Knickers in a Twist

by Kim Hunt Harris

  I wasn't sure I did get her meaning, but I felt fairly certain she ought to keep that one in her pocket around Imogene Hall. “Just remember that you're not over there, you're over here.”

  Viv groaned and shook her head. “Don't remind me.”

  The doors slid open and Viv marched down the hall, me hurrying in her wake to keep up.

  The meeting appeared to be already in progress, but Viv marched in and slid into a seat like she belonged there, nodding to me to take an empty chair across from her. “Sorry, we had to take the lift to get down here on time. Cock-up at the front office.”

  I couldn't help it, I yelped a little laughter again.

  Viv looked at me. “I know, right? That one isn't as bad as it sounds, either.” She slid her portfolio onto the table. “Okay now, where were we?”

  Imogene Hall frowned at her. “We weren't anywhere. We—” She circled the table with her hand, indicating the entire Nigel fan club. “—were putting the finishing touches on a project we've been working on for months. Then you two walked in.”

  “I told you,” Viv said with exaggerated patience, “there was a cock-up at the front office. Now, what kind of refreshments are there? Because I know some people who make a smashing red punch and a spread of finger foods that will put a smile on anyone's face. Perhaps even a tray of biscuits.” She smirked. “And of course, by biscuits I mean the kind that are actually cookies, not the kind with gravy. And, I would be happy to underwrite that expense.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. Not that I didn't know it already, but Viv was clearly smitten. She didn't volunteer to underwrite very much.

  “The refreshments are covered,” Imogene said.

  “Excellent. Speakers?”

  “Covered.”

  “Press? Advertisement?”

  “Covered. Now if you would please let us get back to work...”

  “Actually,” Anne said, raising a tentative hand. “We were still working out the details about press coverage.” She turned to Viv. “Bea Nance used to always have her nephew cover the story, but since she died and he moved away, we are in need of some promotional assistance.”

  Viv slapped a hand on the table. “Done! I have a very good friend who happens to be an anchor at Channel 11. I'll give her a call.” She glanced over to Nigel to see if he was suitably impressed.

  He appeared to have tuned out of the entire meeting.

  Not to be deterred, Viv turned to him. “Nigel, I heard you were making a presentation. How exciting! I am fascinated by stories of our heroes in the sky.” She batted her false eyelashes.

  “Yes, well, I intend to do my best, of course. I'm just one man out of thousands who served.”

  “You're very humble.” Viv gave him a beneficent nod. “Per ardua, ad astra!” She saluted and said, “That’s the RAF motto. Did y’all know that?”

  The Gaggle remained silent. Nigel cleared his throat.

  “What about the Baucum Local Hero award?” one of the Nigel fans asked. “Does anyone know yet who it's going to be?”

  One of The Gaggle gave a delicate snort and another said, “Nobody this year.”

  “Maybe nobody next year, too, or ever again.”

  Anne looked confused. “But why? It's such a great tradition.” She turned to Nigel. “It really does your heart good to hear about the wonderful things being done in our community.”

  “Good luck with that now,” the one who had snorted said. “Just mention the name Baucum and people fall immediately into a battle stance. Either they're horrified that the grandson destroyed the Baucum name, or they're incensed at that young reporter for—”

  As if this was a cue in a play, the table erupted.

  “Well, he did drag everything Donald Baucum built for years right down to the ground in one—”

  “That reporter was out for blood and he didn't care where it came from—”

  “It's heartbreaking, no matter whose side you're on. I heard the poor woman would have to move out—”

  “Enough!” Imogene slapped her leather planner on the table with a loud whap! “We are here to plan an event! I will not allow this time to degenerate into a hysterical gossip session!” She glared at Viv.

  Viv, making no attempt to hide her self-satisfied smile, drew her head back and lifted her hands in a “Who, me?” gesture. In her defense, she hadn't said or done anything to set this particular frenzy in motion.

  Collectively, The Gaggle shrank back into their chairs and gave Imogene looks that vacillated between fear and resentment. Anne looked confused. Imogene looked annoyed. Viv looked happy.

  Nigel looked like he wanted to get out of there. “Sounds like we're ready to wrap this up, then?” He stood with a half bow toward Imogene.

  Imogene frowned again—or maybe it was just that she never stopped—but even she didn't contradict Nigel. She pointed at Viv. “I want the plans for media coverage in writing, in my hands by the close of business on Wednesday.”

  Viv saluted her sharply. “Tally ho!” Then she stood and nodded to the table at large. “Cheers, mates!”

  As we filed out, I said—perhaps more loudly than strictly necessary, but I did want to get it out there— “Okay, now we're going to garden, right? I mean, I put on my grubbiest clothes for this.” Although that wasn't precisely true. I had way grubbier clothes than what I was wearing.

  “Are you kidding? You just heard the Govnah, right? We're going by Channel 11 and lining up our media coverage, or else I'll be court martialed.”

  “And then we'll garden?”

  “And then we'll garden. You're very keen on this gardening, aren't you? Very keen, indeed.”

  “What's that from?”

  “I heard it on Downton Abbey. One of the below-stairs group. I like it, don't you?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, it's cool.”

  Chapter Four

  The Fascinator

  The receptionist at the Channel 11 studio gave me a quick up-and-down look as Viv and I walked through, taking in my getup. Then she looked over to Viv's polished shoes and sharp suit.

  “Oooh, snazzy,” she said, with a nod toward Viv's sparkly Union Jack shirt.

  Viv struck a model pose, tucking the jacket back with one hand on her thrust-out hip, nose in the air, and her cheeks sucked in.

  “Y'all here to see Patrice?”

  “That's right.” Viv straightened.

  “She's in her office. You can only stay a few minutes, though. Her husband has asked me to limit her disruptions.”

  “No problem. Cheers.”

  The receptionist wrinkled her brow and checked Viv's hand for a glass she'd missed.

  “That's British for thanks,” I said as I followed Viv through the swinging door.

  “Oh, okay. Well...cheers!” She waved.

  Trisha was back in her office with her feet propped up, reading from typed pages. “Hey, you two,” she said when I tapped on her door. “Come in.”

  “I'm in charge of making sure we have media coverage of the Veterans Day ceremony at Belle Court,” Viv said without preamble, plopping down in the chair across from Tri-Patrice's desk. “Can you take care of that for me?”

  “I can put someone on it.”

  “Thanks. The drill sergeant who's heading up the committee wants it in writing. I assume she doesn't need it notarized.” She rolled her eyes.

  “I can have them put something on station letterhead if that helps.” She picked up her phone and spoke into it. By the time she put it down, everything appeared to be on its way to being taken care of.

  “Can you be there?” Viv asked. “And interview me?”

  “Sorry, I can't be there myself. But I can ask Misty to interview you. What's your connection to the war?”

  “I want to impress a bloke at Belle Court.”

  Trisha cast a quick raised-eyebrow glance at me.

  “It's true,” I said. “It's that British guy I was telling you about. He flew Spitwads in the war.”

  “That's not funny.�
� Viv game me a disgusted look. “Spitfires. Little planes. He was a war hero. You need to show some respect.”

  “Sorry,” I said, feeling kind of sorry for the disrespect but happy that I'd gotten Viv's goat, since it was her fault I was walking around looking like a vagrant while she looked like she'd just stepped out of Retired British Model Magazine. “Spitfires. He is handsome,” I allowed.

  Tri-Patrice appeared to be trying to frame a question to mitigate its rudeness. “He lives at Belle Court?”

  “That's right,” Viv said. “In the new cottages, on the north side of the complex.”

  “Aren't those independent living? He must be doing really well if he's old enough to be a Spitfire pilot and still able to live independently.”

  “Oh, believe me, he's still got everything going on.”

  I looked at her. “Everything? And you know this for a fact?”

  “Indubitably,” she said.

  “And how do you know this for a fact?”

  “A woman knows, Salem,” Viv said. She rolled her eyes. Clearly, she'd had enough of my attitude.

  “I see.” I raised my eyebrows at Trisha, and she hid a smile.

  “Just for your information, he actually lied about his age and his ability to fly. He was so keen on becoming a pilot that he ran away from home at fourteen and pretended to be a janitor on the base where they trained the pilots. He listened and snuck in after dark to read their textbooks. He hid behind corners and listened to the lectures, and he snuck into the planes while everyone was asleep and learned where all the controls were.”

  “Wow,” Tri-Patrice said. “That is a story. I'll ask Misty to interview him.”

  “Just make sure he knows that I'm the one who got you to do it. I'll introduce Misty to him, in fact. Set up some face time.”

  Tri-Patrice nodded. “You do that.” She picked up the phone and told whoever was on the other end to add Misty Monahan to the story on Sunday.

  Someone tapped on her door and it opened a crack. It was the camera girl we’d seen with Misty Monahan on Tuesday night.

  “Yes, Jessica?” Trisha asked.

  “The video’s ready, they’re just changing up some of the music.”

  “Go ahead and upload it to the server. I want to look at it.”

  Jessica closed the door and Trisha gave us a flat smile. “They're working on the tribute video to Peter.”

  She waited a few seconds, then clicked on the video file. She turned the monitors and scooted her chair so Viv and I could stand behind her and watch it.

  The video opened with Peter sitting at the anchor desk, talking to Trisha and Tom, his white teeth flashing in a slow-motion laugh. Pictures slid slowly one by one: Peter holding a microphone out to an interview subject. Peter laughing with a group of school kids on a field trip to the station. Peter with his pregnant wife, holding a black and white sonogram photo. Peter, somber and contemplative as the sun set behind him. The entire KBST news team at a picnic somewhere, wearing their matching blue polo shirts. Lots of slow-motion laughing, hugging, a tug-of-war game, Peter holding up a plate filled with hot dogs, grinning triumphantly. Another picture of him and his wife at a gender reveal party. Fade to black as the music fades out.

  “That's so sad,” I said.

  Trisha cleared her throat and reached for a tissue. “I still can't believe it. It's just...it doesn't feel real.”

  “Have they said yet what happened to him?” Viv asked.

  “They're not saying. But it's very suspicious. I mean, he was young and healthy. What reason could there be for him to lie down under a mesquite tree and die?”

  “We have it on good authority that he was wrestling with demons,” Viv said.

  Tri-Patrice looked at her. “What? Where did you hear that?”

  “Come on, Patrice. We share a code of ethics. We can't reveal our sources.”

  “There's a psychic out at G-Ma's new shopping center that had a vision,” I told her.

  Viv glared at me.

  “You're the one who has me running all over town in my very shabbiest clothes while you look like Rich Retiree Barbie,” I said, lifting my shoe to show Trisha. “You have only yourself to blame.”

  “The thing is,” Viv said through gritted teeth, turning back to Trisha. “we just don't know, do we? What demons, exactly, could he have been wrestling with?”

  “You know that could mean anything, right? I mean, they weren't actual demons. She probably meant demons like we wrestle with.”

  Viv and I had met at AA. We knew from demons.

  “Or, it could mean an actual bad guy. Or bad guys. Don't underestimate the power of the prophetic vision, Salem. There are things in this world we're not meant to fully understand.”

  “Well, I'm leaning toward the actual bad guy theory, to be honest.” Trisha shifted in her chair and put her feet up. “Peter Browning was at the top of his game. He had job interviews scheduled with stations in big markets: Houston, Atlanta, Chicago. He was getting all kinds of attention for the reports he was doing on the fracking-related earthquakes. His star was on the rise, for sure. And you know his wife is pregnant. He was all excited about the baby. He had no reason to be wrestling with inner demons.”

  “That's all about how stuff looks from the outside, though. You never know what's going on in a person's private life. Some people are good at presenting the perfect facade when their life is quietly going off the rails.”

  Not me, of course. Anybody could spot my own personal train wreck from forty paces. But that was one of the things that surprised me most from my AA meetings—some people really had the outside figured out.

  “Well, I know there were some police officers who didn't seem exactly sad about Browning's death.”

  Trisha frowned. “That doesn't surprise me. He made some enemies with that Space Cop story.”

  “The Lubbock PD are not demons Peter was wrestling with,” I insisted. “Seriously.”

  Trisha sighed and shook her head. “I'm sure you're right. The truth is, he had quite a few enemies. After David Baucum's death, his popularity took a real hit. There was even some talk that Baucum's death should be laid at Peter's feet, but that's just...” She waved a hand. “That's just stuff people say. Monday morning quarterbacking. Everyone has an opinion.”

  “That's true,” Viv said, giving an 'utterance of wisdom' nod of her silver curls.

  “Wait, what? Who's Baucum?”

  “David Baucum, the architect who designed that elementary school that collapsed.” Viv looked at me. “Where have you been?”

  “He was actually an engineer,” Trisha corrected to my instant satisfaction. “He didn't design the building, he did the soil report that the architects and engineers based the building design on. Salem, we ran parts of that interview five or six different times. You never saw any of it?”

  “Oh, that Baucum,” I said. I vaguely remembered a middle-aged guy's leering face imposed over a collage of a collapsed building and ambulance pictures.

  “Anyway, after Baucum died, some people said that Peter had been too hard on him, but that's just how people are—everyone knows how everyone else should be doing their jobs. The vast majority of comments I read were that Peter was a hero who exposed corruption, and Baucum got exactly what he deserved. I can promise, whatever demons Peter was wrestling with, regret over those stories was not among them. He was getting ready to ride that train to the big time.”

  “So, jog my memory. How did Baucum die? Did they ever say?”

  “Overdose. Accidental, supposedly. I heard it was alcohol and Ambien. He'd been drinking a lot since the firm closed. I heard several stories of him being berated in public, attacked practically, for that little girl being crippled.”

  Now that part of the story I did remember. When the earthquake hit, a little girl had been crushed by a falling wall in the new cafeteria. She'd survived, but would never walk again. I'd read all about it online. I'd even given to her GoFundMe campaign.

  “That re
minds me,” Trisha said, turning to Viv. “They always present the Baucum Local Hero award at that Veterans Day ceremony. What's going on with that?”

  “Nothing, apparently,” I said, happy to have something to contribute to the conversation, thanks to The Gaggle.

  “They're just going to skip it?” Trisha raised her eyebrows. “Wow.”

  I shrugged. “Looks like.”

  “That's the talk, anyway,” Viv said. “But I'll see if I can get confirmation on that.”

  “Please do. I'd like to give Misty a heads-up if there's a scoop she needs to be watching out for.”

  Fortunately, Veterans Day was on a Sunday so there were a couple of things I didn't have to worry about. One was that we would get a rush of dogs to groom and I would miss the ceremony entirely. The second was that I would have to go in my grooming clothes. Since I was already dressed nice for church, I was all set. I wore my current best dress to church and gave another little prayer of gratitude for the fifteen-pound weight loss. The last time I'd worn this dress, my ample hips had been uncomfortably emphasized by the chevron pattern. Now the thing draped a little more like it should.

  At Belle Court, I opened Viv's door and said, “Knock knock.”

  “It's open, obviously.”

  She wasn't in the living room or dining room, so I sat and prepared to wait. “The room is filling up down there,” I called toward the bedroom, where I assumed she was primping. “You'd better hurry if you want to get a seat.”

  “Almost done.”

  A few seconds later, she came out wearing a lavender pencil skirt with a black satin button-down shirt and black pumps. Pinned to the side of her white head was a black and lavender...hat? I supposed it was a hat. It was a small purple box with black ribbons and black mesh ruffling out from it.

  “What do you think?” she asked with a wide grin, tilting the hat in my direction. “It's called a fascinator. It's an exact replica of one Princess Kate wore to the Royal Ascot races last year.” She dropped into a curtsy, then winked at her reflection.

  “You know what? That's actually pretty awesome.” I stepped close and looked at it. It did look rather fetching against her silver hair. So what if she was going to be the only person within two thousand miles to wear a “fascinator?”