by A W Hartoin
That much was clear. The other Berrys had a plan for the future and they wouldn’t give up their two little lottery tickets easily. I asked a few more questions. Uncle Morty was right, as usual. The other Berrys weren’t stupid by a long shot, but I didn’t see them as criminal masterminds, either, just typical greedy relatives. I brought up Abrielle and Colton a couple more times and none of the Berrys ever asked me how they were. They had no interest in the kids whatsoever. Ken was curious about whether or not his late relatives had wills and how long it would take for the kids (he didn’t use Abrielle or Colton’s names) to inherit. I had no idea and told them so. Willy was mostly interested in my body. Gina and Stacy wanted to know the price tag on my suit and what brand of makeup I wore. They answered every question without hesitation, they were so transfixed by the idea that I hadn’t had any work done to achieve the Marilyn look. The full Marilyn served its purpose. It pays to be distracting.
I had sixteen messages by the time I got back to my apartment. Two were from Uncle Morty. Chuck called once and the rest were from Dad. He found the Abbott kid, but he wasn’t happy about it. The kid got picked up for public lewdness ten minutes before Dad got there. Now he was waiting through arraignment and bail, which meant he wasn’t able to yell at me in person. He much preferred yelling in person. I didn’t so much. The phone wasn’t great either.
“Do you know what happens next?” he yelled.
“I’m going to New Orleans.”
“Well, thank god she figured that out.”
“She is right here, Dad. You don’t have to yell,” I said.
“You went into a parking garage alone. That guy could’ve nabbed you, knifed you, shot you.”
“I know!” I yelled back. “And I wasn’t alone!”
“You do something for that Brittany girl. She might’ve saved your life.”
“I will!”
“Why are you yelling? I’m the one that’s pissed,” said Dad.
“Not anymore.”
“Call Claire and have her book you a flight tonight. I want you out of town with a quickness. We’re dealing with a mass murderer whose partner’s in the wind. You can stay at the grandparents in the Quarter. Come over and pick up the key before you leave.”
“I’m not staying with Nana and Pop Pop. I’ll never get anything done. They’ll be all over me.”
“They’re in New York with your Aunt Tenne and Bruno for his big show,” said Dad.
“Fine!”
“Damn straight it’s fine. It’s about time you stop arguing with me.”
I screeched and hung up. My gorgeous suit went back onto its deluxe padded hanger and I collapsed next to Skanky. He’d given himself a good cleaning and was snoring on my pillow. New Orleans wouldn’t be so bad. I loved Nana and Pop Pop, but I was their only grandchild and did they love me. My grandparents made my parents seem uninvolved and distant. I’d have to thank Bruno for being a brilliant artist and luring them away. My Aunt Tenne had met Bruno on our trip to Honduras. They’ve fallen inexplicably in love and she’d brought him back to the States. Nobody expected it to last. Bruno was fifteen years younger than my aunt, but, if anything, they were more devoted to each other. Tenne was managing Bruno’s career and had proved to be good at it. Bruno did nothing but paint and sculpt, while she handled the business. It worked out for everyone and the family had embraced Bruno as only we could. His studio was on the third floor of my parent’s house and Mom kept him in food and supplies. Bruno remained his shy self, but I think he liked our family.
At that moment he was the only one. My phone was ringing again. It was Uncle Morty. He wasn’t a real uncle. He was my dad’s best friend and an honorary uncle, but he was more annoying than my blood uncles. I had to go through the meeting with the other Berrys step by step and then listen to Uncle Morty grumble about how I should’ve gotten more out of them. But I wasn’t the dirty laundry person that he was. He could dig through their financials, looking for a connection to New Orleans or Blankenship. I had things to do.
“All I know is that they are not giving up,” I said. “So I’ll just have to find out where the listeriosis came from to clear Donatella beyond any reasonable doubt.”
“You’ll have to lock it up tight. Stewie can smell a big payday a mile away,” said Uncle Morty.
“Who’s Stewie?”
“Stewie Suydam, biggest ambulance chaser west of the Mississippi. Real dirtbag, but good unfortunately. He called those Berry bastards, not the other way around.”
“So the Berrys didn’t think of this on their own,” I said.
“Naw. They had plenty of help. Call me when you get something.”
I hung up and I called Claire about New Orleans. Claire was my old high school rival, who was now my dad’s transcriptionist and secretary. She said she’d take care of it and would email me the reservation. I rolled over and petted Skanky until he woke up and started to clean his rear. Why did he always start at the bottom? I’m sure his ears were just as dirty. Something about the rhythm of his licking made my eyes close. Maybe it was the grossness, but I went right to sleep without eating or putting on a tee shirt.
It felt like only a second later when my eyes popped open. “Stewie!”
“Yow.”
“Where’s my phone?”
I found it under Skanky all warm and hairy. He’d chewed on a corner until he’d gotten through the case. I briefly wondered if he could get shocked from biting a phone and then decided I didn’t care. Electric shock therapy might be just what he needed.
I dialed and received my usual greeting, “What do you want?”
“Uncle Morty. It’s me. Who did you say was the other Berrys lawyer, the ambulance chaser?”
“You take a blow to the head? It’s Stewie Suydam.” He paused. “Why?”
“Because they didn’t mention any Stewie. I think their lawyer is named Andrew.”
“Andrew. Who the hell is Andrew?”
“I don’t know, but Ken said Andrew was going to fix Donatella’s wagon. I assumed it was their lawyer.”
“I’m on it.” He hung up on me and I checked my email. Claire got me a six o’clock flight and it was almost four. I grabbed my suitcase and started throwing in an assortment of warm weather clothing and shoes, lots of shoes. Then I texted Oz. It was a simple message designed to not get a response. Of course, it failed.
“Why are you going to New Orleans?” asked Oz after I finally broke down and answered the phone.
“I have to track the listeriosis.”
“To clear Donatella.”
“That’s the idea. Do you have anything for me?” I wasn’t sure what answer I was looking for. No matter what Oz said, I was getting dangerously close to the Fibonacci radar again.
“The word is out. Aunt Calpurnia was already working our connections. She’s pretty torn up about Tulio.”
“Nothing yet?”
“Nothing yet, but believe me, she’s serious. They’re kicking over all the rocks.”
“And my name is out of it?” I asked.
“You have my word.”
I took my favorite red wrap dress, the causer of many a problem, rolled it up and tucked it in my suitcase. “Oz, have you by chance heard the name Andrew associated with Blankenship or Tulio?”
“Andrew what?”
“Just Andrew.” I told him about the other Berrys and what Uncle Morty said. Oz said he’d ask around and see what he could find out. I promised to text with any developments and then turned my attention to the task at hand, the trip, but instead the guy in the hospital parking garage appeared in my mind. It was quite unexpected. I wasn’t afraid often, but there was something about the way he stood there, waiting. I’d had a few situations, but I usually went to the perpetrator like I did in the funeral home incident or swam to them as in Honduras. Never before had anyone come for me, unless you counted the occasional stalker. But that guy in the hoodie was no weirdo, looking to smell me. I could just tell.
I went to my
sweater drawer and felt between my Christmas sweaters, pulling out the Mauser, a World War Two relic brought back from Europe by my great grandfather. I never carried it, but I had all the paperwork. There was a full clip in my handy box o’clips and I found the carrying case Dad got me under a pile of shoe boxes. I packed up Grandpa’s Mauser and made sure I had all my permits and then, and only then, did I get the cat carrier.
“Skanky. Sweet boy. Come here and get some treats.” I had no treats, but Skanky had proven how dumb he was.
“Bacon. I’ve got bacon.”
No luck. Skanky had jumped off the bed during my frantic packing and disappeared. It was the suitcase. I should’ve nabbed him first and then packed. I didn’t have time for this. I ran out to my neighbor, Mr. Cervantes. His door creaked open and his wrinkled brown eyes peered out at me over the chain.
“Hi, Mr. Cervantes. I’m in a real bind. Could you possibly watch Skanky for me? I can’t find him and I have a plane to catch in under two hours,” I said, all in a rush.
Mr. Cervantes smiled and undid the chain. “I’d be honored to help. Big case?”
“Not sure yet. I have to go to New Orleans. You don’t mind?”
Mr. Cervantes didn’t mind. He was thrilled, especially when I gave him my key and Aunt Miriam’s cellphone number, in case he had a problem. Mr. Cervantes liked Aunt Miriam. He’d known her forever, even before she was a nun. I never got the story there. Half the time he appeared terrified of her, like everyone else. The rest of the time, he probably would’ve asked her on a date if that were allowed. I thought he was lucky she was married to God. She’d eat him for lunch.
I gave him the vet’s number, just in case Skanky ate a tennis ball and then I ran out to drive to my parents’ house on Hawthorne.
The winter light was fading and I screeched to a halt in the alley behind the house. Dad’s car was parked next to Mom’s, so he must’ve gotten the Abbott kid out of jail. Time 4:15. Not bad. I went up the walk, past the sad barren flower beds, to the back porch. Dad had finally replaced the dry-rotted roof after Mom threatened him with a divorce and a contractor. It was the combo. Divorce alone wasn’t enough to do it.
I let myself in and took a second to breathe the cool air of the butler’s pantry. It was my favorite place in the house and it didn’t bother me at all that the builder, Josiah Bled, The Girls’ uncle, might’ve buried his lover, Bernice Collins, under the floor. Nobody knew what happened to Bernice and I was more interested in what happened to Josiah seventy years later. I hadn’t heard anything from Spidermonkey. He was the one person who hadn’t called me, but, then again, Spidermonkey only called with updates, not to bother me.
I went to the key cabinet at the far end of the pantry and looked at the rows of keys on the little brass hooks. None were tagged, of course.
“Mom, Dad, I’m here. Where’s the key?” I called out through the pantry door.
No answer, so I went into the toasty kitchen filled with the smell of cheesy noodles, our family’s version of comfort food. Cheddar cheese, grilled chicken, pasta, and curry. It was heaven. There was also, to my mother’s deep shame, a can of cream of chicken soup in our family casserole, but I wasn’t to tell anyone about that on pain of disinheritance. Mom was serious about that. She went so far as to hide the empty soup cans in our neighbor’s recycling bin. She was so crazy.
“Mom!”
Still nothing. I came around the table to find Mom’s evil Siamese, Swish and Swat, sitting in the doorway to the rest of the house. They stared at me with their pale blue eyes. I was pretty sure they were thinking about how they would eat me when I was dead.
“I don’t have him,” I said to them. “You’ll just have to torment somebody else’s cat for a change.”
Swish hissed and Swat extended his claws. They loved it when I dropped off Skanky. He was their favorite chew toy. When I went camping last summer, they licked off all his hair and he had to wear a sweater for a month out of sheer embarrassment. His, not mine.
“Okay. Get out of the way,” I said.
Hiss.
“I will kick you. Don’t think I won’t.” The last time I tried to get past the evil Siamese, they shredded my ankles. I had scars to prove it, but Mom blamed me for startling her babies. Please. Nothing startled those two. They were like wolverines in cat clothing. It was either kick or risk the ankles. Neither was a good option. I grabbed the broom out of the pantry and brandished it at them. “Prepare to eat bristles.”
Swish and Swat yawned, pointedly showing me their needle-sharp teeth as if I needed to be reminded. Then they stalked off down the hall and went up the servant staircase. I trotted past the stairs and heard the murmur of voices down in what Mom insisted on calling the parlor. It was the living room. I heard my name and hesitated at the door. If Mom found out that I told my best friend Ellen about the cream of chicken soup, I wanted to know before she disinherited me.
“You don’t know that he’ll be there,” said Dad. “She’s never seen him before.”
“Mercy’s never been there alone before,” said Mom. “He will be there.”
“It’ll be fine. Mercy’s no shrinking violet. She can handle herself.”
That sounded suspiciously like a compliment. I was shocked.
“I don’t know,” said Mom.
“It’s less expensive to stay at your parent’s. It’s no big deal.”
“It’s unnerving. I never told her.”
“No reason to tell her. What would you say anyway?”
I walked in. “Never told me what?”
My parents were standing in front of the blazing fireplace with whiskey sours in hand. Mom was in full Marilyn, but she always was. Mom couldn’t help it. She loved lipstick and lashes, pencil skirts and stilettos. Her look always matched her face.
“When did you get here?” Mom blurted out.
“A couple of minutes ago. Who were you talking about?” I asked.
“You shouldn’t eavesdrop. It isn’t polite.”
“I wasn’t eavesdropping.” Not much anyway.
Mom sipped her drink and eyed me coldly over the rim of her vintage glass. “Why do you have a broom?”
I looked down, surprised to see the broom still in my hand. “I was…sweeping.”
“Did you smack my cats?” asked Mom with a strange glint in her eye. When it came to the evil Siamese, she forgot who her flesh and blood was and who was purchased from a breeder in Chicago.
“Mom, I would never smack Swish and Swat.”
Mom put her glass on the mantel and crossed her arms. Dad sipped his whiskey sour and smiled so that his dimples danced on his cheeks. He towered over Mom at six four and was seriously lanky with red hair and a special charm that was somehow evident even when silent.
“Okay, so I need the key,” I said, anxious the leave the cats behind.
“That’s all you have to say for yourself,” said Mom.
“Um…yeah.”
“You didn’t even call me.”
“About what?”
“The stalker in the parking garage. I had to hear it from Morty,” she said.
“I thought Dad would tell you.”
Mom turned her glare on Dad and he quickly said, “You need keys.”
Dad tossed me the keys and ushered me out of the parlor while Mom chased us, yakking about the darn cats. The devils watched as we went by the servant stair. I swear, they were smiling.
“Carolina, she doesn’t have time. Six o’clock flight.” Dad took the broom out of my hand and tucked it away around a corner. “Hide the weaponry next time.”
Before I knew it, I was through the pantry and at the back door.
“Hey Dad, I want to know who you were talking about. What’s unnerving?”
Dad opened the door and pushed me through. “I want to know why your mother keeps making me salads when she knows I don’t like the color green. Life’s full of mysteries. Have a good flight.”
“But—”
He closed the door
and locked it. My father locked me out. I had a key. But still it was weird. I was about to go back for another try, but I checked my phone first. “Oh crap!”
There wasn’t enough time for a fight. New Orleans and something unnerving awaited.
Chapter Ten
CLAIRE BOOKED ME on a non-stop flight to New Orleans and I was alone on it. I expected to see Aaron standing at check-in, eating a Twinkie and looking confused. But there was no Aaron at check-in or anywhere else. It was good to be on a flight alone with a magazine, but it felt a little weird. I kept expecting him to pop out of the bathroom, holding a giant salami or something. My row was empty, except for me, and the flight half-full. Once I got used to the idea of flying without constant chatter and the smell of hotdogs, I wadded up my coat and prepared to snooze for the two-hour flight. But it was not to be.
There was a mother and her two darling little red-headed girls in front of me. And when I say darling, I mean it. They were the most adorable children I’d ever seen, even the three-year-old who continually sang Let It Go. Not the whole song, just the one line. Their mother apologized and gave me M&M’s. I’ll put up with a lot for an endless supply of M&M’s. Plus, the small girls were the only children in two weeks that I’d seen that weren’t throwing up, concussed, or otherwise injured. It was refreshing.
My flight arrived on time and I was out in the humid air, grabbing a cab within twenty minutes of landing. My cab driver didn’t share my attitude and was visibly pissed that I wasn’t going to a hotel in the French Quarter. My grandparents were on a street he’d never heard of and didn’t believe existed. I told him to put the address into his GPS and silently calculated a lower tip for telling me that I didn’t know where my own grandparents lived.
We zoomed toward downtown, past a sign that made me smile. “Eat local. Breastfeed.” My cab driver didn’t find it, or me, amusing. He grumbled all the way to the Quarter and made sixteen turns before he found the street. I didn’t care. I was smiling. New Orleans always felt like another version of home. A grubbier version, but home none the less. I love the faded, but colorful, houses with their wrought iron balconies overloaded with fat ferns and flowers.
