Running on Empty (8 page)

As AnnaLise made the turn, a large 'Phase One' sign appeared, 'Fully Occupied!' slashed
across it. The next placard read, 'Phase Two — Coming Soon!' And the third, 'Pre-construction
Prices — Better Act Now!'

'Burma-Shave,' Daisy piped up, eyes now wide open.
'You know, this little car makes an awful racket for its size.'

'There's a hole in the muffler, which I'll have fixed when I get back to Wisconsin.
But what did you say about Burma?'

'Burma-Shave. The cream became famous because of an advertising campaign that I think
started all the way back in the 1920s and ran into the Sixties. The company used a
series of roadside signs that sort of interconnected. I don't remember everything
clearly, but your Grandma Kuchenbacher would recite them whenever we went on a driving
vacation.'

'Signs? Like billboards, you mean?' AnnaLise glanced over at her mother, who was smiling
nostalgically.

'No, smaller. Only a couple of words on each sign and then the last one would always
read 'Burma-Shave'. Grandma's favorite chant was "
Does your husband
Misbehave?
Grunt and grumble
Rant and rave?
Shoot the brute some / Burma-Shave."'

'I love it!' AnnaLise was giggling. 'Tell me more.'

'I wish I could,' Daisy said. 'I should have written them all down back then. Now,
I've forgotten most of what your Grandma told me and when I'm gone...' She shrugged
and left it there.

'Maybe you should keep journals, like I do,' said AnnaLise. Then, more sternly, 'That
way, when you're gone
in another thirty or forty years
, I'll be able to pass the family lore on to my kids.'

'Best find a husband first.'

'Well, that's not very forward-thinking of you,' AnnaLise said, glancing over. 'I
don't need a husband to—'

'Speaking of forward-thinking,' Daisy interrupted, 'watch where you're going. Here's
the bridge.'

The car bumped onto the wooden span, which to AnnaLise's surprise hadn't been updated
like the entry. Luckily the distance from shore to island wasn't more than twenty
feet. If you looked back as you reached the other side, you could just catch a glimpse
of the Bradenham house through the trees.

'And soon,' said Daisy.

'Soon what?'

'The husband and children. Have to regale them with our family stories before you
forget what you remember of what I remember. Though God knows that's not much anymore.'

AnnaLise threw her mother a startled look. Was Daisy aware of her memory blips? 'Everyone
forgets things.'

It was a backhanded way to approach the subject, and AnnaLise was rewarded by an equally
vague answer. 'Perhaps.'

Then her mother seemed to think for a moment. 'You mentioned journaling. I've been
mulling this blogging thing on the Internet. Seems that way I'd have a record of what
I did, of what happened to me. And you would, too.'

Was Daisy considering a blog as a tool to train her memory? Or to remind herself when
it failed?

Or... both?

'Sure, but remember blogging is for public consumption. Journaling, you can keep private.'
Before AnnaLise could follow-up further, they wheeled into Hart's Landing. It was
a little like that scene in
The Wizard of Oz
, when Dorothy steps out of the cyclone-blown house.

'We're not in Sutherton anymore, Toto,' AnnaLise said out loud.

'More like New England.' Daisy was trying to peer three-sixty out of the convertible's
windows as they turned into a parking space. 'Federalist, maybe?'

'Maybe.' AnnaLise turned off the engine and climbed out to look around. 'Red brick,
white trim, blue-gray shutters. It's pretty, but not exactly High Country North Carolina.'

Daisy joined her. 'Though I'm not sure what even
that
is anymore. Sutherton's getting to be like any other town. People come from all over
and they bring their influences.'

'Change,' said AnnaLise, disapproval audible even to her own ear. 'Bah humbug,' she
threw in for good measure.

'AnnaLise Marie Griggs. You sound more like eighty-two than twenty-eight.'

'Just because I want things to stay the way I remember them?'

'They can't. And even if they did, your memories would change.' Daisy was staring
south across the lake, toward Main Street. 'Take it from me.'

'The hell I will!'

The words hadn't come from AnnaLise, but from around the corner. The voice sounded
like Joy Tamarack's and it was joined by others, also raised. Thinking her friend
might be in trouble. AnnaLise signaled Daisy to stay where she was.

Hart's Landing consisted of three, long four-story buildings forming a squared horseshoe,
the opening facing the mountains. As AnnaLise traced the sidewalk from the parking
lot, the center of the landing came into view — a town square, of sorts, complete
with gazebo bandstand. Though mostly still empty, the first floors appeared designated
for retail, with residential apartments above.

Three people were standing on the sidewalk, arguing. A lot of noise for such a small
group. As AnnaLise got closer, she recognized Dickens Hart. He stood only about five
foot nine and had to be in his late sixties, but he still had the looks and bearing
that had attracted Joy and countless others. Dark hair, now salt-and-pepper. Deep
brown eyes.

Sort of a pocket Sean Connery.

Joy was standing toe-to-toe with him, obviously angry, though AnnaLise couldn't yet
make out individual words. The third person, staying to the side and seeming to listen
intently, was the father of the family AnnaLise had seen leaving Mama's restaurant
that morning. Presumably David Santino — the developer Bobby had mentioned.

AnnaLise was about to retreat to save everyone embarrassment, when an apartment window
quietly slid closed above the trio. It might as well have sounded like a thunderclap
for the reaction it elicited. The three people sprang apart as Daisy rounded the corner,
too, joining AnnaLise.

Dickens Hart was the first to catch sight of mother and daughter.

Since it
now
would be more rude to turn tail and run, they walked up to the group.

'AnnaLise,' said Hart. 'It's been a long time. Can I hope you're moving back to town?
Maybe looking for a nice place to live?' He swept his hand toward the buildings. 'It's
a prime time to buy in.'

'Unless you're me, of course.' This from Joy. Somehow, without AnnaLise noticing,
Sabatino had disappeared.

Like James Duende, entering the Sutherton Inn as a silent shadow.

'I said
buy
in,' Hart snapped. Then he apologetically addressed Daisy. 'I'm sorry. Family squabble.
You know how it is.'

'
Ex
-family,' Joy snarled.

'Family stays family. Forever.'

A life sentence. The way Hart said it made AnnaLise very glad she wasn't related to
him. And, despite Daisy and Mama's gossiping, she dearly hoped Bobby Bradenham wasn't
either.

AnnaLise had been very young when she first heard the term 'womanizer'. Her father
had been talking about Dickens Hart, and though AnnaLise hadn't known what the word
meant, she knew it wasn't a good thing to be. Growing up, AnnaLise had always kept
her distance.

'The subject of family reminds me,' Hart continued, turning to AnnaLise. 'I was going
to email you on your newspaper's website.'

'You were?' Granted, AnnaLise was a reporter, but on an urban daily newspaper nearly
eight hundred miles away. What possible good could she do Hart? 'Why?'

'I'd like to publish my memoirs. I've been piecing together notes and journal entries.
I'm looking for someone to help me with the project.'

'In what way?'

He looked puzzled. 'To collaborate. You know, in the writing of it.'

'You want me to collaborate on your autobiography? I'm a journalist not a... a book
author.' God help her, she'd almost said 'novelist'. But in truth, what better way
to blur the line between fact and fiction than for a journalist to help an egomaniac
twist his memoirs?

'I've read your work,' Hart persisted, looking her straight in the eye. 'And while
I've interviewed a couple of highly-recommended ghostwriters, I really need someone
who knows both the High Country and Sutherton's place in it. To make things simpler.'

And probably cheaper for him. Which meant that the best way to say 'no' would be to
quote a fee so high Hart would have to be an idiot to agree. Like a bluff bet in poker.

'Well, thank you for thinking of me,' AnnaLise said, glancing over at Daisy. 'I'm
afraid, though, that I'm very busy right now and I couldn't possibly take on something
of this magnitude for less than a hundred thousand, upfront, whether we're the only
ones who ever read it or not.'

Hart's mouth opened.

Better up the ante. 'And I'd want fifty-percent of any advances and royalties from
the publisher if the book is accepted, of course.'

'Umm...'

'Before agent commissions and my out-of-pocket expenses.'

'Uh...'

Raise him again. 'Plus, I'll work only on my own timetable. From Wisconsin.'

'But—'

Now call
his
bluff. 'And I'm not ghosting this, Dickens. I demand full collaborator's credit on
the jacket cover.'

'Done,' said Hart.

Shit, girl. You've negotiated yourself one hell of a deal. Or... the deal from hell.

'Whatever were you thinking?' mother asked daughter as they stood with Joy, watching
Dickens Hart walk away.

'I never imagined he'd go for it.' AnnaLise was torn between horror and elation. The
obvious horror was having to work with one of the most despised men in any valley.
But, a gig that, at minimum, would pay twice her annual salary? Which she could do
while still making her annual salary?

Wow.

And, as a bonus, if Hart truly had an interesting story, AnnaLise knew she really
was a gifted enough writer to...

'Why, you self-important asshole.'

'That's a little harsh, isn't it?' AnnaLise said to Joy. 'I just responded to what—'

'I was talking to Dickens. Or at least his back.' Joy gestured toward Hart, who was
nearly out of sight. 'The big shot can pay that kind of money to massage his ego —
which, by the way, is the biggest part of him. But I ask for space to open a spa and
a measly one-bedroom condo to live in above it and what does he say?'

AnnaLise and Daisy just looked at her.

'I'll tell you what he said. No. Flat out. Under the circumstances, he should be on
his knees thanking me for trying to inject some life into this place.'

'You expected him to just give the properties to you?' AnnaLise asked. Whatever Joy
thought of the memoir fee, at least AnnaLise was willing to work for it.

'Well, yeah.' Joy glared at her. 'What's wrong with that?'

AnnaLise raised her hands palms out. 'Nothing. Nothing at all.'

'You bet your ass there isn't. That man stole my youth!' She stomped away.

'Weren't they married only... about a year?' Daisy finally managed.

'Apparently, Joy's was a very short youth.' AnnaLise cocked her head and looked at
her mother. 'So did I just make an awful mistake with Dickens?'

'Probably. But it's an awful, well-paying mistake.' Daisy grinned. 'And who knows?
Maybe you can turn it into a best-seller.'

'I doubt that, but I'll know better after I go through his notes and journals. Maybe
beginning tomorrow.'

Now Joy came stomping back. 'And another—'

'Hello!'

Startled, AnnaLise, Daisy, and even Joy looked around for the source of the new voice.

'You see up.'

AnnaLise did. Ichiro Katou was waving from the second-story window she'd seen close.
Apparently, it was even quieter going up.

'Hello, Ichiro. Have you met my friend, Joy Tamarack?'

The limits of his window-frame confined him to a half-bow. 'A pleasure. I did not
mean to overdrop your earlier conversation.'

'It's either "overhear" or "eavesdrop",' AnnaLise said, trying to be helpful.

'Thank you,' accompanied by another little bow. 'It is good to know the correct way
for me to say these things.'

'Sure, sure,' Joy said before AnnaLise could respond, 'but you don't need to apologize
for listening.'

'Thank you,' Katou said again and hesitated. 'You mind I ask a question?'

'Shoot.'

The Japanese man looked nonplussed for a moment and then seemed to understand the
idiom. 'Oh, yes, I see. "Shoot", as in go forward.'

Joy nodded encouragingly. She, like Sheree and AnnaLise herself, seemed charmed by
him.

'You say to Mr. Hart that the water rises.' He spread his hands wide. 'Is it safe
here? Must I leave the island?'

AnnaLise looked at Daisy. 'Is the lake level up?'

'No,' her mother said, wrinkling her brow. 'In fact, it was an unusually dry August.
We've been worried about fires, not floods.'