“Considering the speed of acceleration, it looks like that fire was set right about the time you started your song,” John explained. “That’s three, maybe four minutes. They’ll estimate Ruby could have walked from backstage to the back of the audience in that time—it’s only a couple of hundred yards.”
“And ample time to walk from the backstage to onstage,” she added.
“Listen,” he said frankly. “I don’t want to believe that Ruby did it either, but we don’t have any proof that she didn’t. What do I have to rule her out? Unless you can give me something that’s feasible evidence Rowena did it, they’re going to go after Ruby like a pack of wolves, I’m just telling you. If she’s the scapegoat, then I want her name cleared more than anybody, believe me.”
Looking at the wreckage of the town square, Maye shook her head.
“I can’t,” she said simply, shrugging. “I don’t have it. I have nothing to give you. Rowena’s going to get away with this one just like the other ones. And Ruby will, once again, take the blame.”
“You know, Maye, I’m afraid you’re right,” John said simply. He stood up, then extended his hand to Maye, and she took it.
17
Why, Mrs. Spaulding! How Nice to See You!
M aye looked out the window of the café to the florist across the street, trying to decide, if she was so inclined, which bouquet of the dozens of delightful ones that lined the sidewalk in buckets she would pick to take home after her tea. She saw peonies and tulips, some roses and even irises.
Spring had hit Spaulding sideways, spilling flowers onto the street from front yards and planters and forcing every tree to bloom and create canopied webs of foliage over every street. Crocuses and daffodils, finally free from the stiff, frigid ground of winter, ruptured out of any spot with soil, from raised beds to sidewalk cracks to traffic medians. In downtown Spaulding, two blocks away from her house, every light pole bore the weight of a blooming basket overflowing with pansies, petunias, and Queen Anne’s lace. The sun was bright and pale yellow; smooth, light breezes crept in, and in the morning a minuscule bubble of dew crowned every pointy blade of emerald-colored grass.
Maye decided she loved spring.
She had also decided on a daily routine, and that entailed getting up early every morning and heading down to the café where she would have her morning tea with honey, a blueberry muffin or a basil roll with a pat of butter, and read the freshly printed paper.
That morning marked the beginning of the second week of her routine. She had slipped on her loafers and a light sweater and headed out, arriving at the café and asking for a table for one. And every day, she’d look at the flowers lined up across the street and decide which ones she was going to take home. Looking through the window, she decided on a bouquet of pink, white, and lavender ruffled irises, since those seemed to be the most vibrant and alive representation of spring.
“Maye, how’s that tea holding up?” the waitress sang as she swished by.
“Oh, I’m great, thanks,” she replied as she looked up at the waitress, then turned her attention back to the paper.
The clanky, tinny bell from the door rattled as it opened and a middle-aged man with snowy white hair and a flashy smile stepped inside.
“Hey, Maye,” he said, tipping the brim of his Sierra Club baseball hat to her. “How’re you doing this morning?”
“Oh, I’m fine, Mr. Keene, and yourself?” she replied with a smile.
“Couldn’t be better, couldn’t be better,” he said, laughing, as he took a seat at the counter. “I’m planning on stirring up some trouble today. There’s a protest against field burning, and I’ve got the bullhorn! Don’t tell Mrs. Keene!”
“My lips are sealed,” Maye said with a wink.
The woman from the table behind her turned around and put her hand on Maye’s shoulder. “Is that a new sweater, Maye?” she asked, her lipstick far too perfect for that hour of the morning.
“It is, thank you for noticing,” Maye answered. “It’s my morning, afternoon, and night sweater.”
“It’s lovely on you, dear,” she said, giving Maye a pat before she turned back around to her Belgian waffle. “It shows off your boobies nicely.”
After she finished up with the city section, Maye took it back to the shared-newspaper stand up near the counter. She shuffled through the various sections until she found arts and entertainment and was just about to pull it out of the stack when the cook came out of the kitchen with a dish towel slapped over his shoulder.
“The batch of cranberry orange muffins I promised you yesterday are thirty seconds away from coming out of the oven,” he told her, pointing a finger gun at her. “You game?”
“Oh, you bet,” she replied. “I couldn’t sleep last night just thinking about them!”
She tried to pull the A&E section out of the stack to go back to her table, but it was stuck and wouldn’t budge. She went to give it another, more forceful tug, but this time it came effortlessly.
“I’m sorry!” a faceless voice on the other side of the rack exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were trying to get that section, too!”
“Ooops.” Maye laughed as she craned her neck around the rack to apologize to the person on the other side.
It was a young woman, about Maye’s age, with dark, perfectly messy cropped hair, pink cheeks, and bright, friendly eyes. She wore a white, slightly wrinkled linen shirt and a cotton knee-length skirt with daisies on it. Around her neck was a chalcedony pendant on a silver chain.
“Why, Mrs. Spaulding!” Maye blurted out joyously. “How nice to see you!”
The woman looked puzzled. “No, no, no,” she said with a hesitant laugh. “I used to work for her, but—”
“I’m sorry, I know that,” Maye said, a little embarrassed. “We met once before, in the fall, right when school started, at a faculty party.”
Not Mrs. Spaulding nodded. “I remember, you were from Arizona,” she said with a smile.
Maye nodded back. “You studied architecture and art history,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Maye.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” the young woman said with a laugh, shaking Maye’s hand. “You were on the front page of the paper and on the news every night for weeks for solving the town square mystery.”
“All of that is dying down now, thank God,” Maye replied. “My fifteen minutes seemed to get stuck in a time warp. I just kept waiting for it to end.”
“Well, it will probably kick back up when the trial starts, don’t you think?” the woman queried.
Maye shook her head. “Nah, it won’t be focused on me,” she answered, “I doubt I’ll even be called as a witness.”
“I’m so sorry about your friend,” the young woman said. “She seemed like quite a character. Did you ever find out what really happened?”
“Not really,” Maye said, trying to be stoic. “You know, her nephew and I got a copy of Rick Titball’s tape, and the only thing it showed is what we actually saw. She was there one minute and then she was gone. I don’t think there will ever be a very good explanation for any of us about what happened. I just know that I miss her, every day. There will never be another Ruby. But it was when we were scouring that tape that we caught a split-second glimpse of Rowena backstage, pouring accelerant on the canvas curtain and using a cigarette to light it. Old habits die hard, I guess. Wouldn’t you know, Rick Titball broke the biggest story of his life and had absolutely no idea he did it. But I’m sorry if you lost your job because of Rowena’s stay in county jail.”
“Oh no,” the woman told her. “I had quit long before then. She was…difficult. Impossible. Insulting. And that was usually even before I got there in the mornings. Besides, I was just in between things around that time. A curator’s position at the university art museum opened up, and I’m over there now. I’m pretty happy. Have you seen Dean Spaulding lately? He was such a nice man. I could never really pair those two, you know?”
“I always th
ought the same thing. I guess that’s why I just assumed you were Mrs. Spaulding.” Maye laughed. “I’ve seen him a few times. He arranged a beautiful memorial service for Ruby up at the house; it was incredible. Flowers, there were so many flowers, more flowers than this town has ever seen, and that’s saying something. It was held in one of the rose gardens off the terrace. It was very pretty. The service was lovely, right after he refused to bail Rowena out of jail. And he has donated all of the necessary funds for the statue of Ruby in the new town square. I think they decided to go with an image of her being crowned, which I think is appropriate, since it’s now Ruby Spicer Square.”
“I read they had revoked Rowena’s crown and had reinstated Ruby as Sewer Pipe Queen for that year,” the woman said. “For Rowena, that’s akin to a beheading. You know, I think you should have won the title yourself. I couldn’t have belted out that song better if I had a mirror and a hairbrush microphone! I even clapped along and yelled out when you had the dance-off with your dog.”
“You know,” Maye said, laughing and shaking her head, “no one had a chance against a transvestite in sequins, his mom, balls of fire, and flying kittens. I don’t even know why I bothered to go on. But, Mickey did get first runner-up, not that I’m hoping for a horrible kitten-juggling accident or anything.”
“And where is the Sewer Pipe Queen first runner-up?” the woman asked. “I can’t believe you’d leave His Royal Highness at home!”
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding.” Maye laughed again. “We have a new addition to the family, you know. He’s very busy playing with his new brother, Puppy. The two of them have a grand time together. In fact, they had a doggie slumber party last night out at Ruby’s farm with all the other dogs. Her nephew, John—he was the one who arrested Rowena—decided to retire from the force early and try to get the farm back up and running, although if you ever need a plumber, he’s the best one in town. And he knows the cleanliness of every restaurant kitchen in Spaulding. This place got an A plus from him.”
“I will keep that in mind,” the young woman said, smiling. “By the way, I’m Erika.”
“It’s really nice to finally meet you, Erika.” Maye smiled back. “You know, I have a booth over here by the window. Would you care to join me?”
“Thank you, but I can’t.” Erika shook her head. “I have a meeting at the museum in fifteen minutes. I just needed to stop in for some joe and a muffin.”
“Yeah, I need to get to work, too,” Maye realized, looking at the clock on the wall above the chalkboard menu. “I think it would look better if the city-beat reporter was on time for her second day at the newspaper.”
“Would you like to have lunch sometime?” Erika asked, fishing a business card out of her purse and handing it to Maye.
Maye smiled. “You know,” she said. “I really would.”
Acknowledgments
A mighty big thanks to: Bruce Tracy, who insanely insisted that I could do this; Jenny Bent, who forced me to; David Dunton, who kept reading it as I kept writing it; C. E. Upton, who listened every night to what happened in Spaulding that day, no matter how weird it got; Grace Dunstan (Idiot Girl of the Year, 2006), who so graciously gave me the title; and, ultimately, Patty Keene, who drove me to the purple and green house where I found the story of Maye and Ruby.
I’d also like to thank every one of the IGs on our little board that I have come to know, admire, respect, and sometimes get a little drunk with. I love our vacations! All of you have come together to form our circle that is wide, diverse, wonderful, and hysterical at the same time and very dear to me. Thank you as well to my family, Kartz Ucci, Beth Pearson, Adam Korn, Brian McLendon, Jamie Schroeder, Jeff Abbott, Amelia Zalcman, Kate Blum, Meg Halverson, Bill Hummel, Heather Megyesi, Nancy Ragghianti, Heather English, Allison Johnson, Scott Long, and the people of Eugene, who came through every damn time when I was stumped and needed a chunk of inspiration.
Muchos gracias, mi amigos.
(P.S. Will somebody PLEASE send me a green mixed burro from Ritos?)
LAURIE
About the Author
LAURIE NOTARO is the author of five collections of humorous essays. She recently moved to Eugene, Oregon, a town that bears no resemblance whatsoever to the fictional town of Spaulding, Washington. Her new neighbors are not in this book. Incredibly, she has one friend.
Visit Laurie’s website at www.idiotgirls.com
ALSO BY LAURIE NOTARO
An Idiot Girl’s Christmas
The Idiot Girls’ Action-Adventure Club
Autobiography of a Fat Bride
I Love Everybody (and Other Atrocious Lies)
We Thought You Would Be Prettier
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Villard Books Trade Paperback Original
Copyright © 2007 by Laurie Notaro
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Villard Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
VILLARD and “V” CIRCLED Design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-345-50004-5
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Notaro, Laurie.
There’s a (slight) chance I might be going to hell: a novel of sewer pipes, pageant queens, and big trouble / Laurie Notaro.
p. cm.
I. Title.
PS3614.0785T47 2007
814'.6—dc22 2006038730
www.villard.com
v1.0
Laurie Notaro, There s a (Slight) Chance I Might Be Going to Hell
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