The Resurrection of Mary Mabel McTavish (9 page)

On
the
Case

K.
O.
Doyle rolled back to The Ceeps at sunup, mighty sore at falling for Floyd’s midnight con. A trip to the London lockup had confirmed that the evangelist hadn’t hauled the doll anywhere near the joint. He flopped on his bed for some shut-eye, but within minutes the desk clerk was at his door with a cable from his editor.

THE CHIEF IS HOT TO TROT. HAS SENT METROTONE CREW. ARRIVAL TWO THIRTY. GET THE KID. GET THE GIRL. GET GOING.

Christ on a pogo stick! Hearst’s Metrotone crew cranked out newsreels for Bijous coast to coast! It could be his big break! Doyle scribbled a toothbrush across teeth and tongue, splashed his pits with aftershave, flew to the downstairs greasy spoon, inhaled a Maxwell House, fished ice cubes from his water glass and pressed them against his temples as he ran to the curbside cab.

A
unt Grace set aside a batch of muffin batter to answer the front door. Who could be calling at 7:00 a.m.? If it wasn’t that scrawny little weasel with the lemon sours. What could he be up to? By the smell of him, no good.

Doyle apologized for the hour; it couldn’t be helped. Perhaps she’d heard of Mr. William Randolph Hearst? He was Hearst’s representative come to make arrangements for a newsreel on Timmy’s resurrection. If it’d be convenient perhaps, he could shoot a scene of the family in the front parlour at three?

The doughty Presbyterian tilted her chin. As a matter of fact, it would
not
be convenient. Her Timmy was convalescing, her husband was indisposed with sciatica, and she was baking muffins, following which she’d be visiting shut-ins. In any event, neither she nor hers would ever consent to parade themselves for the newsreels. Movie houses were nothing but dark, dingy holes of temptation leading the unemployed to indolence, youth to ruin, and lovebirds to hell in a handbasket. So, no, it would not be convenient to be filmed in her front parlour this afternoon, or on any other, come to think of it, and she would thank Mr. Doyle to remove himself from her property forthwith and henceforward.

Doyle allowed as he’d respect her wishes and instruct the crew to steer clear. He’d go down the road apiece and talk about Timmy in front of that old tarpaper shack with the oil bin on the front porch.

“Not the Dickie place!” Aunt Grace gasped.

Was that the name of it? With the front yard covered in rusty car parts, and the broken windows by soiled bedsheets?

“Jack Dickie is a good-for-nothing Methodist gone bad. Don’t you dare shoot your story there! Folks’ll be getting the idea it’s
our
place.”

They might, he shrugged. Might fancy as well that she and her hubby were the sort to live within — gin-soaked rubes no better than they ought to be — or wonder what sinister goings-on had led them to keep wee Timmy under wraps. Was the lad an American captive in some foreign hicksville hellhole?

Aunt Grace pursed her lips. Under the circumstances, perhaps an interview in her front parlour
could
be arranged. So, if he’d excuse her, she’d best be getting the place in order — by which she meant scrubbing the floors, dusting the knick-knacks, waxing the woodwork, wiping the walls, airing the closets, cleaning the stove, tending the icebox, doing a wash, and beating the rugs till they screamed for mercy; for if cleanliness was next to godliness, Aunt Grace was bound and determined the world would see that she lived in the lap of the Lord.

D
oyle still had to ferret out Mary Mabel. Here, he had a break. On returning to The Ceeps, he was handed a letter by the desk clerk, the ink barely dry on the envelope.

Greetings and salutations in the Lord,

Pray forgive our reticence on the matter of Sister Mary Mabel. She has been on a spiritual retreat. At sunrise prayers, I put in a word on your behalf. She has agreed to meet you at 9 a.m. at the Twins B&B, 495 Wharncliffe Road.

Yours in Christ,

Brother Floyd Cruickshank

P.S. As for that lassie in the park, after pastoral counselling she has welcomed Jesus into her heart, abjured the Devil, and is presently on a bus to the country, there to repair her soul in the care of her belovèd granny. To God be the glory.

Floyd had deposited similar invitations for Scoop Jones and Scratch Micallef. To Perce, however, nothing. In fact, before scampering back to the Twins, he hadn’t even popped upstairs to tell his partner where he’d been nor what he was up to.

If this was rude, it was also business. Floyd’s first thought had been to incorporate Mary Mabel into the existing act, her hope a balance to Percy’s hellfire. Yet the more he chewed on the idea, the tougher it became to swallow. The Great Unwashed, out to see a fetching curiosity, would have no time for the ravings of some distempered preacher.

At the same time, he couldn’t cut Perce loose. The reverend had an imagination and a mouth. Floyd shuddered at the whole-cloth tales he’d spin from the yarn of a middle-aged man and a teenage girl traipsing about the land unchaperoned “with a suitcase full of rubbers!” It would be a cross Floyd couldn’t bridge, a scandal repelling the public, with denials fanning the flames.

The showman was stymied, but short-term, one thing was clear: the less Perce knew, the less he’d have to bugger up.

D
oyle skimmed Floyd’s invitation and pocketed it, along with those left for Scratch and Scoop. “I’ll deliver them personally,” he told the desk clerk, a dollar bill putting paid to silence awkward questions. “By the way, I’ve traced that miracle girl, Miss McTavish. She’s holed up at the Salvation Army in Toronto.” He tapped his nose and headed off to the Twins, secure in the knowledge his rivals would shortly be bribing themselves into a wild goose chase to the provincial capital one hundred miles away.

Transfiguration

F
ollowing
her late-night conversation with Floyd, Mary Mabel had been treated to a hot bath spiced with a tincture of rosemary, then given a nightdress and taken by Miss Tillie up the narrow circular staircase to the sewing room at the back east corner of the third floor. It was a cramped, airless affair, filled to the brim with old hat boxes, ends of quaint fabric, and baskets of appliqués, thread, scissors, and yarn, variously stacked and draped over a junk shop of disused furniture as awkward as it was antique.

“You’d not get a moment’s rest below,” her hostess explained, as she moved piles of dusty dress patterns from the fainting couch to the sewing table by the window. “Me and my sister, we snore something terrible.”

Miss Tillie paused to catch her breath, looking through the turret window at the moon. “This used to be my favourite room,” she said. “Father kept us hopping, but given his game leg, he couldn’t navigate the servants’ stairs. So here’s where we’d come to escape. It was such a blessèd retreat, till he took to banging the ceiling below with his cane. Ah well, may he rest in better peace than he ever allowed us.”

She grabbed the bedclothes, fresh from the linen cupboard, and shook them out with a good deal more force than necessary. “Thank your lucky stars your father’s disappeared,” she observed through the dust cloud. A pause, and she began to make up the couch. “You know, I always wanted a daughter. One of my ‘Things to Do’ that will never get done. Don’t let life slip away on you.” She fluffed the pillow, gave it a quick pat, and headed to the door.

“Thank you,” Mary Mabel called after, crawling under the sheets.

Miss Tillie turned. There was a tear in her eye. “Let me tuck you in.” She pulled the covers up under the young woman’s chin, stroked her hair and kissed her gently on the forehead. “Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Mary Mabel hadn’t been tucked in since Cedar Bend. It felt good. Like being six with a brown sugar sandwich. Before Miss Tillie’d left the room, she was fast asleep.

She dreamed she was sailing on a cloud harnessed by ribbons to a crow. “Where are you taking me?” she asked.

The crow turned. It was Miss Bentwhistle, rowing a black boat. Or was it a black coffin? “This’ll teach you to give sass to your auntie,” the headmistress cackled, snipped the ribbons, and flew off. A gust of wind. The cloud blew apart. Mary Mabel fell and fell and woke up gasping for air.

The room was alive with dust, a rich haze of gold glittering with morning sun. What time was it? Where was she? The last few days skittered through her head. They hardly felt real. She had a sudden terror.

“It’s all right,” came a voice from the foot of the fainting couch.

Mary Mabel’s forehead tingled. “Mama?” She sat up. The sun shone in her face. She had to squint, but her heart saw perfectly. Her mama was standing before her, a beautiful angel swathed in white robes surrounded by a shimmering light. “Mama!”

A sharp rap at the door. “Breakfast’s on the table,” chirped a twin. “No time to dawdle. We’re expecting company.”

Mary Mabel glanced at the door. “I’ll be right down.” Beaming, she turned back to her mama, aching for a hug. But the room was empty. At the foot of the couch, where her mama had been standing, was a dressmaker’s dummy draped in a flowing white sheet. Surely it hadn’t been there before.

Am I crazy?
she thought.
No! I was awake, I know what I saw, I know what I heard. I talked to Mama. And if she’s come to me this often, I know she’ll come again.

T
en minutes later, she was downstairs, eating a boiled egg and toast as Floyd crowed about his morning exertions. “At nine o’clock, the top American syndicates’ll be at the door!”

Mary Mabel sputtered crumbs. “Those men from the fairgrounds?”

“You got it.”

“But they’ll recognize me.”

“Not a chance. People see what they want to see. Besides, last night you were in shadow: seedier than a rotten tomato. Your bath’s already done wonders. By the time Millie and Tillie get through with you, you’ll be unrecognizable.”

“Ready or not, here we come,” the Twins chimed. In a spritz, the breakfast table transformed to a beauty salon, her hosts brandishing scissors, combs, makeup, and brushes with evangelical fervor.

“Yank her hair in a bun,” Floyd coached from the sidelines. “Chop out the matts. Pluck the eyebrows. And how about rouge? Lipstick? Eyeliner? Don’t be shy with the blush. And as for that birthmark, trowel on the base.”

After the paints and powders, the costume. The Twins had laid out a nurse’s uniform, their souvenir of the last poor soul hired to help their father, back in the days when the bugger was spry enough to give chase. “An appropriate get-up, given your bent for healing,” Miss Tillie remarked. “Upon my word, twenty years’ storage has even improved it, for look, it’s turned the most delicate yellow.”

“And the cap, Tillie! The cap!” Miss Millie enthused, adjusting the headpiece just so. “It’s the crowning touch, set off by those lashes and sparkling eyes! The menfolk won’t know where to look!”

“You’re fit for a heavenly choir!” Floyd agreed. “Now collect yourself in the powder room, while we collect ourselves on the porch. We’ll call you for your entrance.”

A
Game
of
Poker

D
oyle
arrived to find Floyd on the verandah rocker, a twin on either side. They made an arresting trio. The Misses Millie and Tillie had effected their own reconstruction and were in fine fettle, slender and bright as a pair of hollyhocks, a vision in ruffled peach taffeta, white feathered hats, and floral parasols. Floyd, by contrast, was grey as cement, the drab garden gnome between them.

So where’s he stashed the girl?
Doyle wondered, as he stepped gingerly over the pumpkin and zucchini vines that snaked across the crumbling stone walkway.
Squirrelled away, I’ll bet, until I pay the handler’s fee.

Floyd struggled to his feet. “Mr. Doyle, you’re in good time,”

“The early bird catches the worm.”

“May I introduce the Thompson Twins.”

Doyle tipped his hat. The Twins arched their backs and nodded smartly.

“Brother Floyd tells us you’re a reporter up from the States, Mr. Doyle,” Miss Millie chirped. “On behalf of my sister, may I say what a privilege it is for the Twins Bed & Breakfast to entertain an important visitor such as yourself.”

“Our late father loved Americans,” Miss Tillie leapt in, handing him a freshly dusted business card, rescued from behind the radiator in the vestibule. “He once took a trip to Cape Cod, and we have cousins in Des Moines.”

“Oh yes, rest assured, we keep out the welcome mat for our American guests. Make sure to mention that in your article.”

“Your readers will also want to know we offer meals.”

“And for the price of a smile we treat our visitors to homemade apple cider and a slice of our very own rhubarb pie.”

“A tour of the town on horse and buggy can also be arranged.”

“And remind your readers that there’s no snow in summer.”

“And in winter we’re well supplied with hot water bottles.”

Floyd realized he wasn’t the only entrepreneur on the porch. Since they’d heard that American press would be dropping by, the Twins had been impossible. In ten years, their only publicity had been the handful of flyers they’d left at the tourist information booth on Highway 2.

“Millie, if they write us up, think of the visitors!”

“We can air out the third floor!”

“Put cots in the study!”

“Hang the Stars and Stripes!”

“Hire a maid!”

Visions of greenbacks had driven them nutty as fruitcake. This accounted for their peach taffeta outfits, resurrected from matching attic hope chests. It accounted as well for the heavy, oversized three-piece suit in which Floyd sweltered. When he’d emerged from his tub, the pair had informed him they’d bundled his clothes into the old wood stove in the kitchen, replacing them with articles from their late father’s bedroom. “This is far more respectable. Papa only wore it to funerals, and even if it’s a mite ancient, good taste never goes out of style.”

(In truth, Floyd’s clothes hadn’t been burned at all: they were hiding out under the sisters’ big brass bed, along with odd socks and underpants pilfered over the years from the suitcases of various gentlemen guests. These made the most delightful mementos, something to snuggle next to late at night, or wear about the house with the drapes drawn. Who knew sin could be so thrilling?)

The sisters were now a runaway train, their conversation rapidly running away along tracks headed far from Floyd’s destination. Clickety-clack, they barrelled through Family History. Clickety-clack, through Tales from the B&B. And then —
toot toot
— “Let’s take a tour!” as they set upon Doyle, grabbing an elbow each and making a beeline for the front door.

Floyd slammed on the brakes. “Ladies, ladies! We’ve business to attend to.”

Miss Millie bit her tongue. “Come Tillie, we mustn’t disturb the menfolk. But before you repair to the States, Mr. Doyle, you must have a taste of our pie. There’s a piece with your name on it.” And with that, she and her sister linked arms and swept indoors.

The men prepared for their game of poker. Doyle hadn’t been dealt much. He needed access to Mary Mabel, but he hated to fold to a fee dictated by Floyd. Careful not to tip his hand, he feigned indifference, ambled to the edge of the porch, stretched, slouched on the railing, and casually surveyed the yard.

Floyd sidled over. “So pleased you could drop by.”

Doyle fixed his gaze on a haphazard patch of corn by the birdbath. “Un-hunh,” he yawned, inhaling the garden air, along with the faint smell of mothballs from Floyd’s long-storaged suit. “I was expecting to see Miss McTavish.”

“She’s at her devotions. There’s so much to pray for, what with our upcoming pilgrimage to the Holy Land.”

Doyle turned from the corn in the yard to the corn on the porch. “You’re going abroad?”

“We aim to take Sister’s healing touch to the lepers of Jericho.”

Doyle tried not to choke. “When are you embarking?”

“As soon as God provides the wherewithal.” Floyd batted his eyes, as beatific as a stained-glass window. “The costs are fantastic. Passage, trunks, travel clothes, toiletries. And once landed, food, lodging, and the rent of a herd of camels to carry our cargo of Bibles.”

“In short, I’m to cough up for the interview?”

“Should the Holy Spirit so move you.”

“How much?”

“‘Blessèd are those who give, for they shall receive.’ Your colleagues from
Scripps-Howard
and
Associated Press
are expected shortly. I’m sure they’ll want to give plenty.”

Doyle fingered the ace up his sleeve: “Scratch and Scoop have split for Toronto. I’m the only game in town and I’m afraid my wallet’s as thin as my patience.”

Floyd faltered. Doyle might be bluffing, but he couldn’t afford to find out. “Not to worry,” he patted the reporter’s arm. “Sister will co-operate, whatever the contribution. In fact, I’ll give you a deal. An interview on the house. Why should a few lepers stand in the way of our friendship?”

Doyle checked his nails. He saw the sweat on Floyd’s neck. “I’m afraid I’ve wasted your morning.” A cocky salute and he headed down the walkway. “Good luck in the Holy Land,” he hollered over his shoulder. “Give my regards to Jesus.”

He was halfway to the gate before Floyd caught up. “I don’t think you heard. You can have Sister for free.”

“Who cares? There’s a reason I’m the only one here. I’m being patsied to write a story leaky as a sieve.”

“No. On my honour as a gentleman.”

“Like I said.”

“But Mr. Hearst wants the story. You told me.”

“That was last night.” Doyle’s eyes danced. He hadn’t had so much fun since he’d snapped the mayor of Tulsa getting spanked at Diamond Lil’s. Time to drop his bombshell. “The Metrotone boys hit town this afternoon. I’m in charge.”

“Newsreels!” Floyd exclaimed.

“There’s two stories I can tell,” Doyle continued. “One’s about wee Timmy Beeford, never dead, but very injured, thanks to you. We’ll shoot him at the train station in a wheelchair pushed by his sainted aunt and uncle, heading back to Kansas and life in a new home paid for by the Hearst chain of family newspapers.” He paused. “Or I can tell the tale of a Miracle Maid sent by God to heal the sick. Praise the Lord and jiggle the cash box.”

Floyd took a deep breath. “How much do you want?”

“Ten percent of next year’s take.”

“Ten?” Floyd staggered. “Five!”

“Suck a turd,” Doyle sneered, and hopped the fence.

“All right! Ten!” Floyd called after.

“Fifteen! That’s ten, plus five for the insult. Wire the money every six months to a numbered account. Strictly on the Q.T. Understood?”

Floyd nodded.

“I’ll be back with the crew at three.”

“Okey-doke.”

They shook hands.

“You’re a smart man,” Doyle said. “Stay smart, my stories’ll make you rich. Screw me, I’ll nail your nuts to a tree.”