Boo Who (13 page)

“Okay, just asking. I thought that might be a good solution to my problem.”

“What problem is that?”

“Oh yeah, right. The problem. You work by the hour, not the word count, eh? Anyway, I’ve got to lose weight. Four dress sizes. By Valentine’s Day.”

Dr. Hass remembered the new person he’d decided to become. In the old days, he would’ve laughed and made a wisecrack about the middle of the earth freezing over. But that was not who he was now. And surprisingly, without making that kind of wisecrack, he was really having a hard time coming up with anything else to say.

“Doctor?”

“Yes, um, sorry. Well … how much weight have you lost so far?”

“I’ve gained five pounds.”

“I see.” He decided he’d better get out a pad and take some notes. “Well, what kind of diet have you tried?”

“Um, I’m not sure what it’s called, but it’s where you try not to eat as much as you did before. I think it’s low carb, medium protein, a little fat. Or is it low protein, high carb, and medium fat? I’m sure it’s got some fancy name, but I can’t think of it.”

“Okay. Let me ask you this. Why do you want to lose the weight? Are you unhappy about how you look?”

“Heavens no! I’m a big-boned woman, and I always have been. Melb
Cornforth wouldn’t look right in a size two pair of jeans. I’m voluptuous, and that’s how God created me to be. Nobody is more secure about who they are than Melb Cornforth!”

“Then why do you want to lose weight?”

“Well, I found this fancy little wedding dress on sale, and in my haste to buy it, I didn’t—what’s the word?—acknowledge it was four sizes too small.”

“Can’t you return it?”

“It was on clearance. I got a good deal on it though.” She smiled at that thought. “So anyway, what I’m realizing is that this is all in the head.” She tapped her cheekbone. “And that’s why I believe you’re the perfect man for the job. Dieting isn’t about eating right! It’s about thinking right!”

Dr. Hass nodded, fairly impressed with her catchy phrases and smooth clichés. But concern grew inside him as he realized that he might not be able to help this woman. Yet he also knew there wasn’t too much he couldn’t sell, especially to a woman willing to listen.

“What’s your favorite food, Melb?”

“Oh, that’s easy. Pimentos.”

“Pimentos?”

“Yes, I’ll eat them on anything, which is my second-favorite food.”

“What is that?”

“Anything.”

“Okay … well, Melb, it seems to me that you are a very driven woman. What do you do for fun? What’s your hobby?”

Melb shrugged. “I guess reading.”

“Reading. Okay, Melb, it’s time for you to find yourself a new hobby!”

“A new hobby?” The woman’s eyes grew wide as if he’d announced she should try out for the swim team.

“Certainly. Right now your fixation is on food. Or rather, food you can’t or shouldn’t have. You need a new fixation.” In the short time he had known Melb Cornforth, he had assessed that she was a woman easily fixated.

“A hobby …” He could tell by the way her eyes warmed that this idea was growing on her. “Why didn’t I think of that? A hobby! Of course!” She looked at Dr. Hass. “What should I do?”

“Anything that you’ve never done before. Painting. Knitting. Writing. Jogging. Bird watching.”

“Bird watching!” she shouted. Dr. Hass grabbed his heart, which had frozen in time momentarily but luckily started beating again. “That’s perfect! I love birds! I have two of them. And there’s been this old owl outside the house the past few nights. I’ve never seen an owl around these parts, to tell you the truth. And this bird just sits up there and says whoo whoo’ over and over and over again. Why not pull out some binoculars and watch him?”

“Yeah … um … that sounds good.”

“Thank you, Dr. Hass! You’ve been so helpful! Definitely worth the money.”

“Oh, well …”

“No, really. It’s great to finally find someone who knows what he’s talking about.” She stood and shook his hand heartily. “You’re a godsend.”

Dr. Hass smiled meekly as he escorted Melb out the front door of his home. She waved as she walked off, a cheerful grin easy to spot even at a distance. He just hoped he’d helped the poor woman. And that he never had to see her again. He had a lot of work to do, but it did not include helping the pimento-ly challenged.

CHAPTER 12

T
HOUGH THE LONGTIME MAYOR
of Skary, Indiana, sat at his desk in Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt in the middle of January, Martin Blarty tried not to let that distract him from the task at hand, which was figuring out, one, the history of Skary, Indiana. And two, where that history could be. Why would anybody steal Skary’s history? Certainly he could talk to residents, see what they knew of their family history. But how accurate that would be, he didn’t know. And he had to admit, his drive to uncover the town’s origin was only intensified by his suspicion that someone was trying to hide Skary’s history.

Admittedly, his first suspect was Mayor Wullisworth. If that man was capable of shorts in January, he was capable of anything.

“Martin!” the mayor called. Martin removed himself from the storage room where he’d been rummaging around for clues and went to the mayor’s office.

“Yes sir?”

“Listen, I was thinking,” the mayor said authoritatively, “we need some pep around this town. It’s looking very bleak. Don’t you think we need to start a city beautification program? Get some wildflowers growing. Have a nice landscape design somewhere in the town, maybe the city hall. Perhaps a fountain. You know, perk things up a little. My stars, by the looks of things around here, you’d think it was the dead of winter.”

Martin didn’t know what to say, so he stood there.

The mayor glanced up at him after several seconds of silence. “Don’t we have a budget for that sort of thing?”

“Um …” Martins words failed him. Not only did they not have a budget for that sort of thing, but they didn’t have a budget, period. The town was going broke, and by the numbers he’d crunched last night, it looked as though salaries would have to be the next thing to go.

“For crying out loud, Martin, it doesn’t have to look like the Rose Bowl parade. Just a few flowers for some color. How expensive can flowers be? See to it, will you?”

“Sure. Of course.” He backed out of the mayor’s office, his stomach in knots. Besides the budget crisis, there was also that tiny problem of the mayor going insane. Martin Blarty had to find this little town’s purpose and find it quick.

He decided he needed to get some air, but just as he opened the front door to the building, he heard a bloodcurdling scream coming from outside. He ran out, his limbs trembling with fear. He’d never heard a scream like that. He scanned the area but saw nothing. The town was quiet now. Small flurries of snowflakes fell softly to the ground. He stood there for several more minutes, but there was only silence.

“Did you hear that?” Ainsley said, excusing herself from the makeup chair.

“What?” Alfred asked, checking his watch. Maude the Makeup Queen worked by the hour, and he was paying her a bunch of money to come make Ainsley Parker look delicate, winsome, strong, and smart. It amazed him what the right color blush could do.

Ainsley was at the front door. “That scream. Someone screamed.”

Alfred shrugged. After living in New York for so many years, he guessed he had tuned out screaming a long time ago. “Ainsley, dear, let’s get back to the task at hand.”

Ainsley shut the front door, her brow furrowed. “I hope everyone’s okay.”

“Darling, you’ve only got one eye done, and I don’t think you want to look like Boy George,” Maude snapped.

“Who is Boy George?” Ainsley asked Alfred as she climbed back into the chair.

“Nobody you need to know about. Now listen, as soon as Maude is done here, were just going to take a few pictures of you in your kitchen, doing various things. Just sort of your natural everyday life.”

“For the portfolio, right?”

“Right. We want to put together a portfolio that will show your talent, your look, your ‘brand.’”

“Brand of what? It depends on what I’m cooking.”

“No, sweetheart.
Your
brand. It’s how we’re going to define you. You see, Martha already has a brand. We’ve got to make your brand similar enough that you appeal to Martha’s followers, yet different enough so that you become your own product. Do you see?”

“I think so.”

“I’m done,” Maude announced, snapping her makeup case closed. She eyed Ainsley for a little bit. “So you’re Wolfe Boone’s lady, huh?”

Ainsley nodded. “Fiancée.”

“I did Wolfe’s makeup for a photo shoot for
Vanity Fair
years ago. Nice guy. You’re lucky.”

“Thanks.”

Maude turned to Alfred. “You want me to stick around for touch-ups, or am I outta here?”

“Darling, at your rates, I’m going to have to send you packing. But good job with the makeup. She’ll glow in the camera.”

Maude winked. “But not shine. See ya.”

Ainsley looked at Alfred. “We could’ve asked my friend Marlee to come over, you know. She does Mary Kay. It’s not the way I’d wear makeup, but everyone else seems to like it.”

Alfred drew her hands into his. “My sweet Ainsley. This is the big time now. You have to start thinking like that. Sure, we’re just starting out. But if you don’t think you’re worthy of having your makeup done for a photo shoot, then the world may not think you’re worthy of showing them how to bake manicotti.”

“I have the best recipe this side of Lake Michigan.”

He grinned. “Good girl. Now let’s get in the kitchen and see what we’ve got. Philippe? Philippe?”

The photographer, a wisp of a guy in a black turdeneck and tortoise-shell eyeglasses, capered around the corner. “Are we ready?” he said in a French accent with a touch of Mississippi. Without the accent and trendy glasses, Philippe could have just as easily been Phil from down south.

“Ainsley, meet Philippe. He is one of the best photographers in New York.”

“Did you ever take Wolfe’s picture?” she asked, shaking his hand.

“I never had the pleasure. But my friend, Eric Boneham, have you heard of him?” She shook her head. “He is the one who took the portrait of Wolfe that’s now on all the back covers of his books.”

“Oh. Well, pleasure to meet you.”

“All right, Ainsley, let’s step around here, into your kitchen. Philippe, do you have all the lights set?”

“Heavenly,” Philippe said, kissing his fingers and throwing them into the air.

“Okay, now, Ainsley, what I want you to do is take that pie on the counter, put it over here, so the camera can see you, and then we’re going to get a shot of you cutting the pie.”

“Okay.” She took the pie, put it on the counter facing the camera, and cut the crust.

“No!”

Ainsley gasped, looking up at Alfred.

“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to shout. Don’t really cut the pie. Just
pretend
to cut the pie. I need you to look up at the camera, give that world-famous smile of yours, and pretend to cut.”

“One should never cut something while looking elsewhere,” she said.

“Martha can.”

Determination sparked in her bright eyes. “Well, I guess since I’m not really cutting.” She looked into the camera, smiled, and pointed the large knife to the center of the pie.

“Perfect!” Alfred clapped.

But Philippe said, “I’m not sure about the hair. Tied back like that?”

“Maude spent twenty minutes putting it in a sophisticated bun,” Alfred said.

“I know, but it makes her look rigid. Don’t we want more of an enchanting allure? The sprite of the kitchen, no?”

Alfred thought about this and then agreed. “Ainsley, let’s take your hair down.” They loosened a few pins, and her hair fell around her shoulders.

“Very nice,” Philippe said with a smile.

Alfred sighed. “But the apron. It’s hideous!”

“It was my Aunt Gert’s,” she said, looking down at it. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Besides the fact it leapt out of 1965? Do you have anything else?”

She frowned. “A plain white one I got a few Christmases ago.”

Let’s try it.

She removed the first apron and put on the second one. But it was much too big, hanging off her like a bed sheet. “No. Won’t work. Too big. It doesn’t show off your figure.”