1 Death Pays the Rose Rent Page 3

  A chestnut wood staircase curved up to a second-floor landing and then curved again toward what must be the attic. Someone had painted a primitive-style mural on the walls. Here in the first-floor hall, the scene showed a two-story stone house on a hill, just like the one we were in, surrounded by farmland. A blue ribbon, representing a river, flowed through the cornfields, and over by the front door, a tiny covered wagon floated upside down in a small lake. The painted blue sky, dotted with soft white clouds, extended up the staircase as far as I could see.

  Alice-Ann waited while I examined the painting. Although it had faded in some places, it was still lovely.

  “There were itinerant artists around here in the eighteen hundreds who specialized in this kind of thing,” she told me. “They would live with a family for several months while they did the painting, then move on to another house. It was cheaper than importing wallpaper in those days and provided the family with some amusing company. This one’s particularly interesting because it not only shows our house, but also depicts the famous ‘Scene of the Accident,’ where Richard’s great-great-something-or-other fell in the river and decided it was easier to build a town than to replace a broken wagon wheel.”

  “Do I detect a little sarcasm?” I asked her.

  “I do get a little bored with it,” she admitted. “It all happened more than two hundred years ago, but the way the locals act, you’d think it was yesterday. I guess I’ve always felt it was more important to live for the future than the past.”

  As she spoke, she led me through an arch on the left into the living room. It was a large room, with a ceiling at least fourteen feet high. Tall, curtainless windows across the back let in soft, tree-filtered light.

  The furnishings were of that style recently popularized as “country,” which meant one or two comfortable, upholstered pieces were combined with awkward wooden benches and rickety chairs. Cracked pottery crocks full of dried weeds sat in every corner. Lamps were made of bean pots, canning jars, and even an old iron water pump. Duck decoys dangled above the windows, while blue and white enameled pots and pans with holes in them hung from the walls. The large stone fireplace, directly across from the entrance, was full of ashes from its last fire, and its front was darkened with soot. A gleaming copper bowl full of flowers sat on a carpenter’s bench, which lacked one leg. Since the bench stood before an appallingly spindly wood-framed couch, I deduced that it served as a coffee table. The blue and white braided rugs scattered about on the polished plank floors looked treacherously slippery.

  Incredibly, it worked. The room was friendly and cozy.

  Alice-Ann got a bottle of wine out of an oak wash-stand, which had a small bar built inside where the chamber pot used to go. She filled two glasses, but wouldn’t let me have mine until I put the cats away.

  Actually, the laundry room wasn’t bad. It was a converted sunroom, just off the kitchen. The windows had lovely, wide sills, and both cats quickly found sunbeams to sleep in. I put some Tasty Tabby Treats and water down for them and promised them we’d go for a walk later. That soothed my conscience enough so that I could enjoy my wine without guilt.

  I sat on a blue-plaid wing chair, which turned out to be more comfortable than it looked, while Alice-Ann, a hand-quilted pillow behind her back, stretched her long legs out on the wooden bench, and we talked and laughed and drank most of the bottle of wine.

  “Still into that Wizard of Oz stuff, I see.” She smiled, looking at my T-shirt. “I used to think you wished a cyclone would carry you off to Oz.”

  “Maybe I still do,” I said, and changed the subject back to our college days.

  Alice-Ann wiped her eyes after we reminisced about the time her date drank too many “purple passions” and jumped off a bridge, yelling, “I’m Crusader Rabbit.” We all thought it was hilarious at the time, but it hadn’t been so funny later when he had his broken leg set at the hospital.

  “You know when I first really decided you were the greatest?” Alice-Ann asked me.

  I shook my head.

  “When we decided our second semester to pledge a sorority. The first weekend we went over to the house, that obnoxious pledge master, Sally, told you to clean the bathroom.”

  “I remember that. I took a washcloth and wiped everything with it, and she came in and said it wasn’t clean enough, and I asked, ‘What should I do?’ and she said, ‘Use elbow grease.’ “

  “And you went all over the house asking where they kept the Elbow Grease.”

  “Because I thought there really was something called Elbow Grease, like Bon Ami or Pledge. How was I supposed to know? I’d never had to do anything like that before.”

  “And all the actives went along with the joke and had you chasing around looking for a can of Elbow Grease. Then when you found out, you said, ‘Fuck you—who needs this!’ and you left.”

  “And you came running out after me and said, ‘Not me!’ and that was the end of our careers as Greeks. But I had my first best friend.”

  “We were a couple of idiots—but nice idiots.”

  “Do you remember …?”

  “I wonder what happened to …?”

  Graduation had finally separated us—it had been rough on both of us. I’d left immediately for New York to seek my fortune as a journalist, and Alice-Ann had gone on to graduate school to earn a master’s degree in library science. After that she had come to Lickin Creek as the town librarian, met one of the town’s most eligible bachelors, and married him. Wryly she told me that some of the older valley residents still considered her an “outsider.”

  “Still?” I asked incredulously. “You’ve lived here for eight years. You’ve been a MacKinstrie for seven.”

  “That’s part of the problem. Richard’s family is sort of considered to be the local aristocracy, since it was a great-great-MacKinstrie who founded the town. In a small country town like this that kind of background is even more important than being rich. There were lots of young Pennsylvania girls who had hopes of becoming a MacKinstrie someday. Their families are not about to forgive a foreigner for coming in and marrying their little crown prince.”

  She glanced at her watch, and I got the impression that she wanted to change the subject. “Tori, I almost forgot. There’s something I have to do this afternoon. I’ve got to deliver a picture frame I repaired to my neighbors, the Thorne sisters. They live in a fabulous mansion, just down the hill from here. I can’t wait for you to see it. How about coming with me? They’re a couple of real interesting local characters.”

  I nodded, and she said, “I’ll call them and see if we can come over now.”

  She went into the kitchen to make her phone call.

  I wandered into the hallway to take another look at the mural and could just hear her saying, “Tonight? I didn’t know anything about it. …No, no problem. Richard is so busy he probably just forgot to tell me. Do you mind if we bring our houseguest? She’s a best-selling novelist. You’ll just love her.” Pause. “Thanks, Sylvia. We’ll see you later.”

  I moved quietly back to my wing chair. Otherwise she might think I had been eavesdropping, something I would never do intentionally. And naturally, I couldn’t tell her that I wasn’t a “best-selling novelist,” because then she’d know I’d overheard her conversation. Besides, it was great for the ego to be described that way even if it wasn’t true.

  Alice-Ann came back. “I’m almost sorry I called. It was really embarrassing. When I asked Sylvia Thorne if I could deliver the painting this afternoon, she said she was too busy getting ready for the meeting tonight. She said she expected me to be there, and I could bring the picture with me then. Evidently, Richard was supposed to tell me about it and forgot. Well, there’s no harm done, I guess. It’s not too late to call my baby-sitter. And Sylvia Thorne wants you to come, too. It’s not very often we get a celebrity visiting here. You’ll really liven up the meeting.”

  “What kind of meeting is it?” I asked.

  “It’s the steering c
ommittee for Lickin Creek’s annual Rose Rent Festival.”

  “You mentioned the Rose Rent Festival on the phone. What is it?”

  “It’s a local celebration—”

  “In honor of my late ancestor George MacKinstrie, founder of Lickin Creek,” came a masculine voice from the front hall.

  Alice-Ann’s hand flew up to grab her throat. “Richard, you startled me! I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Richard MacKinstrie, Alice-Ann’s husband, appeared in the archway, wearing a black leather jacket over a navy-blue polyester suit. A motorcycle helmet was tucked under his left arm. He looked distinctly displeased at the sight of me.

  But he boomed heartily, “Victoria. Great to see you. Alice-Ann told me she’d invited you, but I thought you’d be too busy running with the rich and famous to visit a couple of boring old friends like us.”

  I decided that my initial dislike of him was well grounded and gritted my teeth when he gave me a big, welcoming hug. He didn’t have to bend over nearly as far as Alice-Ann because he was no more than five foot six or seven.

  Mark had followed his father into the living room. Sand dribbled from his clothes onto the polished wood floor. I smiled at the child over his father’s shoulder as I suffered the unpleasant embrace.

  Richard turned to see what I was looking at. “Mark,” he roared. “You’re getting sand everywhere. Go to your room at once.”

  Alice-Ann’s face turned pink and her body stiffened. The Alice-Ann I used to know would have really torn into him. I had the feeling that she was holding back because I was there. Instead, her voice was carefully controlled as she spoke. “Richard, you don’t have to be so hard on him all the time. He’s a good boy.”

  Now it was Richard’s turn to have a pink face. “Just look at that mess he’s made. I’m going to get rid of that damn sandbox.” He went over to the wash-stand bar and poured himself about three inches of Scotch, which he drank in one long swallow. He turned to me with a smile, as though nothing had happened. “Drink?”

  “Just wine, thanks,” I said, glad that he seemed to have forgotten his son.

  Alice-Ann took the little boy by the hand and led him upstairs, telling him that he was going to have a baby-sitter tonight and could stay up until eight to watch TV.

  Richard sat stiffly on the wooden bench, as if determined to be uncomfortable, and I settled back into my wing chair. “Put on a little weight, haven’t you?” he said.

  It was an intentional insult. Anyone who knows me is well aware I could be the poster child for the Yo-Yo Dieters Association. I swallowed my angry retort, reminding myself I was, after all, a guest in his home. The stillness in the room was dreadful. Finally, to fill the void, I asked him to tell me about the Rose Rent Festival.

  He lit up. I breathed a sigh of relief. I’d asked the right question.

  As though he were delivering a lecture before a class of very slow college freshmen, he began, “My ancestor George MacKinstrie, having heard of the beauty of the western part of the country, struck out from Philadelphia into the wilderness in 1745. Luckily for us, his wagon lost a wheel and plunged into what is now known as the lickin Creek. He immediately realized that the scene of the accident had everything he would need for farming—a mild climate, protected on all sides by mountains, water, and a stream with power enough to operate a gristmill. He made friends with the Indians, obtained permission to settle here, and built a large plantation.

  “Within twenty years he had become a rich man, and he decided he would build a town along the banks of the Lickin Creek. He laid it out carefully and then advertised in the Philadelphia newspapers that he would hold a drawing for the lots. Hundreds of people poured into the valley, and in a few years there was a bustling community along the banks of the very creek where he’d had his fortuitous accident.

  “My ancestor, according to the news of the times, was a modest and unassuming man who was embarrassed as well as pleased when the newcomers named the town MacKinstrieburg in his honor.

  “Rather unfairly, it seems to me, people continued to call the town Lickin Creek, after the stream that runs through the center, and that name was perpetuated by a post office mapping error sometime early in this century.”

  He paused to sip from his glass.

  I wondered if he’d ever get to the Rose Rent part.

  “MacKinstrie, like many Scotch-Irish of his time, believed in a hell of fire and brimstone. As he grew older, he worried about what would become of his soul. He had never been a churchgoing man, but decided it was now time to begin.

  “He had no way of knowing which church had a direct line to heaven, so he decided to cover all options. He provided three choice lots, downtown near the town square, to three different religious orders: the Presbyterians, which you would expect from a Scotch-Irish, the Catholics, and the Jews. They were to build their churches on these lots and in return pay a small annual rent.

  “And for the rent, he specified that the congregations of the three churches would get together once a year and present one red rose each to him or to his oldest living descendant. Naturally my ancestor was the guest of honor at these festive occasions.

  “It might have seemed an odd thing to ask, but it proved to be an absolutely brilliant move. The three churches worked together to organize Rose Rent Day, and within a few years it became quite a celebration with the whole town involved. Best of all, this spirit of cooperation extended to other projects as well. Old MacKinstrie died happy, assured of a place in heaven, and the community had the benefit of what could have been rival organizations working together for the good of all.”

  “That’s fascinating,” I said, half meaning it. “So these congregations have been paying rent in roses to MacKinstries for over two hundred years.”

  “Not exactly,” he said. I groaned inwardly—no more, please!

  “When George MacKinstrie died, his descendants received the Rose Rent until 1861. But so many men from MacKinstrieburg left to fight in the Civil War that payment of the Rose Rent was postponed indefinitely. After the war was over, it apparently was forgotten forever, or would have been, if it had not been for Sylvia Thorne.’’

  I interrupted. “That’s your neighbor who lives in the mansion?”

  He looked surprised. “How did you know that? Well, anyway, she was digging about in the county archives about thirty years ago, looking for a subject to research that would earn her an invitation to join the lickin Creek Historical Society. She found several references to Rose Rent Day and was intrigued enough to keep searching until she unearthed the whole story, which she then presented to the annual meeting of the Historical Society. Naturally, the Society immediately voted to offer her membership on the basis of her original research. It’s considered a great honor to become a member of the Society. It’s certainly the most prestigious organization in lickin Creek, and belonging to it assures one of the highest social standing.

  “The president of the Society at that time was my grandfather, David MacKinstrie. He suggested that she approach the present-day leaders of the three congregations to see if they would be interested in resurrecting the Rose Rent ceremony. They were all delighted by the idea and asked Sylvia Thorne to form the new Rose Rent committee.

  “With her at the head of the committee, the community rallied round the flag, so to speak. Preparations went on for weeks, and on the last Saturday in July, my grandfather sat on a platform in the town square and was presented with three red roses. After

  that everyone in town lined up to receive their refreshments, while bands played, flags were waved, and balloons were released. From that first small celebration thirty years ago, the day has mushroomed into a major festival, with just about every civic group in Lickin Creek participating.

  “My father succeeded my grandfather as guest of honor, and I, of course, have inherited the honor of receiving the Rose Rent this year.” He folded his hands over his stomach (I was pleased to notice a bit of a paunch beginning there) and leaned b
ack, looking as smug as a banker who’d just foreclosed on someone’s family farm.

  “I suppose you’re a member of the hotshot Historical Society,” I said.

  He ignored the “hotshot” and smirked with unnatural modesty. “Not yet, but I have good reason to believe I will soon be asked to join it.”

  “I’m sure that will make you very happy.”

  “It would definitely ensure the success of my business. All the best people belong.”

  As Alice-Ann came back into the living room, Richard glanced at his watch. “I’m sure you two girls have a lot to talk about, and I’ve got a meeting of the Rose Rent Committee to go to, so if you’ll just fix me a quick sandwich, I’ll get out of your hair tonight.”

  Alice-Ann spoke softly, almost apologetically, not like the woman I thought I knew. “Richard, I’ve been invited to the meeting, too. I had to call Sylvia Thorne today about delivering the frame I fixed for her, and she said she’d told you to bring me. I told her that you’ve been so busy you probably forgot to tell me.”

  His nostrils pinched closed as if he smelled something unpleasant.

  “Yes, of course I forgot. Sorry, my dear. I’ll give her your apologies and tell her you have company.”

  “Richard, she invited Tori to come, too. Wasn’t that nice?”

  “You must have asked to bring her, Alice-Ann. What else could she do but invite her? That is what I consider very bad manners on your part, Alice-Ann.”

  Alice-Ann clenched her fists and sucked in her lips until they were invisible.

  Richard seemed to remember I was there and told me, “Sylvia Thorne is the social and cultural leader of this community. I’m sure you can understand that committing a faux pas with her could just about ruin someone socially. In the real-estate business, one must be very careful not to make any such gaffes.”

  Why is it, I wondered, the less education people have, the more they like to use French words? Too bad he pronounced it fox pass.