Murder Colada

I couldn’t sit still. Aside from Flo, the Feisty Goat’s daytime bartender, and Bernard, who was taking a short break from his writing to enjoy a book and a beer, I was the only other soul in the bar. Human soul, that is. 

Nellie sat at the foot of my barstool, snoring like an earthquake. Flo looked up from her Cosmopolitan magazine and said I looked like I was waiting on a first date. “What’s so special about this woman again?” she asked. 

“We went to art school together in New York,” I replied. “We were practically inseparable.” 

Flo’s eyebrow raised. “Yeah,” she said dryly and rolled her eyes. “I always get super nervous anytime I meet up with an old friend.” She went back to reading her magazine. Flo had a way of cutting through nonsense. Her brain-to-speech filter was always switched to the off position. She never hesitated to speak her mind. I suspected that was why she and Grams got along so well all those years. Neither of them had any fear, but while Grams’ personality was about as subtle as a freight train slamming into a brick wall, Flo was more reserved, usually keeping to herself. Except when dispensing blunt advice. 

I chuckled as I watched her read the Cosmo. If there were an exact opposite of the magazine’s demographic, Flo was it. Her sartorial choices matched her personality—usually thrift-store finds with no frills, straight up. She didn’t care what other people thought. 

It would have been foolish to try to explain why I was both excited and nervous seeing Amy again after so many years. Although we were close in school, we always had an unspoken competition between us: who would get the best grade, create the most compelling work of art. While the rivalry was good and pushed us to do better, there was always something in the back of my mind…I felt like I couldn’t compete.

Amy seemed to have everything—looks, talent, and a personality that made her the center of attention. Everyone wanted to be a part of her life, it seemed.  

I suspected in the years after our graduation, as we gradually drifted apart, she had found a gallery to carry her work and was well on her way to becoming a successful artist. I wondered if she would think I was selling out by selling my paintings in my friend’s inn and the small gallery in the neighboring town that catered mostly to the tourist crowd.

If I had told Flo what I was thinking, she would have responded with what I already knew. I didn’t need to be ashamed of where my life’s journey had led me and, if Amy were as good a friend as I’d said, she would celebrate my successes along with hers. 

“Another beer, hon?” Flo asked. I thanked her and said no. After the tourist season ended a couple months before, my sales had slowed down. I needed to watch my pennies. Even though my Grams owned the Feisty Goat, I still paid like everyone else. No exceptions. Not even for family. 

I felt my heart stop for a moment when the front door opened, letting the afternoon sun stream into the dark bar like an uninvited guest. A wave of anticipation came over me as I wondered what Amy would look like after all these years. 

“Will someone give me a hand here?” It wasn’t Amy. It was Grams, and she was loaded down with more Halloween paraphernalia than one woman should own. 

Most people celebrate Halloween on October 31. As everyone in the county knew, Grams wasn’t most people. She started scheming and planning for the holiday in late September every year, and the momentum would build in October, leading to the biggest theme party of the bar’s annual events calendar, the Feisty Goat Boofest. Even the people in town who never set foot in the Feisty Goat during the rest of the year always turned up for that. 

For the past five years, proceeds from the Boofest had gone to one of the local charities. Grams decided this year, the event would support the Lincoln County Animal Shelter, and Nellie, the little dog I found on the side of the road when I moved back to Maple Creek, would be this year’s mascot. Grams was planning a pet costume contest, and Lynn, my longtime friend who owned the Maple Creek Inn, donated the grand prize, a weekend getaway at the inn for two people and their winning pet. 

Bernard and I rushed to the door to help Grams bring her haul into the bar. 

“How many decorations do you plan on putting up this year?” I asked her. She looked at me with an expression that succinctly stated, That’s a stupid question. She looked around the bar and asked if Amy had arrived. 

“Not yet,” I replied. “I suspect she’ll be here any minute.” 

“Good. You can help me bring everything to the storeroom.” 

Bernard asked if he could help, and Grams told him to relax since he was a paying customer. 

“I’m a paying customer too, Grams,” I said. 

She smiled and looked at Bernard. “You’re a paying customer who isn’t living in my apartment above the bar,” she said before looking back at me with her arms crossed over her chest. 

Bernard looked at me and said, “She makes a good point.” 

As we put away the plethora of holiday decorations, Grams asked me why Amy was coming out to Maple Creek for a visit after several years of not seeing each other. 

“I have no idea.” Amy had sent me an email a couple months earlier then decided a road trip sounded like a fun idea. 

“From New York?” Grams exclaimed. “That’s a long drive just to go see a friend.”

“We were good friends,” I said. She smiled and asked if Amy had a boyfriend.

“I don’t know.” 

“And where’s she working?” 

“I couldn’t tell you.” 

“Huh,” Grams muttered with a hint of sarcasm. “It sounds like you two are pretty tight.” 

“Just because we haven’t seen each other for a few years doesn’t mean we aren’t friends,” I protested. “People drift apart after they graduate. I’m just glad she’s coming out.” 

We walked back to the bar, sitting near the waiter’s station next to Flo, who brought Grams a freshly brewed cup of coffee, or at least as fresh as bar coffee can be. 

“I don’t remember you talking much about Amy while you were in school,” Grams said. 

“She was in my very first class,” I replied. “We had to draw circles over and over and over again until we were sick of it. We kind of bonded with our circle misery.” 

While the two of us were competitive, we also supported each other. Art school can be challenging, and one has to have a thick skin to take all the critiques. On more than one occasion, Amy and I left class and walked down the street to our little table at the neighborhood bar, Frankie’s, and blew off steam. 

“You’re still acting like you’re on a first date,” Flo said, noticing how I looked at the front door, nearly holding my breath every time someone came in.

“You have been on pins and needles since you told me she was coming to visit,” Grams said. “What’s going on?” 

I knew what their response was going to be. I told them anyway. Deep down, I knew I wasn’t as successful as Amy probably was, and I had been wondering if I should have gone back to New York with Roger and had another go at being an artist in the city. 

“Is that it?” Grams asked with a chuckle. 

“What do you mean ‘Is that it?’” I asked. 

“So what if your friend Amy is in a hundred galleries around the world?” Grams replied. “Why should that matter to you?” 

“Because that was my dream too,” I said. “I feel like I gave up on that.” Grams and Flo looked at me like they expected me to say something more. “You can’t tell me neither of you had a dream that you gave up on and felt like you would be judged for doing so,” I said. 

“Yeah,” Grams replied. “It’s called life. Sometimes dreams don’t come true. You can either sit around and sulk about it, or you can adapt and appreciate what you have done. And if anyone’s going to judge you for life happening, they’re probably just trying to hide something.” 

“Irene’s right, you know,” Bernard called from his table. The logical side of my brain agreed. Grams was right. “Most people don’t realize how boring their lives would be if they got everything they wanted.”

I thought the statement was strange coming from Bernard, who had a successful writing career and had moved from England to the Pacific Northwest because he fell in love with the scenery.

“Don’t you have everything you wanted?” I asked. 

“Right now?” Bernard replied. “I do. I certainly can’t complain. But I had other dreams to that never worked out. My life would have been pretty dull if they had. I would have gotten too complacent.” 

Grams shook her head. 

“Bernard, if you continue that kind of talk, you’re going to give Spider a run for resident philosopher.” Bernard smiled and went back to reading his book. 

“He’s got a good point,” Grams said. “And he makes a darn fine philosopher.” 

The front door creaked open again and, while I understood what Grams and Flo were trying to say, I felt a wave of apprehension come over me. 

“Do you have it?” Grams exclaimed as Spider peeked in the door. 

He grinned and nodded. “It’s in the truck,” he replied. “Come take a look.” 

Flo, Grams, and I followed Spider outside to look at the enormous papier-mâché jack-o’-lantern on a small trailer behind his pickup. Dave patted the pumpkin and asked Grams what she thought. 

“Oh, my goodness!” she said, her hands on her cheeks. “You two have really outdone yourselves this year!” 

It had become an annual tradition—Spider and Dave, the bar’s resident bikers, along with all the employees at Spider’s Customs, made something for Grams to put in the bar’s parking lot to advertise the Boofest. This year’s jack-o’-lantern was sure to get everyone’s attention with its bright orange paint and goofy smile. I helped Spider and Dave lift it out of the truck and set it in its new home, its place of honor, on a gravel patch at the corner of the parking lot. When we finished, Grams, Flo and I helped the two men unload even more decorations from Spider’s pickup, and the two men went back to work. 

“Grams,” I said as we unloaded the last of the decorations, “Does the phrase That’s enough even exist in your vocabulary?” 

She reached for a bar napkin, wadded it, and threw it at me. “That’s for asking silly questions,” she said, shaking her head. 

The front door opened again, and Grams and I turned to see if it was Amy. It was Lynn. 

“Nice of you to show up after all the work is done,” I teased. Lynn looked around at the decorations strewn around the bar and smiled. 

“I timed it well,” she said with a smirk. She sat down next to Grams and me and asked if we had heard the news. 

“What news?” I asked. 

“Emily Johnson,” Lynn replied. “She lost control of her car yesterday evening in the mountains.” 

“Is she okay?” Grams asked. 

Lynn shook her head. “She’s dead.”