Each Shining Hour

by Jeff High

  “Sunflower, sometime we need to sit and talk about you. And you can, you know, explain to me why you are the way you are.”

  She grinned mischievously and began sliding out of the booth. “You mean, explain all my mystical powers.”

  “Yes, and bring your magic wand for show-and-tell.”

  “It’s in the shop. How about some fairy dust?”

  “That works too.” By now she was standing beside the table, preparing to depart.

  “We’ll talk in a few weeks,” I said.

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  As she exited, I couldn’t help but notice a score of inquisitive glances and turning heads. No doubt, we were an odd pairing and those who had witnessed our brief conversation were curious to know more. So much for my private breakfast.

  I finished eating and took my bill to the cash register. While she made change, Lida Wilkins, the owner, winked at me. “Looks like on the medical front, east just met west.”

  I grinned. Lida was more clever than many realized. I grabbed my coat off the rack and was preparing to leave when she came up beside me. With her back turned so no one could hear, Lida made a most curious request, one I was glad to accommodate later that day. But first, I had an appointment with Oscar Fox’s past.

  CHAPTER 10

  The Old Bakery

  I arrived at the Hatcher Building a little before ten. As I pulled my Corolla into one of the parking spaces that lined the wide downtown street, Estelle’s BMW eased in beside me. Connie sat in the passenger seat.

  From our discussion the previous evening, I had learned that the Hatcher Building was an Italianate structure built in the early 1920s by Hiram Hatcher, a local lumberman turned merchant. Constructed of white limestone, it consisted of five storefronts with large arched windows framed with Doric columns. Stairwells between the storefronts led to professional offices on the upper floor, a design that had allowed the structure to be divided into separate pieces of real estate.

  From what John had told me, after Elise Fox closed the bakery in the midsixties, the Farmers Bank bought the corner unit with the thought of putting a small branch office there. But for some reason, that had never happened.

  As Connie emerged from the BMW, the heavy scent of her sister’s perfume permeated the air like an invisible cloud. Connie was fanning her face, wearing a sour frown and pinched nose. Estelle, on the other hand, was almost giddy with excitement. She nearly skipped around the front of the car, practically levitating as she headed toward the storefront. We all stood for a moment, peering in through the massive, dusty front windows. There was no sign of the banker, Randall Simmons. Connie looked at her watch and announced that she was going down the street to get something at Morrow’s Drugs and would be right back.

  Estelle and I stepped over to the entrance, where, just as John had noted, the words OSCAR’S BAKERY were laid beneath our feet in small mosaic tiles that filled the space four feet out from the door.

  “My, that is such beautiful work. I would hate to tear it up,” Estelle remarked.

  “You could always change your name to Oscar.”

  Estelle studied me with great concentration and I realized that she might be seriously pondering the idea.

  “I’m teasing, you know,” I said.

  Her animated smile returned and she flipped her hand at me. “Of course you are, sugar. It’d be much cheaper to replace the tile.”

  I was searching for a response when a grunted “ahem” came from behind us.

  It was Randall Simmons.

  In his late fifties, Randall was a man of modest height, neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair, and doleful eyes that gazed upon the world behind heavy, black-framed glasses. Sharply dressed in a conservative suit, he was the epitome of the emotionally detached banker. There was a clipped reserve about him, a smug politeness. He spoke with dry precision.

  “Good morning, Miss Pillow. I see you’ve brought Dr. Bradford along.”

  He extended his hand to Estelle and we all exchanged greetings. Afterward, there was an awkward silence. Estelle and I stood frozen, uncertain of what should happen next. Randall was looking back and forth between the two of us, assessing us coolly. Having satisfied himself, he spoke with great control.

  “Why don’t we have a look inside?”

  There was a methodic formality and importance in the way he unhurriedly produced a key and placed it into the lock of the large stained-glass front door. When the lock finally clicked, he pushed the door open and stepped back, allowing Estelle to enter first.

  Once we were inside, it took little imagination to envision what a grand place this had once been. It had an old-world feel to it, a store where Hansel and Gretel might stop by on their way home from school. Although a thick layer of ancient dust blanketed everything, the room was trimmed in intricately carved chestnut woodwork. Beautifully crafted rosettes and elaborate corbels decorated the wood-paneled walls. Broad, sturdy wood columns rose to the ceiling, shouldering the exposed and ornately trimmed structural beams. The room was the definition of enchantment.

  Estelle and I absorbed everything in silence and I could tell she was on the verge of exploding with joy. About five steps in she raised both hands over her cheeks and left them there as she continued to walk around.

  A collection of heavy wood tables and chairs had been pushed into a corner and stacked in a random, untidy manner. Down the center of the store ran a travertine marble walkway bordered on both sides by rich but well-worn mahogany flooring. This led to a line of ornate display cases made of thin, delicate glass. A swinging door behind the counters revealed a sizable kitchen with outdated ovens and old butcher-block worktables.

  The place had an aged, enclosed smell to it. The floor was cluttered with paper trash and a few pieces of broken glass. The light fixtures had apparently been yanked from the plaster ceiling, with the remnants of old wires left dangling from the gaping holes. Other than the obvious wear and tear of age, the only other noticeable damage was five or six twelve-inch square holes that had been cut randomly in the walls and floors, without regard for the damage.

  By now Estelle’s eyes were like saucers, filled with pure inspiration and delight. I was beginning to wonder if I had set her pacemaker threshold high enough.

  Randall had remained near the entry, standing as though carved from stone. He appeared to be consumed in some deep preoccupation and offered no commentary.

  Estelle had stepped into the back room, no doubt assessing its potential as a revitalized kitchen. I stood in silence with Randall, who clearly felt no obligation to make small talk.

  “I wonder what happened to the light fixtures and these holes,” I inquired.

  He moved slowly deeper into the room and answered with the same enthusiasm as if describing a head of cabbage. “Probably vandals over the years. It’s hard to say.”

  “So, how did the bank come to acquire the property?”

  “It, um, it was actually my father’s idea. He was the bank president before me some years back. He wanted to put a branch office here. But, as you can see, that didn’t happen.” There was an air of discretion to his tone. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully.

  I pressed him again. “What do you know about the history of this place?”

  He inhaled a long breath and spoke dutifully. “I’m told that it was originally a men’s clothing store, back in the twenties. I think the Depression almost did it in. When the Second World War started and all the men went off to fight, it closed up. Oscar Fox came to town in the summer of 1942. He bought this property in 1943 and spent quite a bit of money fixing it up.”

  “I heard some stories about Oscar Fox. What happened to him anyway?” I was fishing, wanting to see if Randall’s version of the story added anything new.

  “He was a murderer, you know, and apparently a rather gruesome fellow. He and some stranger did ea
ch other in. My father knew him. Mr. Fox did business with the bank.” Randall’s answer was oddly clipped. I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  By now Estelle had returned from the back room looking so happy I thought she might start flying around the room like Peter Pan.

  “It’s perfect!” she declared. “I love it, love it, love it. When do you think the bank can get me a quote on what it might sell for?”

  I could see Randall’s neck stiffen. “We’ll have to see. The bank hasn’t actively tried to sell the property for some time, so I don’t know what plans we have for it. Perhaps at the next quarterly meeting of the board we can get the real estate subcommittee to give a status report. I’m afraid it may take quite some time.”

  He spoke with unruffled aplomb, with a cool air of authority. And just that quickly I could see Estelle begin to deflate. That was, until a firm voice from behind Randall broke the silence.

  “Oh, I think we can do much better than that.”

  It was Connie, standing calmly in the entryway, clasping her huge purse in front of her with both hands.

  Noticeably alarmed, Randall turned toward her. It was the fastest he had moved all morning. In a single moment his superiority vanished and was replaced by a choking anxiety. He seemed at a loss for words. Connie’s commanding voice and hard stare had melted him, had momentarily thrown him off-balance. Something more than her stern tone was at work here. She had something on Randall.

  But he recovered quickly and responded in a diplomatic albeit slightly wilted voice, “Yes, certainly. Let me see what we can do to expedite an answer.”

  He glanced nervously at his watch. “Well, I really need to get back to the bank. Please feel free to take your time looking around. Just pull the door closed when you leave. I’ll come by and lock up later.”

  His composure once more in place, he offered a rigid nod and departed quickly.

  Estelle couldn’t contain herself any longer. “Praise Jesus, this is the place! It’s just what I was hoping for!”

  Her elation was contagious enough to bring a slight smile to Connie’s somber face. But she responded with a shake of her head. “I don’t know, honey. It’s going to take a lot of money to fix this place up, not to mention the cost of buying the property.”

  Estelle was undaunted. It was easy to see that she was all in: heart, soul, and retirement fund. “But it’s perfect, dear. I know it, I just know it!”

  Connie’s smile was a blend of delight and resignation. “Well, okay, then. I guess if you’re heading to the poorhouse, it’s no big deal if you get there a day or two early.”

  Estelle grabbed Connie’s arm with enthusiastic authority. “Come on, sugar, let me show you around.”

  Connie resisted. She spoke in a low, emotional voice, almost swallowing her words. “That’s not necessary, honey. I know all about this place. I spent more hours here than I want to think about.”

  Estelle gave her a puzzled look. “How is that?”

  Connie’s words were mixed with anguish and confession. “It was before you were born, and I was told never to talk about it, but Momma used to work here.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Connie, Past and Present

  “Constance, what are you talking about?”

  “It was a long time ago. It’s nothing that matters anymore.”

  “Well, sister, it matters now. All I remember was that Momma worked in the school cafeteria. You never talked about her working here.”

  “Like I said, it’s water under the bridge.”

  Connie seemed resigned to the idea of not discussing this revelation, but as she spoke, I couldn’t help but notice her reflective perusal of the room; she absorbed the elaborate details, scrutinized the dust and ruin, and breathed in the weighty air of ancient memories. It seemed she had returned to a place she had always known, one that had been burned deep within her life’s story.

  “Dear, you know Luke and I are not going to let this pass,” Estelle persisted. “Maylene was my momma too. I want to know what you are talking about.”

  At first I didn’t understand Estelle’s comment about the need to assert her claim regarding their mother. But as Connie yielded to her request, I began to discern how the nine-year gap in their ages had created very different relationships with their departed parent.

  As Connie began to speak, her face was transformed by the past. It was a face of wonder, of enchantment, of innocence. “Momma started working here at the bakery when it first opened in October of 1943. She was barely seventeen and had just finished high school. There were only eleven grades in those days. She continued working here after she married Daddy in 1950 and after I was born in 1954. By the time I was seven, most afternoons I would sit and do my homework in a tucked-away corner while Momma carried on lively conversations with Elise Fox. Elise was more than just a boss to Momma—she was her best friend. I have lots of memories of being here, some of the best . . . and some of the worst.”

  Connie took a few steps toward the display counters. Behind them and against the right side of the room was a short partition with a countertop and a large open cabinet space underneath. The counter had likely been a staging area for pans of baked goods from the back, a work space to place pastries into individual paper holders. She turned to me. “Luke, would you do something for me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Look up under this counter. See if any thing is written there.”

  I squatted next to the cabinet opening and looked at the painted wooden boards underneath. There, penciled in beautiful cursive handwriting, was the name “Constance Grace Thompson.” I looked up at her and smiled. “I’m guessing you put this here.”

  She nodded. “I probably read a hundred books in that little cubbyhole.”

  It was the perfect place for a little girl to hide herself away, to be lost in the imagination of a thousand adventures.

  But when she spoke again, Connie’s voice had lost its animation. “For some reason, in the fall of 1962, after nineteen years of working here, Elise pulled Momma aside one afternoon and through tears told her she was letting Momma go. No reason or explanation was given. Elise tried to give her six months’ severance pay, but Momma refused. Her pride wouldn’t allow it.” Again, Connie paused and stared vacantly into the far reaches of the room.

  She spoke distantly. “Momma was very hurt when all that happened. Crushed, really. It wasn’t just the money—she felt like she had lost her best friend. I remember months later I would walk into the kitchen at home and Momma would be in tears. She never wanted to talk about it.” Connie’s voice had grown soft, reflective. She ran her finger across the glass of the counter, leaving a line in the dust.

  I knew from previous conversations that Connie’s mother had died of lung cancer in 1968. I did the math in my head. That would have happened when Connie was fourteen and Estelle was approximately four or five. No doubt, Connie’s desire to protect her sibling became embedded during those years. Their father, whom Connie had described as a “quiet, hardworking, Christian man,” passed away ten years later.

  “It never made sense. A month before Momma died, she got a letter from Elise. At the time I assumed Elise wanted to come see her. But Momma refused to read it and returned the letter to sender. Momma said she knew that the bakery was having problems with its credit. Within a month after Momma was let go, Elise sold the bakery to the bank. Before Momma died, she made me promise to never talk about her working here. I’m sure she was hurt and embarrassed. That was just her way of handling things.”

  Connie’s explanation revealed parts of herself she had never shown me. It was my first realization that she bore the scars of past wounds that she had neither revisited nor forgotten. I sensed that veiled within her words were age-old emotions that had stained her early years, events that had callously altered the direction of her early life. I felt for her. It seemed to have ta
ken a toll on her to return to this place, to the silence and dust and confusion of these long-buried memories.

  In that moment, the front door swung open, caught by the breeze. We had been standing in silence but now turned at the groan of the hinges. The fresh, cool air of December breathed into the room, washing past us, pushing aside the musty air of stagnant, locked-away years.

  Connie gazed up at the high, arched ceiling, turning slowly to take in the entire room. She reached to wipe a large swath of grime from a glass display case, and for a brief moment, she studied the accumulated filth on her palm. Then she slapped one hand against the other in sweeping strokes, beating away the ancient dust. It seemed a defining moment for her. She turned and took Estelle’s hand.

  “Estelle, sweetie, you’ve got a great opportunity to do something really fine here. I think you should go for it.”

  She had spoken in a voice of unquestioned resolve. The two sisters hugged and then, just as they had done at the clinic, proceeded to walk arm in arm through the old bakery. There was a curious, secret bond between them, an intense affection. They were both talking loudly, robustly, and, of course, at the same time.

  With the culinary brain trust now focused and in full session, I decided that there were no new insights about the Oscar Fox murder to be gained. I bid them good-bye and drove back home to Fleming Street. As I pulled into the driveway, a beautiful black late-model Mercedes turned in behind me. I knew of only one such car in the entire county, but I had never seen it in town. The driver emerged wearing a full-length black cashmere coat, a dark suit, and sunglasses.

  “John Harris, just look at you. Power suit, power car, power glasses. No truck and work khakis like normal. You land a job with the Secret Service?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Yuck it up, jackass.”

  We shook hands heartily, both of us wearing broad smiles.

  “Well, come in for a while. I’ll make some coffee.”

  “Sounds good,” he returned crisply. “Lead the way.”