Paint the Town Dead (3 page)

The wind chime sang as I let Eric inside and murmured hello. The Silver Six stood shoulder to shoulder behind the long glass-topped and fronted pine counter that had been original to the Stanton General Store. We displayed our most delicate items, or those that were most expensive, in the antique case, but no one gave a hoot about the goods at the moment. The Six avidly watched us, hanging on our every word.

I don't know why. They already knew we were friends and sort of dating. Okay, one real date.

“No more trouble tonight, Nixy?” Eric asked.

“How did you hear about that?”

“I called him when Ernie pushed his way into class,” Eleanor said. I swear she had him on speed dial.

“Once he got here, the situation had changed,” Dab added.

“But he said he'd check back,” Aster offered.

“And here I am.” Eric gave me one of those melting smiles, and my surroundings almost faded away.

Almost. I cleared my throat. “That's kind of you, Eric. The man who pushed his way in—Ernie—struck me as an egotistical jerk, but our gourd artist put him in his place. Doralee is his ex.”

“Glad the situation resolved itself. Do you still want help hanging your grand opening banner tomorrow morning?”

Oh, geez, I'd forgotten I asked him that a week ago when we were on the dinner date. One of those recent times I hadn't managed to apply mascara to both sets of eyelashes. Aster had pointed it out before I'd gotten out of the store, but she hadn't caught the very stylish streak of white paint in my brown hair that shampooing had missed. Blame it on my embarrassment. His offer to hang the sign had slipped my mind.

But hey, I bluffed. “If you're available, that would be great.”

“Eight o'clock?”

“Sure.”

“Should I bring a ladder?”

“No, we've got a ten-footer in the workroom.”

Eric glanced at the emporium's displays of art on the polished pine shelves and tables, and the hanging baskets. “We don't want to break anything, so I'll meet you at the back door, and we'll carry the ladder around the building.”

“Of course. I should've thought of that. We can take it out the service door.”

“Sounds good.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment. For my part, I was lost in his warm brown eyes. Sue me.

A throat cleared.

“This ain't the most rivetin' conversation, missy,” Fred barked. “Walk the man out, kiss him, and get back here so we can firm up tomorrow's schedule.”

“Fred!” Sherry swatted his arm.

“What? I'm ready for bed.”

“We all are,” I said, then blushed when Eric slowly grinned. “Oh, for heaven's sake. Come on, Eric.”

He chuckled. “No need to see me out. Just be sure to lock up tight. I'll see you at eight.”

Eric strolled into the sultry night. I flipped the deadbolt on the door and turned to Fred. “Happy now?”

“Dang near delirious.”

Maise clapped her hands for attention. “All right, you and Eric put the sign up early, but we open at ten, correct?”

“I do believe we decided to come in about nine,” Eleanor said.

“Yes, but there's no need for all of you to be here the whole day.”

“On the first day of our grand opening?” Sherry gasped. “There certainly is. We
want
to be here.”

“Especially if the
Lilyvale Legend
sends a photographer,” Aster chimed in.

“I hope the newspaper will run a photo,” Sherry said wistfully. Our modestly sized daily newspaper was great about running all sorts of local items, so I figured at least one picture would make the cut. “I'm so proud of what we've accomplished.”

Dab patted her arm. “We all are, Sherry. Now Fred's right. Time to go on home so we'll be fresh for the big day.”

Dab's dark gray Caddy, Fred's old red pickup truck that he was now driving again, and Sherry's blue Corolla were parked in the lot behind the store. Because of the macular degeneration, Sherry didn't drive much anymore, and never at night. She shared her ride with the other women, all of whom had their own sets of car keys. Heck, Dab and Fred likely had keys, too. The women, though, pooled funds to pay for insurance, gas, and maintenance. The arrangement worked out perfectly for them all.

I hugged each of the Six as I ushered them through the workroom and out the back door. Deadbolt thrown, service
door secure, I returned to the front room to turn off all but the security light. After double-checking that the front door was locked tight, I headed upstairs, flipping off the workroom lights as I went.

Upstairs, I toed off my shoes in the foyer, plodded to my spacious bedroom that overlooked the square, and face-planted on my queen bed. The plain white, fluffy comforter puffed up to cover my nose, a smothering sensation that made me roll on my back. My thoughts drifted.

The ceiling looked good, and I was proud to have fixed it. I'd once dated a construction guy—Drywall Danny—who had shown me how to patch holes and cracks. With that knowledge, plus advice and supplies from Big George Heath at Heath's Hardware, the ceiling was pristine smooth and painted a bright white. Not blind-you bright, but a clean, crisp color. The same color we'd painted the emporium and workroom. White walls, too, except for the wall of Victorian-esque paneling in the dining room with its rich, dark patina. That woodwork was art, and far too exquisite to paint. Part of the paneling concealed storage and the other part hid a lift between the two floors. My Aunt Sissy from generations back had the woodwork crafted when she'd lived in this apartment and ran Sissy's Five & Dime downstairs.

I'd never thought much about my decorating style. When I'd shared an apartment with my Houston roomie Vicki, we had the post-college, hand-me-down, not-entirely-adults-yet vibe happening. I appreciated antique and vintage pieces, but my true taste ran to modern, monochromatic, and minimalistic. The minimalist part may have been a knee-jerk reaction to the happy chaos of the emporium. Of course, I might also be both boring
and
too lazy to want to dust intricate pieces of furniture and shelves of bric-a-brac, but I found peace in my uncluttered almost barren apartment.

Huff's Fine Furniture on the town square had run a big sale over Memorial Day, and I'd scored good deals on my bedroom and living room sets—or suites as store owner and
city councilman B.G. Huff called them. The bedroom style was called “panel,” and I love it for its matte white finish, clean lines, and no fussiness. The living room love seat and two overstuffed chairs upholstered in white twill were just as plain as the bedroom pieces, though I'd added graphic throw pillows in blues and greens. The additions did make the space less cavernous and more cozy. I hadn't bought any rugs yet. The pine floors had been sanded and restained a dark walnut color, and were too amazing to cover. Of course, by winter I'd want a couple of rugs to warm my feet.

Right now, the ceiling fan spun slowly, barely making a sound, yet the gentle breeze tempted me to fall asleep where I was. But no. I had to hang the grand opening banner with Eric at eight. If I showered tonight, I could sleep a little later tomorrow.

The only bathroom in the loft apartment was large, also mostly white, and had two doors. One door allowed access from the living area, and the other connected to the bedroom. There were no windows, but when Sherry had updated the bathroom for the previous tenants, they'd installed a powerful exhaust fan and great lighting. The previous renters, who'd also owned the antique store below, had put a refinished claw-footed tub in the room. They'd left the tub behind when they shut down their business and moved to Texas to be close to their daughter. The old-style tub didn't feed my modern taste, but it was great for a long soak when I took time for one.

My blah-brown hair was still in a ponytail, but I fixed it higher on my head and snapped on a shower cap. Hot water washed away the stress of the day's last-minute store and class preparations—and of the scene Ernie had made. I sure hoped he wasn't sticking around with the fiancée and the sister. Kim and Georgine. The Silver Six and I had enough going on without being referees, although Doralee hadn't really needed my intervention this evening. It still amazed
me that she'd been so calm and cool. I'd have just slapped Ernie upside the head.

Then again, I'd been told my personality was much like my Aunt Sissy's. Technically my triple great-aunt, if I had the genealogy right. She'd been a mover and shaker in Lilyvale. A get-'er-done, get-out-of-my-way kind of woman. I wasn't sure about the mover-shaker aspect, and if I tried to shove anyone out of my way, Aunt Sherry would knock me upside the head.

My mother used to say when we see something that needs doing, we do it, and I'd heard Sherry say the same thing. I must've absorbed that attitude because, admittedly, I got things done. Most of all, I tended to go full bore after my goals, and I considered that a good thing.

Right now, my main goal was to make the emporium not only survive, but thrive. I'd do everything within my power to make that happen.

Eric knocked at the alley door that led to Fred's workroom at eight sharp, just as I was flipping the deadbolt.

“Good morning,” he said with a bright smile and an odd twinkle in his brown eyes.

“Good morning. Let me open the service door.”

“Okay. Do you know you have visitors?”

“Besides you?”

He pointed down and to the side of the doorway. I stepped out and stopped short.

A dog and cat sat on their haunches, gazing at me with soulful eyes. The dog reminded me a bit of a Doberman a friend had owned except this one was much smaller. Not a miniature, but more the size of a beagle our neighbor in Tyler had when I was a kid. This dog was black with tan markings, and its coat gleamed with apparent health. Floppy ears framed its face as it blinked at me with intelligent golden eyes.

Uh-oh.

The cat made a sound between a meow and a chirp, its mesmerizing green eyes steady on my face. Its short-haired coat was tiger striped in browns and golds, and it had a white chin. They were both adorable, but—

“How did they get here?”

“Walked would be my guess.”

His sarcasm untied my tongue. “I mean why are they
here
here? You think someone dumped them?”

“I doubt it.” He hunkered down to pet them, first the dog, then the cat, who leaned in for a scratch under its chin. “They both seem to be in good shape. Their coats aren't matted, no cuts or skin abrasions except on their paws, and no sign of fleas.”

“Gee, thanks for mentioning fleas.”

“All part of the service.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes. “So they can leave anytime they want?”

He slanted me a look. “You don't like animals?”

“No. Yes. I mean, I like animals. I played with my friends' dogs and cats when I was a kid. We just never had animals because my dad was allergic. After he died, well, I was in college, and I guess my mom never felt the urge to get a pet.”

“These two are small, but they're out of the young puppy and kitten stage. They may have been the runts of their litters.”

“Maybe they belong to one of the shop owners.”

Eric shook his head as he stood. “I've never seen them, but I can ask around. The thing is, our county animal control will pick them up if they're running loose.”

“You don't have a rescue shelter? I could take them there if they don't leave on their own.”

“We have a small one, but last I heard, it was full. Tell you what. Let's get the banner up. Now that these two have had some attention, they may go on home.”

“Except they don't have collars or tags.” I murmured the comment more to myself than Eric. They could've slipped
out of their collars, but chances were just as good they were strays. With super soulful eyes.

With a sigh, I caved and stooped to offer the back of my hand for each of them to smell, first the dog, then the cat. The dog sniffed my knuckles and gave them a shy lick. The cat sniffed, then rubbed its cheek against my fingers. Okay, I was charmed, and I scratched them behind their ears. Cute and sweet as they were, though, I did not—repeat
not
—have time for pets right now. Besides, the dog probably wouldn't be happy in my apartment. My apartment with its freshly stained floors and white furniture . . .

I went inside with Eric and helped him take down the ladder from the hooks Fred and Dab had installed to store it, then I grabbed the folded banner and tucked it under my arm. When I opened the four-foot-wide service door, I had a moment's concern that the animals would dart inside and make themselves at home in the workroom. Or worse, make a mess. I needn't have worried.

The dog and cat stood as we came outside, Eric holding one end of the ladder, me the other. Then they pranced ahead as we carted the ladder into the alley. Since the emporium occupied the last space on the west side of the square, it didn't take long to round the corner, pass the catty-corner-facing shop door, and arrive where we'd hang the banner.

The critters parked themselves on the edge of the sidewalk beside a concrete planter overflowing with lilies and ivy. Not in our way, not in the street, the dog and cat watched intently as we strung the banner. We looped the ropes tied in the corner grommets through eye bolts in the façade that must have been there for years but still held. When the banner was tied off at the four corners, we stood back to admire it flapping in the gentle morning breeze.

I glanced around the quaint, picturesque square in the town I now called home. Bizarrely enough, Lilyvale didn't have a Main Street. Nope. Magnolia Road was our north-south two-lane highway that cut through town. It split to flow
around the limestone courthouse and a small white gazebo that sat elevated in the center of the square. Magnolia trees dotted the property, and lilies flourished in the flowerbeds.

On the south end of the square, Lee Street carried traffic east and west. On the north end, Stanton Drive, named for my ancestor and Lilyvale's founder, ran along the emporium's side wall. Every building on the square dated from the late 1800s to the 1960s, and each one was occupied, though most businesses didn't open until nine or ten Monday through Saturday.

“I hope this horizontal sign gives us enough visibility,” I mused aloud. “I thought a vertical banner would be more eye catching, but the Silver Six vetoed the idea.”

He glanced at the concrete sidewalk and street. “Where would you have put it?”

“In the planter.”

“But those can be harder to keep secure when the wind kicks up,” Eric said. “Which reminds me. We may get a storm on Monday. If we do, I'll help you take this down so it won't be a flying hazard.”

I nodded. “Good thinking. Otherwise Maise will be ordering us to batten down the hatches. Ready to move the ladder back?”

I could've sworn as soon as I said “back,” both animals stood, and sure enough, they trotted in front of us as we hauled the ladder to the alley.

Again, I feared they'd dash inside. They didn't. Not when we hung the ladder, not when I lowered the service door. And yes, I felt terrible about shutting them out.

Eric glanced around the workroom as if searching for something.

“What?” I asked.

“Do you have a small bucket or pan to fill with water?”

“Eric, the pup and cat are darling, but if I start taking care of them, they won't go home.”

“Giving them water won't keep them here, Nixy. If they
do stick around, though, you don't want them to get dehydrated. It's supposed to be close to ninety degrees today.”

The alley was on the east side of the building, so the back of our space would be shaded until at least noon. Still, I didn't want the little critters to be thirsty.

I huffed a breath. “We keep a few bowls in the kitchenette.”

He followed me into the small space that shrank more with him standing so near. I got soup bowls from the upper cabinet, filled one with water, and handed it to Eric before filling the other.

I opened the door to the alley, and there they were, curled up together. Both twitched their ears and lifted their heads when Eric and I put the bowls near them, then slowly rose to drink.

“There,” I said. “Our fur friends are taken care of, and you, sir, are due at the station, I believe.”

He glanced at his watch. “I'm overdue. See you later?”

“If you have time to stop by, yes.”

He gave my arm a friendly squeeze. “Hope the grand opening is a smashing success.”

Success, yes. Smashing, not so much. We had breakables in the emporium, and let's face it, we'd need every sale to make a go of this business.

I went into the store proper, fighting off a mild wave of claustrophobia at the sight of the overflowing displays. The Six hadn't rearranged their art and Aster's herb balms and such so much that they needed tweaking, so I grabbed a duster and gave every surface a swipe. Nervous energy, I knew. The life changes I'd made were a bit frightening, but they were also exhilarating.

When I'd proposed the idea of opening a folk art gallery, with me as manager, and Sherry and her friends supplying the art, I'd done it to be able to stay near my aunt and yet still use my art background. Sherry owned the building free and clear except for taxes and upkeep, and she and the
housemates had artist contacts. The antique dealers who'd been renting the building were closing shop, and my roommate in Houston was marrying and moving out. Plus, our lease was expiring. In short, the timing to relocate and open the emporium seemed to fall into place—both on the Six's end and on mine.

True, my experience was in fine art. I'd given up my job at the prestigious Gates Gallery in Houston to move to Lilyvale. But art is art, whether it traced its origins to the primarily practical or the purely aesthetic.

We'd expanded from our initial concept of selling folk art only to carrying a variety of crafts from handmade jewelry, to stained glass, to mosaics and about everything in between. Art is supposed to evoke emotions, and I'd seen that happen in response to a skillfully crafted basket, or beautifully designed quilt, and even to certain aromas in Aster's collection of goodies. Seen it? I'd experienced emotional connections myself. Besides, we needed to offer a wider range of items with a wider range of prices. Affordable prices. Disposable incomes tended to be a closely guarded commodity here in Lilyvale as much as anywhere. No point in being too specialized.

Even Fred and Dab got in on the action. They'd taken to welding odds and ends in one of the farmhouse sheds to create whimsical metal art, and had already sold a few pieces to Jasmine's dad and to her boyfriend.

My cell phone alarm beeped. The Six would be arriving soon. I put the duster away, brushed off my emporium tee and twill capris. One hour until the official first day of our grand opening. Time to take down the wind chime, put out the wooden display benches, and fill them with goods.

*   *   *

“You know those animals are still in the alley, missy?”

I turned to Fred as he and Dab came into the emporium
from the workroom. We'd had steady traffic until the noon hour, but the store was virtually empty now. Thankfully Fred had removed the loaded tool belt from his walker to make navigating in the store easier. And quieter.

“You've mentioned it every half hour, Fred,” I reminded him.

“Ain't you gonna do somethin' 'bout them?”

“I don't know what I
can
do right now. Doralee is due here to set up her demonstration with Sherry. Besides, you said you tried shooing them away. They went to the end of the alley and came right back.”

“That dog is smaller, but reminds me of coon dogs we had when I was a boy,” Dab said, hitching his slacks up to his waist. They fell right back to his hips.

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled as I moved a few of Aster's Aromatics products to fill a hole. Thankfully we'd had buyers this morning, not just fellow shop owners and other well-wishers stopping for a look-see. Still, I needed to put out another couple of plates of cookies and refill the sweet tea pitchers.

“Or she could be,” Dab continued, “some sort of Doberman mix.”

“She?” That stopped me. I hadn't paid attention, and Eric hadn't mentioned the sex of the dog. “The dog is female?”

“Yep,” Fred confirmed. “Both'a them animals is female. Dab and me think they've been spayed, too. Saw faint scars on their bellies.”

I considered that a moment as Eleanor approached. She'd waved Sherry, Aster, and Maise off to lunch, and would take hers when they got back.

“Are you still talking about those animals?” she asked.

“Fred and Dab think they've been fixed. And if someone went to that expense, they must have owners. We just have to find them.”

“I do believe you could take pictures with your tablet and set up a slide show so customers can see them.”

“Brilliant, Eleanor,” I said with a grin.

“You wanna get a shot of that little cat's paws,” Fred instructed. “She's got three forward claws on her front paws 'stead of four. Might could be a clue to find the owner.”

I'd heard of the polydactyl cats at the Hemingway Home and Museum in Key West, but had no idea how common or rare a three-toed cat might be. Still, Fred might be right about it being a clue.

I didn't have a ton of time before Doralee showed up and Sherry returned from lunch at the Lilies Café. The metal folding chairs we'd borrowed from various churches to keep for the week were set into neat rows and the small folding table for the demonstration was up and ready. I could make time to take photos.

I grabbed my tablet and strode out the workroom to the alley. Dab and Fred came along to help me pose the critters.

The men had put a cardboard box out to give the animals shade. Big softies. The critters came right out and sat when we appeared, their eyes—the dog's golden and the cat's green—gazing at me with trust. They darned near posed as I took photos, staying side by side. They allowed Dab and Fred to separate them enough for me to get pictures of them from their sides—the better to see their markings. The cat let Dab hold her for a close-up of her three toes, but wriggled to get down when I'd finished. As soon as her paws hit the pavement, she returned to her canine friend's side. They had full water bowls, I saw, and it was no stretch to figure who had seen to that.