Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors (3 page)

“Tim, I'm Victoria White, Mr. Coan's secretary. Mr. Coan was expecting you much earlier in the day. I'm afraid he and Mrs. Coan have left for a weekend engagement in Charlotte, but you may see him first thing Monday morning. I hope that doesn't inconvenience you too much."

Tim frowned, checked his watch and shrugged his shoulders. “I don't have any particular plans at the moment. I meant to get here earlier, but I was delayed."

“Oh, I know. I'll bet you came in on Highway 13. They're always working on that road, patching this and patching that. I wish they'd just replace the thing and be done with it."

“Mrs. White, is there a motel in Dot?"

The prim and proper secretary suppressed a smile. “Oh my, no. We used to have a hotel, but that was years ago. You're going to have to go on down to Charlotte to find a motel, but it's only 30 miles or so."

“I'll be back bright and early Monday morning."

“Don't make it too early. Mr. Coan is not as young as he used to be. He usually gets here about 10:00."

“Thanks for the tip,” Tim grinned as he turned the handle on the door.

“Oh, wait Mr. Dollar. I almost forgot. Mr. Coan told me to go ahead and give you the keys.” Victoria White, now a bit flustered, rummaged through one of her desk drawers.

“Keys to what?” Tim asked as he accepted the proffered key ring.

“Why, to the house and hardware store, of course."

“I'm sorry, Mrs. White. I don't remember my uncle at all and know practically nothing about him. Mr. Coan's letter said I inherited my uncle's estate, but it didn't give me many particulars."

“I told Mr. Coan when I typed that letter he should be more specific. That man never listens to me. The hardware store is down the street about one hundred yards. To get to Mr. Harlow's farm you go back to 13, turn right and go three or four miles. Where the road bottoms out you'll see a farm pond on your right. As you go up the hill there's a graveled driveway that leads to the house. I don't know what kind of condition the house is in. Mr. Coan has been paying Bobby Elliott to look after the place, but Bobby isn't the brightest man you ever met. You might be able to spend the weekend in the house, though. Did you bring any clean sheets with you?"

“No ma'am,” Tim replied, “but we'll make out all right."

“Oh, is Mrs. Dollar with you? I thought you were divorced."

“Well,” Tim answered, “there's more than one Dollar in the bank."

As he descended the stairs, Tim thought that explaining Sandra was getting to be a problem.

“I sure as hell hope you didn't run the battery down playing the damned radio,” Tim said crossly as he slid into the drivers’ seat. He breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief when the motor sprang to life with the first turn of the starter. “The lawyer wasn't in. I'll have to come back Monday. It seems that I have inherited a house, or farm, or something, and a hardware store. It's supposed to be just down the street."

“I see it, over there on the left. Guess what?” Sandra said in a sarcastic voice. “Its named Dot Hardware."

“Let's go take a look."

Tim parked in front of the Dot Pharmacy, which was across the street from the Dot Hardware.

“Give me a couple of bucks,” Sandra said.

“What for?” Tim replied while reaching for his wallet.

“I'm beginning to hurt pretty bad. While I was with the Van Fans I learned that a double dose of Alka-Seltzer Plus is the world's greatest pain reliever."

“Sound's dangerous,” Tim replied, handing her a ten.

Sandra lurched unsteadily towards the pharmacy, her aching muscles preventing graceful movement, and Tim crossed the street to the hardware store. The third key he tried tripped the cylinder and he stepped inside. Except for a little dust, the place seemed fully stocked and ready to open for business. It took several minutes to find the light switches, which were not beside the door but rather behind a counter on the far right wall. After the florescent bulbs began to glow, Tim explored the aging aisles, wondering at the fully stocked shelves.

“I don't know what half of this stuff is,” he muttered. “It shouldn't be too hard to find a buyer, though."

“Tim, where are you?"

“In the back, Sandy."

“Feeling better?” Tim asked when Sandra joined him.

“The stuff works fast, Tim, but not that fast."

“What do you think?” he asked. “Want to buy a hardware store?"

“No thanks, but I sure could use some food. I haven't eaten anything in...” She let the sentence drop.

“Well, let's go try Mom's Diner."

“Dot's Diner,” Sandra corrected.

Tim glared at her. “If you want to be technical, I think it is The Dot Diner."

“Sorry, folks,” greeted a gray-haired, pint-sized bundle of feminine energy. “I was just getting ready to close."

“You close at six?” Tim asked incredulously.

“Not much business in downtown Dot after five.” She chuckled. “Not much going on after four if the truth be known."

“Is there another restaurant in Dot?” Sandra asked.

“Fraid not."

“I met your son at the service station. He highly recommended your restaurant,” Tim explained.

“He's my baby and a good ‘un if I do say so myself. You must be Pete Harlow's nephew. Heard you were coming. That Pete. He was something else again. I hate now I let him slip through my fingers. He kinda had the hots for me after his wife died. I figured he was too old for me. Look folks, I'm Dottie. No, they didn't name the town after me. I have some meatloaf I was gonna throw out, and probably some string beans and potatoes. If you'll settle for leftovers and not tell anybody how bad it was, it's on the house."

“That sounds great,” Sandra replied, her countenance brightening. “I'm starving."

“Honey, you don't look like you're starving, but you sure don't look good. I've seen horses rode too hard and put up wet that look better'n you do. You gonna be all right?"

“Yeah. I guess I have been rode hard and put up wet too many times, but all that's changing now. I'll be okay."

Tim did not believe anyone could eat the huge servings piled on their plates, but Sandra made quick work of her meal and helped him a bit with his own. Ten minutes after they began eating, Dottie Frank stopped at their booth and told them where to put the dirty dishes when they finished eating. She asked them to turn off the lights and lock the door on their way out, and she departed, carrying a brown paper sack full of the day's receipts.

When they were back out on the sidewalk, Tim rattled the door. “It's locked,” he muttered. “What kind of town is this where customers are left alone in a place of business?”

Sandra pulled on his sleeve and pointed to the sign above the door. It did, indeed, read “Dot's Diner."

Sandra looped her arm in Tim's and leaned heavily on him as they crossed the street to the Mustang.

“Sandy, I saw a doctor's office across the hall from Silas Coan's."

“I'll be okay, damn it. These socks don't give much protection against the hot pavement."

Tim looked at her feet and laughed.

“It's not funny, damn it."

“Yes it is. I promise we'll find you some shoes to wear tomorrow."

“I think the old guy in the pharmacy tried to make a pass at me,” she said. “He kept staring at me."

“Why not?” Tim replied. “You look like a tramp."

“I am a tramp. Remember?"

Tim thought about explaining that he was referring to the sweat suit, which didn't come close to fitting her, not her character, but he chose not to chance making things worse.

After turning the Mustang around and heading towards Highway 13, Sandra asked, “Where are we going now?"

“I want to try to find the farm. With daylight gone, it may be hard to do. The directions Mr. Coan's secretary gave me weren't all that clear."

Sandra leaned back in her seat. Gently she slid her left hand over Tim's right thigh and parked it just on the inside. She did not touch anything private, but to Tim it was a very intimate gesture. He remembered reading once that in biblical times the gesture of placing one's hand on the inner thigh sealed a bargain—an act denoting sincerity, fidelity and trust. It felt good.

“How are you feeling?"

“The Alka-Seltzer Plus is helping, but my muscles are still pretty sore."

“Keep your eyes peeled for a pond on the right side of the road."

Tim pulled over at the bottom of the third hill they encountered.

“It's too dark to see much, Tim. There could be a pond out there,” Sandra said, peering through the passenger side window.

“If there's anything that even looks like a path to the right, let me know,” Tim grumbled as he drove back onto the deserted Highway 13.

“It would help if you put some headlights on this old heap."

“I have headlights,” Tim snapped.

“Why don't you put some halogen lights in? Then we might be able to see where we're going."

“Because they wouldn't be original equipment,” Tim muttered, still smarting from the insult to his precious Mustang.

“Hold it. Back up,” Sandra shouted. “I think I saw something."

The Mustang's aging headlamps dimly illuminated two ruts, about the width of automobile tires apart with grass between, leading off the highway. Tim cut the wheels to the right and cautiously followed the ruts, driving very slowly.

Silence prevailed when the car's lights finally, faintly, illuminated the red brick structure. Minutes passed before Sandra quietly said, “Tim, it's beautiful."

Leaving the Mustang idling and headlights on Tim climbed the porch steps. He fumbled with the key ring and dropped it twice before finding the right key. He unlocked the front door and snapped on both the porch and entranceway lights.

Sandra went inside, but Tim paused to admire the full, wraparound front porch. It reminded him of his youth. Fondly he recalled rocking beside his dad in a porch swing and watching him smoke a Lucky Strike. He pictured his dad deftly placing the still burning butt between thumb and forefinger and flipping the finished cigarette into the front yard where it would continue to smolder. Finally, with a puff of smoke, it would extinguish itself.

“Tim, you've got to see this."

His reverie broken, Tim hurried back to the Mustang, turned off the lights and shut off the motor.

Sandra beckoned to him from the entranceway of his uncle's house. It was beautiful. There was no other way to describe it. Half of the entrance led to carpeted steps winding their way to the second floor. The other half ended at a perpendicular hallway. To both the left and right were double solid oak doors. They entered the doorway to the left and found a tastefully decorated living room. Its most impressive feature was an antique grandfather clock with pendulum swaying rhythmically. The ornate hands on the clock read 7:09.

Tim checked his watch. “The old clock has just about the right time,” Tim said to Sandra's back as she retraced her steps to the entranceway. Together they entered the doorway to the right. Sandra found the light switch this time.

Tim noticed Sandra massaging her left shoulder. He stood behind her and took over the task. Her back sagged against his chest.

“Tim, would you look at that gorgeous dining room suit, and check out that hutch. I'll bet the glassware in there is 100 years old."

They moved, almost in awe, through yet another set of double doors to the left and found themselves in a smaller room with built-in shelves fitted with glass doors, a sizable table and chairs, and a red checked tile floor.

“That door,” Tim said pointing to the left, “obviously leads to the hallway, so this swinging door must open to the kitchen."

When light bathed the kitchen, they whistled simultaneously. “Tim, all of the appliances, even the sink, are modern.” Without thinking, Sandra grasped Tim's hand. “Did you notice in the other rooms as well as the kitchen that everything is spotless—not a speck of dust anywhere?"

What he noticed was her hand squeezing his. It felt right.

Sandra pulled away from his grasp and ran her fingers over the cutting block table in the center of the room. She crossed the kitchen and peered out the back door. “There is a back porch,” she exclaimed, “and...” Turning back towards Tim, Sandra's hands flew to her mouth, her eyes reflecting horror.

Tim wheeled around as he heard a booming voice spit out, “You damned well better be Timothy Dollar or I'm gonna blow your white ass off the face of the earth.”

Tim found himself gaping at the biggest, meanest looking, ugliest black man he had ever seen. The monster, dressed in army fatigues complete with cap, stood with feet apart and M-1 rifle at the ready, just inside the kitchen door.

“I am...” Tim's voice squeaked. He stopped and tried again. “I am Tim Dollar. This is Sandy Dollar. Who the hell are you?"

“ID,” the intruder demanded.

Tim produced his billfold and extended it to the outstretched left hand of the monster.

With no discernable expression on his face the huge man said, “Guess I scared you. Sorry. Mr. Coan said you'd be here afternoon. He didn't say nothin’ about Mrs. Dollar either. Name's Bobby Elliott. Been Mr. Harlow's caretaker for ... for long time. Mr. Harlow lets me live in tenant house across 13. Seen your car. Thought I'd better check. Mr. Harlow died. Mr. Coan kept me on look after place. Said I'd have to move when you got here."

“Would you put the gun down please?"

“Sorry. Best friend in Nam. Only friend now."

“I need to sit down,” Sandra sighed.

“Yes ma'am,” Bobby said with a deadpan face. “Den's best for sittin'.” Bobby led the way back through the breakfast room into the hallway and entered the first door on the right.

Sandra gasped. Only in magazines had she ever seen a room so perfect—pine-paneled walls, big comfortable looking furniture, tables, shelves, cabinets, a huge mountain-rock fireplace, stereo speakers everywhere and a big screen color TV set. “Where do those double glass doors lead?” she asked as she eased into an oversized recliner.

“Back porch, patio, ma'am."

“Are you the one we thank for having the place spotless for our arrival?"

“Yes ma'am. Too early in fall for fire or I woulda built one. Did same for Mr. Harlow. Mr. Coan kept me on. Said I'd have to move when you got here."