Blessed Is the Busybody (18 page)

I recovered. “I agree with May. I think we need to make sure they don’t have to compete with older girls, just because they’re at the middle school. They should be dressing like children, having sleepovers and pillow fights. They should still be viewing boys as the enemy. At that age I was playing dolls with my sisters.”

Crystal pushed away from the wall. “I’ll just have to disagree. Children grow at different speeds. Now some of your girls haven’t developed yet. But my Carlene certainly has. And she’s not interested in dolls. She’s interested in boys.”

“Your Carlene is as flat as a pancake and she dresses like a slut,” Grace said. “You’d better watch out, Crystal, or you’ll be the youngest grandmother in Emerald Springs history.”

I considered throwing myself between them, but apparently the two women had known each other forever. Crystal just giggled. “Grandmother? Me?”

“She looks like she’s having sex or wants it badly, Crystal. Either that or she’s trying to get a gig on MTV. Where have you been, woman?”

One of the other moms interrupted. The poor woman’s eyes were popping, as if she’d developed an iodine deficiency from her last sip of cider. “What were you thinking of doing, Aggie? Any suggestions?”

“I’d like to see us come up with some rules, a dress code, maybe, before the school gets around to it. For better or worse, a lot of the other girls look up to the Meanies. They’re role models.”

“Dress code?” Crystal sounded appalled. “You want me to tell Carlene what she can wear? You want me to police her?”

“Didn’t you get your badge the day you gave birth, Crystal?” Grace glared. “The rest of us did. They misplace yours or something?”

I broke in, glad there was as yet no fistfight and determined it would stay that way. “It’s so much easier to stick to rules if everybody else does, don’t you think? There shouldn’t be too much work to do. We just tell the girls we’ve agreed that this is the way things are going to be. We come up with reasonable standards. Nothing too strict . . .”

The kitchen door slammed, and I heard the scuffing of feet and Teddy’s voice. Before I could warn them, my girls plowed into the living room. Teddy in denim and cotton knit looked just as she had that morning. But Deena, my level-headed Deena, was wearing a hot pink tank top with thin lace straps and a tight knit skirt that stopped midthigh. My jaw dropped.

She saw my expression. “What?” she demanded. “Jill Mollincroft and I traded clothes in the girls’ bathroom. So?”

I looked at the other mothers, all of whom were staring at me.

“We’ll start with chastity belts,” I said. “Any objections?”

13

Deena had switched clothing with Jill Mollincroft, three years her senior, because Jill had been too cold in the Hall of Fame’s moderate air-conditioning and Deena had been too warm. They had locked themselves in adjacent bathroom stalls and tossed clothes over the top, the logical solution. Deena couldn’t understand my reaction. She didn’t know that I had glimpsed the knockout teenager in training and aged a decade knowing what awaited me.

Life goes on, even post-murder. In the next two weeks the police took their time combing Gelsey’s house and life for clues; Ed went about the business of the church, although it was clear more members seemed uncomfortable with him, and I went to work and sidestepped the diminishing number of protestors in front of Book Gems.

Bob was doing enough business to stay open, but barely. Those upstanding citizens who were no longer carrying signs were still not coming inside to buy books. After all the furor, Bob’s little room in the back had never found an audience. Readers who looked like regulars at Don’t Go There came once and left quickly, since the material was too tame for their taste. Readers who might have been interested were too traumatized by the publicity to set foot inside. Bob confided that once the protests died down completely, he was going to scrap the idea, redecorate the nook, and move all our magazines and gift items there. But he would be damned if anyone thought he was doing it because of pressure from the right wing.

I was at loose ends. Ed was even quieter than usual, the girls were involved with school activities, and with business so slow, Bob only needed me one day a week. In an effort to stay busy I dove into the church records, working on the scrapbook I planned to present to the Women’s Society.

On the last Friday of September I went up to the spare bedroom to rummage for more photos. Somehow I had slogged my way through to the fifties. If this sounds deadly boring, don’t blame me. The project kept me busy, and I knew some of our older members would love it. This was my one shot at a legacy.

I perched on the edge of the daybed we’d installed for family visits, and rifled through one of a series of old boxes. When I tried to hold one photo closer to the light another fell to the floor and floated under the vintage chenille bedspread.

I retrieved it, but as I did I spotted the box of 8 mm movies I’d taken from the storage room, wedged under the daybed drawer. I pulled them out, as well, and decided to change my plans. It was raining outside, the skies were gray, and I could use the movies as an excuse to make popcorn. My kind of day, even if Johnny Depp wasn’t making an appearance.

Half an hour later it was just me, Orville Redenbacher, the old projector from the religious education closet, and the box of home movies. I had finished the popcorn and three reels before I took a break from making notes. I’d seen an ordination, an anniversary dinner thirty years ago in the parish house, and a nativity pageant. The anniversary dinner was the most interesting since people were laughing too heartily not to suspect a wee hint of the grape. I thought one of the women looked like the oldest member of our Women’s Society, and set the reel aside to show at the first opportunity. Perhaps we could attach some names to the anonymous faces before it was too late.

I stretched and resumed, making notes. Some of the film was ruined. Some had even begun to smell like vinegar as it decomposed. I put the best aside, dusting boxes and canisters and making sure the film wasn’t wound too tightly, with the hope that we could transfer it to DVD soon. Considering the storage conditions, more of the film than I had hoped was still good. By now I was beginning to suspect that at one time somebody had cared about the archives and stored things more appropriately. Perhaps the storage room on the third floor was a fairly recent development.

By the time I had finished all the reels it was almost time for an invasion of girls. I cleaned up and put the projector back in the case. I was boxing up the salvageable film when I realized that one of the movies was missing.

When I had agreed to take on the job of historian I had viewed a sampling, just to see what we had. I remembered now that I had watched a picnic, from maybe twenty years ago. The film itself had been well-preserved and recent enough that I had recognized faces. I’d gotten a kick out of the padded shoulders of the women’s dresses and the big hair, sort of an Emerald Springs rerun of
Dallas
.

The picnic reel was not here.

For good measure I shuffled through the movies I’d seen today, now clearly and carefully labeled and annotated. No picnic.

I knew better than to hope the movie was still somewhere in the storage room. Two weeks ago when I had noticed the movies were missing, Harry and I had searched thoroughly. When we had found the box mixed in with junk in the opposite corner, we had sorted the rest of the pile carefully to be certain we’d retrieved everything. The movie was gone.

Someone had searched through the archives. I had discovered that weeks ago. Now I had a pretty good idea what they had found and removed. I wondered if photographs were missing, too.

I had just enough time before the girls arrived to search the photographs from that decade. I was grateful I’d organized them enough to make this possible, but there were no photos of the picnic.

Who had taken the movie and why? Nostalgia? Something to hide?

Gelsey had certainly hidden a secret, but what could have been on that movie to make her steal it from the archives? It was a long shot, at best.

The girls arrived home, Teddy first, then Deena, who was thankfully still in the clothes she had left home in that morning. I wasn’t sure what was going on in the other Meanie homes, but in ours we were sticking to the guidelines the moms and I had drawn up: no bare midriffs or shoulders, skirts at least midthigh when seated, jeans loose enough for oxygen intake, no T-shirts with provocative slogans. So far there were no problems, since Deena didn’t even own the forbidden clothing items.

The telephone rang while I was helping Teddy find magazine photos to illustrate a story she was writing about a cat who dies and comes back to haunt its owners—I think we’ve progressed from funeral services to what comes afterwards.

George Bentsen was on the other end.

I had heard from George last week. He’d turned my information about Gelsey over to a private investigator friend named Leo who planned to trade his services for an upgrade to one of George’s super deluxe weddings. Super deluxe means half a dozen extra white roses in the bride’s bouquet, a bottle of premium champagne, and two tickets to a Friday night performance of Cirque du Soleil. The PI is something of a connoisseur, since George has already married him twice. Apparently PI-ing is tough on a marriage.

At that time there hadn’t been anything to report, but today George sounded enthusiastic.

“We traced Wanda Ray Gelsey to the old Grandstand Hotel and Casino.
Wanda Ray
was the name on her official documents, but she went by the name of
Gorgeous Gelsey.
”

“Gorgeous Gelsey?”

“Showgirl. He found a photo I’m sending you. Legs you wouldn’t believe. She was what they called ‘a real dame’ in those days. Feathers, sequins, black stockings. She worked at the Grandstand for two years, ’51 through ’53. Then she drops from view until 1964, when Wanda Ray Gelsey gave birth to an unnamed baby girl at North Vista Hospital. She was discharged with the baby in arms, and there’s no record of the baby from that point on, not even a birth certificate.”

“Maybe they sealed it when the adoption took place, or at least when it was initiated. I don’t think it was ever completed.”

“That’s all we’ve got so far.”

I was pondering Lady Falowell in ostrich feathers and spangled blue eyeshadow. Could this really be the same woman?

“Does Leo have any theories about what might have happened to her in those missing ten or so years? Does he think she left town?”

“Left town, cozied up to some sugar daddy, and lived off him so she didn’t have an income to tax, or maybe took up something illegal and dropped out of sight. Showgirls burn out fast. They all hope they’re going straight to the top, and instead they’re stuck with the same boring, sweaty dance routines under twenty-five-pound headdresses. And at a dump like the old Grandstand, making nice to the same boring guys in her spare time, too. Being a showgirl’s not glamorous, it’s plain hard work.”

“Three possibilities there. Does he have any guesses which it might be?”

“Leo’s got a hunch she moved on to something illegal. She just disappears too fast. Now you see ’em, now you don’t. I told him to look a little harder. I’m throwing in a video of the wedding and matchbooks with names and the date for their friends.”

“We owe you, George.”

“If you and Ed ever move somewhere I want to visit, I’ll come and stay awhile.”

“How about Boston?”

“How about Paris?”

We hung up.

“Why did you say Gelsey is gorgeous?” Teddy asked. “Is she going to be gorgeous at her funeral? Can I come and see?”

I thought of the urn I’d turned over to Maude with Jennifer’s ashes. “Mrs. Falowell asked to be cremated. So that happened early last week. But there’ll be a memorial service for her in our church tomorrow morning. You can come, but you’ll have to be quiet and sit still the whole time.”

Teddy pushed her glasses farther up her nose. Moonpie, perhaps to see if he agreed with the theology lessons in Teddy’s story, jumped up on the table. “Not if the body’s not there,” Teddy said at last. “Someday I want to see someone who’s dead, just so I’ll understand.”

I brushed her hair back from her face. “Understand what, sweetie?”

“Why people die.”

“Oh.” I searched for answers, or at least something to offer her. “I’ve been to a number of funerals, and I still don’t know the answer to that. People live and they die, and it’s all part of an amazing mystery.”

“Doesn’t that
bother
you?”

I felt chastised. “No. It’s good to ask questions, but we have to accept we may never have all the answers we want.”

“I think I’m going to hear that a lot.”

I thought she was too smart for her own good.

The girls had a sleepover at the Frankels’ that evening and left before dinner. At six a distracted Ed ate couscous with chickpeas and eggplant and managed all the right responses to my inquiries about his day. But the real Ed Wilcox was clearly not there. The imposter disappeared into Ed’s study after dinner to work on Gelsey’s memorial service. We expected a large crowd. After all, how many memorial services are conducted by the very minister who is under suspicion for the departed’s murder?

I was tired of having nothing to do. The television schedule held no surprises, the movies playing in town were rated IQ13, and there were no cultural events at Emerald College unless I counted a lecture by the chairman of the computer department on the running times of algorithms. By the time the phone rang I was aching for a stimulating conversation on the merits of switching my long distance service. Even better, it was Lucy.

“You won’t believe this . . .”

I was breathless with anticipation. “Don’t fail me now . . .”

“Well, you just
won’t
believe it. In fact, I have to see your face. I’m coming over.”

“We can make fudge and do each other’s nails. I can tell you what Johnny Vincuzzo said to me in American History a million years ago.”

“Better yet, get that quilt thing out of your closet and put it on. We’re going out.”

I hung up and went to tell Ed I was leaving him. Edimposter was still in residence. He nodded like something out of a body snatchers movie.

Out front Lucy honked, and I grabbed my quilted jacket and took off down the front steps. The night was clear and cool, and there were a million stars over Emerald Springs. Other people had noticed and the roads were filled with people going anywhere they could. I was thrilled to be included.

“You and Ed having problems?” Lucy asked first thing.

“No. Just a tough time. He withdraws when he’s under stress. There are zombies in Haiti with more charisma.”

“We need to find the murderer so he’ll get his energy back.”

I snorted. “On a list of reasons, that’s somewhere at the bottom.” I noticed we were driving out of town toward the burbs—if Emerald Springs is large enough for such a thing. More exactly, we were driving in the general direction of Emerald Estates.

I touched Lucy’s shoulder. “Turn around quick. At the least I was expecting another go ’round at Don’t Go There. They’ve got an all-female band on stage tonight, the Hot Mama Express, with a surprise guest appearance. I’m thinking maybe Sax is dressing up like Janis Joplin to sing a couple of choruses of “Bobby McGee.” I’m primed.”

“You’ll like this better.”

“That good, huh?”

“Hang on.” In a daring move, Lucy sped up to forty in the thirty-five mph zone. It was that kind of night.

When we pulled in front of Gelsey’s house and parked, I didn’t know what to say.

“Here we are.” She gestured.

“Don’t tell me there’s a lockbox on that door, Luce. Even if there is, I don’t want to be caught snooping inside.”