Case of Imagination (2 page)

“It’s okay,” Jerry said. “I didn’t really know him. I’m here to see about the house.” He handed the man the money for the gas.

The man gave him his change. “Not planning to live in it, are you?”

“Probably not.”

“Yeah, well, sorry about the crack. He was a nice old guy, really, just, you know, weird. Had a great old car, though, a 1957 Chevy. Thing ran like a dream.”

Another car rolled in, and the man went to speak with the driver.

Jerry got in the car. “Did you see how he reacted?”

“Yes, this is just peachy,” I said. “A pageant
and
a nutty uncle.”

By the time Jerry found the law office and parked in the small lot under a tree, people were gathering along both sides of the street.

“We might get to see the parade,” he said.

“I can’t think of anything more exciting.”

I waited by the car while he went inside to sign some papers and get the key to the house. The crowd was an odd combination. There were grubby-looking families: skinny, untidy dads in overalls and caps, overweight, stringy-haired moms in stained sweat clothes, and pale, skinny, barefooted children. Then there were young upscale families: dads in expensive khakis and golf shirts, moms in designer jeans and gold jewelry, and children in name-brand tee shirts and sneakers. I know lots of people live in Celosia and commute to Parkland, so there’s plenty of money in this little town. From the size of these families, Celosia was obviously a good place to raise children. This thought was even more depressing than the droopy cows. Bill and I had fought about children practically our whole marriage.

Jerry came out, holding up a large key. We were getting in the car when the strangled sounds of a high-school band made us stop, and to Jerry’s delight the parade came staggering up the street.

“I’ve got to see this, Mac.”

We found a spot and watched. Clowns tried handstands and cartwheels. Horses snorted and shook their heads. A group of young women in sparkly gowns rode by in convertibles. The signs on the cars read: “Miss Tri-County,” “Miss Little Acres,” and “Miss Peace Haven.” A bright red Corvette drove by, carrying a stunning brunette in white. The handmade sign on the side of the Corvette read “Miss Celosia High.” She was slender and regal with dark eyes set in a heart-shaped face.

The nearest native was a stout man in overalls and a cap with a picture of a fish. Jerry asked him about the brunette.

“Juliet Lovelace,” the man answered. “Pretty little thing, ain’t she?”

“Outstanding.” Jerry watched admiringly as she rearranged the folds of her sparkly gown and shook back her long dark hair. “When’s the pageant?”

The man eyed him, and then let his gaze travel up to my face. “New in town, ain’t ya. The pageant’s run by Evan James. Runs it every year, and every year, it’s the first Saturday night in July, Baker Auditorium.”

“Thanks.”

Juliet Lovelace smiled an especially big smile at Jerry.

“Whew,” he said. “Do you think she’s more than eighteen?”

I shook my head. “Dream on, junior. ‘Miss Celosia High,’ as in high school.”

“She is gorgeous.”

I pulled Jerry away. “I don’t think you need to be ogling the teenaged girls, Mr. New in Town and Likely to Be Run Out on a Rail.”

“No harm in looking, is there?”

“What about Olivia?”

“Oh.” He grimaced. “That’s over.”

I couldn’t believe the feeling of relief that swept over me. “Why? I thought you two were an item.”

“An item on the marked-down sales table. She’s after me to get my money back. That’s all she talks about.”

“Well, I’d like you to get your money back, too. Then you could give it to me.”

“I don’t want any of the family money. I think I’ve made that clear.”

“And you have your super secret reasons—unless you’ve told Olivia.”

“No. That’s another reason she’s mad at me.”

Movement caught my eye. I had to look twice to believe what I saw. “Jerry, are those protest signs?”

He looked. “Who would protest a parade?”

“I’m going to check it out.”

A group of three women and one man had gathered beside a large oak tree at the corner. All four carried pieces of bright yellow poster board with black letters. When I got closer, I read the signs and had my second moment of disbelief.

“Pageants Unfair To Women,” one read. Another read, “We Are Not Hunks of Meat.” The group stood tight-lipped and stony-faced while the crowd made a wide circle around them. Several people made unkind remarks or hustled their children past, glaring.

One of the upscale moms paused to scowl at the one man in the group. “Is there some reason you have to ruin everything? If you don’t like pageants, you don’t have to go.”

“It’s a free country,” the man said. He was tall and good-looking, with dark hair and dark eyes.

She shook her finger at him. “Ted Stacy, you are not setting a good example.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Marsh, but I’m doing exactly that,” he said. “I’m exercising my rights as a citizen of the United States to speak my mind about an outdated custom that degrades all women, yourself included.”

“Well, I think you’re being ridiculous.”

“Since you were a former Miss Celosia High, I’m not surprised to hear you say that.”

She turned and left, her back rigid with disapproval. Ted Stacy smiled at me. “Welcome to Celosia. Ted Stacy, protester.”

“Madeline Maclin, private investigator.”

His smile widened. “Really? Evan will be glad to hear that. Celosia doesn’t have any private investigators, and he needs one. He thinks we’re sabotaging his silly pageant.”

“Sabotaging?”

“You might want to talk to him. Evan James. He runs the pageant every year. There’s been trouble at the auditorium lately.”

“But we’re not responsible,” one of the woman protesters said.

Ted Stacy said, “We just want to make people think, although it’s an uphill battle in this town.”

“I’m Samantha Terrell,” the woman said. “Are you new to Celosia, or just in town for the parade?”

“My friend and I came to check on some property he inherited,” I said. “Val Eberlin’s old house.”

All four protesters looked surprised. “Is your friend related to Val Eberlin?” Samantha Terrell asked.

“His nephew. ”

“Well, old Val was quite a character,” Ted said. “You’ll hear all sorts of stories about him.”

“What happened to him?”

“Heart attack. The mailman found him on the floor.”

“Ted, we need to go,” the other woman said.

He smiled at me. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Maclin.”

I walked back to Jerry, who was waving at the other beauty queens. We stood and watched the parade until it was all the way up Main Street. The bands made up for their lack of tunefulness with a lot of rhythm, the flag team’s snappy routine, and the vigorous drum beat. The clowns threw candy to the children. The beauty queens smiled and waved.

“Did you check out the main protester?” Jerry asked.

“Ted Stacy. He said your uncle was quite a character and died of a heart attack at home.”

“Maybe I can get in touch with him in the house.”

I don’t know where he gets these ideas. “Will you stop talking like you can actually do stuff like that?”

“But wouldn’t it be neat?”

“Let’s take care of business so I can get home.”

So we drove out to find Jerry’s inheritance.

Jerry squinted at the faded road signs. “Mason said the house is just a little ways outside of town.”

“Did he say what the house is worth?”

“Just that it was old and needed repair. He was more interested in whether or not I was going to stay.”

“So am I.”

“It might be nice.”

Since the word “stay” is rarely in Jerry’s vocabulary, I wondered what was going on. “Are you on the run from the local authorities?”

“Just the CIA.”

Why did I think I’d ever get a straight answer? I glanced at the yellow fields bordered by tall wildflowers. A rail fence wandered haphazardly along one side of the road. On the other side, more cows stared blankly from green pastures. When I saw the large two-story gray farmhouse in the middle of an unkempt meadow, I knew it must be the Eberlin house.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” Jerry said.

“We’re still far away.”

“No, it’s all right.” He stopped the car to read “Eberlin” on the dented mailbox, then drove up the winding dirt driveway to park under one of the large shade trees spaced evenly around the house.

I got out and stood beside Jerry to take our first good look at the Eberlin house. If it wasn’t haunted, it should have been. It looked dirty, drafty, and full of rats. I’d be sneezing all afternoon, and Jerry would be seeing Lord knows what in all the shadows. A few of the windows were broken, a few shutters hung crookedly. The wide front porch sagged. Several wooden rocking chairs were propped upside down against the porch wall.

But Jerry seemed pleased. “You know, a paint job, a few repairs, this place could be really nice.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

We went up the uneven steps. Jerry unlocked the front door. It swung open quietly at his touch; no squeaking monster-movie sounds. We stepped inside.

The house was cool and hushed. Sunlight and leaf patterns danced on the walls. A few silver cobwebs stretched in the corners of the tall windows and trembled in the breeze from the open door. Victorian-style furniture, dark, carved wooden chairs, and a sofa with gray cushions filled the large living room. The worn gray carpet had a pattern of faded pink roses and green leaves.

I tried the light switch. The power was still on. “Not bad, if you like gray. Nice marble fireplace. Furniture from the Plymouth Rock Collection. Might be worth something.”

Jerry started up the flight of dusty stairs. “Be careful. There’re a couple of loose boards here.”

Upstairs, we found five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a parlor. One of the bedrooms obviously belonged to Val Eberlin. The large four-poster bed had cream-colored sheets and blankets. Resting on the bureau was a silver comb and brush, a handful of change, a handkerchief, and a framed picture too faded for Jerry to recognize any of the people. The bedroom smelled musty. Eberlin’s clothes hung neatly in the closet: white shirts, brown slacks, brown sweaters, and a heavy coat of beige tweed. Three pairs of brown shoes were on the closet floor, plus a walking stick and an umbrella. No other clues gave any idea what kind of man Jerry’s uncle might have been. There were no pictures on the walls, no books, no souvenirs or knickknacks.

The other bedrooms were even more featureless: beds, chairs, rugs, curtains, lamps. That was it. In the bathrooms, we found towels, soap, toilet paper, and scrubbing brushes. In the parlor was another set of Victorian furniture with light green upholstery, a marble-topped table with a fancy green lamp, light green draperies, an old phonograph, and a bookshelf with leatherbound editions of classics like
The Count of Monte Cristo
and
Tom Sawyer
.

“Doesn’t tell us a whole lot,” I said.

“Maybe he stored things in the attic.”

“Like an insane wife?”

He gave me a look and went up the smaller flight of stairs leading from the landing. He tried the attic door, but it was locked and the key didn’t fit.

“Can’t you pick the lock?” I asked.

“I’m out of practice.”

“Didn’t you and Jeff have some sort of daring escape act?” During our college days, Jerry and his friend Jeff West had tried several paranormal schemes, each one ridiculous. They’d also tried magic acts, usually making money disappear from people’s pockets.

“I’d need my special keys.” He dusted his hands. “Guess we save that for later.”

“Seen enough?”

“I like it.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Let’s check out the kitchen.”

The kitchen was downstairs at the back of the house. It was large and complete with modern appliances. I sat down in one of the sturdy white wooden chairs at the matching table. “I thought we might be cooking over a wood stove.”

Jerry checked the refrigerator, which was empty, and the cabinets, where he discovered some blue and white dishes. Then he stood for a moment, looking at the full view of the meadow from a row of wide windows with white draperies. He frowned.

“I wonder what he did. There’s no TV, no sign of any hobby, no magazines. From the looks of the meadow, he wasn’t a farmer.”

“Maybe he traveled a lot. Maybe he wasn’t home much.”

“Maybe,” Jerry said. He came to the table and sat down. He had an odd, preoccupied look that meant he was actually doing some serious thinking.

I wondered if he was considering staying in the house, if he might finally want to settle down. “What’s on your mind?”

“I don’t know. Something about the way the light’s coming in.”

“So do you have that special ‘feeling’?”