Midlife in Glimmerspell

by Addison Moore

  I glance down to his ring finger and note it’s bare, no tan line—not that there would be a reason for a tan line in our frozen neck of the woods. And for the briefest moment, a glimmer of hope rides through me, right up until I remember that Harold hadn’t worn his wedding ring for eighteen out of the nineteen years we were married. The missing ring means nothing.

  Not that I’m gunning for another jackass to rip my heart out. Not that someone drop-dead gorgeous like Tall, Dark, and Brooding would be interested in me to begin with. In fact, let the record show Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding didn’t even see me to begin with—hence the fact he attempted to walk right through me. I was essentially invisible to him, as I have been to men like him all my life. Not that I made it easy on him by not paying attention myself.

  But all of that is beside the point. I’m over men. I’m over relationships. I’m young, wild, and free now that I’ve ridden myself of Harold. Okay, young might be on a sliding scale at the age of forty-five, and the wildest thing I’ve done since I gave Harold the boot was paint my nails blue. But I’m free and I’ll tell you right now that it feels as if I shed a three hundred pound grown man-child right off my shoulders. And I did.

  A man pops up next to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding with dirty blond hair and a face full of scruff. It’s the same man that I saw having a tense conversation with the redhead in the miniskirt when I first walked in.

  “Everything okay?” The man with the dirty blond hair sheds an easy grin. “For a second there I thought we might actually bear witness to a homicide.” He chuckles. “Griffin Barker.” He offers me his hand and I shake it.

  He, too, is in a suit, wool coat over that, and looks to be about the same age as Tall, Dark, and Brooding—I’m guessing late forties, early fifties.

  Harold comes to mind. He happens to be in that age bracket himself, and I wonder if the aforementioned age bracket happens to be when something resets inside a man and makes him recalibrate the compass of his life—pointing the way to hunting down a woman in her early twenties.

  Hey? Wait a minute. I straighten a moment as I give a quick glance around at the bevy of young beautiful women. Maybe this is some kind of a speed-dating session I’ve stumbled into?

  No wonder Tall, Dark, and Brooding wasn’t paying attention to where he was going. He was too amped up trying to figure out which coed he was going home with.

  Griffin’s smile expands as if he were thinking the very same thing as far as it pertains to him. “I teach investigative homicide at Dexter University and a majority of these people are my students,” he offers. “We’ve come to watch the taping. It’s extra credit for the class.”

  “Oh.” I tip my head back as the picture comes into focus. So I was wrong about that whole speed-dating thing, but I was right about the baby face influx of college students taking over the Haunted Book Barn.

  I shoot Tall, Dark, and Brooding a look. I bet he’s still here for the coeds. Pervert.

  “Nice to meet you, Griffin.” I force a smile to the scruffy blond. “I’m Morgan’s aunt. She’s the one that’s doing the taping. I’m new in town. Just pulled in with my daughter. In fact, she’ll be applying to Dexter in a couple of years.”

  Charlene, Harold’s harlot, has already dropped out due to morning sickness, but I decide to leave that little affiliation with the school out of the conversation for now.

  I look up at the brooding entity among us and give a slight nod his way in hopes he’ll do the honors as far as exchanging monikers is concerned. I’m not sure why I feel it’s his duty to introduce himself first, but a stubborn part of me refuses to dip my toe into introductory waters. I bet he has fifteen women a day introduce themselves to him, and I am not in the mood to play to his obvious ego.

  He glowers my way a moment as if he heard my internal musings.

  Just as his lips part, an older woman with wiry gray curls and wide blue eyes all but accosts me. I’m guessing she’s in her eighties. She’s pretty fit for her age, dressed head to toe in pink—pink sweater, pink jeans, pink heart-shaped earrings, and if I’m not mistaken there’s a pink streak in her hair on a lock tucked behind her ear.

  “So you’re Morgan’s niece?” Her mouth rounds out in a smile. “I mean nephew.” She blinks to the ceiling. “I mean, well, you know what I mean. You’re her! The woman who’ll be staying with me.”

  “I am?” I glance over to the wreckage I left in my wake just as Morgan sweeps up the last of the lavender glitter into a dustpan and dumps it into a mini trashcan next to her.

  She hands the mess to a woman with dark hair and hazel eyes—and it’s the very same woman who was glaring at me from the counter. The very same woman who is still glaring at me. She’s a touch younger than me, miles prettier. She’s wearing a skintight sweater and jeans that make me uncomfortable just looking at them. I bet she’s trying to impress one of the men I’m standing with. Although I have no idea why she’d be frowning at me. Lord knows I’m not offering up any competition.

  Morgan trots over once again, clad in black, and those torn jeans only seem to be confusing me this time. Why the quick change? Oh heck, she’s the star of the show. I bet she changes ten times before those cameras roll.

  “Billie, this is Teddy,” she says, nodding to the older woman. “Don’t let her scare you off. She’s perfectly harmless.”

  “Theodora Roosevelt.” Teddy thrusts her icy hard hand in mine and gives a quick up and down shake. “Everyone calls me Teddy.”

  “Teddy Roosevelt?” A tiny laugh bubbles in my throat. “That’s so great. Were you named after the president?”

  “Please.” She rolls her eyes. “Rumor has it, he was named after me.” She hitches her head toward the café. “I’ll go prep the good stuff you’ll be whipping up. We’re on in fifteen minutes, kid.” She reaches over and fluffs my hair out around my face. “You’re going to be a star, kiddo.”

  “Oh, I’m not in the show,” I’m quick to correct.

  “The heck you’re not.” Morgan nods to the woman. “Pull out a red apron for her and make sure it doesn’t have any wrinkles. Billie is about to make her big debut. She is single and ready to mingle and needs to put her best foot forward. Cougar foot.” She winks my way. “You’ll go younger this time. I’ve already lined up a couple of hot studs for you.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.” Teddy gives a mock salute and takes off for the café.

  “No way, Morgan,” I tell her. “On all fronts. But I’m sure Harper would be more than happy to help. And for the record, no young hot studs for her either, thank you very much in advance.”

  “Harper can help next time.” Morgan bats those false lashes of hers my way, and for a second I wonder how I would look with a pair of falsies on. She looks cute, youthful, and exuberant—all hardcore truths regardless of the lashes.

  I’m guessing I’d be less cute, young, and exuberant and more tired, old streetwalker. Not that I see some decrepit old lady staring back at me in the mirror. Okay, fine. On occasion I do. But if I give her the finger enough, I’m convinced she’s bound to go away eventually. Although I will confess to seeing glimpses of my grandmother every now and again when I catch my reflection. I’m hoping it has more to do with how much I miss her and not the fact I’m slowly morphing into her ancient likeness.

  “You should do it.” The blond scruffy man, Griffin Barker, sheds another easy smile my way.

  “She will,” Morgan affirms as she looks at me. “Just because your husband left you for some twenty-something skank with a hot bod and big knockers doesn’t mean your life has come to an end.”

  I can’t help but frown as I shoot a quick glance to Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding. I bet he showed up today in hopes of finding a young skank with a hot bod and big knockers.

  Our eyes meet for less than a second and it feels as if I’ve scalded my corneas.

  Morgan pulls back and takes me in. “And my God, when did you get so skinny?”

  “I wouldn’t say skinny.” But I did lose t
hose twenty pounds I was trying so hard to shed for the last sixteen years. I inadvertently went on the Harold-Boobe-is-an-Idiot-Diet and the pounds miraculously melted right off. Who knew a steady diet of anger and tears was low carb and yet fuel-efficient as far as giving me the energy to hate another day?

  Morgan shrugs. “Well, you look good. We’re making almond horns today, so we might just put a few of those pounds right back on you.”

  Griffin gives a warm laugh, but Mr. Brooding only seems to grow that much more perturbed.

  “And once you’re through, we can share a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you all about Glimmerspell,” Griffin offers. “And if you’re really good, I might even give you a tour.” He gives a slight wink, and I can’t help but chuckle.

  “Coffee sounds great. But I don’t need a tour.” Mostly because I have a feeling his tour is going to end in his bedroom. But seeing that it was the first quasi-proposition I’ve had in nearly two decades—and that includes any from Harold—I’m flattered by the fact he had the cookies to dole it out to begin with.

  “Excuse us,” Tall, Dark, and Brooding grunts over at his suit-wearing counterpart. “I need to speak with you.”

  “In a minute”—Griffin doesn’t take his eyes off of me—“coffee it is. And then we’ll discuss dinner.”

  A perky blonde with a navy sweater dress that hugs her every curve slips between the two men.

  “Professor Barker,” she says his name, but she’s looking up at Mr. Brooding while running her tongue along her upper lip. Winner, winner, coed dinner. But come to think of it, he probably gets his pick of the crop—not the other way around. “I can take attendance for you if you want?”

  “Sure thing, Jenny.” Griffin nods to the crowd. “I think most everyone is here by now.”

  She takes off and Mr. Brooding shoves his hand unto Griffin’s arm.

  “Let’s talk before things get started.” He navigates him off a few feet and things look as if they’re getting instantly heated between the two of them. Griffin loses the smile and looks as if he’s about to start a fistfight with the man.

  “Don’t worry”—Morgan says, giving my sweater a quick pat over the shoulders—“you’re going to do great. All you have to do is add the ingredients to the bowl as I read them to you. I’ll walk you through everything.” She pulls me along until we’re standing in front of a brunette with long dark hair, her foundation gives her skin that Oompa Loompa glow I’m sure no one is going for, and she’s got on a leopard print top and yoga pants. She also looks as if she’s about sixteen, but then again, she could be thirty for all I know.

  “Billie, this is Vera Henley. She’s going to mic you up. You look great, so I think we’ll skip hair and makeup and get right to shooting.” She takes off for the café and the brunette quickly secures a small plastic box over the back of my jeans and buries a wire between my boobs.

  “Nice to meet you, Billie.” Vera shrugs, and I’m not entirely sure what that means. “Just stay close to the kitchen island. That’s where the camera will be. Don’t leave the fun zone as we like to call it or the audience won’t be able to see you.”

  “Fun zone, right.” I glance to the tiny steel and wood kitchen drowning with floodlights and my stomach starts to claw at me. “So how long have you been working with Morgan?”

  “Just a month. She had to fire her old production team. She said they were basically tainted. I’m on loan from the university. We all are. We’re technically in film class, but our professors thought it would be good to glean some working knowledge of what goes into a production, so here we are—getting paid in cookies and extra credit.”

  “It sounds like I’m the only one not getting any extra credit today.”

  She barks out a laugh. “You’re funny. But I can tell you’re nervous. Now get over there and bake some cookies. Once this is all over, you’ll get to stuff your face to your heart’s content.”

  “There’s something to look forward to.”

  The next few minutes are a whirlwind as I find myself in the working end of the kitchen while Teddy Roosevelt straps a red wrinkle-free apron to me. The café kitchen is as homey as it is cosmopolitan with its creamy white marble slab over the island, its stainless refrigerated units that house all of the sweet treats one could want, and a rustic wood shelving unit that sits on the wall behind me.

  The crowd begins to hum as they congregate near the action and I scan the faces for Harper but can’t seem to spot her. I see Morgan peering out at me from between a group of coeds, her hair is pulled back once again, and she looks worried for me as if she were having seconds thoughts—as she should. I could very well unravel this entire moneymaking murder scheme she’s got going for her. In fact, she might want to rethink taking me on as an employee as well. I don’t know why, but I have a creaky feeling in my bones that things are about to go very, very wrong.

  “Billie?” a female calls out from my right and I blink back as I spot my niece.

  “How did you get here so fast?” I marvel. “And your hair is down again.”

  “Fast?” Her dark brows hike a notch. Her lips are a bright shade of fuchsia and she’s got metallic blue eye shadow on that catches the light. It’s clear one of us made time for hair and makeup.

  “Yeah, I just saw you out in the crowd and then poof, here you are.”

  Her lips part as she looks to the crowd.

  “Billie?” She squints my way before shaking her head. “Never mind, we’ll talk after the show. I’m sure a dozen girls out there look just like me.” She gives an unsure smile as if she didn’t believe that in the least. “Don’t sweat a thing. This will be over before you know it.”

  “Where have I heard that before?” Harold uttered those words to me verbatim on our wedding night, and that nightmare took nineteen painful years to dissolve. We were never going to win any awards in the marital department. I just didn’t think I’d end up with a boobie prize either, pun intended.

  I glance back to the crowd and spot Vera, the girl who miked me up, off to the side talking to Griffin. She pokes her finger to his chest before saying something to him in a rather aggressive manner before taking off.

  Not a member of the Griffin Barker Fan Club, I take it.

  Before I know it, someone calls action and the cheery eighties music streaming from the speakers cuts out, and it’s all eyes and ears on Morgan.

  “Welcome to another episode of Murder, Mayhem, and Baking. I’m Morgan Buttonwood and this is my aunt Billie, who I never call Aunt Billie because she’s always felt like more of a sister to me. She was my dad’s sister, and as those of you who tune in regularly already know, my father, along with my stepmother passed, away about a year ago. Since Dad and Billie were close siblings, I thought, in honor of having Billie here, we could also honor her brother, my father.”

  My chest bucks with emotion as the crowd coos around us.

  I glance out and spot Harper hugging a hardback to my left as she presses her lips together as if she, too, were on the brink of tears.

  Teddy—Roosevelt pulls a handkerchief from her bosom and proceeds to boo-hoo into it, and I’m this close to joining her.

  “Now.” Morgan takes a deep breath as she smiles into the camera. “Today, we’ll be dissecting the infamous Marblehead murders that took place right here in Maine. Mr. Arnold Taylor and his wife, Carol, had been arguing for the last few weeks of their coupledom. Neighbors and friends said that the two had hit a rough patch. They had three little girls who they tried to protect from their disagreements, and for whom they were determined to stick together—or so it seemed.” She gives a cheeky wink. “But before we get to the nitty-gritty, I’d like to introduce you to our dessert for the day, my dad’s favorite almond horn cookies. If marzipan is your thing, and you have a craving for all things dark chocolate, then these should be your go-to cookie. These are gluten-free because they happen to be flourless, and they’re both chewy and crunchy. They’re amazing. And as those gathered around us will soon
discover, highly fragrant, too.”

  She pushes a mixing bowl toward me, and I give the camera a nervous smile.

  “Now.” Morgan claps her hands. “I’ve already made the almond paste for this cookie. It’s just whole blanched almonds, confectioners’ sugar, an egg white, and almond extract—toss it into the food processer and voilà you have almond paste. I’ll have the recipe up on my site later for you. Right now, Billie is going to stir in half a cup of finely ground flour and a third cup granulated sugar.”

  She nods and I quickly do as I’m told, nearly knocking the bowl over in the process. I’m not sure why, but my every move feels as if it’s impossible to accomplish. Sort of the way when you’re the one holding the key to the front door and someone behind you is screaming while doing the potty dance. Suddenly, you’re unable to pull off a simple act you’ve done a dozen times before. Not that I’ve baked an almond horn in front of a live audience before. And for darn sure, not that I’ll ever do it again.

  “An egg white”—Billie slides an egg my way— “a pinch of salt and stir that up real good. We could use a stand mixer, but I thought we’d work some muscle on Billie today.” She winks my way. “So Mr. Taylor, a thirty-four-year-old fitness instructor, claims he went to the gym the morning Carol went missing. He says he got a call from the school telling him his children needed to be picked up, and once he did that they came home to find the house looking as if there had been a struggle. We’re talking furniture knocked over, broken mirror in the hall, and an unusual scratch along the front door. Police investigated, found no foul play as far as breaking and entering. In the meantime, there’s no sign of Carol anywhere. She missed a hair appointment at one-thirty, and her hairdresser, also a friend, says she never skipped out on one in eleven years. Carol was missing for a total of thirteen days.” She nods my way. “Let’s get that bowl of slivered almonds front and center,” she says, pulling a small bowl full of sliced almonds my way, along with a cookie sheet and a miniature ice cream scoop. “Let’s make as many balls from the dough as we can. Roll them in the sliced almonds and then form them into about six-inch rods before pulling them into a crescent shape and popping them on the cookie sheet.”