Sinister Summer

by Colleen Gleason

  The sign for Orbra’s Tea House caught her attention and since it was closest, she thought she’d stop there. Tea and coffee went together, didn’t they—except in Aunt Jean’s house. She smiled affectionately, then felt a sharp stab of grief. She’d never see her quirky aunt again.

  A lovely antique tea service of highly polished silver was arranged in the front window of Orbra’s, and Diana remembered that the eponymous owner had been one of Aunt Jean’s Tuesday Ladies, as their social group was called.

  It wasn’t Tuesday, but why not? She opened the door and walked in. Instead of the expected pink cabbage flower and melting roses Victorian decor, dripping with lace and knickknacks, the style was much more restrained but no less tea-shop-appropriate.

  There was a minimal amount of lace in the form of several antique table runners, but the color scheme was cornflower blue and a paler sky-like hue, as well as white and sunny yellow. Lemon-colored Gerbera daisies and tiny vases of violets studded the tables, each of which were set with mismatched but somehow coordinated plates of white, all shades of blue, and lavender.

  She’d barely stepped over the threshold when a voice boomed. “Why, it’s Jean’s Diana!”

  Orbra van Hest, whose build was the tall, large-boned and sturdy one of her Dutch heritage, moved with surprising efficiency for someone who was nearly seventy. “Well, come on in, there, Diana. We’ve been waiting to see you! Why don’t you sit yourself here with Cherry—she’s taking up one of my best tables anyway. Always likes to sit in the one by the window. Once tourist season is in full swing; she’ll be relegated to the back corner there. Besides, the others ought to be along any minute now, so your timing couldn’t have been better. They’ll all want to see you.”

  During this speech, Diana found herself being hustled over to a large round table near one of the front windows. It had a generous vase of short-stemmed sunflowers in the center, and a cluster of more petite vessels with daisies and violets. The small plates were white with tiny blue and purple flowers and gilt around the edges.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Diana,” said the slender, toned woman sitting there with a pot of tea. She was a very fit mid-sixties and had short, cropped hair of a soft platinum shade. The fact that she wore workout clothes helped Diana to place her immediately. “We met briefly at Jean’s funeral.”

  “Yes, of course. Cherry Wilder is it? You own the yoga studio,” Diana said. All she wanted was a cup of coffee…she didn’t really have time to socialize. But, nevertheless, she took a seat.

  Cherry smiled. “I do. For forty years now, in fact. Any time you want to come by for a class, you’d be welcome. First one is on me. We’ve got mats and blocks and anything you might need.” As Orbra stood there, arms crossed like a sentinel, she glanced up at her. “And don’t complain about me taking your best table,” she said with a wave. “You know Maxine will insist on it the minute she blows in.” She turned back to Diana. “The old bat—don’t worry, I call her that to her face—likes to sit here so she can see everything going on in the town.”

  “And tell everyone else what to do,” Orbra added. Cherry laughed and lifted her tea to sip.

  “Right.” Diana was just about to ask for some coffee when the front door opened and two more elderly women came in.

  One held a smooth, gnarled cane in her equally smooth, gnarled hand. She had skin the color and texture of polished walnut and iron-gray hair arranged in a sort of styleless mop that tried to curl and could possibly have been a wig. She possessed sharp, dark eyes, and wore orthopedic shoes that looked like they belonged to Frankenstein’s monster.

  The other had improbably paprika-red hair curled and sprayed into a helmet-like arrangement in the shape of a mushroom cloud: cropped close at the neck and sides, but teased and poofy on the top and around the crown. Her fingernails were such a bright pink they drew the attention immediately, and she wore lipstick to match.

  The redhead, who appeared to be of Hispanic heritage, carried a large tote bag over her shoulder, and Diana saw the reason why: one of the cutest dogs she’d ever seen was poking its face out from inside. He was about the size of a Chihuahua, but he had huge, butterfly-shaped ears and a white face with black and brown splotches on it.

  Both of the women looked as if they were pushing eighty. They were squabbling over something about a bingo and blanks, but the moment they saw Diana, the one with the cane crowed with delight (or alarm; it wasn’t immediately clear which) and clomped speedily from the door to the table.

  “Well, it’s about time you decided to show your face, missy. Didn’t leave no way for any of us to contact you after the funeral, and I was getting damned tired of waiting for you to come back. Don’t you have no respect for your elders?”

  Diana had met her once—and that was all she needed for the old woman to be indelibly printed on her memory. It wasn’t the cane she wielded like a weapon or a steam engine that made her unforgettable; though that was just as much a part of Maxine Took as her sharp, all-seeing eyes and her curled, arthritic fingers.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Took,” Diana said as the elderly woman maneuvered the chairs around the table. She used her cane along with surprisingly strong hands and facile hip movements to shove and shift the seats—requiring Cherry and Diana to move as well—until she positioned herself in the chair with the best view of the window, the shop, and Diana herself.

  “It ain’t Mrs. nothing,” she growled, banging her cane on the floor to emphasize. She was a little out of breath from her exertions, but no lower in volume. “Never was. Woulda been either Doctor or Ms. Took—but you just call me Maxine. Ain’t no reason to put on airs. And this here is Juanita. Not Mrs. Alecita. Just Juanita. And don’t put your fingers near her bag or Bruce Banner will take them off.”

  For someone who’d just complained about lack of respect for elders, Maxine seemed strangely informal about her form of address. But her diatribe reminded Diana that the elderly black woman had been a chemical engineer with a math PhD back in the Sixties. In her mind, that gave Maxine the right to be as much of a cranky old bat as she wanted.

  Diana smiled. “Very well, then, Maxine. Nice to see you again, Juanita.” She remembered that Juanita had owned a chain of ten Mexican restaurants in Michigan and Indiana before selling them off in late 2000. “That is the sweetest looking dog I’ve ever seen.” Then she seized the moment and looked up at Orbra. “I really need a cup of coffee. Could you—”

  She stopped speaking when she realized all four of them were looking at her as if she’d just asked for their heads on a platter.

  “This is a tea shop, dear.” Juanita, who had been granted the chair on the other side of Diana, spoke kindly. “There’s no coffee here.” She said “coffee” the same way one might say “steak” in a vegan cafe.

  “Right. I…know that. I just thought…” Diana drew in a deep breath and looked up at Orbra. “What do you recommend? I need some caffeine. Lots of caffeine. Is there a tea equivalent to espresso?”

  “Contrary to popular belief, and what do they call’em—urban fantasies?” Maxine looked at Cherry.

  “Urban legends, I think you mean,” replied the yoga instructor.

  “Right. That’s it. Anyhow, contrary to urban legend—”

  “What Maxine’s trying to say it, there’s no one type of tea with more or less caffeine. But if you want caffeine, I recommend a yerba maté or one of the needle tip teas,” Orbra told Diana in a slightly offended voice. “I can brew either one extra strong if you like. But we don’t have any of that fluffy milk here or those fake milks that come from nuts—what is it, Cherry? Hazelnu—no, it’s cashew, isn’t it?”

  “Or almond or coconut,” said her friend, eyeing Diana over the rim of her teacup with a laughing glint in her gaze.

  “Right. Just plain old tea,” Orbra finished. “Five pages of it listed in the menu,” she added, as if to belie her previous comment.

  “Right. I’m sure a yerba…maté, is it? That would be lovely.” Di
ana didn’t see any other choice in the matter, and aside from that, she had a feeling Maxine Took wouldn’t allow her to take her leave any time soon. The old bat (to take a descriptor from Cherry) had a determined gleam in her eyes—and she’d angled her cane in such a way that Diana would have to clamber over it in order to leave her chair.

  “All right, then, Diana, dear—would you like the Sri Lankan yerba or the the Chinese? Loose or bagged? A pot—or just a cup?” The way Orbra said the last seemed as if she were throwing down a gauntlet.

  “Er…just a cup,” she replied bravely. “Loose tea is fine. And whichever is your favorite.”

  “I want some of your cinnamon scones, Orbry,” said Maxine before Diana had finished ordering. “And I’ll have that vanilla oolong—and mind you, don’t brew it at one-seventy-five. I want it cooked right. Two-oh-eight, and not a degree different.”

  Orbra lifted her nose and gave her friend a steely look. “I know how to brew tea, Maxine. Black tea,” she said to Diana—for clearly, she was lacking in her tea education, “is always brewed with water near the boil. Not so for other teas, you know.”

  “That’s right. A scalded white tea is a waste of leaves,” said Juanita as she tenderly adjusted the large leather purse on her lap. Diana could see the tops of Bruce Banner’s ears poking out from inside the top. “And white tea is expensive. I’ll have one of Maxine’s scones—oh, you won’t eat them all,” she said over her companion’s snarl. “And a whole-grain blueberry muffin. Have to watch my carbs, you know,” she said.

  Diana was torn between amusement and mild frustration over the interplay between the ladies—mainly because she couldn’t see herself being able to make a break for it anytime in the near future.

  So much for having a day to do nothing…

  Although it was a rather good thing she didn’t have anything pressing that needed to get done.

  Orbra was just bustling off to get their orders together when the bell jangled over the shop door once more.

  The woman who stepped in was a petite, matronly sort—soft, pleasingly plump, neatly put together but not fussy—in her late sixties. She had white cotton candy hair in an easy style and wore understated makeup. As she drew closer, Diana smelled the classic scent of White Shoulders wafting gently from her.

  “What happened? Your alarm not go off?” Maxine demanded of the new arrival. “You’re late, Iva.”

  “More likely she was getting some morning delight from her new man,” Cherry murmured with a grin.

  “Now, Cherry,” said the woman as she took the last empty seat, which was next to the yoga instructor, “how do you know I’m not saving myself for marriage?” Her bright blue eyes twinkled with humor—but her round apple cheeks were flushed with pleasure that conflicted with her statement.

  Everyone burst out laughing except for Diana as Iva Bergstrom reached over to pat her hand. “How nice to see you again, Diana! How are you getting along up in that big old house? Any sign of ghosts?”

  “Ghosts?” Though she’d felt a little jolt at the question, Diana replied calmly. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know Jean, she always enjoyed a good party—never liked to leave early. Always had to be the last one. And life’s got to be the best party, ever, right?” Iva leaned forward with a bright smile, her eyes twinkling merrily. “I’m sure Jean didn’t want to leave this party early, so if anyone was going to come back to haunt a house, it would be her.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Besides, this is Wicks Hollow! Don’t you know this town abounds with ghosts and hauntings and curses and the like?” Iva said. Diana wasn’t certain whether the sparkle in her eyes was due to repressed laughter or honest enthusiasm.

  “I never heard that,” she said, trying to be polite.

  “Iva’s right,” Maxine interjected, snatching control of the conversation. “It’s like in that Taffy show—where they had that Hell’s Mountain and attracted all those demons and vampires and things. Though we ain’t got no demons—just a few ghosts. And a curse, too.”

  Diana blinked, confused and more than a little concerned over Maxine’s lucidity.

  Cherry, laughing silently, brushed tears from her eyes. “How many times do we have to tell you, Maxine—it’s Buffy,” she said. “Not Taffy. And it was a Hellmouth.” She disintegrated into laughter again and ended with a little snort. “Taffy the Vampire Slayer.”

  Maxine waved her off with hook-like fingers and leaned in to Diana. “Taffy, Buffy—they all sound like something fluffy to me. It don’t matter. But mark me—there’ve been ghosts like to hang around in Wicks Hollow since my granddad Abraham Bell Took settled here. Something about the area I think. What do they call’em? Ley lines?”

  “Shhhh! Not so loud. We don’t want the tourists to hear,” Cherry said.

  “There ain’t any tourists yet,” Maxine retorted, looking around as if to be certain. “But by next week, we’ll be overrun.”

  Orbra arrived just at that moment, rolling a tea cart laden with their drinks, and Diana was thankful the conversation was overtaken by Maxine giving orders about where pots and cups and plates should go, and why the scones were so small today (“They’re the same size as always,” Orbra snapped), and where was the clotted cream?

  Mercifully, just as things settled down, Diana’s cell phone rang. “Oh dear, it’s my office,” she said, standing quickly as she answered the call. “Hold on, Mick.” Then she turned to the group. “I’d forgotten the time, I’ve been enjoying myself so much, but I do have to take this call.” It wasn’t a complete lie—the five Tuesday Ladies (she didn’t know why they were called that) were interesting and rather amusing.

  She tossed a ten dollar bill onto the table and was just about to make her escape when Iva said, “You’ll be there Tuesday evening, right?”

  “Tuesday?”

  “It’s my eightieth birthday,” Maxine announced, cinnamon scone crumbs flying. “Big party at Trib’s house on the lake. He’s closing the restaurant for the evening. Does it every year. Everyone comes.”

  “Oh, I—”

  “Of course you’ll be there. Everyone wants to get to know you better, Diana,” Iva said kindly. “Now that you’re taking over Jean’s place. It’ll be fun—and Maxine’s birthday is like a town holiday for us here in Wicks Hollow before the tourists get too thick. Besides, Hollis will be there—and I’m trying to convince him to bring his grandson Gideon. He’s very handsome, and he’s a lawyer too, just like you. You can meet him—Hollis, I mean—then.” Her cheeks pinked again, and she went on. “He has a business associate who knows you or worked with you, I think. And we all miss Jean so much…it would be really wonderful for you to come.”

  “Well, all right,” Diana replied, remembering she still had Mickey on the phone. “It does sound like fun.”

  “Of course it’s fun. It’s my birthday.” Maxine glowered at her, then dove into a second scone. “Seven o’clock. There’ll be cake. And food. And presents. Don’t be late.”

  “Right. I’ll…find out where Trib lives,” Diana said as she made her escape from the tea shop…still without her dose of caffeine. “Thank you for saving me,” she said into the phone as the door closed behind her.

  “What was that all about?” Mickey asked.

  Diana told her as she walked briskly down Pamela Boulevard.

  “Ghosts? In Wicks Hollow? Well, that shouldn’t bother you any.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, you know—with that thing you do, I suppose you’re probably connected to all sorts of—”

  “Mickey, I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing—I don’t know, supernatural about me thinking about a case and coming up with a logical, effective approach.” Diana’s insides felt tight and desperate. It wasn’t like she had any sort of magic or anything. She just…got the ideas. They just sort of dropped into her head.

  Magically.

  No, it wasn’t magic.

&nbs
p; And, well, yes, sometimes they were pretty specific. And oftentimes crazy. But they did work. Always.

  “Whatever you say,” her assistant replied airily. “Anyway, I’ve got a few things to go over with you.”

  A few minutes later, after working through the list Mickey had, Diana said, “Everything else okay there?”

  “We’re fine. With the depositions not scheduled until late August, there’s no reason for you to rush back,” Mickey told her—obviously reading her mind. “Didn’t you say McNillan told you to take a month?”

  “That seems so long—”

  “You deserve it. Enjoy your time with Jonathan over the weekend.”

  Diana gave a mental wince. She hadn’t told Mickey what happened in Vegas. She hadn’t actually told anyone about it. Except her mother, which had been a mistake of major proportion.

  Diana’s brows knit. She’d almost forgotten Jonathan was arriving tomorrow. Out of sight, out of mind?

  “Thanks. All right then—I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Just as she disconnected, Diana saw her Nirvana: a small cafe called Hot Toddy, whose painted sign proclaimed the availability of lattes, cappuccinos, and espressos. The building had the look of a cottage, with hot pink shutters and matching trim that unexpectedly went beautifully with its mint green siding.

  Inside, there was a huge framed movie poster from Victor/Victoria, and several stills from the same film—most of Julie Andrews and Robert Preston. They all seemed to be signed by Preston.

  Diana ordered a double macchiato to go from the short, wiry man behind the counter. Inhaling the boost of caffeine with relief, she meandered down the street, taking in the many changes in town over the last five years.

  She passed Gilda’s Goodies, a vintage clothing store that had Diana coveting a beaded handbag and matching wrap displayed in the window. They looked like couture from the Fifties, and she had a weakness for the classic styles of Jackie O and Grace Kelly—which was why she’d adored and actually made time to watch Mad Men.

  Beyond Gilda’s was a small structure set back from the sidewalk with a tiny, shaded courtyard that held two small iron tables with matching chairs. The building had a narrow doorway, and it was open to let in the early summer air. New & Used Books, its sign read. Before Diana knew it, her feet had propelled her through the cozy courtyard, up the single step, and into a musty bookshop.