Page 25 of Lake Hollow Curses

Remington James

My finest pardon is being begged. “Wait a damn minute.” I slap my hand down on the gravel alleyway. “I’ve been working half a day on this already, you’re telling me that I may have to cover it up?” Bright and early, I had all the paint, rollers, brushes, step stool, ladder, tarps, and the scaffolding that the Gibson family connections made happen ready, all set to make a masterpiece. Okay, to at least entertain the passing eyes.

Keenan stands over me with his hands on his hips. “Honey, if she shuts this down, we ride at dawn.” Turns out that Mayor Kelley’s pucker-faced wife, the area’s premiere real estate agent, caught wind of Ceily’s plans for me to paint a mural on the side of the building. Is she expecting a graphic design of penises? A field of penise’s blowing in the wind? A bevy of bared boobies? Why does she feel like I’ll do something terrible? Granted, the last time I saw her at Pop’s a week ago, my tongue was halfwaydown Cal’s throat, I was holding Charlie’s hand, and I had a frog with his little webbed middle finger up on the side of my hand.

Oh. I guess I can see the concern.

I’d sketched my plan out last night. Scrapping one after another, until Cal’s idea to go abstract stuck. That only made me turn weepy. We haven’t interacted since I found the picture. It’s only been two days, but his texts that I’ve left unanswered nag at me. How do I handle this?

Do I just ask him, “Hey, are you by any chance responsible for eight murders, scare tactics, hauntings, and who knows what else? Would that be you?” Sure. Sounds like a great way to go about it.

Why don’t I go totally scorched earth and announce my suspicions on the loudspeaker at work. Oh… work. There is no way to avoid seeing him, with my current schedule. I start texting all my co-workers that don’t normally work the same shifts as us, telling them I need to change my work schedule to paint the mural.

My eyes are puffy, my nose red, and I keep redirecting the conversation when Keenan asks what’s wrong. Loving them was going to break me, and I knew that. Carlotta’s letter was clear, the detective’s warning was clear, and I still held on. I used to think bulls were crazy for chasing red flags, but what did I go and do?

The entire three-story brick eastside wall of the Hidden Treasure’s building is completely primed with a white paint after Ceily had city workers spray off the building earlier in the week. Keenan’s been giving me moral support. After declaring he’d wield a mighty roller but nearly fell from the ladder when he was twerking to the radio, he became ground support. Covered in specks of paint, dirt, and sweat I almost collapse in the alley, after climbing down the scaffolding.

A tan Cadillac Escalade rolls to a stop on main street before the alley. Mayor Kelley’s wife climbs out in a sleeveless white linen and lace two-piece suit, sensible flats, looking stylish from the neck down. Her face has the usual pinched, sour look. “Miss James, hello, do you remember me?” Ugh, how could I forget? Her thinly veiled disgust over Wilder attending Carlotta’s funeral sticks with me.

Wiping my grubby hands on my already dirty suspenders is more for show than improvement, yet I do it anyway. “Of course.” I don’t often forget such a severe looking face accompanied by brittle smiles.

With any attempt at pleasantries out of the way she continues, “When Ceily told the town council what she was going to do, I thought it was a marvelous idea.” She throws her arms wide. It’s a challenge to keep myself from rolling my eyes. “We even suggested that there be a contest for the mural idea. There are so many wonderful local artists that could help.”

Her comment doesn’t hurt one bit, she doesn’t know me or what I’m capable of. “A contest? What did Ceily say?”

Keenan mutters behind his hand, “She called her a calamity.”

I whisper back, behind my hand, “Oh... that’s a good one. I like what she called Skip last week, a wobbly table.”

Mrs. Kelley seems oblivious to our side talk as she points to the town square gazebo and other landmarks that could be included. Ultimately, the building belongs to Ceily, they don’t have a say. “We think that any reference to the town’s tragedies should be avoided.” We. She’s here on behalf of the town council or has taken it upon herself. People like this are passive aggressive irritants. I try not to gape at her. Did she think I’d paint someone drowning?

“Naturally,” I say in a terse tone.

Before she can launch into another discussion about what should be painted or not painted on the brick wall next to her, Iunfold the piece of sketch paper tucked into my pocket. I extend it to her, she takes it with her fingertips, like I’m handing her a death threat or an anthrax laced missive. She needs to simmer down.

With a small gasp and her eyes widening, she pulls it in closer. “Did you draw this?”

My seventh attempt to sketch a plan for the wall landed on this. A vibrant purple and pink sunset with a walleye jumping into the air water droplets coming off it, two eagles off to the right, a gazebo surrounded by flower bushes, the old town bridge, a caricature of Skip leaning on the Flicks n’ Fun sign, a drive-in with a line of cars in front of it, a hole of golf with the windmill obstacle, a caricature of Ceily holding a treasure chest, the tower of St. James in the distance, Pop’s holding a bag of groceries, Talley with an ice cream cone, The Splash logo with music notes, and, proudly, I’ve hidden a nod to each of my guys… even Cal. Birds that are flying into the setting sun, hearts for wings.

The vibes of a lake and lakeside town… no lake painted.

She traces her finger over the paper with something resembling a smile on her face. Handing it back to me, she says, “You’re a talented young lady. I think the town will be very proud to have that mural displayed.”

It’s not until she’s pulling away with a little wave to Keenan and I that I think about the Kelleys’ loss. It’s with a heart bogged down in pain and confusion that I pat myself down for the marker I keep on me. Finding it, I cross one of the birds off.

It’s time to start making better choices.

Chapter Eighteen

Grady Marlow

Resting my head against my fist, I squirm to readjust in the neon green folding chair I’m being held hostage in. We’ve been listening to Skip James discuss his plans of expansion for twenty minutes. Not that anyone asked. Pretty sure we were clear about what the visit pertains to. Wilder looks ready to ditch us and this place.

“There were people that thought I should give that a try.” I don’t think people have thought anything of the sort, but Skip on the few occasions we’ve interacted hears what he wants when someone talks. Cal and I exchange a smirking look.

Charlie clears his throat before redirecting Skip, “Back to renting the Funpark after hours for Remi’s going away party… would you be willing to do that? I’ll pay whatever.”

The ability to say that must be nice. Quite a flex. Props to him for not making that sound douchey, because it could’ve.

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