The Room with the Second-Best View (28 page)

Millie had just come to the same realization. “And he's still taking pictures.”

The stranger pulled out his cell phone and snapped a shot of the corner.

“The guy's a weirdo. I want to know what he's up to.” Al reached for the door, but Millie snatched his arm back.

“We should wait for Susan. We don't want to offend her uncle a week before her wedding.”

Beth turned to Lisa with a giggle. “How exciting! I'm so glad we drove down.”

Exciting
was not the term Millie would have chosen.

They didn't have long to wait. Susan had apparently drawn on her skills as a high school track sprinter, for she rounded the corner a moment later.

Al opened the door. “In here,” he said in a stage whisper.

Susan entered, her gaze circling the room. “Where's Uncle Mark?”

“Over there.” Millie pointed at the man, who now stood in front of the Freckled Frog, making a study of the doorposts.

Susan studied the man. “That's not Uncle Mark.” She shook her head. “I've never seen that man before in my life.”

Spider legs crept up Millie's spine. “Then why was he at my house yesterday pretending to be your uncle?”

“Enough.” Albert stiffened his spine, his expression as stern as Millie had ever seen it. “I'm going to confront him.”

He stomped out the door, and Millie called after him, “Albert, be careful.”

“He ought not approach a stranger alone,” Lulu said. “I wish my Honey Bun was here.”

“You're right,” Violet agreed. “The man might be a lunatic or something.”

Millie opened the door and ran after her husband, Violet close on her heels.

“There's safety in numbers, girlies,” came Lulu's voice.

Millie glanced back and found herself at the head of a parade of women, Lulu bringing up the rear with her odd, mincing step and her toes arched high.

“Not a lot of support in these things,” she said as she stepped carefully over the railroad tracks.

“Somebody better record this,” Beth suggested. “If a fight breaks out, we'll want to be able to prove to the police whose fault it was.”

“We can do it on our cell phones.” An excited giggle sounded from Lisa's direction. “Who knows? It might go viral on YouTube.”

“You there.” Albert called to the man from several yards away. “What are you doing?”

The fake Uncle Mark swiveled, eyes going wide when he found himself confronted by seven people. “Just taking a few pictures of the buildings.”

Susan marched up to stand beside Albert. “You're not my Uncle Mark.”

A shamefaced expression crept over his face. “My name's Mark Logan, but I'm nobody's uncle.”

“You deliberately misrepresented yourself yesterday at my home.” Albert drew himself up. “Perhaps we need to call the police to get to the bottom of this.”

Cell phones held aloft, Lisa and Beth stepped to one side so they could get a clear shot of the confrontation.

“I did no such thing.” He lowered his head a touch but still looked Albert in the eye. “You made an assumption, and it's true I didn't correct you. To be honest, I was reeling from shock.”

The door to the Freckled Frog opened, and Frieda stuck her head out. “Is there a problem out here?”

Mark Logan whirled on her. “There certainly is. Mr. and Mrs. Richardson have destroyed the integrity of an historic building.”

Millie gasped and then marched up to stand beside Albert. “What are you talking about?”

“Mrs. Richardson?” When she nodded, he straightened. “I'm from the Heritage Council. I'm following up on your application to become a part of the Main Street Program.”

Words failed her. Lulu duckwalked forward to stand beside her.

“You're an inspector?” Violet asked.

“I'm a freelance preservationist.” Head held high enough to give haughty Lorna a run for her money, he fixed a contemptuous glare on Millie. “The Council enlisted my assistance since you requested that your application be expedited, and they're shorthanded. When I arrived at that lovely Victorian-era home yesterday and saw the way you've defiled it, I was appalled.”

The Cincinnati tourists, their delight apparent, swung their cell phones toward her.

Millie drew herself upright. “I don't know what you're talking about. The house was in terrible shape when we bought it. We're restoring it a bit at a time.”

“No, madam, you are not
restoring
it. You're desecrating it.” He speared her with a sharp gaze. “You put
asphalt
shingles on the roof.”

Millie risked a glance at Albert. The use of less expensive roofing material had been at his insistence.

With jerky motions, Mark Logan held his notepad aloft and flipped several pages. “The home was built in 1892. Asphalt shingles did not come into use until the early 1900s.” He rounded on Albert. “And you, sir, want to continue ravaging the house by tearing up vintage poplar flooring to install
laminate
.”

“Albert!” Millie turned a stern look his way. “I thought we'd agreed to nix that idea.”

He shoved a hand in his pocket and started to speak, but Mark cut him off.

“After witnessing the horrors being done to that beautiful home, I knew I'd better take a closer look at the downtown historic district.” He waved his pen around, encompassing the buildings up and down Main Street. “Precious historic resources here are in serious decline. Just look at that.” He pointed toward the sagging awning over the used bookstore and then at the crumbling facade of the vacant building next to the Frog. “Disgraceful.”

“It costs money to do all those repairs,” Tuesday said. “I had to take out a loan to fix up the Day Spa.”

Mark rounded on her, eyes bulging. “You're responsible for that…that…sacrilege?”

“Hey,” Susan said. “My fiancé did the work on that building, and he did a great job.”

“While I will admit the restoration work is acceptable, the color is entirely unacceptable.”

Tuesday's lower lip protruded as she glanced toward her building. “You don't like what I've done with it?”

“Madam, it's
purple.
Structures built in the 1800s were not purple.”

Frieda folded her arms and gave a prim smile. “If you'll remember, I advised against purple from the outset.”

“And take this building, for instance.” Mark waved at the Freckled Frog. “The trim is all wrong for that era. And where did you get that door? From the Penney's catalog?”

Frieda went statue-still.

“Now hold up there a minute, cowboy.” Shuffling on the lilac-colored pedicure slippers, Lulu planted herself in front of the man. “That's what the Main Street Program is all about. It's us committing to do the fixing-up, and you to do the helping.”

He eyed her. “The Main Street Program's goal is economic development through historic preservation. What we have here isn't preservation.”

“Well, now, that's where we disagree.” Lulu cocked her head on her long neck. “I seem to remember a couple of different definitions in the research I did.” She held up a hand and raised a finger with each point. “We can
conserve
a building, which means we won't let it get any worse than it already is. We can
restore
it back to the way it looked when it was first built. We can
preserve
it, which means do repairs but update it to today's standards. Or we can
rehabilitate
it, which means it's gonna be used for something different than it was intended to be.”

Caution stole over the man's expression, and Frieda looked openly impressed.

Lulu continued. “What we've done here in Goose Creek is preserving, and that's okay.” She held up a hand. “I'm not saying we don't have more work to do. That's where the Main Street Program's gonna help. But there's not a rule anywhere saying we have to match paint colors and such.”

A crooked vein appeared in Mark's temple, and his face darkened. “I've been asked by the Heritage Council for my opinion, and that's what I will report. I'm a historical preservationist who happens to believe that the purist approach is best.”

Lulu planted a lanky arm on her hip. “Well excuse me for saying so, mister, but I think you're a
hysterical
preservationist who happens to be wrong. And I'm darn well gonna share that opinion with the director of the Heritage Council.”

While the man sputtered, Frieda and Tuesday applauded. The delighted Cincinnati tourists, their phones pointed at Lulu, grinned ear to ear. Millie slipped an arm around Lulu's waist and squeezed. Sometimes one must throw diplomacy to the wind, as her friend had just done.

Apparently at a loss for words, Mark Logan turned on his heel and marched away. The little group on the sidewalk watched him get into a car and leave. Beth punched a button on her cell phone and beamed at her friend. “I got every bit of that. I wonder if Mr. Mayfield would want to use it on his blog.”

“I'm posting mine on Facebook,” Lisa said.

The two pocketed their phones and, with a wave, entered the Freckled Frog.

Violet turned to Lulu and stuck out a hand. “I was wrong. You're the best Main Street Manager Goose Creek could have.”

“You sure are.” Tuesday smiled widely.

“I concur.” Frieda glanced in the direction Mark Logan had gone. “If our application is approved, that is.”

“Oh, it will be approved.” Millie gave Lulu's waist another squeeze. “The director of the Heritage Council is a reasonable man. We'll talk to him.” She turned a scowl on Albert. “We are
not
installing laminate in our house.”

“Okay, okay.” Holding up both hands in a gesture of submission, he backed away. “I'm going to Cardwell's for coffee now. And I'm not getting decaf,” he added with a touch of defiance.

Millie didn't argue. After that encounter, she could use a shot of caffeine herself.

Chapter Nineteen

T
he moment Susan opened her eyes, an electric thrill shot from her head to her toes.

It's my wedding day!

She sat up on the foldout sofa that had been her bed for the past two years and glanced around the empty apartment. The last of her things had been packed off to her new home last night after a quiet dinner with Justin, Daddy, and Uncle Mark—the
real
Uncle Mark. Ross had opted for a sandwich in his room while he worked on another blog post about Goose Creek. Susan had been surprised when Aunt Lorna declined to join them, claiming that she needed a good night's rest before the
big event
. Susan raised her arms and stretched. The euphemism might not be true in terms of size, but was certainly appropriate in terms of impact. At eleven-thirty this morning she would become Mrs. Justin Hinkle. Truly the biggest and best event of her life.

Her phone rang. Probably Justin, calling to wish her a happy wedding day. She grabbed the charger cable, pulled the phone toward her, and glanced at the screen.

Not Justin. Millie.

“Hello?”

“You'd better get over here,” Millie said with no preamble, her tone tight with tension.

Alarm pinged in Susan's brain. “Is something wrong?”

“She's done something you're not going to like.”

The
she
could only mean one person. Aunt Lorna.

She leaped out of bed. “I'm on my way.”