Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [56]
Trouble, especially, was a strange one. The narrow village seemed to be comprised of one main thoroughfare and a few offshooting streets. Oddly, some of the buildings downtown were quaint and in beautiful condition. An old-fashioned movie palace was obviously undergoing renovation. Construction trucks lined the curb out front and bricklayers were busy rebuilding a corner wall. I assumed there were even more of them inside bringing the tired-looking structure back to life.
There were other surprises too, the biggest being the juxtaposition of the beautiful, newly renovated buildings with some of the decrepit, sorry old ones. I couldn’t even see into the dirty windows of a diner right on the main street. The grocery store sign was missing a few letters. Weirdest of all, the car dealership apparently doubled as a taxidermy shop. Because perched on top of every banged-up, dingy, dented Ford and Chevy parked in the knee-high grass was an odd menagerie of stuffed squirrels, raccoons and other small mammals.
“Freaky,” I muttered.
The town did apparently like Halloween. Orange-and-black banners hung entirely across the street, from lamppost to lamppost, in a one block section of downtown. Being locked away up at Seaton House, I’d nearly forgotten the holiday was just a few days off.
Scarecrows sat on bales of hay outside a few stores. Bats and witches flew in black silhouettes across several plateglass windows. And just about every business establishment had a sign for a Halloween costume dance, being hosted by a Mr. Mortimer Potts, scheduled for this Saturday.
Parking in a public lot next to a small playground with shiny new slides and swings, I got out to walk around. The rain of the past several days had finally eased and sunshine washed the streets in light and the town’s residents in smiles. Several nodded pleasantly and murmured hello as I passed.
“It’s not so bad,” I whispered, regretting my snarky attitude about the place. “Simon might actually like it.”
Okay, that was probably a stretch.
Finding the courthouse, I went inside and was shown to the records office by a helpful receptionist. “Mr. Billows,” the woman called as we approached an open door, with a cracked sign marked Records.
An ancient man’s head popped out of the doorway. “Eh?”
“This young lady would like to see some of the land transfer records.” Smiling pleasantly, the woman left me alone with the hundred-year-old city worker, whose gummy smile told me he was happy to have the company.
“Don’t get many visitors,” he said as he ushered me in. I thought for a moment I felt something brush my bottom, but figured I must have been mistaken. If I had just been goosed by a centenarian, I really didn’t want to know about it anyway.
The old man looked as dusty as the piles of books stacked on every free surface in the place, but he was able to quickly retrieve the information I’d been after.
“You find what you’re looking for?” he asked after I’d flipped through the 1938 journal for several minutes. He hadn’t even protested when I pulled out my small digital camera and took pictures.
“Mmm-hmm,” I murmured, nodding. Then, speaking mostly to myself, I said, “So Stubbs was able to buy Zangara out for thirty thousand dollars.”
The old man appeared startled when he realized which record in the leather-bound journal I’d focused on. “Zangara. You know about Zangara?”
I nodded. “I’m doing some research on him—and on Seaton House—for my professor. He’s writing a book on the case.”
The old man’s eyes bugged out, reflected a couple of times over by his thick glasses. “You’re looking into the goings-on at Seaton House?”
“Well, the goings-on from the 1930s.”
The man didn’t look mollified. “Have you been up there, then?”
“I’m staying at the house,” I admitted, lifting my chin pointedly. “The owner has been a tremendous help.”
The old man sputtered, his jaw shaking as much as his palsied hands. Then, without a word, he grabbed the ledger book away from me and slammed it closed. “Out you go.”
Stunned, I just stared.
“Out, out. It