by Gail Sattler
“I heard one of my customers talking about it. He said everything they sell is cheap junk, so you don’t need to worry.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he could tell that she was even more worried.
“Don’t you get it? It’s like the five-and-dime across the street from here. Full of cheap junk. Cheap junk is very popular. I can’t survive if I sell cheap junk. I have to earn enough to live.”
His mind whirred. “But how is that place going to survive then?”
“Because they buy cheap junk and sell it as cheap junk and everyone knows it’s cheap junk and accept it as such. I buy good quality supplies and make most of what I sell. I have to figure my labor into the cost. I sell my stuff for what it’s worth, covering materials and the time for my labor.” She stopped and stared at the ground. “Except for the flamingoes. I would have sold them for less. I never count my time at the store because I’m already there with nothing else to do. But I never counted on so many, which changes the rules.”
Stan grinned. “I guess God figured you needed that price then.”
Her cheeks turned the cutest shade of pink, and she nibbled her lower lip without raising her head. “I guess so.”
“If you’re worried about it, how about if we go there one day, just to check out what they’ve got, so you know your competition.”
That made her look up. “We can’t do that.”
“Sure we can. We can put on disguises, so they don’t know we’re scoping them out.”
“Disguises? I hope you don’t mean dark clothes and hats and sunglasses.”
He did, but he couldn’t admit that now. “We can do something so they don’t recognize us. Just in case they’ve already been here, scoping you out.”
Her eyes widened again, and he could almost see the wheels turning in her head. She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Never mind that. For now, I’ve got to get Gnorman and the trophy back. I can get Helen at the bakery to make up some nice sugar cookies for me, I’ll borrow the garden club’s coffee urn, and I think that will be good. That will make it almost like a party, so I won’t be a party pooper. I’ll do it on Saturday so everyone can come, and say that in order to gain admission, everyone needs to bring . . .” Her voice trailed off and she extended one hand toward him.
“Some of their favorite seeds? Rose petals?” At each of his suggestions, she shook her head. Then a light bulb went on in Stan’s head. Not the power-smart energy efficient type, but the old-fashioned incandescent kind that generated heat. He smiled ear to ear as he finished off her sentence—“. . . a balloon.”
Amber held back a groan as the last garden club member finally left. The last, that was, except for Stan.
Every cookie had been eaten, most of the coffee had been consumed, and hundreds of people had oohed and aahed over her flamingos. Most of them had either bought a ceramic butterfly, or bought a kit to make one themselves. Many had gone home with rain checks.
She didn’t know how word had spread, but more people had come than just the garden club. And every one of them had brought a balloon.
“I’ve never seen so many balloons in my life,” Stan muttered from somewhere behind her.
At first they’d dutifully hung every balloon that arrived, but it hadn’t taken long before every display, window, doorframe, and every wall, was covered. They’d piled them behind her counter, hung them from the metal cross bars on the ceiling, making sure not to cover the sprinklers or get too close to the light fixture to stay within safety regulations. When they ran out of empty space on the ceiling, they filled her studio.
It was amazing how much space a balloon occupied. She didn’t know how many were there, but if every member of the garden club brought a balloon, that meant seventy-nine balloons. Since she’d seen many people who were not members, that amount had possibly doubled.
Stan planted his fists on his hips and eyed all the balloons in sight, then looked back to her studio. “There’s enough balloons here to fill a delivery truck. Now what?”
She honestly had no idea. She didn’t know what she’d expected, maybe that when she got enough balloons, the Gnome Gnapper would appear with Gnorman and the trophy. Of course that hadn’t happened.
Now she was stuck with a truckload of balloons.
“We have to pop them,” she said. “I have a business to run, and I need room to walk. I also need to get stock out of the studio.”
“Wait. Before we start, I need to go to my shop. Sit down and have a coffee and take a break, I’ll be right back.”
Too tired to ask what he needed so badly, Amber flopped down on one of the rental chairs.
If Stan didn’t hurry, she’d fall asleep before he got back.
Yet, she was too nervous to sleep. Being surrounded by so many balloons made her nearly claustrophobic. When the tape started to lose its stickiness, she would be buried, covered by a sea of balloons.
Stan got back in record time. He flicked a balloon with one finger. “I know the Gnome Gnapper was here. We had a party, we got the balloons. We met his or her conditions. Now we start looking for the next note.”
Her head swam. She couldn’t see any place a note would be left. “We’ll never find a note. It would be covered by balloons.”
Stan poked at another one. The tape gave way and the balloon drifted to the ground, landing beside other balloons already piling up on the floor. “No. They won’t be covered. If you were going to sneak a note in here, think about it. It’s going to be . . .”
Amber slapped one palm to her forehead. “. . . inside one of the balloons.”
Together their gazes swept the sea of color.
She picked up the closest one and shook it. “That means we can’t just pop them, we have to check every one first.” She walked to the counter, pushed away enough balloons to open the drawer, pulled a couple of push-pins, and handed one to Stan. “We’ve got a lot of work to do. Let’s get popping.”
“Before we start, here’s what I brought back from my shop.” He held out his hand, displaying two sets of earplugs in his palm.
At first the thought of finding a note excited Amber, but as they popped more and more empty balloons, discouragement began to set in. Wearing earplugs made it pointless to attempt conversation, which made it even worse.
About halfway through the deluge, Stan tapped her on the shoulder. She pulled one earplug out and turned to him. He held up a small, note-sized piece of white paper that had been printed from a computer instead of words cut out of the newspaper.
The party was fun, and so it is said,
It’s time to sit in the backyard with the gingerbread,
And to rock the night away.
That is all I’ve got to say.
Amber stared at the note until the words blurred. “This one is so different from all the others. I’m not sure if it’s real.”
“It has to be real. Who else could have known what we were expecting? This fits right in with the last note. Did anyone else know about the other note?”
“Just Libby.”
They stared at each other, sharing the absurdity of that. They’d already ruled Libby out.
Amber reread the note. “This makes even less sense than the last note. Rock the night away? No one in the garden club is a rock ’n’ roller. A lot of them are retired, some are middle-aged, and most are home owners. After all, you pretty much have to own a house or townhouse to have a garden.”
Stan nodded. “Most people in the garden club are the relaxed mode kind of people. People who would sit in the backyard on an old-fashioned wooden swing and watch the flowers grow, not go to a rock concert.”
Amber turned to him. “Maybe that’s the reference. A rocking swing in the backyard. That’s where people go to relax in the evening here in Bloomfield. That makes se
nse. But gingerbread?” She squeezed her eyes shut. While many of the garden club members were decent cooks, she could only think of Helen making gingerbread. But Helen didn’t have a swing. “Who in the garden club has a swing in the backyard?”
Stan turned to her. “Libby does. Mostly everyone with a big backyard does.”
She closed her eyes, trying to make a mental list of people who were at The Spring Fling who might have a backyard swing. But there were just too many.
“Maybe we should get a membership list and drive around.” Although she was seriously trying to trim her budget, and the first thing she trimmed was spending money on gas by walking anyplace within half an hour of home.
“I have a better idea. We can cruise the Internet and use the satellite photos on Google Maps. You’ve got a membership list. We can take a look at everyone’s house that way. A satellite view should show us most of the people who have a swing.”
“Unless the swing is under a porch.”
“But it’s a start. We can begin with the As now, see how far we get, and finish up tomorrow after church.”
“I suppose. We also have to finish popping the rest of the balloons tomorrow. I just can’t do any more right now.” They’d only done about half, and even with the earplugs, she had a buzzing in her head that wouldn’t go away.
Stan tilted his head and whacked one ear with his palm, then shook his head. “I can’t either. I have an idea, though. It seems wasteful to pop them all. Why don’t I put as many as I can fit into the back of my truck, and I’ll take a load to the children’s wing of the hospital, and another load to the senior center? I’m sure they’d enjoy them.”
“That’s a great idea.”
Stan made a few phone calls and reached a couple of people who would gladly take the balloons. After they finished loading up his truck and securing the balloons with a tarp, Stan drove away with the first load. Amber returned to her desk, turned on her computer, and pulled up the garden club’s membership list. While looking at everyone’s houses from the satellite view, she convinced herself that she wasn’t violating anyone’s privacy, even though she did feel invasive doing it this way. Driving down the street in front of everyone’s homes would be just as bad, plus she’d be wasting gas.
Judging from the plant growth in each photo they pulled up, everything was a few months out of date, yet recent enough to see what she needed. She made a check mark beside everyone who had a swing in the backyard, then went on to the next on the list.
She’d gotten to the Es when Stan returned and peeked over her shoulder while she called up Sylvia Eddison’s house.
Stan’s breath caught and her fingers froze over the keyboard.
“Look at the house,” she muttered.
“Gingerbread siding. You can’t see it here, but I know Sylvia has a swing on her back porch.”
She turned and their eyes met.
“We found Gnorman,” they said in unison.
Chapter Twelve
Using the contact list, Amber dialed Sylvia’s phone number, hoping it wasn’t too late to phone. As a child, her mother never allowed her to make phone calls after 9:00 p.m., saying that the only times people called at that hour was when something bad had happened.
It was 8:55, so technically she was still within acceptable parameters. Sylvia answered with an edge of nervousness to her voice.
“Hi, Sylvia, it’s Amber Weathersby. I’m sorry for calling so late, but I was wondering if you could do me a favor. Can you look outside and tell me if Gnorman is on or near the swing in your backyard?”
A pause hung on the line. “You mean your little gnome that went missing from Becky’s? Why do you think he’s here?”
Another thing Amber’s mother always taught her. Never answer a question with another question. “Just a hunch, from a note I got at the flamingo party at my store today.”
As Sylvia spoke, the background echoes and noises changed as Sylvia headed out back. “That was quite a crowd. I’ve been talking to people who said your store was crowded all day, and so many people brought balloons you didn’t know what to do with them all.” Shuffles and a creak, then the groan of old wood resonated through the phone, followed by the clunks of Sylvia’s shoes on the deck. Amber held her breath and tried to shake the tension from her body as Sylvia’s footsteps changed, indicating she was now going down the stairs to the backyard.
Sylvia’s gasp came over the phone loud and clear. “You’re right! Your little gnome is here.”
“Does he have the trophy?” Although Amber had a feeling she knew the answer before she asked the question. As she spoke the words, Stan leaned closer to her.
“No.” Amber waited for Sylvia to say more, but she didn’t.
Amber turned to Stan and shook her head so he would know, then turned away, not wanting to look at Stan while she spoke to Sylvia. “Does he have a note with him?”
“Yes. Or at least an envelope. So I have to assume there’s a note inside.”
“Is he wearing a costume?”
“Yes. But I’m not sure what he’s supposed to be. He’s got a guitar.”
“Does he look like a rock star?”
“Not really with his white beard. Although I know that a lot of the old bands are getting back together and going back on stage for older audiences. I suppose he could be an aging rock star who never quite made it big.”
Amber sighed. “Thanks. Do you mind if I come over and get the note? I’ll have to leave Gnorman in your yard for a few days, if that’s okay with you.”
“I don’t mind at all. In fact, in a way, now that I’m getting used to him, he’s kind of cute.”
“Do you mind if I come over to get the note? We’ll only be a few minutes.”
“That would be fine. I can make some coffee for you and Stan, so please don’t be in a rush.”
Amber slumped. She didn’t know if it was good or bad when people she didn’t know tremendously well knew Stan would be with her. “Please, don’t go to any trouble. See you soon.”
Stan insisted on driving. On the way to Sylvia’s house, instead of trying to start a conversation, Amber watched Stan.
He took everything in stride, including everyone’s assumptions that he would be there to help her, because he always was. In expecting his help, she knew she took advantage of him. While she always appreciated everything he did for her, that didn’t change the fact that she was doing it again. From Gnorman’s first disappearance to his reappearances behind Naomi’s townhouse at the Village . . . to being found at the cinema . . . then Libby’s yard . . . and now Sylvia’s, Stan had been there with her every time.
Even before the conundrum with Gnorman and the trophy, she couldn’t count the things that Stan did for her, for no reason other than he was simply a nice guy. To make it worse, for all the things he did for her, he never let her do anything for him, not even cooking him a hot meal after a busy day. However, that could have been because he was a better cook than she was, which didn’t say very much for her cooking talents, or lack thereof.
But that didn’t matter. She couldn’t take advantage of him any longer. As soon as she picked up the latest note, it was going to stop.
Stan stood to the side and waited while Amber chatted with Sylvia and picked up the latest envelope with the new note.
Even though the sun had set over an hour ago, Sylvia’s backyard glowed. A line of floodlights illuminated a sea of colorful flowers and healthy green bushes. To the side, her swing hung in a dark corner on the porch. Between the darker area and the area flooded with light, stood Gnorman, who looked like an octogenarian rock star, if there could be such a thing.
This time, he’d hoped that since they were more on the heels of the Gnome Gnapper, they would have caught him or her in the act of moving Gnorman. However, after thinking about it, it made s
ense that Gnorman would have been placed in his new location while Sylvia was at Amber’s store sometime that afternoon. Meaning, Gnorman could have been there for hours without anyone knowing.
He tried to remember what time Sylvia would have been at Amber’s store. The Gnome Gnapper wouldn’t have been there at the time Sylvia was. There had been hundreds of people at the store, and the Gnapper could have been there either before or after Sylvia to add their own balloon to the masses. The time that he or she arrived wouldn’t have affected the time Gnorman was moved.
The easiest way to catch the window of opportunity would have been for the Gnapper to be at Amber’s store watching for Sylvia to arrive, then to leave when Sylvia got there. But there were also other ways to know when Sylvia wasn’t home.
Stan would have liked to ask if Sylvia had noticed anyone watching her house, keeping tabs on when she might leave, but nothing would have stuck out as unusual. Sylvia’s neighborhood was by no means exclusive. He didn’t know Sylvia well, but he did know she was a widow and that her husband had been a doctor, which was how she could afford a house like this and live alone. While her house was big and in a nice neighborhood, it wasn’t a gated community, so anyone could drive up and down the street, even park their car in front of any of the nearby houses, and not look suspicious or out of place.
Whatever time, using whatever means, whoever this was, he or she planned their moves well. Like a serial killer keeping ahead of the police, the Gnapper always stayed one step, or even ten steps, ahead of Stan and Amber. But unlike a serial killer, no one had gotten hurt. Although, that wasn’t quite true. One thing that might get hurt was Amber’s reputation. If he could stand back and look at this like a disinterested third party, he might think the whole thing was amusing, even slightly funny. Or, at a minimum, entertaining. But this was no joke to Amber. Instead, she took it very personally, even a little on the obsessive side, which he didn’t understand.
As the two ladies talked, he couldn’t help but compare them. He guessed Sylvia to be about the same age as his mother, probably in her mid to late fifties. Since his mother’s hair had begun to turn gray, he had to conclude that Sylvia’s jet black hair stayed that way with a little help from Lady Clairol. Everything about her appeared well put together. She was neat and tidy, and her shirt was a perfect match with her pants. Even her shoes matched her clothes.
