“Thank you. Is it safe to go down there?” From a distance came the sound of more dogs barking, and I was hesitant about marching alone into the Pennsylvania Dutch equivalent of a wolf pack.
“The dogs will not bother you. They are all penned.”
Feeling reassured, I thanked her again, and walked behind the house The barn was at the foot of a hill, and as I started down the footpath the barking grew more frantic. To my left I saw several rows of cages, and walked over to take a peek. What I saw there was nearly undescribable. The dogs, mostly little white puppies, were covered with their own filth and many had large open sores. The runs were so dirty, I knew they couldn't have been cleaned in more than a week. I made a mental note to report this to someone.
The barn was about a hundred yards away from the dog runs, and it was immense. The largest I'd seen in the area. Its faded, red-painted walls rose three stories above a stone foundation at least ten feet high. There were louvered windows on each level, once painted white, now gray and peeling. High up on the top level was a door. What use, I wondered, was a door that opened forty feet above the ground? It certainly was a case where the warning “watch that first step” had real meaning.
As I drew closer I saw one end of the barn had been painted with a giant advertisement for Mail Pouch chewing tobacco. I also noticed that there was a power line running into the building. Evidently Darious De-Shong did not share the Amish farm owner's distrust of electricity.
I walked around two sides of the barn, looking for a way in. There had to be a door in the stone wall somewhere. I couldn't believe Darious swung open the huge double doors on the end of the barn every time he wanted to go in and out.
In back, I finally came upon a wooden door. Before I knocked, I put my ear to it trying to determine if anyone was inside. I thought I heard music, but it was so faint, I couldn't tell what it was.
I knocked, I pounded, and finally I yelled, “Hello,” as loudly as I could. Just as I was about to give up, the door opened a crack, and I could see and smell a lighted cigarette.
“Yeah?”
“I'm looking for Darious DeShong.”
“Yeah?”
I tried another approach. “Are you Darious DeShong?”
“Yeah.”
I was making progress. “My name is Tori Miracle. I'm looking into Mack Macmillan's death. Woody
Woodruff gave me your address and said you'd be glad to help me out.” That was a fib, but just a little one. After all, why would Woody have given me Darious's address if he didn't think the man would be willing to answer questions?
The door opened a little wider, just enough for the man to squeeze through. Before it closed behind him, I heard music again.
I was now able to get a good look at him, and I have to admit I liked what I saw. He was about six feet tall, and had a mop of curly blond hair much like Roger Daltrey in the movie Tommy. Eyes the color of dandelion leaves were fringed by long, dark eyelashes, and his skin was a rich golden brown, reminding me of Garnet, who always looked tan. He wore tight jeans, very tight I couldn't help noticing, a white dress shirt unbuttoned halfway to the waist, and white high-top sneakers.
While I was admiring—I mean studying—him, he appeared to be looking me over. His gaze moved slowly from my head to my feet, then back up to meet mine. His smile revealed the whitest, most perfect teeth I'd ever seen off a movie screen.
“Tori. Pretty name for a pretty girl.”
Oh God, there was that inane giggle again. Would I ever learn to control it?
“Can you keep a secret?” he asked.
“Not if it has anything to do with Mack Macmillan's death,” I replied in all honesty.
“It doesn't. If I let you in, will you promise me you won't tell anybody what you see here?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.”
He opened the door. “Come in,” he said.
As I stepped across the threshold the music grew louder, and I realized what I'd been hearing was a calliope playing “In the Good Old Summertime.” Odd choice of music for a man of about my age to be listening to, I thought.
The room we were in was very small, no more than ten feet square, with a lot of old gear hanging from hooks on the walls. I recognized rakes, shovels, and harnesses, but there were many things there that I'd never seen before. Lined up on the dirt floor against the walls were old crocks, farm machines, and wooden crates. A small wooden staircase of only four steps led up to another door.
“Give me a minute,” Darious said. He ground out his cigarette, opened the door, and disappeared into the black void on the other side. The door closed behind him. After a short interlude it opened again, and his voice called out, “Come on in.”
I climbed the steps and cautiously entered the dark, silent interior of the barn.
“Stop right there.”
I was glad to stop. I don't like dark places. They could be full of snakes, or bats, or rats, or maybe even something worse.
The calliope began to play again. This time I recognized the music as “After the Ball Is Over,” and it was quite loud, as if I were standing close to the source.
“Now!” Darious said. And suddenly, looming up before me, all was flashing lights and swirling colors. It was all out of focus, as my eyes made the sudden transition from darkness to light, and I grew giddy as I tried to figure out what I was seeing. Then a horse went spinning past me, his front legs raised as if he were about to jump, and I realized I was seeing a carousel.
One after another, the animals leaped, spun, jumped, and twirled. Horses, giraffes, bears, unicorns, sea monsters, all covered with glass jewels and gilt and flowers, paraded past me, then disappeared into the darkness only to reappear a few moments later. I felt as if I'd been transplanted to another world: a fairyland or perhaps the Twilight Zone.
“Do you like it?” Darious had come close to me as I stood transfixed by the vision before me, and now when he spoke I could feel his breath on my ear. It gave me goose bumps, a sensation I didn't find unpleasant at all.
“It's breathtaking,” I said, reluctantly moving an inch or two away from him.
“Would you like to ride?”
“Please!”
He took my hand and helped me jump onto the moving platform. He then led me past several spectacular horses to a sea horse, painted with the luminous shades of blue and turquoise usually found in tropical seas. “The hippocampus. It suits you. I can imagine you as a sea nymph, rising naked from the coral sea.”
There was that giggle again. I tried to pretend it hadn't come from me and settled myself in the gilt saddle, then looked around in amazement, at the wild-eyed pinto pony next to me with one foot perpetually raised, at the tiny lights twinkling overhead, at the center of the carousel where sparkling mirrored panels reflected the animals and lights to eternity. I turned to see where Darious had gone and saw him sitting behind me in a golden chariot, a modern-day version of Apollo the sun god. As my mythological creature moved up and down on its brass pole, I surrendered to the sensation and let the carousel whirl me back to the magical world of childhood. It was a happy place where I'd never heard of cancer, my brother still lived, and a relationship was simply something to be enjoyed, not worked at.
When the music had faded and the carousel slowed down, I reluctantly returned to the present. Darious was right there at my side, helping me to dismount.
“What did you think?”
“There aren't enough words to describe it. Where did it come from… how did it… did you…? What I mean is, how can something this wonderful be in a broken-down old barn on an Amish farm in south-central Pennsylvania?”
“It's my one passion,” he said, staring down at me in a way that made me hope he had room for more than one in his life. “I've been working on it for years. Restoring the animals one by one. It's a slow process, but I was lucky to find a carousel that hadn't disintegrated too badly. Want to see my workshop?”
I nodded and followed him to the back of the barn. I moved
slowly, afraid of stumbling on something, because the only light in the vast space came from the carousel itself. There wasn't even any daylight coming through the windows. “Why don't you put in some lights?” I asked. “You've got electricity. Or at least open some windows.”
“They're boarded up. I don't want anybody to see inside. Obviously you have no idea what a carousel like this is worth. Besides, I like it this way.”
We stepped inside a large room, made bright by the fluorescent lights hanging from the ceiling. We were surrounded by carousel animals in various degrees of disrepair. Darious stroked the carved mane of a statuesque horse. “One more coat of varnish on this beauty, and he'll be ready to join his friends on the carousel.”
“What do these letters stand for?” I asked, pointing to the monogram on the figure's saddle.
“PTC stood for the Philadelphia Toboggan Company. It was founded in 1903 and was one of the most important of the carousel manufacturing companies. This particular carousel is an early one, probably most of the carving was done in 1904.”
“Aren't carousels hard to come by? Where did you find this one?”
“That, dear Tori, is my secret.”
“There can't be many as complete as this.”
“I'm afraid you're right. In the golden age of carousels, 1905 to 1925, there were thousands of them. Only about three percent have survived.”
“What happened to the others?”
“Fire, mostly. Neglect. Natural disasters. But I'd say there are probably still a few more carousels rotting away in barns, waiting to be discovered.”
He moved over to a bench where a creature lay on its side. Even my untrained eye could see it had been sloppily painted. “I'm going to start stripping this baby next. It looks like it's got a dozen layers of paint over the original.”
“Do you use chemicals?”
Darious shuddered. “No. I use a heat gun to melt the enamel. It gives me more control, and I don't have to worry about damaging the wood.”
For the next hour he proudly showed me animals in various stages of restoration. Some had been badly rotted in places, and he'd had to carve replacement pieces. With others, he'd blended oil paints to fill in worn areas. He showed me where he had applied real gold leaf to a horse's mane. The nearly finished figures didn't look new, they still showed signs of imperfections, but he assured me that he did that on purpose so they would retain their antique appearance.
It was all so fascinating, I would have stayed hours longer listening to him describe his work. But he put an end to it by saying, “I'm sorry, Tori, but I've got an appointment I have to keep.”
“I need to get going anyway.”
He walked me to the door. While I stood blinking in the sunlight, he asked, “Will you come back for another ride?”
“Just try to keep me away!”
I drove back to town, humming, “In the good old summertime, in the good old summertime…” It wasn't until I turned into Moon Lake that I realized that while I had learned a lot about carousel restoration, I had not asked Darious DeShong any of the questions I'd gone there to ask!
CHAPTER 8
Wednesday Morning
IT WAS SUCH A GLORIOUS FALL DAY THAT I DECIDED to walk the half a dozen blocks to the office. Three blocks later, I was sorry. Twice, I'd stumbled over rough places in the sidewalk where tree roots had heaved the pavement up. And it was hot, much hotter than an October day should be.
I passed a church with a bulletin board out front that said REPENT IT'S HOT IN HELL. Not much hotter than this, I bet. Under my gold corduroy blazer, my beige T-shirt was already sticking to my back.
At the corner of Maple and Elm, which was the beginning of the downtown commercial district, all three blocks, I came to the Lucy Lock-it Shoppe. Through the plate-glass window I saw the owner, Lucy, talking to a single customer. This would be a good opportunity for me to ask her some questions about the locks at the college and the key that didn't open what it was supposed to.
The shop was barely big enough for the three of us, but thankfully the paying customer soon left with his new key.
“Have a safe day,” Lucy called to his departing back. “Hi, Tori,” she said with a cheerful smile. “Do you have some more keys need made?”
“As a matter of fact, I found the missing ones, so now I have two sets.” The day after I'd started work at the Chronicle, I'd lost my entire key ring, including the keys to Garnet's house and P. J.’s car, and the office key that Cassie had given me with obvious reluctance. In response to my panicky call, Lucy had visited the Gochenauer residence and the office and made me a set of new keys. The next morning, I'd found the original ring under the bed, along with a small wedge of cheese, Garnet's favorite tie tack, two of Greta's scarves, and a lot of dust bunnies. Fred lay next to his hoard, looking smug. “Some hunter you are,” I'd said, scooping the things out. “I wonder how brave you'd be if they could fight back.”
From the back room came the whine of a machine. “I have a lot of work to do,” Lucy said.
I took the hint and got right to the point. “It's about the Lickin Creek College for Women. I understand you have a contract to do all its locksmithing.”
“Right. Not too unusual, considering I'm the only locksmith in town.”
“Do you recall putting a lock on a basement storeroom for the PR department?”
“Storeroom—is that what they call it? More like a closet if you ask me. Yes, I did. About three months ago. Why do you ask?”
“I was wondering about the keys. I was over there yesterday and one of the two keys didn't work in the lock.”
“Then you used the wrong key,” Lucy said.
“But I couldn't have. They were the only keys on the ring labeled storeroom. I just wondered if you might have made a little mistake and given Janet Margolies the wrong key when you put the lock on.”
She bristled, and I realized I'd offended her professionalism. “Look, Tori. I don't make mistakes. The lock came packaged with two keys. I put the lock in the door. Made sure both keys worked. Handed them to Janet. End of my involvement. Got it?”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Without saying so much as “you're welcome,” Lucy spun around and disappeared through the beaded curtain that concealed her workshop area from the public part of the shop. Who recently said that I often left my tact at home?
I was so anxious to escape the heat of the street, I didn't even pause to take my ritual swipe at the smudges on the brass plaque next to the Chronicle's front door. When I hung my blazer on the hook behind the door, Cassie looked at my damp T-shirt and asked, “What did you do, swim over?” She, of course, looked terrific and cool in a cotton shirt of fall colors.
I collapsed into my chair and fanned myself with last Saturday's newspaper. It didn't help. “Wish we had air-conditioning.”
“We don't need it in Pennsylvania,” Cassie said.
“Save that propaganda for the tourists. I know better. What's on the agenda for today?”
Cassie opened the calendar that lay on her desk. “A ribbon cutting at the new pizza shop on Main Street at eleven-thirty—you might be interested in covering that event, they're offering all the free pizza you can eat. A pro-life rally at Saint FX School—students in grades five through eight will hold up signs on the steps of the school during their lunch break. And there's an icecream social and craft show at the Sigafoos Retirement Home this afternoon.”
“I can do them all in one fell swoop,” I said. “And if I can get the camera to work, I'll even take some pictures.”
“Be sure and get one of Marvin Bumbaugh, the borough council president, cutting the ribbon at the pizza shop. He's been complaining we don't give him enough press.”
“We had two ‘grip and grins’ last week, if I recall. One of Marvin and the new director of the Scene of the Accident Theatre and another of Marvin and the president of the downtown development council.”
“I know. I know. But please keep him happy and quie
t and take his picture again. We need all the good will we can get.” She pointed to a stack of mail on her desk.
“More cancellations?”
“I'm afraid so. We may have to cancel the paper route on Lepper Road. We only have one subscriber left out there, and she's on vacation. One other thing, you got an invitation to a baby shower for Janet Margolies. I put it on your calendar.”
“Thanks.” I browsed through the wire releases, looking for items of local interest. “Do you think our readers will want to know that opening the Susque-hanna floodgates dumped a ton of nonbiodegradable trash into the Chesapeake Bay?”
“Maybe. We can use it as a filler if we don't get enough local stories. But with Macmillan's death taking up the entire front page, we probably won't need it.” She cleared her throat and looked sideways at me, and I was sure I knew what was coming.
“Tori, I heard you're scheduled to have surgery Friday morning. Is there anything I can do?”
The Grapevine had been working overtime. Rumors flew at lightning speed in Lickin Creek, but this was amazing. I only learned yesterday I was to have a biopsy done on Friday morning, and Ethelind was the only person I had told about it.
“Who told you?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I don't really remember. I think it was someone at the grocery store last night. Is it very serious?”
I shook my head. “Just a simple outpatient procedure. I'll probably be here by ten to help you proof the paper.”
“The Creekers are playing Chocolatetown tonight. If you like, I'll cover it.”
“I'd appreciate that.” Cassie knew how I felt about high school sports. She also knew I never got the names right.
The phone rang, and Cassie answered, listened for a moment, then gestured for me to pick up the extension on my desk.
I immediately recognized the voice of Luscious Miller, Garnet's temporary replacement. I couldn't bring myself to even consider that he might become the permanent Lickin Creek police chief.
“What's up?” I asked.
“Big robbery, Tori.”
In Lickin Creek? What's there to steal? I picked up my pencil. “Tell me about it.”
Death, Guns, and Sticky Buns Page 8
