by Lois Winston
She turned and sashayed from the kitchen. I called after her. “Who is he, Mama?”
“If we’re both lucky, your next stepfather.”
“Really? Why should he bother buying the cow when he’s getting the milk for free?”
Mama shook her head and muttered, “Definitely the Periwinkle side of the family.”
I grabbed Mephisto’s leash, clipped it to his collar, and rushed outside. How could my mother twist this situation around to make me the one at fault? I wasn’t a prude, but the ick factor in all of this flew off the charts. A vision of Mama morphing into Lyndella Wegner thirty years from now refused to leave my mind, no matter how much I shook my head to dislodge the image.
When I brought Mephisto back inside, the two horny lovebirds were going at it once again. I filled the dog’s water bowl and left without changing my clothes. No way did I want to walk past her bedroom, let alone undress to the sounds of a senior citizen mattress tango going on down the hall.
_____
I arrived at Sunnyside to find Mabel cooling both her heels and her walker’s rhinestone-studded wheels in the lobby. “About time you showed up,” she said. “I’ve got everyone assembled and waiting
in the solarium. Figured the light there would work best for you.”
She led me down the hallway that took us past Shirley’s office. Luckily, the door was closed. The last thing I needed after my altercation with Mama was a run-in with Sunnyside’s director, especially since I’d segued from savior to rabble-rouser in her eyes.
Eleven Sunnyside residents awaited me in the solarium, their various works gathered on the bistro tables set up around the room with paintings lining one wall. The afternoon sun filled the space with light perfect for shooting the assembled artwork and crafts. A combination of air conditioning and whirring ceiling fans kept the glass-enclosed room from turning into an oven.
I had asked Mabel to tell the other crafters to bring their six best pieces for the shoot. Either Mabel had forgotten to convey my message, or she’d deliberately ignored me. My money was on the latter.
Having spoken of a possible gallery show to all my classes, I was also now surprised to see so few students from the arts and crafts program in the solarium. Many more had shown interest. “Where’s everyone else?” I asked.
“This is the best of the best.”
“No, it’s not. I don’t see Irene here. Her embroidery work is museum quality, and I know she was interested in taking part. And what about Bonita’s watercolors? Jerome’s stained glass? Maxwell’s—”
“You said space was limited. I didn’t want anyone left out, but I made an executive decision. Those others don’t need the extra cash. These folks do.”
I glanced around the room. Everyone had overheard the exchange. They had all turned from their various conversations and now stared at me. Waiting.
“You’re doing this to help those who need help, right?” asked Mabel.
True.
“They already know not everything’s going in the show,” she continued, “but I told them everyone would have at least something. Excluding the ones that don’t need the money means these folks get more pieces exhibited.”
She gave me a pointed look that dared me to disagree with her. I didn’t. The last thing I needed was someone else pissed at me.
Besides, Mabel was right. This show was about helping the cash-strapped residents of Sunnyside become a little less cash strapped. Hopefully, those not included would understand. I’d make an extra effort to include them in the magazine article and have our staff photographer shoot them and their work at Sunnyside. A few classroom shots would round out the article nicely.
My dilemma resolved, I spoke to the gathered residents. “All right. Let’s get to work.”
“Are you going to take our pictures, too?” asked Sally. “I need my roots touched up.”
“I need a new perm,” said Barbara.
“Don’t worry,” I told them, “I’m just photographing your work today for the gallery owner. She’ll choose the pieces to feature based on the snapshots I email her. Our magazine photographer will take your pictures at the opening a week from Friday. You’ll all have plenty of time to look your best.”
I had prepared a simple questionnaire and printed out copies of Trimedia’s standard release form, stapling the two together. I removed the stack of papers from my tote bag and placed them on one corner of a table filled with dozens of beaded necklaces, bracelets, and pins. I recognized the work as belonging to Sally Strathower. “While I’m taking the photos,” I said, “I need you to fill out some paperwork. Then we’ll set up an interview schedule.”
“What kind of paperwork?” asked Murray.
“The first is a standard release form to use photos of you and your work in the magazine. The other asks a few biographical questions.”
“Like what?” asked Dirk, eyeing me suspiciously.
“You better not need my social security number or date of birth,” said Murray. “I don’t give out personal information to anyone. Not with all those damn identity thieves lurking everywhere. My kid was hacked last year. They got hold of his credit card number and password. What a nightmare that was!”
The other crafters all nodded in agreement.
“Those hackers should be ashamed of themselves,” said Berniece. She bobbed her head with such emphasis that her helmet hair actually moved slightly. “They stole money right out of my bank account a few years ago.”
“How’d they do that?” asked Estelle.
“They rigged the swipe machines at Michael’s to obtain customers’ debit card information. You must have read about it at the time. It was in all the papers.”
“I remember that,” said Sally. “My bank cancelled my credit card and sent me a new one because I sometimes shop at Michael’s. I was lucky, though. They didn’t get any money from me.”
“I don’t tell nobody nothing,” said Dirk. “Better safe than sorry.”
“I don’t blame you,” I told them. “I certainly don’t need your social security numbers or anything else that might jeopardize your finances. The questions are mostly in regards to your artwork and crafts. I’ll use your answers to help me develop the article I’ll be writing about all of you. I don’t think you’ll find any of the questions objectionable, but if you do, just leave them blank.”
“Fine,” said Dirk. He grabbed the pile and began passing the papers out to everyone.
“Need pens,” said Murray. “Can’t fill out forms without a pen, Chickie.”
Chickie? Was that a compliment or an insult?
I hadn’t thought to bring pens for everyone, but I did have a few in my tote and rooted around until I found them. “You’ll have to share these,” I said, placing the four pens on the table.
Murray picked up two Bics. “We get to keep these?”
“Sure, Murray. Knock yourself out. Just don’t fight over them.”
He pocketed one and began writing with the second. Several others made a grab for the two remaining pens.
“You should bring more next time you come,” said Mabel. “It’s not fair some got and some didn’t.”
“They’re only Bics, Mabel, not Mont Blancs.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Murray and two others scribbled away at their questionnaires. The rest of the group waited somewhat impatiently for a turn with a pen.
“Everyone loves free stuff,” said Mabel.
Apparently so.
Leaving them to their forms, I began shooting the various crafts and artwork spread out around the room. The task took longer than I’d anticipated, thanks in part to a dozen self-appointed photo stylists. One by one they joined me, either before filling out their forms or afterwards. Each offered all sorts of unsolicited advice on how best to capture their particular pieces of art.
&n
bsp; “You need to photograph that vase from several different angles,” said Murray. “Each side is different.”
“Not a problem, Murray.” I took a few more digital shots of the vase and each of his other ceramic pieces before moving on to the table of jewelry.
“Shouldn’t I be wearing my jewelry so the gallery owner knows what it is?” asked Sally.
“She’ll know.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Trust me. She does this for a living.”
“I still think I should be wearing them. Don’t you think so, Mabel?”
“Let her wear them,” said Mabel.
With the death of Lyndella, Mabel had morphed into the Napoleon of Sunnyside, a bossy, four-foot-ten-inch high and almost equally as wide, rhinestone-studded commander on jeweled wheels instead of a white steed. Challenged by no one, Mabel had taken over for the much-hated Lyndella Wegner. Only instead of grumbling about her, the others apparently had anointed her. Mabel Shapiro reveled in her newfound power, showing off by bossing me around in front of the rest of the crafters.
Not that it mattered. Clara would have the final say as to which items were selected and which weren’t. I shrugged my acceptance of Mabel’s edict and waited for Sally to adorn herself, deciding not to mention that the delicate pastel beadwork would get lost against the bold rainbow stripes of her size twenty-four boat neck T-shirt.
By the time we’d finished, the residents were talking dinner, speculating on that evening’s offerings. They packed up their crafts and artwork and headed off to their rooms. I scooped up the completed forms and headed for the exit, hoping to sneak out without running into either Shirley or Lucille. Of course, that would require luck, something I’d lost this past winter when Karl permanently cashed in his chips and my life crapped out.
What were the odds I’d meet both Shirley and Lucille in the hallway, coming at me from opposite ends, one power walking in her power suit du jour, the other shuffling along with her walker?
“Why are you here?” asked Shirley.
“It’s about time you got here,” said Lucille. “I’m all packed.”
“What?” Shirley whirled around to confront Lucille. “You’re not leaving. You haven’t completed your therapy.”
“I’m fine,” said Lucille. “I dressed myself this morning and fed myself both breakfast and lunch.”
That explained the stained shirt held closed with only one button. “Have you looked in the mirror, Lucille?”
“I’m not vain like you, Anastasia. I don’t need to look in mirrors. Now let’s go. I’ve been ready for hours.”
“I can’t release her until her doctors sign off that she’s completed her therapy,” said Shirley, “and that’s highly unlikely, given that she’s supposed to be here four weeks, and it hasn’t even been a full week yet.”
“This is your fault, Anastasia. If you’d arrived earlier, I wouldn’t have to stay here another night.”
“I don’t think you’re ready to come home yet, Lucille.” I’m not ready for her to come home yet. However, Lucille coming home would certainly put an end to Mama’s afternoon delights.
I pondered which was the lesser of two evils.
“You don’t get to make that decision,” she said. “I know my body better than any of you, and I’m fine.”
Lucille smacked her hand on the top bar of the walker and lost her balance. Shirley grabbed her from the left; I grabbed her from the right. “Take your hands off me!”
“You almost fell,” I said.
“I did not!”
“You shouldn’t even be walking the halls by yourself,” said Shirley. “The last thing I need is a lawsuit. Stay with her,” she said to me. “I’ll call for an aide.”
Shirley dashed into her office.
“I didn’t come to pick you up, Lucille. You’re not ready. What if you fall when no one is home to help you?” I said.
“That won’t happen.”
An aide rounded the corner and headed toward us. I handed Lucille over to him and dashed off, without responding to her and before Shirley returned from her office.
fourteen
I arrived home to a quiet house. No blaring stereo. No senior citizens’ sexual escapades. Ralph snored on Lucille’s bed; Catherine the Great sprawled across the back of the living room sofa. A glance at the boys’ work schedules for the week told me they were both on the late afternoon/early evening shifts today.
Zack’s car was missing from the driveway, which meant he probably hadn’t returned from D.C. yet, and Lord only knew where Mama was, what she was doing, or with whom.
“Looks like you’re my dinner companion this evening,” I said to Ralph as I released him from his cage.
“What an equivocal companion is this! Brrraaack!” he fluttered his wings and took off, squawking, “All’s Well That Ends Well. Act Five, Scene Three.”
Ralph settled on his perch of choice, the top of the refrigerator, and alternated between preening his feathers and intently studying me while I whipped up a zucchini and tomato omelet for dinner. Once done cooking, I plated my omelet and moved to the dining room table where I could spread out Lyndella’s journals to read while I ate. Ralph followed, perching himself on the back of my chair and peering over my shoulder.
“Let me know if I miss anything important,” I told him.
“What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend. Romeo and Juliet. Prologue.”
“Then let us both toil away, Ralph, and maybe between us, we’ll solve a murder.”
“Confer with me of murder and of death. Titus Andronicus. Act Five, Scene Two.”
“Exactly.”
I read for hours, taking notes, cross referencing with Lyndella’s accounts ledger, adhering sticky-note flags on pertinent pages. Alex and Nick came home shortly after eight-thirty, and I reluctantly took a break, although I feared if I stopped my momentum, I’d miss something.
“What are you looking for?” asked Alex, eyeing the clutter of loose-leaf notebooks on the dining room table. “Need some help?”
Three pairs of eyes could scour through Lyndella’s journals in one third the time of one set, but I hesitated. Earlier today the thought of either of my kids having sex had twisted my innards into a knot the size of Cleveland. I wasn’t naïve when it came to what teenagers viewed and read behind their parents’ backs. Or even did for that matter. Hell, I’d sneaked Peyton Place off Mama’s bookshelf when I was younger than Nick and watched The Devil in Miss Jones one night while babysitting for a neighbor who owned a well-stocked X-rated videotape collection.
However, I can’t imagine the ick factor had my mother handed me Peyton Place or suggested we view The Devil in Miss Jones together. I would have needed therapy for decades.
“Thanks for the offer,” I said, “but you guys must be tired after working all day. Why don’t you go veg out. I think the Mets are televised tonight.”
“And you didn’t work today, Mom? You’re not tired?” Alex picked up a legal pad on which I’d jotted some notes and read aloud. “Marriage. Wedding. Husband. Birth. Baby. Child. Daughter. Divorce. Death. What is this?”
I held out my hand for the pad. “Words I’m searching for in these journals.”
“Why?”
“I’m hoping they’ll offer up some clues to who killed the person who wrote them.”
“The woman the cops think Grandmother Lucille killed?” asked Nick.
“That’s the one.”
“You think maybe her daughter or husband killed her?” asked Alex.
“I don’t even know yet whether she had a husband or daughter. That’s part of the mystery I’m trying to solve.”
“How come you have all her journals?” asked Alex. “Why don’t the cops have them? Aren’t they evidence?”
“Apparently, the cops didn’t think t
hey were important. I rescued them from landing in a Dumpster.”
“You think the cops are wrong?” asked Nick. “That you’ll find something in them?”
“I think the cops didn’t look closely enough and dismissed them as merely journals recording her various crafts projects. However, I suspect they might contain facts relevant to the case. I’ll know for sure after I finish reading through all of them.”
“So let us help you,” said Alex.
“I don’t think Mom wants us to see what’s in these,” said Nick. He’d picked up one of the journals and held it up for his brother to see.
“Holy shit!” said Alex. “Is that what I think it is?”
Heat rose up my neck to my cheeks. “This is why I don’t want you helping me.” I reached across the table and grabbed the binder out of Nick’s hands.
“I thought Grandmother Lucille’s roommate was practically ancient,” said Alex. “Like in her nineties.”
“She was.”
He screwed up his face. “Eeuuww! That is just too gross. Guys don’t really do that to themselves, do they, Mom?”
It was nice to know that my nearly grown son was still naïve when it came to certain less-than-mainstream sexual practices. As much as I hated to enlighten him, I couldn’t lie. “I think some do.”
Alex turned green. He looked like he was about to hurl at just the thought. “That’s totally sick.”
“Are all these notebooks filled with stuff like that?” asked Nick.
“For the most part.”
“How can you even look at them, Mom?”
I glanced down at the photo of the ceramic sculpture in question, a lifelike rendition of a tattooed and pierced piece of male anatomy, and wondered if Lyndella had created it for shock value alone or if she’d actually used it, either on herself or someone else. “It isn’t easy,” I said.
“I may need to bleach my brains to get that image out of my head,” said Alex.
“Ditto,” said Nick.
That made three of us. The more I combed through Lyndella’s journals, the dirtier I felt. If what I suspected about her past was true, I could understand how and why she felt forced to turn to prostitution. I sympathized with Lyndella, the girl; I disliked Lyndella, the woman. Immensely. From what I was learning, she took extreme pleasure in hurting everyone with whom she came in contact. And she certainly had a strange way of getting her kicks. No wonder the other residents of Sunnyside rejoiced in her death.
