Decorated to Death (2 page)

The noonday sun distributed a myriad of rays across Sleepy Hollow’s eighteen-hole golf course. Like sheep in a meadow, small clusters of golfers moved slowly across the rolling hills and narrow fairways.

Turning into the parking lot, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the valet parking sign was displayed. From the number of golfers I’d observed on the course, I knew that the odds of my finding an empty parking place would be chancy at best. I handed the minivan’s keys to the young, gum-chewing male attendant. Like Speed Racer, the kid moved fast and drove even faster. Shoving the parking receipt in my purse, I said a quick prayer for the safe return of my vehicle and walked boldly into the clubhouse, broken zipper be damned.

The Sleepy Hollow clubhouse was built in the 1920s and was originally designed as a gambling casino. After a short stint as a servicemen’s club during the 1940s, the place was turned into a country club complete with an eighteen-hole golf course and full service clubhouse. Because of its white stucco exterior, orange-colored tile roof, and arched porticoes, the rambling structure belongs on a California hillside where kitsch isn’t just appreciated, it’s revered. Instead, the clubhouse, which some people claim resembles a hat box flanked by two steamer trunks, sits on a bluff on the outskirts of Seville, a small Indiana town founded in the 1870s by Garrison Seville, a Civil War hero. Personally, I like the way the old place looks both inside and out.

Last fall, Designer Jeans handled the redesign of the club’s main dining room. Although the room wasn’t open for lunch, I couldn’t resist opening the frosted-glass double doors and taking a peek. The Art Deco decor that JR and I had reintroduced into the room looked as crisp and fresh as the day we had finished the project.

The overall color scheme of white, black, and red with gold accents was as elegant as it was chic. All the hours removing old wallpaper had paid off, as had the time I spent applying a faux marble finish to the walls. The huge black-lacquered sideboard with its black granite top was the room’s focal point. I’d draped a richly embroidered fringe shawl across the cabinet’s top and held it in place with a large, bronze sculptured elephant that I’d picked up for next to nothing at a flea market. Snowy white cloths topped the Gilbert Rohde reproduction dining sets. The chrome and leather chairs proved to be as durable and as comfortable as they looked. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that the three fake King palms I’d placed where the bar once stood had grown since last fall.

Walking back across the black-and-white ceramic tile floor, I gave the bronze pachyderm a parting pat on the rump for good luck and exited the room.

With my spirits buoyed by my visit to one of Designer Jeans’ most successful projects, I headed down to the west corridor leading to the club’s bar and grill, where lunch was being served and Mary was waiting for me.

Resplendent in a floral shift, Mary had been seated in the grill’s oversized back booth. In the darkened recess of the adjacent bar area, Charlie and his brother-in-law, Denny England, Mary’s husband and owner of England’s Fine Furniture, were rehashing their golf match while wolfing down a quick lunch of hot dogs, onion rings, and beer. What was left of their attention span was taken up by the bar’s new flat-screen, high-definition television set that, as usual, was tuned to the Golf Channel. Not wanting to compete with Tiger Woods, I bypassed the bar and headed straight for the grill’s back booth and my destiny.

Knowing Mary as well as I do, I decided to eat first and ask questions later. Mary and I made short work of the French onion soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Then, while Mary enjoyed a whipped-cream, double-fudge éclair dessert, I enjoyed a cup of coffee and a cigarette. My enjoyment lasted about as long as the éclair.

“My stars,” said Mary, licking bits of the calorie-laden pastry from her fork, “you’re the only one I know who still smokes. You know if you had used the patch when I did, you’d be smoke-free by now. Try it. Not only will your heart and lungs thank you, your taste buds will, too. I know mine did.”

Obviously. Finished with the dessert and the pitch for the patch, Mary reached for her glass of sweet tea. Taking a dainty sip, she sat back and waited for the usual Jean Hastings sharp retort. What she received instead was a nod of my head and a thin smile. Granted, it wasn’t much but given that I was still in the process of adjusting to this sunny side of life stuff, I felt it was more than enough. Judging from her reaction, I sensed that Mary disagreed.

“Are you all right? You’re not sick, are you? Is there something you’re not telling me? Oh my stars, is it life threatening? Does Charlie know? What can I do to help?”

“Jeez, Mar, knock it off. People are starting to stare. There is nothing, I repeat, nothing wrong with me. I was just being nice,” I snarled. “It’s part of my new, sunny persona, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, thank heavens, you really are all right. For a minute there, you scared me. You looked just like Herbie did when he was stuck in that sofa bed.”

Only a fool fights on when the battle is lost. Signaling to Tammie, the curvaceous, ditzy waitress with reddish-blond hair, I ordered a second éclair for Mary and a refill on my coffee.

“Friends?” ventured Mary, plunging a fork into the small mountain of whipped cream. The fluffy white topping mimicked Mary’s hairdo in texture, color, and design.

“Always,” I assured her, raising my coffee cup in a salute to our long and solid friendship.

Once our addictions (chocolate and caffeine) had been sufficiently satisfied, it was time to get down to business.

“Okay, Mary, now tell me something I don’t know. Why do you think it’s my lucky day, and what does that have to do with Designer Jeans?”

“Well,” said Mary, dabbing her cupid’s bow mouth with a napkin and emitting a small burp, “remember two weeks ago when we had that big sale? The day Herbie caught his tie in the cash register?” Not waiting for an answer, Mary rushed on. “Thank goodness it was one of those clip-on things, otherwise he might have been seriously hurt. You’d think a man of his age would’ve learned to tie a tie by now. Or at least, switch to bow ties.”

Sensing that Mary’s train of thought was about to derail, I suggested (tactfully, mind you) that perhaps we could discuss Herbie’s peculiarities some other time, like maybe the twelfth of never. An obliging Mary agreed.

“Anyway, as I started to tell you, it was the day of the big sale, and we were flooded with customers thanks to Denny’s brilliant ad campaign. It was his best one yet if I say so myself. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I certainly would,” I lied. I wasn’t about to admit that I could recall neither the campaign nor the sale, but I knew if I let her talk Mary would eventually fill in the blanks.

“When Denny first brought up the idea of having a retro sale, I thought he was crazy. I never imagined that so many people who went to Seville High during the 1960s would show up. And with their class rings, no less. Personally, I think getting an additional fifty percent off on certain sale items had a lot to do with it.”

So far, I hadn’t learned anything from Mary other than England’s Fine Furniture had another successful sale, thanks to her husband Denny’s unflagging ingenuity. The male half of this Jack Spratt couple could sell pocket combs to nudists.

“I’m glad everything went so well and you had a good turnout. Were there any surprises?” I asked.

Mary’s big, blueberry-colored eyes opened wide. “Surprises? Like what?”

“Oh, you know,” I countered, “like did Kurt Summerfield turn up with Dona Deville on his arm?” It was a facetious question and I really didn’t expect an answer.

I spent my high school years as a student at Little Flower Academy for Girls, a Catholic institution that was strong on education and weak on social activities. The way the good nuns saw it, if Adam had kept his distance, the incident between Eve and the serpent might have been avoided. The prospect of being a wallflower for the next four years was enough to make me tag after Mary and her public school crowd. Together, we attended almost every after-school activity sponsored by Seville High, where Mary and her twin brother, Charlie, were enrolled.

It was at one such function that Mary and I fell madly in love with the star of Seville High’s varsity basketball team. The fact that the boy, Kurt Summerfield, was unaware of our existence failed to dampen our ardor. Our young hearts were crushed when, as king of the prom, Kurt selected Dona Deville to be his queen. We were convinced that he had been unduly influenced by the leggy cheerleader’s movie-star looks and pinup girl figure.

The royal couple graduated a few weeks later. When the new school year began in the fall, Kurt was no longer part of our world. He had been replaced on the basketball court, and in our young hearts, by Norbert Finklestein. It was a true case of the king is dead; long live the king.

While Kurt dropped off the town gossips’ radar after leaving Seville for parts unknown, the beautiful Dona popped up two decades later as the owner of Dona’s Den, an exclusive Indianapolis health spa catering to the rich and famous. To my knowledge, no one from Seville had crossed the threshold of the tony establishment, or Dona’s path, which is why I was stunned by Mary’s reply to my question.

“Kurt didn’t show up, but Dona did. She’s still gorgeous and her shape is like, wow! Bet you’ll never guess who she asked about,” said Mary, holding her ice-tea glass aloft. “I’ll give you a hint. It wasn’t Kurt Summerfield.”

“How the heck would I know. Probably Herbie Waddlemeyer. If nothing else, the guy is unforgettable.”

“No, silly. Herbie was homeschooled. Besides, she didn’t have to ask about him. She was standing right next to him when he got his tie caught. Honestly, Gin, sometimes I don’t think you listen very well. I said you’d never guess. She asked about Charlie.”

“Charlie? My Charlie? Why in the world would she ask about him? Unbelievable.” Charlie was a late bloomer. By the time he’d morphed into the handsome guy who won my heart, Dona was long gone from Seville. “Unbelievable,” I said again.

“Hey, I thought so, too,” said Mary, “until Dona explained everything. She said she’d heard all kinds of nice things about the redesign of the Sleepy Hollow Country Club main dining room before seeing it for herself. She couldn’t recall the firm’s name but remembered it had some connection to Charlie. That’s why she asked about him. Luckily, Denny keeps a supply of your business cards on the counter, so he gave her one. I expected she’d call you and waited for you to say something but you didn’t, so I didn’t, either. Then, lo and behold, she called me this morning. She’d misplaced your card but had one of Denny’s. Seeing that we’re family, she asked if I would pass along her message.” Mary stopped just long enough to take a needed breath and sip of ice tea. “Of course, I said yes. You know what I’m saying?”

“No, I don’t.” It was becoming difficult to hide my growing impatience. I’d had my fill of coffee and Mary certainly didn’t need a third éclair. “You kind of lost me after you said something about explaining everything.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry,” Mary gushed, “it’s just that I’m so excited for you. Imagine, Designer Jeans landing a contract with Dona Deville. See, I wasn’t kidding when I said that it’s your lucky day.”

“Mary.” I all but threw myself across the table. “Are you telling me that Dona Deville has been trying to get in touch with me, I mean Designer Jeans? When? How? Where? Am I supposed to call her or what? This is really, really unbelievable. And here I thought she was after Charlie!”

“My stars. Some sleuth you are,” said Mary, alluding to my modest success in the realm of crime solving. “Sometimes the simplest thing confuses you. Now listen carefully, Gin. All you have to remember is that Dona Deville is going to phone you early next week. Monday or Tuesday. She needs an interior designer, and you need the work. Say, do you feel okay? You look kind of funny.”

Leaning out of the booth, Mary flagged down the passing Tammie. “Be a lamb and get Mrs. Hastings an Irish coffee. Skip the cream, hold the sugar, and easy on the coffee.”

“Got it, Mrs. E.,” said the waitress, who had a penchant for reducing speech to the simplest of terms. “Celebratin’ or medicinal, Mrs. H.?”

“A little of both,” I groaned, rubbing my forehead with an ice cube taken from my untouched glass of water, “a little of both.”

After leaving the club, I stopped at JR’s and shared the “lucky day news” with my daughter and partner. Like her mother, JR was excited about the possibility of adding the Deville name to Designer Jeans’ list of clientele. Returning home, I then began the excruciating long wait for the all-important phone call that, according to Mary, I would receive on either Monday or Tuesday.

A pessimist at heart, when I hadn’t heard from Ms. Deville by Tuesday noon, I was convinced that Mary had unknowingly mixed up the message and Designer Jeans had missed out on what could have been a prestigious and lucrative contract. I was about to fix lunch when, to my surprise, the phone rang and I found myself speaking directly to the health spa proprietress.

Not one to waste time, Dona Deville was all business and only marginally polite. She quickly informed me that she’d recently inherited some property from her late aunt. Located on the northern edge of Seville, the property was close to the interstate and the old railroad station. The inheritance consisted of a few acres of scrubland along with three structures: a vintage cottage, a weather-beaten barn, and a large shed. The cottage faced Old Railway Road and was separated from the barn and shed by a thick clump of trees. The two outbuildings could be accessed via a rutted dirt-and-gravel side road.

“What do you have in mind for the property? A quick fix and cleanup job? If that’s the case, I can put you in touch with a local man who handles that sort of thing.” Despite what I’d said to Mary about competing with old man Wilson, I had no intention of doing so.

“Not really,” said Dona. “The barn and shed are out of the picture, so to speak. They’ve been leased to a Mr. Abner Wilson. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. He pays the rent on time, keeps to himself, and asks for nothing. The perfect tenant, wouldn’t you agree?”

Before I had a chance to respond, Dona stated her desire to turn the cottage into a personal weekend retreat. “After seeing what you’ve done with Sleepy Hollow’s main dining room, I must say I was impressed. Returning the room to its original Art Deco decor was very clever of you.”

I attempted to thank her for the compliment only to be rudely interrupted by Dona’s announcement that I was being put on hold while she took another call. To pass the time I emptied the dishwasher, made a fresh pot of coffee, and sorted a mountain of junk mail. It was when I started to alphabetize my grocery list that I decided I’d lingered long enough in telephone limbo. I was about to return the bright pink monstrosity to its base when Dona Deville came back on the line.

“Gawd,” wailed the insensible woman, “with all his money, the man could build his own spa. Instead, he keeps trying to buy mine. I told him to get a haircut. He was still laughing when I hung up on him, but that’s the Donald for you.”

Although I lacked confirmation, I was reasonably sure that the bothersome caller wasn’t Donald Pumfreys, Seville’s animal control officer.

“Well now, where were we?” snapped Dona. “Oh yes, I was about to ask if you’re interested in taking on the project. Yes or no? Hello? Are you there, Mrs. Hastings?”

“Yes, I’m here,” I stammered. Exhaling sharply, I put Dona Deville’s famous caller out of my mind and regained my composure. “I can’t give you an answer without seeing the place, and I generally don’t do an initial walk-through unless accompanied by the prospective client. Can that be arranged?”

“If you insist, I suppose so,” Dona replied in a tone cold enough to freeze the fur off a polar bear’s backside. “I’ll have to switch the call to my personal assistant, Marsha Gooding. Perhaps she can fit you into my busy schedule. Hold on.” With that said, Dona, the prima donna, took her leave.

Waiting for the call to be transferred, I overheard someone say the words, “freakin’ fool.” Although I wasn’t positive who had uttered them, I had a pretty good idea that her initials were D. D.

“You’ve reached extension one-three. I’m busy at the moment. Please leave your name and number and someone will return your call.” The recorded message was followed by an irritating beep. After silently cursing all the busy people in the world, and being just a little jealous because I wasn’t one of them, I gave my name and was about to leave Designer Jeans’ number when a female voice came on the line.

“Hi, Goody here. Sorry ’bout that. I just hate talking to a machine, don’t you? They’re so impersonal and never give you enough time to say what you really want to say. Know what I mean? Hang on a sec while I grab a mug of herbal tea, then we can talk.”

Marsha Gooding, or Goody as she insisted I call her, was anything but cold or businesslike. In fact, the personal assistant seemed deliberately intent on moving the conversation from a professional level to one that was warm, encompassing, and personal.

Without any encouragement from me, I soon learned from Goody that her boss’s former marriage to Rufus Halsted, a less-than-successful real estate developer, was considered by Dona to be the second-biggest mistake of her life, the first being that she’d neglected to have Rufus (or Ruffy, as he prefers to be called) sign a prenuptial agreement. The tumultuous Halsted union managed to limp along until two years ago. That’s when Todd Masters, a muscleman twenty years Dona’s junior, signed on as her personal trainer, and Ruffy was served with divorce papers. According to the gossipy Goody, the dissolution of the marriage was neither friendly nor cheap.

“To make matters even worse, the gal who handles all Dona’s PR stuff, Maxine Roberts, has been spotted after hours in the company of a certain muscle-bound meathead,” sniped Goody before piously adding, “I hope and pray that the two aren’t more than just friends. Unlike us ‘Plain Janes,’ Dona’s never experienced rejection. At this point in her life, I’m not all that sure she could survive it. Perhaps getting the cottage decorated will keep her mind off her troubles, at least for a little while.”

“If I’m not being too nosy,” I found myself asking the loose-lipped Goody, “did the aunt die of old age?”

“Lord, no. Not that she wasn’t as old as dirt. No, she got on the interstate going the wrong way and ended up colliding with a semi hauling a wide load. The truck driver survived but Dona’s aunt was killed instantly. Word has it that she was decapitated.”

“Dear God! What in the world caused her to make such a tragic and deadly driving error?” I wondered aloud.

“That’s what Dona would like to know,” replied Goody. “The aunt was on her way back to Indy after visiting the cottage. In spite of her advanced age, the old gal was mentally and physically fit. Dona still frets about the accident even though everyone, including yours truly, has told her to forget it. It’s time to move on.”

Maybe Dona didn’t heed the advice, but I did. Switching hats, I was all business, steering Goody back to the business of selecting a date, time, and place for my meeting with her boss.

“Hey, it looks like you’re in luck, Jean. Maxine has Dona scheduled for a book-signing gig next Saturday at the grand opening of the new Lowell’s Book Nook in Seville. I’ll pencil you in to meet us there around three. She should be done by then. Now, what were we talking about? Oh yes, Dona of course,” said Goody before adding with a snicker, “wait ’til you get a load of Ellie, the daughter. Talk about the apple falling far from the tree. She’s not even in the orchard.”

I could tell from the gleefulness in her voice, Goody was about to out another Deville skeleton from the closet. Since the time, date, and place of my meeting with Dona had been settled, I interrupted Marsha Gooding’s latest soliloquy with the old chestnut of someone knocking at my door. As fibs go, it wasn’t the most imaginative but it did bring the phone call to a merciful end.

Lighting a cigarette, I mentally reviewed my conversations with both women. I don’t know what bothered me more—Dona Deville’s aloofness or Marsha Gooding’s unbidden candor.

Replacing dark thoughts with sunny ones, I pulled out my workbooks and began making speculative plans to turn the cottage into a weekend getaway that even a certain Donald would envy.