Ladies' Circle of Murder (A Lacy Steele Mystery Book 8)

by Vanessa Gray Bartal

  “Pregnancy is a beautiful thing, Mom. Who wouldn’t want to remember this magic?” She pointed to her belly, so huge it extended over the table and almost dragged in the ice cream. Lacy rescued the ice cream by moving it closer. Absently, she picked up the spoon and started to eat.

  Her mother’s disapproving gaze turned to her.

  “Are you sure you want to eat that? I noticed your pants have been looking a little tight.”

  “Mom, why do you feel it’s okay to say that to me?” Lacy asked.

  “Because I’m trying to help you. I don’t want to see you get fat,” Frannie said.

  “There are worse things than being fat,” Lacy said.

  “Yes, like being fat and alone.”

  “Mom! I am not alone.”

  “You might be, if you get fat,” Frannie said. Riley slipped quietly away. Lacy didn’t begrudge her. She would hide too, if she could.

  “Mom, my weight is none of your concern. I’m an adult now.”

  “An adult who has mint chocolate chip dribbling down her chin,” Frannie said.

  Lacy picked up a paper napkin and dabbed at her chin. The effort was ineffectual when the napkin tore and stuck to the ice cream. Now she looked like someone who had a bizarre shaving mishap and oozed green goo. “The point is that you can’t go around commenting on someone’s weight, even if it’s your daughter.”

  Frannie sniffed, wounded. “I was only trying to help.” She descended into the pouty silence that always made Lacy feel guilty. She wouldn’t apologize, though. Not this time. She hadn’t said anything that she shouldn’t have. If anything, her mother should apologize to her. That would happen right after Lacy won the World Series.

  Lacy stood. “Let’s get your car to the shop. I’ll meet you there.” She fled before her mother could find some excuse to prolong the moment. Once outside, she practically sprinted to her grandmother’s car. Her mother had parked in the next space; she would be there any second. Lacy tried the handle of her grandmother’s car. It was locked. She fumbled with the keys and dropped them.

  In her mind, the theme from Jaws began to play. Her mother was coming. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Hurry, hurry, hurry. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

  “Yoo-hoo, Lacy, wait for me. I’ll follow you.” Her mother called from the steps of the Stakely building with a wave.

  Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. Lacy’s hands started to shake. Hurry, hurry, hurry. She fumbled with the keys and dropped them again. Her mother was getting closer, her heels echoing loudly on the sidewalk. Badumbadumbadumbadum.

  At last the car door swung open. Lacy jammed the key into the ignition and peeled out, sputtering gravel behind her as she threw the car into gear and sped off.

  Her heart began to slow, and that was when she realized that things with her mother were getting worse. Maybe she should talk to someone about that, but whom? Who could help undo years of animosity and frustration? She wasn’t keen on therapy. So many people had it much worse than she. Pouring out her measly mother problem to a stranger felt too much like whining. Maybe she should take Jason’s suggestion and go one on one with her mom at a paintball range. He had said it to make her laugh, and it had. But the more she thought about it, the more the idea appealed to her. Though she had never thought of herself as a violent person, the vision of meeting her mother mano a mano across a field with a loaded paint gun wouldn’t go away.

  This is for calling me fat, Mom. Bam, splat!

  A knock sounded on her window, startling her. She rolled down the window.

  “What are you smiling about?” her mother asked.

  “Nothing,” Lacy said. “We’d better get in there before he closes up shop.”

  “I’m the one standing on the sidewalk,” Frannie said. “Honestly, Lacy, it’s like you’re in your own little world sometimes.”

  “Mom, do you know how to shoot a gun? Like a paintball gun?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Never mind. Let’s get this over with,” Lacy said, although she had no idea why she was in such a hurry. After this unpleasant task, another awaited her. Dodgeball. How had she let Jason talk her into that? All she remembered were his lips on her neck. After that everything became sort of hazy, but then it always did. He had discovered her Achilles’ heel, curse him and his beautiful lips.

  She put her hand on the door of the shop and, with difficulty, pushed aside thoughts of Jason’s lips.

  Chapter 2

  The garage smelled like a mixture of stale coffee, hot engine oil, and cigarettes. It smelled the same as every car shop Lacy had ever entered. Just once she would like to drop off a car and be surprised by the scent of gardenias.

  “Be with you ladies in a minute,” a disembodied male voice called. They could see the lower half of him sticking out beneath a blue Buick.

  “No problem. We’ll stand here letting the oil and stench seep into our clothes,” Frannie whispered.

  “Mom,” Lacy hissed.

  “Am I supposed to be happy with the delay? We have an appointment,” Frannie said.

  “He said he’ll be over in a minute,” Lacy said.

  “Why are you taking the mechanic’s side?” Frannie asked. “If you have customers, you should come and greet them like a proper businessman.”

  She was crankier than usual. Her demanding nature and bad moods didn’t often extend to strangers. Lacy wasn’t sure if the mechanic had heard, but she felt embarrassed nonetheless. What was her mother’s problem lately? She was more prickly than a backwards hedgehog.

  The mechanic came forward wiping his hands on a towel. “Sorry about that. I was…Frannie? Is that you?” He dropped the towel and reached for Lacy’s mother who took a step backwards and held up a hand to ward him off. Undeterred, he picked her up in a bear hug, her hand pressed aimlessly against his chest. “It’s Bob Hoskins from high school. Don’t you remember me? I remember you, oh, boy, do I remember you.” He set her down and took a step back, grinning.

  Frannie was at a loss. “I…I don’t…No, I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

  “Sure you do.” His grin aimed at Lacy and widened. “And this must be your daughter. She’s your spitting image. How old are you, darlin’?”

  “Twenty seven.”

  “Twenty seven, huh? We’ve been out of school nearly twenty nine years now. Hmm. You sure you don’t remember me, Frannie? I bet you do, if you think real hard.”

  “I don’t,” Frannie snapped. She smoothed a hand over her hair and tried a different track. “I brought my car in for some repairs.”

  “Well, let’s take a look.” They walked outside together. He put his hands on his hips and scanned the car. “Florida plates?”

  “My husband and I live in Florida,” Frannie said.

  “Husband? You marry that football player? Steele, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Frannie said tersely.

  “Hmm, figures. Football types always got the cheerleaders. Me, I was too busy smoking under the bleachers for sports.” He gave Lacy a conspiratorial wink. “I bet you were a cheerleader, too.”

  Before she could stop herself, Lacy snorted a laugh. Frannie scowled. Lacy cleared her throat and shook her head. “I was in the band. My little sister was a cheerleader, though.”

  “Oh? How many little Steeles are there?” Bob asked.

  “Just Riley and me,” Lacy said.

  Bob nodded. “I don’t have children myself. It’s a shame. Children bring something special into a marriage. My first wife couldn’t have kids. Some women are blessed with fertility and some aren’t.”

  “It’s clunky,” Frannie interjected.

  For a second, Lacy thought she was referring to her fertility, but she quickly caught up. “The car clunks whenever I go over twenty miles per hour,” she added.

  “Clunky, huh?” He chuckled as he went forward to pop the hood. “You women and your words. I should write a book when I retire of all the things women tell me about their cars. I had a woman tell me once that her car was maki
ng a THUMP-REE-REE-REE sound. She said it just like that, a high-pitched THUMP-REE-REE-REE. Turns out a stray cat had crawled up in the engine trying to get warm. Oh, don’t look like that. It lived. It was some kind of miracle. The sound was it screaming to get out. I kept it as a pet until it died. It was a real good mouser. I heard one time that cats that have laid back ears are good mousers. You ever hear that?”

  “No, I’ve never heard that,” Lacy said.

  Frannie scowled at her again. Lacy had no idea why. For answering the man’s rhetorical question? It had seemed the polite thing to do. “I’m going to need the car back as soon as possible. My daughter’s about to go into labor any day now.”

  Bob looked at Lacy up and down. “She doesn’t look that far along.”

  Now it was Lacy’s turn to scowl.

  “My other daughter,” Frannie said.

  “The thing about being a mechanic is that everybody wants their car yesterday. I’ve got four other cars in there that people insist are high priority. And a couple of them are body damage. You know how long it takes for paint to dry?”

  “This is a genuine necessity,” Frannie insisted.

  Bob regarded her seriously for a second. She looked away from his intense gaze. He grinned. “For you, Frannie, I’ll make it a priority. For old time’s sake. I’m going to have to drive it to figure out what’s wrong with it, though. That okay with you?”

  “That’s fine,” Frannie said, uncharacteristically meek and agreeable. Lacy thought for sure she would warn him not to get oil on the seats, but she didn’t. “Will you call me when it’s finished, or should I call you?”

  “Oh, I’ll be in touch,” he promised. He handed her a paper to fill out and took her keys, touching her hand a little too long in the exchange. As soon as they left the shop, Lacy saw her wipe the same hand on her pant leg a few times.

  “Mom, how do you know that guy?” she asked when they were in the car.

  “I don’t.”

  “He knew you.”

  “Everyone knew me. I was popular. That doesn’t mean I knew them. He probably hung out with the shop kids. Our groups didn’t intermingle much.”

  “That sounds very S.E. Hinton,” Lacy said.

  Frannie gave her a perplexed look.

  “The Outsiders. Soda Pop. Cherry. ‘Stay gold, Ponyboy.’”

  “Honestly, Lacy, sometimes it’s like we speak a different language.”

  “Never mind. But it really seemed like he knew you, and I mean knew you. Are you sure he wasn’t some kind of bad-boy fling? Everyone has one,” Lacy said. “Except me. The closest I ever got to dating a bad boy was that guy in college who willfully didn’t wear his retainer. But it was so long ago. You can fess up if you had a thing with Bob.”

  “I can assure you with one hundred percent certainty that I did not have a ‘thing’ with Bob Hoskins. Please drop it. I’m getting a headache.” She pressed her fingers to her temples.

  “I’ll take you home,” Lacy said, a little too gleefully. If her mom had a headache, she would be off the hook for the next few hours.

  “No, take me to Mom’s. I’m having supper with her tonight since her boyfriend is out of town. How ridiculous is it that she has a boyfriend? Ridiculous. She’s eighty years old, for goodness sake. It’s not like she has needs her family can’t fulfill.”

  “Mom, she and Grandpa love each other very much, and Riley and I love him. I think you might, too, if you give him a chance.” Especially since he’s your biological father.

  “I will not give him a chance. I make nice to him for Mom’s sake, but I’m not going to pretend I’m happy about it. The whole thing is…”

  “Ridiculous?” Lacy supplied.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t stop needing love because you get old,” Lacy said.

  “What would you know about it? You’re still a starry-eyed teenager head over heels for a boy with nice eyes and good pecs.”

  Lacy grimaced. She never wanted to hear her mother say “pecs” again, especially in reference to Jason.

  “But when you get older, you realize those things don’t matter. Love fades. Eventually all you have left is companionship, loyalty, and duty.”

  “Mom, you make marriage sound like the army. I seem to remember a lot of loving moments between you and Dad when I was younger. Are things really so bad between you now?”

  “They’re fine,” Frannie insisted, but she didn’t make eye contact.

  “You haven’t talked to him since he flew back to Florida.”

  “Your father and I are fine. We’ve been married for almost three decades. We don’t need to talk every day like love-starved teenagers.”

  “Maybe you should,” Lacy said. “Maybe acting like love-starved teenagers is exactly what you need.”

  “We don’t need anything. We’re fine,” Frannie said. She crossed her arms over her chest and fixed her gaze out the window.

  “Clearly it’s not fine, Mom. Riley and I aren’t stupid. We can see what’s going on between you, what’s been going on for a while. If you need to talk about anything, I’m here.”

  Frannie turned toward her then, and it was Lacy who wanted to look away. Her mother’s eyes were filled with hurt and brimming with tears. “Really? So I can hear you take Dad’s side? He’s always been your favorite. Don’t pretend you don’t think the problems between us are anything but my fault.”

  Lacy opened her mouth to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come. She did think the problems in her parents’ marriage were her mother’s fault. She had always been prickly and difficult, but her father had a way of softening her. He could make her open up and get her to laugh. Lacy loved the person her mom became when she was with her dad. But the last few years, not even he had been able to break through her hardened exterior, and it was getting harder. Prickliness had turned to downright meanness. Being occasionally difficult had turned into being impossible.

  “Forget it. I changed my mind. Take me back to Riley’s.”

  “Mom,” Lacy tried, but Frannie interrupted her.

  “I don’t want to talk anymore, Lacy. I want to lie down.”

  Lacy sighed and turned the car around. “All right.” She felt guilty, not only because she had upset her mother, but because she was unduly relieved by the unexpected freedom. She could go home and eat a peaceful supper with her grandmother.

  After that came dodgeball and certain doom.

  Chapter 3

  Lacy sat in her grandmother’s car, her hands bunched into white-knuckled manacles around the steering wheel. Jason had offered to pick her up, but she knew she would need the mental preparation. Time to face the enemy: sports equipment.

  There was a reason she had chosen running as her preferred form of exercise, and it wasn’t because she was good at it. But at least when she ran, there were no electrical parts, straps, hooks, weights, or bouncing balls to break free and kill her. Short of tripping or running into something, which she did often enough, there were few ways to get injured. Inside a gym, however, all bets were off. For someone clumsy and uncoordinated, a YMCA was like a minefield, filled with mysterious equipment just waiting to break free and cause a contusion.

  “What’s the worst that could happen?” Jason had asked. She hadn’t told him, but she had already experienced the worst that could happen. Fifth grade dodgeball had been brutal. One day when they had a substitute gym teacher, who wasn’t well acquainted with the pubescent social hierarchy, he hadn’t been paying attention to the game. The athletic kids, the alien ones for whom dodgeball was fun, had picked out the weird, chubby, and slow kids like lions culling a herd of sick wildebeests. Lacy had been one of the lame wildebeests who took the brunt of their punishment that day. Four kids ganged up on her, backed her into a corner, and pelted her with balls. The hits kept coming and coming, raining down on her like shrapnel. Eventually when the bell rang, she stayed cowering in the fetal position with her hands over her head. It remained a dark day, one she had never entirely b
een able to push out of her mind.

  Jason hadn’t been there that day, but he was here now, and he wouldn’t let her be a target again. Or at least not more than anyone was a target in dodgeball. If she got hit, she would get hit once and be out. Still, the thought of getting attacked again made her insides clench with anxiety. Was it possible to have dodgeball-induced Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?

  When she couldn’t put it off any longer, she gave up and went inside. The locker room was in the basement. After signing in, she carried her bag downstairs. The smell of chlorine and rotten mushrooms assaulted her nose as she descended. How could people exercise in a place where there was no fresh air? It must be like doing cardio in someone’s armpit.

  The women’s locker room was empty. Lacy changed and stowed her clothes in a locker. She checked her watch. Three minutes to go. Not wanting to appear on the court early, she busied herself exploring the locker room. She hadn’t been to the YMCA since she took swim lessons as a child. The pool was located through one of the doors, but she couldn’t remember which.

  She pushed open a door and the automatic light came on. A tower of rubber balls stared menacingly back at her. They were contained in a floor-to-ceiling cage made of bungee cords. To Lacy’s overheated brain, they looked like dozens of prisoners glaring from behind their bars. She turned abruptly to leave and smacked into the concrete wall. Fleetingly stunned, she shook her head to clear it and took one step to the left. Her hand was on the door when she heard it, the ominous “ping” of snapping bungee. Her fingers scrambled for the handle, but it was too late; the tower of balls came undone and began cascading around her, filling the small space, bombarding the backs of her calves. When she tried to take a step, the balls jiggled and bounced around her like frantic puppies, and more kept coming. Inevitably, she went down and kept trying to migrate her way to the door while the sea of balls swarmed her, impeding her progress. They didn’t hurt, and she wasn’t going to die, but she couldn’t stop the encroaching sense of panic.