The Jewelry Case (16 page)

"Sure. I live off selling books, and my bookstore ain't exactly Amazon.com." Shirley grimaced. "Besides, you'll be teaching out of your house, so you won't have overhead. If I remember, there's a pretty decent Steinway in that living room. You probably need some source of income, unless Jonathan left you independently wealthy. He didn't? The louse." She paused with what was, for Shirley, a moment of delicacy. "I haven't asked your plans before, hon, because it's none of my business...."

Paisley managed a wan smile.

"...But what else were you planning to do if your voice doesn't come back?"

Paisley tried not to wince at the thought. "I thought I might have to go back to the conservatory where I trained in Omaha," she admitted. "A friend has been encouraging me to take a teaching position there."

Shirley saw the expression on her friend's face. "Or you can go into business for yourself here," she said gently. "At least think about it."

#

At the end of rehearsal, Shirley came over, pulling the strap of a colorful cloth patchwork handbag over her plump shoulder that looked like a bargain she had snagged at an arts and crafts fair, and surveyed Paisley sympathetically. "Hey, want a ride home? You look pretty beat."

Paisley wearily opened her eyes, which she had been resting. "Thanks, but I don't want to keep taking advantage of you just because I still haven't found a car."

"Geez, I'm the one who's been taking advantage of
you
! You came to River Bend to recuperate, and here I am working you like a draft horse. Hey, I forgot to tell you, I did think of someone who might be able to sell you a car cheap. You'll never guess who it is: that young guy who's working on your house."

Paisley looked blank. "Ian McMurtry?"

"Yeah, him. He's been storing an old VW bug in his garage for years, but I'd forgotten all about it. I'm not sure it still runs, but you should ask him about it."

"Thanks, I will." Paisley wondered why Ian hadn't brought it up himself. But then, she remembered that she'd never mentioned to him that she was looking for a car. Somehow, with all the other things they had talked about, the subject had never come up. Maybe he thought she walked everywhere by choice. Or maybe he was just oblivious.

As the two women walked outside, Shirley eyed Paisley thoughtfully. "That little Volkswagen will be quite a comedown for someone who's used to private jets and limos. Punch me if I'm being too personal, but why is someone like you looking for a used car, anyway? Why not pick out something nice, like that pretty Audi that belongs to your neighbor, Steve Lopez?"

"Jonathan and I hardly lived on the level of private jets and Ferraris." Paisley rolled her eyes. "I don't know where people get this idea that all musicians are wealthy and famous. I wish it were true."

"Oh yeah?" Shirley sounded skeptical. "That's interesting, because I have a copy of
Time
magazine with Jonathan's picture on the cover. And those look like gold cuff links he was wearing."

"Jonathan was successful as far as conductors go," Paisley admitted. She remembered that magazine cover. Jonathan had been proud of it, even framed a copy. "But few people outside the opera world would recognize me. Besides," she added dryly, "fame and money are not the same thing."

"Uh huh." Shirley did not look convinced. She turned on the engine of her battered Volvo and pulled into the road.

"Really, I'm not a diva," Paisley said after they had driven in silence for a while. For some reason, it was important to her that Shirley realize this. She considered the woman a friend, and she didn't have many of those, not close ones, anyway. Her itinerant lifestyle hadn't allowed for it. "I don't have expensive tastes. And I
like
this town. I didn't expect to, really, at first, but it's growing on me. The people are friendly, and it's so ... so ... peaceful."

"So boring, you mean," Shirley snorted. But she looked pleased. River Bend was, after all, her home. When Paisley asked if she could drop her off at the local Starbucks, the red-haired shopkeeper nodded, and pulled up to the curb.

"Good luck getting that Kevin kid to join the play," she called as Paisley got out. "I hope he's as good a singer as Chloe claims. And hey
,
if you ever get bored, call me. We can go shopping or something, huh?"

Paisley waved before pushing open the glass door of the coffee shop. Her heart beat a little faster, with hope and a bit of anxiety. This could be an answer to the play's problems, or it could be a waste of her time. She had no idea what to expect.

Chapter Seven

A rush of loud noise and the overwhelming aroma of coffee assaulted her senses. In the back of the store, a stool had been set up behind a microphone, creating a makeshift stage. The rest of the small restaurant surged with young men and women sipping lattes and frappucinos and chatting loudly.

Paisley squeezed through, feeling like a dowager next to the fresh-faced sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds. Several of them recognized her and greeted her enthusiastically. She smiled and returned their waves.

She sat through three or four acts of varying quality, applauding politely, but Kevin did not appear. Just as she began to edge toward the door, however, a commotion started, and she turned her head to see a familiar thatch of dark hair and thin, slouching shoulders moving through the crowd. Kevin threaded his way to the stool, adjusted his guitar, and, when the audience settled down, strummed a few tentative notes. Then he raised his head and launched into a popular song by some alternative band she had heard a few times on the radio, but whose name she could not identify.

His voice was unusually rich and deep coming from such a thin frame, and his slightly husky rasp suited the tone of the song. She found herself nodding and tapping her feet along with the rest of the crowd. Chloe was right. The kid could sing.

When Kevin finished, however, she didn't go up to congratulate him. The place was too crowded, and besides, she didn't want to compete with the horde of teenage girls shoving ahead of her. Nevertheless, as she slipped out of the coffee shop, she felt pleased. She had found her Pirate King.

Now she just had to work on recruiting the Major General.

#

Paisley stopped by the town's only realty office, a tiny storefront a few doors down from the
Chapter Two
bookstore. Through plate-glass windows plastered with snapshots of local homes for sale, she saw Ray leaning against a glass-and-metal desk, holding his heavy ceramic coffee mug in his big hand and chatting animatedly with a co-worker. As the door chime jangled, he looked up. His thick eyebrows shot up.

"Mrs. Perleman! So you've finally decided to put the house up for sale?" He straightened his tie in the jerky gesture she remembered from the last time they had met before coming forward to pump her hand. With his best professional bearing, he escorted her to a metal desk which was piled high with flyers and documents.

A few framed photographs were arranged on the wall behind him: one of a large dog, some muscular tan-and-brown breed with heavy jowls, and another of a younger, slimmer Ray wearing desert camouflage and brandishing a rifle in the midst of several other soldiers. A memento from his time in Afghanistan, no doubt.

"Your dog?" she asked, nodding at the first picture.

A shadow crossed his features. "Buzz died a couple of years ago. I'd replace him, but I haven't been able to find just the right one."

"I've heard how it is with a pet," she said, thinking about Esther's cat, which she still hadn't seen close-up. Cats were supposed to be unsentimental, but maybe the gray ball of fluff was so elusive because it missed its old owner. "As for your question about the house, no, I'm still not ready. I came to talk to you about something else."

"Oh?" He gestured her to a seat. Setting his mug carelessly on top of a stack of FOR SALE flyers, he steepled his large fingers and gave her his full attention. "Well, ma'am, what can I help you with?"

"It's about the play I'm helping out with," she confessed. "I'm sure you've heard of it, the posters are all over town. We need
you.
"

He leaned back in his seat, chuckling as he shook his head. "So that's it. No thanks, I already bought a half-page in the printed programs."

"I'm not here to sell ads," she corrected him. "We need someone to play the role of the Major General. You'd be perfect."

He sat still, as if he hadn't heard her. Then, carefully he set the pencil down and positioned it on his desk, before rolling back his chair a few inches. "Let me get this straight. You actually want me to perform in
The Pirates of Penzance
? As an actor?"

"I heard you sing," she reminded him. "Just a snatch, but it was enough. Besides, the part is comedic, so you don't need professional training."

He folded his arms across his barrel chest. "Absolutely not."

She had expected this. "Just think what it could do for your business." She gestured around the cramped office. "The publicity you'd get would be much greater than an ad in the back of the program. The local newspaper will provide coverage." Surely there was a local paper? But of course there was. There always was in towns like this, even if most of the broadsheet's content consisted of classified ads or public notices. "I've been working with the crew every day during rehearsals, and trust me, it is going to be a production you'll be proud to be in."

At that, he sat up straighter, she noted with satisfaction, and his stubborn look turned thoughtful. The blond woman was busy talking with a client on a telephone, and they had a moment of privacy.

"And I bet Shirley would give you that half-page ad for free," Paisley added impulsively. She would have to tell Shirley about that incentive later. She wasn't sure what her friend's reaction would be, the budget for the community theater being as tight as it was.

"Hmmm." It was a rumble from his chest. Not an answer, but a long way from "absolutely not."

"Call Shirley and let her know," she said, rising, and let herself out the door. As a performer, she knew how to make an effective exit. The little bell jingled like a good-luck charm, above the sound of the blond woman's chatter on the telephone.

#

One more task remained. On her way home, she called Steve to ask how she could get in touch with Kevin.

"He's not here. Kevin usually doesn't come home until six o'clock for dinner." Steve's voice sounded concerned. "Why do you ask? Is he in some sort of trouble?"

She was surprised by Steve's assumption that something was wrong. "No, not at all. I have something to ask him, that's all. A favor, you could say. Do you have any idea where I might find him?"

"No, but I'll give you his cell phone number. You know how teenagers are. Like feral cats. Always wandering around, impossible to tie down."

"Except at six o'clock, for dinner," she said, displeased by the note of criticism in Steve's voice. Kevin seemed like a nice kid in spite of his semi-goth attire and mercurial temperament.

Steve chuckled. "Touch
é
. Speaking of dinner, don't forget you promised to come over for homemade enchiladas some time. Are you free next Tuesday?"

With everything else going on, she had forgotten his invitation. She made up for it by putting extra enthusiasm in her voice. "Tuesday's fine. Dinner at six o'clock, I presume?"

He laughed again, sounding genuinely amused. "Why not?"

After thanking Steve, she dialed Kevin's cell phone and, when he didn't answer, left a brief voicemail. No point telling Kevin the object of her call. She didn't want to scare him off until she had a chance to try to sell him on the idea of being one of the stars in the play. He was skittish enough already.

Last, she turned to a task she had been putting off. The day's mail had brought a rash of more bills, forwarded, of course, by Barry. So far, she had done her best not to worry about finances, but now she had no choice but to confront them.

She spent the evening going over everything until her head ached. It was a good thing Ian had agreed to let her pay in installments, she thought. And of course, the singing lessons would help, once she got her fledgling music school off the ground.

Then she remembered that she had not yet followed up on her suspicion that Esther might have some funds in a local bank account. It was unlikely, almost as unlikely as finding Ruth Wegiel's legendary jewels. But it was certainly worth checking out.

*

"Why, yes, there is a checking account," the teller said, after checking Paisley's identification. "But you'll see it's practically empty. Still, we've been waiting for you to contact us. Just a moment, please." He left and returned shortly with a small key, which he handed to her. "There's this too, of course."

She looked at it blankly.

"For the safety deposit box," he explained. "Our records state that you inherited it when the previous owner passed away. Weren't you notified about it along with the bank account?"