Dad used to call it “resting bartender face,” the look he’d have when business was slow and he was forced to talk to patrons he either didn’t know or didn’t enjoy.
His version was practiced – in fact, the last time I saw him, it seemed cemented across his eyes and mouth. It was a sort of autopilot – his mouth would move, and he’d say things, and people would think he was listening but really he was thinking about something else. I wasn’t sure how to take it, frankly, or if the maneuver had ever been used on me.
My version, on the other hand, is still developing and, on this day, I was getting good practice.
Two tourists had come and gone, eaten lunch at the bar and had some wine. But now, mid-afternoon, things were quiet. A few tables were occupied with early diners but no one was sitting at the bar.
I relished the chance to breathe a bit as the deadline for Bitsy’s next book club was looming, but the opportunity was short-lived as the door opened and two familiar faces stood before me.
“Afternoon, barkeep, how are ya?” Berne chose a stool at the end of the bar. I’d seen this from him before – his attempts to appear casual were thwarted by what was clearly an underlying motive. The fact that John came in behind him, laughing nervously, was curious to say the least.
“I’m OK, but what’s up with you and to whom can I thank or blame for this honor this early in the day?”
Bernie smirked. “Well, you’re usually tuned in about everything happening around here … I’ll have a Yingling, and one for my young friend here, too,” Bernie said, removing a reporter’s notebook and pen from his jacket. “We have a few questions.”
As I began to pour, John’s cell phone rang and he stepped out.
I looked at Bernie. “You two working together again?”
He shrugged. “Maybe … we’ll see.”
I handed him the pint and reached for another. “Bernie, I can’t keep up anymore … who’s working here, who’s working there. Seriously. So what can I tell you?”
As John returned to the bar, he reached for Bernie’s notepad and wrote something down. Bernie nodded. “Let’s talk later. “
He turned back to me as I handed John his beer.
Bernie sipped hungrily. “Well … you’ve got two eyes … I’m guessing you have noticed a truck parked rather conspicuously at the Courthouse, yes? From the markings on the truck, it’s apparently a mobile medical facility of some sort offering psychological treatments. The truck has a phone number to call for an appointment.”
I honestly hadn’t noticed, but I found the idea intriguing.
“Honestly, no, I know nothing of this. But considering everything that has been going on — murders, body parts — and everything I hear just about every night right here in this space, it might be a good idea. Wonder who is responsible for this.”
Just then, Wanda breezed through the door, an entourage of three behind her. Her purse flapped on her arm as she whisked off her sunglasses.
“Greetings, all.” She nodded to Bernie and John. “Cassie, table for four please? And you two” – she said pointing to Bernie and John – “I’ll be right over. I have a little news for you.”
I picked up the menus and walked the group to a table in the back, facing the river. Decent as she seemed, I have to say, I’ve always found Wanda to be bizarre. She carried herself like a middle-aged, bored socialite, but there was a desperation … a need for some sort of acceptance.
“We’ll start with two bottles of Bully Hill Cabernet Franc and a beer for this young man,” Wanda said, patting his arm. “That should get you all started. If you’ll excuse me …”
She grabbed my arm and pointed to the bar as we walked over. “Are these two working together again?”
I shrugged. “No idea. They’re asking about some truck parked at the Courthouse.”
Wanda nodded. “Excellent,” she said, sidling up next to Bernie. “Cassie, a quick bourbon if you don’t mind while I talk to these two lovely men.”
She turned to Bernie and John. “You noticed the truck then I take it?”
Bernie nodded. “What do you know?”
I placed the bourbon in front of Wanda, myself anxious to hear what she had to say.
“Well, someone had to address the elephant in the room …” Wanda sipped her drink sparingly. “Middle Valley, as we all know, has been in crisis – body parts, corrupt law enforcement, murder … we needed help, so I went and got some.”
I could hardly keep a straight face as Bernie glanced my way. “So this is your doing?” he asked. “Whatever this is.”
Wanda fluffed her hair. “Yes, Bernie, the mother of mobile mental health … I have brought one Theodora Menchy to Middle Valley for what will no doubt be an extended stay.”
Somehow, Bernie spoke simultaneously as he took notes. “You brought in a public therapist?”
Wanda nodded dramatically as she sipped. She peered over her reading glasses. “Someone had to. The taint is just everywhere. And who better to clean things up than the Chamber of Commerce?”
John, who’d been engrossed in his phone, looked up. “Who’s paying for this?”
Wanda grinned and finished her bourbon. “In good time, my dear. All in good time. In fact, I’d like to meet with you, the mayor, and maybe a few others, the next day or so to make sure we all know how this will work. Can I call you in the morning to set up a meeting?”
“Of course,” Bernie said.
As Wanda stood up, she adjusted her long, floral cover-up, creating a breeze that carried the scent of her strawberry body wash over the bar. She put her bag on her arm. “Well, I must return to my guests. Look for an email on the subject in the next few days. We’re sorting it out this evening over dinner and will be in touch.”
With that, she whooshed back to her guests.
Literally, I’m telling you, she whooshed.
“So I guess we’re all supposed to talk about our feelings to these people in order to feel better about Middle Valley?” Bernie said. He looked me in the eye. “I thought that’s what we had you for.”
I laughed. “I’m out. Just sayin’ … shrinks and I are not a match. She must have unilaterally decided that this was a good idea. I mean, does the mayor even know? This seems a bit shady.”
“A great question,” Bernie said taking a long sip. “Among many others.”
Jenny Page