As we started down the sidewalk I got a view of his always-ironic bib and tucker: a blue long-sleeved T-shirt with the words Licensed to Thrill, gray man-joggers, which gave his legs the silhouette of a satyr, and the same white high-tops he had on the other day. However, they no longer looked brand new—the left one had a big blue splotch on the toe.
“Spill something on your new shoes?” I asked as we took the short walk over to Inviting Praise.
He looked down. “Oh, yeah. Shame too, these are brand new. I have a collection, did you know?”
I wanted to ask Why the hell would I know you collect shoes? but what I said was, “Really?”
“Thirty-two pairs. All Nikes.” He said this proudly, then looked down again and frowned. “Me and Aunt Shaylene were out touring Roy G. Biv’s manufacturing facility and some clumsy hayseed spilled dye on me.”
Roy G. Biv? That was the elementary school mnemonic for the colors of the spectrum. The thought that somebody named their kid that made me laugh.
“It’s not funny, these shoes cost more than you make in a week.”
“I wasn’t laughing at you,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I was laughing because who would name their son Roy G. Biv?”
“It’s not a person, Riley, it’s a company.” Toby’s voice dripped with condescension. “A textile dye shop in West Virginia.”
We arrived at Inviting Praise and Toby took out his keys, unlocked the door, and let me inside. It was still before shop hours, so Toby locked the door behind us and led me through the darkened store to Mayor Lancett’s office in the back. He flicked on the lights and motioned for me to have a seat in one of the two chairs that sat opposite the mayor’s desk. He then settled himself in his aunt’s chair, which I got the distinct feeling was against the rules.
He sat behind the large white desk and just looked at me. He hadn’t offered me any tea or water and we sat in awkward silence, both of us with nothing to say. After a couple of uncomfortable moments I said, “So, what were you guys doing over in West Virginia?”
“Roy G. Biv is looking to move their manufacturing plant, and they’re considering Tuttle County. We went to go check it out.”
“Really?” I asked, the reporter in me perking up. Presumably the company’s move would create jobs, generate tax revenue, boost local businesses, and augment the housing market. This could mean big things for our small town—and would be a huge win for the mayor.
“What do they manufacture?”
“Duh, they’re a dye factory. They make dye—you know, for fabrics and such.”
I didn’t think this information was such common knowledge that I deserved to be duh’d, but I ignored that. Toby had piqued my curiosity.
“So cat’s out of the bag, I see.” Mayor Lancett appeared in the doorway, scowling at her nephew. Her voice was soft and feathery, even in allegation.
Toby’s face went pale. “Oh, hey, I didn’t—”
She held up her hand and he immediately stopped talking. “It’s fine. I was planning on announcing it soon anyhow.”
As if he suddenly realized where he was sitting, Toby stood up in a hurry and knocked his knee on the edge of the desk. “Goddammit!”
“Toby, language!”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Shaylene,” Toby said, sounding like an eleven-year-old kid.
“Please give Riley and me a minute alone.”
CHAPTER 36
Toby scuttled out of the room as Shaylene walked around her desk and took a minute to straighten the Muppets figurines that lined the edge before she sat down. Then she pulled open the top drawer, took out one of those little antibacterial wipes in the small square envelopes, ripped it open, and wiped off the surface of her desk and the armrests of her chair.
“Now then.” She looked at me the way one might look at a wounded bird that had landed on their doorstep. “How are you doing, Riley? Really.”
“I’m fine,” I said, a little uneasily. “Really.”
“That must have been terrifying,” she said, shaking her head. “I just can’t understand what is going on in this town lately.”
“I’m sure Sheriff Haight will get to the bottom of things,” I said.
“I certainly hope so.” And then she straightened herself up and clasped her hands in front of her on the desk. “Now then, you wanted a quote for Arthur Davenport’s obituary.”
“Well, actually . . .” I wanted to say It was you who wanted to be quoted, but I didn’t want to start off the conversation in such an adversarial way. So instead I said, “I’ve heard from a couple of sources that you and Arthur had been close, but then something happened.”
Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing.
I prodded. “I was wondering if you could tell me more about that.”
“Sometimes this town is just too small.” She said this almost under her breath, but I was certain she’d meant for me to hear. And then she said louder, “You’ll probably find out sooner or later, so I might as well get it over with.”
It turned out that once again, part of what I knew was true. I just didn’t have the whole story. Shaylene Lancett and Arthur Davenport had been high school sweethearts. They dated for two years in high school but broke things off when Arthur left for college (he was a year ahead of her). She said the breakup had been both mutual and amicable. While at school in North Carolina, Arthur met and married Maribelle, Thad and David’s mother, and brought her back to live in Tuttle once he finished medical school. Shaylene said that after that, they remained friendly, but didn’t socialize.
“I married much later in life, as you know, and I don’t think Maribelle liked the idea of her husband spending time with an unmarried ex-girlfriend—understandably. But after she passed away, Arthur leaned on me for support.”
I wonder what she meant by leaned. “So did you and Arthur ever rekindle the old flame, you know, after Maribelle passed
