by Webb, Peggy
“That’s in Paris, Aunt Syl.” Amy walked across the room and began deftly connecting wires and circuits in her four-foot robot.
“Who’s going to Paris?” Aunt Syl, in the way of absentminded mystery writers, had already forgotten what she was talking about. Anyhow, she was still engaged with her willful wig.
“Not who,” Amy said. “What. Concierge is French. Hortense called the building superintendent a fat pigeon. I think Armand ruined your English.” Amy patted the smooth dome of the robot’s head. “Time to get to work, Herman.” She swiftly pressed instructions into his computer panel. “You can unload the linens.”
“Don’t let him touch the china. He’s a holy terror on china.” Aunt Syl warned.
“Holy terror! Go Bulldogs!” Hortense, who was a great fan of Mississippi State, added a football cheer to the conversation.
“Hush up, Hortense, and let go of my feather boa.” Aunt Syl’s attempt at anger didn’t fool anybody, least of all the arrogant parrot.
Cocking her green head to one side, Hortense told Aunt Syl in her best Humphrey Bogart imitation, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
“Someday I’m going to sell you to a pet shop.”
Amy switched Herman on and turned to untangle Aunt Syl. Separating the glasses from the wig was quick work, but a small struggle ensued when she tried to separate Hortense from the feather boa.
“Let go, Hortense, and I’ll give you a cracker.”
“Batten the hatches,” Hortense screamed. She was not to be bribed.
“Let go or I’ll pluck your tailfeathers.” Aunt Syl said. Her dark eyes were sparkling.
The bird immediately let go and huffed to the corner of her cage.
“I don’t know why I put up with her,” Aunt Syl remarked as she started toward the combination bed-sitting room that would be hers.
But Amy knew. Hortense had been a gift from Sylvia Street’s fifth husband, Armand Depree, the dapper little Frenchman who had showered his adored wife with everything money could buy. But more important, he had lavished upon her the one thing money could not buy—love. The brilliant mistress of mystery, he had called her. Syl had mourned his death in the most practical of ways: she had plunged into her work, creating masterpieces of suspense, books that consistently made the best seller lists, books all dedicated to her beloved Armand.
Amy watched Aunt Syl disappear into her bedroom and wondered if she would ever be able to accept her loss of Tim that way. She had been devastated when her gentle artist husband had gone almost a year ago. She still couldn’t bring herself to think of him as dead. It was one of those freak happenings, a tragedy that should have been averted. They had been invited to a friend’s house on Pickwick Lake for the weekend. Tim and their friend, Jamie, had taken the boat out. The weather had been balmy and beautiful, not the kind of day that spawned tragedies. Tim had leaned too far out to retrieve a trout line and fallen overboard. His body caught in the network of tree roots that fanned under the water in that secluded cove. By the time Jamie managed to free him, he had drowned.
Amy carefully unpacked one of his watercolors and hung it on the wall. It seemed only last week instead of last year that she’d left Tim in the granite silence of the cemetery. She hung another muted watercolor and stood back to admire the paintings, waiting for the familiar sense of his presence that the seascapes always gave her. Nothing happened. She rationalized, telling herself that the hectic week of moving was bound to take its toll. Anyhow, wasn’t that why she had moved from northeast Mississippi to Gulf Coast in the first place, to put the past behind?
She squared her slim shoulders and turned back to her topsy-turvy new apartment. Weaving through the boxes, she walked to a sunny alcove with double windows that overlooked the Gulf. “I think I’ll set up my workshop here.” Twirling around, she spread her arms wide, as if to embrace the sunshine that poured through the windows. “That view is positively inspiring. I already feel an invention coming on. Herman, what do you think of a perpetual popcorn popper?”
The rotund conglomeration of steel and circuits didn’t reply. He was too busy stuffing the overflow of linens into the refrigerator.
Amy’s vision of the popcorn popper was interrupted by a knock on the door. She found a giant of a man standing in the doorway, holding the remains of a flower box ... her flower box. He must be Todd Cunningham’s butler, but she thought he looked more like somebody’s lovable bear of a grandfather.
“Miss Logan? I’m Justin Oxford. Mr. Cunningham asked me to return this.” His voice was a huge boom befitting his size, and his full salt and pepper beard jiggled when he talked.
Amy was enchanted. The only butlers she knew were characters in Aunt Syl’s books, and often times they were under suspicion of murder. This jovial giant looked like the kind of man who would take spiders outside rather than squash them.
“Thank you,” she said as she took the remnants of her box. “Won’t you come in?”
“Not today, Miss Logan. I have a pot roast that needs attention.”
As she watched him walk down the hall, she wondered about the butler. More to the point, she wondered about the man who had a butler. It was a long time before she could get her mind back on the perpetual popcorn popper.
o0o
Todd couldn’t believe his ears. The raucous sounds of a brass band filled his apartment. He looked at the luminous dial on his watch. Three o’clock. He threw back the covers and pulled on his jeans as the brass band continued to bump and knock above his head. Apparently, that fetching woman who threw window boxes hadn’t been kidding. She did give loud parties.
He quickly donned his polished boots and a crisp cotton shirt. There was no wasted motion in his movements. He was a man of decision and purpose, a man who needed no adjustment time to come from deep sleep to total alertness. He had to be in court tomorrow—today—and he’d wasn’t going to tolerate that brass band for the rest of the night.
He didn’t bother to turn on the lights as he strode through his apartment. He knew the exact location of every polished piece of furniture and every gleaming accessory. At any given time, he could spend a week blindfolded in his orderly apartment and never bump into or trip over a thing. His home was a reflection of his well-organized, analytical mind.
As Todd walked down the hall, he could hear shufflings and muttered curses behind the closed doors of the other apartments. It seemed that Amy Logan’s party had disturbed everybody. The halls would soon be crawling with irate people.
He ran up the stairs. There was no need to wonder which apartment was hers. Even if he hadn’t known it was the one directly over his, the one vacated two weeks ago by the quiet and orderly Dr. and Mrs. Beeman, he could have picked it out by the racket. As he got closer, he recognized the song “Dixie.” It was exactly the kind of song he would have expected Amy Logan to play at her parties. He had detected that soft southern drawl this afternoon. Deep South. Georgia, he guessed, or maybe Alabama or Mississippi.
He was a transplant from Baltimore, with a born and bred Marylander’s love of economy and order.
As he lifted his hand to knock, the door was flung open.
“You’re just the man we need.” A small blue-veined hand grabbed his wrist. “The music’s driving Hortense crazy.”
Todd looked down at the petite woman. Tufts of white hair decorated her head like cream puffs and her glasses perched on the end of an aristocratic nose. The network of wrinkles on her parchment-like skin put her in the category of senior citizen, but her lively dark eyes denied her years. With surprising strength she tugged his arm and pulled him into bedlam.
A gaudy parrot swung from the chandelier; a robot gone mad whizzed round and round, bumping into half-opened boxes, and the aging southern belle with the wild black eyes jumped up and down at his side. “You’ve got to help us.” She had to shout to make herself heard over the blaring music and the squawking parrot.
Todd felt as if he had stepped through the looking glass. Telling hims
elf that his feet were on solid ground, that this was not a crazy nightmare, he glanced around the apartment, searching for the band. It was nowhere to be seen. As a matter of fact, neither were the party guests. Before he had time to reflect on this oddity, Amy Logan appeared in the doorway of a room at the far end of the apartment.
If her entrance had been staged by Hollywood’s best director, it couldn’t have been more dramatic. She was wearing a bit of pink confection that he fondly recalled as the baby doll pajama. Now he knew why it was called that. Her eyes were enormous and China blue, and her hair fell below her shoulders in a sexy, sleep-tangled mass. She might have been a China doll except that she was backlit by a lamp.
She was pure flesh and blood, as vibrant and desirable as any woman he had ever seen.
“Where’s the party?” he asked. He thought his voice sounded as if it belonged to somebody else, somebody far distant from this enchanted apartment. He blamed his condition on the music, still blasting away.
“The party?”
He knew that pink confection had spoken because he saw her lips move. He felt like smiling again. Vaguely, he wondered why she always had that effect on him.
“Yes, the party. Your band woke me up.”
“I’m not having a party. That’s my bed.”
He had never considered himself hard of hearing, but then, he was on the downhill side of thirty-five. Besides that, he had almost been creamed by a flower box. You never knew what kind of damage could result from a trauma like that.
“I beg your pardon? Did you say bed?”
“Yes. “ She breezed into the room, losing her backlight, and Todd was sorry. “Something’s wrong with it, but I’ll fix it.” She picked up a large toolbox.
“Wait a minute,” Todd said. Now that she had moved, his brain was beginning to function normally. “I’m not clear about the bed. Is the brass band in your bedroom, sitting on your bed?”
“The brass band is my bed.” She dodged around a box and captured the robot. She cut off its switches and it whined to a stop. “I’m an inventor, you see. My bed is rigged to play appropriate music—Brahms’ Lullaby for sleeping, Dixie for wake-up calls, I’m in the Mood for Love for”—she stopped, obviously flustered— “for other things.” He loved the way she blushed. He hadn’t seen a genuine blush in years. “I’m afraid my bed got a few wires crossed during the move. The volume is messed up too.”
“It certainly is.” He was so enchanted, he forgot to wonder about her inventions. Besides standing there smiling like an idiot, he felt the strangest compulsion to put his arms around her and pull her head against his shoulder. He wondered what would happen if he did. A loud banging on the door kept him from finding out.
“Oh, dear,” the elderly woman said. “Do you think we woke our neighbors?”
For the first time since Amy had entered the room, Todd remembered the perky little woman clutching his arm. “Undoubtedly.” he said, and patted her hand. “I know them all. Why don’t you let me handle this?”
He gave the older woman’s hand another reassuring pat and walked to the door. He had the uneasy feeling that the explanation he was about to deliver would carry more weight if he were wearing his judicial robes. Even coming from a judge, a bed that played Dixie was hard to swallow. As he opened the door to face the crowd, his last thought was that he might lose his reputation and his integrity in one fell swoop.
o0o
When the door closed behind him, Aunt Syl turned to Amy. “Oh, my, we’re being rescued by a real live hero.”
“Not rescued, exactly,” Amy said. “And anyway, he’s just a neighbor.” She rubbed her sweaty palm against her thigh and became aware of her scanty attire. What must he have thought? And him a judge. He probably figured she was some flighty floozy, trying to seduce him. Carrying the toolbox, she hurried into her bedroom and donned a matching pink robe. A definite improvement, she decided as she pulled the belt tight. She opened her toolbox and set to work repairing her bed. She had to remember that she didn’t live in their own house anymore, and she had to be considerate of her fellow tenants.
“I liked you better without the robe,” Aunt Syl said as she entered the bedroom. “It was much more romantic. Very much like a scene from Crossfire.” She named one of her many books. “You remember the one.” Her eyes sparkled as she entered the dream world of her books. “The heroine is trapped in a Victorian mansion. It’s midnight. The hero has to scale a twelve-foot wall to get to her. My, my. Tonight does so put me in mind of that scene.”
The talk of romance made Amy irritable. Romance had died with Tim. She stormed from the bedroom to hunt for her needle-nose pliers.
“It’s three o’clock in the morning, Aunt Syl, not midnight,” she said as her aunt followed her. “And that man didn’t scale a twelve-foot wall to get here.” Heat suffused her body as she remembered the way Todd Cunningham had looked at her. Almost with desire. She balled her hands into fists and pressed them against her hot cheeks. She wouldn’t think about that right now. “Anyway, he’s not a hero,” she said much too loudly, partly because of the music but mostly because of frustration. “He’s a stuffy old judge.”
She whirled as her door clicked shut. Todd was leaning against the doorframe, his perfectly polished boots looking out of place in her upside-down apartment. She wondered how long he had been standing there.
“I think the crowd is pacified,” he said. His voice gave nothing away. He shrugged, the same gesture Amy had noticed that afternoon. “Now, let’s do something about that racket.”
“This is where I make my timely exit,” Aunt Syl said. She turned to Todd. “I’m Sylvia Street, by the way. Amy’s aunt.”
“I’m Todd Cunningham,” he said, “the stuffy old judge.” If she hadn’t seen the twinkle in his eye, Amy would have been mortified. “You can call me Todd.”
“Todd.” Aunt Syl inclined her head and managed to look dignified in spite of the odd fluffs of white hair. “Now I’ll leave so you and my lovely niece can fix the bed.”
“Come back here, Aunt Syl,” Amy said, but Aunt Syl paid her no attention. Amy pulled her robe tighter as her aunt disappeared into her bedroom.
“That is a good idea,” Todd said.
“It’s a terrible idea.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“That answer would never hold up in a court of law.”
“This is not a court of law. It’s my sitting room.”
“I suggest we move on to the bedroom. That singing bed needs some attention.”
Amy wondered why she suddenly thought of hot summer nights and tangled sweaty bodies instead of an invention gone awry.
“I can give it all the attention it needs.” She tossed her long hair back over one shoulder. “Without your help.”
“Are you determined to ruin my reputation?”
Her lips parted and she sucked in a sharp breath. The way he said it, with a velvet edge to his voice, made her think of the bed again.
“Am I on trial here, your honor?”
“No, Miss Logan. It seems that I am. My neighbors made me promise to take care of that racket.” His shrug was eloquent this time, and the way he smiled almost put Amy at ease. “My reputation will be in shreds if they hear me returning to my apartment while your bed is still playing Dixie. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you? Especially since you’ve already tried to kill me today with a flower box.”
Amy was beginning to wish she had. Her pulse wasn’t supposed to be fluttering like a trapped butterfly. Her palms weren’t supposed to be sweaty, and she wasn’t supposed to feel giddy.
The no she needed to say to him seemed stuck in her throat. He smiled at her, and she thought his smile was far too wicked for a judge.
“Anyhow,” he said, “I need the chance to prove that I’m a hero instead of a stuffy old judge.”
“I sorry about that.”
“Sorry you said it or sorry I heard?”
“Oh, dear
! Now that you put it that way, both, I think.”
“I believe an appropriate redemption would be my admittance to your bedroom.”
Of course, she knew what he meant, but that didn’t keep other images from leaping to her mind.
“Since you put it that way, how can I refuse?” She couldn’t believe she had said that. None of this was supposed to be happening.
As they entered her bedroom she wondered if tomorrow she would regret this temporary insanity.
Chapter 2
She did. When Amy woke up the next morning, the first thing she thought of was the way Todd Cunningham had looked in her bedroom. Big and solid and comforting. A rock to cling to. Somebody to help ease the burden of small day-to-day frustrations. Besides that, he had been cheerful through the entire ordeal of getting her bed to quit playing Dixie. Not that he knew a thing about electronics.
She laughed aloud as she remembered the helpless look on his face when she had handed him a couple of wires.
“Can’t you just unplug this thing?” he had asked.
“Oh no. My inventions are not that simple.”
She thought the way he looked at her had become a bit more respectful, as if, suddenly, she was an important inventor a judge like him would do well to take seriously.
Amy bounced out of bed, singing.
Aunt Syl stuck her head around the door. Today she was wearing a wig of bright yellow corkscrew curls. Her head looked like a giant daffodil.
“I haven’t heard you sing that song since Tim died. It’s pretty.”
Amy stopped in mid-phrase. It was true. She used to sing the Jerome Kern torch song, Along Came Bill, substituting Tim’s name in the lyrics. It had been one of his favorite songs. Odd, she mused. She hadn’t even been thinking about Tim while she’d been singing. She felt a twinge of guilt, but it was so slight and passed so quickly, it might never have been.
