The River Burns (9 page)

“Makes sense,” she considered, and held the door open for him to enter. She was wearing her light green housecoat with the floral print. Slightly warm but sufficiently modest for male guests. “Come in. Don't mind your shoes.”

And now, two more cop cars were on her lawn, one with its high beams practically blinding her if she looked out, the other darkened, save for the light from an interior computer screen. Neighbours on every side mocked her by keeping their houselights on. They were probably serving tea and biscuits. Tomorrow, there'd be stories to recount, for sure.

Her gunfire awakened a pocket of the town.

The first officer to arrive was one of the O'Farrell boys, she never could keep their names straight. This one must be Ryan, the smart one, but she didn't want to risk asking him to confirm that again as she'd already asked him once and forgotten the reply. Probably more than once. For the time being, she'd call him
officer
, and let it go at that. He sat with her while other policemen roamed her well-lit home—every light in the house was on for who knows what reason.

“If you think my robbers are hiding under the sofa you'll be disappointed.”

One man sidled past the O'Farrell boy—oh, he was probably more than thirty but any man under fifty seemed a mere lad to her now, or was it that memories of them as eight-year-olds in her classes and later as teenagers held the greater sway?—he sidled past and broached some
indication
through his facial expression. She looked over at the O'Farrell boy to see if he understood.

Evidently, he did. “Nothing's been taken,” he surmised.

“I told you. I interrupted their plans.”

“Or they couldn't find anything worth stealing.”

Was she being insulted? She gave him a stern, quizzical look.

“In the dark, I mean,” he qualified.

“They were not ghosts.”

“I suspect juvenile delinquents.”

“What's your name, dear?” she asked him.

“I'm Ryan. Denny's my brother.”

“I get you two mixed up.”

He laughed. “I know. Maybe if you say what you think is the wrong name, you'll get it right.”

“Oh, I've tried that. It becomes a ping-pong ball. Right. Wrong. Denny. Ryan. I should just call you
officer
.”

“You've mentioned that.”

What was he insinuating now?

“Will you be posting a guard?” Mrs. McCracken inquired.

He smiled. Somehow, she knew that he was going to do that, smile. Did she already ask that question? Did he smile like that previously?

“There's another possibility, Mrs. McCracken. A stronger possibility, maybe. They might not have come here to rob you.”

“Then why? Surely not to do me harm!”

“A prank maybe. Kids. Summer vacation. A few are looking for adventure, shall we say. A prank, which might've begun as a dare.”

“Officer—there, I said it—Officer, you're being silly,” Mrs. McCracken scolded him. “What was their purpose, to break into my house and run back and forth across my living room rug? Only to be shot at in cold blood?”

“And laugh while the pistols were being fired.”

Another silent communication passed between the O'Farrell boy and a third officer. Policemen were departing her house, leaving every interior light on as if she was made of money.

The O'Farrell boy faced her. “We've cleaned up the glass, so you won't cut yourself, and taped plastic in the window to keep the bugs out.”

“Thank you. But tape and plastic won't keep the thieves out.”

“They've done their mischief.”

“And what mischief is that, Officer? Scaring an old lady half to death?”

“Partly. Also, they got you to fire your guns, Mrs. McCracken. Everybody knows that you only shoot blanks with those things.”

“Who knows?” she stormed.

“It's common knowledge.”

“How does anybo—” she objected, but stopped herself.

He gave a little knowing nod that irritated her no end.

“I may have mentioned it in passing,” she added.

“Word gets around. But that tells me that local boys did this. I doubt if they'll be able to keep the story to themselves. We'll keep our ears to the pavement and hear what we can hear.”

“Then there's a chance,” she perked up, “that we might get a break in the case? I may yet receive justice?”

“We'll see. I'll hang around outside for a while. As a rule, these types of dares are attempted only once. No repeats. I'm sure you'll be safe now.”

“With tape and plastic on my window, I lack your confidence.”

“As I said, I'll hang out for a bit. Give you a chance to sleep.”

“Sleep? It'll take me half the night to turn off these lights.”

“I'll do that for you. Downstairs, in any case.”

She stood up with him.

“You know,” she said, “I've only mentioned it to a few people.”

He tapped her shoulder gently. She liked that. “A few too many perhaps. Personally, I've known about it since . . . oh, high school.”

“That was a while ago.”

“I think you even mentioned it in class.”

“You were boys and girls! What's the harm?”

“The point is, everybody knows. Some kids had a little sport with you.”

“Hooligans, I call them. They don't deserve to be referred to as kids. You were a good student. I remember that. Brighter than your brother.”

“Denny's bright, Mrs. McCracken. Maybe more rambunctious than the rest of us. School just wasn't for him.”

She adjusted the collar of her housecoat when really she'd rather remove it, feeling the heat. “You have a point, I suppose, about the blanks. Perhaps I did mention that fact one too many times.”

“You practise firing them on your front lawn.”

“Only on holidays! What are you insinuating? That this is my fault? Those boys could've given me a heart attack! Then you'd have a murder on your hands. Have you thought about that?”

“Let's be grateful that never transpired.”

“Oh, I am, Officer. I truly am.”

“Ryan,” he said. Then smiled, briefly.

As Officer
Ryan
went through the downstairs rooms switching off lights, Mrs. McCracken eked her way back up the stairs, wondering if there was anything she was forgetting to do. “Come along, Buckminster,” she said, although she knew that his comings and goings were only on his own accord and to his own schedule, that he acquiesced to none of her requests even when he might prefer to do so, all on account of some innate feline stubbornness that was simply incomprehensible.

11

W
illis Howard never noticed himself being scrutinized. Across the street and a few doors down, Tara-Anne Cogshill was seated upon a community bench. She took note of his arrival as the somewhat dowdy shopkeeper unlocked the front door to his shop, right on time. He wiped his feet before he took two steps back to cast a glance over the entire storefront, as though to confirm that the exterior trappings of his premises didn't corrode overnight. He then stepped forward and wiped his feet a second time on the welcome mat—and wasn't it nice to live in a town, she considered, where a store's mat could be left outside on the main street and not be stolen, the thief's question being not
Do I want it?
but rather
Why not steal what's not nailed down?
The door unlocked now and his feet well wiped, he continued to take time to evaluate the display window. Following this thorough deliberation, the shopkeeper seemed satisfied and the newcomer to town, half hidden behind a telephone pole, checked her smile. The fellow amused her, she allowed. She doubted that the presentation changed during a season, yet he still made a daily inspection as if labouring under the suspicion that a few delinquent trinkets or curios might, in his absence, have spent the night carousing. When next he returned to the front door he wiped his feet yet a third time, removed the bundle of keys hanging from the lock, and entered.

Tara felt an affection for the man's addiction to routine. As much as her amusement, that's what initiated her smile. She herself didn't suffer that gene.

Inside, he flipped the sign from
CLOSED/FERM
É
to
OPEN
/
OUVERT
.

Willis Howard was ready for business.

Tara crossed the street and went in.

The wee bell above the door tinkled.

“Ah,” he greeted her, “my partner so mysterious.” He was behind the cash, adjusting items on the countertop. She guessed that he meant to sound more sarcastic than he did and less intrigued, but he failed to pull that off and, consequently, gave himself away. “I give you marks for punctuality.”

“Sir, what's your middle name? May I ask? I'm curious.”

Despite a promise—indeed, a full-blown commitment—to not allow himself to be stumped in her company again, he was. “What?” he asked. “Why?”

“No particular reason. Consider it a hobby of mine, middle names.”

“Ephraim,” he acquiesced. “What's yours?”

“I use my middle name.”

If he wanted to ask what her first name might be, he didn't.

“I see,” he demurred. Then recovered to say, “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Mr. Howard. How are you?”

“Ready and able, I guess. Another scorcher in the works, huh? Ah, if I'm to call you Tara, Tara, as you've suggested, then you must call me Willis.”

“I shall. And I won't call you Willis Willis either, Willis.” She noted his consternation. “Forget it. Bad joke. I guess we need to get things rolling.”

He clasped his left wrist in his right hand and held both arms over his stomach. “I've been wracking my brains to assess how this might work, Tara. I confess that I find myself at a significant loss. You know what they say, the devil is in the details. The problem is, I can't think of a single detail to help us make this arrangement work.”

Guessing again, she suspected that the speech was prepared in advance, probably rehearsed at some length before a mirror.

“Ephraim,” she mused, “is not in widespread use, at least not anymore.”

Again, he was caught off guard. “Willis neither,” he mentioned. “I suppose my parents expected more of me.” He smiled, but she could tell that the moment he spoke the words he wanted to snatch them back.

“Your peers thought less of you, I bet. That's a difficult handle for a kid.”

Not for the first time in this conversation, he seemed flummoxed, waiting.

“So,” Tara decided. “The details. Shall we root out the devil then?”

“It's a small room,” he reaffirmed. “I don't know what commerce anyone can conduct in that space sufficient to earn a livelihood. This store does pretty well, but I would not want to depend on any one segment to make ends meet.”

“Changes are in order, obviously. For instance, how many grandfather clocks do you sell in a year?”

Magisterial, four governed the wall at Willis Howard's back—sentinels, an honour guard in full plumage. With the store empty and the background music not yet switched on, a combative ticking resonated across the wide-planked floor. They seemed, in their way, to suspend time within this room, with its nod to a bygone era that perhaps never actually existed, at least not in the way so many perceived.

“I'm uncertain of the exact number.”

“A big-ticket item like that? Your biggest, probably. You must have an idea.”

“One, from time to time,” he confessed. “Two in a good year.”

She indulged in a moment of minor facial theatrics. If he was going to deliver prepared speeches, then fudge the information he did provide, then she needed to disrupt his line of communication. Even his way of thinking.

“I'll bring the clocks into my section, Willis. We'll segregate them in their own quarters, rather than see them elbow for attention amid doilies and—what is this anyway? Some sort of faux native embroidery. Made in Thailand. Figures. People going home on a train won't think to buy a grandfather clock—”

“We deliver.”

“—but people interested in a grandfather clock might enjoy taking the train up from the city to view one.”

“That would mean—” He stopped himself. He didn't want to be caught saying the word, as though to introduce the idea would already be a concession.

“Advertising? Yep. That, too. But we need to think big. And small. You realize, of course, that you are perfectly located. By the time passengers off the train stroll up from the station they're dying to get out of the sun. This is a nice cool room, temperature-wise, with loads to look at. That's ideal. It's why you're successful. Then they hike to the inn, have a drink and a sandwich up there, and on their way back to the train they already know that they'll be stopping in here, if only to cool down. On some days, I bet, they pop in to escape the rain.”

“True.” The tapestry she painted was one that assured his ongoing prosperity. “In the spring and fall, people drop in to warm up.”

“Exactly. Too many use the store as a way station, with no intention of shopping. We can't do much about them. Except to serve lemonade.”

“Lemonade? I'm not a lemonade stand.”

“You are now. And cookies. Hot chocolate in the cooler months. You'll be surprised, Willis, shocked, in fact, by what a difference a few extra dollars multiplied by quite a few of those five hundred passengers a day will make to your bottom line.
Our
bottom line.”

He appeared to be doing the math in his head.

“Does it have to be lemonade?” he asked. “If they spill—”

“We'll have a good laugh and mop up the mess. Anyone who is particularly guilt-ridden about a spill will find something else to buy, but those just breezing through will feel . . .” She searched for words to convey her vision for the store. “. . . more welcome. They'll spend more time. The atmosphere changes because the place will feel busier—in fact, it'll be more crowded. The longer folks linger the more likely they'll find something to their liking.” She paused, smiled at him, and brushed a finger across the dust on a grandfather clock. “Now, Willis, some things will have to change.”

“For instance?” The trepidation in his voice verged on fear.

Tara held up her dusty fingertip.

“That's one more reason I advertised for help,” he defended. “My previous lady moved on to another position.”

“She still needs to be replaced.”

“I thought that's where you came in.”

She shook the same finger at him. “I'm not your employee. We've been over this. And I'm certainly not your cleaning lady.”

Willis Howard retreated. “I'm given to understand as much. I gather that you are, in fact, taking over my business. Bloody hell, Tara.”

She chose to interpret his petulance as a form of gumption, which she appreciated.

“
Affecting
your business. Not nearly the same thing as taking it over. It's not even my intention to transform the store, merely
affect
it in a positive fashion. We'll need to put our heads together and see what we can sell to men, for instance. This is a very feminine store, Willis.”

“My shoppers—

“—are women. Of course they are. That's why you put husband benches outside. Keep them. We'll sell lemonade to the guys outside, but more will be coming through and spending time inside in the weeks ahead.”

“Why's that?”

Tara chose not to reply. She moved through the wares of the store, familiarizing herself with items for sale, checking a few price tags. He followed her with his eyes. He was about to repeat the question when she turned and faced him, and then he understood.

“You're blushing,” she chirped.

“Please.” Willis sounded doleful.

“Don't worry about it,” Tara advised. “We may have to punch a hole in the wall to serve lemonade both inside and out. But I'll leave that up to you. The grandfather clocks should come into my section, though, where I can segregate the interested clients and give them the quality time they deserve.”

“When you're not serving lemonade, at least.”

“You'll operate the taps at those times. Or the extra help will.”

He exhaled with some high degree of consternation.

“Here's the thing,” she carried on. “This is an artsy town. At least, it has that reputation. Other stores carry local artists and artisans, but you don't, at least not with any emphasis. We'll change that.”

“You don't understand.”

“What don't I understand?”

“That crowd. Those artists. The painters and sculptors and, you know, the trinket makers.” A note of derision tinged his voice.

“Yes?” She waited. Clearly, the subject irritated him.

“They're a different breed.”

“You don't get along with them.”

“Not particularly.”

“Willis, you see, this is where I come in. This is where I can help. I'll get along with them. You don't have to. Once we develop these relationships, the store will be known to be more hip, more people will seek you out. You have candles, but let's go further than that. Incense, incense holders, a pipe or two, stones and beads, nothing ridiculous, you understand, just a nuance to suggest that the place also caters to the younger set, which will help encourage the artists to show here, and once they do, that'll affect our crowd as well. I'll take care of that end. We'll add genuine original arts and crafts—higher-end work—then we'll be laughing.”

“Along with grandfather clocks,” Willis muttered.

“We're nothing if not eclectic. Not only people on foot, off the train, but the tourists who arrive in their own cars and, more importantly, the locals who live in the area, and particularly among that group the cottagers up for the weekend. We're expanding our clientele. Willis, the store must become a destination. We have the summer to see to it. Now, your name.”

“My name? Potpourri—”

“Potpourri is fine.” She shook her head. “A tad typical, but it's established and works in both languages. I don't suggest changing it. I mean
your
name. You see, we're going to modernize the store a little, yet we must not lose its charm. If anything, we want to evoke an old-world ambiance.”

Willis Howard vigorously nodded to endorse this point. Finally, she said something he could agree on. Then a worry crossed his visage. “I'm not changing my name.”

She laughed. “Of course not, silly. I'm proposing that your name, Willis Ephraim Howard, Esquire—the esquire part abbreviated, of course, and in smaller type—”

“Type?” he asked, but he was really thinking that she'd called him silly. He
loved
that.

“—carved in wood. On a large sign. Over the cash. That'll do a lot to improve the ambiance. Give it the feel we want. I'll bet women will ask to have their pictures taken with you under that sign, Willis. I'm talking about a large sign, you understand, hung on chains from the ceiling. It'll differentiate your business from mine. I'll put my name above the door to the side room. A smaller sign, that. But it'll create a sense of moving from one shopping experience to another.”

“I see.”

“Do you? This is a new vision for you. I've given you a whole whack of stuff to take in at once, so you may need some time.”

“I may need . . .” he started to say, then paused to consider what exactly that might be, “. . . some time,” Willis Howard concluded. Then finally he chose to seize the initiative, which was his intention that morning. He simply failed to do so for as long as a second. “Have I told you,” he asked, knowing full well that he hadn't, “about the loft?”