by Sharon Short
Cletus jumped, as if he hadn’t noticed my car—which he may not have—then turned and came back. He hunkered down and looked at me through the passenger’s side. Good Lord. The man was wearing a bright red tie—and his sweating face matched the shade perfectly. He pulled a hanky from a pocket, wiped his brow and said, “Yes, my dear? May I help you?”
I held back a smile. “My name is Josie Toadfern. I run the in town—your niece has been visiting there lately. And my Aunt Clara Foersthoefel used to work for your company.” That’s the way of small towns. An introduction means establishing how you’re already connected to the other person. “I’m on my way back into town and thought you might want a ride. It’s a hot day out.”
Cletus thought about that for a minute. “Well, my dear, I’d be delighted to keep you company if you’d like.”
Then he opened the door and got in. I glanced over at him as we drove. He had a round face and a round belly and even round fingers that clutched a brown paper sack. His suit was silk, the color of butterscotch, the very color, in fact, of the butterscotch that filled Breitenstrater butterscotch pies. I wondered if he also had a chocolate suit and a cherry suit and. . .
He twisted open the bag, pulled something out, and tossed it out the window. Pop! I jumped. Oh Lord, was my car misfiring? I’d just replaced the muffler, too.
The wind was lifting the forelock of Cletus’s hair, which had been stiffened into one salt-and-pepper unit with hair gel. “I’m sorry I don’t have air conditioning,” I said. Dear Lord. The man was used to riding in Jaguars. “But if you want to roll up the window, Mr. Breitenstrater . . .”
“Just call me Cletus,” he said. “You know, Trudy has told me all about you.”
“Really.”
“Oh, yes. It is so kind of you to accept her presence at the . I’m afraid she’s going through a tough time right now. And it was kind of you to invite her to the meeting tonight. She told me about it and I knew I just had to come, too.” Cletus grinned. “I have a little surprise for everyone. But Dinky and Todd took off with my car, and Geri’s gone shopping, and Alan . . . well. . .”
Cletus’s voice trailed off as if he’d thought better of saying anything more about his brother, the true ruler of the Breitenstrater clan.
“Anyway,” he went on, “Your Uncle Otis has also said nice things about you.”
I clenched the steering wheel harder than necessary, then lightened my grasp. I’ve heard tell of steering wheels snapping off in my make and model of Chevy. “You know my Uncle Otis?”
“Why yes, dear. And your cousin Sally. They are working on the renovation of the old Paradise Theatre, you know. You do know that, right?”
“Yes,” I said, trying to breathe evenly. Cletus and Uncle Otis knowing each other? This could not be good. “I recommended them for the work. Uncle Otis has always been something of a handyman, and Sally is really quite talented, looking to start her own business—”
But Cletus wasn’t really interested in Uncle Otis and Sally’s interests. “Yes, I’ve had many a fine discussion at the old theatre with your Uncle Otis.”
“You have?”
“Oh yes. I’m quite interested in architectural restoration, you know.”
Lord, what wasn’t this man interested in? He reached in his paper bag again, grabbed something, threw it out.
Pop!
I jumped. “Mr. Breitenstrater, what are you throwing out of my car window?”
“Cletus.”
“What?”
“Just call me Cletus.”
“Okay, Cletus.”
He tossed another something-from-his-bag out the window. Pop! “They’re mini smoke bombs. Kind of like super-sized snaps—with a lot more pop.” I’d noticed. “Haven’t you ever thrown snaps?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“Well, you’d love these. Lots more oomph. Of course, I love fireworks of all kinds. Roman candles are really my favorite, but there’s something lovely about the simple pleasures of a Morning Glory sparkler, too. I’ve loved fireworks ever since I was a boy. And I know about every kind there is, too. Bottle rockets, aerial repeaters, Tasmanian devils . . .”
Pop! Swerve. “I’m thrilled to know that, Cletus, really, but you need to stop.”
“Why?” He threw another one, of course.
”Because beside the fact you’re polluting, you’re making me very nervous.”
“Well, if you’re nervous, you really ought to try ginseng tea. I’ve been recommending it to everyone.”
I remembered Mrs. Beavy from the day before, with her stained blouse, talking about that.
“Now, when I was researching Utopian histories,” Cletus was going on, “I learned that in one group American ginseng—which grows in the woods near here, you know, and which in fact Daniel Boone—and this has been documented—gathered and sold—”
I shook my head, staring at the road. How did we just go from building restoration to fireworks varieties to Utopias, ginseng and Daniel Boone?
Pop! . . . and then another sound. A siren. A police siren. Right on my tail.
I looked in my rearview mirror. Sure enough. There was a Paradise Police cruiser right behind me. I slowed—Cletus threw another supersized snap—”Stop that!” I hollered at him—and eased over to the side of the road and stopped.
Which is how I ended up being late getting back to my , which is why Trudy ended up going to the Paradise Historical Society meeting herself, which is why . . .
Anyway. I looked over at Cletus—and saw that the brown paper bag had disappeared. Cletus looked over at me and smiled.
“Josie Toadfern.”
I turned at the sound of my name, spoken in a taunting tone, and faced John Worthy, leaning in my window. John Worthy—who disliked me with extreme intensity. My ex-high-school-boyfriend . . . and our current chief of police.
“Hello, Chief,” I said.
“I thought I wrote you up on your muffler just a few weeks ago?” he said.
“You did. And I got that fixed.”
“So the sound and smoke were from what, then, Josie?”
“They were,” I said, “because Mr. Breitenstrater here—”
“Cletus—” Cletus said helpfully.
“Cletus was throwing supersized smoking snaps out of my window. I asked him to stop, but—”
John peered over at Cletus. “Good evening, sir,” John said, his voice instantly getting much more respectful. “I’m sure Josie must be joking, but I have to ask as due course of the law. Were you throwing snaps out the window?”
Cletus made his round eyes even rounder and spread out his pudgy hands to show that they were empty.
”Ah, thank you, sir,” Chief Worthy said. “Now, Josie, I’m going to have to write you up again—”
“The muffler is fixed! I swear! If you’ll just retrace, you’ll find snap—leftovers—or whatever it’s called—”
“Residual is the proper term,” Cletus put in.
“Okay, snap residual along the road, and—”
“Mr. Breitenstrater, I’m not sure how you came to be in this woman’s company, but I’m sure you can’t be comfortable riding with the likes of her. I’d be honored to give you a ride if you need one, sir.” Then Chief Worthy turned his attention back to me. “Josie, I’m going to have to write you up. There’s a pretty big fine that goes with . . .”
I moaned, leaning my head against the steering wheel.
Suddenly, my glove compartment fell open and everything in it came flying out.
“Oh, look, how clumsy of me,” Cletus said loudly. “I guess my knee brushed against the door. Sorry, Josie. Oh—and look—there are my snaps after all.” Cletus gave a little laugh. “Sorry about that, Chief Worthy—just a temporary lapse of memory that I do have them and that, yes, it was I, using them. So no need to cite Josie. You’ll just need to write me up, I guess. We’re kind of in a hurry. Paradise Historical Society meeting, you know. Very important.”
Chief Worthy
frowned. “Well, sir, I do appreciate your honesty. I’ll let you off on a warning, this time.”
I had the feeling that he would let Cletus—who was now stuffing the contents back into my glove compartment—off on a warning every time.
“As for you, Josie, I’ll be watching you.”
With that, Chief Worthy got back in his cruiser. He followed us all the way into town, right on my bumper, so I stayed just a few miles below the speed limit. Not too fast. Not too slow. Just right.
Cletus and I were quiet, except for once, when I said, “Thanks.”
And he said, “No problem, dear. I always root for the underdog.”
Not exactly the way I wanted to be described, but still. In his own way, he was being sweet.
By the time we got to my , Trudy was already gone. Cletus walked the few blocks down to the old Paradise Theatre—tossing his supersized smoking snaps on the sidewalk as he went, causing folks to hop, look annoyed, and then just smile patronizingly at him because, after all, he was a Breitenstrater.
Trudy had left a fill-in in her place—a skinny young man in black leather pants, black dyed hair, a black T-shirt, and, clipped to his left eyebrow, a sapphire rhinestone earring that looked suspiciously like something Mrs. Beavy would have worn.
I peered past him to my . Everything was neat and in place. Trudy had left a note that all orders had been picked up and that she’d bought, on her lunch break, a fresh package of washable markers for the kids’ corner—didn’t I know markers came in neon colors now?
I had to smile at that.
I looked up at the young man, studied him for a moment. “Aren’t you Chucky Winks?”
Chuck Winks’ boy—Chuck Jr.—aka Chucky, aka East Mason County High School’s all-star baseball player as a high school sophomore . . . until the final game of the season, when he’d suddenly lost his nerve, dropped two balls at second, then struck out at the bottom of the ninth, blowing his school’s chance to finally, for the first time ever, beat West Mason County High School in something. Anything. (West draws the kids from in and around Masonville. East gets everyone else in the county. The schools are, no surprise, big rivals.)
I’d surely never seen him looking like this before. But I could understand his wish for an identity change after the big loss. We take our sports seriously around here. And his daddy, Chuck Winks Sr., who worked on the county road crews, was, everyone knew, pinning his hopes on his boy becoming a major league contender. After the game, though, Chucky was heard to holler at his daddy that he hated him, he hated Paradise, and more than anything, he hated baseball. I had to feel sorry for both of them.
“I go by Charlemagne now,” Chucky said. “Trudy asked me to stay here and let you know she’d gone with the others to the meeting.”
“Others?” I said faintly.
Chucky—Charlemagne—grinned. “I think it’s going to be some meeting.”
Despite my nervousness, I had to smile when Charlemagne and I got to the Paradise Theatre.
The building—two stories, circa 1850s, brick, square, sandwiched between Cherry’s Chat N Curl and the Odds N Ends Bait and Tackle shop—was the town’s “opera house,” used for lectures and performances popular at the end of the nineteenth century. It served for a time as a town hall (until the new one, in combination with a new police department, fire department, and two-person jail, was built back in the fifties), then became a combo cinema and theatre fifty-some years ago.
Eventually, the movie showings dwindled to one a weekend. And, eventually, the Paradise Town Hall Players, who had once-upon-a-time put on three plays a year, disbanded and stopped doing shows. The old building fell into disrepair—its three-sided exterior ticket booth becoming a derelict, paint-chipped, broken-glassed eyesore. A tornado this past spring clipped the roof and broke a few windows.
Then the Paradise Historical Society got an anonymous donation of funds specifically for repairing the building. Mrs. Beavy (as the society’s president) had been in my fussing one day about having trouble finding anyone to do the work for the available money, and knowing my cousin Sally was trying to launch her own handywoman business, I’d recommended her and Uncle Otis.
And now, looking at the freshly rebuilt and painted ticket booth, and the new door, and the geranium-filled flowerpots on either side of the door, I was glad I had. I grinned in pride. Finally, Uncle Otis was taking his work seriously, instead of searching out another get-rich-quick scheme. (He’d tried everything from mushroom farming in his basement to fixer-upper quick-turnaround real estate—but even Uncle Otis’s handyman skills were no match for sink holes.)
And this great work meant that Sally was probably well on her way to establishing her business. If the historical society mavens liked her work, they’d recommend her to their friends. Why had I worried so?
When I stepped into the lobby, I remembered.
It was a mess. Old wallpaper half-stripped, hanging in shards from the wall. A musty smell to the filthy carpet. Broken light fixtures overhead.
“Wow,” said Charlemagne. “What a mess. Trudy told me your uncle and cousin are doing the work to get this place renovated in time for the July Fourth Breitentstrater Founder’s Day play. That’s just two weeks. You think they can—”
“Hush up, Charlemagne,” I said.
We went through the double doors into the auditorium. No work had been done in there either—but that’s not what caused me to gasp.
This was supposed to be a simple meeting of just nine people: Mrs. Beavy, the director, who’d pass out the same scripts that had been used forever to the six people who had played the six roles forever. Cornelia Hintermeister (our mayor) and her husband Rodney played the Foersthoefels; Luke and Greta Rhinegold (who own Paradise’s only motel, the Red Horse) played the Breitenstraters; Sandy Schmidt, who owns the restaurant across from my , and Terrence Jones, who taught English and drama over at Mason County East High School, played the Schmidts. Cherry Feinster (of Cherry’s Chat N Curl) was in charge of set design and props, all of which were stored out in the Hapstatters’ barn at their farm on Mud Lick Road.
That left me. I’m in charge of costumes and PR (which means changing the date on the program each year, seeing if anyone wanted to update their ads, getting the program printed, and updating the date of the play for the same article that had always run in the Paradise Advertiser-Gazette).
All I was supposed to have to do that night was be polite to everyone and gather up the costumes from the storage closet in the “green room” upstairs and take them back to my for any cleaning and repairs. Simple, right?
But what I saw before me was anything but simple. The nine people that were supposed to be at this meeting were certainly there. But so were a whole bunch of other townspeople, including most of the members of the Paradise Chamber of Commerce, seated in the seats to the right of the center aisle. And about twelve young people—all dressed in black and metal—were seated to the left.
Cletus Breitenstrater was standing on the left side of the stage, looking very happy. And Alan Breitenstrater was standing on the right side of the stage, looking very unhappy. Standing near him was Dinky (surprising, given that there was no love lost between Alan and his nephew) and another man—a mighty handsome man, I noticed right off—whom I didn’t recognize but that I guessed was Dinky’s friend Todd.
In the middle of the stage was Trudy (and Slinky, who appeared to be gnawing at the leather choker) speaking as loudly as she could over the murmurings in the audience. There was no podium; the stage was empty except for the Breitenstraters and a toolbox on the right side of the stage.
“First I want to thank Josie Toadfern for sponsoring my and my friends’ visit to tonight’s meeting,” she read from a paper.
What? I hadn’t done any such thing. But Trudy’s lie didn’t bother her. She spied me as I sat down on the townspeople/chamber of commerce side (Charlemagne had gone over to the young-people-in-black side) and gave me a wave. I slunk down in my seat. Several pe
ople turned to stare at me.
“Yoo hoo, Josie, thank you!” Trudy hollered, before looking back at her paper. “Now, I admit I knew that my father—who is of course already an honorary member of your dear historical society and doesn’t need a sponsor—invited our dear town leaders—” did I detect sarcasm in Ms. Breitenstrater’s young voice? From the gasps in the audience, yes, yes, I did. “—to attend this meeting because he has such an important announcement to make.”
The sarcasm peaked on the word “such.” Cletus grinned. Alan’s face grew redder. I’d heard he was on medicine for stress and high blood pressure ever since Jason’s death. Maybe I should be worried about him having a stroke instead of Cletus; the un-air-conditioned theatre was hotter than outside. I was starting to sweat.
“My father wouldn’t sponsor my visit, so thanks again to Josie Toadfern’s sponsorship, I’m here without reproach,” Trudy continued reading from her notes, “along with other future leaders of Paradise.” The kids-in-black twittered at Trudy’s words. “As you all know, my family has underwritten the Breitenstrater Founder’s Day celebration—of course you know, because the celebration’s named after us—and most recently, the renovation of this playhouse—”
I didn’t know they were funding the playhouse—but it made sense. Who else would have the money? Maybe the family was angling to have the theatre renamed the Breitenstrater Theatre, and that’s what Alan’s announcement was going to be about.
‘A waste of their money,” someone in front of me whispered to the person next to her, “’cause it sure doesn’t look like this place is gonna get done in time for the play!”
I poked the person whispering on the shoulder, and she turned around. Cherry Feinster, owner of Cherry’s Chat N Curl, and my on-again, off-again friend since junior high. Right now, we were in between, because she’d permed and dyed my hair into oblivion this past spring. Well, there were other factors that made the chemical re-do of my hair go bad. But still, I gave her plenty of credit for the fact that I was sporting a blond semiburr, which I had to admit to myself—but never would to her—was more comfortable in the summer heat than my standard pony tail.
