by Nancy Bell
“Oooh! What was it?”
“It was her hens. They was all layin’ there in a row in front of the back steps, and each one of um had their heads bit clean off. Old Odie, he just couldn’t hold it in for one more second.”
“Uh-oh. So, then what happened?”
“Oh, Odie and Shaunista, they got married and moved to the next county, and they never seen her mama and her mean old sisters again.”
“That was a good story, Rosebud. How did Odie get to be a werewolf in the first place?”
“That’s a whole ’nother story, and it’s mighty late. You get on up to bed, and maybe I’ll tell it to you another time.”
That night, lying in bed, I thought about all that had happened to me since I was six years old and was sent to live with Biggie. I’d been thrown in a dark hole, kidnapped by some fake army men, and almost gotten hauled off to Montana to live with my evil other grandmother, but I’d never come up against a real ghost before. Still, I was pretty sure that with Biggie there, nothing really bad could happen. I’ve never yet seen a situation she couldn’t handle.
You might think I dreamed about ghosts and werewolves that night, but I didn’t. I had a good night’s sleep and dreamed about my puppy playing in his new pen. It’s a good thing, too, since once we got to Quincy, I didn’t get much rest at all.
2
Biggie got a good deal on a car this year. She bought it from the undertaker over in Center Point, whose business had been so good he decided to upgrade his fleet of limousines. He sold her a Lincoln with very low mileage for a good price. He told her it had never been driven more than twenty miles an hour and I believe him, because did you ever see a funeral procession going faster than that? Since it has a jump seat in the back, Biggie decided Rosebud could drive us all over to Quincy in it even though we might be a little crowded.
The town of Quincy is only thirty-five miles from Job’s Crossing, but the two towns are not one bit alike. Rosebud says that’s because Quincy is just a hop, skip, and a jump from the Louisiana line and that makes it more Southern, while Job’s Crossing is pure-dee Texas. I could see what he meant. The further east we went, the taller the pine trees grew, and the thicker. Occasionally I saw a little Spanish moss hanging from the oak trees.
“We should stop and gather some of that moss,” Butch said. “It’s just the best thing in the world to use in dried arrangements.”
“That’s right, we should,” Miss Mattie said. “You can buy the stuff at Wal-Mart, but it costs a mint for a little-bitty bag, and it’s all dried up, too. Stop the car, Rosebud.”
“Maybe we’ll stop on the way back,” Biggie said, turning in her seat to face Miss Mattie and Butch. “Business before pleasure.”
“Once, I made a wreath to go over the mantel at the Masonic Lodge,” Butch said. “It had deer horns all over it, and a big bunch of turkey feathers at the top. I just festooned that wreath with Spanish moss.”
“Humph,” Mr. Thripp said. “I’ll bet they gypped you on the cost. Those Masons will get in your pocket every chance they get.”
“Norman, where did you ever get an idea like that?” Miss Mattie glared at him. “My daddy was a Mason, and I happen to know for a fact that they’re very honest. It says somewhere in their secret ritual that they have to be or they can get excommunicated.”
“Well, I don’t know so much about that,” Butch said. “They tell that Lee Harvey Oswald was a Mason—or was he an Elk? I always get those two mixed up.”
Miss Mattie spoke up. “I don’t think he was either … .”
“Look,” Biggie interrupted. “There’s the city limit sign.”
As Rosebud turned the car off the highway and onto Sweetgum Street, I noticed on either side of us some old Victorian houses. They were painted all different colors, not just white like we have in Job’s Crossing, and it seemed that every single one of them had some kind of historical marker stuck up by the door. Old trees lined the sidewalks and came together in the middle of the street. Miss Mattie and Butch were just oohing and aahing over those houses until it would make you sick.
“Look at that nice Queen Anne,” Miss Mattie said. “My Law, those oleanders must be eighty years old. Look at the size of them!”
“Um-hum.” Butch turned around to look. “Personally, I’d have painted it a nice pink with peach trim and white gingerbread. Brown is just so ordinary.”
“See that house on the right with the tower on top?” Biggie pointed. “That’s the House of the Epiphany. Stop, Rosebud, so we can see.” She pointed to the tower. “If you look close, you can see the three wise men on their camels done in stained glass in the top windows. A bishop built it back in the 1890s. It’s only lighted during the Christmas season.”
“Hey, look,” Butch said, pointing to a pale green house. “That one has a widow’s walk.”
“Where’s the hotel?” I asked, not expecting much because I’d already seen a picture of it on the brochure.
“It’s right downtown,” Biggie said. “Turn here, Rosebud.”
Rosebud stopped for a red light, then made a right turn, and there we were in the middle of the business district. The streets were made of brick and were lined with gift shops, antique shops, little cafes, and dress shops. I wondered where a person would go if they had to buy groceries or a hammer and nails. I didn’t see a single store that sold anything anyone would really need. I started to say that when Rosebud slowed the car and stopped in front of the hotel. It wasn’t anything but an old two-story square building right on Main Street with a balcony upstairs and rocking chairs out front on the sidewalk. A fancy iron rail surrounded the balcony, and pots of green plants stood on each side of the big front door.
Biggie and Miss Mattie and I went in while Rosebud and Mr. Thripp took the bags out of the car. It was cool and dark inside, and it took a minute for my eyes to adjust so I could look around. The first thing I saw was a bunch of people sitting around in the lobby, which was furnished with (what else?) antiques. A huge rug covered the worn-down wood floor. It was pale green with big pink and yellow roses in a design around the edge and in the middle. Here and there were chairs and sofas covered in shiny material. They didn’t look one bit comfortable to me. Pale green velvet drapes with gold fringe covered the tall windows, and next to the curving stairway I saw a statue of a woman holding a basket of cherries. In the center of the room stood a carved round table that held the biggest flower arrangement I’d ever seen. Butch went over and touched the flowers. “They’re real!” he said.
Biggie went straight to the registration desk just to the right of the front door. It looked like an old-timey bar out of a Western movie. Behind it was a huge mirror with a wide gold frame. A white-haired lady with a sweet face left the group of people and stepped behind the desk. She wore a light-colored skirt and a blue sweater that exactly matched her eyes. She shook Biggie’s hand. “Welcome,” she said, “I’m Mary Ann Quincy, manager of the hotel. I’m also a member of the historical society, so you’ll be seeing a lot of me. And you must be the famous Biggie Weatherford.”
“Me?” Biggie turned pink. “I’m not famous. I’m just …”
“Ah, but you are,” Mary Ann interrupted her. “You’re well known all over east Texas, not only for your work with the Daughters of the Republic of Texas, but for your detecting skills. We’ve heard all about how you’re always two jumps ahead of the lawmen when it comes to solving murders.”
Biggie had recovered her cool. “Well,” she said, “I do what I can.”
“Are there TVs in the rooms?” I asked without much hope.
“There is in your room.” Miss Mary Ann’s blue eyes twinkled. “Video games, too. I put it there just for you. It belongs to my son, Brian, but he’s in college now and doesn’t use it much anymore.” She winked at me.
I breathed a sigh of relief and grinned up at her. At least I wouldn’t be totally bored this weekend. As it turned out, I didn’t have too much time to hang out in my room, and I sure as heck was
n’t bored.
While Biggie registered, I looked around. The most interesting thing I spotted was a long table on one side of the room covered with a white cloth. I saw a silver tea service on one end and a bunch of plates full of little-bitty sandwiches and cookies and stuff. My stomach rumbled, and that reminded me; I hadn’t had a bite to eat since lunch. I hoped they were planning to share some of that food with us. I wasn’t disappointed.
“We have arranged a little tea for you,” the white-haired lady said, coming out from behind the desk. “Would you like to see your rooms first?”
Everybody but Rosebud must have been hungry, too, because they all said they’d rather have tea first, then go up to their rooms. Rosebud decided to have a little stroll around town. Miss Mary Ann Quincy led us all into the lobby and began introducing the society members.
“This is Henrietta Lester, but we all call her Hen,” she said, looking at a thin woman wearing a black pantsuit and pearls around her neck. Her hair was pinkish red, and even I could tell she was wearing way too much makeup. When she stuck out her hand to shake, I noticed she had rings on dern near every finger. She touched fingers with the Thripps and Biggie, but when Butch came up to shake, she jerked her hand back like she’d been stung. I guess I forgot to mention, Butch was wearing his black satin jeans, fluffy shirt, and black sequined tennies. Butch just grinned and turned to face the person next to her.
This was a man, and he was old—I mean really old, older than Biggie, even older than Biggie’s Aunt Bill Wooten, who lives at the rest home and has to be tied in her wheelchair. But when he stood up to greet the ladies, he was spry as a squirrel and his eyes were just as bright and curious. He wore a pale blue seersucker suit and I saw a Panama hat and a black cane resting beside his chair. Miss Mary Jane introduced him as Lucas Fitzgerald, a lawyer and lifelong resident of Quincy.
“Lucas lives with us here at the hotel,” she said.
“Charmed, ladies,” Lucas said, actually bowing low to each of them. “And Brother Thripp. Welcome to our town!” Then he stroked his mustache and looked down at me. “And who might our youngest visitor be?”
“I’m J.R. Weatherford, and I’m her grandson,” I said pointing to Biggie.
He leaned down and whispered in my ear. “How did they rope you into coming along?”
I shrugged.
“Oh, J.R.’s very interested in history,” Biggie piped up.
“That right?” Lucas said, still looking at me.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then we’ll find plenty for you to do. Yes-siree. How’d you like to help me catalog some papers for the museum tomorrow?”
“Sure,” I said, although I wasn’t sure just what that meant.
“Then meet me there at two. It’s just across the street. Mary Ann can show you where.”
Suddenly, I saw a shadow fall over the rug as the biggest woman I’d ever seen stood up from the sofa and took a step toward us, leaning on an ivory-topped walking stick. Her grayish hair was thin and cut like a man’s and she had black hair on her arms, which were brown like she’d been working out in the yard a lot. She wore a navy blue dress with a dingy white collar. It fitted her like a tent. She had the look of a person that would rather be outside any old day than attending teas with the ladies.
“Welcome!” she boomed at us. “I’m Alice LaRue, president of this here little organization. The only reason they let me in is because the family I married into has been here longer than anybody else’s.” When she laughed, the teacups on the table rattled. She reached around behind her and pointed to a mousy girl sitting on the couch. “This here’s my daughter, Emily Faye. She keeps the minutes.”
The secretary stood up and gave us all a limp handshake, looking up at us through her thick glasses. She was wearing a shapeless floweredy dress and had on white tennis shoes. I guessed she must be around eighteen, but the way she was dressed, you’d have thought she was forty.
“Fine,” Alice LaRue bellowed. “Now that we’ve all met, let’s head for the tea table. Em, you set at the head and pour out the tea.” She stomped over to the table that was just chock-full of goodies. The rest of us followed. “Lordy mercy, would you look at this spread.” She looked at Mary Ann. “You do all this yourself?”
“No way.” Mary Ann looked over her shoulder from where she’d been prodding Biggie to be first in line. “Annabeth Baugh has been helping me out this summer. She did most of it. I declare, I don’t know where that girl learned to do things so nice growing up the way she did.”
I’d been eyeballing a silver tray full of little baby pecan pies and thinking I could eat three or four of those. I looked up at Mary Ann. “How did she grow up?”
“Oh, well, hon, she was raised out at Caddo Lake—right next to the bayou. Her folks never had much, that’s all.”
“Didn’t they eat?”
“J.R., that’s enough,” Biggie said. “What Mary Ann means is, Annabeth never had much chance to cook fancy party food. Here.” She handed me a plate, and I headed for the pecan pies.
“Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly. She helped me out a little last summer. Where is Annabeth, anyway?” Hen Lester’s eyes darted around the room as she picked up a cucumber sandwich and put it on her plate. “I thought she’d be here helping you serve.”
Mary Ann was sitting at the other end of the table serving up cream puffs filled with fresh strawberries and whipped cream. “I gave her the afternoon off,” she said, not looking at Hen. “She’s gone off somewhere with Brian.” She plopped a cream puff on Butch’s plate, smiling up at him.
Alice LaRue had already gone back to the sofa with her plate. “You’d better keep a sharp eye on that situation,” she shouted. “I saw them to driving past my house, and honey, she was practically settin’ in the boy’s lap.”
“It’s only a summer romance,” Mary Ann said. “Brian’s going back to SMU in the fall. He’s practically engaged to a nice girl from Dallas. I don’t think Annabeth harbors any unrealistic expectations.”
“Honey, she’s a female, ain’t she?” Alice plopped a whole cream puff in her mouth then talked around it. “We’re all just naturally prone to expectations. It’s in our genes.”
After everybody had gotten their food and taken seats, balancing their plates on their knees, the front door opened and the prettiest girl I’d ever seen walked in. She had yellow hair that fell down her back in shiny waves. Her face was tanned a golden brown, and her eyes were as blue as a robin’s egg. She wore real short white shorts and a halter top the color of her eyes. Her legs were long and brown and she was wearing white sandals. My eyes must have bugged right out of my head, because Butch punched me and grinned. A boy that I figured must have been Brian because he walked over and kissed Mary Ann on the cheek followed her. He was wearing shorts and a tee shirt and a baseball cap with Mustangs printed on the front.
“Come here, you two,” Alice LaRue bellowed. “Meet our out-of-town guests.”
The two came over and stood before our group while Mary Ann made the introductions. “Where have y’all been?” she asked.
“We went boating on the lake,” Brian said. “Hey, Mom, could you spare Annabeth for a little while longer? I want to take her to the dance at the pavilion tonight.”
“I don’t have to go if you need me,” Annabeth said.
“Well, I do need you to help with dinner.” Mary Ann smiled at the girl. “Would eight o’clock be too late to go?”
“That would be great, Mom. I’ll help.” Brian took Annabeth by the arm. “Come on, I’ve got something to show you in my room.” He winked at her.
As those two walked away, I saw Emily Faye look at them with the saddest eyes I’d ever seen on anyone. She saw me looking and quickly built a little smile on her face and asked if anyone wanted any more tea.
After refreshments were over, the group offered to give us a tour of the hotel.
“That would be lovely,” Biggie said, and Miss Mattie agreed. Rosebud, who had just come b
ack from his walk, said he had to take the car down to be checked because he’d heard a funny noise driving over, and Mr. Thripp said he’d heard it, too, and he’d be glad to go along to help. I didn’t believe that for a minute, but I offered to go and help, too, because I wasn’t any more interested in touring the hotel than they were. Of course Biggie said I had to stay with her. Sometimes I get tired of being treated like a little kid. I’m going on thirteen for gosh sake, but go tell Biggie that.
The first thing they did was lead us over to a big glass-covered case that stood on fat legs like an old piano. Inside, the old hotel register sat on a velvet cushion.
“Normally, we don’t take this out of the case. It’s priceless.” Hen Lester took a small key out of her pocket. “But for you, we will, so you can see for yourselves what a distinguished clientele this place used to have.”
I couldn’t help thinking how much this woman reminded me of Mrs. Muckleroy back in Job’s Crossing.
She raised the glass. Lucas Fitzgerald reached in and gently lifted the giant ledger out, then she closed it. He set it down on the top and began turning the pages. “Gather around. Can you all see?”
We grouped ourselves around the table and peered at the pages.
“Look.” He pointed with one long finger at a name. “Ulysses S. Grant, June 16, 1866.” The ladies oohed and aahed. “And here.” He turned some more pages, pointing to more names. Rutherford B. Hayes, Alma Gluck, Harry Houdini, Oscar Wilde.
“Oscar Wilde?” Butch squeaked. “Oscar Wilde stayed here?”
“He stayed in the Orchid Room,” Miss Mary Ann said. “And that’s where you’re staying, Butch.”
“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Butch beamed.
“And here,” Lucas continued, “this is important. Jay Gould, April 1873 and again in November of that year. Everybody know who Jay Gould was?”
The others nodded. “I don’t,” I said.
