by Deany Ray
Deborah scowled. “I don’t really want to let him in at all. He’s a looker, but obnoxious. You take your time. He can cool his heels and wait.”
Celeste wasn’t taking any chances. “Go!” she said, touching me on the back since I was closest to the stairs.
Things moved quickly from that point. As I tended to do at the most important times, I tripped and fell flat on my face. Thankfully, my glasses stayed on. I’d nearly made it safely down the stairs when my foot got caught on the carpet. Marge and Celeste were right behind me, almost flying in their haste. We ended up in one big pile in front of a frowning Deborah.
“And you’re sure that you’re detectives?” she asked doubtfully.
“The real official thing,” Marge squeaked, rubbing her shoulder with the bright orange oven mitt.
We limped to the couch as Deborah headed to the door. I heard a familiar voice as she let him in, and we arranged ourselves oh so casually on the couch, as if we’d been there all along.
Alex wasn’t pleased at all. He and Deborah were both scowling as they walked into the room. And for all the unpleasantness, we hadn’t found a thing. Operation Search the Office Before Alex had not been a success.
Chapter Seven
Despite the pain in my left knee (and the tight quarters on the loveseat), I tried to look the part of an innocent working woman who’d come to talk – and only talk – to a client in distress.
“What are you three up to?” Alex gave us a knowing look. “And don’t just make something up. I know you’re not happy unless you have your noses stuck right up in the action.”
Still breathing hard from our mad tumble, Marge managed to look affronted. “We’re law-abiding citizens. Professionals, like you. We know how to act.”
He looked at us, then glanced around the room, as if looking for a reason to somehow prove us wrong. “I really hope that’s the case,” he said. “Because this time I’m not fooling.” He gave us a pleading look. “I know you saw the knife sticking out of that guy’s throat. This isn’t fun and games.”
“Since when has the job that we perform been considered fun and games?” Celeste asked, annoyed. “When we helped catch those criminals last time and got kidnapped for our efforts, I did not consider that to be any kind of game.”
Celeste had a point. The cops might never have solved that one if it hadn’t been for us.
“If I was into games,” Celeste continued, “I’d stay home and play Parcheesi.”
Alex sighed and sat down in the armchair. “Look. I know you work for Bert and all, but let’s be practical. It’s not like you’ve had training. When we say you need to stand back, it’s because we want you safe. And because evidence is sensitive. And because when you’ve got a murder, we need to get the monster who’s responsible for it off the streets of Springston.”
Alex had a point as well. Any other cop might have really let us have it. Behind the arrogance, there was a nice guy in there somewhere.
“Here. I’ve got a warrant.” He handed a paper to Deborah, who proceeded to look it over, a scowl still on her face.
Alex watched us closely while he waited for Deborah to decide if the warrant was in order.
Marge shifted in her seat. “We were just gathering some background information from our client here while we discussed the spring-like weather and had some coffee – which was lovely.”
He nodded, then tilted his head as he continued to study Marge. “Very interesting. I’ve never known someone to wear an oven mitt while she sipped a beverage. I imagine it takes some skill to keep a good grip on the mug with that thing on your hand. But as my mother used to say, anything for fashion.”
Pirouetting Pinwheel Cookies! Celeste and I had managed to shove our gloves into our pockets. How could we not have noticed the bright orange oven mitt still stuck on Marge’s hand?
Alex turned to me with one eyebrow raised. That eyebrow seemed to say I see you, Charlie Cooper, and you’re not fooling me.
We were all struck dumb with silence. Then we all answered him at once.
“Oven mitt? What oven mitt?” I asked stupidly.
“And now you’re a fashion critic?” Celeste waved her hand in dismissal.
Marge was the only one who responded calmly. “Oh, I just borrowed this mitt from Deborah to see how the fabric of this brand felt against my hand. We were talking about the finer points of keeping a pleasant home, and I told her that I was thinking a change might be in order when it came to the kind of oven mitts I use in my own kitchen.” She peered down at her hand. “This one is just delightful. A snug fit and yet cushiony to provide a sense of ease as you pull a roast out of the oven.” She sounded like the perky spokesperson who sold things on TV.
Alex covered his face with one hand. Trying not to laugh? Or trying to steady his nerves before he said something he’d regret?
When he pulled his hand away, he directed his stare at me. “You promised you’d be careful. You do know I’m worried you’ll get hurt, don’t you?”
My heart skipped a beat. His eyes were so blue – and they were filled with a kind of softness when he said that last part about me getting hurt.
“I understand,” I said, shyly.
“Well, we need to go about our day.” Celeste stood up. “And leave the official detective to do his thing without interference from us amateurs. Deborah, you take care, now. And we’ll be in touch.”
Marge touched the client’s arm. “Oh, and thank you so, so much for the tip on oven mitts.”
We were almost out the door when Alex burst out laughing. The three of us wheeled around.
He shook his head; there was still amusement in his eyes. Then he nodded his head toward Marge. “Does she drive with that thing on?”
“What?” Marge asked, confused.
Exasperated, Celeste whispered in her ear. “Give Deborah back the mitt.”
Still laughing, Alex threw his hands up. “However will your client pull her roast out of the oven?”
Deborah scowled at him. “You leave them alone. You’re having too much fun. I have never liked cops. I’ve never known a single one to his job the way he ought to.”
***
A little while later, I bounced around in the back seat of the car as Marge made a series of fast turns. My mind turned toward the next night’s dinner party. Which could be kind of awkward, given the fact that Alex was more than a little annoyed about sharing a case with me. How would he act at dinner? Would we just not talk about it? Or would that be completely weird?
“Where to next?” Marge asked.
Celeste reached into her small black bag and pulled out her cell. “I’d love to talk to Marty. Let me just double check to make sure he isn’t home. You know that if he is, Mr. Blue-Eyes-You-Know-Who will be there in a flash. If Marty has some info, I’d like to know it first.”
“Oooh. Good point, hon,” Marge squeaked. Her tires squeaked as well as she took a curve too fast.
“Since Deborah gave us his address, I looked up his number online.” Celeste punched in some numbers. I listened as she introduced herself to Marty’s wife. She said we had questions about Stanley and that we’d been asked by Deborah to look into the matter.
“Oh yes,” Celeste said into the phone. “Deborah’s very anxious. We’ll do everything we can. Thank you for your help.” She made small talk for a little while. Then she hung up the call and put the phone back into her purse. “Just as Deborah told us. He won’t be home until tomorrow. I set up something early. I told her we’d come by after breakfast.”
“Breakfast. Hmm. Is anyone hungry besides me?” Marge asked.
“I’m always hungry,” I said.
Celeste ignored the question. “Okay. What’s our next step? Who’s got an idea? Marge! What are you doing?”
I was as surprised as Celeste when Marge turned into the parking lot at Jack’s.
Marge slammed on the brakes. “What do you think I’m doing? I’m stopping at the diner.”
“Well, that’s kind of obvious,” Celeste said. “What I meant was why?”
Marge shrugged. “Two out of three of us are hungry. Where else would we go? I do believe they still have chicken casserole on Friday.”
“Well, I guess we did skip lunch.” Celeste tightened up her scarf.
Hmm. Chicken casserole sounded good. And cookies? I always wanted cookies.
With most of the lunch crowd gone, the waitress signaled for us to just choose a table. We picked a nice booth by the window. Several groups still lingered over coffee and dessert.
Since we were out of leads to chase (and didn’t even want to think about repairing that guy’s computer), we lingered for a while. Celeste and Marge caught up with a couple of waitress friends from their days working at the diner.
“The paycheck was steadier at Jack’s,” Marge said, “but I think I was born to do just this.”
“Right all the wrongs in Springston!” I bit down on a cookie.
“I’m serious,” Marge said. “I think we make things safer. We’re good at catching bad guys. And people like Deborah need us. To do important things that make a difference in their lives.”
Yeah. She had a point. It felt good to matter. Still, a paycheck would be helpful too. I was hopeful that another one would soon be on its way.
“Well, speaking of our client,” Celeste took a sip of coffee, “any thoughts on what to do tomorrow after we talk to Marty?”
“Hang out at the Busy Bee?” I reached for another cookie. “Strike up some conversations with the people who go there? I’ll bet some of them are in there almost every day. To get a six-pack or a soda. They might have noticed something about Stanley or the store.”
“The employees too,” Marge said. “We could talk to them.”
“The hot dog man!” I called out. “He might tell us something.”
“That’s not a thing I thought I’d ever do,” Marge said. “Interview a subject who is dressed up in a gigantic bun.” She took her compact from her purse and freshened up her lipstick as she glanced back toward the kitchen. Was she thinking of the fry cook?
Celeste apparently was wondering the same thing. “Thought you were over that man,” she told Marge with a grin.
Marge gave the mirror one last look and smacked her lips together. “Oh, that was over long ago. But a girl always should look cute.”
That got me thinking. When was the last time that I’d bothered to put on some lipstick? I should really make an effort. It appears that Marge was always ready for a good guy or a bad one – with her lipstick and her persuader, whichever one was needed.
After we were finished, the girls took me to the office so I could get my car. I came home to find Brad in his usual spot with the TV turned up loud. Some guy with a microphone was trying to referee a fight between three women who apparently were married to the same ugly guy.
“That’s just stupid,” I told Brad.
I watched the show a little longer and it got to be kind of fascinating. I kept staring at the screen. One woman stood up and leaned in toward another until they were almost nose to nose. “You’re no wife of his. I’ll bet you don’t even know his mama’s name!” she screamed at her rival.
“This can’t be real,” I said to Brad.
“His mama’s name is Maude!” A heavyset woman lunged into the others, who were rescued by the host.
Brad shrugged. “It might be fake. Who knows? It’s funny either way.”
They showed a close-up of the husband. His ears had turned bright red and he was cowering in fear. They were fighting over this guy? If it were me, I’d let the others have him. I would think the real prize would be to walk away.
Amazingly, I sat there for three hours. We watched two talk shows and a comedy about a talking cat. Who came up with these shows? And was I becoming Brad? I could almost understand him. It was so easy to zone out when these things came on.
Before I knew it, it was dinner time. We ate quickly, then I helped my mom clean up and do the dishes. That night she had a cocktail class and said it was extra important this time that she wasn’t late. Apparently, some kind of contest was going on among the students. The winners got to tend bar for real customers.
“Charlie, why don’t you come with me?” she asked. “You know that we’d have fun.” She handed me a dish to dry.
I started to say no, but then I thought about it. What else would I do? Watch more TV with Brad?
“Okay, I’ll go,” I told her.
Mixing cocktails with my mother. Happy Friday night to me.
Before we left, I ran upstairs and put on my new shirt, and just a touch of lipstick. After all, who knew who I might see in class? Marge would be so proud.
I drove us to the community college where the class took place. My mother introduced me to her classmates, who were all more my age than hers.
“Welcome, Charlie,” the teacher said, a friendly looking blonde. “We’re so glad to have you. There’s an empty table by your mother. It’s already set up with supplies. That can be your station. We’ve had a student drop out.”
I smiled at her politely. “Oh, thanks, but I’m just here to watch.” And perhaps to taste.
“She’s here to learn,” my mother said, pulling me toward the table. “Charlotte,” she whispered to me, “it might be useful for a single girl to know how to mix a drink that’s just a little fancy. A lot of men will find that sexy. You’re a lovely girl – but you’re not getting any younger.”
“Mother! Oh my gosh.” Not even five minutes into the class, and I was humiliated.
“Speaking of men, how do you like the shoulders on that tall hunk up in the front? I’ve already asked around and I’m almost positive he’s single. You know, if things don’t work out with Alex.”
“Alex is not…oh, never mind. But could you at least just whisper?”
“No need to be ashamed,” she said. “We all have the need for love and for physical affection.”
“Mother!”
Everyone was looking. I could never, under any circumstance, be in the same room with these people ever again.
My mother arranged the glasses on her table then turned to smile at me. “Now. Isn’t this just lovely?”
The teacher began the class with a reminder that students could sample their creations if they had someone else to drive them home. Well. I guess that meant my mother could let loose and drink up.
We worked with cocktail shakers and practiced pouring drinks as quickly as we could, so we could serve several at a time. Why did we have to work so fast? So we could work a party where the drinks were going fast? If I ever gave a party, I wouldn’t even know that many people to invite.
Next, we learned to fill the glasses up just so, almost to the top. Mine spilled over every time. Everyone else around me seemed to have it down. Oh, well. I was new. The tall hunk in the front spun a glass up in the air and caught it on his back before he filled it up. The class burst into applause. Great. And I could barely pour.
“Oh! Let me try that,” my mother said.
I might not be quick at pouring, but I sure acted fast to get that glass out of my mother’s hand before she could send it airborne. “Let’s not try,” I told her. “Here. You need to help me learn to pour.”
We made Manhattans and fuzzy navels and the coolest kind of new drink which I’m sure would have been my favorite if I could have tried a sip. It had orange vodka, orange-flavored liqueur, orange juice and ice cream.
My mother tasted my Manhattan. “Oh Charlie, this is good.” At least I’d done something right.
Then the teacher told us to each take a glass. “Now, as I said last week, you must be very careful when you ignite your drink,” she said.
“Did she say excite your drink?” I asked my mother. “I don’t understand.”
“Ignite you drink,” my mother said. Which was so much worse.
“We must be careful with the fire,” my mother explained further.
I hoped I’d hea
rd that wrong. A girl who has trouble pouring has no business with a flame.
Was my nightlife about to get more dangerous than my day job chasing felons? If Marge’s driving didn’t kill me, my mother’s night class might.
What followed was predictable. I almost burned my eyebrows off while my mother was a natural at lighting up a drink. Who knew? I couldn’t wait to describe the scene to Brad.
I couldn’t help but notice how pretty – and most of all, how happy – my mother looked in the glow that lit up her tequila. Show ’em, Mom. I was really kind of proud.
The teacher looked around the room. “Excellent!” she said. “I see we have some stars amongst us. Which is a lucky thing. You all know that something special is coming up soon.”
Excited murmurs filled the room. My mother had been telling us all about Amateur Night at a local bar. Some of the students would be pouring. (And lighting? And tossing too? How crazy was this class?) My mother, of course, was hoping that she would get a spot.
I realized this class wasn’t such a bad thing. It might be nice to come home and have my mother mix me up that orange drink that looked like it would taste just perfect. I liked to see her having fun. Why should cocktail classes be off limits once you pass thirty-five? What were you supposed to do then? Just stay home and watch TV?
Which is what I would have done if my mother hadn’t dragged me out.
As the class began to break up, all the students stopped by to tell my mother goodbye. The students seemed to love her.
“This was cool,” I told her as we wiped down our tables.
“Told you so!” she said. She took one more sip of my whiskey sour. “We can’t let this go to waste.” She stopped with the drink in mid-air.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Can’t you feel it?” She looked alarmed.
“Feel what?” Uh-oh, I knew what was coming.
She shivered. “Oh honey, it’s just awful.”
“No, Mother. No, it’s not. I’m sure that it’s just fine.”
“Pass me my purse. Hurry up. I need my special spray!” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “All these young kids look so happy, but I can sense that one of them has recently been feeling…well, disturbed.”
