by Sparkle Abby
“Sassy,” she replied. “It’s short for Sasquatch.”
I smiled at the name. “He’s a beautiful guy. I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. I don’t work with the animals here. If you’re interested in my services, I’ll need to do an in-home evaluation.”
“I thought it was kind of strange, but I didn’t know how it worked. And the girl who answered was insistent I just bring Sassy and come in. He’s got a problem with destructive behavior, and I’m at my wits end.”
Sassy didn’t look destructive at the moment. In fact, he was probably the best-behaved pet in the office. I handed her my card. “Call my cell phone, and we’ll set up a time for me to come to your house. I’m so sorry for the misunderstanding today. The first visit will be on me.”
“Okay, I’ll do that.” She tugged on his leash, and a very docile Sassy got to his feet and lumbered toward the door with her.
I repeated the talk with each of the clients in the waiting room. Talking a bit with each, I explained how I usually work, and offered the initial consultation free in apology for the mass confusion that had caused them to think they needed to pack up their pooches and come to PAWS.
Once the last doggie/owner duo had left the office, I rounded on LaKeesha.
“Now, what happened to Paris?”
“Dunno. I guess your regular girl quit. I work for a temp agency in the Valley, and they sent me. I’m sorry for the problem with the dogs.” She had the grace to look sheepish. “I usually go out on jobs at doctor’s offices, and it seemed logical to me for them to come in.”
“I can see where you’d think that,” I said with a sigh. “Let’s see if we can get this place cleaned up.”
Chapter Nine
I was dead-dog tired. After the day I’d had, I was glad Kitty’s sister was in residence next door and had taken over the care of Tobey and Minou. I wanted nothing more than to soak my sore muscles, fix myself a salad and a glass of wine, and maybe sit out on my deck and enjoy the view. Sometimes you just need solitude.
I changed clothes, took Dogbert on a quick around-the-block trek, promised him a longer walk tomorrow, and headed inside to begin my evening of self-indulgence. Just as I slipped my key in the door, I heard a voice calling me from next door.
“Hey there, Caro. Can I talk to you a minute?” She headed across the front lawn as fast as her little legs and four-inch wedgie sandals would take her.
Every time I saw the woman I was struck at the contrast between her and Kitty. Granted both were small-boned, tiny in stature and neither were probably born blondes. But where Kitty’s honey blonde highlights had been perfectly salon blended, her sister’s flaxen locks had been bleached within an inch of their split ends.
Kitty’s petite figure had powered through life all control and focus. April, on the other hand, it seemed had sort of flitted from one thing to the next.
But by far the biggest difference was that Kitty had always been a private person. In all the years we’d shared a fence, she’d never talked about where she was from, what brought her to California, or anything else personal for that matter. April Mae, on the other hand, had no filter. If it popped into her head, it came out her mouth.
Today she wore denim short-shorts that showed off her tanned legs and a leopard-print blouse that criss-crossed her chest and showed off her cleavage. Over the top of it all was a bright polka dot apron that looked like it had been stolen from a fifties sitcom. As she got closer, I could read the saying on the front of it. It said, “Who says beer won’t make you smart, it made Bud wiser.” Okay, maybe not so Leave it to Beaver after all.
“How was your day?” She smiled up at me shading her eyes with her hand.
I sighed inside, hoping for a fast escape, which was hardly ever the case with April Mae June.
“It was okay,” I lied like a rug. It hadn’t been an okay day, but it would take more explanation than I was up to. “Any word on Kitty’s services?”
“I talked to that good-lookin’ detective, and he says they’ll be releasing her . . . her body by the end of the week.” She sort of hiccupped on the words.
I immediately felt bad for feeling so impatient with her and waited for her to approach.
“Ah, honey, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
“I hate to ask you, but they want me to pick out some clothes for her and . . .” There was that hiccup again, and as she’d gotten closer I could see her cornflower blue eyes were rimmed in red.
What an awful week the poor woman had been through. She’d driven halfway across the country in a pickup truck with the hope of reuniting with a sister she’d finally found. She arrived only to find her sister was dead. No family. No support.
“You want me to come have a look, sugar?”
I know. I know. I’d been headed directly for a bath and a glass of wine. But she looked so lost.
“If you have time . . .” Her voice trailed off and her blonde curls drooped.
“Of course, I do.”
We walked across the lawn and entered the front door. She led the way through the house to Kitty’s bedroom suite. It was as elegantly appointed as the woman herself had been.
“I know my sister was a big shot and that she dressed up a lot. I’ve found pictures of her with all kinds of famous people. Movie stars. People I’ve only seen in the movies or on TV. So here’s what I picked out.”
She pointed at a dress she had laid out on the bed.
I hope I didn’t gasp out loud. I probably did.
A blindingly bright fuchsia sequined dress lay sprawled across Kitty’s elegant Ann Gish damask bedspread.
I was speechless. I wasn’t sure when Kitty would have ever worn a dress like that. The only possible explanation was it must have been a Halloween costume.
“Ah, April, ah Mae . . .”
“June,” she finished for me.
“Right.” I needed to get this name thing straightened out before it drove me loony.
I took a deep breath.
Her hopeful expression almost made me renege, but I owed it to Kitty to keep her from being buried in such a blatant fashion faux pas. I mean, who among us would wear bright fuchsia sequins to a funeral. Even our own. Maybe especially our own.
I took a deep breath again. “Here’s the thing. Kitty didn’t really wear sequins.”
“But she was Hollywood,” she insisted. Her squeaky voice got squeakier.
I searched my brain for a reference. Kitty was definitely more Dior and less Versace. Well, shoot. I didn’t think designer names were going to help out a whole lot with explaining Kitty’s style to her sister.
“Yes, she was Hollywood. But think less Britney Spears and more Catherine Zeta Jones.”
She looked puzzled.
“Hollywood, but not flashy Hollywood.”
I led her toward Kitty’s walk-in closet. Her closet—much like everything in the house—was uber-organized. Suits by color and jacket length. Coordinating shoes in cubicles. There was one area that seemed to be dressier dresses. I quickly looked through the selections.
“Here we go.” I held out a deep burgundy dress. This wasn’t an off-the-rack frock, but rather must have been custom designed for Kitty. I’d seen it in one of the pictures in the hallway. It was perfect.
“I don’t know.”
“Remember the picture of her at the Academy Awards that was in the hall?”
April-Mae-You-Can-Call-Me-June nodded.
“This is what she had on. That night had to be one of the highlights of her life. She looked so happy and so proud of her stars.”
April began to tear up.
“I’ll bet she kept the dress because it was a big moment. And this would be a wonderful way to celebrate her life and her accomplishments.” I could see she was weakening on the
sequins.
She sniffed but nodded in agreement.
“Okay then.” I picked up matching shoes and brought them and the dress out of the closet. I needed to keep her moving before she changed her mind. “Let’s put them in a garment bag.”
I moved out of the bedroom and down the hallway, hoping she’d follow.
I stopped in front of the picture of Kitty at the Academy Awards. “Do you want to send this picture to the funeral home with the dress, so they can make sure her hair and everything is right?”
I didn’t know if that was an acceptable thing or not, but keeping April on task seemed the important goal at the moment.
I turned back to see if she was following, and that’s when my better judgment and self-survival slipped away.
Big old tears had dragged rivers of mascara down her cheeks, and she looked so gosh-darn bedraggled that I couldn’t help myself.
“Do you want to come over for dinner?” I heard myself offering.
“Oh, that would be super!” Her face brightened, and she rubbed at her cheeks. “Just let me . . .”
“Good golly!” she suddenly shrieked.
“What?”
“Would you look at me?” We’d passed the big art deco mirror that hung on the wall between the hall and the living room, and she’d caught sight of herself. “Lordy. I look like I was drug through a knot-hole backwards.”
I had to agree she did look a little the worse for wear, but hey, who wouldn’t with what she’d been through.
“Tell you what.” I patted her arm. “You take a few minutes to freshen up, and I’ll go get our food started. You come on over whenever you’re ready.”
“Okie dokie, I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” She shook her hips and giggled at herself.
Oh, my. I headed back across the lawn to my house. Well, the prospect of dinner had certainly cheered her up, but what had I gotten myself into?
My evening of relaxation and pampering had turned into entertaining April—ah Mae—ah.
Well, one thing for sure. This evening wasn’t going to be a total waste. I was determined to get straight what the heck I was supposed to call the woman.
Chapter Ten
When April-Mae-You-Can-Call-Me-June arrived, she appeared to be in better shape and better spirits. She’d traded her short shorts for a sundress, and though she still looked like a Cover Girl commercial gone awry, she’d cleaned up the runny zombie eye make-up.
“I didn’t know what we were having, but I brought this.” She held a wine bottle aloft.
I took it from her and glanced at the label. “Very nice. I’ll put it in the chiller.”
“I usually drink beer. A Coors if I’m bein’ real fancy. But Sissy didn’t seem to have any beer.”
No, I’ll bet she didn’t. I wondered when she’d decided to call Kitty “Sissy.”
“Let’s eat out on the patio, if you don’t mind.”
“Sounds like fun.”
I’d set up placemats and matching dishes for the occasion. Pretty chic for me. My mama would be proud. I’d thrown together a salmon salad with toasted almonds and added homemade bruschetta with tomato and basil I’d made from some bread I’d picked up at the Laguna Beach Farmers Market.
“This looks great.”
We didn’t talk for a little while as we dug in. Both of us had apparently worked up an appetite.
I looked across the table at my dinner companion and considered my approach. I was determined to get this name thing settled. I decided on direct.
“Is April Mae your given name?” I asked.
“No.” She shook blonde curls.
“It’s not? Then June is your given name?”
“No again.” She giggled.
“Okay, sugar, help me out here. I’m trying to figure out what I should call you.”
“Well, as Harriet Hickenhopper, one of my foster mamas, used to say, ‘Call me anything you want ’cept don’t call me late to supper.’” She snickered at her own joke. “She was one of the good ones.”
This wasn’t really helping me. I tried a different tack.
“What does your family in Eminence, Missouri call you?”
“Sissy. But they call every female relative Sissy.”
All right, this was getting ridiculous. I would get a straight answer if it took all night.
“What name is on your driver’s license?”
“April Mae Wooben. The last foster family I was with actually adopted me, and so I’ve kept their last name all these years.”
“And most people in Eminence call you April Mae?”
“No, hardly anybody does. But you can if you want to. It is my name, after all.”
She took a breath, and I managed to interject. “Explain.”
“You see, my name was such a joke when I was a little kid that everyone called me April Mae June, and pretty soon everyone was just callin’ me June, and you know how it is. It stuck. So most everyone back home calls me June.”
We sat in silence for a while as April Mae June thought about her childhood. At least I imagined she did. During the silence, I thought about how I wasn’t any closer to knowing what the heck I should call her.
“But I think June is a better California name, more sophisticated like. So I’m gonna go by that out here. What do you think? Or maybe I should come up with a whole other name, like Kitty did. I like the animal theme. Maybe I’ll call myself Chickie. Like Chickie Monkey. Are they real animals, Chickie Monkeys? I’m not sure. Sounds cute though, doesn’t it. Did you ever wish for a different name?”
What I wished for was a way I could go back in time and not have invited her for dinner.
“No, I’m kind of okay with my name.” Though I did take back my maiden name when I divorced my cheating ex-husband, Geoffrey Carlise. Still, I wasn’t going to cloud this already murky conversation by sharing that information.
“Do you think there are real Chickie Monkeys?”
“No, I think it’s an expression like ‘cheeky monkey.’ I don’t think it’s actually a breed of monkey.”
“Oh well, maybe I’ll stick with June then.”
“Sorry?” I was sorry. Very sorry I’d ever thought this would be simple, and very sorry I’d thought it was a good topic for dinner conversation. I needed an escape.
“I’m going to get a corkscrew and pour some of the wine you brought for us. I’ll be right back.” I stood.
“Oh, it’s not a twist off kinda bottle, huh?”
“No, it’s not.” I left April-Mae-June-Chickie-Monkey-Wooben on the patio and sprinted to the refuge of my kitchen. I wondered how long I could stay away before she’d come looking for me. I located a corkscrew, leaned against the counter and enjoyed the quiet. I could see the patio and my guest from the kitchen.
Feeling uncharitable for my un-hostess-like thoughts, I knew I couldn’t leave her out there. My mama was one tough cookie, but she had raised us to know what our duty was when we had company.
I opened the wine, let it breath, picked up a couple of wine glasses and headed back outside.
“You’re so lucky.” April Mae looked up.
Yes, that’s right. April Mae. Despite all the discussion and her preference to be called June while in California. She looked like an April Mae, not a June, and that’s what I would call her.
“Lucky? How so?” She was right, I was extremely lucky. I was happy and healthy. I lived in a gorgeous community. Made a living doing something I loved.
“You have a family who loves you, and you know even if you fight with them they’re always there for you.” She was right again. My family made me crazy, but I loved them, and I knew they loved me. We had each other’s backs.
Wait a doggone minute.
How did Ap
ril Mae know anything about my family? I’d never shared anything about my background. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck tingle. I had a bad feeling about this.
“April Mae, how do you know about my family?”
“You can call me—”
“Stop it. I’m calling you April Mae. I’ve decided.” I carefully set my wine down on the table. “How do you know about fighting with my family?”
“Oh, honey, I apologize. I meant to tell you earlier that your cousin stopped by.”
“My cousin?”
“Yep, your cousin, Melinda. She needed to get into your house, and her key didn’t work. I was outside getting some stuff outta the truck. Your cousin wondered if I happened to have a key, and I looked through Kitty’s keys, and she had one labeled with your name. I tell you that sister of mine was one organized woman. No wonder she was so successful as a businesswoman.”
I heard her pattering on, but I’d stopped listening.
“That wretch!” I exploded.
“Well, that’s an awful thing to say about someone. Especially someone who’s dead and can’t defend themselves. I thought you were Kitty’s friend.”
“Not your sister, my cousin.”
I pushed back from the table and hurried to my bedroom. I’d been careless. I’d left the brooch pinned to the dress I’d worn the night of the Paw Prints exhibition.
I’d even made it easy for her. I’d made sure there was a picture of me in the dress in the newspaper column covering the event. Mel’s pig-headed but not stupid, and so she’d waltzed into my house, located the dress, and took the pin.
I’d left the classy Kate Spade dress on the end, meaning to find a hiding place for the brooch and to drop the dress off at the cleaners. It still sported the cat and dog hair from the event. It no longer sported the brooch.
“Argghhh!”
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” April had followed me. “Are you okay?”
I explained about the brooch.
“Oh, no. I am so sorry. Your cousin seemed so nice.”
“Well she’s not. She’s a . . . a . . . thief. A brooch-taker.”
