The Trouble with Cupid

by Carolyn Haines

  Melissa guides Sarah away from the door, and casts what can only be a dirty look at Lucas and Mai before she shuts the door in their faces.

  Lucas and Mai stand on the front door stoop. I weave between them. “Do you think we should at least try for a warrant?” Mai asks.

  “Father Dan doesn’t want anyone arrested. Remember?” Lucas stands there, leaning slightly toward Mai as if he wants to touch her. “And, anyway, like I said before, I still doubt we can get a warrant because we saw glitter by a trashcan.”

  “And in the church,” I meow, making Mai look at me.

  “Okay, Trouble,” she says, with the sound of a challenge in her voice. “If you’re such a hotshot detective, what do we do now?”

  “Easy,” I meow, and shoot off toward the stand-alone garage. I don’t need a warrant. And I can fit through the narrow opening in the garage door, which neither of them can.

  Within mere seconds, I’m inside the garage. It’s dark inside, but my cat eyes adapt quickly and I start my search.

  After a quick perusal of the whole inside, which I might add was surprisingly messy and full of junk considering how neat the house was, I circle around several bags of compost, garden soil, gloves and rakes. The bags of soil are piled in what strikes me as an odd arrangement. With a quick leap, I’m on top of the pyramid of bags, and I can see the dark shadow of something in the space behind them. It’s only a shape, but my best guess is that it is the Madonna from the garden. The problem is how can I move the heavy bags of garden dirt and alert Mai and Lucas.

  As I dig at the bag closest to the dark shape hidden beneath it, I hear the back door to the garage open. I scamper down off the bags and hide behind a potting bench.

  “I can’t believe you did this.” Melissa’s voice is angry, and her tone scolding. She switches on a light, but it’s dim and flickers a bit.

  “Oh, sweetie, what if they arrest me? I wouldn’t survive in jail.”

  Melissa turns and looks at her mother. Even in the faint light, I can see her angry face suddenly collapse into concern. “Oh, Momma. No. Father Dan would never let that happen.”

  “But those police.” Sarah presses against the side of the garage wall as if she can’t stand up.

  “They don’t have a warrant and they can’t possibly know what you did. Let’s just get the Madonna back in the garden and the chalice back in the church, okay. Tonight, after midnight.” Melissa sounds far older than her years, and I suspect she’s been taking care of her delicate mother for years.

  “I better give Father Dan back my key,” Sarah says in that weak voice she has.

  “No,” Melissa practically shouts it. “That’s like admitting you took the chalice and the money.”

  I arch and stretch and wonder what I should do next. Should I even tell Lucas and Mai? And if so, how would I tell them? And why would Sarah steal the Madonna and the chalice?

  “That boy.” Sarah whispers as if she heard my last thought. “You and that boy.”

  “Do not call him ‘that boy.’ His name is Ahmed. And you’ve got no right to…to…despise him.”

  “No, I don’t dislike him. He’s a fine boy. He’s so clever too, the way he fixed our computer and his manners were so…so polished. And you tell me he’s as smart as you. But—” Sarah’s weak voice rises in pitch, and her chin drops toward the floor. “But you…you’ll mess up everything. All our plans. Your scholarship. If you…you know what I mean.”

  “What are you saying? Are you implying I’ll run off with him? Drop out? Get pregnant? Don’t you trust me?” Melissa is shouting now, and I wonder if Mai and Lucas are within hearing range. I know they haven’t left because they wouldn’t abandon me.

  Sarah raises her face and glares at Melissa. “You just don’t know what it’s like to be a mother. To watch your daughter about to throw away her chances—her scholarship—on a boy.” Sarah says “boy” in the same tone of voice she might have said vampire.

  “I’m not you.” Melissa says it with a certain coldness that makes me twitch my tail even more. These two clearly need some mother-daughter therapy. I bet Father Dan could help them out. But that’s a bit beside the point at the moment.

  “You’ll have to take the statue and chalice back,” Sarah says, her voice weak again. “I’ve got …a terrible…terrible migraine.”

  “Of course you do,” Melissa snaps, and she starts tearing at the bags of garden soil around the Madonna. Sarah sprawls on the floor, making small moaning noises not unlike a cat.

  With only a few huffs and groans, Melissa moves the bags of garage soil and has the Madonna exposed from behind the sacks in no time.

  I trust Lucas, Mai and Father Dan to do the right thing, and I prance from my hiding spot toward the front of the garage, where I spotted an electronic door opening during my earlier search. With a graceful leap, I land on top of an abandoned old chest of drawers and reach out my paw and swat the garage door opener.

  Lucas and Mai are standing right there, no doubt listening, and certainly see the Madonna statue.

  * * *

  We are all gathered around a small, round wooden table inside the rectory and Father Dan has made us tea. Lucas, Mai and I are seated together, and across from us, Eleanor and Melissa sit straight up, their faces tense and their posture perfect. Sarah is folded up on the couch, an ice bag over her eyes. Thankfully Eleanor is not wearing her stinky perfume, though it’s somewhat of a puzzle to me why she is here. Perhaps Father Dan hopes to enlist her in his group therapy efforts.

  As if we are at a garden party, Father Dan slowly pours us hot tea from a blue and white china tea pot. “It was my wife’s,” he says as he carefully sets the pot down. “Cream? Sugar?”

  I’m glad to see he serves tea the British way, and gladder to see he has real cream, and not that almond milk stuff Lucas uses. Father Dan pours a generous amount of the cream into a saucer and sets it on the floor near Lucas. I meow my thank you, and bend to the task in front of me. I can drink and listen at the same time without any problem.

  “I’m sorry, Father Dan,” Melissa says. “For everything. All of it.”

  From the couch, Sarah whispers out her own apology.

  “It’s all right. Really. I’m just glad we have the Madonna back. And the chalice.” Father Dan takes a sip of his tea and eyes Mai and Lucas. “There will be no arrests.” He doesn’t say it like he’s asking, but like he is issuing an edict. I meow my approval. He knows how to be firm as well as gentle. I like this man more and more.

  “No arrests,” Lucas says, though I detect a bit of hesitancy in his voice.

  “Absolutely not.” Mai’s tone is as firm as Father Dan’s. “It’s all just a…a misunderstanding.”

  “I just want to make sure I understand this,” Eleanor says. “After all Sarah is my only sister and Melissa is my own darling, little niece.”

  Melissa grimaces and a tiny little grunt escapes her throat.

  “So,” Eleanor says, looking at Melissa and ignoring her sister on the couch. “Your mother was terrified you were too involved with that boy—”

  “Ahmed,” Melissa, Father Dan, and Mai all say at once.

  As if they had not spoken, Eleanor continues. “Your poor deluded mother thought you would make the same mistake she made, and have to drop out of school, and lose your scholarship to Florida State and become just another dreary single mother.”

  From the couch, Sarah moans.

  “I don’t think this is necessary,” Father Dan says. “I believe we all understand that Sarah acted out of a misguided but genuine love for her daughter in her ill-advised attempt to protect her, though there was no real threat.”

  “That’s actually quite clever—for Sarah.” Eleanor finally glances at her sister on the couch. “For her to steal the Madonna and leave a corner of an envelope from Ahmed’s family’s trash, I mean. And then when the rain washed that clue away, to steal another envelope and plant as a clue after she took the chalice and money.”

  “
Which she has returned. Along with her key, but I will entrust it back to the family again without reservation.” Father Dan reaches in his pocket, withdraws a key, and hands it to Melissa.

  “But the glitter around Ahmed’s trash can?” Mai asks.

  I twitch my tail and pause in my cream consumption. Yes, that glitter had puzzled me too.

  “After I heard about the envelope with the Arabic writing, I suspected—” Melissa pauses, and casts a glance at Eleanor. “I suspected Aunt Eleanor. I figured she’d stolen the statue with plans to plant it somewhere easy for the police to find, after she started demanding arrests and deportations and all that…all that …hateful mess.”

  Eleanor stiffens, but wisely does not speak.

  “So I was looking around in all the obvious places, making sure Aunt Eleanor hadn’t hidden the Madonna in Ahmed’s trash or garage. I didn’t realize I was leaving a trail of glitter where ever I went.” Melissa sighs. “Then my own mother admitted she took the Madonna.”

  “You could tell me you’re sorry for doubting me,” Eleanor says, her voice sounding both wounded and snippy at the same time.

  After a marked beat of silence, Melissa rises and stands behind her aunt. She rests her hands on Eleanor’s shoulders. “I’m sorry that I thought you were the thief.”

  I march over to Eleanor’s ankles, rub and purr. My way of saying I was sorry for thinking her the thief also.

  Eleanor smiles. “But of course it doesn’t change the fact that those…those people are outsiders and don’t belong here.”

  Melissa’s grip tightens on her aunt’s shoulders. I meow a soft warning as I see she is digging her nails into her aunt’s skin. “You must stop saying that. You absolutely must.”

  Father Dan reaches across toward Eleanor. “Do you not remember the words of the Bible. ‘For the Lord your God is God of gods and the Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome, who shows no partiality and accepts no bribes. He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and loves the alien, giving him food and clothing.’ That’s from Deuteronomy.”

  Melissa loosens her grip on her aunt’s shoulders. “And how can you forget, Jesus said ‘I was a stranger and you invited me in.’ Isn’t it clear, then, that we are to welcome refugees and foreigners—and invite them in?”

  Eleanor sits stiffly in her chair. I withdraw from her ankles and watch a virtual parade of differing emotions play across her face.

  We all seem to be waiting for her to respond. Finally, she shifts and looks up at her niece. Something in her eyes seems to plead for Melissa’s affection. In her high pitched, sing-songy voice, she says, “It’s a love story, really. Isn’t it? And I for one think it’s appropriate that tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. Ahmed and Melissa can stop hiding their affection and come out, so to speak. They can study together, hold hands, go to church together, and do all the sweet young things they should be doing.” She frowns. “And nothing more.”

  Again, we all simply stare at Eleanor. I don’t think any of us really believe she’s had that much of a change of heart. But perhaps this pretense will be the beginning of a real change.

  “I think it’s quite lovely that these two young people from such different circumstances can form a true romantic friendship.” Eleanor turns to Melissa and clasps her niece’s hand.

  Yet, this pronouncement from the woman who not long ago was broadcasting a demand that Ahmed’s family be deported as criminals raises the hair on my back. I almost want to take my purr back as I stifle the hiss Eleanor frequently seems to evoke in me.

  “Oh, Eleanor,” Melissa snaps. “You were the one who wanted them deported, and you’re the one who gave my mother the whole idea. All that carping you did about the criminal elements in the neighborhood.” There’s no disguising the disgust in Melissa’s voice.

  “My sweet child,” Eleanor says in a deep—and markedly false if you ask me—Southern drawl, “love conquers all.”

  Once more, we all stare at her.

  “Besides, I’m the one who replaced the Madonna. Father Dan was so heart-broken, and I searched and searched but couldn’t find a statue like the missing one. But wasn’t that little metal one I did find delightful?”

  No one speaks for a moment. Then Father Dan smiles, a sweet, genuine look of pleasure. “Yes, Eleanor. And I appreciate her. Now we have two Madonna’s. And I will be happy to see us all together Sunday at St. Andrew’s.”

  Purring, I return to lapping my cream. Eleanor defies logic in some ways, but I was wrong to judge her too harshly. Perhaps she really will learn a lesson here.

  Or perhaps she just doesn’t want to lose her relationship with Sarah and Melissa and Father Dan. Either way, I’m quite satisfied that Father Dan can handle her, and sort out the tensions between Sarah and Melissa.

  Besides, tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. Lucas finally gave up his attempts to cook his grandmother’s favorite cake for Mai and instead purchased her a gold heart on a chain, a large box of chocolate candy, and ordered a red velvet cake from the best bakery in Tallahassee.

  I have a sneaking feeling Ahmed has done something similar for Melissa.

  Now, if someone will just wrap me a large filet of cod or some wild-caught salmon in a red ribbon!

  About the Author

  Claire Matturro, twice a Romantic Times book award winner, has been a journalist in Alabama, a lawyer in Florida, an organic blueberry farmer in Georgia, and taught at Florida State University and University of Oregon. Her books are: Skinny-Dipping (2004) (a BookSense pick, Romantic Times’ Best First Mystery, and nominated for a Barry Award); Wildcat Wine (2005) (nominated for a Georgia Writer of the Year Award); Bone Valley (2006) and Sweetheart Deal (2007) (winner of Romantic Times’ Award for Most Humorous Mystery), all published by William Morrow, and Trouble in Tallahassee (KaliOka Press 2017). While living in Tallahassee, she was a member of the vestry at St. Andrew’s Anglican Catholic Church. Now living in Southwest Florida, she remains active in writers’ groups and reviews books for Southern Literary Review.

  www.clairematturro.com

  Tidbit From Trouble #4

  Although my musical preferences generally run more toward classical (and fab Brits like the Beatles), I must admit I find the current country scene in Music City rather exciting. And I understand they sometimes call the musicians here “Nashville Cats”, so I have no doubt they will welcome me with open arms. Beneath the glamour of the music industry, though, are the same dark drives and impulses that have plagued mankind since the first biped lobbed the first rock at a rival. I’ve discovered that, despite the city’s famous Southern hospitality and surface bonhomie, someone still can end up on the wrong side of jolly old terra firma. Naturally, that’s where I come in.

  Trouble at the Hip Joint

  By Michelle Broussard Honick

  Surely you’ve heard of me—Trouble, the famous black cat detective. I’m following in the pawprints of my dad, international sleuth Familiar, and we both act in the tradition of our hero, Sherlock Holmes (Benedict Cumberbatch’s version, of course). I have confounded numerous criminals with the help of my brilliant human mom Tammy Lynn and some of her quite intelligent friends. Mysteries somehow arise all around me, and it’s rather satisfying to have the expertise to solve them.

  Mom had to attend a destination wedding at a remote Mayan temple this week, and I decided it was best to visit with her friend Julia Watson in Nashville while Mom’s out of the country. Even in February, I’m certain there must be a multitude of mosquitoes in a jungle. The fact that Aunt Julia’s gorgeous tortie calico, Belle, and I have an ongoing flirtation probably had a little to do with my decision, I must admit. Belle does love my British accent, and I find her purrs charming.

  Aunt Julia is publicist for the most popular country entertainer around, Brady Grant. He heard me singing to Belle and announced he wanted to record me on his next CD. Since Belle seems to like the idea of my becoming a recording artist, I may just agree to Brady’s entreaty.

  F
irst, though, I have to ascertain who’s trying to kill Brady.

  * * *

  “When can I get out of this place, Julia?” grumbled Brady.

  “Come on,” I said. “You know they’re making sure your breathing is back to normal before they release you. You’ve only been here two days and should be released this afternoon. “

  “Are the two of you sure somebody tried to kill me? Couldn’t I just have had a defective inhaler?”

  Brady’s pulmonologist, Dr. Steve Taylor, answered this time. “We’re sure. There was an almost imperceptible hole, and we tested the chemicals in the inhaler. The injected substance was a lethal dose. If you had breathed it just one more time, you probably wouldn’t still be here.”

  The ruggedly handsome country singer instinctively took a deeper breath of oxygen through his cannula, looking like he was trying to flush away any fleeting remnants of the poison. At the same time, I shuddered. Brady had become such a dear friend, as well as my employer, and I couldn’t stand the thought of him having to struggle for breath—just like my wonderful cousin Jackie just before we lost her in the most heartbreaking moment of my life.

  Brady already had asthma because of all the second-hand smoke he’d inhaled at clubs and on buses in his early touring days. With practically every detail of his life reported in every major lifestyle magazine and website, his use of an inhaler wasn’t a secret. He usually had an extra in his briefcase, which he tended to leave lying around backstage and in the recording studio, so it wouldn’t have been hard at all for somebody to quickly grab it and alter its contents. And realizing that made me mad as hell.

  I left my career as a journalist when Brady asked me to become his publicist three years ago. He quickly became like a big brother to me, and he even had a feeling his pulmonologist Steve and I would hit it off. He was right. As soon as he introduced us, I felt a warm tingle from the top of my caramel-highlighted hair to the tip of my dusty pink-pedicured toes.