by Lois Winston
Ira lived in an over-the-top housing development that had cropped up on some old farmland on the outskirts of Lambertville during the housing boom before the subsequent bust. Making a conservative estimate, three of my ranchers would easily fit into his McMansion.
He greeted us at the front door, then led us through a marble foyer the size of my living room and into a gourmet kitchen as large as my entire downstairs. If I had any money, I’d bet the kitchen alone cost more than what Karl and I had paid for our house eighteen years ago. From the kitchen we passed through an enclosed sun porch that ran the width of the house, then exited onto a designer hardscaped patio.
“I’ll make quick introductions, then get everyone drinks,” said Ira. Pointing to us one at a time, he continued, “Flora O’Keefe; Anastasia, Alex, and Nick Pollack; and Zachary Barnes. This is my wife, Cynthia Pollack, and of course you already know her father Lawrence Tuttnauer.”
I was about to say that no, we didn’t all know Lawrence Tutt-nauer. How would we? I didn’t need to, though. Mama had sidled up next to him and looped her arm through his. Lawrence responded by patting her hand.
Mama barely came up to Lawrence’s chest. I pegged him at six-six minimum and possibly several years younger than Mama. I could see why she’d fallen for him, given his athletic body and a face reminiscent of Cary Grant, right down to the shock of silver hair and black-rimmed glasses.
Mama craned her neck, smiled up at him, and batted her eyes in adoration. I bit firmly down on my tongue to keep my thoughts from spewing out of my mouth. Then I tossed my sons a don’t-say-a-word Mom Look.
The stepfather-in-waiting cleared his throat. “Actually, we haven’t met yet, Ira.”
“Oh, sorry, Dad. I thought—”
Lawrence Tuttnauer didn’t let his son-in-law finish. He stepped forward and extended his hand toward me. With a knowing twinkle in his eye, he said, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Anastasia.”
I’ll just bet he had, now that the horn dog was fully clothed.
twenty
Cynthia Pollack offered us the kind of tight smile hostesses bestow upon unwelcome company. She didn’t want us in her home—or more accurately, on her designer patio—any more than everyone except Mama wanted to be here. I caught an almost imperceptible scrunch of her nose as she sized up my wrinkled khakis, my sweat-drenched T-shirt, my wide butt, and my utilitarian ponytail.
In contrast, Cynthia gave off the aura of a woman who spent her days at the local spa, from her not-a-hair-out-of-place, expertly styled and highlighted blonde head down to French pedicured toes that peeked out of strappy white Manolos. Not a single wrinkle nor sweat stain marred her size zero designer outfit, a pair of perfectly pressed white linen slacks topped with a scooped-neck midnight-blue silk shell. Diamonds the size of Cleveland graced her left ring finger and dangled from her ear lobes. Another hung from her neck and nestled in the unnatural indentation made by boobs too perfect to have come from nature.
Was Cynthia Ira’s trophy wife? Either she spent a fortune on Botox or a huge age gap separated her from her husband. The woman didn’t look old enough to have given birth to eleven-year-old twins and their nine-year-old brother. If Cynthia was their stepmother, that would explain why she’d opted to visit her sister instead of attending parents’ visitation at their camp.
Right then and there I realized two things: Ira was loaded, and it was going to be a very long evening.
“Drinks, everyone?” Clueless as ever, Ira excused himself and headed over to an outdoor kitchen that contained a built-in gas grill, stove, sink, refrigerator, and prep station. He whirred something pink and frothy in a hi-tech blender, then poured the contents into six chilled margarita glasses he removed from the refrigerator and placed on a tray next to the blender.
After adding two cans of Coke from the refrigerator, Ira slowly and gingerly carried the tray back toward where we remained standing. Too bad he hadn’t thought to balance his load better. Throughout his unsteady progress, the tray wobbled precariously, and the drinks sloshed over the lips of the glasses.
I held my breath, expecting disaster to strike at any moment. Instead of offering her husband a hand, Cynthia stepped far enough to the side to avoid any fallout that might occur should Ira lose his battle with gravity.
“Let me help you with those, Ira.” Zack stepped up and grabbed the Coke cans off the tray and passed them to Alex and Nick.
“Thanks.” Ira set the tray on the table and began mopping up the mess. Then he passed around the sticky glasses to us. “To family,” he said, raising his glass. “Old and new.”
We dutifully raised our glasses to acknowledge Ira’s toast, all except Cynthia. She placed her glass back on the tray without taking a sip, then strode over to the sink to wash her hands.
Mama and Lawrence settled themselves on lounge chairs as far away from the rest of us as possible. When Cynthia returned from cleaning her hands, she exerted no effort to make her guests feel comfortable, not even attempting any small talk about the weather. Apparently, she had no desire to learn anything about me or my children and deemed information about herself or her family none of our business.
However, I did notice that she couldn’t tear her eyes away from Zack. He also noticed and in response, wrapped his arm possessively around my sweaty waist and drew me closer.
I opted for a less subtle approach. After downing my raspberry margarita in one long draught, I said, “Cynthia, I can’t help but notice you keep staring at Zack. Any particular reason why?”
That rattled her cage. “I … uhm … er … you look very familiar,” she said to Zack, totally ignoring me. “Have we met?”
“I’m sure I would have remembered,” he said without a hint of a smile on his lips or in his voice.
“You probably recognize him from People magazine,” I offered, giving her a huge smile.
Cynthia’s eyes lit up. “You’re a celebrity?”
“Only in my publicist’s dreams,” said Zack, continuing his deadpan demeanor.
Puzzlement clouded her eyes. I think she may have tried to pull a frown, but I wasn’t sure. Too much Botox, I suppose. “Then why have you been in People?”
“Because he shoots people for a living,” I said.
Cynthia’s eyes grew wide.
“One of the best in the world,” I added.
Zack tilted his head and whispered to me, “Better go easy on the margaritas, sweetheart. You’re enjoying yourself way too much.”
I smiled up at him and whispered back. “Tell me the bitch didn’t have it coming?”
Before Zack could answer me, Ira gestured for all of us to gather around the large teak picnic table. Mama and Lawrence reluctantly gave up their seats to join us.
“Isn’t this nice?” continued Ira, passing around a platter of crudités he had removed from the refrigerator. “I hope we’ll be able to get together often, especially once the kids are home from camp.”
Did the man not feel the tension emanating around him? Was he really that clueless? Alex and Nick rolled their eyes. I kicked them both lightly on their shins under the table, then shot them my Mom Look.
Cynthia obviously didn’t share her husband’s sentiments. I wondered what she thought about my mother getting cozy with her father. Although the two of them sat at the table with us, they were off in a world of their own, acting like hormone-possessed teenagers.
And speaking of teenagers, bored out of their minds, my poor sons slipped away from the table and began to wander aimlessly around the yard. They kept eyeing the Olympic-sized swimming pool at the far end of the property and edging closer and closer to it.
Too bad Uncle Ira hadn’t mentioned having a pool or suggested the boys bring their suits. No matter how much Alex and Nick commented on the heat or dropped hints about how inviting the pool looked, Ira didn’t offer to lend them swim trunks.
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The boys had kicked off their sneakers and were skimming the water with their toes. Any moment now I expected them to take the plunge. Nick caught me watching them and pointed to the water.
Hell, why not? I thought. Did I care if the back seat of the Hyundai got wet? In this heat they’d dry off before we drove home, anyway. I gave a slight shrug.
A huge splash caught everyone but me by surprise.
“Ira!” Cynthia’s voice sounded too controlled for her blood pressure. In the dimming twilight I noticed a vein pulsing along her neck. “I told you I didn’t want any strangers in my pool. Tell them to get out.”
Ira shrugged. “They’re not strangers, honey; they’re my nephews. Besides, what’s the harm?”
“The harm is I don’t want them in my pool.”
Her pool? Not our pool? Did she think my sons would pollute her pristine chlorinated water with their sub-standard genetic material?
Ira waved to the boys, then headed over to the grill and slapped on hamburgers. As Cynthia fumed in silence, Ira attempted to engage us in conversation. He flitted from one subject to the next, but none took off beyond a sentence or two before quickly petering out.
Had Cynthia acted less icy, the evening might have been only marginally better. Truthfully, it was too damn hot to make any effort at conversation. Moving required too much work, even just moving my mouth.
I found it even too hot to eat. As I half-heartedly nibbled the edges of my over-cooked hamburger, my gaze drifted longingly toward the air-conditioned McMansion behind me, then to our hostess. Apparently, Cynthia didn’t possess any sweat glands because she seemed unbothered by the oppressive heat and extreme mugginess. The rest of us dripped sweat, but the Ice Queen’s face remained moisture free, and her silk shell amazingly void of any dark underarm stains. I’d love to know what brand of antiperspirant she used. Mine had conked out within minutes of leaving Westfield.
We remained outside well after the sun set and the mosquitoes had taken wing in search of their evening meal. Neither the electric bug zapper nor the citronella torches Ira lit around the perimeter of the patio stemmed the vampiric onslaught.
Itching from head to toe, I finally stood and announced, “Ira, Cynthia, thank you for the dinner, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to call it a night.” (The universe will note I did not thank them for a lovely evening. I hate telling lies.)
Mama objected to our departure. “Don’t be such a party pooper, dear. The night is young.”
“Your pumpkin is about to leave, Cinderella. The boys and I have to work in the morning.”
With a disgruntled sigh, Mama tore herself from Lawrence’s arms. “Before we leave,” she said, “Lawrence and I have an announcement to make.”
I’d braced myself all evening for what Yogi Berra used to call déjà vu all over again. After all, I knew my mother. Instead of looking at her and Lawrence, I kept my gaze focused on the Ice Queen. Did Cynthia have any idea what was about to transpire?
Lawrence cleared his throat. Without any pomp or preamble, he blurted out, “Flora and I are getting married.”
Cynthia’s jaw dropped. “Daddy! How could you?”
Ira strode over to his father-in-law and slapped him on the back. “Congratulations, Dad! The moment I met Flora, I knew the two of you were perfect for each other.”
Cynthia turned on her husband. “Ira, this is your doing? Are you out of your fucking mind?”
Off to my left I heard Alex and Nick choking back laughter. I guess they hadn’t thought the situation through. A marriage between Ira’s father-in-law and their grandmother meant we’d be seeing a lot more of Ira and his family. The thought nearly brought me to tears.
Or maybe that was the salty sweat dripping into my eyes and the dive-bombing mosquitoes feasting on my limbs.
_____
“Never again,” grumbled Alex as we piled into the car.
“Ditto,” said Nick.
“You both deserve medals,” I told them.
“You owe us, Mom,” said Alex.
“Me? I think that’s your grandmother’s department. I had nothing to do with accepting Ira’s invitation.” I settled into the passenger seat and turned to Mama as Zack started the car. “And as for you, don’t you think you’re jumping into this relationship with Lawrence a bit too quickly?”
“I’m not getting any younger, dear, and neither is Lawrence. We need to grab happiness wherever we can and hold tight.”
“Yes, that worked so well for you with Lou Beaumont.” I faced forward and clicked my seat belt into place as we pulled away from the curb. “Exactly how many hours have you known Lawrence, Mama?” Ten o’clock at night, hot and muggy with no breeze, and a car loaded with itchy, sweaty passengers had a way of ramping up my crankiness a few hundred notches.
“Time is irrelevant, dear. I only hope that someday you and Zack will understand that.”
Zack reached over and squeezed my hand. Through the light of oncoming traffic, I caught his slight head shake. I think he was suggesting I ignore Mama.
I decided I didn’t have the energy for a battle, anyway. Mama would do what Mama did best: marry. Ira, Cynthia, and his three little monsters would become permanent fixtures in our lives, whether I liked it or not, for as long as the marriage lasted.
On the upside, given Mama’s track record with husbands, neither the marriage nor Lawrence had much chance of longevity. I wondered if Lawrence had any idea about the nature of the select club he’d soon be joining. Should I warn him? I tossed my head back against the seat, closed my eyes, and sighed.
The next thing I knew, we were back in Westfield. “Did I miss anything?” I asked Zack.
He laughed as he motioned toward the back seat. Mama and the boys had all conked out. “Should we leave them there?” he asked.
“We’d never hear the end of it.” Alex leaned against one door, Nick against the other, so instead of opening the back doors, I twisted around and shook their knees to wake them. “Arise, my sleeping princes.”
That did the trick. Alex undid his seat belt and climbed out of the car. Nick first had to remove his draped grandmother from the right side of his body. Mama didn’t stir as he pushed her away from him. Shaking her knee accomplished nothing. Neither did gently calling her name.
“We could carry her,” offered Nick.
“She’d have a cow if she woke up,” said Alex.
I climbed into the back seat and vigorously shook her shoulder. “Wake up, Mama! We’re home.”
Her eyes popped open. “Honestly, Anastasia, you don’t have to shout! I was only dozing.”
Right.
She scooted out of the car, smoothed the wrinkles from her four hundred fifty dollar wilted sundress, and flipped her hair like a consummate beauty queen. “Thank you for providing transportation this evening, Zachary. Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I have a date with a cool bath.”
She’d have to wait her turn. The boys had already dashed into the house.
“If I don’t hurry, she’ll commandeer my bathroom for the next several hours,” I told Zack as I scratched at the bites on my arms. I needed my own date with a cool bath. And then a bottle of calamine lotion. I hope I had some in the medicine cabinet.
“Go,” he said, giving me a quick kiss.
Unfortunately, I was already too late. I doubted the other Pollack household ever played musical bathrooms. With the size of that McMansion, Cynthia and Ira most likely had his-and-her ensuites, complete with every high-end amenity ever shown on HGTV. All three kids probably had their own bathrooms, as well. Must be nice.
I wondered if Mama and Lawrence planned to live in their own wing of the McMansion when they married. No one mentioned whether Lawrence lived there now. Too bad Lucille wasn’t Ira’s long-lost mother. I’d be able to palm them both off on Mr. Moneybags and his Trophy Wife. Of course Tr
ophy Wife would probably jump ship, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, was it?
While I waited for a bathroom to free up, I pulled out the paperwork April had printed for me. Five people had moved into Sunnyside within the last month, two men and three women. I immediately zeroed in on the two men. I knew them both. Dirk Silver and Murray Seibert.
twenty-one
Neither Dirk nor Murray fit my preconceived notion of a hit man, but maybe that’s what the killer had going for him. Who’d suspect a little old man, especially in an environment such as Sunnyside, of being an assassin? He’d blend in without raising any suspicions. For that matter, so would a little old lady. Even more, given the ratio of men to women at Sunnyside.
I began reading through all five sets of applications, hoping to find a link between any of the men or women and Lyndella’s previous life. I began with the women.
I hadn’t crossed paths with either Lorraine Melrose, Charlene D’Amato, or Rosemary Ledbetter. Although all three lived in the same wing of Sunnyside as Lyndella had, none of them lived on the same floor. Lorraine suffered from rheumatoid arthritis, Charlene recently underwent hip replacement surgery, and Rosemary was eighty-eight years old. Hardly typical assassin material.
Lorraine had lived the last forty years in Westfield, having moved here from Staten Island. Charlene had spent most of her adult life in Scotch Plains and taught first grade in North Plainfield until retiring five years ago. As for Rosemary, her paperwork stated she’d worked as a claims processor for the Social Security Administration in Elizabeth her entire adult life. Unless these women had blatantly lied on their admissions applications, they had no connection to Lyndella, Savannah, or The Best Little Whorehouse in the Hostess City.
I set aside the paperwork for the women and turned my attention to Dirk and Murray. Dirk pretty much kept to himself, rarely saying more than a few words to me or anyone else in the arts and crafts room. He spent most of his time at an easel, painting exceptional still lifes, mostly florals and bowls of fruit, from arrangements set up on a display stand within the center of the circle of easels. No matter the schedule, whether the room was filled with scrapbookers, quilters, or potters, I’d usually find Dirk at his easel.
