* * *
On the way home from dinner, I wondered what Jamie would think of me pursuing the killer. He would be worried, sure, but he would help me. He wouldn't just command me to stop investigating the way Scott had, but that was because Jamie loved Donna as much as I did. We shared a history, the three of us.
Jamie came to work at StoryWorld part-time while he was in business school. I'd hired him as a handyman, but he became much more, helping out with new set design, assisting with event planning, and running the popular "Jamie Tours."
From the beginning, I was drawn to his sense of humor and his kindness to me, my staff, and our visitors. Despite a growing attraction to him, I didn't have the nerve to ask him out. I'd never asked a guy out before, but that was only part of it. I didn't know if it would be appropriate for me to date an employee.
Donna would have none of it. She told Jamie I liked him, and he revealed he felt the same about me. Donna set up our first date—a white tablecloth dinner after hours at the Jack Sprat, featuring filet mignon, baked potatoes, and creamed spinach. Throughout the relationship, she supported us both, acting as confidante alternately to one and then the other. She adored him, and the feeling was mutual.
If Scott knew Donna better and felt closer to her, would he be okay with me trying to clear her? I just didn't know.
Another jolt of longing for Jamie and our relationship ran through me, a familiar feeling that caused my head to fog and my stomach to cramp. Now it wasn't as bad, but it wasn't gone either. Was part of the longing just a yearning to not be alone, a wish to share my life with someone? I had to admit it was possible. Which brought me back to Scott. But I still had no answers when it came to him. The murder investigation was easier than dealing with him, and that was saying a lot.
* * *
Snow White would premiere on July 10. Although Cameron, Katie, and I called all the ticket holders to offer a refund due to Katrina's untimely passing, no one took us up on it. We would have another full crowd. I fervently hoped the continued interest was for the charity and a well-acted children's play and not for the possibility of a second murder.
The Sunday before the opening, the Fourth of July, was another big day for us. Independence Day had always been an important holiday in the Springdale community, and StoryWorld had led the way in offering safe and fun family activities. This year, we'd have ice cream making, pinwheel crafts, and cupcake decorating at various stations around the park. Donna and Vince planned to barbecue hot dogs and hamburgers and serve up strawberry shortcake for dessert, and rides would be free for the entire day.
I wasn't especially looking forward to the holiday. I'd never been a big fan. Fireworks were pretty, but I'd hated how loud they were since I was a child. Illegal fireworks and firecrackers always made me nervous as the day was at the height of our fire season.
When Jamie was alive, it wasn't so bad. We had our own tradition. After work, he'd barbecue burgers and ears of corn, and we'd sit on the deck in my Adirondack chairs to eat. Sometimes we'd play around with the hose and get wet, and then we'd share a watermelon and have a contest to see who could spit the seeds the farthest.
But that was then, and this was now. And since Scott and I were on the outs, I wouldn't be seeing him either. I was going to be very independent on Independence Day.
* * *
On July 1, Katie called out to me from the gingerbread house when I returned from a late afternoon snack with Donna. "There's someone in your office waiting for you."
My heart skipped a few beats. Scott? As ambivalent as I felt, I wouldn't have minded one of those kisses I half-resisted and half-yearned for right about then.
Because I didn't answer, Katie stepped out of the gingerbread house. "Wow, your pupils are really big."
"Is it Scott? Scott Lawrence?"
She shook her head, and I squelched the impulse to tell her to use her words.
"Oh, okay." So much for my kiss. "Who is it? Someone wanting to book a birthday party?"
"No. He said his name is, um, John something. Smelly? Smutty? Something like that. He said he's a professor at the university."
Yeah, sure. Smelly and Smutty were common last names. Could this be one of Charlie's colleagues? One of Charlie's colleagues who possibly could have information that would somehow clear Charlie and Donna? I didn't see how, but I hurried into the office.
A man wearing a full suit and a bow tie sat in the visitor's chair. I wondered how he could bear wearing so many clothes on such a hot day. He politely stood when I came in.
"Ashling Cleary?"
"Yes. Professor… I'm sorry…I didn't get your last name."
"Smith." He offered his hand to shake.
I withheld a giggle. How did Katie get "Smelly" or "Smutty" from "Smith"? Typical Katie. "Nice to meet you. Are you one of Charlie's colleagues?"
"Charlie?"
"Charles Grayson. He's in the Botany Department."
"I can't say I have had the pleasure of meeting him. I don't know many of the professors outside my own department. I was only hired in May."
I nodded and put on my best customer service face. "I apologize. I thought you were here for a different reason. How may I help you? Please sit down."
Once we were both seated, he said, "I specialize in the subject of children's literature."
"How wonderful. As you can imagine, I love children's literature."
Professor Smith had been quite friendly until I made this statement. Now he rewarded me with a huge frown. "One would think you would have a better grip on the stories you have represented here, in that case. I have to say, I am surprised."
I censored my first response of "What the cripes are you talking about?" and substituted the more polite "I'm sorry?"
"I understood you to be the manager and owner of the park."
"That is correct. I am." I was unintentionally mimicking his stilted speech pattern.
"Then I can't understand why you would allow all the mistakes in your sets."
I sat back in my chair. "Mistakes? I'm not following you."
He drew a notepad from his jacket pocket. "I haven't seen the entire park yet. But here are a few examples."
I gestured for him to continue, all the while looking for the camera. Surely I was being punked.
"The dormouse in the Alice tunnel should be in a teapot, not a teacup, if he must be in something. In the book, the Hatter and the March Hare only attempt to put him in the teapot. Dorothy wore a blue-and-white checked gingham dress, not red and white. And don't get me started on the Hispaniola! It's not at all as Stevenson described it. It is a disgrace."
This was really too much. I was especially offended by the attack on the Hispaniola, since it had been Jamie's favorite set. Smith looked like he was about to go on, but I stopped him. "Professor Smith. Please. My grandfather built this park. At the time, he was intent on bringing to life classic children's stories, the spirit of those stories that is, not necessarily to the letter. But StoryWorld has been very successful in meeting my grandfather's dreams. He wanted to inspire children to read. And it seems to have worked. For over sixty years, actually."
The professor tsked. He literally uttered the word tsk.
"Yes," I reiterated. "We've been really quite successful."
"I am sure, Ms. Cleary, that you don't have the same lackadaisical attitude as your grandfather apparently did. I am willing to examine the entire park and give you my notes so you can fix things. It needn't be done all at once."
I gaped at him. Was this guy for real? My jaw was still wide open as he handed me the list.
"Here's the first installment. I'll be in touch soon to see how you are progressing." He stood, shook my hand again, and left.
Once Professor Smith was gone, Florence walked in. I was glad of the distraction—I didn't think I could deal with what had just happened.
Florence plopped into the visitor's chair and undid her ponytail rubber band. She used her fingers to comb through her long hair.
"I'm just at my wit's end, darlin'." You and me both. "The reporters are driving me mad. Every time I arrive or leave, they're on my tail."
"I know. They're bugging all of us. The police are making them stay away from the service road, but I'm afraid there's nothing to stop them from using the public parking lot and coming up to StoryWorld."
Florence nodded. She grabbed her hair into a thick bunch and replaced her ponytail band.
"I'm really sorry for the hassle," I said. "This was probably the last thing you expected when you agreed to perform in the plays. A murder and then a lot of reporters bugging you. Feel like going for a walk and we can chat?" I could use some fresh air after dealing with Professor Stick-Up-His-Patootie.
"Love to. Let's go."
Once we'd left the office, Florence turned to look back. "You have a nice office. It's like a fairy-tale cottage."
"Yes. It's meant to be Snow White's cottage, where the dwarfs lived."
"Cute."
I led us past the Little Mermaid pond to bypass Paul Bunyan. We'd had the statue fixed, but I still avoided it whenever I could, the image of the ax against Paul's neck still emblazoned across my brain.
"Your park is quite charming," Florence said as we approached the Alice tunnel. She ran a hand across the statue of the White Rabbit, who stood sentinel outside the entrance.
"Thank you. I love it. It took me a while to fully appreciate what I do, but I'm now thoroughly committed."
"Good for you."
"I've been meaning to ask you. One of the actors said you'd invited Katrina for dinner, but she declined. I thought you didn't like her?"
"True. It was foolish, I know, but I had the idea I could get her in line. I thought I would have a little talk with her. Try to figure out why she'd been acting so badly and try to get her to shape up. But she showed her true colors, as always. She rejected me."
We continued on to Mary's Garden. As we looked in at the plants and flowers, Florence told me the story of how she broke into Hollywood. She'd auditioned for the part of Gertrude in Hamlet by dressing for the part in long robes and a crown and speaking in a British accent. She gave me a short demonstration, managing to make me laugh and admire her skill at the same time. She'd gotten the part on the spot, despite being an unknown.
In return, I opened the floodgates and told her the story of my life: my parents' divorce, my mom's remarriage, her cancer, and my ownership of StoryWorld. Then I told her the story of Jamie: his disease and eventual death and my heartbreak. I ended by relating my problems with Scott and my determination to clear Donna, despite all my setbacks. By the time I finished, I was ready for a nap.
"Seems dangerous," Florence commented when I told her about the vandalism. "Maybe you'd be better off stopping."
"I know it's dangerous, but I have to help Donna. I just have to. It's been horrible for her…and for me."
Florence put her arm around me and squeezed. "I'm sorry, darlin'."
"Thank you. I'm gonna go back to the office now to get some paperwork done."
"All right, then. You take care."
Drained by our emotional conversation, I barely managed to finish up the day and get home. Scott had left me another message. A perfectly nice, friendly message, which I erased. He was persistent, I'd give him that.
CHAPTER TWELVE
On the third of July, Katie stormed into the office and slammed the door behind her. She stood in front of my desk, put her hands on her hips, and glared at me, as if I was the witch in The Wizard of Oz and she wanted to douse me with water and melt me into the floor.
"Katie. Hi. What's going on?"
"I told you I can't be scheduled during the same shift as Brittany! I already had to see her that day you were late, and that was bad enough!"
"I know you told me. But I need everyone working tomorrow. We have all these extra activities that have to be covered. It's all hands on deck."
She cocked her head at me. "Huh?"
"It's an expression." Sometimes I forgot how young my employees were. "Never mind. Anyway, you'll be across the park from each other."
She pouted. "But we'll still be here together."
"What happened between the two of you, anyway? Katrina said something?"
Katie looked off toward the office's small kitchen and jutted out her chin.
"Katie? What happened?"
"Katrina told me Brittany asked Cameron out."
"Okay. I'm afraid I don't see the problem."
She looked at me like I was stupid. "Because Cameron is going out with me!" She might as well have ended her sentence with "Duh!"
Hmm. I'd seriously suspected a relationship between the two but hadn't known for sure. But unless Cameron said yes to Brittany and went out with her, why was it a problem? I was suddenly very tired. I just couldn't deal with young love right now. I couldn't even handle my own love life.
"Okay. Look," I said, "come in an hour late, and leave an hour early. I'll cover you. That way you won't even have to lay eyes on Brittany."
"Good." Without thanking me, she ran off, once again slamming the door behind her.
* * *
The next morning, Scott called me at the office a little after seven. I'd gotten in at six to get a head start on the big day ahead. He'd never contacted me so early in the day, so I picked up immediately, bypassed the pleasantries, and answered, "Scott? Is everything okay? Are you all right?"
He said levelly, "I tried to bring you flowers this morning before you left for work. But I couldn't even get down the driveway. Your cottage is on fire."
"Whaaat?" My stomach flip-flopped, and fear made the hairs on my arms stand on end. What the hell? Was it an illegal firework? They were out of control. I'd already heard several go off the day before, even during daylight hours. I told Scott I'd be there as soon as I could.
I pulled into a parking space a block from my driveway ten minutes later, my heart hammering. Despite its threadbare furniture and cheap DIY bookcases, my cottage was my sanctuary, my home. With a sinking heart, I thought of my precious Jamie mementos. If I lost those, I would die. I got out of the car, knees trembling, and approached my driveway.
Scott stood with a group of pajama-clad neighbors on the sidewalk. Down the driveway, firefighters battled flames at the entrance to the cottage. Acrid smoke blew toward us, and fear bubbled up inside me.
Scott gathered me in his arms. Feeling needy, I clung to him for several minutes. Only when he released me did I realize he was holding a now-crushed bouquet of red and white roses with an American flag nestled in the middle.
"I'm so glad you weren't inside," he said.
"Do you think it was a firework?" I looked past him down the driveway, trying to figure out the extent of the damage. "Is the entire cottage on fire? What am I going to do? What about all my things? Where am I going to live?"
"One of the firemen talked to us a few minutes ago. He said your landlady is on the way. You can find out more from her."
The tears I'd been holding back began to flow, and Scott hugged me again.
"Would you like to stay with me?" he said quietly. "We can go there right now and call your landlady later." I must have looked alarmed, because he said right away, "It would just be temporary, of course."
"I have to go to work. We have a lot of activities planned. I have a lot to do," I said in a monotone, staring down the driveway. The flames seemed to be dying down. Maybe the firefighters got there quickly enough to save most of the cottage. "I have to cover for Katie too. It's a big day. I really should get back."
"Can't you put someone else in charge?"
I shook my head. "Everyone's already assigned."
"What about your mom?"
"No. She and Tim are out of town."
"Ashling, you're shaking. You're in shock. At least let me drive you to work. You can decide later if you want to stay with me. Whatever you want is fine. I was going to go fishing and then watch the fireworks with some guys from work, but I can cancel. It's no prob
lem."
I nodded mutely, appreciating his calm and pragmatic presence in the horror that was now my life. Murders, vandalism, fires… What next?
* * *
I went through the motions of attending to my job, a sorrowful figure in the midst of scores of happy visitors whooping it up in a holiday celebration. Talking to my landlady didn't do much to improve my mood. The firefighters had hinted the fire might have been deliberately set, and of course my mind went straight to the killer. Would Truesdale and Ochoa take me seriously now? Would they believe the murderer vandalized the park and now tried to burn my house down?
The only bright spot was that the damage was limited to the entrance. Cold comfort, but it was something. I wouldn't need alternative living arrangements for long.
Outside my office, children screamed in delight as they ran from one pleasurable experience to another. The time passed quickly, and it was soon after two. I hadn't had a chance to eat. I was beginning to get cranky, so I decided to take a break and get some food before I went on some kind of rampage.
I headed out for the Jack Sprat, deciding to check on the ice cream-making station in the Poppy Field beforehand. Cameron stood behind a long table laden with the ingredients, and he waved at me exuberantly. Even my employees were having a good day.
Spread out on the grass were several groups of adults and children, each cluster equipped with an old-fashioned ice cream maker. I found Florence on her own, struggling to turn the crank on her machine.
"Hi, Florence."
"Hey, darlin'. Give me a hand, will you? I need to rest. This is hard work. But it's almost ready."
I took over for her and cranked the handle a few times, not without some difficulty. We'd had one of the old-fashioned machines when I was a child, and I'd forgotten how much effort was required.
"What kind are you making? Just vanilla?" I asked.
"Mint. I found some leaves in Mary's Garden. Hope you don't mind."
"Not at all. It sounds delicious." I cranked the handle once more. "I think it's done."
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