Frugal Lissa Finds a Body

by Ritter Ames

  Billy arrived with my margarita right then and said, “Is there a problem here, Lissa? Is this man bothering you?”

  “I’m sure there isn’t any mistake—” Carlisle began.

  “Approaching someone in a public place like this, to discuss something this sensitive is definitely a mistake, Mr. Carlisle. Especially when it isn’t true,” I added. “I guarantee that you’re mistaken about whether I am or am not selling my house. For the last time, my house is not for sale.”

  “I have a list, and I’m determined to get as many of the houses on the list as I can.”

  I slammed my hand on the top of the bar. “I don’t want to hear anything more about your damned list. But if you show up at my door, you will find yourself on a list, all right, and I’m betting it’ll be one you won’t like, Mr. Carlisle.”

  As I whirled away from him, I waved for Abby and headed out the door. It wasn’t until I was sitting in the car, livid and still spluttering, that I realized I’d left without paying Billy for the margarita I’d never wanted. Abby exited the bar door of the hotel, and I grabbed a couple of bills, intending to go back in and pay my tab. Until I saw khaki jacket legging it out of the building behind my best friend. I twisted back into my seat and started the Honda, pulling out of the parking spot and hurrying over to pick up Abby before the annoying jerk caught her.

  I opened the passenger side door, and she jumped in. He made a grab for the door before it closed, but I floored the accelerator and left him in our dust.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  IF I’D RUN OVER ONE or both of J.C. Carlisle’s feet, that would have been satisfying. However, as we drove away, a glance out the rearview mirror showed him standing still and pulling his phone out of a pocket.

  “Shoot,” I said. “He isn’t hopping around hurt, so he must’ve kept his feet away from my tires. I’ll try harder next time.”

  “What did he do?” Abby glanced out the back window. “One minute you said you’d join me at the table, and the next you were stomping out of the place. Not that I blame you after the way Steve and Kaylie butchered their song.”

  “Bad singing is something I can suffer through. What I won’t stand for is some jerk telling me and the surrounding tables he was buying my house in a quick sale because I don’t pay my bills.” I slammed a hand on the steering wheel. “Right there in the hotel karaoke bar in front of Billy and everyone.”

  “Are you having problems with creditors?”

  “No.” I looked at her, saw her nicely waxed eyebrows pulled together in concern. I repeated, quieter this time, “No. We might get behind sometimes, but it’s nothing big. Dek’s checks don’t always come in time for some bills that are due. But we’re never in big trouble. A month here and there. No biggie.”

  “And now?”

  I sighed. I’d been fretting today over Dek’s expense account check, knowing he hadn’t turned it in yet and wouldn’t until he finally made it home. Late. I’d planned to cover it all with him this weekend, until the new assignment cropped up, and the job delayed his return. “We’re fine. Dek needs to turn in an expense report, but we’ll catch up completely by the end of the month. Still, it burns me up to know Carlisle would start a conversation of such a private nature with me or anyone else in a public venue like that. Makes me wonder how many other people he’s blindsided the same way.”

  “Why did he think your house was for sale?”

  “Said it was on some list.” I shrugged, then I fumed again. “I told him he’d better stay away from my house or I’d put him on a list, but it’d be one he wouldn’t appreciate.”

  Abby laughed. “No wonder he followed me out of the place. Between your laser look and razor-sharp tongue, he probably figured he’d better beg for mercy.”

  “I have no mercy for the man. He ruined karaoke night. He must pay for his crime.” I pulled into a McDonald's and parked. “We’ll dine on hamburgers and Cokes instead of potato skins and margaritas. Not my idea of a Saturday girls’ night out. He’s definitely on my list.”

  An hour later, we were back at my house, settled comfortably on the couch in my living room with a bottle of Prosecco, chocolate chip cookies, popcorn, and a lengthy list of streaming options to pursue on TV. Until my phone interrupted our revamped plans. My boys needed picked up because Mac wouldn’t stay at Tommy’s overnight and didn’t want his big bro to stay there without him. Luckily, Jamey was a good sport.

  “This happen a lot?” Abby asked, as we again headed for the Honda. “Mac seemed so excited earlier about the plan.”

  “Kids are pretty unpredictable until the second or third grade,” I said. “Then they just get weird.”

  NEXT MORNING, AS MY angels slept over our heads, Abby and I were in the kitchen. I had the griddle heating breakfast sausages while I whipped up pancake mix in the measuring pitcher. Honey, ever the optimist, had already staked out her position under the table so she’d be ready to scarf up anything that dropped accidentally from my boys’ dishes. Abby stood at the end of the counter slicing bananas and turning the pieces into mini hearts and flowers, as she studiously ignored her cellphone and the message indicator that said her mother had called. Twice.

  She’d gone home to sleep, but was out again before breakfast, and her mother wasn’t impressed. I had a feeling her mother recognized her daughter was at a flux place in her life too and wanted to talk—but was getting even less input than I was.

  So, besides being our fruit artiste of the day, Abby was diverting attention from herself by channeling her life coach persona and discussing my long ago dream of being a singer. She seemed on a mission to get me to go to Dallas and enter as a contestant for a reality talent television show with open tryouts in two months. Mostly, I figured she wanted to keep me from directing my own mentoring talents toward her problems. I didn’t, however, like it any more than she would have and took evasive action.

  I poured batter from the mixing pitcher onto the griddle, as I responded to her last logical argument with a non sequitur. “There’s one advantage of spending the evening eating junk food and binging out on Netflix, instead of drinking margaritas and having AAA bring us home after karaoke—no hangover on Sunday.”

  Abby wasn’t sidetracked. “An appearance on the show would bring in extra money for you with the recognition—”

  “I told you last night that kook Carlisle was off-base.” I gave her my double glare for emphasis. “I’m not losing my home, and I don’t need to sing my way out of bankruptcy. Quit worrying.”

  However, nothing deterred my friend. I may have skipped a hangover, but I felt a headache of a different variety coming on strong.

  “You can try to change the subject all you want to, Lissa,” Abby said, abandoning her art and climbing up on one stool, so she sat a counter-width away from me while I cooked. “That doesn’t change the fact you need to tryout for the show. I heard you last night. You sing even better than you did in high school, and you were great then. It’s wasted talent. That crowd would have listened to you all night.”

  “That crowd was already buzzed and would have listened to anyone as long as Billy kept their drink orders refilled. And don’t sit so close to the griddle or you’ll get burned when it spatters.” As she leaned away, I flipped the pancakes and moved back a step, in case the heat made the oil spit.

  Then I set down my spatula and faced Abby, anchoring hands on hips to signal I meant business. “I can’t go off and try to start some whimsical singing career. My husband would get none of his stories completed, or his notes transcribed, or his expense reports turned in for reimbursement. My kids would turn into wolf-boys, and my house would fill up with all the junk my men think has to come home with them each time they go off on a new adventure. I’m telling you, Abby, if I didn’t use eBay and Craig’s List to clean house the health department would shut our place down as a hoarder site.”

  “I could help. I have plenty of vacation time. I’ll move in and keep everyone in line. It’ll on
ly be a few weeks when the contest is so time intensive. You can stay in my place while you’re competing. No cost lodging. After you win, you can hire help with your prize money and get your career started right.”

  I snorted. I couldn’t help it. Plus, I could see the nugget of this whole conversation was more about Abby and her personal frustrations than my dreams—or lack thereof. I countered with, “Prize money. Yeah, right. After I take out expenses, I’ll likely be in the hole, even if I’m staying in your apartment. And you can’t take on my boys. They seem civilized while they’re around you because you only get them in small doses. Wait until you’d have to tell them to quit having farting contests in church. Or to remind Mac that his penis belongs in his pants, not waving to the crowd when he leaves the bathroom without remembering to zip up. Seriously, you have no idea what the male Ellers are like in this house. Dek’s as bad as the boys—no, he’s worse because you can’t threaten him with a timeout when he misbehaves. I threaten him with no sex, but he knows I’m a liar, so that never works either.”

  Abby smiled. “I think someone has cold feet and is finding every reason not to try reaching for the stars.” She cocked an eyebrow.

  “No, someone is realistic enough to know there are too many sixteen-year-olds out there with singing voices not yet marred by having to yell for the dog to quit picking up strange smelly things as we walk, who possess more cleavage than me and never breast fed two babies, and who have years more rest than I do because those other contestants are still teens without responsibilities and aren’t actually part of the real world yet. I’m thirty-two and tired. I’ll grant you, the type of contest you’re talking about looks exhilarating on television. However, after running boys to school events and making sure both they and their father get all their homework done, plus finding all the items they lose every day, I don’t have the energy to make dinner half the time. Let alone waste my reserves on anything as remotely exhilarating as a singing tryout on national television. My anxieties get hives at the thought of that kind of competition.” I reached out and took one of her hands. “Abby, truly, I appreciate you being a supportive friend and spouting off all this encouraging talk and offering to help. What I’d appreciate more, however, is if you’d keep propping me up mentally about my blog and remind me it will bring in some real money someday. I’ve just turned the digital corner this year, and all the hard work seems to be finally paying off. That’s what I need to hear and believe. Don’t fill my head with ideas that risk sidetracking me from the things truly requiring my attention.”

  I heard the boys’ alarm clock go off upstairs. I grabbed the spatula and stacked pancakes on the two plates I’d set near the stovetop. “You want a small stack?” I asked Abby. She nodded, and I grabbed another plate. Minutes later, Jamey came down in his Star Wars underwear.

  “Unless you’re auditioning for the next Magic Mike movie, I’d suggest you take yourself back upstairs and get dressed if you want any breakfast.”

  “Is Magic Mike a magician?” he asked, blinking those sleepy Bambi eyes both boys inherited from Dek. The amount of mascara I could have saved with those lashes alone would have bought my first car.

  “No, honey, what you heard was sarcasm. Go on back upstairs and get dressed. Aunt Abby is here, and she doesn’t want to see you in your skivvies. Tell your brother to get dressed, too, since clothes aren’t always his first thought in the morning either.”

  I heard his bare feet leave the carpet and hit the parquet floor of the entry. Then Jamey called up the stairs, warning, “Go get dressed. You can’t be no magic Mike.”

  Mac’s disembodied voice asked from the upper landing, “Why’s Mike magic? Do you mean Mike at the grocery store? He’s not magic. He gives me my grapes.”

  Abby and I grinned at one another when Jamey responded, “You’re such a baby. It’s sarcasm. Jeez.”

  When we heard the bedroom door slam, Abby said, “I take it you have work to do explaining snark to your boys.”

  “Yes, the poor dears’ DNA is deficient in that particular gene, just like their father. I might have a chance at turning things around with Mac, but Dek’s already too firmly imprinted on Jamey, I’m afraid. He is his father’s son.”

  “It’s probably for the best,” she said, grabbing a filled plate and adding a pat of butter before drowning her hotcakes in blueberry syrup. “Too many teachers equate sarcasm with being a smart mouth.”

  “Like you have to tell me?” I poured batter onto the electric griddle to make another grouping of small pancakes. “I believe you and I still have detention hours to serve due to the witty remarks we made in senior English class.”

  Abby shook her head. “Not anymore. When I passed the bar I had those hours redacted from our permanent records. Had to make some use of all my student loans.”

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  MINUTES LATER, JAMEY and Mac, fully dressed but still in sock-feet, slid into the kitchen, complained they were starving, and halted any further prodding from Abby about how I was wasting my singing talents. After they’d finished their breakfasts, and Abby wiped off the syrup mess near Mac’s side of the table, I rinsed off the plates and sent the boys upstairs to resume cleaning their room. Honey was optimistic about still gaining leftovers and stayed quiet under the table.

  “Can’t we do the rest of the room later?” Mac whined.

  I glanced at the clock on the stove. “Sure, and you know, we can still make big church if we hurry. Go put on your good clothes, and we should get there in time for the sermon.”

  “Nah, you’re right, Mom,” Jamey said, frowning as he pushed in his chair. “We need to get our room clean. It’s a responsibility. Come on, Mac.”

  My youngest’s frown matched that of his older brother as they left the room and trudged back upstairs.

  Abby raised an eyebrow and leaned close. “Did the word responsibility really come out of his mouth about cleaning his room?”

  “Don’t get amazed or think Jamey matured overnight.” I opened the dishwasher and stood the plates in the bottom rack and ran the garbage disposal, so the sticky leftovers disappeared down the drain. “All of their friends from church went away on family trips over spring break. They know they’ll have to sit with me and not goof off under the pews with their buddies.”

  “Now, that’s something I understand.” Abby laughed and joined me at the sink, her hands filled with glasses.

  “There are a few cookies if we grab them before the boys.” I dried my hands on a towel Mac decorated with fabric paint to give me a personalized gift last Christmas. It reminded me that I needed to find him an art camp to attend over the summer. If no economical option was available, I mused about maybe getting a co-op art camp started with other moms and kids Mac’s age. Trade off houses and backyards each day. I stopped and jotted an abbreviated note onto the magnetized grocery list on the fridge, then switched gears again, asking Abby, “Want a cup of coffee and we’ll talk in the living room?”

  “Absolutely, let’s go.”

  Honey apparently read the room and followed us, despite my warning her, “No cookies for you, girl. Chocolate isn’t good for scavenger doggies.” I tossed her one of the peanut butter/glucosamine biscuits we gave her to head off elderly hip problems. She loved those things and crunched happily.

  Because we’d been shortchanged on our girls’ night the previous evening, while we chewed and sipped and listened to the thumps over our heads, I took the opportunity to share a good amount of hometown information. Yes, Abby needed to know everything. She’d been gone since New Year’s, so it wasn’t gossip as much as local news. Really. That was the story we stuck to, anyway.

  By the time all intel was shared, and we’d blamed each other for the disappearing cookies, I almost gathered enough courage to take on my mom-persona to check the progress in the boys’ room. Then my cellphone rang. I think the house heaved a sigh of relief. I know I did. The boys received a slightly longer reprieve before the white glove test on th
eir room. Oh, who was I kidding? The only true test was whether I could get the door open without something falling on my head or tripping me up and pitching me out of the window.

  Caller ID showed the number for my widowed neighbor several doors down from the Harpers. I walked to my front windows and pushed aside the white lace curtains and looked across the street, toward her house, as I picked up the call. “Hi, Mrs. Glover. I haven’t been to the garden yet today, so I haven’t checked the plantings, but if you’re calling about my coming over to work on your garage—”

  “No, Lissa, dear,” her voice came in a whisper over the speaker. “Are you in my garage right now?”

  Rising high on tiptoes, I could see a smidgeon of her driveway, past the Loftons’ huge crape myrtles. “Not yet. I planned to come over later with Abby.” I gave my friend an apologetic grin since I hadn’t yet asked her if she minded helping me sort through all the stuff in the enormous catch-all attached to my non-driving elderly neighbor’s home. I had some explaining to do.

  “I heard a noise in the garage.”

  “What kind of noise?”

  Her voice grew softer, “A crash. But if you’re not in there—”

  “I’ll come and see what happened.” A door creaked open upstairs, and I moved to the entry. I needed to end this call. “See you in a minute, Mrs. G.”

  As I shoved the cell into my back pocket, I called up the stairs, “Jamey, Mac, I know you both heard me on the phone.” Two small bodies filed out of the bedroom doorway and assumed their positions at the railing. I said, “You’ve gained a short reprieve before the inspection. But use the time efficiently. If you’re finished when Abby and I get back, we’ll go through the pizza coupons and you boys can pick where we go for lunch today.”

  “Yay!” The half-pint dynamic duo chorused.