A few minutes pass and there’s no sign of Jack or Mr. B, so I’m assuming the Rotten Cheater is inside the sky blue house committing adultery. Suddenly, I feel an unexpected flush of rage. How could he cheat on that pretty, perfect little wife of his? How dare he parade around humiliating her this way! Somebody needs to call him out for being the sleazy sleazebag he is… I get an overwhelming urge, which pumps through my veins like battery acid to confront him in the act and tell this horrible man exactly what I think of him. I swiftly make my way around the back to peek into the windows so that I can spring on him with the element of surprise. I observe Jack attempting the same as he teeters on the last step of the widow’s walk, which runs along the entire perimeter of the house. I used to think the idea of the widow’s walk was so romantic. Originally they were built as a place for fishermen’s wives to watch and pace, waiting for their husbands who were out at sea battling the elements, to safely return home. Now they just make me sad.
I walk to the right side of the house and peek into a small wood framed window. The curtains are sheer but still obscure the view, and though I can make out some movement, I can’t really tell what’s going on. But I can just imagine. Which makes me even madder. I get flashes of Bernie and his limber, nubile, lover in the office and then thoughts come flooding of them at her place on their lunch break. I can almost feel steam rising from my ears as my imagination runs far, far away.
As I make my way back towards the car, Jack spots me and motions for me to stop walking, but I’m just too mad to care. I want to drive to Bernie’s office right now and tell him and his little bimbo exactly what I think of them! But first, I should give Mr. B a stern talking to. I change course and head for the front door, and as if on cue, the Cheating Scum exits, patting his post coital hair. I don’t quite know what comes over me but everything takes on a blood red color like a lens filter in a Stephen King movie. As he gazes at me with uncertain surprise and curiosity, I kick him in the left shin. Hard. And shout at the top of my lungs, “You Cheating Creep! How dare you!”
The next few moments seem to happen in slow motion. I relentlessly beat a shrunken, fearful, Mr. Bentley with my big, blue purse as Jack bounds down the stairs with his arms flailing.
“What are you doing?? What are you doing?!” He shouts, but it just sounds muffled and garbled to me.
My purse strap breaks in mid swing and I slump down on the front lawn. Defeated and spent, as Jack steps off the wraparound porch.
“Liza, what the hell? Are you okay?”
I’m in a haze and stare at Mr. Bentley, mouth gaping. He looks at me bewildered. “Who are you?” he asks in a voice that bears the faint hint of a British accent.
I eye him with deep loathing. “Why? Why did you do it? Your wife is so pretty….and she obviously loves you. Why?”
Mr. B looks even more confused now. “Madame, I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” he says, his voice cracking with uncertainty.
Parella stands with his arms folded, surveying the messy scene, and finally breaks his silence. “I think there’s been a big mix up here, see. Your wife hired us to spy on you, ’cause she thought you were cheating on her.”
I let out a snort. “Thought? What do you mean ‘thought’?”
Jack shoots me a look. Mr. Bentley fumbles for words.“No, it can’t be. She couldn’t have suspected...she thought I was cheating? How could she?”
I glare at him. “Ever heard of women’s intuition?”
Jack stifles a laugh. “Well, Liza, turns out Mrs. B didn’t exactly have it right. There is another woman. But not quite how she thought.”
“What are you talking about? We saw it with our own two eyes!”
Jack challenges with a cocked brow. “And what exactly did we see?” Jack addresses a bewildered Mr. B. “Sir, if you wouldn’t mind introducing us to your companion inside?”
Without much fuss, Mr. B composes himself and gives us access inside the small cottage that looks like my Grandma Erna’s house. With its brocade couches topped with thick plastic covers, and worn braided rug surrounding a large stone hearth crammed with pictures of a young boy, the place certainly doesn’t resemble the den of iniquities I imagined. As we approach an open French door, I see an elderly woman napping in a La-Z-Boy. Snoring softly. The television is tuned to Oprah and muted. I look at both men, totally bewildered. Mr. B breaks the silence.
“She’s my Mum.” At this shocking revelation, he motions for us to return to the living room, as he quietly shuts the door. “She adopted me when I was six. And was every bit a mother to me as I could’ve hoped for.”
With tears brimming, he tells us about how he ran away from the orphanage and ended up hungry and penniless at the diner where she worked. She kindly took him in, feeding and clothing him with her meager earnings. In later years, she put him through prep school on the same waitress’s salary. To get him into a prestigious school, the two fabricated a blueblood, tragic family history for him, which, for obvious reasons, didn’t include a truck stop waitress for a mother. Fearful of being labeled a fraud and ostracized from high society, he kept up the ruse, keeping his real identity a secret. Even from his wife. So he visits his “Mum” three times a week and has a housekeeper look after her who keeps all her favorite goodies stocked in the pantry.
“How sad and beautiful,” I say once he’s finished and there isn’t a dry eye in the house. I search his face for a moment and give him the best advice I can think of that someone recently gave me. “Talk to your wife, she might surprise you.”
Mr. B’s Mum has woken up and calls out from the other room, “Johnny, is that you muffin?” she says in a faint Southern accent. Mr. B, a.k.a. “Johnny Muffin,” jumps to his feet and excuses himself to tend to his mother.
Jack and I let ourselves out, leaving Mr. B. whispering quietly to the aged woman. As we make our way towards the car, I’m still shaking my head in disbelief. Jack grins. “Looks like you owe me a meatball sub, Tootsie Pops.”
78
Jack gloated shamelessly as we shared an oversized meatball sandwich from Giuseppe’s, dripping with marinara sauce. I know, I know, I’m supposed to be on a diet. I just ate half the bread and fed the rest to a pigeon. Then I dropped him off and headed home. Home. That has a nice ring to it.
I have to stop by the market near Commons Park and get some snacks for tonight. The girls are coming over for my impromptu housewarming party so I decide to park the car at home and walk, way easier than finding a spot in the city. Crossing through the park, under a long row of elm trees, I spot Eddie reclined against a trunk sporting a huge pair of Jackie-O style sunglasses, similar to the ones Mamma had on last week. I notice his shoe shine kit at his side and wonder if he actually gets any customers. We exchange a wave and I make my way to Louie’s Bodega. Louie’s is the kind of market that has everything one could ever want for making a gourmet meal. Decadent caviar, fresh pâté, salamis and endless rows of cheeses that make the shop smell mildly of someone who’s just passed gas. But in a good way…if that’s possible. The shelves are lined with red and white checked gingham paper, and there are cured meats and huge sausages hanging from the ceiling. On the far wall is a black and white, framed photo of a couple that I assume to be Louie and his wife on their wedding day. And a rosary hangs from a nail nearby. The shop also has a deli section behind a glass case with a row of muffuletta sandwiches that Louie apparently learned how to make while living in New Orleans (Kate the landlord was nice enough to put together a list of all of her favorite places in the neighborhood with a charming little back-story to go along with each spot).
As I browse the culinary delights bursting from every shelf, a portly, middle-aged man, who could only be named Louie, comes bounding from the back room with a flourish of activity. He is precariously balancing about a dozen cans of black olives in his arms; teetering over to the counter, he drops them with a loud crash.
“Ahhh, well,” he stammers with a shrug of his shoulders. He spots me down
an aisle of summer sausages and he gives me a hearty grin. “Ain’t seen you around here before.”
He has warm, twinkling eyes so big and shiny one could easily mistake them for doll eyes. He’s lost most of his dark, curly hair and has a large gap between his teeth that looks sweet when he smiles.
“I’m new to the neighborhood. I just moved in on Spruce.”
He gives me a nod of approval as he sticks a breadstick into his mouth. Giving it a nibble, he gestures with it like a smoker with a cigar. “This is the greatest neighborhood in all of the fine city of Boston, you ask me,” he says with a wink and another bite of his breadstick.
He’s a teddy bear of a man. The type I could imagine being a wonderful grandpa. Something I never had the pleasure of knowing since both of my parents’ Dads died before I was born.
“You must be Louie.” I smile. “I like your place. What do you think I can put together for my housewarming party tonight? I’m not so much with the cooking,” I add, sheepish.
His bright eyes go wide. “A party, you say? My dear girl, you’ve come to the right place.” With this said he begins pulling items from the shelves. Slicing meats and opening cans, jars, etc. By the time he’s all done, I have two very full brown shopping bags of goodies. From smoked trout to rib tips, I’ve got enough to feed an army. I’ll probably have to send care packages home with the girls since it’s only us and maybe Kate.
As we say our goodbyes, Louie adds awkwardly, “Hope you have a nice party. I’m sure it’ll be real fun.” His puppy dog face looks eager.
Me thinks he’s fishing for an invite and I’m happy to oblige. “I’d love it if you would be my guest…and your wife too of course.”
He accepts graciously and I jot down my address on a small brown paper bag. In fact, our exchange makes me think of other people I can invite too. Jack, for sure. Kate’s husband (though I can never remember his name), the professor, because I definitely want to get a closer look at that ring…and Eddie and…well, that’s enough, I think. I’m getting so much more excited about this now that it’s become my first official bona fide party, in my first official place of my own, after my first official case.
Lots of firsts for me these days.
I can’t believe I’ve never lived on my own. I mean, I’m in my thirties and have to sleep with a night-light because I’m so used to another body being in the room…or at least just down the hall. First it was my sister, Beck Beck, who snored since the day she was born and always kicked in her sleep. Then there was Big Vivi, my college roommate. She was sweet, but her name was the only exciting thing about her. She was in the math club if that explains anything. And then there was the last twelve years with Bernie. Ten of them married. We’d lived in a total of three apartments and two houses together. And now I’m at 711 Spruce all by my lonesome.
“Those bags sure look heavy,” Eddie shouts, still reclined between the elms.
I give him a pouty face. “They truly are heavy. I sure wish I had a big, strong man to carry them for me.”
He responds with a grin. “Say no more, Madame. Eddie is at your service,” he says, then stands and pulls off his cap, bowing dramatically.
Channeling Mamma seems to work on any red-blooded male.
We stroll together through the park. I can see my breath as I exhale into the brisk fall air, which gets me thinking of spending winter in the city, with the sparkling snow, wool mittens, and the Christmas tree in the park. The anticipation makes me excited and warm all over, despite the chill.
As Eddie helps put away the groceries, I make calls to all my prospective guests. Everyone agrees to come, and I suddenly get the funny feeling that this will be a night to remember…
79
My new buddy helped get things ready for the party, and afterwards, I talked him into taking a shower and putting on one of Bernie’s old work shirts I used to wear for painting. The overall effect is good. Though it’s still quite obvious he’s no Donald Trump, he looks presentable enough for company. I open him a can of 7-Up and he volunteers to wait downstairs for the guests and play doorman.
Moments later the girls arrive. Followed by the professor bearing a large plastic Ziploc baggie filled with my underpants. Geez Louise.
The girls all size him up as Kate and her hubby Whatshisname arrive and then finally Jack crosses the threshold. He saunters in carrying a bottle of whiskey adorned with a bow and wearing his signature devilish grin. The girls huddle around me as they gawk at Parella who looks unusually handsome tonight; his dark blue cable knit sweater giving him the air of a rugged fisherman.
“That’s Jack?” Evvy says, practically drooling on her cashmere scarf.
“No wonder you’ve been ditching us for this guy. He’s like some sort of sexy, manly, yummy thing,” Josie says.
“That was eloquent,” I reply with a snort. “He’s not that gorgeous…is he?” My voice squeaks as the girls all turn and cock their eyebrows at me in disbelief.
Evvy cackles with a look of amusement, “You’ve got to be kidding. This guy is every woman’s blue collar wet dream.”
Anne giggles. “Oh, Evvy, you are so filthy.”
As I elbow Evvy, Jack approaches our little group, grinning from ear to ear.
“Well, who have we here, doll face?” He says playfully as he kisses my cheek ever so gently; close enough to my ear that it sends a shiver down my spine.
The girls giggle like dorky adolescents as Evvy drapes a slender arm around Jack’s shoulder, introduces everyone, and promptly launches into shameless flirtation. I take the opportunity to mingle with my other guests and spot the Professor sitting alone near the bay window. That ring has been gnawing at me. I’ve got to get a good look at it.
“How ya doin’, cowboy?” I ask, not sure why I added the cowboy part. I assume it’s the spiked punch talking.
He looks a tad confused then smiles. “Quite good…quite good,” he says in his charming accent.
I glance down at his hand clutching a punch glass. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing to the ring.
He follows my gaze, perplexed. “Oh that. It’s my clan. My surname is Mac Mullen. It’s of Celtic origin. Our motto is ‘I learn to succor the distressed.’ We’re an idealistic bunch,” he exclaims with a chuckle.
“Can I see?” I ask, moving in closer.
He nods and raises his hand towards my face. God, I hope he’s telling me the truth and that he isn’t the same deranged psycho Scotsman that’s been stalking me. But if he is, at least I’ve got plenty of back up. I can feel my heart beat inside my ears as I tentatively approach his outstretched hand. Hmmmm.The crest seems different. It has a longer sword that’s tilted back at an angle. Calligraphy Boy’s seal has a shorter dagger held straight up and down, and there isn’t any word on the ring that resembles art. Phew.
“It’s lovely,” I say, breathless.
There is an awkward pause as I grasp for small talk.
“How’s the house working out?”
“Quite nicely,” he says in a clipped sort of way, which makes me think there is more to it that he’s not telling.
“Are you sure?” I prod.
He gives me a sheepish grin. “Yes…well. I mean, the house itself is quite lovely indeed. And the small pavilion in the garden is where I have my morning coffee and give the paper a read. But the house is…well…quite large, you see. Which makes a bachelor feel all the more lonely,” he says this last bit with a doe-eyed vulnerability.
I put my hand on his instinctually and say, “Well, professor, anytime you want some company, give me a call.”
I realize immediately that this must sound like some sort of middle-aged, desperate divorcée, cheesy come on. But the good professor seams so pleased with my announcement that I simply don’t have the heart to back peddle. I quickly excuse myself on the pretense of needing more punch and notice Eddie having a nap as he sits propped against the fireplace so I drape a blanket over him. Louie and his tiny wife, with her impossibly thick hair,
show up bearing a gift of a cured ham hock. It’s so fantastically Tuscan that I feel inspired to stash it away for a time when I’m making a picnic on an Italian hillside. But that would seem greedy and rude, so instead I plop it on a wooden cutting board and jab a knife into it.
I glance around the room at my guests at my first adult party all by myself and a smile creeps over my face. I feel so full and content in that very moment that I look up to the heavens and thank the Big Man up there looking out for me.
80
After a few hours of sparkling punch and finger foods, the guests start to trickle out and I suddenly find myself alone with Jack.
“What are you still doing here, Mister?” I ask with a smirk.
I’m feeling a wee bit tipsy, but luckily stuck to only one glass of red and a couple glasses of punch so I’ve still got some wits about me.
“These little wienies are just the greatest,” he says, stuffing a couple of mini hot dogs into his mouth with relish. “Just can’t get enough.”
I shoot him a look. “I’m sure there’s a homoerotic joke in there somewhere, but I’m too tired to be clever just now,” I declare, plopping down on the white denim chaise as I pull the green knubby throw over my legs.
Jack glances at me and smiles. “Only thing missing is the fire.” He then proceeds to make the most roaring fire I’ve ever seen a man other than my Daddy make. Effortlessly. He turns off the lamps off and in the dim firelight his eyes flicker and dance. The effect is intoxicating. Damn it. The girls were right. He is dreamy.
“So what’s the story with the stuffy professor and the bag of panties?”
I shake my head in disgust. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Parella. He found them in a drawer at my house. My ex-house. And there’s no ‘story’ other than the fact that he’s my tenant and pays the mortgage so that I can enjoy my new single girl, city life.”
Eye Spy Page 18
