by Anna Castle
“But you were great!” Tillie was dismayed.
“You are so sweet!” Krystle beamed at her. “But no, as it turns out, I suck. I’m loud and I’m pretty and I have no shame and that’s about as far as it goes.”
“It’s good to know your strengths,” I said, laughing. “I’m double-impressed that you’re not bitter.”
She shrugged. “No point in sitting around whining about the past. I got plans; big plans.”
“What plans?”
“I’m going into reality TV. No acting required and just as much screen time, if you play it right. I’m on the next-to-final list for the next season of The Bachelor.”
Tillie let out a high-pitched squeal. “I love that show!” she shouted, waving her hands. “When’s it going to start again? Who’s the guy going to be?”
“I’ve never seen it.” I was more Battlestar Galactica than Bachelor. “Isn’t there a Bachelorette one, too? Wouldn’t that be better?”
“No, no, no,” Krystle said, wagging a negatory finger. “There’s only one woman on the Bachelorette; the odds are huge against getting on it. But there’s twenty-five on the Bachelor.”
Tillie was nodding vigorously, her silver earrings winking in her black hair. “Here’s how it works. First there’s the Bachelor. He’s always like totally gorgeous and really, really nice. And then there are the bachelorettes, twenty-five like Krystle said. They’re all pretty and they range in age from like a few years older to a few years younger than the Bachelor. Usually, there’s like a sweet one and a bitchy one and a motherly one and a sporty one, like that. They go on dates with the Bachelor and every week he cuts one off the show.”
“Ouch!” I said.
Tillie nodded happily. “They can be pretty brutal.”
“Sounds like a tough way to become a celebrity,” I said.
“It won’t be easy,” Krystle agreed, “but I’ve got a strategy. See, I’m going to be the wild one, so they’ll want me to stay on as long as possible.”
“He never marries the wild one.” Tillie spoke with authority.
“Exactly. I don’t want to marry the guy. What good does that do me? I want to be the second-to-the-last one. That keeps me on long enough to get my name and my face out there, get people talking on the fan loops and whatnot. Then, when it’s over, I can get a gig as like a spokesmodel or something.”
“That is so smart!” Tillie was awed by the master plan. It sounded like a long shot to me, but what did I know?
“When does it start?” I asked.
“In September. They’re doing interviews and stuff to pick the final twenty-five this month.”
“Ohmigod!” Tillie squealed.
Krystle nodded, crossing the fingers on both hands. “A couple of producers are coming to Lost Hat sometime in the next two weeks to meet my folks and my friends and see where I’m from and all that.”
Tillie waved a hand high. “Me! Tell them me!”
“You are officially at the top of my list.”
They grinned at each other. I grinned too. But I was wondering what the requirements were for being a Bachelorette and what kind of secret would blow you out of the competition.
* * *
Ty showed up close to nine, looking every inch the venture capitalist in a dark wool suit and a Burberry coat. He threw the coat over the front counter and loosened his tie, greeting people with a nod or a wave as he looked around for me. He’d brought a bottle of something that he passed to someone as he worked his way through the crowd.
I shimmied through the bodies and slid my arms around his waist, pressing my face into his shirt. I caught a note of weary sweat underneath his woodsy cologne and inhaled deeply. He tilted my head and gave me a kiss, half an eye on the openly amused faces around us. I grabbed his hand and led him down the hall to the darkroom so I could welcome him properly.
The darkroom door was closed. I gave it a couple of raps before pushing it open. Robbie, Skip, and a couple of girls quickly rearranged themselves, pretending they hadn’t been necking.
“Our turn.” I smiled up at Marion’s overgrown sapling of a son.
The kids scuffled out, bursting into giggles as we closed the door behind them.
Ty and I wrapped ourselves around each other for a long, life-restoring kiss. When we came back to Planet Earth, Ty stroked my hair, nuzzling my cheek with his. “I can’t tell you how much I needed that.”
I leaned back against the workbench and studied his face in the soft red light of the darkroom lamp. “I’m glad you could make it.”
He ran his hands along my shoulders and down my back, curving around my hips, stroking my velvet skirt and jacket. He hummed approvingly. “You’re all furry.”
More smooching ensued. Later, Ty buried his nose in my hair and drew in a deep breath of rosemary shampoo. We were quite the olfactory couple. “How long is this party going to go on?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never held a wake before. Maybe if we start cleaning up around eleven, people will take the hint?”
“I thought we’d spend the night at your place. I have to leave at the crack of dawn.”
“You might not get much actual sleep.”
Chapter 19
We went back out into the fray to be good hosts. Skimming along the east wall, we bumped into Principal Burwell-Jones with a small entourage of senior ladies.
“Evenin’, Burrie,” Ty said. He offered a short bow to the entourage. “Ladies.”
“Good evening, Tyler.” Burrie smiled at him with genuine warmth. Evidently she approved of Ty. She managed a tight semi-smile in my direction. I gave as good as I got.
“Are you enjoying Penny’s photographs?”
We’d caught them glaring at a macro-shot of a single thistle spiking out of an expanse of cracked earth. The lighting was stark and ominous. I’d been trying to illustrate the degradation of an overgrazed ranch.
Burrie pursed her lips at it. “I don’t see any point in taking pictures of ugly things.” She made it sound like a moral failing on the part of the photographer.
I bristled, but Ty steadied me with a quiet hand on my arm. “You have to tell the truth, Burrie, even when it hurts. Didn’t you teach us that in history class?”
I winced at his unwitting hit.
“You were always a good student,” Burrie said. “Nothing but A’s for Tyler Hawkins.”
“You were a good teacher.”
Tillie pressed past us with a bundle of coats over her arm, heading for the hall. She flashed Ty the extra-large smile reserved for people who didn’t intimidate her.
“Ty! I’m so glad you could make it. We were worried about you, that you’d be driving too fast in the dark with deer on the roads.”
“Deer are nothing to me. I have invisible deer radars on the front of my car. And plenty of room for venison in my freezer, if that doesn’t work.”
“Barbecued roadkill, anyone?” I asked, raising a chuckle from those under sixty-five.
Burrie cleared her throat significantly.
“Good evening, Principal Burwell,” Tillie said.
Burrie treated her to a tight curving of the lips. “Otilia, why don’t you bring us a couple of glasses of wine after you hang up those coats?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Now, that was offensive. How dare that witch give orders to my friends, in my studio? She was worse than Marion. At least Marion only bossed me around and we were kin, so it was allowed. My hand rose, pointer finger extended, ready to jab it at Burrie while I gave her a piece of my mind. Ty grabbed it and drew it to his chest.
“Let’s all mosey over to the buffet table, shall we? I’d like a glass of something myself.” He draped one arm over my shoulder and another over Burrie’s and ushered us slowly through the milling crowd.
I caught a glimpse of Andy Lynch, frowning at my photographs like an art critic while his wife stood nearby with her back turned to him. They reminded me that I had bigger problems than bossy old curmudgeons who fa
iled to appreciate my friends. I rose up on tiptoe to plant a light kiss on Ty’s cheek.
He winked down at me. “Penny, have you ever heard the story of how Lost Hat got its name?”
“How what?” That was not the response I had expected. “Er, no, I don’t believe that I have.”
Ty clucked his tongue, giving Burrie a roguish look. “Penny, Penny, Penny! And you’ve been here nearly two whole months? I think you’d better set her straight, Burrie.”
“Oh, Tyler,” Burrie said, patting her gunmetal hair. Pink spots of pleasure appeared on her cheeks. “She doesn’t want to hear that silly old story.”
“Oh, yes, she does,” Ty said.
“We all do,” echoed the entourage.
“Let’s hear it,” I said, trying to sound like I cared.
“Well.” Burrie put on a storytelling face. “It all began in Austin, in 1849.”
* * *
A sudden flurry of motion at the front door interrupted her. Mr. Muelenbach was making a grand entrance. He wore a tuxedo with all the trimmings: long silk scarf, hand-tooled boots, and tall black Stetson. His lady friend, Licha Gutierrez, wore a sparkly blue gown with a khaki trench coat draped over her shoulders. She dropped the coat on the front counter as she walked in.
Mr. M swept off his hat and bowed. Licha curtsied. People near the door burst into applause, causing people behind them to turn and clap, too. Pretty soon the whole room was thundering.
“Look at those two!” I said. “Next stop, Park Avenue.”
“Senile old fool,” Burrie muttered.
Mr. M. spotted us and strode forward. Licha lingered with a group of women cooing at her dress. He had a bottle of champagne in each hand. “I come bearing gifts!”
We converged at the end of the buffet table.
“You look mahvelous,” I declared. “You’ve just elevated the tone of this party about three thousand feet.”
Ty grinned. “You’ve outdone yourself, Al. Those are some boots.”
Mr. M set his bottles on the table and lifted a pant leg to show off the snakeskin uppers. “Python.”
Ty whistled.
“Python?” I asked. “Do we have pythons in Texas?”
The men laughed at my girlish ignorance.
“No, Penny, this is not a local product,” Mr. M said. “But fear not. I was assured that this particular serpent died of old age after a full and satisfying life in the jungle and that all the proceeds from his corpus go toward the revitalization of indigenous Amazonian cultures.”
I gave him a wise-guy look. “They’re pretty jazzy boots. If I was a python, that’s how I’d want to end up.”
Mr. M. scoped out the memorial display and quickly grasped the bell-ringing ritual. He sashayed over and launched into a long-winded tribute.
Ty whispered in my ear, “He must be doing something right. Those boots cost at least a thousand bucks.”
Must be more money in literary Westerns than one would imagine.
* * *
I loaded up a plate with empanadas, cheese, stuffed jalapeños and similar yummilicious treats. I caught a glimpse of Marion standing near the front counter and added some carrot sticks. I leaned against the shelves behind the buffet table, eating my supper and watching the crowd.
The last time I’d been to a party this size was the Christmas party at the courthouse where Ty and I had met. I’d hardly known anybody back then. This time, I recognized most of the faces.
People whose family portraits I’d done and people I’d seen in the high school yearbooks. They’d put on a few pounds, earned some wrinkles, changed their hair. But I still knew them or, at least, I knew their faces. Dark-eyed Espinozas, golden-haired Camerons, and red-headed Hoppers.
I started thinking about my rephotographic project for the museum. There weren’t likely to be many old photographs of places, which is what Mark Klett’s project was about. But who cared? The real history of Lost Hat was right here in my studio, in these faces. A vision started forming in my imagination. I could do something with lines of faces, generations of Lost Hatters. The lines would be different lengths. Some would have gaps. I’d have to avoid the snobbish sort of ancestor worship that people like Burrie went in for. I suddenly felt that fire of inspiration that fuels my life. I was eager to get started.
I finished my supper and moved forward to slide up next to Ty. He had positioned himself behind the punch bowl, taking off his jacket and loosening his tie. He had ladled punch into a few cups that he set out invitingly. This seemed to be some sort of signal, because soon an irregular line of men had formed at his end of the table. The ones who gave the secret nod as they handed Ty their cups got a splash of Very Old Barton from the bottle he’d brought.
People seemed to be as eager to touch base with Ty, the town prodigy, as they were to get their shot of bourbon. He looked like a man in his natural element, joking and joshing with people he’d known since childhood. He looked happy, connected. Home.
“Your party’s a roaring success,” he said.
“It is, isn’t it?” I felt connected to him, too, standing there, doing a little joshing myself. We made a fine couple.
I spotted Robbie and Skip on the other side of the speaker zone, nudging each other and whispering fiercely. They were each holding an empty cup and their eyes were aimed at Ty. Would he or wouldn’t he, that was the question. Give bourbon to kids, that is. I kind of thought not. I saw Marion by the front counter watching them, too and tried to send Robbie a thought-wave: don’t even try.
But they were intrepid lads. They nudged each other forward, finally having the sense to scan the crowd for parental units as they approached the punch bowl. They blanched and grimaced like they’d almost stepped on a snake. They ducked down below the crowd and slinked away.
I followed their line of sight and saw Greg entering from the kitchen. The plot thickened: why would Robbie and Skip be afraid of an Internet service provider? I could think of one good reason. I glanced back at Marion and was surprised to see her glowering at Greg, wearing her basset hound frown.
I wished there had been a way to keep that rattlesnake out of my party. He had spoiled my social Zen: my feeling of connectedness. Although, I realized with unwanted insight, he’d formed his own perverted kind of connection with the people of this town.
* * *
The memory bell rang. Sheriff Hopper stood before the canvas screens: time for Long County’s most popular politician to make a speech. Our sheriff had the figure of a man who has attended every barbecue, family reunion, and church sale in the county for a long span of years. His curly red hair was rusting to gray, but his hazel eyes retained their sharpness. He smiled at the crowd and waited for relative silence. Then he began, “I remember the day Jim Donnelly first came to Lost Hat, to ask old Ronald Speckles about buying the Communicator.”
The front door banged open, letting in a rush of cold air. Susanna Donnelly stood framed in the doorway, wearing black from head to toe, including a hat with a fringe of black veil. Her white face was a stark canvas for her blood red lipstick.
She had dressed to make a scene. I wondered if she’d been standing out there in the dark, waiting for Sheriff Hopper to take center stage. Her eyes locked onto him like a high-tech rifle scope. She raised a black-draped arm and pointed a red-nailed finger at him. “Sheriff Hopper, you’ve been lying to me!”
“Now, Susanna,” Sheriff Hopper said, walking to meet her with his hands held out in a calming gesture. People fell back to give him room. “How about I drive you home? We can have a nice little chat.”
“No! No more cover-ups! I want everyone to hear what you’ve been hiding.”
Deputy Finley emerged from the corner where he’d been schmoozing with Krystle and went to stand beside his boss. The two tall men in their dress uniforms dwarfed the little widow, but their size was no match for her fury.
“Now, Susanna. Calm down.” The sheriff used the soothing voice you use with panicked horses, but he was failin
g as a widow-whisperer.
“No! I had a long talk with our lawyer this afternoon. He says the medical examiner in Austin found opiates in Jim’s blood. Opiates! He never took an opiate in his life. He was poisoned, like I told you in the first place. Only you refused to listen. You deliberately put out the lie that he had killed himself by accident, when he was murdered in cold blood!”
“I knew it!” I shouted, and then clapped a hand over my mouth as all heads swiveled toward me.
Chapter 20
The party broke up pretty fast after that. Sheriff Hopper and Deputy Finley bundled Susanna out the door, trailed by a few people shameless enough to keep eavesdropping all the way out to their cars. The room seemed to be growing gradually lighter. I thought I was suffering some strange form of shock until I saw Ty over by the dimmer switch.
His clever ploy worked. Thirty minutes later, everyone was gone except a small clot of people lingering in the kitchen. Marion grabbed my arm on her way out to warn me that under no circumstances should I meddle in “poor Susanna’s grief-induced delusions.” I echoed Ty’s concerned skepticism and Tillie’s agitated concern without elaborating on my suspicions about Jim’s death. This was not the time for babbling about poisoned pastries and accidental victims. I needed to roll things around in my mind for a while, to try to see the whole picture. And I wanted one last trouble-free night with Ty.
The empty studio, with the remains of a party standing forlornly around the edges, looked like a ballroom after the ball. But we hadn’t had any dancing yet. Why not draw the lingerers out for a few turns around the floor, to wind down with a bit of after-party and segue gradually into foreplay. Thirty more minutes and we’d send them all home.
I turned the lights back down and put on a Copa Kings CD. Smoky jazz filled the empty room. Ty came out of the kitchen and caught me in his arms, swinging me into a slow dance. Soon the kitchen crowd caught on. Krystle and Deputy Finley whirled past us, trailing rose musk and Polo Black. Tillie and Ben joined in, along with two other couples I didn’t know. Greg oozed out of the kitchen and watched us dance with the air of a man picking out a couple to cut in on.
