Venus in Blue Jeans (22 page)

“Okay.” Wonder nodded. “So much for Arthur. How about the rest of the association?”

“We do the same thing with them.” Janie grinned at them all. “Keep reminding them how much fun they had tonight, courtesy of Docia. And how much fun they had last night, courtesy of the town. And what a pain in the patootie Margaret Hastings is. They may follow her lead on a lot of things, and they may not want to cross her, but I don’t think anybody except Ham and Rhonda is really very fond of her.”

“Patootie?” Wonder raised an eyebrow.

Janie shrugged. “I’m a Konigsburg girl, Doc. I call a spade a digging device.”

Everyone was smiling. Everyone was mildly buzzed. Everything tonight had been a triumph.
Why do I feel like disaster is looming?
Docia sighed and relaxed against Cal’s fingers as they once again traced quick trails of warmth down her back.

Margaret poured a trickle of dry dog food into Señor Pepe’s bowl. The one decent thing Cal Toleffson had done was give her justification for not feeding him steak. The change had saved her a lot of money, even if it did feel unnatural. Margaret hoped it wasn’t just some weird vegetarian idea of Cal’s.

Overall, Margaret was still bathed in righteous satisfaction. She’d had a productive day. First she’d bullied Arthur into calling a special meeting of the Merchants Association next week to consider the desecration of the Liddy Brenner Festival, then she’d contacted as many of the members as she could before they went to that drunken orgy Docia Kent was trying to put on in her backyard. They’d done some waffling, but Margaret knew she could whip them into shape.

She’d have that hussy bounced from the Association before she knew what hit her. Then she’d start working on Cal Toleffson. He’d either leave Docia Kent or he’d leave Konigsburg.

Plus, of course, she’d managed to stop that so-called wine and cheese reception. Maybe Arthur wouldn’t step in, but Margaret was sure TABC would take care of the problem. Once she’d dropped them the word about the hussy selling liquor without a license and permitting underage drinking, that is.

Granted, she didn’t know for sure any underage drinking was taking place, but she knew the depths of depravity Docia Kent was capable of sinking to. Margaret doubted she’d shrink from corrupting minors. And she knew Allie Maldonado was actually bringing her young nieces to the orgy. Margaret placed a new pewter angel on the upper shelf of her china cabinet. Maybe she should call Child Welfare next week to check into that.

Her phone rang at nine-thirty that evening, surprisingly late. She hoped it wasn’t her mother calling from McAllen. Whenever she called this late it was always about Daddy. Margaret’s lips thinned. She picked up the phone, checking her watch again.

“Margaret?” Rhonda Ruckleshaus burbled. “Did you hear?”

Margaret gripped the phone tighter. Whatever gossip Rhonda had to pass on probably had something to do with the hussy, even though she was pretty sure Rhonda hadn’t gone to the reception herself. Still, Rhonda’s sources were excellent.

It took her at least twenty minutes, but Rhonda gave Margaret a blow-by-blow account of the whole debacle.

“So she said she’d pay for it, and the TABC guy left and everybody cheered. Isn’t that the limit?” she crowed.

The familiar tightness began in Margaret’s chest, the buzzing in her ears. “How did you hear about all this, Rhonda? You didn’t go, did you?”

“No, honey, of course not. You know I wouldn’t.” Rhonda paused to take a bite of something that crunched in Margaret’s ear. “Edna Lightner just called me. She was there with Buzz.”

Margaret closed her eyes, trying to make herself breathe evenly. Docia Kent. The floozy. She’d gotten away with it. Again.

Even TABC couldn’t be trusted. All because the floozy had boobs and friends and probably Cal Toleffson. All Margaret’s efforts had gone for naught.

“Margaret?” Rhonda’s voice was concerned—and avidly curious. Margaret knew Rhonda would be delighted to tell everybody that she’d had a fit over the telephone.

“Yes, I heard what you said. Well, what can you expect? They’re all men in the association, after all.” That wasn’t strictly true, of course. Allie Maldonado was a member. So was Docia Kent. But not for long, if Margaret had anything to say about it.

Rhonda snickered. “I wonder if she wore that corset thing again. That’d keep ’em occupied.”

Margaret gritted her teeth. “We’ll just have to wait and see what happens with the TABC investigation. If she did anything against the rules, that is.”

“Well, the TABC investigator is a man, too. She’ll probably just shake her boobs at him.” Rhonda’s voice had a certain singsong quality to it, a sign she was settling in for a good long gossip.

Margaret didn’t think she could stand it.

“Listen, Rhonda, thanks for calling but I’ve got to go,” she said hurriedly. “The dog’s scratching on the door, and I don’t want him to pee on the rug.”

Since Señor Pepe had already disgraced himself once on Rhonda’s floor, it was an excuse Margaret knew Rhonda could relate to. “Sure, honey, talk to you later.”

Señor Pepe looked up at her with reproachful eyes. “Oh, stow it,” Margaret snarled. “It’s not like you wouldn’t do it.”

She sat drumming her fingers on the table. So Docia Kent had played Lady Bountiful and pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes. Again. Why did only Margaret understand the danger Docia Kent represented? Why didn’t anyone else in town realize what was at stake?

She was going to get away with it—with ruining Margaret’s festival and dishonoring the town to boot. Unless, of course, Margaret could find more ammunition to use against her.

She glanced at Señor Pepe huddled in the corner, chin resting on his tiny feet, and reached for his leash. “Come on, dog, we’re going for a walk.”

Everyone else had left around ten, after some desultory attempts at picking up the trash that still littered the backyard. Cal stacked the wine bottles in the remaining cases, surveying the area. The yard was cluttered with paper napkins, plastic wine glasses, and the detritus of a hundred people having a very good time. They’d managed to fill a few plastic bags, but a lot of trash was left on the lawn.

Docia stood in the middle of what had been the dance floor, shoulders slumped.

He put his arms around her, pulling her back against him. “Come on. Let’s go back to the barn. We can take care of all this tomorrow.”

“But…” Docia stared helplessly around at the wreckage of the party in her yard. “There’s a lot to do.”

“There’ll still be a lot if you do it tomorrow. Come on. Barn.”

Docia turned in his arms, resting her head against his chest as he herded her toward the truck.

Margaret walked down Main, pulling Señor Pepe by his leash. The fool dog kept trying to stop and sniff things. Margaret always found his obsession with planters annoying. Each time he tried to inspect someone’s petunias, she gave the leash a jerk.

Petunias. Margaret glanced at the purple and pink flowers in the tub outside the Lucky Lady. Another problem the association had yet to address. There were too many different kinds of flowers and flower colors on Main. They should adopt a policy statement that everyone in town would be required to plant the same thing with perhaps two or three permissible colors. Enough with the pink petunias clashing with the purple crepe myrtles. Didn’t people have any sense?

She stalked along the street, towing Señor Pepe behind her. Docia Kent’s bookstore was dark. Of course, the drunken orgy was over, and no doubt the floozy would pay other hardworking people to come in and clean up after her. She wouldn’t have stuck around to take care of it herself, like Margaret would.

Probably off gloating somewhere. With Cal Toleffson.

Margaret gave the leash another sharp jerk and Señor Pepe’s toenails clicked faster. She turned the corner and headed toward the backyard.

The yard was fenced, like most of the ones on the commercial block. Margaret slowed her pace, looking for gaps.

At the back, she found the gate. Margaret took hold of the handle and started to shove, but it swung open in her hands. She stared down at the lock hanging open at the side. At least one thing had gone her way tonight. Scooping up Señor Pepe, she stepped through.

The yard was a mess, but that was no surprise. Margaret would bet Docia Kent’s apartment was just as bad, if not worse. Probably had clothes thrown around everywhere with a fine layer of dust and face powder. And empty wine bottles.

Margaret prowled around the tables, looking for evidence of something nefarious. Señor Pepe limped along beside her, keeping pace for once. Cases of wine bottles and some empty trays that must have been used to carry glasses covered the tables. The glasses themselves were gone. Margaret felt disappointed, although she wasn’t sure what evidence they could have provided.

Trash still littered the ground, but she found several black plastic bags stuffed full and sealed, waiting for the garbage truck.

So the floozy had picked up after all. For some reason, Margaret found that fact even more infuriating. Her throat felt tight. Her arms itched. Her hands balled into fists.

Beside her Señor Pepe whimpered slightly.

“Shut up,” she hissed.

Something glittered in the grass. Margaret reached down. A shard of plastic from a broken glass.

She picked it up and rammed the sharp end into the fattest of the trash sacks. The point slid through with a satisfying
pop
. Margaret pulled down, and the plastic ripped open. Trash spilled out onto the ground.

Without pausing to think, she grasped the top of the sack and dragged it across the yard, leaving a trail of paper napkins and plates, bits of cheese, bread crumbs and plastic utensils. A long diagonal path of garbage.

With each bit of refuse that dropped to the lawn, the tightness in her throat eased.

Margaret ran back to the second bag and tore it open, dragging it in another diagonal line across the first.
X marks the spot.
She had to control the urge to giggle.

With the third bag, she made a rough circle around the first two. The fourth one she used to draw a horizontal line underneath. Jolts of adrenaline poured through her veins. She’d never been so excited by anything in her life.

She didn’t bother with artistry with the last bags, simply swinging them back and forth to strew garbage across the grass. Bits of paper floated in the air, a few catching in the lower branches of the live oaks.

Margaret stood at the edge of the yard, admiring her handiwork. Her heartbeat was slowly returning to normal, and she took deep breaths to calm herself.

She supposed she should feel ashamed. She didn’t. Docia Kent had finally gotten something she deserved.

Señor Pepe had crawled under one of the chairs when she’d grabbed the second bag. Now he sat staring at her.

“It’s all right,” she whispered. “Mommy’s all done now, Precious. We can go home.”

Behind her, she heard the shop door click open.

Margaret’s heart started hammering again. Her hands balled into fists. Someone would see her! Someone would know what she’d done!

As the door opened wider, she backed slowly toward the gate.

A person stepped through the door. A man. Not Cal Toleffson, though.

Margaret stopped, curiosity warring with caution. Another lover sneaking out before Toleffson caught him? Who else was Docia Kent sleeping with?

The man stepped further into the yard, and his face was caught in the moonlight. Margaret’s heart froze. Oh, this was much worse than she’d thought. She took another step back and her foot skidded on the gravel.

The man turned at the sound, staring in her direction.

“Good evening,” Margaret stammered, stepping back again. “I heard some noises in here. Teenagers. Teenagers must have vandalized the yard.”

Her palms were sweating. She swallowed. Surely he’d believe her. No one would think someone with her standing in Konigsburg would stoop to doing something like this.

The man stepped in front of her now, looking down.

Margaret raised her chin, resolutely. “Isn’t it awful?” she croaked.

The blow was so quick she never saw it coming. As the world went dark, she had just enough time to wonder if her explanation had really been that bad.

Cal cooked Docia eggs the next morning. They turned out better than he’d expected, given that he usually wasn’t much of an egg man. Plus Docia was dressed in one of his T-shirts which only reached to her upper thighs, so there’d been some significant distractions.

“We need to go back.” Docia stretched beside him. “The shop opens at noon on Sundays, and I’ve got to clean up the last of the trash before we do.”

“It’s ten,” Cal reasoned. “We don’t need to leave until ten thirty or so.”

“Calvin, we need to leave now.” Docia grinned at him. “We must be strong.”

Cal gathered the dishes together and started for the sink. “Calthorpe,” he muttered.

“Excuse me?”