of formal—”
“The contest is next week, Miss Gebhearn, and I have the updated list of finalists in my briefcase.” He opened it and began to dig through its contents. Slips of paper fluttered to the floor, along with gum wrappers, laundry receipts, and a very brown apple core. He at last surfaced with a page ripped from a notebook. “Good, here it is. I suppose you’d better have a copy run off so you can contact everybody about the new date.”
“Next week?” Geri glared at him, her exceptionally large brown eyes narrowed to reptilian slits. “That’s impossible. I only received the account—”
“The Krazy KoKo-Nut cookoff is to begin on Tuesday.”
“But I can’t possibly organize it in less than a week. This is ridiculous, simply ridiculous. I’d prefer at least six months, but I’m willing to do it in one.” She hit the intercom button. “Meredith, see if you can catch dear Mr. Fleecum at LaGuardia. Have him paged and say it’s an emergency.”
“His flight left ten minutes ago, Miss Gebhearn.”
“Don’t sound so damn pleased!” Geri leaned back in her chair and tried to pretend it was the chaise lounge on the deck of the summer house.
