Romeo Fails Page 4

  Mrs. Bigelow insisted on picking up the check, for which Dorsey was grateful. She hung back, though, as the rest of them headed toward the exit and covertly slipped a few extra bills onto the table. Mrs. B. was a notoriously bad tipper. While Mrs. Bigelow paid the bill, the three younger women walked outside to the parking lot for a breath of fresh air. It was a beautiful spring day with the temperature in the high sixties and a light breeze. A perfect cornflower blue sky stretched above them, with not a cloud in sight, although thunderstorms were a possibility for later in the day.

  “You walking, Dorse?” Maggie asked, scanning the parking lot for her friend’s little pickup truck.

  “Yeah, I’m due at the hardware store in a bit. And then I might put in a few hours on the Bartholomews’ deck this evening if the weather holds up. What are y’all up to today?”

  “Errands, mostly,” said Maggie. “And we’re going to the movies in Grover City this afternoon.”

  “That reminds me,” said Sarah. “I phoned in a prescription yesterday and I need to pick it up at the drugstore. Can we swing by there first?”

  Maggie and Dorsey exchanged looks of mild dismay. Sarah appeared taken aback by their reaction.

  “What?” she said.

  “You phoned in a prescription? Where was I?” said Maggie.

  “I don’t know, in the shower, I guess,” Sarah replied. “What’s wrong?”

  “Honey, this is a small town. And in a small town, everybody knows your business. We should have taken you over to GC to drop that off.”

  “But isn’t the pharmacist bound by some kind of confidentiality oath?” Sarah asked.

  Dorsey snorted, then mumbled “Sorry” as Sarah looked at her. Maggie continued to explain.

  “The pharmacist is, yes, but his wife isn’t and neither is anyone else who works in the drugstore. And somehow, sooner or later, things have a way of always getting out in this town.”

  “Well, I don’t care,” said Sarah, a little defiantly. “It’s too late now anyhow and it’s not like it’s anything I’m ashamed of.” Although she did, in fact, look a little unsettled. Maggie gazed at her with concern.

  Sarah said, “I mean, hell, half the women I know in Chicago are on Prozac and proud of it. Not that I am,” she added hastily, seeing the alarm on her cousin’s face. “My prescription is just, uh…well, to help me sleep, mostly. It’s okay, Maggie, really, it’s no big thing.”

  “Okay,” Maggie said, sounding not entirely convinced. “I just don’t want people to get the wrong idea about you. Dorse, you remember what happened with Velma Ray?”

  Dorsey laughed, but said, “Look, I’ve got to go to work, but I’m sure you’ll tell Sarah all about it. And I like your idea of a picnic—how about Wednesday?”

  The three of them agreed on Wednesday night at seven for their picnic at the Bartholomew farm. Dorsey took her leave of them and headed the few blocks downtown to the hardware store. She had to smile as she heard Maggie start to tell Sarah the story in her usual highly animated way.

  “There was quite the scandal when word got out that Velma Ray—she’s the twin sister of the Earl Ray we mentioned earlier who married Dorsey’s mom?—well, anyhow, word got out somehow that Velma Ray was on steroids. Which was ridiculous, because she’s just a tiny little wisp of a thing. So, turned out it wasn’t steroids, it was actually just thyroid medication and whoever started the rumor just got the ‘roid’ part mixed up, but even so…” Her voice faded in the distance.

  * * *

  By closing time, the day had turned dark and the front window of the hardware store was streaked with rivulets of rain. Thunder rumbled off in the plains as the storm moved eastward. Ira, the smaller of the two store cats, sat twitchy-tailed and wide-eyed on the counter, flinching a bit with each flash of lightning outside. George, the big surly gray, was asleep in the back on a pile of plumbing supply catalogs.

  It had been a slow afternoon, thanks to the rain. Two customers and only one of them had bought something. Dorsey ran a hand through her hair impatiently, feeling a bit frustrated and antsy. The storm had ruined her plan to put in a few hours on the Bartholomew deck project, so it looked like the highlight of her evening was going to be laundry. Whoopee.

  She stood at the front window of the store, watching the rain. It was dark enough outside that her reflection stared back at her in the window. Her reflection looked irritated too. She pushed an errant strand of her hair out of her green eyes for the hundredth time that day. Not a conventional beauty by Romeo Falls standards, she nonetheless had her mother’s regular features and fair skin. Her height and lithe build she got from the old man, as did Shaw. Goodman, the eldest at thirty-six, was a throwback to some distant Larue—a big bear of a man with an unruly thatch of reddish brown curls and a beard to match.

  Good had been in the office all afternoon, struggling with the books as the end of the month neared. Knowing how grouchy that usually made him, Dorsey had given him a wide berth for most of her shift. At one minute past five, she locked the front door and fed the cats their dinner. She finished all the other closing-up-shop tasks, then spent an hour or so restocking some shelves she hadn’t got to earlier. On her way out the back, she stopped by the office to let her brother know she was leaving.

  “Good?” She knocked tentatively on the frame of the office door to get his attention. “I’m taking off now, okay?”

  It didn’t look like he had made much headway with the books. Invoices and other paperwork littered the desk. A calculator and an adding machine held down stacks of more papers. Good had his head in his hands and was chewing on a pencil. He sat up, glancing at his watch, then leaned back and stretched.

  “Yeah,” he agreed, sounding tired and frustrated. “I’m getting nowhere with these books anyhow.”

  “You need an accountant,” Dorsey said, knowing what his answer would be.

  “Can’t afford it,” Good promptly replied. Dorsey mouthed the words along with him. He shook his head at her, then laughed out loud. He stood and started clearing up the books and papers on his desk.

  “Look, you want to go get a beer at The Hamlet?” he said. “My brain is fried. I’ll even buy the first round. I think I can still afford that, as long as you get something domestic.”

  “Well, yeah,” she said, both surprised and gladdened by his suggestion. He had been so grumpy lately she couldn’t remember the last time she’d shared a beverage or a meal with her oldest brother. He was always too busy with the store.

  As they walked the two blocks over to the sole bar within Romeo Falls’ city limits, the rain had dissipated to just a few random drops. Blue sky was reappearing through some gaps in the cloud cover. The air felt clear and fresh. Main Street was deserted as they crossed it, dodging puddles, to make their way toward the cheerfully blinking neon lights of The Hamlet. Mrs. Gargoyle rolled slowly by in her police cruiser, then stopped as she came abreast. She lowered her window.

  “Goodman. Dorsey Lee.” She blew a small bubblegum bubble, then popped it loudly. Everyone knew Luke wouldn’t let her smoke in the patrol car.

  “Evening, Officer,” Goodman amiably hailed her. “Looks like the rain’s clearing up for us.”

  “Too bad—I wish it would keep raining,” she retorted combatively. “Keeps the troublemakers off the streets, if you know what I mean, especially with school out. Can you believe when I got home last night, some little hoodlum had chopped the heads off every single one of my carnations? You know, the pink-and-white ones that line my front walk? Damn kids,” she added, under her breath. “I swear, sometimes it seems like switching from the junior high school to this job was no change whatsoever.”

  Goodman and Dorsey expressed their condolences for the carnations.

  “Well, I guess it could have been worse,” said Mrs. Gargoyle philosophically. “At least the little bast—I mean, uh, rascal took the flower heads with him or her, so I didn’t have to clean up anything. Damn kids,” she said again, shaking her head. “They’ll
be sorry when I catch them, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Any clues?” Good asked.

  “No, but I’ve got my suspicions,” she said darkly.

  “How about that other thing?” Dorsey said. “The vandalized sign out on the highway?”

  “The chief’s working that one himself at the mayor’s request,” Gargoyle said, rather pompously, Dorsey thought. “It’s a misdemeanor to deface government property. Plus, it makes the town look bad. What if tourists saw our sign looking like that? They’d probably keep right on going to Grover.”

  What tourists? Dorsey thought.

  Mrs. Gargoyle continued, “I’d love to see somebody go to jail for that, I surely would.” She chomped on her gum with extra vigor to emphasize her deep feelings on the matter.

  “So who did it?” asked Good.

  “Luke’ll find out,” Gargoyle said with confidence as she raised her window and slowly cruised off.

  “The Crime of the Century,” Goodman said sardonically to his sister as they entered the bar.

  “Which one?” Dorsey replied with a laugh. “Her flowers or the highway sign?”

  “Take your pick.”

  The Hamlet was uncharacteristically busy for a Sunday evening, especially a rainy one. Maybe the rain had canceled other people’s plans like it had hers, Dorsey thought. As Good headed to the bar to get them a couple of draft beers, she grabbed the only open table, a booth right by the front door. There were only two other booths. The one next to her was occupied by four women with whom she’d gone to school, although they’d been a few years ahead of her: Courtney Flugelmeyer, Tanya Hartwell and two of the Lucchese sisters. All had been mainstays of the 4-H club in their day. They were smoking and laughing loudly. They looked more than a little drunk. Pitchers of beer—one full, one at half-mast and one empty—crowded their table, along with the remains of a pizza, which was the new house specialty. The owner had installed a pizza oven around the first of the year and so far, it was a big hit—the next closest pizza parlor was in Grover City. Dorsey sat down in her booth on the side farthest from them, her back to the front door, hoping they were too tipsy to notice her. The third booth was taken by two local farmers and their wives, having a night on the town by the looks of things. The air was warm with the smell of booze, pizza, cigarettes and damp flannel.

  Police Chief Luke Bergstrom, in jeans and a T-shirt, was playing pool with some guys from the grain elevator. The pool table took up most of the floor space in the small tavern. Besides the booths lining the front windows and the pool table in the middle, a bar ran the length of the room in the back, paralleling the booths. Seated at one end of the bar was Justin Argyle in his dirty jean jacket, morosely nursing a bottle of Coors. An empty seat separated him from some college boys, home for the summer. Country music was playing on the jukebox, but the sounds of many different conversations and the crack of the cue ball relegated it to the background.

  Good set down two tall chilled glasses of beer on the table, then slid into the other side of the booth.

  “Thanks, Good.”

  “Cheers,” he said. They both took a long and fortifying swig.

  “You know, Maggie could help you with those books,” Dorsey said, knowing how much he hated to ask for help.

  Good shook his head, frowning. “I’m sure she has a lot better things to do with her time than that. No, I’ll figure it out on my own. I always do, sooner or later.”

  A cool gust of air blew down the back of Dorsey’s neck as someone came in the bar.

  “Speaking of Maggie,” Good said, “isn’t that her cousin?”

  Dorsey half-turned in her seat. Sure enough, Sarah stood there in the entryway, a few raindrops glistening on her leather jacket and the lenses of her glasses. Her nose was wrinkled as she surveyed the dim room, although it was unclear whether that was due to the cigarette smoke, the people, the music or The Hamlet itself.

  “Sarah!” Dorsey raised her voice to be heard over the noise of the bar.

  Sarah turned in surprise at hearing her name. Her face lighted as she saw Dorsey sitting there. She crossed the few steps to their booth.

  “Hey, Dorsey,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Sarah, this is my brother Goodman. Good, meet Sarah.”

  Good stood up to shake her hand. “Nice to meet you, Sarah. Welcome to Romeo Falls. I think I saw you at the market with the Bigelows earlier.”

  An attractive young woman in town was bound to garner attention. The grapevine must be quivering with the news, thought Dorsey. And if Good knew who she was, then everyone must know.

  “Nice to meet you, Goodman.”

  “Would you like to join us?” he said, gesturing at Dorsey’s side of the booth. At six foot three and two hundred and fifty pounds, clearly no one else would fit on his side.

  “Oh, I don’t want to intrude…” Sarah began, casting an uncertain glance at Dorsey.

  “No, please join us,” said Dorsey with a smile, scooting back to make room. “Oh… unless you’re meeting someone else?”

  “No,” Sarah said with a laugh and to Dorsey’s great relief. She slid into the booth next to her, slipping out of her leather jacket to reveal the same sleeveless blouse she’d been wearing at brunch. It looked good with her jeans, Dorsey thought. Goodman was still on his feet, being a gentleman, although he looked more like a lumberjack in his beard and his bulk and his denim shirt.

  “Can I get you a beer?” he asked politely.

  Sarah smiled sweetly at him and said, “How about a glass of white wine instead?”

  Good hustled off to get it, apparently not impervious to the newcomer’s charms. Dorsey didn’t like that thought much.

  “Your brother seems nice,” Sarah said to Dorsey, who merely nodded while taking a sip of her beer.

  “And kind of cute too, if you go for the Mountain Man look,” Sarah added with a grin.

  “Do you?” Dorsey asked her, suddenly wondering if Sarah was bisexual or bi-curious or whatever people were calling it these days.

  “Me? No. Definitely no,” Sarah said firmly. She leaned in for a moment to speak directly into Dorsey’s ear. Her breath was warm on her neck, her arm pressing lightly against Dorsey’s breast. “I like girls, Dorsey. Just like you.” She leaned back, a smile playing about her lips, her blue eyes sparkling.

  Again with the possible double meaning, Dorsey thought with more than a hint of frustration. ‘Just like you’ meaning ‘I like girls just like you do’? Or ‘I like girls who are just like you’? Why couldn’t she just be clear… Or maybe she was clear and Dorsey couldn’t read the signals. Frankly, she often found other lesbians completely incomprehensible. Not that she knew many. She just wished she could figure out the secret handshake, or the magic password or whatever it was that allowed other gay women to communicate with ease, instead of always being the one left wondering… All she could do was go with her usual direct and honest approach, not that it had worked particularly well in the past. She took another sip of her beer to cover her confusion, then flicked a sidelong glance at Sarah, who was examining her surroundings with interest.

  Good returned with her glass of wine and eased himself back into the booth.

  “So where’s Maggie?” he asked Sarah, looking around to see if Maggie had come in while he’d been at the bar.

  “She and Aunt Viv have some kind of meeting tonight. Quilt circle or barn raising or something,” she said jokingly, rolling her eyes a little bit.

  “Quilt circle sounds more plausible,” Good said dryly.

  “Yeah, I guess so. They invited me to go, but honestly, I needed some alone time. Don’t get me wrong, I love Mags and Aunt Viv to death, but I’m used to spending a lot of time by myself. Of course, then I remembered there’s not a drop of booze to be found in Aunt Viv’s house. So when it stopped raining, I thought I’d take a walk and see if I could find a place to have a glass of wine somewhere.”

  “Well, you found it,” Dorsey said. “T
he only bar in Romeo Falls.”

  “The Hamlet,” Sarah said. “So is this town full of Shakespeare references? I haven’t noticed any others.”

  “Nope, this is the only one. And I don’t think the owners meant it as such when they named it The Hamlet. It just turned out that way.”

  Good intoned, “Two beers or not two beers…”

  Dorsey joined him on the punch line. “That is the question.” They clinked their glasses together. Sarah laughed, more at their interaction than the lame joke. She took a small sip of her wine, then wrinkled her nose again as smoke from the 4-Hers’ booth eddied over their table.

  “Sorry about that,” said Good, waving a big hand in the air as if that would chase away the smoke. “You’re from Chicago, right? I hear you can’t smoke in the bars up there anymore, is that right?”

  “That’s true. That’s one thing I hate about small towns. Oh, sorry!” Sarah caught herself with a rueful grin. “That came out kind of rude. I’m sorry—Romeo Falls is lovely, really. I’ve always wanted to come here. I heard so much about it when I was a kid from Maggie that I kind of pictured it like…like…I don’t know, like a perfect little slice of heaven, I guess.” She laughed, as if at herself and her childhood vision of a midwestern paradise.