Runny03 - Loose Lips (2 page)

“One and the same.”

“Julia, I love that hat.”

“So do I, and you have more money than I do. Come on, Louise, I’ve got to have something to wear to church on Easter.”

“I’m not made of money, Juts. Pearlie and I manage better than you and Chessy do.”

“Boy, you really don’t want to get off that roof, do you?”

“I do. I’m sorry. You know I speak my mind.”

“That’s what you call it. I call it sitting in judgment.” Julia ran her fingers through her honey-brown curls and turned again to leave.

“All right!”

She stopped. “The hat, Louise—the minute you get off that ladder.”

“Yes.”

Juts heaved the ladder to its feet; it wobbled for a moment, then she pushed it toward the roof, where it stopped with a wooden
thud.
“I’ll hold it.”

Louise turned over, her hands spread out on the roof. She slid a little but stopped her descent by turning her feet on their sides. She reached over with her foot, found the first rung of the ladder. Carefully, she backed down. Once down she entered the house without a word to her sister. She slammed the back kitchen door so hard that all the ceramic figurines with the nipples painted in red nail polish shuddered in the living room. It was Pearlie—her husband, Paul—who did the painting. Louise said he was artistic. Julia declared with a straight face that most men have a deep craving to paint the nipples on statuary and she left it at that. To Chessy she referred to her sister’s home as the Titty Palace or T.P.

Juts opened the door, closing it behind her as her sister tromped back into the room. She thrust a big navy-blue hatbox, with
Bear’s
in graceful script across the top, into Juts’s hands. “Here, you damned chiseler.”

Wisely deciding not to argue about being called a chiseler, Juts carried the hatbox by the crossed heavy ribbon on top. “Come on, let’s get a chocolate frappé. On me.”

Louise thought about it a minute, realized she was very thirsty, and murmured, “All right.”

As they walked toward Runnymede Square, Juts again asked, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter. I was perched on that roof too long. I even thought about jumping off.”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t. You would have ruined your forsythias.” Not that Juts believed her. She knew something was nibbling away at her sister.

“Ruined my shoes, too.”

“Could have broken your ankle.”

“Or my neck—why, I could have been killed.”

“Nah.” Juts smiled. “Only the good die young.”

“You’re awful.”

“No, I’m Julia.”

“You’re my awful Julia.” Louise giggled as she pushed open the door of Cadwalder’s drugstore.

“You girls just missed your mother,” Vaughn, the eighteen-year-old son of the owner, called from behind the fountain. “She left with Miss Chalfonte not fifteen minutes ago.”

“On foot or in the Packard?” Louise inquired.

“The Packard.” A folded towel was draped over one arm. He leaned over the marble countertop at the fountain. “What’ll it be?”

“Lime sherbet and a new life.”

“Mrs. Smith, you’re a caution.” He laughed, using an old expression from the 1880s.

“That’s not what I call her.” Louise cast a baleful eye at the hatbox secure under the counter stool.

“Okay, no lime sherbet until summer, I know. I want a giant chocolate frappé and a hot tea on the side.”

“And I want a strawberry frappé with coffee on the side.”

“Okeydokey.” Vaughn lifted the square black covers and
began flipping ice cream into heavy ribbed glasses. “Isn’t this spring something?”

“The best,” both women agreed.

“Hard to believe there’s a war on.”

“It won’t last long,” Louise airily predicted.

“And what makes you think that?” Juts’s stomach growled.

“Because England never loses a war unless it’s to us.”

“I hope you’re right—” Vaughn’s voice trailed off as he calmly poured coffee. “We never really finished the Great War, you know?”

Louise blinked. She didn’t know, and at that moment she wanted her strawberry frappé, not a reflection on recent history from a kid.

“Vaughn, remind me how old you are,” Louise asked.

“Eighteen.”

“You’re not thinking of running away to Canada and enlisting, are you?” she pressed.

He blushed, making his freckles disappear. “Uh, gee, Mrs. Trumbull.”

“I thought so.” Louise reached for her coffee before he put it on the counter. “Wait and see. Maybe we can stay out of this one.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What amazes me about war is a bunch of old men start them. Right?” Juts’s small audience nodded so she continued. “Then young men fight, get wounded or worse, and the old farts sit back and reap the reward. Makes me sick. Thanks.” Vaughn slid her the tea over the counter.

“If you were a man, would you enlist?” Louise asked Juts.

“Sure, to get away from you.”

That made Vaughn blush again because he wanted to laugh but didn’t want to offend Louise. Everyone in Runnymede knew of her temper; Juts’s, too, for that matter.

“Ha, ha,” Louise dryly said and eagerly dug into her creamy frappé.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you, Louise—you haven’t been yourself lately.” Juts smiled. “And it’s a big improvement.”

Vaughn burst out laughing. Louise jammed her spoon into her frappé, brought out a luscious bit of ice cream with strawberry syrup, and flipped it onto her sister’s surprised face.

Julia answered in kind. Vaughn involuntarily took a step back and pleaded, “Ladies.”

“There’s only one lady here,” Louise said grandly.

“Yeah, and she’s forty years old.”

L
ight shone through the Limoges china. It was so thin that it was translucent. At the rim of each piece a thin red line surrounded by a thin gold band circled the cup, saucer, or plate to intertwine in a
C
for
Chalfonte.

Celeste Chalfonte, beautiful, willful, and in her middle sixties, unfolded the linen napkin on her lap. Across from her, Ramelle Chalfonte—her lover of thirty-nine years and the wife of Celeste’s brother, Curtis—did the same.

The aroma of eggs, sunny-side up, sizzling bacon, and fresh biscuits filled the breakfast room on the east side of the house.

“Do you have the
Clarion?”
Celeste asked for the South Runnymede paper.

“No,” Ramelle answered.

“What about the
Trumpet?”
She asked for the Yankee Runnymede paper.

Ramelle shook her head. “No.”

Celeste rang a small silver bell. Cora Hunsenmeir, in her late fifties, appeared.

“Your Highness.”

“One of those days, is it?” Celeste noted. “Where’s the paper?”

Cora left without a word and reappeared to place the folded
Clarion
by Celeste’s left hand.

Snapping open the front page, Celeste’s gaze was drawn to a photograph of two familiar faces. Harper Wheeler, the sheriff of South Runnymede, stood between Cora’s two daughters.

“Oh, dear.” Celeste inhaled, then showed the evidence to Ramelle. She turned her light eyes up to Cora. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Cora shrugged. “Well—you’d find out soon enough.”

“Are they in jail?” Ramelle sweetly inquired as she took the paper from Celeste.

“Harper Wheeler wouldn’t keep them there. He said no jail is big enough for those two.” Cora sighed. “Harmon Nordness wouldn’t let him put one in the North Runnymede jail, either.”

Celeste, standing now to read over Ramelle’s shoulder, chuckled. “Sorry.” She caught herself.

“Go right ahead,” Cora said.

Soon both Celeste and Ramelle were laughing.

Ramelle read Popeye Huffstetler’s byline out loud: “…‘The source of disagreement, according to Vaughn Cadwalder, was over why Mrs. Chester Smith would enlist in the Army. Mrs. Paul Trumbull took offense when Mrs. Smith, her sister, declared she would enlist just to get away from her. Both ladies are free on bail posted by their respective husbands. Sheriff Harper Wheeler lectured Mr. Smith and Mr. Trumbull on controlling their wives.
Mr. Smith was quoted as saying, “Not even Adolf Hitler could control Juts.” Mr. Flavius Cadwalder, owner of Cadwalder’s drugstore, has refused to press charges since both Mr. Smith and Mr. Trumbull have promised to pay in full for damages, which are estimated at three hundred and ninety-eight dollars.’” Ramelle drew in her breath. “Three hundred and ninety-eight dollars! My God, Cora, what did they do?”

“That depends on who is telling the story.” The heavyset woman shrugged her shoulders.

“What do you think?” Celeste asked her friend and servant of many decades as she sat back down. She was too hungry to continue reading over Ramelle’s shoulder.

“Louise was stuck on her roof—”

“What?” Ramelle interrupted.

“She was cleaning out a bird’s nest from the chimney. The ladder fell and Juts came along hours later. Except she wouldn’t put the ladder up until Louise gave her that beautiful Easter hat she bought at Bear’s.”

“You know, I always thought Julia had the makings of a great politician.” Celeste bit into a biscuit, light as a feather.

“One says ‘apples,’ the other says ‘bananas.’” Cora poured Ramelle fresh coffee. “Some of this fuss is because Mary and Maizie are like to drive their mother wild. What little patience Louise has is—” Cora waved her hand to indicate that patience flew away.

“It’s hard to imagine Louise as a mother,” Celeste said. “It’s even hard to imagine Louise as a wife. I keep seeing this little girl with long curls playing the piano in my parlor.” She tapped the back of the paper, which Ramelle eagerly read. “Of course, it’s hard to imagine you as a mother with a twenty-year-old daughter.”

“Yes.” Ramelle laughed. “But mine is a grown woman in California. Juts and Louise are overgrown children right here under our noses.”

“Well, Cora, how are the husbands going to raise three hundred and ninety-eight dollars?”

“I haven’t asked.”

“If I were you I wouldn’t inquire too closely.” Celeste felt the delicious bacon crunch between her teeth.

C
hessy Smith ran his fingers over the deep grain of cherry wood. Walter Falkenroth was paneling his extensive library with cherry. The
Clarion
had to be hauling in money hand over fist, because Walter’s new house was as big as an airplane hangar. Chessy took the leftover wood home to build two nightstands for Juts. Chester Smith owned the hardware store in town. To bring in extra money he would build cabinets, chairs, and tables in a workshop at the back of the store. This way he never wasted time. If it was a slow day in the store he’d still be productive.

Juts breezed into his workshop. Even though they would be fourteen years married in June, she always gave the twoey whistle, then knocked on the door. Partly this was out of respect but partly it was for safety’s sake. If her big, blond husband was bent over a band saw or a jigsaw she didn’t want to startle him. As it was, he was just checking the dimensions of his nightstand drawings.

“Come on in.”

She pushed open the door. “Honey, it’s dropped to forty-eight outside. You’d better fire up the stove.”

“Not going to be in here long. I’ll be home in a minute.”

She sat on a heavy oak bench. “Are you still mad at me?”

Julia Ellen’s merciless vitality could wear down an iron man. Her flagrant disregard for propriety had made her exciting when they first met. It still made her exciting, but there were moments when Chessy would have settled for a docile wife, one not given to smashing glassware at the drugstore fountain because she was furious at her sister. They had also smashed the huge mirror behind the marble-topped counter. He and Paul would be in hock for the rest of the decade.

“I don’t know where I’m going to get two hundred dollars.”

“One hundred and ninety-nine dollars,” she quickly corrected him.

He pressed his lips together. “Right.”

“She started it. I swear, ever since she’s turned forty she’s twitchy. That and the fact that Mary is getting carried a little fast by Extra Billy.” Julia referred to Mary’s boyfriend, a good-looking kid who believed rules were meant to be broken.