by Joyce Magnin
Mildred straightened up. All the men smiled as she pulled herself up to her full height. "I have a little news to report. But not much. It's still a mystery, but as you all know I am investigating a Mr. Leon Fontaine."
"The man who built the fountain?" Boris said.
"That's correct, sir. There's some scattered reports that Leon claims the water in that fountain has certain . . . properties."
"Properties?" Boris said. "What in tarnation are you saying?"
"She's saying that people are thinking it's Fountain of Youth water, near as we can ascertain," I said. And with those words the entire committee lost control and laughed so hard I thought they'd all split a gut. Well, all except Ruth, who kept right on sewing the ear on a brown sheep hood.
When they quieted down I spoke. "We know it sounds silly, but what if he's convinced the residents up there that it is the Fountain of Youth and he's giving them water and—"
Boris banged his gavel. "Griselda, you've slipped a gear. There is no such thing as the Fountain of Youth, and even if Leon Fontaine is giving people the water and claiming it's got youthful properties, it doesn't work."
"I know. I know," I said.
Zeb came to my rescue. "Maybe we should let Griselda finish saying what she has to say."
I smiled at him. "Thank you."
Studebaker chuckled. "Should that be, 'thank you, darling'?"
"I will admit that Leon is a little weird," I said, choosing to ignore Stu's comment. "And the odd behavior did start after he got to town. But we can't go arresting him on trumped-up charges. There's no proof he's really done anything wrong."
"Still no such thing as the Fountain of Youth," Boris said.
"Why are you defending him?" Zeb asked me.
"I kind of like him. He's like a knight in shining armor or something. Out to save the world."
"But he's a shyster," Zeb said. "Plain and simple."
"Not really. He believes all this. So that makes him more, I don't know, unstable, but still, I don't see any need to go off and arrest him," I said. "Maybe it's just the power of suggestion. Maybe the folks are doing it to themselves. He's just making the suggestion."
"Power of suggestion?" Nate said. "You mean like hypnosis? That's mind control, and in my book it's just as bad as the power of drugs or that wacky weed the kids smoke."
"No one is smoking wacky weed at Greenbrier," I said.
"Yeah. I'd a smelled it," Mildred said. "Can't miss that aroma."
"Maybe you better get out there and see what you can find," Boris said. His voice took on a decidedly authoritarian tone. Every so often he liked to show off that he was, after all, Mildred's boss and kind of the town mayor, even though it wasn't official. "Ask some questions of them old people. Look for signs of goofy water being sold or drank or . . . something. Lord knows we don't need anyone getting hurt out there on account of whatever it is Mr. Leon Fontaine is up to."
"Heading out there today, sir," Mildred said. She didn't let Boris get to her. She knew he was mostly bluster and had very little bite. But she did like to treat him with the respect a man in his position deserved even if the rest of the town didn't.
Ruth continued to tug and pull at the sheep head costume. She had seemed oblivious to the whole conversation about Leon. It became obvious that she was when she lifted her head and spoke. "I think Mercy Lincoln will make a very nice Mary. Only trouble is, since the family never goes to church, how am I supposed to fit her costume? I'd be afraid to go out to her home with Mary robes. I could get my rump filled with buckshot. Most of those folks have very definite opinions about God."
"It's a sheet," Stu said. "Just pin her up on the night of the pageant."
Ruth clicked her tongue. "That's not how I do things. Maybe I will just mosey back there—into the woods—and see if I can get her fitted. She's playing Mary for heaven's sake. If God were ever gonna protect me that would be the time. Will you go with me, Griselda?"
"Might not have to. She comes to the library a lot. Why don't I call you the next time I see her and you can run on up and do your fitting then? That is, of course, if I get her mama's permission to put her in the play."
Dot Handy was still scribbling on her legal pad. "Do it soon, Griselda," she said. "I got to get rehearsals in, and I need a Mary. Can't possibly have a Christmas pageant without a Mary."
"If she doesn't get to church," said Nate, "how can she be in the children's Sunday school play?"
"Because it's the right thing, Nate."
"Yeah," Zeb said. "You think Jesus would turn her away?"
Nate looked at his coffee cup. "I . . . I suppose not."
I squeezed Zeb's hand and whispered in his ear, "I am so proud of you."
The meeting broke up with another one planned for the following Monday.
"You all have a good day," Mildred said. "I'm going up to Paradise and see what I can figure out."
"Mind if I tag along?" I asked. "I'd like to talk to Rose Tattoo. I was hoping she might help paint some of the scenery for the play. I hear she's an artist."
"I hear she's a nut," Boris said. "Ever see her tattoos, and what's with that giant cement hand in her yard and all those paintings on her trailer?"
"Like I said, she's an artist."
"Yeah, so is Leon Fontaine," Mildred said. "A con artist."
"No, no," I said. "He's an ar-teest. There's a difference."
Mildred laughed. "Come on, let's go." Mildred popped her cop hat on her head. I slipped on my coat and zipped it up.
"See you all later," I said. "Good meeting."
Zeb pulled me aside. "I was thinking I'd like to see you tonight. Can I come by your house later, around eight?"
"Sure, that would be nice."
He kissed my cheek.
"See you then."
The first words out of Mildred's mouth when we got into her car were, "You know, for someone who just got engaged you sure don't act like it."
"What do you mean?"
"Ah, gee, Griselda. You can hardly look at him and you didn't seem all that happy to see him tonight. Shouldn't you be all giddy and hanging all over him?"
I didn't say anything at first. For at least a mile.
"It's just . . . just—"
"Cliff Cardwell?"
"No! Not Cliff—not exactly. I love Zeb. I really do. But I worry about him being a husband. He can be so—so jealous."
"Ah, all men are like that. He'll settle down."
"You think he will?"
"Sure. I was talking to my brother when we were in Wilkes- Barre for Thanksgiving. He said that Cliff sounds like adventure, but Zeb seems more secure. My brother is a businessman like Zeb."
"I get that," I said. "Zeb is more secure than Cliff. But it really isn't about that. I don't love Cliff."
I let another mile go by without a word. Then Mildred said, "Are you sure, absolutely positive, you aren't in love with Cliff?"
I looked out the window. The once colorful trees had lost most of their leaves. Another storm would bring them all down. "Not him. Just his airplane."
Mildred laughed. "Then you have no problem. Maybe it would help if you told Zeb your concern. Get it out in the open—now—before you say those vows."
"I think he already knows. But how do I get him to stop being jealous of an airplane? Of me just wanting to be . . . me . . . me with wings."
"You know something. As a police officer I pride myself on being a pretty good judge of character and I would say Cliff is a good man, not very industrious but a good man, level-headed. But Zeb? Now he's a good man, too, but if I were to stake my badge on who would give you the best life, you and your children? It'd be Zeb."
"Children? But I'm too old to have babies, and we never talked about it."
"Even so. Anything can happen."
We drove under the Paradise Trailer Park sign and saw Asa right away near the entrance. He was burning a large pile of leaves. Large fingers of gray and brown smoke swirled above him and drifted into the park
. Mildred stopped near him and rolled down her window, "Howdy, Asa. I'm looking for Leon."
Asa looked away for a second—obviously annoyed. "Ah, I keep telling you that man is not up to anything. He's a good guy. Little eccentric but—"
"Please," Mildred said. "Have you seen him?"
"I don't know. I haven't seen him today. You could try his trailer. It's the last one on Mango Street. Three down from Charlotte. It's got orange awnings, can't miss it."
"Thanks," Mildred said. She pulled slowly away taking the speed bump with caution.
"Charlotte Figg is a nice woman," I said.
"She is. I've only talked to her once, but I liked her well enough."
"She's opening a pie shop in town. Across from the town hall. In that old bakery. Kind of ironic, don't you think?"
"Really? That's great. But how does Zeb feel about that? Isn't his Full Moon Pie king of the pie hill?"
"He's actually OK about it, which surprises me. He likes Charlotte's pies."
"There it is," Mildred said. "Leon Fontaine's trailer."
Leon's trailer was white with the orange awnings Asa mentioned—pumpkin orange. It sat back from the road a bit, and a narrow wooden path led from the street to his front steps. His trailer had one of the makeshift porches tacked onto it. I noticed a windsock flying from his roof, a telescope in the front yard, and several baskets of hanging flowers from his roof.
"Uhm, wonder what he does with that telescope?" Mildred said.
"Looks at the stars, I suppose. He seems the type that would stargaze."
"Why, because he's so moonstruck? Or is he looking into the windows of his neighbors' trailers?"
"That's not nice. Were you this suspicious as a child?"
Mildred turned off the ignition.
"Should I stay or go find Rose?"
"No, stay, sometimes two sets of eyes and ears are better than one."
Mildred approached Leon's door. She knocked several times. No answer.
"Guess he's not home," I said.
"I'll just check out back," Mildred said.
She moved like a stealthy cougar around his trailer. I decided to follow—just out of curiosity. And, no, I didn't strike a stealthy pose. I just walked.
Leon's backyard was filled with little sculptures of gnomes, mushrooms, and angels. I counted five of those gazing or butterfly balls. I saw four tall sculptures made from tin cans and tires, bicycle handlebars, and all manner of random and loose objects. I also saw several acetylene torches and a welder's mask.
"He is weird," Mildred said.
"He's an ar-teest. A lover of art and apparently a sculptor."
"Sculptor? It's scrap metal and garbage welded together."
I stood near one that resembled a conquistador and a skinny horse. "Look, I thought he reminded me of someone. Don Quixote."
"That's Don Quixote?"
"Sure. It's a self-portrait or self-sculpt. He fancies himself a hero."
"Goes with the pathology of a psychopath," Mildred said.
We continued to look around the yard when the thought occurred to me, "Are we allowed to be snooping around the man's property?"
"I won't tell if you won't."
Mildred made her way to a small shed. The lock was open. She opened the door slowly like she was expecting Leon or a jack-in-the-box to pop out.
"Well, what have we here?" she said.
14
What?" I called. "What did you find?"
"Looks to me like about a hundred or so little . . . bottles, containers. They're all shaped like teardrops like he somehow got his hands on a thousand perfume bottles."
"Bottles?" I nearly ran to the shed, tripping over a gnome.
"Well, I'll be darned. What do you suppose Leon Fontaine is doing with those?"
"Can't say for 100 percent certainty, but I have a suspicion he's filling them with something."
"Water?"
"Uh-huh. That'd be my first guess. Have you seen any bottles like these at the nursing home?"
"No, but I wasn't looking and even if I did I probably would have just figured it for perfume."
"He's a crafty one."
Mildred poked her head inside further. "Wonder what else he has in here."
All of a sudden, we heard a noise at the front of the trailer.
"It's him," Mildred said.
"Come on. Let's get out of here before he catches us."
"Shhh, it's OK. We'll just go have a talk with him."
She pocketed one of the bottles and closed the shed door gingerly. And then indicated with her head for me to follow. Leon Fontaine was in the front of the house. I saw him grab what looked like a bag of groceries from his car—a very beatup Buick, maroon with a white stripe and more dents than the moon. Today he wore a brown vest and a brown fedora with a half a peacock feather.
"Why, hello there," he called. "Fancy meeting you here. Come to admire my artwork, I see."
"How you doing, Mr. Fontaine?" Mildred called. "Mind if I ask you some questions?"
"Leon Fontaine never turns down an officer of the law's request for an audience."
Mildred whispered, "I want to see inside his trailer somehow—see if we can take a look around."
"And Griselda Sparrow," Leon said. "It's most definitely a pleasure to see you too. Let everyone in the world halt, unless the entire world acknowledges that nowhere on earth is there a damsel more beautiful than—"
"Cervantes," I said. "And he was talking about Dulcinea."
"Ah, you are quick," Leon said. "But none the less beautiful."
"Would you mind if we came inside for a few minutes, Mr. Fontaine?" asked Mildred. "I just have a few more questions."
"My home is yours fair lady, although I must tell you that . . . well, housekeeping is not one of my strengths. I would much rather be engaged in the service of others."
I watched Mildred's eyes roll around in their sockets.
Leon pulled open the screen door and then pushed open the metal door to his trailer. It opened into a small foyer and then a larger room that divided into a kitchen. I assumed bedrooms were down the narrow hall.
"If a man's home is his castle," said Leon, "then welcome to Inverness."
Mildred walked right in and stood in the middle of the living room with her arms folded across her chest as though she were waiting for a classroom of children to settle down.
"Nice place," I said as I looked around at all the oddities. Jars of strange goo, about a million books in bookshelves and stacked along the walls, piles of magazines. I saw the entire Encyclopedia Britannica, a skull with emerald eyes, several snakeskins nailed to the wall, a framed picture of Albert Einstein, and a copy of Don Quixote under glass.
"It was always one of my favorites, also," I said, indicating the book.
"God, Who provides for all, will not desert us; especially being engaged, as we are, in His service," Leon said. His eyes twinkled.
"What?" Mildred said. "What's he talking about?"
"He's quoting the book."
"Oh, well, now, let's get down to the facts, please," Mildred said.
"Facts, dear lady," said Leon, "are the enemy of truth."
"The book," I whispered to Mildred. "It's the book."
It was at that point quite clear to me that Leon Fontaine fancied himself a kind of man from La Mancha, a Don Quixote, and I will admit that I had grown even more enamored and intrigued with him at that moment.
"Now then, Mr. Fontaine," Mildred said pulling her little notebook from her shirt pocket. "Just a few questions for the record first."
"Record? Record," said Leon. "Why keep records on me? I am but a poor man, an ar-teest and a do-gooder as it were. Nothing more nor less nor somewhere in between."
Mildred sucked in a deep breath. "What was your previous address before coming to Paradise?"
"Ah, Paradise, such a lovely name, don't you think? I came here only after my services were no longer needed by her lady Francesca DeLaRue."
Mildred rolled her eyes. "Now look, you have got to come clean and just tell me the truth."
"Truth? I perceive everything I say as absolutely true, and deficient in nothing whatever, and paint it all in my mind exactly as I want it to be." He raised his eyebrows in a kind of smirk and sat down on a stool with a red velvet seat cushion.
"Oh, he's good," I said.
"OK, look, I'm just gonna come right out and ask. What are you doing with all those bottles in the shed out back?"
Leon looked at me as though I could help him. "Is it customary for people around here to go snooping in another person's shed? Seems to me there should be a law about such things otherwise we could have mayhem—people going about walking into their neighbor's homes like they were theirs."
"The shed was open. I saw a lot of empty bottles, Mr. Fontaine."
"Is it a crime to keep empty bottles in a shed?"
"No, of course not. But why would you need so many?"
"Well, one can never have enough empty bottles, dear lady, and I for one simply like them. They—are useful here and there."
"Where is there?" I asked trying to decipher his strange answers. It was possible that "there" could have meant Greenbrier.
"Ahh, there is but a question and only I know the answer."
"That does it," Mildred said. "You're under arrest."
Leon backed away. "Arrest? You cannot arrest me. On what grounds?"
"Failure to cooperate with a police officer and just being an all-around nut job."
She unhooked her handcuffs from her utility belt. "Come on, Mr. Fontaine. Maybe we'll have better luck in jail."
"You can't do that," I said. "He hasn't done anything. Why are you doing this?" I was starting to feel just a wee bit angry that Mildred had lost her patience with Leon. The last place he belonged was jail.
Not surprisingly, Leon had something to offer, too. "Even Aristotle couldn't comprehend if he'd come back to life just for that purpose."
"I just think I'll have better luck getting the answers I need if we went into town," Mildred said. "It's cold outside, Mr. Fontaine. Do you have a jacket?"
