Blame It On The Mistletoe - A Novel of Bright's Pond (12 page)

"No. Where is it?"

"My business."

"I don't know any of the details of Rose's story except that something happened that caused her to get herself covered with tattoos—arms and neck mostly from what I hear." I needed to pick up my pace to keep close to Mildred. "And I hear they all have some religious significance. And I would be lying if I said I didn't want to see them one day. All I've seen so far are some wiggly vines."

Mildred removed her cop hat and tucked it under her arm. "Excuse me," she said as she approached the two. "Can I have a word?"

Rose Tattoo wrapped her sweater tighter around her. Asa took a step forward seeming to protect the woman.

"Hi, Griselda," Rose said.

I smiled. "Great blessing yesterday. The fountain is beautiful."

"It sure is," Rose said. "Leon did a great job even if it is a little crooked."

"I'm thinking crooked is his trademark," I said. "Hey, Asa."

"Hey, what's up?" Asa said.

Mildred made a noise.

"I'm sorry," I said. "This is Chief Mildred Blessing. She's here on official business."

"Official business?" Rose said. "What sort of official business?"

"Rose," I said bringing my voice to almost a whisper. "I'm worried about that Leon Fontaine fella. I think he might have something to do with what's going on up at Greenbrier."

"Greenbrier. I heard all that nonsense about what's going on up there—people acting younger and riding tricycles, but what in the world could he possibly have to do with it?"

"Well, I was listening to the Rassie Har—" I was just about to tell them what Vera Krug said when Mildred jumped into the conversation. I figured she didn't want me spilling the beans too soon.

"That's why I'm here," Mildred. "About this Leon Fontaine. What do you know about him?"

"Leon?" Rose said. "All I know is he's new to Paradise. A nice fellow. He rebuilt the fountain and got her running again. It's a real sight—not the Trevi Fountain or anything but still romantic and—"

Asa touched her arm. "How come you want to know about him? Is he in any trouble? Is he wanted by the police?"

Mildred shook her head. "No, no, I'm just asking questions."

"Like Rose already told you," Asa said. "He seems perfectly normal and natural. A good, hard worker. Skilled at stonework, let me tell you, those Italian men are naturals."

"So he's Italian," Mildred said. She wrote it down in her little black notebook.

"What difference does that make?" I asked.

"None," Mildred said. "Just keeping facts straight."

Asa looked past us. "We were on our way somewhere if you have no more questions."

"Do you know where I can find Mr. Fontaine?" Mildred asked.

"Probably at his trailer or down by the fountain," Asa said. He pointed with his only arm.

"He really is a nice fella," Rose said. "Maybe a little quixotic, but I kind of like that." She reached her hand to Mildred and I saw a part of her tattoo on her wrist. "My name is Rose Tattoo, by the way. We weren't properly introduced. Not that I'm blaming anyone under the circumstances."

"Nice to meet you, Rose," Mildred said. "Thank you for your time. We'll just mosey around and see if we can find Mr. Fontaine."

"OK," Asa said. "But really. He's a good guy."

Mildred smiled. "I never said he wasn't, Mr. Kowalski."

We walked away from them and Mildred said, "It's a little hard to believe that Asa and Studebaker are related. They seem so different."

"But you can see the family resemblance. They both have the same mouth."

"That's true. I did notice that, but Stu is so much more outgoing. Now what did Rose mean by 'quixotic'?"

"Well, I'm not entirely certain, but I guess she means he thinks he's a little like Don Quixote."

"You mean that fellow who lived in fantasy world and tried to kill windmills?"

"That's him. But he also wanted to help the poor and defend the downtrodden."

We walked a little farther and I saw the fountain. "Wow, it is pretty."

"I'll say," Mildred said. "That Leon Fontaine has some talent. I hope he's not guilty of any wrongdoing."

We approached the fountain. "I think he carved the gargoyles all by himself," I said. "They're so—gothic."

"Look," Mildred said. "That one resembles Eugene Shrapnel with the ugly bulbous nose."

"It does. But I have to admit, it's a work of art."

"Like it?" came a voice from behind.

We turned and there stood the funny-looking little man tapping his large chin.

"Are you Leon Fontaine?" Mildred asked.

"At your service," he said with a sweep of his arm.

"Mind if I ask you a few questions?" Mildred asked.

The man looked first to me and then back to Mildred. "Why certainly, my dear, but why would an officer of the law want to speak with Leon Fontaine—master stonemason, an ar-teest, a man of many crafts."

"Uh-huh," Mildred said. "I understand you built the new gazebo at the Greenbrier Nursing Home."

"That I did, but aren't you forgetting something?"

"What's that?" Mildred asked.

"You haven't introduced me to your lovely companion."

I reached out my hand to Leon, who I already thought was a hoot and couldn't possibly be doing anything nefarious in Greenbrier. "My name is Griselda Sparrow."

"Sparrow?" Leon said. "You're that lovely woman Agnes's sister. I've never really spoken to her but she's all the talk at the nursing home and yes—" he turned to Mildred—"to answer your question I was indeed the carpenter that made the gazebo, with my own two hands and lots of lumber and nails and a wee bit of magic."

Mildred's eyes lit up. "Magic?"

"Of course, that's the artistic part, you know. The actual look of the thing. You must admit it's not your usual gazebo."

"No, no," I said. "It reminded me of the fairy tale about the man who built the crooked house."

"Yes, yes," Leon said. "And what did you think of the . . . the steeple for lack of a better word. Bit much?"

"No, no. It's charming. It's a work of art. Even if it's crooked."

Leon smiled and grabbed both my hands. "A fellow admirer of all things artistic."

I chuckled. "I . . . I suppose."

"Then you must love my fountain."

"Yes, it's wonderful. I was at the blessing yesterday. I especially like the gargoyles."

"Ah, yes. The gargoyles. Carved them myself I did. Took quite a bit of time but an artist never worries about trivialities like time."

Mildred cleared her throat. "Mr. Fontaine, can we get back to my questions, please, sir?"

"Sir, indeed," Leon said. "I am not a sir; I have yet to be knighted. Nor am I a duke or a prince. I am Leon Fontaine, master builder, stonemason. An ar-teest extraordinaire."

"Yes, yes," Mildred said, "you've said that. Now I can't help thinking you are trying to confuse the issues."

"Why Officer—" he looked her up and down.

"Blessing," Mildred said. "Chief Blessing."

"Ah, that you are. A blessing to the community, I'm sure."

Leon was either everything he claimed or he was, as Mildred suggested, skirting the issues. I tended to think he was a little of both.

"Uh-huh," Mildred said. "Now, Mr. Fontaine, there have been reports of strange things happening up there—at the Greenbrier Nursing Home—ever since you arrived and built that . . . that—"

"Gazebo, Chief Blessing. Gazebo. An interesting word— one whose meaning no one is certain of. It probably means 'handsome sight.' And that it is, a gazebo I mean, a handsome sight."

It was at this point I thought Mildred might arrest him for committing some kind of double-talk speech crime. She reached into her shirt pocket and retrieved her little black notebook. "Mr. Fontaine," she said. "I will need your name, address, telephone number, and date of birth, please."

"Why in the world would you require that information?" he said with a step back. "Are you arresting me? Am I suspect of a crime? Was a crime committed here in Paradise—lovely name for a trailer park don't you think."

"Mr. Fontaine," Mildred said with force. "Please."

I couldn't contain a smile. I liked Leon Fontaine.

"Oh, yes, yes, sorry," he said. "My address is, of course, here at the park. I am a resident now, been so for over three months. And I have no telephone so I don't have a number. I . . . I answer only to . . . to the wind."

Well, OK. Now he was getting a bit weird.

"I go where I am needed. A hero of sorts, that's what they call me. Now if you will excuse me I am expected elsewhere."

I half expected to see Leon Fontaine mount a skinny horse and ride off with a lance toward the nearest windmill.

He turned on one foot and set off in the direction of the trailers.

"What in the heck just happened?" Mildred said. "That is one strange little man."

"I like him. Did you learn anything new?"

"No. Not one blessed thing, except I'll tell you this: I'm keeping my eye on Mr. Leon Fontaine and his fountain. When I get back from Wilkes-Barre, of course."

"Of course."

The Tuesday before Thanksgiving at Brisco's Butcher Shop was a little like Kresge Department Store the day after Thanksgiving when the Christmas sales begin. The butcher shop was crowded with lines of mostly women, waiting to get their holiday birds. Even though Ruth and I left early enough, we still ran into quite a group. I saw a few folks from Bright's Pond, including Edie Tompkins and Janeen Sturgis standing in line holding their tiny triangular number papers.

"Griselda," Edie called. "How are you, dear?"

Janeen waved.

I waved back.

"I was just thinking about you this morning," Edie said making her way toward us. "I was wondering how Agnes was getting on what with the holidays approaching and all."

"She's doing fine," I said. "Ruth and I are here for our turkey."

"Ruth?" Edie said. "But aren't you having Thanksgiving at the funeral parlor like you do every year?"

That turned a few heads and raised a few eyebrows.

"No, not this year," Ruth said. "I'm cooking and we're gathering at my house."

"Oh, that's nice," Edie said. "But what about Agnes? Will she be . . . forklifted back to town?"

"No," I said. My annoyance growing. "We'll be visiting Agnes at Greenbrier."

Janeen clicked her tongue. "Greenbrier. Well, I heard that something was going on up there, something that might even be illegal," she said. "I heard the inmates are—"

"Residents," I said.

"Yes, of course, residents," Janeen said. "I never know what to call them. But it doesn't matter. I heard they're all taking drugs and climbing trees and riding tricycles."

I looked at Ruth who had just pulled a number from the number machine near the counter.

"We got twenty-seven," she said. "Not bad."

Edie stole a glance at her ticket. "I got number thirteen. Lucky thirteen."

"Good for you," I said. "And nobody is taking drugs at Greenbrier."

"That's not the scuttlebutt," Edie said. "I heard that the police are investigating the possibility of"—she leaned in close to whisper—"illegal drug activity up there. Imagine that. All them old and sick people getting drugged."

"It's just a rumor, Edie," I said. "And do you really believe the residents would do something like that?"

"Oh, well, I didn't mean to imply that they had any knowledge," she blustered.

"Well, something is happening to cause all the attention," said Edie. "I even heard Vera Krug talking about it on her morning show. She said the folks up there are acting strange. And then she said something weird."

"Weird?" Ruth said.

I hadn't told Ruth what Vera said about Leon Fontaine and how she connected him with the Fountain of Youth.

"Yeah, she made noises that some fella—what was his name, Janeen?"

"Leon Fontaine," Janeen said who went back to shaking her head and clicking her tongue.

"That's right, Leon Fontaine," Edie continued. "She seemed a might suspicious about him. Said he found the Fountain of Youth or had some sort of relationship to Ponce de León? You know that explorer fella who discovered Florida?"

"Not exactly, Edie," I said. "She just intimated that Leon's name was similar to Ponce's and that his last name meant fountain in French or Italian or something." I tried to wave the subject away, but Ruth lit up.

"Vera," Ruth said. "Why, that little busybody. She just has to stick her big, fat nose in everything that happens around here—even when nothing is happening—even when we don't know what is happening. And who is she to draw correlations between that man and a dead explorer, I mean what in tarnation do you make of that?"

Mr. Brisco called number eleven.

"Oh," said Janeen, "I guess we better move up in line. I sure hope he got us a good turkey this year."

"Brisco's turkeys are always good," Ruth said. "It's all in how you cook them. I'm planning something different."

"Different?" Janeen said. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, what is wrong with a traditional turkey dinner? Why, my Frank would never stand for anything other than a good old-fashioned turkey. He loves to carve."

"I'm planning a Hawaiian Luau Tropical Thanksgiving," Ruth said, so proud I thought she'd bust.

Edie snickered into her hand, as did a few other people. "Did you say Hawaiian? What do they know about Thanksgiving? It's not like the pilgrims landed in Honolulu."

Janeen smirked. "Are you planning to stuff the turkey with a pineapple?"

"As a matter of fact," Ruth said.

Mr. Brisco called number twelve. And we moved closer to the display case filled with meats and sausages.

"As a matter of fact I am making a wonderful stuffing with macadamia nuts and passion fruit and—"

Edie and Janeen laughed.

Ruth stopped talking.

"Oh, we're sorry dear," Edie said. "We just never heard of a tropical Thanksgiving. I mean, what is the point?"

"I only wanted to attempt something fancy. Anyone can roast a turkey. But it takes real cooking finesse to make it . . . spectacular."

Edie looked at me. "I imagine all the regulars are invited, but what are you going to do about Agnes? This must be her first holiday away from home."

"We'll be taking dinner to her up at Greenbrier," Ruth said.

"Do you think you should?" Edie asked. "Isn't she on a strict diet?"

"Diets don't count on Thanksgiving," Ruth said.

I was glad when Mr. Brisco called Edie's number and she moved forward to claim her fresh turkey. It was so big it took the two of them to carry it out the door.

We waited a bit longer while other customers received their orders. Most people walked away with turkeys but others also left with sausage and ground beef. Finally, he called our number.

"Good morning, Ruth," Mr. Brisco said. "I got your bird all ready for you. Picked you out a nice one, nice and young. Should be tasty."

"Thank you," Ruth said. "Your turkeys are always the tastiest."

"And how are you, Griselda?" Mr. Brisco asked. "Don't see you in here much since Agnes moved to the nursing home."

"I know," I said. "Seems I don't eat much meat these days."

"And how is your sister?" he asked as his helper handed over the turkey to Ruth.

"She's doing well," I said.

But it seemed that even Mr. Brisco was not resistant to rumors. "So tell me, Griselda." He leaned over the counter. "Any truth to what I hear is happening up there. I mean the talk is pretty scary. Mildred Blessing's been snooping all over town, getting folks nervous."

"The truth is no one knows what's happening. Probably nothing more that the residents feeling a little happier than usual."

"I think it's just that the holidays are coming," Ruth said.

"Could be. Could be," Mr. Brisco said. He handed Ruth some change. "Thanks for your business as always. And happy Thanksgiving."

I was quite glad to be out of the shop but not thrilled when Ruth suggested another visit to Madam Zola's.

"I need more nuts," she said. "I used them all up in my experimentation phase."

"Well, I'll wait in the truck. You can go in yourself."

"Ah, you won't make me do that, will you?" We drove down the street and found the last parking spot anywhere near Madam Zola's. "Come on," I said. "Let's go get your nuts."

"Ah," Madam Zola said when we walked into the store. "I had a vision you vood be returning."

"Yeah, right," I whispered. "Just tell her to give you the nuts and let's get out of here. It gives me the creeps."

Madam Zola stepped closer to us. She still dragged her left leg behind her.

"Your nuts," Ruth said. "I mean I would like some more of your macadamia nuts, please. Just one jar this time."

"But of course you do. Top shelf, dahling."

I reached up and grabbed the jar. "Quick, pay for them."

It took Madam Zola a little too long to reach the cash register. But she finally made it. Ruth paid for the macadamias, and I thought we were out of there until Madam offered to read Ruth's palm. Ruth looked at her palm.

"I don't get it," she said. "How can these lines tell you anything? It's a bunch of malarkey, ain't it?"

Madam Zola's eyes grew wide and maybe a touch wild.

"Come on now, Ruth, before she puts a curse on us or something."

On the way home, Ruth said, "Can you believe those two?"

"Who?" I said. I was still seeing Madam Zola's angry eyes in my brain.

"Edie and Janeen. If they aren't the biggest buttinskies in town. And what about that sister-in-law of mine? She's got no right reporting about Greenbrier when nothing's been proved. And what could that weird little man have to do with Greenbrier?"

"Oh, she just likes to stir up trouble when she can. Her audience likes it."

"I suppose so, but all those people up at the nursing home have no way to defend themselves."

"You're right about that. But let's just hope there is nothing to defend and Mildred or someone, maybe Doctor Silver, gets to the bottom of it soon."

"I hope so," Ruth said. "For Greenbrier's sake." She thought a moment. "But tell me the truth, Griselda, do you think that fella, Leon, has anything to do with it—I mean really?"

"No, I don't think so. Mildred and I went to visit him at Paradise. He is a bit—eccentric," I said. "But I don't get the impression he's doing something to hurt people. He just loves what he does—even if he might be a little overly impressed with himself."

"Really? You talked to him?"

"Mildred and me. I got a little worried after Vera's radio spot that she might be onto something. I mean it is strange—his name, the fountain, the folks at the nursing home turning into children and teenagers."

"Uhm, uhm, uhm." Ruth shook her head. "I just can't think about all of this now. I got to get ready for my big day. Thanksgiving is just two days away."

"Now you're sure I can't help with anything?" I said as I turned onto Hector Street. "I can make sweet potatoes with those little marshmallows and maybe a three-bean salad."

"Three-bean," Ruth said. "I got a six-bean salad planned. "It involves pine nuts. Ever hear of pine nuts? They come from actual pine cones."

"Nope, never tasted pine nuts. Are they good?"

"You'll see soon enough. Like I've been telling everyone. Just bring your appetites."

"And your sense of humor," I said.

"What?"

"Nothing, Ruth. I'm just being facetious."

I pulled up out front of Ruth's house. "Are you coming to the next Yuletide Committee meeting?"

"Oh, sure, certainly, Griselda. I wouldn't miss it. When is it again?"

"Monday, at the café."

"I'll be there. I'm planning on sewing the shepherd costumes again and the sheep. I just love to make the robes. I wonder who will be Mary this year. Seems like all the girls are getting too big or are too young and we might have more sheep than we need."

"Oh, we'll find someone, and Babette will always do it, you know. She's eighteen now but that won't matter."

"Well, it is the church children's pageant."

"I know. But when you need a Mary, you need a Mary."

I was driving down Filbert toward the funeral home when I noticed Charlotte Figg standing outside that empty store. She appeared to be waiting for someone and I decided that what she was doing was much more intriguing than going to the library, particularly since everyone's been talking about her opening a pie shop.

I pulled over and parked the truck.

"Charlotte," I called as I walked across the street.

"Hello." She waved.

I felt a wide smile stretch across my face. "Are you considering renting the space?"

She shielded her eyes with her hand and peered into the large window. "I thought I'd take a look. No reason not to— take a look I mean."

"I think it would make a fine pie shop. I can just see it. Charlotte Figg's Pie Shop in big bold neon lights."

This time a smile appeared on Charlotte's face. "Neon? Really? That does sound nice."

Charlotte tilted her head slightly. She was an attractive woman with graying hair—but not completely—broad shoulders, but not big—and her high cheekbones were a bit flushed.

"It just seems like such a huge undertaking. Something my dead husband would never approve, but like Rose keeps telling me, he's not here to boss me anymore."

"I think most folks can do whatever they set their hearts on. Look at me, I wanted to fly an airplane and now I'm this close," I held my thumb and index finger an inch apart, "to getting my pilot's license."

"You are? Well, I think that's just amazing. I didn't get my driver's license until I was close to forty, and Herman wasn't even too happy about that."

"Like Rose says, he's not here and you need to be your own person—even if it means opening a pie shop."

She shielded her eyes and looked inside again. "It would be nice. I can see it now, a long counter with a glass case filled with pies and maybe a couple of tables with pretty yellow tablecloths and flowers in the center where folks can sit and eat pie and drink tea or coffee and talk their cares away."

"That does sound nice."

Charlotte looked down the street in both directions. "I am looking forward to Thanksgiving. And so are Rose and Ginger."