Death by Deep Dish Pie (7 page)

I'd surely never seen him looking like this before. But I could understand his wish for an identity change after the big loss. We take our sports seriously around here. And his daddy, Chuck Winks Sr., who worked on the county road crews, was, everyone knew, pinning his hopes on his boy becoming a major league contender. After the game, though, Chucky was heard to holler at his daddy that he hated him, he hated Paradise, and more than anything, he hated baseball. I had to feel sorry for both of them.

“I go by Charlemagne now,” Chucky said. “Trudy asked me to stay here and let you know she'd gone with the others to the meeting.”

“Others?” I said faintly.

Chucky—Charlemagne—grinned. “I think it's going to be some meeting.”

Despite my nervousness, I had to smile when Charlemagne and I got to the Paradise Theatre.

The building—two stories, circa 1850s, brick, square, sandwiched between Cherry's Chat N Curl and the Odds N Ends Bait and Tackle shop—was the town's “opera house,” used for lectures and performances popular at the end of the nineteenth century. It served for a time as a town hall (until the new one, in combination with a new police department, fire department, and two-person jail, was built back in the fifties), then became a combo cinema and theatre fifty-some years ago.

Eventually, the movie showings dwindled to one a weekend. And, eventually, the Paradise Town Hall Players, who had once-upon-a-time put on three plays a year, disbanded and stopped doing shows. The old building fell into disrepair—its three-sided exterior ticket booth becoming a derelict, paint-chipped, broken-glassed eyesore. A tornado this past spring clipped the roof and broke a few windows.

Then the Paradise Historical Society got an anonymous donation of funds specifically for repairing the building. Mrs. Beavy (as the society's president) had been in my fussing one day about having trouble finding anyone to do the work for the available money, and knowing my cousin Sally was trying to launch her own handywoman business, I'd recommended her and Uncle Otis.

And now, looking at the freshly rebuilt and painted ticket booth, and the new door, and the geranium-filled flowerpots on either side of the door, I was glad I had. I grinned in pride. Finally, Uncle Otis was taking his work seriously, instead of searching out another get-rich-quick scheme. (He'd tried everything from mushroom farming in his basement to fixer-upper quick-turnaround real estate—but even Uncle Otis's handyman skills were no match for sink holes.)

And this great work meant that Sally was probably well on her way to establishing her business. If the historical society mavens liked her work, they'd recommend her to their friends. Why had I worried so?

When I stepped into the lobby, I remembered.

It was a mess. Old wallpaper half-stripped, hanging in shards from the wall. A musty smell to the filthy carpet. Broken light fixtures overhead.

“Wow,” said Charlemagne. “What a mess. Trudy told me your uncle and cousin are doing the work to get this place renovated in time for the July Fourth Breitentstrater Founder's Day play. That's just two weeks. You think they can—”

“Hush up, Charlemagne,” I said.

We went through the double doors into the auditorium. No work had been done in there either—but that's not what caused me to gasp.

This was supposed to be a simple meeting of just nine people: Mrs. Beavy, the director, who'd pass out the same scripts that had been used forever to the six people who had played the six roles forever. Cornelia Hintermeister (our mayor) and her husband Rodney played the Foersthoefels; Luke and Greta Rhinegold (who own Paradise's only motel, the Red Horse) played the Breitenstraters; Sandy Schmidt, who owns the restaurant across from my , and Terrence Jones, who taught English and drama over at Mason County East High School, played the Schmidts. Cherry Feinster (of Cherry's Chat N Curl) was in charge of set design and props, all of which were stored out in the Hapstatters' barn at their farm on Mud Lick Road.

That left me. I'm in charge of costumes and PR (which means changing the date on the program each year, seeing if anyone wanted to update their ads, getting the program printed, and updating the date of the play for the same article that had always run in the
Paradise Advertiser-Gazette).

All I was supposed to have to do that night was be polite to everyone and gather up the costumes from the storage closet in the “green room” upstairs and take them back to my for any cleaning and repairs. Simple, right?

But what I saw before me was anything but simple. The nine people that were supposed to be at this meeting were certainly there. But so were a whole bunch of other townspeople, including most of the members of the Paradise Chamber of Commerce, seated in the seats to the right of the center aisle. And about twelve young people—all dressed in black and metal—were seated to the left.

Cletus Breitenstrater was standing on the left side of the stage, looking very happy. And Alan Breitenstrater was standing on the right side of the stage, looking very unhappy. Standing near him was Dinky (surprising, given that there was no love lost between Alan and his nephew) and another man—a mighty handsome man, I noticed right off—whom I didn't recognize but that I guessed was Dinky's friend Todd.

In the middle of the stage was Trudy (and Slinky, who appeared to be gnawing at the leather choker) speaking as loudly as she could over the murmurings in the audience. There was no podium; the stage was empty except for the Breitenstraters and a toolbox on the right side of the stage.

“First I want to thank Josie Toadfern for sponsoring my and my friends' visit to tonight's meeting,” she read from a paper.

What? I hadn't done any such thing. But Trudy's lie didn't bother her. She spied me as I sat down on the townspeople/chamber of commerce side (Charlemagne had gone over to the young-people-in-black side) and gave me a wave. I slunk down in my seat. Several people turned to stare at me.

“Yoo hoo, Josie, thank you!” Trudy hollered, before looking back at her paper. “Now, I admit I knew that my father—who is of course already an honorary member of your dear historical society and doesn't need a sponsor—invited our dear town leaders—” did I detect sarcasm in Ms. Breitenstrater's young voice? From the gasps in the audience, yes, yes, I did. “—to attend this meeting because he has such an important announcement to make.”

The sarcasm peaked on the word “such.” Cletus grinned. Alan's face grew redder. I'd heard he was on medicine for stress and high blood pressure ever since Jason's death. Maybe I should be worried about him having a stroke instead of Cletus; the un-air-conditioned theatre was hotter than outside. I was starting to sweat.

“My father wouldn't sponsor my visit, so thanks again to Josie Toadfern's sponsorship, I'm here without reproach,” Trudy continued reading from her notes, “along with other future leaders of Paradise.” The kids-in-black twittered at Trudy's words. “As you all know, my family has underwritten the Breitenstrater Founder's Day celebration—of course you know, because the celebration's named after us—and most recently, the renovation of this playhouse—”

I didn't know they were funding the playhouse—but it made sense. Who else would have the money? Maybe the family was angling to have the theatre renamed the Breitenstrater Theatre, and that's what Alan's announcement was going to be about.

‘A waste of their money,” someone in front of me whispered to the person next to her, “'cause it sure doesn't look like this place is gonna get done in time for the play!”

I poked the person whispering on the shoulder, and she turned around. Cherry Feinster, owner of Cherry's Chat N Curl, and my on-again, off-again friend since junior high. Right now, we were in between, because she'd permed and dyed my hair into oblivion this past spring. Well, there were other factors that made the chemical re-do of my hair go bad. But still, I gave her plenty of credit for the fact that I was sporting a blond semiburr, which I had to admit to myself—but never would to her—was more comfortable in the summer heat than my standard pony tail.

”Cherry,” I whispered, “this theatre is gonna get done in time.”

She half-snorted, half-laughed at me. “Haven't you heard? Your Uncle Otis walked off the job today. He's hot on the trail of another of his get-rich-quick schemes.”

Of course, if I'd been at the that day, I'd already have known this. Word travels fast in a small town. But I'd been at Stillwater happily unaware of anything going wrong.

What could Uncle Otis's scheme be now, I wondered? Earlier in the year, he'd plunked a thousand bucks into shares in a self-cleaning port-o-potty start-up. When that went to pot, so to speak, Uncle Otis got hooked into condo time-share-selling in Florida, sure that he would be able to retire in style in the sunny South. The Toadfern clan had even had a going-away party for him. Two months later, he'd returned, swearing he would stick to the honest labor he knew best.

But now he was at it again. And I admit that I hoped whatever it was this time would take him out of town again, for Sally's sake.

Sandy, who was sitting next to Cherry, turned and whispered to me, “Your Uncle Otis came into the restaurant first thing this morning, ordered up his coffee and grits—and then paid with a hundred dollar bill. Said he'd found himself a new way of making money and he sure wasn't going to break his back in the remodeling business no more.”

I glanced nervously at Cletus up on the stage, rocking back and forth happily on his feet, just like a big kid. My stomach flip-flopped. Hadn't he mentioned he knew my Uncle Otis? That they'd had many a fine discussion at the old theatre? Oh, Lord. Was it possible Cletus was behind whatever get-rich scheme my Uncle Otis was bragging about now?

Sandy turned back around, but Cherry whispered to me, “So it's just Sally. Think she can handle this job and her bratty triplets?”

Then Cherry turned back, too. I was torn between wanting to whop her upside the head for calling my darling first-cousins-once-removed bratty, and wanting to go find Uncle Otis and whop him upside the head for abandoning his daughter—and embarrassing me.

Instead, I refocused on Trudy, who was saying, “I'm excited to announce that my dear Uncle Cletus, in honor of the newly renovated theatre, has rewritten the standard play,
A Little Taste of Paradise,
to more accurately reflect our charming—” again that sarcasm, again the teenaged twitters—”town's history. I'm not sure what all is in the play, as Uncle Cletus has kept its content a secret, but he assures me that there will be parts for fresh new actors and actresses!”

At this, the teenagers cheered. And the adults gasped, then fell silent.

“I was nervous Uncle Cletus wouldn't make it tonight, but I'm glad to see he's here! Let's hear it for Uncle Cletus!”

Scattered applause and exchanges of confused glances among the adults; more whooping from the kids. Alan's face was now mottling from red to purple. Dinky, on the other hand, was examining his nails, and the man I guessed to be Todd had a bemused expression on his face.

Cletus went to the center of the stage. “Thank you, Trudy. I almost didn't make it—somehow, my brother left without me.” I could hear where Trudy had learned her sarcasm. “But fortunately, Josie Toadfern gave me a ride to town!”

At that, everyone turned and looked at me. I slunk farther down in my seat. Oh, Lord. This was turning into a nightmare. My Uncle Otis had botched the renovation. The Breitenstraters—at least Cletus and Trudy—were taking over the one part of the Founder's Day celebration that had been untouched by Breitenstrater self-promo ting, and they were thanking me for helping. At this rate, everyone would be buying washboards at flea markets and dragging their laundry down to the stream that feeds into Licking Creek Lake instead of visiting my .

‘As Mrs. Beavy can tell you,”—everyone looked at her now, and I saw poor Mrs. Beavy's dandelion-puff of a head bobble in confusion—”I have been working long and hard on researching Paradise's history, and I can tell you, the new play will be quite revealing, quite a shocker to everyone!”

Now Trudy took over again. “To give you a little taste of the new Paradise play,”—the teenagers chortled at her twist on the play's title—”the play will be retitled . . .
The Curse of Paradise
!”

5

At that, a stunned silence fell over the crowd. Not even the teens made a peep.

The Curse of Paradise is another one of those Automatically Known things to the natives of a small town.

But as I've said before, in telling about a small town, some things just have to be explained.

The Curse of Paradise is only talked about among younger people, one generation whispering the tale down to the next, only to stop murmuring about it upon reaching adulthood. The “Curse” comes from an unknown source, so the story goes, but everyone believes something terrible must have happened early in our history, because despite our town's name, it seems to have a lot of bad luck.

For example, a long time ago, Paradise was supposed to become the county seat, but that honor went to Masonville. And a century-and-a-half ago, the canal system was supposed to come through Paradise, but at the last minute, that also went to Masonville. Then, when trains came along, Masonville had the foresight to build a much larger depot, and Paradise didn't, so Masonville got a lot more business.

Add to that the fact that Mason County East High School, which serves Paradise and a few other small towns and unincorporated townships, has never beaten Mason County West High School, which basically serves just Masonville, in football. Or soccer. Or volleyball. Or baseball. . . although it came close, in the game that everyone blamed Chucky/Charlemagne for losing.

So, for Trudy to announce that her Uncle Cletus had rewritten the annual play about the town's history—and renamed it
The Curse Of Paradise
—was a shocking revelation.