As much as I would’ve liked to have spent the rest of the day with Jerry, I had a job to do. I gave him a ride back home so he could start learning the Oklahoma music while I returned to town. On the way I thought about what he’d said. I didn’t mind being referred to as a strong woman, but did I really want to rule the world? After spending my younger years under my ambitious mother’s thumb and following her rules for pageant success, I liked being in charge of my own little world, running my agency the way I wanted, setting my hours, having the freedom to do as I pleased. Of course, as Miss Parkland, I had ample opportunities to speak my mind, but I was always working with other people’s schedules. Now I appreciated the luxury of being in control. Maybe the real reason I was reluctant to have a baby was that it would upset my neatly ordered life.
Something to think about.
Flair For Fashion, Pamela Finch’s dress shop, was located on a charming stretch of Main Street. It was one of several artsy little boutiques with rich green awnings and large planters filled with fall chrysanthemums—antique gold and crisp yellow—accompanied by pansies in watercolor shades Monet would have loved: blue, lavender, white, and velvety purple. Since Celosia was only thirty minutes from Parkland, these businesses did very well, especially the novelty candle shop and the local crafts store with its array of homemade jams, jellies, honey, and quilts. Flair For Fashion was an upscale establishment, the kind my mother would love, offering overpriced clothes, jewelry, and purses. The windows displayed sleek outfits on faceless mannequins admiring themselves in fancy oval mirrors.
Pamela met me at the door. “Thanks for coming, Madeline. Let me show you the problem.”
Stepping inside was like walking into a movie star’s oversized closet, all shiny floor and lighted mirrors. The jewelry was sorted by color on small tables draped with silky cloths, and the purses hung from curly gold hooks. As I passed by, I glanced at a few price tags and wondered who in Celosia could afford these things. Dresses and scarves were hung on matching hangers padded with contrasting colors. Another mannequin stood with arms on hips, its outfit a tight leather skirt and cream-colored silk blouse. It looked oddly defiant, as if to say: Buy this if you dare!
Pamela was dressed in similar style: a snug green leather skirt and matching sweater. Her metallic bronze high heels clicked on the gleaming floor as she led me to the back of the store and opened the door of a room packed with bulging file boxes and untidy stacks of paper. “See what I mean? I know that letter’s in here somewhere.”
The room looked like a real closet—a hoarder’s closet. I wasn’t sure where to start. “Have you checked any of these file boxes or stacks?”
“I’ve been through that one,” she said, pointing to a gray three-drawer file cabinet. “I’ve been trying to do a little every day, but the phone’s always ringing, and I have customers to take care of. It’s just overwhelming.”
“Okay, what am I looking for?”
“It’s a one-page letter from Daniel Richards. He used to own this building, and now his son, Daniel Junior, is the owner. In the letter, Daniel Senior gives me permission to make whatever changes I’d like, including expanding the shop at the back. His son won’t let me do anything unless I produce this letter.”
“All right.” I took another look at the daunting stacks. “You’re sure it’s in here?”
“I can’t think of any reason why that letter would be in my house, but I’ve searched thoroughly, just in case. It has to be in here.”
“Do you have any help in the store?”
“That’s another problem. I am so short-handed right now. The woman who usually helps me out is having a baby and will be gone for at least half a year. When she was here, we could take turns watching the store, but now it’s just me.”
I spent the next hour going through every piece of paper in one of the filing cabinets. It was slow work because Pamela had saved every receipt, every order, every packing slip, and every piece of correspondence she’d ever received.
Pamela apologized for the extra stacks. “There’s a lot of Art Guild information, too, Madeline. Copies of our bylaws, minutes of our meetings, program booklets, things like that. Bea Ricter used to be our secretary, and now I am, so she gave all that stuff to me. It should all be in one filing cabinet, but there may be some stray papers in some of the stacks.”
“I’ll separate anything that looks like it belongs to the Guild.”
When I took a break, I noticed several pictures of flowers on the walls of the shop and asked Pamela if the paintings were hers.
Her cheeks went pink. “Oh, do you like them? They’re nothing compared to your work.”
I’d seen hundreds, maybe thousands of paintings like these, typical, orderly still lifes of flowers in vases, flowers in pots on windowsills, flowers drooping on trellises. Nothing badly painted, but nothing remarkable either. Not like the vibrant flowers spilling out on the sidewalks, but Pamela had some talent.
“They’re very good, Pamela. I like your color choices, and you have a very soft way of shading.”
She let out a relieved breath. “Thank you. I work very hard on them.”
“Have you had lessons, or does this just come to you naturally?”
“I’ve taken lots of lessons at the community college. The teachers there say I have a real flair for flowers.”
“Yes, you do. Have you tried painting other things?”
“No, just flowers.”
Derivative and safe. “Well, you have some fine paintings here.”
“Thank you, Madeline. That means a lot coming from you. I do collages, too, but those are at home. I’d love for you to see them some time.”
At three o’clock, Pamela put a sign on the door saying the store was closed for the afternoon. “One of the perks of being the owner,” she winked, and we went to the fellowship hall at First Baptist Church.
First Baptist was the largest church in town, a massive cathedral of granite blocks. The fellowship hall was equally impressive, a gymnasium-size room with gold walls and plush gold carpet. No folding tables and metal chairs here. Polished wooden tables covered with gold embroidered tablecloths and matching straight-back chairs were arranged around the room, and a longer table filled with refreshments stood along one wall, sparkling with crystal and silver dishes. This was the first fellowship hall I’d ever seen with chandeliers.
As big as the room was, Wendall Clarke filled it. He was a large man with strong features and an impressive moustache, a commanding figure all in black with a black-fringed scarf around his neck. He had his arm around a young and extremely pretty blonde woman whose beautifully tailored suit and silky blouse could’ve come from Flair For Fashion.
“Good heavens,” Pamela said. “I don’t believe it.”
“What?”
“Tell you later.”
Wendall Clarke came toward us, his voice booming. “Ms. Maclin, such a pleasure to meet you! I saw your work at the Weyland. I adore Blue Moon Garden.”
“Thank you very much.”
“This is my wife, Flora, but everyone calls her Baby.”
Whoops. I had thought the young woman was his daughter. I shook hands with Flora, who seemed shy. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Madeline.”
She nodded and smiled but didn’t say anything.
Wendall turned to Pamela. “Is this Pamela Finch? How are you? It’s been quite a while, hasn’t it?”
Pamela’s reply was polite but guarded. “Hello, Wendall.”
“Have you met my wife, Flora? Baby, this is one of my old school friends, Pamela Finch.”
Pamela didn’t smile or shake hands. “How do you do?”
Again, the young woman just smiled.
Wendall Clarke gave the scarf a theatrical toss over his shoulder. “I suppose you’ve heard all about my little project. I am so excited by the prospect of bringing this facet of culture to Celosia. If there had been a gallery like this in town when I was growing up, I wouldn’t have taken so long to find my true calling. I hope to inspire generations of children to love art.”
“That sounds like a worthy cause, Mr. Clarke,” I said.
“Oh, call me Wendall, please. It would be a real honor to have you on board, Ms. Maclin. I promise your duties will not be extreme.”
“Let me think about it.”
“Splendid! I’d really appreciate it.” He gave his wife’s shoulders a little squeeze.
“Come along, dear. I want you to meet everyone.”
Her eyes got big. “Are you sure?”
“Of course! Don’t worry. They’ll love you.”
Flora did not look convinced. I didn’t have long to wonder about her reluctance.
Most of the people at the reception gave Wendall Clarke and Flora less than welcoming glances.
“What did you want to tell me?” I turned to Pamela, although I had figured most of it out.
“That’s Wendall’s trophy wife. Everyone knows he left his first wife for her.”
“She seems really sweet, though. Did she actively pursue him?”
“Oh, yes. She left her husband for him.”
“Spreading local gossip, Pamela?” came a harsh voice.
I recognized Larissa Norton. “Larissa” sounds like a lovely waif-like creature that dances in the forest, but this Larissa was a tall dark-haired woman with a firm chin and a highly annoyed expression.
I held out my hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Madeline Maclin Fairweather.”
She eyed me with a dark unfriendly stare and did not shake my hand. “Yes, I know. Are you acquainted with Wendall Clarke?”
“We’ve just met.”
Larissa Norton transferred her glare to Wendall. “He has some nerve coming back to Celosia and bringing that woman with him, expecting everyone to be thrilled with his plans. Clarke comes swanning into town, and everyone falls over themselves to do his bidding. I can’t believe it. Celosia doesn’t need an art gallery. That’s sheer foolishness. It’ll go under in a week, maybe less. And don’t give me that sad face, Pamela. You haven’t a chance in hell of showing any of your pitiful pictures in Clarke’s gallery or anyone’s gallery, for that matter.”
Pamela flinched at this cruel remark. “I’m going to ask him anyway.”
Larissa gave a derisive snort and left. Pamela watched her go and shook her head. “I’m not surprised she’s so upset.”
“Is she that much opposed to an art gallery in town?”
“It’s not that. She’s Wendall’s ex-wife.”
“Oh.” That could sting a little.
“He became fabulously wealthy, dumped her for a younger woman, and now rolls into town with all sorts of big plans. She’ll be opposed to anything he proposes.”
“Understandable.”
“I’d never tell her how delighted I am about the gallery,” Pamela said. “I’ve always dreamed of having my own art show. I don’t see why Wendall wouldn’t help me.”
“I’m sure he will. He’ll need pictures for his gallery.”
“As long as he doesn’t put Bea Ricter’s pictures in.”
“Why is that?”
“Oh, she thinks she has talent. It’s really sad. She does these primitive things, you know, like painting on old pieces of rotted wood. I’m surprised you haven’t met her.”
I found it ironic that Pamela would talk down a fellow artist after Larissa’s cutting comments about her own work. “Jerry and I haven’t been in Celosia very long.”
“Oh, Madeline, I’ve just realized why Larissa was so abrupt with you. She really wanted the job at the theater.”
“What job? Do you mean playing for Oklahoma? I thought she was sick and couldn’t do it.”
“She probably said that so Evan would beg her.”
That explained Larissa’s unfriendly stare. “Is that the sort of thing she’d do?”
“Oh, yes. I hope Jerry does such a good job that Evan hires him for all the shows. It’s about time Larissa learned she can’t get everything she wants.”
Watching Larissa’s face as Wendall paraded Flora around the room, I thought, no, she didn’t get everything. I could understand her resentment, but in fact, very few of the people at the reception had welcoming expressions for Wendall and his new bride.
“Has Wendall done something else to alienate people besides marrying Flora?” I asked Pamela.
“He was always somewhat of a braggart and a show-off, always talking about how he couldn’t wait to leave this pitiful little hick town and make his mark on the world. Now that he’s actually done it, his attitude is going to be hard to take. Oh, there’s Bea. I’ll introduce you.”
Bea Ricter was a small round woman, her graying hair cut in an unflattering bowl style. She was wearing a plain, dull-colored jumper over a blouse decorated with brown flowers, green striped socks, and worn red sneakers looking as if she’d just come in from weeding her vegetable garden. All that was missing was a torn straw hat.
Pamela introduced us. “Bea, have you met Madeline Maclin? Madeline, this is Bea Ricter.”
Bea’s handshake was firm. “Yes, I know who she is. You need to join the Celosia Art Guild, Madeline. I’m sure someone’s invited you.”
Pamela looked at me in surprise. “You mean you’re not a member? I thought you were.”
I’d actually been approached by another member of the Art Guild, but I didn’t want to get involved with what appeared to be a social club. “Thanks for asking, but I’m afraid I don’t have time. My agency keeps me busy.”
Bea Ricter made a face. “Oh, nonsense. There can’t be that much call for a detective in Celosia. We meet every month at the library. Tuesdays at ten. You should join. It’s very important that we artists stick together.”
Was there a polite way to refuse? “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll expect to see you there. Now that Wendall Clarke is planning this gallery for us, we have to make certain it’s run properly. We can’t have just anybody’s work in there. Some people do nothing but junk.”
Pamela gave me a look as if to say, see what I mean? “That’s up to Wendall to decide, I guess.”
“Why should it be up to Wendall?”
“Well, his design was chosen for Elegant Dreams Perfume.”
This was a sore point with Bea, who made a dismissive snort. “For some tacky shopping network. I’m talking about real, honest-to-goodness, taken-from-nature-and-the-earth art, not some sissy design.” She eyed Clarke as if he were a dog she’d found digging holes in her garden. “Is he going to show your stuff, Pamela?”
“I haven’t asked, but I’m sure he will. I would hope he’d include everyone in the Guild.”
“I’d better have a word with him,” Bea said.
Pamela and I watched with some apprehension as Bea crossed the room to Clarke. She poked his shoulder and started a fierce dialogue. We couldn’t hear everything they said, but at one point Bea’s voice carried well enough.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Wendall Clarke! You need to do the right thing, and you know what I’m talking about.”
Pamela gulped. “Oh, my goodness. I can’t believe she said that.”
Wendall Clarke didn’t appear offended for himself or for his new wife. His voice was calm but firm, and he made certain he was heard. “Why don’t we discuss that later? I’m sure we can come to some agreement.” He patted her shoulder. “Come on, now. No hard feelings, eh?”
Apparently, there were some very hard feelings. They talked a little while longer, and then we heard Wendall say, “That’s not going to happen.”
Bea grumbled back to us. “He’s got some nerve!”
“What did he say?” Pamela asked.
Bea, distracted by her argument with Wendall, muttered under her breath about how Wendall was going to be sorry.
“Wendall Clarke’s never been sorry a day in his life,” Pamela said, “and he’s not going to be sorry if the gallery goes well. What did he say about including the Art Guild’s work? Is that what he meant by ‘That’s not going to happen’?”
“He’s the same arrogant jerk he always was.”
“Or did he mean we shouldn’t worry because he’s not leaving anyone out?”
“Thinks I wouldn’t forget what he’s done.”
“But the gallery—”
Bea rounded on Pamela. “Just shut up about the gallery.”
“Well, excuse me.”
Bea frowned and didn’t say anything else, but she glared at Wendall and Flora the rest of the afternoon. Now I was curious about what Bea might do to make Wendall sorry, and what he meant by “That’s not going to happen.” Knowing my fellow Celosians and their tangled relationships, something was going to happen.