I hadn’t nodded in agreement at that point. Why did I care so much about the integrity of that old house? Some things were more important than aesthetics.
At that moment, the doorbell rang and we all jerked our heads toward it. In my experience, the doorbell is never a good thing. But lucky us. The alarm company tech had arrived nice and early to install the alarms.
“I took the initiative,” I explained to Tyler. “Under the circumstances, it seemed like a sensible decision.”
“Good thinking. Gram should have had a service before. Probably never thought she needed it in this area.”
“With the bars to keep them out and the security service to sound the alarm and bring first responders, we’ll be somewhat ahead. We just need the phone company to repair the phone line and we’re good.”
I thought of the intruders’ weapons. “Yes. I guess.”
While the tech installed the sensors on the doors and windows and the monitoring box, Gus supervised “the boys” installing the bars and I hunted down what I needed. After a search through Gram’s closet, I borrowed the least flowered dressing gown from a large collection of very bright nightwear. Next I located a pair of velvety pink faux-fur slippers, which still had the tags on. It would be easy to replace the slippers for Gram. I put my clothing in the washing machine. I had a shower and a shampoo in Gram’s lavender-scented bathroom, trying to get the previous day out of my system. I put on the dressing gown, wrapped my wet hair in a bright pink towel turban and went downstairs to check on the progress and give Tyler his time to get cleaned up.
When I appeared downstairs in my new outfit, his mouth fell open.
“Not a good look for you,” I said, pointing at his open mouth.
“Back atcha,” he said with a retaliatory point at the dressing gown. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen that color before in an article of clothing.”
“Fuchsia. Sure you have, on your Gram. And I think you’d better get used to it now that you’re part of this family.”
“Huh.”
“You’ll need to strengthen your spine, of course.”
“Right. And speaking of building our strength, let’s have something to eat. I made my specialty.”
“And that is?”
“Grilled cheese sandwiches.”
Uncle Mick also calls grilled cheese a specialty. His are made with Wonder Bread and Kraft Slices. I still have fond childhood memories of the worst day being made better with grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup.
Smiley’s were a variation on the theme: He’d found a twelve-grain rustic loaf of bread, spread it with soft butter, grated a chunk of Monterey Jack and some old cheddar, mixed that with a bit of mustard and a dash of hot sauce. Turned that into sandwiches and cooked them up with a bit of butter in Gram’s ancient cast-iron skillet. He’d also squeezed every orange in the house. The results were enough to make you forget all about men with guns.
We ate the first batch and then Smiley did a second batch to take to Gram, who hadn’t stirred yet, and for Zoya, who was also sleeping off the trauma of the day before. He got to work and I took the wicker tray to serve Gram breakfast in bed and came back to select a dark wood one for Zoya. William had been an invalid for quite a while; no wonder there were so many choices. I also found two bud vases and clipped a lilac bloom for each.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Someone can always take your gun.
—The Kelly Rules
ZOYA WAS ALSO awake and surprised to get breakfast in bed and accepted it with her usual lack of grace. I smiled at her scowl, left the tray and backed out of her room. I joined Gram and Tyler in the large front bedroom.
“Just what the doctor ordered,” Gram said cheerfully after she scarfed down her sandwich in high style. “I was just telling Tyler about my gun.”
I stared. “You have a gun?”
Tyler shrugged. He’d already heard, I supposed.
Gram beamed. “William had a pistol. We could use that for protection. If they come back we could shoot them before they shoot us.”
Tyler’s eyes bulged. “Shoot them?”
“It’s them or us.”
I preferred if no one was shot. I said, “But do you know how to use it?”
“Me? I’m a little old lady, pet. I only know how to collect marbles and create short circuits. I was hoping you would.”
“I don’t like guns. No one in my family owns one. I don’t really know much about them.” Of course I’d had one pointed at me more than once—including that very day—and I’d been forced to fight for control, but I didn’t think I’d be much good at aiming and firing one. The best I could do was get rid of someone else’s weapon. I’d used a statue to disarm one assailant and the jar of marbles had outgunned our recent assailants. Could that kind of luck hold? It wasn’t like I had time to train at a gun range. Anyone coming after us would have a serious advantage.
Tyler said gently, “Maybe that’s not the best idea, Gram.”
“Come on, pet. We have to do what we can.”
I said, “Let’s hope we can rely on the police.”
Gram said impishly, “Where’s your spirit, my dear?”
“My spirit is trying to figure out a way to stay alive, like the rest of me,” I said, perhaps a bit snappily. “Fine. Where is the stupid thing?”
“It’s—oh gosh, I don’t remember. Put away in a safe place so we couldn’t have an accident.”
I had a feeling that guns needed to be cleaned and perhaps fired every now and then to make sure they didn’t jam or misfire. Whatever a misfire was. So that made this strategy even less viable. On the other hand, what other strategies did we have? We’d already used the marbles. Aside from the possibly mythical pistol, this house full of chintz and china and figurines and birds was an unlikely source of weaponry.
Smiley was the person who could manage the firearms. He said, “When you remember where it is, I’ll take a look at it.”
“What if it explodes in your hands?” I said.
“Oh, come on, what are the chances that would happen?” Gram said.
Before Tyler could respond with a likely police statistic on guns exploding in hands, we had another dog emergency. I could hear Zoya shrieking “Asta!” If she had been yelling “cookies” or even “chicken livers,” she might have had more success. That was my experience with pugs, but Asta wasn’t my dog, it wasn’t my house and it really wasn’t my business. Okay, maybe it was a little bit my business.
While Zoya was hunting for the little pug, I helped get Gram settled at a large folding table in the bedroom so she could work on a five-thousand-piece puzzle that seemed to consist entirely of sky, with the occasional wispy cloud. I thought it would be quite a while before Gram would be steady on her own. If she was going to continue living here, she’d probably need one of those chair lifts for the stairs. I’d leave it to Tyler to mention that.
We could still hear Zoya’s sad wails, “Aaaassstttttaaaaa!”
Gram said, “What has gotten into that dog lately? Usually, she’s so shy that she just hides under a chair. Why would she keep running away?”
I imagined it was all the violent upheaval, but I said, “She sure has a good life here.”
“Yes, and she’s good for me too. I got her for Tyler, of course. Did I even mention that?”
“Um, no, you didn’t.”
“I called her Asta after the dog in The Thin Man. You know that Tyler loves Hammett.”
“I do know that.” I might have felt annoyed with the assumption I knew nothing about my boyfriend, but I realized that Gram was crazy about her grandson and over the moon to have him back in her life. And she also liked to tease a bit.
She chuckled, “His grandfather loved Hammett too. He used to read aloud to me from the Nick and Nora books. He thought I might find the others a bit too gritty. Tyler was v
ery young when he died, but he claims to remember his grandfather’s books. It must be in the genes. My second husband never read anything that didn’t have to do with science or engineering.”
I went back to the previous topic, “So you got him a dog because . . .”
“I suppose it seems silly, but I wanted him to feel at home and he’s always loved dogs. He was never allowed to have one when he was growing up.” She shook her head and pursed her lips. “Imagine that, a boy with no dog. When we were first back in contact and talking on the phone to catch up, he mentioned a cute little pug belonging to his friend. He seemed really fond of it. I thought the birds would be able to cope. Zoya was slow to get used to Asta, but as you can hear, she’s grown quite fond of the little darling.”
Zoya’s quasi-hysterical shrieks reached our ears from outside. “Asta! Asta!” And then some bizarre Russian commands or possibly threats that apparently didn’t work to attract Asta.
“So did you want him to take Asta home with him?” I didn’t want to mention that Tyler already had Cobain, a perfectly lovable dog. I could see this new “gift” ending badly, beginning with the plane ride and ending with Smiley and two dogs in the house he was renovating. There was already a pug-in-chief in my life, Walter. How would Walter react to Asta? I also knew who got to look after Cobain when Smiley was out of town or working long shifts. Did I have room on my bed for a third dog?
“No, no, my dear. He’ll have his pet here, when he visits, something of an incentive, don’t you think? Or if he were to move here, that would be different.”
Move here? I couldn’t see that happening. Smiley had a life and he had me. He was very happy to reconnect to Gram, but was he likely to drop everything and move across the country to be close to her?
It was a good question. I had serious competition in this foggy city between the adorable and doting grandmother and Hammett’s ever-present ghost. But where would a move leave us?
I might have been playing it emotionally cool with Smiley, but I realized that I did not want to be separated from him.
The afternoon got worse when Zoya stomped through the door wailing that Asta must have been kidnapped. Zoya was such a slender creature, and yet she had a knack for storming around dramatically.
“She’ll be back, Zoya dear. Don’t carry on about it. Who would kidnap a little dog like that?”
“Who vould kidnep? Who vould kidnep?” Zoya threw her hands in the air, another thing she had a knack for.
“Well, exactly, Zoya. Who? And why?”
“Maybe Gus? Maybe boys?”
I didn’t get involved in this dispute, although I couldn’t help worrying about the little dog, now on the loose for the second time. And I wasn’t so sure we could trust Gus or the boys, for that matter, but I couldn’t see them kidnapping that demanding little pooch.
Gram laughed, a long hearty laugh that seemed to make Zoya’s silver eyes pop, rather like the missing Asta’s. “Gus and the boys didn’t kidnap Asta and you know it. Just keep looking. She’ll turn up, I guarantee it.”
Zoya muttered, “Sure, sure, guarantee it. Huh.”
But despite the guarantee, Asta did not turn up.
Smiley did a tour of the neighborhood carrying treats. I joined him. We took turns calling Asta’s name. We’d already checked the backyard. We both knew that there was no way that little pug had squeezed out of the fenced yard. So that meant that either someone let her out an open door or someone must have assisted in her getaway.
Gus and the boys were most huffy when asked if they’d let Asta out. Zoya did not have a light touch as an interrogator.
We had plenty to do cleaning up the house now that the drama was over and the police were finished. Much of our effort involved getting Gram’s bedroom back to normal, picking up the million spilled marbles and applying bandages to new glass cuts and tidying up the tossed sunroom. We alternated keeping Gram company.
I scrubbed the bloodstain out of the carpet in the dining room. It was a strong reminder that we were not on a carefree vacation.
Still we ordered pizza in for lunch and pretended it was a picnic. We ate outside on Gram’s second-floor front porch. It made her giggle to have a picnic looking down on California Street. “I never would have thought of this.”
Zoya did not approve. I was sure she muttered, “Peasants!” She did hang around, though, scanning the street for the pug.
Gram took catnaps. Tyler caught up on his sleep. I read a bit more of The Continental Op and dozed. It wasn’t the vacation I’d expected, but it was what it was.
By late afternoon, there was still no sign of Asta.
In standard vacation terms, it promised to be a glum night at Gram’s, what with the missing dog and the fresh memory of the home invasion, our hotel troubles and not knowing who was out to get us. Officer Martinez popped in to see how we were doing. By this time we had all relocated to the sunroom. Gram and Tyler seemed to be having a pretty good time at the sunroom table with a three-thousand-piece puzzle of some vague section showing what could have been the mid-Pacific.
Zoya spent her free time pacing and biting her bright nails. She kept whispering Asta’s name. Yes, it was strange, but I understood. I could only imagine the chaos if our Walter had vanished. Or Cobain. There would be hell to pay.
Despite the glumness, we had a great dinner. Zoya and I managed to make Gram’s specialty and Tyler’s all-time favorite: Buttermilk Fried Chicken. The recipe was handwritten on a yellowed card. Following a very clear suggestion by Gram, we’d located the recipes along with a stock of blank recipe cards in a kitchen drawer. You could tell by the grease spots it had sat on the counter many times while she made this favorite recipe. I strongly discouraged Zoya’s suggestion that we improve it by adding a bit of “wodka.” She tried sulking, but I explained that Tyler would want to experience the same taste he’d loved as a child, before his parents separated him from his grandmother.
“People are terrible. Absolutely terrible,” Zoya said with a long, tragic glance toward the jigsaw puzzlers.
“Not those two people,” I said with a smile, nodding my head in the direction of Gram and Tyler.
“No,” she agreed. “Not Missus and boy, but almost everyone else.”
“I’m okay,” I said with what is called a hint of asperity.
She shrugged. So, I was not absolutely terrible then. Maybe better than “boy.”
I turned my attention to the chicken. Cooking is not my best thing and I was wishing that Signora Panetone had made the trip with us. I could have used her expertise. Our recipe was complicated by the fact that we didn’t have buttermilk and Zoya did not intend to go and get any in case Asta returned and she wasn’t here.
Make do with what you have, my uncles taught me, and a quick check on the Web told me that there were several easy substitutes for buttermilk. I decided to use the “vinegar in milk” version and not to mention it to Smiley. He might as well enjoy this part of the trip down memory lane.
Dinner took me about five times longer than it should have. I did my best to follow the recipe exactly. What can I say? I had no signature dish, not even beans and franks, which Uncle Mick had taught me. I had no dishes at all. My talents lay elsewhere. Zoya was not much help, what with all the sighing and muttering about Asta. I got it, though. Every now and then I’d give her a sympathetic pat on her rail-thin arm and she’d give me a dirty look. In her defense, she did cook the potatoes and mashed them to a creamy and delicious texture. She also prepared the peas so that they were just right, not overcooked.
While the chicken was frying (I loved that sizzling sound), she set the table in the dining room so as not to disturb the puzzle. When I stuck my head in the room, she had her arms crossed lightly and was staring into the distance.
“Ve should be looking,” she said.
“Right after we eat,” I said. I agreed with her tha
t we didn’t want the little dog sleeping out on a cool night, frightened and alone, but I felt sure she was curled up in someone else’s home.
Dinner was a surprising success.
“This is just the way I remember it, Gram,” Smiley said. “Did you teach Zoya?”
Zoya sniffed.
Gram said, “Zoya doesn’t touch dead chickens.”
Tyler stared at me with . . . astonishment?
“Really,” I said, “Is it so very hard to believe that I could cook this chicken?”
“No, not at all.” That spreading blush put the lie to that. He added, “But I’m proud of you.”
I was proud of myself. Of the two of us, Smiley is the cook and a decent one too. Now I would have one dish that I could add to my flair for opening packages of ice cream sandwiches. I could make fried chicken any time I had an extra three and a half hours. I could call it a family heirloom. In my family, Kraft Macaroni and Cheese was the closest we came to a tradition.
Dessert turned out to be a silky lemon pudding cake that had also been one of Smiley’s favorites. Zoya had whipped that up using one of Gram’s recipe cards because there was no raw chicken in the ingredients. I was pretty sure I couldn’t taste vodka in the finished product.
After dinner Zoya and I searched for Asta again. We brought some fried chicken with us to tempt her. We weren’t taking all that much of a risk: There were two of us—Smiley was making sure the house was safe—and the young cop who was watching the house promised to keep an eye out for us. Where was that little dog? Terrified and hiding? Or was she holed up being spoiled by a new family who didn’t realize they were being used for treats? For Asta’s sake, I hoped not hiding and terrified. For everyone’s, I prayed she hadn’t wandered into traffic.
When we trudged back to Gram’s, discouraged and downhearted and with Zoya blowing her nose vigorously, we found Gram and Smiley still working on the puzzle, but there seemed to be more pieces left than at the start. That puzzle was a good metaphor for whatever was going on in our lives.
The Hammett Hex Page 16
