Boo Who (24 page)

A pounding headache had led Wolfe to grab some coffee on his way home. He’d never been fired from a job in his entire life. Admittedly, the feeling was somewhere between relief and remorse. He hated how angry Oliver was at him, but he was probably only a few days away from quitting anyway. Now he didn’t feel like diving into his honeymoon project either. All he wanted to do was find some quiet.

As he left the deli with his coffee, he noticed a horde of people walking to the community center. Curiosity brought him in stride with them. Walking in, he asked the lady next to him what was going on.

“Some town meeting,” she said. “Probably about feeding the cats. But I swear if you don’t feed ’em, they sit outside your house and meow until the cows come home.” She lowered her voice. “Rumor has it that the owl was brought in to get rid of the cat problem, if you know what I mean.” She didn’t wait for Wolfe to nod. “Owls eat cats. On the food chain, I mean. Some owls do. The big ones anyway.” A hunkering smile revealed this woman might just like to see that happen. “You seen the owl?”

Wolfe nodded.

“Yeah. Kind of weird. Lotsa weird things been happening around here. You seen the people?”

“People?”

“You haven’t noticed them? My lands! They walk around here, real scared looking, kind of like ghosts. And sometimes you’ll hear this scream—it’ll freeze your blood.” She smiled mildly at him.” ’Course, I suppose you’re used to that sort of thing.”

“Pardon me?”

“Ghosts and screaming and such.” She paused. “Because of your books.”

“Oh.” Luckily for Wolfe, the crowd making their way into the community center had now dispersed into the meeting hall, so the woman walked through a different doorway and disappeared.

Wolfe stood in the back, his height making it easy to see all that was going on, which presently was nothing but a group of people chattering away. But soon, Martin Blarty was moving toward the front microphone.

“Folks, thanks for coming on such short notice. That’s the great thing about a small town—news spreads quickly.” He smiled, but it wasn’t without uneasiness. Was he going to tell the town about the mayor?

On the other side of the room, Wolfe noticed Missy Peeple. For
such a small woman, she’d always had a big presence. But observing her now, he thought she looked so frail, the way a woman her age should look. She leaned on her cane, her full attention on Martin. If Missy Peeple were a character in one of his novels, he couldn’t imagine what motivation he would create behind such a perplexing personality.

“Okay. We just need to get some urgent information out, and town meetings seem to be a good place to do this. So please tell friends and neighbors who aren’t here today. Also, the mayor sends his apologies for not being here himself … He’s on vacation in a … tropical locale. He hopes everyone had a terrific Christmas, and as always, he looks forward to a fantastic new year. Speaking of new year, has anyone noticed the strange people who’ve been seen here and there?”

Heads bobbed while Wolfe tried to figure out Martin’s transition, or lack thereof.

“Well, folks, nobody seems to be able to make any sense out of this. They don’t seem to be doing anything wrong, so we can’t make arrests, but let’s just keep an eye out for them, and report anything strange … um, beyond their appearance and the bloodcurdling screams … to the authorities. The second reason this meeting has been called is to see if anyone has any information regarding Skary’s history …”

As Martin continued, Wolfe noticed a man near one of the side doors, observing silently, standing with the crowd but not really part of it. He was wearing a bright blue silk shirt, a matching tie, and dress slacks. He certainly did not fit the profile of a Skary resident. He nervously scratched at his neck and pulled at his collar.

“… so if anybody here would like to give me any information you have on Skary, it would be greatly appreciated. Like I said, I think all of us would love to know the history behind the history, so to speak. Wouldn’t you say?” Martin’s enthusiasm was greeted by a few claps.

“Well,” Martin concluded, as Wolfe watched the man he’d been observing slip out the side door, “thank you for coming. It’s always nice to see such support from our residents. I hope you have a terrific day!” Martin walked into the crowd and out of sight.

Wolfe finished off his coffee, tossed his cup on the way out of the
community center, and found his car. He just hoped nothing else surprising happened today.

For a reason Melb Cornforth could not identify, her deepest emotions seemed to emerge over food. Today, the chicken-fried steak was no exception, providing a nice pad for the tears that fell from her face. The more she blotted, the more emotional she became. Sitting in the middle of The Mansion, she tried to hold it together but could not.

She was probably reading into things. Oliver had called earlier, telling her he had to work late and would not be joining her for their usual Saturday evening dinner at The Mansion. His tone was cold; he said he would explain later.

Had he found out? Had he discovered what she’d paid for a wedding dress she could not wear? Had he discovered she’d blown the money for the caterer and the wedding day beautician on therapy? Each day Melb tried to make things better, they just got worse. What was she to do? How could she tell Oliver the truth? And if he had found out the truth, would he still want to marry her? Would he still love her?

Her sobs had moistened what was admittedly a fairly dry piece of meat, so Melb took a bite. It had needed some salt, too. Did she eat when she was stressed? Was it true, what Dr. Hass said? He was a therapist, after all. Weren’t they paid to see in people what people couldn’t see in themselves?

The hobby, though not diminishing her appetite, was a nice break. She could’ve never guessed how much she would like owling. But it was quite a challenge. It was as if she bonded with the owl, and every night wanted to get closer and closer to it. A mysteriously deep satisfaction came from hearing that owl hoot back. In her life, Melb had never seemed to be really good at anything. She couldn’t cook that well. She’d never been pretty, though Oliver seemed to think she was the next Miss America. She’d never enjoyed sports, watching or playing. And it was becoming clear that she couldn’t manage money very well.

But who would’ve guessed she could hoot! According to the book she had on owling, not everyone in the world could get an owl to hoot back. And each night, she seemed to refine the skill even more. She would climb higher and higher into the hills, more dedicated with each step.

All the hooting in the world, though, was not going to get her into a dress or make money fall from the sky. What was she going to do? Desperation caused tears to spill again, and this time into already moist peas.

Alfred Tennison had solved a lot of problems in his life. He’d negotiated a truce between two coauthors who swore they’d never write another book together again. They ended up penning a best-selling series about friendship. When one prolific novelist was on his deathbed, Alfred had somehow managed to convince him to sign away the rights to all his unpublished work dating back to his early twenties, which ended up being profitable in the millions for the publishing house. And, when one of their more colorful authors showed up to collect his Pulitzer Prize in denim overalls complete with a corduroy shirt jacket and duck shoes, Alfred had gone above and beyond. Tall and thin, he’d guessed correctly that the author could wear his suit, though it had to be double-belted, and the pants ended up being high-water. But thankfully, novelists could get away with quirky traits like that, and it always seemed to make them more endearing.

However, that left Alfred naked, unless he wanted to wear a pair of farmer overalls, which was awkwardly the better solution. So Alfred sat out in the limo in overalls and ate a Big Mac. It wasn’t that bad. These ceremonies were endlessly boring. And it proved Alfred Tennison would do just about anything to be successful.

So he was finding it quite annoying that he was unable to come up with a good solution to put Ainsley in the spotlight. The producer he’d talked with wanted her to pilot a show, something that would “show her stuff.” Alfred knew instantly it would need to be a gigantic catering gig, but what that was, he didn’t know. Creating an event just to showcase
Ainsley would look too staged. He needed to plant her smack dab into the middle of a planned event.

He’d created a skeleton budget and secured financing. He knew how much it would cost to hire a film crew. There were some nonessentials he’d like to have but could live without. Now he just needed that event. And until he found it, he couldn’t begin to estimate a total cost.

Complicating his thought process was the woman in the booth next to him. He recognized her, but couldn’t recall her name, though he’d spent Thanksgiving and Christmas with her. Back in his city, the name (he was bad with names anyway) wasn’t as important as the position. Here in Skary, Indiana, there weren’t really any important positions that he could see. He did recall it seemed to be an incomplete name, like Kather or Lind or Elizab. Something strange like that.

Anyway, between bites of her meal, she was crying, at times actually wailing. The waitress would come over every once in a while, but instead of asking her to calm herself down, she’d refill her tea and, therefore, her seemingly endless supply of tears.

Alfred tried for several more minutes to concentrate on the task at hand. But it was useless. All he wanted to do was go tell this woman to shut up and eat! Finally, exhausted with both the battle of failure and frenzy, Alfred stood and approached her booth.

She glanced up at him, tears oozing from her eyes like tree sap. Bright random welts covered her cheeks and neck, and he wondered if it was contagious.

“Yes?” she asked, blowing her nose into a napkin. Alfred took a step back. Surely skin disease wasn’t airborne.

“Well, um …”

“You’re Alfred,” she said suddenly. “Wolfe’s editor, right? Alfred Tennison, from New York City!” Her damp face brightened as she offered a cheerful smile and enthusiastic hand to shake.

Alfred swallowed, taking it limply and wondering if he had his antibacterial lotion in the car.

She said, “Boy, somebody’s going to have to show you how to shake hands in this part of the country. My Oliver, now that man can crush your knuckles if you’re not careful.”

“How do you do?” Alfred said as politely as he could. “Good to see you.” Lie, lie, lie.
Nice to see you with duct tape over your mouth.

“Look at me. I’m a mess. Excuse the fluster,” she said, waving her hands across her face.

It occurred to Alfred that maybe she was crying because she was dying of some horrible skin disease, and then of course it would be heartless to say something like, “Can the sniveling, lady.”

“Was there something you wanted?” she asked.

“Um … are you okay?” Alfred’s fingers climbed over the skin on his own face as he tried to articulate exactly what he was seeing on hers.

She looked confused for a moment, then said, “Oh. The splotching! My face, right? Looks like I got stung by bees?”

Bees. Or the plague.

“I must look like a real mess. I’m a splotcher.”

“Excuse me?”

“A splotcher. I splotch when I cry. Always have, even when I was a baby. For the longest time my mama thought I had the mumps. Anyway, it’s a Melb Cornforth trademark,” she said with a trying smile.

Melb! Right. Thank goodness for that, and the fact she wasn’t dying of a contagious skin disease.

“Well, um … Listen, I’ll just leave you to be. I just wanted to … to, um, make sure you’re okay.”

Melb’s watery eyes dried instantly. “You did? You came over to see if I was okay? That is so kind of you!”

“Oh. Well, glad you’re okay.”

“Okay?” she chuckled. “Hardly.” Melb shook her head, and the waterworks started again. Alfred’s newly grown conscience told him an eye roll would be inappropriate at this moment. She looked up at him. “But the last thing you want to do is listen to my problems.”

That was a trick question. He knew it.