Chapter Seven

“You!” my rescuer shot back at me through a layer of black-and-white fleece.

We stared at each other for a few seconds in mutual disbelief—or at least, I assumed he was as dismayed as me. It’s hard to judge expression when the other person is wearing a giant bird head. For the person who’d yanked me from the jaws of death was none other than my old nemesis, Freezie the Penguin … aka Harry Wescott.

This time, the penguin head was in place—hence the muffled voice—but his right flipper was tucked to one side so that it bared his arm, which he’d used to pull me to safety. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see him, since I’d just walked past the ice cream shop that was his home base. He must have exited the place for a round of mascotting on the square at the same time I’d done my death-defying move.

It looked like I owed Harry Westcott big-time. And that wasn’t the sort of obligation I wanted hanging over me.

Sighing, I set down the cookie bin at my feet and stuck out my hand. “How about we call a truce, Mr. Westcott … at least, long enough for me to say thanks for saving my bacon.”

For a few uncomfortable seconds, I was afraid he wasn’t going to reciprocate. Then the big penguin head nodded, and he shook.

“Fine, truce. But you’re lucky I didn’t recognize you from the back, or I might not have run so fast. You did something with your hair, or something.”

“Yeah, I washed it and brushed it for a change,” was my ironic reply, recalling that the first time he’d seen me had been while I’d been gardening, with my hair a sweaty, tied-back mess.

“Well, uh, it looks good.”

Which half-hearted compliment probably burned his beak—er, lips—to say, but I’d take it.

“Yoo-hoo, Nina!” Sister Mary Julian bellowed from the corner of the square across from us. “Hurry up; we’re about to start.”

“On the way!” I called back, and smiled and waved in her direction. To Harry, I said, “Thanks again for the rescue, but I’ve got to go. I kind of talked my way into helping Mother Superior and the other sisters with their protest.”

“You’re with those nuns?” Harry asked, his penguin head tilting to one side in apparent confusion. The protest part of my explanation had seemingly blown right by him.

“Kind of. They’re the first guests of my new bed-and-breakfast, so I’m giving them the full concierge experience. Homemade snacks delivered while they protest against their oppressor,” I said, and raised the cookie bin so he could see its contents.

The penguin head snapped upright so quickly, I was sure he’d suffered whiplash. “Wait, what? You’re saying you’ve turned my house into a B&B?”

“I’ve turned my house into a B&B,” I corrected him. “Now, gotta go. Can’t start the protest late!”

Not waiting for a reply, I glanced both ways this time before rushing across the street to the square. Once safely across, I passed the boiled-peanut cart and jogged toward the corner bench beneath a large shade tree where the sisters had gathered. The signs leaned at crazy angles against the bench arm in anticipation.

“Sorry, don’t mind me,” I panted as I reached the group. “I took a little detour to say hi to an old friend. Are we ready to start the march?”

“We are,” Mother Superior said as the nuns gathered closer, “but first, we should ask for fortitude and guidance in our endeavor. Sisters—and Ms. Fleet—let us pray.”

I listened politely as Mother Superior intoned the usual words of thanks and requests for protection. Following a chorus of amens, the nuns moved briskly back to the bench, where each old woman shouldered a protest sign. Mother Superior raised hers and swept a glance across their small group.

“When we passed the parking lot next to the square a few minutes ago, Mr. Bainbridge’s automobile was parked there, meaning he is in his office.”

She pointed in the direction of the Weary Bones Antique Shoppe. The second story above that business was unmarked, but a pair of open windows with fluttering lace curtains indicated it was occupied. I assumed the entry was a stairway to the rear in the alley, just as with many of the other second-floor businesses on the square.

The nun went on, “While it’s not necessary for Mr. Bainbridge to witness our efforts, it certainly does not hurt. Sister Mary George, you have the whistle?”

“Right here, Reverend Mother.” The tall nun smiled, indicating a silver gym coach whistle that hung around her neck.

Mother Superior nodded. “Very well. Sisters, let us begin.”

While I settled on the bench with my cookies and the water bottles to serve as cheerleader, the nuns fell into line and began their march around the square. I watched in interest, for their protest was unlike any I’d seen before.

No bullhorns, cat hats, or rocks here. Instead, the women trooped along the sidewalk in silence, spaced equidistant from each other and moving at a measured pace as they began to traverse the square. Tiny Sister Mary Paul led the procession, with the statuesque Sister Mary George bringing up the rear. The remaining nuns were arranged between them by size.

Interestingly, none of their signage seemed directed at Bainbridge personally. The fronts of all the signs read the same: GOD’S WILL BE DONE. The backs varied: GOD IS THE BUILDER OF EVERYTHING, BLESS THE HOUSE OF YOUR SERVANT, and more. My favorite, however, was the one Sister Mary Thomas wielded—the one that read GOATS, NOT GOLF!.

Each time the nuns reached the corner where Bainbridge’s second-story office overlooked the square, they stopped and lined up, facing it. On some silent signal, they would flip their signs around so the “God’s Will” slogans all pointed that way. If the developer was brave enough to glance out his window, no way could he miss seeing the sisters standing there in silent witness.

And the noiseless protest wasn’t going unnoticed by the townspeople, either. As the sisters continued circling the square, passing drivers honked and gave them a thumbs-up, some even leaning out their windows to shout words of encouragement. The foot traffic on the square was equally enthusiastic, with passersby stepping out of the way to let the marchers go by.

But the nuns had a bit of competition. Out on the bandstand, Freezie the Penguin was bopping and moonwalking to faint music that I assumed must be coming from a boombox. His performance was attracting the kiddie tourist set. Over the next half hour, while the nuns marched, four or five grade school–aged boys and girls took turns dancing alongside the penguin while their parents presumably were hitting the nearby antique stores.

The occasional teen girls were focused on Freezie, too. More than once, I saw one or two of them rush up the bandstand steps to take a selfie with him before running off in a torrent of giggles. Those girls looked like locals, and I suspected they knew full well who was under the penguin costume. Hence the nervous giggling.

“Hello. May I join you?” came a man’s raspy voice beside me as I kept watch on all the action.

Standing beside the bench was a gentleman in his seventies wearing putty-colored pants and a bright-blue pullover that set off his full shock of white hair. He had ruddy cheeks reminiscent of Ronald Reagan, but his otherwise pallid complexion seemed a reflection more of illness than of a basic lack of melanin-producing cells.

For a single surprised moment, I thought he was the New Yorker who’d earlier flipped me off. But a second look told me this was someone else. For one thing, he was smiling. And his soft drawl that I could hear despite his labored breathing did not originate from the Empire State.

“Sure, let me make room,” I replied, and moved the water bottles and cookie bin to one side.

The man lowered himself onto the wooden slats, gripping the edges with large, gnarled hands. “Thanks. I’ve got a little lung issue, and I gotta set down every so often when I walk.”

“How far are you going?” I asked in concern. Chances were the “little lung issue” was actually a big one, like emphysema or COPD. My ex-father-in-law had suffered from the disease, and I could recall the difficulty he’d had walking even a short distance unassisted.

“Don’t worry yourself, ma’am,” the newcomer replied, smile broadening. “I don’t have much farther to go. I’m headed across the street to the printing shop to visit my little girl. She’s the owner.”

That last was said with a father’s unmistakable pride, and I gave him a surprised look. “You’re Becca Gleason’s dad?”

“I sure am. And, yes, she gets her good looks from her momma.”

He’d doubtless used that line numerous times over the years as a mild joke … or to stave off unthinking comments from people who were clueless regarding mixed marriages.

“Oh, I’m not surprised you’re her father,” I hurried to assure him. “It’s just funny how I was talking to Becca less than a half hour ago, and she mentioned her dad. And now, here you are. I’m Nina Fleet, by the way,” I introduced myself, sticking out my hand. “I moved to town a few weeks ago.”

“Welcome to our little town. Travis M. Gleason, at your service. Just call me Travis.” His handshake was brief but surprisingly firm for someone of his age and debility. “What’s with the nuns and all those signs? They protesting the Pope or something?”

“Actually, they’re protesting against the developer who took over their convent and left them homeless.”

The man’s genial expression abruptly hardened.

“You mean Greg Bainbridge? He’s the same sorry SOB that screwed me and a bunch of other folks … pardon my French.”

Which I already knew, thanks to Becca. I gave him a headshake to show I wasn’t worried over his mild vulgarity. “That’s okay. What happened, if you don’t mind saying?”

“It’s no secret,” Travis replied with a shrug. “About five years back, he showed up in our neighborhood with some official-looking report that said all the groundwater there was contaminated with heavy metals. Said the scientists claimed we’d get cancer and all the new babies would be born with defects if we kept drinking it. Scared the holy hell outta us.”

“I’ll bet,” I replied, pretty sure I knew where this story was going.

The man nodded. “Of course, no one wanted to give up their place, especially since most of the mortgages were already paid off. But folks had kids and grandkids, and we got worried. So Bainbridge bought us all out, paid us maybe a third of what the land was worth. He said he’d just sit on the property until someday someone figured out how to fix it so folks could live there again. And we was all real grateful to him.”

Saint Gregory strikes again.

Travis continued, “Then, a few months after the closings, Bainbridge came back with a new report saying the first tests were wrong. Bad sampling, he said. The water was fine, he said. Next day, bulldozers were out clearing everything so he could build that new subdivision of his.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Yeah. He gets his new subdivision. Meantime, I’m stuck in a trailer in a park with a bunch of other old geezers, instead of living in my nice, paid-off house where my late wife and I raised our baby girl. I retired ten years ago, but now I’ve gotta go back to doing handyman work again to pay my rent.”

The bitterness in his tone was obvious. I could understand why Becca was ready to jump in on the protest. “I assume you talked to an attorney about the deal?”

“More than one. But all the lawyers who reviewed our case said they wouldn’t be able to prove in a court of law that he’d done anything illegal.” His gnarled hands tightened into blocky fists. “If I wasn’t sick, I’d of taken him out somewhere and beat the crud out of him long ago. But my girl says not to worry. She says he’ll get his comeuppance someday.”

“Maybe the nuns will have better success than the lawyers. Cookie?” I offered, hoping to lighten the mood a bit.

A flicker of a smile returned. “Thanks, young lady, but I’d better go. Becca said she’d treat me to lunch at Peaches and Java.”

“Well, enjoy. And nice meeting you.”

We made our goodbyes, and he ambled off in the direction of the printing shop. It was then that I heard the shrill bleat of Sister Mary George’s whistle. At the signal, the nuns made a sharp turn and headed back to where I was waiting at the bench.

“We are taking a short break,” Mother Superior explained once they’d returned and set down their signs again. “Perhaps you can distribute those cookies to the sisters now. We’ll make a decision on lunch after that.”

“Of course.”

I opened the bin and began handing out napkins and snacks. Mother Superior, meanwhile, drew Sister Mary George to one side and asked, “How are all the sisters holding up?”

“I’m afraid Mary Paul is a bit overheated. She should rehydrate and rest for a while. And Mary Thomas appeared to be limping.”

“Just a blister,” that nun bravely confirmed as she bit into cookie. “Maybe we can find a bit of sticking plaster at the drugstore?”

“A good idea,” Mother Superior agreed. “Mary George can handle that. Someone please make sure that Mary Paul sits down and finishes her water. Speaking of which, we should probably have someone go to one of the shops to refill our bottles. Sister Mary Christopher?”

“I’m on it, Reverend Mother,” the nun replied, her usual warble toned down a few notches in the heat. She began gathering the reusable containers as swiftly as the thirsty women drained them.

Mother Superior gave an approving nod. “As for the rest of you, if you wish to visit the facilities across the way, now is the time to do so. I plan to take advantage of them myself.”

“Anything I can do to help, Reverend Mother?” I wanted to know.

“Yes. Please stay with Sister Mary Paul until I return, and make sure she drinks her water.”

While the other nuns dispersed, I closed up the cookie bin; then, spreading one of the extra napkins atop it, I set the container in front of the bench where the tiny nun was sitting. “Here, Sister, prop your feet on top of the box so you’re more comfortable.”

“Thank you, child,” she said with a smile, and complied as I sat beside her. “I just need rest for moment.”

She leaned against the bench back and closed her eyes. Once I was certain she was merely taking a snooze and not sinking into some sort of heatstroke, I glanced around the square.

It was lunchtime now, and the foot traffic was clearing out as people headed home or to one of the restaurants for a bite. Even the boiled-peanut guy was taking a break. The gazebo was empty, too, except for a couple of young boys chasing each other around it. My penguin friend had apparently left for alternate climes, for I saw neither hide nor beak of him. I pulled out my phone and spent a few minutes checking my social media, reminding myself that I probably needed to set up a page for my new B&B. Though, of course, I still needed to think up a snazzy name for the place before I filed the official incorporation papers with the state. A few ideas flitted through my mind. Magnolia Manor … Peach Tree Inn …

By the time I looked up again, a quarter of an hour had passed, and Sister Mary Paul was the only nun in sight. I was mentally kicking myself for forgetting to pull a cookie for myself before turning the food bin into a footstool when I heard what sounded like a woman’s scream.

The nun’s eyes flew open. “What that?”

“I don’t know.”

I jumped from the bench and spun about, looking for the source of the cry, but saw no one. It had to be one of the teenage girls acting silly again, I told myself. Ignore them, and when they don’t get any reaction, they’ll go away.

But as I sat back down again, a plump middle-aged brunette came trotting around the corner from the Weary Bones Antique Shoppe. I noted in passing that she was wearing almost the exact same outfit as me. Her pink top was sleeveless and more blouselike, however, and she was wearing knee-length black shorts instead of cropped jeans.

She caught sight of me and halted. Then, to my surprise, she began jumping about and waving her arms.

“Help! Help!” she called. “You’ve got to call an ambulance!”

Tourist with heatstroke was my first guess. Maybe a heart attack. I glanced about the square again. Sister Mary Paul and I were the only ones in sight.

“Wait here, Sister; I’ll find out what’s wrong,” I told Mary Paul, and rushed toward the jumping woman.

“What’s wrong?” I demanded as I reached her. She merely shook her head.

Channeling Sister Mary Julian, I waved my phone and bellowed, “Look, lady, I know you’re upset, but you need to get a grip. Tell me what’s happened so I know what to tell the 911 operator!”

Eyes wide and brimming with tears, she glanced behind her, and then turned back to me. With a wail, she finally managed, “Someone’s stabbed him. He’s dead!”

My heart did the proverbial leap into my throat. Stabbed? Dead? Almost choking now myself, I demanded, “Who’s stabbed? Who do you think is dead?”

“Him … that cute actor guy. You know, the one dressed up as Freezie the Penguin!”