For His Daughter. Ann Evans
Denver. And you’re welcome to his address if you think you can make him concentrate on anyone but himself for more than ten minutes at a time. The louse has a Ph.D. in arrogance and a master’s degree in snake-oil salesmanship.”
“You’ll get over him.”
“Already am. But you were saying…”
“Oh, yes.” Becky settled in, heading back to gossipy basics. “Just that I heard from Althea Bendix who heard it from Polly Swinburne that Rafe has bought up half a block of old buildings on the town’s main street. Including the old Three Bs Social Club.”
Very few of the buildings in Broken Yoke were noteworthy, but Dani had already learned that one of the genuine historic sites in town was the Three Bs, a rambling, deserted old hotel and watering hole of questionable origin. Given the right designer and a huge infusion of cash, it might make an interesting salute to the town’s silver-mining days.
“What’s wrong with fixing up the Three Bs?” Cissy asked Becky. “It’s been an eyesore long enough.”
“Well, where would he get that kind of money, for one thing? When he and his daddy had their big falling out, he ran off without a nickel to his name. Of course, he could have won the lottery. He always was a lucky devil.”
Dani tapped her chin, thinking of the business possibilities for the old place. “He could cut it up, I suppose. Turn it into shops and restaurants and maybe even condominiums.”
Becky shivered visibly. “You’d never catch me going anywhere near there. People say it’s haunted.”
Cissy made a derogatory sound and dumped her empty salad bowl into the trash can beside her desk. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. People say Elvis is still alive and you don’t hear any new songs on the radio, do you? I think it would make a wonderful focal point for the town. A way to revitalize downtown.”
Becky wasn’t about to be sidetracked by logic. “Why would Rafe care about revitalizing downtown? He wasn’t all that fond of Broken Yoke when he lived here before.”
“Maybe things have changed,” Cissy said. “Everyone changes. You long to put down roots eventually.”
“Rafe D’Angelo, putting down roots?” Becky said in a horrified tone. “My Lord, what’s the world coming to?”
CHAPTER TWO
THE SILVER SADDLE BAR and Grill, which was more bar than grill, boasted a sizable back room where private parties could be held. This morning, more than forty people had crammed into the space, and there wasn’t the slimmest hope that a party was in the making.
The planning session for Broken Yoke’s summer festival was in full swing, and so far, there was only one thing that everyone at the town meeting could agree on. That no one could agree on anything.
Rafe D’Angelo sat toward the back of the room, next to his older brother Nick. Over the tops of people’s heads—mostly gray, he noticed—he could make out his father seated near the front.
Just like Pop, he thought. Because of his stroke, Sam D’Angelo still relied on his wheelchair occasionally instead of crutches to get around, but that didn’t keep him from seeking out the center of the action. And right now, the center of the action was up front, between those two old geezers Mort Calloway and Howard Hackett.
Over the years, Rafe had developed a pretty keen nose for trouble. He could usually tell just when fists were going to replace words. Right now, he was fairly certain that Mort was thirty seconds away from decking Howard.
The fact that Mort was in his eighties and needed a shot of oxygen with almost every breath, or the realization that Howard’s eyesight was so poor he couldn’t have seen Mort’s fist coming, much less prevented it, didn’t have a thing to do with it. The two men were furious with one another, and no one could get them to calm down. Not even Sheriff Bendix, who stood between them like a referee at a prizefight.
“It was just an idea,” Mort said for the third time. The lifelong naturalist had proposed a botanical theme for this year’s festival—complete with a wildflower exhibition, guest lectures and an orchid contest.
“Well, it was a stupid one,” Howard replied tersely. “Are you out of your wood-pecked, termite-infested mind? How many people in this state do you think will give a rat’s rear end about seeing a slide show on how to identify a bunch of poseys?”
Mayor Wickham spoke up from the sidelines. “It doesn’t seem in keeping with the history of the festival, Mort.”
Mort swung on the mayor, an action that left him more than a little breathless. “Since this is only our second festival, and the first was such a god-awful failure, I don’t see how it can mess much with the history of the danged thing.” He took a sip of oxygen, then whipped his mask away so he could turn back to Howard. “And my idea has as much merit as a harmonica contest or watching a bunch of morons being used as human bowling balls.”
“At least people won’t fall asleep in the street!”
Evidently, some of the other Broken Yoke citizens thought Howard had a point. There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd.
Rafe slid down in his chair, wondering why he’d let Nick talk him into coming here. He’d been back in Broken Yoke for two weeks, but it already felt like a lot longer.
A reed-thin older woman at the front of the room stood up. Beside Rafe, his brother inhaled sharply. “Uh-oh,” Nick said under his breath. “Here comes trouble.”
The woman said in a crisp voice, “I have an idea.”
The years since Rafe had lived here suddenly swept away. He remembered this woman—those small, sharp eyes, the posture that made her look as though she’d snap in two if someone tried to bend her. Polly Swinburne. Paranoid Polly, the kids had called her. Rich. Widowed. A bit “off.”
“Why don’t we have a naked festival?” she suggested.
Okay. Make that a lot “off.” Rafe groaned, wishing he had stayed back at the lodge.
The room went deathly silent for a long moment. Finally, Sheriff Bendix cleared his throat and asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Polly, what exactly is a naked festival?”
Polly practically went pink with enthusiasm. “Well, you all remember that I went to Japan for vacation last year?” Several gray heads bobbed. “They celebrate something there called Hadaka Matsuri. All the participants wear loincloths, and one man is chosen to run naked through the streets. Everyone tries to touch him.”
“Touch him where?” someone asked.
“And what for?” Mort Calloway added, looking like all the oxygen in the world wasn’t going to be enough to keep him from passing out.
“Just to touch him,” Polly said. “He’s supposed to bring good luck and absorb evil. The custom’s over twelve hundred years old in Japan.”
“Well, it isn’t gonna last twelve seconds here in the good old U. S. of A.,” someone else said, and everyone laughed.
Polly looked annoyed. “This year there were ten thousand participants and over three hundred thousand spectators. Excuse me, but I thought the idea of having a festival was to make money.”
“Where would people in loincloths keep their wallets?” Howard asked.
A few people giggled, and after that, the discussion deteriorated even more as several ribald comments were made. Polly subsided with a scowl.
A few more ideas were trotted out. Not surprisingly, the owner of the Silver Saddle voted for a beer festival. Someone suggested they repaint all the storefronts to look like bare wood, throw down two feet of dirt on the streets and pretend to have returned to the 1850s. Wesley Macgruder, the owner of the