All clear.
I turned to find Soosh sniffing at the spot on the wooden floor near the edge of the Oriental carpet where Peggy Sue’s blood had pooled, even though I had repeatedly cleaned the area with disinfectant and bleach.
The little mutt had an incredible sense of smell, often surprising me, like the time she kept scratching to get under my bed, its low structure preventing her from doing so. I checked with a flashlight for an old bone or abandoned treat that might have tumbled down between the mattress and footboard, but found nothing. Even a swipe with a broom brought out only dust. But Soosh wouldn’t give up her pawing. Finally, I moved the heavy bed, and saw a tiny, tiny piece (more like a crumb) of a cookie (Girl Scouts peanut-butter sandwich) that I’d eaten in bed six months before while reading Lucky magazine.
While Sushi trotted off to her bed in the kitchen, I got my cell phone and sat on the couch to call Jake, expecting to leave a message for him to call me when he got off school ... but he answered.
“Hey, Mom. What’s up?” He sounded older than twelve, boy beginning his journey into man.
“I’m surprised to catch you at home,” I said. I didn’t want to lay anything heavy on him in between classes.
“Got out early. In-service day.”
“Good, because I have something important to tell you, even though I’d rather do it in person.”
His response was lightly sarcastic. “You gonna have somebody else’s baby for them?”
“No, once was enough for me. This is about family, though.”
“Okay. What?”
And as matter-of-fact as I could, I told him.
After a long silence, Jake asked, “Does this mean Grandma isn’t my grandma?”
“She’s really your great-grandmother.”
“Oh. And Aunt Peg isn’t my aunt, but my ... grandma?”
“That’s right,” I said chipper, trying to sell it, so wishing I could have done this in person. “And your cousin Ashley is now your ...” What was she? Niece? Aunt? Stepaunt? You couldn’t tell the players without a scorecard in this family.
Jake said, “What if I don’t like these changes?”
“I’m sorry, honey ... I felt the same way as you do, when I found out. If it helps, you can keep on calling them ‘Grandma,’ or ‘Aunt,’ like you always have. Nothing has really changed.”
“I guess. Does Dad know?”
“No. I’ll tell him later. I just wanted to make sure you knew about this, because it might get in the media.”
“ ’cause of that senator?”
“Right. Jake, honey ... are you okay with this?”
“Sure. Look, I gotta go. I’m meeting some friends... .”
I didn’t want to end the call, but said, “All right, sweetie—have a good time! And call me if you want to talk again.”
I sat for a moment, mulling over the conversation, wondering if I’d handled it all right.
I was about to head upstairs to change my piddled-on top, when I spotted Peggy Sue in the driveway, getting out of Veronica’s silver BMW, wearing her friend’s tony clothes, and toting a borrowed Vuitton carry-on.
Shaking my head, I watched her pause next to the car, granting any paparazzi who might be lurking in the bushes or treetops a good photo pose, before sashaying up the walk.
Now there were two prima donnas living in this house—three, if you counted Sushi.
“Any sign of Chris Matthews or Anderson Cooper?” I asked, as Peggy came in the front door.
She gave me a disgusted look. “No, of course not. But I can’t be too careful from now on—I’m not sure when Edward will announce our marriage. Have to look my best.”
Sometimes, Peggy Sue took shallowness to new depths.
Abandoning the Vuitton in the entryway, she crossed the Oriental rug to sit on the Victorian couch.
“We have to talk,” she said.
“Didn’t we just do a bunch of that at the hospital? I’m tired and want a nap before dinner.”
“A nap? Are you a child? Are you eighty years old? Brandy. Come. Sit.”
She patted a spot next to her.
I sighed, then paddled over and sat. As an older sister, she’d always made me feel about seven years old. Now that I knew she was my mother, I felt five.
“First of all ...” She sniffed the air. “What smells?”
I gestured to my top. “Sushi was excited to see me. Should I change?”
“No. Just ... move down a little.”
I did.
She tried again. “First of all, I don’t want Mom to know anything about the marriage—not until it’s formally announced. If she gets even the slightest whiff”—after the word whiff, Peggy Sue scooted farther away—“the news will be all over town.”
“Mother does know how to use a computer, you know. It’d be all over the known universe. Martians would know.”
“All the more reason to keep this from her as long as possible.”
“She won’t hear it from me,” I promised.
“Good. Now, concerning that awful murder ...”
Murders. Sis didn’t know about Anna Armstrong—I hadn’t filled her in on that part yet.
“... you have got to keep Mom from looking into it.”
“Right,” I said with a smirk. “And how exactly am I supposed to do that? Short of nailing her feet to the floor.”
“I’d loan you a hammer if I could,” Sis said dryly. “Make Mom understand that it’s better for the police to handle such matters. She has to stop snooping into these kinds of things or she’s going to get herself in real trouble.”
I gaped. “You absolutely have no idea, do you?”
“About what?”
“About stopping Mother from doing something she has it in her head to do.” I spread my hands. “In case you haven’t noticed, she’s a force of nature. She’s not going to listen to either one of us.”
“Brandy, you need to try... .”
“Besides, I have a vested interest in this one ... lest you forget, someone tried to kill you and Sushi.” (I put them in the right order that time. I hoped Sushi wasn’t listening.) “And who’s to say our intruder won’t come back?”
Peggy Sue set her pretty lips in a pout. “I can’t have you two running around stirring up trouble! I’m going to be a—”
“I know! I know! A senator’s wife.” Before I lost it entirely, I switched gears. “By the way, what exactly is the rest of the story where you and James Lawrence are concerned?”
Before Sis could reply, Mother burst through the front door, out of breath, eyes wild, hair disheveled. She looked like the survivor of a dust storm, minus the dust.
“What a productive day!” she proclaimed. “And how are my darling daughters? Everything go all right at the hospital?”
We both nodded.
Mother came forward, gazing down at Sis. “You look a little tired, dear ... why don’t you take a nap? I’ll call you in about an hour for dinner.”
“I feel fine,” Peggy Sue objected.
Mother put hands on hips. “I do think a little lie-down is in order, dear. Remember what you’ve been through.”
Sis stood. “All right.” She gave me a “Remember what we talked about look,” and I was tempted to say, “What are you, a child? Are you eighty years old?”
But I didn’t, and she headed for the stairs, defeated by Mother’s strength of will. And this was the woman who wanted me to stand up to Vivian Borne and discourage her detective delusions?
Then Mother said, “Good, she’s gone,” and turned to me. “Come ... to the Incident Room.”
Earlier, Mother had dragged a large old wooden green-faced schoolroom chalkboard into the dining room, which meant that we would be eating on TV trays for the duration.
I parked myself at the table, while Mother began writing on the board.
MURDER VICTIMS:
Big Jim Bob
Anna Armstrong
Lillian Lawrence (?)
NEAR MURD
ER VICTIMS:
Peggy Sue
Sushi
SUSPECTS:
John Anderson
Waldo Hendricks
Milton Lawrence
Texas partner of BJB
“Who’s Lillian Lawrence?” I asked.
“Milton’s late wife—just a hunch.”
Knowing not to question Mother’s hunches, I said, “You should add James Lawrence under ‘Suspects.’ ”
“Ahh,” Mother said. “Then you know the prodigal’s been spotted in town.”
Having gotten nowhere with Sis on the subject, I asked Mother, “Were Peggy Sue and James ever close?”
Mother frowned. “A few times he gave her a ride home from school—he had a Corvette convertible back then. But I put a stop to that because she wasn’t even a teenager yet, and he was in high school.”
Was that the “thing” Peggy Sue and James Lawrence had had?
I said, “Back then, people weren’t as suspicious of an older boy driving a young girl around, I suppose.”
Mother nodded. “That’s true, but I didn’t like it—he was a wild one, and your sister was very attractive and precocious, and I felt she was playing with fire. Your sister threw a fit when I forbade it, of course, because I think she felt grown-up riding in his car, and—What’s going on out there?”
Suddenly, Mother’s attention was drawn to the front picture window. She tromped over to it.
“My goodness!” she exclaimed. “That’s a lot of activity!”
I left the table and followed her to have a look.
A TV van was parked at the curb, the female anchor from the Davenport nightly news climbing out, followed by a cameraman.
“Oh my!” Mother exclaimed, eyes bugging behind her glasses. “It would seem my tweets have finally paid off.”
Her tweets were more like quacks.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
Mother, face flushed with excitement, said, “At last the Fourth Estate has come to query us about our successful sleuthing! I knew our light would not be forever hidden ’neath a bushel.”
“You didn’t... .”
Mother put hands on hips. “It’s about time they took us seriously. How I wish I’d known! Is my hair all right? Lipstick on straight?”
“You look perfectly demented.”
“Good,” she said, apparently hearing only “perfect.” She smoothed her Breckenridge outfit.
I wagged a forefinger at her. “Just keep me out of this.”
“Fine, dear—stay here, if you wish. But I’m going to drink in the limelight.”
“You bask in limelight. You die drinking lime.”
“That’s lye, dear,” Mother said. “You have such a tendency for malleable props.” Then she hurried out of the dining / incident room, to face the media.
I trailed after her, but turned toward the stairs, opting to hide out in my room.
Only, then I paused.
How could I miss what would certainly prove to be one of Mother’s stellar performances? If we solved this case, there would undoubtedly be another book in it, and Mother’s hijinks seemed unaccountably popular with our readers, so ...
I hung back in the entryway to listen behind the screen door.
By now, another local TV crew had arrived, and Mother made her grand entrance onto the porch, taking her position downstage.
The media—now three local crews—gathered at the foot of the porch steps, like groundlings, microphones extended, cameras going, asking questions all at once.
Mother raised a benedictory hand. “Now, now. Let’s have some sense of decorum... .”
Uncharacteristically, the reporters fell silent.
Mother went on. “First of all, I would like to welcome you one and all ...”
A couple reporters exchanged puzzled glances.
“... and assure you that I will answer all of your questions until fully exhausted ...”
Whether Mother meant herself, or them, or both, I couldn’t be sure.
“... but first, I would like to give you a little background about our sleuthing. It all began—”
The Channel 6 anchorwoman shouted, “How long has Senator Edward Clark been seeing your daughter?”
Startled by the question, Mother took a step back, out of the limelight. I felt lucky to be hiding in the wings.
It was starting... .
Mother looked as though she had prepared for one play, but wandered into another.
“Why ... why,” she stammered, “Peggy Sue has known the senator—”
“Not that daughter,” a man from Channel 4 said, “the other daughter—Brandy—the one half his age!”
What?
Mother, going up on her lines, was speechless for once.
Channel 4 had an eight-by-ten photo in his hand. “Isn’t that her the senator’s kissing?”
He waved the photo at Mother.
I could see the picture of my father and me: a blow-up of the end of our blow-up in the hospital hallway, when he’d kissed me good-bye on the cheek, just a few short hours ago.
Fading back farther, I stepped on something: Peggy Sue’s toes.
She yelped, then said, “What’s going on?”
“I think your good news has broken. You should go out and relieve Mother.”
Smiling, Sis headed out to face the media.
I grabbed Hello Kitty (conveniently still packed), slung my purse over my shoulder, then lammed it out the back to my car, silently thanking Peggy Sue for advising me to hide it back there.
A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip
To get the most out of selling storage unit items, use Internet auction resources like eBay, for the higher-valued finds, if packaging and mailing is cost effective. Bulky items can be sold via classified newspapers ads, flea markets, or Craigslist. Mother refuses to use Craigslist, however, because a boy named Craig was unkind to her at her senior prom.
Chapter Nine
A Loss of Trust
Feeling very much like a fugitive, I took refuge from the media storm by checking in at the Holiday Inn Convention Center, on the north edge of town, under my former married name, using a credit card still reflecting that status.
At the desk I picked up a few toiletries not included in Hello Kitty, stuffed with the set of clothes intended for Peggy Sue.
My room opened onto the indoor pool area, where right now no one was swimming or lounging. The scent of chlorine in my nostrils, I sat on the edge of the bed wondering who had taken the photo of the senator and myself, exploiting an all-too-private moment between father and daughter.
Somebody representing his political opposition, probably—somebody shadowing the senator, just waiting for the right time to grab an embarrassing or even incriminating time, without need of a camera, just a cell phone. What little privacy we’d all once had was long gone, courtesy of technology.
Right then my cell trilled, I.D.ing Sis, but I let it go to voice mail. A moment later, Mother tried, and I ignored her, too. Let diva and understudy bask in that limelight they both longed for. Then I shut off the cell.
While I didn’t relish hiding out at the Holiday Inn at one-hundred-plus bucks per, I had few other decent options. I certainly couldn’t impose on my BFF Tina and Kevin, now that they were dealing with BB (Baby Brandy), who was technically still a preemie (but gaining weight fast, thank goodness).
And, to be perfectly honest, I had been putting off visiting them because—while I was thrilled for Tina and Kevin—seeing the baby so soon would only break my heart.
My stomach growled. It was dinnertime (which is any point between four and six P.M. for us Midwesterners) and since I had trouble thinking on an empty tummy, I grabbed my purse with keycard, and made for the hotel’s restaurant, exiting the sliding glass door onto the pool area. The hotel restaurant was just across the pool, and I decided not to swim there, taking the more roundabout route. I wasn’t that hungry.
The Hawkeye Room had (not surprisingly) a spo
rts-theme going, heavy on the University of Iowa’s gold and black and images of their cartoon mascot, Herky the Hawk. Pity the poor Iowa State fan staying here.
I took a cozy table for two by a glass windowed wall looking out at a large pond, where an assortment of ducks capered in the water, others sunning themselves on the lush green banks. Wouldn’t it be nice to be one of them? Until duck season, anyway.
A pretty plump waitress handed me a menu, and I studied the nutritious salads and heart-healthy meals, then ordered a breaded pork tenderloin with onion rings, which was more in tune with my disposition and the eating habits of farm country.
A few other people were dining early: a young couple drinking wine; two forty-something businessmen devouring steaks; and a sixtyish guy picking at a salad like he’d lost something in it.
Salad Guy—quite fit, tanned, and handsome with thick gray-sandy hair—caught me staring, and flashed me a smile.
Embarrassed, I nodded, then returned my attention to the lucky ducks.
After a short wait, my food arrived, and as I dug in, some of the ducks—either curious or hungry—waddled over to watch me eat, pressing their bills against the glass, as if to say, “How do you like it, somebody staring at you?” At least I was eating pork—my usual chicken tenders might have made me feel uncomfortable.
And even in Iowa, they don’t let hogs loose outside restaurants to come guilt-trip you at the windows.
The last onion ring loaded with catsup was heading into my mouth when the plump waitress approached Salad Guy. She said, “Would you like me to charge this to your room, Mr. Lawrence?”
I nearly choked on the battered bite going down.
“That’d be fine, Doris,” he said to her.
James Lawrence?
Risking another glance, I could make out remnants of the boyish face from the photograph Mother had found at Anna’s apartment.
Looked like I wasn’t the only prodigal hiding out at the Holiday Inn.
After Lawrence had gone, Doris asked me if I wanted dessert and I said I did—they served a mean strawberry rhubarb pie, and I was in no frame of mind to watch my diet—and then I asked her how long “James” had been at the hotel, nice and casual.
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