* * *
“Are you sure she read the right review?” Gram asked around noon the next day while slicing a tomato for the salad we’d be sharing. “Your mother told me that it was the best script she’d ever read.”
Compared to the slasher films Marietta’s movie career had been relegated to ever since she hit the big four-oh, that was probably very true.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I paged through a movie review website on my smartphone and read several variations of the same opinion: “I didn’t love Loving Lucian” and “Melodramatic mess that wasted the talent of its cast.”
At least none of the reviews I was speed-reading pointed any of the movie’s shortcomings at Marietta. “I don’t know which review Gordon’s wife read, but the general consensus amongst all the critics on the website I’m looking at is that, at best, it rates three stars out of five.”
Gram joined me at the table with two salad bowls. “That’s not bad.”
It wasn’t particularly good either, especially for an aging actress desperate to shine up her fading star. “I’m not seeing Mom’s name mentioned anywhere.”
Gram shook her head. “Oh, she’ll be devastated by that.”
“Definitely.” Because despite the week-long publicity tour that Marietta had been so thrilled to be a part of, it seemed that the media viewed it as a waste of time to focus on any cast members beyond the headliners.
“Hopefully she’s too busy to pay attention to the reviews.”
Sure. The likelihood of that happening was the same as me sitting Steve down for that heart-to-heart. Not gonna happen.
Gram gave me a look that told me she didn’t believe it either. “At least we can give her some kudos on Sunday. Pop some bubbly and all that.”
We could do that, but I didn’t particularly want this wingding she’d planned to turn into an ego-stroking party for Marietta. “Mom loves any excuse to crack open a bottle of champagne—”
“So when’s the movie tomorrow?”
I looked up from the tomato wedge I was about to pop into my mouth. “I wasn’t planning on going in to see it. I’m just meeting the Easleys there so I can hand over that box.” And see if I could get a read on how they felt about the weird way that Naomi died.
“Of course we’re going in.”
I almost dropped my fork. “We are?”
“You want to support your mother, don’t you?” Gram asked, a victorious glint in her hazel eyes.
That was a hardball question if ever I’d heard one. “How am I supposed to answer that?”
She waggled her fork at me. “There’s only one right answer, my dear.”
“You don’t fight fair.”
“I’m an old broad. I don’t have to. So when did you say you’d be picking me up?”
I heaved a sigh. “Two.”
Smiling, Gram forked another bite of salad. “Wonderful. It’s a date. Maybe we can even get Stevie to come with us.”
And have Steve find out that I lied to him about whose stuff was in that dang box? Not a chance.
* * *
“Remember,” I said to my grandmother as we pulled into the theater parking lot. “Let me do the talking.”
She patted my thigh. “I heard you the first two times, so relax. I only plan to say hello.”
I parked in one of the few remaining parking spaces available behind the whitewashed brick building that housed the historic theater and checked for occupants in the nearby cars. “We’re a couple minutes early. They might not be here yet.”
“Actually, I think that’s Naomi’s car that just pulled in.” Easing out of the passenger seat, Gram stood and waved at the cinnamon-red sedan, guiding them to the open spot next to us like a lot attendant.
Shrugging on a hoodie while I opened the hatch of Gram’s SUV, a brisk breeze made me regret that I hadn’t brought a heavier coat.
The middle-aged woman clutching the fawn faux leather jacket to her ample bosom as she stepped out of the sedan appeared to have reached the same conclusion.
With Gram exchanging greetings with Gordon at the driver’s side door, I knew I wouldn’t have much time to glean a little information before everyone would want to get into the theater and out of this wind.
Gordon’s wife had a smile fixed to her thin lips that failed to disguise the caution flag waving under the cover of her tortoise-shell glasses. “Charmaine?”
“Thanks for making the time,” I said, extending my hand.
She shook it with a delicate touch almost as frigid as the wind whipping my hair into my face. “No problem. Gordon’s probably more interested in what he left behind at the condo than he is in the movie.”
She turned to face the heavyset, gray-haired man in his mid-sixties lumbering toward us with my grandmother by his side. “He’s not the Marietta Moreau fan that I am. Are you, honey?”
His fleshy, ruddy cheeks darkened. “Now, don’t be putting words into my mouth, especially not in front of Eleanor here.”
Gram touched the sleeve of the green plaid flannel shirt outlining a belly to rival Rox’s. “Don’t worry about sparing my feelings. I’ve suffered through more than my fair share of my daughter’s movies.” She extended her hand to Gordon’s wife. “Nice to see you under happier circumstances, Paula.”
The caution flag dropped, replaced by wide-eyed confusion when Paula exchanged glances with her husband. “Yes, what a nice surprise.”
Shock to realize that Marietta’s mother was the nice old lady playing parking attendant came a lot closer to the truth, but that wasn’t the truth I cared to pursue over the next few minutes.
Gram tightened her coat around her. “Gordon, have you met my granddaughter, Charmaine?”
“I don’t think so.” He gave me a firm handshake. “Probably why I didn’t make the family connection when my wife told me you called.”
“My condolences on the loss of your mother,” I said to move the conversation the direction I wanted it to go.
He squeezed out a jowly grimace of a polite smile. “Thanks.”
“I imagine you two have been quite busy since the service,” Gram said. “There’s always such a long list of things to do after the loss of a loved one.”
“There certainly is.” Paula pushed back the mass of silver-streaked soft curls that the wind kept blowing across her lenses. “Gordon’s been running himself ragged the last few weeks, tending to every last detail.”
A rumble deep in his throat accompanied the cool glance that cut to his wife.
She clamped her mouth shut.
The message had been received loud and clear, probably by all of us. Stop talking.
Fine with me because I wanted him to start.
“Have there been any nibbles on the house?” I asked to see what he’d be willing to bite on.
Gordon blinked, a trough digging its way between his heavy brows as if I had struck a nerve. “The house?”
“My grandmother mentioned that your mom’s house had been listed,” I said, giving Gram a nod of encouragement to play along.
After a nanosecond that promised some payback for putting her on the spot, Gram smiled as demurely as an ingénue. “I couldn’t help but notice the listing when I looked through the files to prepare for the next garden club meeting.”
She pointed at the box with the big orange lettering behind me, and Paula perked up like Fozzie when I reach into the cupboard for his dog food.
“What listing?” she asked, angling past me to lift the box lid.
Gram peered over Paula’s shoulder. “You’ll find that everything’s in there, just the way I found it. And of course, once I realized the box had been mislabeled, I asked Charmaine to help me return it.”
Meeting Gram’s gaze, I gave her a little thumbs-up for leaving out the part where I rifled through that box with a lot more interest than Gordon was demonstrating in it.
Which would make complete sense if he had been the one w
ho had packed it.
“Oh, this old listing.” Paula held up the sales agreement for her husband to see. “I’d almost forgotten that your mom had the house on the market.”
Almost? Hardly. By the brittle smile clinging to her tangerine lips, she seemed to be willing Gordon to back her up.
“Yeah.” He huffed a weary breath, giving her a knowing look. “That didn’t last long.”
“It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind,” Gram said as if the old cliché could explain the odd exchange we were witnessing. “But I’m quite sure that I saw the for-sale sign on your mom’s condo. That was just last weekend. But with the high demand for homes at that complex, maybe it’s sold already.”
Gordon shook his head. “Not yet.”
“The real estate agent we’re working with thinks that it might be a little while.” Paula tossed the paperwork back into the box. “I guess that’s fairly common when someone passes on the premises.”
“But it’s not like it was a murder,” I said, watching Gordon for an emotional reaction.
He winced as if I’d landed a physical blow. “Doesn’t matter. No one who knew my mother is going to want to live there.”
Which would account for the majority of the seniors in town.
“Give it some time,” Gram chimed in. “Maybe after the holidays, prospective buyers will have a fresh perspective on the situation.”
Paula nodded, locking eyes with her husband. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“Uh-huh.” Gordon reached into the cargo hold and picked up the box. “Or I do what I should have done months ago, when she first brought it up.”
Gram turned to Paula. “Is this about that walk-in tub Naomi wanted a while back?”
Paula blew out a sigh. “We’ve gone around and around about it. Replacing that bathtub won’t change anything. You need to let that go,” she said, watching Gordon. “Because what happened isn’t your fault.”
“Oh yeah?” Gordon slammed his trunk shut and started walking toward the ticket office. “Tell my dead mother that.”
Chapter Eleven
“I DIDN’T THINK that was so bad,” Gram said to me as we filed out of the theater. “But I have to admit the movie didn’t really hold my attention after Lucian smothered your mother with that pillow.”
Given Marietta’s reputation for being one of the best screamers in the business, it couldn’t have been the first time someone wanted to put a pillow over her mouth.
“Yep, it got slow after that, but Mom’s death scene was pretty good.”
“Really good. And even though I’ve seen her die at some crazed killer’s hands a dozen times, it was tough to watch her struggling to breathe.”
“I know.” I had to look away more than once. Of course, I was also keeping an eye on Gordon and Paula, who left shortly after my mother’s final closeup.
Did that mother–son death scene also hit them a little too close to home?
My gut answered with a resounding yes, but despite what Gordon had said, that didn’t mean Naomi’s death was his fault. I’d spent enough time with grieving loved ones to recognize the self-recrimination that can plague them after a sudden loss. The guilt, the anger, the what-ifs—I’d seen it all before.
Did it convince me to give Gordon Easley a pass after hearing him claim the responsibility for his mother’s drowning? Oh, heck no!
* * *
“Let me get this straight,” Steve said while I poured him a beer during my shift at Eddie’s almost two hours later. “You’re telling me that the woman drowned because her son didn’t give her the kind of bathtub she wanted?”
I leaned across the glossy oak bar separating us so that he could hear me over the crowd watching the Yankees slug their way to the next round in the playoffs. “I’m just telling you what Gordon said to Gram and me.”
“That he confessed to negligent homicide by procrastination because the poor guy wasn’t crazy about the idea of remodeling her bathroom.”
“Sure, make it sound ridiculous.” Even more crazy than it sounded when I gave Steve the highlights of that parking lot exchange.
After a glance at the flat screen behind him, he reached for his glass. “Chow Mein, I don’t have to try very hard to do that because you seem to be forgetting something.”
I didn’t mind the use of the nickname Steve gave me back in the third grade, but I couldn’t say the same for the smug look that accompanied it.
“After all the self-medicating it appears that Naomi Easley did that night … it wouldn’t have mattered if that tub had been easy enough for a two-year-old to crawl out of. She was probably so wasted …” He stared into his glass as if he could see her at the bottom of its amber depths. “Anyway, the sooner that you accept that, the better off it will be for all concerned.”
I glared at the back of Steve’s head when he turned to watch the ballgame. “Right. No problem,” I groused on my way to fill the drink order ticket Libby was waving at me from the other end of the bar.
I was pretty sure acceptance would come eventually. But absolutely, positively not before I reacquainted myself with the concerned neighbor who called in the “murder.” And definitely not before I dealt with the actress in the entryway crooking her finger at me.
What was my mother doing here?
I shook my head and held up the bottle of tequila in my hand. “I’m working,” I mouthed, hoping that the biology teacher standing next to Marietta would clue her in to the fact that this wasn’t a good time to celebrate her return home.
Libby looked over her shoulder toward the door. “Is that Marietta Moreau?”
The former Mary Jo Digby, pointing at her stilettos like she used to when she wanted me to stand by her side and smile for the cameras like a good little girl? “I’m afraid so.”
Libby added lime wedges to the two margaritas I set on her tray. “Not a fan, huh?”
“It’s not that.” I splashed a shot of bourbon into a shaker to make my first whiskey sour of the evening. “I just don’t have time—”
“Perhaps you can make a little after you’re done there,” Barry said, stepping up next to Libby.
Locking gazes with him while I squeezed a lemon, I received the very clear message that any answer in the negative wouldn’t be in my best interest. “Perhaps.”
“Want me to get Eddie?” Libby asked as if she could also sense that some trouble was brewing.
More likely, she didn’t want to sacrifice her tips because there wouldn’t be anyone behind the bar to keep the liquor flowing.
Either way, I knew that I needed some backup to deal with this unexpected family visit and gave her a nod.
I turned to Barry. “Want a drink? It might be a little while.”
Stifling a yawn, he looked like he’d rather crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head—which, after his whirlwind trip to do the red carpet gala thing with my mother, was completely understandable. But Barry Ferris, standing here and acting the part of the dutiful stepfather instead of heading straight home from the airport? Not so much.
He waved me off. “I’ll let your mother know that you’re coming.”
I thought of a few other things he could let her know about on my behalf, like respect for other people’s time, but kept my mouth shut. Better that I deliver that message myself.
That was precisely my plan when Eddie stepped behind the bar to relieve me and asked, “Is there a reason your mother is pacing in the lobby? She should know by now that she’s always welcome here.”
The only reason she’d deign to step a toe of her stiletto inside a bowling alley’s watering hole would be because she wanted something. Unfortunately for me, something only I could give her.
“We could even promote her appearance and make it an event.” Dispensing seltzer water into a glass, Eddie’s grin lit up his face. “I know! We could have a mother/daughter night.”
“You could feature girly drink
s half off,” Steve chimed in. “Bring in some guys as servers. I could put in a word at the gym. I’m sure I could find a few boys who’d be willing to oil up and—”
“This is not happening, so stop helping.” I glared at him as I stepped out from behind the bar.
“Is that a definite no?” Eddie called after me.
“That was a definite no way.” Working my way through the crowd, I intended to bring tonight’s mother/daughter event to an equally rapid conclusion, but Marietta was nowhere to be seen in the lobby.
Barry pointed me toward the ladies’ room. “She stepped in there for a moment.”
I pushed the door open and found Marietta inspecting her makeup in the oval mirror over the pedestal sink. “About time.”
I was really tired of people saying that to me this week. “You realize that I’m working here tonight, right?”
She cast a glance at my reflection in the mirror. “Sorry, I know we’re interrupting, but you didn’t reply to my text and—”
“Like I said, working.”
“I know, I know. So I’ll make it fast.” Turning to face me, Marietta’s green eyes sparkled. “A little bird told me that you saw a certain movie this afternoon.”
Criminy, this was about her movie? “Yep. And as I’m sure you already heard from Gram, we thought you were awesome, especially in that death scene.”
She beamed. “Did you really think so?”
I was the only one of the two of us in the bathroom who knew I had just told a whopper of a lie, so there was no upside in providing an honest critique of her overly dramatic sixteen minutes of screen time. “Absolutely. Your makeup looked good too. You really looked dead.”
A little frown line between her brows stretched as far as her latest Botox injection would allow. “Honey, I felt close to dead after all those takes with that wretched pillow over my face. I swear,” she said, dropping into the Tupelo honey-sweet accent she adopted back in the 1980s for her TV show. “That boy was takin’ way too much pleasure in silencing his mama.”
I kept my mouth shut. She had set me up for too cheap of a shot.
Crazy, Stupid, Dead Page 6
