by Jane Tesh
He looked at me. “You’re right. They’re his biggest fans. But he still could’ve been running a little porn business on the side.”
“I don’t think so.”
He put the CD in its case and slid it into the shelf under the player. “Well, gee, Mac, I guess you know my mysterious uncle better than I do.”
“The kids are perceptive. They would’ve known if something was wrong.”
“Maybe.”
“They crack me up the way they talk to each other. That Austin’s so smart, and Denisha’s beautiful and perceptive, too. She—oh, lord.”
“What?”
“I’m doing it.”
“Doing what?”
“Talking about the kids. Please stop me.”
“They aren’t your kids.”
“I came dangerously close to sounding like a proud parent.”
“That’s okay. I like them, too. They’re neat kids.” He joined me on the sofa. “Kinda reminds me of how Des and Tucker and I were before—” He stopped. “Before we grew up.”
He and I both knew he meant to say something else. I tried to change the subject. “I think we need to find that videotape.”
He sighed. “Which brings us back to Uncle Val as porn producer.”
I ignored that. “If the mailman left the package with the videotape here, then somebody must have taken it.”
“And we still have no idea why.”
“I won’t know that until I find out who got in the house.”
“Well, when we first got here, the house was locked. The place looked like Val had just stepped out for a minute. Nothing else was missing.”
“But we don’t know that nothing else was missing. We don’t know what was in the house to begin with. There might have been something of value a thief was after, and he or she picked up the package, too.”
“So somebody broke in.”
“Or had a key. Or knew about the secret passageway.”
Jerry slumped back on the sofa. “All I can think about is Uncle Val’s Valentine bed.”
“No need to worry about that. Nell popped it.” I wished he would cheer up. “Is Nell going to redo the attic?”
“That’s something Olivia and I need to discuss. She’s supposed to be here in a little while to talk some more B&B business.”
Olivia, the Thing That Would Not Leave. “How’s that coming along?”
“She still doesn’t like the idea of a haunted house.”
I don’t think I’ll ever understand his fascination with this silly stuff, but right now, I was glad he was standing firm. “So you’re not going to give up?”
“Nope.”
“You’re choosing ghosts over Olivia?”
“Not exactly. She doesn’t have to believe in ghosts for the haunted B&B to work.”
Not the answer I wanted to hear. “Is there any leftover pizza?”
We took our cold slices of pizza and sodas to the porch and sat down. Jerry was still in an abstracted mood, and so was I. I thought about what Olivia had said and how I’d almost shouted the parlor was my studio. For a moment, I fantasized living in this house, waking up next to Jerry, having breakfast on the porch, and then strolling upstairs to a large room filled with light and canvases. I imagined spending my days creating wildly colored views of the fields and sunsets and my nights curled in Jerry’s arms. This was about as perfect a fantasy as I could imagine.
And that’s just what it was: a fantasy.
“You’re thinking deep,” Jerry said.
I’m thinking how I’d like to paint you. I’m wondering if I could get just the right light in your eyes.
“Trying to sort out all the facts in this case.”
“You’ll solve it. I know you will.”
His confidence in the face of Olivia’s criticism brought a lump of emotion to my throat. No matter what I attempted, he always believed in me.
I managed to swallow the lump and my last bite of pizza. “Thanks.” This was a perfect time to say so many of the things I’d wanted to say.
I’m not sure what I would’ve said. With the rotten timing that seemed to be standard in Celosia, a little red Escort came up the drive and parked by the trees. Twenty got out. She reached into the back seat and pulled out some suits on hangers.
“Is this a bad time? I want to see if these fit.”
“Come on in,” Jerry said. “Have you had lunch? There’s some pizza left.”
“Oh, no, thanks. I’m kind of in a rush. So many things to do. Try these on.”
Jerry took the suits into the house. Twenty sat down in one of the rocking chairs. She had on red leather shorts and an orange tube top. She tugged the tube top up and the shorts down and fanned herself with her hand.
“I tell you, it’s been one thing after another getting this show together. I stopped by and left Hayden’s suits. He looks amazingly good in black.”
“I saw him at the store this morning. He seems to be doing better.”
Today Twenty’s earrings looked like little gold lightning bolts. They caught the light and made odd jittery patterns as she turned her head. “All this about Juliet Lovelace is so upsetting. I mean, her killer is still out there. Have you found out anything, Madeline?”
“I’m still gathering information.”
“I don’t know what to think. Nothing like this has ever happened in Celosia.” She gave her shorts another tug. “Then there’s all that with Ted Stacy’s office being burgled and the TV station. It makes me very nervous.” She spread her hands on her legs and drummed her fingers. Her fingernails were alternating red and orange. “And I have to admit this the first time I’ve ever been to the Eberlin house. I’m so curious.”
“You’ll have to see all the improvements.”
“Okay,” Jerry called from inside. “Are you ready for this?”
He strolled out in the dark blue suit and gave us the full model treatment. He turned around, he opened the jacket to show the lining, he removed the jacket and slung it over one shoulder.
Twenty laughed and clapped her hands. The little lightning bolts flashed. “That’s perfect! That’s exactly what you should do in the show.”
He smoothed the sleeves of the jacket. “This is a great suit. I know just the tie to go with it.”
“Not the flamingoes,” I said.
“I was thinking of the light bulbs.”
“Go try on the gray,” Twenty said. She waited until he’d gone and turned to me. “He knows just how to pose, doesn’t he? He’s a natural.”
“A natural ham.” No need to tell Twenty Jerry had been posing for most of his adult life.
She focused her attention on the door. “I know the gray is going to be absolutely fantastic.”
I thought Jerry looked good in the dark blue suit until I saw him in the gray. He came out, smiling, and did the same routine. The gray suit made his eyes shine. I felt the heat rise in my face. He looked every inch the successful executive. A young lawyer, maybe, or head of his own company. All the things he could be if he put as much time and energy into a real career as he did in his psychic schemes.
Good lord, I thought. I’m thinking like Olivia.
He put the jacket back on and straightened the lapels. “What do you think?”
Twenty clasped her hands together. “It’s perfect.”
My throat had clogged again. Yes, it is.
“Mac, this suit is just right for the hula girl tie.”
“No, no,” Twenty said. “I have ties and shirts and everything. You don’t have to bring a thing, just yourself. The show is in two weeks, Saturday night at Myers in Parkland. You need to be there by six-thirty.”
“Okay.”
“And you might need to encourage Hayden. He’s not as comfortable as you with the idea of being in a fashion show.”
“No problem.”
I had to do something before I grabbed Jerry and took him right there on the porch. “Jerry, while you’re changing, I’ll show Twenty the ho
use.”
Twenty was amazed by the living room. “This looks like something out of a magazine! It’s gorgeous!” She admired all the furnishings. “And this painting—” She squinted at the signature. “Madeline, did you do this?”
“Back in my college days.”
“Well, it’s very good. Have you ever considered a career as an artist?”
“Briefly.”
“Pardon me for saying this, but it might be better than being a detective. It might be safer, I mean.”
I knew exactly what she meant. “Would you like to see the kitchen?”
“Just for a moment. I really have to dash.”
After Twenty dashed, Jerry and I finished the pizza.
I was still trying to recover. “You looked pretty snazzy in those suits. Perhaps you should consider a career as a fashion model.”
“A psychic fashion model. I could predict all the trends. I’ll need an entourage, though. Care to drive the limo?”
“You probably need to think about getting your own car.”
“It’s too bad Val didn’t leave me one.” Jerry frowned. “Wait a minute. How did Val get to town? Did he have a car?”
I thought this over. “Jerry, remember when we first came to Celosia, and the guy at the gas station mentioned how he admired Val’s old car?”
“Yes.”
“Well, where is it? There isn’t a car in the garage.” I could feel ideas trying to come together. “It’s an old car. It could be valuable. And now we’ve got two things missing.”
“You think whoever took the car might have taken the video?”
“It’s worth a shot. We have to find that car.”
“Maybe the gas station guy would know.”
We drove into town and stopped at the service station to speak to the lanky man in the John Deere cap.
“Oh, hi,” he said. “You two all settled in? Not been carried off by ghosts yet?”
“Not yet,” Jerry said. “Any idea what happened to Val Eberlin’s old car?”
The man turned his head aside to spit a short stream of tobacco juice. “I kept asking him to sell it to me, but he never would. Averall Mercer got it.”
“Did he leave it to her?”
“Beats me. You’ll have to ask her about that. She lives on Piney Lane. Go left and after about three blocks, look for the street sign. Go down five houses on your left. That’s the Mercer place.”
We got back into the car. “Isn’t Averall Mercer Denisha’s aunt?” I asked.
“I think so.”
We found Piney Lane. Averall Mercer’s house was a small yellow house covered with flowering vines. All kinds of potted plants and hanging baskets decorated the porch.
Jerry peered around the house. “I don’t see a car of any kind.”
“Let’s find out.”
A thin black woman met us on the porch. She wiped her hands on her apron. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Madeline Maclin and this is Jerry Fairweather, Val Eberlin’s nephew,” I said. “We’re looking for Val’s car, and the fellows down at the gas station said you might know where it is.”
“That old Chevy? I sold it to a man up the highway.”
“Did my uncle leave it to you?” Jerry asked.
She nodded. “But I didn’t have no use for it. The money came in mighty handy, though. I expect that’s why Val said I could have it. See, I used to do some ironing for him. He didn’t like sending his shirts to the cleaners, so he’d wash them himself, and I’d iron them.” She smiled at Jerry. “Son, your uncle was a mighty generous man. He was always real polite to me and always bought cookies from my little niece, and if he had something extra, he’d share with my family. Last time I went up there, he had left quite a few nice things. After he passed, I brought them all back in the car. Got your extra house key around here somewhere. I’ll find it for you.”
So Mrs. Mercer had been in the house. “Did you happen to find a package?” I held my hands several inches apart. “It would’ve been about this size. There was a video tape inside.”
She thought a moment. “No, sorry. Don’t recall anything like that.”
I’d been so sure she’d picked it up.
Then Jerry said, “Could it have fallen out in the car?”
“Might have. It was pretty loaded up that last trip. I’ll get you the address of the man that bought it off me. You wait right here.”
She went into the house. Immediately, Denisha popped out, eyes wide. “Don’t tell my aunt I know you! It’s supposed to be a secret.”
This didn’t surprise me. “Your aunt didn’t know you and Austin were sneaking into Val’s house?”
“No, and don’t tell her I still am! It’ll ruin everything.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you here? You’re not here to tell on me, are you?”
“We’re looking for Val’s car,” I said.
“I coulda told you where it was. Shh! She’s coming. Play like we don’t know each other.”
Mrs. Mercer returned with a slip of paper. “This is my niece, Denisha. Denisha, this is Ms. Maclin and Mr. Fairweather from up at Mr. Eberlin’s house.”
Denisha looked as serene as an angel. “How do you do?”
“Nice to meet you, Denisha,” Jerry said.
“Thank you, Mr. Fairweather. Ain’t that a nice name, Auntie?”
“Very nice.”
“Are they living in Mr. Eberlin’s house now?”
“I believe so.” Mrs. Mercer handed the paper to Jerry. “Here’s the name and address. Tully Springfield, two twenty-one Old Highway Twelve. I hope that helps you out.”
Jerry thanked her. We went back to the car. Denisha waved good-bye from the porch.
“That girl has a career in the theater just waiting for her,” I said.
Old Highway Twelve wound out among the cornfields and meadows. We stopped and checked several mailboxes, trying to find two twenty-one.
“We’re halfway to Virginia,” Jerry said as we drove around another series of curves.
I saw a split rail fence up ahead. Each rail had been painted a different color. “Do you suppose Mr. Springfield is the owner of that rainbow fence?”
The mailbox at the corner of the fence was shaped like a fish, only this fish had on stars and stripes and an Uncle Sam top hat.
Jerry checked the number. “This is it.”
“This is it, all right.”
Scattered on the sprawling front yard was an amazing collection of yard art: a donkey pulling a cart, frogs in a love seat, plastic deer, wagon wheels, squirrels, chickens, giant mushrooms, and birdbaths. Adorning the house were climbing cats, seahorses, American eagles, and smiley faces. Each piece had been repainted. The donkey was purple with yellow stripes. The frogs were blue and red. The climbing cats were Day-Glo orange. Everything had stripes or polka dots.
“Jerry, I hate to think what he’s done to the car.”
“Well, there it is.”
“Good grief.”
It was impossible to tell what the old Chevy’s original color had been. The car was now sky blue with paisley patterns of yellow and red.
Jerry laughed. “Looks like something you’d drive to an Indian wedding.”
We parked beside a row of silver reflecting balls and got out. The house was a low structure with a panoramic view of the Blue Ridge. Without the garish zoo, it would have been a nice mountain retreat.
Jerry rubbed the head of a huge stone owl. “This is so neat, Mac. I’m having acid flashbacks.”
“Do I dare ring the bell? The whole place might vanish.”
“Hello,” a voice said. “Come on around.”
Jerry and I cautiously made our way through the menagerie to the back yard, which was surprisingly free of kitsch. A man stood at an easel, putting the finishing touches on a fantastically accurate landscape of the mountain scene.
“May I help you?” he asked.
I was still trying to clear my head of the front yard. “Are you Tully Springfield?”
“Yes.”
Although Tully Springfield’s hair was gray, his face was unlined. His eyes were a brilliant blue. He had on jeans and a faded blue shirt streaked with paint.
“I’m Madeline Maclin, and this is Jerry Fairweather, Val Eberlin’s nephew. We were told you had Val’s car.”
He looked at Jerry, alarmed. “Was it supposed to come to you? It, uh, looks a little different now.”
“No, we’d just like to have a look,” Jerry said. “We’re trying to find a package that may have been left in it.”
Tully Springfield relaxed. “Oh, that. You know, I’ve been meaning to get that back to Averall. Is it something important?”
“It could be. Do you mind if we take it?”
“Not at all. Save me a trip.”
I couldn’t keep my eyes off his painting. “That’s a wonderful landscape.”
He shrugged. “Pays the bills. Let me show you my real masterpieces.”
I couldn’t imagine what he meant by real masterpieces. Jerry and I followed him into the house. The entire back room facing the mountains was a well-stocked artist’s studio. Brushes filled jars of water and turpentine. Canvases were stacked in every corner. Tully Springfield led us past rows of remarkable landscapes. I kept expecting him to stop and point to them. Instead, he paused at a hideous collection of painted clowns and sad-eyed children surrounded by more of the lurid yard creatures.
He beamed. “Here.”
“Oh,” I said. “Um. These? They’re very nice.”
Behind Springfield’s back, Jerry made a horrified face at me and mimed throwing up.
Oblivious to more than Jerry’s opinion, Tully Springfield said, “The landscapes are okay, but this is what I really enjoy. I don’t understand why they don’t sell as well, though.”
What could I say? “Well, critics, you know.”
“Mac’s an artist, too,” Jerry said.
I could’ve kicked him. Tully Springfield’s face brightened. “Then you know all about how difficult it is to be taken seriously. What was your name again? I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten.”
“Madeline Maclin. Madeline is fine.”
“Please call me Tully. What sort of things do you paint, Madeline? Do you like clowns?”
