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Authors: Emilie Richards

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BOOK: A Lie for a Lie
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Lucy was rearranging flowers in the dining room, and she glanced up. “Three stinky stargazers and half a dozen tiger lilies, which don’t smell, but who am I to make those decisions? I took them all outside and trashed them so even the garbage is lily free.”
“You’re a saint. Are there Jewish saints?”
“Try the apostles. Last I heard they were Jewish.”
“Ed would have remembered that. Or Sister Nora.”
In the weeks since I watched the circus arrive, I’d only heard wild, unsubstantiated rumors about Sister Nora. Lucy hadn’t been around to discuss what she knew, and I hadn’t had time to follow up. I’d been too busy making certain the Emerald Springs Hotel stocks Grady Barber’s bathroom with Renova toilet paper—which costs the moon and comes in three bright colors and black, which, for reasons I prefer not to think about, was Grady’s hue of choice.
I paused. Now was not the time to dig for info, but I couldn’t help myself. “How is she, by the way?”
“Despite all the committees forming to evict her and her band of merry men?”
“More likely evict the lions and tigers.”
“Those, especially. She’s fine, under the circumstances.”
I wondered which circumstances Lucy meant. Hostile townspeople, a flurry of media interest, or lightning bolts from above? Or maybe just the diminishing ozone layer.
“She’s really managing okay? She’s getting through this? I hear there have been picketers along with CNN.”
“For a God-fearing town that prides itself on the Constitution and family values, there are a lot of people upset she’s bringing a different spin on religion.”
“Is it true she’s working her revelations about global warming around lion taming and death-defying feats on the tightrope? That could distract.”
“I haven’t been to a revival meeting. It’s not exactly my style.”
I lowered my voice. “Veronica’s furious. She says the tent show is distracting people from the Idyll.”
“She’s furious because my realty sold Sister Nora the farm and her husband’s didn’t.”
I wanted to continue, but the clock was ticking. “I have to check with the string quartet. I’m told Grady doesn’t like Bach, Beethoven, or Brahms.”
“This time you’re joking.”
I punched her lightly on the arm. “I just want to be sure they know to time their breaks with Veronica’s announcements.”
“I’ll be wherever the olives are.”
When I found the musicians they were gaping at petite, blonde Camille Beauregard, the only member of our illustrious committee besides Sally who I’ve developed any fondness for. Camille has a sense of humor, a sharp tongue, and a mania for staying fit. She and her surgeon husband begin each morning with an hour of aerobic exercise, and that’s her warm-up. Tonight her arms, in a sleeveless lamé cocktail dress, rippled with muscle as she single-handedly heaved chairs and music stands into a niche beside the sofa and across from the Steinway grand. The wide-eyed musicians were clutching their instruments, as if they were afraid they might be next.
“Veronica wants them out of traffic,” she explained as she heaved and tossed.
I picked up a chair and dragged it to the newly assigned place, ignoring the musicians the way she had. “Did you ask for their schedule so Veronica can work around it?”
“Veronica, work around something?” She laughed and flung the last chair into place. “They’ve promised to stop playing on cue. They know the score.” She laughed again. “Get it? Know the score. Save me from myself, Aggie. The freaking party hasn’t even started.”
“There’s no hope for any of us.” I left as she lifted the sofa with one hand and smoothed the Persian carpet under it with the other.
Guests began to arrive at the stroke of eight. By then Lucy, Camille, and I were safely ensconced in a corner, me with a really good cabernet, Lucy and Camille with mixed drinks. Lucy was drinking a redheaded slut, and when she asked for it, I thought she was just introducing herself to the bartender, who was at least ten years too young. I’d been all prepared to have a frank talk about self-esteem and steer her toward someone more suitable. I still had my eyes open.
“Deena really would have hated this,” Lucy said.
I tried to imagine my daughter with all the well-dressed and well-heeled people sifting into the room. The arrivals were laughing self-consciously and looking for places to hide out or be seen, depending on personality type. Deena would have bolted for the door.
I didn’t conjure my daughter, but another familiar teenager walked into the room.
“Madison Sargent.” I set my glass on the table beside me. “Is she a finalist?” Since Madison’s only sixteen, I was certain she wasn’t one of the big givers.
“She is. You know her?” Camille, in charge of the first round of tryouts, had been forced to hear every single act. She’d survived only because she’s in such superior physical condition.
“She and her mother go to our church,” I said. “What did she do? Sing? Dance?”
“Sing. She was a big hit.”
I knew this didn’t count for much, since the Price Girls had been a hit, as well. In fact from what I could tell, any act without an animal, trampoline, or stilts had been a hit.
“Will you hover over my wine? I’m going to say hi to her.” I wound my way across the room and reached Madison just as her mother, Tammy, joined us.
The Sargents look more like sisters than mother and daughter. Tammy was a teenager when Madison was born, and Madison’s father has apparently never been in the picture. Both women are tall and willowy, with dark blond hair. Tammy’s is cut in layers to her shoulders and Madison’s falls straight down to her shoulder blades, but they have the same smoky green eyes. Tammy helps out with the church youth group, although Ed has always been careful to have other parents helping as well. Ed’s afraid Tammy is more inclined to be one of the gang than to help the gang make responsible, mature choices.
I greeted them. “I hear you made the finals, Madison. Congratulations.”
Madison looked pleased. “It’s really exciting. And it’s so cool to be here.”
I couldn’t help but be excited for her. Madison’s eyes shone, and clearly she was impressed with Veronica’s house. If we could make the Idyll fun for the contestants and the audience, the whole hullabaloo might be worth it.
“Madison wants to meet Grady Barber.” Tammy has a low, sultry voice, and she uses it to great advantage. I wondered if she had ever yearned for time on the stage herself.
I glanced at my watch. “He’s not here yet, but if everything goes the way it’s supposed to, he should be here pretty soon.”
I looked back up to see Veronica signaling me from the doorway.
“I’ve got to take care of some details, but I hope you enjoy yourself.” I smiled my way past them and headed for Veronica, not even taking the brief detour to my wineglass, although I regretted that when I saw a server scoop it off the table and carry it away before Lucy could tackle him.
“Fred just arrived,” Veronica said when I reached her. “He’s frantic, and he’s asking for you.”
I wondered if I could slip out through the kitchen, intercept Ed, and take him up on his offer of a night in paradise. I’d had enough phone calls with Grady’s assistant to know that he took things personally. “Where?”
A minute later I found Fred Handlemann pacing back and forth in Farley Hayworth’s country squire study. The room was one stuffed pheasant short of Balmoral Castle.
“Aggie Sloan-Wilcox,” I said, holding out my hand. Fred’s hand was soft in mine, but then, everything about Fred looked soft. He wasn’t overweight, but I could swear somebody had injected him with an extra layer of fat. I flashed on the Pillsbury Doughboy and knew that at every subsequent meeting, I would have to fight an impulse not to poke him to see how fast his flesh rebounded. Or to make him giggle. Clearly he needed a good giggle now. He looked distraught.
“Please tell me there’s no new crisis,” I said.
Fred was halfway to being bald, and he rubbed his head as if it were a powerful totem. Then he adjusted thick, tinted glasses and rubbed his head once more. He might as well have worn a blinking neon sign advertising stress for sale.
“You’ve done just the best job here. The best.” Head rub, glasses readjusted. He managed a sickly smile. “But Grady isn’t quite happy with his room.”
How many ways could I tell Grady to carefully place his head where the sun never shines? I guess that particular pleasure was eliminated the day I married a seminary student, but I’m ashamed to say the urge still resides deep inside me.
Instead I sounded pleasant, even friendly. “So, what’s the problem? Shall we ask the management to dynamite the hotel and start over?”
“The elevator’s too slow.”
“There are stairs. Can we tell him walking up one flight is better than a gym?”
“The stairs are on the opposite end of the hallway from his room.”
“How lucky he is that he’ll get even more exercise.”
“I guess you’re saying there is no hope of moving him?”
“It’s the nicest suite in the building, Fred. Warren Harding slept there.”
“Warren Harding was a crook and a loser.”
“And your point would be?”
This smile was real, and he was instantly transformed into someone far more appealing.
“We can move him,” I said, “but he’ll like the alternative even less. Stick with this. It’s the best we can do.”
“The fluorescent bulb over the bathroom mirror washes the color from his cheeks.”
“He does know it’s not permanent, right? That when he steps out of the bathroom, voila, color’s back?” I saw Fred’s smile fading. “I’ll go to the hardware store and get a full-spectrum bulb to replace it tomorrow. Will that help?”
He looked relieved. “Immeasurably.”
“There’s just nothing in the whole wide world we wouldn’t do for Grady Barber.”
“I can imagine a few things you’d like to do.” He lowered his voice. “He’s not usually this bad, Aggie. Something about coming home, I guess. Bear with him, okay?”
“I can if you can.”
We stepped out of the study and passed into the entry-way. Winona was just answering the door, and our mayor, Brownie Kefauver, and our chief of police, Grayson Adams, stepped in. Brownie’s eyes widened when he caught sight of me. Unfortunately Brownie’s wife, Hazel, dropped dead at my feet last spring, and he begged me to find her murderer. Now that the killer is old news, Brownie doesn’t like our encounters, since I’m a reminder that for a brief moment in his life, he was a murder suspect himself.
Knowing this, I made a point of saying hello and extending my hand. The police chief and I have never been formally introduced, but I’m well acquainted with one of his detectives, Kirkor Roussos. As Brownie had no choice but to shake, Adams, who is as tall and muscular as Brownie is short and puny, held out his hand and pumped mine, too.
“Nice to see you again,” he said. “How’s the family?”
I suspected I could make up sextuplets and a husband who had abandoned me. The chief wouldn’t know the difference. But I just smiled and said, “Fine, thanks for asking.”
A noise behind us cut short this fascinating exchange. A man was trying to push past Winona, who had her arms out to each side gripping the doorframe.
The chief whirled and advanced, a maneuver so deftly done it would have won him a boost to the next round in the Idyll. “What’s going on?”
Since the man was still pushing, Winona grunted most of her answer.
“He . . . doesn’t have an invitation!”
“Hey, stop that right now.” The chief whipped out his badge and flashed it. “If she says you can’t come in, you can’t come in. Got it?”
I had a quick impression of a man my age or perhaps a bit older, dark haired, ordinary enough. His eyes flicked to the badge, then he stepped back. I could hear Winona’s
whoosh
of relief.
Adams took another step forward and blocked most of my view. “Just what are you doing here?”
The man in the doorway stepped back to the edge of the porch and was lost to me, except for his voice. “I forgot my invitation. I tried to tell her.”
“If I were you, I’d go home and get it. If you can’t find it, don’t come back. If you
do
find it, don’t come back. If we have to escort you off the property, we will.”
“I’m going.”
Apparently he did, because the chief relaxed and turned back to us.
“That happens a lot,” Fred said from behind me. “Party crashers who want to meet Grady face-to-face.”
I glanced at him, but if it did happen a lot, Fred still wasn’t used to it. He looked even more worried than he had at the start of our conversation.
I didn’t have time to consider this. Several members of the church were approaching, including Sally and Dolly—who had gotten me into this mess—so I stayed in the hallway and somehow managed not to throttle the life out of them. Before I could head back to get more wine, I saw Ed in another group coming up the walkway. Once he was inside I snatched him by his jacket sleeve and led him where all the fun was supposed to be happening.
“Great tie,” I said. “Eat anything you want, it’s all vegetarian. Eat all the stuffed mushrooms because Grady can’t, and they look scrumptious. Oh, after we sneak out of here, I have to go to the hardware store to buy him a grow light.”
“Why? Is he going to raise vegetables at the hotel?”
I explained about full-spectrum bulbs, how much better they were for plants as well as for narcissistic actors who needed constant affirmation.
Then I continued. “A guy tried to sneak in; Grady’s upset that the Emerald Springs Hotel elevators are slow—”
“He’s on the second floor.”
“He’s too important for those extra seconds.”
He closed his eyes. “Is there a bar?”
“You have a two-drink maximum. No matter what else Grady does, remember that.”
We were in a long line to get more of the luscious cabernet, when there was a stir at the door. A dumpy-looking woman in a flowing lavender caftan swept into the room, smiling and nodding at the assembled dignitaries. I recognized her as the accompanist who had played for the first round of tryouts, although I couldn’t remember her name. She made her way to the piano and sat. Somebody had silenced the quartet, who were now scurrying to join us at the bar. The room fell silent, too. The woman lifted her hands, and waved them ceremoniously. Then she played a few graceful arpeggios to get the attention of the few groups that hadn’t caught on.
BOOK: A Lie for a Lie
4.78Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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