Stick a Fork In It

by Robin Allen

  I knocked on her door and heard it echo in the phone.

  “Hold on,” she said.

  “They don’t have any hot water,” I said when she opened the door.

  She brought the phone to her ear to answer me, then understood the situation a nanosecond before she looked completely foolish. She returned to her chair but didn’t invite me to sit. She never does. Maybe because she thinks I’m going to ask to share some of her liver-flavored pork rinds.

  “They’re staining the floors, so I can’t go back until Thursday,” I said.

  “You’re really milking this permit inspection, Markham.”

  “It’s not my fault they don’t know what they’re doing. Besides, I want to work, remember? Put me back on full duty.”

  “Not with that hand of yours,” she said. “I can’t read half your reports. Pizza Pig made a deal with L and L, so you can do a mobile tomorrow. Noon.”

  That would be a mobile vendor permit inspection. This type of inspection is similar to a food permit inspection, but instead of walking around full-size in the vast spaces of a restaurant, I contort myself into a circus acrobat so I can make sure the truck meets specifications. As an independent operator, the owners of Pizza Pig had had a tough time finding an approved location to park their truck when not in use, and they couldn’t get a permit until they did.

  No, you can’t just park it on the street in front of your house. You need access to a commissary kitchen where you can safely dispose of your dirty or “gray” water, and that has a potable water source to supply you with fresh drinking and cooking water. You can also use the space to clean your unit, store raw ingredients, and prepare food. A mobile snack company, Lunch and Larder, had apparently rented them space. And rather than send me to inspect this unair-conditioned truck in the cooler morning hours, Olive had thoughtfully scheduled the inspection for noon.

  An inspection for a “cold truck” is easier because it’s for a restricted permit that allows vendors to serve only cold food that is prepared in the commissary, like sandwiches, pasta salads, and fruit cups. An unrestricted permit is for vendors who want to have a grill or oven in their truck so they can prepare hot food to order. Since most people prefer gooey, cheesy pizza right out of the oven, Pizza Pig probably wanted the latter. But I didn’t want to assume.

  “It’s a hot truck, I presume.”

  “Yeah.” Olive licked fragrant residue from her right index finger, then started typing with it. “I’m emailing you the paperwork.”

  I went back to my desk and printed the documents, then deleted several emails from Olive that had subject lines ending in exclamation points. I added rubber gloves, thermometer condoms, and the last of my business cards to my backpack, then sent an email to Olive requesting “More Biz Cards!!!” Then I headed downtown to the Warehouse District for dinner with my father.

  x x x

  I didn’t see Mitch when I walked in, but I did have my second jolt of the week after discovering Troy strung up on the catwalk. Well, third, if I counted Drew Cooper. Fourth, if I counted Ursula’s 180 turn from ogress to angel. Okay, fifth, if I counted a small, angry gay man interrupting my bubble bath. I’d had an earthquake’s worth of jolts, actually, so I should have taken another one in stride. But I found that difficult to do because this jolt had been calculated and orchestrated by my father. Again.

  Nina sat on a bench inside the door, talking on her cell phone and examining her dragon-breath red toenails. Her face looked salon plumped, her lavender linen cocktail dress tamed into unwrinkled obedience. “Have you noticed all the gray in her hair lately?” she said into the phone. “I hear she’s on the outs with her hairdresser.”

  I backed away like a coward from a gunfight and stood in the courtyard deciding among three options. I could retreat and fume, which would make Nina happy. I could stay and fight, which would ruin Nina’s dinner, but also mine and Mitch’s. Or I could stay and make nice. If Mitch could see that I had gotten his life lesson about holding my nose around people who stink, maybe he would stop trying to force the two of us into smelling range.

  I walked inside and tapped my stepmother on the shoulder.

  She looked up with one of her fake smiles, then dropped it when she saw me. “Poppy?” she said in a voice as metallic as her short platinum hair. “Are you here to examine the restaurant?” She hadn’t asked the person on the phone to hold.

  “No, I’m not here to inspect the restaurant.” I raised my bandaged hand. “I’m on light duty until my hand heals. I got hurt because I was trying to get your daughter out of jail, remember?”

  I had given Nina an opening to finally thank me for doing that, but she raised an eyebrow at me and “uh-huhed” into the phone.

  “Is Mitch here?” I asked.

  “On his way,” she said to me and into the phone. “He hasn’t been golfing long enough to properly estimate the length of time nine holes should take to play.”

  A waitress brought her a glass of white wine, but Nina didn’t ask if I would like something to drink or indicate that we were together. “Are you meeting someone?” she asked.

  I figured she had spoken to the person on the phone, but after a moment of silence, I looked down at her looking up at me. “Isn’t it obvious that I’m meeting Mitch?”

  “There are my girls,” Mitch boomed from behind us. He hugged me, then extended his hand to Nina, who ended her call and took his hand to stand. He kissed Nina’s cheek, avoiding eye contact with me.

  Mitch goes way back with the owners of Vis-à-Vis, Herb Wolff and Dana White, and he and Nina are regulars for dinner, so the hostess immediately led us to a coveted table by a window. I ordered a glass of Shiraz, and Mitch ordered a martini. Nina didn’t veto his selection, so I assumed it was okay if he drank and didn’t remind him about doctor’s orders.

  Mitch sat back in his chair and smiled. “How was your day, Duchess?”

  Nina launched into a spellbinding chronicle of her search for a Persian rug to go with the valances in the guest bedroom, her lunch at the club with CiCi Chesterton, and her shoe-ting spree that started at Neiman’s and ended at Nordstrom’s. “I can’t find any sandals to go with my new yellow dress,” she said.

  “I saw some yellow sandals at the thrift store the other day,” I said.

  Nina frowned. “The what?”

  “Thrift store. It’s where they sell used clothing.”

  “Is that where you shop?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

  “All the time. I find great bargains on all kinds of stuff.”

  “Bargains,” she repeated, making the word sound scandalous. “Are those important to you?”

  Mitch blocked my next gambit. “Duchess, love, why don’t you take Poppy shopping with you the next time you go?”

  The time had come for me to prove that I had learned my lesson. “That would be grand,” I said, using Nina’s words in the fake-happy voice I had heard her use so often. “When are you going next?”

  “Sometime this week,” Nina countered in the same voice. I’m sure the only reason she played along was because she thought I would decline.

  I showed her my bandaged hand again. “I’m on light duty for a while, so name the day and time.”

  She consulted the calendar on her phone. “Let’s see, I have a mani-pedi Wednesday morning, a tennis clinic Thursday afternoon, garden club on Friday…”

  Not to be outdone in the important appointments department, I said, “I have to do a couple of inspections tomorrow.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” she said, putting down her phone. “Another time.”

  “But I’ll be free after lunch,” I said. “Shall I pick you up?” Nina had only so many moves in this chess game. And there is no way she would ride in my Jeep.

  She consulted her calendar again. “Oh, pooh. I’m having a seaweed
wrap at noon.”

  I looked at Mitch. “Oh, pooh.”

  “So let’s make it two-ish?” Nina said.

  Mitch raised an eyebrow and smiled at me. Checkmate.

  Ish is for people who believe that everyone else’s schedule revolves around them. I don’t do ish. “I’ll be at your house at two o’clock sharp,” I said.

  Nina and I looked at the king, but Mitch had played his end game and lowered his head to read the menu, even though he always orders the special when he dines out.

  After our waiter delivered our drinks and took our order for the pineapple-marinated portobello mushroom for me and the duchess and the trout special for my father, Mitch put his hand on mine. “I’m sorry about yesterday, Penelope Jane. How are you holding up?”

  “What happened yesterday?” Nina asked.

  I looked at my father. “Is she serious?”

  “I believe I told you while you were unloading the car, love. Poppy found Troy Sharpe dead while inspecting his new restaurant.”

  “Oh, that,” Nina said, no doubt disappointed that we weren’t gearing up to further discuss her lack of suitable footwear. “I heard his wife is divorcing him.”

  I choked on my Shiraz. “Where did you hear that?”

  “At the club,” Nina said, already bored. “CiCi’s daughter is taking tennis lessons from…what’s her name…Gina.”

  “Ginger?” I said, asking rather than correcting because Nina could have been spreading gossip about someone else ending her marriage.

  “Yes, Ginger,” Nina said. “I’m not surprised she wins so many tournaments with those meaty thighs of hers.”

  I hated to ask Nina for details, but it was not the time to put pride before a probe. “Do you know if Ginger was just talking about divorce or had she served him with papers?”

  “CiCi will know,” Nina said.

  I cannot abide the interruption of cell phones in general and during meals in particular—for any reason whatsoever—but I didn’t say anything to Nina when she picked hers up and dialed. That information about Ginger would be valuable currency when I returned to Capital Punishment and needed to bluff someone out of a secret.

  While Nina “Really-ed” and “You don’t say-ed” with CiCi, I said, “So, Daddy, tell me about Suzi Grimm. Is she still doing criminal defense?”

  “As far as I know,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

  I couldn’t tell him about my suspicions that Troy’s death was not an accident, not while the Godmother of Gossip gabbed on the phone with CiCi Chatterbox, if I didn’t want Ginger to know about it within ten minutes. And I certainly couldn’t tell him that the very fact that Todd and Danny had an appointment with Suzi made me think they might be murderers. I lowered my voice. “I may need her services after my shopping trip tomorrow.”

  Mitch chuckled. “You’ll have a good time.” He ate a bite of bread. “But you asked me about Suzi before you made shopping plans with Nina.”

  At the mention of her name, Nina hung up the phone, then sipped her wine and cast her eyes around the restaurant.

  “What did CiCi say?” Mitch asked kindly before I asked un-so.

  “She thinks Ginger spoke with an attorney but hadn’t served him.”

  From CiCi’s daughter to CiCi to Nina, the rumor had been filtered through three suspect sources, maybe more, but it was all I had. I needed to figure out a way to get it straight from Ginger.

  Over salads, Nina recaptured Mitch’s attention and the conversation with her opinions about CiCi’s Lap-Band surgery (she approved) and the upcoming fall fashion trends (she did not approve of wearing sequins before 5:00 pm), ignoring me and foiling any attempts Mitch made to include me.

  It gave me time to stock my inventory of excuses for not going shopping with her: I found another dead body. The Johns are dressing me now. I joined a bowling league and rolled my way into the semis. Any one of them would do, because she wouldn’t listen and she wouldn’t care. Even if I wanted trendy clothes from a department store, and even if Nina did have a PhD in shopping, I didn’t actually want to spend time with her. I just wanted Mitch to believe I did.

  The needles on my patience and energy meters had been running in the red zone by the time Nina and Mitch ordered espresso and a dessert of fresh peaches infused with Cointreau, so I said good night and headed home.

  x x x

  Once the exterior walls of my house had been repaired, I started doing surprise inspections of the interior to encourage faster progress. It was coming along, but I suspected that my contractor had not connected the air-conditioning unit to discourage me from moving in early so he had the leisure of working in an empty house.

  I can rough it in a lot of ways, but sleeping when I’m hot is my least favorite. It’s why I try to live right. I would never get a good night’s sleep in hell.

  So it was back to the Johns, who were both home. Had I not been so tired and annoyed, had my mind not been occupied with the day’s events, I would have noticed the sign taped to the back door that read No admittance until 10:00 pm.

  I would have noticed a lot of things and would not have done what I did.

  sixteen

  The Johns’s raised wine glasses were in mid-clink when I walked through the kitchen door, all of us surprised at seeing what we saw but for very different reasons.

  Their kitchen table had been set with a white tablecloth, their

  M. A. Hadley collectible plates, and a flickering candelabra that looked like it had been FedExed from the Liberace museum in Las Vegas. An extravagantly frosted cake sat between them on the table, inscribed with “Happy Ann,” the “iversary” split into two pieces on dessert plates.

  That was my surprise.

  John With’s surprise was the fluffy Maltese puppy squirming in my arm. I had found it whining in a box on the side of the house and scooped it up on my way to the back door. The Johns had owned a Maltese named Judy, who got run over by a moving van a few months ago. I used to take care of her when they traveled. She was always whining, and I was always picking her up to make her stop, so when I heard this one, I did the same thing.

  John Without’s surprise was that I had ruined his surprise anniversary gift for John With.

  I put the puppy on the kitchen floor, closed the door, and crossed the yard to do penance in my hot house. Had I owned a hair shirt, I would have slept in it.

  x x x

  After the fire that had destroyed my bedroom, I had cleared out everything from my house that was smoke- or water-damaged, so I had nothing with which to start my day the next morning except a toothbrush and a load of guilt that would have had a good Catholic wearing out the kneeler in a confessional. No coffee or food, no towels, no shampoo or soap, except for a dirty bar of pumice soap the contractor had left by the kitchen sink. As extra atonement, I rinsed it off and washed my face with it.

  I could have eaten breakfast at any of the restaurants within walking distance of my house that served bagels and coffee to everyone, regardless of personal hygiene and thoughtless actions the night before, but I went next door. I knew what was waiting for me there, but I couldn’t go a whole day with this hanging over my head. I don’t like John Without, but I would never have done something like that on purpose.

  I walked out of my house and looked across my yard that had been mowed recently, but not by me, and at their driveway. I didn’t see John Without’s car, so I went over to test the atmosphere with John With. I reverted myself to houseguest status and knocked on their front door.

  John With answered with his crooked smile and a scolding shake of his head. “You don’t have to knock.” He wore a bright white polo shirt and long blue shorts.

  He led me into the kitchen, pulled out a chair at the wooden table that had gone back to looking like it always does, except for the candelabra, and p
oured a cup of coffee for me.

  “Where did you go last night?” he asked. “I was worried about you, but John wouldn’t let me call.”

  “To my house.”

  “You don’t have a bed.”

  “I don’t deserve one,” I said. “Where’s John?”

  “At the gym.”

  He set a bottle of maple syrup in front of me, but I waved it off. “I’m drinking it black and bitter today.”

  “Stop it, Poppy Markham,” he said, handing me a spoon.

  “I am so sorry about last night. It was an accident. I picked it up automatically, like I used to with Judy. And please don’t say it’s okay, because it’s not. I ruined your anniversary.”

  “You didn’t ruin anything.” John sat down across from me and poured maple syrup into my cup. “As far as I’m concerned, you bringing in the puppy was part of the surprise, and you two must have practiced for days to get such perfect timing.”

  “He bought that?”

  “We wouldn’t have lasted fifteen years without allowing each other a masquerade now and then.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me about your plans? I could have stayed away entirely.”

  He laughed. “He intended to leave a note in your room but got flustered after he saw you in the bathtub.”

  “Is he blaming me for that, too?”

  “He’ll be okay.” John reached down to the chair next to him and gently picked up a sleeping white puff. “I promised him we’d throw a party this weekend for Liza’s debut.”

  x x x

  John With insisted that our temporary roommate arrangement continue, and because every minute on my bedroom floor the night before felt like it had expanded into an hour when it accumulated in my back, and because he was so darn sweet about everything, I agreed.

  I ate, showered, and dressed, but I didn’t have anything to do until my Pizza Pig inspection, so I called my cousin, Daisy, to tell her I would meet her for yoga at Namaste Y’all.

  The eight o’clock class is usually full, but instead of blending in with all the other yogis, Daisy and I stand out among the young, thin, muscular UT students who believe that sweating is something football players and day laborers do, so they don’t do it. Daisy and I have the muscles, but we also have twenty additional years, a few extra pounds, and no such beliefs about perspiration.