by Linda Lovely
Both acts increased my confidence. I’d done the right thing asking for an explanation about her relationship with Duncan. She’d renewed my trust in our friendship.
As I opened Aunt May’s front door, a cloud of inviting aromas enveloped me. A foundation fragrance of chicken divan underpinned a mouth-watering perfume of apples and cinnamon. The homey smells went a long way toward restoring a sense of normalcy.
My aunt was nowhere in sight. “I’m back,” I sang out.
May’s white perm popped up from behind the kitchen counter. She’d been bent low, peering in the oven. The stove’s heat painted her cheeks with blush, and she beamed like a cherubic grandmother—though she’d bop me if I said so.
“Look out, Marley, here I come,” May exclaimed gleefully. “I’m nouveaux rich and plan to spread the wealth. My buyers accepted the offer. That’s the fastest I ever made twenty grand. Oh, and Duncan called. He left a message earlier, then we chatted when he called a second time. He sounds real anxious to talk. Why don’t you give him a buzz before Ross and Eunice arrive?”
Great. How was I going to explain my behavior to Duncan? No way would I bring up his ex-wife’s affair with Darlene’s husband. He’d tell me when and if he ever felt comfortable sharing that hurt. Of course he might feel entitled to an explanation for my manic behavior.
Duncan answered on the second ring. He sounded pleased to hear my voice. “I hoped we’d get a chance to talk today,” he said. “Is everything okay? Or did I commit some unrealized faux pas? You sure left in a hurry.”
“No faux pas on your part. My apologies. I’m out of dating practice and these murders make me uneasy. I just lost it. Apparently you handle stress better than this old retiree.”
“Well, old-timer—” I could hear the smile in his voice. “I’m glad we’re still friends, and I hope lovers. You know, lovemaking is supposed to reduce stress, not add to it.”
“Hey, no complaints.” I laughed. “Maybe I just need another adjustment. You know chiropractors often need multiple visits to work their wonders.”
“Ah, now there’s a thought. Should I read up on massage therapy? If I didn’t have a fundraiser tonight, I’d promise a massage—a very deep one. How about scheduling a treatment for tomorrow? After we call at the funeral home, we’ll both be ready for stiff drinks and—”
“Maybe you shouldn’t finish that sentence on the phone.” I laughed. “It sounds like we’re on the same therapy page.”
Duncan’s good cheer lightened my mood. “See you tomorrow.”
Ross and Eunice arrived just as I returned to the living room. Ross started talking before we finished the prerequisite round of hugs.
“Set the table. No lollygagging,” May ordered. “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”
“You may have to if Marley cooked,” Ross joked.
Eunice and I responded with simultaneous noogies to my cousin’s biceps.
He grinned. “Hey, don’t hurt yourselves.”
Our dinner conversation stayed lighthearted. First, May regaled us with how she’d sweet-talked her buyers into beefing up their contract offer, then persuaded her clients, the owners, into making an attractive counter in a single afternoon.
Next Ross entertained with an update on his latest research project. “‘The Iowan’ asked me to write a piece about the Iowa Great Lakes during our golden era—you know the late 1800s. So I got to rummaging around in our archives and found this incredible eyewitness account.”
Ross pulled drugstore reading glasses from his shirt pocket to quote directly from a scrap of yellowed newsprint. “This fellow talks about ‘empty champagne bottles being piled like cordwood’ and an eighty-dollar-a-plate banquet. Remember, this is more than a century ago, I’ll bet that would mean eight-thousand-a-plate today. The author says yacht owners hauled their boats in from around the world just to race here. And he claims there were ‘fish so plentiful they were caught for sport and buried by the boatload.’”
“Good grief, Ross.” Eunice rolled her eyes. “You’re frantic with the antique boat show, I can’t believe you’re off on a new crusade. Can’t you finish one project before you start the next? Does sleep fit anywhere in your schedule?”
“Sleep is for winter.” My cousin grinned. “Have to make hay while the sun shines—and while I have the ear of my good buddies who own antique boats. I talked a doctor from Estherville into putting his boat on display for six months. He said he hoped his wife never found out he paid more to restore that boat than he did for her facelift, tummy tuck and boob-oplasty.”
Eunice and I played appreciative audience for our two favorite hams. The laughter wasn’t forced. Finally, a suitable lull over apple crisp allowed me to casually share Jake’s riddle. I’d barely gotten it out, when Ross shook his head in mock sorrow. “Marley, Marley,” he crooned. “How you disappoint me. The answer should have been a slam-dunk. Let’s take a stroll down memory lane. You’re nine. I’m ten. We’re at Arnolds Park. We press our greasy noses against Mrs. Nelson’s shop window long enough to hoodwink her into free samples of saltwater taffy. Now, we’re off on a new adventure. Mirror, mirror on the wall…”
“…who’s the fattest of them all?” I completed Ross’s sentence triumphantly. “Of course. The Tipsy House. It fits perfectly. In one section, the floorboards are on roller-bars and you feel like you’re crossing a suspended bridge mid-earthquake. Inside some mirrors make you look tall and skinny, while others make you look squashed and fat. After you wind your way up through all the crooked rooms and slanted floors, you come out on the roof. Those roof-level cars Jake mentioned are roller-coaster cars. They zoom right past on the ride’s last curve. Thanks, Ross, you’re a genius.”
“Always nice to be recognized.” Ross dipped his head in statesmanlike acceptance.
“But, isn’t The Tipsy House closed?” I frowned at my sudden recollection. I’d seen the workers repairing it on my last stroll through Arnolds Park.
Ross nodded “Yeah. Jake must have planned this treasure hunt for July. The Tipsy House was supposed to reopen Memorial Day. But the carpenters ran into unexpected wood rot. The manager hopes the attraction will open for the Fourth of July holiday crowd. He asked me to brainstorm promotional ideas.”
“Is it locked up or could I get inside?” I asked.
“Are you planning a little B-and-E just to reminisce? The Tipsy House wasn’t even your favorite. You always dragged me to that House of Horror, where the stupid little train chugged around and skeletons and headless corpses popped out on every bend. For some reason, you loved to have the bejeebbers scared out of you.”
“Not any more.” I laughed. “It’s a lot more fun to scare the bejeebbers out of others.”
“Tell you what,” Ross said. “I want to stop by the museum on my way home, and Eunice will be fussing at me the whole time to hurry so she can walk our girls before their little Sheltie bladders explode. How about we let Eunice motor straight home to walk the dogs, and you drive us to Arnolds Park? A new batch of antique boats came in today. They’re temporarily parked in our shipping and receiving area, I want to do a little inventory. Should take me less than an hour. Then, if The Tipsy House is unlocked, we can go visit. Maybe you can help me come up with a humdinger of a reopening theme.”
May stood to start clearing dishes. “Now don’t the both of you go prancing around in the dark and pratfall on some rust-caked construction debris. I’m not in the business of stitching you two up any more.”
“It’s okay, Mom.” Ross rubbed his hands together with glee. “Marley can bring her night-vision goggles, give ’em a real field test. Always wanted to see how those things work.”
“I suckled an idjit,” May grumped. “Eunice, your dogs have more sense than these nitwits.”
I was fairly confident May had a point. However, I had no intention of lassoing Ross into a nighttime excursion that could be dangerous. On our way there, I’d keep my eyes peeled for a tail. Then, once Ross was engrossed in his pet pr
oject back of the museum, I’d sneak out and reconnoiter on my own. If he said it would take an hour, it probably meant two—he always lost track of time when he was in his element.
Should I call Darlene? No it was stupid to blab about my plan on an open phone line. As long as I could make sure Ross and I weren’t followed, the dead of night really was the ideal time for me to take a gander with no one being the wiser.
That’s one good thing about spur-of-the-moment decisions. They’re impossible to predict. My paranoia retreated. No one had tailed me to Duncan’s house. No one had followed his boat.
Soon I’d be able to tell Darlene whether or not Jake had actually hidden anything at The Tipsy House.
FIFTEEN
On the drive, I regularly checked the rearview mirror for headlights. At one point, when I thought a car followed us too long, I pulled off into a strip mall.
“What are you doing, Marley?” Ross asked. “Uh, this isn’t the museum.”
“Just had an itch I had to scratch.” I fumbled behind my back and scoured my shoulder blade with my fingernails. Ross rolled his eyes.
The suspect car sped by, its radio blaring rap music. A tattooed arm hung out the open passenger-side window. Not a likely candidate as a stealth tail. I pulled back onto the road. No cars at all behind us.
Beyond the lighted entry, Arnolds Park lay in shadows. Until the tourist season jumps into full gear in mid-June, the rides and attractions close at eight p.m. The exodus transforms the space. An echoing emptiness supplants the laughter of children giving the darkened space the feel of a “Twilight Zone” episode where all the townspeople vanish while the heroine sleeps.
Ross waved at the guard on duty as we parked May’s distinctive Buick in the greenish light pooled beneath a towering streetlamp. Since Arnolds Park clean-up crews don’t report for duty until six a. m., one lonely security officer rules the night.
“Does he have a set patrol schedule?” My part-time work as a security guard piqued my curiosity.
“Doubt it,” Ross answered. “Think his whereabouts are controlled by coffee consumption and his need to pee. Not much action.”
“Is he armed?”
Ross chuckled. “No. Our guards don’t encounter many hardened criminals. Not much to steal. Primarily they battle graffiti artists and college kids plotting to steal signs for dorm rooms. What twenty-year-old doesn’t covet a bedside poster that reads ‘Thrill-A-Minute Roller Coaster Ride’ or ‘Get Your Hot Dogs Here’?”
I laughed. “Okay, Arnolds Park guards don’t need SWAT training.”
The skinny sentry ambled our way. A police baton and radio hung from a worn belt and the weight threatened to drag his droopy drawers below crack level. Good thing his job didn’t call for the added gravity pull of a gun holster.
“Working late tonight, Captain Ross?” the elder-guard asked. I pegged his age at late sixties.
“You got that right, Jerry,” Ross answered. “I want to fiddle with my boat displays while I have some quiet. No interruptions. You keeping a close eye on those dandies for me?”
“Sure am,” Jerry answered. “You’ve got some real honeys. Wish I could afford one.”
Ross nodded. “Me, too. This is my cousin Marley. Say, don’t get spooked if you see activity at The Tipsy House later. Marley and I played there as kids. I’m going to give her a busman’s tour of renovations and brainstorm some ideas for promotion.”
“Fine by me. Just don’t break your necks on my watch. The general manager would have my hide. Don’t know as we’re insured for nighttime mishaps. There are no lights, you know.”
“We’ll pack a flashlight and be careful,” Ross answered. “Won’t be in there long either.”
I’d joined Ross on evening excursions before. A true night owl, his energy level peaked after midnight, and he enjoyed visiting when he could survey his museum kingdom unimpeded.
Figuring Ross would be occupied for at least an hour before he’d want to go exploring, I decided I had time for a quick visit to the web before I snuck out. I commandeered one of the museum’s computer terminals and scanned two archived stories: one on the Olsen murders, the second, a business retrospective on the Jolbiogen empire.
Two interesting tidbits emerged. One of those “rumor on the street” type columns speculated Jolbiogen’s new president planned to elbow out Dr. Glaston to make room for his own protégé. Did that give Glaston incentive to steal?
And Kyle held a Master’s Degree in chemistry. Since he was a marketing exec, I’d assumed a non-technical degree. His education meant he could find his way around a lab, even if he visited infrequently. Presumably, he could handle cyclogel and phalloidin, too.
I closed down the computer and looked to make sure Ross was still behind the museum. I grabbed the flashlight and tiptoed toward the door. I cast one more look back before I opened the door, ran smack into Ross, and yipped in surprise.
“A little on edge, are we?” Ross asked. “Guess you didn’t expect me to come out the back and in the front. I was just checking some storage options if more boats come in.”
My cousin noted the flashlight in my hand and, probably, the sheepish look on my face at being caught in sneak-out mode. “Okay, cousin, somebody’s got some ’splaining to do,” he added in his best Desi Arnaz impression. “What are you up to?”
Busted, I confessed.
“Why didn’t you say something before?” Ross asked. “That explains the sudden itch that forced you to pull off the road. No one followed us, right?”
“No. I don’t think we were followed,” I answered.
“Then let’s rock and roll, Cuz.” His blue eyes danced with mischief. “You have a flashlight, let’s get your night goggles.”
“You sure you want to go? Aunt May will murder me if anything happens to you.”
“I’m sure,” Ross answered. “This is the perfect time to do a little reconnoitering and you shouldn’t go in there alone. I know the place better than you. Get the danged goggles.”
“You realize we can’t use the flashlight and goggles at the same time? A flashlight would blind anyone wearing goggles.”
“Duh. Of course, I know,” my cousin replied with mock huffiness. “I may not have served in the Army, but I’m a brilliant student of military tactics.”
Ross had lightened my mood and lessened my paranoia. Now our mission felt more like a lark than a black ops incursion.
I chuckled. “Yes, I’m aware you’ve pored over accounts of every flipping Civil War battle. But we’re talking night-vision goggles, not a Blunderbuss.”
“Pardon me.” Ross harrumphed. “The Blunderbuss was popular in the Revolutionary War not the Civil War, Miss Smarty Pants.”
“Okay, okay.” I laughed. “Kiss my Blunderbuss. Let’s get this sortie underway.”
The Tipsy House, a narrow bell-tower-style building, sat half a football field from the museum. As we strolled toward our destination, night winds blew empty candy wrappers along the vacant concrete. The rustling litter suggested the scrabble of little rodent feet. I shivered.
The intentionally crooked door of the Tipsy House was tucked into the wall furthest from the road. Still street lamps spilled enough light into the recessed niche for us to see it wasn’t truly boarded up. A lone two-by-six covered the gaping hole where a rotting doorjamb had been pulled free. Sitting on nail hangers, it offered no challenge. Ross lifted the lumber, and we ducked inside the cavern-like darkness.
“Want to lead or follow?” I asked. “The leader gets the flashlight. You can try the night-vision goggles on the way down.”
“I’ll lead,” Ross answered. “I was here a couple of weeks back. Jake and I poked around after a board meeting. Said he marveled at the effectiveness of its simple illusions.”
The whole premise of The Tipsy House is sleight of hand—or more accurately visual misdirection. While the building’s floors do, indeed, incline, it’s the weird, cockeyed angles of walls and ceilings that give the impression you’re g
oing up when you’re going down. This prompts stomachs to lurch and balance to fail while navigating the maze. Throw in distorting mirrors, skinny halls, and balls that appear to roll uphill, and the recipe’s complete for a bout of vertigo.
These gimmicks posed no mental menace until Ross quit focusing the flashlight on the floor and began brandishing it like a “Star Wars” light saber. As the roving spotlight jumped from one of the structure’s out-of-kilter features to another, my stomach danced a soft-shoe. The musty smell, with its tacky paint overlay, and stifling heat didn’t help. Sweat sprouted on my scalp and beaded on my forehead.
We’d traveled more than halfway up the tower, when Ross halted at a six-foot-wide mirror to study our munchkin-like reflections. We looked like Sleepy and Dopey smooshed by a bus. Our images rose a mere three feet but covered a good five-foot span. Waves in the mirror added a rippling, underwater effect that didn’t help my nausea.
“Who says I wasn’t born to play pro basketball?” Ross laughed as he splayed the flashlight beam across the mirror.
None of my Carr cousins are taller than five-foot-ten. Not a problem except they’d wanted to play basketball. As teens, their vertically-challenged stature caused lament each season. “If only” they were a few inches—or a foot—taller…
My aunt always sniped, “You picked the wrong gene pool. Play ice hockey.”
May, ever the advocate of playing the cards you were dealt, tolerated no whining.
A silky caress brushed my cheek, and tiny furry legs sauntered down my back under my shirt. I yelped before I could stop myself. Trying to reach my back, I launched into ungainly spinning, jumping jacks. I hate spiders.
Let me repeat—I hate spiders.
Ross startled and dropped our flashlight. It rolled across the floor and conked against a pipe with a metallic ping. Instant blackout.
“Damn,” Ross cursed. I barely heard him over my own whimpering. “You scared me to death. What’s wrong? You sound like someone’s torturing you.”
