The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala (23 page)

“Ready to go?” Hart asked, touching my shoulder.

“More than ready.”

Now, in the warmth of his kitchen, Hart informed me, “This is an old family tradition.” He ladled the batter onto the waffle iron. “I'm not sure where it started, but it was a postgame ritual and definitely an after-prom thing. After football games on Friday nights, me and a few buddies from the team would come over and Dad would make waffles. We'd eat two or three each, load up on milk or soda, and rehash each down. Or”—he grinned—“talk about girls. After prom, we'd bring our dates and a couple of friends over after the dance at midnight, and Dad would have the batter already made.”

A heavenly aroma was rising from the waffle iron. “That's a nice tradition,” I said. “The PTA sponsored an after-prom get-together at the high school here, with
lots of gift card giveaways and games and food. That's where everyone went. I like your folks' idea better.”

“I know they only started it to keep us from partying somewhere, or getting in cars with drunk friends, but I have to admit, I liked it, even if it was dorky.” Using a fork, he pried the first waffle from the iron, split it in two halves, and plated them. He slid a plate in front of me, and passed a tub of butter and bottle of syrup.

“Who'd you go to prom with?” I asked.

Ladling more batter onto the waffle maker, he got a reminiscent smile on his face. “Junior year, I went with my girlfriend, Isabella Chavez. We'd been dating for two months. She wore a mint green dress, one of the kind that are shorter in the front than in the back—?” He looked at me questioningly.

“Hi-low,” I supplied around a mouthful of waffle.

“I had a matching bow tie and cummerbund. Can you imagine me in mint green?” He laughed at the memory. “We had a great time, and she broke up with me the next day.” He shrugged.

“Bitch,” I said.

Hart laughed so hard he dribbled syrup across the counter. “That's exactly what my sister said, and exactly how she said it.” Still chuckling, he wiped up the syrup, picked up a quarter waffle, and took a big bite. His next words were muffled. “Senior year I went with Abby Delaney. She was one of my good friends, a real brainiac, went to college at RPI. We went out to dinner at Chick-fil-A beforehand, with a bunch of friends, and we all hung out together, dancing in a big pack, playing some air guitar.” He demonstrated by strumming the air. “When I got
up about one the next afternoon, my folks told me we ate forty-six waffles and six pounds of bacon.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said, mopping up the last of the syrup with a waffle chunk.

“How about you?” He freed the second waffle from the maker and looked a question at me. I shook my head; I was full. Switching off the appliance, he came to sit beside me.

“I went with my boyfriend, Doug, both years,” I said. “We started dating as sophomores. It took a lot of the angst out of the prom thing, not having to wonder if I'd have a date. The first year, he asked me over the PA system during the morning announcements.” I still flushed at the memory—it had been so embarrassing, but in a good way. “I always thought prom itself was kind of a letdown, that the real fun was getting ready with Brooke and another friend or two, painting our nails, doing each other's makeup, dress shopping together.”

“Yeah, that's what guys like best about prom, too,” Hart said mock-seriously. “Bonding while we pick out corsages together.”

I slapped at him. “Don't make fun of my sacred high school rituals.”

He stood, drew me off the stool, and put his arms around me. “I wouldn't dare.” He kissed me. It started out light, but got more intense very quickly. I felt drugged with passion by the time he lifted his lips a millimeter from mine, said, “We can clean up in the morning,” and walked me backward toward his bedroom, kissing me the whole way.

I
slipped out of Hart's condo early the next morning, taking half a cold waffle from the plate in the kitchen. Hart volunteered to make hot ones, but I was running late for church, and feeling guilty that I'd skipped last week's service, so I told him I'd take a rain check, kissed him, and left. I stopped at my bungalow to change out of last night's black dress, and scooted onto the pew beside my mother at St. Luke's Lutheran four seconds before the organist launched into the intro for the opening hymn. Mom smiled and patted my hand before turning her attention to the service. I sat there, letting the familiar rhythms of the liturgy wash over me, alternately tuning into the sermon and reliving parts of last night. A happy haze enveloped me. I managed to be present mentally while taking Communion and during the final prayer.

After the service, I drifted into the parish hall with my folks for coffee, cookies, and socializing. When I was younger, the church used to have donuts during the coffee hour, but I guess budget cutbacks had led to the less-enticing store-bought cookies. I took one anyway and nibbled it. There were probably forty people hanging around, and I spotted a couple who'd been at
last night's party, the pastor (who had been three years ahead of me in high school and whom Lola had gone out with a few times), and Cletis Perry, getting around better with his crutches. I waved when our gazes met and he winked at me.

“How's it going at the pub?” I asked Mom. Dad had hugged me and then beelined for his cronies, and was deep into a conversation that revolved around great poker hands, huge fish landed, or amazing golf shots. A mathematician by day, he was one of the guys in his off time, as capable of discussing lures and club lofts as he was of explaining theorems and formulas. A caftanlike garment swathed Mom's bulk, its stand-up mandarin collar lost in the folds of her multiple chins. Its royal blue color was dramatic against her pale magnolia-petal complexion, the envy of every woman north of forty in the entire town. Her naturally curly hair was pinned up, as usual for church. Sheena at Sheena's Hair Jungle was responsible for dyeing it back to its original chestnut every month or so. Her eyes were hazel, like mine, and she had a wide mouth slicked with a coral lipstick. I had fond memories of helping her pick out lipstick at the drugstore when I was younger. She'd always gone for bright colors, saying a smile was one's best accessory.

Mom shifted from foot to foot. I knew her feet had been bothering her lately and wondered if Dad had talked her into a doctor's appointment like he'd promised. Her face lit up. “I am having more fun at the pub, Amy-Faye, than I've had in years. Even though I'm sorry for Derek that Gordon's death made things so
difficult financially, I can't help but be glad. Working at Elysium has been just what I needed. I hadn't realized how much I missed the library since I retired, how much I missed
people
. It has cut down on my reading time and the number of reviews I can do, but it's been worth it.”

Mom was always a voracious reader, but since retiring from the library, she'd taken to reading a dozen or more books a week and posting reviews online.

“Well, you and Dad have saved Derek's bacon. I hope he appreciates it.” Long history with my brother suggested that he would take it for granted. I didn't know if that level of ingratitude was standard for youngest kids, but I suspected Derek took his sense of entitlement to new heights. I'd filled in as temp bartender for him on numerous occasions, and he never even said thanks, unless I counted the occasional free beer or bison burger as “Thank you, sister dear, for saving my ass by playing bar wench when my flaky employees don't show up.”

Mom smiled, not one whit disturbed. “I know he appreciates it,” she said comfortably. “He might not express it, but I know he's glad to have your dad and me taking care of the books and the day-to-day management. He likes being left alone to get creative with his brewing.” She chuckled, the sound almost lost in the rising hubbub of conversations around us.

“Well, I'm grateful to you,” I said, kissing her cheek. “I've got a lot of money invested in Elysium, and it's nice to know it's not going down the drain.”

She waved to an acquaintance, and then asked, “What are you and the gals reading this month?”

“We read
Rebecca
.”

“Du Maurier was a genius,” Mom said, “a genius. I was always sorry she didn't write more books. I loved the way she made Manderley come to life, made it a character in the novel. It was grand and unsettling all at the same time. Were you glad or sorry when it burned at the end?”

I hadn't thought about it. “Glad, I think. It gave the unnamed wife and de Winter a chance to start over, to make a life without the shadow of Rebecca flitting around.” I raised my arms and wiggled my fingers, making like a ghost.

“I felt the same way. My feet hurt—I'm going to sit down. Would you mind getting me more coffee if you're getting a refill?” Taking my agreement for granted, she began a slow shuffle toward the handful of chairs set up near the wall.

I wasn't planning on more coffee, but I was happy to take my mom's foam cup and refill it at the coffee urn, chatting with acquaintances while I stirred in the two packets of sugar she insisted on. When I crossed the room to where she now sat, I found her laughing at something Cletis Perry had said. He sat in a folding chair drawn up near hers, his crutches resting against the wall.

“How are you doing, Cletis?” I asked, handing Mom the steaming cup. She took it with a “Thank you,” and began chatting with old Mrs. Chintala, who had
doddered over, clutching her old-fashioned purse between both hands as if afraid a mugger would leap out from a poster advertising the past summer's Vacation Bible School.

“I'll be running marathons as fast as I ever did in another week or two,” Cletis said, slapping the cast lightly.

“I didn't know you ran marathons,” I said, surprised and impressed.

“I don't.” He let loose a laugh that made everyone within earshot smile. “So, I'll be as fast as I ever was.”

I smiled. “Got a lot of work on your plate? I might have another event in mid-October for you. The Chamber of Commerce is trying to settle on a date for a ‘slave auction' fund-raiser where people bid on the Chamber's members and put them to work cleaning their houses or fertilizing their yards—whatever chores they need done.”

“Is that right?” Cletis looked thoughtful. “I'll have to buy Big Al Farraday and put him to work mucking out my goat pens. That'll teach him. Give me a call at the office and I'll check my calendar.”

I didn't know why Big Al needed “teaching,” and I didn't pursue it. I was about to make my excuses and leave when Cletis asked, “Did you ever find out who played that trick on that writer fellow?”

I wrinkled my brow, unsure what he meant.

“You know,” he said impatiently, in response to my confusion, “that guy whose manuscript ended up on the sale table at the auction for the gothic shindig, the
one that lady with the hat bought.” He bunched his fingers over his head, as if to indicate the flowers on Francesca Bugle's hat.

“Ah,” I said, enlightenment dawning. “That was her own manuscript. We never did figure out who mixed it in with the sale items.”

He shook his head, wispy yellow-white hair dancing. “No, it was a guy, a Frank something.” He concentrated for a moment and then jerked his head up. “Bugg,” he said. “I knew it would come to me. I'm not ready for the Alzheimer's ward yet. Bugg. Frank Bugg. It said, ‘Shades of Passion,' and on the next line, ‘by Frank Bugg.'” He nodded his sharp chin triumphantly.

I didn't insult him by asking if he was sure. I didn't know what to say. I stood still as a fence post, trying to understand the ramifications. Cletis's wife came over, greeted me, handed her husband his crutches, and told him it was time to head for brunch at their daughter Annie's. My mom's voice came from far away.

“Are you okay, Amy-Faye?”

I looked down into her concerned eyes. “Fine, Mom. Well, maybe a little tired. It's been a couple of late nights in a row.” I didn't explain that my lack of sleep had more to do with Hart than with events. Thinking about it warmed my cheeks and I smiled through my worry.

“LuAnn Sealander told me about what Jeffrey Hovey did to Jan last night,” she said, making a
tsk
ing noise. “He should be ashamed of himself. LuAnn said it was a lovely party, right up until Jeffrey went off the deep
end. LuAnn said he dove right into his midlife crisis like a hog into muck. You won't have any trouble getting paid, will you?”

Trust Mom to home in on the important stuff. Maybe if she got tired of drawing beers at the pub, she'd come work for me. She could do my billing and collecting, the part of the business I liked least. “I'll handle it,” I said. “Look, Mom, I've got to run. Say bye to Dad for me, okay?” Not giving her a chance to ask more questions, I kissed her cheek and took off across the room.

I wasn't sure where I was going at first. Too many ideas were swimming around in my head, colliding and then separating. Francesca had clearly claimed the auction manuscript as her own. She'd almost had a seizure when Cletis started to read out the author's name, I remembered now. Frank Bugg. Who the heck was he? The name was too similar to “Francesca Bugle” to be a coincidence. I wanted to talk to Lola, try to sort it out, but I knew she'd be at church. Ditto for Brooke, who dutifully accompanied her husband and in-laws to the late service at an Episcopal church in Grand Junction. Troy Sr. had had a falling-out with the priest at St. Joseph's Episcopal here in Heaven and made the switch to the Grand Junction church six or seven years ago. Maud had mentioned an early-morning fishing trip and I didn't think she'd be back yet. That left Kerry. I phoned her from the van and got an immediate, “Come on over.”

I pulled up in front of Kerry's place ten minutes later. It was a ramshackle two-story gabled house she'd inherited from her parents. To hear her tell it, her entire
mayoral salary went to maintaining the place, to “bubble gum and baling wire,” as she put it. She and her son, Roman, were in the front yard, raking up the leaves deposited by yesterday's winds. Roman had on headphones and was swaying to a beat as he raked near the house. Wearing ratty sweats and work gloves, with a kerchief securing her short hair, Kerry met me at the curb and thrust a forty-gallon yard bag into my hands.

“You hold—I'll rake. I think this is the last of them.” She gestured upward at the two cottonwood trees, one oak, and two aspens that sat on her property. Blue sky showed through their mostly bare limbs. “I swear I'm going to chop them down one of these days.”

I took that with a grain of salt. Kerry said the same thing every fall, and changed her mind every spring when the trees leafed out and provided gorgeous shade for her house and yard all summer. She tromped across the yard to a large pile of crisp leaves. I dutifully held the mouth of the bag open as she stuffed leaves in. While we worked, I told her about what Cletis had said, and also filled her in on finding the duct tape on the tank lid last night. She listened, her brow slightly corrugated.

When I'd finished, she said, “Well, I think we can say that Francesca Bugle is at the center of this whole mess, one way or another. I mean, Frank Bugg? C'mon, there's got to be a tie to Francesca Bugle. And the way she bid for that manuscript—what, five thousand bucks?—she was desperate to keep anyone else from getting their hands on it. And I don't care what she said
about her publisher being pissed if the manuscript got out. That kind of money means something bigger is at stake.”

“Like a whole writing career,” I said, straightening and arching my back. I put a foot into the bag and compacted the leaves. They crackled. Kerry heaved more leaves in, trapping them against the tines of the rake, and angling the rake into the bag. Half her load dribbled back onto the grass, and individual leaves, goosed by the breeze, spun up and away, making a bid for freedom.

“Drat,” she said. She picked the leaves up in fistfuls and stuffed them in the bag. When she was done, I pulled the plastic drawstring closed and knotted it.

“I did an Internet search on the name before coming over here,” I said, “but I got four hundred seventy thousand hits. Who'da thunk there were that many Frank Buggs running around? Without more info, there's no way to tell which one is the one we want.”

“I know a foolproof way to find out who he is,” Kerry said, planting the rake's handle firmly on the ground, and setting the other hand on her hip.

“How?”

“Ask Francesca Bugle about him.”

I chewed on my lower lip. “Or we could tell Hart—the police—and let them look into it.”

“Like the police are going to be interested in hearing that Cletis Perry thinks he saw the name Frank Bugg on a manuscript that Francesca Bugle bought. Even if they believe what he says, where's the crime? Where's the tie-in to the Van Allen case? Nowhere, that's where.
Face it: Chances are, there isn't a connection. The whole Frank Bugg thing will turn out to be unrelated.” Kerry shrugged in a “there you have it” way.

She made a lot of sense. “Okay,” I said, convinced. “Let's do it. We'd better hurry—they're all probably checking out of the inn as we speak.”

“I can't go looking like this,” Kerry said, gesturing to her dirty, leaf-speckled attire. “Give me ten to shower and change.”

“I'll meet you at the Columbine,” I said, anxious to catch Francesca before she headed home. I had a feeling that once all the suspects left Heaven, the chances of solving the Van Allen murder would plummet dramatically. Someone would get away with murder and, having gotten away with it once, might kill again when it seemed like a solution to his or her problems. Waving good-bye to Roman, even though I'm not sure he'd ever noticed my presence, I returned to the van and headed for the B and B.