Blame It On The Mistletoe - A Novel of Bright's Pond (16 page)

"It's a sheet," Stu said. "Just pin her up on the night of the pageant."

Ruth clicked her tongue. "That's not how I do things. Maybe I will just mosey back there—into the woods—and see if I can get her fitted. She's playing Mary for heaven's sake. If God were ever gonna protect me that would be the time. Will you go with me, Griselda?"

"Might not have to. She comes to the library a lot. Why don't I call you the next time I see her and you can run on up and do your fitting then? That is, of course, if I get her mama's permission to put her in the play."

Dot Handy was still scribbling on her legal pad. "Do it soon, Griselda," she said. "I got to get rehearsals in, and I need a Mary. Can't possibly have a Christmas pageant without a Mary."

"If she doesn't get to church," said Nate, "how can she be in the children's Sunday school play?"

"Because it's the right thing, Nate."

"Yeah," Zeb said. "You think Jesus would turn her away?"

Nate looked at his coffee cup. "I . . . I suppose not."

I squeezed Zeb's hand and whispered in his ear, "I am so proud of you."

The meeting broke up with another one planned for the following Monday.

"You all have a good day," Mildred said. "I'm going up to Paradise and see what I can figure out."

"Mind if I tag along?" I asked. "I'd like to talk to Rose Tattoo. I was hoping she might help paint some of the scenery for the play. I hear she's an artist."

"I hear she's a nut," Boris said. "Ever see her tattoos, and what's with that giant cement hand in her yard and all those paintings on her trailer?"

"Like I said, she's an artist."

"Yeah, so is Leon Fontaine," Mildred said. "A con artist."

"No, no," I said. "He's an ar-teest. There's a difference."

Mildred laughed. "Come on, let's go." Mildred popped her cop hat on her head. I slipped on my coat and zipped it up.

"See you all later," I said. "Good meeting."

Zeb pulled me aside. "I was thinking I'd like to see you tonight. Can I come by your house later, around eight?"

"Sure, that would be nice."

He kissed my cheek.

"See you then."

The first words out of Mildred's mouth when we got into her car were, "You know, for someone who just got engaged you sure don't act like it."

"What do you mean?"

"Ah, gee, Griselda. You can hardly look at him and you didn't seem all that happy to see him tonight. Shouldn't you be all giddy and hanging all over him?"

I didn't say anything at first. For at least a mile.

"It's just . . . just—"

"Cliff Cardwell?"

"No! Not Cliff—not exactly. I love Zeb. I really do. But I worry about him being a husband. He can be so—so jealous."

"Ah, all men are like that. He'll settle down."

"You think he will?"

"Sure. I was talking to my brother when we were in Wilkes- Barre for Thanksgiving. He said that Cliff sounds like adventure, but Zeb seems more secure. My brother is a businessman like Zeb."

"I get that," I said. "Zeb is more secure than Cliff. But it really isn't about that. I don't love Cliff."

I let another mile go by without a word. Then Mildred said, "Are you sure, absolutely positive, you aren't in love with Cliff?"

I looked out the window. The once colorful trees had lost most of their leaves. Another storm would bring them all down. "Not him. Just his airplane."

Mildred laughed. "Then you have no problem. Maybe it would help if you told Zeb your concern. Get it out in the open—now—before you say those vows."

"I think he already knows. But how do I get him to stop being jealous of an airplane? Of me just wanting to be . . . me . . . me with wings."

"You know something. As a police officer I pride myself on being a pretty good judge of character and I would say Cliff is a good man, not very industrious but a good man, level-headed. But Zeb? Now he's a good man, too, but if I were to stake my badge on who would give you the best life, you and your children? It'd be Zeb."

"Children? But I'm too old to have babies, and we never talked about it."

"Even so. Anything can happen."

We drove under the Paradise Trailer Park sign and saw Asa right away near the entrance. He was burning a large pile of leaves. Large fingers of gray and brown smoke swirled above him and drifted into the park. Mildred stopped near him and rolled down her window, "Howdy, Asa. I'm looking for Leon."

Asa looked away for a second—obviously annoyed. "Ah, I keep telling you that man is not up to anything. He's a good guy. Little eccentric but—"

"Please," Mildred said. "Have you seen him?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen him today. You could try his trailer. It's the last one on Mango Street. Three down from Charlotte. It's got orange awnings, can't miss it."

"Thanks," Mildred said. She pulled slowly away taking the speed bump with caution.

"Charlotte Figg is a nice woman," I said.

"She is. I've only talked to her once, but I liked her well enough."

"She's opening a pie shop in town. Across from the town hall. In that old bakery. Kind of ironic, don't you think?"

"Really? That's great. But how does Zeb feel about that? Isn't his Full Moon Pie king of the pie hill?"

"He's actually OK about it, which surprises me. He likes Charlotte's pies."

"There it is," Mildred said. "Leon Fontaine's trailer."

Leon's trailer was white with the orange awnings Asa mentioned—pumpkin orange. It sat back from the road a bit, and a narrow wooden path led from the street to his front steps. His trailer had one of the makeshift porches tacked onto it. I noticed a windsock flying from his roof, a telescope in the front yard, and several baskets of hanging flowers from his roof.

"Uhm, wonder what he does with that telescope?" Mildred said.

"Looks at the stars, I suppose. He seems the type that would stargaze."

"Why, because he's so moonstruck? Or is he looking into the windows of his neighbors' trailers?"

"That's not nice. Were you this suspicious as a child?"

Mildred turned off the ignition.

"Should I stay or go find Rose?"

"No, stay, sometimes two sets of eyes and ears are better than one."

Mildred approached Leon's door. She knocked several times. No answer.

"Guess he's not home," I said.

"I'll just check out back," Mildred said.

She moved like a stealthy cougar around his trailer. I decided to follow—just out of curiosity. And, no, I didn't strike a stealthy pose. I just walked.

Leon's backyard was filled with little sculptures of gnomes, mushrooms, and angels. I counted five of those gazing or butterfly balls. I saw four tall sculptures made from tin cans and tires, bicycle handlebars, and all manner of random and loose objects. I also saw several acetylene torches and a welder's mask.

"He is weird," Mildred said.

"He's an ar-teest. A lover of art and apparently a sculptor."

"Sculptor? It's scrap metal and garbage welded together."

I stood near one that resembled a conquistador and a skinny horse. "Look, I thought he reminded me of someone. Don Quixote."

"That's Don Quixote?"

"Sure. It's a self-portrait or self-sculpt. He fancies himself a hero."

"Goes with the pathology of a psychopath," Mildred said.

We continued to look around the yard when the thought occurred to me, "Are we allowed to be snooping around the man's property?"

"I won't tell if you won't."

Mildred made her way to a small shed. The lock was open. She opened the door slowly like she was expecting Leon or a jack-in-the-box to pop out.

"Well, what have we here?" she said.

What?" I called. "What did you find?"

"Looks to me like about a hundred or so little . . . bottles, containers. They're all shaped like teardrops like he somehow got his hands on a thousand perfume bottles."

"Bottles?" I nearly ran to the shed, tripping over a gnome.

"Well, I'll be darned. What do you suppose Leon Fontaine is doing with those?"

"Can't say for 100 percent certainty, but I have a suspicion he's filling them with something."

"Water?"

"Uh-huh. That'd be my first guess. Have you seen any bottles like these at the nursing home?"

"No, but I wasn't looking and even if I did I probably would have just figured it for perfume."

"He's a crafty one."

Mildred poked her head inside further. "Wonder what else he has in here."

All of a sudden, we heard a noise at the front of the trailer.

"It's him," Mildred said.

"Come on. Let's get out of here before he catches us."

"Shhh, it's OK. We'll just go have a talk with him."

She pocketed one of the bottles and closed the shed door gingerly. And then indicated with her head for me to follow. Leon Fontaine was in the front of the house. I saw him grab what looked like a bag of groceries from his car—a very beatup Buick, maroon with a white stripe and more dents than the moon. Today he wore a brown vest and a brown fedora with a half a peacock feather.

"Why, hello there," he called. "Fancy meeting you here. Come to admire my artwork, I see."

"How you doing, Mr. Fontaine?" Mildred called. "Mind if I ask you some questions?"

"Leon Fontaine never turns down an officer of the law's request for an audience."

Mildred whispered, "I want to see inside his trailer somehow—see if we can take a look around."

"And Griselda Sparrow," Leon said. "It's most definitely a pleasure to see you too. Let everyone in the world halt, unless the entire world acknowledges that nowhere on earth is there a damsel more beautiful than—"

"Cervantes," I said. "And he was talking about Dulcinea."

"Ah, you are quick," Leon said. "But none the less beautiful."

"Would you mind if we came inside for a few minutes, Mr. Fontaine?" asked Mildred. "I just have a few more questions."

"My home is yours fair lady, although I must tell you that . . . well, housekeeping is not one of my strengths. I would much rather be engaged in the service of others."

I watched Mildred's eyes roll around in their sockets.

Leon pulled open the screen door and then pushed open the metal door to his trailer. It opened into a small foyer and then a larger room that divided into a kitchen. I assumed bedrooms were down the narrow hall.

"If a man's home is his castle," said Leon, "then welcome to Inverness."

Mildred walked right in and stood in the middle of the living room with her arms folded across her chest as though she were waiting for a classroom of children to settle down.

"Nice place," I said as I looked around at all the oddities. Jars of strange goo, about a million books in bookshelves and stacked along the walls, piles of magazines. I saw the entire
Encyclopedia Britannica,
a skull with emerald eyes, several snakeskins nailed to the wall, a framed picture of Albert Einstein, and a copy of
Don Quixote
under glass.

"It was always one of my favorites, also," I said, indicating the book.

"God, Who provides for all, will not desert us; especially being engaged, as we are, in His service," Leon said. His eyes twinkled.

"What?" Mildred said. "What's he talking about?"

"He's quoting the book."

"Oh, well, now, let's get down to the facts, please," Mildred said.

"Facts, dear lady," said Leon, "are the enemy of truth."

"The book," I whispered to Mildred. "It's the book."

It was at that point quite clear to me that Leon Fontaine fancied himself a kind of man from La Mancha, a Don Quixote, and I will admit that I had grown even more enamored and intrigued with him at that moment.

"Now then, Mr. Fontaine," Mildred said pulling her little notebook from her shirt pocket. "Just a few questions for the record first."

"Record? Record," said Leon. "Why keep records on me? I am but a poor man, an ar-teest and a do-gooder as it were. Nothing more nor less nor somewhere in between."

Mildred sucked in a deep breath. "What was your previous address before coming to Paradise?"

"Ah, Paradise, such a lovely name, don't you think? I came here only after my services were no longer needed by her lady Francesca DeLaRue."

Mildred rolled her eyes. "Now look, you have got to come clean and just tell me the truth."

"Truth? I perceive everything I say as absolutely true, and deficient in nothing whatever, and paint it all in my mind exactly as I want it to be." He raised his eyebrows in a kind of smirk and sat down on a stool with a red velvet seat cushion.

"Oh, he's good," I said.

"OK, look, I'm just gonna come right out and ask. What are you doing with all those bottles in the shed out back?"

Leon looked at me as though I could help him. "Is it customary for people around here to go snooping in another person's shed? Seems to me there should be a law about such things otherwise we could have mayhem—people going about walking into their neighbor's homes like they were theirs."

"The shed was open. I saw a lot of empty bottles, Mr. Fontaine."

"Is it a crime to keep empty bottles in a shed?"

"No, of course not. But why would you need so many?"

"Well, one can never have enough empty bottles, dear lady, and I for one simply like them. They—are useful here and there."

"Where is there?" I asked trying to decipher his strange answers. It was possible that "there" could have meant Greenbrier.

"Ahh, there is but a question and only I know the answer."

"That does it," Mildred said. "You're under arrest."

Leon backed away. "Arrest? You cannot arrest me. On what grounds?"

"Failure to cooperate with a police officer and just being an all-around nut job."

She unhooked her handcuffs from her utility belt. "Come on, Mr. Fontaine. Maybe we'll have better luck in jail."

"You can't do that," I said. "He hasn't done anything. Why are you doing this?" I was starting to feel just a wee bit angry that Mildred had lost her patience with Leon. The last place he belonged was jail.

Not surprisingly, Leon had something to offer, too. "Even Aristotle couldn't comprehend if he'd come back to life just for that purpose."

"I just think I'll have better luck getting the answers I need if we went into town," Mildred said. "It's cold outside, Mr. Fontaine. Do you have a jacket?"

"No, no, my heart is warm and therefore all of me."

Mildred helped Leon in her cruiser. He seemed almost happy to be going to jail but then again, it is part of the story. Don Quixote was imprisoned. I figured this arrest only empowered Leon.

"I think I'll stay here, in Paradise," I said. "Maybe I can learn something. And I still need to speak with Rose about the scenery."

"Suit yourself," Mildred said. "I need to get him processed. Honestly, I think he likes this."

"He does. But, Mildred, take it easy with him. He's really not out to hurt anyone. Don Quixote wanted to do chivalrous things, defend the poor, help damsels in distress."

"Yeah, yeah, and the Easter Bunny is real, too."

I watched them drive off and then headed out back to take a closer look at the bottles. From what I remembered of the book, Don liked to mix potions and such. It wasn't difficult to believe that Leon Fontaine, if that was really his name, was mixing up something for the folks at Greenbrier. I knew I was invading the man's privacy, but I really wanted to help. I was hoping to find something that would get him off the hook.

I searched through boxes and found small pieces of paper and some black markers. And then I found the most damning bit of evidence.

"Oh, Don," I said. "You're in trouble now, I think."

That was when Asa sneaked up behind me.

"What are you doing? This is private property."

I spun around on one foot knocking a case of bottles to the ground.

"Oh, Asa," I said. "I'm glad to see you."

"I don't understand. Why are you going through Leon's shed?"

"We didn't expect to, Asa. Mildred—you know who I mean—Mildred Blessing, Chief of Police in Bright's—"

"Yeah, I know her."

"Well, she thinks Leon is responsible for what is happening up at Greenbrier. We came up here to ask a few questions. He didn't answer his door so we came out here looking for him and found this." I pointed to the boxes of bottles.

"So what? It's bottles."

"And I found this, just now." I handed him the funny label.

"It says Fountain of Youth Water. I still don't get it."

"Isn't it obvious? Leon Fontaine has been bottling water from that fountain he built and selling it to the residents of Greenbrier as water from the Fountain of Youth. The man thinks he found the secret of longevity, right here, in Paradise."

Asa took a step back. "Ohh, so that's why—"

"They're all acting so crazy. They really think Leon Fontaine found the Fountain of Youth in Paradise. And so does he. He really believes it—I think. Unless this is his thing, going from trailer park to trailer park building fountains."

"Oh, man, I knew the guy was a little off his nut, but I never pegged him for a fraud or a con artist."

"Ar-teest," I said. "And in all fairness to him. He's not a fraud. Leon really believes this—that's probably why the residents at Greenbrier believe it. He can really sell it because I think he's convinced that water from the fountain over there is magical."

"So what now?"

"Not sure. Mildred arrested him and—"

"Arrested him? For what? Giving people water?"

"Nah, she got frustrated. You know how he talks circles around you. She took him down to the jail just to scare some answers out of him—I think. Although, I doubt she'll get any further."

Asa looked into the shed and scratched his head. "I had no idea he had all this stuff. I knew about all the garbage he collects for his sculptures, but that's his business, long as he keeps it to himself. But this, maybe he is the problem."

"It's really pretty sad, but yeah, it looks like Leon is creating the problems over there."

"How's it going up there anyway? Are they still all—" Asa turned his index finger in the air and made the universal crazy gesture.

"Not sure about that either. Maybe we just leave them alone for now. Wait until Mildred gets some answers, then I guess she'll talk to Doctor Silver."

"OK, but in the meantime, maybe I should turn the fountain off."

"Nah. I wouldn't. He's not hurting anyone—well, one broken hip and a bloody lip but you really can't blame him."

"I don't know, Griselda. I think you need to go right to the head of the nursing home and tell him. As manager of Paradise—I still enjoy saying that—I can't just let it go. What if someone decides to sue us?"

"It's not Paradise's fault."

"But now I know about it. Well, I am at least going to speak with Hazel Crenshaw."

"Who?"

"Hazel Crenshaw. She owns Paradise. She lives down the road a piece. She'll know what to do."

"I guess you have to do what you have to do. But I'd hate to see Leon go to jail or get kicked out of Paradise for this."

"Nah, he ain't the devil. Just a little—misguided," Asa said with that calm tone I had come to expect from him.

"He thinks he's a hero, a knight in shining armor come to help people," I said. "He'll probably just move on after all this settles down. It's how he lives."

"Oh, he's helping all right," Asa said.

"Gotta admit, it's a great fountain."

"That much is true, at least."

"Well, I drove up here with Mildred, but I actually came to see Rose. Have you seen her?"

"She's one of two places, I reckon. Her trailer or Charlotte's."

"Thanks. Which way—"

"Rose's trailer is just down that way. You won't miss it. It's the one with the giant cement hand in the yard."

Asa looked at the bottles and shook his head. "I still can't believe this."

"It's not as bad as all that. It will get figured out and all will be well again."

"I suppose you're right," Asa said. He closed the shed door. "And listen, I can drive you back to town after your time with Rose if you'd like."

"Oh, thanks, Asa, that would be great."

"Just come by the office. I need to go into town anyway and see Stu."

"OK, I shouldn't be too long. I want to ask Rose if she'll help paint the scenery for the Sunday school Christmas pageant."

"Oh, she might do it. Long as it can be done up here."

"This way?" I pointed to the east.

"Yep. Just go to the corner, turn right and then about halfway down. You'll see the hand."

And he wasn't lying. A block or so down the road I saw it, the famous giant hand. It stood about eight feet off the ground with a rickety-looking ladder leaning against it. Part of me wanted to climb on up and see what it was like up there.

The rest of Rose's property was what I'd expect for an eccentric artist. The trailer was bright, sunflower yellow with images painted all over it—like one giant mural. She had hanging baskets of flowers and colorful pinwheels and whirligigs poking out from what amounted to a bed of weeds.

I knocked on her door and waited. No answer.

"She must be with Charlotte."

Fortunately, I knew where Charlotte's trailer was nestled amid the others, and I headed in that direction. But first, I couldn't fight the temptation anymore and climbed up the ladder and into the giant hand. I felt comforted right away if maybe a little damp from a small puddle of water leftover from the last rain. I lightly touched all the names so carefully painted there.

Now I will admit that I felt a little silly, but after a quick peek around and seeing that no one was looking, I sailed my own prayer. A prayer about Zeb and me asking for God's clear direction. I sailed a prayer for Leon and all the folks at Greenbrier, and I sailed a prayer for Mercy Lincoln as she came to mind. Such a sweet child living in such deplorable circumstances. But I knew God had her name written on his palm also.