Chapter 16 #2
“If I’m frank with you,” Ivan says to me, “it’s because I want to push you to greater heights.”
“When you found out Holly was running for mayor,” Elliot reads from his notebook, “eyewitness accounts say you were ‘surprised.’ Another witness called you ‘livid.’”
Ivan snorts. “Who were these so-called ‘eyewitnesses’?”
“Manny the UPS man,” Elliot confirms, “and your butcher…” He flips to another page for the butcher’s name. “Bob. Bob the butcher. You were buying a 5 oz ribeye when you found out. Manny, making a delivery to Bob, walked right past you, said you were ‘cussin’ up a storm’ and ‘foaming at the mouth.’”
We both turn to Ivan for an explanation.
“Are you unhappy that I’m running against you, Ivan?” I ask.
“T-that’s obviously an exaggeration.” Ivan takes a sip of his cold coffee. “I don’t make a habit of cursing and I certainly would never ‘cuss up a storm.’ If I seemed angry, it’s because I just learned my favorite hair gel was discontinued.”
Elliot shoots me a skeptical look. “Alright,” he says, “suppose you’re telling the truth.”
“I am telling the truth!”
Elliot takes a step back and gestures to his surroundings. “Why do you buy so many crystals?”
Ivan tips his chin up, nostrils flaring. “I enjoy crystals. They soothe me.”
“Ivan’s got great taste,” I interject.
“Thank you, Holly,” Mayor Thornberry says, pleased we’re on the same page for once. “And you carry the best crystals.”
“Thank you.”
“Does she?” Elliot slips in so smoothly you’d miss the implication in his question if you weren’t looking for it.
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Does she carry the best crystals?” Elliot continues, pacing the breakfast nook and examining Ivan’s impressive crystal and giant geode collection. “You have so many fancy rocks… all purchased from Holly’s gift shop.”
“I think we’ve established that…” I study Elliot’s deliberately casual movements, dread bubbling in the pit of my stomach. Where’s this tangent going? What’s he up to this time?
“Ivan’s my best customer,” I say. “We’re here to talk about the shit under my tree, not all the crystals Ivan’s purchased from me over the years.”
Elliot comes to a halt. “You’ve single-handedly decorated Ivan’s home in crystals.”
“And candles.” I pinch my brow. “But mostly crystals.”
“Can you confidently say he purchased all his crystals from you?”
“Yeah.” I try to meet Ivan’s eye. He looks away. “I’m the only crystal dealer in town.”
“Would you be able to recognize every crystal you’ve ever sold him? Even the candles that look like crystals?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Would a mother recognize her own baby?”
“Mayor Thornberry,” Elliot says, “I noticed a glass cabinet in the living room. Is that the crystal collection in question, minus the giant geodes? Would you kindly show us this cabinet?”
“I-I don’t see what this has to do with anything.” Ivan squirms in his seat, his foot shaking in synchrony with the nervous rap of his fingers on his thigh. “I don’t have to show you anything.”
Elliot notes the mayor’s body language. “Oblige us.”
Ivan glances down at his naked wrist for an imaginary watch. “My breakfast has grown cold and so has your welcome.”
I peer at his jittery legs. He’s acting abnormally defensive and hostile. At first I thought Elliot’s questions were an unnecessary detour, but now I see a method to his madness. Ivan Thornberry is getting thoroughly frisked.
“What are you hiding, Ivan?” I ask.
“Hiding? I’m not hiding anything. You two are wasting my time.”
“It’s a simple request,” I say. “Elliot just wants to see your crystal collection. Why are you being so difficult?”
Ivan wipes away a film of sweat from his upper lip.
“A man’s crystal collection is private. I don’t have to show anyone my crystals if I don’t want to.
And I don’t want to show them to him.” He jumps to his feet.
“Now I’m done being nice. I heard all about how you harassed your poor Aunt Cherry.
She threw you out… Now I’m going to insist you leave or I won’t be responsible for the direction of my new campaign. ”
I flinch. “We talked about keeping our campaigns friendly. No smears.”
Ivan squares his shoulders. “I no longer think you should run for mayor.”
“What?”
“You, young lady,” he says, casting a disdainful glance at the velvet poinsettia barrette in my hair, “have proved yourself to be nothing more than a thug.”
“A thug?!”
“Yes,” he puffs out his chest, “busting into my home uninvited with your thug boyfriend. Harassing me with misleading questions about defecating under your tree.” He glares down at me as if I were a cockroach.
“For all I know, you probably took a shit under your own tree and cried wolf. You’re no stranger to vandalism. ”
“What?”
“Oh yes…” Having pulled a fast one on me, he rocks back on his heels, a shit-eating grin splattered across his smug face.
“I know all about your drunken episode at the pumpkin patch. Thought you could hide it, but I read your file. You stomped on those pumpkins, didn’t you?
Stomped on them with those cheap little ankle boots while living out your Taylor Swift sing-along fantasies.
” His lips pull back to reveal big white veneers—blindingly white and too big for his mouth.
“Even when you’re sober, you’re a horrible singer.
Ever wonder why the Mapledale Carolers never have an opening for you despite holding yearly auditions?
Because. Nobody. Wants. To. Hear. You. Sing. ”
Every word felt like a slap. My eyes mist over.
That’s the meanest thing anyone has ever said to me.
I don’t wear ankle boots anymore, but the boots I wore that day were from Nordstrom and they were not cheap.
I’ve always wondered why I can never get into the Mapledale Carolers.
When a member came down with laryngitis last Christmas, I’d volunteered to fill in, but at the last minute, the spot was mysteriously filled.
I shake my head, still deep in denial. I can’t be a bad singer. I just can’t! “Deck the halls—”
“Shhh.” Ivan holds up his hand. “Stop embarrassing yourself.”
Sniffling, I turn to Elliot for help. He’s mad-dogging Mayor Thornberry so hard I think he might break Ivan’s face with his stare alone.
“Enough stalling!” Elliot says, and, without a word of warning, marches to the living room and stops in front of a formidable glass display cabinet. He yanks open the door.
“Hey! You can’t do that!” Mayor Thornberry scurries after him. “This is my home! If you punks touch a single crystal, I’m calling the police!”
“Are these your crystals?” Elliot asks me gently.
Wiping the tears from my eyes, I stare at Ivan’s crystal collection.
A bouquet of rose quartz.
A nugget of citrine.
A scattering of moonstones.
Everything checks out until I move to Ivan’s bolo tie collection…
Along with his post-modern ‘80s home and obsession for crystals, Mayor Thornberry also has a collection of bolo ties, which he wears on special occasions or when the mood strikes. In many ways, he’s living the lifestyle of an ‘80s oil tycoon. At least, that’s the vibe he’s going for.
All he’s missing is the ten-gallon hat (He has one. I’ve seen it).
In my line of business (the crystal dealing business), lovers of bolo ties are usually drawn to crystals. Don’t ask me why. It just happens. There’s a correlation between crystals and bolo ties.
Ivan has many custom-made bolo ties, many of which incorporate a polished opal, turquoise, moonstone…
But something seems off about these crystals. They seem cheap.
“Where’d you get that turquoise? You didn’t get it from me.”
“Of course I did,” Ivan says, jutting out his chin. “I buy all my crystals from you.”
I can’t believe it! He’s trying to gaslight me.
“I know my own crystals, Ivan. This turquoise piece. This malachite…” I move down the line.
“Oh my God, what a cheap Tiger’s Eye.” I grab a bolo tie incorporating a Red Jasper stone.
Filmsy weight. Insufficient light diffusion.
It’s nothing more than paste. “What gives, Ivan? These are fakes.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A bead of sweat dribbles down the mayor’s temple. “Anyone can see they’re real.”
“Only if they’re blind!” I seize another bejeweled bolo tie. “Not only are these counterfeit. They are bad counterfeits. What are you doing with fakes when I provide you with the real thing?”
“Except your prices are highway robbery!” Realizing his error, Ivan immediately mashes his lips together. He takes a deep breath and raises his chin. “You’re not the only crystal dealer in town. I found another source.”
“What source?” I ask, hurt that Ivan would even seek out another supplier. “Haven’t I given you discount after discount over the years? I’ve sold geodes to you at cost! I saved my best crystals for you and that isn’t enough? How many crystals do you need?”
“He wants more.” Elliot shakes his head, disgusted.
“Look at him… Look at this place!” He points to the faux marble bust of the mayor.
There are several statues of Mayor Thornberry, in fact, some of them athletic nudes.
I seriously doubt Ivan’s ever participated in a discus throw and he certainly commissioned a giant package for himself.
“The man is a narcissist,” Elliot says, eyeing a nude statue dubiously, “and a greedy rock hoarder.”
The mayor’s nostrils flare. “I thank you to refrain from calling my crystal collection ‘rocks.’ Your accusations are preposterous. I can sue you both for defamation.”
“You can’t sue someone for defamation because he doesn’t like your interior design choices,” I say.
“I jig is up, Thornberry.” Elliot digs into his jacket pocket like he’s about to unveil a badge. He yanks out his notebook instead and fires off the evidence: