Tie Dyed and Dead: Chapter 1

Coming Soon!

TIE DYED AND DEAD

By

Sharon Short

Once upon a time, there were three sisters who were also singers.

The oldest Mayfair sister, Cornelia, sang for money.

The middle sister, Constance, sang for fame.

But the youngest sister, Candace, sang for love.

Not romantic love or passionate love or worshipful love or family love. Just for a pure love of singing, from the heart, because singing was who she was; it was as much a part of her as breathing…

For more than half an hour, Cherry had been going on and on about how the Mayfair sisters’ lives were like something out of a fairy tale. So I reckon it’s not surprising I started entertaining myself by thinking along those lines.

It was either that, or listen to her babble on with what I’d come to call Mayfair Fever, or hum along to “Sugar Daddy,” playing on the juke box.

“Sugar Daddy” was one of the Mayfair Sisters’ big hits back in the 1960s. The fact that Sally, my cousin/best friend and owner of the Bar None, had reprogrammed her establishment’s juke box (really a fancy CD player made to look like a retro fifties juke box) to play only Mayfair Sisters oldies—even though we were smack dab in the middle of the 21^st century’s first decade—was just another symptom of Mayfair Fever, which had infected all of Paradise, Ohio, and environs for nearly two weeks.

I’m Josie Toadfern, laundromat owner and stain expert. Best stain expert in Paradise… and in Mason County . Maybe the best stain expert in all of Ohio . Maybe even in all of the United States .

I can make such a claim with some authority, and not just because I’ve helped Mrs. Beavy get red wine out of her favorite pink blouse, or Becky Gettlehorn get mustard out of her little boy’s best Sunday-go-to-church shirt, or my auto mechanic Elroy Magruder get grease out of his Dickies coveralls.

Besides plenty of testimonials to back up my stain claim to fame, I have a syndicated column—Stain-Busters!—which gives stain removal tips and general household hints.

And on that Friday night awhile back, I was thinking about what my next column should be, instead of listening to Cherry—owner of Cherry’s Chat-N-Curl, right next door to my laundromat on Main Street—go on and on about her customers’ Mayfair Sister sightings. I’d already completed a three-parter on the incredible stain removal properties of white vinegar. Next, maybe how to remove coffee and tea stains from mugs? A cautionary reminder about not mixing chlorine bleach with other cleansers? Or ironing tips…

And maybe to go with that, a little about the history of ironing techniques and tools. It’s fascinating, really. And my current passion was learning as much as possible about the home ironing machines of the 1940s and 1950s, also known as “mangles,” especially the Ironrite brand…

“Ow!”

I looked across the table at Cherry, then back at my forearm—yep, those were fingernail marks—and then again at Cherry, glaring this time.

“Poke me again, and I’m popping those fake fuschias off of every fingertip,” I said.

Cherry ignored my threat, probably feeling safer than she should since she was snuggled up next to Dean Rankel—Mason County Deputy Sherriff. And her fiancé.

“Josie, have you heard a thing I’ve said?” Cherry asked.

“No. I’ve been ignoring you, because you keep talking about the Mayfair sisters, and I really don’t want to hear about them tonight.”

“Then you’ve got to be the only one in Paradise ,” said Caleb Loudermilk, with an intriguing tone of ruefulness.

Caleb was in the booth next to me, but we weren’t snuggling. Caleb’s the editor-in-chief (and sole reporter, and ad salesman, and occasional janitor) at the Paradise Advertiser-Gazette. I’d already been doing my Stain-Busting column for the weekly local newspaper when he took over newspaper operations, but he’s the one who had the brilliant idea to get my column in as many of the regional newspapers—all owned by the same publishing company—as possible.

We’d also dated for awhile at the beginning of the year, but our relationship had settled into an easy friendship after we figured out that our initial attraction was based on a rebound from an old relationship (for me) and a bit of uneasiness at settling into a small town that thinks of second-generation Paradisites as newcomers (for Caleb).

“I’ve gotten calls from everyone—including the mayor—asking me if I’m going to get a big, exclusive interview with Cornelia and her bankruptcy and tax woes,” Caleb went on.

The one who sang for money, I thought.

“Or on the rumors of the feud between the other two—“

“Constance and Candace,” Cherry said eagerly, leaning forward, which gave Dean a chance to rub her back—a chance he immediately took.

“Which one wants to relaunch the trio, honey?” asked Dean.

“That’s the middle sister, Constance,” Cherry said.

The one who sang for fame…

“The youngest sister wants to just keep on with her solo folk career, singing backwaters like this the rest of her life,” Cherry went on, shuddering as if that modest goal was something that ought to be featured on the current reality TV show, The World’s Yuckiest Jobs. “But, from what I’ve heard, Candace—“

The one who sang for love…

“—was always something of a loner, even when the Mayfair Sisters were a big hit,” Cherry said.

“They still seem to be a big hit around here,” Caleb said.

“Biggest thing to come out of this area,” Dean said. “Well, except for Delbert Whitacre.” Dean beamed. Delbert was, after all, Dean’s second cousin, once removed.

Caleb looked blank.

“Nascar driver,” I said.

“Oh,” Caleb said, trying to sound suddenly enlightened, but still looking blank. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Anyway, it seems as if everyone has been calling the newspaper office, demanding to know when I’m going to do an exclusive, in-depth interview. And I’d love to. It would make for a nice surge in circulation, and a nice clip for my portfolio.”

Caleb had told me, confidentially, that he wanted to apply to bigger newspapers, but he needed something more than the latest Little League scores, or even witty write-ups about church carry-in suppers to raise money for charitable causes, to even have a shot at breaking in. He’d been doing family history features lately, which everyone around Paradise appreciated, but no matter how well written, those weren’t going to be the ticket to better jobs in big cities, either.

He sighed. “But the only thing I can get out of the Mayfairs is the date and time of the reunion concert and auction—“

“Ooh, that’s just a week from now, Memorial Day weekend, right?” Cherry asked.

My eyebrows went up, and Dean looked startled, too. Cherry and Dean were each doing their best to save money for their wedding, just a little over a month away, and for their honeymoon in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. They’d reserved the honeymoon suite with a heart shaped Jacuzzi and king-sized bed. Cherry had shown me the glossy brochure from the Hearts And Roses Inn so many times my fingerprints were permanently imprinted on the picture of the Jacuzzi.

Not only that, but after their honeymoon, Dean wanted to start a side business, Deputy Dean’s Security Systems for homes and small businesses.

So, I knew Cherry couldn’t afford anything from the Mayfair auction… and I also knew she wouldn’t have the self-discipline not to bid.

Caleb smiled. “Right. Anyway, I have that, but I still don’t have the list of items up for auction to run in Wednesday’s paper. I have a feeling I’ll get it at the last minute.”

And I knew why, but I didn’t want to share that, not just yet. I munched a pretzel stick, and then sipped my beer, and turned to stare out the window at the trucks and motorcycles and late model cars under the lights of the Bar-None parking lot, focusing in particular on a tricked out red pick up truck, on oversized wheels. It belonged to T-Bone Baker, which I knew because his girlfriend, Rhonda, drove it to my Laundromat to bring in their wash. They lived in Happy Trails Motor Home Park, where Sally lived, and the motor homes there are too small for washer/dryers, so I get a lot of business from Happy Trails’ residents.

Not that that was particularly interesting. But if I stared at the tricked out truck, then my face would be turned from my pals—a good thing, since I have a face that can be read by a three-year-old. Which is why I don’t play cards. Not even Go Fish with Sally’s young sons.

 “Now, honeybuns,” Dean said, nervously. “I think we’re busy Memorial weekend anyway. We won’t have time to go to the auction, what with last minute stuff for our wedding. Like, um, the wedding cake. Yeah, we still have to order that, right?”

Cherry gave him a look that could have sliced through a 20-tier cake. “We’ve ordered the cake, sweet-cheeks. Butter cream icing, with bright red roses to match the bridesmaid’s dresses, and blue ribbons to match the groomsmen’s tuxedos. Don’t you remember?”

Dean gazed down at his beer with a look that clearly indicated he’d been trying to forget. But despite my, Sally’s and the other bridesmaids’ protests, Cherry had prevailed with her July 4-themed wedding… which would actually be held on July 5, in order to get the Run Deer Run Lodge for the reception.

Caleb snickered. I elbowed him. Cherry was strong-willed and unreasonable and a pain in the butt at the best of times—and I say that with great love, as one of her best friends. But her pre-wedding jitters had ensured that this was not the best of times.

“Anyway,” Cherry said, making the word sound like three, “I need to get to that auction because I just happen to know that the white dress that Candace Mayfair wore in the sisters’ farewell concert is up for auction, and... I must have it! As my wedding dress!”

Caleb, Dean and I were struck silent, while Cherry looked pointedly at each of us, daring us to state the obvious.

I looked back at my pals and sighed louder than necessary. I’d been puncturing Cherry’s fantasy view of the world and her role in it since seventh grade—not that she’d ever listened. But I’m an optimist. So I tried again.

“Cherry, Candace Mayfair is a size four on her fat days. You, darlin’, are a size fourteen on your skinny days. Which, as I’ve told you many times, you should embrace, because Marilyn Monroe was a fourteen—“

“And I love your curves—“ Dean said.

Caleb was convulsing with either a suppressed sneeze or laughter.

“I don’t care! I want that dress!”

“But, you said you picked out a beautiful dress at the Medieval Fantasy booth down at the Meet-N-Swap flea market?” Dean sound genuinely confused.

“I did!” Cherry wailed. “But the feathers are molting off the neckline.”

I’d told her not to get the dress with feathers. I’d told her they’d probably molt off; that the odor of mothballs was something that, yes, I could probably lessen, but it was still a bad sign; that the feathers would make her sneeze and create a vacuuming nightmare after the ceremony for MayaAnna Lean, who’s hunched with arthritis and 70-plus but still insists that it’s always been her job to tidy up Paradise First Methodist before and after weddings, and, dammit, it always will be.

But, of course, Cherry had insisted on her own way. As usual.

I decided to try and change the subject before the situation got any more uncomfortable.

“Well, I don’t know about that dress,” I said brightly, “but let me tell you all about my newest interest. See, I’ve started researching a book on clothing care history—“

Cherry blanched. “What? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“This sounds fascinating! Go on, Josie!” Dean said perkily, giving me a grateful look. I knew he couldn’t care less about my topic, but he was willing to do anything to get Cherry’s mind off of a new, too small, and expensive dress. And I was happy to have an audience—even a captive one.

“Well, it really is fascinating,” I said. “How womankind has dealt with dirty, wrinkled, smelly clothes throughout the ages is an unchartered bit of domestic history. And it’s a unique perspective on domestic life. I think before the permanent-press era makes us all forget, this history and the story it tells should be captured. And I figure with the platform this column is giving me, and my love of books—“ a love which Winnie, our bookmobile librarian, can attest to, because I read at least three books a week, “I’m the perfect person to write this book.”

“But Josie, you’re not…” Caleb started, then stopped.

I knew what he was going to say: college-educated. A historian. Photogenic enough for the Today Show.

I ignored him, and went on.

“Why, did you know there’s even an organization of people who collect sad irons?”

“What are sad irons?” Dean asked, looking bored already, but trying to sound fascinated. Anything to keep the topic off of Cherry spending money they didn’t have on a wedding dress that wouldn’t fit her.

“Who cares?” Cherry asked, grumpy, but already distracted.

“Sad irons,” I said, “are heavy cast iron, well, irons, that women heated and used to press their family’s clothes. Or the clothes of clients. It was such a difficult, labor-intensive job, that lots of women were thrilled with the invention of the ironing machine, or mangle, back in the early 1920s. The most well-known brand was the Ironrite, and they were most popular in the 1940s and 1950s—“

“Oh, Lord, is she going on about that Ironrite machine that’s going up for auction at the Mayfair sale?”

I startled, and looked up. There stood Sally Toadfern, Bar-None owner, my first cousin-on-my-daddy’s-side and usually one of my best friends. I’d been so caught up in my explanation of the Ironrite machine, that I hadn’t noticed her coming up to our booth with a fresh pitcher of beer.

I glared at her. Sally knew how much I wanted that Ironrite machine, and insisted on teasing me about it. But that was Sally. And truth be told, I wouldn’t change her a bit.

Cherry and Caleb glared at me. Dean sighed and took up my bar-parking-lot vigil.

The Mayfair ’s Sugar Daddy song ended (you can be my sugar daddy, I can be your sugar baby, we’ll be sweet together…)

“Uh oh…” Sally said uneasily.

The Mayfair ’s Easy Lovin’ (It’s not that I’m easy, it’s just easy lovin’ you…) commenced.

“How do you know there’s an Ironrite on the auction list,” Caleb asked, “when I haven’t been able to get anything out of the Mayfairs for my newspaper?”

“I’m guessing I shouldn’t have said that,” Sally said, sitting down next to Caleb and giving him a shove, so he pushed into me and I squished against the wall.

“Josie, have you been holding out on us?” Cherry demanded, focusing on me so intently that she didn’t notice Dean’s head quivering as he shook “no! no!” at me.

I sighed. I should have known I wouldn’t be able to keep a secret from this crew. I finished off my beer and then smacked the mug down harder than strictly necessary. I reckon it’s a good thing Sally uses cheap plastic mugs.

“OK, fine. I confess. I’ve known for three weeks now what the items will probably be in the auction,” I said, “because I’ve been helping get the costumes ready—“

“Candace’s white dress!” Cherry exclaimed. “Please tell me that’s one of the costumes…”

Dean groaned, put his hands to his eyes, and sank down in the booth.

“—but the family still hasn’t decided on whether everything should be up for auction—“

“But I need that information by Monday, noon!” Caleb said. “OK, Monday at 5:00 p.m. at the latest…”

“—because at one point, back when she was still… well… herself, Mama Mayfair had a list of items she wanted her daughters to donate to the Mason County Historical Museum. Including some of the costumes—and the Ironrite ironer I’m coveting, although,” I concluded rather piously, “I’m at least trying to remember why this auction is taking place to begin with.”

Everyone got quiet again, and a little shame-faced.

The Mayfair Sisters were holding a reunion concert before the auction, as well as the auction of their memorabilia, costumes, and childhood home, to raise money for the care of their elderly mother, Dora Mayfair. She was 82, frail, and both physically and mentally ravaged by Alzheimer’s disease. Candace had moved back to Paradise a few months before to care for her mother, with professional nursing help, but funds were already running out and it had soon become clear that poor Dora would be better off in a long-term care facility.

So, the sisters had settled on the concert—to be held at the amphitheatre at Licking Creek Lake State Park —and the auction to raise funds.

The concert was the coming Friday night, and had already sold out. We all had our tickets, of course.

And the auction was the afternoon after the concert. It was expected that the modest home on Plum Street would be packed with potential buyers from all over the region, and even some from across the country. Even the Red Horse Motel was sold out for the upcoming weekend, and some Paradisites were renting out rooms. The Mayfair Sisters, after all, had been a big hit in the 1960s… until their sweet—some would say, sappy—love songs just didn’t fit the mood of the times, and their act broke up.

The sisters went their separate ways, only Candace staying in the music business, giving occasional folk concerts and more recently—until she went on hiatus to take care of her mother—recording and selling CDs independently.

Meanwhile, the sisters’ mama, Dora, had happily continued living on Plum Street as she always had, occasionally chatting with a Mayfair fan that went to the effort to find the sisters’ modest childhood home in our little town in southern Ohio . Until about four years ago, when she’d wandered into my laundromat, confused and lost, not sure why she was there or where she’d actually been planning to go in the first place. It was the first alarming clue that she had Alzheimer’s, and since then, she’d rapidly gotten worse.

Sally cleared her throat. “Yeah, that’s really sad about Mrs. Mayfair,” she said. We all had a moment of silence. Then she said, “And I’m sorry about letting it slip that you’re working with the Mayfairs…”

“Why didn’t you tell me, too?” Cherry said pouting, at the same time that Caleb said, “You mean you could have given me an inside connection all this time for the story I’m after,” and Dean moaned something about don’t auctions just take cash or checks and his account being strapped, what with the Run Deer Run lodge rental and all, and the dress that was already bought, and the red, white and blue bridesmaids’ dresses and groomsmen’s tuxes.

I ignored them all and said loudly. “That’s OK, Sally, I know you have a lot on your mind, what with Harry, Barry and Larry—“ those are her triplet boys—“and running this place. And of course I told only you because I knew you wouldn’t hassle me for favors with the Mayfairs.”

“And because Josie needed help with transporting the Mayfair costumes,” Sally said, apologetically to everyone else, although I didn’t see that she really owed them an apology at all.

“Really? You got to see all the costumes up for auction?” Cherry said excitedly.

“Or for donation to the Mason County Historical Society,” I said. “That’s still being decided—so don’t get your hopes up about Candace’s white dress.”

Dean’s expression of tension eased a bit, while Cherry went right back to pouty. Lord, I worried about Dean.

I looked at Caleb. “And as for you getting an interview, well, I can ask tomorrow afternoon. I’m delivering the last of the freshened costumes then. I’m emissary for Mrs. Beavy—“ she’s the 80-something who runs the Mason County Historical Society, which operates a museum out of the former home of the now deceased owner of the Breitenstrater Pie Factory—but that’s another story.

Anyway, I’d promised Mrs. Beavy I’d press the Mayfair Sisters about which costumes they might donate to the museum, so while I was at it, I might as well ask about an interview with the Paradise Advertiser-Gazette as well. And see if they were ready to provide that list to Caleb, too.

Caleb looked excited. “Thanks, Josie, you’re a pal. But, um, anyway that you can move your meeting up to tomorrow morning? I mean, the sooner—“

I shook my head. “No. I have a meeting at Stillwater tomorrow morning.”

Stillwater Farms is the residential home of my cousin-from-my-mama’s-side, Guy Foersthoefel. Guy is like a brother to me. He’s also eighteen years older than me, and he’s an adult with autism. He lives in the residential home that his parents, deceased for the past twelve years, carefully chose for him: Stillwater Farms, just a half hour north of Paradise and an hour south of Columbus. His parents, Aunt Clara and Uncle Horace, reared me as a daughter after my parents abandoned me to an orphanage. When Aunt Clara and Uncle Horace died young, just as I was graduating high school and starting to try to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, they left me two things: their laundromat business and Guy’s guardianship.

I was only eighteen when I took over both, but I took the responsibilities seriously. Twelve years later, I still do.

“Josie’s going to a meeting of guardians and parents where the new director of Stillwater will be introduced,” Sally said.

Ohs, and ahs, and nods of understanding ensued from Cherry, Dean and Caleb. They knew how seriously I took Guy’s care—and the future of Stillwater Farms. In fact, I’d been on the search committee for a new director at the end of the previous year, but traumatic mishaps on a chick trip with Sally and Cherry to Port Clinton, Ohio for the New Year’s Eve Great Walleye Drop celebration—and my 30^th birthday—had landed me on bed rest for awhile from exhaustion and walking pneumonia. Another long story. But anyway, it had meant I’d had to scale back on obligations, including being on the interviewing committee for the director.

So, I hadn’t had a chance to meet Levi Applegate, the new director. But I had read his initial resume and background, and it had made me nervous. He had great credentials. And he had a sister with autism, so I was sure he could empathize with Stillwater ’s community—meaning residents and caretakers and family members. But his sister was back in New Mexico , so I wondered how long he’d be willing to stay in Ohio . And he had some new ideas about how to work with adults with autism that made me uncomfortable.

“And being reminded of that meeting makes me think I ought to head home for a good night’s sleep,” I said. I nudged Caleb with my hip. Sally started to stand up, so Caleb could stand up, so I could get out of the booth—but then we all stopped.

“What’s your problem, Bubba? Your woman was feeling me up, not—“

The man—a stranger I didn’t recognize—in the middle of the tiny dance floor didn’t get a chance to finish his statement. The guy he’d called Bubba was really T-Bone Baker, owner of the big shiny tricked out pick up truck I’d been staring at a few moments ago.

And no one made such accusations about his woman, Rhonda. That would be as bad as scratching T-Bone’s truck’s finish.

Which is why T-Bone was currently whacking the stranger across the jaw.

“What the hell? Not in my place! I run a clean place!” Sally was hollering, and running to break up the fight, such as it was. T-Bone was basically using the guy as a punching bag.

“’Scuse me darlin’!” Dean hollered, clambering over Cherry. He was eager, I reckoned, to get into action he could understand, and away from pleading with Cherry about not bidding on the Mayfair dress.

“What?” Cherry shrieked after Dean. “You’re off-duty!”

“The law and the press are never off duty!” Caleb said as he ran off to the middle of the floor, pulling out his cell phone with camera.

Cherry glared at me.

“Not my fault,” I said, shrugging. “And I still have to get home. Toodles.”

I headed toward the Bar-None bathrooms, away from the melee.

But right as I neared the door labeled “Women,” I heard Cherry shrieking at me, “I want you to find out about that dress, Josie Toadfern!” which made me turn so my back was to the door labeled “Men,” and before I could holler back at Cherry, I was suddenly on the ground.

On top of me was a man.

We quickly separated and stared at each other.

He was slender, tall, and interesting looking, and starting to laugh at our mishap, but suddenly he was just stammering “s-s-sorry,” while I was stammering the same thing, and this little voice was whispering in my head, “oh… there you are. Where have you been all my life?”