Dead Man's Bones (7 page)

Ruby glanced around at the landscaping. “I’d offer to help, but it looks like you’re all finished.”

“Yeah,” I said wryly. “Perfect timing.” Frowning, I added, “Listen, Ruby, have you talked to Sheila in the last few days?”

It’s an unfortunate truth that marriage and family activities are subtracted from the time I have to spend with friends. Ruby, Sheila, and I used to go out for dinner at least once a week, take an occasional weekend trip, and hang out together whenever we got the chance. Ruby and I work under the same roof, so I still manage to see her every day, even if we don’t have time for the long, leisurely talks we used to enjoy.

But Sheila and I have to make a date to get together, and for the past month—tonight, for instance—we hadn’t seemed able to connect. Now that I had some time to think about what Blackie had told me, it occurred to me that Smart Cookie might be avoiding me because McQuaid happens to be Blackie’s best friend and she doesn’t want to put me in a tough spot. But I had to see her in order to correct this misunderstanding, and if she wouldn’t return my calls—

“Sheila?” Ruby said uncomfortably. “Well, yes. We went for a bike ride the other evening.”

Time to go bike-riding with Ruby, but no time to phone me. “Did she mention anything about Blackie?”

Ruby gave me a cautious look. “Sort of . . .”

I leaned on my rake. “It’s true, then? They’ve broken off their engagement?”

“How did you know?” Ruby countered.

“Blackie told me last night. He’s pretty upset.”

Ruby scowled. “Well, I should hope so. If you ask me, he’s being a horse’s patootie. A real grade-A jerk.”

That surprised me. I have seen the sheriff when he was preoccupied, consumed by his work, and uncommunicative, but I would never characterize him as a jerk, and especially not grade-A. And Sheila herself is often preoccupied and work-focused. You can’t be a female chief of police without a certain amount of toxic fallout in your personal life.

“I wouldn’t call Blackie a jerk,” I said defensively. “He loves Sheila very much. The problem is that she can’t seem to make up her mind.”

Ruby gave a scornful chuckle. “The pot calling the kettle black.”

“So?” I retorted. “Maybe that makes me an expert. Been there, done that, not just once but over and over again. Maybe all Smart Cookie has to do is stop worrying, trust her gut instinct, and just let herself love him.” It sounds simplistic, maybe, but that’s the way I managed to ease into marriage. If I could do it, Sheila could, too.

“But it’s not like you and McQuaid, China.” Ruby put her head to one side, regarding me with an uncharacteristic soberness. “You knew all along that he was the right guy, and you knew that you loved him—you just weren’t ready for marriage, that’s all. It’s different for Sheila. She’s realized that Blackie isn’t the right guy. She knows she doesn’t love him.”

I stared at her, suddenly seeing things in a whole new light. “Oh,” I said, feeling like all kinds of a fool. “Oh, gosh, Ruby. That’s too bad.”

“Yeah,” Ruby said. “She’s been trying to tell him for the last couple of months, but he just wouldn’t listen. You know Blackie. When he gets a thing in his mind—” She shrugged.

Ruby didn’t have to finish her sentence. I understood. Blackie is a great guy, rock-steady, sincere, completely dependable. If he says something, you can stake your life on it. But he has a tendency to a certain inflexibility. When Blackie settles on a view of something, it’s not easy for him to change. Sheila had loved him once. It would be difficult for him to believe that she wouldn’t love him forever, that she might have actually stopped loving him.

“So the engagement is definitely off?” I said sadly.

“According to Sheila, it’s been off for a couple of months,” Ruby replied in a pragmatic tone. “Blackie just wouldn’t take no for an answer.” She looked up. “Uh-oh,” she said, under her breath. “Here comes trouble.”

I followed her glance. Coming toward us from the direction of the Obermann mansion were two old ladies, one tall and autocratic, the other short, stooped, and fragile, with the look of someone whose bones can barely support the weight of flesh. The Obermann sisters, Jane and Florence. I had never been introduced to them, since they have been reclusive in the years I’ve been in Pecan Springs. They obviously knew Ruby, however, since she was playing the role of their mother, Cynthia Obermann, in Miss Jane’s play.

“Good evening, ladies,” Ruby called, raising her voice.

“Good evenin’, Ruby.” Miss Florence’s voice was high-pitched, shrill, and Southern. She’s the younger of the two by several years, but she is tiny and frail, and her halo of thin white hair is almost ethereal.

Miss Jane, on the other hand, makes a more substantial impression. I saw first her impressive height, her sturdy frame clothed in a supple garnet-red pantsuit. And then I was struck by her features—the aristocratic nose, the large and astonishingly brilliant black eyes—and her steel-gray hair, coiled on top of her head. She gave me the impression of a poised, self-contained, and autocratic woman, so different from the dithery Miss Florence that it was hard to imagine them as sisters.

Miss Jane nodded shortly to Ruby, then fixed me with those piercing dark eyes.

“Who’re you?” Her voice was brusque, deep, startlingly masculine, without a hint of a Texas drawl. “I don’t know you, do I?” I immediately regretted my dirty hands and grubby-looking jeans, hardly appropriate garb for paying homage to the queen.

“You’ve never met China?” Ruby asked smoothly, prodding me forward. “Miss Jane, Miss Florence, this is China Bayles, from Thyme and Seasons Herbs, here in town. Marian Atkins asked her to take care of the landscaping.” She gestured toward the plants that filled the gracefully bermed L-shaped bed in front of the theater. “We all think she’s done a wonderful job.” She added a bright, slightly artificial smile to this commercial endorsement.

“Thank you, Ruby,” I said. I glanced at Miss Jane, suddenly apprehensive, like a nine-year-old called to confess her misdeeds to the all-powerful headmistress. What would I do if she didn’t approve of the landscaping? Tear it out by the roots? Cover myself with sackcloth and ashes and mulch?

“I hope you like it,” I said, appealing to Miss Florence but not expecting much. It is widely reckoned in Pecan Springs that Florence Obermann has not once in all of her seventy-plus years been allowed to have an opinion, since all opinions rightfully and naturally belong to Miss Jane.

I was not disappointed. “Well,” Miss Florence said tentatively. She shot a glance at her sister. “What do you think, Jane?” she asked in a quavering voice.

Miss Jane glanced around, her gaze resting, sphinxlike on first one plant, then another, measuring each one and finding it lacking. “Roses would have been far better,” she said at last. “Father always liked roses.” Her deep, dry voice took on a sarcastic edge. “Of course, no one thought to ask me what he would have wanted, in spite of the fact that Florence and I donated the theater in his honor.”

There was no reason for me to be surprised by this response, given Miss Jane’s reputation for making life difficult for others. She ruled the social roost in Pecan Springs in the 1950s and ’60s, although in the past several decades, she and her sister have turned into virtual recluses. Neither of them drive, and they haven’t been seen at a social function in years.

There was a great deal of surprise, verging on incredulity, when it was first learned that Miss Jane and Miss Florence had offered to donate the Obermann stable, the funding for renovations, and a sizeable chunk of adjoining property to the Community Theater Association. No one would have been surprised if this generous gift had come from their father, of course, for Dr. Merrill Obermann, a general practitioner and doc-of-all-trades, had supported a variety of Pecan Springs arts projects. In addition to the hospital wing that bore his name, he had funded the library, a community orchestra, and a summer arts program for disadvantaged children, back in the days when little towns didn’t dream of such luxuries. Doctor Obermann may have been a stern authoritarian and not very likable, but by the time he died, in the mid-1950s, he was much admired for his altruism.

The same could not be said for his four offspring. Dr. Obermann’s sons, Carl and Harley, and his daughters, Jane and Florence (who inherited the entire family fortune after both brothers’ deaths), inherited at least some of their father’s philanthropic inclinations. The two sisters have been known for their willingness to say yes when asked to contribute to a worthy cause, especially when that cause involves the hospital, United Way, or the Adams County Republican Club, where they are big-time supporters of every political campaign. They haven’t continued their father’s support of the arts, however—a major disappointment to several local organizations. The summer arts program and the symphony orchestra both came to an end when the doctor died, for his daughters failed to continue to support them.

So when Jane announced last year that she and Florence were prepared to donate a theater to the Community Theater Association, the news was greeted with pleasure. And with some astonishment, since the sisters had rejected an earlier appeal from the association for funding to renovate the old movie house where they staged their productions. The Pecan Springs
Enterprise
, presenting an editorially grateful face to the public, described the gift as “remarkable and magnanimous,” although Hark Hibler, the editor, slyly added that it was gratifying to see one of Pecan Springs oldest families stepping forward at last to take a major role in arts philanthropy.

It didn’t take long for the real motive behind the Obermanns’ gift to emerge, however, since the promised theater came with some pretty serious strings attached—in Hark’s memorable phrase (not for publication), this was a gift horse whose teeth needed counting. In order to get their new facility, the Community Theater Association would have to agree to stage as their first production a play written by Jane Obermann herself, about the life of her father. The play, entitled
A Man for All Reasons
, was to be performed for at least three weekends, so that everyone in town would have an opportunity to attend. What’s more, Jane Obermann reserved the right to approve the casting, the costumes, and the scenery.
Quid pro quo
, y’all. If the association accepted these conditions, it would get a spiffy new theater. If it didn’t, it wouldn’t.

You probably won’t be surprised to hear that for the Community Theater Association, this set of conditions felt like a deal breaker. Ruby, who serves on the board of directors, told me what happened when Lance Meyers, the chairman of the board, heard about Jane Obermann’s demands.

“Stage her play? Over my dead body!” Lance had thundered angrily. “I’m not going to let some damned amateur playwright—who’s never published a thing in her entire life—impose a silly, sentimental script about her father on us. Why, this is nothing but blackmail, and I’m not going to stand for it. No self-respecting theater company would accept such conditions. Theater or no theater, we are
not
doing her play!”

Since Lance is a man who means what he says, this might have been the last word. But the Grande Cinema, the old movie house on the square where the theater association has been staging its productions for the last ten years, was falling down around their ears. It had finally been condemned. Unless the association could arrange to borrow the high school auditorium or fit their productions into the Methodist church annex, there would be no more community theater in Pecan Springs. The situation was nothing short of desperate, and everybody—including Miss Jane—knew it.

So a few other members of the board, reluctant to let this stunning opportunity slip through their fingers, quietly went to work. Within a week, Lance Meyers had announced his resignation from the board, and several others had resigned in sympathy with his position. Marian Atkins—who told me that she hated like hell to do it, but didn’t have any choice—reluctantly stepped into Lance’s shoes, and it was announced that the board was “seriously considering” the Obermann sisters’ offer. Marian took Miss Jane’s script home to read over the weekend, and came back with her recommendation, which was hardly a surprise, under the circumstances.

“The play is a little . . . well, amateurish,” she told the board, “and it certainly needs some cutting and tightening up. But I think we can manage to stage it. In fact, it might work very well as a house opener, since it’s basically the story of Doctor Obermann’s life. There are a lot of people in town who still remember him.”

“Not always favorably,” somebody reminded her. “He gave away a lot of money, sure. But he screwed a lot of people along the way. A lot of important people, with long memories.”

Marian had waved the remark away. “Of course, the production isn’t going to be easy. Unless I miss my guess, that old woman is going to be the very devil to work with. We’ll all be screaming bloody murder.”

The board didn’t disagree, but as Marian reminded them, they were running out of options, fast. So after a long discussion of the pros and cons (the playwright herself headed the list of cons), they gritted their collective teeth and said yes, thank you kindly, Miss Obermann, we’ll stage your play, and we’ll take your playhouse, and we’ll even pretend that this whole thing is a wonderful idea and we’re having a whale of a wonderful time.

True to their word, the two Misses Obermann signed over the property and, with appropriate ceremony and picture-taking, deposited a very cool three hundred thousand dollars into the Merrill Obermann Theater Renovation Fund. A local architect drew up the plans, and the contractors went to work. The attractive old stone building was gutted and refloored, then reroofed and rewired. New plumbing was installed, along with the necessary heating and air-conditioning. One end was turned into the stage and dressing room space; rows of plush seats were set up in the middle; and the front became an entrance lobby. The theater was on its way to becoming a community showplace.