The Jewelry Case Page 9

  "Did she come to the senior center often?" she asked, trying to picture Esther playing chess or bingo.

  Walter shook his white head. "Nope. She didn't have time to hang out with 'old' folks. I don't think she thought of herself as a senior citizen. If she dropped by, it was to serve lunch, organize activities, or try to get everyone to buy tickets to that play she put on every year. Most of us would go, partly to support her, and partly because it was usually a hella lotta fun."

  Hella? Paisley blinked at the odd phrase, then remembered Jonathan had used it once or twice. It was a Northern California regionalism.

  "The kids always seemed to get a kick out of it, too," Hugo pitched in, pushing his hat back to reveal a high pink forehead. "Not a lot to do, in a town like this, as you can imagine. It kept 'em out of trouble. She kept the plays going until her first stroke a year and a half ago. That's when she went to live at the senior home, up on route 70."

  Paisley had forgotten that Esther had ended her days in a full-care facility. The thought dampened her mood, which had risen during her conversation with the two men.

  "Don't worry, it's a nice place, as far as those kind of facilities go, and it wasn't as if she didn't have friends up there." Walter spoke reassuringly, as if he sensed her thoughts. He looked over at Hugo, scratching his ear. "Georgiana's been up at Sunny Acres for a couple of years now, too, hasn't she?"

  "Why, yes." Hugo nodded vigorously, his head bobbing up and down as if it were on a spring. "Talked to her just last Thursday. It was her birthday. Ninety-one years old and doesn't look a day over seventy! Still pretty as a peach."

  Walter swung his white head back in Paisley's direction. "Georgiana was a good friend of Esther's," he explained. "We've known each other since grammar school. If you have any questions about your husband's great-aunt, she's the one to ask."

  "I will," Paisley promised, and, remembering the time, got to her feet. "Sorry to run, but if I don't get going I'll miss rehearsal, and Shirley will bite my head off."

  "Come back and see us some time," Hugo said. "Maybe you'll have better luck next time."

  The men gallantly half-stood, legs creaking, and lifted their golf caps as she left. She waved good-bye, wishing she could have stayed longer. Their conversation promised to be more entertaining than watching an off-tune, incomplete rendition of The Pirates of Penzance. Consoling herself with the thought that Shirley owed her big-time, she reluctantly turned her steps toward River Bend High School.

  #

  New or old, all high schools smell alike, even when they have been recently abandoned by their students for summer vacation: sweaty locker rooms, greasy remnants of cafeteria food, industrial-strength cleaning solutions, dusty textbooks, and Axe cologne melded into one nostalgia-inducing odor. It had been five years since Paisley had set foot in a high school, but the scent and the ringing sound of her footsteps as she walked down the empty, recently waxed corridor brought back a mix of memories.

  Her love of opera at the Oklahoma high school from which she had graduated had not exactly branded her as "cool." Music and drama teachers had been predictably supportive, but not until she had started winning competitions at the conservatory had she gained confidence and pride in her soprano voice, so unexpectedly powerful pouring from her small frame.

  The school auditorium was easy to find: she merely followed the loud, high-pitched chatter that spilled out into the hall. A sign hand-scrawled in black sharpie on notebook paper had been taped to the door: "Stay Out - Rehearsal!!!!" Ignoring it, she took a deep breath and let herself in.

  A group of teenage girls in tank tops and denim shorts sat on the stage, all long hair and long limbs, swinging tanned legs while simultaneously chatting with each other and texting on their cell phones. Gangly boys sporting that year's fashion in bizarre haircuts clustered like ants around an oversized box of donuts. Raising the average age considerably was a tall, thin woman with a crepey throat and steel-gray hair who was playing arpeggios on a battered black piano in spite of the pandemonium around her. A few other adults ran around frantically, trying to create order from the chaos. One of them was Shirley.

  Paisley waved, and the red-haired bookseller gave her a distracted nod in return. A few moments later, she hustled up, panting. "Bad news. I just got a call from our music director. She's having contractions."

  It took a moment for Paisley to understand. "Oh, she's pregnant?"

  Shirley nodded, her normally cheerful face showing lines of stress. "The baby's not due for two months, but the doctor has ordered bed rest. I hate to ask this, but do you mind filling in for her for today? I mean, you have the right background, right?"

  Paisley shrank back. Watching as a detached observer was one thing. Actively participating was another. She opened her mouth to tell Shirley this, but all that came out was "Uh…."

  "Thanks, Paisley." Shirley shoved a sheaf of music into her arms. "We're doing a full-cast rehearsal of the Finale of Act I today. Normally I wouldn't dream of asking you to do this, but since it's an emergency.... You do know the songs, don't you?"

  "I've heard it, of course, but…."

  "I knew I could count on you." Shirley was gone, and a gaggle of teenagers began to drift toward Paisley, looking at her expectantly. She looked at them, feeling panicked. She hadn't been around so many high school students since … well, since high school.

  "I ... uh... hello, everybody."

  "So what do you want us to do?" A pretty blond wearing a ponytail drummed her fingernails on the edge of the stage while waiting for an answer. Paisley recognized her as the waitress from the café on Main Street, although she looked far different in shorts and a spaghetti-strapped tank top than she had in her striped uniform and frilly apron. The elderly piano player swiveled and waited, knobby fingers curved expectantly over the keyboard.

  "I guess we'll run through it once or twice. Here, pass out these scores." Paisley unloaded them on a nearby brunette and rubbed her sweaty palms on her jeans, trying not to look nervous. Jonathan had been the conductor, not her. But in a way, Shirley had been right: Paisley was no novice in this setting. Reminding herself of this, she raised her voice and put steel in it.

  "All right, everyone. Onto the stage." She would get back at Shirley later for putting her on the spot like this, Paisley decided. Fortunately she was familiar with the score, having starred in a production in Nebraska while studying at the conservatory. That was shortly before she had met Jonathan, she remembered with that old pang inside her chest.

  The cast straggled onto the stage, and Paisley quickly realized the pregnant musical director had not worked on blocking. Or if so, everyone had forgotten it. She spent the next ten minutes shuffling cast members around on the stage until the arrangement of characters worked smoothly. Then she realized the Pirate King was missing.

  Someone eventually found him in the lighting booth, reading a car magazine with his feet propped on the equipment and polishing off the box of donuts. The boy came and took his mark with bad grace, wiping powdered sugar from the corner of his sulky mouth. He lacked charm or stage presence, but at least he could hit the right notes most of the time--which was no doubt why Shirley had cast him as the Pirate King.

  At Paisley’s nod, the elderly piano player obligingly struck out the melody, and she winced as the students faltered through the "Oh Men of Dark and Dismal Fate." The lead actors, of course, were the best singers of the lot. The pretty blond with the ponytail had the part of Mabel. That girl had potential, Paisley thought, tapping her foot thoughtfully in tie to the music as the entire company launched into the next song. With some one-on-one time, she could pull a decent performance out of her.

  Except, of course, Paisley reminded herself firmly, she was only helping out today.

  Then, of course, there were the hopeless ones, the kids in the chorus who couldn't carry a tune in the proverbial hat. One couldn't kick them out, of course: for a production like this, as many warm bodies as possible were needed to fill the stag
e. Paisley admired Shirley for scraping together a respectable-sized cast from such a tiny town. The feat was nothing short of miraculous.

  As the rehearsal continued, she noted the students' strengths and weaknesses and thought, maybe, the worst singers could be used to comic effect. That tall gawky kid with the wispy beard and awkward gait, for example. He could be the head policeman....

  She spent the next few hours like a drill sergeant, running the performers through vocal exercises, making them repeat the trouble spots over and over, and separating them into sections to practice their parts together. Finally she brought them back together to try it again together. Her raspy voice was too weak to bark directions, but someone found her a microphone, and sipping frequently from a bottle of water, she managed to get through the day.

  Before she realized it, rehearsal was over.

  "'Bye, Mrs. P," one of the boys said, a cheerful redhead wearing a Stanford T-shirt, as he picked up his backpack and strolled toward the exit. "See you around, huh?"

  "Bye," she said automatically. "And please, call me Paisley."

  As the rest of the students began to trickle away, chatting in small groups, singing snatches of the song they had been rehearsing, and giggling, she found that she hoped the play would turn out well. Really, the actors only needed some tweaking: a suggestion here, a correction there... The potential was there. She felt like a master painter who, seeing a student's struggling efforts, couldn't resist picking up the paintbrush and correcting a crooked line on the canvas.

  Hopefully the pregnant musical director would be able to return soon. If not, Paisley prayed that Shirley would find someone skillful to fill the slot. After all their hard work, these kids deserved a chance to pull off a decent production. Heck, maybe she'd even attend opening night after all to cheer them on. It would be interesting to see if any of her ideas helped. That suggestion she'd made for the first scene, for instance, for the girls to come out single file, twirling their parasols....There were a couple of casting changes she'd thought of as well.

  Shirley reappeared, bearing an armload of costumes. "Sorry," she said, panting. "I swear, I wasn't planning on dragging you into this. I did hope that you might volunteer to give us a few pointers, but when Marcie didn't turn up, I panicked. I don't know a lick about music."

  "It's okay. I enjoyed it." The fact surprised Paisley. She took another swig from her water bottle and opened her mouth to tell Shirley about her casting ideas, but Shirley rushed on.

  "Gee, that's really good to hear, because Marcie just called back. She said the doctor wants her to stay in bed until the baby's born."

  Paisley stiffened, guessing what was coming next.

  Shirley's eyes were pleading behind her glasses. "Look, I know you're new in town and you don't have any obligation to help out. But you did a fantastic job today. The kids really seem to like you. Is there any way you can fill in tomorrow, too? Just until I can find someone else to take over. I swear, I'll do anything...."

  Paisley wanted to say "No." Instead, what came out was, "Um, I'll think about it. Can I give you a call later?"

  "Sure. You're the best." Shirley looked relieved. "No pressure, I'll understand if you say 'no.' Say, can I give you a lift home? I know you came on foot, and with that limp and all, it's the least I can do. No luck finding a car yet, huh?"

  Paisley thought about the scare she'd had crossing the field yesterday and her scraped knee throbbed again. She really didn't feel like walking home again, with night coming on. And Shirley was right, her limp was worse. She was supposed to be taking it easy.

  "Thanks," she said. "But I can't keep bumming rides off you every time I come to town. I haven't found anything on Craigslist. Have you heard anything about someone around here who might want to get rid of a car?"

  "You poor thing, I promised to help and I completely forgot! I'll ask around. I won't drop the ball this time, I give you my word.

  As Shirley drove Paisley home, they chatted about the play, the weather, and politics. Shirley was much more interested in the latter than Paisley, who didn't follow national news, and merely mumbled "uh huh, uh huh," to everything her companion said. When Paisley mentioned her ideas for the casting changes, however, Shirley listened with interest.

  "You're right about the Major General," she said thoughtfully. "The boy I put in the part doesn't look older than twelve, even in makeup, and he doesn't really want the part. But no one else can do the patter fast enough. Maybe....

  They discussed the casting problems further, until they arrived at the little white house sheltered under the big oak. Once again, Paisley was shocked at the surge of homecoming that leaped inside her chest, like an unleashed golden retriever lunging at its beloved master.

  Shirley waved as she opened the car door. "Thanks again, hon. Let me know what you decide, okay?"

  The evening light was dim, and silence settled around Paisley like a comforter as Shirley’s car disappeared, a far cry from the construction racket that had driven her away that morning. The quiet was so heavy that she could hear the cooing of birds in the oak tree overhead, the whisper of a breeze rustling through the long grass. She felt relaxed, calm, peaceful … even happy.

  As she set a foot on the first step of the porch, a tall figure peeled itself from the rocker and loomed over her. Paisley gasped and groped in her purse for her cell phone. Steve had warned her....

  Then the moon glinted off a familiar thatch of sandy hair and a pair of prominent ears.

  "Ian!" She practically shrieked her relief.

  "There you are." His voice sounded accusing. "What took you so long?"

  "Why are you still here?" she countered. "Aren't you finished for the day?"

  "I've been waiting for you to get home since five o'clock." He sounded like an outraged father waiting up for a teen-age daughter. "I didn't expect you to be out this late."

  She walked up the steps, not hiding her annoyance. She didn't owe him an explanation. Rather, it was up to him to explain why he hadn't gone home with the rest of the crew instead of lurking in the dark like a bandit.

  Then Paisley realized there was something different about him. It was in the tone of his voice, and in the air of excitement that hung about him like the subtle scent of his aftershave. Aftershave?

  "What is it?" she asked, pausing at the door with the key in her hand. "Did something happen? Is everything all right?"

  "I found something today when we took down the wall between the bathroom and the second bedroom."

  Her heart nearly flew through her chest as he thrust out a battered cardboard box, covered with a thick layer of dust and sealed with yellowed tape. "We found this between the framing," he said. "As you can see, somebody must have hidden it in there a long time ago. I thought you might be interested."

  "You haven't opened it?"

  "It's yours, isn't it? That's why I waited until you got home."

  Her fingers closed convulsively over the box. The story Jonathan had told her ... could it have been true after all? "But where…?" she began.

  "Upstairs. Come on, I'll show you."

  Still clutching the cardboard box, she followed him up to the smallest bedroom, the one with the sharply slanting ceiling and the view of the oak tree outside the window. His crew had started to pull down an interior wall to get to the mold, he explained. There, between the beams, the box had nestled for many years, hidden behind the plaster.

  "Interesting, huh?" he said. She could feel his warm breath on the nape of her neck as she bent to examine the opening in the wall. "Just like that TV show, If Walls Could Talk. Alix wanted to open it right away, but I said no, it belongs to you.” He added, “I wonder what's in it." The hint could not have been broader.

  She did not answer, however. Her nails left small dents in the sides of the box. If Jonathan's grandmother had been right ... if the story was real ... there would be no more money concerns. There would be freedom from bill collectors and from the necessity to take on a job she dreaded
. Funny how money could do that ... make all one's problems go away. She had never been more aware of the fact than in that moment.

  Ian was waiting, his light-gray eyes alert and curious. "Well?" he prodded. "Aren't you going to open it?"

  Not with you watching, she thought. She forced a weak smile, the best she could manage. "I'd rather do it alone, if you don't mind."

  A disappointed expression flitted across his features. He straightened, a complicated procedure reminding her of a camel standing up, all long legs and joints. "Oh. I see. Okay, fine."

  He's hurt, she thought. He waited to share his discovery with me, and now I've hurt his feelings. The realization made her feel guilty. But not guilty enough to let him stay and watch. The contents of the box were hers, and hers alone. She had no desire to share the discovery with anyone, especially a young architecture student whom she barely knew, and who had lied to her about his contracting business, or lack thereof.

  "I'm sorry," she said, removing one of her hands from the box long enough to touch his shoulder arm in an effort to appear reassuring. A smear of gray dust appeared on his white T-shirt. "Thank you for keeping it safe for me. I'll tell you what's inside tomorrow. I promise."

  "Sure," he said flatly. "Okay, gotta go. Hot date tonight." He nodded an abrupt good-bye and headed downstairs. She watched through the window as he strode toward his truck, his long form swallowed up quickly in the darkening shadows.

  Late for a hot date? That explained the aftershave, she thought, standing on the porch and watching the tail lights of his pickup fade into the distance. She wondered mildly who the girl was, and if he was going to stop at home long enough to change. Or maybe his girlfriend liked rumpled T-shirts and dirty jeans with the knees worn out. Maybe they were going to an evening monster truck rally, or something.