away that I knew had a copier. I scooped up my papers and shoveled them into my backpack.
'Want to walk?' he asked.
'And miss the chance to ride in that snappy vehicle? No way.'
'Top down?'
'Of course.' The car was a Sunbeam Alpine, white with a red leather interior. I waited while he collapsed the top and tucked it away.
He turned the key in the ignition, and, after a few false starts, the car sputtered to life.
Ehrlich's was an old-time pharmacy. A small sign in the window, next to a glass urn filled with colored liquid, read ESTABLISHED 1872. A woman who could have been one of the original cashiers told us the mimeo machine was located in the back, near the pharmacist's window. While Jonathan figured out how to use the copier, I nosed around.
The store looked as if it had been frozen in time. While most drugstores today carry flash drives, copy paper, and rainbow-colored condoms, Ehrlich's still sold individual hairnets in blond, black, and brown. Hair dye, shoe polish, yellowed greeting cards—everything looked old even if it wasn't. One display did look familiar—Bach Original Flower Remedies. My health food store had the same green wall rack.
Dr. Edward Bach was a general practitioner in London in the 1920s. By 1930, he'd left Harley Street to devote himself full time to research on natural remedies, identifying thirty-eight ailments and the thirty-eight plants and flowers he claimed could alleviate their symptoms. I'd heard about him from a dancer friend who swore by his essences to calm her nerves before performing.
I stood there reading about the different floral essences and how they were used—gentian, for feelings of discouragement; olive, for lack of energy; walnut, to help adjust to a new situation. Bach remedies had been around for seventy years. With more people turning to alternative medicine, I guessed they were seeing a resurgence.
'How's that copying coming?' I yelled to Jonathan, still reading. 'Do you have a future as a guy Friday?'
'Don't break my concentration, I'm on a roll.'
I felt a tap on my elbow and heard a faint, childlike voice behind me.
'Paula? I thought that was you.'
'How are you, Mrs. Stapley? Are you getting excited about the fund-raiser?'
'Oh, yes. So many RSVPs. Richard's had me order more food and party supplies. He's enjoying the fuss. He refers to it as troop movements.'
'Sounds like
'I was very fond of Dorothy. Richard, too. You know he built the stone wall there. No mortar,' she added proudly.
'I didn't know that.'
Chappell finished his copying and joined us at the cash register.
'Who's next?' the cashier asked.
I motioned for Margery to go first. She had just a few items, so basic as to make me think they were a cover for her real purchase—two small brown bottles of Bach Flower Essences—honeysuckle.
'I was just looking at those. Do they really work?'
'Yes, they do. I'm a firm believer in floral and herbal remedies,' Margery answered, her chin lifted. She sounded a little defiant, as if she expected me to contradict her.
She put the two small bottles in her purse while the clerk bagged the other items. 'Well, children, I'm off. More errands to run. Richard's bicycle is in the shop. I may surprise him and pick it up.'
'There's a sweet lady,' I said to Jon, as she left.
'Husband's kind of a prick, though,' he whispered. Once she'd gone, he continued. 'He was in the war, Korea. The way he parades around you'd think he'd stormed the beaches at Normandy.'
'What did he do before he retired?'
'Big-shot lawyer. He was a partner in Russell, Jenkins and Stapley.'
The cashier painstakingly counted out the copies, twice, as if fifteen cents one way or the other would make a huge difference in the day's take. 'You two probably never even heard of a mimeograph, have you?' the cashier said.
'Sure—some kind of Flintstonian copy machine,' Jon said, putting his change and his receipt in a separate section of his wallet.
I kicked him on the way out.
'Look who's calling someone else a prick,' I whispered on our way out. 'What'd Richard ever do to you?'
'He squashed a couple of good stories. Didn't squash, really, but he was aggressively unhelpful.'
Chappell told me that two years ago there was a heated controversy in town about extending the downtown sewer system. Most residents were against it, except for those who stood to make a profit from it. Stapley helped both sides reach a compromise, but it opened the door for increased development, which had yet to materialize but was threatening.
'Rumor had it Stapley had a silent interest in one of the companies looking to build, and he adamantly refused to be interviewed on the subject. I don't ordinarily hold a grudge, as you well know, but I made an exception in his case.'
'Well, you said yourself most people don't like to talk to the press.'
'There's a difference between personal stuff and community affairs. The public has a right to know,' he said with a straight face.
'Catchy. You make that up?'
'Chiaramonte was probably happy about the sewer deal, too. That run-down nursery of his must have tripled in value—he doesn't need to sell another . . .' He struggled to think of a flower.
'Honeysuckle,' I prompted.
The honeysuckle reminded me of something.
'Hold on a sec.' I ran back to the drugstore.
When I returned, Jon asked, 'So, what's it for? The Bach's honeysuckle?'
'To help 'stop yearning for the past.' And the poor dear needed two bottles.'
CHAPTER 33
Despite the efforts of Felix's high-powered lawyer, Hugo Jurado was still in custody, considered a flight risk. Anna Pena dutifully brought him clean shirts and socks. And empanadas, which the Springfield cops let him heat in their micro wave since she brought plenty for them, too.
The last word from Felix was that he had a scheme to find Yoly Rivera's mother, but that had been two weeks ago. Since then, I'd heard nothing.
Jon Chappell was also missing in action, but clearly he'd made more progress than either I or Felix. His first article had caused a sensation. And he followed it up. Like a determined terrier he'd dug up any scraps of information on the missing girl and had not let up.
Jon's biggest score had been finding a copy of one of Celinda Rivera's letters to Chief Anderson, which he published on the eve of the Historical Society's party. The story of Guido Chiaramonte's stabbing was relegated to the inside pages, and after thirty years, Celinda and Yoly Rivera were finally front-page news with the not-too- subtle headline WHERE'S MY DAUGHTER? A MOTHER'S ANGUISH. Chappell's editor seemed to be caving in to the younger man's tabloid tactics. I guess it was hard to argue with newsstand sales and with the results—it was all anyone in town could talk about.
The crowd at Penny's Nails was abuzz with gossip and theories. Penny's had six manicure stations and four pedicure stations, and there wasn't an empty seat in the house. The phone was ringing off the hook, and waiting clients were stacked up like airplanes at O'Hare. All in anticipation of that night's soiree at the Springfield Historical Society.
Among those getting buffed and waxed pre-party was Caroline Sturgis. She wiggled a paraffined hand in my direction and smiled before leaning in to whisper to a friend.
I would not have been there, perched in a vibrating pedicure chair with my pant legs rolled up and my whiter-than-white calves exposed, if Lucy Cavanaugh hadn't dragged me in. My heel marks were still visible in the
