The Most Famous Illegal Goose Creek Parade (4 page)

Chapter Three

A
h, Saturday! Al stood on the back deck gazing out over his orderly lawn and lifted his coffee mug in a salute to the day. In just over three years he would join the ranks of the retired, and every day would be Saturday.

Except Sundays, of course. Retirement would not alter their Sunday routine. He would still rise at the leisurely hour of seven-thirty, spread the
Herald Leader
across the kitchen table to peruse while he sipped coffee and enjoyed the cozy sound of Millie's humming—hymns on Sundays, of course—while she whipped up a breakfast of their pre-church standard, banana bran muffins and egg white omelets.

And Tuesdays in retirement would not be Saturdays either. The men at Woodview Community Church got together for breakfast on Tuesdays, and he intended to join them once his Tuesdays were free. Oh, and Thursdays wouldn't be Saturdays either, because—

Mercy! How his thoughts did ramble. He must be getting old.

A movement drew his attention to the corner of the yard. A red-breasted robin fluttered to a landing atop a whitewashed wooden fencepost. Clutched in its beak was a long piece of dried grass. It cocked its head to fix Al with an ebony stare and then launched into the branches of the ornamental crabapple in the center of his yard. Al's spirits rose even higher. The robins returning to the Goose Creek valley, and to his yard, were a welcome sign that spring was truly here.

“Don't worry, Mother Bird,” he told the robin in a quiet tone. “I'll hang the feeders soon.”

With a glance at a lemon-yellow sun rising into an azure sky, he turned and entered the house.

“I think I'll walk down to Cardwell's and see if anyone's there,” he told Millie.

“All right.” At the kitchen sink, up to her elbows in soapy water, his wife tilted her cheek for a kiss.

He obliged her and turned to go.

“Why don't you take Rufus with you?”

Al skidded to a halt. He cast a scowl toward the corner where Rufus had stirred enough to raise his head from his cushion at the mention of his name.

“I'm sure he'd much rather stay with you.”

Her humming barely paused. “The walk will do him good.”

“He doesn't listen to me if you're not there.” His voice took on a petulant tone that he abhorred but did nothing to filter. “He adores you. Me, he barely tolerates and then only if you're around to impress.”

She flipped on the faucet and rinsed a dish before setting it in the drainer. “Nonsense. Rufus loves you. It's just that you're sterner than I am so he thinks
you
don't like
him
. Try speaking nicely to him.”

He deepened his scowl, and the dog's tail gave a cautious wag. With a loud sigh to inform his wife that his capitulation was only for her and not due to any desire to spend time with her pet, Al left the room to retrieve his jacket. He returned with Rufus's leash in hand. Seeing it, the dog leaped off his pillow and began an enthusiastic display of whirling acrobatics, nails tapping an erratic rhythm on the linoleum.

Millie laughed, a delightful sound in any circumstance, and seemed to enjoy watching Al try to snag the animal's collar.

“Hold still, you mutt,” he commanded, and though the dog ignored him he managed to hook a finger beneath the collar and clip the leash in place. Bending at the waist put him in close enough
proximity to get a whiff of pungent doggie odor. He wrinkled his nose. “
Phew
. He needs a bath.”

“He had one last week. You can't bathe them too often, you know. They'll develop dry skin.”

“Hmm.”

Rufus headed for the exit, toenails scrabbling as he tugged the leash to its full extent. Al wound his end around his hand and allowed himself to be pulled toward the front door.

“Don't forget your cell phone,” Millie called after him. “And turn it on, please.”

Cell phones, in his opinion, were a sign of society's downfall. People these days couldn't walk down the street without a phone glued to their ear, inflicting their private conversations on everyone around them and completely inattentive to their surroundings. A plague, that's what they were.

“Why?” he asked. “I'm just going to town. Won't be but an hour or so.”

“Because I'm going to call Louise and set up our appointment to see the house. If she can squeeze us in this morning I'll call you.”

He swallowed a grumble because, after all, he had agreed to inspect the place. A man's word was his word. If only she wouldn't put him in the position of being a naysayer on today, of all days. No doubt she would still be irritated with him over the candlelit anniversary dinner they always enjoyed together.

Even so, he would not temper his opinions, not even in deference to the day. Too much was at stake. It was his duty as a responsible husband to point out the utter foolishness of buying that house at this period in their lives. Being a levelheaded woman who, for the most part, could be persuaded to look at things rationally, Millie was certain to come to the realization that his was the only logical decision.

When the front door closed behind them, Rufus applied himself to his walk with enthusiasm. Straining the leash to its furthest reaches, he dragged Al down the front walk and turned right onto the sidewalk.

“No.” Al spoke in the low, firm tone used by the instructor on the dog training video Millie made him watch shortly after she brought Rufus home. “This way.”

He tugged, but Rufus ignored him. Grumbling, Al turned left and started walking toward town, his arm extended behind him, muscles tight with the effort of pulling the dog after him. Rufus, sensing the futility of a struggle, changed his mind and his direction. With an energy that belied the hours he spent snoozing on the cushions Millie kept all over the house for him, the dog raced to get ahead of Al. The jolt nearly pulled Al's shoulder out of its socket. The creature took up his position at the extreme length of the leash, panting and straining and occasionally eliciting a choking cough.

Rubbing his shoulder with his free hand, Al glared at the animal. “Just once couldn't you pretend to be a well-behaved canine and walk at my side?”

Apparently not. They continued in that manner to the end of Mulberry Avenue, turned right onto Walnut, and covered the short distance to Main Street at something just shy of a trot, the dog's toenails leaving white scratches on the sidewalk. So much for a leisurely morning stroll.

The collection of two dozen or so mid-1800s buildings that comprised Goose Creek's town proper stretched along either side of a railroad track that ran smack-dab down the center of the street. Some years back the city council had designated that stretch of Main Street one-way on each side of the track, which had created no end of controversy among those who, like Al, resisted any change to the little town they called home. The mayor argued that the change would improve the flow of traffic. The mayor won the argument, but was defeated in the next election and moved to Frankfort to plague that city with improved traffic patterns.

Al allowed himself to be dragged down the raised sidewalk on the south side of the tracks, noting with a mild satisfaction that at least a third of the old buildings boasted For Sale signs in the front
windows. Some of his fellow Creekers urged that the town must do something to draw tourism and new residents, or it wouldn't survive. Al unashamedly counted himself one of those who believed that to invite an influx of tourists would spoil the charm of Goose Creek and turn it into a central Kentucky Gatlinburg, a thought that made him shudder.

Cardwell Drugstore, located in the center of Main Street on the northbound side, was a morning gathering place favored by a small group of long-time residents. When first constructed, the building had been a boarding house. Since the decline of the railroad a series of businesses had attempted to claim it, but each ultimately failed. Finally, fifteen years ago, Leonard Cardwell bought it, spent his inheritance repairing the crumbling brick walls and decaying floors, and converted it into an old-fashioned pharmacy. Creekers rewarded his efforts with their wholehearted approval and their patronage. The authentic 50s-style soda fountain quickly became a favorite watering hole. On Saturday mornings the ranks of the regulars swelled with men like Al who made the forty-minute drive to jobs in Lexington during the week.

Al hooked Rufus's leash to one of the lawn jockeys Cardwell had installed on either side of the door for that purpose. Lucy Cardwell obviously anticipated canine visitors this morning, because the buckets had been filled with fresh water. Rufus, panting from exertion, plunged his head into one and slurped noisily.

“Behave yourself,” Al told him. The dog ignored him. Naturally.

Bells on the door hanger announced his presence to those already gathered inside. He nodded in response to a half-dozen called greetings. A good turnout this morning. All six stools were occupied so he made his way past the counter to the first of three tables, where Jacob Pulliam sat sipping coffee. He pulled out a spindly-legged chair at the same moment Lucy placed a steaming coffee mug in front of him. Looking up with a smile, he opened his mouth to thank her.

“I heard you're buying the old Updyke house,” she said before returning to her perch behind the counter. “Good for you.”

His thanks died unuttered. Every head in the room turned while Al's smile melted.

“No kidding?” Jacob leaned across the scarred Formica table. “Mighty pretty, that place. Lotta yard to mow, though.”

Pete Lawson, who managed a hardware store in Lexington, twisted on his stool to face them. “And it's gonna need some heavy-duty repair work, too. If 'n you want me to start you a charge account, I c'n do it easy.”

Woody Edwards spoke up from beyond Pete. “I got a brother-in-law who does handyman work. I'll give you his number.”

The sound of rising blood pressure began a faint buzz in Al's ears. “I am
not
buying the Updyke place.”

Lucy's expression became perplexed. “But I just got a text from Betty, who was talking to Sharon Geddes on the phone when she got an e-mail from Louise, and she said you were.”

Never underestimate the power of a small town gossip chain fueled by technology.

“I don't care what she said.” He spoke a bit more forcefully than necessary and saw a few eyebrows arch. Swallowing back his rising ire, he went on in a calmer tone. “I agreed to look at the house only because today is our wedding anniversary, and I want to do something to please my wife. But I told her, and I'm telling you, that I have no intention whatsoever of buying that house.”

The moment of silence while everyone pondered his words was broken when Woody said, “Well, when you need my brother-in-law's phone number, let me know.”

The buzz in his head increased as everyone returned to their coffee.

The bells jangled and Jerry Selbo entered. Al joined the chorus of hellos to greet the Goose Creek mayor. He answered the greetings with a smile and shrugged out of his jacket as he crossed the room to take an empty chair at Al's table.

“Bit of a nip still in that breeze,” he commented, and a collective murmur of agreement answered him.

Lucy set a tall glass of orange juice in front of him. He lifted the glass to his mouth.

“So what's the news on the water tower?” asked Jacob.

The glass halted an inch from Jerry's lips. His eyes widened and flickered sideways toward the counter. Jacob's mouth snapped shut as a heavy silence descended.

Perched on the third stool, Norman Pilkington jerked to attention. “What's 'at? What's goin' on with the tower?”

Jacob winced and mouthed
Sorry
at the mayor, and then hid behind his coffee mug.

Though Al was absent from Goose Creek throughout the week, he stayed well informed on issues related to the town's management because Jerry was a member of the men's group he attended at church on Wednesday nights. This topic had been discussed last week.

The Goose Creek water tower was located one block off of the east end of Main Street. It stood sentinel over the town, a skyscraping monument that symbolized the town's autonomy from the rest of the sprawling county. Three years ago the town hired Norman Pilkington's son to repaint the tower. The only positive comment Al had ever heard from anyone besides Norman was that at least the job was completed on time. The color Little Norm chose was a sickening shade of chartreuse which some compared to baby vomit. The black lettering marched unevenly around the tower's barrel with the
k
in
Creek
taking a disturbing downward slant as though it intended to dive off the platform and escape. Every time Al looked at it, an obsessive itch erupted in the base of his skull and he battled an irrational desire to climb the tower with a can of spray paint and put that
k
out of its misery. Though it had only been three years the paint had begun to flake. Some said Little Norm had bought it at a bargain—which explained the hideous color—while billing the town for premium stuff.