Dad certainly loved women. Or maybe it was that he didn’t know what to do with himself without them. I guess it had been a good thing, then, that he’d gotten daughters out of his first and third matrimonial entanglements. He’d actually been a semi-decent father when he was around; he’d just been distracted most of the time. Still was. Sloane and I had learned to leave him alone, and he returned the favor. Maybe at Christmas I’d let him know about my change of address.
But Sloane and I had made tremendous progress on the domestic front. My living room and kitchen were now relatively tidy and uncluttered, and the bedroom was getting close. We’d also given every room a thorough disinfecting. I didn’t want old-miser cooties thinking they could recolonize my property. We’d also found the closest grocery store and replaced the refrigerated staples that I’d had to toss out in D.C. because they couldn’t make the trip.
My calves were tight from all the hiking. When you live in a floating house, it’s not like you can park in an attached garage. Nothing’s attached. Every trip to an outside source involves a trek along a floating walkway and up a gangplank to the parking lot and back again. We’d hauled umpteen armfuls of flattened cardboard to the recycling dumpster and borrowed the marina’s wheeled carts to take my excess stuff up to Sloane’s minivan.
When she’d driven away to make a donation at the local Goodwill on my behalf before heading home, her van had been riding very low on its rear axle. We’d been brutal in paring down my possessions, and I was feeling as though a giant load had been lifted.
So hefting the salad bowl for a long walk across the marina was a mere pittance. I could do this charming sociability thing. Totally. Yep. I took another deep breath and set off, my footsteps reverberating on the floating walkway.
Bettina’s house was an exact personification of its owner. I’d never seen so many lawn ornaments in my life. Especially considering she didn’t even have a lawn. Whirligigs, weather vanes, optical illusion spinning deely-bobs, tattered windsocks of zero practical value. Why have flowers in the half-whiskey-barrel planters that clog your decks when you can stake all sorts of gaudy bits of colored plastic and metal in them instead?
I stepped over the watery gap between the walkway and the platform on which Bettina’s house was built and conked my head on a hunk of driftwood that dangled from one of the wind chimes lining the shallow entry to her house.
“You’re tall.” Bettina emerged from the doorway and stood on her tiptoes to inspect the driftwood for damage. “I told you that you didn’t need to bring anything.”
It was the one instruction she’d given me which I’d intentionally ignored. Maybe I was being passive-aggressive, but I also knew better than to show up at a party empty-handed. I just smiled down at her.
She’d changed clothes. She was now clad in a filmy, tent-like, leopard-print tunic over leopard-print leggings and gold sandals. She was wearing enough stiff gold collar necklaces and bracelets to give King Tutankhamun a case of green envy.
She pivoted back into the open doorway and clapped her hands. The hubbub of conversations inside fell silent. “Everyone,” she said in a shockingly loud voice for such a little person, “this is Eva.” Then she performed a swirly motion with her hands and ended up pointing both forefingers at me with a wide-eyed look that indicated I was now expected to do something phenomenal.
Instead, I peeked around the door frame into Bettina’s living room and gave a slight wave to the crowd gathered there. I was pulled inside by eager hands, and people clamored over the top of each other to introduce themselves. To say I was smothered would be an understatement. There was absolutely nothing snooty about the welcome I received.
Someone relieved me of the salad bowl and replaced it with a plastic tumbler of fruit punch. I anxiously glanced around at the walls for a maximum occupancy sign. I was pretty sure we were exceeding it. I checked the floor between my feet for rapidly developing puddles, to see if the overloaded house was taking on water, but the sisal rug seemed dry.
Little bird-like hands wrapped around my elbow, and Bettina steered me through the throng accompanied by a constant stream of names and short descriptions of the boats or floating houses that correlated with the people she was pointing out. Her monologue went something like this:
“The young man in the corner looking downtrodden is Ancer Potts. Whatever he says to you, just nod. Chances are good you won’t understand it. I know I don’t. He’s some kind of genius and lives in the deathtrap sailboat covered in blue tarps one row over from you in B-4. There’s my good friend, Petula Dibble, filling the pitcher at the sink. Her husband, Boris, is around here somewhere, probably inspecting my roof. He thinks I need a new one. They’re my next door neighbors but one. You passed their place at E-15. Oh, look, Marcy’s here. That girl travels so much, I didn’t know if she’d get my note in time or not. She’s a geologist and has that tidy little cruiser berthed at the base of the gangplank from the office.” Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.
The stream of information quickly overflowed what little mental capacity I had available. But as I gazed down at the top of the bright-orange head skimming along beside me, I realized tiny Bettina was the undisputed social maven of the community. Apparently, I had passed inspection earlier and was now in the induction phase.
Bettina finally released me out on the rear deck where there was actual open standing room and a gentle breeze. She aimed a knuckly be-ringed finger at the stout, grizzled man who was overseeing the barbecue grill. “No pinching.” She tugged on my elbow, forcing me to bend my ear down near her mouth to hear her breathy whisper. “His name is Doc Perlmutter, but he is in no way qualified to examine you—in any capacity. If he claims otherwise, you have free license to knee him in the gonads.” She fired another warning scowl at Doc and slipped back inside the house.
He offered a toothy smile amid the couldn’t-be-bothered-to-shave sandy-brown-and-gray stubble that covered the bottom half of his face and his neck and the area of his wide chest that was visible beneath his partially unbuttoned shirt. It was definitely not an attractive look, but I suspected he thought the extra hair masked his wrinkles or demonstrated virility or something. He had a weather-beaten visage with pronounced eye bags which was at the opposite end of the spectrum from what I consider handsome ruggedness. It didn’t help that he lifted a plastic tumbler and winked at me over the top of it before tossing back the rest of his drink.
My unpleasant train of thought—namely, why on earth had Bettina abandoned me out here with this lug?—was interrupted by an expressive snort. I turned to find Willow peeking at me from under the brim of a voluminous newsboy cap. Every strand of her blue hair was carefully tucked up into the cap and completely hidden from view. She was wedged in between two Adirondack chairs at the corner of the deck, leaning against the railing with her own tumbler of punch balanced on the flat railing cap.
I sidled up to her. “Rescue me?” I whispered.
“I’m technically not supposed to be here,” she whispered back. “Adults only. But Bettina’s right. Ol’ Doc will leave you alone if you put up a fuss. He prefers the stupid, gooey kind of women who drape all over him rather than vice versa.”
“Wait,” I said, understanding dawning. “Is he the one you warned me about this morning, when my ass was in the air?”
Willow grinned. “Couldn’t let a sister down. There’s a sort of collusion here at the marina. The girls look after each other when Doc’s around.”
It wasn’t exactly a warm fuzzy feeling, this knowledge. But it functioned like another notch of acceptance in my new world. Welcome aboard, warts and all.
I nodded, completely content to have a private conversation with a world-wise teenager—and to leave Doc to his own devices with the seasoning salt and spatula at the other end of the deck. “What’s so adult about this party?”
Willow lifted her tumbler and pitched an eyebrow at me. “I take it you haven’t had a sip yet.”
I sniffed at my cup first, and i
t was enough—the vapors just about peeled my eyeballs. “Whew. Do you think it will kill any fish if I dump this in the river?”
Willow chuckled. “At least they’ll die happy.” She squinted into her own cup at the inch of punch glowing fruitily in the bottom. Her tone of voice changed, and she wouldn’t look at me when she asked, “You got a problem with alcohol?”
A bit of a tricky subject when you’re talking with a kid who’s maybe only two-thirds of the way to the legal drinking age. “No. I just don’t like what it does to people. My mom drove herself straight into a tree while she was under the influence. I’m kind of bitter about that.”
“No kidding.”
I couldn’t tell if Willow’s comment was a question or an offer of commiseration. But she was looking at me now, her pale gray eyes watery at the edges. There was a little pucker between her brows.
“No kidding,” I confirmed. “I was three.”
“Were you in the car with her?”
“Nope. I’d been left at home with the nanny.”
“Shit.” Willow slowly tipped her cup and we both watched the vile golden liquid dribble into the water below.
“Pretty much,” I agreed.
“All right, my beauties,” Doc hollered. “Chow time.”
We followed him inside. It would have been nearly impossible not to since the platter he carried drifted aromatic bratwurst and burger scents in its wake. My stomach growled in anticipation.
There was a crush around the buffet arranged on the island in Bettina’s kitchen as we heaped paper plates full of typical end-of-summer fare—grilled meats, cold salads, sliced veggies fresh from a local farmer’s garden, potato chips, and watermelon wedges. I found a squishy perch at the end of a sofa and balanced my plate on my knees while conversations swirled around me. Fortunately, no one required my participation in dialogue, and I got to observe and learn and salt away tidbits of information to ponder later.
Willow had claimed a squat, padded footstool next to a recliner on the other side of the room, and every once in a while she’d make eye contact with me and we’d share a knowing grin. In spite of her attempt at a disguise—such as it was—so she could sneak into the party, I got the impression that her presence didn’t really bother anyone, that they were tolerating her, maybe even protecting her, keeping an eye out for her like a rather dysfunctional band of guardian angels. She made no further raids on the punch bowl that I could see.
My backside grew tingly from sitting immobile while my body was folded at awkward angles in the tight quarters. When we were kids, Sloane and I had come up with a name for the condition: TB, which stood for Tired Bottom. We’d whisper to each other about our degrees of TB and giggle, which helped pass the time while the grownups droned on and on. TB is still my most reliable social barometer. When I have reached the completely numb stage, I figure I’ve spent an acceptable length of time in the company of others and allow myself to make my good-byes and exit stage right.
Bettina and her friend, Petula, were in the kitchen consolidating the leftovers and shrouding everything perishable with plastic wrap.
“Your salad was delicious.” Petula slurped the few remaining chickpeas off the serving spoon and dropped it into the sink. “What’s in the dressing?”
“Lemon zest and juice, olive oil, fresh mint, minced garlic, kosher salt, red pepper flakes. Pretty simple,” I replied with a grin and reached for my empty bowl.
But Bettina was faster than I was. She grabbed the bowl and whipped it behind her back.
“It doesn’t need to be clean,” I protested. “I’ll just stick it in the dishwasher at my house.” I waved toward the piles of serving dishes already surrounding the sink awaiting their turn in the sudsy water. “You have enough work ahead of you. It was a lovely party. Thank you.”
Bettina shook her head vehemently, sending the necklaces clanking against each other. “Guests of honor do not wash their own dishes. It’s one of my rules. In fact, I’m going to hold your bowl hostage until you come over for dinner and meet my son.”
Behind her, Petula nodded with wide-eyed encouragement. “You should,” she mouthed.
I frowned at both of them.
“He’s decent looking, has a regular job, and he’s tall enough for you,” Bettina continued. “A little grouchy sometimes, but you seem like a woman who could tolerate that. Not too chatty yourself, are you?”
The two women smiled up at me hopefully. Apparently there was more than one kind of collusion going on around here.
So the evening had been dual-purposed—a neighborhood meet-and-greet and an audition for matrimonial prospects with a man whose mother I had only just met. Fabulous.
I wondered if he knew what she was plotting. Probably. I doubted this was her first attempt, and she certainly wasn’t subtle, which could account for his alleged grouchiness.
I gave the appearance of surrender—waved cheerily and backed away, wending my way through the remaining partiers, and found the front door by myself. I’m an old hand at this sort of social finagling. It would be fine—maybe even optimal—to let Bettina think she’d won this particular battle. I’d managed to avoid marriage so far, so I had every confidence in my ability to out-persevere her.
Potential mothers-in-law were usually desperate, which made their attention spans rather spastic. The next cutie in a skirt who happened to walk by would be just as interesting to Bettina as I was. It would be easy to disappear once a suitable distraction (unknowingly) presented herself. I was just one in a long line of many, and readily forgotten.
I strolled through the widely spaced pools of light from the lampposts bolted to the edges of the walkways, enjoying the balmy evening. Until footsteps thumped rapidly behind me, and Willow wheezed, “Hey, wait up.”
“As long as you’re not Doc come to pinch me goodnight,” I muttered.
Willow replied with one of her expressive snorts. “He did seem to be on his best behavior tonight. But that doesn’t mean you can let down your guard.” She pulled up even with me and flashed a scrunchy grin from under the cap. “Actually, Bettina’s son is kind of hunky. I’d go for him if I were thirty years older.”
And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen, a raving endorsement from a kid with satellite dishes for ears. I groaned. “More collusion?”
“Nope.” Willow made a show of swiping her palms across each other several times. “My part’s done. I wash my hands of it. Totally in your court now.”
But I was ready for a change in subject. I stood to the side and waited while Willow punched in the code and pushed open the creaky metal mesh gate. After I’d stepped through behind her and the gate had swung closed with a satisfying clang, I said, “Since I got all mushy earlier and told you about my mom, I’m gonna exercise my right to be nosy and ask where yours is.”
It wasn’t exactly a fair, tit-for-tat type of assumption, but I was hoping she’d fall for it. And she did.
“Prison,” she answered with a little shrug. She stuffed her hands in her jeans pockets and hunched her shoulders as though she was engrossed with watching the tips of her sneakers strike forward with every step.
Somehow, the death of a parent seemed less heartbreaking. I was glad the falling dusk hid the expression of surprise and pity that must have swept across my face before I could carefully rearrange my features.
“She likes to cook too,” Willow continued with a forced perkiness. “I looked up those words you used earlier. The five mother sauces of French cuisine. Except my mom cooked meth. Lots of it. Plus possession with intent to distribute. Three strikes and all that. I won’t see her again until I’m twenty-two, unless I go visit her in prison.”
I’m not a fan of vulgar profanity—or elegant profanity, for that matter—but it’s appropriate in some situations. I tried to keep my voice neutral as I echoed Willow’s earlier sentiment. “Shit.”
“Pretty much,” she agreed.
She scuffed along for a full minute in silence, then stopped and pee
red up at me. “Can I ask you for a gigantic favor? All Gran and I eat comes from boxes and bottles. Do you know what those additives and chemicals are doing to my organs and brain? Besides the fact that my family already has a chemical problem. I’m sure you noticed that Gran smokes like there’s no tomorrow and like her head’s not a giant hair spray bomb. I’m going to get Alzheimer’s for sure. Early onset. It’s probably already started.” She yanked off her cap, and her blue hair tumbled down in a tangled mass. “Can you teach me how to cook real food? Like that salad you made—and other stuff?”
There is only one right answer to such an appeal. But I tried to pretend it wasn’t momentous—at least to me—and shrugged back at her. “Sure. But I have two rules. You have to eat what you make, and you have to clean up your own mess.”
Willow’s grin was a reward in itself. She stuck out her hand like the grown-up she still wasn’t. “Deal.”
We shook on it.
And then something broke the reflected light beam of a lamppost on the water in my peripheral vision. It made sloshy sounds as it bumped gently against the walkway with the river current.
Willow caught a glimpse of it too. “People are always dumping their junk in the water,” she muttered. “Looks like a tarp.” She stooped to grab at the sodden fabric but suddenly froze in an open pike position, teetering on the edge of the walkway. She emitted a strangled shriek before vomiting all over the place.
I caught her before she fell and hauled her back to safety.
But in the process, I also captured a fleeting, jolting impression, and it was enough. That thing in the water. It wasn’t a tarp.
CHAPTER 3
We weren’t more than forty feet from my front door. Willow was a limp weight in my arms, moaning incoherently. I dragged her along the walkway and propped her against me while I unlocked the door. By then she’d recovered enough mobility to be able to stagger into the living room.
I aimed her toward the sofa then found a plastic storage tub, dumped out the art supplies it held, and shoved it under her chin. “If you need to throw up again, use this.”
Mercury Rising (Tin Can Mysteries Book 1) Page 2
