“Well, now I suppose we know the gypsy’s name, but I don’t think it’s done us any good. You ever heard of her?” Henry said.
“Jena? No.”
“Makes you kind of want to say the name to everyone, doesn’t it? See what they do.”
“Kind of.”
After a long, thoughtful, and disappointing perusal of the roller coaster, we both decided that we weren’t up for riding any rides. I told Henry good-bye and then searched for Scott but couldn’t find him. I had lots of hours before I had to be back for the poker game. I briefly considered going home to my kitchen. I would need more inventory than I had prepared. That’s what I should have done, but another plan sprung to mind.
Though I kept telling myself I wasn’t the jealous type, I hopped in my truck with a destination in mind that proved I was, in fact, more jealous than I wanted to admit.
I glanced once more at the quiet Ferris wheel and saw the top chair rock just a little.
“Silly gypsy magic,” I muttered to myself as I steered my truck out of the parking lot.
Seven
Smithfield was about an hour from the fairgrounds, but I had the time, a full tank of gas, and the desire to know what a certain restaurant operator was up to.
Bistro, Betsy’s restaurant, was on the outskirts of Smithfield and located in a building that resembled a low-walled warehouse store except for a long green awning spanning the length of the front walkway.
The restaurant had been around a long time and had a reputation for great service and excellent food at affordable prices. Since Betsy’s takeover following the previous owner’s untimely demise in my kitchen, that reputation had only continued to improve.
She’d found her passion and it showed.
It was long after lunch and a little too early for the dinner shift to be in full swing, but I knew I’d find Betsy at the restaurant. She was there all the time, except, of course, when she was at Ian’s, and I was increasingly curious about just how many visits she’d made to his place.
As I entered the building, I blinked to adjust from the bright sun outside to the dark interior. I’d never been in Bistro during the late-afternoon lull. Normally, the restaurant reverberated with the steady hum of customers, waitstaff, and the occasional crash of a dropped glass or two. But at the moment only a couple customers were seated in the restaurant, and they were in booths far enough from the entrance that they didn’t even look over as I walked in.
Betsy stood at the front podium and looked up as though expecting to greet a customer. Her smiled dimmed when she saw it was me. She was disappointed.
“Becca,” she said. “I thought I’d run into you soon, but not quite this soon.”
“I had the time, thought I’d visit.”
“I see. Well, I’m kind of busy right now.”
“No, you’re not.”
I truly thought Betsy and I had become friends, but, of course, now I wondered. Friends typically didn’t attempt to steal friends’ boyfriends. I’d been bothered and jealous, but as Betsy tried to avoid a face-to-face, a wave of hurt and betrayal also tightened in my chest.
She held my gaze a long moment and, employing what I now knew was one of her signature mannerisms, softened her stern glance and then said, “No, I suppose now might be a good time to talk after all, but I’m not going to apologize.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay. Follow me.”
I followed Betsy to a booth well out of earshot of the other customers.
“What can we get for you?”
“Coffee?”
Betsy called over what looked to be the lone waiter currently on shift and requested two coffees.
“Okay, I changed my mind again,” she said after the waiter had left. “I guess I am going to apologize. I guess it was pretty rotten of me to go over to Ian’s and tell him he should break up with you.”
“Yeah, as rotten as calling him a couple times and doing the same sort of thing.”
Betsy didn’t seem surprised. “See, I’m right about him, he’s a good honest guy. He told you all of it.”
“He is a good honest guy,” I said. “And since we haven’t broken up, you should know that he’s going to tell me everything.” I didn’t have a moment’s hesitation about that conviction.
Betsy crinkled her mouth and then sighed out of her nose. “Look, Becca, I’m not all that awful. I’m not trying to break you and Ian up. That would be impossible to do. Only the two of you—or specifically you—will . . . hang on, I should say ‘can’ do that. You’re crazy for someone else, and though he hasn’t said it to me—I want to be clear about that—I know Ian can see it, too.”
My heart fell, but I hoped my flushing face didn’t give away the despair I felt. It wasn’t that I actually thought I was “crazy” for someone else, it was the fact that Ian might think I was. I really didn’t care what Betsy thought.
“But we haven’t broken up, Betsy. Isn’t there some sort of decency etiquette that says you don’t ask out someone who you know is in a relationship?”
Our coffees appeared and Betsy took a sip of hers. “You don’t believe all’s fair in love and war?” She smiled.
“No, and I’m surprised you do.”
“Here’s the thing. I don’t. I’m right there with you. I believe that no one should butt into anyone else’s serious relationship.”
“Then I don’t get it. Why are you doing what you’re doing?”
Betsy hesitated, but only briefly. “Let this be your wake-up call. You don’t look like you’re in a serious relationship; you don’t really act like it. That’s the view from out here. I think the only reason Ian is putting up with you is because he thinks that whatever the two of you had at one time might come back, but I’m almost certain he knows it won’t.”
It was my turn to sip the coffee.
I didn’t think Betsy knew about Sam and the attack kiss, so she was basing her conclusions on incomplete information. I wasn’t going to fill in the details, but I suddenly realized that though I didn’t appreciate her behavior, hated the way my stomach was now turning, she might have a pretty good point or two.
“Maybe we’re just in a lull,” I said.
“It’s a pretty deep lull.”
Ouch.
“Nevertheless . . .” I said.
“I get it and I hear you. I’ll stay away from Ian until . . . well, I’ll just stay away from Ian.” She stood. “We done here?”
I took one more sip of the coffee. “I suppose.”
She took one step away but then turned around and put her hand on my shoulder. “The part of this that is crazier than everything else is that the person you don’t even seem to know you’re pining over is great; he’s wonderful, Becca. Now, it’s the two of you, when, in the rare moments that I’ve seen you talk to each other, when I’ve seen you look at each other, that sets my moral code on track. I wouldn’t even dream of trying to come between you and Sam, because, let’s face it, I think that there’s something there that’s . . . forgive the dramatics, but there’s something there that’s rare.”
Suddenly, I needed to get out of Bistro. I needed air, and I needed for Betsy not to see she’d shaken me.
“Thanks for the coffee.” I stood and as casually as I could muster, walked out of the restaurant.
When I finally got outside, I gulped in lots of fresh air before I climbed into the truck.
That hadn’t gone as planned.
Or had it?
I didn’t think I’d had much of a plan, though something made me want to see Betsy and talk to her. I hadn’t attacked her; in fact, I thought as I drove back toward the highway, I’d let her talk first.
I didn’t want to give much credence to the idea that was forming in my mind, but I knew I needed to face it. Maybe I
hadn’t gone out there to show Betsy I was angry with her. Maybe I’d just gone out on an information-gathering mission. If that was the case, then perhaps I could mark that mission as unexpected but accomplished, and move on.
I shook my head and turned up the radio. I still had plenty of time before the poker game. I didn’t want to go to Bailey’s, and I didn’t want to see either Ian or Sam. I most definitely didn’t want to see Allison; she’d sense my turmoil, and I didn’t want to talk about it with her quite yet.
Fortunately, another idea came to mind, and I cheered up as I stepped a little harder on the accelerator and guided the truck toward the two most open-minded people I knew.
My parents had spent the last couple years traveling the country in an RV, but they’d returned home a few months earlier for a hiatus from the road. They had a number of rental properties in and around Monson that had given them a decent income, but Allison and I both knew they wouldn’t stick around long. The itch would get to them; it always did.
They’d sent the RV in for a total mechanical overhaul and a little remodeling. Mom wanted to put in a convection oven, so Dad had redesigned the galley and found someone who could do the construction work. I thought they might head back out once the job was complete, but I hoped they’d stay at least through the holidays.
They were living in one of their rental homes, a cute, small (though larger than the RV) cottage in town. They weren’t used to living so “in town,” but they seemed to enjoy their current accessibility to Monson’s small but well-equipped main drag. Mom said she could walk or ride her bike to the post office, bank, and grocery store and be home with dinner fixed all in about one hour’s time.
Though when Allison and I were little, we lived in the country home down the road from Ian’s farm, once we reached high school age, my parents moved us closer to town and closer to the high school. Still, this was the first time I knew of that they’d taken up residence amid so much civilization. Allison and I initially thought they wouldn’t like it, but we’d been proven wrong.
By the time I reached their house, I’d calmed from my visit with Betsy. I decided not to give much credence to what she’d said. Much credence. Some of it did ring true, but I decided I would do as she said and consider her comments a wake-up call. I needed to be a better girlfriend more than Ian needed to be a better boyfriend. I needed to be a better girlfriend to Ian than Betsy was a friend to me.
As I parked next to the curb, my dad descended a ladder propped up against the front of the house.
“Becca, what a great surprise! I thought you were in Swayton County,” Dad said as I got out of the truck.
“I was, but I sold out for the day. We’ve been busy.”
“Because of the murder?”
“I don’t know for sure.”
“Sad, sad story. You’re being careful?”
“Always.”
“Good. Well, come on in. Your mom is . . . well, I’m not sure exactly. I’ve been up there.” He looked back at the house. “There’s a leak. I think we’re going to need a whole new roof.”
“Not good. Sorry about that, but I’d love to come in.”
Dad shrugged. “It happens.”
Though they were still the old hippie parents I knew and loved, they’d changed over their last extended trip. Dad had come home with short, short hair and golf shirts, and Mom had tamed her wild frizzy hair and no longer wore long, usually beaded, earrings. I’d had to get used to seeing her in posts. But they were still easygoing, not quickly caught up in life’s annoyances, things like needing a new roof. I wouldn’t have been distraught over such a thing, but I’d have expressed my irritation with more than a shrug.
“Polly, Becca’s here,” Dad called as we entered directly into a tiny family room furnished with only a new couch, a coffee table, and a giant flat-screen television. My parents had never been much for watching television, but the previous renters had left the TV in trade for a couple months’ rent they’d neglected to pay. Dad said he’d recently gotten back into watching baseball and was excited and ready for this year’s World Series.
Until he told me about his renewed interest, I had no idea that he’d ever enjoyed baseball. It crossed my mind that he’d given it up because he had two girls who weren’t athletically inclined, but Allison set me straight. She reminded me that Dad loved every second of having two little girls who liked to work in the garden or kitchen, and his not watching baseball during our childhood didn’t mean he’d made a permanent sacrifice; it just meant he’d put that interest on hold for a while.
“Becca, how wonderful to see you,” Mom said as she stepped out of the kitchen and into the family room. The kitchen was, oddly, a slightly bigger rectangular space than the family room and tended to be the gathering place for my parents and whatever company they might have.
Though the white appliances weren’t brand new, they weren’t old either. The countertops weren’t granite, but the white-stained cabinets and the big window that looked out to a flower garden made the room cozy. Mom had found a vintage but well-maintained Formica table that had yellow glitter throughout the top. She’d also found shiny yellow cushioned chrome framed chairs that were comfortable and fit the table perfectly. Being in the kitchen was almost like stepping into the 1950s.
The house smelled like freshly baked bread.
“You baking?” I swooned.
Mom laughed. “As a matter of fact, I am. Would you like some fresh bread?”
“Maybe a whole loaf or so.”
“Deal. Have a seat and I’ll put on some coffee, too.”
We gathered around the table, and I quickly devoured two pieces of bread, one with just butter and one with some of my own strawberry jam.
“It’s hard to believe they kept the fair open,” Mom said. “But I guess the show must go on or some such thing.”
“It’s a strange community,” I said.
“How so?” Dad asked.
I swallowed the first bite of my third slice, this one naked. “Well, I suppose the first reason is because Scott is working there, too. I haven’t seen him for years.”
“Scott? Which one?” Mom asked.
“Scott the second.”
“That’s a lovely surprise. I liked him the best of your husbands.”
“Me, too, now that I have a little hindsight. Anyway, it’s been good to see him. I’m playing poker with him tonight.” I wouldn’t tell them about his suspicious behavior or, rather, what I had interpreted as suspicious behavior. “He’s remarried to someone named Susan, but she and her son are in Florida.”
“I’d thought I’d heard he remarried,” Dad said. “He seem happy?”
“As far as I can tell.”
“Good. We wish him well,” Dad said, and he meant it.
If Scott had done something during our marriage to hurt me, either physically or emotionally, neither of my parents would have wished him well, but fortunately, there was no reason for any bad feelings.
“So, uh . . .” On the way to their house, I decided I would ask them some questions I thought their somewhat metaphysical beliefs would help them answer. Discussions with my parents had always been easy and open. However, I suddenly felt uncomfortable and maybe a little silly.
“Becca, what is it, my girl?” Dad said.
I sighed. “What do the two of you know about . . . well, about gypsy magic?”
They both sat up and their eyes lit brightly. No one was laughing. I’d come to the right place.
“What do you want to know?” Mom said.
“Do you know anything about it in connection with someone from Orderville named Jena Bellings?”
Mom and Dad smiled at each other. Any sense of “silly” I’d had disappeared completely.
“That’s a name I haven’t heard in a good long while,” Dad
said.
Mom patted Dad’s hand and looked at me. “You have to understand, dear, that your father and I were . . . well, when we were younger we were very open to just about everything.”
Allison and I had heard that often, and it was usually at that point in whatever conversation we were having that my sister and I would want to put our fingers in our ears and run away. Neither of us had gotten the hippie gene, and we both figured there were just things we didn’t need to know. But today was different, today I was anxious for their experienced input.
“Now I know I’ve come to the right place,” I said.
“Well, first of all, we don’t put any stock into all that gypsy . . . I suppose we’d call it fantasy or make-believe now, but when we were younger it was fun, interesting,” Dad said.
“As far as I know, Becca, gypsy magic is akin to any dark magic. Some people practice witchcraft, but ‘practice’ is about as far as they get. Dad and I don’t have any strong beliefs in magic, though we’re pretty strong believers in Karma, instant Karma at that,” Mom said. “Anyway, you want me to get to the part about Jena Bellings, right?”
“Please.”
“Okay. Well, ‘gypsy’ has a different meaning than ‘witch,’ and that’s where the Jena Bellings story is interesting. There are still gypsies today, in fact. I’ve read stories about them, and they’re given more of a bad rap than a mysterious rap. They’re traveling people. I believe original gypsies came from northern India and they speak . . . Romany? Something like that. Anyway, Jena Bellings wasn’t part of a traveling group, and she didn’t speak anything but English, and Bellings was her married name. Her maiden name was Maloy, I think. Yes, Jena Maloy.”
“How do you know?”
“My mom, Gramma, knew her. She was from right here in Monson.”
“I don’t understand. I still don’t know the whole story, but from what I’ve heard Jena was mysterious and magical, and lived in a house right outside Orderville.”
A Killer Maize Page 8
