Death by Deep Dish Pie (9 page)

Mrs. Oglevee was floating because she wasn't real because she's dead and because I was dreaming her. Mrs. Oglevee has been dead for ten years. She was my junior high school history and sometimes-home-ec teacher. When I graduated junior high, she retired junior high—and then went on to supplement her retirement income by substituting in every subject I had in high school. Five weeks after my high school graduation, she died suddenly of a massive stroke. Word has it that her final words were, it's not fair!, because she had been in perfect health, at least as far as anyone knew, and because she'd been saving to go on a Mediterranean cruise and was just a week away from departing.

Apparently dying that way made her mighty grumpy, because every time she shows up in my dreams, she's grousing at me about something. Why she had to pick me to nag during her afterlife is beyond me.

I sighed, tried to roll over, and winced. My left shoulder hurt. My right shoulder hurt. My back hurt, and my thighs, and . . . I hurt all over. I'd worked with Sally at the theatre until midnight—work that was punctuated by Slinky's
skree-ree-rees.

In my dream, at least, I sat up, glaring at Mrs. Oglevee. “I haven't made a mess of everything,” I said. “I'm trying to set things right. I'll help Sally get the theatre done in time. Sooner or later, we'll find Slinky. As for the Breitenstraters—well, that's not my doing and it's out of my control, anyway.”

Mrs. Oglevee rolled her eyes and pointed the ball end of the ball-peen hammer at me, waggling it. “Just like in school. Missing the point, always. Listen up, Josie Toadfern. You're making a big mistake helping out Sally. You'll never get the work done—and you know you're doing it just to avoid Owen, anyway.”

“What?”

Mrs. Oglevee smiled, crossing her arms. “Hah. Gotcha, didn't I? You've got your panties in a wad because he made that one little comment that doesn't quite fit with what he's told you about himself. Well, listen up, missy, you'd better let this be. Don't start picking away at stuff you have no business messing with. Don't start questioning Owen about his past. Leave the past alone—with him and with Paradise.”

“Paradise? What does my boyfriend have to do with Paradise's past? I'm not interested in Paradise history—you of all people should know that—”

Mrs. Oglevee snorted a half-laugh. “Right. You barely got by with a C.”

That was partly because she managed to make local history so incredibly boring—as if she didn't ever want us asking any questions—and because if I so much as misspelled a word on a question, I got the whole question wrong, no matter if the answer itself was right. Mrs. Oglevee was always out to get me. I never figured out why while she was living. And I sure didn't want to ask the dead Mrs. Oglevee why. But it seemed she was still out to get me.

“Look,” I said, “Everything is fine with me and Owen—”

“Owen and me—”

“Right, okay. But if you think I'm not going to ask questions of him, you're wrong. And why you'd think any of this history stuff matters to me—”

Mrs. Oglevee floated a little forward over the foot of my bed, waving her hammer in my face. She looked mad enough to spit nails—literally. So when she spoke a few came flying out of her mouth. Fortunately, they all floated away before whopping me in the face. “I know how you are, Nosey Josie.”

I flinched. That was a hated nickname John Worthy had given me in high school.

“If you have any sense, you'll tell Mrs. Beavy to stop working with Cletus Breitenstrater on his research. You'll find Slinky and, while Trudy's all happy with you, convince her to convince him to give up on his play. The Founder's Day play I wrote reflects the true history of Paradise! There's nothing else to know!

”And as for Owen—you'd better leave well enough alone. I don't know what he sees in you, but you're lucky to have him. Without him, you'd be mighty lonely. I'm warning you—leave his and Paradise's past alone and just accept what you've always been told!”

And with that, she straightened her red-white-and-blue scarf bandanna, and turned and sauntered off, at least as much as anyone can saunter when they're floating, until she disappeared.

I moaned again, rolled over, winced when I hit a particularly sore spot—and came wide-awake, staring at the clock. It was 2
A.M
.

Great. Not only was the whole town mad at me and my boyfriend was acting weird and Alan was threatening to take away the fireworks—which would break poor, dear Guy's heart—but even my own personal ghost was threatening me.

How could things get any worse?

6

Things didn't get any worse, at least not for a whole week.

They just stayed miserable.

In the middle of the night after the meeting, we had a downpour. Then, a heat wave—high humidity, no more rain—squatted over Paradise.

The heat made my customers grouchy, even though I ran my big fans and offered free bottled water and Big Fizz Cola.

Word had gotten around Paradise that Alan Breitenstrater funded the Fireworks Barn . . . and that he'd cut off Cletus if he didn't back off from making an announcement at the pie-eating contest. Meanwhile, Cletus came into town every day, tossing snaps on the sidewalk, and telling everyone not to worry about what Alan said—there'd be fireworks aplenty, both when he made his announcement about the new play's story line at the contest, as well as on July 4.

Trudy came into my laundromat only once that week. She didn't speak to me, and only did a few bits of black socks and black underwear. But she came by the theatre every night, and while Sally and I worked—Sally barking orders at me, me trying to keep up—she called for Slinky. Every now and again, Slinky let out with
Skreee!,
which Trudy swore was in response to her cries but which I thought were stress-triggered more than anything else.

Every night I went home past midnight—too late to call Owen. Too tired to worry much that he hadn't called me to leave a message. Just enough energy for a long, cool shower. Ten minutes later, I felt too hot again. My bedroom's window unit air conditioner puffed out bits of tepid air, so I took to just opening my screened window, falling down on my bed in a T-shirt and panties, and thanking God for my ultrashort hair.

And once I did drift off to sleep, who was there to greet me but Mrs. Oglevee herself? She'd taken to wearing work clothes like mine and Sally's, but hers were neat and clean and pressed and she looked cool, fanning herself with an elegant paper fan as she lectured me on my foolishness for messing things up with Owen and getting involved with the Breitenstraters and thinking I could really help Sally pull off this renovation job.

The next morning I'd wake up warm and sticky and start the whole, miserable, humid routine over again.

But by Saturday night, the night before the pie-eating contest, it finally looked as though things might start to break my way.

For one thing, after I closed up my laundromat and went on over to Sandy's for a Cobb salad and cherry pie (Breitenstrater, of course) a la mode, and I was walking down the sidewalk toward the theatre, it started raining. Big, fat, slow, raindrops—the kind of ploppity-ploppers that are a sure sign a gully washer is coming. And sure enough, I just got to the theatre when the rain started sluicing down hard and fast. I ducked under the ticket booth and grinned as I took in that special smell of rain hitting heat on a summer's night.

Backstage, I found Sally painting a wall from a can labeled
BISQUE
.

She stopped when she saw me and grinned. “You know what, girlfriend? We've got another two weeks before July Fourth, and I think this is going to actually get done!”

I felt a surge of hope. Sure, we could get the work done! Then Sally would get paid, plus I'd give her my share (except what I needed to cover my most recent car repair) so she could buy Bar-None. We'd finished the work in the theatre itself—replastering and painting walls, cleaning the carpets, sanding and restaining woodwork. Sure, the curtains and seat upholstery and carpet were threadbare and needed to be replaced, but Sally and Uncle Otis hadn't been contracted to do that, anyway. But overall, the auditorium, stage, and backstage looked a lot better. Even the Paradise Historical Society mavens would have to admit that.

But we hadn't touched the lobby or green room/storage areas. And thinking of the storage area reminded me . . .

“Oh, crap!” I hollered.

Sally jumped. “Watch it,” she said. “I almost splattered paint outside the drop cloths! What's the matter?”

“I just remembered the costumes in the green room's closet. I haven't looked at a single one—and those have to be ready by next week, too.”

“Then go take a look at the costumes. You've sure earned a break.”

I was stunned. Sally was being nice to me. But I wasn't about to wait for a second offer. I hurried on up to the green room/storage room.

The smell of mildew was overpowering. My heart plopped down to my stomach. I opened the closet door and saw that the costumes were not in their garment bags—they were hanging loose, right under a trickle of water that leaked in through the roof.

I pulled out the pieces we'd used for years—dresses, men's pants and shirts, hats and gloves—and set them on the brown couch. The costumes stank of mildew and some of them were spotted with the black of mildew. They had to have gotten wet the week before, in the rain that came after our meeting there.

What had happened to the garment bag? I couldn't believe Sally had taken it.

I glanced around. It didn't look as if anything had been moved, but who could tell. The room was a jumble of boxes, props, junk, the birdcage on one of the mirrored dressers in the midst of tins and tubes of makeup.

I looked at the costumes, tears pricking my eyes—partly from frustration and partly at the overpowering smell. Had someone tried to sabotage the costumes? Besides Sally and me, the only person who had been there that week—as far as I knew—was Trudy. Would she have done this to get back at me because she blamed me for Slinky's escape?

I didn't know the answer to that question. I did know I'd better figure out how to salvage the mildewed costumes.

I sank down on the old brown vinyl couch, the end that still had feet, and moaned. Then I felt something sprinkling down on my head. I looked up and more particles sprinkled down into my eyes. I winced, rubbed my eyes, then squinted. Sure enough, there was an irregularly shaped hole in the ceiling tile right above my head . . . almost as if some small thing had been chewing the tile.

I stood up on the end of the couch, which teetered. I squinted and stared harder . . . were those really close-set, beady black eyes staring back at me? I blinked. The little eyes disappeared. . . then reappeared, along with a mink-shaped face, a pointy nose, and two little pointy ears.

Slinky.

If I stretched, I could just reach the edge of the hole. I reached up slowly. “Hey, Slinky, that's a good girl,” I said. “Just stay right there.”

If the damned ferret took off, who knew when or how I'd ever find her again? She'd already been in the theatre rafters for a week. God only knew what she'd been eating besides ceiling tile. Not, I hoped, electrical wiring. An electrical short and fire wouldn't be good in the middle of the play—revised or not.

I reckon Slinky was still testy from her week in the rafters, because as I reached for her ever so slowly, she shrilled, “
Skrree-eee-eee-eeer

I jumped. When I landed, the feet under the end of the couch gave way. I fell, landing face-down on the mildewed costumes. Slinky gave another shrill “Skree!” and then must have scrambled over the hole in the ceiling tile, because I heard a crack, then yet another “Skree” right before Slinky fell and landed on my butt.

Slinky scrambled up my back toward my head. I grabbed, pinning the panicking ferret to my head. Ferrets have sharp little claws and teeth, all of which were scratching and clawing into my head, while Slinky shrieked “
skree”
and I hollered
“aaahhh!”
while stumbling around the room, bumping into boxes and furniture.

Finally, Sally ran in, took one look at me hopping up and down while holding the screaming ferret to my head, and started laughing.

“Shut up,” I hollered, “and help me out here!”

“Shoo-wee,” she gulped between hoots of laughter, “you sure are a sight. And it stinks to high heaven in here. Did the ferret pee on you, too?”

It was the mildew she smelled—but still. Oh God. Ferret pee on my head was the last thing I wanted. “Just get the damned birdcage and bring it over here!”

Sally, still laughing, got the birdcage and held its door open for me. I pulled Slinky from the top of my head, then thrust her, and a few precious tufts of my hair, into the cage. I hollered “Now!” at Sally as I released Slinky. Sally shut the birdcage door just as Slinky hurled herself at it.

Slinky staggered back and collapsed at the bottom of the cage.

“You think she's dead?” Sally asked, staring in at Slinky. Sally was hiccupping from having laughed so hard. She sat the birdcage on a dresser.

“No. I think she's pooped,” I said, rubbing my sore head. I looked over at the costumes, mildewed and mysteriously bereft of their garment bag. And I sighed deeply. I was pooped, too.

“Wanna beer?” Sally asked, fighting back more laughter.

“Please,” I said, and collapsed on the newly broken end of the brown couch. At least it didn't wobble anymore.

By 8:30 the next morning I was at the Breitenstrater mansion, ringing the doorbell. Slinky snoozed in the birdcage, which now sat at my feet. Both Slinky and I had had a hard night. I'd taken Slinky and the costumes to my laundromat. Slinky snoozed in her cage while I spent several hours on the clothes—carefully dabbing the mildew stains with a solution of non-chlorine bleach and water (ratio of one to three parts each). Mildew is a living growth, and you can't just wash it out—you have to kill it. Bleach or hydrogen peroxide (the medical kind, not the hair-bleaching kind) works best for that, but you have to be careful not to create a whole new problem by taking the dye out of the cloth—plus I was working with very old garments. So I worked carefully, using just a bit of solution, rinsing with cold water, and dabbing each spot dry with a white cloth, until I was satisfied with my work.