Margaret Grace - Murder In Miniature

I took a breath and focused on the center of the room, alive with blaring seventies music and loud chatter.

I was getting used to having all the professionals in my life, like doctors and repairmen, being younger than me. But seeing a large group of my former students with wrinkles around their eyes and gray at the temples was almost overwhelming. It had been many years since I’d been to one of my own school reunions. I decided to skip all such gatherings in the future.

I took my cue from Rosie and crept along the walls of the room while she surveyed the crowd without reserve. She frowned and screwed up her nose the way Maddie did when she was concentrating on her homework. Finally, we’d made a full circle, back to the entrance. I made a move to go to a table a few feet in when I spied a student I recognized, but Rosie pulled me along with her.

“Stay with me, okay? I’m nervous.”

Surely we weren’t going to circle the room again. “Why don’t you just try to find someone you know and-”

“I know lots of people here, Gerry. But I don’t need to visit with the ones who still live in Lincoln Point. They’re my customers. I see them all the time.”

I saw her point. Sort of.

Unfortunately for Rosie, one of my students found me before Rosie found David.

Frank Thayer, newly appointed principal of ALHS, and one of the brightest lights in my special Steinbeck seminar, introduced me to his wife, Paula. “This is the best English teacher I ever had,” he told her, making it well worth the trip for me already. The fact that the loud chatter and ear-splitting music (“Margaritaville” at the moment) caused him to shout out the compliment made it even better.

Rosie was itchy while we reminisced about the miniature project we’d worked on for the Steinbeck class-a replica of Steinbeck’s home in Salinas, California. Frank was a wonderful woodworker and had contributed his skills to the enterprise. He told us he and his family had recently celebrated a birthday lunch at the old Victorian home, which now included a restaurant and gift shop.

If I didn’t like her so much as a friend, I’d have said Rosie was rude as she paid little attention to the conversation, though she’d also been involved in the Steinbeck seminar. She’d written an outstanding report on East of Eden, if I remembered correctly. And when it came to English term papers, I usually did.

“Didn’t you make a set of miniature books for that project?” Frank asked Rosie. “Sort of presaging your future career as a bookshop owner.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, her eyes roaming the room for David. “There he is,” she whispered to me, her breath catching. “Two tables over, near the doorway. In the beautiful navy suit and yellow tie. His hair is still thick and dark.”

I thought I heard her sigh, and hoped I was wrong. Was it a coincidence that “I Just Want to Be Your Everything” was now playing?

I turned to see an older David Bridges, still looking quite fit, arguing with a man in a gray jumpsuit. A maintenance person, I thought.

“They don’t look happy,” I told her, noticing somewhat antagonistic gestures on the part of the stocky man in the hotel uniform.

“Remember I told you David’s in charge of the maintenance crew here at the hotel. That must be a whiny employee. You’d think the guy would leave poor David alone to celebrate for one night.”

“We have empty seats at our table,” Frank said, commanding our attention again. I wasn’t surprised that the new principal didn’t isolate himself at a head table, in spite of his position. He pointed to a set of six bar stools and a high table not far from where we stood. “Henry Baker and his granddaughter are there. Remember him? He taught shop.”

“Of course, he was a great help with a lot of our miniature building projects.”

“Come and sit with us,” Paula said.

Rosie shook her head, but too late. Frank took our drink orders and insisted on treating us.

I felt more than saw Rosie’s glare as we made our way to the table to the tune of “Muskrat Love.” But I was more intrigued by a little girl of Maddie’s age sitting next to Henry. Either Henry didn’t know about the special kids’ program or he wanted his granddaughter by his side. I couldn’t imagine the other alternative-that a nine- or ten-year-old might insist on attending a function like this.

I felt a bump on my right hip. “Oops, sorry,” said a booming voice behind me. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Porter,” the man added. “I didn’t mean to run into you like that.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s rather tight in here, isn’t it?” I said, not knowing exactly to whom in the crowded space.

Rosie drew in her breath. I turned to see what had caused the reaction. It had been David Bridges, now free of his unhappy employee, who had bumped into me. No spills or dire consequences, except for Rosie, who stuttered, “D-David!”

“Hey,” David said, steadying his drink. “Rosie Esterman, right?”

Rosie’s face reddened, visible even in the dim light. I could have sworn she lowered her eyelids, coy and flirty. “Yes, David.”

I took a seat on one of the stools at the table, to give Rosie clear access to David.

The employee in the jumpsuit wasn’t through with his boss, however. He’d followed David through the spaces between the high tables, looking out of place among the dress suits and fancy (except for mine) outfits in the ballroom. “This isn’t over, Bridges,” he said. “I can burn you.”

“Look, Ben, you’re out of line, here. Let’s take it up next week.”

The irascible Ben locked eyes with David. “It might be too late by then,” he said and rushed out, knocking into my stool as he passed.

This repartee was in low voices and thus caused only the slightest stir among the closest revelers.

David turned to Rosie and me and transitioned to the broad smile that made him Most Popular Boy thirty years ago. “Don’t mind Ben. He didn’t get the raise he hoped for and he’s a little out of sorts right now. I’ll take care of him on Monday.”

David gave each of us a perfunctory hug-still very muscular, I noted-while an attractive, slight brunette approached. She looped her arm around David’s and pulled on him. I recognized the head cheerleader, Cheryl (nee Carroll) Mellace. C-minus on her As You Like It paper, I remembered. She’d changed less than any of us, looking like she could still pull off her youthful acrobatics and climb onto the shoulders of the girls in her squad.

“I’ll see you all later,” David said, seeming to enjoy the tension on his arm from the lovely Cheryl.

“Around ten thirty, right?” Rosie said.

“Uh, I guess?” David seemed to be asking a question, perhaps because he was in transit from Cheryl’s pull and her high-pitched, “C’mon, Davi-i-id.”

“What room…?” Rosie’s question trailed off as David and Cheryl strolled out of earshot. Rosie looked at me. I was happy no one else seemed to notice what I’d have called a brush-off. “Well, I think the room number is on one of his gift cards,” she said. “I’m sure he expects me to know it.”

I looked at her hands, clutching the silver chain of her purse. She’d twisted it into a tangled mess.

Trying to make up for a distracted Rosie, I talked more than I usually do at such events. My task was made easier by Taylor, ten years old, who told us about the new dollhouse her grandfather, Henry Baker, ALHS’s former shop teacher, was building for her. My kind of family.

“Oh? What scale is it?” I asked, feeling more and more at home at the table. Leave it to a child to provide the only cocktail (ginger ale in my case) party conversation I’d ever enjoyed. “Rosie and I are miniaturists, too,” I offered. I doubted Rosie heard me.