Final Masquerade

by Cindy Davis

  "And he just laughed at you, right?"

  "Right. Why does he dislike women so much?"

  "That's a story that will take a week to tell you. We'll have to get together one of these days.” Polly slid a tray of flour-dusted dough circles into the oven, then brushed her hands on her long apron. “I confess, I never would have believed ... Well, anyway, what can I get for you this fine morning, new neighbor?"

  "A coffee and a couple of those beautiful cinnamon rolls you have cooling there. I could smell them a block away."

  Polly handed the rolls across the counter, still shaking her head in doubt. “Just never would have believed it."

  "Thanks, Polly. Have a terrific day.” Paige floated into the alley the same time as a small pickup backed up and stopped in front of the store. A man wearing denim farmer's pants and a flannel shirt greeted her. “I have some shelves for someone named Angela. Is that you?"

  Paige smiled. “Yes. Would you just prop them against this wall?"

  She unlocked the door with her shiny new key. It hadn't been hard to convince Max to make a copy. He knew it meant he wouldn't have to hurry to the store in the mornings. What was difficult was talking him into walking to the hardware store to make the new key. But, walk he did, grumbling at least until he was out the door.

  The carpenter arrived, clad in white from head to foot. He introduced himself as Dan the Man. She stifled the smile as well as she could and showed him what she hoped to accomplish. She pointed out the shelves she'd bought to save him time—and save Max money. He said he could start work in the morning and could stay two or three hours if he could come in at seven. Paige winced but agreed before he could renege. She knew from experience in Santa Barbara how hard it was to get a carpenter to work this quickly.

  "You must owe Quentin a big favor."

  "We go way back."

  The next day, while Dan the Man sawed, measured, cut, and nailed, Paige stood at the top of a stepladder, painting. Painting was another thing she'd never done before. Dan showed her how to hold and swing the brush, keeping streaks and lines to a minimum. Gradually the smoke stained wood took on a bright clean look. The beige paint and tan trim practically gleamed.

  At 11:30, Max arrived. He stood in the doorway watching the goings on with a look somewhere between a frown and a smirk. Polly appeared behind him carrying a large coffee and wax-coated bag, which she handed to him and ran back to find Paige.

  "I can't stay. I just had to come see what you were doing with the place,” she said.

  "No, you just wanted to check up on Max. Make sure he was still alive and in possession of his faculties!” Paige showed Polly the plans for the downstairs.

  "Wait just one cotton picking minute,” boomed Max, lumbering across the hardwood floor. “I only okayed $300 for this project."

  "It's going to be lovely.” Polly directed the next comment to Max. “You should have done this ten years ago.” Then to Paige, “I have to get back to the shop. I just wanted to see how things were going. Congratulations.” She patted Paige's arm.

  Polly said something to Max on her way past but Paige couldn't tell what it was, although she did hear his trademark grumble.

  "Dan, before you leave today, I want to show you my plans for the loft. It's very dark up there. I think a skylight or two..."

  "We aren't doing anything in the loft!” Max bellowed.

  Paige put an index finger to her lips. “It's all right, Max. We aren't doing anything up there until this floor is finished."

  "I said we aren't doing anything up there!” Max marched away. He slammed the door, shaking the place to the timbers.

  Paige shrugged at Dan, who rolled his eyes and climbed back up his ladder.

  While he hammered away, Paige divided her time between painting and her self-appointed task of sorting inventory. Much of what Max had collected over the years was junk: books with covers torn off, pages missing, mold, dust and mildew throughout.

  Amidst coughs and wheezes, she developed a system: haul a box to the attic window in front of which she'd made three piles—one for good to excellent, one for mediocre, and the last for rubbish. She knew the third would be the largest pile, and that she'd somehow have to sneak them past Max, sentried on his stool. He'd protect his stock at all costs and grumble, particularly when he had to pay the recycle man to haul them away, but...

  By the end of the following week several wonderful things had happened. Paige had moved into her new apartment where she spent hours staring out her windows, absorbing the peace of the surrounding city, holding the cat, and not thinking about Chris.

  Something Harry had conveniently forgotten to mention was that the cat came with the place. Paige balked at first, not wanting the responsibility of another being, but finding comfort in the soft tri-colored fur that followed her everywhere, even to bed, and who also provided a sounding board for her frustrations over Max's constant muttering and complaining. The cat, whom she named Spirit for the luck they'd both had in finding each other, purred and meowed in response to Paige's every comment, almost as though understanding that this human needed a friend as much as she did.

  The entire first level of the shop was now painted and shelves erected. Paige, having spent an entire evening devising a layout for the proper arrangement of the books, began to line the shelves. Customers straggled in. Some, who'd been there before, remarked repeatedly about the extraordinary changes in the place. Max's sour expression was occasionally replaced with a look akin to that of a lord attending his castle.

  But the most amazing event was the remarkable ‘find’ Paige made in the attic. Wrapped in protective paper, lying midway down a box of elementary school history books was Somebody's Darling by Larry McMurtry, a 1978 Simon & Schuster first edition.

  With sweaty palms Paige fumbled through the antiquated Huxfords Value Guide that Max had dug up somewhere. She read the details under the McMurtry, Larry heading, then excitedly turned her attention to the book itself, searching inside the cover for the dedication from the author to film director Peter Bogdanovich, his friend and collaborator. “Oh, it's here!” she exclaimed. “I can't believe this.” Paige had taken the volume downstairs and showed it to Max, who, for once, wasn't perched on his stool. She found him in the back talking to Dan.

  She sighed. Dan was a wonderful carpenter who showed up on time and worked cheaply, barely over the cost of materials. She couldn't afford for Max to alienate him with his grumbling and complaining and countermanding her requests.

  She ran up to the two men, who turned as if they'd thought they were entirely alone in the building. “Is everything all right?” she asked no one in particular.

  "Why shouldn't it be?” Max replied.

  "I just thought ... Oh, never mind. Look what I found."

  She handed the book to Max, who glanced quickly at the title, then just as quickly handed it back to her. “A western. So?"

  "Max, this western, as you so crudely refer to it, is worth at least five thousand dollars.” She waited for the numbers to sink into his whiskey soaked brain. When she detected a slight twitch in his cheek muscles, she continued, “Do you have a special cabinet with a lock that we can use to store books like this?"

  "Used to have."

  "Go see if you can find it, would you?"

  "Take all day,” he muttered, taking the book from her and looking it over more carefully.

  The shop door opened and a familiar voice called, “Hello."

  "Harry! Whatever brings you here? Just one second.” She gently took the book from Max, put her hand on his arm and steered him away from Dan, saying, “Please Max. Can you find the cabinet?"

  She tossed identical grins at Harry and the carpenter as they watched Max waddle to the storeroom, a room she still hadn't dared to enter.

  "Is there someplace we can talk?"

  The only spot where they could be alone was upstairs. “Did you find out anything from the impound people?” she asked when they stood before the tiny windo
w which looked out at Polly's bakery.

  "Took ‘em several days to get back to me but the truck is gone. They wouldn't tell me who picked it up or where it went."

  "So it's a dead end?"

  "Probably, though I'm thinking that if Chris himself didn't pick it up, it would still be there."

  "Unless,” she said softly, “he's dead and his family came to get it."

  Harry nodded and sat on a stack of boxes. “What I really came about is, I've been thinking about those gunshots. You have no way of knowing if they were shooting at you, or Chris, or whoever. You need a plan of escape to prevent what happened in the other towns."

  "A plan of escape? What's happened? Harry, you know something you're not telling me. I—"

  Harry put a palm in the air to shush her. “No, absolutely not. I was in court this morning on a domestic dispute and got to thinking about you."

  "Great. Domestic disputes bring me to mind."

  Harry smiled. “Believe me, there's a lot more that brings you to mind, but this is important. Can you come in next week sometime? I have quite a few ideas, but I need to run them past you before I can set anything into motion. Two things: the paperwork for your trust is almost ready, and I checked with impound. Chris’ truck was not towed in."

  "That's good, right?"

  Harry patted her arm. “Yes, I think that's good."

  After Harry left, Paige couldn't concentrate. Dan had gone. She called to Max, who was still entombed in the storeroom, “I'm taking a break for lunch."

  She listened, wondering if he'd decided to take a nap back there, but the crash of something heavy and a raspy-throated curse told her he was still working on the task she'd assigned to him. “Keep an eye out for customers. I'll be back in an hour."

  Paige breathed deeply of the crisp December air. Scents from Polly's shop mingled with that of the ever-present automobile fumes. The overcast sky threatened snow. It would be Paige's first Minnesota snowfall.

  * * * *

  Paige walked two blocks, to the deli. Her main objective for going here was The Golden Needle Fabric Shop, next door.

  Inside, she was greeted by the scents of fabric, dye, a wonderful apple/nutmeg potpourri just inside the entrance, and a jolly hello from the woman at the lone check out counter. Paige smiled absently as her eyes were drawn to the multitude of fabrics on circular racks along the length of the narrow little store with barely enough room to squeeze between. To the right, the wall was peppered with quilts in every color and description. A woman at the cutting table asked if she was a quilter.

  "I took a few classes back in Kansas City,” she said, running a palm over the rough nap of a blue seersucker. “I finished my first quilt top the other day. I've been looking for someone who could show me how to put it all together."

  "You've come to the right place. We have classes three nights a week. Would you like to sign up for the beginner's group?"

  Paige wrote her name on the signup sheet for class the following Monday and left the store with a fresh resolution to finish her quilt.

  She opened the door of Max's shop, noting that the musty aroma, so prevalent a few weeks ago, had been replaced by that of paint and fresh sawn lumber. She stood with her hands on her hips, proudly gazing over her creation.

  "Where the hell have you been? You said you'd only be gone an hour."

  "Don't tell me you were worried,” she said sarcastically, and then added, “Or, maybe you couldn't keep up with all the customers."

  Max grunted his way onto his stool.

  Paige glanced at her watch. “For your information, I've only been gone an extra ten minutes. Takes you longer than that in the bathroom. Besides, I don't get paid by the hour, and that's the first time I've stepped outside this building during business hours since I started here a month ago. Here's your lunch, ingrate."

  Paige slapped the bag on the counter and stormed to the small table in the new reading area. She ate in silence, reading the copy of Huxfords, making circles and notations on specific entries. Its cover was ragged and torn and it certainly was a subject destined for the trash bin, as soon as she could figure out how to get a newer copy. Then, a thought. The Internet. That librarian found all the information about book appraising right on that web site. It was at that moment Paige decided to buy a computer. She dialed the number for her hotel and asked to speak to Quentin.

  "Hi Quentin, it's Angela. You know, the actress? I have a question maybe you can help me with. You seem to have lots of friends and contacts, and you were the first person I thought of when I realized I needed a computer."

  Paige answered his questions about her computer literacy and requirements, and he said he'd get back to her as soon as he could.

  Max grabbed the receiver from her and flung it across the room. It clanged off a box of books waiting to be sorted. “What do you mean, we need a computer! How dare you..."

  "Don't start, Max."

  She turned and went back to her sandwich, but he wasn't through. He followed her, the fresh scent of whiskey overwhelming the small cubicle. “I allotted you only..."

  "Max, I have spent well over $500 getting this dump into shape and I haven't asked you for one red cent more than the $300 which you so grudgingly handed over."

  "What right do you have buying a computer without my say-so?"

  "Max, you'd better go back to your stool before I say something I'll regret."

  "Don't tell me what to do.” He whacked a fist against the shelf to his left. The pine board broke with a crack and several books tumbled to the floor.

  "Max!” she shouted. “Stop it!"

  "This is still my store and I can break it all to hell if I want to.” With that he pounded another shelf into oblivion.

  Paige rose, tipping over the table, her lunch landing on the floor. “Is that all this means to you, you drunken old fool?"

  Max didn't hear though. He shouted and yelled words that had nothing to do with the situation. Paige threw on her coat, grabbed her purse and ran from the store, slamming the door hard enough to bring Polly running to her front window.

  Paige ran the two blocks to her apartment, tears chasing a path through her makeup.

  * * * *

  Keeping her fingers busy with her quilt, provided the solace she needed. For four days Paige sat on the Berber carpet with it spread out before her, Spirit curled up in the center, purring contentedly. “What a life you animals have,” Paige said as she basted the three layers together with large stitches, having learned this technique at her very first class the previous Monday evening.

  The cat lifted heavy-lidded eyes and returned a feline response. Suddenly Paige knew her agenda for the following day. She picked up the phone and dialed Nina's number. Nina squealed hearing Paige's greeting.

  "Oh my God! It's so nice to hear from you. I sorta expected it after receiving that package in the mail. I hoped you'd be around to pick it up. Where are you, hon?"

  Paige grimaced at the term ‘hon'. She'd never even allowed Stefano to call her that. “I'm right here in Minneapolis."

  Another squeal. After that, Paige had to struggle to understand Nina's mile-a-minute chatter. “I can't wait to see you. Do you want to come here? Or, no, I can come to you. Where are you staying? What time—"

  Paige interrupted the high-pitched monologue. “Nina, calm down."

  A deep breath came from the other end. “Okay, I'm sorry. It's just that it's been years since we've seen each other. I ... I've changed quite a bit."

  The last part came out as a sort of apology to which Paige felt obligated to reply. “We've all changed."

  "Yes, I guess we have. So, what do we do now?"

  "Want company?"

  Another deep breath and Paige braced herself for the squeal that never came. “You want to come here? That would be great. You can meet my family—well, not John because he's at work, but the kids are here."

  "Tell me how to get there."

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&
nbsp; Thirty-five

  The cross-town bus stopped three blocks from John and Nina Smith's tract house. Paige wrapped her jacket tighter against the lake breeze that stirred up fallen leaves along the sidewalk.

  Two children waited on the toy-strewn front lawn of the tiny green ranch house. They stared as she approached. When she took a single hesitant step onto the walkway, one of them screeched, “She's here! Mommy, she's here."

  Nina met her at the front door, wearing a mile-wide smile and green flour-smudged apron. She draped her arms around Paige's shoulders while three children clamored around their legs. Finally, Nina held her back at arms’ length. “You look fabulous. The years have been kind to you. Or, did you go in for all that plastic surgery stuff?"

  Paige smiled remembering the blunt openness of her effusive friend.

  "Come to the kitchen. I've put on a pot of coffee. You still drink coffee, don't you?” Without waiting for an answer, she bubbled on, “These are my children.” She flattened a palm on top of each head as she introduced them. “KatieJo is the oldest. She's seven now. This here's Erica. She's five and a half."

  "I'm almost six,” came a voice beneath a passel of blonde curls.

  Nina patted the top of the six-year-old's head. “And this is Drew, David, and Allen, four, three, and two respectively. “Now, I want you all to go play in your rooms while Mommy gets reacquainted with her friend, whom she hasn't seen in sooo long.” The kids left in a stampede of rustling nylon. As an afterthought, Nina hollered, “And hang up your coats."

  Nina presented a two-hour long monologue, a testament to a happily married life. Now and again, the children made appearances, showing off some coloring or a wad of clay they'd shaped into an unrecognizable creature. Paige expressed endless compliments to the children, and to Nina. This housewife and homemaker thing might just be something she could get used to. She pictured her and Chris’ children and the tears almost came again. Chris was gone. Maybe dead. All because of her.

  "Earth to Paige. Is anyone in there?"

  Paige roused herself. “Did you say something?"