by Ellen, Tracy
Crookie shook his head. “Neither of you are driving.”
I threw up my hands. “Geez Louise, I know I am not driving. How many times do I have to tell you?”
I went back into the closet and found my bottle of water that was still half full sitting forgotten on a shelf. Bringing it back to Mike, I was in time to hear him saying to Crookie, “I saw Bel’s bra tonight.” He snorted with laughter, did a “hubba hubba” elbow and wink, and confided in a booming whisper, “Bob, it’s been a helluva long time since…”
I broke in, shoving the water in front of Mike’s mouth. “Here, drink this.”
Mike straightened up and pounded back the rest of the water. He handed me the empty bottle with a polite bow and a satisfied belch, and then went off lurching down the hall.
Waving goodbye, he mumbled loudly, “Okay, man, I’ll walk home then. It’s not a problem.”
I went after him in my clodhopping, winter boots. I stopped his stumbling progress with a hand on his arm near the bathroom. His pale skin may look like cool marble, but Mike’s muscular forearm was warm and solidly alive under my touch.
Mike reached out and gave a little pat to the table I’d stubbed my toe on earlier. “Looks better here, doesn’t it, Bel?”
Laughing, I shook him by the arm lightly in remonstrance. “I knew that table wasn’t there earlier, you damn furniture-mover! I stubbed my toe on that sucker in the dark.”
Mike snickered and waved a finger back and forth in a no-no gesture under my nose. I pushed it away as he slurred, “I watch HGTV, you know.” He shot a fist in the air and yelled, “I say YES to the DRESS!”
After that startling pronouncement, Mike was off heading for the stairs again. Over Crookie’s chuckles, I clomped after Mike while shaking my head and giggling, too.
“You just wait one minute, Metrosexual Mike.” I looked back at the laughing Crookie. “Hey, was that killer in the news for the last few years ever caught? The one that’s been drowning gay men that walk home from bars in river towns in Minnesota and in Wisconsin?”
Mike whirled me around to face him so quickly; I got caught up in my big boots and would have fallen if he hadn’t grabbed my shoulders to steady me.
“Whoa, there.” He leaned down to peer into my face with a puzzled expression on his. I could see the dark whiskers coming in around his mouth and chin, since he hadn’t shaved since earlier today. Or make that yesterday. With sticking out rooster hair, stubble, and no shirt on, Mike wasn’t looking so golden-boy preppy. He was much cuter rumpled this way. “I’m not gay, am I, Bel?”
I giggled and patted his rough cheek. “I know that, Mike, and you know that, but how will a killer know that? He’ll just see a preppy, drunken man staggerin’ alone down the street in a college town by a river. You’ll be ripe for the killing; ’specially without your shirt on.” I shrugged and spread my hands. “What if you get hot and unzip your coat? There you’ll be--all exposed hairy chest and muscles. Doesn’t that seem kind of Village People-ish to you? Huh, Crookie, am I right about the Village People part?”
I started to look over at Crookie for confirmation, but I whipped my head back to gape at Mike. He’d started belting out a song at the top of his voice. In stunned surprise, I hurriedly moved back when he jumped past me and into the middle of the hallway. He started dancing energetically.
I think you could describe it as dancing. He was prancing in place like a high-strung pony. His feet were pointed and his bent knees were coming up to touch his chest while he wildly waved his arms. He was seriously giving that Irish Riverdance dude a run for his money on the bottom half. On the top half, Mike’s arms were performing wild alphabet configurations to some crazed version of “Y.M.C.A.”
It was actually quite a dexterous feat and his gusto made me dizzy to watch.
I fell back into Crookie and we laughed uproariously. Mike’s frantic, equine movements and air-stabbing repeats of the letter Y while he sang and clogged to a beat only he could hear were hysterical.
Mike started running out of horsepower after a few minutes and Crookie and I calmed down enough to function.
Taking out a cloth to wipe his glasses, Crookie being Crookie followed up on my question. “I do recall those men found dead by drowning in bodies of water over a span of two years. It was not only rivers, Bel, and I believe the last count was eleven.” He pondered a moment, still wiping methodically. “I do not recall if the murderer was ever apprehended or not.”
Mike stopped dancing abruptly. “Hell, Bob, that’s not so good.”
Hands on his hips, Mike bent at the waist and hung his head. His chest moved steadily in and out as he caught his breath. He looked up at me from under his brow, and then grinned crookedly while making a sweeping motion my way.
“Bel, you look so damn cute, but why are you dressed funny? You look like a pygmy soldier.” I heard Crook’s distinctive guffaws behind me. “You still get into all that mumbo-jumbo serial killer bullshit, too?” He reached out and held my shoulders again, pulling me towards him and causing us both to stagger. “Did we kiss tonight? I remember something, but I can’t quite…did I see your bra?” He winked one eyelid slowly down. “Can I see it again?”
The trick with the one winking eye was pretty creepy, but on a huff of laughter I advised him quickly, “Now Mike, don’t think about anything until tomorrow, okay? You should be real quiet until we get you home because you are drunk and very, very sleepy.”
Mike had drank too much tonight and so had I. He did kiss me and it was…a kiss. He did make noises about us getting together again, but I put him off. Wasted as I was, it was no time to talk about having a future or getting physical. I couldn’t get him to discuss his plans to sue Candy with any sense, so I evaded him and went to the bathroom. When I emerged, I had to search for Mike and found him passed out in my bed. Since my room chose that moment to decide to start spinning, I laid down beside him for a minute. Luke’s text was the next thing I remember, and the freaking doorbell.
Wrapped securely in my long, khaki trench coat with my heavy, fake-fur topped winter boots making clunky noises with each step on the hardwood floor, I couldn’t blame Mike for thinking I resembled a pygmy soldier. Marching arm-in-arm with the weaving and wavering Mike down the hallway, I felt like one, too. Crooks carried my backpack and followed us. When I looked back, he went straight-faced, but not before I caught his huge smile at my efforts to keep Mike on track and distracted.
“Well, I’m not sure if ‘into all that mumbo-jumbo bullshit’ is the right phrase to describe enjoying a good, old-fashioned serial killer book every now and then.” I looked up into Mike’s boozy-woozy, but attentive expression to see if he understood where I was coming from. “It’s just that sometimes the sheer evilness is a relief after reading a bunch of formula romances, you know?” Mike’s head wobbled his agreement. “But, yeah, I guess it’s fair to say that I’m still fascinated by the serial killer stuff. In fact, Reggie and I co-killed one the other day, ‘member I told you?”
I chatted on soothingly in this vein to keep Mike McClain calm and quiet. It took some maneuvering, but we got Mike’s shoes on while he sat slumped on the church pew in the foyer. I continued speaking steadily about killer books in a low, calm voice. Whenever I paused in reciting this murderous lore, Mike shook out of his trance and started mumbling to me about black bras and kissing. I’m surrounded by the most stubborn people in my life.
I determinedly ignored Crookie’s triumphant declaration from beside me of, “See, I told you men have a thing for bras.” each time the damn word was mumbled by Mike.
Fortunately, it was very easy to ignore them both. Mike’s drunken brain and Crookie’s oversized brain both being trapped in an endless boob-loop cycle is totally normal for a man. It was a picnic diverting them compared to what I deal with regularly coming from my niece Stella. It’s a living hell diverting her whenever she’s sunk her teeth into a delicate subject that I am trying hard to avoid discussing.
We
got Mike zipped up cozily into his leather jacket over his bare chest. We each took an arm and navigated him slowly down the stairs. Depositing him into the backseat of Crookie’s Land Rover, I gave Mike a final, little push. He promptly fell over sideways across the seat and passed out again. He was snoring loudly almost immediately.
Crook ducked in and looked at the slumbering Mike. After a moment, he looked up at me in wide-eyed consideration. “Jesus, when did you start hypnotizing men?”
“The name is Anabel, and why? Are you suddenly feeling very, very sleepy?”
Crookie visibly shuddered as he opened my door. “I would like to schedule a MRI and study your brain for structural abnormalities, Bel; specifically in the anterior rostral prefrontal cortex and the temporal pole.”
“Well, aren’t you the smooth-talking player.” With his hand at my elbow, I hopped up into the Rover. I kissed his cheek in passing and teased, “And to think you were worried for even a second about dating again.”
When we were both buckled in and done with our snorting, Crookie looked over at me. “So, where am I going? Where does Mike live?”
I looked blankly back at Crookie. “Huh. I have no clue.”
We burst out laughing a second time. We shook Mike, but got nothing. We agreed he could sleep it off undisturbed in the backseat until Crookie returned to Northfield. If he wasn’t up to giving his address by then, Crookie could easily haul him back upstairs. I suggested if that were the case, Crookie deposit Mike on the couch.
Crookie’s face was the picture of bland innocence when he responded, “Or your bed, since he was already sleeping there once tonight?”
“True,” I agreed evenly. Another hard lesson I’d recently learned; nobody’s sleeping-in late in my bed and keeping me out of my room in the morning while I try to live my life. That is no way to start the day. “But humor me, please, and use the couch.”
I enthusiastically asked him to tell me every single thing about Cheryl’s funeral plans before he could say anything else about Mike. Driving south out of town on Highway 3, a diverted Crookie updated me.
The funeral plans were set for eight in the morning next Tuesday. Oddly enough, Crookie and Anna have decided to have Cheryl’s funeral back-to-back with Aunt Lily’s. I’m not complaining. They’d be over and done with before Bel’s Books opened for business and I’d only be missing my Tuesday morning Vinyasa yoga class.
“Oh yes, and NanaBel called me tonight. We had a wonderful conversation.” He smiled faintly. “It was so comforting talking with her. She tried to call you, too. I am to tell you that she will be sending you an email.” He glanced at me and said, “I hope you are okay with this, but I convinced your grandmother to keep her holiday plans. She is on her way to Germany and not coming back for the funerals.”
Nodding from my position of leaning against the passenger door window to cool off my face, I was quietly watching the familiar scenery whiz by on my right. I smiled at the idea of anybody thinking they convinced NanaBel of something that wasn’t her plan all along.
Reaching over, I patted Crook’s gloved hand. “You’re a sweet, thoughtful man, Bob Crookston, and I totally agree that makes sense.”
He chuckled, and I could hear the pleased blush in his voice even though he quickly changed the topic. “Who is the man with the castle that NanaBel is visiting?”
“Oh my gosh, Crooks, he’s not a mere man! He’s a Baron Von Lickmynip or Baron Von Nipyourtip.” I gestured offhandedly, laughing, “I know the poor man’s name involves nipples somehow because Reggie kept making gross sucking noises every time Mac said it.”
“Von Lickmynip!” Crookie repeated, laughing. Cutting a quick glance my way, he accused, “You are still drunk, Bel. Plus, you are up to something, which I can only deduce is no good based off of your periodic bursts of maniacal laughter. See what I mean, there you go again!”
Twenty minutes later, I glanced across at the man muttering in frustration while concentrating on the long, dark lane ahead of us. Crookie’s gloved hands were clamped tight for dear life around the bucking steering wheel. Tonight there was dense cloud cover. There was no moon or stars overhead to be guiding us in on our covert operation. His latest under-his-breath mumbles were something about ‘bed-hopping women running around in their bras and high heels while making him drive without lights on like a lunatic’.
His complaints started me giggling again. “Hey, you said we’d be each other’s keepers.” I threw my arms wide and sang out, “So keepers on driving, Crookie. My Dark Prince awaits me!”
“Oh, that is just great, Bel.” Crookie retorted without taking his eyes off the road. He moaned loudly when his truck climbed up, slid down, and then crawled back up again over a crater-sized gouge in the icy drive. Once we were relatively level again, he shot me a dirty look full of dismay. “Just great.” He jerked a quick thumb over his shoulder towards the back seat. “What am I supposed to tell THAT prince?”
I heard Crooks, but my eyes were glued up ahead. I caught teasing glimpses of Luke’s porch light blazing a beacon in the dark night.
I bounced and clapped my hands. “We’re almost there!”
Wanting to see everything better, I struggled to lift up handfuls of spandex fabric and my long coat, so I could sit on a booted foot.
“Holy crap, why did you force me to wear these big fat boots, Crooks? I feel like I’m ready to go trudge off on an arctic whale hunt. Are these even mine? I can’t believe I’d buy such stupid boots.” Grunting, giggling, fumbling, and swearing, I finally lifted high enough to gather all the slinky fabric and my coat. I wedged a heavy, tire-treaded boot under my butt. The boot was cold and wet, but I barely felt it in my benumbed state.
“There!” I grinned happily over at my tall, hunched-over friend. “Isn’t this fun being Ninjas? I gotta tell you, it’s so much better tonight then when we peeped the other night. This scary darkness makes us so much sneakier!”
“Ninjas! You peeped another night? What does that even mean, Bel?” Crookie flashed me a quick look so full of bewildered incredulity, there was no mistaking it even within the limited ambient light in the truck’s front seat.
I burst out laughing, since this has been his ongoing attitude for the last forty-five minutes; either incredulous or doing the mothering gig. Right on cue, he started scolding me again.
“You should be thanking me for insisting you wear warm boots. Of course they are yours, where else would I get boots that fit you right at that precise minute?” He paused to think over his words. “To be accurate, they were in your closet.” He shook his head and focused on spanking me. “I cannot believe you would try to leave the house in the middle of winter while wearing only shoes consisting of two, minuscule straps of leather and five-inch diamond heels! Not a hat or gloves in sight!” He scoffed in disgust. “What if we get stuck in a snowdrift and you are wearing only those clothes, Bel? Oh yes, you go ahead and laugh now, but you will not be laughing when you die a miserable death from hypothermia after your exposure to the elements.”
Struck by his decidedly grim scenario, I stopped laughing to ask, “But why would I get out of your Rover in my high heels if we get stuck in a snowdrift, Snookie-Crookie? Besides, isn’t dying from hypothermia supposed to be a peaceful way to die--you fall asleep like a baby outside in a snowdrift? That doesn’t sound too miserable to me.” That brought to mind another thought. “Why do people always say stuff like that, anyway? It makes no sense, does it, Crooks? Just because you don’t thrash around and make crazy snow angels doesn’t mean you’re happy to die. Who knows what a peaceful way to die is, unless you die. Then how is the living supposed to know what the heck you were thinking when you died because you’re already dead! God, I hate science!” I shook off these boy-type thoughts and leaned over to pat Crookie’s straining arm under the down padding of his parka. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, okay? If it makes you feel better, I’ll let you give me a piggyback and I’ll wear your hat. You can even put your giant gloves over both my f
eet to keep them warm, okey-dokey?”
Chuffing, Crookie said disbelievingly, “Wow Bel, thanks. You are too kind to strip me down to nothing to keep yourself warm and alive.”
He took a hand from the wheel to point a warning finger at me, but I laughingly swiped it away and interjected, “Aren’t you the one that wanted to keep me alive in the cold? I wouldn’t even budge from this truck if I had my way! It wasn’t like I selfishly asked for the parka off your back, Captain Antarctica.”
At that moment, the Land Rover went down in a deep rut on the driver’s side. We were jerked and thrown around in our seats.
Crookie yelped and locked onto the steering wheel with both hands. “Ah man, my poor truck!” He cried out in anguish, “Why is this lane maintained so poorly? Where are we going, for God’s sake?”
“It does seem extra bumpy,” I cheerfully agreed, falling sideways and grabbing for the dash. “Probably the Prince of Hell’s subtle way of saying don’t call me, I’ll call you.” Experiencing near whip-lash but loose enough to consider it free entertainment, I yelled out, “Woo hee, ride ‘em, cowgirl!”
Crookie laughed at me flopping around, but soon he was back to shaking his head and dourly mumbling about ‘Hell on Earth’. He was wearing one of those leather hats that have side flaps coming down over his ears. Only the goggles were missing, but his glasses were a close second. Bundled up in his flapping hat, steamed-up glasses, and metallic gray parka, Crookie looked as huggable as a steam punk pillow.
We were reaching the split in the driveway, but I couldn’t see anything beyond the porch light through the lilac bushes.
He jerked his head, indicating the back seat. “If you can be serious for one minute, what am I supposed to tell Mike?”
I sat back, grinning. “Way to kill my buzz, Crook.” I brushed off his question with a flick of my hand. “Ah, don’t worry about him. I guarantee he will not wake up and ask you any questions.”
