by J. C. Eaton
I tried to hide the panic in my voice. “Now is fine. Now is fine! Whatever it is we’re doing, we can do it now. What are we doing?”
“Why, you’re deciding what type of legs you wish your pastry birds to have. Marzipan. Chocolate—white, dark, milk, marbled. Candied. Marshmallow. And let me see, ah yes, jellied. And for the beaks, candied or sugared.”
For a minute, I was speechless. “I thought Julien was going to make an executive decision about the birds.” Good for me. I used the word “executive.” That always sounds impressive.
“The dossier doesn’t indicate that, but if you wish to trust in our judgment, we would be more than happy to select a composition that blends perfectly with the combination of ingredients, color, and texture for each bird.”
“Yes. That’s fine. That’s wonderful. Do that! Blend the texture. Pick the legs.” I was practically shouting.
“Miss Kimball, are you quite all right?”
“I’m fine. Really, I am. Is that all you need, Antoine?”
“Unless something unforeseen comes up, we appear to have this settled. Thank you, Miss Kimball. Have a nice afternoon.”
Birds’ legs. I just got off the phone with someone who wanted me to select birds’ legs. The ludicrousness of the situation must have hit me, because I burst out laughing and Augusta asked if I was okay.
“Never better, Augusta,” I yelled back. “Never better.”
After I spent the next forty minutes updating the spreadsheet for our monthly expenditures, Augusta knocked on the frame of my office door. “Your mother is on the phone.”
“Again? Now what?”
Augusta crinkled her face and smirked. “Do you want me to get you a cup of coffee or tea as long as I’m up? We don’t have anything stronger.”
“Very funny. Thanks, but I’m fine.”
I picked up the phone as she headed back to her desk. “What’s up, Mom?”
“Plans have changed. You need to meet Lucinda and me at Bagels ’n More when you get out of work. Lucinda wants to grab a bite to eat before it gets too late.”
“At five-thirty? Since when is five-thirty too late?”
“You’ll understand when you’re our age and no longer have a young stomach. So, anyway, you know where the restaurant is, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
Bagels ’n More, with its green and orange umbrellas on the patio and never-ending array of bagels, bialys, muffins, and rolls, was the unofficial meeting place for the members of my mother’s book club. It was also the hub for any and all gossip leaking out of Sun City West. Located directly across from the development, it was always packed. Especially in the mornings, when the news and bagels were fresh.
“Good. Good. Then we’ll see you at five-thirty. I thought about bringing Streetman, but we’d have to eat on the patio and it’s too hot. Besides, Streetman might get antsy if we stay too long.”
I felt like saying, “Then bring him! By all means! Bring him!” but I kept my mouth shut.
“They crank the air-conditioning up high, so if you have a sweater, grab it.”
“Fine. I’ve got a sweatshirt in the back of my car. See you later.”
I went back to my spreadsheet and tried not to think about bagels, birds’ legs, or anything that had to do with food. Nate was out interviewing possible witnesses involving Theodore Sizemore’s untimely demise on the golf course. He also had reams of paperwork on his desk pertaining to his other cases. At least he had the foresight to rent an office that had enough space for another investigator, should it come to that.
“I’m heading out, Phee,” Augusta shouted. “I can’t believe it’s four already. This day has flown by. You going to be all right?”
“Of course. I’ll keep my door wide open and start picking up the calls. See you tomorrow.”
Augusta started for the front door, then turned abruptly around and walked over to my desk.
“Listen. I know this is none of my business, but with Mr. Williams all caught up in those cases of his and you with your aunt’s wedding . . . well, I just wanted you to know that if you need anything, I don’t mind helping. I’m not looking to get paid more. Just offering to help.”
“Thanks, Augusta. That’s awfully sweet of you, but I think we’ll manage. For now, anyway.”
“The offer is there. It can’t be all that easy dealing with birds’ legs.”
And with that, she walked out of the office, leaving me with my mouth wide open.
At precisely ten after five, I locked up the office, got into my car, and drove to Bagels ’n More. The parking lot wasn’t as packed as I had seen it on other occasions, but they were still doing a brisk business. My mother waved me over to their table as soon as I got in the door.
“You remember Lucinda, don’t you?”
I started to take a seat. I smiled and nodded at the short, frumpy woman holding a florist catalog.
“We’ve been up to our elbows with your aunt’s floral arrangements,” Lucinda said as my mother snatched the catalog from her grip and held it in the air like Moses delivering the two tablets.
“Yes! See for yourself, Phee.”
The coffee mugs shook as my mother plopped the giant tome on the table and nudged it toward me.
I started to leaf through the pages.
“And now we have to decide upon the bouquet. Who cares about the bouquet? We’ll all be in shock once we get a glimpse of that gown. It’s beyond hideous. You’ve got to talk your aunt out of wearing that gown!”
“Mother, I’m not about to—”
“She’s right, Harriet,” Lucinda blurted out. “Once a bride has made up her mind about a wedding gown, there’s no stopping her.”
My mother looked directly at her friend, then back to me. She took a slow, deep breath and nodded. “I suppose you’re right. None of us could talk Phee out of her gown when she got married.”
“WHAT?” I all but spit out the words. “There was nothing wrong with my gown. It was gorgeous.”
My mother’s voice got low and she enunciated ever word. Slowly and deliberately. “You looked like Cinderella.”
As if that wasn’t enough to set me on edge, she continued, “Those puffy sleeves, that big bouffant skirt, that . . .”
“It was the eighties, Mom. The late eighties! That was the style, for crying out loud, and I looked gorgeous. I was the perfect bride. Too bad the whole marriage only lasted a few years.”
Then Lucinda said something totally unexpected. “That was the eighties, too. Failed marriages.”
“Well,” my mother huffed, still fixated about my aunt, “if we can’t talk Ina out of that monstrosity of a gown, then we’ll have to figure out a way to hide it with the bouquet.”
“Her gown isn’t that bad, Mom.”
“Oh, yes, it is. Didn’t you take a good look at the photo she sent? The gown is a disaster. I’ve seen funeral shrouds that look better. Wait till the wedding photographer tries to take a picture of that ensemble. They better not go for a close-up with Ina in those long braids of hers. I swear, she doesn’t need a hat, or God forbid a veil, to go with that gown. All she needs is one of those horned helmets and she can pass as Brunhilde if they ever produce another Wagnerian opera!”
Lucinda burst out laughing and had to catch her breath before the waitress could take our order.
We spent the next ten minutes or so discussing flowers before reaching a consensus about the table arrangements and the floral walkway. I didn’t dare bring up the topic of the bouquet, for fear my mother would launch into another tirade about the gown.
Just then, the waitress reappeared with our drinks and I turned my head.
I couldn’t believe who was sitting at the table behind us. “Oh my gosh. That’s Rochelle from La Petite Pâtisserie. I wonder what on earth she’s doing here.”
“Rochelle? La Petite Pâtisserie?” my mother said. “That’s the fancy dessert place your aunt hired for the wedding. What do you know about La Petite Pâtisseri
e? Oh no! Don’t tell me your aunt asked you to handle the desserts.”
Oh no! I was caught. Red handed. Mouth wide open and no one to blame but myself.
“I’m sorry, Mom. Aunt Ina called and said she was so stressed. I felt bad for her and agreed to help.”
My mother gave a better betrayal performance than Bette Davis and Joan Crawford combined. Lucinda and I exchanged painful glances at each other while we listened.
Finally my mother said, “I told Ina I’d be more than happy to purchase the pastries from Costco. They have wonderful desserts. I could have purchased them when they were having a sale and put them in my freezer.”
For all I knew, Jimmy Hoffa could have been in her freezer. Once something went in, it rarely came out. And when it did, it was devoid of taste and totally unrecognizable.
“Let it go, Harriet.” Lucinda placed her hand on my mother’s wrist. “Let it go. You have enough to worry about with the floral arrangements.”
Thankfully the food arrived at that minute and we all dove in. Ham and Swiss cheese on bagels, turkey on bagels, and salmon spread on bagels. Trying to be inconspicuous, I turned my head to see who else was at Rochelle’s table. It was a good-looking man barely approaching middle age. Brownish hair, athletic build, and just enough tan to look as if he’d recently returned from St. Croix. Rochelle was spreading the cream cheese on his bagel for him. Boyfriend? Kissing up to someone? I tried to find out.
With my mother and Lucinda fast at work devouring their meal, Rochelle’s conversation was clearly audible.
“I don’t know if I can go ahead with this. I mean, I want to, I need to . . .”
“Make up your mind, Rochelle. It’s not as if I can’t find someone else. Someone who isn’t as driven by guilt.”
“Do you want more mayonnaise, Phee? They brought us extra.” My mother’s voice abruptly ended any chances I had of overhearing Rochelle’s dilemma.
“What? No.”
I chewed my bagel softly, hoping to catch the remainder of the conversation, but all I heard was the sound of chairs being moved as Rochelle and the man got up to leave. Turning my head quickly, I tried to get a better look at him. Yep, he certainly was good looking. I had no idea who he was, but as things turned out, I’d see his face two more times before Aunt Ina’s wedding.
Chapter 7
We didn’t accomplish that much at Bagels ’n More, but my mother was satisfied that “I was on her side” regarding the floral arrangements. Whatever that meant. I was home in plenty of time to take a quick swim in our community pool and catch up on some bill paying. My own bills. It was easier paying the bills for the office. I didn’t have to justify anything or rationalize it. All I had to do was receive it, verify it, and pay it. I turned off the computer and switched on the TV in time for the late news.
As I made myself comfortable on the couch, the segment began with the words, “This just in.” Expecting it to be the usual Phoenix drama involving car chases, carjackings, and robberies, I fluffed up a pillow behind my head and listened to the commentary. When I first moved here, I was overwhelmed with the magnitude of local crime, but as Nate pointed out, “Mankato is a small-time city compared to Phoenix.”
Stretching out my legs, I leaned back, mildly interested. And then I heard the words “Petroglyph Plaza” and nearly jumped out of my skin. My first thought was the park was going to be closed for renovations and I panicked. Quickly, I turned up the volume. No renovations. Someone had been rushed to the hospital following a rattlesnake bite. The news anchors were all over the story.
“You can’t waste a second with a snakebite, Adam, can you?”
“No, Claire, you most certainly cannot. And they tell you not to bite the victim and attempt to draw out the blood. Keep the victim calm and either call nine-one-one or try to drive the person to the nearest hospital.”
“Isn’t this a little early in the season for snakes?”
“Not at all. With the abundant sunshine and the warmer temps, the snakes are out and about. Usually sunning themselves. So, folks, if you happen upon one of them on your hikes, back off slowly. No sudden moves.”
“Will today’s victim be all right, Adam?”
“I hope so. As soon as we hear anything from the hospital, we’ll let our viewers know.”
“By the way, Adam, isn’t Petroglyph Plaza notorious for rattlesnakes?”
“Rattlesnakes are abundant in all of the state parks, but for our viewers who aren’t familiar with Petroglyph Plaza, it’s a small canyon-like section off the Waterfall Trail in the White Tank Mountains. And yes, it’s a favorite spot for snakes. Not to mention scorpions. Be on the safe side, folks. Don’t walk down there. You can see the ancient writings on the rocks from the trail. Now, on to our next story—looks like the governor may be cutting some charter school funding.”
Terrific. If that news didn’t add a new spin to Aunt Ina’s wedding, I don’t know what would. Of course, the guests would be in the tent and on the walkways, not off the trails. Still, snakes and scorpions didn’t read the signs. They could be anywhere. Suddenly I had a horrible thought. What if my mother was watching this station? She’d be hysterical and insistent that the wedding be moved to “a more suitable location.”
I glanced at my watch. If the phone didn’t ring in the next five minutes, I’d be off the hook. It was a long five minutes. I fidgeted with the remote, adjusted my pillow a few more times, and held my breath. No call from my mother. Maybe Streetman needed to go out and she didn’t catch the news. Whatever it was, I had gotten a reprieve. No incoming calls that night.
Unfortunately, Jake Felton from the tent company had watched the news and did call, but at least he waited until the following morning, right before I left for work.
“Is this Miss Kimball? Jake Felton here, from Feltons’ Pavilions, Tents, and Awnings. I’ve got to talk to you about the tent. Caught the news last night. We’re gonna need to put up a taller wooden floor. Damn snakes are going to be crawlin’ all over the place. Ain’t got no choice. Oh yeah. And my brother wants you to stop in to pick out the tent fabric. You’ve gotta do that in person. And you better do it this week since it takes three weeks for the material to get here.”
At that moment, I wanted to disown my aunt and walk away from the entire mess. If I had told my daughter, Kalese, about it, she would have agreed without hesitation. In fact, she would have been yelling, “Just say no! Just say no! You had no problem telling me that for years!” But I couldn’t do that to my aunt. Family was family.
“Um . . . okay. Fine. Where are you located? Maybe I can stop by after work tomorrow.”
“We’re on Holly Street. Can’t miss us. It’s off North Twenty-Third and Black Canyon Highway in Phoenix. So I’ll tell Everett you’ll be in. We close at six.”
“I’ll make it before six.” If I got out of work by five, it should give me enough time. I didn’t plan on being at the tent company that long. Pick a fabric and out the door. How hard could that possibly be?
He made some sort of grunting noise. “Aw-right. Six. If it’s not me showing you the fabric, it’ll be Everett.”
And that was it. He hung up. No “nice talking with you” or “we appreciate your business.” Nothing but dead air space.
I shrugged it off, grabbed my bag and my keys, and was out the door and at the office in less than twenty minutes. Not bad for morning traffic.
“Hey, Augusta,” I said as I walked in the door. “You’re here awfully early.”
“I have a last-minute dentist appointment this afternoon, so Mr. Williams let me switch hours. Loose crown. Last thing I need is to swallow it and then cough up another five hundred eighty-nine dollars.”
Instinctively, my tongue started to move about my mouth, making sure all of my teeth weren’t going anywhere.
“Oh, that’s no fun,” I said as Nate stepped out of his office and walked toward the coffee machine.
“Good morning, Phee! How’s it going?”
“Not great
. Did you catch last night’s news? Someone got bit by a rattlesnake at the very spot where my aunt’s wedding is going to take place. The very thought of a snake getting into that tent gives me the creeps.”
“Nah. I wouldn’t worry about it. Those tents aren’t pitched on the ground like at a campout. They have floors and all sorts of tie-downs.”
Augusta looked up from her desk and, without batting an eyelash, added, “If you’d feel safer, you can borrow my handgun. Where I come from, we take the second amendment right seriously.”
“Um, er . . . that won’t be necessary, Augusta. We’ll be fine.” Then, turning to Nate, I asked, “How’s the Theodore Sizemore investigation coming?”
“Slow and painful. I’ve interviewed a few of the neighbors whose houses face the golf course, but it was so dark right before dawn that no one saw or heard anything. I still have one more person to interview. A man by the name of Herb Garrett.”
“Herb Garrett?” My jaw almost dropped.
“Why? You know him?”
“I’ll say. He’s my mother’s neighbor from across the street. Fancies himself quite the ladies’ man. You’ll get an earful. I can guarantee you that.”
Nate chuckled and started to get back to his coffee making.
“Say, before I forget, didn’t you mention something the other day about your aunt’s wedding being catered by Saveur de Evangeline?” he asked.
“Yeah, I did. Why? Don’t tell me the place caught fire or a pipe burst and flooded them out. I don’t think my aunt could handle it.”
“No, no. Nothing like that. The opposite, in fact. The owner, Roland something-or-other, is on the front page of Phoenix Home and Garden magazine. That’s a pretty big deal. You were right. The wedding must be costing them a fortune.”
“On the cover? Of Phoenix Home and Garden? That’s right up there with Martha Stewart Living and Better Homes and Gardens. What did it say?”
I hadn’t realized it, but I was actually tapping my foot on the floor as I spoke.
“Take it easy, kiddo. I didn’t take that good a look, but I swear he was standing in front of a bunch of birds. I glanced at it while I was in the checkout line at the supermarket last night.”
