Maggie had become the speech and drama teacher three years earlier, when she and her husband, Ken, who taught math, were both hired at Warner Pier High School. She had short dark hair and was petite, peppy, and cute—the kind of woman who makes an all-but-six-foot blonde like me feel like a giraffe. But I liked Maggie. Everyone in Warner Pier seemed to like her—with one exception—and Maggie was full of ideas to promote Warner Pier High School drama. Maggie told me she had worked in Hollywood, appearing as an extra in small roles in several films. But when she’d turned thirty, she’d decided she was never going to make it big in show biz, so she came back to her home state, got her master’s in education, and married Ken McNutt, who’d been a high school classmate. They’d rented a little house in Warner Pier and settled into the community. The previous year her students had taken first place in the state one-act competition. She wanted to make sure they got to go again.
The name of the event, the “Rinkydink,” had started as a joke, after somebody remarked that a town with only one traffic light was “pretty rinkydink.” Since the small-town atmosphere was what most of us liked about living in Warner Pier, we adopted the term with perverse pride, and the lightchanging ceremony was officially christened.
The weather was cooperating for the first Rinkydink, and Maggie hadn’t had to move the picnic to the high school gym, as she’d feared she might. The day was sunny, with temperatures just under seventy. The sunlight was creating that autumn effect when oblique light turns the sky mellow and the air so soft and beautiful you want to gulp big lungfuls of it. The trees were lush with all the reds, yellows, golds, oranges, greens, and browns of a Michigan autumn. The sun glinted off the Warner River. The Victorian houses looked more like wedding cakes than usual. The chrysanthemums were blooming like crazy—bronze, maroon, yellow, rust, and gold. The breeze playfully tossed fallen leaves about.
It was a good day to be alive and living in Warner Pier, Michigan. I had been happy as a clam as Joe and I each carried a big tray of TenHuis’s fanciest chocolates toward the dessert table.
Joe saw the dog coming. “There’s a pup loose,” he said. “Some guy is after him.”
I turned to see who was chasing the dog. The animal ran right up to me and, as I said, planted his huge puppy feet on the knees of my tan wool slacks. He looked at me with soft hazel eyes. He was holding this big leather wallet in his mouth.
“Hey, fellow! Welcome to the party.” I stepped backward, trying to get the dirty feet off my slacks. Of course, the puppy thought this was a game and jumped up on me again. I balanced the tray on my hip, accidentally tipping it. I could feel the chocolates slide as I tried to fend the pup off with the hand I’d freed up. The dog was at that awkward stage of puppyhood, maybe four or five months old. He looked healthy and full of puppy pep, with a lustrous, dark brown coat as smooth and shiny as melted chocolate. He had a tiny spot of white on his chest.
Then the pup nudged my wrist with the wallet. It was a beat-up and moldy-looking brown leather folder, more than twice the size of a standard bifold billfold and more like a passport case than a regular wallet. It didn’t look like something a puppy should be chewing on, so I took it away from him. It was covered with dog slobber, of course.
By then Joe had put down the tray of chocolates that he was carrying, and he grabbed the dog.
“Look at the money,” I said, showing him the wallet. Five or six odd-sized bills were sticking out. “Somebody’s been playing king-sized Monopoly.”
“I’ve seen those big bills in one of the antique shops,” Joe said. “I think they used to be legal tender.”
“Somebody’s going to want this back.”
Joe scooped the puppy up with both arms, and the dog joyously licked his face. Joe laughed. What else can you do when a strange puppy decides you’re adorable? Or maybe delicious. Of course, I think Joe’s delicious, too. He not only has dark hair, brilliant blue eyes, and broad shoulders, he also has a very sharp mind and a nice personality. Someday I might even set a wedding date.
I took my tray of chocolates to the dessert table and handed them to Tracy Roderick, who was a TenHuis employee in the summer and president of Maggie McNutt’s drama club during the school year. Tracy’s a nice girl; she could even be a pretty girl if she got a decent hairstyle.
“Hi, Lee,” Tracy said. “I’m in charge of the dessert table. As usual, the TenHuis chocolates will be the center of attraction.”
“I messed these up,” I said. “They nearly landed in the grass.”
Tracy brandished a pair of food-service gloves. “I’ll straighten them. Your aunt will never know what a narrow escape they had.”
The two of us admired the craftsmanship displayed in the chocolates. Swirling patterns of bonbons and truffles filled the two trays, ready to entice Rinkydink picnickers with dark, white, and milk chocolate, each goody filled with an exotic flavor. In the center of each tray was a heap of molded chocolates—squares, small animals, miniature bars. Joe and I had just delivered two big trays of yummy. To me the chocolates made the cherry pies and coffee cakes a waste of calories.
“Lee, we’d better get this dog back to his owner,” Joe said.
Leaving Tracy in charge of her desserts, I fished a large paper napkin out of a pile at the end of the serving table and wiped off my hand and the wallet. Then Joe and I walked toward the man who had been running. He’d slowed down after he saw Joe scoop up the puppy.
I waved the wallet. “This yours?”
“Thanks for rescuing it!” The man continued toward us. “And thanks for grabbing Monte!”
As the man approached, I had plenty of time to look him over. He was an older gent, but he was marching along as if he were full of youthful energy. He was wearing an outfit that was just a little too slickly coordinated—neatly pressed jeans, desert boots, and a plaid wool shirt worn over a turtleneck. Gray hair oozed out from beneath a wide-brimmed felt hat that looked—well, Australian. It didn’t have one side pinned up, but it should have.
As he reached us, he took the puppy and received a greeting as enthusiastic as the one Joe had gotten. “Monte,” he said, “you’re a naughty fellow.” He looped the puppy’s leash over his wrist firmly and put the dog down on the grass. “Sit,” he said. Monte sat. Then his owner turned to us, giving a broad, toothy grin. “Thanks for catching him.”
“Actually, he caught us,” I said. “He’s a friendly little guy. Did you call him Monte?”
The man smiled. “Yes. It’s short for Montezuma. He’s a chocolate Labrador.”
“Ah,” I said. “The Aztec emperor and fabled consumer of chocolate.” I turned to Joe. “According to legend, Montezuma drank chocolate before visiting his harem.”
“You’re absolutely correct.” The gray-haired man swept off his hat, giving me a look at a gorgeous head of hair. I also got a look at the even spacing around the hairline that showed that he’d had an expensive implant job.
“Maia Michaelson invited me to this—is it called the Rinkydink?” he said. “Have you seen her?”
“No.” Joe and I both scanned the crowd. I bit my tongue before I could say
She’s probably waiting to make an entrance.
“I’m sure she’ll be here in a minute,” Joe said. “Is the wallet yours as well?”
I realized that I was still holding the oversized wallet with the big bills. I extended it to the gray-haired man just as a shrill voice called out. “Aubrey!”
“Here’s Mae,” I said. “I mean Maia.” The two names were pronounced almost the same way, but they definitely referred to two different people.
Maia approached dramatically. Back when she was Mae Ensminger, this woman used to simply walk up. But the previous spring Mae had published a romantic novel under the nom de plume Maia Michaelson. According to the dictionary, I’d been told, the two names were pronounced the same way, but Mae called her new moniker “MAY-ah.” In her new persona, Maia couldn’t just walk up. She approached dramatically.
Becoming Maia Michaelson had changed Mae Ensminger drastically. Mae Ensminger was at least fifty. Maia Michaelson claimed to be only forty. Mae used to wear jeans and T-shirts, like the rest of us. Maia affected solid black from top-to-toe and wore big, clunky jewelry. Mae used to wear her mousy brown hair pulled into a ponytail, not unlike mine. Maia had coal black hair that hung down her back and was heavily teased on top of her head. Mae never wore makeup. But Maia wore lots of it. Mae used to stand with her back against the wall, observing, but not saying a lot. Maia talked all the time, in a voice that varied between too soft to understand and too piercing to bear. Maia theatrically gestured all the time. She hadn’t gone as far as placing the back of her hand against her forehead and sighing, “Ah, me,” but I wasn’t going to be surprised when she did.
Maia—it definitely wasn’t Mae—linked her arm through the gray-haired man’s arm. “I see you’ve met Lee and Joe, Warner Pier’s most glam young couple,” she said.
“I don’t know that we’re particularly grim,” I said. “I mean, glam! We’re not very glamorous, and maybe not too young, but I’m Lee McKinney, and this is Joe Woodyard.”
The gray-haired man shook hands with each of us. He’d hidden the wallet away someplace before I’d had a chance to ask him where he got the big bills.
He spoke. “I’m Aubrey Andrews Armstrong.”
Sure you are, I thought. That name was as bogus as Maia Michaelson’s. I spoke quickly to hide my thoughts—too quickly, I guess, because I pulled one of the malapropisms that make me sound like an idiot. “What brings you to Warner Pier, Mr. Strongarm? I mean, Mr. Armstrong!”
He blinked. Then he patted the hand Maia had placed on his arm and started to answer. But Maia spoke before he could. “No, Aubrey! You’re not to tell a soul why you’re here.”
A frown flitted over Armstrong’s face. “But, Maia, I know we haven’t signed . . .”
“You can tell in a minute. But there’s another person I want to hear the news first. That’s why I insisted we come to the picnic. Lee, have you seen Maggie?”
Maggie McNutt? That was a surprise. Maia was about the only person in Warner Pier who didn’t like Maggie.
“She’s helping behind the serving table,” Joe said. “I guess we’d better get in line, Lee.”
We did so, followed by Maia and her new pal Aubrey. And behind them, I finally noticed, was Maia’s husband—actually Mae’s husband—Vernon Ensminger. “St. Vernon the Patient,” Joe called him. Vernon was a big, bald guy—no implants on Vernon’s scalp—who operated a successful fruit farm. His workboots and plaid shirt were so authentic that they made Aubrey Andrews Armstrong look more bogus than ever.
Joe stopped to speak to Vernon, which is typical of Joe. People tended to ignore Vernon, now that he was merely an adjunct to the colorful Maia Michaelson, but Joe had always liked him. I liked him, too. If you had a flat on a lonely road, Vernon Ensminger was the kind of guy who would drop by with a jack.
Maia, Aubrey, and Vernon stepped into line behind us. The puppy frisked up to me again, jumping on the back of my slacks this time. I was beginning to wonder if Aubrey Andrews Armstrong would be good for the dry cleaning bill.
Maia was craning her neck around, talking shrilly. “I do want you to meet Maggie. She’s simply delightful. And so talented. This whole event was her idea. Oh, there’s her husband. Ken! Ken!”
Ken McNutt had been heading for the parking lot, but he could hardly ignore her summons. He came over, looking as thin as usual. Thin was the word for Ken—thin build, thin hair, thin voice. Like Vernon, he stayed in the background and let his wife star.
Ken nodded to Vernon, then spoke. “Hello, Mae.”
Maia didn’t introduce Aubrey. “Where is your charming wife?”
“If you stay in line, you’ll see her. She’s in charge.” He moved toward the parking lot again. “Sorry to run, but I have to be back for fifth period.”
“Such a lovely young couple,” Maia said, dripping condescension. “What my father called ‘a teaching couple.’ ”
Joe seized the opportunity to speak quietly to me. “Why does Mae have it in for Maggie?”
I lowered my voice, too. “They both entered the Historical Society’s competition for a dramatic sketch on the founding of Warner Pier. Maggie won.”
Joe snorted. “That’s something Maia will never forgive.”
I shrugged. “Maggie avoids her. But this time she won’t be able to.”
Maggie had just come into view. She was standing beside the charcoal cooker where Mike Herrera, our mayor and one of Warner Pier’s leading restaurateurs, was grilling bratwurst. Maia gave her a tremendous greeting, shrieking out her name.
I had to hand it to Maggie; she didn’t visibly wince. She merely waved and picked up a Styrofoam plate, which she held close to Mike’s elbow. He began to lift browned bratwurst from the grill to the plate. Maia had to wait until the serving line reached them before she could say anything else. But then she said plenty.
“Maggie! Maggie! Something wonderful has happened, and I want you to be the first to know.”
As I say, Maggie was usually peppy as all get-out, but she didn’t try to compete with Maia in the energy department. She spoke very quietly. “What is it, Maia?”
“This wonderful man is a Hollywood producer, Maggie! He’s buying the film rights to my book! And he wants to shoot the movie right here in Warner Pier!”
Maggie whipped her head in Maia’s direction. Her mouth dropped slightly open, and her eyes grew large. Joe looked amazed, too, and I’m sure my jaw was hanging clear down to my chest. We all thought Maia’s novel was awful. And someone wanted to make a movie of it?
Maia gave a triumphant crow. “Yes! A Hollywood producer, Maggie! This is Aubrey Andrews Armstrong!”
Maggie’s eyes shifted to Aubrey Andrews Armstrong and grew even wider. She gave a startled gasp. She moved her right hand from under the Styrofoam plate. The plate broke in half and a dozen bratwurst landed in the grass of the Dock Street Park.