Outside, Mel looked up. The sky was a lurid blue mixed with gray. Perhaps it might rain. Perhaps it might not. The rest of the neighborhood was looking drenched. It might dry out by the middle of the day if it didn’t rain again. Absently, she patted her tote, glad that she had an umbrella. Stuart tucked his hands into his jeans pockets and whistled tunelessly as they took the car downtown and found a parking spot in a small alleyway next to the local bank.
“Did you keep Mad Dog’s beads back at the bed and breakfast?” Stuart asked as they got out of the car. They stood at their respective doors, feeling somewhat reluctant to part ways, to work on what they were supposed to come to town for.
“Actually, they’re with me,” Mel replied. “Should I have left them back there?”
“No. It is probably a good idea to bring them with you. Do you think you’ll be visiting that guy Ida Townsend said sold her that clock?”
“Maybe, if I have time. Are you thinking of checking this guy out?”
“If I have time. Although if you get to him first…”
“Yeah.” She frowned and looked down Main Street. A few people were out walking down the streets, going to the stores. A few tourists took pictures of something that she couldn’t quite make out. She felt hesitant to really say what they were planning to do. Perhaps the problem was that they were too much out in the open. Anyone could eavesdrop. “Maybe I’m too paranoid,” she said finally. “Maybe we could talk about this further tonight. I wonder if the bed and breakfast has a private study or something.”
“Or if all fails, we could use my room,” Stuart grinned.
Mel found herself laughing softly. “Maybe I should have expected you to say that.”
Stuart walked off, heading south to the squat white building next to the church, the city hall, to see if he could reach any of the organizers of the Harvest Festival.
She took out her camera. It felt comfortable in her hand as she strolled down the sidewalk, passing a small café filled with patrons in overalls and plaids, an office building with all the blinds drawn, and a craft store with dolls in frilly costumes dominating the front window. Up ahead was the town square. The Gavot Square wasn’t really square. It was actually round. At the center was a grass island decorated with a white-washed gazebo that was built in a plain design. Around the grass island was a road, a roundabout, in which the occasional car circled like a lazy vulture.
The square wasn’t empty. At the edge of the road, half lying on grass and sidewalk concrete, were the beginnings of stands for vendors. White canvas and metal poles laid strewn about seemingly in random patterns. A group of burly workers in dirty jeans and ripped shirts labored across the street putting up a tent. Even from where she was, Mel heard them grunting and cursing. At the round grass island, there weren’t any signs of white canvas although there were plenty of metal poles. The beginning of a scaffold was growing from ground up, covering the front side of the gazebo.
An old man sat in the gazebo, looking out and yelling directions to a second group of men working on the scaffold.
Mel took a few pictures although she wasn’t sure if they would turn out that interesting. If Mad Dog saw them, he would throw them out, she thought. With that rationale, she didn’t have to take the pictures. But if she didn’t, Mad Dog would chew her out for not taking them. Sometimes, she had the impression that Mad Dog actually liked throwing out the pictures she took. She took a deep breath trying to steady her temper. Of course she got mad whenever he did it. But getting mad now did no good, especially with the fact that the editor of Hot Tread was lying comatose in the hospital.
Eventually, she made her way toward the gazebo, narrowly missing a speeding white truck carrying a load of lumber. She made a wide circuit, though, avoiding the sweaty men lugging the metal poles. They didn’t look like the types who would welcome any interfering visitors, let alone a photographer, into their working space. From the opposite side, she approached the gazebo and walked up the stairs. From a corner, she took a picture of the old man directing the workers from behind. Her camera only emitted a soft click. The old man was still too wrapped up in his work to notice her.
Finally he lowered his hands, seemingly satisfied on the current phase of the work. Mel coughed to get his attention. “Excuse me, sir?”
He turned around. He was bald with tufts of gray hair sprouting from a place just above his ears. His nose was large and hooked and he squinted at her as if she were a tiny obnoxious beetle that had just landed on his dinner. He was wearing a pair of overalls, worn white at the shoulders and knees. He crossed his thin arms. “Yes?”
“I’m Mel Ang,” she began. She held out her hand for a handshake. The old man just stared at her fingers as if the beetle on his dinner had just turned a vivid shade of purple. “I’m a photographer working for a periodical in New Halis, Hot Tread.”
“Littleton,” the old man replied in a clipped voice. “Ron Littleton. And I’ve never heard of Hot Tread. What do you want?”
“I was wondering about all this construction. Is it for the Harvest Festival?”
The old man let out a string of expletives before he said, “Of course it’s for the Harvest Festival. It’s done every year so I don’t see why we have to build and tear everything down each year. Just leave the whole damn thing up year round.” His face was getting red as he puffed, “Stupid pagan festival. Church is good enough for me. It’s that stupid mayor, you know. I’d just like to throw the book at him.”
Mel stepped back, astounded by the old man’s sudden vitriol. “I had the impression that the Harvest Festival was a local tradition. Doesn’t it help increase business in the area?”
“You sound just like him!” Littleton yelled.
There was the pounding of footsteps on the gazebo stairs before a voice said, “Cool it, Ron. I think you’re getting sunstroke. And didn’t your doctor tell you to watch your blood pressure?” One of the construction workers had arrived at the gazebo, a sheaf of papers and a tape measure in hand. He nodded at Mel. “Morning, ma’am. Don’t mind Ron. He’s like this every year. You can take pictures wherever you like.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I was just curious as to what the scaffold was for.”
Littleton wiped his face with a red handkerchief he pulled out of his pocket. He sighed, trying to calm down his breathing. “The damn thing will be a platform. It’s where the Horned King and his consort is going to preside at the last day of the festival.”
Mel’s eyebrows knitted in thought. “Horned King?”
“It’s a contest,” the worker supplied. “Well, it’s actually several competitions starting on the first day of the festival which is tomorrow. The man who wins most of the contests gets to be crowned the Horned King. And then he chooses a woman to be his consort. They sit on top of the scaffold at the end of the festival to preside over the dancing and everything.” He flexed his muscles trying to show off. “I’ll be in the contests, although the past two years he has won.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Him,” the worker said, indicating another worker at the scaffold, who happened to be the largest and burliest of the bunch.
“Huh.” The past winner of the Harvest Festival competition looked up and waved at the people in the gazebo. Mel took a picture.
Littleton swore again and yelled, “Get back to work! I haven’t got all day.”
“Ron, what did I tell you about your blood pressure?”
“You sound like my wife,” the old man snarled. “So what is it that you wandered up here all the way for?”
The worker held up the sheaf of papers. “I think we’re short on lumber for the east end. You want me to go up to Callas to see if we can round up some more.”
The old man took a deep breath. “Do whatever you want. But you’d better run that through Lloyd first. He’s in charge of the money.”
The worker said something, but Mel wasn’t paying attention. She had worked her way down the gazebo and made another circuit around the square. Everything’s under construction, she thought. Will it be done by tomorrow when the festival was going to start? Will the workers be able to round up enough lumber in Callas?
On the opposite side of Main Street now, she passed the local library—a brick-fronted and brass-knobed—and a tiny sweet-smelling bakery. Intrigued, she stepped into the bakery to look at the cake and scones and muffins displayed in neat rows on the counter. The woman at the cashier inquired if she needed any help. Mel only shook her head and just replied she wanted to take a picture. After fifteen minutes of finishing half a roll of film and thinking that all she had accomplished was to satisfy her obsession with organized food (Mad Dog would certainly laugh at her if she ever told him that), she sauntered back out of the bakery and spotted a sign.
McNab Furniture Emporium.
She stopped in her tracks. Would there be any answers at that quarter, she wondered. And suddenly she felt the beads weighing heavily in her tote bag.
The front of the furniture store was painted in a dark green, chipped and scrubbed away from the weather. The windows in front of the store were subtly caked with dirt giving the place a grimy, abandoned look. In display was a desk with a rolled top, two chairs carved out of a strange yellowish wood, and a chest of drawers with wrought iron handles in the shapes of snakes. There was a red open sign hanging on the door.
Mel pulled open the door and a small bell attached to the corner chimed softly as she stepped through into the dim interior. For a moment, she stood at the entrance, letting her eyes adjust. Tables and bureaus and desks and chairs littered the open floor in a haphazard fashion. Mel thought of the furniture showrooms back in New Halis. Those places were meticulously swept and well-lit, organized. Salespeople always greeted a customer at the door asking if they needed help. And besides from being organized, there were props on the display furniture like vases and dining placemats and fake cardboard televisions. The McNab Furniture Emporium was the exact opposite. Scattered. Dingy. Every single piece of furniture was bare of anything that would have made them look homey. Instead, they looked lonely. And where was the salesperson?
Gavot is a small town, she finally remembered. They probably didn’t get too many customers at a time here.
At the end of the showroom, Mel spotted a counter. Someone was lounging behind it, head buried in a graphic novel feature superheroes in tight spandex. She walked over to the counter. The person didn’t budge, perhaps too engrossed in his favorite comics. She hit the shiny service bell sitting on the counter. The ping, unlike the front door bell, cut through the stale air.
The person behind the counter suddenly sat up and the graphic novel flew out of his hands and landed on the floor with a thunk. The teenaged boy, curly dark hair and gangly frame, momentarily gaped at her in a daze before he managed to close his mouth. “Er, hello ma’am. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“I’m looking for Wally McNab.”
“Ah. Mr. McNab won’t be coming in today until close to closing time.”
“When’s closing time?”
“Five, ma’am. Are you here about a delivery?”
Mel glanced around the furniture store, noting that there was a darkened hallway on the right side of the store leading off to what she assumed to be an office at the back. “No, I’m not here for a delivery. I just have a couple of questions concerning the furniture he sells here.”
“Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“It’s a piece Mr. McNab sold about a year ago,” she replied nonchalantly.
The boy’s face fell. “Oh. I just started working here about six months ago.”
“I’ll come back,” Mel said. “Hopefully I can catch him before the store closes.”
