Jane got up and rinsed all of her dishes and poured herself a glass of water. It was ten o’clock. She was tired enough to sleep, but it was always hard to go to bed without saying good night to someone. She had already e-mailed Nick. Tim was on a date and if she texted him good night, she would appear pathetic or nosy or both.
Jane turned out the kitchen lights, and looked for Rita. Where had she been all night? Listening at her parents’ door, she could hear her dad’s light snoring, her mother’s breathing, shallow and impatient as if she resented having to sleep at all, and yup, the snuffling, sighing deep breaths of Rita, who had decided to sleep in with the ’rents.
Jane held her water in her left hand, Belinda’s book under her left arm, and her phone in her right hand. With her right thumb, she clumsily texted,
Read some Belinda and learned about her theories. Talk tomorrow. Good night.
Jane pushed SEND.
Settling into bed, heaping her covers around her chin, she listened for the late summer, early-fall cicada sounds, the Midwestern autumn song that had lulled her to sleep her entire life. A high-pitched trill joined the chorus and Jane picked up her phone to read the reply to her text.
Good night, Mrs. Wheel. Rest well. Oh.
17
Lucky Miller Productions was sponsoring a bowling tournament at the Flamingo Bowl beginning at three in the afternoon. Lucky had asked (demanded) all staff to participate (show up). There were teams of writers, drivers, designers, staffers, production assistants, and then there was Lucky’s team. He had promised surprise guest stars and as far as Jane could tell, the townspeople in Kankakee had way too much faith in Lucky’s “connections.”
“According to an article in the Journal last night, some big TV stars are coming in on private planes,” said Don, at breakfast.
“Dad, I saw the weekend schedule and unless there are changes, no one is coming in. I’m not even sure who the roasters are for the taping. I saw a list of names with no confirmation checks next to any of them, and to tell you the truth, I didn’t recognize any of the names.”
“You don’t watch enough television,” said Don.
Jane filled Rita’s bowl, all the while telling her she had been quite the traitor, sleeping in Nellie’s room. Rita paid no attention, wagged her tail in time to the music on the radio, and settled into her breakfast. The song ended and the local WKAN morning show host announced the various special events happening around town, ending with an exhortation to listeners to come over to the downtown farmer’s market.
“Rumor has it that Lucky Miller might be dropping by the market with a few of his friends in town for the Lucky Miller roast. Come to the Gazebo at eleven when Lucky will draw a name for two tickets to the dress rehearsal!”
“What the hell?” asked Jane out loud, punching numbers into her phone. “Why don’t I get any of these events on my schedule?”
“No problem, Jane. Malcolm can drive me over there,” said Lucky, when he answered, sounding like he was in the middle of brushing his teeth.
“But, Lucky, if I’m your assistant, shouldn’t I have these events on my schedule? I got it in my e-mail this morning, but I didn’t see anything on there for you but the bowling today. Don’t I need to know this stuff so I can … assist you?”
“Yeah, I guess. Trouble is, I’ve gotten kind of loose with the planning. I saw something in the Journal about the market and just decided it might be fun to take a stroll so I called up the radio station and told them I’d do it. Besides, all the shoppers and vegetables and stuff might give my memory a jog,” Lucky said, between sips and swishes of water. “Belinda said that places with lots of people and colors and ‘sensory triggers’ are good places for breakthroughs. And what the hell, it seems like a nice thing to do on a Saturday morning.”
Was it only Saturday? Was it Saturday already? The rootless have no calendar, thought Jane. She ticked off on her fingers the main events of the past few days. Drove down on Wednesday and got the offer on the house. Carl died on Thursday. Sluggo Mettleman died on Thursday. She became Lucky’s assistant on Thursday. Walked through the Evanston house on Friday. Went to the studio with Lucky Friday night. Last night. So, yes, today would be Saturday. Yikes, Saturday. Soccer. Jane quickly texted Nick a good luck message. Then, with a second cup of coffee, she wrote a long and detailed e-mail to Charley about selling the house. The house was hers to sell, but she still thought twenty-some years of co-ownership gave Charley the right to know that the house was appreciated and passed on. She could also reassure him that the money would be most helpful with Nick’s education, which might be important for any of Charley’s future professional plans. He had made it clear he’d like to stay in Honduras working for the foundation there. Northwestern had been generous with extending his sabbatical—or rather, turning it into a leave of absence—but if they insisted he come back to hold his spot? Knowing Jane had money set aside for Nick might give Charley some breathing room. And breathing room was important. Breathing. Breathing room. Breathing new air. All important.
Jane took a deep breath herself. Writing that e-mail felt good. In the time since Charley had asked definitely for a divorce—no more extended work trips, or trial separations—but the call-a-spade-a-spade request for a divorce, Jane had felt mournful, frustrated, anxious, and angry with herself, but things were definitely changing. She noticed a few turning leaves on the trees in her parents’ backyard, It was fall, her favorite season, and if Nellie had been right last night, that she was looking lonely, it was the right time for it. Jane loved the melancholy breeze of fall. Fall made sense to her in a way that the ripe hot summer never had. The dying days of autumn always lifted Jane to inexplicable heights.
Jane’s phone vibrated signaling a new e-mail and she touched the screen, thinking Charley had answered back with an immediate “hurrah” for both of them, but it was a Lucky Productions e-mail with the “revised weekend schedule.” Jane noted that the e-mail had been sent to the entire list of Lucky Production employees, the proprietors of the in-town locations for shoots, the caterers, the drivers, the support staff, all of the Kankakee contacts, people at the radio station and the Daily Journal. There was no need for Jane to feel like she had been the only one out of the loop with today’s change. This time, the schedule included the walk through the farmer’s market. Jane wondered just who Lucky had screamed at to make it happen so quickly. Where were all the people who scurried to do his bidding? So far, she had seen packs of writers, drivers, and a few production assistants like Fran who had delivered the tearful news about Sluggo, but no real secretaries and temps running around. Maybe e-mailed schedules and texting had eliminated the need for a full office staff. No need to have anyone copying pages and stapling and hand-delivering if everyone got every change pinged into their cell phone or laptop instantaneously. Jane repeated that thought aloud.
“Everyone gets every schedule change pinged into their cell phone or laptop,” she said, scrolling back through the schedule and looking again at the list of recipients. She highlighted all the names and copied them into the body of a new e-mail, which she sent herself. It would be useful to see the names of everyone who knew and/or was kept apprised of Lucky’s whereabouts. After all, if one knew Lucky was out of the factory studio and for how long, one knew if one had time to hang seven horseshoes upside down, didn’t one?
“Come down here for a minute,” yelled Nellie. Jane had noted her mother’s absence in the kitchen, but figured she was out in the yard. Being summoned to the basement was unusual since Nellie did not trust Jane’s laundry skills and when any extra pot or pan needed fetching from the cupboards below, Nellie was far too impatient to explain to anyone where the item could be found. Nellie was from the forget-it-it’s-easier-if-I-get-it-myself school.
Jane descended into the basement and wondered just how long Nellie had been awake and busy in the basement. When her parents had purchased the house Jane’s senior year in high school, the previous owners had left all of the “p
arty room” furnishings. They had also left the ’60s-style wet bar decorated with fishing nets and starfish and twinkle lights. Don and Nellie, with no need for an at-home bar had simply left it alone and had gotten used to the kitschy corner, no longer really seeing it on trips through the “finished” portion of the basement to the “unfinished” laundry area, much more beloved and utilized by Nellie.
Today Jane saw enormous changes before she even stepped away from the stairs. Nellie had stripped away all of the bar decorations and dusted and scrubbed. She had put a simple desk lamp on the bar, and slid a file cabinet next to the two tall high-backed stools, making the wooden bar resemble an old style accounting desk. With the addition of an eyeshade banded around her head, Jane and Bartleby the Scrivener might easily share the office space.
Nellie had also pushed aside an old EZ Way Inn table and chairs that they had stored in the main area of the finished part of the basement. She had unrolled a colorful room-size braided rug made by Jane’s grandmother in the center of the space, arranged the fold-out couch so that it faced away from the newly set up bar/office arrangement and pulled out two lamps that had been stored somewhere to warm up the space. It looked cozy and, Jane had to admit, apartmentlike.
“Just so you can picture it,” Nellie said with a shrug.
Her mother had been cleaning and rearranging furniture for a couple of hours and it was barely eight A.M. Jane pictured it.
“I’m going to the farmer’s market. Do you need…” Jane stopped and turned in a different direction. “Would you like to come with?”
Nellie shrugged again. Jane read it as a yes.
“How’s it look down there?” asked Don, when Jane came upstairs, back into the kitchen. “Your mother wouldn’t let me help.”
Jane assured him it looked wonderful and she was continuing to think over their offer. She also promised, when he asked, that she would stop by Carl’s apartment after the market. That would still leave her time to figure out what to do about Lucky’s blackmail letter before the bowling extravaganza. Before discussing with Lucky, she really needed to talk more to Oh and, as much as she hated to admit it, read a bit more of Belinda St. Germaine’s book. Nellie came out with a sweater in one hand and a canvas bag in the other.
“I can drop you back here,” said Jane, with a wicked grin, knowing already her mother’s reaction, “unless of course you want to come with me when I visit Carl’s apartment.”
Nellie snatched something from the depths of the canvas bag that she jingled in front of Jane. Carl’s silver key ring. “How you going to get in without me?” she asked. “I got the keys.”
* * *
“What’s that noise?” asked Nellie, as they pulled into a parking space next to the downtown market. “Sounds like the big cooler at the EZ Way when the belt comes loose in the motor?”
Jane glanced at her mother whose ears seemed literally perked up, like a fox smelling a rabbit or hearing a hunter in the distance.
“My phone’s on vibrate,” said Jane. “I think it’s a text.”
Nellie reached into Jane’s bag before Jane could take her hands off the wheel straightening the car in the space.
“Hmmm, Lowry’s done it again.”
“Give me,” said Jane, turning off the engine and holding out her hand.
Nellie held the phone out of reach and looked her daughter in the eye.
“You think I don’t care about the stuff you care about. You’re wrong. I care about you and if that means all your damned doodads, I care about them, too. But the world’s got plenty of stuff for you. Just remember that,” said Nellie.
Nellie handed her the phone, undid her seat belt, and got out of the car, grabbing her canvas bag from the backseat.
No need to read the text. A message that prompted that response from Nellie meant only one thing. Her stuff was gone. It had been gone but now it was GONE. Fire, flood, famine, frogs, boils, some plague had descended on the movers who had taken Jane’s stuff and Tim would now be able to file the insurance claim he had been reassuring her with. Jane almost felt relieved when she forced herself to look at the text.
Truc impounded in CO. Driver arrested. Band equipment and remaining boxes destroyed in DUI accident. Company says to proceed with ins. clm. Sory for txt. Will explain later, but am filing claim today. I will make this up to you. so sorry.
Nellie had bounded ahead into the market crowd. Insurance claim. Jane’s stuff had been precious to her, sure, but she had never thought about dollar value. Tim had, though, and set it so much higher than she would have imagined. Still, if all of the pieces were priced out, the replacement cost would be astronomical. Jane had been cash poor for so long, she wasn’t prepared for the feeling that being “liquid” gave her. Before all this had happened, she would have said having cash would enable her to buy more stuff and that would be great. Now, having cash, Jane felt like she had to be so careful with spending. Being afraid to invest money in anything was one part of it, but her fear of once again investing her heart and soul into any one or one hundred objects was equally chilling.
Jane got out of the car, still staring at her phone, thinking about Tim’s text. She could actually collect insurance money in exchange for the loss of her beloved objects. She felt a little strange about it. It was just stuff after all … it wasn’t like anyone died and she was collecting life insurance which was another odd and uncomfortable concept. Who, after all, was really comforted by a check after someone they loved died? Jane stopped and moved aside for a young mother and father, each holding the hand of a little boy who walked between them. Jane smiled, watching the child bicycle his short legs in the air as his parents helped lift him through the air Unless, of course, Jane thought, the person didn’t die, just disappeared. Then did the insurance company have to pay the claim? What if someone figured out how to have their cake and eat it, too?
The vendors were set up in the parking lot across from the new library, right in the heart of downtown Kankakee. What had been here before? Aldens department store? Was that it? Jane allowed herself a moment to remember walking into Aldens, turning to the right past the jewelry and cosmetics and purses, and being in the shoe department. Wasn’t that where they had a big goose and if you bought the right kind of shoes, you got a prize that came in an egg? Wasn’t that where Nellie would tell her that she needed to get shoes that fit, not look at some damn prize and pick the ones that pinched her toes? “If the shoes are made good enough and fit you right, they wouldn’t need to give the damn prize,” Nellie would always say. Despite Nellie’s words of wisdom, Jane always opted for the toe pinchers and the prize. Maybe now was the time to invest in shoes that fit.
Jane saw two familiar figures across the lot, one of them hefting two vegetables as if weighing them against each other.
Jane quickly texted.
Forgive you only if you can find me the perfect eggplant and present it to me within 30 seconds.
Jane ducked behind a truck selling jars of amazing-looking pie fillings. She tried to read the flavors out of the corner of her eye while watching the two people across the lot. The tall, handsome sandy-haired man set down a full ripe eggplant and took his phone out of his pocket, He frowned at the text, then laughed. Picking up the eggplants and quickly paying for them both, he spoke to the equally handsome man at his side, then turned and began an almost robotic scan of the market, his head turning slowly from stand to stand. Just as he was about to turn in Jane’s direction, she ducked behind the display of jars. There were only two strawberry-rhubarb left. Someone came up and bought one of them, toying with taking them both, Jane stayed crouched, but as soon as the customer left, she knew she was going to have to come out of hiding if she wanted that last jar. Paying for it, she felt the tap on her shoulder.
“”Two perfect eggplants in under fifteen seconds. You’ll have to forgive me twice,” said Tim.
Opening her canvas bag, she nodded as imperially as she could muster in the middle of the ghostly Aldens, now se
lling farm-fresh produce instead of Red Goose Mary Janes and hugged Tim, right in the middle of the shoe department, if her calculations were indeed correct.
“I’ll help you replace everything … brand-new old stuff and better,” whispered Tim.
“I’m fine. I am actually, really, truly better than fine,” said Jane, meaning it and knowing it was true. Jane started to say something about finding her a place to live, but she saw Maurice approaching and right behind him, practically a puppy nipping at his heels, was Mary Wainwright.
“Tim told me what happened,” said Maurice, shaking his head. “You’re more generous with forgiveness than I might be.”
Jane wished she could explain the whole sensation that led her to this calm and Zen-like state, but she was having trouble understanding it herself. When she was packing the boxes for storage, she couldn’t eliminate one collectible. Nothing ended up in the donations or throw away box—not even the torn old calendars and the books with crumbling bindings and foxed pages. But now, even when she could picture an object clearly in her mind, she found that when it wasn’t touchable, when she couldn’t hold it in her hands, she could say good-bye. So it wasn’t out of sight out of mind exactly, since she could “see” it in her mind. It was just okay that it was all gone. Not good, not bad, but it was fine. She felt even. Balanced. Yikes. She might have to start attending a yoga class. What was wrong with her? Was this what some called happiness? Peace?
Lucky Stuff (Jane Wheel Mysteries) Page 18
