The Sugarhouse Blues

by Mariah Stewart

  “So you stopped because I’m breaking some arcane law? Oh wait, let me guess. Illegal use of a rocking chair? Rocking over the speed limit? Or maybe it’s DWR? Drinking while rocking? Or would that be reckless rocking? Rocking without a license?”

  “Have you finished amusing yourself?”

  “I’m not sure.” She downed the rest of her drink. “Why are you here? Rocking jokes aside, I have to assume it’s not against the law to drink one drink on one’s own front porch at any time of the day or night. Am I right?”

  Ben nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “So why are you here?”

  “I saw the light from your cigarette, and I know Barney doesn’t smoke, and I’d bet any amount of money that neither Des nor Cara smokes, so I wanted to rule out the possibility that someone was trying to set the house on fire.”

  “You said you figured Des and Cara didn’t smoke. So you thought I did?”

  Ben sighed. “Allie . . . there’s no assuming anything where you’re concerned.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re unpredictable.”

  For some reason, Allie was inordinately pleased. “Why, Sheriff, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. That was almost a compliment.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t let it go to your head.” He sat on the top step, his back against the railing post. “How’s your daughter? She coming out sometime this summer?”

  “She’ll be here in a few days.” Nice of him to remember Nikki, she’d give him that.

  “That’ll be good for you. Good for the rest of us, too.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re always a lot nicer when she’s around.”

  “Why, if I were a sensitive person, I’d think you meant to imply that I am otherwise not a nice person.”

  “Hey, if the shoe fits.”

  Did that particular shoe fit? Ben wasn’t the only one to imply she wasn’t always the nicest person to be around.

  “I’m going to overlook that remark.”

  “Nice of you.”

  “See? Precisely my point. And Nikki isn’t even here.”

  “Why are you like this?” For once, he didn’t appear to be baiting her.

  “Like what?”

  “You know. Pretending to be a hard-ass about everything.”

  “Maybe I am a hard-ass.”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think that’s really you.”

  “Why would you care about the real me?”

  “I didn’t say I cared. I’m just curious.”

  “Well, see there? You just did the same thing you’re accusing me of.”

  “Maybe we just bring out the worst in each other.” Ben stood.

  Allie recalled her recent conversation with Des. “Maybe that’s the best of us.”

  “That would be sad, if that were the best either of us had to offer.”

  “What difference would it make to you?”

  “I’m just trying to understand, that’s all.” He raised his hand and tipped an imaginary hat. “Glad you’re confining your drinking to the comforts of home these days, Ms. Monroe. See you around.”

  Ben turned his back and went down the stairs, Allie watching every step he took.

  “I will never understand that man,” she muttered. “It’s a shame that a guy as fine looking as Ben Haldeman is also one colossal jerk. Possibly the very biggest jerk I’ve ever met.”

  Ben made a K-turn in the middle of Hudson Street, then drove toward town. Allie waited until the lights from the cruiser disappeared before going down the steps to put out the cigarette she’d forgotten to smoke. It had burned down to the filter, its ash scattered in the grass. She picked up her empty glass and the remains of the first cigarette she’d smoked. She crept back into the house and relocked the door as quietly as she could, then tiptoed up to her room.

  In the bathroom, she hesitated, the bottle in one hand and her glass in the other. She rinsed out the glass and returned it and the bottle to the shelf in the wall cupboard where she kept them behind the towels. Nikki would be there soon. Nothing else mattered.

  Even sparring with Ben Haldeman couldn’t take the shine off that.

  * * *

  “I don’t know why you feel like you have to come with me,” Allie grumbled as Des followed her out the front door. “I’m perfectly capable of meeting Dr. Lindquist on my own. And besides, I’m supposed to be in charge of the interior design and décor, right?”

  “You are in charge of the interior design and the décor.” Des closed the door behind them and followed Allie down the front steps. At nine fifty in the morning, the sun had risen above the pines that lined the driveway but left the sidewalk still in shade from the oak and maple trees, and the temperature was seasonably moderate. Not a cloud in the sky, she noticed. Perfect for a pleasant morning walk.

  “Then tell me again why you think I can’t do this alone today.”

  “I have no doubt you can have the necessary conversation with Dr. Lindquist. That’s entirely your department. Absolutely.” Des resolved to remain collected even as she could see her sister’s temper rising. “My department, however, is the money, and I need to find out what we can expect to pay for an artist, if in fact there is one, and then figure out how to pay her or him.”

  Des caught up with Allie and tried to match her short stride to her sister’s longer one.

  “Short legs,” Des muttered.

  “What?”

  “I’m trying to keep up with you on these short legs of mine, which are no match for your long ones.”

  “You know what they say about short people.” Allie grinned but slowed her pace. She started to sing an old Randy Newman song. “ ‘Short people got no reason, no reason—’ ”

  “Yeah, I know. Something about them having no reason to live.” The teasing she’d been subjected to was only one reason Des hated doing Des Does It All. She was the youngest, the smallest, and yes, the shortest person in the show, and resentment from other jealous cast members had made most days unpleasant. Back then, it had seemed everyone had a reason to dislike her.

  “I remember that. Brandon . . . what was his name?” Allie’s face scrunched slightly as she tried to recall.

  “Whitman.” It hurt Des to say his name out loud.

  “Right. Brandon Whitman. He was a couple of years older than me. He used to sing that song every time you came on the set ’cause you were the shortest of the kids. I’d forgotten.”

  “He was five years older than me,” Des said under her breath.

  “Which made him two years older than me, right. Remember how he thought he was such hot stuff? Cute but a jerk. Most of the other girls on set didn’t think so, though. I heard he scored with everyone.” Allie laughed. “Did I ever tell you about the time he followed me and tried to kiss me during a break? Okay, so I flirted with him just a little for fun, but he knew better than to really mess with me. I’d have decked him.”

  “Yes, you told me.” Des’s jaw clenched tightly. She hated thinking about those days, but especially she hated thinking about Brandon Whitman.

  And yeah, he’d figured out which of the Hudson girls to mess with, and which one to leave alone. Des had had nightmares for years about being trapped with him in a small, dark room where his groping hands were everywhere and his voice had taunted her when she began to cry. Thank God for therapy. She’d never told Allie—never told anyone except her therapist. It had been the worst experience of her life, and had been too humiliating and frightening to share.

  “I heard he even hit on Cathy Jacobs,” Allie went on. “Can you imagine hitting on your own TV mother?”

  “Yeah, he was a real dog.” Des tried to change the subject. “What time did you tell Dr. Lindquist you’d meet her?”

  “Ten. So did he ever hit on you? Brandon?”

  They reached the corner across from the theater.

  “It’s almost ten now. Oh hey, look, there are
several cars out front. I’ll bet she’s there already.” Des’s mind snapped closed like a steel trap, and she stepped into the street to cross it without waiting for Allie to catch up.

  “Dr. Lindquist?” Des approached the woman whose back was to her and who appeared to be studying the stained glass in the front door.

  “Yes.” The woman turned slowly, as if hesitant to take her eyes off the glass. She wore a red shirt tucked into khaki pants, Dansko sandals, and dark glasses. Her white hair was shoulder length and tucked behind her ears. “Are you Allie Monroe?”

  “No, I’m her—”

  “I’m Allie.” Allie took two steps past Des and extended her hand to the visitor. “Thanks so much for coming, Dr. Lindquist. This is my sister Des Hudson.”

  “I’m happy to meet you both. And it’s Teresa. Dr. Lindquist sounds so stuffy once I’m off campus.” She gestured around at the theater’s exterior. “I came a bit early to acquaint myself with your theater. The style is quite interesting. Art Deco, but with a little something almost Moorish in design.” Teresa walked to the sidewalk and pointed up. “The design of the roof in particular. Do you know who the architect was?”

  Allie glanced at Des, who replied, “We’re in the process of researching that.”

  “Shall we step inside?” Allie gestured to the door that Teresa had been studying when they arrived.

  “I’ve never seen stained glass like this. I don’t suppose you know who the artist was.” Teresa paused in front of the door.

  “We’re looking into that as well.” Allie opened the door to usher the woman inside, glancing over her head to Des, who merely shrugged. They should have researched that important information before meeting with the head of the Art Department, and they both knew it.

  “The interior is such a surprise,” Teresa said as she walked into the lobby, taking a long look around before turning her gaze to the ceiling. “I wasn’t expecting such grandeur. The fountain, the painting . . . one feels as if one’s in a courtyard in some sunny place, don’t you think? Even with the photos—which were excellent, by the way—the colors are startling. Glorious. But yes. Yes, you do need help.” She walked to the edge of the scaffold and said, “Do you mind?”

  Des and Allie shook their heads.

  Teresa kicked off her sandals, dropped her bag, and began to climb.

  “Oh man, I get this feeling in the pit of my stomach every time I see someone do that.” Allie looked up for a moment, then down at the floor.

  “Me, too. It’s so far from here to there.” Des watched the woman climb, her heart pounding. “I think just about everyone we know has been up there except for thee and me.” Their fear of heights was one of the very few things she and Allie had in common.

  Fifteen minutes later, Teresa climbed down and slipped back into her sandals.

  “You need more than an artist to replace the missing painting.” Teresa rubbed her hands on the back of her pants. “You need first to have the plaster repaired by someone who knows what he’s doing. I don’t mean your local guy who puts up drywall and occasionally repairs cracks in the walls of the old houses around here. I mean a master craftsman who understands the importance of careful historic restoration. It’s indeed an art form all its own.”

  “Is there someone you could recommend?” Des asked.

  “I strongly suggest you contact James Ebersol at the Balfour Group. They’re one of the leading historical restoration companies on the East Coast. They have everyone on staff that you’d need, from their plaster artisans to their artists who specialize in period painting. They’ll be able to analyze the paint colors and match them so closely no one will be able to tell the new from the original.” She picked up her bag from the floor, opened it, and took out a card case. She handed Allie a business card and flashed a smile. “Give James a call and tell him I referred you.”

  “We were hoping you’d know someone local. A conservation student, perhaps, or a local artist.” Des had a sinking feeling in her stomach it wasn’t going to be that easy.

  “Oh no, no, no. You need highly trained professionals for this. I know of no one in the area who’s capable of re-creating the motifs on the ceiling, or properly repairing and preparing the plaster. You can’t trust this restoration to amateurs.”

  “Any idea what a job like this would cost?”

  Teresa looked back toward the ceiling. “It’s hard to tell. I’m sure James’ll send someone out to assess the repairs, and they’ll give you an estimate. Of course, you get what you pay for.” She took a few steps toward the front of the building. “Mind if I take a closer look at that stained glass in the door?”

  A deflated Allie shrugged. “Be our guest.”

  “Thanks. Oh, and I don’t suppose you know the artist who painted the ceiling.”

  Before Allie or Des could respond, Teresa added, “Let me guess. You’re still researching that as well?”

  Des nodded.

  “Thanks for letting me take a look. I love your building. I hope you’re able to properly restore it. It’s certainly worth saving.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Allie said.

  “I know my way.” Teresa waved without turning around and disappeared into the entry.

  “Well, that went . . .” Des searched for a word.

  “Yeah, didn’t it, though?” Allie blew out an exasperated breath and turned over the card Teresa had given her. “Other than referring us to James at the Balfour Group—the name even sounds expensive—she wasn’t very helpful.”

  “So what do you think?” Des followed Allie toward the exit.

  “I think I’m going to hand off the name of this Balfour guy to Cara and have her call.”

  * * *

  Des and Allie went straight to the office and found the door open and the lights on.

  “Hi.” Cara looked up from the papers she’d been reading. “Do you need your desk? I can—”

  “No, stay. I’m going to be looking in the filing cabinets.” Des set her bag on one of the chairs and went to the first cabinet.

  “What do you need?”

  “I need to find the original building plans for the theater, for starters.”

  “There’s a set of plans on the bottom shelf.” Cara pointed to the bookcase. “Rolled up in that tube. Joe gave them to me a month or so ago.” Cara moved her papers from the center of the desk so Des could roll out the blueprints.

  “Where did Joe find them?” Des spread the sheets on the desk.

  “In his mother’s garage, of all places. His dad had done some work on the theater for the guy Dad sold it to. No one was looking for them after his dad died, so the plans just sat on his workbench.”

  “Ha. The name of the architectural firm is on here—Jones, Latham, and Mathews—but not the individual architect. The address is 14 Spruce Street, Scranton.” Des looked up. “So that’s one question answered. I guess you wouldn’t happen to know where we’d find the name of the artist who made the stained glass.”

  “Sorry. Can’t help you there.”

  It took about another hour before Des discovered the identity of the stained glass artisan.

  “Colin Patrick McManus!” She all but shouted the name. “That’s him! Colin Patrick McManus!”

  “What? Really? You found him?” Allie dropped the file in her hand into the cabinet drawer. “How’d you find him?”

  “The bill for two stained glass windows. ‘Paid in full, to Colin Patrick McManus, the amount of ninety-two dollars for the design and crafting of two pieces of stained glass to be fitted into the uppermost section of the front door of the theater.’ That must have seemed like a lot of money during the Depression.” She looked up at Des. “It’s signed by Reynolds Hudson and C. P. McManus. I can research him and see if he’s done any other significant work.”

  “Two down, one to go.” Des decided to take a break and make her weekly call to Fran, the director of the shelter back in Cross Creek, to touch base and see how they were faring without her. She went
to her room to grab her phone from her bag, and found there were several missed calls but only one voicemail.

  “Hi, Des. It’s Greg. Greg Weller.” She could hear him take a deep breath. “I know it’s really late notice, but I was wondering if you might be free for dinner tonight. If not tonight, then maybe another night. Like tomorrow, maybe? I’d really like to see you. So. Yeah. If you get to listen to this sometime soon, maybe you could give me a call. Anytime. Really. Anytime. Just . . . call.”

  Des sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the message again. He certainly did sound interested. And more than a little tentative, which appealed to her, like he wasn’t expecting her to jump just because he called and asked her out.

  She debated within herself. To call or not to call?

  Des had often been accused of overthinking things. She tapped the return call icon and listened as the phone rang.

  * * *

  “I hope you like Asian fusion.” Greg smiled at Des from across the console of his SUV.

  “I like pretty much everything. I’m easy to please.” Des settled back into the passenger seat, wishing he’d turn down the volume on the car radio just a bit. It was difficult to follow his naturally low voice when NPR was broadcasting an interview with Will Ferrell.

  “Can’t remember the last time I heard a woman say that.” He smiled again, as if his little joke amused not only her but himself as well.

  Though not amused, Des forced a smile, then wondered why she did.

  “So where are we going?” She glanced out the window as the car turned off Main Street and onto the highway.

  “I thought we’d go into High Bridge. That is, if it’s okay with you?”

  “It’s fine. I’ve been meaning to go. That’s where the college is.” She glanced out the window at the passing scenery, the dense woods and endless hills.

  “Right. Some connection to your family, right?”

  “Althea Hudson was my great . . . I think great-great-grandmother.”

  Des shared what Barney’d told them about Althea and the emerald necklace.

  “That’s some tale. Not everyone can claim to have heirloom jewels gifted by royalty.”