Steve’s Shorts: Toy Story…
[Dickens wrote the story “A Christmas Carol.” This is mine, and it’s dedicated to author Scott Dyson, who is mastering the horror genre quite well….]
Toy Story
Copyright 2016, Steven M. Moore
Curt Boggs’ coffee mug spilled its contents onto the Plainville Herald’s classified section. As he mopped up the spill, an ad caught his attention: “Hartley Mansion up for Sale.” He smiled as memories flooded into his mind.
He had left Plainville, Kansas for college long ago and never returned. His subscription to the newspaper followed him everywhere, though, even to the small Queens flat he now rented. The memories were mostly about Carol Hartley. She’d been a cheerleader; he’d been a fullback. A major knee energy in his freshman year at college had ended his playing days. The newspaper subscription allowed him to confirm every year that his football records in high school were never broken.
He wasn’t interested in buying the Hartley Mansion, of course. Even after Carol married Tom Rice and they moved into the family home—her parents were dead, weren’t they?—it was still called the Hartley Mansion. In high school, a lot of kids thought the old, rambling house at the end of Main Street was haunted. He knew better. Carol and he had made love in almost every room of that house, including her parents’. He couldn’t even remember what the father did. He was somehow rich and never home and mommy was always out shopping, often visiting the chic stores in Kansas City.
Would Carol be involved in the sale of the house? What had happened to her and Tom? He seemed to remember something in the Herald’s society page about ten years ago about their moving to Chicago. The classified ad had made him a bit curious this time, though. Time to revisit your roots, old boy?
He smiled. He hadn’t had much tail since Carol, if you discounted two bad marriages ending in divorce. His audience of romance novel readers was now largely comprised of little old ladies. Unlike that guy in the Broadway show Producers, he didn’t need to pursue them in order to make a living—they bought his schlock anyway. He wasn’t exactly at Sparks’s level—he thought his stuff was better than Sparks’s, though—but the young female readers were addicted to imagining love bites in the neck from some handsome vampire, so both their audiences were diminishing.
He went online to Expedia to look for the cheapest way to travel to Plainville, knowing he would never find a direct flight to that town southwest of KC in the middle of nowhere.
***
“Aren’t you Curt Boggs?” said the waitress as she handed him his order of pie and coffee.
Curt smiled. Besides some of the best cooking he’d tasted in years, Sally’s Diner had always been a place that made one feel welcome. Plainville was in the middle of Kansas cattle country, an area that had been hit hard in recent years. Sally’s still offered up various cuts of great steaks, though, and a meal that would have cost him $100 at least in the Big Apple was only $19.95, pie and coffee extra. The coffee wasn’t up to snuff, but the homemade pie compensated with just the first bite.
He studied the woman. Too much sampling of the diner’s food? Or just a German-immigrant genetic background that produced a huge woman? He saw the nametag. Gertie. Probably short for Gertrude if there was any logic to it, but he knew people acquired nicknames that had nothing to do with their given names. He’d been called Bull in high school, as much for Carol as for football.
“Yes, I’m Curt Boggs. Do I have the privilege of chatting with one of my many fans?”
She giggled and turned red. “Oh, my yes, a fan for years. I got started in high school when I discovered you were the only real writer who’s come from this hellish town.”
He nodded. “I thought it was pretty good to grow up here.”
“You were smart and left. I got pregnant and am stuck with three kids and a good-for-nothing hubby.”
“Sorry about that. If it’s any comfort, your food here is still great.”
“Thank you. I hope to see your appreciation expressed in your tip. Max doesn’t pay us much.” She answered his raised eyebrow. “Max, the cook and owner. He’s Sally’s grandson, bless her soul.”
Curt tried to remember a Max but couldn’t. Probably born after I left. He waved a twenty. “Your tip if you give me some information.”
Her turn to raise an eyebrow. At the size of the tip or her favorite author asking for information? “Sure, if you sign the twenty.”
“That would be a waste, Gertie. I’d rather sign one of my books.”
“I’m reading A Lustful Trip down the Danube right now. Makes anyone want to take one of those river tours. Someday.” She sighed. “I’ll get the book.” She fetched a grease-stained book from under the counter and handed it to him. He signed and handed it back. “So, what information do you need?”
“Who’s the realtor in charge of selling the Hartley mansion?”
“Mad Maude Crowley. We call her that because she’s crazy, but believe me, it’s crazy-smart for them realty deals. She sold my cousin’s house and turned a big profit, and my cousin only made some cosmetic improvements. The Hartley family wants two-and-a-half million for that place, but I don’t think they’ll get it. Town’s moving out toward KC, and downtown is going to hell.”
“Happens everywhere,” he said.
“Are you interested in buying?”
“Maybe. For my retirement days. I promised myself to look at it at least. Where’s Mrs. Crowley’s office?”
“Over on 4th next to the Plainville Bank. You can’t miss it. It’s Miz Crowley, by the way. The old maid never married because no man could stand her. She’s a great fan of yours too.”
Looks like I should have brought a few boxes of books to have a book signing.
He thanked Gertie and headed off to find Mad Maude.
***
“My clients are open to negotiations,” said Mad Maude.
The wrinkled old woman looked a bit like a Medusa with frizzy tufts of hair sprouting in all directions like a head of snakes. She was also as thin as a rail, flat-chested, and hardly smiled, even when he signed the book she pulled out of a desk drawer. Passion in Paris was one of his early ones—it looked dog-eared. He remembered pouring a lot of smut into that one.
“I can drive you over.”
“I need a bit of time. Memories, you know. Carol Hartley was a good friend.”
There was a hint of a smile. His success as an author depended on women’s dirty minds, but he wasn’t about to elaborate. None of your damn business!
“I can drive you over and then go do some errands.”
“I need about an hour with my memories.”
She shrugged. “Works for me, especially if it means a sale. You probably have the money.”
And then some. Again, none of your damn business!
“It can’t be that far. I could walk.”
“True, but there’s a lockbox. You couldn’t get inside.”
“Then I’d appreciate the ride.” I should have brought the rental car. He wasn’t looking forward to whiffing any more of the harridan’s strong and cheap perfume, but he’d have to grin and bear it.
“Because you’re familiar with the house, I’ll just leave you to explore,” Mad Maude said once they were there. She opened the lockbox, took out the key, and opened the door for Curt.
He peered inside at the gloom. “I don’t have a flashlight.”
“The electricity is on. How else could we show the place to prospective clients?”
“Have many of those?”
“Privileged information, Mr. Boggs. I’ll return in an hour.”
***
Curt made his way around the house. It looked like an immense tomb without the period furniture he remembered—fake Louis XIV here, faux Danish modern there, but all expensive—none of it was around, and the carpets had been rolled up too.
As he went from room to room, he remembered Carol and their sexcapades there. It hadn’t mattered to him that he wasn’t the first. The memories of the teen lovers’ experimentation and physical exploitations had percolated through many of his books, although his skill as a writer had made them fresh and sinfully delicious for each book. Some critics claimed that the novels were just porn. Others stated that they were just impossible erotic tales about impossibly oversexed couples. Only Carol and he knew that the impossible was possible. What a woman!
A stale and unpleasant order permeated the second-floor bedrooms. On a whim, he climbed the stairs to the attic where he expected only to find junk, the bane of many buyers who bought old houses. Upon entering, he eyed a beam where he’d hung a naked Carol up in chains and tickled her with a feather duster until she came in an explosive fashion. Good times, my man! None of his wives ever compared to Carol, his cheerleader doll who would cheer him on to great performances on the field and off.
The attic was cluttered. He spotted a tarp covering a large object. He removed the tarp and discovered a large dollhouse. Carol’s as a little girl? It had probably been there for years. Some porcelain dolls, toy people who once lived in that house, were scattered on the floor in front of it. He picked up one.
It’s Carol in her cheerleading garb! The expensive porcelain was old and cracked, but the face took him back.
He felt a bit woozy. Must be the stale attic air. His head spun and he sunk to his knees. Puzzled, he could swear he heard Carol sing one of her ribald songs. She had a good voice. He’d always told her that. Of course, she sang in the church choir and often belted out solos.
Just a little nap and this will pass. His cheek touched the floor, the Carol-doll in front of his eyes. He stared at the face. He swore the doll winked at him!
***
“The inspection uncovered a few things,” Mad Maude told Carol Hartley’s daughter. “We need to take a tour. To fix them, you have the new owners get estimates and we’ll deduct that from the sale price.”
“Or we can say the house goes as is,” said the daughter.
Maude shrugged.
The granddaughter tugged at her mother’s arm. “I’m bored, Mommy. Can I explore?”
“OK, but don’t leave the house. And don’t get into trouble.”
The little girl, whose name was also Carol in honor of her grandmother, nodded and took off, but didn’t go far. She heard their conversation.
“They’re very energetic at that age,” said Maude, although she didn’t smile. Little Carol could tell she hated kids.
“You don’t know the half of it. And I thought her brother was bad.”
Little Carol frowned. I’m going to find a hiding place. Let them try to find me!
She went to the second floor. There were many closets in the bedrooms, but no clothes in them to hide behind. She spotted the stairs to the attic.
Once there, she gave a little squeal of joy when she saw the dollhouse. It’s so big! There were porcelain dolls inside and a few on the floor in front. She saw footprints in the dust. Is someone here?
She smiled at her fears and picked up two of the dolls from the floor. One looked like a photo of her grandmother from an old album she’d seen—a young woman in a cheerleader’s outfit. But the doll was chipped and cracked, the skirt broken in places, but she had a big smile.
The man-doll looked almost new. She stared at the face. A frightened expression was frozen upon it. She didn’t like the man-doll.
She heard her mother and the realtor on the attic stairs.
“I’m up here, Mommy. I found a dollhouse. All the little toy people are cracked or broken except for one.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Maude. “We’ll do a complete cleanout of the attic when the buyers sign the papers.”
“Come on down, sweetie,” said the little girl’s mother. “The buyers will be here any minute.”
***
The Collector. Most Nazis stole art not out of appreciation but for money—a famous piece can launder many dollars or be used to finance all sorts of things. What they finance here might give you the creeps. Detectives Chen and Castilblanco swim in the dark seas of illegal art in this mystery/suspense/thriller novel. Can they keep from drowning?
In libris libertas!
