Reuben The Skirt Man

1. Auflage 2012
ISBN: 978-0-9662868-8-5
Verlag: Bernard Street Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet/DL/kein Kopierschutz

E-Book, Englisch, 210 Seiten

Morgan Mason attracts more than a few stares when he drives through town on his ramshackle tractor wearing a skirt. His sister is mortified, his neighbor resents the Skirt Man's interference, and a local preservationist is horrified by Morgan's huge satellite dish. When the Skirt Man is killed in a tragic house fire, State Trooper Sebastian Bly and Fire Marshal Billy Nightingale are called in to investigate what some say is a case of spontaneous human combustion. Charred wood and chair remnants at the fire scene lead Sebastian and Billy to uncover clues that reveal hidden conflicts and a shocking discovery that will change the lives of everyone in Killdeer. Bringing back the brave and imaginative family team from Tabula Rasa, author and fire investigator Shelly Reuben fans the flames of small-town passion and breathes life into an unusual local hero.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Reuben, Shelly

Leseproben

CHAPTER 4 BY THE TIME my daughter was eighteen years old, she was already touring with the Manhattan Delacourte Ballet Theater and had danced in lead roles in Philadelphia, Chicago, New Orleans, San Francisco, Los Angeles, and Dallas. And, pardon me if I brag, just a few weeks before the benefit for the Killdeer Town Hall, Merry had come back from a tour that included London, Paris, Milan, and Madrid. So, even though it was fun for her to perform in a high school auditorium not far from where she grew up, it was not exactly the high point in her career. That Merry was dancing in Killdeer at all was actually a bit of a fluke. Her former teacher, Arabella McKenzie, who’d had a brief but torrid love affair with my brother, Billy, had originally agreed to donate her own time and talent, but at the last minute had been invited to appear as guest artist in a new incarnation of the old Ballets Russes de Monte Carlo. As a dancer, this was an offer that Arabella felt she could not afford to refuse. Which left the town hall benefit in a bit of a bind. Arabella knew that Merry would be on summer break, so she asked her former student if she could or would—”Please, dear. It would mean so much to me”—take over the job. She offered Merry the use of any or all of her students, costumes, sets, the dancers from her Lyric Ballet Company, and even (she was either desperate or joking) her bicycle, jewelry, goldfish, cell phone, and herbal shampoo. Merry agreed. She selected her own program and decided to present abbreviated versions of two of Arabella’s ballets—sweet things based on O. Henry stories. To help with sets, props, and lighting, Merry was given permission by the head of the drama department at Killdeer High School to appeal personally to the junior and senior classes and ask for volunteers. At the time these events occurred, Merry was all of nineteen years old—not exactly an age anyone would categorize as “older woman.” That, however, is exactly what she seemed to be to Sonny and Moses Dillenbeck when they saw her for the first time. She was standing at the head of their class, less than fifteen feet away. She was a famous (well, to them if not yet the world) ballerina, wearing a frothy, pastel summer dress and looking every bit as substantial as a sigh. She was an exquisite, fairylike creature, and she was asking them (neither could believe their ears) for their help. Their hearts flopped out of their chests and dropped like water balloons to the floor. It was love at first sight. The clincher for Sonny was Merry’s pale porcelain complexion, long swan neck, and the fragile symmetry of her bones. For Moe, it was her huge brown eyes, her delicately chiseled nose, and the uninhibited tangle of her wild red hair. They trampled the other boys out of the way, climbed over six desks, and literally fell at her feet. Sonny Dillenbeck was seventeen years old and he was white, as in Caucasian. Moe was a month older; he was six feet three inches tall, slim, muscular, and black, as in Negro. When they were still toddlers, Moe’s father, Boyd, fell in love with Sonny’s mother, Netty. They got married, adopted each other’s children, marveled that the boys were so similar in outlook and disposition, and began to call them psychic twins. Sonny had dark blond hair, gold-flecked hazel eyes, and a strong jaw. He also had a set of really adorable dimples that popped out—or was it in?—when he smiled, and he smiled often because he was a happy guy. Sonny had gravitated toward the theater because he intended to be an actor when he grew up. So, aside from his ulterior motive of wanting to breathe the same air that Merry did, it was natural that he would respond to her appeal. Moe’s grandfather, Rufus, the one who was hit by a bolt of lightning, had spent thirty years in the New York City Fire Department before he opened the hardware store in Killdeer. Moe’s childhood had been filled with stories of alarms going off in the middle of the night, daring and dangerous search-and-rescue operations, and the brotherhood of firemen. By the time he was six years old, Moe knew that, like his grandpa, he was going to be a fireman, too. Moe had a huge nose, tousled black hair, a dopey smile, gargantuan feet, and beautiful hands. He never would have wanted to have anything to do with the stage, except that he had taken one look at Merry and, like Sonny, his heart had done a belly flop to the floor. That Merry got a big kick out of being an adored “older woman” goes without saying. After all, she is my daughter. On top of that, Sonny and Moe’s antics when they weren’t moving sets, arranging props, or operating spotlights made her laugh so hard that, twice, she almost fell out of her chair. Those of you who don’t know Merry won’t appreciate how unusual this was, as Meredith Bly, although she does have a sense of humor, has never been a slap-her-thigh and yuk-it-up kind of a girl. Merry, in fact, is well known for her composure, her poise, her elegance, and her reserve. Well, Sonny and Moe made short shrift of that. Observing the progression of this three-sided love affair, Sebastian developed the theory that Sonny and Moe weren’t really in love with Meredith at all; they were just hopelessly addicted to making her laugh. Two goofy seventeen-year-olds who even think that they are in love were a perfect antidote to the unrelenting discipline and fanatical purposefulness of ballet. Sonny asked Merry if she would marry him after he grew up and became a famous movie star. She laughed. Moe asked Merry to become his wife instead and be the mother to his future children. All seven of them. She spilled coffee down the front of her leotard. Sonny asked her to marry Moe. Moe asked her to marry Sonny. They followed her around like knights in shining armor on sick leave from common sense. When Merry rehearsed, they sat in the first row of the auditorium and gazed up at her with lovesick eyes. Sonny would elbow Moe in the ribs and say, “Isn’t she great?” Moe would elbow Sonny in the ribs and say, “That’s my future wife.” Their pride and joy in her performance on the night of the benefit would probably have caused them to burst blood vessels if they hadn’t found an outlet for their feelings. They could not afford the jewels, flowers, and champagne that typical Stage-Door Johnnies showered on the object of their affection. But they did manage to present Merry with something meaningful. Something memorable. Something that nobody else in the whole world would ever have thought to give her. Their means of acquiring their objective was not entirely judicious, but once it had been obtained, they adorned it in a way they thought appropriate, tucked it under a blanket in a wicker basket, and after Merry had finished a dazzling performance to a standing ovation, brought it to her backstage. Their idea of an appropriate tribute was a four-week-old pygmy goat. Not a stuffed toy pygmy goat. The real thing. Bleating. Breathing. Alive. There are two reasons why I have gone on here at such length about Sonny and Moe’s infatuation with our daughter. One is that I like to write about Merry and would manufacture excuses to do so even if I did not have real reasons. Two is that, because they were in the launch position to give her a goat, the boys were less than four feet away from us when Gerry Gilbert, assistant chief of the Killdeer Volunteer Fire Department—and my manicurist’s husband—clattered anxiously up the backstage stairs. Two strides behind Gerry was a huffing, puffing Creedmore Snowdon, our absentee host of the evening. His usually perfectly combed hair was tousled, his white linen suit was dirty, and his soft face was flushed with excitement, fear, and nerves. There was a thin coating of what looked like gray dust on his shoes, and his paisley bow tie was dangling at an angle that would not have been allowed under any Adam’s apple in Gentleman’s Quarterly. “Sebastian,” Gerry said gruffly, one of his calloused truck-driver hands grabbing for my husband’s arm. “We got a problem.” Sebastian gave Merry a kiss and a hug, said, “Excuse me,” and moved over to join the assistant chief. I followed. So did my brother, Billy Nightingale. So did Merry, Sonny Dillenbeck, Moses Dillenbeck, and the goat. Since Sebastian was used to us, and since he hadn’t noticed Sonny and Moe, he said, “Yeah, Gerry?” as if none of us were there. Killdeer’s assistant fire chief, who was also accustomed to Bly family togetherness, ignored us as well. He said, “Mr. Snowdon here just came from old Morgan Mason’s house. He saw smoke when he was driving by, and stopped. He says he was able to get inside as far as the living room, but that the Skirt Man was already dead.” Creedmore Snowdon, who had been scowling impatiently during the assistant chief’s recital, could hold it in no longer and burst out, “I tried to call 911.” His voice was both aggressive and whiny at the same time. “I couldn’t get a signal on my cell phone. It doesn’t—” Gerry cut him off. “Most of our guys were in the audience just now, Sebastian. Ralph went over to sound the alarm. I told the chief I’d join them at the firehouse in—” The loud and melancholy wail of a siren broke off his...