My Camaro bump, bump, bumped off the curb, where I had left it the night before, since my driveway had been taken over by Genevieve’s Rambler. I cruised slowly past the Shatsky house, searching for signs of life.
“What’s going on with him, anyway?” Jane asked. “Arriving in a Santa suit like that and looking like hell. What’s up with his wife and all those women outside with casseroles? Looked like a funeral.”
“It was nothing. Just a personal problem.”
“And there was a big hole cut into the front page of the News-Times this morning and Grandma claims our television’s on the fritz, but I think Genevieve rigged it so I couldn’t watch the news last night. I’m beginning to wonder if something happened to Mrs. Shatsky. You’d tell me if she got killed or committed suicide or something, wouldn’t you?”
Cripes. She was putting me on the spot. “Well . . .”
“Because I’m worried. Last night when you were at that fund-raiser, after Genevieve and Grandma had gone to bed, I heard this sound outside my window. I looked out and there was this man walking around the house. I swear he was trying the doorknobs, looking for a way to get in.”
Instead of saying, That’s silly, honey. The Hamels would have heard him, too or That’s silly, honey. Why would someone want to break into our house? I hysterically shouted, “Man! What man?”
Jane’s eyes narrowed as if she’d had something confirmed. “I thought so. I thought something was up. I hate it when you withhold pertinent information.” Then she plugged her iPod buds into her ears, closed her eyes and bobbed her head to the Arctic Monkeys.
Our discussion was over. Jane had shut herself off from me—again.
Dr. Caswell’s office was, coincidentally, in the same building as Dan’s small “law firm.” In fact, he often used the good doctor as an expert witness whenever he sued McDonald’s or a candy bar company on behalf of clients who claimed post-traumatic stress after finding bits of human fingers in their food, which according to Dan happened more frequently than one would think. (Though, personally, my guess is that was wishful thinking on Dan’s part.)
Dr. Caswell’s very nice, but she must not do a very good job on the witness stand because Dan had yet to win one of those cases.
While Jane was spilling her secret fears to Dr. Caswell, I drank a cup of tepid coffee in the waiting room and outlined how I was going to tackle the Debbie Shatsky murder while flying under Dix Notch’s radar.
Here was the thing: whoever switched the glues at the House of Beauty would have had to have some familiarity with Debbie and Sandy’s routine when it came to hair extensions. They would have had to know that Debbie was going to be in the salon at two on Monday, that she was going to bring her own glue, and that there was a way to switch the substances.
I wrote a note to remind myself to ask Sandy to list anyone who might have been in the salon that day and who was such a frequent customer that she could have known Debbie’s routine. Then I would cross-reference those names with a list of suspects.
Suspects. Hmm. I sipped more coffee, which tasted vaguely of boiled cardboard, and mindlessly studied Dr. Caswell’s painting of a waterfall.
The first suspect was Ern Bender. He had the least to lose and the most to gain from murdering his ex-wife. His hatred toward her was palpable and, one had to ask, possibly justified.
Then there was the strange stalker across the street in the Mercedes, who might or might not have shot off the top of the Christmas tree and who might or might not be a member of the violent wing of the anti-Christmas lobby. I wrote this down in my notebook and drew a line to Ern. Related? I scribbled in the margins.
There was Marguerite, of course, the woman after Phil’s heart and other private parts. There were the other housewives who lusted after Phil. And then there was Zora, the angry nurse in Debbie’s allergist’s office, though why she was angry I wasn’t certain.
Too bad I’d blown it with Tess. She could have been a great source. Now she was my enemy, thanks to Wendy, and Stiletto’s date, again thanks to Wendy.
Thanks, Wendy.
I tried to imagine what would have made one of Debbie’s “lust boat” cruises so horrific. I mean, aside from suffering botulism or seasickness, a cruise sounded awfully nice right about now, what with all the stress in my life. Though I wouldn’t want to go with Dan.
Before I could stop myself, my mind had wandered to the Caribbean, where Stiletto and I were enjoying an imaginary cruise. Blue skies, tropical breezes. We didn’t stay on the boat long. Not us. No way. Stiletto wasn’t one to sit around eating six courses a day and playing shuffleboard. He’d spotted a deserted island and we dived overboard.
White sand under our toes. A warm wind blowing the palm trees lining our secluded beach. No one but us.
As the sun set, golden and rose, on the horizon, we’d strip off our clothes and dive into that pretty blue turquoise sea I’ve only seen in brochures. I licked my lips, tasting the salt of the water that would be in droplets on the sinews of Stiletto’s sensuous neck, the same neck I would be kissing as he took me in his arms, slippery and strong and so very, very . . .
“Wet!”
Dan’s voice jolted me out of my daydream.
“Wet?” I repeated, blinking.
“Not wet. What?”
“Oh.”
It seemed that I was not on a deserted Caribbean island with Stiletto about to make love in turquoise water after all. I was sitting in my family therapist’s waiting room in a concrete office park in a steel town in December accompanied only by my dorky, snide, pompous, uncouth husband-to-be. How depressing.
Dan’s paunch spread over his belt and he reeked of virulently spicy cologne. The oil on his hair was so thick, it had dripped and discolored his collar. At least when he had been married to Wendy, she’d weaned him off his Clubman’s Hair Tonic addiction. Now he was back to his old habits—too much Leather cologne and grease.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
“I was . . . thinking.”
“About what?”
This was how it was going to be when I was married to him, say? I would have to explain every twenty seconds what my every thought was.
“About the . . . the wedding.”
Dan relaxed, his bloated face turning the same color as his shirt. Baby pink. “Well, that’s a nice change of pace. I was curious if you were ever going to get involved in planning this wedding, or if I would have to do everything. You know, we still have to apply for our marriage license.”
I thought about what Stiletto had said last night, his implication that Dan was eager to marry me for reasons that had nothing to do with his concern that Jane be part of a nuclear family. But what other reasons could Dan have? I didn’t have money or social status like Wendy. All I had was a job at the local newspaper. And Dan hated the News-Times. Aside from my house on West Goepp, a four-thousand-dollar Visa bill and three hundred dollars in my checking account, I had nothing.
Really, all I possessed that Dan would want was Jane. And it wasn’t as if I’d been keeping her from him. Dan had been a lousy husband, but he was an okay father. Jane never suffered in that regard.
“Well? What about it?” Dan was saying. “How about I pick you up after work and we’ll do the deed.”
Groan. Not today. “How about tomorrow? I’ve got so much work—”
“Can’t wait until tomorrow. We’ll miss the deadline. Let’s do it tonight and get it over with. There’s a county clerk who owes me a favor after I got her boyfriend out of a hot car snafu. She’ll stay open late for me if I ask. Afterward, I’ll take you out to dinner. My treat.”
Chuck E. Cheese.
There was the sound of a door slamming, Dr. Caswell’s secret door on the other side of her office so her patients could leave without presenting themselves to the waiting room. In two seconds, on cue, Dr. Caswell opened the other door to us.
“I can see you now.”
Dr. Caswell was a petite, mousy thing of a woman
. She was a runner and her arms and legs were tight ropes of muscles. A pair of severe dark glasses sat perched on her nose and her face was devoid of makeup. I had to fight the fierce temptation to rip off the glasses, volumize her hair and give her a full makeover. I’d never met a pair of peepers so desperate for liner and mascara.
“After you,” Dan said with uncharacteristic graciousness, sweeping an arm to the door.
“Thank you.”
Dr. Caswell approved of our civility. She went to her desk, which, as always, was devoid of any personal effects that might distract her clients’ attention.
“I’m glad you’re both here today,” she said, though I couldn’t remember a time when Dan and I hadn’t both been there. “We have some very serious issues to discuss.”
Dang. Just once I’d have appreciated Dr. Caswell cheerfully announcing that she could see the light at the end of the tunnel, that Jane was obviously on the mend.
She pointedly fixed her gaze on me. “Jane is under the impression that some kind of crisis is going on. She’s extremely anxious—not to mention frightened—as to why you haven’t dialoged with her about it, Bubbles.”
Dialog. It’s not a verb.
“There’s no crisis,” Dan answered for me. “Bubbles’s friend messed up at the salon and administered the wrong product to one of her clients, who was allergic—fatally allergic. The ditz’s license hadn’t been renewed. She’s so screwed, it’s unreal.”
I gripped the armrest of my chair, willing myself not to lunge for Dan’s throat as I had the day before.
Dr. Caswell lowered her glasses. “Was this the House of Beauty incident I read about in the paper this morning?”
The House of Beauty incident? So that’s what it was being called. Shoot. Alison Roach must have done a story after all. Probably skewed all the facts so Debbie’s death came off not as a murder, but as an act of negligence on Sandy’s part.
Poor Sandy. With all that was going on, I hadn’t bothered to call her last night to tell her what I’d learned from Jeffrey Andre and Ern Bender. I’d totally dropped the ball on our friendship.
“I don’t read the News-Times,” Dan was saying. “Why would I read that rag?”
Because your wife-to-be writes for it, I answered mentally.
Dr. Caswell tapped a pencil on the table. “I don’t know if the House of Beauty incident is the crisis to which Jane is referring. What she told me was that some crisis is going on and that it has to do with a man in the neighborhood and Bubbles’s work.”
That Jane. Still smart and perceptive as always.
Dan rushed at the chance to accuse me of wrongdoing. “What did you say to her, Bubbles?”
“Nothing!”
“Come on.”
I looked him straight in the eye. “I haven’t said a thing.”
“She probably hasn’t. That’s the problem,” Dr. Caswell said. “Jane has very keen intuition. And then there was that man who upset her last night, the one peeking in the windows.”
Dan was almost out of his chair. “What’s this? What man? Bubbles, why didn’t you tell me?”
This must have been the man Jane had referred to on the drive over. I tried not to let it bother me that Jane chose to discuss the incident in full with Dr. Caswell and not me. “All she said was that she looked outside last night and saw a man walking around the house. Maybe, just maybe, he was trying the knobs on the doors. She didn’t say anything about him peeking in the windows.”
“Trying the door? That’s worse than looking in the windows, Bubbles.” Dan was practically growling. “And where the hell were you?”
“At work,” Dr. Caswell said with distinct disapproval, as though I’d been dancing on tables at a bar.
Dan folded his arms. “Some mother you are.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said. “It was probably Mr. Hamel from next door coming over for his TV Guide after it got mixed up in our mail.”
Wrong answer.
Dr. Caswell raised an eyebrow to signal that my cavalier dismissal was not acceptable. “Really? Would your neighbor have tried the doorknob without first knocking or ringing the doorbell?”
No. Mr. Hamel would have shouted for me to open up. And if no one had been home, he would have broken the glass and opened the door himself. Nothing stands in the way of Mr. Hamel and his TV Guide. Nothing.
“Would he have looked in the windows?” Dr. Caswell pressed.
“Christ.” Dan’s hand was working into a fist. “Who the hell was this pervert? I’ll kill him.”
Dr. Caswell ignored him, choosing to spit her venom at me. “Would this neighbor have gone to the back door and tried that knob, too?”
That was my cue to act contrite so we could get off this topic and move on. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dismiss Jane out of hand.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” she said smugly. “Children don’t lie. Adults do.”
Dr. Caswell didn’t like me. I had no idea why. She just didn’t. I must emit some hate pheromones, what with Wendy, Mr. Notch and Lori Caswell all scratching me off their Christmas card lists.
“You assured me that Jane would be safe if she stayed with you, Bubbles,” Dan said. “I wanted to bring her to my house, which happens to be in a very safe gated community, but you said no.”
“Because you’re moving out this week and giving the house over to Wendy. How many moves is Jane supposed to make? Stability. Remember that?”
“Please, please. This isn’t helping Jane.” Dr. Caswell’s tone reminded me of a nun from my catechism class, the one who used to routinely toss me out for showing so much of God’s creation.
“What I propose,” she continued, “is permanently moving in a relative who will stay at home with Jane and assure her that she is safe.”
“A babysitter?” I balked. “She’s nearly graduated from high school. I was a mother at her age.”
“Perhaps you could have used a babysitter back then, too,” Dr. Caswell quipped.
I sat back and crossed my legs. How come Dan never got the blame for knocking me up? That’s what I wanted to know.
“This will all be a moot point by next week when I move Bubbles and Jane into the house I’m having redecorated in Saucon Valley Estates,” Dan said.
My jaw dropped. The Saucon Valley move was not settled. I, for one, had no intention of leaving my comfortable home on West Goepp.
Dr. Caswell beamed. “How nice. I understand those new homes by the golf course are lovely. I do hope you’ll agree to this, Bubbles. The change would do Jane good. And a gated community would add to her sense of safety. You’re very fortunate to be marrying a man who is so responsible, so concerned for his daughter’s welfare.”
She made goo-goo eyes at Dan. Dan made goo-goo eyes back. Maybe Dr. Caswell should be heading down to the county clerk’s office for a marriage license instead of me.
Bad enough that I was being blackmailed into marrying Dan. Now I had to give up my house and my neighborhood. What was next? My job?
“We’ll talk about this later,” I said. “Alone.”
Dr. Caswell took a few threatening notes. It always made me nervous when she took notes. “In the meantime, I’d like to see a responsible, mature adult in Bubbles’s house. Jane and I discussed her options and we decided that your mother and her friend, Guenivere, should move in, Bubbles.”
“You mean Genevieve?” I couldn’t believe it. My life was being taken over by Dr. Caswell and Dan and now my daughter and my mother and my mother’s gun-happy friend. “Genevieve’s hardly responsible. She operates a firing range off her deck.”
“She seemed very capable to me, at least during our brief conference call this morning.”
I got out of my chair. “Hold on. You called Genevieve already?”
“And your mother. Jane gave me the number. Frankly, I was afraid it might, you know, slip your mind if I didn’t take the reins. You do have a reputation for being rather flighty.”
Dr. Caswell was a re
incarnated ferret. And not one of those cute ferrets. She was the kind of ferret that bit your ankle or suddenly ran up your pants leg.
“Excellent!” Dan declared. “And Lulu will make sure Bubbles gets cracking on those wedding preparations. So far she’s done bubkes. I bet she doesn’t even have a dress.”
“Oh, dear.” Dr. Caswell frowned. “And here Jane is so excited about you two getting together and re-forming a nuclear family.”
Another shot of maternal guilt, straight-up.
“Do you have a dress, dear?” she pried.
“Of course! I mean I have lots of dresses, just not a wedding dress. Anyway, we’re getting married by a judge. What’s the big deal?”
“A judge at the Lehigh University chapel, Bubbles,” Dan said. “And there will be one hundred of our closest friends and family present.”
“You mean one hundred of your sleaziest clients and three members of my family, since your side is refusing to acknowledge me as a human being.”
Dr. Caswell checked her watch. “I’m sorry, but our time is up. I do hope to see you on Thursday displaying more love and harmony than you’ve shown here, Bubbles. I’m afraid that your negativity is the core reason why Jane’s not healing faster.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling her,” Dan added.
I got up, grabbed my purse and marched out, knowing full well that Dan and Dr. Caswell would raise their eyebrows and shake their heads in disgust. I didn’t care. I had to find Jane and get her to school.
I had raised Jane by myself. Not Dan. Not Caswell. How dared they accuse me of harming her? Wasn’t it bad enough that I’d had to live with the guilt that my job had caused her trauma in the first place? Wasn’t it bad enough I was sacrificing everything to make up for that?
I mumbled to myself in the elevator and as I stormed across the marble lobby, where Jane was waiting.
Except she wasn’t.
I checked outside the revolving glass doors. There was no one besides a security guard standing languidly next to a trash can.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but did you happen to see a teenage girl with a cell phone attached to her ear?”
Bubbles All The Way Page 12
