No Stone Unturned

Chapter 1

Road to Where?

I shoulda stood in bed! I don’t remember who said that, but he had the right idea. Those words kept going through my head as I stared at the various stacks of clothes and sundries beside my suitcase. I mulled over what I absolutely had to take, there was no way all those piles could be stuffed inside.

Maggie stood beside me, shaking her short, silver-blue curls that, as usual, coordinated with her outfit. Today she wore a flowered blue and gray blouse, blue Capri’s and matching sandals. You know the brochure said everyone is limited to only one large and one small bag for this trip.

I turned on her. "I know that. What do you think I’m doing here, redecorating my bed? Or maybe this looks like my idea of a crazy quilt?"

Maggie stifled a giggle. Crazy, maybe; quilt, definitely not.

I placed my hands on my ample hips, and took notice of my disheveled appearance. Although never the fashion-conscious person, today I was even more frumpy than usual, dressed in rumpled pants and matching rumpled top, to keep my less wrinkled clothes ready for this dreaded trip. I said, through gritted teeth, You know I hate to pack—in fact, I hate to travel. Maybe I should shove everything on the floor, jump into the bed, cover my head and forget the whole thing. The sane, sensible part of me wanted to do exactly that, but Maggie and LeeAnne would be disappointed.

Maggie and LeeAnne are more than my best friends here at Golden Harvest Retirement Village—affectionately known as the Over-the-Hillton—they are two-thirds of The Tricycle Girls Investigating team. I, of course, am the Big Wheel, in more ways than one. It would take both of their skinny little bodies on the opposite side of the teeter from me for us to totter!

Maggie patted my shoulder. Take a deep breath and relax, Helen, you’re simply frustrated. I’ll help. This is supposed to be a fun trip. We aren’t leaving until Monday; you still have three days to figure it out.

But, I whined, it will take every minute of that time for me to stuff my things into only one suitcase and still manage to get it closed. I might have to enlist yours and LeeAnne’s aid. If I sat my two-hundred-forty-five pounds on top of the thing, maybe you two could snap it.

I ran my fingers through my short white bob and caught a glimpse of the effect in the dresser mirror. Spikes of stiff bristles outlined my head. I resembled a tall, elderly mad scientist. I pulled my hands from my hair and shook a finger in her direction. White hairs floated to the ground between us. And that’s another thing—I’m nearly six feet tall and weigh as much as you two together—even if you were both soaking wet and wearing your winter coats! My clothes take up twice as much space as yours. How can I be expected to pack for a week in the same amount of suitcases as you two lightweights?

She reached up to smooth my hair down, evidently caught the Don’t-you-dare-touch-me look in my eyes, and patted her own tresses instead. I never thought about it that way, she said. It really isn’t fair, is it? She helped me stack piles of clothes in various corners of the room so I could use the bed for its intended purpose for the next few nights. She reached up and gave me a big hug as she made her exit. Don’t get all stressed out. I’ll see you later. El and I are going to take a little stroll before dinner. Don’t worry, Helen, everything will be fine.

Fine? I huffed to her departing figure. We’ll see about that!

My name is Helen Boyer-Patterson, and I am a relatively healthy, relatively happy septuagenarian. I reside at Golden Harvest Retirement Village, in my hometown of Loblolly, Georgia, with a bunch of other outdated model citizens. My relative happiness had taken a turn for the worse when my oldest and dearest friend, Maggie Taylor and our newfound friend, LeeAnne Warner, had talked me into this confounded senior vacation. Traveling on a bus for seven days with a bunch of complaining old fogies did not stir up any excitement in me. It was to be a historical trip to places of interest to tourists. I argued that I was not a tourist; I was born and raised in the state. I had taken school trips with my kids to places like Stone Mountain and FDR’s Little White House in Warm Springs.

Maggie and LeeAnne, however, would have a heyday—Warm Springs is full of antique shops. A bunch of old things looking at old things held no particular appeal for me, either. Maggie reminded me, however, the town boasts one of the best eateries in the free world, where patrons can stuff themselves on such delicacies as fried green tomatoes. And, as my two hundred forty-five pounds can attest, I do love to eat. Maggie and LeeAnne pleaded that the trip wouldn’t be the same without the Tricycle Girls front wheel.

A while back the three of us had formed an investigating team—and I use the term loosely—when some strange things began happening here at the Golden Harvest. I even printed up business cards that read: Tricycle Girls Investigation/Consultation, with a caricature of the three of us on a tricycle. LeeAnne said it looked almost patriotic with our multi-colored tresses flying—hers red, mine snow white and Maggie’s blue-gray. The cards and consultation began as a joke, began for entertainment and to keep our minds active. Somewhere along the line, we inadvertently fell into the middle of an international jewelry theft ring. We blundered into some luck and managed to help the feds clear up the case. The ‘El’ person Maggie was taking a walk with this fine day was a retired federal agent who was involved in the case we helped resolve. His whole name is Elsworth Lumley—he swears that’s his real name, but I’m convinced it’s an alias. Since ‘the incident’ Maggie and LeeAnne tell everyone that we have dissolved our investigative team, but I keep the business cards just in case.

Maggie and I have been best friends since we were kids. We made mud pies from the same puddle, wished upon the same stars and held each other’s secrets safe. Through more than sixty years of life’s ups and downs, we have remained close friends.

When I lost my husband, Harry, to male menopause and a bleach-blonde bimbo, Maggie helped me through the crisis. She kept me from committing acts of violence on his perverted person by suggesting she and I have a campout. She brought hot dogs, marshmallows, graham crackers and chocolate bars. I furnished the fire and, in place of charcoal, Harry’s girlie magazines, his comic book collection and all the clothes he hadn’t taken when he skipped out. Those were the best hot dogs I ever ate. Unfortunately, S’mores have lost all their former appeal—and I really liked S’mores. One more strike against Harry.

When Maggie’s husband, Bill, died of a heart attack, I spent several months with her to help out, since she and Bill had no children. During that time of consoling and helping, I wished that hot dogs and melted chocolate could heal the pain of her loss. Time, however, became her great healer. She awoke one morning and declared her decision to move into Golden Harvest, the new retirement community in town. I was appalled that she could so easily give up her home and independence.

"Maggie, you can’t be serious. That place is for old folks!"

She patted my flabby, age-spotted arm and gave me a condescending smile. "Look in the mirror, Helen. We are those old folks!"

I was not convinced.

However, after I had an altercation with a frayed stair runner at my home that resulted in a broken hip, my well-meaning offspring coerced me into joining Maggie at the ‘Over-the-Hillton’.

The move, although a general and immediate shock to my independent nature, has had its advantages. As my offspring remind me, gone are the worries and expenses of home upkeep and maintenance. Of course, I’m sure the argument stems from selfishness on their parts—they don’t want to do the maintaining—not that any of them, as adults, ever volunteered for such a thing. But they have accused me of wheedling, whining and harassing them when repairs needed to be done, when limbs needed to be cut or hedges needed a trim.

Sometimes, they bribed or guilted their kids into coming over to help when I’d call with a problem. Ah, yes, I taught them well. Their collective sighs of relief when I moved out of my old homestead quite possibly caused a rift in the time continuum.

Aside from the loss of maintenance worries, Maggie is thrilled to have me close again. And here someone else does the cooking, cleaning, and repairing. We did have to break in a new chef recently, though, which upset me. It turned out our old chef had been immersed to his culinary neck cooking up illegal schemes. Too bad, too, his desserts were ‘to die for’ as my granddaughter would say.

I looked at the clock—I had fretted and stewed so long about this packing business, I was going to be late for dinner. I rushed to the dining room, although I knew there was no hurry—Maggie and LeeAnne wouldn’t start without me.

Chapter 2

Janine the Snow Queen

My friends were already at the table waiting as I rushed in and sat down. LeeAnne’s red hair was pulled back at the nape of her neck by a scarf that matched her green eyes. She wore a cotton dress in shades of green and gold with a gold sweater draped over her shoulders. Maggie had changed into another of her blue-on-blue coordinated outfits. I still sported the rumpled, flowered, all-purpose pantsuit I’d had on all day—OK, maybe a day and a half. Maggie looked me up and down but remained silent.

What? I challenged her to say something, but she shook her head and clamped her lips tighter.

I brushed at the wrinkles on my lap and said, I haven’t spilled anything on this. And, besides, I’m trying to keep all my good clothes clean for the trip. She looked down at her plate and picked up her salad fork.

The salads had been set at our places, the cherry tomatoes arranged on top were sliced nearly through and laid open, with tiny triangles of cheese pressed between each slice.

Emile is coming around, I said. But I wish he would quit filling our plates with carrot curls and radish roses.

LeeAnne rolled her green eyes. It’s lovely presentation, Helen. The meals are aesthetically pleasing.

I shook my fork at her as I picked the cheese wedges from my tiny tomato accordion with my fingers. That’s all well and good, but why not an aesthetically pleasing volcano of mashed potatoes with thick brown gravy lava flowing over it?

They chuckled and, encouraged by their laughter, I went on. He could plant little broccoli trees at the base of the volcano. I gazed off into the distance as if contemplating the appeal of my dream volcano. Cauliflower clouds might be nice, too, I finished with a flair.

They both laughed, and Maggie shook her head. What are we going to do with you, Helen?

At that moment, Janine Hopgood sashayed over to our table in true drama queen fashion, her tiny, birdlike body hidden under a long, flowing caftan of fluorescent orange, green and pink. I leaned back in my chair to take in the overpoweringly colorful scene. She had a long scarf in matching shades wrapped around her neck, and it billowed behind her as she walked. As she sidled up between LeeAnne and me, I accidentally got a toe on the end of her scarf that drug the ground; it pulled tight around her neck and brought her to an abrupt halt.

Oops, sorry, I said. Looks like your boa is a constrictor.

That’s not funny, Helen. You did that on purpose, she said. She untangled the scarf, wound it once more around her neck and draped it dramatically over her shoulder.

Janine was our self-appointed resident actress. In seventh grade, she had played the Snow Queen in the class production of The Snow Queen Saves Christmas, and for the last fifty-odd years, had reprised the role to any who couldn’t run fast enough or far enough to escape. A few months ago, in the middle of the aforementioned Tricycle Girls investigation, she had helped LeeAnne stage a talent show and, ever since, had attempted to worm her way into our little group.

She laid one hand on LeeAnne’s shoulder, clutched her scarf against her chest with the other and glared at me as though I were the psycho scarf strangler. Oh, LeeAnne, she gushed, I’ve had the most marvelous news.

What? I asked, Has the Snow Queen hit Broadway and you’re going to audition?

Maggie coughed to stifle a giggle and LeeAnne bit her lip as she looked up at Janine.

I tugged on her scarf to get her attention. Where did you get that outfit? You look like a bowl of rainbow sherbet.

Janine huffed, You are so mean, Helen. Honestly, LeeAnne, I don’t know how or why you tolerate such rudeness.

LeeAnne was a star in her own right, but chose to keep the profession of her younger days to herself. She had been a professional fan dancer of some renown, but had given it all up for the love of a good man. After I had alluded to her life on the stage in a newsletter interview, Janine had latched onto her as annoyingly as a June bug on a cashmere sweater, and now tailed her like an over-the-hill groupie. LeeAnne took it all in stride, excusing Janine’s behavior with comments like, The poor woman is stage struck and The poor woman simply wants to be noticed.

Poor woman, indeed. I tried to brush her off like the sticky June bug she was, but LeeAnne composed herself and politely asked, What’s the big news, Janine?

The Snow Queen ignored me and addressed Maggie. Do you remember Skip Crowell from school?

Maggie shook her head. Not right off hand. Was he in our class?

No. He was a grade ahead of us, Janine said.

I nudged Maggie’s arm. You remember him, Mags. Tall. Skinny. Spiky blonde hair. Always wore overalls.

Maggie looked at Janine incredulously. You mean Scarecrow?

Janine placed her hands on her hips. That was a cruel name. Everyone always teased Skip; it was very hurtful!

I raised my hands in protest. Wait a minute. If I remember correctly, weren’t you the one who made up that jump rope jingle about him? How did that go again? I closed my eyes, scrunched up my forehead and finally came up with the verse.

"Skip, Skip the Scarecrow

Skipping through the cornrow.

If he kisses you today

You, too, can chase the crows away.

How many steps will you have to go to escape the Scarecrow?

And then we counted jumps until we missed."

Janine was indignant. I certainly did not! That was Ollie Pearsall. She was even meaner than you, Helen.

I glared at her. Thanks a lot.

LeeAnne took a sip of her tea. So, Janine, what’s with this Skip Crowell fellow? Is he a celebrity or something?

Janine clapped her hands together—applauding herself, no doubt. Not exactly. But I’ve been corresponding with him on the Internet and he’s working in films now. He remembered me from school, and says I would be perfect for a new production he’s putting together.

Maggie was skeptical. What kind of production? Is it a movie?

LeeAnne’s question was more romantic. Does he want you to play a leading lady?

I cleared my throat. How much is it going to cost you? I asked.

There you go again, Helen, trying to crush my dreams.

I speared another of my accordion tomatoes and shook my fork at her. I’m only being realistic, Janine. Scarecrow was always an opportunist. He’d take a third grader’s lunch and sell it to the highest bidder, then swear he’d found it abandoned in the cloak room.

Maggie offered Janine a chair and added, Helen may be right this time. Has he asked you for any money?

Janine sat in the chair and looked down at her hands, folded on the table. Well, he said he needs a few more backers to get the project off the ground. He sent me a copy of some A-list people who have promised to help. It’s pretty impressive.

How much? I asked again.

Janine looked at me. I beg your pardon?

How much did he ask you for? I repeated.

Janine jumped up. It’s not like that at all. You make it sound like a sleazy con game. Skip swears it’s legitimate. And for every thousand dollars I put up I’ll get five percent of the profits. And, she added, he said I’d definitely have a major role in the production.

Maggie patted Janine’s hand. We’re only saying you should be careful.

Right, agreed LeeAnne. We would love for you to be a star, but we don’t want you to get hurt.

Janine frowned in my direction. "Well, Helen, what are you going to say?"

Don’t look at me. You aren’t going to listen to anything I have to say, anyway. But, since you asked, what kind of production would have someone of your age as a star. Seems to me your star power has pretty much burned itself out. Like Halley’s Comet, I continued, with a wave of my hand through the air.

Janine stood up, turned on her heel, gathered her scarf and stormed off. You wait and see, Helen Patterson. Wait and see!

LeeAnne shook her head. Poor woman. You were a bit unkind, Helen.

"Humph. I’m being realistic. Guess she’s never seen The Producers."

That may be true, but you might have been a bit less caustic with your comments, said Maggie. Not everyone understands or appreciates your cut-to-the-bone sense of humor.

LeeAnne lifted her iced tea glass to her lips and sipped as she stared absent-mindedly across the room. Finally she glanced around the table at Maggie and me and said, Perhaps we should check out this Scarecrow person before Janine gives all her money to him. She reached across the table with her glass held high. I think this is a job for the Tricycle Girls.

Here, here, chimed Maggie, as she clinked her glass to LeeAnne’s.

I grudgingly raised my glass to theirs and groaned, What’s the world coming to? We’re about to save the Snow Queen.

Chapter 3

I’ll Skip the Scarecrow

And Just Have Dessert

Since LeeAnne and Maggie were intent on saving Janine from herself, I decided I might as well go along for the ride. We were, after all, The Tricycle Girls—and the Tricycle Girls needed me, the front wheel. I sat down at my desk and picked up one of the business cards I had printed on my computer, with the