Designer Genes (12 page)

“You must know
them pretty well,” Buffy said. “How long did you live in their laundry room?”

“Nine months,”
the older woman continued. “The way Billy talks, you’d think I was a burden,
but I right away took the younger ones—Adam, Eve and Abel—in with me. I was
intending to let Billy and Willie get some sleep, and what did they go and do?
Make like rabbits and conceive another one. If you ask me, they only did it for
an excuse to throw me out. Haven’t taken the trouble to circulate a name for
the tot so we can all provide useful criticism.”

Buffy
struggled not to show her amusement at this bizarre idea, since Zeppa obviously
didn’t find the situation funny. “I don’t see why you’re so worried about what
name they choose.”

“The problem
with Billy and Willie is they lack imagination,” Carter explained, joining the
conversation. “They named their older three kids Billy, Dell and Willie, after
themselves. They had the twins at Christmas, and naturally picked Joseph and
Mary.”

“The next one
was a close call,” Zeppa said. “Pastor O’Rourke was preaching on Jezebel and
Ahab when Willie started groaning and puffing, right there in church. Can you
imagine if the last names in Billy’s and Willie’s ears had been Jezebel and
Ahab?”

“The minister
switched in midsermon, maybe even midsentence, to Adam and Eve,” Carter explained.
“He practically shouted the names as Billy hauled his wife up the aisle. ‘They
were fine old folks, in spite of their errors. Fine old names, too! Adam and
Eve!’”

“You mean he
did it on purpose?” Buffy asked.

Both of her
dining companions nodded.

“Everybody’s
afraid that, having settled on Abel, they’re likely to go for Cain next,” Zeppa
explained. “Imagine that--a man who murdered his own brother.”

“Surely they
wouldn’t.” Even though she doubted she’d be around long enough to meet the
baby, Buffy hated to think of a kid trudging through life with such a name.

“If they do, I
supposed we could figure out a nickname.” Carter got up and removed his dishes.
“You’re good with names, Buffy. Like Toast. It’s kind of grown on me.”

Under the
table, the cat licked Buffy’s toes. It tickled. “I’m not so sure
she
likes it.”

“You can’t
name a baby Toast,” grumbled Mazeppa. “And what sort of nickname? Cain’s only
one syllable.”

“We’ll put our
heads together,” Carter said. “We won’t let that poor baby go through life as a
murderer. I’ll see you folks later.” He headed out.

Mazeppa waited
until they heard the front door close behind him. Then she said, “Speaking of
Billy Dell, the man has carpentering skills. I’ll threaten to move back in with
him unless he helps us with dress displays.”

Buffy
experienced a guilty twinge, although she
had
tried to explain her plan.
“I ought to tell Carter what we’re doing.”

“Why?” Zeppa
demanded. “He’s the one charging you all that money for your car. He’s the
reason you have to do this.”

“It’s not his
fault.” She glanced at the baby, who was playing in her portable bassinet.
Allie seemed utterly entranced by her own fingers. “It’s my cheapskate of a
husband who’s the problem.” She’d explained about Roger’s alleged money
problems.

“You’re taking
Carter’s side? Jumping to a man’s defense is a bad sign. You want to watch out,
if you ask me.” The older woman swiped a leftover piece of toast from Buffy’s
plate and spread it with jam.

“I don’t see
why, if he happens to be right.”

“A word of
warning,” Zeppa said. “Allie bears more than a passing resemblance to Carter.”

Buffy’s
stomach twisted. Did the woman suspect something? “What’s your point?”

“I presume it
means that your ex-husband resembles him, too,” she said. “Which tells me you
have a weakness for that sort of man. Carter’s a good mechanic, but he’s not
the marrying kind.”

“Why do you
say that?”

“On account of
he’s thirty-three years old and still single.”

“He must have
his reasons.” Determined not to breach Carter’s confidence, Buffy was searching
for a way to change the subject when, to her relief, Finella shouldered open
the back door. Buffy went to hold it while the PTA president staggered in with
an armload of dresses.

“You wouldn’t
believe how excited people are,” the newcomer said. “Cissy Leroy and Minnie
Finkins and I stayed up all night sewing, and there’s half a dozen other women
raring to go.”

“Thank you so
much.” Buffy hurried to hang the garments in the laundry bay off the kitchen.
Finella had wrapped each one in a clear plastic bag. “These are charming, and
you’ve taken such good care of them.”

She couldn’t
believe how fast the women had turned out the garments she’d selected, most of
which would fit a range of sizes. There’d been unavoidable compromises on
styles and fabrics, based on what was available at Popsworthy’s, but Buffy was
pleased with the results. They had style and individuality, while still suited
to ordinary women’s realistic body shapes.

“Bobette
Moriarty’s driving in from her ranch tomorrow to buy new clothes,” Finella went
on. “Her twin brother Bob’s the town sheriff. Then Fordyce Huggins said his
wife plans to come shopping next week. Word’s getting around.”

It certainly
was, Buffy reflected happily. She loved this work, and she loved the prospect
of earning money.

The dresses
would sell for forty to fifty dollars each, with twenty-five percent of the
price reimbursing the seamstresses for materials. Another twenty-five percent
would benefit the school, and Buffy could put the remaining half toward her
repair bill. She hoped to net a thousand dollars in less than a month.

It was a shame
she wouldn’t be able to put other ideas into effect, such as offering custom
prom, wedding and special-event dresses. And when she saved up enough, she’d
like to stock accessories.

A month wasn’t
much time. After it passed, she’d miss these Nowhere Junction-ites more than
she’d counted on.

One of them in
particular.

*

There sure
were a lot of visitors dropping by to see Buffy today, judging by the foot
traffic on the sidewalk next to the garage, Carter thought as he took his
midmorning iced tea break.

She’d
mentioned something yesterday about raising money for the school and for car
repairs. He supposed that must be what was going on. The woman knew how to
galvanize the citizenry.

Well, the less
he heard about some flea market or bake sale, the better. Three people had
brought in their cars this morning, which meant he had his work cut out for
him.

An hour later,
he was up to his elbows in grease when Principal Dick Smollens trotted across
the street. The Greek sea captain’s hat that he always wore looked blacker than
usual against his white hair, and Carter realized it was wet.

“Geyser!” the
man gasped. At close range Carter could see moisture dripping from his trim,
squared-off white beard. “Whole auditorium’s flooded.”

“Did you call
Billy Dell?” He was as close to a plumber as the town had.

“He’s already
there, but he can’t handle this alone,” the principal wheezed.

“I’ll be right
with you.”

The leaky pipe
that Billy had been unable to find on two previous attempts had, Carter soon
learned, decided to go public in a big way. It had burst beneath the
auditorium, choosing—ironically, Carter thought—a spot directly below where the
school board had been sitting on Tuesday. Through a broken floorboard, water
shot into the air, rising halfway to the ceiling.

He was tempted
to thumb his nose at the pipe and taunt it with having missed its great
opportunity to blast them all. Under the circumstances, however, it appeared to
be enjoying the last laugh.

Carter, Uncle
Dick and Billy Dell had to slosh through a good two inches of water to reach
the source of the flood. Thank goodness the principal had had the foresight to
shut off the electricity, although it meant the teachers and children had to
conduct classes outdoors at City Hall Park.

B. K.
Anderson, the owner of the drugstore and café, arrived to pitch in, along with
George Weinbucket from the bank. Horace Popsworthy stood around pontificating
on his concerns regarding education, taxes and the pothole in front of his
store.

“People are
saying somebody ought to run against Horace in the June election,” B.K.
muttered when Horace took a bathroom break. “Not that Fordyce Huggins has been
any great shakes as mayor, but he deserves points for not boring us all to
death.”

“The man who
ought to run is Quade Gardiner,” added George. “He’s a friend of yours, Carter.
Talk to him.”

“I don’t tell
him how to conduct his business,” he responded. “If Quade wants to run, that’s
his decision.”

“What’s this
about Quade?” boomed Horace, who had returned from the men’s room unexpectedly.
“Run for what?”

“Nothing,”
said B.K. “We were only speculating.”

Horace
frowned. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

“Right now, we
have a flood, not a fire, in case you missed it,” snapped George. “There’s work
to do.”

“I’m serving
in a supervisory capacity,” returned the would-be mayor.

Carter raised
his hand to halt George’s irate response. “Don’t argue with him. The only thing
worse than not having another hand would be having Horace help.” The man was
notoriously incompetent with tools.

“You’re right
about that,” the banker grumbled. Horace pretended to ignore them.
 

It was
lunchtime before they stopped the leak and bailed out the auditorium. The floor
was soaked, as well as torn up where they’d dug to reach the pipe. The damage
presented yet another nail in the school’s coffin, so to speak.

“I notified
Quade,” Uncle Dick told Carter as he prepared to leave. “He’s called an
emergency school board meeting for tonight. I don’t see how this town’s going
to raise millions of dollars without a bond issue.”

“Even if we
passed one, how would we pay it off?” Carter asked. “If we had the revenue to
do that, we’d have been stockpiling it for a new school already.”

“Politicians
always manage to find money,” the principal said.

“Yes, and they
find it in our pockets,” he replied. “Considering that the economy around
here’s been flat as a Texas salt marsh for years, a tax raise would force a lot
of belt-tightening.”

“I wish I had
an answer,” sighed the ironically named Uncle Dick. Although he didn’t have a
single niece or nephew, he’d received the nickname “uncle” when his hair turned
white while he was in his late twenties.

In a chastened
mood, Carter wandered across the street. Well, no need to wash up. The geyser
had done that job for him.

He hadn’t been
paying attention or he’d have noticed the crowd of women around the front of
his garage sooner. They had homed in on a row of objects wrapped in plastic
bags and hanging from the extended front of the overhead door. What the hell
was this?

No one paid
him any attention except Mimsy Miles, who must have stopped on her way to the
hospital. She was holding up a slinky lavender dress.

“Hey, Carter,”
she called. “This is real nice of you.”

“Nice of me to
what?” His eyes narrowed as they searched for Buffy. There she stood beside a
row of dresses, examining a sewing catalog with Finella.

She shot him a
startled look. “Oh, hi, Carter. How do you like Buffy’s Boutique, Phase I?”

A boutique in
a car repair shop? Besides the obvious risk of damage to the merchandise, it
was unheard-of. And how were his customers supposed to drive in through that
wall of feminine frippery?

His thumb
jerked toward the office. “In there. Now.”

“Not the
office.” she said.

“Why not?” He
glanced in that direction, and realized someone had hung a curtain over the
entrance. “What on earth?”

Mazeppa popped
up near his elbow. “Our customers have to try on clothes somewhere. Besides,
it’s the only place in your garage that isn’t covered with grease.”

“I hope you
big, strong men fixed that leak,” sang out Sweetie Popsworthy, who had a bright
blue-and-yellow item looped over her arm. “Don’t worry. We ladies will be over
there later to dry out the floor.”

“How do you
plan to do that?” he asked.

“With our
hairdryers, of course.”

“Don’t run
them all at once. You’ll throw out the electrical system,” warned Mimsy.

Carter shook
his head, unable to cope with so many inputs at once. Instead, he focused on
the main problem. “Buffy!”

“We can talk
in the house.” After giving the others an apologetic wave, she led the way.

He wasn’t sure
whether to admire her enterprise or wring her neck. First she’d moved into his
house, and now she’d taken over his garage. What next? He didn’t really want an
answer to that question.

In the front
parlor, which was furnished with old-fashioned furniture that had belonged to
his mother, they faced each other across the flowered carpet. “A garage is no
place to sell dresses,” Carter said before Buffy could speak. “Furthermore, I
need my office. I have my financial records in there.”

“It’s only for
a few weeks.” The words tumbled out so fast, it was clear she’d been preparing
for this conversation. “Carter, I can’t afford to rent a store, and this is a
great location. We’ll stay out of your way, I promise, except for the traffic
to the changing room. Besides, we’ve nearly sold out today’s stock already.”

“That isn’t
the point.” A crash from inside the house startled him. “What’s that? Where’s
the baby?”

“She’s in the
office in her playpen, with Zeppa keeping watch,” Buffy said. “It must be
Toast.”

“Toast?” He
headed down the hall, with her on his heels.