by Sofie Kelly
My parents’ former students tended to be a little eclectic, and why wasn’t she saying what the ad was for? “It’s for some kind of erectile-dysfunction product, isn’t it? Is Dad going to be sitting half naked in a bathtub on a mountaintop?”
My mother snorted. “Of course not. You know how easily he sunburns.”
“What is it, then? Enlarged prostate? Hemorrhoid cream? Spray hair in a can?” My father may have talked about auditioning for bank commercials, and he certainly had the trustworthy, dependable look, with his height, his silver hair and classic profile, but he always ended up in the more colorful projects.
“Very melodramatic, Kathleen,” my mother said, her voice slightly reprimanding. “He’s going to be a flea. That’s all.”
I held the receiver away from my ear for a moment and stared at it. “A flea?” I said, putting the phone back to my face.
“It’s for a commercial for a new flea-control product. The director wanted your father because he’s casting against type.”
“There’s a type for a flea?”
She ignored me. “He wanted a classically trained actor. He wanted John’s voice, his presence.”
“To play a flea?” I said, enunciating each word to make my point.
“A very, very well-paid flea, Katydid,” Mom said.
“Well, there is that,” I said with a laugh. “Is Dad there?”
“He went for bagels.”
“Tell him I said congratulations.”
“I will,” she said. “Any more news about Gregor Easton? It’s a sign his career was waning. His death didn’t even make it to the front page of the arts section.”
“There’s not really much news,” I said, stretching my legs onto the footstool. “It turns out he changed his name.”
“Really? Well, actors change their names all the time. Why not musicians? No one is going to pick Lula Mae Crumholtz for the next Bond girl. And Gregor Easton is going to sell more classical music than Buford Hornswaggle.” She paused. “Easton’s name wasn’t Buford Hornswaggle, was it?”
I laughed. “No, it wasn’t. He was born Douglas Gregory Williams. I think that would be a great name for a conductor.”
“Sweetie, maybe he was trying to get away from something. Maybe he had a family he was embarrassed about. Or maybe he just didn’t like his name. You went through that.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. When you were seven.”
“That doesn’t count,” I said indignantly.
“Yes, it does. You put a lot of work into changing your name. You wrote up an official name change. Actually you wrote six of them. You melted a crayon to make a seal and almost set fire to the shower curtain. You delivered one document to your dad and me, one to your teacher and the rest to the neighbors.”
I closed my eyes and pressed a hand to my forehead. “Princess Aurelia Rosebud Nightingale,” I said with a sigh.
“You do remember.”
“I do. Joey Higgins refused to call me by my new name.”
“And you bloodied his nose.”
“I had to stay after school and write lines, which took a long time because all I knew how to do was print.”
Mom was laughing now. “You argued with the vice principal that writing lines was cruel and unusual punishment under the constitution, because the school hadn’t taught you how to write yet.”
“Hey, it got me out of detention half an hour early.”
“Poor Mr. Campbell let you go because he was afraid his head was going to explode,” she chortled.
I remembered Mr. Campbell, a tiny, wiry man with a rodentlike face and thinning hair who reminded me of a Stretch Armstrong toy—his sleeves and pant legs were always just a bit too short. I remembered how surprised and impressed I’d been years later when nebbishy Mr. Campbell ran into a burning building to save the teenage son of his old high school girlfriend.
“I have to go,” Mom said.
“Okay. Tell Dad I’ll call him tonight.”
“I will. Take care of yourself. I’ll hold a good thought for your music festival. Talk to you soon.” She blew a kiss through the phone and hung up.
I replaced the receiver and lay back with my head on the seat of the chair. My father was going to play a flea in a series of television commercials. An apparently highbrow flea. Was it too late to change my name back to Princess Aurelia Rosebud Nightingale?
21
Shoot the Tiger
I decided to stop at Maggie’s studio on the way in to the library in the morning. I was feeling a bit uncertain about my meeting with Everett. He did have the option of ending my contract—after all, the renovations to the library weren’t going smoothly and I’d gotten tied up in a murder.
Maggie’s studio was on the top floor of the River Arts Center. Climbing the stairs always reminded me of high school, which made sense, given that the brick building once was a high school. Maggie was leaning over her worktable, in a white tank top and baggy blue cotton pants, chewing on a pencil.
“Maggie,” I said.
She looked up with the same guilty expression Owen got when I caught him doing something he shouldn’t be doing, like stealing things from Rebecca’s recycling bin, for instance.
“What happened to ‘no more chewing pencils’?” I asked, crossing the open studio space to stand on the other side of the table.
“This project is what happened to ‘no more chewing pencils.’”
Maggie chewed pencils the way a beaver chewed trees. At least she used to. It used to be that every pencil she had was pockmarked with teeth imprints from the point to the metal end that held the eraser. Even she admitted it was gross and more than a little unsanitary and not particularly good for her teeth. So she’d given up pencils cold turkey, experimenting with substitutes like gnawing on a carrot stick.
“How about some banana bread instead?” I asked, holding up a paper bag containing a couple of slices of the loaf I’d made the night before.
“You don’t have any caffeine on you, by any chance. Do you?” she asked with a sigh.
I brought my other hand from behind my back. “Not for you, but I do have a large chai from Eric’s.” I handed the cup across the table to her.
“How did you know I needed this?” She took a long drink through the sippy-cup lid.
I’d bought myself a large dark-roast coffee. I took a drink and set the cup on the table. “Because when I stopped at Eric’s he said you’d been in first thing. I figured you’d be ready for another cup by now.”
“You figured right. Thank you.” She unfolded the top of the paper bag and peered inside. “I love banana bread.” She broke off a bite. “So what was bugging you last night? You weren’t making banana bread just for the fun of it, were you?”
“No.”
“So?”
“So I have a meeting tonight with Everett about the library renovation.”
“You know he’s going to back you.”
I scraped at a blob of dried paint on the table. “He could just end my contract.”
She shook her head. “Not going to happen. Next problem.”
“My father is going to be a flea,” I said.
Maggie almost choked on the banana bread. “He’s going to be a flea or he has fleas?”
“Ha, ha, very funny,” I said. “My father is going to play a flea in a TV commercial that will probably be seen all over the country.”
“Oh, c’mon, it’s not that bad.”
“It was my sophomore year when he did the cereal commercial where he was the dried-out, dancing, singing raisin.”
She opened her mouth and I held out my hand. “Do not sing that song if you ever want to eat another one of my brownies. Ever.”
She wisely popped another piece of banana bread in her mouth instead.
“Everyone was singing that song. Five of my friends dressed up as the shriveled raisin for Halloween. We did Secret Santa in the dorm. Guess what I got for my present.”
> “You’re not in college anymore, Toto,” she said.
“Let’s change the subject. What are you working on?” I set my forearms on the table and leaned over to get a better look, albeit an upside-down look, at her current project.
“It’s a collage for Roma for the clinic. I’m using photos of the Wisteria Hill cats. And I’m hand coloring them. I was just going through the last batch of paper I made, looking for backgrounds, but there’s still something off about the layout.” She leaned back and studied her work spread out on a large sheet of Masonite. Then she shook her head and took another pull from her tea. “Oh, I’m assuming you heard about Ami.”
I nodded. “I drove Rebecca to the hospital to pick Ami up.”
“Eric feels awful.”
“It’s not his fault,” I said, straightening up to pick up my coffee. “Ami didn’t even know she had the allergy.”
“I’ve heard of being allergic to seafood and peanuts, but never poppy seeds.”
Suddenly I remembered Everett sitting at my kitchen table, turning down my offer of a muffin. “I have,” I said slowly. “Everett’s allergic to poppy seeds.”
“That makes sense,” Maggie said, dropping a chunk of banana bread in her mouth.
“It does?”
She held up a finger until she’d finished chewing and swallowed. “Well, yeah, since Everett is Ami’s grandfather.”
“What?”
“Yeah. You didn’t know?”
“No. Rebecca never said anything.”
Maggie knocked crumbs off her shirt. “Ami had some kind of fight with her grandfather, maybe seven or eight months ago. According to the town grapevine they haven’t spoken since then.”
“That’s sad,” I said.
“It is,” Maggie agreed. “Ami’s the only family Everett has.” She looked at me across the worktable and a small smile turned up the corners of her mouth.
“Stop smirking,” I said. “I get it. My dad’s going to play a flea on TV. So what?”
She made a show of brushing off her hands. “My work on this planet is pretty much done,” she said. She folded the paper bag into a small, neat rectangle and handed it to me. “How’s your shoulder?”
I raised and lowered my elbow like a bird’s wing. “It’s pretty good. The bruise is about eight different colors and it’s really stiff first thing, but other than that I’m okay.”
Maggie opened her mouth and closed it again. “What?” I said.
“In less than a week you were almost electrocuted and then hit with that roll of plastic?”
“Bad timing and a certain careless contractor.” I drained the last of my coffee.
She fiddled with a paintbrush. “Kathleen, are you sure?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, are you sure they were accidents?”
“Oh, c’mon,” I said. “You think someone was trying to hurt me on purpose? You sound like Susan. Who? Will? Eddie?” I shook my head.
“Hurt you. Or scare you. At first I thought maybe Will was trying to sabotage the renovations, but now I’m wondering if he’s trying to sabotage you. Look at what’s been happening. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Well, if someone is trying to get rid of me they should have said so. Left a note, a voice mail, a tape that would self-destruct after I listened to it. Maybe hung a sign from the staging. All these stupid accidents have done is make me think Everett hired the wrong person for the job.”
Maggie stared at the table. I could see her mind working. “That’s it, Kathleen,” she said, looking up.
“What’s it?”
“These last couple of accidents aren’t the first problems you’ve had at the library. Remember the mice in your office?”
“Vividly.”
“The only area in the entire building with a rodent problem. And they showed up overnight.” She shuddered. “It was like the road company of Willard in there.
“And the burn you got from the radiator?” She tapped her fingers on the table. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. It’s Will. He’s trying to get rid of you.”
“He’s trying to get rid of me? Why? Is he part of some conspiracy group? ‘Let’s all work together to stop the spread of reading’?”
Maggie propped an elbow on the table and leaned her chin on her hand. “I don’t know. But remember when you said it was almost as if he had a schedule for the times he goes incommunicado? Maybe he does. Maybe he’s doing something at those times.”
I suddenly wished I had a lot more coffee. “So what is he doing and what does it have to do with me?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe it has something to do with what happened to Gregor Easton at the library. We need to find out where he goes when he leaves and you can’t reach him.”
“And how are we going to do that?”
“Follow him.”
“Follow him? How? By using one of the book carts as a skateboard? I don’t have a car, remember? And your bug isn’t exactly discreet.”
“Getting a vehicle isn’t a problem.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “So, what do I do? Put on my trench and call you from my shoe phone the next time Will shows up at the library?”
“You’re not taking this seriously, Kath,” Maggie said.
“You’re right. I’m not. Why would Will want to hurt me? I’ve given him more chances than he should have ever gotten. And as for where he goes when he’s not answering his phone, he’s probably hanging around the contractor’s desk at the building-supply store, drinking coffee.”
Maggie put her hands on her hips. “So let’s find out for sure. When do you expect him?”
“He won’t ignore my messages forever. At least he hasn’t so far. So he’ll probably show up today—I’m guessing after lunch. I usually don’t see Will in the morning.”
“Fine. When he walks in the door, call me.”
“And?”
“And I’ll pick you up. We’ll follow him and find out where he’s going.”
I slid down off the stool. “I have to get to the library.”
“Thanks for the tea, Kath,” Maggie said. “And the banana bread.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “Talk to you later.”
“Keep your shoe phone handy,” she called after me.
I didn’t even dignify that with a rude gesture.
Will Redfern stuck his head around my office door without knocking at about two o’clock. “Hello, Kathleen,” he said. “Do you know what happened to my staging? Eddie said the boys had it set up.”
“Did you get my messages?” I asked.
“Messages? When?” Then he immediately held up a hand and said, “Nah. Damn cell phone isn’t working right again.” He shrugged. “Sorry. Were they important?”
I stood up but stayed behind my desk. “Eddie and the boys set up your staging and then just disappeared.”
“Coffee break,” Will said with his toothy smile. “It’s a union rule.”
“They didn’t come back, Will,” I said. “That’s a long coffee break.”
“Well, you have to understand, Kathleen, that this isn’t the only job I have. Emergencies happen. Adjustments have to be made.”
The smirk stayed stuck to his face.
“I understand that problems come up with any renovation,” I said. “But it seems that when they happen here I can’t find you.”
“Was there some kind of emergency here?” He gave off insincerity the way a skunk gives off scent.
“Someone left a roll of plastic vapor barrier at the top of the staging. It fell and just missed my head. When I looked for you, you were gone.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said, placing both hands flat on my desk for support. “But somebody could have been seriously hurt.”
“I’ll talk to Eddie. I’m sorry about that.” He leaned against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world.
“That�
�s why the staging was taken down. Everett was concerned someone else could be hurt.”
“You called Everett over a roll of vapor barrier? No offense, but I think you overreacted, Kathleen.”
“I didn’t call Everett about the plastic.” That was true. I’d called Everett about Will. “He called here to check on the renovations. When he heard what happened he made arrangements to have your staging taken down. I’m surprised he didn’t leave you a message.” I raised one hand and smiled. “Oh, wait a minute. Your phone. You wouldn’t have gotten a message.” Now who was oozing insincerity?
“That reminds me, Will. The staging is stacked in the landing bay at the back.”
I’ll give Will his due. He recovered fast.
“This is going to throw a wrench into today’s work schedule, Kathleen. I’m sorry.”
I fought the urge to look for a wrench to throw at his head. “It’s all right. I expected it would, Will,” I said with an evenness I didn’t feel.
“I’ll try to get Eddie back here today. Could be a problem, though.”
“I knew you might say that.”
“Okay. Well, I gotta get some tools out of the storage room, and I better check the staging to make sure it’s all there.” He looked at his watch. “I can’t make any promises about Eddie. I’ll see what I can do.”
As soon as he started for the storage room I grabbed the phone and dialed Maggie. “The eagle has landed,” I whispered into the phone. “The ghost walks at midnight.” Okay, it was still hard to take Maggie’s cloak-and-dagger stuff seriously.
“Kathleen?” she said. “What are you talking about?”
“Will is here at the library,” I said in my normal voice.
“Parking lot. Five minutes. Brown truck.” She dropped her voice to a whisper and hung up.
I shut off my computer, locked my office and walked down to the checkout desk. Abigail was on the phone and Susan was checking out two women. I waited until she finished.
“Hey, Kathleen,” she said. “Did Will find you?”
“Yes, he did,” I said. “He needs some tools from the storage room. Will you make sure that the door is locked when he’s finished, please?”
“Sure thing.” she said, pushing her glasses up her nose. She had two straws stuck in the hair piled on top of her head.
