A Case of Imagination Read online

  “Thanks.”

  Juliet Lovelace smiled an especially big smile at Jerry.

  “Whew,” he said. “Do you think she’s more than eighteen?”

  I shook my head. “Dream on, junior. ‘Miss Celosia High,’ as in high school.”

  “She is gorgeous.”

  I pulled Jerry away. “I don’t think you need to be ogling the teenaged girls, Mr. New in Town and Likely to Be Run Out on a Rail.”

  “No harm in looking, is there?”

  “What about Olivia?”

  “Oh.” He grimaced. “That’s over.”

  I couldn’t believe the feeling of relief that swept over me. “Why? I thought you two were an item.”

  “An item on the marked-down sales table. She’s after me to get my money back. That’s all she talks about.”

  “Well, I’d like you to get your money back, too. Then you could give it to me.”

  “I don’t want any of the family money. I think I’ve made that clear.”

  “And you have your super secret reasons—unless you’ve told Olivia.”

  “No. That’s another reason she’s mad at me.”

  Movement caught my eye. I had to look twice to believe what I saw. “Jerry, are those protest signs?”

  He looked. “Who would protest a parade?”

  “I’m going to check it out.”

  A group of three women and one man had gathered beside a large oak tree at the corner. All four carried pieces of bright yellow poster board with black letters. When I got closer, I read the signs and had my second moment of disbelief.

  “Pageants Unfair To Women,” one read. Another read, “We Are Not Hunks of Meat.” The group stood tight-lipped and stony-faced while the crowd made a wide circle around them. Several people made unkind remarks or hustled their children past, glaring.

  One of the upscale moms paused to scowl at the one man in the group. “Is there some reason you have to ruin everything? If you don’t like pageants, you don’t have to go.”

  “It’s a free country,” the man said. He was tall and good-looking, with dark hair and dark eyes.

  She shook her finger at him. “Ted Stacy, you are not setting a good example.”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Marsh, but I’m doing exactly that,” he said. “I’m exercising my rights as a citizen of the United States to speak my mind about an outdated custom that degrades all women, yourself included.”

  “Well, I think you’re being ridiculous.”

  “Since you were a former Miss Celosia High, I’m not surprised to hear you say that.”

  She turned and left, her back rigid with disapproval. Ted Stacy smiled at me. “Welcome to Celosia. Ted Stacy, protester.”

  “Madeline Maclin, private investigator.”

  His smile widened. “Really? Evan will be glad to hear that. Celosia doesn’t have any private investigators, and he needs one. He thinks we’re sabotaging his silly pageant.”

  “Sabotaging?”

  “You might want to talk to him. Evan James. He runs the pageant every year. There’s been trouble at the auditorium lately.”

  “But we’re not responsible,” one of the woman protesters said.

  Ted Stacy said, “We just want to make people think, although it’s an uphill battle in this town.”

  “I’m Samantha Terrell,” the woman said. “Are you new to Celosia, or just in town for the parade?”

  “My friend and I came to check on some property he inherited,” I said. “Val Eberlin’s old house.”

  All four protesters looked surprised. “Is your friend related to Val Eberlin?” Samantha Terrell asked.

  “His nephew. ”

  “Well, old Val was quite a character,” Ted said. “You’ll hear all sorts of stories about him.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Heart attack. The mailman found him on the floor.”

  “Ted, we need to go,” the other woman said.

  He smiled at me. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Maclin.”

  I walked back to Jerry, who was waving at the other beauty queens. We stood and watched the parade until it was all the way up Main Street. The bands made up for their lack of tunefulness with a lot of rhythm, the flag team’s snappy routine, and the vigorous drum beat. The clowns threw candy to the children. The beauty queens smiled and waved.

  “Did you check out the main protester?” Jerry asked.

  “Ted Stacy. He said your uncle was quite a character and died of a heart attack at home.”

  “Maybe I can get in touch with him in the house.”

  I don’t know where he gets these ideas. “Will you stop talking like you can actually do stuff like that?”

  “But wouldn’t it be neat?”

  “Let’s take care of business so I can get home.”

  So we drove out to find Jerry’s inheritance.

  Jerry squinted at the faded road signs. “Mason said the house is just a little ways outside of town.”

  “Did he say what the house is worth?”

  “Just that it was old and needed repair. He was more interested in whether or not I was going to stay.”

  “So am I.”

  “It might be nice.”

  Since the word “stay” is rarely in Jerry’s vocabulary, I wondered what was going on. “Are you on the run from the local authorities?”

  “Just the CIA.”

  Why did I think I’d ever get a straight answer? I glanced at the yellow fields bordered by tall wildflowers. A rail fence wandered haphazardly along one side of the road. On the other side, more cows stared blankly from green pastures. When I saw the large two-story gray farmhouse in the middle of an unkempt meadow, I knew it must be the Eberlin house.

  “It doesn’t look too bad,” Jerry said.

  “We’re still far away.”

  “No, it’s all right.” He stopped the car to read “Eberlin” on the dented mailbox, then drove up the winding dirt driveway to park under one of the large shade trees spaced evenly around the house.

  I got out and stood beside Jerry to take our first good look at the Eberlin house. If it wasn’t haunted, it should have been. It looked dirty, drafty, and full of rats. I’d be sneezing all afternoon, and Jerry would be seeing Lord knows what in all the shadows. A few of the windows were broken, a few shutters hung crookedly. The wide front porch sagged. Several wooden rocking chairs were propped upside down against the porch wall.

  But Jerry seemed pleased. “You know, a paint job, a few repairs, this place could be really nice.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  We went up the uneven steps. Jerry unlocked the front door. It swung open quietly at his touch; no squeaking monster-movie sounds. We stepped inside.

  The house was cool and hushed. Sunlight and leaf patterns danced on the walls. A few silver cobwebs stretched in the corners of the tall windows and trembled in the breeze from the open door. Victorian-style furniture, dark, carved wooden chairs, and a sofa with gray cushions filled the large living room. The worn gray carpet had a pattern of faded pink roses and green leaves.

  I tried the light switch. The power was still on. “Not bad, if you like gray. Nice marble fireplace. Furniture from the Plymouth Rock Collection. Might be worth something.”

  Jerry started up the flight of dusty stairs. “Be careful. There’re a couple of loose boards here.”

  Upstairs, we found five bedrooms, three bathrooms, and a parlor. One of the bedrooms obviously belonged to Val Eberlin. The large four-poster bed had cream-colored sheets and blankets. Resting on the bureau was a silver comb and brush, a handful of change, a handkerchief, and a framed picture too faded for Jerry to recognize any of the people. The bedroom smelled musty. Eberlin’s clothes hung neatly in the closet: white shirts, brown slacks, brown sweaters, and a heavy coat of beige tweed. Three pairs of brown shoes were on the closet floor, plus a walking stick and an umbrella. No other clues gave any idea what kind of man Jerry’s uncle might have been. There were no pictures on the
walls, no books, no souvenirs or knickknacks.

  The other bedrooms were even more featureless: beds, chairs, rugs, curtains, lamps. That was it. In the bathrooms, we found towels, soap, toilet paper, and scrubbing brushes. In the parlor was another set of Victorian furniture with light green upholstery, a marble-topped table with a fancy green lamp, light green draperies, an old phonograph, and a bookshelf with leatherbound editions of classics like The Count of Monte Cristo and Tom Sawyer.

  “Doesn’t tell us a whole lot,” I said.

  “Maybe he stored things in the attic.”

  “Like an insane wife?”

  He gave me a look and went up the smaller flight of stairs leading from the landing. He tried the attic door, but it was locked and the key didn’t fit.

  “Can’t you pick the lock?” I asked.

  “I’m out of practice.”

  “Didn’t you and Jeff have some sort of daring escape act?” During our college days, Jerry and his friend Jeff West had tried several paranormal schemes, each one ridiculous. They’d also tried magic acts, usually making money disappear from people’s pockets.

  “I’d need my special keys.” He dusted his hands. “Guess we save that for later.”

  “Seen enough?”

  “I like it.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Let’s check out the kitchen.”

  The kitchen was downstairs at the back of the house. It was large and complete with modern appliances. I sat down in one of the sturdy white wooden chairs at the matching table. “I thought we might be cooking over a wood stove.”

  Jerry checked the refrigerator, which was empty, and the cabinets, where he discovered some blue and white dishes. Then he stood for a moment, looking at the full view of the meadow from a row of wide windows with white draperies. He frowned.

  “I wonder what he did. There’s no TV, no sign of any hobby, no magazines. From the looks of the meadow, he wasn’t a farmer.”

  “Maybe he traveled a lot. Maybe he wasn’t home much.”

  “Maybe,” Jerry said. He came to the table and sat down. He had an odd, preoccupied look that meant he was actually doing some serious thinking.

  I wondered if he was considering staying in the house, if he might finally want to settle down. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I don’t know. Something about the way the light’s coming in.”

  “So do you have that special ‘feeling’?”

  “I’m going to stay overnight. We can go buy some groceries and a couple of toothbrushes. And we can check on the pageant.”

  “You just want another look at Juliet Lovelace.”

  “And you probably wouldn’t mind another look at Ted Stacy.”

  “What about your séance?”

  He looked at his watch. “Oops. I’ll call and say the spirits weren’t aligned. Borrow your phone?”

  Jerry called and apologized for missing the big event. Then I took the phone and called to check my messages. There were none.

  “This is getting depressing,” I said.

  “Can’t get any worse.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  A knock on the front door made us both jump.

  “Must be the Welcome Wagon,” I said.

  It was something far from welcoming. Jerry opened the door. There stood a petite platinum blonde, hands on hips.

  “Oh,” he said. “Hi, Olivia.”

  Olivia Decker is a very pretty young woman, but she’s eternally pissed about something or another. She works for a law firm, so she’s always dressed in beautifully cut suits that show off her figure. Today’s suit was black. So was her mood. Her green eyes narrowed.

  “You inherited a house and didn’t tell me?”

  “I didn’t know until today. How did you find out?”

  “My associate asked me if I was going to help you with the details. I told him that was the first I’d heard of any property in Celosia. Then a Mrs. Amelia Farnsworth corners me in front of the office to ask why you missed her appointment. Seems she had something important to ask her dear departed husband.”

  “I just called and explained things to her.”

  “You should have called and explained things to me.”

  Jerry held up both hands. “Wait a minute. Skip back a couple of days. Aren’t we over?”

  “Not necessarily.” She came in, looking around as if appraising the room. I could see the dollar signs dancing in those green eyes. She glanced my way. “And what’s she doing here?”

  “Nice to see you, too, Olivia.”

  She ignored me and continued to inspect the room. “This has real possibilities. You are planning to sell it, aren’t you?”

  “No, I’m planning to keep it,” Jerry said.

  She faced him, eyes wide. “Keep it? You give up the Fairweather Mansion, but you want to keep this rat trap?”

  “I’m going to set up shop. Psychic Shop.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. When are you going to stop? You can’t make a living doing séances. Why don’t you take your share of your family’s money? You’re entitled to it.”

  Jerry’s voice was cold. “This has nothing to do with my family.”

  “Of course it does. I don’t have to be a trained psychiatrist to see what’s going on here.”

  “I don’t want to talk about my family. I’ve told you.”

  I hoped Olivia would push further into the taboo subject so Jerry would get angry and make her go away, but she realized her mistake and softened her approach.

  “Yes, you did, and I apologize. I’m just, well, puzzled about your intentions.”

  “I like this house. I want to fix it up.”

  I could tell by her expression she’d decided to humor him. “Okay. Let’s talk about what it would cost.”

  Olivia can go on for hours about expenses and profits. I didn’t want to look at or listen to her. “Jerry, I’m going to town for groceries.”

  “Okay, thanks,” he said, but his eyes were on Olivia.

  ***

  I had another reason for going back into town. Maybe there was something to the pageant sabotage. Maybe Evan James really could use my help. No harm in asking, Besides, did I really want to hang around Uncle Val’s house and watch Jerry and Olivia kiss and make up?

  We had passed Baker Auditorium on our way into town, so after a brief stop at the gas station to ask the attendant for directions, I found my way to the large brick building. I parked the VW in the shady parking lot and went inside. I smelled a faintly charred smell, as if there’d been a fire. The auditorium, which looked like it would seat about four hundred, was cool and dark. Soft gray walls and darker chairs blended with the carpets and velvety curtains that framed the stage. On stage, the twelve pageant contestants, dressed in lurid outfits of magenta, pink, and Day-Glo orange, attempted a disorganized dance number, which was set in Venice, complete with cardboard gondolas. A large man in a green caftan shouted instructions.

  “No, no, Miss Peace Haven! To your left! Left! The other way! Miss Tri-County, you are two steps behind. Girls, look alive! The pageant is Saturday night!”

  A voice near my elbow said, “May I help you?”

  I looked down. A small woman with dark eyebrows and overlarge glasses peered up at me like a raccoon from a hole.

  “I’d like to speak with Evan James.”

  “Are you here about being a judge? We already have our judges.”

  “No, I’m here on other business.”

  She hurried down the aisle and held a brief conversation with a thin man who stood and walked up the aisle to me. With his blue suit and a yellow polka-dotted scarf folded around his neck like an ascot, he looked ready for tea at the Kentucky Derby. He had a clipboard in one hand and a yellow handkerchief in the other, which he used to wipe his brow and sparse brown hair. When he saw me, he did a double take.

  “Madeline Maclin? Miss Parkland, if I’m not mistaken!”

  The little raccoon woman followed him.
She looked at me with new respect.

  “That was some time ago,” I said.

  Evan James shook my hand. “But I never forget a queen. We’re delighted to have you.”

  “Before you get too delighted, I’ve traded in my tiara. I’m here to investigate your reports of sabotage.”

  He blinked as if unable to process this information. “You’re not here as one of our visiting queens?”

  God forbid. “I’m a private investigator, Mr. James. I understand you’re having some trouble, and I’d like to help if I can.”

  He sighed and perched on the arm of the nearest seat. The little woman sat across the aisle. “This pageant’s been nothing but trouble,” he said. “One disaster after another. You can probably smell the smoke. The other day, one of our curtains caught fire. I just managed to catch it before the whole thing was destroyed. We were sent the wrong outfits for the opening number. Our musical director got sick, so I had to hire Percy.” He indicated the man in the caftan. “He and I do not share the same vision for this pageant, that’s all I can say about that. And now, for the first time in the pageant’s history, we have protesters. I can’t believe it. My pageants are always clean, decent, family entertainment. The girls in this town look forward to being in the show. We give out nice cash prizes and beautiful trophies and crowns. What’s to protest?”

  “You think someone is sabotaging the pageant?”

  “What else could it be? As for hiring an investigator.” He gave me a long considering look. Was he just seeing me as a visiting queen? He surprised me. “Yes. I think that’s an excellent idea.”

  Shrieks of outrage came from Percy. His caftan billowed as he raised his arms. “Don’t you girls realize people are going to pay to see this? Do you want to look like idiots? Try it again.”

  Evan James spoke to the little woman. “I’d better go smooth some feathers. Ms. Maclin, we’ll discuss the details later, but if you can get started right away, I’d appreciate it. The pageant’s in four days!”

  “Of course. I’ll need to have a look around.”

  “Certainly. Cindy, will you answer any questions she may have?”