A Teeny Bit of Trouble

by Michael Lee West

  “I do.”

  “Then get him to loosen up. Make him listen to Ozzy Osbourne. ‘Breaking All the Rules’ is a good song. Or R.E.M’s ‘Losing My Religion.’”

  I repressed a smile.

  She waved at a wide-screen TV. “You didn’t come here for Coop-Scoop, did you? You came to hide from a pervert. So let’s kick back and relax. Any special show you want to watch?”

  “The Weather Channel would be nice,” I said.

  “You don’t seem like a forecast junkie.”

  “I like to know when storms are coming.”

  She clicked a button on the channel changer, and the screen filled with churning water. “Oh, poo. It’s ‘Tumultuous Thursday.’ Let’s watch something less depressing.”

  Was it Thursday? I’d lost track of time.

  Minnie settled on the Syfy channel. Tin Man was playing. “What the hell is this?” Minnie cried, waving at the TV. “Why does that guy have a zipper in his head?”

  “Tin Man is an updated version of The Wizard of Oz,” I said.

  “Does it have tornadoes?”

  “Yep.”

  “I can’t catch a break from shitty weather.” Minnie sat down next to me. “A storm is coming, Teeny. A storm called Fat Irene.”

  I thought she was joking until I heard a rustle of silk. A second later, Coop’s mother strode into the room. She wore a mud-brown muumuu, the fabric printed with crocodiles and palm trees.

  “Teeny, so nice of you to finally join us,” Irene said, spitting out the word nice.

  “Don’t be rude,” Minnie said. “Teeny is wearing the ring. She’s practically family.”

  Irene gave me a look that dismissed me as daughter-in-law material. Her nostrils opened like valves. “Do I smell chemicals?”

  “It’s your horrible perfume.” Minnie flashed an impish grin, then she opened her cigarette case.

  “You shouldn’t smoke,” Irene said. “It leads to bladder cancer. You’d hate wearing a Depends.”

  The women’s eyes locked. Irene was the first to look away. I didn’t want her to see my quick smile, so I lowered my chin. My hair swung forward, giving off a formaldehyde stench.

  On the big television, the screen showed Dorothy Gale in a wicker jail. She was talking to the guy with a zipper in his head. “Here I was thinking this nightmare couldn’t get any weirder,” Dorothy said.

  Minnie pinched my leg. “It wasn’t weird till Fat Irene crashed the party.”

  “I heard that,” Irene said.

  “Good.” Minnie lit a cigarette.

  “Now who’s being rude?” Irene asked.

  Minnie leaned against me. “I’ll say one thing for Irene. She’s a damn good eater. But she likes to eat things with hair and teeth.”

  “A high compliment coming from you, an anorexic,” Irene said.

  Minnie blew a smoke ring. “What’s for supper?”

  Irene smoothed her hand down the crocodile dress, as if composing herself. When she finally spoke, her voice held the perfect blend of Southern manners and fangs. “Pork chops, mashed potatoes with pan gravy, string beans, glazed carrots, and jalapeño cornbread.”

  Minnie smiled. “You should swallow an Orlistat. That pill will suck the fat out of your food and blow it out your ass. Then you’ll be the one wearing a Depends.”

  Irene gave her a chilling gaze, then she turned to me. A finely honed intelligence shimmered behind her eyes. They were so much like Coop’s, I couldn’t breathe.

  “We heard about your troubles,” she said.

  I repressed an urge to grab my dog and bolt from the house.

  Minnie blew another smoke ring. “Bad news travels through Bonaventure like the fat in Irene’s blood.”

  Irene straightened the needlepoint pillows on the sofa, giving each one a karate chop. “Coop said a prowler broke into your house.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I put one hand on my neck. It was slick with perspiration.

  “Quit yes mamming her,” Minnie said. “She ain’t the holy mother.”

  Irene hacked the pillow next to me. She stared at my necklace. “My son is worried about you.”

  Minnie lifted an ashtray and stubbed out her cigarette. “It’s scary when a pervert leaves a cream puff on your bed.”

  “How many martinis have you had?” Irene asked.

  “Not nearly enough,” Minnie said.

  Irene gave her a warning glance. “You promised you’d behave.”

  “I lied.” Minnie raised her glass. “To older whiskey, younger men, and faster horses.”

  In the distance, the banished Chihuahuas howled. Irene pressed her fingers to her temples and squeezed. “If those dogs don’t hush, I’m having their vocal chords cut.”

  “I’ll report you to PETA,” Minnie said.

  “And I’ll make sure you end up in a nursing home.”

  “Excuse me, Teeny.” Minnie rose from the sofa and marched off.

  Irene’s big breasts heaved beneath her muumuu, the fabric quivering as if the crocodiles had come to life.

  “So, Teeny, how did you manage to attract a pervert?” Her tone was brusque, tinged with doubt, as if I’d been visited by aliens.

  My mouth went dry. “It wasn’t intentional.”

  “You sure know how to cause trouble,” Irene said. “Coop might lose his job. But he’s not worried about that, he’s worried about you.”

  I dragged in a breath, but the air wouldn’t move past my throat. I shoved my hand inside my purse and found my inhaler.

  Irene sidled closer. “I expected you here last night. But you’ve got those slow-moving Templeton genes. I saw you at the cemetery today. You were chatting up Son Finnegan.”

  “I was just putting flowers on my aunt’s grave.” I took a sip of Ventolin.

  “From my perspective, it looked as if you were putting the moves on Son.” Her voice sounded different, smooth and silky, like cream slithering over oleander blossoms. The way she’d said Son made my pulse throb in my lips.

  “Normally I’m open-minded and understanding,” she continued. “But I resent having to babysit you and that bulldog. I don’t want either of you in my house or my life. The last thing I need is for your pervert to show up.”

  I couldn’t imagine her being scared of doodly squat, but I was shocked by her tirade. I’d be better off at a hotel, one that accepted dogs. I got to my feet, tugging on the leash. “Come on, Sir. Let’s go.”

  She pushed me down. “You aren’t leaving until I say so.”

  “You just said I wasn’t welcome.”

  “No, but I’m ignoring the voice inside my head, the one that’s telling me you’re a gold digger. I’m ignoring my distaste for all things Templeton. But I promised Coop that I’d watch over you. If you leave and the pervert gets you, my son will blame me. I won’t let your false pride come between me and Coop. So you will stay here until I say otherwise.”

  God, what a bitch. “I’m your prisoner?”

  “Save the theatrics. You’re just like your mother. She was sweet on my husband. Always dragging you to his office on some pretense or another.”

  “I had asthma,” I said.

  “And your mother had hot pants.”

  “She’s not here to defend herself. Don’t talk about her.” I shoved my inhaler into my purse, my hand shaking. I understood why Irene was attacking me, but why was she going after my mother? I couldn’t remember a single time when Ruby Ann had been inappropriate with Dr. O’Malley. She’d been terrified of doctors.

  Sir gazed up at me with worried eyes. He hated conflict. I wished Emerson was here to offer crocodile trivia. Did reptiles swallow their hatchlings or was that a myth? No wonder Coop had to-do lists, ulcers, and tapping feet. “I don’t know what my mama did to make you hate her so much, but I apologize on her behalf.”

  “I don’t accept in absentia apologies,” Irene said. “One night Jack and I stayed up all night, fighting about your mother. He finally admitted that he found her attractive. Not that it did
her any good. Jack loved me.”

  Did she see all women as rivals? How could I convince her that I wasn’t a threat? “I love your son,” I said.

  “Such pretty words.” She smirked. “I’ll make you eat them.”

  Minnie would have said, I’ll make you eat a Lipitor. But I held my tongue.

  Irene heaved a sigh, and suddenly her dress was alive, a squirming mass of scales. “If Barb Philpot’s child has Coop’s genes, you won’t stick around.”

  “I’ll help him raise her.”

  “More pretty words.” Irene put one hand behind her ear. “Do you hear that sound? It’s Barb. She’s twirling in the grave.”

  twenty-two

  In the morning, Sir and I wandered downstairs. A housekeeper with a Spanish accent directed me to the sunroom. Light slammed through six arched windows which overlooked the pool. On the far wall, a buffet table had been set up, hotel-style. Country ham, biscuits, fruit, and pastries. A note lay against a silver coffee pot.

  Friday, August 15

  Dear Teeny,

  Hope you enjoy your solitary breakfast. It’s the last peace you’ll have for hours! When you’re finished, get ready to rock and roll! We’re hitting the spa, the boutiques, and the chocolate shop!! My treat. See you in the foyer at 9 a.m.

  Minnie

  XX00

  I pressed the letter to my chest. All my life I’d wanted a Minnie. I didn’t know if it was safe to traipse around town, what with Norris lurking, but I had an idea that he wouldn’t mess with her.

  While I ate breakfast, I read the Bonaventure paper. The obituaries had a cryptic write-up about Kendall McCormack. A memorial service would be held tonight at the Eikenberry Funeral Home. In Bonaventure-speak, a memorial service was a severely abbreviated funeral.

  I didn’t know how abbreviated until that evening, when I turned into the Longstreet Room. As I walked down the aisle, two elderly women glanced at me and whispered. I’d spent the day with Minnie, and now I looked like a hooker.

  I spread out my fingers. My nails were glossy red. My hair had been layered, conditioned, and teased, which only emphasized the stick-straightness. At a chic dress shop, Minnie had picked me out a short, black sleeveless dress and four-inch heels. She’d insisted I wear the outfit to the memorial service.

  “Don’t look so scared,” she’d said. “The prowler won’t get you at the funeral home—too many witnesses. And don’t worry about Irene. She won’t be home tonight. She and Jack Junior are having dinner at Heads ’N’ Tails. If Coop phones, I’ve got your back.”

  When I refused, she rolled her eyes. “I want to introduce the bulldog to Caesar and Cleo,” she said, smiling down at her Chihuahuas. “Sir won’t bond with them if you’re around.”

  Now, I glanced toward the front of the Longstreet Room, expecting to see Kendall laid out in a walnut casket; but a gold resin urn sat on a table, flanked by potted ferns and framed photographs.

  She’d been cremated? I felt a buzzing in my chest, as if wasps were trying to sting their way out. Aunt Bluette used to say, Trouble takes and takes and takes. And it gives nothing in return but heartache.

  Mrs. McCormack sat in the front row. Her lips puckered, relaxed, then puckered again, as if she were trying to whistle.

  “Sorry about your daughter,” said a woman in a purple hat.

  “Kendall just banged her head a little,” Mrs. McCormack said. “She was doing fine. Yelling at the nurses to discharge her. Then somebody called the room and said a meal was waiting for me in the cafeteria. Stuffed peppers, my favorite. I was just gone a minute.”

  I wondered if the caller had lisped. Whispers rose up from the corner of the room where several women discussed Kendall’s supposed intoxication.

  “Impossible,” said one.

  “The blood test got mixed up,” said another.

  “I heard she ate too many bourbon balls.”

  “The only balls she ate were Lester’s.”

  Kendall might be alive if I hadn’t told her to find more proof. After she’d talked to me, where had she gone? To someone she’d trusted. I looked around for Norris. He’d left the Philpot’s mansion the night Barb had gone missing. He’d taken a financial hit after he’d lost his medical license, but he could have raked in tax free dollars by slicing off corneas. Maybe he also had a gardenia bush in his backyard.

  A chill ran up my neck. If Kendall had shown him Barb’s printout, he might have slipped alcohol into her Coca-Cola. But why not just kill her? Why put her in a car? I was even more puzzled by Mrs. McCormack—why had she opted for cremation?

  Lester shuffled past me, casting sneaky glances at each row. Part of my brain said, Let him pass, but the other, wilder part said, Put the squeeze on him.

  I grasped his arm. He stared down at my hand, as if it were covered with leprosy sores, then he glanced at my hair.

  “I didn’t recognize you,” he said. “You look different without the chicken fluff. Are you wearing a wig?”

  I released his arm and stepped backward. “I’m so sorry about Kendall.”

  “Yes, it’s sad.” He looked at me a beat too long. “Say, I really do like your hair.”

  Bile scorched the back of my throat, triggering my gag reflex. He’d lost a wife and a girlfriend, but he wasn’t shaken? “I’m just surprised that Kendall was drunk,” I said.

  He didn’t answer, just twisted his wedding ring. The metal had cut into his flesh, leaving a red circle.

  “Wasn’t Kendall allergic to alcohol?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t know about that.” He shifted his body, pointing his feet toward the door, like he couldn’t wait to escape.

  He raked his hand across his forehead, leaving a damp streak. “I hate to break your heart. But you’re not O’Malley’s only love. He’s a cocksman. Before he hooked up with you, he dated a brunette lawyer. A real looker. A Charleston blue blood. Rich as the pope. Word on the street is, they’re still together. Sneaking around behind your back.”

  A zinging pain shot through my head. What brunette?

  Lester gave me a triumphant stare. “You think I’m lying, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “The minute Barb told me that Emerson might be O’Malley’s child, I began checking him out. So I know all about that brunette lawyer. They say her name is Chlamydia Smith. If I were you, I’d be extra careful. Because it’s my understanding that venereal diseases are making a comeback.”

  I wanted to ask him about the brunette, but I had a feeling that he was baiting me. “How’s Emerson?”

  He rubbed his nose, as if he’d caught a whiff of something rotten. “Imagine the worst and multiply it times a thousand. Tell Coop-the-cocksman that I got the DNA sample today. I should have the results soon. Until then, can you bring Emerson’s damn hedgehog? She’s asking for it.”

  “It’s in Charleston.”

  “How’d it get there? Never mind. Just get it back, will you?”

  He started to walk off, but I thought about Emerson’s real birthday. I knew what that DNA test would show. I pinched his sleeve. “No matter what happens, I’d like to be a part of Emerson’s life.”

  He stared, his face unreadable, then he pulled his sleeve out of my grasp. He worked his way down the aisle and stood in front of Kendall’s urn.

  On my way out of the funeral home, I got caught in a bottleneck. A girl with Goth-black, shoulder-length hair was talking to Zee Quinn.

  “Wonder if Kendall was a closet drinker?” the Goth-girl asked Zee.

  “Nuh-uh.” Zee patted her dreadlocks. When she saw me, she smiled.

  “I hate it when young people die,” the Goth-girl was saying when I walked up. She yawned, revealing three gold studs in the center of her tongue.

  “I’ll tell you what’s weird,” Zee said. “Kendall was scared of fire. Why would her mama cremate her?”

  “You’d think Mrs. McCormack would’ve known how Kendall felt,” the Goth-girl said. “But she was clueless.”

  “
Where you getting this information?” I asked.

  “I work here.” The Goth-girl looked down at her glossy black fingernails. “I do hair and makeup. Plus, I do odd jobs. I went with Vlado to the hospital the other day to fetch Kendall’s body.”

  “Vlado?” Zee asked. “That Russian guy?”

  “He’s an embalmer.” The Goth-girl pointed to Mr. Winky’s assistant, a young fellow with short blond hair and stubby legs. “I love his accent.”

  “You were telling us about Kendall,” I prompted.

  “We brought her to the embalming room, and Mrs. McCormack was waiting outside the door. She wanted me to use a light touch with Kendall’s hair and makeup. No eye shadow or rouge. Mr. Winky came in and told me to quit. He said Kendall was going to be cremated. I didn’t believe him, but he showed me a document.”

  I touched the Goth-girl’s arm. “What did it say?”

  “That Kendall wanted to be cremated. Mrs. McCormack didn’t know a thing about this document. But it was legally binding. She had to go along with it.”

  “How did Mr. Winky get the document?” I asked.

  “Mr. Philpot gave it to him,” the Goth-girl said.

  “And who told you?” Zee asked.

  “Vlado.” She fanned herself and grinned.

  My pulse beat in the roof of my mouth. If the Philpots were involved in black market organs, and I believed they were, they would do anything to conceal their activities. If Kendall had shown Barb’s printout to Lester, he wouldn’t have patted her on the head and told her to rearrange the Preparation-H display. He would have gotten her drunk and put her into the Mazda, hoping she’d drive into a telephone pole.

  No, she might not have wrecked. Maybe he’d put her behind the wheel, then he’d gotten into his Mercedes and chased her, nudging her car off the road.

  But what if a witness had seen him? In any event, Kendall had survived the wreck, only to die in the hospital. Had one of the Philpot brothers gone to her room and smothered her? Injected her with something that would stop her heart? But why take so many steps to kill someone? Lester had a whole pharmacy at his disposal. If he’d wanted to eliminate Kendall, he could have given her a fatal dose of insulin or epinephrine. So maybe I was an alarmist, and he was innocent.