Mustard on Top

by Wanda Degolier

  Pain shot through Helen’s shoulder when she hit the ground. She couldn’t breathe and tried to push him off. Suddenly, he rose off her. Gasping, she watched in horror as Seth tossed the man aside. He stumbled backward and fell again. Seth pounced on him.

  “Seth.” Helen screamed.

  Straddling the man, Seth slammed his fists into the man’s face.

  Her injuries forgotten, Helen shot up, and leapt toward them. The man put up no fight, as Seth hit him again and again. “Seth, Stop!”

  Ben reached Seth first. With one knee on the ground behind him, Ben rammed his forearm under Seth’s chin. Seth’s head jerked back tilting at an awkward angle against Ben’s shoulder. He stopped striking the man and began clawing at Ben’s arm and face.

  Ben placed his foot on the ground then stood, dragging Seth, gagging, struggling, with him.

  Sirens cut through the chaos.

  Seth’s bright pink face dripped sweat as Ben backed him away from the unconscious man. When he was ten feet away, Ben released the chokehold and pushed Seth toward the street. Seth whirled back on him, but glanced over Ben’s shoulder toward the approaching emergency vehicles, and he took off running.

  Helen turned back to the injured man. A middle-aged woman had knelt next to him and was grasping his wrist. “Is he okay?” Helen asked.

  “He’s got a pulse.”

  People parted ways as an ambulance drove down boardwalk.

  “Seth Drivoul is a hothead,” the woman said.

  Helen nodded in agreement then sat beside them. “You’ll be okay,” she told the injured and unconscious victim as two men in dark-blue uniforms rolled a gurney to a stop in front of him. They took his vitals before securing his neck with a brace and sliding him onto a board, which they lifted to the gurney.

  Helen stood and surveyed the scene. Ben, talking to a police officer, pointed in the direction Seth had fled. Another group of people were searching the grounds for something, while another police officer spoke to the man who’d said he’d witnessed the accident. The paramedics slid the injured man inside the ambulance.

  Visions of Seth’s bloodied fists had her stomach churning. Seth’s temper had gotten him blacklisted in Hollywood. She didn’t appreciate witnessing his famous temper firsthand, and hated that Seth, in a warped way, had been trying to protect her.

  Helen turned back toward Hot Diggitys. Someone stood and held a dark, cylindrically shaped object. “This might be it.”

  Wondering if she’d be charged with some sort of wrongdoing, Helen walked slowly back. One of the police officers, wearing a pair of latex gloves, was examining the object.

  Ben approached Helen and asked, “Are you okay? You look stricken.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  The officer carried the chunk to the Hot Diggitys’ counter and asked, “Who’s in charge here?”

  “I’m Helen Ableman,” Helen answered from behind him. “I own Hot Diggitys.”

  The officer got her name and title before asking if the thing in his hand had shot from the building and struck the injured man.

  Helen answered, “I honestly don’t know. I didn’t see what happened, but—”

  Ben broke in. “I’m her counsel and am speaking on her behalf. At this time she has no comment.”

  “Excuse me,” Helen said.

  “Trust me,” Ben whispered under his breath.

  “If my company is to blame, I’ll take responsibility officer. Can I see that thing?”

  The officer frowned, pulled a pair of gloves from his back pocket, and held them out to her. Helen put them on, and he handed her the black lump. It was hard, lightweight, and bumpy, like a lava rock and smelled like burned meat with a hint of spice. It was also covered with dirt.

  “Hard to say. Maybe if I rinse the dirt off, we can get a better idea.”

  The officer nodded.

  With the officer on her heels, Helen entered Hot Diggitys, went to the sink, cranked the twenty-year-old faucet, and held the lump under it. Instantly, it dissolved. “Oops.” She showed the officer the black, silt-like ashes.

  The officer sighed then produced a baggy, and Helen brushed the sludge into it. The officer said, “I’ll need to get a statement.”

  Although Ben continually interrupted them, Helen answered the officer’s questions truthfully.

  An hour later, things had returned to relative normalcy. The customers kept coming, and Hot Diggity’s employees filled orders. The final meal served, Helen slid the door down that enclosed the Hot Diggity’s counter and register. She addressed Theo. “I’m going to stop by the hospital to check on our guy before I drop these off.” She held up the bags of food for her homeless friends.

  “Okay, Mom.”

  Helen arrived at the hospital only to learn visiting hours were over. Disappointed, she left a note that wished the injured man well, apologized for the incident, and gave him her contact information. Afterward, she drove to where the train tracks met the forest and dropped off the food. On her way home, she hands trembled. Disappointed about her previous days’ bad eating habits, she popped the glove box open, grabbed the last two glucose packs, and drank the contents.

  Chapter 5

  Agatha sat in her kitchen staring at the newspaper. The words on the page shimmied to her brain, but stopped short of making sense. They couldn’t compete with her angst. The angst brought on by her dozing son and the giant of a man who had visited, looking for him. Things were coming to a head.

  Agatha lifted her cup of tea to her lips and sipped. The warm liquid wetted her dry throat. How long had she wallowed in her thoughts? Four days had passed since Jeremy’s arrival and already he was sneaking off at night and was sleeping through the day. Disgusted with her own inaction, Agatha rose to her feet.

  Until he’d appeared in her home, the last time she’d seen Jeremy was at Alfred’s funeral three years earlier. In a haze of grief at the time, she could barely recall her interactions with him. Regardless, he had taken the money Alfred had bestowed upon him and disappeared.

  Agatha climbed the stairs and stopped in front of Jeremy’s old room. She knocked. “Jeremy?” Nothing, louder. “Jeremy.” She opened the door and gagged at the vinegary smell mixed with body odor. Aside from a sliver of light coming in through a crack in the curtains, the room was dark. Agatha switched the light on. The lump on the bed moved, and she heard Jeremy smacking his lips.

  “Jeremy. You need to get up. It’s after ten.”

  Jeremy cleared his throat. “Do I smell bacon?” His voice cracked, sounding like a scarred record.

  “Yes. Breakfast has been ready for hours.”

  Jeremy turned and squinted at her. The swelling around his mouth had gone down leaving a pear-shaped bruise. He blew out a breath then opened and shut his mouth like a gasping fish. “Can you give me some privacy?”

  Agatha crossed the room to the window and drew the curtains wide. She opened the window for fresh air. Jeremy stilled as if he’d fallen asleep again, and Agatha returned to her spot in the kitchen.

  Several minutes later, Jeremy trod in. His clothes, the same he’d worn the day before, were crumpled. He stunk and Agatha questioned the wisdom of starting off their conversation with that revelation. He got a cup of coffee before retrieving his plate of food from the oven. .

  “Thanks, Mother.” He plopped into the chair opposite her and stabbed his eggs.

  He looked like a skeleton masquerading as a human. Colorful skin hung loosely over bone. He was a fraction of a person, yet his presence filled the house making the bright, clean walls seem dingy.

  “Any luck with job hunting?” Agatha asked.

  “Nobody’s hiring right now.” He stuffed half a slice of toast in his mouth.

  Agatha believed there were always jobs for people willing to work, but knew Jeremy’s looks would scare off most employers.

  “Do you know a Mr. Moe?”

  Jeremy’s fork halted in midair. “No.”

  “He stopped by last night wh
en you were gone. Seemed real nice. I told him to come back around eleven o’clock today.”

  Jeremy stood so fast the chair behind him toppled over. “What?”

  “Aren’t you going to finish eating?” Agatha asked as she got up and set the chair upright.

  Jeremy paced in small circles around the room. “Mom I need fifty grand.”

  “Fifty thousand dollars? What happened to the money your dad left you?”

  “That was forever ago, Mom. Come on. A guy’s got to live.”

  “A guy’s got to work, Jeremy. Not…Not…” The words stuck in her throat.

  “He will kill me. Damn it. I thought I’d be safe here for a while.”

  “You’re talking craziness. I’m a good judge of people, and Mr. Moe wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Jeremy gawked at her. “A good judge are you? Who in the hell do you think gave me this? He lifted his shirt, revealing a mottled purple, basketball-sized bruise stretching across his rib cage.

  Agatha swallowed back her revulsion. No matter what her intellect told her, the urge to protect her son crept up. “He hit you? He didn’t strike me as violent.”

  “He didn’t, but his minions did. I puked blood, Ma.” Jeremy circled the kitchen like a caged rat.

  “You need a doctor.”

  “I won’t need a doctor if I don’t pay him.”

  “How’d you accumulate that much debt?”

  Jeremy stopped walking and glared. “Living. Shit happens.”

  “I don’t have fifty thousand dollars to give him even if I wanted to.”

  “And I think you’re lying.”

  She was lying. “What you think doesn’t change anything.”

  “Give him your car.”

  “Jeremy, really! How would I get around?”

  Jeremy raked his fingers through his greasy hair.

  “You don’t understand. I’m going to be murdered. I need the money. I know you have it.”

  Agatha clenched her teeth. How many times had he played this game with her and Alfred? Every time she’d coughed up money, she’d told herself it was the last time. Jeremy would never grow up if she kept bailing him out.

  “If you checked into a drug-rehab facility, you’d be safe.” There, she’d said it.

  Jeremy rolled his eyes. “I’m not using.”

  “Jeremy.” Agatha’s sigh was heavy.

  “I got in over my head that’s all. Couple of weekends in Vegas here and there. Couple of women and Botta-bing-botta-boom next thing I know I got Moe breathing up my ass.”

  “Kindly refrain from swearing.”

  Jeremy threw his head back and laughed showing off yellow-and-black teeth. “I’m on my death bed, and you’re telling me not to swear? Beautiful.”

  His disgust strengthened her resolve. “Mr. Moe will be here in less than an hour. You need to decide how you’re going to handle this. Your father and I have bailed you out enough.”

  Jeremy positioned his hands on the table in front of her and leaned in. Agatha tried not to flinch. “What kind of mother are you? Fifty G’s is nothing to you. You have over a million in the bank.”

  Agatha stared back and tried to control her breathing. She refused to be cowed by her youngest. “The clock is ticking.” Her voice was stony.

  “I’ll see you in hell.” Jeremy spat on the floor next to her, wheeled around, and stomped away.

  Agatha listened as Jeremy charged through the house. The front door slammed, then the house fell silent. Agatha slumped in a heap on the table. Was she signing Jeremy’s death warrant for fifty thousand dollars? When Alfred had been alive, they’d argued over how to handle their youngest. Alfred, a romantic, believed Jeremy would change while Agatha, a realist, said they were enabling his bad habits. Never truly comfortable with cutting Jeremy off, Agatha had acquiesced, but Alfred was gone, and the decision was hers.

  Her head on her forearms, Agatha’s eyes filled with tears. She missed Alfred and hated the position Jeremy put her in. At eleven a.m. sharp, a rap at the front door startled her. She stood, wet a fuzzy dishrag with cool water, and pressed it to her eyes.

  Another knock came.

  The strain of her emotions had to be showing on her face. Agatha smoothed her dress and went to the front door. Mr. Moe stood at the edge of her porch facing out. In one hand, which he held behind his back, were three sunflowers. The sunflowers created a splash of yellow against the wide expanse of his charcoal sport coat.

  After an additional touch to her hair bun and dress, Agatha pulled the door open. “Mr. Moe.”

  He spun to face her. Dressed in slacks, a button down shirt, and the sport coat, he looked ready to attend church. Agatha tried to imagine the killer in him. He had puppy-dog-brown eyes and a full mouth.

  “For you.” He presented her with the sunflowers.

  “Oh, thank you.” Agatha loved sunflowers. The yellow-and-black heads were the size of small dinner plates. “I’m afraid Jeremy had a previous engagement. He’s not here at the moment.”

  Moe peered on both sides of Agatha through the door as if Jeremy might be hiding behind her. “How disappointing.”

  “Yes. Sorry to waste your time.”

  “May I come in for a minute? I’d like to speak with you if that’s okay.” Moe winked.

  What did winking convey? Red flags billowed in her mind. She shouldn’t allow him in, but she was curious. “Uh…”

  Moe smiled. Hit men did not have perfectly straight teeth, Agatha told herself.

  “Just for a minute,” Moe said.

  “Uh…” Agatha ran through her mental checklist. Killers were either bald or hairy or both and Moe had the perfect amount of gray-streaked, black hair.

  “I’d like to discuss something in private.”

  Usually decisive, Moe’s presence seemed to scramble her neural pathways. “Okay.” She scooted aside giving him room to pass.

  He smelled of spicy tobacco, and Agatha was taken back to a time before children. She and Alfred had both enjoyed smoking until they learned it caused cancer and quit.

  “You’ve a lovely house,” Mr. Moe said.

  “Mr. Moe?”

  He turned and gave her another broad smile. “Call me Moe.”

  Agatha caught herself grinning back. “Moe. Would you mind taking your shoes off?” She pointed to where he’d tracked in dirt.

  Moe looked down at the floor and jumped as if he’d been bitten by a snake. “Sorry.” He stepped onto the mat and took off the polished, wing-tipped shoes revealing black dress socks. “Okay now?” he asked.

  “Better. Why don’t you have a seat in the living room while I put the flowers in some water.” Moe glanced around casually before sitting in one of Agatha’s wingback chairs. In the kitchen, Jeremy’s half-eaten breakfast sat on table, and remembering his plum-colored ribs, Agatha was hit with a bout of anxiety. What if Moe did intend to kill Jeremy or her?

  She opened the cabinet and chose a colossal vase of engraved crystal, a gift from her late husband. Alfred hadn’t intended for the vase to be a weapon, but it was big enough to knock an elephant cold.

  After filling it with water, she dropped the sunflowers inside and returned to find Moe examining at her family pictures on the mantel. Moe caught her eye in the mirror above the fireplace and grinned. “That’s a huge vase.”

  “They’re big sunflowers.” Her arms strained from the weight.

  “Did you cut the stems? They’ll last longer.” Moe reached in his pocket and pulled out a shiny, oblong object.

  “No, I’ll—” There was a solid ‘chink’ and a knife appeared. Fear froze the words in Agatha’s throat. Perhaps he intended to hurt her as a message to Jeremy.

  Agatha was contemplating her next move, when Moe plucked one of the flowers out of the vase and sliced two inches off the stem.

  “See.” He showed the severed stem to Agatha. “You cut it at an angle to keep the flower alive the longest. It’s best to slice them under running water with a sharp knife. The sharper th
e better.” He plunged the sunflower back into the vase and retrieved another.

  Agatha stood motionless and hoped her fear wasn’t obvious. Sweat pooled in her armpits and trickled down her rib cage. After plunking the last flower back in the vase, Moe bent down to pick up the discarded stems. Wild thoughts of him stabbing her infiltrated her mind. Seizing the moment, Agatha crashed the vase down on the back of his skull. Water sloshed onto his jacket and the floor.

  “What’d you do that for?” Moe straightened up and rubbed the back of his head.

  “I…I…I’m sorry. I…I…I thought you were trying to kill me.”

  Moe’s brows drew together, and his mouth tightened. “If I was trying to kill you, you’d be dead,” he said flatly.

  “Oh, yes. I’m sure you’re right,” she stammered.

  Moe massaged his head as he sat down on her antique settee. “Can we talk now?”

  Heat radiated off Agatha’s cheeks. “Of course.” Although she loathed leaving water on the floor, she set the flowers at the foot of her chair and sat opposite him.

  Moe began. “You’re probably aware Jeremy doesn’t make the best decisions.”

  Agatha braced herself. “I am.”

  “In fact, he owes me quite a bit of money.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. The economy is tough right now; people are defaulting on loans all over the country. It’s a travesty.” Agatha knew she was babbling but it calmed her nerves. “Perhaps you have some type of indemnity insurance to cover this sort of thing?”

  Astonishment crossed Moe’s face. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”

  “Someone in your line of work should have that.”

  “Right.”

  “Would you like some tea?” Agatha asked.

  “Uh.”

  Moe seemed dumbfounded. Better him dumfounded than her, Agatha decided. “Earl Grey or chamomile?”

  Moe rose from his chair. “Agatha. Jeremy’s loan is due. I need to collect payment or—”

  Agatha clasped her hands in front of her and pleaded, “Please don’t report this to the credit agencies. Jeremy will never be able to apply for a loan again. Let me talk to him. Maybe we can work out some kind of payment plan. He’s out looking for a job as we speak.”