by Jane Tesh
“Did he have any enemies?”
“Nah. People used to get annoyed with his gadgets, but everybody knew he was harmless.”
“Was he likely to have earned a lot of money?”
Her little eyes crinkled as she grinned. “Like, say, ten thousand dollars?”
When was I going to learn it was impossible to keep anything a secret in this town?
“Where did you hear that?”
She stopped painting and turned to me. “Don’t get your tail in a crack. I ain’t spreading it around. Frannie’s been babbling about it. We’re all a bit puzzled about where Willet got that much money. Guess he’s been saving up all his life. You can do that if you just eat peanuts.”
“Yeah, I’m puzzled, too.”
“I wouldn’t worry. It’s not like he killed somebody.”
“I’m afraid somebody’s killed him.”
She gave me a look I couldn’t quite interpret. “Nice of you to be concerned. I wouldn’t say Willet had many friends in town.”
“What about Bernice Coleman?”
Nell made a face. “Old sourpuss.”
“Why would she suggest Frannie’s house as a storage place?”
“Maybe Willet was going to invent a personality for her.” She continued rolling paint on the wall. “He was in the library a lot, looking up how to make things, that’s all I can figure.”
I thanked Nell for the information and was about to leave when she said, “What about the parlor? You gonna paint it yourself, or you want me to slap a coat of green in there, too?”
I paused in the doorway. “It can stay like it is for now.”
“You still thinking of using it for your pictures?”
“Still thinking about it.”
“Still thinking about telling junior how you feel?”
I gave Nell my darkest look, but her attention was on her painting. Even though her back was to me, I knew she was grinning.
When I came back downstairs, Jerry was in the séance parlor slash music room hunting through the bookshelf. Most of his uncle’s books are leather-bound copies of the classics, but we’d found some odd titles, as well.
“Mac, have you seen that old Farmer’s Almanac?”
“I thought it was with the dictionary.”
“I wonder what I did with it.”
“Do you need to check the phases of the moon or something?”
He put the dictionary on the floor and stacked other books on top. “Gwen Macmillan asked me to conjure up some prize-winning tomatoes, remember? Wouldn’t hurt to see when the best growing time is.”
“That almanac’s outdated, isn’t it?”
He thought this over. “You’re right. It would be better to get a new one. I’ll check at Georgia’s the next time we’re in there.”
“You want any supper? I’m still full of barbecue.”
“I think I’ll wait and make a sandwich later.” He handed me a large brown book. “This is a good one. Winged Insectivores of the Mid-Atlantic States.”
Val Eberlin had studied bats. I thumbed through Winged Insectivores, grimacing at the sepia photos of gargoyle-like bat faces. “Guess you have to know your insectivores.”
“Just a little light reading. Oh, how about this? Bats and Their Relation to History; A Theoretical Musing. A theoretical musing, you understand, not a real musing.” He pulled more books off the shelf. “The Myth and Legend of the Bat. Common Bats of the Carolinas. If I’m going to live here, I need a bat tie.”
“I’m shocked you don’t already have one.” I returned the book to the stack. “Do you have a rehearsal tonight?”
“Kenna’s re-working some dances. She usually uses a CD for that.”
“I want to stop by the theater. I need pictures of some kids for the portrait.”
He paused, another book in hand. “So you’re really going to do it?”
“I’m going to give it a try.”
“Uh-oh,” he said. “This means I’d better update my resume.”
“Have you made any progress in your job search?”
“I’ve ruled out welder and air traffic controller.”
“Are you going to leave all these books on the floor?”
He looked at the untidy stack. “I think all the bat books can go out—unless you want them.”
“No, thanks.”
“Can we swing by Georgia’s?”
“Sure.”
***
Georgia was glad to find an almanac for Jerry. We were at the counter paying Hayden for the book when Gregory Prill swept in. “Swept” is the accurate word. Prill’s a large, overly dramatic man who wears a gray cape with his suit and enjoys making an entrance. His springy hair bobbed, and he bulged out his eyes as he made his announcement.
“Congratulate me! My poem, ‘Dust of Latter Years,’ has been accepted for the December issue of Soul’s Crossing! My career is coming to fruition! My future is assured!”
We applauded and made all the right noises.
“Clear out the front window now, Hayden. I want ‘Dust’ displayed with all proper elegance.”
“I think we can wait until December,” Hayden said.
“Philistine.” He turned to me. “Madeline, what on earth is all this about you finding thousands of dollars in a box? Why haven’t you contacted me? Don’t you know a starving poet who could use a loan?”
I laughed. Prill’s far from starving. He lives in a beautiful house and collects Art Nouveau furniture and jewelry. “If it had been my money, I would’ve given you some. The money belongs to Kirby Willet.”
Prill made a dismissive sound. “Willet. The consummate loser. He can’t have amassed thousands of dollars. He must have robbed a bank.”
“If I could find him, I’d ask him. Do you have any idea where he could be?”
“Not I. I never associated with the likes of Kirby Willet.” He flipped back his cape and leaned one elbow on the counter. “My dear Jerry, whatever do you want with the Farmer’s Almanac? You’re not going rural, are you? I just can’t see you in overalls and a straw hat.”
“A little research for one of my clients.”
“Ah, your paranormal nonsense. And Madeline, can’t you do something about the proliferation of pageants in these parts? Everywhere I look, a queen is springing up. Those wretched friends of yours! They must be stopped. What do you call them? Pageantitis? Pageantniks? Idiots, I say, idiots!”
As usual, Prill didn’t wait for a reply, but plowed on to the next subject. “I do, however, wish to hear of your latest exploits.”
“Can you help any of my cases?”
“Name them, and we shall see.”
“The Mystery of the Missing Umbrella.”
“I have no desire to track down someone’s misplaced parasol.”
“The Mystery of the Overdue Library Books.”
“Tantalizing, but no.”
“The only case left is the Mystery of the Missing Inventor, and you’ve already said you don’t know where Willet is.”
“Well, I don’t, my dear, but should I hear anything, I will alert you posthaste.”
“There’s the Mystery of the Haunted Bookstore,” Hayden said.
Prill rounded on him. “For heaven’s sake, don’t start that again! You’re cured, do you hear? No more ghosts! Do I have to come back there and smack you around the head and shoulders?”
Hayden held his ground. “No.”
“Then shut up.” He smiled at me. “Is there something I should know?”
“I’m investigating some strange noises here in the store,” I said.
“That would be the cries of long-suffering poets such as myself who wish to be displayed in the front window. What do you think it is, Hayden?”
“Jerry and I think it’s a poltergeist.”
Prill gave Jerry a scornful look. “What have I told you about leading him on? Do I have to smack you, as well?”
Like Hayden, Jerry wasn’t intimidated by Prill’s overbearing man
ner. “Prill, what do you know about Mantis Man?”
“A blatant attempt to frighten the feeble-minded.”
“Don’t look at me,” Hayden said.
“You’re the very one to look at. I’m surprised you aren’t cowering under your bed at the thought of some giant insect knocking at your door. This ridiculous movie should put an end to the mantis myth.”
“Do you know Josh Gaskins?” I asked. Prill was older than Twenty; I wasn’t sure when he’d been in high school.
“I’ve never met him, but I applaud him for working to his strengths. The movie will go straight to video, and we can go on about our lives.” He brushed his sleeves and readjusted his diamond tie clasp. “I merely stepped in to tell you of my success. I have spent enough time here amongst you.” He gave Hayden a warning glance. “Hayden.”
“It’s under control, I promise.”
“You need to quit this job and devote more time to your work. We’ve discussed this. I expect you to give the matter serious thought. Madeline, you look ravishing, as always. Georgia, my dear, and Jerry, farewell.”
Without waiting for an answer, he swept out.
Georgia shook her head. “A day without Prill—”
Hayden finished her sentence. “—is really, really quiet.”
Georgia picked up a stack of magazines from the counter. “So what is the real story about the money, Madeline? Did you really find thousands of dollars?”
“About ten thousand dollars.”
“I can’t imagine Kirby Willet having that amount of cash.”
“Maybe he sold one of his inventions.”
“But they never worked.”
“I guess we won’t know the answer until I find him,” I said.
She started toward the shelves and turned back. “Jerry, I put that ‘Music Man’ poster in the front window next to the one about the gospel sing at First Methodist.”
“Thank you.”
“How’s the show coming along?”
“Very well.”
“I was a little surprised to see that Donna Sanchez was in it. I didn’t know she could sing.”
“She’s doing a good job.”
“And you like playing the piano? You know, Light of Heaven Evangelical is looking for an organist, but I bet they’d take someone who plays piano.”
I nudged Jerry. “A job.”
“Thank you, Georgia,” he said. “I’ll check into that.”
We said good-by to Georgia and Hayden and went out. Jerry was shaking his head. “I’m not going to get tied down to playing for church every Sunday.”
“You could at least call them and see what they want.”
“Nope. I’m holding out for an executive position.”
“You may have to work your way up.”
We’d reached the car when an unwelcome voice called, “J!” and Rick Rialto came up the sidewalk.
“Whoo, glad I caught you,” he said. “Gotta talk to you about something. Excuse us, Mac.”
He pulled Jerry over by the shoe store and spoke in a low excited whisper. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but from the way Jerry brightened, I knew Rick had some scheme going. Then Jerry said, “Are you sure?” Rick grinned and nodded and whispered some more.
“I don’t know,” Jerry said. “I don’t think there’s enough money in Celosia to pull that off.”
Rick shrugged. “Won’t know till we try. Is it worth a shot?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I’ll set things up. Talk to you later.”
Jerry came back to the car. When he saw my expression, he slowed his steps. “Just a little business with Rick.”
“A little illegal business.”
“Not exactly.”
“Jerry, it’s either illegal or it isn’t.”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “It won’t work here, anyway.”
I opened my door. “Whatever it is, it better not.”
He got in the passenger side. “You told me to get a job.”
“A job, not a con. If you don’t get a real job, then I don’t have to paint real pictures.”
He grinned. “Does that mean you’ll paint clown pictures?”
Despite being very annoyed with him, I couldn’t help but chuckle. “No.”
“Clown pictures on velvet? Dogs playing poker? Bug-eyed children clutching flowers?”
“Shut up.”
He gave me examples of bad art all the way to the theater.
“When are you going to be useful? What are your job prospects so far?”
He gazed up as if thinking hard. “Hmm, sheepherder? No. Health inspector? Too risky. Trapeze artist? Too dull. How about a possum farmer?”
I laughed. “Possum farmer?”
“You just round them up and keep them away from the major highways.”
“That would be perfect for you.”
We parked in the theater lot and got out into the sticky heat of early evening. It was a relief to step into the cool theater. The foyer walls were covered with framed photographs from past productions. I’d never paid too much attention to the photographs. Pictures of children remind me of Bill’s photos. He’d hung them all over our house as if to inspire me.
“What are you looking for?” Jerry asked.
“Kenna said I could take whatever I needed. Find some kids in cute costumes.”
“I’ll start over here.”
Jerry looked along the right wall. I took the left. I found a good picture of several children in animal costumes and one of some little girls all dressed as Dorothy from “The Wizard of Oz.” Jerry handed me a picture of a little boy dressed as Tom Sawyer and one of an older boy and girl in a production of “Our Town.”
“Yes, these are good,” I said. “I think one or two more ought to do it.”
On the back wall was a large framed set of plaques indicating donor contributions to the theater. Next to this was another framed document listing recipients of theater grants. A name caught my eye.
Kirby Willet.
Also listed was a Josh Gaskins. Gaskins had won the grant. Willet was runner-up.
“Jerry, look at this.”
He came over, and I pointed to the names.“Willet and Gaskins both tried out for the Samuel Baker Scholarship.”
“What’s it for?”
“We’ll have to ask Kenna or Evan.”
Evan was upstairs in his office. As we entered, he looked up and smiled. “Madeline, I was just thinking about you. We have finalized nearly all the details for the Miss Celosia Summertime Pageant. I’d love for you to look over them for us.”
“I’d be glad to,” I said, “if you’ll answer a question for me. Josh Gaskins won the Samuel Baker Scholarship. What’s that for?”
“We award that every year to the most promising young director. They submit a theater or film project. I believe Gaskins won when he was a senior in high school.”
“Over Kirby Willet.”
“Yes. As I recall, it was a very close vote.”
“Do you have copies of these projects they submitted?”
“They should be on file in the library. Does this have something to do with Willet’s disappearance?”
“I’m not sure. It may help, though.”
“Good.” He handed me a fat folder. “Here are the plans for the new pageant. I’d appreciate any and all suggestions. And Madeline, later on, would you mind coming and saying a few words to the girls? Just encourage them and maybe give them some helpful tips? It would mean a great deal to them and to me.”
I started to say no, but I couldn’t. Evan was back to his old self, confident and excited about a new pageant. I just couldn’t refuse to help.
“Maybe for just a few minutes, Evan.”
“Thank you so much.”
I thought Jerry and I could make a clean getaway, but when we came back downstairs, the Pageantoids were lurking in the foyer. They were bursting with news.
Cathy spoke first. “We saw your car. Have you b
een talking with Evan? Did he give you the information? I hope we have everything in order.”
I patted the folder. “I’m sure you haven’t missed a thing.”
They exchanged a look. “Well, we have another project we think is even more spectacular,” Mitch said.
“More spectacular than Miss Celosia Summertime?”
“What do you think about this? Miss Mantis!”
Somewhere behind me, Jerry choked on a laugh.
“It would be the very thing for Celosia!”
Cathy spread her hands wide, as if indicating open curtains. “Can’t you just see the opening number? We’ll have a huge backdrop of flowers. The girls could all be dressed as butterflies and other attractive insects.”
“Just the attractive insects,” I said.
“Oh, yes, no earwigs or anything like that.”
Jerry’s voice behind me said, “Watch out for insectivores.”
“Cathy,” I said, “this might not be the best idea. You have heard that a lot of people in town oppose anything with Mantis Man?”
“This will change their minds,” Cathy said. “The movie’s the best thing that could have happened for the pageant.”
Mitch agreed. “You should be in the movie, Madeline. Vivian Montrose only came in second in the Miss California Pageant.”
“Can we come out and watch the filming?” Cathy asked.
“They’ve finished except for a few more exterior shots.”
“We’d love to see the movie crew in action.”
“Yes, it might inspire us,” Mitch said.
Not that they needed any more encouragement. I started to say that would be all right when Cathy grasped my arm.
“You know there’s been another sighting.”
Now Jerry was interested. “Of Mantis Man?”
“Three people saw him last night. We heard them talking about it in that hamburger place.”
“Where and when?”
“Down by the covered bridge around midnight.”
I could almost see Jerry’s mind at work, planning a way to trap the mantis. “Okay, thanks,” he said. He didn’t say anything else until we were in the car. “Mac, if we could get a picture of this thing, or better yet, catch it, it would be the best Galaxy story ever.”
“You can stay out all night if you want to.”
“Don’t you want to come with me?”
