Creek Crisis Page 2

"That’s Dorothy Sadler," cried a tall thin man with a bushy gray beard.

  "And my favorite, Mary Birdsong!" exclaimed an excitable young man with spiky pink hair and a tattoo of a lion on his neck.

  The throng pressed closer. Deputy Freeman kept her nerve, but the movements of her head were sporadic and her eyes darted from one quarter to another, in rapid succession, arm gestures frantic. And then, as the deputies made way for the Cadillac procession to enter the property, the crowd surged forward.

  I stood next to Theodora Simon, the event planner, outside a reception tent watching the Medlin Creek deputies struggle to hold back the crowd. Theodora was tall and thin, over six feet, and she wore heels. I stretched up on the tips of my toes and asked, "Theodora, what can you see?"

  "The crowd is surging forward again…oh, Deputy Patty Freeman’s tumbled to the floor…poor thing."

  I shivered at the thought that this might get out of control. My mind conjured up the headline on the Medlin Creek Times--"Hysterical Mob Rampages Through Ealing Homestead".

  The deputies formed a line and pushed the crowd back. Deputy Dingsplat reached out a large muscular arm and scooped Deputy Freeman onto her feet. She wobbled, but quickly regained her footing. The people surged forward again, like the swell of an angry sea smashing against a harbor wall.

  The very last Cadillac stopped and the door swung open. A curious calm swept over the crowd, frenzied voices abated. Out stepped a tall thin man in a white linen caftan, with signs of the zodiac embroidered in black and gold stitching along each lapel, hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. On his feet were leather open-toed sandals, the toes perfectly manicured.

  Without a word, he strode through the crowd with slow measured steps, back ramrod straight, eyes focused on the MCR 101.1 FM stage. Heads turned as he passed, necks craned to get a better view, eyes strained and cell phones clicked. The deputies parted to let him through.

  On the MCR 101.1 FM stage, technicians wired him up, as the host hugged his tall frame. The crowd hushed as the crackle of the loud speakers became audible. "Hello Medlin Creek, Texas." His voice was rich, silky and smooth. "Welcome, friends of the movies, amigos of the stars, spirits of the present." There was something familiar about the voice, it had the ring of a politician and confidence of a military officer. But I couldn’t quite place it.

  I turned to Theodora and asked, "Who’s that?" She was aghast. "Ollie, you don’t know him? Well you’re the only one who doesn’t. People think the world of him around here, I can tell you." She lapsed into a shocked silence. Then off she scurried to chastise a server about the alignment of napkins on placemats.

  The caftan-clad man spoke again. "Calm, peace and dollars my friends, calm and peace and dollars to you all."

  Now, I remembered where I had heard the voice before, or rather seen it. A late afternoon television show--The Celebrity Guru. It was Leon Rademaker, the Celebrity Guru himself.

  Leon stretched out his arms like an orthodox priest delivering a blessing, "Live in peace, and abundant prosperity to you all." And the crowd as one responded, as did his audience on the television show, "All in peace and abundant prosperity shall we live".

  The host, Johnny Spinner, took the microphone. "Give Leon Rademaker, the Celebrity Guru, a Medlin Creek round of applause." The crowd hollered and clapped. "Now," continued the host, "MCR 101.1 FM is giving away signed photos of the Celebrity Guru today. Whaddya say?"

  A savage cry of approval arose from the gathered mass as Johnny Spinner twirled in circles yelling "boo-ya do-ya spinner-ya". He came to a sudden stop feigning dizziness. Then throwing back his head laughing he continued, "The Celebrity Guru has graciously agreed to stay in the stage area until everyone who wants a signed picture has one."

  Another cry of approval from the gathered horde. Johnny Spinner clapped his hands and jumped up and down on the spot, voice reaching a crescendo as he shrieked his MCR 101.1 FM catchphrase, "shout boo-ya do-ya spinner-ya, if you want one." The crowd yelped and barked and hollered like wild animals.

  It took several minutes for the deputies to organize the fans into an orderly line. Leon’s face lit and his eyes danced when he saw the size of the queue. It snaked away from the stage, out of the gate, and along the dirt road. He laughed and joked with members of the public, posed for photographs, and signed magazine-style glossy images of himself.

  After Leon had autographed the very last photograph, for a thin-faced deputy with a heavy mustache, he tilted back his head and let out a deep guffaw. Tears rolled down his narrow, fox-like cheeks, and greedy anticipation glinted in his snake-like eyes.

  Chapter 4

  Several rectangular event tents littered the Ealing Homestead landscape as the afternoon summer heat eased and a cooling wind blew from the west. Inside each tent, portable air conditioners puffed out streams of chilled air as local dignitaries, business people and the film crew mingled. The level of excited chatter rose as they finished their meals, sipped white wine and nibbled on cheese and crackers; stomachs full of brisket, ribs and peach cobbler. A live jazz band added to the relaxed atmosphere playing mellow notes under a temporary awning by the little iron gate which led to the main house.

  I was too excited to eat, instead I stood next to Millie in one of the tents and together we watched the invited guests as they sipped, nibbled and chatted. Occasionally, Millie would point out an important local dignitary or business person. But for the most part we watched in silence.

  A hand tapped lightly on my shoulder. I spun around to a pair of snake eyes and a mouth full of yellow teeth pointed like fangs. "Sorry to startle you, I’m Leon Rademaker, Theodora informed me you are the owner of Ealing Homestead." I didn’t like the man’s eyes. I didn’t like his face either. It resembled a fox. I found it unpleasant the way his teeth protruded from his mouth when he spoke.

  But Millie, immune to my concerns grasped the guru’s arm and cried, "Oh Leon, I love your show. It’s one of my favorites". She pushed past me to get closer to guru and made a Japanese-style bow. "My name is Millie Watkins and I’m a reporter for the Medlin Creek Times."

  The guru’s eyes flashed like the shutter of a manual camera. "So kind, your words are a source of encouragement to me," he said.

  Millie hopped from one leg to the other clapping her hands, mouth wide open, eyes encouraging the Celebrity Guru to say more. He took the bait and continued. "You have what we call ‘rabbit mind.’ The rabbit is a calm animal that brings peace and harmony to its owner. Now, beloved rabbit woman, let me give a few words of encouragement to you. A huge opportunity will cross your path very soon. It is for you a second chance. If you make the right choice it will yield all you desire."

  Then he turned to me and said, "Dr. Stratford, I want to personally thank you for allowing this wonderful property to give pleasure to all of these people tonight. I’m sure with a heart so full, life will shower you with many blessings." He took my hand between his, the snake eyes flashed, and he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

  "Wow! I can’t believe it," Millie said, "this has got to be the most exciting thing that’s happened in Medlin Creek in years. Did you see the way he looked at us? Those eyes of his are so loving. They say the Celebrity Guru has a photographic memory."

  "Yeah, probably so he can remember all the innocent people he’s ripped off in his phony television show," I said.

  Millie sipped from a tall glass of champagne and laughed. "Oh, ye of little faith."

  I changed the subject. "I’m looking forward to meeting Dorothy Sadler and Carlos Castillo, the mysterious film director from Portugal. What about you?"

  "Yeah, I want to meet Dorothy too, but I’m really looking forward to touching base with Mary Birdsong. I played "Lovely Children, Lovely Family" on my iPod player over and over when I was a teenager. Shame how her life turned out after that, bad choices I guess."

  Millie leaned forward, looked around, then reached into her handbag and pulled out two sock puppets. One was purple and wore a white shirt with
a little black tie--Professor Purple. The other--blue with frizzy brown curls and a pleated skirt--Madame Bleu.

  "Oh Ollie," said Millie as she opened and closed the mouth of Professor Purple. She was no ventriloquist, her lips moved with each word, and the deep male voice sound, quite clearly, came from her throat. "The owner of the newspaper," said Professor Purple, "wants Millie to interview Carlos Castillo and write a travel article about life in Portugal. Wants to sell more advertising space to the travel business. But she won’t do it, will you Millie?" Professor Purple turned to look at Millie. She shook her head.

  Then Madame Bleu chipped in, "Bonjour Ollie," Madame Bleu had a French accent, "the newspaper owner only thinks about money, silly bits of paper. Millie must go with the heart. She must interview Mary Birdsong."

  Millie nodded, placed her puppets carefully back into her handbag, and set off in search of the once-famous singer.

  ◆◆◆

  I wandered from tent to tent soaking in the atmosphere, totally relaxed while the event planner Theodora Simon scurried around keeping things on track. Outside the tent labeled "Green Room," a business idea popped into my mind--corporate events are the way to go. The idea struck with such force the words tumbled out loud, "Yep, hire the place out and let the Theodoras of this world do the operational work. No more miniature donkeys, chariots or Oompa Loompas."

  No sooner had the words come out of my mouth, an angry female voice yelled from inside the tent. "Get that nasty flea-bitten hound away from me." I scurried inside to see what the commotion was about. A mature woman with salt and pepper hair, chubby cheeks and bulbous hazel eyes pointed a bony finger toward the floor. I recognized her at once, Dorothy Sadler, Mama Weaver from Big Homestead on the Little Prairie. In the show, she towered over the other members of the Weaver clan quite literally. In person, I could see why, for she was almost six feet tall.

  Several servers scurried around like black beetles; their eyes looking toward the ground. "Here Gypsum, come over here boy," called a server with the name Diane Stover, neatly affixed to her lapel. Stuffed into the service apron I could clearly see the outline of an autograph book. Must be a fan of Big Homestead on the Little Prairie I thought.

  Dorothy kicked at something with her right leg, then again with her left, both times missing. Out between her legs scampered a little black dog, Bodie! The dog’s tail wagged as the hound danced around the Hollywood star. Bodie was enjoying himself, but Dorothy’s face turned purple and her eyes bulged.

  "Bodie, over here," I called as my cheeks flushed crimson. For once Bodie came on command but rolled over at my feet for a belly rub. I grabbed his collar intent on leading him out of the tent back to the house. As I turned to leave, a voice bellowed out, "Is that your stinking dog?" Dorothy, eyes wide, face still flushed purple, raised a single crooked finger in my direction.

  "Must apologize for the inconvenience, no idea how Bodie got in here," I stuttered.

  A small crowd of people gathered around as Dorothy strode over with Hollywood flare. I glanced around looking for a quick exit. It was too late. Dorothy pushed her face forward then yelled, "Get that flipping hound out of here now!" And then she swiped at Bodie with a Kung Fu style kick. Bodie was too fast and jumped out of the way.

  Suddenly, Karina Pope appeared, arms raised, voice soothing. "Dorothy it’s okay, that beautiful puppy just wants to play. It will be all right." Dorothy’s head sank, "Yes, I know... sorry." Then she allowed Karina to lead her away. Diane Stover followed behind, autograph book in hand.

  I scuttled with Bodie toward the house. "I’m not sure what happened to nice, friendly, dog-loving Mama Weaver but you are staying inside tonight." At the little iron gate, I turned to look at the main house. In the evening twilight the freshly painted dwelling gleamed. This place had captured my heart already, I loved it, even though it was a little expensive to run.

  Inside, I shut Bodie in the kitchen. The poor fellow’s ears drooped, eyes sagged, and he crawled into his dog bed, curled up and went to sleep.

  Chapter 5

  The moon was beginning to come up over the treetops, casting its silvery glow across the Texas Hill Country. As the daytime heat--broken by the advance of night--retreated into the seventies, members of the cast, film crew and invited local guests mingled outside the tents in small groups. Contented chatter mixed with instrumental melodies of a live jazz band.

  Someone tapped my shoulder. I turned around to see Theodora smiling. "Ollie, the event is on autopilot now. Sorry I was running around like a headless chicken earlier, that’s what it’s like for event planners during the first part of the evening. Now that things have settled down a little I can relax." Theodora spoke in a bubbly tone and her face glimmered in the moonlight. "Girl," I said, "you must really enjoy this job, you look radiant, your skin is literally glowing. I’d be a puffy ball of stress by now."

  Theodora reached into her handbag and pulled out a small green bottle with a white label--on which in bold black lettering--were the words Colloidal Silver.’" Must be all the running up and down," she said taking two quick sips, "yep, I really enjoy it. Been a busy night but things should settle down now."

  The insistent ringing of her cell phone interrupted our conversation. Reluctantly, Theodora reached into her purse and checked the caller.

  "I’ll have to take this call," she said apologetically as her face became tense. She placed the cell phone to her ear. "Hi, what’s up? Tent number three you say… a disturbance, OK, on my way."

  Off she set at a pace that wasn’t quite a run but faster than I could walk. I followed behind as quickly as possible, gasping for breath as I entered tent number three.

  Inside, Mr. Burlington, the owner of Gregg’s Hardware Store--hands raised, fists clenched--yelled in a slow southern drawl at one of the Blackfoot security guards.

  "Take one more step forward, buddy, and you are asking for it."

  Mr. Burlington was a big man with thick gray hair receding at the temples, bushy black eyebrows and a solid square jaw that could take a blow. His thin-rimmed glasses softened the appearance, but his forearms, thick and muscular, reflected years of manual labor.

  The security guard, shaven-headed, curled his lip and spat, "Keep your hands off the celebrities and I’ll keep my hands off you." Behind him, a short slender woman in jeans and a yellow Keep Austin Weird T-shirt, grinned. Her hair was an unusual shade of purple; her eyes vacant, arms and legs, tattooed.

  Mr. Burlington sprang forward. There was a brief intense struggle, and the security guard collapsed unconscious to the ground. Mr. Burlington, not even out of breath, raised a meaty finger and jabbed at the purple-headed woman as he said, "I’m warning you pretty lady, keep away or you are also asking for it." He turned and stormed out of the tent, disappearing into the crowd. The woman laughed, her words chased after him like an evil spirit, "I’ll see you in hell first, loser."

  By the time Deputy Dingsplat and Deputy Freeman arrived, the security guard was conscious, and two of his colleagues carried him to the medical tent for observation and treatment. The deputies didn’t seem keen to ask any questions or follow any leads. The commotion clearly over, they slipped back into the crowd to mingle with the film crew and enjoy themselves.

  ◆◆◆

  I strolled over to the bandstand where the jazz musicians played. The moon, now fully risen, gave the place a magical feel. The band had begun the melodic opening to "My Georgia" when sharp-toned voices disturbed my listening.

  It was not the volume that caught my ear, for it was barely above the general chatter of conversation which blended so well with the live music. No, it was a certain tenseness, a high-pitched vocal strain like the wail of a screaming baby. I swiveled my head to peer in the direction of the sound, and without thought, walked toward it.

  The voices, female, came from an unlit area of the dusty yard, on the other side of a large oak tree. They had a familiar timbre but I couldn’t quite place them. As I got closer to the source I slowed my pace, com
ing to a dead stop, the words now audible.

  "Carlos’s budget for this production is tight. He splurged on me to add class to this joint, I’ve no idea how he can afford it. But that’s not my problem."

  I recognized the voice, Dorothy Sadler. Forward I crept toward the broad tree trunk. Resting against the rugged bark, I peeked around the corner.

  Dorothy glared at another woman whose face was hidden in the shadows. The Hollywood actress swayed violently, words slurred together.

  "I’m queen bee around here. You’re just a one-night wonder; you can’t act, for that matter you can barely even sing. Birdsong? More like crow cackle! Why don’t you slither back to the drug den you crawled out from? I hear they are plentiful in Austin."

  The younger woman stepped backward deeper into the shadows, then spoke with cold ferocity. "You old hag, I used to watch you on television as a kid--thought you were a witch then--scared me half to death with all that Weaver-clan crap."

  Dorothy bristled, pulled her hands into tight fists and said, "Don’t fool yourself sweetie, Carlos chose me to play the lead; experience over druggie, that’s what I say."

  The young woman laughed. "I know all about you Dorothy Sadler! Nasty little secret you got there. You better hush up or I’ll tell and you will be finished for good."

  Dorothy’s face spasmed with fear and she screamed. It was more of a victorious cackle than a wail of despair, high pitched, laced with bile, cold certainty. "Mary Birdsong, I’ll kill you for good this time!" She rushed forward fists flailing.

  The two women struggled, twisting and turning, making it hard for me to see exactly what was happening. Then a voice boomed out, "Peace and love my friends, peace and love." A man in a white caftan with zodiac signs neatly stitched in black and gold on the lapels, slipped between the two women. It was Leon Rademaker, the Celebrity Guru.

  He pushed out his arms, and the two women staggered backward in separate directions. Unblinking, an enigmatic smile crept onto his lips. He stood there for a moment arms outstretched. Then spoke.