by Paula Boyd
Yeah, okay, what? My mind that had been so jazzed on the dream thing was now turning to fuzz, and it sounded as stupid to me as it probably did to him. Calvin was into photography. So what? "This photo thing is important. I know it is. It woke me up, for Pete’s sake."
"Did he take pictures for the yearbook?"
"He wasn’t on the staff, no, but sometimes people just brought things in. He never gave me anything directly, I don’t think, but he could have. Geez, Jerry, I just don’t remember. But this is important, right?"
He sighed--or maybe it was a yawn. "It could be. How about we talk about it tomorrow, uh, actually later this morning. I’ll call when I can."
Yeah, fine, swell. We said our good-byes, which didn’t take long, and I slammed the phone down.
I couldn’t blame Jerry for not seeing the light about the photography thing. I couldn’t even see it myself now, but it still felt important. Sure, I didn’t need much of an excuse to be petty about Rhonda, but that wasn’t what was nagging at me. It was Calvin and his camera. It meant something, I just knew it.
Chapter 6
I awoke the next morning to the unpleasantly familiar voice of my mother screeching unpleasantly familiar words: Jolene Janette Jackson, I can not believe this!
She hadn’t said, "Look what you’ve done," but it was implied nevertheless. Of course, I hadn’t done much of anything since I’d been here except drive her to the falls and drive home, so I couldn’t readily pinpoint the specific heinous crime I’d committed. Then again, maybe it was a crime of omission, an oversight. Oops, that rang a bell. A big loud one.
Today was The Big Day and I hadn’t bought the party cake, as was my responsibility. I hadn’t even ordered it. This was very bad. Forget about witnessing an old classmate take the plunge at the falls or the matter of a pesky personal death threat, this was worse, much worse.
I don’t buy Lucille an actual birthday gift any more, I just take care of the party, meaning I buy the cake, balloons, table decorations, party favors, extra St. Johns wort, that sort of thing. Lest you think I’m getting off cheaply, let me correct your thinking. Once Lucille and her pals finish adding their drinks and frozen dairy products to the DQ tab, I’ll be kissing one hundred and fifty little Georges goodbye in addition to the required paper goods and party favors, which I had not yet purchased either.
Okay, had to think fast. If I hurried I could still make things work. Lucille’s annual birthday bash was scheduled for three this afternoon, so theoretically I could haul myself into Redwater Falls and beg at some bakery for something instantly personalized that looked like it could have been planned ahead of time. Failing that, I’d throw money at them. It would work. Yes, everything would be just fine.
I dragged myself out of bed, the yellow yearbook coming with me and directly down on my big toe. I cursed it silently and kicked it aside. And just where was Mr. Jerry Don Parker? Had he called this morning to see if my random--but highly clever and important--thoughts of the wee hours had coalesced? No, he had not. I kicked the book again. Fine, I had party problems to deal with anyway.
After a quick stop in the bathroom, I sauntered into the kitchen to tell Mother dear not to worry, that all would be well. But when I stepped into the doorway I saw her sitting at the kitchen table, the newspaper spread out in front of her. The acrylic nails of her left hand clickety-clacked on the Formica tabletop and her huffing sighs ruffled the pages of the paper, except where an inch-long talon of her right hand held it in place. Kimberlee Fletcher, ace reporter, had struck again.
I tried not to over-think the situation. I’d never guess right anyway as the actualities are always more ridiculous than what I can imagine. "So what did she write this time?"
Lucille took a deep ragged breath and let it out in a long steady sigh. "I wish I weren’t so terribly opposed to that lawsuit business," she said rather calmly. "For if I were of a mind to, I’d have Little Miss Fletcher hauled into court and sued for every Barbie doll she owns."
Oh, boy. A personal slander was my best guess. I did not spring forth with an "I told you so" speech, but I was kind of curious how Kimberlee had written up the latest Lucille performance. I would have gone with the piston image myself.
"Since I don’t believe in such things, however," Mother went on, "I suppose I shall just have to go right down there to the newspaper myself and shake some sense into her."
"Mother, you did give her the finger--"
"Oh, that’s not the problem, Jolene." She tapped the paper again. "Look right here what she did. Why, the very nerve."
The picture on the front page of the daily morning paper had a pretty decent and artistic photo of the new waterfall. It also had a very large and highly un-clever headline that read: DEAD MAN FALLS.
Tsk, tsk. This was serious business. Lucille did not like aspersions cast upon her home by anybody, even the local paper, and re-naming the brand new national landmark was pretty darned aspersionous.
I started to mention that Kimberlee Fletcher probably hadn’t had a thing to do with the header, or at least she wouldn’t in the normal scheme of things, but I had the feeling the headline was only part of the problem. Being very brave, I began reading the article.
Paragraph one did a fair job of relaying the required whos, whats and wheres--a big improvement since July--but it was paragraph two that stopped me cold. Kimberlee had seen fit to provide elaborate details of Calvin Holt’s bullet hole in the forehead, his rope-wrapped body, tied hands, and worst of all, the fact that he held Kickapoo High School yearbook pages--and the various marks on the pages. How on earth had she found out about that?
Fully expecting that it would get worse before it got better, I read on. Paragraph three began with the words "Jolene Jackson," and went on to rehash the last little killing spree that I got dragged into. The facts weren’t particularly correct or coherent, but the implication was clear: Nothing bad ever happened around here unless I showed up, and then people started dying left and right. Apparently, Miss Fletcher felt this whole thing was my fault.
"You’re the one who flipped her off," I groused. "Why is she picking on me?"
Lucille just shrugged. "Maybe because you’re from out of town."
"And maybe I should keep it that way. Clearly, if I’m never here nothing bad will ever happen again. I’m going to pack."
"You’re not going anywhere," Lucille snapped. "You came down here to celebrate my birthday and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. I’m tired of these murdering crazies disrupting my life and I’m tired of that little snot writing about it. I just wish one of them had the guts to face me himself. I’d put an end to this nonsense, I’ll tell you for sure."
Yes, she certainly would. Even an idiot knew better than to cross Lucille, most idiots anyway. Kimberlee was a little behind the curve on that one.
"Tell you what, Mother, we better get busy on the party. I need to run on into town and pick up the cake," I said, cleverly, as if it were all pre-arranged. I usually do order the cake before I get here, but I hadn’t gotten it done this time. And the little fiasco at the falls had nixed my backup plan as well. "You want to stay here and get ready, or do you want to go with me?"
A man in a Bowman County Sheriff’s Department uniform stepped into the kitchen. Of medium height and robust build, he had a thick mustache and thinning dark hair.
"I’m sorry to interrupt, ladies," the on-duty deputy said, politely.
I squinted at his name tag so I’d have half a chance of calling him by his real name: Deputy Maxonmeiner. Yeah, that just rolled off the tongue. Since I didn’t have to call him anything just yet, I opted out of trying my luck with the pronunciation. "Yes?"
"I’m not one to eavesdrop, ma’am, but I have orders that neither of you can leave the house right now. Safety precaution."
What did he say? Can’t leave? Oh, please.
Lucille snorted and folded the paper over--with more force than necessary.
I smiled sweetly. Deputy Maximum-M
eanerminer just needed a little education on the finer points of guarding the Jackson Gang.
* * * *
Within twenty minutes we were all loaded up in the deputy’s Bowman County patrol car and headed to Redwater Falls to get the non-ordered cake and assorted party goods.
"So, Deputy Max," I said, rather chummily since we’d progressed to a first-name basis during our chat about how we were--and were not--going to spend the next few hours. Picking up a birthday cake and party favors didn’t rate real high on his list of things to do, but it did rank well above listening to the two of us explain and complain until his shift was over. I leaned up toward the cage separating me from the deputy and my mother, who was riding shotgun. Yes, she’s become rather fond of both the seating arrangement and the terminology. "Do you know where that cake place is, the one with the big sign out front? I think it’s on a road that starts with a K or a C. ‘Cakes by Carlene’ or something like that. You know the one?"
Deputy Max nodded perceptively. "It’s called ‘Pastries and Parties’ now. Got a cake for my little granddaughter there just last week."
Oops.
"They make real good cakes, but I don’t think they’re open on Sundays."
"They’re not," Lucille said, sending me a quick "Oh, give it up" glance over her shoulder. "We’ll just go to the United out on the highway, they’ll have something that will work."
"Great idea," I muttered, fooling no one. Mother knew I hadn’t ordered a cake or taken care of any party details. In my defense, I hadn’t wanted to go to the grand opening of the falls; my mother had made me go to. I figured she was regretting that decision almost as much as I was at the moment.
We all piled out of the white Chevy Caprice with the word "SHERIFF" emblazoned on its sides and scurried into the super-sized United grocery store. Deputy Max kept his hand on his gun as we marched toward the entrance and it was kind of a show-stopper. People stopped in their tracks and stared. It’s pretty hard to speak with your mouth hanging open, but "Why is an armed deputy herding two smirking women into the grocery store?" seemed a good guess at their thoughts.
Mother either didn’t notice the stares from customers and staff, or she was just enjoying them in her own way (my vote), as she led her troops into battle. Once we had filed past the check stands, Lucille cut left and made a beeline for the bakery department in the far back corner. I moseyed along behind, and by the time I caught up with her she had already picked out the biggest sheet cake in the store--and she was darned pleased that the roses happened to be purple.
I valiantly took charge and asked the bakery lady to fancy it up with the standard wording. She did and I took it in my arms, cradling it like a pillow with the royal crown. "Well, this worked out just great," I said, smiling at Deputy Max, then at Mother. "Let’s grab the rest of the stuff and get going."
"Now, just a minute, Jolene." Mother wagged a cautionary nail in my direction. "I was thinking that not everybody might like that plain old white sheet cake, and that we really ought to have something else because we just don’t know who all will be there."
I knew I wasn’t going to get off so very quickly or easily, but it had been a nice try. "Fine. There’s a carrot cake right over there. You like that, don’t you?"
She stepped over a few feet and nabbed a round carrot cake from the refrigerated case, along with some kind of triple chocolate thing, then paused in front of a twenty-four pack of neon pink and green cupcakes. "These might be handy to have."
"Three cakes will probably be enough." For a small army. "We’ll have the ice cream from the Dairy Queen too, remember."
"Yes, that’s right."
She said the words, but she was still looking at the cakes and would be grabbing another one if I didn’t work fast. "Okay, that leaves paper plates, cups, napkins, and balloons." And we’re done. "Which way do we go for those?"
She’d popped her head up at the mention of balloons and was now craning her neck, looking toward the front of the store on the opposite side. "Balloons might be with the toys, we’ll have to check. But I was thinking we might get some of those fold-out table decorations with the honeycomb centers too. Merline got a whole bunch of little pink rabbits at Easter time for her grandchildren that she thought were awfully cute. I think something like that would dress up the place, not rabbits, of course, but flowers or something. Oh, and tablecloths. We surely can’t forget those." She handed the two round cakes to Deputy Max then scurried, presumably, toward the paper goods section. "And wouldn’t it be nice if they matched."
Oh, wouldn’t it. My credit card shook in my billfold. I liked it much better when I did the selecting myself. Alone. I smiled an encouraging little smile to the deputy. "Shouldn’t take much longer."
The look on his face said "fat chance," but Deputy Max followed stoically, carrying the cakes--carrot stacked on top of chocolate. His mustache twitched, his eyes darted this way and that, and he approached every aisle as if it were an enemy hideout. I guess he was trying to make sure somebody didn’t nail me in the United grocery store--or maybe he just didn’t want anyone to see him aiding and abetting the Jackson Gang. Probably a little of both.
The store was on the large side and the bakery department was tucked in the back left corner, whereas the cards and paper goods were on the far right side toward the front. Creative merchandising run amok.
As we walked along, I got into the rhythm of things, turning my head to check out the aisle right along with the deputy. On my third look-see down the rows, I screeched to a stop. "Wait! I know her."
Deputy Max stopped and we stood there staring at an attractive dark-haired woman about fifty years old. She was engrossed in coffee beans, but I still had a good look at her face. Yes, she looked familiar, very familiar, but didn’t they all? I did a quick movie star review, but Linda Gray from the old Dallas show was the closest I could come up with and that wasn’t very darn close. "Sorry," I said to the deputy. "I thought I recognized her."
Why that was a big deal or why we had to stop to see, I didn’t know. I guess I was just a little more skittish than I wanted to admit--or maybe curious. "This sort of thing has been happening a lot lately."
I took a step forward, but the woman called my name. My head automatically snapped back toward her. The voice. High and mousy with a lilt that tried for sophistication, but got all tangled up in a tinny Texas twang. It was a voice no one could forget. And it belonged unmistakably to my old pseudo-English teacher, Sharon Addleman.
Great, just great. Now what was I supposed to do, say, "Read any good romance books lately?" or was "Sorry I almost got you fired twenty-five years ago" more to the point? I settled for "Hi."
Sharon speed-walked her basket to the end of the aisle, closing the distance between us to an uncomfortable three feet. "I’d heard you were in town."
How do people hear these things? Is there a camera at the city line that sends out an alert when my face is recognized, what? "Really?"
"Actually, Russell told me. Russell Clements. He said he talked to you at the falls yesterday, although I didn’t necessarily know whether to believe him or not."
"Well, he got that one right." The reference was to Russell’s well-known drug problems, meaning he used to say a lot of things that weren’t necessarily so, except maybe in his own hallucinogenic mind. "He told me he’s on the straight and narrow these days, and seemed pretty proud of it."
"Yes, well, Russell still isn’t quite in touch with reality on a full-time basis, but he is doing better."
"So, you’ve kept in touch since he graduated?"
She paused for a second then said, "I keep up with a few old students who are still in the area, not the Holt boy, however. Very unfortunate." She shook her head. "I don’t really recall much about him, but I’ve taught so many people through the years and I can’t very well remember them all." She smiled, but it wasn’t necessarily a heartwarming look. "Of course, some faces I’ll just never forget."
Meaning me. Okay, decision
made. I was not apologizing nor was I chatting any more. Mother was already out of sight and I needed to catch up to her for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was my bank account. Deputy Max was also shifting from side to side, cueing me to move along. "Nice running into you, Miz Addleman. You look terrific as always. I’ve got to get going now or my mother will buy out the store--with my money." Ha, ha, ha. I laughed and took off. I would have waved for effect, but I carried the queen’s royal sheet cake.
A moment later, Max whispered, "One of your old teachers?"
"Yeah, English, or so she claimed. I tried to get her fired."
He cocked his head with a "Huh?" kind of look.
"It’s a long story."
We found Lucille in the wrapping paper and novelties section, a stack of non-essentials at her feet and a pile of colorful cellophane-wrapped table decorations in her arms. "This should just about do it," she said. "I don’t think we need to put up any of those self-stick window decals, do you?"
"No!" said Max and I in chorus.
She gave us a little evil look then began piling her selections in each of our arms. I jostled napkins, plates, cups and sundry item on top of the cake until I was reasonably sure nothing was going to fall off. Deputy Max did likewise with his two round cakes, the balloons, tablecloths, plastic forks, a loaf of bread and two containers of pimento cheese spread. The birthday girl reluctantly carried the table decorations.
"They have peaches on sale." Lucille looked longingly back toward the produce area. "Those real good local grown peaches. I’d really like to get a couple of pounds."
Okay, enough already. "Why don’t I just go get a basket?"
"Good grief, Jolene, I just want some peaches. We don’t need a grocery cart for peaches. If you’re going to make such a big deal about it, I’ll go get them myself." She took off, and with a "Let’s go" look to me, Deputy Max followed.
I did not race after them, just ambled along at a snail’s pace, mumbling to myself. "Now, it’s peaches, then it’ll be tomatoes, then paprika and corn starch." No, wait, better scratch those last two items as they would be used in actual cooking activities to which Mother is morally opposed. Besides, she’d already grabbed everything she needed for a semi-formal dinner--that would be the pimento cheese spread and loaf of white bread. "You’re losing your mind, Jolene," I muttered aloud to myself.
