A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Twenty-Seven

 (IMPORTANT: before reading this chapter, read chapter twenty-six which got listed after chapter twenty-nine by mistake!)

At four-thirty the musicians arrived to set up. TP had built a brick and plywood platform between the flower patch and the food tent, covering it with old sheets which Gladys had sprinkled liberally with dried flower petals.

"Oh, this is charming, TP. I feel like I've walked into a fairy tale." Claire O'Day, the cellist, arched an eyebrow and looked around appreciatively. It did look grand, TP thought. Gladys had done absolute wonders. The hedge would be magical after sunset, as would the gazing ball, strategically placed to reflect the lights. The bouquets, the drinks lined up, the food, the decorated tables... he'd never imagined his back yard could be so transformed. But his eyes kept returning to Claire. She had marvelous cheekbones. Her mother was Japanese, her father Irish, and this interesting blend of genes had produced a raven-haired, almond-eyed, exotic creature blessed with warmth and elegance and great musical talent. She was fifty-six, small and slender, her black hair showing a few threads of silver. She'd swirled it up into one of those bun-things - what did they call them? French twists, he thought. It showed off her neck and pearl earrings. She wore a plain black skirt and a white blouse with lace at the throat and mother-of-pearl buttons.

He'd taken her to dinner twice last year and very much enjoyed her company. But then she'd gone on tour for the summer, and Minglemist had happened, and he hadn't called her again.

He helped her onto the platform. "I hope this is all right?"

"Perfect."

"Well, then, I'll let you get settled."

Other guests had arrived. Todd had come, as well as his sister and her lawyer-husband and their two children, so Harold would have friends to hang out with. Evalda was conversing with Mel, no doubt about real estate, while Gladys teetered around in sequined heels, wearing a peach-colored sheath draped with beads, bangles and feathers. The final touch was a sparkling tiara perched in her coppery curls.

More guests arrived and the three musicians, all women, began playing. TP sighed in contentment. They started with "Le Cygne", his favorite cello piece, and his heart swelled as the beautiful strains filled the yard. Could life get any better than this? "Le Cygne" was followed by "Diamonds and Rust", also his favorite, and then came "Star of the County Down", which he decided was his most favorite of all. In fact, everything Claire played on the cello was his favorite.

He ate a plateful of hors d'oeuvres, talked to some of the neighbors he knew and met some he didn't. There were maybe twenty people here. Crowds had always made him uncomfortable, but he did his best to be a good host.

Shortly before six the musicians took a break and headed to the food tent where Gladys and her crew were laying out the dinner feast. TP drifted that way himself, then stopped short in shock. A whole stack of the dreadful "Thad and Glad" napkins sat beside the plates and silverware. 

Hot with embarrassment and consternation, he reached out to snatch them off the table just as Claire came up with a plate of food.

"Wonderful music," he said, stepping between her and the table. He didn't want her to see the napkins. "Can I help you find a seat?" He took her plate in one hand and her elbow in the other and propelled her away from the tent. As soon as she was seated, he said, "Excuse me, I'll be back in a moment. Don't move!"

Hurriedly, he took the napkins off the table, went inside and stashed them under the towels in the linen closet. The flowered napkins he'd bought at the supermarket were still on the counter, so he took those out and laid them firmly on the food table, then took one to Claire and sat down beside her. He hoped she hadn't seen the others. 

"Aren't you eating, TP?"

"Oh, I'll get something later." For once his stomach wasn't clamoring to be filled. He wanted only to feast his eyes on Claire.

"Is my hair falling down," she asked, putting up a hand to feel it.

TP realized he'd been staring. "Sorry," he said. "It's just that, well, I'm a biologist. I study living things. And you're about as alive as anything I've ever seen."

Her eyes widened and then she laughed. "Why TP, I believe you're flirting with me."

"Claire," he sighed, "I'm no good at this sort of thing, but... would you like to go canoeing sometime?"

She took a bite of crab cake and chewed thoughtfully while he waited with baited breath. Then she smiled and his chest expanded.

"I'd like that very much."

"Excellent! I'll call you."

Gladys had seen him sitting with Claire and came bustling over.

"You haven't introduced me to your friend, Thad." She gave Claire a sugary smile. 

TP stood up. "Gladys, this is Claire O'Day. Claire, Gladys, my neighbor. She's the orchestrator of this party."

"Very nice to meet you," said Claire.

"Likewise," said Gladys, her eyes taking in every detail of Claire's appearance.

"You've done a wonderful job, Gladys. The atmosphere is delightful."

"I couldn't have done it without Thad," she said, leaning towards him and reaching up on her toes to kiss his cheek.

Face burning, he backed up a step and glanced at Claire, who arched an eyebrow and smiled faintly at him.

"But we'll let you finish your dinner so you can get back to your job. So nice of you to blend into the background in your plain attire and contribute to the atmosphere. I admire people who know their place. Thad, I wonder if you'd give me a hand with something?" She grabbed his arm and pulled him off. Over his shoulder he threw Claire another look, hoping she could read his mind. She winked at him.

"Nice woman," Gladys said as they walked away. "A bit of a plain Jane, but we can't all be peacocks, can we?"

Thank God, TP thought. "What did you need help with?"

"The food table needs to be pulled back a bit."

Which Chester/Fabian could have easily helped her with, or anyone else for that matter. Grumpily he moved the table back two inches.

"I don't know what keeps happening to my party napkins," Gladys said. "They keep disappearing. I suppose people are taking them for souvenirs."

It seemed everyone was enjoying the party. Harold and his friends chased each other around the garden, and Archie, revived from his nap, tagged along. The only ones who seemed out of sorts were Mel and Marge, standing off to one side with their heads together, conversing privately. Marge had something in her hand showing it to Mel, who threw TP a dark look. A tingle of alarm crept up his spine. He couldn't see what Marge was holding, but something strange was up. Tomorrow he would confront them. Right now, he wanted peace and tranquility, music and poetry and the rosy promise of a date with Claire.

Promptly at seven, Gladys rang a little bell to announce the poetry reading. First up was the neighbor Mr. Burley, who recited Oberon's monologue from A Midsummer Night's Dream in a booming voice: "I Know a Bank Where the Wild Thyme Blows..." Others followed, including Gladys who, much to TP's embarrassment, read a love poem by Kelly Cherry in her trilling voice and looked straight at him the whole time. People noticed, and he felt like crawling under the table. But finally she ended, and then it was Chester/Fabian's turn. He drifted up to stand in front of the tent, unfolded a crumpled piece of paper, and began.

"The Blue Man"

The light of day falls short.

No one sees the blue man

against a sea

of glass shards,

His outline rippling

wherefore.

He blended back into the crowd while everyone sat looking confused till Gladys and his mother started clapping vigorously, then the rest joined in. 

The musicians began playing again, and a few people danced. TP caught Madeline's eye, sitting beside Todd at one of the tables, looking glamorous in a green, low-cut dress with her hair falling down her back. She gave him a thumb's up, and he smiled. He was still smiling when he spotted two policemen in uniform walking around the side of the house. Where had they come from? Surely the music wasn't bothering anyone; most of the neighbors were here. Marge went up to them and handed something over, then they looked his way and began walking towards him. His stomach lurched, his heart began pounding. Whatever this was, it couldn't be good. 

"Mr. Dunlap?" said one, "Would you come inside with us? We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Certainly," he said, hoping his voice didn't waver. Everyone was watching, including the musicians, who'd stopped playing. TP threw Claire a sickly smile, aware of her troubled gaze following him as he stood and walked into the house.

The officers introduced themselves, but their names barely registered. They all sat down at the kitchen table. One of the men handed TP a pill bottle.

"Have you ever seen this before?"

He looked at it and frowned. The label read Gogetamine, the drug Dr. Demento had supposedly used on his victims. The patient's name was unfamiliar, and the bottle was empty.

"No, I haven't," he said.

"Can you explain how it got into your trash can?"

"What? Here in the house? Someone must have put it there. It wasn't me, I assure you."

"Have you ever used this drug?"

"No."

"Have you ever given this drug to someone else?"

"No."

The questions went on and on. Where was he on such and such a night. Was anyone with him. Did he know the people who'd been attacked.

A small movement caught his eye in the archway between the kitchen and hall. Good grief, it was Harold, his eyes round and wary, taking everything in. How much had he heard? When Harold met TP's gaze, he ducked his head, turned and ran down the hall, and just as the back door slammed behind him, a knock came at the front door. TP started to get up, but one of the officers motioned him to stay seated and answered the door himself. TP couldn't see who stood on the steps, but words were spoken, then the policeman came back to the table with a paper in his hand.

"Mr. Dunlap, we have a warrant to search your house." 

He stared at the men, alarmed and confused. What were they looking for? Surely they'd find nothing incriminating. Keeping his expression neutral, he nodded curtly. Let them look, he was hiding nothing.

But then he remembered. The white shirt with the missing gold button! He'd meant to leave it in Minglemist, but he'd forgotten. It was still in the bottom of his backpack. Feeling sick, he sat frozen in his chair, watching the second hand crawl around the kitchen clock.