Boo Who

  “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, exhau
sted 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.

  “I probably wouldn’t be able to help you anyway,” Alfred shrugged.

  “Not unless you can pull a caterer out of your hat.”

  Wolfe was barely over the shock that his beloved fiancée had cut eight inches off her hair when he was struck with the news that they were going to therapy. It had all happened so fast.

  After an intensely long day, he’d arrived at her house before she got home, so he spent an hour listening to his future father-in-law explain how Thief was making progress.

  “By moving his food and water bowl from his usual spot in the kitchen to a different location, like the laundry room, I’ve found him starting to improve.”

  “No kidding.”

  “But the doctor was very precise … He said the food and water must be kept in that same location for three days without being moved an inch.” The sheriff’s eyes were as wide as Butch’s when he told those covert operation stories.

  “Fascinating.”

  “There are four other things,” the sheriff whispered, twisting his head to see if Thief was anywhere in sight. “But I tell you, Wolfe, I’m encouraged. This is the first sign of hope I’ve had. I swear, this doc knows what he’s talking about.”

  “What’s his name again?”

  “Hass.”

  “Does he dress kind of flashy?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Brightly colored shirts.”

  “So what’s the next step?” Wolfe said, nodding toward the paper in the sheriff’s hand.

  “This one,” the sheriff admitted, “is a little strange. It says here that under no circumstances shall I stroke his fur.”

  “Really?”

  “Very strange, but I guess it has to do with something concerning nerve endings. You know, this new-age sort of touchy-feely medicine.”

  Wolfe nodded, trying to be agreeable, but in the back of his mind, he had to admit this was one of the weirdest things he’d ever heard.

  And that was exactly what he was thinking when Ainsley walked through the door. Between his jumbled thoughts on Thief’s strange medical regimen to his first glimpse of what Ainsley had decided to do to her hair, he knew a somewhat questionable expression likely flickered across his face.

  But whatever his expression, he thought her reaction—hysterical tears—was a bit extreme. Then she yelled at him, something about finally being a woman, and marched upstairs. He was just unwinding from that whole scenario when she proceeded back down the stairs.

  “You don’t understand!” she wailed.

  That was an understatement.

  “I’ve had long hair my whole life. My whole life.”

  He was nodding. “Ainsley, it’s just that—”

  “You hate it! I can see it in your eyes!”

  “No … no … It’s just a surprise.”

  “Please,” she nearly sneered, “I know disappointment when I see it.”

  “You have to admit, you would be shocked.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “If what, you cut your hair above your ears?”

  “Why are you so mad at me?” Wolfe asked, which was when the sheriff decided it was time to go upstairs and not stroke his cat. “I’m sorry I had a shocked look on my face! It’s shocking! You’ve cut your beautiful long hair. Your new haircut is fine, but your hair has been your pride and joy forever.”

  Ainsley sniffled and turned away from him, shaking her head. “I love it. I think it makes me look sophisticated.”

  Wolfe took her shoulders and gently turned her around. “Ainsley, you will always be beautiful to me. It has nothing to do with that. It was just shocking, okay? Just surprising.”

  Teary eyes stared into his. “I should’ve told you.”

  “It’s your hair,” he smiled. “You don’t have to ask or tell me anything. And besides, you’re right … you do look sophisticated.” Then, without thinking first, he continued, “Wait a minute. You said sophisticated.”

  She nodded.

  “Wait just a minute. Did … Alfred put you up to this?”

  She didn’t agree, but she didn’t deny it either. By the way her eyes grew wide with hesitation, he didn’t need her to say it. He let go of her shoulders. “He did! Alfred told you to cut your hair, didn’t he?”

  “He may have.”

  “Alfred Tennison!” he fumed.

  “It was just a suggestion, Wolfe! He didn’t handcuff me and take me to cut my hair, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  His face flushed with anger. “Not with literal handcuffs anyway.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that ever since Alfred began whispering his little plan to you about making you the world’s next great homemaker, all you can see is the stars in your own eyes.”

  “I knew it! You are jealous!”

  “I’m worried, Ainsley. You are supposed to be planning our wedding, yet everything is getting shoved aside for Alfred and his big dreams.”

  She teared up. “They’re my dreams too.”

  “You are my dream, Ainsley. And I won’t throw away my dream.”

  And with that, they were now on their way to therapy. Ainsley had recalled her father’s mention of Dr. Hass and the wonders he’d performed for Thief. So she declared them in crisis and struck out for Dr. Hass’s home. But to Wolfe’s everlasting thankfulness, the good doctor w
as apparently not in his office on this Saturday evening. Relief didn’t begin to describe his emotions, though. Not only did he not want to see a therapist, but he also did not want to see this therapist. Any therapist who practiced on cats couldn’t possibly have a talent for counseling couples.

  They stood on the sidewalk in front of the doctor’s home, trying to avoid each other’s eyes while clearly each wanted desperately for the other one to signal all was well. But instead, Ainsley offered folded arms, and all Wolfe could do was sigh.

  “Well, he’s not here,” she said. “But I still think we should get counseling.”

  He tried to steady his expression, which apparently could set off fireworks this night. “Why not see the reverend? We don’t know anything about this Dr. Hass.”

  “He’s helped everyone who has come to him! Thief. The mayor is slowly coming around. And … and … Melb!”

  Wolfe rolled his eyes. “Is this why you want to come? Because all your friends are in therapy?”

  “Look, I think there are going to be issues about being married to a celebrity that we’re going to have to address.”

  “I’m not a celebrity anymore, Ainsley.”

  She scowled. “Not you. Me.”

  Wolfe realized he had not yet told her he’d been fired by Oliver. He looked up at her to say something, but she was stomping back to the car, her shoes nearly striking sparks against the concrete.

  CHAPTER 21

  REVEREND PECK HAD never in his career dreaded a Sunday. While there had been disappointments and such, every week always brought new hope that maybe this time a life would be changed.

  But this Sunday morning, as he ironed his shirt and picked out a tie, dismay was his breakfast companion instead of his usual bowl of Cream of Wheat. He couldn’t describe last week as either disastrous or successful.

  And he’d had enough preaching on the kind of topic he’d preached last week. For crying out loud, God had created it from the beginning of time, and nobody needed a preacher to tell them what it meant or how to do it right.