A Doom with a View

by Elise Sax

  “Maybe she had a stroke,” I whispered to Boone. He shook his head and widened his eyes at me, as if he was telling me once again not to panic.

  Sheesh.

  Men.

  “Ms. Lupo?” I called. She turned around and smiled at me. “Ma’am, I’m worried that something might be wrong with Janie.”

  Lillian grew alarmed and shuffled over to her sister. She leaned over and studied Janie’s face. “She looks perfectly normal to me, honey,” she said.

  Boone rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  “But she’s not blinking, and she hasn’t moved,” I said.

  “That would be pretty funny if she did,” Lillian said, sitting down. “The woman’s been dead for seven years.”

  “Don’t panic,” Boone whispered.

  “What did you say?” I asked Lillian. She opened her mouth to speak, but I interrupted her. “On second thought, don’t repeat it.”

  “Janie and I were best friends. Irish twins, you know,” Lillian explained. “But she got the cancer. Took her real quick. One minute she was mashing potatoes, and the next minute she was gone. Snuffed out. It cost me four thousand dollars to bury her. Those people over at Goodnight Cemetery are thieves, I can tell you.”

  “If you buried her, then how did she get here?” I asked.

  “Lot of folks around here will do odd jobs for cash. Another lemon bar?” she asked, offering me the plate.

  I shook my head. “No thanks.”

  “They dug her up for you?” Boone asked Lillian.

  “Eight hundred dollars to embalm her. For what? So that she could just lie in the ground all lonely? Look at her. She looks better than she did when she was alive. Now she has company. I keep her up nice, don’t you think? Clean outfit every day. I do her hair and makeup myself.”

  “Does it seem stuffy in here?” I asked, hyperventilating. “Maybe you could open a window? I’m not getting a lot of air.”

  “All the windows are open, honey,” Lillian said.

  Boone stood and yanked me up. “I think you got what you need about Chaz,” he told me. “If you’ll excuse us, Ms. Lupo, we’ve got people waiting on us.”

  He turned his back on Lillian, and that’s when she launched forward. She was amazingly fast, considering her age and her seemingly frail body. In hindsight, though, I realized that she must have stayed strong by manhandling a corpse every day. Lillian wielded a meat tenderizer mallet in her hand, which she must have pocketed when she was making more tea.

  She was fast, but Boone had lightning fast reflexes. Just as the mallet was going to land at the back of his head, he spun around and lifted his unbroken arm up in a defensive gesture. Lillian came down hard with the mallet and made contact with his arm. There was a loud crack!, and Boone grunted. Even in pain, he moved fast. He pushed me out of the kitchen, out of the reach of the crazy lady with the dead sister in her kitchen.

  “No one’s taking my family away from me!” Lillian yelled, as we ran for the door. Her husband was still sitting on the couch, totally unconcerned by the fact that his wife was trying to kill the guests.

  “I can’t believe she broke my other arm!” Boone yelled.

  “I’m sure it’s not broken,” I said.

  We got to the door, but it was locked. There was no way to get out. “I won’t let you tell anyone! I won’t let them take away my family!”

  “We promise not to tell!” I yelled. We walked behind the couch and tried to reason with her, but surprise surprise, there was no reasoning with a woman who would dig up her sister and live with her corpse.

  “I don’t believe you!” She threw her body at Boone again, but this time he was ready. He disarmed her of her tenderizing mallet with his casted hand and tossed it in the corner.

  “Listen, let’s just calm down. We’re not going to take Janie away,” he said.

  “I don’t believe you!” she yelled again and pulled out another mallet from her cleavage. She had two tenderizing mallets? I guessed she had a lot of tenderizing needs.

  “I’m really sorry about this, ma’am,” Boone said and stepped from around the couch. With his casted arm, he punched old lady Lillian square in the face. Her mallet fell from her hand as blood spurted from her nose, and she fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes.

  “You hit an old lady,” I said in disbelief.

  “I was saving you. Again. Dig in my pocket for my phone and call Amos,” Boone instructed.

  I retrieved his phone and plopped down on the couch next to Lillian’s husband. He was completely unfazed by the fact that his wife was lying on the floor, bleeding. He just continued reading the paper.

  I called Amos and told him to send someone over to pick up the potato burglar’s mother. He said he would send Deputy Wendy Ackerman immediately. He couldn’t come himself because he was busy preparing for tomorrow’s Cook-off. He sounded nervous on the phone, like his whole life was on the line. I hung up. Lillian’s husband was still reading the newspaper.

  I pointed at him. “Look at him,” I told Boone. “Totally calm and cool.”

  “Don’t panic,” Boone said.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because her husband isn’t blinking either.”

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  “I’m going to tell my son on you. You’ll be sorry,” Lillian threatened. She managed to get herself into a sitting position, and she sounded like she had a cold, probably because her nose was broken.

  “Is your husband dead, too?” I asked her.

  “Our marriage has never been better since he kicked the bucket,” she told me.

  There was a two-hour wait at the emergency room, which gave me a good chunk of time to work on the article about the potato burglar. I wrote up all the information about Chaz’s childhood and that he might work for the railroad. At the end of the article, I mentioned the part about his mother digging up his father and aunt and living with them in her house.

  “I told you that it would involve dead bodies and danger,” Boone said, clutching his arm to his chest in pain.

  “How could I have known she was living with dead people? You act like it was my fault.”

  “Portal to hell, Matilda. Portal to hell.”

  Boone got the same doctor as the last time. “Not as gross this go around,” he told Boone. “Clean break. I didn’t want to throw up at all. That old lady must be dope with tenderizing meat. You want me to give you the same colored cast or you want me to mix it up with another color?”

  “Sonofabitch,” Boone groaned.

  Boone refused the happy juice this time and just took a couple of Advils. I drove him home, tucked him into his bed, turned on the TV, and warmed up a can of tomato soup for him. Then, I went to the Gazette office and turned my story into Silas.

  “What the hell?” he said reading the end of the story. “I think you buried the lead, boss.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that the potato burglar’s mother lives with dead people. You don’t think that’s interesting?”

  “I think it’s gross.”

  “Exactly. And she broke Boone’s arm with a meat tenderizer? That’s gold!”

  “It is?” I asked. “I thought the story was about the potato burglar.”

  “Those who can’t do, teach,” Klee commented. “Those who can’t teach, teach gym. Maybe you should teach gym, Matilda.”

  Ouch. Becoming a journalist was an uphill battle. It looked so easy when Dan Rather did it.

  “Jack, help me out here,” Silas called to the boy.

  “Did you really drink tea with a dead woman?” Jack asked me.

  “And I sat next to a dead guy on the couch. I’m pretty sure I have dead guy cooties on my hip.”

  Jack looked at my hip. “Cool!”

  Silas and Jack wrote up the new stories in a hurry, and Klee got them formatted and online. I had already blabbed to Amos and Wendy Ackerman about the potato burglar’s identity, and once Wendy had put Lillian in jail
and called the mortuary to cart Lillian’s husband and sister away to be buried again, she came to the Gazette to get the potato.

  “I’m thinking of transferring to Albuquerque,” she told Klee after she pocketed the potato for evidence. “They only have drug dealers and normal crime. They don’t have potato crime and folks living with their dead relatives.”

  “Tell me about it,” Klee agreed. “When’s the last time a giraffe ran wild in Albuquerque? Never.”

  She had a point, and I wondered if I really had opened the portal to hell.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning, I took the dogs out on an extended walk in the forest because I knew it was going to be a long work day. Normally, the Gazette was closed during the weekend, but the Cook-off was the biggest event of the year in Goodnight. The entire staff of the Gazette was reporting on it. Even Klee was going to take out her reporter’s notebook and interview the contestants, take pictures of the food, and report on the winners. It was an all hands on deck kind of day.

  Abbott and Costello seemed to understand that something big was happening. But they were happy for the two-hour hike through the forest. When we got home, I filled up their water bowls, and they fell fast asleep, snoring contentedly.

  Silas had fallen asleep in my bathtub during the night, and it was lucky that I never sleep because I found him there when I decided to do a spring cleaning in the middle of the night. It was hard to keep the house clean when it was still a mess from the renovations that Faye started but never finished. Nevertheless, I was happy to know that my kitchen and bathroom were clean.

  So, I got out the bleach and was going at it when I walked into the bathroom around three in the morning. I was shocked to find Silas there, sound asleep in the freezing water. The bubbles were long gone, and I got a big gander at his privates.

  “Geez, Silas what’re you doing?” I demanded, waking him. I threw a towel on him and let the water drain.

  “Sorry, Matilda. I don’t think I’ve ever written so many stories in one day. Twelve. And they were big stories, too. I’m exhausted. I guess I just fell asleep while taking a bath.”

  He didn’t sound like himself. He was weak, and his voice wasn’t the normal booming one I had grown accustomed to. He struggled to get out of the bathtub, so I helped him. He sneezed three times in a row, and I put my hand on his forehead. “You’re burning up, Silas. You have a fever.”

  “I don’t have a fever. Journalist don’t get sick. Democracy doesn’t wait around while journalists get better.”

  “You can take my bed,” I said. “I’ll bring you in some Tylenol and water. Maybe you’ll be better once you sleep it off.”

  Silas clutched my arm like a little boy trying to get comfort from his mother. “I have to cover the Cook-off, boss. If I’m not there to cover it, we’ll never get it done. No offense, but I’m the only real journalist at the Gazette. There’s me, a fifteen-year-old, a managing editor, and you. I need to be there. Otherwise, we’ll never get all the stories done.”

  I tucked him into my bed. “Maybe there won’t be anything big happening. Maybe we really don’t need so many people reporting on it,” I suggested.

  “Listen, this is something you should know about, boss. The Cook-off isn’t about exciting stories. It’s about name dropping. It’s about name dropping our advertisers’ names. The Cook-off is the most popular event in town. How we handle it means how our advertising revenue is going to be for the next year. In other words, do you want to eat a steak sometime in your future, or are you going to live off peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the rest of your life.”

  It was the first time that Silas had talked about the paper in a business sense instead of us saving democracy. I appreciated his candor. I did want the paper to make money. And what he said to me made total sense. This was a local event full of proud, local people. We needed to report on every aspect of it, talk about every contestant and every food dish. We had to publicize the pride that was involved with our native chiles. I totally understood what he was saying, and I was filled with a renewed sense of purpose.

  “I won’t let you down, Silas,” I said. But he didn’t hear me. He was sound asleep.

  In the morning, I dressed in a straight skirt, a button-down shirt, and flats. I checked on Boone, who was doing fine despite the fact that he had a cast on both arms. He told me he was going to rest for a while and go to the Cook-off later in the day when the food was ready to be eaten.

  “Amos doesn’t like me hanging around until the judges taste his dish,” he explained. “And Amos gets really nervous about this stuff. Wait until you see him in action.”

  I walked to the Plaza. It was a gorgeous morning. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, it was about sixty-eight degrees, and there was a light breeze. It was almost a sensual pleasure to be outside. Even though the organization of the Cook-off had gotten screwed up, Mabel would be in a better mood because at least the weather was cooperating.

  The Plaza was already abuzz with activity. It had been closed off to traffic. The streets around the square were lined with booths. The Chile Pecker Cock Off posters had been run through with Sharpies, editing them to say Chile Pepper Cook-off. The posters weren’t beautiful, but at least they were no longer R-rated.

  “No! No!” I heard Mabel shout. “The tables all have to be covered. Four of them have already been poop-bombed.”

  I ducked into an alley before Mabel could see me and yell at me, again, for ruining Goodnight’s future. With Silas’s words still in my mind, I realized that I would need to have a better relationship with Mabel and Rocco, since they were big advertisers and influential people in the town. I had been trying to become a reporter, which was good, but I also needed to start thinking more like the owner of the newspaper.

  The Goodnight Diner was overflowing with people. There was a huge group outside, waiting to get in. I was hoping for a leisurely breakfast before the stressful day, but there was no way I was going to get served in time.

  I was about to walk by and do some early reporting and try to make up with Mabel, when Adele came out of the diner and called my name.

  “Come on in here,” she told me. I pushed my way through the crowd, apologizing as I went, hoping that they weren’t going to kill me for butting in line.

  “Don’t worry about them. They don’t stop eating,” she complained. “The Cook-off starts in a couple hours. Can’t they wait to stuff their faces?” We walked inside. It was busier than I had ever seen it. Adele had given up trying to look good, cope, or even maintain good hygiene. “Morris isn’t here, of course, because of the Cook-off. I wasn’t even going to open today, but Nora came by with her kids, and word got around that there were pancakes. And then this happened.” She gestured to the hordes in the diner.

  “Pancakes sound good,” I said.

  “Oh, we don’t have pancakes, anymore.”

  She sat me at Nora’s booth. Nora was sitting with five of her kids. When I sat down, Nora handed me one of her babies. She slid a bowl of applesauce toward me. “Just keep feeding him, and hopefully he won’t bite you.”

  “Is that a thing? He bites?” I asked, trying to stay clear of the baby’s mouth.

  “He’s a fear biter. And he gets afraid when he’s hungry.”

  “What will you have?” Adele asked me. “It’s on the house. It’s the least I can do after your hospitality, and me pretty much destroying your house.”

  Nora blushed. “You mean, I almost destroyed her house. I’m so sorry about that, Matilda. I don’t know what came over me.” She took a large bunch of rope out of her diaper bag. “But the lasso practice really came in handy. I’m ready for my new job. I’m going to capture each and every giraffe and return them safe and sound and claim my bounty. Hold on a second.” She threw a spoon at her son, who had climbed on a nearby table. She knocked him in the back, and he jumped down.

  “The natives are growing restless,” Nora said. “Take your sisters and brothers outside, she told one
of her teenagers. “Don’t let them do too much damage. They can chase Mabel if they want, but stay away from the cooks. Remember what happened last time. We don’t want another fire.”

  Ten kids filed out of the diner, and we were left with only three of Nora’s. “What’ll you have?” Adele asked me, again. “You can have whatever you want, unless you want eggs or bread or bacon or pancakes. Damned Goodnight townspeople have cleared me out. If I put the wallpaper on the menu, they would have eaten that, too. From me to you, if someone doesn’t open another restaurant or another tamale lady doesn’t move to town, I’m done. I’m going to sell the diner and retire in San Diego.”

  “She’ll never sell the diner,” Nora told me when Adele left to place my order. “Her whole identity is wrapped up in this place. She hasn’t gone on vacation in twenty years, and she’s never even been to San Diego. I think she just mentioned it because she heard about their zoo, and everyone’s got giraffes on their minds.”

  “About the giraffes,” I started. I understood being desperate for money. I understood not wanting to go back to a dead end job that brought her no joy. But Nora wasn’t thinking straight about making a living through saving giraffes. The entire town had tried to do it, and they hadn’t managed to save one. Mabel had brought in so-called experts, but it was probably time to bring in real experts. People who could gather the giraffes and finally take them to the refuge in Boise. But Nora’s eyes were bright with hope and the promise of financial security. So, I wasn’t about to be the one to dash those hopes.

  The baby on my lap finished the applesauce, and he fell fast asleep in my arms. Faye walked in, and I scooted over so she could sit next to me.

  “Well, I quit the witches,” she announced. “I told Norton that it would be a little longer before we could get the new UFO on the roof of the shop.”

  “That’s a bummer,” Nora said.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “It turned out that those witches don’t have any money,” Faye said. “Thank goodness I had them pay for the supplies directly, or I’d be screwed. I’ll be over at your house tomorrow, Matilda. I can’t wait to get back to it. I never liked the witches’ house, anyway. Totally over-the-top. But your house is the real deal. You know that Teddy Roosevelt stayed there, right?”