Carol Higgins Clark Boxed Set - Volume 1: This eBook collection contains Zapped, Cursed, and Wrecked.

by Clark, Carol Higgins

  “This place should be called Madhouse Junction,” Ginny observed.

  Fran nodded. “I’m exhausted.”

  Skip just stared off into space.

  Moments later, the sound of someone tapping a microphone came over the loudspeaker and a man’s voice boomed through the store. “Ladies and gentlemen, we appreciate your patience. Our computer system is down but hopefully not for long. This has happened in the past . . .”

  The cashier at their register looked at Ginny and rolled her eyes. “In the past?” she whispered. “Try yesterday.”

  “How long before?” Ginny began.

  “Good news, folks! The computers are up and running!” the announcer blurted excitedly, as though he were calling a horse race. “Have a good day everyone and please come back and visit us again. Make House Junction your . . .” The microphone started screeching and whining, then was clicked off.

  “Give it a rest,” the cashier muttered as she began to scan the items in Skip’s basket.

  Forty-five minutes later the threesome was bouncing down Pond Road, the large piece of wood jigging around the back of the truck. They could see a news van parked in front of the Carpenters’ house.

  “Oh no,” Skip muttered as he turned into Fran and Ginny’s driveway.

  “Don’t worry, Skip,” Fran said. “We won’t let anyone bother you.”

  “I’d go home right now if I hadn’t promised to board up your window. I’m not going to back out of that. But as soon as I finish, I’d better get out of here.” He opened his door.

  “Skip, no!” Ginny protested as they got out of the car.

  In the distance they could see a reporter and cameraman running toward them.

  “Let’s get inside,” Fran ordered, her keys in hand.

  Quickly they ran up the steps, into the house, and shut the door just as the Carpenters’ old convertible rode past their property. Ginny peeked through the plastic covering the broken front window. The reporter had reversed his course, and was now chasing the Carpenters’ car back down the block. “Skip, look. The coast is clear!”

  “Maybe for now,” he said as he started back outside. “But it won’t be for long.”

  30

  Ellen was trying to be patient, but the customers she was helping had been in the store for what seemed like forever. The mother and daughter had stopped in and decided that pillows would make great gifts for the daughter’s eight bridesmaids. It soon became clear that the twentysomething bride-to-be was the type who would obsess over every last detail of her big day until it happened. Then she’d obsess over everything that went wrong.

  The wedding wasn’t until August but she wanted to get the pillows ordered. “I’d like something about friendship written on the pillows,” she said. “But I have a different kind of relationship with each of my bridesmaids. Nancy I’ve known since kindergarten, Carin I met when we were Brownies together, Lindsey I met at work a few years ago and we really hit it off. I want every pillow to be very special. I’m afraid I don’t know what to do.”

  Ellen nodded. “You really don’t have to decide today. I’ve got an idea. If you don’t know each bridesmaid’s favorite color, why not find out what it is? It might be nice to order the pillows in your friends’ favorite colors. Then look for quotes about friendship and see what you’d like to use. You can let us know. The wedding is four months away,” she said with a big smile. “There’s plenty of time.”

  The girl looked at Ellen with a perplexed expression. “I know all their favorite colors. How could you be friends with someone and not know their favorite color?”

  Ellen shrugged and pretended to laugh. “Beats me.”

  “My problem,” the girl continued, “is that one of my friends has two favorite colors and another has three.” She shook her head as if she had the weight of the world on her Burberry-covered shoulders. “I need to get this done today.”

  Forty-five agonizing minutes later the order was complete. The bride crossed off the last name on her list. “You say they’ll be ready in two weeks?”

  “Yes,” Ellen answered, as she watched the bride unzip her soft leather briefcase and pull out a Preparing for Your Wedding book. It looked to Ellen like a battle plan. The bride pursed her lips, turned to the page for April 21, made a notation, then sighed. “There’s so much to get done. It’s all so stressful. I want everything to be perfect.”

  “Don’t worry, dear,” her mother said soothingly. “Everything will be perfect.”

  When they left the store, Ellen ran to the back room, where Pippy was at the computer. “Uggh,” she cried. “I just decided that if I ever get married, I’m going to elope. Definitely elope.” She laughed and poured herself a cup of coffee. When she turned around, Pippy was frowning. “What’s the matter, Pippy?”

  “Read this e-mail,” Pippy said, handing her a sheet of paper. “I’ve been dying for you to get finished out there.”

  Ellen’s eyes darted back and forth as she read the angry words from the person who had been coached by a woman named Adele Hopkins. “This Adele Hopkins would be a hundred and ten years old?”

  Pippy nodded. “I feel terrible. I wrote the lady back and apologized, but she says she’ll never read another e-mail from us.”

  “Don’t feel bad, Pippy. This woman is no angel. She did say she wanted to break her rowing coach’s nose. That’s not very nice.”

  “I know, but still.”

  The rain was beating down on the roof. “I can’t believe Mrs. Hopkins is dead,” Ellen said softly.

  “Me neither.”

  “I would love to find out who sent back that slashed pillow.”

  “Whoever it was must have been really mad at Mrs. Hopkins.”

  Ellen shivered. “It’s creepy to think that someone is enraged enough to take a knife and start slashing a gift, and then go to all the trouble to send it back!”

  “It is creepy,” Pippy agreed. “You know, Ellen, I don’t want to tell you what to do, but maybe you should be careful about what you say online”—she paused—“especially about your ex-boss. I can’t help it, I worry.”

  “You’re right,” Ellen said, taking a sip of her coffee. “I was surprised when someone asked about him today during the web chat. You’ll have to admit, I haven’t talked about him lately. From now on I’ll avoid any mention of him, I promise. Time to move on.”

  “Good.”

  “Reed’s a chicken,” Ellen said. “He’ll never do anything. You don’t have to worry.”

  “I told you I can’t help it.” Pippy made a face. “What do you want to do tonight?”

  “I’m kind of tired,” Ellen said. “With all this rain, I would just like to go home and relax. Did you want to go out?”

  “No. The only thing I was thinking about was going to get a manicure at the mall. We have that event tomorrow night.”

  “The Traveling Thespians,” Ellen said dramatically. “The things we do to drum up business.”

  “I bet we’ll have fun,” Pippy said. “It’ll be a chance to meet people. We’ve been working so hard for six months now and have hardly gone out. After the cocktail party we should treat ourselves to a really nice dinner somewhere.”

  “I’m just kidding,” Ellen said. “I am looking forward to the evening. Another thing I forgot to tell you. I spoke to my grandmother last night and told her we’re going to the cocktail party. She asked who was in the cast. I didn’t remember and got out the invitation. We’re both so excited that I’m going to see Floyd Wellington again.”

  “Who is Floyd Wellington?”

  “He’s a famous theater actor. When I was a little girl and visited my grandmother in New York, she’d always take me to Broadway shows. I got old Floyd’s autograph outside the stage door after we saw him in a play. He was so charming. I was probably nine years old.”

  “It sounds like you have a crush on him,” Pippy teased.

  Ellen waved her hand. “No. He’s in his sixties now. I just remember his taking
a minute to talk to me when he signed my playbill. Then he shook my hand. I was a little kid and he made me feel like he really cared about me.” She laughed. “If I get the chance to talk to him tomorrow night, I’ll have to tell him that story.”

  “You’ll get the chance,” Pippy said. “I bet he asks you out on a date.”

  “No way!” Ellen said as she went out to the showroom to greet their latest customers.

  31

  This is insane,” Dan croaked as he and Dorie drove past the Reillys’ house and turned left into a little section of land in front of the house that they’d paved over for extra parking space. “That reporter is chasing us like we just escaped from prison. I don’t want to be on camera! What’s with him?”

  “He smells a story,” Dorie replied as she quickly turned off the car. “Let’s make a run for it. If we get caught I’ll say something fast.”

  The walkway to the house was right outside the passenger door. The minute Dan’s feet hit the ground he took off like a shot. Dorie wasn’t so lucky. She had to go around the back of the car, where she came face to face with the wild-eyed newsman.

  “Are you Mrs. Carpenter?” he asked, sticking the microphone in her face.

  “Yes,” Dorie answered. “If you don’t mind I’m getting soaked.” She turned and started hurrying up the path to the house.

  “What can you tell us about Adele Hopkins?” the reporter asked as once again he and his cameraman struggled to keep up with a reluctant interviewee. “She’s such a tragic figure. All those apology cards. They’re probably still inside. Do you think I could have one?”

  “No, you may not!” Dorie exploded. “It’s appalling that you would even ask.” She went in the house and slammed the door in his face.

  Dan was standing by the coffee table looking shell-shocked.

  “I didn’t mean to be rude, but that guy is a disgrace.” Dorie said as she took off her coat.

  “There’s something here you might find useful.” Dan grabbed a book off the table and held it up. WAS I BORN RUDE?

  “Jack Reilly told me about that,” Dorie replied as she went to the front window and pulled down the shades. “We don’t need that guy standing on any ladders to get a look in here.” She spotted the bags of pillows in the corner. “Oh my,” Dorie said, shaking her head as she peeked in the bag. “It’s so sad.”

  Quickly they walked through the house.

  “Mrs. Hopkins certainly didn’t bring much with her, did she?” Dan asked as they stood in their bedroom.

  “No, she didn’t.”

  The phone rang. Dorie reached over to the nightstand and answered it. “Hello.”

  “Dorie, it’s Jack. Are you all right? We saw you drive past with that reporter close behind.”

  “That guy is so obnoxious! He had the nerve to ask for one of the apology cards. Can you imagine?”

  “Regan and I had a brief encounter with him as well that wasn’t very pleasant. Listen, I’d like to get a look at Mrs. Hopkins’s car as soon as possible.”

  “Right away, Jack. Can we get rid of that reporter?”

  “Legally, he’s allowed to be on the street but not on your property. I’ll make that clear to him, if I have to. Regan and I will come over now. Why don’t you and Dan watch out the window and come out when you see us approaching?”

  “If you don’t mind, Jack, I think it would be better if Dan stayed in the house. He really doesn’t want to be on camera.”

  “I don’t blame him. It won’t take four of us to copy down a license plate number. See you in a minute.”

  Dorie hung up the phone.

  “Thanks, Dorie,” Dan said, his tone flat.

  “It’s okay, honey. We’ll be right back.” She left the room. A moment later she was opening the front door.

  I thought we were so lucky when we bought this place, Dan mused. But this house cost someone her life, and now, if that reporter keeps digging, could cost me my job. He was tempted to lie down on the bed and close his eyes. All he wanted to do was hide. I can’t, he thought, as he walked across the hall to his daughter’s room and peered out the window.

  The reporter was standing on the street calling out questions to Dorie, Jack, and Regan as they stepped into the garage and pulled down the door. Then he watched as the reporter turned to the camera and started to speak into his microphone. With his free hand he was gesturing toward the garage.

  Dan started to panic. I can’t just stand here, Dan thought. I have to help. There must be something in this house that will give a clue as to who Adele Hopkins was. He strode out of the room and headed toward the dining room table to have another look at the cards.

  If he’d given in to the temptation to lay down on the bed, he might have discovered one clue without even trying. Right under Adele’s pillow.

  32

  Devon was at his wit’s end. First he called his part-time assistant in New York City, only to find out that the prop and scenery truck was parked at a garage on Long Island where it would be safe for the weekend.

  “Grant, I need the knives,” Devon said. “Floyd Wellington wants to use a real knife for the reading and I would never even consider giving him permission.”

  “That would be out of the question,” Grant agreed.

  “I’d like you to go out to the truck and retrieve the knives, then send them up to me on overnight delivery.”

  “That, too, is out of the question.”

  “Grant, please!”

  “I can’t. The streets are flooded, the garage is a long way out on the expressway, and I have a show tonight. Besides which, I’d have to unpack the whole truck to find the knives.”

  “Grant, this is a desperate situation.”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

  “Please, Grant. I give you work, which you need.”

  “Work running around town, for which you pay me next to nothing. I’m an actor and you didn’t hire me for your show. I could have played the part of the daughter’s boyfriend.”

  “He’s twenty-one! You’re thirty-one.”

  “So what. It’s the theater. There are no close-ups.”

  “Goodbye, Grant.”

  “Goodbye, Devon. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  Next, Devon tried calling theaters on the Cape. Some of them were still closed for the winter. Others had nothing but information on their recordings that instructed the caller in great detail how to buy tickets for upcoming shows. Devon left a friendly message on two theater answering machines explaining who he was, what he needed, and if anyone could possibly find the time to please call back, he’d be forever grateful.

  After he left the second message, hopeful that one of the theaters might be able to help him, one of his mother’s favorite sayings came to mind. “Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.”

  Immediately Devon went out to his car and headed to Provincetown, an artsy community at the tip of Cape Cod. There must be something I can find in one of their unique little shops that looks enough like a knife, he thought.

  After an hour and fifteen minutes of driving through the pouring rain, Devon parked his car in a public lot and walked over to Commercial Street. During the summer the street was filled with tourists who strolled, shopped, and dined at the outdoor cafés. Many sat at benches, holding their ice cream cones and people-watching. Right now there were no people to watch; the street was nearly empty.

  Devon was cold and wet and near despair as he walked down the block, looking back and forth for a storefront that might suggest a fake knife could be found inside. I don’t want to have my palm read, he thought. I don’t need a T-shirt. I’m not hungry. Then he saw it. A little shop that had a mishmash of leather, jewelry, costumes, and masks in its window display. Here goes, he thought, as he stepped inside the shop.

  The only person inside was a young man with a Mohawk haircut and rings pierced through his nose, ears, and lips. A variety of silver bracelets nearly covered his sleeveless arms. Black jeans
, boots, and a leather vest completed the ensemble. “Hey man, can I help you?”

  “I hope so,” Devon said, trying to sound cheery. “I need a fake knife that looks as real as possible. It should look like a big kitchen knife. I didn’t know whether you might have something like that for sale. You certainly have so many interesting items here in your shop,” he said with a wave of his hand. “All these costumes and leather goods. It’s so marvelous.”

  The kid stared at him. His dark eyes were piercing.

  “I’m a playwright and director,” Devon hastened to explain. “I need it for a reading of a play.”

  “Gotcha. I was just thinking.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely.”

  “My workshop’s in the back. It’ll take me a few minutes. Wait here.”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you.” Devon stood at the counter, praying. He soon heard the whirring of a drill coming from the workshop. He must know what he’s doing, Devon thought. I hope I hope I hope.

  Twenty minutes later, the young man reappeared. “How’s this?” he asked, placing his creation on the counter.

  Devon looked down at the most beautiful, realistic fake knife he had ever seen. He picked it up. The handle was made of gleaming wood with silver inlets, the blade was shiny but thank God made of rubber. Tears filled his eyes. “This knife is gorgeous. I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”

  “You can pay me,” the shopkeeper said with a smile.

  “Of course,” Devon said, fumbling for his wallet. “You are a very talented young man.”

  On the drive home, Devon was elated. Floyd was going to love this knife, he was sure. I absolutely cannot wait to show it to him.

  A thought occurred to Devon. Why don’t I drive over to Floyd’s place right now and surprise him with this knife? The whole experience might create a bond between us. We’ll have a good laugh, slap each other on the back, tell each other how wonderful we are. Yes, I’ll drive to his place right now.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Devon wavered. That whole plan might backfire, he thought. Floyd might get angry that I invaded his privacy by showing up on his doorstep.