1 Death Pays the Rose Rent (3 page)

“I did not scream. I simply swallowed the wrong way and choked a little.” I tried to sound calm.

Probably my imagination, but I thought I saw her lips twitch into a tiny smile as she turned away.

After I recovered my dignity, I saw that we had turned onto a one-lane driveway, covered with gravel, not paved. Just ahead of us was a wrought-iron archway, which spanned the drive.

“This is it,” Alice-Ann announced cheerfully as she started up the car. As we approached the arch, I could see that its iron scrollwork formed ornate letters. They spelled out
SILVERTHORNE
.

CHAPTER 3 

The narrow driveway was flanked on both sides by tall trees, their branches merging overhead to create an eerie, underwaterlike, dark green tunnel. Thick underbrush at the base of the trees hid whatever was behind. Even from the car, I could see the orange berries and dangerous two-inch thorns of pyracantha, the firethorn bush. This shrubbery would be as impenetrable a barrier as barbed wire.

After about a quarter of a mile, the driveway forked in two directions. We took the left branch, which curved up and around a small hill. The gravel crunching under our wheels sounded friendly. As we rounded the bend and approached the top of the hill, I saw a two-story, gray stone house, the kind you see on Pennsylvania postcards. Multicolored flowers bloomed in abundance everywhere. My mental picture of the woodcutter’s hovel was replaced by that of an English country cottage in the Cotswolds. All it lacked was a thatched roof.

The sunlight was almost blinding as we emerged from our leafy tunnel. Windows of old ripply glass sparkled in the light. I climbed out of the car and took a deep breath of the first fresh air I’d inhaled in years. It was even better than I’d hoped for.

Mark immediately scampered off to the side yard where there were a swing set and a sandbox.

“Come on,” Alice-Ann said, pushing her streaked blond hair away from her face with a well-remembered gesture. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.” She picked up the grocery bag, noticed the cat box protruding from the top, put it down, and picked up my suitcase and typewriter, which were much heavier. I followed behind her, carrying the cats and their belongings.

We entered a long, dim hallway, which extended all the way through the center of the house. A back door opened onto a tree-shaded, screened porch. Cool air moved gently through the house; it was natural air-conditioning at its best.

A chestnut wood staircase curved up to a second-floor landing and then curved again toward what must be the attic. Someone had painted a primitive-style mural on the walls. Here in the first-floor hall, the scene showed a two-story stone house on a hill, just like the one we were in, surrounded by farmland. A blue ribbon, representing a river, flowed through the cornfields, and over by the front door, a tiny covered wagon floated upside down in a small lake. The painted blue sky, dotted with soft white clouds, extended up the staircase as far as I could see.

Alice-Ann waited while I examined the painting. Although it had faded in some places, it was still lovely.

“There were itinerant artists around here in the eighteen hundreds who specialized in this kind of thing,” she told me. “They would live with a family for several months while they did the painting, then move on to another house. It was cheaper than importing wallpaper in those days and provided the family with some amusing company. This one’s particularly interesting because it not only shows our house, but also depicts the famous ‘Scene of the Accident,’ where Richard’s great-great-something-or-other fell in the river and decided it was easier to build a town than to replace a broken wagon wheel.”

“Do I detect a little sarcasm?” I asked her.

“I do get a little bored with it,” she admitted. “It all happened more than two hundred years ago, but the way the locals act, you’d think it was yesterday. I guess I’ve always felt it was more important to live for the future than the past.”

As she spoke, she led me through an arch on the left into the living room. It was a large room, with a ceiling at least fourteen feet high. Tall, curtainless windows across the back let in soft, tree-filtered light.

The furnishings were of that style recently popularized as “country,” which meant one or two comfortable, upholstered pieces were combined with awkward wooden benches and rickety chairs. Cracked pottery crocks full of dried weeds sat in every corner. Lamps were made of bean pots, canning jars, and even an old iron water pump. Duck decoys dangled above the windows, while blue and white enameled pots and pans with holes in them hung from the walls. The large stone fireplace, directly across from the entrance, was full of ashes from its last fire, and its front was darkened with soot. A gleaming copper bowl full of flowers sat on a carpenter’s bench, which lacked one leg. Since the bench stood before an appallingly spindly wood-framed couch, I deduced that it served as a coffee table. The blue and white braided rugs scattered about on the polished plank floors looked treacherously slippery.

Incredibly, it worked. The room was friendly and cozy.

Alice-Ann got a bottle of wine out of an oak wash-stand, which had a small bar built inside where the chamber pot used to go. She filled two glasses, but wouldn’t let me have mine until I put the cats away.

Actually, the laundry room wasn’t bad. It was a converted sunroom, just off the kitchen. The windows had lovely, wide sills, and both cats quickly found sunbeams to sleep in. I put some Tasty Tabby Treats and water down for them and promised them we’d go for a walk later. That soothed my conscience enough so that I could enjoy my wine without guilt.

I sat on a blue-plaid wing chair, which turned out to be more comfortable than it looked, while Alice-Ann, a hand-quilted pillow behind her back, stretched her long legs out on the wooden bench, and we talked and laughed and drank most of the bottle of wine.

“Still into that Wizard of Oz stuff, I see.” She smiled, looking at my T-shirt. “I used to think you wished a cyclone would carry you off to Oz.”

“Maybe I still do,” I said, and changed the subject back to our college days.

Alice-Ann wiped her eyes after we reminisced about the time her date drank too many “purple passions” and jumped off a bridge, yelling, “I’m Crusader Rabbit.” We all thought it was hilarious at the time, but it hadn’t been so funny later when he had his broken leg set at the hospital.

“You know when I first really decided you were the greatest?” Alice-Ann asked me.

I shook my head.

“When we decided our second semester to pledge a sorority. The first weekend we went over to the house, that obnoxious pledge master, Sally, told you to clean the bathroom.”

“I remember that. I took a washcloth and wiped everything with it, and she came in and said it wasn’t clean enough, and I asked, ‘What should I do?’ and she said, ‘Use elbow grease.’ “

“And you went all over the house asking where they kept the Elbow Grease.”

“Because I thought there really was something called Elbow Grease, like Bon Ami or Pledge. How was I supposed to know? I’d never had to do anything like that before.”

“And all the actives went along with the joke and had you chasing around looking for a can of Elbow Grease. Then when you found out, you said, ‘Fuck you—who needs this!’ and you left.”

“And you came running out after me and said, ‘Not me!’ and that was the end of our careers as Greeks. But I had my first best friend.”

“We were a couple of idiots—but nice idiots.”

“Do you remember …?”

“I wonder what happened to …?”

Graduation had finally separated us—it had been rough on both of us. I’d left immediately for New York to seek my fortune as a journalist, and Alice-Ann had gone on to graduate school to earn a master’s degree in library science. After that she had come to Lickin Creek as the town librarian, met one of the town’s most eligible bachelors, and married him. Wryly she told me that some of the older valley residents still considered her an “outsider.”

“Still?” I asked incredulously. “You’ve lived here for eight years. You’ve been a MacKinstrie for seven.”

“That’s part of the problem. Richard’s family is sort of considered to be the local aristocracy, since it was a great-great-MacKinstrie who founded the town. In a small country town like this that kind of background is even more important than being rich. There were lots of young Pennsylvania girls who had hopes of becoming a MacKinstrie someday. Their families are not about to forgive a foreigner for coming in and marrying their little crown prince.”

She glanced at her watch, and I got the impression that she wanted to change the subject. “Tori, I almost forgot. There’s something I have to do this afternoon. I’ve got to deliver a picture frame I repaired to my neighbors, the Thorne sisters. They live in a fabulous mansion, just down the hill from here. I can’t wait for you to see it. How about coming with me? They’re a couple of real interesting local characters.”

I nodded, and she said, “I’ll call them and see if we can come over now.”

She went into the kitchen to make her phone call.

I wandered into the hallway to take another look at the mural and could just hear her saying, “Tonight? I didn’t know anything about it. …No, no problem. Richard is so busy he probably just forgot to tell me. Do you mind if we bring our houseguest? She’s a best-selling novelist. You’ll just love her.” Pause. “Thanks, Sylvia. We’ll see you later.”

I moved quietly back to my wing chair. Otherwise she might think I had been eavesdropping, something I would never do intentionally. And naturally, I couldn’t tell her that I wasn’t a “best-selling novelist,” because then she’d know I’d overheard her conversation. Besides, it was great for the ego to be described that way even if it wasn’t true.

Alice-Ann came back. “I’m almost sorry I called. It was really embarrassing. When I asked Sylvia Thorne if I could deliver the painting this afternoon, she said she was too busy getting ready for the meeting tonight. She said she expected me to be there, and I could bring the picture with me then. Evidently, Richard was supposed to tell me about it and forgot. Well, there’s no harm done, I guess. It’s not too late to call my baby-sitter. And Sylvia Thorne wants you to come, too. It’s not very often we get a celebrity visiting here. You’ll really liven up the meeting.”

“What kind of meeting is it?” I asked.

“It’s the steering committee for Lickin Creek’s annual Rose Rent Festival.”

“You mentioned the Rose Rent Festival on the phone. What is it?”

“It’s a local celebration—”

“In honor of my late ancestor George MacKinstrie, founder of Lickin Creek,” came a masculine voice from the front hall.

Alice-Ann’s hand flew up to grab her throat. “Richard, you startled me! I didn’t hear you come in.”

Richard MacKinstrie, Alice-Ann’s husband, appeared in the archway, wearing a black leather jacket over a navy-blue polyester suit. A motorcycle helmet was tucked under his left arm. He looked distinctly displeased at the sight of me.

But he boomed heartily, “Victoria. Great to see you. Alice-Ann told me she’d invited you, but I thought you’d be too busy running with the rich and famous to visit a couple of boring old friends like us.”

I decided that my initial dislike of him was well grounded and gritted my teeth when he gave me a big, welcoming hug. He didn’t have to bend over nearly as far as Alice-Ann because he was no more than five foot six or seven.

Mark had followed his father into the living room. Sand dribbled from his clothes onto the polished wood floor. I smiled at the child over his father’s shoulder as I suffered the unpleasant embrace.

Richard turned to see what I was looking at. “Mark,” he roared. “You’re getting sand everywhere. Go to your room at once.”

Alice-Ann’s face turned pink and her body stiffened. The Alice-Ann I used to know would have really torn into him. I had the feeling that she was holding back because I was there. Instead, her voice was carefully controlled as she spoke. “Richard, you don’t have to be so hard on him all the time. He’s a good boy.”

Now it was Richard’s turn to have a pink face. “Just look at that mess he’s made. I’m going to get rid of that damn sandbox.” He went over to the wash-stand bar and poured himself about three inches of Scotch, which he drank in one long swallow. He turned to me with a smile, as though nothing had happened. “Drink?”

“Just wine, thanks,” I said, glad that he seemed to have forgotten his son.

Alice-Ann took the little boy by the hand and led him upstairs, telling him that he was going to have a baby-sitter tonight and could stay up until eight to watch TV.

Richard sat stiffly on the wooden bench, as if determined to be uncomfortable, and I settled back into my wing chair. “Put on a little weight, haven’t you?” he said.

It was an intentional insult. Anyone who knows me is well aware I could be the poster child for the Yo-Yo Dieters Association. I swallowed my angry retort, reminding myself I was, after all, a guest in his home. The stillness in the room was dreadful. Finally, to fill the void, I asked him to tell me about the Rose Rent Festival.

He lit up. I breathed a sigh of relief. I’d asked the right question.