A Bad Reputation Read online

  “I’m sure Mr. Clarke can handle things on his own.” I unlocked my door and invited Pamela to come into my office and sit down. My office is small, but it’s all mine and has a pleasant view of the swing set in the yard next door. The walls are paneled in golden pine, and the carpet is new, an odd beige color I wouldn’t have chosen, but it was neutral enough not to clash with anything. The dark-brown desk and olive swivel chair had belonged to the former occupant—again, not very stylish, but new and serviceable. I’d brightened up a tall bookcase by the window with books, photographs of Jerry and me in colorful frames, some topaz and emerald glass fish I’d bought in Bermuda when we were there for our wedding, a paperweight filled with pink and blue flowers, a frog my grandmother had made of multicolor patchwork fabric, and two of my smaller paintings. One was of the Queen Anne’s lace in our meadow. The other was an abstract in swirls of brown, yellow, and turquoise that Jerry had titled Fudge Ripple Gone Horribly Wrong.

  I sat down behind the desk, wondering why Pamela thought I’d like to run a gallery. When I rediscovered my love of painting, I enjoyed spending whatever time I could in my studio, a remodeled upstairs parlor at our house, but I wasn’t interested in the business side of the art world and certainly didn’t feel qualified.

  Pamela took a seat in the green and beige client armchair, another legacy, and chatted on about Wendall Clarke, Celosia High School’s former star football player and editor of the yearbook. He’d gone to Parkland to pursue an art degree, majored in art and business, and made a fortune when one of his designs was chosen for a perfume bottle that sold well on a shopping network. “But he’s always wanted to have a gallery.”

  “Why not have one in Parkland?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m absolutely thrilled. I so hope he’ll put some of my work in his gallery.”

  This was news. “I didn’t know you were an artist. What do you do?”

  “I paint wildflowers, mostly. I’d love for you to see! Come over any time. I live on Beech Street.”

  “Well, I’m very happy for Wendall and hope his gallery succeeds,” I said. “Was there something else I could do for you?”

  “Oh, yes. I almost forgot! I’ve lost a very important letter. I think I know where it is, but it’s going to take forever to sort through all the papers in my shop to find it. Do you do things like that?”

  At this point, I was willing to take any job. “I’d be happy to. When would you like me to start?”

  “Right away.”

  Pamela Finch owned a little dress shop on Main Street. “Why don’t I come by this afternoon?”

  “That would be fine.” I told her my fee, and she wrote me a check. “And at three o’clock, we’re having a reception for Wendall at First Baptist. You have to come meet him.”

  “If my schedule permits…” That was a laugh. My schedule permitted just about anything. But I had to admit I was curious about Wendall Clarke.

  ***

  My issue with breakfast must have been a fluke, because by eleven o’clock I was seriously hungry for a cheeseburger and fries. I called Jerry and asked if he was ready for lunch.

  “I am always ready for lunch.”

  He was waiting for me in front of the theater. He got into the car and showed me the large book of music.

  “So you’re going to do it?”

  “I’ll be practicing for the rest of my life, but yes. It’s a pretty tough score.”

  I glanced through the pages crammed with masses of notes. Jerry liked to joke that he lived in the musical shadow of his older brother, Des, a concert pianist, but I think Jerry is equally talented. “Looks like a challenge,” I said.

  “I may have to do a little modifying. Oh, I’m officially musical director. Evan wants me to round up some more musicians for the orchestra. I have a list of names to call.”

  This sounded more and more like a really good, safe, involved job. “How about a cheeseburger to celebrate?”

  “With or without pickles?”

  I punched his arm. “Don’t start.”

  ***

  Our favorite place to eat in Celosia is a little diner called Deely’s Burger World, always a popular hangout, first as an ice cream parlor and then as the quaint restaurant it is today. The diner still has its original gray-and-white Formica countertops, silver stools with red cushions that had been replaced many times, and wallpaper with faded designs of ancient slogans for Coca-Cola. We were way ahead of the noon rush and chose a booth near the front. As more people streamed in, I caught bits of discussion about Camp Lakenwood, auditions for Oklahoma, and the proposed gallery. True to form, people were already arguing about who would be the best leads in the show, and fussing over what the gallery would cost.

  The talk that struck us was news about Deely’s closing.

  “Had you heard anything about the restaurant closing?” I asked Jerry.

  “No. I’d hate for that to happen. Let’s ask Annie.”

  When Annie stopped by our table to take our order, I said, “What’s this about Deely closing the place? That’s just a local Celosian rumor, right?”

  “It’s an old story going around. Deely’s been threatening to retire for years. He’s waiting for one of his sons to take over, and that could be a while because they’d sooner die than flip burgers. I’m pretty sure I’ve got job security.”

  “That’s a relief,” Jerry said. “I couldn’t go on without my cheeseburgers.”

  “Coming right up.”

  I told Jerry about Pamela Finch. “She’s lost an important letter. I’m going to stop by her store this afternoon and help her look for it. She was much more interested in a fellow named Wendall Clarke who wants to open an art gallery in town. She thought I’d want in on the action.”

  “Do you?”

  “Not really. But I do want to meet him. There’s a reception for him today at three.”

  Annie brought our order, and we enjoyed happy moments in cheeseburger heaven. Then she returned to ask if we wanted more fries.

  “Of course,” Jerry said.

  “Oh, and Jerry, I wanted to ask you something else. I’m trying to decide between these two guys, and I know you can get in touch with the dead. I want to check in with my Aunt Gloria, because she’d give me good dating advice. Are you still holding those séances at your house? Can I get in on the next one?”

  Even though he really wanted to say yes to both questions, he managed to say, “Sorry. I’m out of the séance business.”

  “Couldn’t you do just one more?”

  “I’m sure you can get good dating advice from someone more qualified.”

  “Nobody’s more qualified than Aunt Gloria. She was married six times. How about holding one here after hours? I’ll ask Deely if it’s okay.”

  “Sure.” He folded, and I kicked him under the table.

  “Ow! Mac, the deal was no more séances at the house.”

  “Annie, Jerry can’t really talk to the dead.”

  She wasn’t discouraged. “But the dead might talk to him.” A little bell chimed from the kitchen. “Fries coming up.”

  As she walked away, I gave my husband the eye. “The dead are not going to talk to you.”

  “One more little séance. I won’t charge her for it.”

  “You’re driving me crazy. What can I do to make you stop this?” The minute I said this, I knew I’d made a mistake.

  “Well, now that you mention it, perhaps a little deal could be made.”

  Uh, oh. “What do you mean?”

  He reached across the table to take my hand. “Will you consider—just consider—the possibility of us becoming parents?”

  I sucked in a deep breath. “You know how I feel about this.”

  “Just consider it. Think about it.”

  Here’s what I thought. “We’re barely making enough m
oney for the two of us. If you hadn’t accepted your brother’s generous birthday gift, we couldn’t pay Nell for all the repairs.”

  Jerry was notorious for refusing any of his family’s fortune. Somehow his younger brother, Tucker, had convinced him to take some money for the house. “That’s true. And I would accept another generous gift for a new little Fairweather. But let me take back what I said about a deal. I don’t want you to think this is like our last bargain.”

  In our last deal, Jerry had agreed to find a job if I agreed to take up my artwork again. This had been a slightly one-sided bargain because the jobs he’d found had fallen through.

  “We’re getting along great right now, but maybe we could make some plans for the future. You’ve got your agency, and I’m going to find a real job, I promise.”

  “I know you will. Look.” I gave his hand a squeeze. “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to manage your life.”

  He grinned. “Well, you are.”

  “Well, you’re letting me.”

  “Maybe I like strong women.”

  “Hush.”

  “Strong controlling women who want to rule the world.”

  I tightened my grip. “When I’m queen, you’d better look out.”

  “I thought you were already queen, Miss Parkland.”

  Jerry’s about the only one who can get away with calling me Miss Parkland. “Yes, during my reign I learned many important lessons about controlling the masses. You should fear my wrath.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I know how to stage a coup.”

  Annie plopped another basket of fries on the table. “There you go, Jerry. Deely says it’s okay to have the séance here, but he’d rather you do it in the back room. We can do it after he closes tonight if you like.”

  He hadn’t taken his gaze from me. “It’s up to Mac.”

  “You promise…” I said, “you swear on your weighted dice and marked cards that this is absolutely the last séance ever?”

  He smiled the smile that had charmed me from the very first moment I met him. “I promise.”

  Chapter Three

  As much as I would’ve liked to have spent the rest of the day with Jerry, I had a job to do. I gave him a ride back home so he could start learning the Oklahoma music while I returned to town. On the way I thought about what he’d said. I didn’t mind being referred to as a strong woman, but did I really want to rule the world? After spending my younger years under my ambitious mother’s thumb and following her rules for pageant success, I liked being in charge of my own little world, running my agency the way I wanted, setting my hours, having the freedom to do as I pleased. Of course, as Miss Parkland, I had ample opportunities to speak my mind, but I was always working with other people’s schedules. Now I appreciated the luxury of being in control. Maybe the real reason I was reluctant to have a baby was that it would upset my neatly ordered life.

  Something to think about.

  Flair For Fashion, Pamela Finch’s dress shop, was located on a charming stretch of Main Street. It was one of several artsy little boutiques with rich green awnings and large planters filled with fall chrysanthemums—antique gold and crisp yellow—accompanied by pansies in watercolor shades Monet would have loved: blue, lavender, white, and velvety purple. Since Celosia was only thirty minutes from Parkland, these businesses did very well, especially the novelty candle shop and the local crafts store with its array of homemade jams, jellies, honey, and quilts. Flair For Fashion was an upscale establishment, the kind my mother would love, offering overpriced clothes, jewelry, and purses. The windows displayed sleek outfits on faceless mannequins admiring themselves in fancy oval mirrors.

  Pamela met me at the door. “Thanks for coming, Madeline. Let me show you the problem.”

  Stepping inside was like walking into a movie star’s oversized closet, all shiny floor and lighted mirrors. The jewelry was sorted by color on small tables draped with silky cloths, and the purses hung from curly gold hooks. As I passed by, I glanced at a few price tags and wondered who in Celosia could afford these things. Dresses and scarves were hung on matching hangers padded with contrasting colors. Another mannequin stood with arms on hips, its outfit a tight leather skirt and cream-colored silk blouse. It looked oddly defiant, as if to say: Buy this if you dare!

  Pamela was dressed in similar style: a snug green leather skirt and matching sweater. Her metallic bronze high heels clicked on the gleaming floor as she led me to the back of the store and opened the door of a room packed with bulging file boxes and untidy stacks of paper. “See what I mean? I know that letter’s in here somewhere.”

  The room looked like a real closet—a hoarder’s closet. I wasn’t sure where to start. “Have you checked any of these file boxes or stacks?”

  “I’ve been through that one,” she said, pointing to a gray three-drawer file cabinet. “I’ve been trying to do a little every day, but the phone’s always ringing, and I have customers to take care of. It’s just overwhelming.”

  “Okay, what am I looking for?”

  “It’s a one-page letter from Daniel Richards. He used to own this building, and now his son, Daniel Junior, is the owner. In the letter, Daniel Senior gives me permission to make whatever changes I’d like, including expanding the shop at the back. His son won’t let me do anything unless I produce this letter.”

  “All right.” I took another look at the daunting stacks. “You’re sure it’s in here?”

  “I can’t think of any reason why that letter would be in my house, but I’ve searched thoroughly, just in case. It has to be in here.”

  “Do you have any help in the store?”

  “That’s another problem. I am so short-handed right now. The woman who usually helps me out is having a baby and will be gone for at least half a year. When she was here, we could take turns watching the store, but now it’s just me.”

  I spent the next hour going through every piece of paper in one of the filing cabinets. It was slow work because Pamela had saved every receipt, every order, every packing slip, and every piece of correspondence she’d ever received.

  Pamela apologized for the extra stacks. “There’s a lot of Art Guild information, too, Madeline. Copies of our bylaws, minutes of our meetings, program booklets, things like that. Bea Ricter used to be our secretary, and now I am, so she gave all that stuff to me. It should all be in one filing cabinet, but there may be some stray papers in some of the stacks.”

  “I’ll separate anything that looks like it belongs to the Guild.”

  When I took a break, I noticed several pictures of flowers on the walls of the shop and asked Pamela if the paintings were hers.

  Her cheeks went pink. “Oh, do you like them? They’re nothing compared to your work.”

  I’d seen hundreds, maybe thousands of paintings like these, typical, orderly still lifes of flowers in vases, flowers in pots on windowsills, flowers drooping on trellises. Nothing badly painted, but nothing remarkable either. Not like the vibrant flowers spilling out on the sidewalks, but Pamela had some talent.

  “They’re very good, Pamela. I like your color choices, and you have a very soft way of shading.”

  She let out a relieved breath. “Thank you. I work very hard on them.”

  “Have you had lessons, or does this just come to you naturally?”

  “I’ve taken lots of lessons at the community college. The teachers there say I have a real flair for flowers.”

  “Yes, you do. Have you tried painting other things?”

  “No, just flowers.”

  Derivative and safe. “Well, you have some fine paintings here.”

  “Thank you, Madeline. That means a lot coming from you. I do collages, too, but those are at home. I’d love for you to see them some time.”

  At three o’clock, Pamela put a sign on the door saying the store was closed for
the afternoon. “One of the perks of being the owner,” she winked, and we went to the fellowship hall at First Baptist Church.

  First Baptist was the largest church in town, a massive cathedral of granite blocks. The fellowship hall was equally impressive, a gymnasium-size room with gold walls and plush gold carpet. No folding tables and metal chairs here. Polished wooden tables covered with gold embroidered tablecloths and matching straight-back chairs were arranged around the room, and a longer table filled with refreshments stood along one wall, sparkling with crystal and silver dishes. This was the first fellowship hall I’d ever seen with chandeliers.

  As big as the room was, Wendall Clarke filled it. He was a large man with strong features and an impressive moustache, a commanding figure all in black with a black-fringed scarf around his neck. He had his arm around a young and extremely pretty blonde woman whose beautifully tailored suit and silky blouse could’ve come from Flair For Fashion.

  “Good heavens,” Pamela said. “I don’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  “Tell you later.”

  Wendall Clarke came toward us, his voice booming. “Ms. Maclin, such a pleasure to meet you! I saw your work at the Weyland. I adore Blue Moon Garden.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “This is my wife, Flora, but everyone calls her Baby.”

  Whoops. I had thought the young woman was his daughter. I shook hands with Flora, who seemed shy. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Madeline.”

  She nodded and smiled but didn’t say anything.

  Wendall turned to Pamela. “Is this Pamela Finch? How are you? It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?”

  Pamela’s reply was polite but guarded. “Hello, Wendall.”

  “Have you met my wife, Flora? Baby, this is one of my old school friends, Pamela Finch.”

  Pamela didn’t smile or shake hands. “How do you do?”

  Again, the young woman just smiled.

  Wendall Clarke gave the scarf a theatrical toss over his shoulder. “I suppose you’ve heard all about my little project. I am so excited by the prospect of bringing this facet of culture to Celosia. If there had been a gallery like this in town when I was growing up, I wouldn’t have taken so long to find my true calling. I hope to inspire generations of children to love art.”