Fit To Curve (An Ellen and Geoffrey Fletcher Mystery Book 1)

by Bud Crawford

  "Hi, Stef." Geoff stopped alongside Ellen. Stephanie stood up, Geoff embraced her for a second. "This is Ellen." Ellen and Stephanie shook hands. "And you're Harold," Geoff extended his hand as Harold stood. "Good to meet you."

  "Stephanie has told me so much about you, it's good to put a face to the stories." His eyes met Geoff for an instant, darted to Stephanie, to Ellen. He wore a navy blazer over a white crewneck, tan pleated pants. He was thin, pale, maybe three inches shorter than Geoff.

  Stephanie was still holding Ellen's hand. Ellen said, "Geoff has told me almost nothing about you. He thinks that's being a gentleman. I think it's being stingy, and means I have to do all the work."

  "Hello, Ellen. I hope this isn't too strange for you, for any of us." Stephanie said. "To have it all jump up in forty-eight hours…"

  Oh, god, Ellen thought, she's a fawn. Her fitted silk shirt was pumpkin over a brushed suede skirt. She's beautiful, fragile, startled, sad. And beautiful. I don't even want to hate her. I just don't want anything to hurt her. Stephanie was still squeezing her hand. Ellen gently peeled their fingers apart and said, "Well, let's sit down, and have some tea. Hello, Harold. Here's Alistair." She sat first, the others followed.

  Alistair pulled as his assistant pushed a roller tray. He offered a choice of hot green, hot black, or cold berry tea. On each table he set a plate of fresh-cooked scones and butter and a wire holder with three pots — honey, raspberry jelly, yellow plum jam. His assistant added a smaller plate with dark-chocolate covered crisps. She was twenty maybe, rings on many fingers, rings and studs here and there about her face. Brown-skinned with red-orange hair. Dark freckles dotted all visible skin. She poured tea for each guest, but did not speak. Gorgeous kid, Ellen thought, if a slightly sullen one. She smiled at the girl, who was surprised into smiling briefly back.

  The windows were open to the garden, and the flowery fresh April air blew softly into the room. Harold looked to his left, at the two men reading beside them, shook his head, and turned to face Geoff. "Stephanie says you teach creative writing, that you are a writer yourself."

  "I do teach," Geoff said, "according to a regular schedule. I struggle in an irregular way to write poems. I find it's much easier to give good advice to my students than to follow it." He covered his cup of black tea with his palm, feeling the hot steam condense on his palm. "You're a financial planner, Stephanie said, with Metrocor?"

  "Yes, combination advisor and broker. I help people figure out how to preserve and increase their assets, and then help them actually do it." Harold took a tentative sip of tea, decided it was still too hot and set the cup back into the saucer. "And you write, too, Ellen?"

  "I'm a journalist, not a literary writer. I write articles for magazines." She sipped her berry-flavored iced tea, and picked up one of the chocolates. "You're teaching dance, Stephanie?"

  "Yeah, I go from school to school in Charlotte, five public high schools, a different one each day. Mostly that's all the kids get, one hour a week, but there are a couple other people doing what I do, and some schools have clubs or teams that get a little additional time as part of PE." She broke a scone open and spread butter on it, a quarter thimble's worth. "There isn't a lot of funding for art programs right now. What kind of magazines do you write for?"

  "I freelance," Ellen said, "so lots of different ones, whoever will buy what I have, or offers me an assignment I like. I cover travel and food, sometimes decorating. Lifestyle is the trade term. I'm here in Asheville to do the usual Asheville article, I guess, Ten Things To Do Besides the Biltmore House, something like that, we don't have a title yet. It's a follow-up on a piece I wrote last year."

  "What magazine, Ellen?" Harold asked, he had his thumb and forefinger pressed through the handle of the porcelain cup, without lifting it.

  "Travel America." Ellen swallowed a gulp of tea.

  Stephanie looked at Ellen. "Harold and I met here for the first time, a year ago, because of a Travel America article. We'd been corresponding, on-line, for several months, but we first met in person here."

  "Yeah, Geoff told me." Ellen set her glass down. And looked at Stephanie, at Harold, then Geoff. "That article, it was one of mine, rating bed-and-breakfasts. Geoff said he hadn't told you. I write under the name 'Ellie Armstrong.'"

  "I started my career as an actuary, then I worked as a CPA, before I was a broker," Harold said. "I can't begin to compute the probabilities here."

  "I started college as a math major," Geoff said, "and you're right, they're beyond calculating. Except, that's kind of the way life goes, down here under the moon. Events follow each other, as if there's some ordering principle. We like to think there is one, but the real mechanism is like the folded-up dimensions in string theory. You pretend to understand, so the other physicists won't think you're dumb, but it's really just mystery pushing mystery, all of it running on faith."

  "Well, I believe that you can explain anything, if you have the facts. There's some connecting process here, if we just looked hard enough." Harold picked up his cup and swallowed tea, still too hot, he sputtered.

  "Here," Ellen passed her glass of cold tea, Harold gulped some gratefully.

  "Thank you, Ellen." He handed back her glass and wiped his lips with his napkin. "I get agitated when the numbers don't add up. It's why I quit being a CPA. It was too much stress trying to meet tax deadlines working with other peoples figures, all the missing pieces and mistakes."

  "I think it's neat," Stephanie said, "like one of those O-Henry stories, where something completely unlikely somehow becomes inevitable." She answered Geoff's puzzled expression. "I've read a lot, the past eighteen years." She turned to Ellen, "I didn't used to, that's why he looks so confused."

  Ellen smiled. "I know that look. When somebody surprises him, he reacts as if a chair had suddenly started talking." She turned to Harold. "In the financial world, it's what they call 'exceeding expectations,' isn't it?"

  Harold smiled at Ellen. "I think I'm losing the thread, but that's okay." He took a small sip of his tea, grimaced, and said, "Once you've burned your tongue, everything's too hot."

  .

  chapter seventh

  Alistair had come back into the dining room, his arm around a woman whose reluctance was plain.

  "Hello, everyone. I'd like you all to meet my companion, my partner, Antonia Billings. Juniper House is a joint Vingood-Billings production, from the inception." He turned first to the older woman who was still knitting. "You've met Antonia, of course, long since, Miss Staedtler."

  "It always is a pleasure to see you emerge, Ms. Billings. Juniper House would have no guests without Mr. Vingood's charm and his artistry in the kitchen. But the house and grounds would have tumbled to rubble absent your skilled attention." Her voice was soft and precise, more like a woman of seventy, than eighty. Only the slight tremble that underlay her words, and manners that had been old-fashioned for a long time spoke to her actual years. She bowed slightly, smiled to Alistair and Antonia, then smiled and nodded to everyone in turn, scanning left to right, from Ellen to Geoff, to Stephanie, Harold, and the two men sitting at the table next to her.

  Alistair pointed up the room. "The lovely sisters Farley, half-hiding by the door, have stayed with us once or twice before. Mary-Beth and Beth-Ann, is that right?" The sisters nodded, in unison. "I get your names mixed up, but you know my Antonia, Toni. Everyone, Mary-Beth and Beth-Ann." The two women smiled, just a little.

  Alistair gestured to the men and turned Antonia slightly. "Dwight Vance, Jerry Hollier, you also have met Antonia."

  "Good to see you again, Toni." Jerry said. "I want you to tell me two things, if you're willing to share? What you use to make oak floors glisten this way, and why your orchids don't die like mine do, after about two months?"

  "Jerry, I'm always glad to see you." Toni's voice was warm and low-pitched. She looked small next to Alistair's six-foot-six, but was almost as tall as Ellen. She was solid and capable looking, with strong callused hands. "The trick
with the floors is buffing, one good coat of wax shines up many times if you polish. The trick with the orchids is just fresh bark from time to time. And water when they get dry, but not too much. You know this, you sent me pictures from your greenhouse, there were at least fifty blooming plants."

  Dwight looked up. "Yes, they look happy when he buys them, then they die. He hasn't got the repotting figured out. Please show him how, I hate listening to all the post-mortem reports, the guilty whining. Then he cries like a little girl. I'd be so grateful if you could help him."

  "Hey, Dwight. I'll take him out back tonight, I've got a couple plants due for new mix. It's nothing, once you've seen it done."

  Alistair turned her once more to her left. "You did meet two of these folks, Tone, a year ago, this is an anniversary for Stephanie and Harold Alden. Ellen and Geoffrey Fletcher stayed so briefly, I don't believe you ever got to see them, November before last."

  Toni nodded. "Hello, people. Alistair thinks it's good for me to meet the guests, so whenever I'm least ready, in the middle of restoring a Windsor chair, for instance, like today, five minutes ago, he'll drag me out of the shop. But despite having a fresh-oiled chair ready for a wipe-down, it really is a pleasure to see you all. Harold and Stephanie, congratulations. Alistair told me about Geoffrey and Ellen, and the second-cousin's kidney transplant, or whatever it was. We did appreciate your review, Ellen. Maybe we'll get a chance to talk later, I'm better at evenings. I don't do tea. Well, good day, everybody." She turned herself free of Alistair's arm, and left the dining room.

  Alistair stepped away from the tables. "Please consider that you've all been introduced. I'll fetch Marti for refills. Would anyone like more scones or biscuits?" Heads shook side-to-side. "Right, just tea, then."

  Ellen watched him leave. "Hello, Jerry, Dwight, Miss Staedtler. Glad to meet you all, through Alistair. Hi, Beth-Ann, Mary-Beth."

  Everyone spoke then, to everyone else, greetings stepping on each other, a confused, genial murmuring. Except, Ellen noticed, Harold pointedly did not turn to the men beside him. Stephanie reached across the table, put her hand on Harold's. Miss Staedtler lowered her eyes to her knitting, fingers smoothly slipping each new-formed stitch onto the right-hand needle. The pace was quick, steady, and unchanging, whether she was looking up or looking down.

  Marti wheeled in fresh teapots. The hot ones steamed, the iced-tea pitcher was new-sheeted with condensation. Cups and glasses rattled slightly on the cart as she pushed it between the tables. Her apron was tightly cinched around her waist. Her hips belled out below. Above, her apron top aligned with the scoop of a scoop-neck blouse that framed the freckled brown rounds of her breasts. Red hair frizzed from under her white cap.

  "Anyone ready for a refill of the black tea?" She offered the pot. Geoff and Dwight reached out with their saucers and cups. She poured, then picked up the other pot. "Green?" Jerry held out his cup, Miss Staedtler nodded towards hers. The Farley sisters shook their heads. "Anyone for the iced tea? Stephanie and Ellen lifted their glasses, Marti poured. "Sir, more for you?" she said to Harold.

  "Give me a glass of iced tea, please, I burned my tongue, before."

  "Sorry about that, sir" Marti poured a fresh glass and handed it to him. "I'll leave the cart here, and you-all can help yourselves." She leaned across to pick up Harold's cup and saucer. Harold flushed slightly, startled by the curvy expanse of freckled flesh that suddenly filled his field of vision, then was as suddenly withdrawn. He saw Ellen looking at him, he flushed more deeply and looked away.

  Ellen turned to Stephanie. "What kind of dancing are Charlotte kids into."

  "Pretty much opposite to me. I'm ballet first, by training and preference, then modern, jazz is okay. I don't really like hip-hop, but that's more what they want. So I watch MTV and poke around on U-tube looking for moves, trying to keep up. Ballroom styles, dancing with the stars, is big now. I try to provide exposure to everything, but I have to keep them interested, and keep within the syllabus." She saw that Harold had recovered his composure. "Harold really hates hip-hop."

  "I do hate it. It's ugly and awful." Harold turned to Geoff and Ellen. "Don't you think so?"

  Geoff said, "Supposed to be, isn't it? Each generation has to find something to scare their parents with. Once upon a time, a waltz was the distillation of depravity."

  Ellen shrugged, "Movement's movement, for me. I quit ballet when I was fifteen because it didn't seem exciting enough, or full-throttle enough, but it's still what I think of as the core. It's the training that underlies all the rest. But really strong hip-hop is exciting, I might have kept on dancing, if that had been an option. The athleticism appeals to me."

  "But the words," Harold said, "those horrid songs. The profanity and violence, it's just nasty, with no redeeming qualities at all."

  "Well, we're in my field, now." Geoff said. "You have to listen to the words. It's not been common, for a long while, for poetry to come up from the streets. It's supposed to trickle down while the unwashed keep quiet and appreciate. We haven't even managed to include Dylan or Lennon or Jagger into the cannon. Troubadours from medieval France pushing adultery as performance art? Sure, they're in. Folk singers and rock-and-rollers? Too crude and dangerous. Rap? Not on the table. But there are powerful rap lyrics, very moving, very tight. It's not all misogynists and guns, though there's plenty of that, literally and metaphorically. It's easy to hate and meant to be. Most of it is awful. But there's live lovely stuff, too. You can't dismiss it categorically."

  "I can dismiss it." Harold said. "Things are right, things are wrong. It's not complicated. Decadence and depravity, robbery, murder, unnatural acts, there's nothing new about any of it, except we used to know better than to tolerate the deviants and make excuses for them." His hands pumped up and down, his face flushed purple.

  Stephanie put her hand on his shoulder, and turned to Geoff. "He gets riled up. It isn't healthy. I try to tell him the world isn't simple, that you have to consider other people's points of view. Real life isn't like numbers where there's only one answer. Sometimes he listens." She turned to Harold.

  "I'm sorry. I know it's not simple, I just wish it was, that everybody could see what's so obvious to me, just get back to something clean and true." Harold held his napkin against his face and breathed in sharply. "Well, when the rest of the country agrees with me, that'll be the day the moon turns blue."

  Ellen patted his hand. "Passion's good, just don't burn up. And try to see the good side of having a world that gave up being simple in favor of being incredibly interesting." She looked up from Harold to see Dwight and Jerry standing behind him.

  Dwight said, "A great pleasure to meet all of you. Jerry and I are going to try to walk off the biscuits before they bond permanently to our waistlines." He turned and nodded to Miss Staedtler. Jerry went first, looking straight ahead.

  When they were gone, Harold said, "Oh, I've done it again, haven't I, Stephanie? I didn't want to hurt anybody's feelings. I just don't see why my feelings shouldn't count, too, sometimes."

  Ellen clapped her hands softly on the table in front of her. "I know," she said, "let's meet back here in a couple hours and walk downtown for supper. It's just five now, say about seven-thirty? I'll work up a list from the twenty pounds of brochures I've got piled up in my room. We'll find something everybody will like."

  Stephanie reached across and touched Ellen's arm. "That would be perfect, wouldn't it dear?" She took Harold's hand. "We can sit in the garden, or watch TV, then go have a nice dinner."

  "Sure, fine." Harold put his arm around Stephanie's shoulders. "I've got to learn to take things easier."

  Geoff stood. "Okay, seven-thirty. I'll have a chance to get started grading papers, with a nice near deadline to guarantee me a break. Come, Ellen, lead us up."

  Ellen stayed seated. "Miss Staedtler? Would you like to join our dinner excursion? Are you game for a stroll?" The Farley sisters had gone, whether before Jerry and Dwight or after, she wasn't sure.


  "Oh, thank you, dear, for asking. I'm afraid my gait would be difficult for fit young folks like yourselves to tolerate. I'm a walker, it is my exercise of choice, but my pace seems snail-like, even to me." She smiled and shook her head.

  Stephanie said, "That will be exactly what we all need, a reason for not rushing. Please do come."

  "Then, I should love to, if you're all certain it won't be an horrible imposition?" She looked at Geoff and Harold.

  "Absolutely it would not," Geoff said.

  ~

  Marti threaded her arms through the straps, clipped the clasp behind her back, and evened out the cups across her breasts. Good, she thought. The face in the mirror smiled back. She picked up the jellies from the dressing table and exhaled. First left, then right, with a practiced push up past the under-wire. She put a hand over each cup and joggled the inserts into a comfortable placement. Better, she said, out loud. She rubbed her forefingers inwards across the straining lifted tops of her breasts, down together into the deep well of cleavage. She pulled her fingers back out across her nipples. She shuddered at the double tingle, shuddered again at the sight of them pushing up against the lace. Best. Will they read? She pulled on her yellow shirt, buttoned two middle buttons, crossed and wrapped and tied the long tails behind, pulling the shiny rayon taut. Yes! She smiled at her smile. I kill!