by Lois Winston
However, by eleven o’clock we’d managed to struggle our way through almost half the contents of the suitcase. I tried to stifle a yawn but failed miserably. Mr. Sandman beckoned.
“Time to call it a night?” asked Zack.
“Afraid so. My eyes are glazing over. Besides, one of us has to get up early tomorrow morning for work.”
I reached for the suitcase lid, but as I began lowering it, I noticed a shifting of the fabric pocket stitched into the inside of the lid. The top edge of the pocket was gathered with elastic to keep any contents from falling out, but the elastic had rotted with age, and the pocket was no longer taut against the inside of the lid, causing the fabric to sag.
The movement I’d noticed wasn’t simply a fluttering of loose fabric, though. The pocket held something that had shifted from the lowering of the lid. I raised the lid back up, slid my hand into the pocket, and removed a yellowing, sealed business envelope. I turned the envelope over, and much to my surprised, discovered it was addressed to Lupe.
“How odd,” I said, more to myself than aloud.
“What?” asked Zack.
I held the envelope out toward him. “This appears to have been placed in the suitcase years ago, but it couldn’t have come from Cuba with the other contents. It’s addressed to Lupe.”
“Lupe is a common Spanish name. It could be a relative.”
“I suppose.”
“There’s one way to find out,” said Zack.
Had the envelope not been sealed, I wouldn’t have given a second thought to opening it. After all, Lupe had entrusted us with the contents of the suitcase. Still, I hesitated. Nothing else we’d come across so far had been sealed, let alone addressed to someone. And not only was the envelope sealed and addressed, it was hidden in the lid pocket, as if the person who had placed it there wasn’t quite sure she wanted it discovered.
I placed the envelope on the table and closed the suitcase. “I think we should let Lupe open it. I’ll call her tomorrow.”
FOUR
I arrived at work the next morning to find enough baked goods in the break room to fill a small bakery. When Cloris can’t sleep, she bakes. Looking around at the vast assortment of muffins, coffeecakes, turnovers, and pastries spread out across the counter and table, I knew she’d pulled an all-nighter. I piled an assortment of muffins onto a large plate and grabbed two cups of coffee. Juggling everything, along with my purse and tote, I hurried down the hallway in search of the insomniac baker.
I found her pacing her cubicle. “Did you get any sleep last night?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer to my question from the evidence in the break room.
“I didn’t even try.”
I handed her one of the cups and placed the plate on the edge of her desk, taking note of the empty coffee cup and plate of crumbs next to her keyboard. Cloris would need a steady diet of sugar and caffeine to get her through the day. I dropped my purse and tote on her spare chair and shrugged out of my coat. “What did Gregg say?”
She grabbed a chocolate chip muffin and shoved half of it into her mouth. Around the mouthful she asked, “You want the G-rated short version or the complete four-letter rant?”
“Your choice.” If Cloris needed to blow off steam with some X-rated language, I didn’t mind acting as her sounding board. After all, what were friends for?
She shrugged. “I’ll spare you the details. I’m too exhausted. Bottom line, we need to hire a lawyer, a shark who’s willing to take our case on contingency.”
“Do defense attorneys take cases on contingency?”
Cloris washed down her muffin with a swig of coffee before answering. “Gregg wants to counter-sue for slander. Or is it libel? I can never remember the difference, even when I’ve had a decent night’s sleep.”
“Do you have a lawyer in mind?”
“Not really. We’ve never filed a lawsuit. We’ve only used attorneys for real estate transactions and to draw up our wills.”
I nibbled at the edges of an apricot and pistachio muffin, savoring every sweet morsel. Even while totally depressed and worried sick, Cloris created culinary masterpieces. Me? I prefer to roll up the windows of my car and scream at the top of my lungs. We all deal with stress in different ways.
“Zack said he’d talk to Patricia for you. As an assistant prosecutor, I’m sure she’s worked across the aisle from many sharks. Some of them probably also practice in New Jersey.”
She placed her hand over her mouth to cover a yawn. “I’d appreciate it.”
I’d never seen Cloris so exhausted. She fought to keep her eyelids open. Usually I’m the one burning the proverbial candle at both ends, kept awake at night by financial worries. Massive doses of sugar and caffeine weren’t going to cut it for her this morning. “What do you have on your schedule today?”
“Everything I didn’t get done yesterday, plus what’s on today’s schedule.”
“None of which you’ll accomplish if you can’t keep your eyes open. Come with me.” I grabbed her hand and led her down the hall to my craft closet. I unlocked the door, switched on the light, and pulled her inside.
The closet, more a small room, is where I store supplies, models, and props for photo shoots. I’m the only one who uses it. Steel shelves run the length of the walls to the left and right. I opened one of the large plastic tubs lining a row of shelves and began tossing foam pillow forms onto the floor.
“What are you doing?” asked Cloris.
“Making a bed for you.”
“But—”
I grabbed a bolt of plush fabric and spread it out over the pillows. The makeshift accommodation certainly wasn’t on par with the Waldorf-Astoria, but Cloris would have a comfortable bed for a few quiet, uninterrupted hours of snooze time. “Don’t argue with me. Lie down.”
Cloris opened her mouth to protest again but took one look at the comfy bed I’d created for her and obeyed. I found a crocheted afghan in another tub and draped it over her. “Now go to sleep. I’ll cover for you.” I turned off the light and stepped out of the closet. I think she was sound asleep before I closed the door.
I headed back to Cloris’s cubicle to retrieve my coat, purse, tote, coffee, and the remainder of the muffins, then crossed the hall into my own cubicle and settled in for the day. My work to-do list for the day contained quite a few items, but before I addressed any of them, I needed to phone Lupe.
I downed the remainder of my coffee and placed a call to her. She answered on the first ring. Once we dispensed with the usual pleasantries, I asked her if she had any other relatives named Lupe.
“My grandmother had a sister named Lupe. I was named for her. So was a cousin who lives in Florida.”
“Anyone who might still be living in Cuba?”
“As far as I know, all my relatives made it out shortly after Castro came to power. Why?”
I explained about finding the sealed envelope and my reluctance to open it. “So far we’ve come across nothing else that’s sealed. If this is personal, you should be the one to open it.”
“I suppose, but why would something addressed to me be hidden in a suitcase brought over from Cuba decades before I was born?” She thought for a moment. “Maybe my grandparents had a friend named Lupe, and they were asked to hold onto some papers for her.”
“Given the political turmoil back then, that’s certainly a possibility.”
“Do you have the envelope with you?”
“No, it’s back at Zack’s apartment.”
“Feel free to open it when you get home tonight. Call me if it’s important, but after all these years I can’t imagine it would be.”
Over the next few hours I ticked off a number of items on my to-do list. At one point, Naomi Dreyfus, our editorial director, popped into my cubicle. Naomi always amazed me. Even in the worst of situations, like the time a crazed madwoman was on her way to kill us, she never lost her cool. At fifty-nine her flawless patrician features remained free of wrinkles and worry lines, a
nd I’d never noticed a single strand of her silver tresses escape her trademark chignon. She looked as perfect at the end of the day as she did the moment she arrived at the office. Whatever her secret, she should bottle it. Women across America would stand in line to buy a case.
“I can’t seem to find Cloris,” she said. “Did she come in today?”
I am the world’s worst liar. My face always contorts into an uncontrollable smirk, giving me away every time. I passed along the defective Fib Gene to Alex. Nick, on the other hand, inherited Karl’s Look-You-in-the-Eye-and-Lie-With-a-Straight-Face gene. Luckily, at the moment I was standing with my back facing the entrance to my cubicle. Without turning around, I crossed my fingers and said, “I believe she had a meeting with a cookbook author.”
“When she comes back, tell her I need to see her.”
“Will do.”
“How are you coming with your presentation for Monday?”
I turned and smiled, the need to lie having passed. “Polishing it up now.”
“Good. I’ll look forward to seeing what you’ve come up with.” She waved, pivoted on her heels, and strode down the hall. Crisis averted.
I glanced at the clock on my computer. Four and a half hours had passed since I settled Cloris into the cozy nest I’d created for her in my supply closet. Since she hadn’t returned to her cubicle in that time, hopefully she’d fallen sleep. I hated the idea of waking her, but with Naomi looking for her, I had no choice. Naomi was a great boss, but even she had her limits when it came to allowing her staff a certain amount of leeway. Sleeping on the job would cross even Naomi’s line.
After making certain the coast was clear, I headed off to wake Cloris for lunch.
~*~
The remainder of the workday passed uneventfully. Cloris had caught enough shuteye that with a constant supply of caffeine and sugar the remainder of the day, no one suspected anything out of the norm. Not even Naomi who scheduled an impromptu meeting with her once Cloris returned from her fictitious interview with the cookbook author.
If only I could deal with the chaos of my home life the way I seamlessly managed the occasional monkey wrench tossed into my work life. Then again, our only work diva is our fashion editor, and she’s no match for the likes of Mama and Lucille, the Betty Davis and Joan Crawford of the Garden State.
My dinner reprieves from those two weren’t nearly as frequent as I wished, given that even Mama wouldn’t eat her own cooking. Before Lawrence’s arrest, he and Mama showed up to mooch dinner most nights. Apparently even my leftover tuna noodle casserole beats her burnt mystery meat hands-down.
With Lawrence behind bars, Mama continues to show up for meals nearly every night. I have no idea why we were spared her company the last two evenings, but it probably involved a new man in her life. No doubt Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe Tuttnauer was already on the prowl for Husband Number Seven.
I heard the shrill verbal exchange between Mama and Lucille as I stepped across the threshold into the kitchen. I would have turned around and walked back outside except that Mama spied me from where she and Lucille were sparring in the dining room. She abruptly stopped shouting at Lucille and marched into the kitchen.
“Anastasia, what’s this I hear about you canceling Thanksgiving dinner at Ira’s home? And after all that man has done for us. Would it kill you to spend a few hours with him?”
As much as Mama likes Zack, I think she secretly hoped I’d fall for my extremely wealthy half-brother-in-law. Emphasis on wealthy. However, even if I’d never met Zack and putting aside the lack of chemistry between Ira and me, I’d rather wind up sharing a cardboard box with Lucille and Devil Dog than become stepmother to his three spoiled brats.
I dropped my purse and tote onto the kitchen table and shrugged out of my coat. “Mama, I’ve spent more than a few hours with Ira over the past four and a half months. I need a break from his family drama. I’ve got enough of my own.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I nodded in the direction of the dining room. “Really? I need to spell it out for you?”
She glanced over her shoulder to find Lucille standing in the doorway. With one hand on her hip, my mother-in-law precariously balanced her full weight on her cane. “Well, it’s hardly my fault you’re stuck with the likes of her!” said Mama. “Besides, I don’t see what that has to do with Thanksgiving dinner. Ira is family.”
There’s family, and then there’s family. Our connection to Ira fell more in the realm of six degrees of separation. Well, maybe not as many as six, but the bonds that connected us contained recently forged, slightly weak links. If it weren’t for the fact that Ira was the spitting image of Karl, albeit a younger, thinner version with more hair, I would have requested a DNA test when he showed up at my door last July.
Ira owns a string of car dealerships and has more money than the average hedge fund manager. He bought his way into our lives, claiming he owed us for the mess his half-brother created, not that he even knew of Karl’s or our existence at the time.
First he offered me a “family discount” when my rust bucket Hyundai died, and I couldn’t afford a reliable replacement. Next he gave Alex a relatively new Jeep for his birthday. I really wrestled with that one, but in the end, I gave in to my son’s pleas to keep the car. As much as I didn’t want to be beholden to Ira, Alex having his own set of wheels considerably simplified my life. Call it my deal with the devil.
Most recently, after playing matchmaker to Lawrence and Mama, Ira presented them with a condo in Scotch Plains as a wedding gift. Because he hadn’t transferred the title prior to Lawrence’s arrest, the property wasn’t seized under New Jersey’s forfeiture law. Mama now lived mortgage-free. I suspect Lawrence also foots the bills for her condo fees, taxes, and utilities, as well as the Uber account she uses to jaunt around when she can’t bum a ride from Alex or me.
“Mama, you’re welcome to spend Thanksgiving with Ira and his kids. The rest of us are having dinner at Chez Catherine.”
Mama’s perfectly plucked eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. “Chez Catherine? You didn’t tell me you’d won the lottery, dear.”
“I didn’t.” I stepped over to the kitchen counter and switched the heat level on the chicken and vegetables in the slow cooker to warm. “It’s Zack’s treat.”
“Well…in that case…”
“Humph!” said Lucille. “How typical of your selfishness, Anastasia!”
Selfishness? Because I didn’t want to subject myself and everyone else to a day none of us would enjoy? Least of all my mother-in-law? “In what way am I being selfish? Don’t tell me you want to spend Thanksgiving with Ira and his kids.”
After walking out on Lucille, Karl’s father eventually married a woman who would give birth to Ira. However, to this day Lucille insists Isidore Pollack was abducted by J. Edgar Hoover.
She harrumphed a second time. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m talking about waste and civic responsibility. That meal will cost enough to feed the county homeless for a week.”
Hardly. Maybe a day or two but I would not allow Lucille to make me feel guilty for enjoying an expensive dinner in an upscale restaurant, not when her son’s irresponsible—not to mention criminal—behavior had nearly put my sons and me out on the street.
“You’re welcome to stay home and make yourself a ham sandwich if you don’t want to join us,” I said, knowing darned well—unfortunately—that Lucille’s communist sensibilities would never prevent her from feasting on a gourmet meal prepared by a Cordon Bleu chef. “I’m sure Zack will be happy to donate the cost of your dinner to the local food pantry.”
My mother-in-law lasered an evil eye at me before hobbling off toward the living room. I grabbed my coat and wrapped it around my shoulders.
“Where are you going?” asked Mama.
“I have to check on something Zack and I are working on.”
“Is that what they’re calling it now? I can’t keep u
p with the latest jargon for a quickie.”
“Mama! I’m not—”
She waved her hand in dismissal. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud, dear. I know what’s going on between the two of you.”
I opened the back door. “I’ll be back in exactly one minute.”
“How I miss my youth! It now takes me a good five minutes to reach a satisfying—”
“TMI, Mama!” I slammed the door before she could finish her sentence.
I entered the apartment above my garage to find Zack at his computer while Alex and Nick worked on homework at the breakfast bar. “Too noisy in the house?” I asked.
“I’ll say,” said Nick.
“Are they both still alive?” asked Alex, referring to his grandmothers.
“They were when I left.” Although at some point Mama and Lucille’s animosity toward each other might result in a duel to the death. As the former social secretary of the Daughters of the American Revolution and a woman who claimed to trace her ancestry back to Russian nobility, Mama represented everything Lucille had opposed for most of her life. At least with Mama now ensconced in her condo, they were no longer sharing a bedroom under my roof.
“Dinner is ready,” I told my sons. “Go wash up and set the table. Zack and I will be along shortly.”
The boys gathered up their books. Once they left the apartment, I told Zack about my conversation with Mama. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. The woman is incorrigible.”
“Laugh,” he said. “Between Flora and Lucille, you need to release as many endorphins as possible.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Isn’t that the truth?”
“I spoke with Lupe today,” I said as I walked over to the table where we’d left the sealed envelope. “She suggested her grandmother might have been holding the envelope for a friend, perhaps even hiding it for someone, given the political climate back then.
