by Joyce Magnin
Dot Handy waited the counter while Babette Sturgis took care of the booths. Babette had blossomed into a pretty young woman, having just this year graduated from high school. She attended the Shoops Community College, studying to become a kindergarten teacher.
"Evening, Griselda," called Dot. "Will you be sitting at the counter tonight? Might be a bit of a wait for a booth."
I looked around. The café was crowded with families, so I sat on one of the red vinyl counter stools.
Dot wiped the space in front of me. "Meatloaf?"
"Yep. And coffee."
I could hear Zeb whistling in the back.
"You hear the big news?" Dot asked.
My thoughts jumped immediately to Stella and her brother. How in the world could Dot have found out anything? Agnes would not have gotten on the telephone and blabbed to everyone, and Stella, I was certain, had told no one but me. Impossible. I played it dumb. "What news?"
"About Cora's house. They finally rented it out."
I took a breath. "Oh, is that all? Well, that's good news for Cora's family. I know they were eager to get a family in there." Cora Nebbish was a dear friend, an older woman who waitressed for Zeb right up to the day she died of heart failure.
Dot poured my coffee and slid the silver creamer my way. "It's not a family that moved in, Griselda, that's why everybody is talking. Word is that Stanley Nebbish went and rented it to some hussy, a fast and loose type woman. Goes by the name of Glinda or something."
Zeb came out of the kitchen with my special—a plate filled to the brim with a hearty slice of meatloaf, mashed potatoes drowning in brown gravy with tiny bits of onions swimming around, and a side dish of peas and carrots with a pat of butter melting on top. It smelled scrumptious. If I closed my eyes, I could easily imagine sitting around a family dinner table.
"Her name isn't Glinda," he said. "She's not the Good Witch of the North, Dot. It's an even stranger name than that."
Studebaker Kowalski took the seat next to me. He carried his plate and coffee with him. "I was sitting over by the window all by my lonesome, Griselda. Don't mind if I join you, do you?"
"Course not, Stu."
"I know it starts with G," Dot said. "Gracie? Gwendolyn?"
"Her name is Gilda," called Mildred. She was just coming out of the ladies room, adjusting her gun belt. "Gilda Saucer."
"Now, see there," Dot said. "If that ain't a hussy name, then I never heard one."
I swallowed. Gilda? Walter's Gilda? Here from Tennessee?
"I don't know for certain if she's a bona fide hussy, but she does look the part," Mildred said. "I wandered over while she moved some things inside. She didn't have much. Just a couple of suitcases and a trunk."
"Probably to hold all her stripper clothes," Dot said. "If strippers got clothes. I mean—"
"We know what you mean, Dot," I said.
"She's a bombshell," Mildred said. "Tall, bleached blond, tight skirt. Lots of red lipstick and nail polish."
"See that," Dot said. "I don't know why we got to have a hussy move into our town. Cora is probably rolling over in her grave, madder than jumpin' blue heck at Stanley."
"I heard," Mildred continued, "that she is only renting the place on a month-to-month lease. Not even a full year like respectable folk."
"Well, that's all the proof I need," Dot said. "She's a hussy."
I ate some of my mashed potatoes. "So what do you want to do, Dot, run her out of town?"
Dot filled Stu's coffee cup. "Now I ain't saying that, I'm just saying we should keep an eye peeled, you know. For Cora's sake."
"Might not be a bad idea," Mildred said. "Single woman moving to town with just a couple of suitcases. Does seem suspicious."
I swallowed some peas and figured maybe I should get on over to Stella's as quick as possible and tell her about Gilda before word spread.
It was pitch dark by the time I got to the Kincaid's house. They had one dim bulb burning on the porch. I parked Bessie and made my way to the back, figuring they were still fighting off cucumber bugs. I got about halfway there when all of a sudden the place lit like an invasion, like Martians had that minute landed in the Kincaids' pumpkin patch.
"Stella," I called. "It's me, Griselda. Everything all—"
Just then I heard a loud pop. And then another and then three more. Pop. Pop. Pop.
"Stella," I called. I knew Nate was upset over the bugs but not enough to shoot her.
"Stella," I called again and made my way to the back porch.
The lights went off, and I was able to see Nate by the light of another dim bulb, sitting on the back porch with a shotgun resting on his knees.
"Jumpin' blue heck," he said. "That miserable rodent got away again."
"Nate," I said, "what are you doing?"
"Groundhog. Super large thing. About the size of one them Volkswagen Beetles, been tearing up my patch. I've been trying to kill him for a week."
Stella appeared at the back and pushed open the screen door. "Did you get 'im?"
"Nah, he got away again."
"I am not sleeping with those ridiculous floodlights blaring on and off all night long."
"Well, I ain't turning them off," Nate said. He sat back down with his gun. "I got to wait for that monster to come back and then . . . BLAM!" He pointed his gun at the pumpkin patch.
"Stella," I called, "it's me, Griselda."
"Oh, Griselda," she said. She pushed the door open farther. "Come on inside. It's chilly and . . . and crazy out there."
"I ain't crazy," Nate said, "but I'm gonna get that woodchuck. Right between the eyes."
I slipped past Nate. "Good luck, Sheriff."
Nate grunted something and then said, "And bring me a cup of coffee."
Stella plugged the percolator into the wall.
"Has he been doing this every night?" I asked.
"Yep. Groundhogs are bad for pumpkins. Just one can destroy the whole patch."
"Can't he just use poison or something?"
Stella shook her head and pulled a red Thermos from a cabinet. "Nah, not good for Bertha Ann. Poison could kill her too."
I sighed and sat at the kitchen table.
"So what brings you here?" Stella asked. "I got some peach pie left over from supper. Do you want a piece?"
I rubbed my stomach. "No, thanks. I just came from Zeb's."
The coffee pot made gurgling noises. "Okay, suit yourself, but I know you didn't come out here to sit in my kitchen and drink coffee."
"No, there's something I think you should know." I lowered my voice to a near whisper.
"Is it about Walter?"
"In a way. I found out that a woman named Gilda Saucer has rented Cora Nebbish's house."
Stella's eyes grew so wide her forehead disappeared.
"What? When? You mean she's in town. Right now?"
"Dot Handy told me that she just moved in. Didn't bring much with her, according to Mildred Blessing. They're calling her a hussy. Dot said she looks like a stripper."
Stella rinsed the Thermos in the sink and then dried it with a soft towel trimmed with red and gold roosters. "Just like him to take up with a woman like that."
"That's just Dot Handy's opinion. You can't take her word."
"Sure I can. I know my brother and now that she's moved to town, I won't have to go racing over to Greenbrier. Gilda can do all that."
"I don't see any reason you still shouldn't go. It might be a good idea to meet her. Aren't you the least bit curious about why Walter was up here and what he was doing at the quarry?"
"Maybe a little but—"
"Well, you'll never know until you get over the past and go to Greenbrier and see what's going on."
"Stella!" Nate called, "got that cof—" But before he finished the floodlights burst on, and we heard three more pops of the gun.
"Dang! He's a smart one."
Stella filled the Thermos. "I better run this out to Nate."
"Will you at least think about i
t? Pray about it? Ask God to help you decide."
"All right. For you, I'll pray about it. But not for Walter or his . . . girlfriend."
4
The next morning on the way to the library I drove past Cora's house with one eye looking for Gilda Saucer. Curiosity, I suppose. Not that I knew what she looked like. But seeing Cora's house gave me reason to pause. I missed my friend, Cora. I flirted with a passing thought about stopping and knocking on the door, but it wasn't like I had a batch of lemon squares to offer Gilda Saucer if she was inside, and what would I say to her anyway? Maybe I just wanted to look inside Cora's house once again. Anyway, I decided there was no hurry in getting the library opened and headed on down to the café for a cup of coffee since it was barely ten o'clock, and I rarely had library patrons before noon, especially when the air had a bite to it like it did that morning—a crisp autumn snap with the smell of wood smoke in the air.
A woman fitting Gilda's description sat at the counter again. She had been there earlier, around breakfast time. She ran her finger around the rim of a cup half-filled with black coffee. She stared straight ahead like she had something awful on her mind. Must have been Walter. I watched her dump three spoons of sugar into her cup and stir the coffee with slow methodical strokes. Then she licked her spoon in that upside down way children did.
I sat next to her.
"Hi, my name is Griselda Sparrow." I offered her my hand. She had one of those limp handshakes that always made me feel weird.
"Pleased to meet you," she said. "My name's Gilda, just like Hilda only with a G." Then she sipped her coffee. The explanation I was certain came standard with her name.
"I hear you moved into the house on Hector Street."
Zeb poured my coffee. "Morning, Grizzy."
I nodded at him. "Hey, Zeb."
Gilda shot me a glare. I noticed her bloodshot eyes and thought she might have been crying. "Guess what they say about small towns is true," she said.
"Excuse me?" I averted my eyes.
"You know, gossip."
"Oh, well," I said. "I don't know if it's gossip as much as it's that change is very noticeable around here."
"There is no reason to go noticing me."
"We don't mean any harm. We're just a little curious when new folks move into town."
"You know what they said about curiosity, don't you?" She wiped her lips on a paper napkin. She stood and moved toward the cash register. I watched her saunter out the door.
Zeb returned carrying two breakfast specials. "She's an odd one," he said. "But she sure is prettier than a—" he looked at me. "Sorry, Griz. I didn't mean to say—"
"Does she come in everyday?"
"Sure does—hold on, let me get those guys their breakfast."
I watched him drop the plates at a booth.
"Yeah," Zeb said when he returned. "I get the feeling she hasn't done any grocery shopping yet. She comes in for coffee and sandwiches—likes baloney."
Zeb went back into the kitchen, and I finished my coffee with my thoughts on Gilda. Why in heaven's name would she have rented Cora's house and not even bought groceries? Unless she's spending all her time at Greenbrier sitting with Walter. Well, if that isn't dedication, I don't know what is.
The library would have to wait. I made my way to Stella's. I found her out back nursing Bertha Ann.
"How's it going, Stella?" I called to her across the pumpkin patch.
She poked her head out from around Bertha Ann. "Hey, Griselda. What brings you here?"
I tiptoed my way through the vines toward Stella and tripped over one that seemed to deliberately snag me. "I was wondering if you decided to go see Walter."
Stella looked away and then turned back, locking her eyes on mine. "I thought about it and—and I can't find the power to go. I know you and Agnes think I should, but how can I?"
"Just go, Stella. I'll be with you."
"But Griselda, he's in a coma. What if he wakes up and sees me and gets all upset or something?"
"Is that what you're really afraid of, Stella? Upsetting him?"
She brushed hair out of her eyes and wiped her forehead with the back of her grubby hand. "What else?"
"I think you're afraid you might have to stand up for yourself and tell him how you feel about what he did to you and your mother."
She pulled another weed. "Be that as it may, there is no law that says I have to go."
I heaved a slight sigh. "I spoke with Gilda this morning."
She stopped yanking. "You what? Walter's Gilda?"
"She was at The Full Moon. I sat next to her and introduced myself. That's all. She seems a little . . . off, strange. If I were to hazard an opinion, I'd say she might be in love with Walter and very concerned for him."
"Then let her take care of him. Keeps me from needing to go there at all if she's so dang blame in love."
"She seems tired is all I'm saying," I said. "And she is eating all her meals at the café. She could be spending day and night with him."
"Her business, not mine."
"Yes, but . . . but Stella. You need to see him, too."
Stella yanked harder. "I can't, Griselda. Leastways, not yet."
I made a couple more attempts to convince her but to no avail.
"We'll keep praying," I said finally. "I better get to the library before folks think I went out of business or something."
"Okay, I hope you have a nice day." Stella went back to her weeds.
I turned to leave.
"Griselda," Stella called. "Why do you care so much about my brother?"
"I care about both of you and—and I just have this feeling that—"
"What?" she said, sounding irritated. "That what?"
"That he needs you, Stella."
She made a noise and hurled a clump of scraggly vines into a pile of pumpkin patch debris.
Mildred Blessing was waiting at the library when I arrived. She had come for a fresh supply of crime novels. She read them like Agnes ate M&Ms.
"I was beginning to think you were closed for the day, Griselda. I was just about to split."
"No, no. I was over at Stella Kincaid's."
I watched her eyebrows lift. "Really. I just know something is going on with her. Feel like telling me or will it wait until after I arrest her."
I laughed and turned the key in the library door. "You are not going to arrest Stella and you know it. She's done nothing criminal."
"Well, somebody has."
I pushed open the door and a whiff of cold air shot out. "Just let me get the heat up."
"Sure . . . sure, Griselda. I can wait. I'm not really on duty today."
I reached into the basement stairway and flipped on the furnace switch. "I thought you were always on duty."
"Nah, not really. But it's a boatload of responsibility being the only cop in town. Hard to take a real day off. I feel I need to be at the ready, you know, but the commonwealth requires me to take time."
"Makes sense, Mildred. I got a new Rex Stout in and a couple more Raymond Chandlers if you want them."
"Sounds good."
"I'll go get them."
I checked out Mildred's books while she waited, still with a kind of pensive look about her, like she was expecting some major crime to break out at any second. To be honest, other than an occasional fracas down at Personal's Pub or a problem up at the Paradise Trailer Park, nothing much happens of an illegal or police emergency nature in Bright's Pond.
I pushed the books toward her. "Here you go. Enjoy."
Mildred picked up the books and clutched them to her chest. "I'll just sit over there and read until the rest of the committee gets here."
I glanced at the clock. Close to eleven. The Harvest Dance Committee was on their way to the library. We thought a meeting at the library might help, less distractions here than at the café. And sure enough right on time the door opened and in walked Studebaker, along with Ruth and Boris Lender. Zeb had to tend to customers, but he said he wo
uld be fine with whatever we decided. It had become imperative to settle on a theme. Time was a wasting.
"Come on in," I said as though the library was my home. In a way, I suppose it was. The library had always been a place of sanctuary for me; even as a child I found comfort among the stacks of books. "I thought we'd sit at the periodicals table. I'll put coffee on."
"I brought lemon squares," Ruth said. "Still a little warm from the oven."
Studebaker tried to reach under the tin foil and snag one, but Ruth slapped his hand away. "You just wait until the coffee is served."
Boris, being a lawyer, had a yellow legal pad in front of him and three very sharp Dixon Ticonderoga pencils. He was a quiet sort of man but had no trouble speaking his mind when it was appropriate. He could, of course, invoke his authority if there was ever the need. And frankly, I can't remember a time when he did.
"I've been giving it some thought," Studebaker said. "And . . . and well, I think you're all going to like this idea."
"Just spill it, Stu," Ruth said. "Somebody has to come up with an idea or we just won't have a dance."
"Oh, simmer down, Ruth," I said. "We'll have the dance. We always do. We're just having a little trouble coming up with a theme is all. But we will. Now let's hear Studebaker's idea."
He straightened his back and smiled and then said, "The old west, John Wayne, Dodge City, The OK Corral."
No one moved a muscle until Ruth's jaw dropped open like Howdy Doody's.
I wasn't about to say anything, although I liked the idea immediately, and excused myself to get coffee. Boris lifted the foil off of the lemon squares.
"Well, how 'bout it?" Studebaker asked. "Cowboys, an old western saloon. We could even put down some wooden sidewalks and do some square dancing and—"
"I love it," Ruth said. "I do declare Studebaker Kowalski, this time you got something special. Even better than my mermaids."
I heaved a small sigh as I poured coffee. I was happy that Ruth finally broke the silence. I figured no one wanted to be first to jump on board. Even Boris had something positive to say.
"Hot dog, Studebaker. That is a capital idea. I can see it now, cowboy hats and—"
"Oh, oh." Ruth waved her hand. "You can wear one of them ten-gallon-size hats and wear a sheriff's badge, Boris."
