Eleanor owned a store across from mine on Main Street called A Stitch Back in Time where she restored and restyled vintage wedding gowns. She only worked whenever she felt like it, which wasn’t very often, but in some mysterious manner she always seemed to maintain an exceedingly comfortable lifestyle.
Enough to put gas in her red Vespa and chilled Beefeater in her martini glass anyway.
“There’s a huge crowd outside those garage doors,” she said to us in her husky voice. “All kinds of women from the village, not just from the Historical Society. Like a rock concert or something. Far out. I feel like I’m back in Woodstock.”
I could feel the tension building, like the pressure in the air before a summer thunderstorm. The mailman was nice enough to look at, but it was nothing compared to the main attraction.
Detective Serrano was a transplanted New Yorker, like Joe and me. He was the hottest, most exciting import into Millbury in years and he spent as much time fending off the local females as he did catching criminals. Somehow I’d become a bit of an amateur sleuth, thanks to my, um, inquisitive nature, and I’d helped him solve a couple of cases, whether accidentally or on purpose.
Martha had finally given Mr. October a large enough pumpkin to satisfy his manly ego, and she swept over to us, carrying a clipboard, and trailing Cyril Mackey in her wake.
I wasn’t sure what the clipboard was for, seeing as we only had two models to keep track of, but I didn’t dare ask.
She was wearing a gold lamé wrap shirt, harem-style pants in a Japanese black and gold design, and high heels. The shirt gapped dangerously over her impressive curves and I hoped the little snap fastener at her cleavage was up to the challenge, ready to give his all for God and Country. Her bright red hair was twisted up into a thick knot, showing long shimmering earrings. If need be, the photographer could always use her as another light reflector.
“How did you ever talk these guys into this anyway?” Joe asked her. “I mean, I know I was a pushover, but it can’t have been that easy with everyone.”
“Well, some were easier than others,” she said with an arch look at Cyril.
Cyril was the cantankerous owner of the local salvage business. He was originally from Yorkshire, England, and until recently, a bit of an outcast whose wardrobe left a lot to be desired. The village was still intrigued as to how he and Martha, a wealthy widow, had embarked on their strange and precarious new romance.
He glared at her. “I still don’t know how I feel about taking my kit off in front of a bunch o’ gawping women.”
“Come on, man, be a sport,” Joe said. “We’ve all sacrificed our pride for a good cause.”
Cyril took his tweed cap off and ran it through his thick gray hair before jamming the cap back on his head. “I know, and that awd bugger what owns the place has already scarpered to the bloody Outer Banks. So I hope a lot of people buy this damn calendar and right quick.”
Cyril was correct that the current owner of the historic property had no real emotional attachment to Millbury anymore. The only thing he cared about was getting a nice fat check to fund his retirement. He’d simply sell to the highest bidder.
Joe clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, Cyril, after tonight you’re the last one, and then the ladies can get it into production.”
At that moment, the photographer, Alex Roos, strolled past our group, one hand on a slim hip. “People, people, how’s it going?” he said, showing capped teeth that were startlingly bright against his tanned skin. He wore black jeans, a long shirt with billowing sleeves that made him look a bit like a pirate, and pointed emerald green snakeskin boots.
Ruth Bornstein, the owner of this estate, who had more connections than a crocheted shawl, had talked him into doing the shoot for a cut-rate price. She was also providing his room and board for free, which was her contribution to the cause. Even without knowing he was from California, it was clear to see he was an exotic bird amongst a flock of country fowl.