Previous chapters of the River Road story:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

How should the story continue? Voting is open on the current chapter!

Last time, the DeLorcas and Mrs. Conn decided it was best not to trouble Sam and Jenny Colbert on their wedding day and concluded that they would not tell them that Evelyn Pipkin had come to the reception uninvited. While everyone was talking, Eben realized that Evelyn had brought her daughter, Margaret, to the wedding as well. Margaret, as Eben recalled, had been a bully when she and Eben went to school together in Londonderry. The DeLorcas were happy to see their young friends Nancy, Sarah, Isaac and Kathy. They explained that the Pipkins had come to the reception without an invitation. The kids pointed out that they had seen Margaret Pipkin taking pictures and assumed she had been hired as a photographer for the wedding. Before they knew it, Margaret was right next to them, angrily demanding to know if she was the topic of their conversation. What happened next? Here’s what you decided.

Chapter 4: A Couple of Heels
by Joseph Crisalli

“I didn’t know Margaret Pipkin was a photographer.” Mrs. DeLorca interrupted.

“Neither did I, but that could explain why they’re here. Maybe Jenny hired them.” Eben suggested.

“No.” Mrs. DeLorca said. “Jenny said Jeff Dinello was taking the official wedding pictures.”

“Excuse me!” Someone said. This time it wasn’t a pleasant interruption like that of Sarah. No, this was an angry introduction.

They all turned around to see Margaret Pipkin glaring at them.

“Are you all taking about me?” Margaret asked furiously. “I saw you looking at me! Do you have a problem?”

Mrs. DeLorca smiled politely. “Yes, we were talking about you. We were wondering why you’re here.”

“Really?” Margaret harrumphed. “I’m here with my mother. Does that answer your question?”

“Actually, no.” Eben said. “It tells us with whom you’re here, but not exactly why.”

“And why is it any of your business?” Margaret asked, tossing her red hair over her shoulder.

“Jenny and Sam Colbert are our dear friends,” Eben answered. “We are trying to keep an eye out for them.”

“By taking attendance at their wedding reception?” Margaret snarled. She paused and glared at Eben. “Wait a minute. I know who you are. You’re Eben DeLorca—that clumsy kid I went to school with.”

Eben blushed.

“Of course, it all makes sense now.” Margaret chuckled. “You were a busybody then and you’re a busybody now.” She looked at the others. “I don’t know who all these kids are, but I can see that the two of you are the famous DeLorcas. It really is a small world.”

“Too small, I say.” Mr. DeLorca said. “I’ve tried to think of a way to enlarge it by creating an extra layer of atmosphere out of whipped topping, but the results of that were rather disastrous and, also, rather delicious.”

“Right.” Margaret smirked. “Listen, I’ve got to get going.”

“To take more pictures?” Sarah asked bravely.

“What?” Margaret spun around and looked at Sarah.

“We saw you taking pictures. Are you a photographer?” Sarah asked.

“What I am and what I do are not your concern, little blonde girl.” Margaret laughed cruelly. She then walked away.

“I say, she’s still as decidedly unpleasant as ever.” Mr. DeLorca frowned.

“More so.” Eben sighed.

“This is all too strange.” Mrs. DeLorca shook her head.

“Kids, you’ve all lived here all your lives. Is everyone who comes to town from somewhere else always this nasty?” Eben asked the kids.

“With the exception of you DeLorcas, yes, pretty much.” Nancy nodded. “But, we’re hopeful still.”

“That shows a good character.” Mr. DeLorca smiled. “You know what else shows a good character?”

“No.” Nancy answered.

“Stuffed tomatoes.” Mr. DeLorca grinned.

“How so?” Nancy asked.

“Oh, Nancy, dear.” Mrs. DeLorca interrupted. “Let’s not go down the stuffed tomato path right now. We’ll be here all night.”

“I say, darling, I was just trying to teach the youngsters something.” Mr. DeLorca squinted.

However, before they could continue the conversation, Mia Duomo came panting toward them. She was out of breath as if she had been running.

Immediately they knew something was terribly wrong. Mia never ran—never. She always said that running messed up her hair and makeup too much. So, they knew that if Mia had been running—or even walking quickly—something had to be awfully wrong.

“It’s…” Mia panted. “It’s…”

“Mia, what’s the matter?” Mrs. DeLorca asked.

“Are they out of cake?” Mr. DeLorca exclaimed. “Jolly bad thing that.”

“No.” Mia shook her head. “There’s a painting…” Mia gasped for air and pointed toward the gallery.

“Of course there’s a painting, Mia dear,” Mrs. DeLorca smiled. “This is a museum. There are many paintings.”

“No.” Mia tried to catch her breath. “A bad painting.”

“Well, not everyone’s taste can be the same, but as curator of this museum, I can assure you there are no bad paintings in our collection.” Mrs. DeLorca raised her eyebrows.

“Evil!” Mia blurted out. “Corrupt!” She took Mrs. DeLorca’s hand. “Come with me.”

“What’s evil?” Mrs. DeLorca asked.

“Eben, you stay here with the kids.” Mr. DeLorca said. “I’ll go with your mother and so on.”

“We want to come, too.” Sarah spoke up.

“I say, no, I think you’d better stay here.” Mr. DeLorca answered.

Mia pulled Mrs. DeLorca toward the museum’s main staircase.

Followed by Mr. DeLorca, they climbed the stairs. As they did, Mia began to catch her breath.

“I came up here to reapply my lipstick. There’s that fantastic mirror in the antique furniture exhibit. I look even more beautiful in that mirror than I do in most mirrors and I look fantastic in every other mirror, so you can only imagine how good I must look in this one.”

“If you say so.” Mrs. DeLorca said. “But, that mirror is on exhibit, it’s not really there for people to use to put on their makeup.”

“I don’t mind climbing over the velvet rope.” Mia smiled. “Anyway, I was coming up here to fix my makeup and I was just so terribly happy with how I looked that I decided to stop for while to just gaze at myself.”

“You have your priorities.” Mrs. DeLorca nodded.

“Of course, I do.” Mia continued. “So, out of the corner of my eye I saw two people walking with a large object at the other end of the hallway. I knew this part of the museum was closed so I decided to follow them to see what they were doing.”

“It was so convenient that you yourself happened to be in this closed part of the museum.” Mrs. DeLorca said with a hint of sarcasm.

“It was, wasn’t it? But, after all, you’re my dearest friend and you are the curator, so I figured I had a right to be here.” Mia explained.

Mrs. DeLorca didn’t say anything to that.

“So, I followed those two people. It was too dark to see them very well—even with my gorgeous eyes, so I couldn’t tell who they were. By the time I got to the end of the corridor, they were gone. But, I found this…” Mia pointed.

Mrs. DeLorca gasped. “Joel, the light switch is over there. Turn on some more lights, please.”

Mr. DeLorca turned on more lights and faced the object which had caused all the confusion.

“I say, it is evil.” Mr. DeLorca’s eyes widened.

“I told you.” Mia shivered. “Really, for someone as beautiful as I am to look at something so ugly—it’s just not right.”

They all stood and stared at it—that awful painting.

Framed in ornate gold, the painting was as tall as Mrs. DeLorca. The painting showed two people dressed as a bride and a groom. The couple in the painting had the faces of older people, but it was clearly meant to be Sam and Jenny Colbert—as they would look if they were ninety years old. The bride’s dress and jewelry matched what Jenny was wearing and the groom wore a policeman’s uniform. Behind the couple hundreds of faces had been painting—crying faces, screaming faces, faces in pain and in sorrow. Eveything about it was distorted and ugly—sad and mean.

It was a terrible, upsetting thing.

“I say,” Mr. DeLorca shook his head. “Who would do such a thing?”

“And why?” Mia asked.

“Joan, dear.” Mr. DeLorca looked at his wife. “You’re so silent and such.”

“I’m thinking.” Mrs. DeLorca said. She looked at the floor in front of the spot where the painting had been left to lean against the wall. “Who ever left this here also left behind some footprints. They seemed to have stepped in paint and tracked it on the floor.”

“And they were wearing shoes designed by Helga Warren.” Mia added.

“How can you tell?” Mrs. DeLorca asked.

“Any model worth her salt can tell a shoe by Helga Warren just by the footprint.” Mia laughed. “The woman—or women—who did this may have bad taste in art, but they have excellent taste in shoes.”

“Jolly strange,” Mr. DeLorca shook his head. “What do you suggest we do?”

What should they do?

Follow the footprints?
Look at the shoes of the women at the reception?
Take the painting somewhere else?

Email your thoughts.

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