Authors: Christine DeSmet
After I made the two sales, nobody else showed up for an hour.
On a whim, I set up an honor jar for money, then got in my truck and headed down Highway C the short distance to Jonas Coppens’s property.
I pulled to a stop past his driveway and a few feet this side of the roadside chapel along the road. Jonas’s parents had built it years ago when I was a kid. The chapel’s foundation was about the dimensions of my pickup truck.
As my dad had told me, the door was locked. That was unusual. Most roadside chapels were open to the passersby who wanted to escape their busy world and take a moment for solitude and prayer. With the way my life was going lately, I wanted to lock myself inside one of these chapels and never come out again. I wondered why Fontana had been trying to get inside.
This chapel had a small window to the west. I peeked inside.
The interior looked the same as when I was a child. Jonas and I and some other farm kids would sometimes play house here. Statues of the Virgin Mary and Jesus stood on the compact altar, which had a gold-painted cross on the wall above it. Pudgy, unlit white candles sat on either end of the altar. A box with the word DONATIONS sat in the east windowsill. A padded kneeler and railing in front of the altar had enough room for two people.
“Hey there, Ooster.”
I leaped. “Hi there, Jonas. You gave me a start.”
He ran a hand through his short dark auburn hair, his gray-blue eyes sweeping me up and down while he smiled. He’d always called me “Ooster” when we were young.
He said, “The last time we were in there, you had sprouted and were taller than me and you pushed me off the railing, which I was imagining was a horse that I was riding.”
While we chuckled over that, I noticed a bicycle lying on the road behind him and in front of my truck.
He waved an envelope in his hand. “Just bringing a letter to the mailbox before the mailman gets here. What’s up?”
“My dad said he saw Fontana trying to get into your chapel last week.”
“That’s why I keep it locked.” He shook his head over the matter.
“She comes around a lot?”
“Isn’t Fontana everywhere at once?”
“True. But I wonder why she’d want to get inside your chapel. It’s not like she’s religious. The only higher power she believes in is herself.”
He shrugged. “But she sure squawked when they passed on her being part of the church choir for the kermis.”
“Yeah, I heard. But we can’t have somebody who sounds like a crow cawing in the choir for the prince.”
Jonas chuckled again. “That’s exactly how she sounds.”
“Were you there at tryouts?”
He picked up his bike. “Not inside. I worked on the lawn around the church last Wednesday when they made the semifinal selections, then did the mulching when they made the selection for the final two on Saturday morning.”
“I thought Saturday morning was about music selection.”
“No. There was a sing-off, too. They were singing ‘Ave Maria.’”
My mind went to the Buck knife and blood on the sheet music. “Who were the final two?”
“I’m not sure. It was real early. The sun was barely up. Fontana showed up. But the guy sort of sneaked in and out. When he saw me, he asked me not to tell anybody.”
“A guy? I assumed it was women who were vying for the final choir positions.”
Jonas’s farmer’s tan had turned almost magenta. He put a foot on a bike pedal. “I gotta get into my fields. Got some early corn to check on.”
“Jonas, wait.” I stepped quickly, pulling at his arm before he could put the bike in motion. “Who was the man?”
“You haven’t heard it from me, Ooster. Cross your heart and hope to die if you tell?”
“Jonas, this is silly.”
“It was Pauline’s man friend. I’ve never formally met him. But I recognized him from another time when a bus tour stopped to look at my roadside chapel. On Saturday early, he called over to me and asked me not to tell that he’d been there. I gotta go. Just remembered I left the water running to the livestock tank.”
Jonas pumped away fast, passing his mailbox without leaving the letter. He pedaled down the gravel lane that led back to his farmstead.
So John Schultz was at the church early on Saturday. Before his tour. Pauline didn’t know about his trying out for the choir. She would have told me about that.
He’d had a bandaged hand on Saturday. So had Cherry.
What did they know about that knife I’d found in that organ bench? And why did I have a feeling Fontana knew something about it? What was going on in my midst?
I hoped John’s memory was coming back soon.
* * *
Mom took a shift at Ava’s Autumn Harvest. When I returned to Fishers’ Harbor around twelve thirty that Monday afternoon, I spotted my grandfather wheeling his garden wagon—my childhood Radio Flyer—down the sidewalk along Main Street. I honked, pulled into an empty parking spot, then ran across the street.
The wagon was stacked high with DVDs and videotapes of old movies still in their cardboard sleeves. We were standing a few yards down from the Wise Owl.
“Gilpa, what’s all this?” I restacked a few videotapes that threatened to topple from the wagon.
“For Sophie. Milton let me have them for a quarter apiece.” His grin was that of a kid again, and on a Christmas morning at that. But now he was playing Santa Claus. “She’s going to love these, don’t you think?”
Grandma loved old movies. She often talked about how she and Grandpa would drive over three hours to Madison in their courting days and early marriage to see movies at the Orpheum Theater on State Street. They’d make a weekend of it, seeing four or five movies sometimes. These days, they liked going to Door County’s outdoor drive-in theater nearby, called one of the best in the country for its sound system and snacks. But autumn nights were getting too chilly for hanging out at the drive-in.
The titles in the wagon included
Pillow Talk
with Doris Day and Rock Hudson, a 1959 classic. There were also several lighthearted movies starring Cary Grant, including
Arsenic and Old Lace
, from 1944, and silly movies with Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra. The wagon included a couple of films with Sophia Loren, including
Grumpier Old Men
, from 1995. I had to smile. Grandpa often called my grandmother his Sophia Loren.
“What a nice thing to do, Gilpa.” I kissed him on the cheek.
His face flushed, and his eyes twinkled with friskiness.
“I’m going to make her forget about yesterday and her relatives. Nobody is as royal as my Queen Sophie. I’m making the rest of today and tonight all about her. We’re watching movies all day. I’m even going to make her popcorn just the way she likes it.”
“In the fry pan on the stove?”
“You betcha.”
I’ve never forgotten the sound of my grandparents shaking the fry pan back and forth over their electric stove burner, the action sounding like metal zippers opening and closing fast, punctuated by the popcorn popping. Grandma always poured melted butter over the popcorn in a Tupperware tub. When Pauline and I were young girls, Grandpa would pick out the burned kernels of popcorn and tell us, “Be careful, those’ll put hair on your chest.”
As we were parting, my grandfather looked back and me and said, “I met that new lawyer lady taking over Milt’s store. She’s a looker, the likes of which Fishers’ Harbor has never seen.”
I realized I hadn’t tried to look up Jane Goodland on the Internet yet. “I wouldn’t let Grandma see that look on your face when Jane’s name comes up in conversation.”
Grandpa laughed. “As they say, I can look at the menu. Doesn’t mean I want to order anything.”
A minute later, I came upon Lucky Harbor sitting next to the front door of the fudge shop like a sentry. His collar had the orange key holder on it.
The note read
News about John and memory. Weird.
Chapter 12
L
ucky Harbor rode in the shotgun seat while I drove up the steep hill to the Blue Heron Inn to see what was going on with John and his memory.
Hammering led me to the backyard. To my shock, Dillon stood in front of a finished gazebo. His dark eyes sparkled over a lopsided grin.
Dillon wore a black T-shirt that showed off every sexy fiber of his upper arms, shoulders, and trim torso. The wind played with his dark, wavy hair, making my fingers itch to participate in mussing it.
I didn’t see John.
All around the top cornice of the gazebo, the wooden cutouts depicted mother ducks and ducklings paddling around and around in a merry-go-round fashion. The gazebo floor was big enough to hold a kermis polka band or even a small orchestra.
Dillon planted a big kiss on my lips. He smelled of wood chips and pride.
After a second and rather long kiss that reminded me we hadn’t sneaked away for a tryst since last Wednesday, I asked, “How did you finish it so fast?”
“John. You know how he is, full of bursts of energy and ideas. He grabbed a hammer and saw and then I could barely keep up.”
“Where is John? Did he get his memory back?”
Dillon began cleaning up the area, tossing scrap wood
into a red wheelbarrow. “John told me he was going to be the lead singer of the choir for your prince and princess, but he said that I couldn’t tell anybody, especially Pauline. He wants it to be a surprise. She thinks he can’t sing.”
“Jonas told me about John sneaking into the church early on Saturday. And then he came back later of course on tour, with a bandaged hand. Did you ask him how he cut himself?”
“That’s where it gets weird. It came about because he got himself a real Hollywood manager.” Dillon gave me a knowing look.
“Oh no. Not my manager.”
“Yeah. John said he heard you mention him a couple of times, so he looked him up. John didn’t know anybody in Los Angeles, so he started with Marc Hayward.”
“He’s not here, is he?” I pivoted about with a feeling that I should duck. Marc was nice, but he’d pressure me to work on scripts and get back to Los Angeles. Marc felt bad that the bullies on the writing team at the
The Topsy-Turvy Girls
television show usually voted down my script ideas. So now he hoped that I’d write movie scripts instead and somehow strike it rich. I sensed that he dreamed of going to pitch meetings with me to the big studios where we’d also collect big checks.
Dillon said, “Evidently, Marc showed up late Friday night and asked to meet John at the church on Saturday morning to listen to the auditions and scope it out for filming.”
“Jonas never said anything to me about somebody else showing up early.”
“Your manager never showed.”
“Marc does that but with a good excuse. He always has a plan cooking.” My common sense kicked in. “Marc is here to make money off my grandmother’s prince and princess.”
Dillon continued picking up wood. “John said he was so excited about meeting the guy and filming that he fumbled with getting equipment in his car trunk and cut his hand. He thought it was okay on Saturday, but it started bleeding again Saturday morning when he got a paper cut with some of the sheet music.”
“Crap. So some of that blood on the sheet music is John’s?”
“Probably.”
“Jordy’s thorough. John’s going to get questioned in a serious way.”
“Well, that won’t happen now, not with John losing his memory about Saturday night.”
I picked up several wood chips off the lawn. With unease, I asked, “Do you know why John might have left Pauline’s place late on Saturday night?”
“He got a text from Hayward. We looked on John’s phone and it was there. Seems your guy wanted some nighttime shots of Saint Mary of the Snows. John drove him down there. He remembered that part this morning.”
Relief ran through me. John’s disappearance had nothing to do with any panic over his relationship with Pauline. “John’s eager to become famous with his TV show. I bet they were on the road, stopping to look at the roadside chapel when Michael Prevost hit them with his car. Mike may have had too much to drink that day.” I still wanted to throttle Mike for letting my grandmother drink too much yesterday.
“John said that he recalled Hayward told him to drive on because they didn’t have time to get into trouble.” Dillon tossed the last of the small boards into the wheelbarrow.
I helped him gather his tools from the lawn. We put them on top of the scrap wood in the wheelbarrow. “But how did John get his bump on the head and lose his memory?”
“He remembers going to the church with Hayward. The place was unlocked.”
“That’s odd that it was unlocked. There’s only a handful of people with keys, including my mother and grandparents, the parish priest, and the foundation people. They’re all very careful.”
“Well, John and Marc got in without breaking in. John then remembers falling down in the nave. But he’s fuzzy about that. He thinks he was hit from behind with something. He recalls a scuffle and Hayward cursing. I suspect your manager hauled ass with John out of there.”
“That could’ve been the roar my mother heard that night.”
“John says he recalls a snippet later. He saw the yellow bus he uses for tours, and having lost his sense of orientation, told his manager to drop him off there.”
“So Marc Hayward drove onward in John’s car to where Marc was staying?”
“That’s my guess. You’ll have to ask your manager about all this.”
Indeed. Dillon picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow. We walked around the inn over the uneven lawn to the front. Dillon’s white construction truck wasn’t there. “Did you let John drive your truck?”
“I’m not worried. John knows where he is now. It’s Saturday night that disoriented him. He and Hayward are scouting locations for shooting.”
“I’m not excited about this new friendship. Marc is rather ruthless about money and fame.”
“John would like a piece of the action, though.”
“That’s what worries me. What if they succeed with this TV series proposal? Do you think John would move to Los Angeles?”
“You’re worried about Pauline.”
I nodded. Dillon took me in his arms, kissing me on the forehead. “They’ll work it out.”
“She’d be devastated if he left. She’s so in love with the lunker.”