Josh awoke Wednesday morning and pulled his fur trapper outfit from the closet. The coonskin cap still fit, as did the buckskin shirt. A year ago, Katie had claimed that the leggings made him look like an aging punk rocker in Spandex. This year, they seemed even tighter. But he seldom wore anything that didn’t acutely embarrass his teenager one way or another and decided the leggings would do.
Shortly before noon, he set off in costume for Old Fashioned River Days pageant rehearsal where, in addition to practicing for his role, he knew he’d find the chief of Winston’s police, J. P. Holt.
Most weeks of the year, a grown man dressed like Davey Crockett driving a Volvo down the streets of Winston would have attracted attention. But as he neared the pageant site at Riverfront Park, Josh passed a British redcoat on Harrison Street, a riverboat gambler at Fifth and Main and what seemed like several divisions of Civil War soldiers (Union and Rebel) lined up out the door of the Java Joynt. He recognized most of them as employees at the plant.
By the time Josh parked at the Sternwheeler, the grand home of a turn-of-the century bank president which had been converted to an inn, the trickle of costumed characters on their way to or from rehearsal for their respective segments of the Old Fashioned River Days pageant had swelled into an historically confused flood. Revolutionary War soldiers mingled with paddle wheel boat captains. Indians chatted up dance hall girls. Josh counted at least three versions of George Washington—General George Washington (as in Crossing the Delaware); President George Washington (as in Gilbert Stuart), and the young, entrepreneurial surveyor George Washington, the George Washington who actually had the most to do with the history of Winston.
He climbed the stairs to the pageant stage and scanned for Holt, searching without success until it dawned on him that he shouldn’t be looking for a police uniform or for the camouflage jacket and Cincinnati Red’s cap that the chief wore during his frequent visits to the shooting range. No, he remembered, Holt was a fur trapper, just like himself. In seconds, he had zeroed in on him. With his buck teeth and round, brown eyes made even bigger by his steel-frame glasses, Josh thought Holt looked like a fat beaver, especially wearing his furry cap.
Josh scrambled from the stage and pushed through the growing throng—townspeople involved, he deduced from their costumes, in the skit depicting the bloody battle between the Indian confederacy led by Chief Cornstalk and the colonists led by General Andrew Lewis. The skit was a long-time favorite for two reasons—its depiction of carnage (140 colonials killed, 300 Indians) and because its finale included a stirring tribute to America’s Manifest Destiny capped by a medley of “America, The Beautiful” and the National Anthem by the Winston High School Band.
He waved to Woody Conroy who played the role of General Lewis. Several of his deaf press operators from the News were made up in war paint. He signed a greeting to them. He always found it ironic that the pageant warriors did not include Jimmy Mayes, an actual Indian. Despite grousing from pageant officials, Mayes had consistently declined to participate and spent the festival period racking up overtime covering for colleagues who had pageant duty.
He spotted Furbee, reprising her role as pioneer wife abducted by Indians, holding hands with boyfriend Charles Angerson, whose job in finance at the plant made him the ideal choice to portray the founder of Winston’s first bank.
The bullhorn-toting pageant director took the stage accompanied by fife and drum music that began to surge from the stage’s speakers. Josh found Chief Holt among the crowd.
The chief was delighted to see him. “Hey, thanks for getting the shooting range picture in. I owe you.”
Josh took him by the elbow. “Big news,” he said. “Let’s go where we can talk.”
Holt looked at his watch. He’d been called in unexpectedly to moonlight and was due at the job soon. He hoped the big news didn’t take long to hear about and that it didn’t require anything of him.
They settled at one of the park’s weather-beaten picnic tables away from the flow of rehearsal traffic. In their buckskin clothes and fur-covered caps, Josh thought they could have passed for two eighteenth century trappers swapping stories or working out a trade. “JP—” he began.
A cell phone chirped from Holt’s pocket. Holt squirmed to retrieve it, squeezed a button to stop the noise and looked at the screen.
Josh ignored the interruption. The chief’s obsession with baseball scores was well known. “JP,” Josh repeated, “There’s a problem you have to look into.” He started with Allison’s patients and her worries about sources of infection.
“Jesus, what women will do for fashion,” Holt cut in.
“The nipple ring was on a guy.”
Holt was appalled. He had heard of such things, but in Winston? “Doesn’t sound like anybody from here.”
Josh recounted their dealings with Spike at Lil’ Bob’s, and how Spike had led them to Darryl Dunn, the apparent source of the metal in Spike’s jewelry.
Holt was skeptical as Josh recounted Spike’s rampage at Darryl’s home off Betheltown Road. He hadn’t received any reports mentioning anything like that and said so.
“I doubt Darryl’s eager to involve the police in his activities,” Josh replied.
Holt needed to wrap this up. “We’ll look into it but unless Darryl complains about his stuff getting trashed, or someone complains they were defrauded by Spike, I’m hard-pressed to see this as a crime. I’ve seen upset wives do a lot worse.”
“How about shutting Spike down?”
“On what basis?” It was the question he always asked the preachers who wanted to close the carnival’s Green Door.
Josh thought about it. The chief was right. So far, Allison only suspected Spike’s jewelry was the problem. Until the lab tests came back, there was no proof. “Well, at least check him out. Maybe he doesn’t have a business license . . .”
Holt started a slow burn. A business license infraction! The editor was becoming worse than the preachers! “Josh, we have tens of thousands of tourists getting ready to invade this town—not to mention vendors, all sorts of traffic and let’s not forget a damn 10k run and Congressman Dorn. I’ve got the same undersized department I do every other week of the year when Winston is a nice little place of mostly peaceable people.”
“It’s a matter of public health.” Josh watched sweat pop out on the chief’s forehead, matting strands of fur to his red face.
“You got what? Four or five cases? Maybe?” He pointed to an ice cream vendor who’d shown up to take advantage of the rehearsal crowd. “There’s more people gonna get sick from that ice cream than will ever get sick because of some nipple ring.”
Holt had to get going. He swung his arm around to encompass the entire Old Fashioned River Days tableau—the stage in the riverfront park, the dozens of milling actors, the rental tables soon to be piled with merchandise (much of it off-size or outdated) from downtown stores on sale at “old-fashioned prices,” the quaint alley where potters and painters would display their wares for the juried art fair, the sidewalks where concessionaires would be setting up lemonade, ice cream and hot dog stands. The fringe on the sleeve of his buckskin jacket trailed like streamers. Josh thought he looked like an early settler surveying the western horizon
“We’ll check into this Darryl situation, but you need to relax,” Holt said. “I’m no reporter but I do know something about facts and you have damn few of them.”
“You know me better than that.”
“You’ve been wrong before.”
Josh felt his ears burn. There was nothing to say.
Josh walked back to the stage and spotted Coretha Hall talking with a woman in a white peasant blouse and puffy sleeves—Allison in costume as an 1812 War-era tavern wench. His eyes roamed across her bare shoulders and lingered on her neckline.
Perhaps it was the accumulation of things—the flirting at the diner, the sexual tension of the tattoo parlor, and now this—but he felt desire for the first time in years, green shoots of renewal springing up in a long-barren field. The feeling surprised him, pleased him. And made him uneasy.
He realized he’d been staring. He was thankful that Allison didn’t seem to have noticed. He filled her in on his meeting with the chief.
“What about Spike and his jewelry?”
“He says there’s nothing to do. And if you get right down to it, there really isn’t much to go on.”
Josh could sense Allison’s disappointment. “I could check at the Winston Jewelers on the way back to the office and see if they’ve heard of any problems,” he offered. “At least they’d be on alert.”
“Thanks. MediScan should have the first lab results back tomorrow. That should tell us a lot. And maybe the chief will turn up something that will help us find Cloninger and Dunn.”