Judy Nickles's Blog, page 9

The time has come, the walrus said...OR...The perils of publishing...

With the writing conference and other responsibilities behind me, I awoke on Monday morning knowing the time had come...time to get the first two Penelope Pembroke Cozy Mysteries formatted and uploaded to Kindle. It has not been a fun time. Finally, last night, I uploaded the file and received the wonderful message of ZERO problems found! Time to celebrate, right?



Not. On review, I found two problems:  blank pages where there should have been none and chapter headings starting too far down the page. Fixed those. Still have a page number problem to work out. It seems if I have alternating headers on odd and even pages, the page numbers want to alternate, too. However, a friend sent me some info which, at a quick glance, seems to address the problem, and I'll be tackling it today.



My first task everyday (for a while) is typing 28 pages of the "K" marriages of the county which will go in this year's genealogical society book of which I am the new editor. I figure one page a day will get the task done, and someone has already offered to proof the records. It takes about an hour per page, entering the information into an Excel spreadsheet, not an onerous task by any means, but deciphering some of the handwriting as far as name spellings requires a magnifying glass--and will require discussion/opinion during the proofreading process.



I digress. My goal is to launch the first two books of the Penelope Pembroke series around the 17th of June. During formatting breaks, I'm working on the social media angle for publicizing said launch, but I have plans for something a bit more "out there" for launch day. Stay tuned.



Meanwhile, visit my website to read the first chapter of Book 1 The Bogus Biker and also the first chapter of Book 2 The Stubborn Schoolhouse Spirit. Both books will be available free at one time or another and, I believe, available for lending. Books 3 and 4 are scheduled for July, followed by Books 5 and 6 in August.



After that, plans are to launch The Dreamland Series. Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland  was a free read for 30 days here at The Word Place. It will be followed by Under the Sil'vry Moon  and Come with the Love Light Gleaming.  



And, as I settle in for the winter, The Kate Chronicles will become available in short volumes of 6-8 stories with appropriate pricing.



Busy is a good thing to be. Besides, I'm having the time of my life!

Memorial Day--Going, Going, Gone?

It's all been said before--and I've repeated it time and again in one blog or another. This year, though, in light of current events, I have a question:



Have we dishonored those who gave up all their tomorrows for our todays?



It seems that way to me.



We are a more divided nation than ever before. Politicians and the news media scream epithets and turn a blind eye to corruption, and a large percentage of citizens don't bother to vote or educate themselves about what's going on in America today. And, may I just add, the aforementioned elites collect salaries and benefits unrealized by most citizens and paid for by those who can ill-afford it.  For what? What do they do but dissemble, even outright lie, and keep their profiles in the limelight? Certainly they do little if anything for the people they are elected/hired to serve.



In light of the recent scandals, it seems to me our freedoms are dangerously close to being eroded forever--and not from an outside enemy but rather from one within.



  "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." (Edmund Burke)



So where are the good men (and women)? Where am I? Where is their drive to do something? Where is mine?



"And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free." (NEB, John 8:32)



Even if you don't subscribe to the Bible, the premise is undeniable. Experience tells us that lies enslave us. The truth endures; lies are changed to fit the time and place.



"Those who do not remember the past are doomed to repeat it." (Georges Santayana)



We have spawned and continue to coddle generations who can't remember the past because they know nothing about it. Ignorance isn't a defense--but it's a good offense. Keep the sheep in the dark, and they will follow whoever comes along with the promise of sunlight and green grass.



I have said this before, too:  America isn't perfect. Far from it. But it was built on hope for the best, and I'm old enough to have seen mistakes rectified and progress made in many areas. Now I see us sliding back into the shadows, and I'm not alone.



This blog is my vehicle for communicating my fears, but I am only one.



Are there two out there? Three? More? Where is the courage of the men and women who fought and died for the future of this country? Just because we aren't in uniform doesn't mean we can't stand up and be counted where we are. If we don't, evil will triumph, and in order to survive, we will have to become evil, too.



I won't live that long, but my grandchildren will. Yes, times change, but ideals don't. They don't change, but they die--are slaughtered and buried and replaced with mindless propaganda.



I've made the decision to speak out.

Lesson Plans and Marketing Strategies

During the last few years of my teaching career, new lesson plan guidelines came down from on high. Instead of spending my time creating materials, I spent my time writing down information as detailed as I'm sure went into the strategic planning of D-Day. It was just so much paperwork, of course, to cover backsides. unmentioned here. However, not to be beaten, I persevered and developed an easily-filled out form to cover all the bases and still allow myself time to be a real teacher rather than a drone.



But I digress.



Now I'm faced with mapping a major marketing campaign for my new Penelope Pembroke Cozy Mystery Series which should launch two books at a time beginning next month. I want to get the word out, want to find readers to read #1, which will be free for a time, because I feel confident #1 will make folks want to read #2 and so on. I have confidence in my 'product' just as I had confidence in my ability to organize and teach classes. But, like those annoyingly unnecessary lesson plan requirements, I want to dispense with unnecessary and redundant activities which might look good on paper but won't really get the job done.



To that end, I'm re-reading tons of ebook marketing information collected over the years as well as finding new ideas. One of the best books I've read lately is Dana Lynn Smith's Virtual Book Tour Magic: The Secrets to Planning a Successful Book Promotion Tour.  (Also check out her other books at Amazon--I'd recommend them all.)



So a book tour is first on my list of strategies to implement. (If you'd be interested in hosting me for a day or even more and/or reviewing the Penelope books, contact me judy at judynickles dot com.  I'm offering free pdfs of all six books and reciprocal exposure here at The Word Place.)



A book tour is only the tip of the iceberg though. That's where I'm teetering now, on the tip, with the prospect of sliding down its cold face and leaving my mark along the way before plunging into the watery abyss of ebook authorship.



Chapter 1 of The Bogus Biker has been a free read on my website. Now I'm offering Chapter 2.



Are you an ebook author? How did you approach marketing your puppies?

The Trouble with Writing

The trouble with writing is

you can never finish.

No matter how much you write,

there's always more to be written:

another scene,

another conversation,

another crisis

lurking in the wings

of the writer's mind.



The trouble with a story is

it never ends.

So if you think you've written the last chapter

of your Great American Novel,

solved the problems,

killed off the villains,

wedded the heroes,

and tied up the loose ends

of all the characters' lives,

you are mistaken.



After the book has gone to print,

you will lie awake and think of more.

You will dream of the unwritten scenes

and the unspoken words.

In your mind,

the story will go on forever.



It isn't over because

you aren't over,

and as long as you live,

your story will live, too.

A Fragile Thing

This afternoon I picked up the small person (age 5, almost 6) from school. We were nearing the cut-off for home when she cried out, "I left my frog at school!" Making a long story short, it was a paper frog she'd made in school, and she'd left it on the sidewalk in the pick-up line. Despite my reassurances that it would be picked up (though I didn't add, "and probably trashed"), she wailed, "He'll blow away!"



I explained that we couldn't go back for him. In truth, we could, but it was a long way, and after-school traffic is horrendous. When I turned onto the cut-off, she subsided into quiet, hiccuping sobs. Clearly, her small heart was breaking..



So, of course, I found a place to turn around.



Everyone had gone when we reached the school, but she spied her paper plate frog, complete with green construction paper legs and a long red tongue, propped against the wall in the pick-up area. Her face brightened, and she hopped out to retrieve her fly-eating friend. Happiness reigned as she climbed back into the car.



I felt happy, too.



It was only a paper frog, but it was her frog. And I am her Mimi, someone she trusts to love her and do the best for her. When it comes to sweet treats and rules, I hold firm, so she doesn't beg treats or break rules. But when it comes to matters of the heart...a few extra miles and minutes don't really matter...and someday she'll remember that today I shared her pain and did what I could to assuage it.



Children's hearts are fragile. Perhaps they mend, but maybe it's best not to break them at all.

What defines us?

I was heartened to learn that (some) Democrats had joined with Republicans in calling for further testimony after the Benghazi hearings today. I had almost arrived at the conclusion that politicians (any party) could not be true patriots because of their basic drive for re-election to power and perks. Perhaps that is changing. Perhaps the moral fiber of some elected public servants (and I stress the word servants) survives.



Lies have no place in the public forum. They weaken us as a people and as a country. Lies preclude the possibility of public trust. As an individual, if I catch someone in a lie, I must ultimately forgive them and accord them that magical 'second chance'. But deep within my human heart, I will never completely trust that person again.



We must be able to trust those we elect to speak for us. If they are only in office for themselves, it's time for them to vacate. We elect them. They are there for us and for the greater good of this country and the freedoms paid for with the blood of patriots.



Our Founding Fathers pledged "our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor" in the creation of our country. In many cases they forfeited the first two but certainly not the last. 



In the end, we cannot be defined by our political affiliations but rather by our common humanity and the fact we are all Americans. If we lose that, we lose ourselves.

If the facts don't fit, just make them!

I have been "doing" genealogical research since long before the internet ever came into being. I tramped cemeteries, knocked on doors of total strangers, plowed through unfiled papers in courthouses, copied countless records, and looked at miles of microfilm. What I know, I know. What is on the internet--not so much.



My great-great-grandmother was a Leatherwood before she married my great-great-grandfather by the same name. In the picture I have of them, they look like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum--not unusual considering that cousins often married back in the "old days". I can trace back at least two generations of my great-great-grandfather's heritage with reasonable certainly that it's correct. Beyond that, it's probably correct, but I'd need more records to be absolutely sure.



Julia Ann, on the other hand, seems to have sprung from the cabbage patch somewhere between SC and AL. However, on many posted family trees, she is listed as the daughter of two people who lived, died, and are buried in SC. They did indeed have a daughter named Julia Ann, with the third name Frances, born the same year as MY Julia Ann. She is NOT my Julia Ann. She married a man named Elias Corder and produced offspring--that much is documented in marriage and census records.



But nobody cares. Her name was Julia Ann, the birthdate is right, so by golly, she's the one! Please. I would LOVE for her to be their daughter. I have been looking so long, oh Lord, so long! But she's not.



I posted, then took down my own family tree from this site because people who saw it wanted to offer me "suggestions" for including more information. Not. If I can't prove it--or at least be reasonably certain based on the facts--I won't put it down. I didn't have time to read their "suggestions" and reply to them, usually with some degree of snark: e.g. I know where my father died, thank you very much. (And it's not where you say!)



Genealogy is much like working a jigsaw puzzle. Sometimes the piece appears to fit. Sometimes it actually does. Yet, on closer inspection, the picture is skewed, so it's back to the drawing board.



My subscription to this site expires in July, and I'm not renewing. I can access it through two local libraries, and that's sufficient for my research. In addition, I'm heading back out to Alabama and Mississippi in September and will visit local courthouses as well as research in the states' archives. And then, I'll keep my information to myself. Why not? Nobody cares so long as they can plug in names and dates on that blessed family tree!



The difference is--though I may have some blank spaces, what is there will be correct.



That's all!

Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland - Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN




            After
leaving the Drake sisters, I drove to Landers Market with the idea of getting
some snacks to keep in my room. Eating out was already getting old. I took my
time making a selection of fresh fruits and vegetables to keep in the small
refrigerator tucked under the television stand. Adding crackers, cheese, a set
of plastic ware, and some small paper plates, I found an empty check stand and
started through.

            The young
man who hurried up to sack my groceries had to be Danny Jefferson. “Hi, Danny,”
I said. “I’m Trixie. I went to school with your sister.”

            His sweet
smile stretched his face almost from ear to ear. “You know Dede?”

            “We went to
school together for twelve years,” I said.

            I noticed a
man hurrying over to stand behind Danny. “Any problem?” he asked. He wasn’t
smiling, and I knew he’d just implied any problem lay with me.

            “Of course
not,” I said. “I was just reminding Danny I went to school with his sister.”

            “She knows
Dede,” Danny said to the man whose nametag bore the title MANAGER.

            The man
unbent slightly. “We’re kinda protective of Dan here,” he said. “He’s one of
our best employees.”

            Danny
beamed.

            “I’m not
surprised,” I said. I swiped my credit card and signed my name on the screen.

            “Do you
need help out?” Danny asked automatically even though I had only two small
bags.

            “No, but
thanks,” I said. “And be sure to tell your sister you saw me. Tell her I’ll be
around a while.”

            “I’ll tell
Dede,” he said. “Bye, Trixie.”

            “Bye,
Danny.”

            The manager
followed me to the door. “Sorry,” he said, “but lately there’ve been a couple
of people in here who’ve treated Dan wrong. We’re all keeping an eye out.”

            “It’s too
bad you have to do that,” I said. “But I’m glad you do. I know his family
appreciates it.”

            The manager
nodded. “Thanks. And come back.”

*****

            I put away
my groceries and sat down with some grapes and a bottle of water. I’d missed
the evening news, but I flipped through the channels until I found a
documentary on the history of the old West. It made me remember what one of the
Drakes had told me about my grandfather’s building. I was still trying to
process the startling new information. It had never occurred to me that
Dreamland had any kind of western history. Maybe I’d look up Candace King,
lately Langworth, and see what other gems she’d unearthed.

            At nine I
went across the street to the Twilight where Rudy motioned to me from the back
booth. “So how was your day?”

            I told him
again about meeting Mitch Langworth, adding “His wife died last year. It’s easy
to tell he’s still grieving.”

            “Any kids?”

            “He didn’t mention
any. He seems like a nice person.”

            “Unlike his
father. Did you see the Misses Drake?”

            “I did, and
what they told me makes me mad just thinking about it. They didn’t let their
lease go because of age or health. They’re only in their early 60s, I’d think,
and they’re not dumb.”

            “No?”

            “Absolutely
not. They’ve run various businesses all their lives and still have one in
Little Rock which is managed by someone else. They moved down here to get out
of the city.”

            “So why did
they bail on their lease?”

            “Someone
ran them out…made them think the place was haunted.”

            “Haunted?”
Rudy hooted. “That’s crazy.”

            “Crazy like
a fox. I’ve worked enough in community theatre to know the tricks of the trade.
You can set something up to create almost any effect you want to. And remember
the back door wasn’t secure, although they did say they’d set a trap once to no
avail.” I detailed the incidents they’d shared with me.

            “Did they
call the police?”

            “Yes, much
good it did them. So after the last time when the lights went out, they didn’t
bother. I don’t blame them. You’d think Chief Everton would be right on
something like that.”

            “He’s
getting ready to retire, and he’s old as Methuselah.”

            “He is
not!”

            “Trix, he’s
seventy if he’s a day.”

            “Well…”

            “Okay, we
both know the place isn’t haunted, so let’s say for the sake of argument that
someone made the Drake sisters believe it is.”

            “Parker
Aiken, of course. Aided and abetted by Guy Langworth, I’ll bet.”

            Rudy shook
his head. “You’re reaching.”

            “They want
me to turn loose of that building, and they thought I would once I didn’t have
any tenants.”

            “They were
wrong?”

            “They were
wrong. I asked the sisters if they’d consider re-opening, and I’m going to turn
the upstairs into two loft apartments.”

            “Why?”

            “I don’t
like being pushed around.”

            “You may be
biting off more than you can chew.”

            “I’ll just
take smaller bites.”

            “Trixie, I
think you’re asking for trouble. Just take your money and run.”

            “I don’t
want their money, and I don’t run away from trouble. Ned taught me that. He
toughed it out with that aunt and uncle the judge made his guardians after his
parents dumped him and went off. They didn’t really want him either, so it was
a pretty bleak existence.”

            “Why did
his parents dump him?”

            “They were
kids who had a kid and couldn’t face up to the responsibility. His grandparents
were in poor health and couldn’t take him, so they more or less coerced the
aunt and her husband into taking him so he wouldn’t go to foster care.”

            “Are they
still alive?”

            “His
grandparents died and left him a tidy fortune. We agreed to squirrel it away
for the future and live on his military pay. I have it well-invested.” The
thought flitted through my mind that I shouldn’t be sharing so much personal
information with Rudy.

            “What about
his parents?”

            “Nobody
ever knew where they went. They may be dead, too.”

            “I was
lucky,” Rudy said.

            “Yes, you
were. You had…have wonderful parents.”

            Then I told
him about running into Danny. “The manager was on me like a duck on a Junebug
when I spoke to him. He followed me out and told me there’d been some customers
lately who hadn’t treated Danny right. He didn’t say specifically what they’d
done or said, but I can guess.”

            Rudy
bristled. “I better not ever catch anybody doing him wrong. They’d live to
regret it.”

            “You’re
fond of him then.”

            “He’s the
little brother I never had. If more people had the sweetness that Downs’ kids
are blessed with, the world would be a better place.”

            “I hope
things work out for you and Dee, Rudy, for all your sakes.”

            He nodded. “I’m
not giving up. And thanks for telling me about Danny. He hasn’t said anything
about it, but I’m going to talk to the manager at Landers tomorrow and ask him
what happened. I need to know.”

            It was
after eleven when Rudy watched me cross the street to the Lloyd House. As I
passed the desk, the clerk called my name. “Someone left a message for you,
Mrs. Blake.”

            In the
elevator I unfolded the paper. “Sorry I missed you. Give me a callback at this
number when you can.” The name above the time stamp was simply “Mitch.”

Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland - Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE




“Haunted!” I almost choked on my
cold drink.

“That’s what I said.”

            “You’re
joking…aren’t you?”

            “Yes and
no,” Letha said. “But it’s why we left.”

            “Mr. White
said your health…”

            Letha waved
away the suggestion. “I had polio as a child. I still walk some with braces and
crutches, but the chair is easier and more comfortable. It doesn’t keep me from
doing what I want to. It didn’t keep me from working in the Sparkle Shoppe.”

            “Would you
mind telling me what convinced you it was haunted?” I asked, hoping my tone
didn’t convey the idea I thought they were certifiable.

            “The noises
upstairs for one thing,” Letha said.

            “Mice
maybe?” I offered.

            “Wearing
boots?” Stella asked. “I saw the footprints in the dust.”

            “You’ll
pardon me for saying so, but I never heard of ghosts wearing boots.”

            “Candace at
the historical society did some research for us. The building was a saloon when
it was built around the turn of the century.”

            “Wait a
minute…my grandfather built the Quimby Building just before the Depression hit
in 1929.”

            Letha shook
her head. “He bought it and remodeled it then, but it was built as a saloon in
1901. The Rimfire Saloon.”

            I shook my
head. “I can’t believe it.”

            “Go talk to
Candace King. She’ll show you the records.” Letha seemed pleased she’d shocked
me.

            “I will.
Oh, I will. All the more reason the building should be preserved.” I took
another sip of my drink. “What else made you think the place was haunted?”

            “We’re very
meticulous,” Letha said. “But we’d go in to open up in the morning and find
things moved around.”

            “Was
anything ever missing?” I asked.

            “Not a
thing,” Stella said. “But we’d find our receipts and other invoices scattered
around.”

            “It sounds
like someone playing a joke,” I said. “Actually, the lock on the back door was
easy to circumvent.” They looked startled. “I didn’t have a key the first day.
You can slip a credit card in and open the door.”

            “No one
came in through the back door. We set a trap to catch them, but it was never
sprung.”

            I decided
not to pursue that. “Did you report the…incidents…to the police?”

            “Oh, yes,”
Stella said. “Chief Everton sent a rookie out to look around, and we never
heard from him again.”

            “The shop
was doing so well we might have stuck it out,” Letha said, “except for the
last.”

            “Which
was?”

            “We were
doing inventory one night last fall, and it got dark on us. All of a sudden,
the lights went out, and we could feel cold air rushing around us, and then the
shrieks started. Unearthly sound that chilled my blood! I grabbed Letha’s chair
and made a run for the back door. The next morning we telephone Lawrence White
and told him we weren’t renewing our lease.”

            I
considered the scenario and had to work hard not to laugh. “You had the shop
how long—five years?”

            “About
that.”

            “But the…hauntings…only
started recently?”

            Letha
nodded. “About six months ago. We’re not stupid, Mrs. Blake, nor are we
superstitious. We’re not saying that spirits were at work, but something—or
someone—was. We’re seasoned business professionals. Stella and I have been in
business for ourselves since we finished college a year apart. We moved to
Dreamland from Little Rock to get away from the traffic and other things one
has to deal with in a large city.”

            Stella took
up the narrative. “We still own a shop there, but someone else manages it for
us. We’ll probably go back to Little Rock, although we don’t really want to.”

            I tried to
approach the subject diplomatically, but there didn’t seem to be any way except
straight out. “Look, I’m not discounting what happened in the shop…what you
heard and felt…but you do know, don’t you, that someone is trying to buy up
property in the downtown area.”

            “We’d heard
rumors,” Stella said.

            “We don’t
really get out and socialize here,” Letha added. “So we’re not in the loop as I
believe you younger people say.”

            I smiled.
“Right. In the loop. I’m here trying to get in, actually. But my point is, did
it ever occur to you that someone was trying to get you to vacate that building
so I’d finally sell it?”

            “Of course,
it did,” Letha said. “But the risk to our mental and physical safety wasn’t
worth sticking it out.”

            “It’s easy
enough to arrange a haunting or whatever it was. Anybody with a little
theatrical expertise can do it. I know because I used to work in community
theatre when Ned…when my husband was alive.”

            “You’re a
widow?” Stella asked.

            “He was
career air force until he was killed in a training accident almost four years
ago.”

            “My husband
died in the last days of Viet Nam,” Letha said in a low voice. “We married just
out of high school before he enlisted. Stella’s husband was already there.”

            “He came
home,” Stella said, “but we were never able to get our marriage back the way it
had been. Regrettably, we divorced a year later.”

            “We use our
maiden name for business,” Letha added. “But we’re not two clueless maiden
ladies. That’s what you thought, didn’t you?”

            “I don’t
anymore.” Somehow I felt embraced. Few people understood what becoming a widow
at the age of twenty-seven really meant to a woman. Older women who’d been married
most of a lifetime could find plenty of support, but younger women, like me,
were expected to find another husband ASAP and go on.

            I set my
glass on the coaster Stella had placed on the table beside me. “I don’t want to
sell the Quimby Building. It has a lot of sentimental value for me. Besides,
I’m not sure gutting downtown and making it an industrial area is going to do
anything good for the town.” I studied their faces, the faces of new friends.
“Would the two of you consider re-opening if…I mean, I know your fixtures are
still there and…”

            “We’re
trying to arrange to have them picked up and taken to our shop in Little Rock,”
Letha said.

            “Re-open
the Sparkle Shoppe,” Stella mused.

            “Just think
about it,” I said. “I can’t tell you this minute I won’t end up selling, only
that I don’t want to. The upstairs would make two wonderful loft apartments. I
live in one above my own shop in Dallas.”

            “We’ll
consider everything you’ve said,” Stella replied. “No promises.”

            “But this
is just between us for now,” I said, rising from the chair. I handed them two
business cards. “You can reach me at the cell number. I’m staying at the Lloyd
House.”

            “For how
long?” Letha asked.

            “Until I
can get this business with the Quimby Building straightened out,” I said.

            Stella
walked me to the door. “Come by again, Trixie. It’s not easy being a young
widow—grass or otherwise—is it?”

            “No, it’s
not, Miss Drake.”

            “Stella.”

            I smiled.
“Stella.”

            “Letha and
are good listeners. We’ve been there.”

            I nodded,
feeling tears behind my eyes. “Thank you,” I said and hurried to my car.

           

Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland - Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT




            By the time
Mitch Langworth finished his late lunch, I knew a lot about him.  I especially recognized his still-raw grief
over the death of his wife because mine was only beginning to heal.

“I’m driving back to Little Rock this afternoon,” he said as
we strolled toward the main entry to the mall. “Are you staying with your
mother?”

            “I’d
intended to, but I’m at the Lloyd House. Three’s a crowd.”

            He frowned.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that they’re shacking up.”

            “Mother
said she didn’t intend to marry him.”

            “She’d be
number four.”

            “Four?”

            Mitch
nodded. “My mother—God rest her—put up with him until I was eleven. She died of
breast cancer. Then he married some tart he’d been running around with while
Mom was dying, and when she threw him over, he married Candace King. She caught
onto his shenanigans pretty quick and got an annulment. But she hung around
Dreamland, she and her daughter by her first marriage.”

            “How old is
the daughter?”

            “Early
twenties. We’re not really family, but I keep up with her. She works for the
county. Issues permits for stuff. You’ll run into Lindy eventually if you stay
around here. Candace doesn’t have to work. She’s big into the historical
society.”

            “So she’d
be one of those wanting to preserve downtown Dreamland?”

            “I guess
so.”

            “It was a
nice place to grow up, but it makes me sad to see how it’s changed.”

            “Well, all
towns change, but Dad and his cronies are hell-bent on totally restructuring
this one.”

            “Why is he
interested in Dreamland? He’s an outsider.”

            “He did
some oil development in Texas, but he ended up in Little Rock working as a
draftsman for a construction company. He was a little fish in a big pond, but
when he married Candace and moved to Dreamland about five years ago, he smelled
opportunity.”

            I fished my
car keys from my purse. “I hope you won’t take offense at what I’m going to ask
you, but even if you do, we probably won’t run into each other again, so…” I
took a deep breath. “Is your father honest?”

            He blew out
his breath. “He’s crooked as a dog’s hind leg, which is why I’m not involving
myself in any of his schemes. I worked hard for my law license, and I have a
reputation to protect.”

            “That’s
pretty blunt.”

            “You asked.
Oh, he stays just this side of breaking the law—any law anybody’s familiar
with, that is. But if there’s a buck to be made…if he can get any attention for
himself…” He shrugged.

            “How did
you turn out so different?”

            “I honestly
don’t know. My mother was a good person, and she kept me on the straight and
narrow as long as she lived. By then maybe I was old enough to see my father
for what he was…is.”

            I held out
my hand. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Mitch.”

            He nodded.
“I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Trixie Collier Blake. Hang in there.” Then he turned
and walked away.

*****

I drove to the Quimby Building and
used my key on the back door. Standing in the middle of the first floor, my
eyes on the abandoned antique showcases, I could visualize jewelry and other
small pieces displayed in them. Then I went upstairs and considered how the
empty space could be turned into two loft apartments.  Back in the car, I found Rudy’s business card
and punched in the numbers for his cell phone.

“How do I get in touch with the
Drake sisters?”

“Trixie? What are you…why do you
want to get in touch with them?”

“Just tell me how to do it.”

“Wait a minute. I’ll look up their
telephone number for you. They live over on Sumter Street, like the second
block…here it is, number 1501, and here’s their telephone number. Are you going
to call them?”

“Maybe I’ll just drop in on them.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m curious
about the time they spent in my grandfather’s building.”

“They ran a dress shop, for Pete’s
sake.”

“But why did they close it?”

“Health reasons I heard.”

“How old are they?”

“I don’t know, Trix. You go see them
and figure it out.”

“I met Mitch Langworth at the mall
today.”

“Guy’s son?”

“Do you know him?”

“No, but I knew Guy had one.”

“He told me his father had already
had three wives.”

“Jeez.”

“Okay, thanks for the info. I’m
going now.”

“Call me tonight. Or better still,
come over to the Twilight. I should be there from eight o’clock until closing.”

“Don’t you ever sleep?”

“Not much since Dee left.”

“I’m so sorry, Rudy. I’ll come over
tonight.”

Delores didn’t know what she’d
thrown over, I reflected as I headed for Sumter Street. Or maybe she did. Her
mother and her brother might need her right now, but did she have to leave her
husband to take care of them? And to work for Parker Aiken of all people?
Surely she wasn’t getting extra pay for…no, Rudy said she wasn’t like that, and
the school friend I remembered wouldn’t have considered it. But it was a darn
shame to see two nice people split up unnecessarily.

*****

            The woman
who opened the door of the house built in a fifties neighborhood didn’t look
old. Past middle age maybe but not old. “Miss Drake?” I asked politely.

            “I’m Stella
Drake.”

            “I’m Trixie
Collier Blake. You rented space in my grandfather’s building.”

            She paled.
“Is something wrong?”

            “No, no, I
just wanted to meet you. I thought you might tell me if there were any problems
with the building I should know about.”

            “Who is it,
Stella?” The voice calling from somewhere deep within the house didn’t sound
old either.

            Stella
Drake seemed to be taking my measure. “Come in,” she said, stepping back.

She led me down an uncarpeted hall to a paneled living area.
A woman in a wheelchair sat in the afternoon sunlight streaming through a bay
window. “This is my sister Letha. Letha, this is Mrs. Blake, the woman who owns
the building where we had our shop.”

            Letha looked
at me with the same trepidation as her sister. “Is there something wrong?”

            “Absolutely
nothing, Miss Drake. When Mr. White notified me the building was empty, I came
from Dallas to make a decision about what to do with it. I just wanted to meet
you and your sister, that’s all.”

            The two
sisters exchanged glances. “Please sit down, Mrs. Collier,” Letha said.
“Stella, I’m ready for my afternoon cola.”

            “Trixie,” I
said quickly. “Just Trixie.”

            Stella
brought a tray with three bottled sodas and three glasses of ice. I recognized
the stemmed glasses as American Fostoria and commented on them.

            “We have
quite a bit,” Stella said. “It belonged to our mother.”

            “It’s worth
a lot of money these days,” I said. “Some of the serving pieces are very
expensive.” When the women looked at each other again, I added, “I have an
antique shop in Dallas, so I know about things like that.”

            We sipped
our drinks in polite silence for a long minute. Then I tried again. “I just
wondered if you had any problems with the building when you were there.”

            “Not unless
you want to call being haunted a problem,” Stella snapped.