by Kelly Rey
Immediately on the heels of my excitement came a sharp regret that I'd never met my great-aunt Kate, had never even known about her. I wondered what she'd been like. Had she looked like me? Did I have her smile? How could I have not known she'd been living just a few miles away this whole time? I suddenly wanted to know everything I could about Kate Quigley. Because somehow Kate had known about me and had left me her house and everything in it.
Including tax and utility bills. Could I afford a house in San Francisco? Could I take care of it the way Kate had taken care of it?
"In case you'd like to take a look at your house," Andrew Bonamassa was saying, "the address is 221 Baker Street. Kate had it put in a trust a few years back, so there's no need to wait out probate on the property. You can pick up the key at my office at your convenience. I'm sure you're eager to see the place."
Eager was hardly the word. I arranged to meet Mr. Bonamassa at his office the next morning, accepted his somber condolences, and disconnected, still numb with disbelief and pretty sure that I wouldn't be able to count on sleep to get me through the long hours separating me from my new life.
As soon as I'd reheated my dinner and sat down at the table, someone knocked on my door. Probably 2B still hoping to buy himself a romantic evening with a couple of Big Macs and some fries. He was delusional, but it didn't matter. I was a homeowner now, and pretty soon I wouldn't have to see 2B ever again.
But it wasn't 2B at the door. It was Mr. Bitterman, clutching a Tupperware container in both gnarled hands. Mr. Bitterman was considered quite a catch among the widowed ladies in the building. His six hairs were always combed, he had two distinct eyebrows, and his clothes were always clean, even if they were usually mismatched. Plus rumor had it his railroad pension would allow him to live comfortably to the age of 112, a quality more prized by husband hunters than a GQ-worthy wardrobe.
He gave me a gummy smile, and his dentures shifted a little in his mouth. "Evening, Martha Hudson."
Mr. Bitterman never called me Martha or Marty. Always Martha Hudson. Maybe because he wanted to double-check that he was talking to the right person.
I eyed the Tupperware container with deep suspicion. "Hello, Mr. Bitterman. What have you got there?"
"I tried out a new recipe today, and I made a little extra." He held it out to me. "Thought I'd do the neighborly thing and share."
I took it before he dropped it all over my carpet and it ate through to the floorboards. I didn't stand a chance of seeing my security deposit returned as it was. Not that it was my fault the paint was peeling off the walls on its own accord.
"You didn't have to do that," I said. He could have done the neighborly thing and dumped it down the disposal. The smells leaking out from beneath that lid would straighten my hair faster than a flatiron.
"I need an objective opinion," he said. "You can be my tester."
I sure hoped he was talking about aftershave, because I had no intention of tasting whatever was swimming inside that Tupperware.
"Besides," he added, "an old man doesn't like to eat alone."
It occurred to me that that was what old women were for, but I didn't have the heart to say so. The truth was, I liked Mr. Bitterman, and I really didn't mind having dinner with him.
As long as it wasn't his dinner.
"I understand," I said. "I've got some sweet and sour pork in the fridge. Come on in."
I'd given it my best and gentlest shot, but Mr. Bitterman and his mystery dish would not be separated. He followed me into the kitchen and settled in at my table with a grunt of exertion. "You might want to give that a turn in the microwave," he said. "It tends to congeal as it cools."
Nothing unappetizing about that. I held my breath, spooned the contents of the Tupperware container into a bowl, and shoved it into the microwave. It didn't look like it was congealing. It looked like it was breathing.
I slammed the door shut and turned the microwave to Incinerate.
"You know," I told him, "I appreciate the gesture, but you could have had dinner with Mrs. Frist in 2E. I think she's got her eye on you."
"She's got her eye on everyone," he said. "She sits and stares out the peephole all day long. Her only exercise is when she changes eyes." He grimaced. "And Mrs. Frist doesn't know good food when she tastes it. You might want to give that a stir."
I was afraid to give it a stir. If I opened the microwave, it might jump out and attack me.
"I know the signs," he said. "They're looking for new husbands, all of them. They bring me enough casseroles and Bundt cakes to open a restaurant."
Casserole and Bundt cake didn't sound so bad to me. I cast a baleful glance at the microwave. He was sitting on real food, and I got stuck with that.
He shook his head. "None of them will let me cook dinner. Won't let me near the stove. They insist on feeding me."
Guess he couldn't take a hint.
"I know what you're thinking," he said. "And you're right. I'm candy for the ladies."
Yeah. That was what I'd been thinking.
"But I got plans," he added. "I'm writing a cookbook. It's going to be huge. I'm calling it the Bitterman Diet Plan. What do you think?"
Something popped inside the microwave, and he made a better-check-that gesture that I deliberately ignored. I wasn't opening that door. The smell would get out.
"If you want to help people lose weight," I said, "I think you've got a winner."
He seemed pleased. He moved his dentures around until they got out of the way and smiled at me. It was a lovely Hallmark moment.
Until our dinner whistled, sizzled, and exploded in the microwave.
Mr. Bitterman shrieked like a little girl and ducked his head.
I rushed to open the door, but I was too late. For the dinner and the microwave. It looked like a scene from Ghostbusters in there. There was no saving it. Even if I managed to scrape the remnants of Cabbage Surprise off the walls, I doubted I could purge that smell.
But I'd rather smell it than taste it.
SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE CASE OF THE BRASH BLONDE
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