by Jane Tesh
Warwick looked surprised. “Wrong Way Willet?”
“You know him?”
“The inventor, right? Eats tons of peanuts?”
“That’s the guy. Why do you call him Wrong Way Willet?”
Warwick laughed. “Oh, my goodness. I hadn’t thought of him in years! Some of his wackier inventions made the issues of Astounding Nonsense.”
“Back up and give me all the details,” I said.
“Well, as you know, I belong to several scientific organizations, legitimate organizations. The Parkland Science Club publishes their own magazine called Astounding Nonsense. Wait a minute. I think I may have a copy.” He reached over to a white plastic table and looked through a stack of magazines until he found a thin magazine he passed to me. The cover declared, “Scientist Proves Moon Made of Cheese.” Warwick sat back. “In the magazine, we discuss discoveries and inventions that are too ludicrous to be believed. Willet made the cover twice, as I recall. He used to be a regular.”
I looked through the magazine. “Did he know you were mocking him?”
“Mocking might be too strong a word, Madeline. Refuting his evidence. Calling into question the usefulness of his inventions.”
Astounding Nonsense contained articles about teaching ducks to swim, the supposed benefits of actually counting real sheep to combat insomnia, and the mathematical probability of there being more red than yellow M&Ms in the average pack.
“What else do you know about him?”
“Just that he lived in Celosia. Something of a hermit, I believe. You look very serious. Is he wanted for a crime of some sort?”
I was wondering how much ridicule Willet could take. “No, he’s missing.”
“And what would that perfectly good bill have to do with his disappearance?”
“He left about ten thousand dollars just like that in a box. That would buy a lot of peanuts.”
“Unless someone knew about the money and has done away with Wrong Way.”
“Yes, that occurred to me, too.”
“You need to be careful, Madeline.”
“Thanks.” I stood. “I’ve got a few more errands to run. Thanks for your help.”
Warwick unfolded his long length from his chair. “Sure you can’t stay for lunch?”
“No, thank you. Maybe some other time. I’m heading out to the Fairweather place to see Tucker.”
“He’s getting married soon, isn’t he? Tell him congratulations from me.”
“I will.” I paused at the door. “Warwick, do you know what happened to Jerry’s parents?”
He shook his head. “Just some tragedy involving a fire.”
“Would there be a record of that anywhere?”
“You might try that friend of Des’s. What’s his name? Jack?”
“Jake.” I had almost forgotten. Jake Banner worked for the Galaxy News Weekly, Parkland’s premiere tabloid. A mysterious fire was just the type of news item the Galaxy liked to exploit. “Yes, that’s a great idea, Warwick. Thank you.”
He leaned forward, a mantis about to grasp an unwary bug. “I’m always available if you need me.”
This bug made her escape.
***
I stopped by the Galaxy office, sidestepping a man on a unicycle and a woman carrying something in a jar that had way too many eyes. Jake Banner looked up from his desk. Des’ sometime partner is a small, energetic man with bright blue eyes and a toothy smile that could light up a coal mine.
“Whoo-ee, to what do I owe the honor of a visitation from Miss Parkland?”
I came right to the point. “I need to know what happened to Des and Jerry’s parents.”
Jake’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, yeah, double death. Blue flames. Trappings of the occult. Must have been at least twenty years ago.”
“Closer to twenty-four if Jerry was six.”
“Mysterious stuff, Madeline. I’m not sure Des would want me to tell.”
I moved a stack of old Galaxy photos off the folding chair and sat down. “All the more reason you’d tell me, right?”
Jake grinned, laugh lines radiating. “Yeah, you got me. Plus you could look it up yourself. Didn’t you work here for a while?”
“Just for a few months.” When I left the pageant circuit, a secretary’s position at the Galaxy had been the only job I could find. I rarely saw Jake then because he was always out chasing phantoms and having lunch with Elvis.
“Then you know that’s why we call this place Zombie Central. Old stories live again, just change the names, dates, and locales.”
“Well, I want to hear the original old story, not the Galaxy version.”
Jake leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on his desk. “Seems Mister Fairweather was crazy about anything paranormal and was always rooting around in old books, trying out spells and things. So one day he tries this spell and it backfired in a major way. Killed him and his wife right there in the house.”
“Killed how?”
“Here’s where the spooky part comes in. Des says he remembers seeing these blue flames shooting everywhere. Mom and Dad are pretty well fried by this bizarre fire, but Des and Jerry both get hit with the blue flames and survive.”
“Hit with blue flames?”
“I always thought that’s why Des could attract anything supernatural. Don’t know what it did to Jerry.”
I’d never known Jerry to talk about being burned. And I’d seen most of him, and there weren’t any scars. “Didn’t it hurt them?”
“Nah, the flames went right inside.” Jake spread his hands. “Poof!”
“What about Tucker?”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. He probably got a shot of pyro power, too. The only one who missed out was the sister. She was somewhere else and came in when she heard the mother screaming. Couldn’t have been a pretty sight.”
I was thinking about what Jake had mentioned earlier. “You said you thought that’s why Des could attract supernatural things. What do you mean?”
“Well, now that he’s got this big concert career, he doesn’t get to come investigate with me as much as he used to, but whenever there was something spooky in the neighborhood, it would come right on up to Des and say howdy. Course, he always tried to find some logical explanation.”
I couldn’t figure this out. If Jerry’s parents had been killed by some sort of spell, then why would he want to have anything to do with magic, or paranormal events, or anything “spooky,” as Jake said? “Seems to me Jerry would be trying to avoid anything supernatural.”
“Yeah, well, you never know what sets people off. Maybe he’s trying to reverse the spell.”
“Reverse the spell?”
“Sure. That way, the accident would never have happened.”
This conversation was making me very uneasy. “Jake, are you trying to suggest that Jerry wants to find a way to bring his parents back?”
Jake shrugged. “I’ve known stranger obsessions.”
“I don’t believe any of this.”
“Whatever he’s doing, it’s not a good idea to mess with the occult,” Jake said. “Take it from me, things can get nasty.”
Aside from irate people not happy to have been cheated out of their money, Jerry hadn’t had a close encounter with anything really evil. “The only thing Jerry has to worry about is being able to outrun his marks.”
Jake laughed. “You’re just as bad as Des. True skeptics, the both of you.”
“Somebody has to be. You know I don’t believe in any of that stuff.”
“Well, something’s happened to make Des a happier person. Guess he’s excited about his music. It’s like he’s found himself.”
“I wish Jerry could.”
Jake’s eyebrows went up. “He’s got you, hasn’t he? That ought to make him a happy man.”
“Not exactly.”
“Oh. Man, when is he gonna come to his senses?”
“Thanks, Jake.”
He grinned. “You really oughta be with me. Dealing w
ith these Fairweathers gives us a lot in common, you know?”
I turned down Jake’s generous offer of a cheeseburger and quickie marriage in Vegas. The Galaxy story was wilder than I had imagined. I couldn’t picture Jerry’s father as the kind of person who’d play with the occult. As for bizarre blue flames, well, that sounded exactly like the kind of spin the Galaxy would put on a mysterious tragedy, especially a tragedy involving the wealthier citizens of Parkland.
I was walking down the sidewalk outside the Galaxy office when whom should I see but my ex-husband, Bill, and his new wife.
“Madeline, hello,” he said. “You’ve met Tina, haven’t you?”
Bill’s tall and good-looking, the kind of man you’d see on TV playing a CEO or a general. He has the commanding manner of someone who’s always gotten his way. Tina, his new wife, was small, blonde, and very pregnant. Bill always wanted a big family. This would be baby number three.
“Hello, Tina,” I said. “I believe I should say congratulations.”
Bill put his arm around Tina’s shoulders. “Thanks. It’s a girl.”
“That’s great.”
“I hear you’ve moved to Celosia,” he said. “How’s that working out for you?”
“I like it.”
“Staying with Jerry?”
“For now.”
He nodded. He’d never seen Jerry as a threat. “Still doing that detective thing?”
“Yes.”
In the awkward silence that followed, Tina glanced up anxiously at Bill. He gave her another encouraging squeeze. “Well, it was great seeing you, Madeline.”
“When’s the baby due? I’d like to send a little something for her.”
“Oh, any day now, right, sugar?” Tina blushed and didn’t reply. Bill hugged her shoulders. “We’re shooting for next weekend.”
“Then I hope everything goes well. Have you picked out a name?”
“We’re going to call her Foster.”
Foster? Good grief. What were the others called? Again, Tina blushed. I had the feeling she would’ve named her little girl something else.
Bill said, “Well, we’ve gotta run. Great to see you, Madeline. Keep in touch.”
“Okay,” I said.
I watched as Bill hustled Tina down the street. As usual, he’d gotten what he wanted: a timid, unprotesting little trophy wife who’d supplied him with children. That was fine. He had to live his life his way. I had to live mine. I just wondered if I knew what I wanted.
Right now, all I wanted to do was visit Jerry’s younger brother and see if I could find some clues to the Fairweather mystery.
***
It’s always something of a pleasant shock to see Tucker Fairweather, because he looks so much like Jerry. All the Fairweather men are blessed with slim figures and youthful looks, but Tucker is the shortest and the lightest. As usual, he was dressed in his gardening clothes, jeans, sneakers, and an old shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
“Hello, Madeline. I’ll be right with you as soon as I trim this hedge.”
I couldn’t see that the hedge needed a trim, but Tucker set to it with determined precision. Unlike Jerry, Tucker has found his purpose in life and is single-mindedly devoted to his garden. He’s certainly created a showplace. Past a rolling lawn of velvet green, roses of every variety grow in perfectly arranged rows. Fountains are filled with water lilies and surrounded by sculptures of leaping dolphins. Trellises drip with flowering vines.
I paused to admire a fat yellow rose trimmed with red. “This is nice.”
“That’s American Sunset.” He gestured with his gardening shears. “Take a look at Ivory Princess.”
Ivory Princess was a snowy white rose with just a hint of pink. “Wow. That’s beautiful.” Just beyond the white rose, an oddly colored bud was unfolding. “Is that a purple one over there?”
He beamed with pride. “Twilight Dreams. They’re very hard to grow.”
“The garden looks fantastic,” I said.
He gave the hedge another minuscule clip. “It has to look perfect for the wedding.”
“That’s one reason I’m here.”
He stopped his work, straightened, and pushed his light brown hair out of his eyes. “Couldn’t convince him, huh?”
“Not yet.”
Tucker’s eyes are exactly like Jerry’s, wide, gray, and expressive. “Don’t worry about it, Madeline. I understand.”
“Well, I don’t,” I said. “I never have.” I sat down on the nearest garden bench. “What happened here to make him so adamant about never coming home?”
Tucker clipped off a fat yellow rose and handed it to me. “Harriet always told us that something evil had happened, and we weren’t ever going to talk about it. Took me a while and a couple of good psychiatrists to sort through that one.” He looked out across the peaceful sea of blossoms. “I was only two years old. I have nothing but good memories of this house. It’s different for Des and Jerry.”
“There was a fire, right?”
“Yes, I do know that much.”
“You don’t know how it started.”
“All I remember is a lot of light and noise and Harriet pulling me through the hallway.” His grin was wry. “I was way more interested in the fire trucks.”
“And Harriet told you what? That there’d been an accident?”
He sighed and clipped a few more dead blossoms from the rose bush. “She said something evil had happened, our parents were gone, and we weren’t going to talk about it. So we didn’t.”
The yellow rose smelled like the world’s most expensive perfume. “Do you mind if I look around the house, Tucker? There might be something that’ll help me figure this out.”
“Go ahead. I’ll finish up here and join you.”
The Fairweather mansion is full of light from the open foyer to the sunny side porch to the kitchen that runs the length of the back. The color scheme is mainly yellow with lots of white trim and touches of gold. I couldn’t imagine anything evil happening here. I wandered upstairs and looked into the large bedroom that was obviously Tucker’s from the stacks of gardening magazines. I checked out the guest bedrooms and the elegant parlor with its curved balcony overlooking the garden. Then I came down the wide staircase to the living room. Here, modern slingback chairs share space with an ornate Chinese screen, and oddly shaped vases perch on delicate end tables. It’s a nice mix of styles, but the portrait over the mantel always intrigues me, a portrait of the three Fairweather boys painted just before the family tragedy. Des stands with his hand on Jerry’s shoulder. Jerry sits with baby Tucker in his lap. I’ve always wondered why Harriet isn’t in this picture.
Tucker came in, drying his hands on a dishtowel. “Care for a drink?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “Who painted this, do you know?”
“No.”
“Do you remember sitting for the portrait?”
He shook his head. “I doubt any of us could’ve sat still for that long.”
I leaned closer, trying to see a signature. “The artist probably worked from photographs. May I take it down?”
“Sure.”
He helped me lift the painting from its hooks. I turned it around, hoping for a clue. A tiny gold label said, “Parkland Studios.”
“What exactly are you looking for?” Tucker asked.
“I don’t know. Why isn’t Harriet in this picture?”
He shrugged.
I turned the painting back around and squinted at the bottom. “It isn’t signed. Maybe someone at Parkland Studios will know.”
We put the painting back where it belonged. The three boys smiled serenely from the past. “Tucker,” I said, “if the living room was destroyed in the fire, why wasn’t this painting burned?”
“I found it in Harriet’s old bedroom,” he said.
“Do you know how to get in touch with Des?”
“Des won’t want to talk about it, either,” Tucker said.
“What about Harriet, Tucker?
What’s she so angry about?”
“I have no idea. She’s been angry all her life.”
I had to agree this summed up her character. “Is she coming to the wedding?”
“Actually, yes. She’s met Selene and likes her.”
“I just wish Jerry would reconsider. I think he needs to come back here and see that it’s not some nightmare place.”
“It’s okay.” He smiled. “I understand, Madeline, I really do. Tell him not to worry about it.”
But I worried about it. When was Jerry ever going to face this? And what exactly did he need to face?
***
The front windows of Parkland Studios were filled with oversized portraits of happy families, children in meadows of daisies, babies in funny costumes, brides, anniversary couples, and beaming graduates. Inside, frames of all sizes hung from gold hooks. A smiling salesman greeted me from behind a desk surrounded by more portraits.
“Welcome to Parkland Studios. How may I help you?”
“I’m interested in a portrait that was done several years ago for the Fairweather family,” I said. “The artist did such a great job, I’d love to commission him or her for my own portrait, but unfortunately, there isn’t a signature on the painting.”
The salesman turned to his computer. “Let me see if I have that on file. Fairweather, you said?”
“Yes, it’s a picture of three boys.”
“All right, one moment, please.” He typed and clicked for a while. “Well, it looks like that one was done by either Fredricka Spirtus or Monroe McKittrick. There seems to be some confusion in the records. Hmm, yes. McKittrick worked for us for several years, and then Ms. Spirtus took over for him when he left. I would say McKittrick is the artist.”
“He left, you said. When was this?”
“Looks like about twenty years ago. He found employment elsewhere.” He peered at the screen. “I’m afraid I don’t have an address, but Fredricka Spirtus is excellent. I’m sure you’d be very happy with her work.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
“If you particularly want McKittrick, you could try asking Chance Baseford at the Herald. He’s well up on the art scene in this area.”
I felt my smile freeze and hoped I didn’t look as startled as I felt. “Thank you.”
