Mad About You (58 page)

"Ladden?"

"Uh, never mind. I need to go."

"But what were you going to say about magic?"

"I have a customer."

"I thought you were closed today."

"I'll call you."

"To let me know about the rug?"

"Uh, sure."

"Okay, but... are you all right?"

Ladden conjured up a forced laugh. "Never better. I'll talk to you later." He hung up with a hand that shook so badly he missed the handset cradle. Pulling himself to his feet, he noted with relief that at least the crowd at the front door had dissipated. He raised the blinds slowly, his mind churning. He had to find the old man with the turban and satisfy himself that all the odd occurrences had reasonable explanations.

"I'll be laughing about this tomorrow," he promised himself. Nodding with renewed confidence, he turned around—only to find the rug, rolled and standing on end, leaning against the frame of the door that connected the storeroom and showroom.

"How the hell...?" Either he was losing his mind, or the rug was moving around of its own volition. Advancing toward the rug cautiously, he noticed a single monarch butterfly perched on top, its wings flapping silently.

Moving in a slow semicircle around the rug, he watched for any sign of movement. "Okay, you, you...
thing
," he said, shaking his finger in warning, "you'd better stay put until the lady comes to tell me how much you're worth. If you move again, I swear I'll strap you down—"

"Ladden?"

He spun around to see Mrs. Pickney standing just inside the front entrance. "Who are you talking to?"

A hot flush climbed his neck as he straightened. "No one," he said, with a nervous laugh. "Just talking to myself. I didn't hear the bell."

"What a lovely rug," she exclaimed, walking over and fingering a corner of the carpet. The spooked butterfly floated toward the ceiling.

"Yes, it seems to be a favorite."

"I can see why," she murmured, smoothing her hand over a small section of pile. "It feels... special." A bewildered smile lit her face. "I've never seen anything like it."

Ladden pursed his lips in thought. Giving the rug to Mrs. Pickney seemed like a small token considering she was deeding him her entire store—and it would prevent the carpet from ending up in the bedroom of Trey McDonald. The thought of Jasmine digging her bare toes into the rug as she rolled out of the other man's bed rankled him. "It's yours if you want it, Mrs. Pickney."

The rug fell to the floor with a whoosh and a loud thud, startling them both and sending a cloud of dust billowing around their knees.

"Mine?" she asked, coughing and waving her hand to clear the air. "That's kind of you, son, but I'll be moving to my sister's soon and I won't have room." She grinned. "I got my permit for going out of business. Since my inventory is low anyway, I'll probably be cleaned out within a week or two."

"Mrs. Pickney, are you sure—"

"Yes," she said emphatically.

"I'll miss you."

She angled her white head at him. "I have a feeling you'll be too occupied with another woman to miss me. I heard about your billboards on the radio. I had no idea you were serious about anyone."

"Neither did I," he said miserably.

Her eyes twinkled. "Love sneaks up on you, doesn't it?"

He glanced back at the rug and frowned. "You could say I'm almost afraid to turn my back."

"Is it the young lady with the dark ponytail?"

Ladden winced. "Has it been that obvious?"

"No." She laughed. "It was a lucky guess. I've seen her come in and out of here quite a bit. I've often thought you'd make a nice couple."

"Thanks, but right now she and the governor make a nice couple."

"She dates Governor McDonald?"

"The one and only."

She dismissed the most powerful man in the state with a wave of a veined hand. "You're much more handsome."

"You're prejudiced, and besides, he's so rich, he can buy any face he wants."

"So? Women don't want money, Ladden." She lowered her voice. "Women want magic."

Ladden blinked. "M-magic?"

A faraway look came over her face. "You know, that
zing
you feel when you make eye contact across a room."

"Zing?"

She swept her arms above her head. "The fairy dust that falls around your shoulders when you dance."

"Fairy dust?"

She wiggled her wrinkled fingers in the air. "The fireworks that go off when you kiss."

"Fireworks?"

"I may be old," she said with a mischievous smile, "but I remember zing, fairy dust, and fireworks. Take my word for it, my dear... women want magic." With a fluttery wave, she was gone.

"Magic," he mumbled, turning back to the rug just as it began to unroll. The carpet gained momentum over the uneven wood floor and unfurled at the toe of his work boots with a snap of fringe. A flurry of butterflies materialized and hovered above the richly colored pile. Ladden looked heavenward and counted to ten. Then he calmly walked to the front door, stepped outside, and locked the door behind him.

During the short walk to the homeless shelter, Ladden recited the presidents' names, the states and their capitals, and as much of the periodic chart as he could recall to keep his mind occupied with thoughts other than a migratory carpet and personalized newspaper headlines. An old metal desk sat just inside the entrance to the shelter, manned by a stoop-shouldered fellow who glanced up at Ladden with a smile.

"Welcome. May I help you?"

Ladden twisted his hat in his hands. "I'm looking for a man I believe is staying here."

"Is he a relative?" the man asked, opening a ragged spiral notebook.

"No, just an acquaintance."

"Name?"

"I don't know. He's an older gentleman, wears some kind of white sarong and a black turban. He speaks with a heavy accent."

The man's brow furrowed. "We have a few guys who wear turbans, but no sarongs. Are you sure he's staying here?"

"I dropped him off this morning."

"What time?"

"Around ten o'clock."

After running his finger down a log, the man shook his head. "Only three people signed in this morning, and I know all of them—no turbans. Sorry, pal."

Ladden thanked him and dropped a twenty in the donation bucket. When he exited, he looked around for the nearest travel agency that might accept major credit cards. An impromptu vacation was sounding better and better.

"Greetings, Master."

At the sound of the old man's voice, Ladden wheeled around. He was standing an arm's length away. The sarong was gone, replaced by clothing that resembled gray pajamas.

"Please don't call me Master. I'm Ladden."

"Yes, Master. You did not have to travel. A simple call would have summoned me."

Pursing his lips, Ladden asked, "What's your name?"

The man's face wrinkled into a deep frown. "Name?"

Did he have amnesia? Alzheimer's? "You don't remember your name?"

The man spread his arms wide. "I am only Genie, Master."

"Genie?"

"Yes, Master."

"How about just Gene?"

"I do not object."

"Okay, Gene, I need to talk to you about a couple of things. Let's grab a cup of coffee."

The man nodded and followed him at an embarrassingly subservient distance to a donut shop a few doors down. Ladden ordered them strong coffee, which Gene sipped tentatively, winced, then sipped again.

"Gene, do you remember the first time we met?"

"Of course, like it was yesterday."

"It was yesterday." Ladden tapped his fingers on the brown Formica tabletop. "My insurance company doesn't believe my claim that there was an earthquake, and I need for you to sign an affidavit that you witnessed it."

His brow creased. "An affi—?"

"A paper that says you were in my store during the earthquake."

"This word
earthquake
, what is it?"

Sighing, Ladden gulped the dark liquid in his cup. "Where the ground moves and destroys things, like that day in my store."

"Ah, I apologize for disturbing your things. So much pressure built up in the lamp."

"The lamp?"

"My home for the last few centuries."

Ladden took another swallow, then repeated, "Your home for the last few centuries?"

"Yes," the man said matter-of-factly. "My last master was an evil man. When I could not provide as much wealth as he desired, he instructed a wizard to banish me to the lamp." He grinned his gap-toothed grin. "For freeing me, my gift is to grant you three wishes. I have already granted wishes one and two."

Sweat gathered around Ladden's hairline. "Jog my memory. What were wishes one and two?"

"Why the market space next to yours, of course. And the message to your princess." Gene shrugged his thin shoulders. "I did not understand the term crazy, but I simply used your words, Master."

The hair rose on the back of Ladden's neck as he remembered the words he had spoken aloud in the cab of his truck... alone. Mrs. Pickney's decision to deed him her storefront was undoubtedly a coincidence, but the message on the billboards...

"How did you know what my words were?"

"You spoke them aloud."

"But I was in my truck."

"I was with you."

Ladden's shoulders sagged in relief. The senile man had probably crept into the back of his truck to sleep and had overheard his comment about Jasmine. He nearly laughed aloud—the man almost had him believing he was some kind of supernatural being. "You should have checked with me before you bought those billboards. They cost you a lot of money."

Gene shook his head. "It is only paper—I print great quantities."

Great, he's not rich—he's a counterfeiter. They'll be coming after me to collect, or imprison.

Sure enough, the man reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a thick stack of crisp one hundred dollar bills. "Do you want money?"

"No!" Ladden held up his hand. "And put that away, unless you want to get mugged."

"Mugged?"

"Robbed."

"Ah, thieves. My carpet and I used to give them chase in the marketplace."

Ladden’s throat convulsed. "C-carpet?"

Nodding, Gene said, "He was a good friend in the olden times—not in this United States of America, but in another land, where it is much warmer, and the scent of spices fill the air."

"This rug... what does it look like?"

He squinted. "The color of berries, black around the edge." The old man shrugged. "That is all I remember. It has been a long time."

"Does it have fringe?"

His eyes bugged and he lurched forward. "Yes! Have you seen this carpet?"

Ladden gripped his coffee cup hard. "There is a rug of that description at my store."

"Where did you purchase it?"

"At the same auction I bought the lamp you referred to earlier."

A glow bathed the man's wrinkled face and his eyes shone. "My friend watched over me all these years."

With one quick motion, Ladden tossed down the last of the coffee. The story the man told was just too preposterous to believe. The old man must have seen the rug when he'd stolen the stationery envelope, and now seized the opportunity to embellish his fantasy with another detail... or perhaps the unstable man simply wanted to get his hands on the carpet and had fabricated the entire story.

"I am glad you have the carpet, Master," Gene said. "It is proper."

"I happen to agree, since I paid for it."

"Has your princess seen the carpet?"

"Jasmine? Yes, she's seen it."

Gene winked at him. "Do not worry. The carpet will help you gain favor with your lady."

Increasingly impatient with the man's rambling, Ladden tossed a couple of bills on the table. "Do you remember enough about the earthqua—I mean, the ground shaking, that you could tell someone else about it?"

The man nodded. "I will try, Master."

"Good. Let's go." He led the man toward the door. "And please don't call me Master."

"Yes, Master."

* * *

Two hours later, with a raging headache and heavy steps, Ladden unlocked the front door of his business. The old man had been worse than useless during their visit to Saul Tydwell's office. Even with much prompting from Ladden, his story had sounded sketchy, and his constant references to Ladden as Master on top of his ancient-sounding dialect had left Saul's face frozen in a mask of skepticism.

Ladden rummaged behind the big counter until he found a bottle of painkiller that hadn't expired. After swallowing two tablets with no water, he leaned on the counter and watched a butterfly explore a section of the smooth surface. He didn't dare look at the rug. He didn't even want to think about it. Besides, if he were going to reopen for business tomorrow, he needed to finish cleaning.

He grabbed the broom just as the phone rang. He was grateful for the distraction. "Hello?"

"Ladden, this is Betsy. I need your help."

At the sound of his housecleaner's voice, he relaxed slightly. "Is something wrong at my place?"

"No—although you really should hang some curtains in your bedroom." She lowered her voice to a teasing purr. "You never know when you might need some privacy."

Knowing the fiery Betsy was probably arched in some beguiling pose, he smirked. "Don't tell me that's what you need help with."

She laughed merrily. "No. I need to borrow your furniture and your back."

"Got a catering gig tonight?"

"Right."

"And you need folding chairs?"

"Only fifty or so. I just found out I'll be serving on a patio and they expect me to provide the seating."

He smiled, eager to help a friend, glad that, for the first time today, something was within his control. "Fifty folding chairs, no problem."

"Why don't you throw on a jacket and stick around till the party's over? We'll have fun and it'll save you a trip back."

Why not? He certainly didn't have anything else planned. "Sure. When and where?"

"Seven-thirty, the Shoalt Hotel."

"I'll meet you there."