Class Reunions Are Murder

by Libby Klein

  “How exciting!”

  Aunt Ginny gave me a prim look and a shrug. “How was dinner with Sawyer?”

  “She had two of the girls meet us there, and we spent the night catching up like teenagers.”

  A knock at the door interrupted our morning.

  “I’ll see who that is.”

  I opened the front door to a young Latina woman dressed in a gray linen business suit with her hair pulled from her face into a tight ponytail. A pair of dark-rimmed rectangular glasses sat at the end of her nose.

  “Can I help you?”

  She handed me a familiar business card.

  “Hi. I’m Rosalind Carson from the Department of Youth and Family Services, Division on Aging.” She cocked one eyebrow at Aunt Ginny, in a you-know-what-I-mean kind of rude glance. “Are you Mrs. Frankowski’s granddaughter?”

  “I’m her niece, Poppy. I was going to call you later today. I have your card.”

  “I didn’t want to take any chances that I would miss you. Your aunt has a way of giving us . . . conflicting . . . information, and I wasn’t sure you would really be here this time. May I come in?”

  Her insinuations fell on me like acid rain. I already didn’t like this woman.

  I looked over to see Aunt Ginny standing in the doorway to the parlor looking very calm and innocent. She had removed the gloves and tiara. I gave her a questioning glance, and she motioned that it was okay with her.

  “Sure. Can I get you something to drink?” I led her to the parlor to sit down on the Queen Anne sofa. Aunt Ginny took a seat off to the side on the piano bench.

  “No, thank you, I won’t be long.” She looked over at Aunt Ginny and asked me, “Could we speak alone?”

  No, Lizzie Borden, we can’t.

  “Anything you want to say to me I’m going to tell my aunt anyway, so you may as well say it in front of both of us.”

  “As you wish,” she clipped, and looked down her nose through her glasses. She took a manila folder out of her leather bag and opened it to a stack of yellow copied reports. “I’m here to discuss the situation of your aunt’s declining mental state.”

  Nothing like getting right to the razor-edged point.

  “We’ve had a few calls from concerned citizens that she may be in need of some”—she paused for a moment as if trying to come up with the right wording—“monitoring.”

  Aunt Ginny rolled her eyes, and I had to hold back a snicker.

  “Exactly who are these people who are calling about my aunt and what kind of ”—now I paused for a moment to show my irritation—“monitoring do they think my aunt needs?”

  “Now, let’s not get huffy, Miss . . . ?”

  “McAllister,” I supplied.

  “Miss McAllister. I’m here out of concern for Mrs. Frankowski’s welfare. Were you aware that your aunt has been seen wandering around town in the middle of the night?”

  “Is walking at night a crime in Cape May now?”

  She ignored me and went on. “And her style of dress indicates that she may be losing some of her faculties. We’ve had reports of her out about town in her pajamas and slippers, and just look at her now. An evening gown at ten a.m. on a Saturday!”

  “So what. You can walk one block to the beach and find old guys wearing plaid shorts and black socks with sandals. I don’t see you questioning their sensibilities.”

  “I’m only concerned about your aunt right now.” She softened her tone. “Neighbors don’t want to see her get hurt. And frankly there have also been several complaints about the condition of the house.”

  Yikes. Okay, she got me on the house. I was concerned about the same thing. Aunt Ginny was a little eccentric, but I liked to think of her as a free spirit, not a senile old lady in need of being monitored.

  Ms. Carson continued. “The county is concerned that your aunt needs to be in an assisted living facility.”

  I saw Aunt Ginny grab a Hummel figurine off a shelf and prepare to hurl it. I coughed loudly, “Uh-uh!”

  Aunt Ginny glared at me and put the figurine back.

  “She may need medical attention for,” she said, then whispered, “senility.”

  “There is nothing wrong with my hearing, young lady,” Aunt Ginny shot from her perch across the room.

  I gave Aunt Ginny a warning look and replied, “Ms. Carson, I have every confidence that my aunt is in full possession of her mental state.” No matter how cuckoo of a state it is.

  Aunt Ginny gave the social worker a smug look of defiance.

  “And until it is against the law to take a walk at night or wear evening gowns in the morning I don’t think what Aunt Ginny does is any of the county’s business. And as to the condition of the house, we were just about to discuss how we were going to fix it up right before you arrived.” At least we are now. “So don’t let a little overgrown shrubbery concern you.”

  Ms. Carson gathered her briefcase and stood. “I had hoped you would be more cooperative than this. Mrs. Frankowski’s case will remain under review. If she had a suitable full-time caregiver, we would consider that sufficient credence to her remaining in the home. Otherwise I must insist she be placed in the Sunset Valley Assisted Living Facility for her own safety.”

  Aunt Ginny shot to her feet, her fists balled at her sides. “Why, you little . . . !”

  I cut her off, quickly stepping between her and Ms. Carson. “There is no way I’m going to let that happen. I think you should leave now.” I gestured to the door.

  “We’ll be in touch.” She adjusted her glasses and headed for the door. She turned and looked back at me. “It’s for the best, Miss McAllister.” And with that she marched out the door to her waiting Prius.

  Aunt Ginny slammed the front door and spat. “This is war, she-devil!” But then her bravado left her and she wobbled on weak knees.

  I ushered her to the parlor couch Ms. Carson had just vacated.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were having problems with Social Services?” I gently prodded.

  “It’s just so foolish!”

  Figaro came over to Aunt Ginny and jumped up into her lap. She started petting him absently.

  “I took a couple of walks in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep. It’s not like it’s pitch-black out with all the street lights blazing. So I walked down to the beach to sit a while. What’s the big deal? And I’ve seen young people shopping at Walmart in their pajamas. Why is it a capital crime when I go out in mine?”

  “Were you having trouble sleeping because you missed Grandma Emmy?” I knew a little something about grief and would have made many a midnight walk on the beach myself if I wasn’t two hundred miles away from one.

  She didn’t look up at me, but she nodded. “I’ve never been alone before.” She said it so quiet I almost didn’t hear her. “And I figured I’m getting old so I may as well make the most of the time I have left. So I decided convention be darned. I’m gonna dress however I please and I’m gonna do what I want when I want. At my age I’ve earned the right to do it and I’m not gonna stop now because the enemy doesn’t approve!” A familiar spark of rebellion burned in her eyes.

  I agreed and was even madder at Social Services for trying to constrain Aunt Ginny. “Aunt Ginny, we’re going to get through this. I think we should call your lawyer and set up an appointment.”

  Preferably something for tomorrow morning. I have a six o’clock ferry to catch and I want to be on it like it’s the last chopper out of Vietnam.

  “That’s a good idea. We need reinforcements. I’ll get his number and make the call this morning.”

  Wanting to be very delicate with the next topic, I approached it gingerly. “I am a bit concerned about the house, however.”

  Aunt Ginny blushed, so I knew she knew what I was talking about. “What has been going on exactly?”

  She waved me off. “I don’t want to concern you about that. You have enough to worry about.”

  Like my schedule is so full. I’m sure Paul
a Deen can deep-fry butter on her own without my involvement.

  “You are my concern. I want to help wherever I can.” I put my hand over hers and her eyes misted up.

  “The house may need a little work. But I don’t have the know-how to do it myself and there isn’t the money to hire someone. When Emmy was alive we had two pensions and two Social Security checks. With her gone it’s just me, and the property taxes take up most of the money. I have my butter and egg money for bingo and country line dancing, but that isn’t enough to put a new roof on.”

  Images of Aunt Ginny in cowboy boots shaking it to honky-tonk-ba-donk-adonk flooded my mind, and I had to shut it down fast. I wasn’t ready to wrap my head around that just yet.

  “Why don’t I pay to fix the roof and get a few other things repaired? John left me a sizeable life insurance policy.”

  “NO, NO, NO! Absolutely not! Besides, Georgina would kill you if you touch a penny of that for me. That is money for you to live on. Not for you to fix up this old house so a silly fool can stay here. One day this house will be yours and you can do with it what you want.”

  “Well, that silly fool stuff is just crazy talk.” She gave me a shocked look, and I said, “What? Too soon?”

  She swatted my arm and said, “You little brat!” I felt better now that she was acting more like her usual self and the color was coming back into her cheeks.

  “Have you considered getting a new roommate?” That seemed like a reasonable idea to me. Maybe another old lady could fill the void that Grandma Emmy left and we could take care of the loneliness and the financial issues at the same time.

  “Meh. Too many people irritate me.”

  All right, now that was definitely the Aunt Ginny I knew.

  “Let’s start with calling the lawyer and take it from there.”

  She agreed and looked down at Figaro. “What are you doing in my lap?! Boy, I have dishes to do.”

  Figaro jumped down and turned his back to us. That’s cat talk for passive-aggressive.

  We cleared the table from breakfast and I surreptitiously searched the floor for bacon bits.

  “I think he ate it all,” Aunt Ginny said, as she carried the dirty dishes into the kitchen.

  I glared at Figaro and pointed my finger at him in warning. He responded with a bored yawn and left the room in search of a sunbeam.

  Chapter 6

  The moment had finally arrived that I couldn’t delay any longer. It was time to try on my dress for the class reunion from hell. I pulled out the not-so-little black dress I bought months ago for the funeral and stepped into it. I tried to wiggle it up over my butt, but it was fighting back. How much shrinkage can we blame on the cleaners? No amount of wriggling would get it past my hips. Not even a generous application of PAM would ever get me zipped up, and there was no way I would be able to sit down and breathe, too.

  I tugged off the satin-blend tourniquet and sat on the end of the bed and did the reasonable, adult thing.

  I panicked.

  The reunion was tonight and either I was swelled up from the salt air—doubtful—or I put on a considerable amount of weight since John died and didn’t notice. Painful but most likely. Either way I would have to cry about it later because . . . I. Had. To. Go. Shopping.

  Aunt Ginny was in the sunroom watching Courtroom TV and taking various notes on a steno pad. Figaro was sitting on top of the TV swatting at the judge whenever she appeared on the screen. “I’m trying to get some pointers before I have to go to court,” she explained when she saw me standing there, bewildered.

  “By watching Judge Judy?” I asked. “I’m not sure that’s the same thing.”

  “I’m going to study Matlock and Law & Order, too.” She was pretty sure of this plan of action, and I didn’t want to disappoint her by introducing too much reality. It was good to keep her busy, so she didn’t worry too much. Besides, I could only tackle one crisis at a time.

  “I have to go out and buy a dress for tonight. Do you need anything while I’m out?”

  “No, I think we have everything we need. Move your tail, Figaro! I can’t see the defendant!” Figaro flicked his tail up out of the way apologetically.

  I shook my head at the two of them and said, “Well, I’ll leave you to it then. Be back soon.”

  What else could possibly depress me today?

  As I was walking out the door I heard, “Get your hair done while you’re out. It’s all frizzy.”

  Oh, good. So there’s that.

  * * *

  I parked the car at Sawyer’s bookstore on the Washington Street Mall. Some things had changed over the years. The Victorian Outpost was now a Dairy Queen and Garrity’s Newsstand was now Ye Olde Christmas Shoppe. But some things remained the same. Like the Fudge Kitchen. Since fudge was partly to blame for the current state I was in, I passed up their very tiny free samples and walked the block down to the Chic Boutique dress shop.

  I stopped at the door and recited, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I shall fear no size tens . . . or twelves . . . or . . . fourteens . . . or . . .” Okay, I needed to stop.

  “Can I help you?” The perky size-two saleslady eyed me, sounding like she hoped I was lost.

  Yes. I need something in size round. Okay, I didn’t really say that. “I’m looking for a simple dress to wear to a reunion.” Preferably one that comes with an invisibility cloak.

  “What size?” she asked while looking me up and down. I felt like the last-place heifer up on the auction block.

  “I’m not really sure. If you’ll show me a selection I’ll try a couple on.”

  She took me to the back of the store to where the “plus-size” rack was being punished in the corner. The options in my size range were slim pickings. Ironic.

  I tugged on every single horrifying dress and not one of them fit. They were hateful little sausage casings. Since when were these numbers considered plus-sizes? I peeled the last one off and wiped the tears out of my eyes. I hung it back on the hanger and glared at it hatefully. I’d just have to tell Sawyer I was not going after all.

  “Um, I like, found this in the back of the overstock. It’s been here for a while. It must have been a special order because we don’t normally sell styles like this . . . but you can try it on if you want to.”

  I looked at the dress and then at the salesgirl. She gave me a sheepish smile, and I took the hanger from her. I looked at myself holding up the dress in the mirror. The question you’ve gotta ask yourself is “just how desperate are you?”

  Apparently, desperate enough. A lump caught in my throat as I tugged it on and had to suck in my stomach to get the zipper up. I did my best to avoid looking into the mirror until the last possible second.

  Nope. No way. It looks like something out of a Drag Queen Bridesmaid catalog.

  I came out of the dressing room to look in the mirror under the lights. A size seven browsing a rack of skirts jumped at the sight of me, then apologized to a mannequin.

  Someone had a lot of nerve making a dress this hideous. What sadist put these colors together? Then there was the belt: a black, rubbery-looking corset that might as well have been stamped with Uniroyal. With a buckle that would have made the Pilgrims proud.

  “Oh, good, it fits.” The saleslady tried to hide her disgust.

  Well, good Lord. Don’t act so shocked. It’s not like Ringling Brothers made the dress. I wriggled out of it and checked the tag.

  I looked again at the number and my heart sank. I’d gone up two dress sizes in six months. Think about Sawyer. It’s only one night, then I’m outta here. “I’ll take it.”

  The saleslady held up the dress at arm’s length and gave it a barely concealed look of distaste before she rang it up and put it in the bag.

  “You won’t . . . uh . . . tell anyone you bought this here, will you?”

  If I didn’t have an event to get to, I would have told her to shove it and walked out. Instead I swallowed my pride, accepted the hum
iliation, and paid for the dress.

  I was completely bereft of motivation and just wanted to go back to bed for the next forty-eight hours. Or years. I checked my cell phone for the time. The Titanic of all shopping expeditions had eaten up all my time to get my hair done. I would just have to make the best of the bird’s nest. What I really needed now was a cappuccino.

  And right across the street like a homing beacon sat La Dolce Vita Espresso. The universe was trying to apologize for the dress.

  The smell of fresh-roasted beans met me as I opened the door and I floated into the room. There were a few highly polished wood tables and chairs in the color of espresso beans set up in the front of the shop, giving it a warm toasty feel. A pair of modern, caramel-colored leather chairs dominated the corner opposite the door, and a tall, polished wooden table with leather-topped barstools the color of cappuccino foam faced the front window so you could drink your latte while watching the kids playing in the fountain.

  Note to self: Avoid the window.

  Behind a polished granite-topped walnut counter a chalkboard listed the repertoire of caffeinated delights. A row of cappuccino foam barstools were lined up at the counter.

  A beautiful man with piercing blue eyes and olive skin came out of the back room, drying his hands on a dishtowel. He was wearing a blue-and-white-striped dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up to the elbows, and black dress slacks, which were mostly covered by the crisp white apron tied around his waist. His dark hair curled at the collar and his temples were just starting to gray. A couple days’ growth of black stubble tinged with gray covered his square jaw.

  I think my eyes popped out of my head for a second, and I was horrified that he might have noticed.

  “Buongiorno.”

  The deep masculine voice poured over me like warm honey and I felt myself blush at the absurdity of the reaction at my age.

  “Hi.” Did I just say that kind of dreamy? It sounded kind of dreamy to me. Pull yourself together, Poppy. I cleared my throat.

  “What can I get for you?” His broad smile made wrinkles appear around the outer corners of his eyes.