“The headline in the local newspaper the next day. It read, ‘Joe Junior the Turd Gives Back Hands.’”
Howard and Peggy laughed some more. I did not. The Joe Junior tale still didn’t elicit a desire to chortle or even giggle mildly, but then again, my mind still wallowed in the lucid memory of crunching on a disembodied appendage, so I probably wasn’t the right person to be judging its hilarity factor.
Mama Marr appeared in the kitchen, crunching a few bones of her own. Since she’d moved in with us a few months back, I had learned to predict her arrival in a room by the decibel level of the snap, crackle, and pop that preceded. When she walked, the woman sounded like a bowl of Rice Krispies that had just been doused with a generous helping of milk.
“I hear that you and The Puddles picked up a prącia on your walk,” Mama Marr said, fanning herself with a pudgy hand. “I think I am glad for the sciatica this morning!”
Mama Marr always referred to Puddles as “The Puddles,” and I was pretty sure prącia was Polish for uume. I liked it. Much more oomph than the wimpy English counterpart. I added it to my mental list of acceptable synonyms.
Howard’s mother creaked and popped her way to the stove and her teapot. “I am making the tea, if anyone wants?”
“Not me, Ma,” said Howard.
“I need more of the strong stuff, thank you, Mama,” I said. I poured hot coffee into my mug.
Howard eyed me with a cocked brow. “Thought that wasn’t on the diet.”
“When a woman has to disengage a limp and leaf-covered prącia from her growling dog’s mouth with her numb fingers, she’s allowed to take a day off any diet.”
Pushing her chair back from the table, Peggy stood. “Tea sounds wonderful Mrs. Marr, but I have to head out again.”
“You just got here,” I whined. “I didn’t get to tell you about the prącia.” I put on a pout.
“Howard told me all about it.”
“Forgive me if I say that it’s not the same as from the horse’s mouth. There are subtleties he could never impart.”
She patted my hand. “Can you impart them later? Over a glass of wine, perhaps, since you’re diet-free today?”
Could I be mad at my friend for not having time? Of course not. We mothers always had some errand to run. One of Peggy’s boys probably needed new reeds for his clarinet, or notebooks for science class. Possibly there was a dental appointment on the schedule. I would not make her feel guilty.
I nodded and sneaked a quick sip from the steamy mug. “Sure, we can talk later. What do you have to do?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Goldfish.”
“The boys want goldfish now?” I groaned. Poor Peggy had been through a myriad of pets, avoiding the larger, more time consuming and messy puppy issue. They’d had hermit crabs, tree frogs, and three different kinds of lizardy looking things. Sadly, none of them had survived the Rubenstein household, may they rest in pieces. I mean, peace.
She shook her head. “No. I have to go the pet store and handle some quantity confusion with the goldfish Dandi ordered for the Fall Festival.”
Could I be mad at my friend for not having the time? I sure could, if Dandi Booker was involved. My blood was starting to boil, but I bit back my bitterness and tried to look calm all the same. “Why in person?”
“Dandi claims she ordered three hundred goldfish but the store swears she ordered three thousand and they want the little guys picked up and paid for today. Can you believe it? She asked me to sweet talk them into understanding it was their mistake plus work them down from three hundred to two hundred since it looks like attendance will be lower than she predicted.”
“What’s the pet store going to do with twenty-eight hundred goldfish?”
“It’s their mistake, not ours.”
“Sounds to me like it’s Dandi’s mistake, not yours.”
Peggy was already standing and slipping into her heavy wool sweater, unfazed by my obvious jab. “I have half a bottle of some white wine in my fridge. When should I bring it by? Eight?”
I turned to my hubby and asked sweetly, “Howard, will you handle bed-time duty for Amber and Bethany?”
He had checked out of the conversation some time ago, skimming over the Rustic Woods Gazette, but he caught my request and nodded. “Will do, Boss.”
“Make it seven-thirty,” I said to Peggy as Mama Marr’s kettle started to scream.
I figured seven-thirty would be perfect timing after the taco dinner that Colt had promised. He could even join us while I described every horrible detail of my grisly morning romp.
I really wanted those tacos and the wine would be an added bonus. What I didn’t know at the time was, I wouldn’t be enjoying either. Not that night.
Chapter Three
Peggy and my mother must have passed each other in our driveway. Mere moments after Peg walked out the door, Diane Fenstermacher Pettingford, (aka, Mom) blew in. Most people walk in, stride in, step in. Not my mother—she gusts in like a hurricane. No, make that a tornado. Everything is calm. The trees on the leaves are still as can be. Then whoosh! A tornado flies in from out of nowhere and suddenly everyone is heading for cover, hoping to get to the basement or cellar in time. Where my mother is concerned, I never escape the damaging winds. I guess it’s the German in her. She doesn’t know how to do anything without using force.
“There are enough police cars crawling along Sweet Birch Road to scare Charles Manson. Barbara, please tell me you weren’t involved.”
And she always forgets to say, “Hello.”
“Good morning, Mom. How are you?”
“Truthfully?”
Actually, I would have preferred a quick lie and a goodbye right then, but I was sure her question was rhetorical. “Give it to us.”
She leaned against the counter and began pulling a glove off her hand, one finger at a time. “I signed up for a new art class—An Introduction to the World of Sketching—and I’ve been so excited about starting, but they just informed me that the class will have to be dropped if enough people don’t register. They need two more people.”
Uh-oh.
Mama Marr was still putzing around in the kitchen, wiping the counter clean of crumbs. She stopped suddenly. “This sketching, Diane. Is it like the drawing with the pencils? Animals and trees and such?”
“That is exactly what it will be Alka.” I detected hope in my mother’s eyes.
“I think I would like to be in this sketching class. I think I would like to draw my canary, Pavrotti. You know, so I can have a remembrance of him here, since I miss him so much.”
Oh boy.
Pavrotti came with Mama Marr from Philadelphia, but quickly needed relocation after my two cats, Indiana Jones and Mildred Pierce, followed their feline instincts and tried to catch him for a mid-day snack. He currently resided peacefully with my mother in her condo across town, but Mama Marr never missed an opportunity to mourn his absence or his sweet, chirpy singing.
My mother clapped her hands in glee and swooped down upon Mama Marr for a giant bear hug. See, my mother is a very large woman. Tall. Big-boned. Amazonian. When she hugs Mama Marr, a petite, roly-poly Polish lady, images of old vampire movies flash before my mind. You know the ones—where the tall, fanged man in the cape completely consumes the small defenseless damsel, because Mama Marr truly disappears behind my mother the way the damsel disappears behind the cape. I often worry we’ll never see poor Mama again after a Diane-embrace.
Thankfully, this time, she did come up for air. I breathed a sigh of relief, only to realize I shouldn’t relax just yet, because I was most assuredly next on my mother’s hit list for art class registrants.
I decided to stop her at the pass. “No, Mom-”
“I already signed you up, dear.” She waved a dismissive hand. “You could
use a hobby.”
“I don’t need a hobby.” I spotted Howard trying to make a fast getaway, but I was faster. I pointed. “Take Howard. Howard needs a hobby. He’s retired.”
From the dining room, he looked back at the cane he’d left behind in his mad, limping dash. “I have a job.”
“No you don’t.”
“Start tomorrow, I didn’t tell you?”
“You lie like a rug you liar, you.”
Mama Marr was practically giddy. “This will be fun, we three ladies drawing pictures with our pencils.”
Mom was already on her way out the door and she wasn’t accepting Howard as an exchange student. “I’ll pick you both up tomorrow at eleven-thirty. We’ll go somewhere fun for lunch first.”
What she didn’t know – and what I didn’t plan to tell her – was that Howard had a doctor’s appointment at 11:00. I’d show her.
At 3:20, Howard and I meandered to the bus stop at the end of the street. This was the nice part about having him around—the quiet, family moments. Before the accident, he’d never had time to keep up on all of the girls’ news about school, ballet, nature club, and the like. He’d missed so many back-to-school nights and parent conferences that most teachers thought I was a single mother. And honestly, sometimes I felt like one. Now we held hands and chatted quietly while waiting for Amber and Bethany. Life was good.
“What’s for dinner?” Howard asked.
“Colt said he’d fix us tacos.”
There was a time when that would have set Howard into a seething rage. For years he had despised my friendship with Colt. Understandably, since Colt obviously still carried a bit of a torch for me, but the man had been there for Howard day and night during what we now call “the horrible time.” The two of them had found peace as true, stalwart, boon-buds.
“Colt Tacos.” Howard nodded approvingly. “Sounds good. Do we have any beer in the house? Gotta have beer with tacos.”
“I don’t think so. I’m saving myself for the wine Peggy’s bringing afterwards.” I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed Colt’s number to pin him down on a time.
Howard checked his watch. “I’ll go to the store in a little while and get some, anyway. For the dudes.”
My call went straight to voicemail. I tried Colt’s home phone. Message machine. “Colt Barron, Private Investigator. Leave a message. Stay cool.”
I left a message, then redialed his cell and left one there, too. He was probably still working and would get back to us soon enough. The girls would be excited to hear Colt was cooking since my culinary repertoire is small and somewhat lacking in the flavor department. Mama Marr says she doesn’t care for “the Mexee-canish food,” so she’d probably fix herself a bowl of oatmeal and call it a night.
The bus arrived and our girls jumped from the bottom step. First came Bethany, a spectacled twelve-year-old with shiny, raven hair pony-tailed. A bouncy, semi-toothless, orange-haired Amber followed on her heels, and they both ran to Howard for their daily hug. Bethany gave me a less tight, but still full-of-love hug, but Amber stopped in her tracks right in front of me. She placed an indignant hand on her hip.
“Mommy,” she said with the seriousness of a president about to declare war, “Darla Hepple says her mommy says that you got in trouble again and the police had to attest you. Are you attested?”
That Marla Hepple. I knew she’d start talking. She could never keep her big mouth shut. I’d pegged her as a spotlight-craver from the first time I met her and she introduced herself: “Hi! My name is Marla, and this is my daughter Darla.”
I pulled Amber’s backpack from her shoulders. “Now, how would Darla hear such a thing when she was in school all day?”
“Her mommy was volunteering in the cafeteria today.”
Boy, the woman got around. Working on the Fall Festival then off to volunteer at the school and simultaneously smear my good name.
“I’m not attested and I’m not arrested either,” I said. “And next time you see Darla Hepple you tell her that her mommy...”
Howard cleared his throat. As parents, we’d agreed to set a good example and not talk disparagingly of others.
Amber’s eyes remained wide and attentive, awaiting my next words.
“Tell Darla that her mommy is such a kind person for being concerned about me! Wow!” I was probably playing it up too much, but Amber didn’t seem to notice. Bethany, on the other hand, was rolling her eyes, a habit she picked up from her father. “Mrs. Hepple—just the nicest.” I added, just for that cherry-on-the-top effect.
Callie turned in, driving Howard’s car, just as we were entering the house. The Marr family was all in one place, happy and content.
When we hadn’t heard back from Colt by five, I tried both of his phones again. His cell suspiciously went straight to voicemail rather than ringing first. He wasn’t usually this late responding. I wondered if he’d forgotten the taco deal. I supposed it was possible, but not really typical for Colt. When I expressed some concern, Howard brushed me off. “He probably just forgot.”
By six-thirty everyone was grumpy and Colt was still nowhere to be found, so I ran out to Taco Loco for a twelve pack and two burritos. Taco Loco tacos were the best crappy fast food tacos around, but they didn’t measure up even the tiniest bit to a Colt mexi-masterpiece. Mama Marr had already consumed her bowl of oatmeal and was asleep in front of the TV in her room when I returned.
By seven-thirty, even Howard remarked on the oddity of Colt’s truancy. “Maybe he met a woman,” he finally concluded with a shrug.
And of course, seven-thirty marked the time Peggy was to arrive, wine in hand, ear to listen, but was she on my doorstep?
No.
I suspected that my blood pressure was rising dangerously high. At eight-fifty, I grabbed one of those beers from the fridge and gulped it a little too quickly, then called Peggy’s home. Simon told me she was at Dandi Booker’s house. I didn’t leave a message.
I’d been stood up not once, but twice. Was I that easy to forget?
Rather than stew about it, I put my energy into getting Amber and Bethany ready for bed. Bethany was actually pretty self-sufficient since she was a big-time fifth grader now, but Amber still loved her Mommy time and so did I. She bathed and I washed then dried her hair, and rubbed lotion on that incessant dry patch on her back. Afterwards, the three of us compacted ourselves into Amber’s bed where I read another chapter of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Big high-school student Callie didn’t join us for story time anymore, and while I understood, it still made me a little sad. The times, they were a changin’.
It was almost ten o’clock on a Friday night by the time I found Howard propped up against the headboard of our bed, clicking away at his laptop. Boy, weren’t we the party animals?
Falling into place beside him, I fluffed a pillow and released a hefty, life-is-crummy sigh, fully expecting Howard to respond the way a good, caring, and attentive husband should: with sympathy. A simple, “What’s wrong, honey? Are you sad?” or “It’s okay, your friends are scum, but I still love you. Let me show you the ways ...” would do. I don’t ask for much. Usually.
He continued to click away on the keyboard, eyes focused on the bright video screen.
“Hmm...” he finally murmured.
It was the hope of conversation. I jumped on it. “I know. It’s been a terrible day.”
“I thought I’d heard of this,” he said, still glued to the screen. “Supposedly an urban myth, but there’s some truth behind it.”
“Friends breaking promises? No myth. I live the sad reality,” I said, knowing full well that we were on two entirely different topics. I wasn’t even sure Howard knew I was sitting next to him. He might have been talking to himself.
“White landscaping rocks and suburban swinger clubs.”
Suddenly, my woe-is-me discourse seemed a lot less interesting. “Suburban what-er whats?” I heard him just fine, I just wanted to hear those words again all in a row. They were so juicy and thrill-provoking.
“Suburban swinger clubs. White landscaping rocks are supposedly their signature—tells other swingers they’re in the neighborhood.”
“You mean, like wife swapping? Didn’t that go out with disco and dangerously flammable polyester shirts?”
He shook his head and finally smiled at me. Oh, those deep brown eyes. I get lost in them. Some fires were beginning to ignite and I’m not talking about chimneys or Mount Doom. Yes, I was feeling some Howie lust.
“I remember some talk about this at work after a Texas agent worked on a case down there,” he said, completely and utterly without romance. “Some pro-family and morality-concerned groups want the FBI to get involved and shut them down as prostitution rings, but it really doesn’t apply and it’s not our-” he stopped himself, then corrected, “not their jurisdiction.”
I wanted to cry at the sadness in his voice. Without the FBI he didn’t have a job and he felt he didn’t have a purpose. A place to go and a place to be needed every day. I wanted to shout at him, pound his thick skull and remind him that his job and purpose was to be a father, husband, and son. We needed him and he was exactly where he needed to be. But the moment didn’t call for another lecture. We’d had that discussion too many times before. Instead, I concentrated on where this research all began. “So, you think there are swingers’ clubs in Rustic Woods, Colt is investigating them, and he thinks our neighbors are involved? Yikes.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Outside, a leaf blower revved into action.
“Speaking of neighbors,” I said, getting up to look out the window, why I don’t know since it was pitch black and street lights were banned in Rustic Woods. “That’s the second night I’ve heard that noise. I think it’s coming from the Penobscotts’ backyard. Why would they blow leaves around in the middle of the night?”
Saturday Night Cleaver (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #4) Page 3
