by Lois Winston
“My, my!” Cloris held up the black leather sneaker to show me the sole. “You think Tino’s getting it on with Tessa?”
Several small crystals were lodged deep into the treads, the same type of crystals we’d seen on Tessa’s Vajazzled nether region. “I hardly think Tessa would lower herself enough to date a chauffeur and bodyguard. Besides, she said the crystals start falling off after a few days. Tino probably stepped in some. Along with something else.”
Cloris examined the sole more closely, then scrunched up her nose. “Euww!”
She dropped the sneaker. Tino didn’t flinch a muscle.
“It’s probably just caked mud.”
“Let’s hope so. Ever think about what’s on the bottom of your shoes?” she asked. “All those germs? And we track them onto our floors and carpets.”
“I file that under what-I-don’t-think-about-can’t-hurt me.”
“Maybe we should adopt the Japanese custom of removing our shoes before we enter our homes.”
I placed the other sneaker on the floor next to Tino’s chair. “That would only work if Mephisto wore paw covers. Do you think Japanese dogs wear booties?”
“Maybe their owners wash their paws after taking them for a walk. Anyway, now that we’re both totally grossed out, we’d better get back to work.”
“If I can work through all this racket.” I held my hands over my ears. “Man, he’s loud. I pity whomever he marries.”
“I’m popping in ear buds,” said Cloris. “I’ve got a spare pair you can borrow.”
~*~
Tino still snored away come quitting time. I shook his shoulder, trying to wake him but had no success. I even tried shouting at him, but I doubt he heard me over the sound of his own snoring. “Should I leave him?” I asked Cloris.
“Might as well. He’ll wake up eventually on his own.”
Before leaving, I sent Alex and Nick a text: Pls put casserole sitting in fridge in 350 oven @5:30.
I left my desk lamp light on so Tino wouldn’t awaken in the dark and become disoriented. I didn’t need to arrive at work tomorrow to find him lying unconscious on the floor from having stumbled and hit his head.
Tessa passed us as Cloris and I stood waiting for the elevator. “Stairs are great exercise, Anastasia. You could walk off some of those calories you consumed today.” Before she pushed open the door to the stairwell, she tossed me a catty smile over her shoulder.
“Do you believe her?” I asked. “She’s getting as bad as Marlys was.”
“Comes with the territory,” said Cloris. “Ever meet a fashion editor who wasn’t all full of herself?”
“Erica wasn’t.”
“Erica became fashion editor by default and held the position only briefly.”
“True. Even if she hadn’t entered the Witness Protection Program, she wouldn’t have survived the sharks on Seventh Avenue very long.”
“My point exactly. Maybe we should nominate Tessa as the next Trimedia victim,” said Cloris.
“What do you mean?”
“The way things are going around here lately, there’s bound to be another murder at some point.”
~*~
On my drive home from work I learned just how prescient a statement that was.
SEVENTEEN
Norma Gene Mortenson was dead. I learned this from a breaking news story on 1010 as I drove home from work. Late this afternoon sanitation workers had discovered her body stuffed into a Dumpster in an alleyway behind a bar in South Philly. The radio gave no further information other than mentioning Norma Gene’s relationship to Philomena and Philomena’s death a week earlier.
Poor Norma Gene. She must have suspected one of Philomena’s old cohorts of her murder and decided to take matters into her own hands. Except along with not preventing Philomena’s death, she’d also now failed to prevent her own.
My phone rang. I grabbed it and glanced at the read-out. Cloris. Since I currently sat in bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic, not even crawling along at ten miles an hour, I answered without fear of being slapped with a ticket. “I’m guessing you heard the news?”
“I’m freaking out. A few minutes ago I say we’re due for another murder, and what happens? We get one.”
“Cue the woo-woo music.”
“You think she went to Philly to confront someone about Philomena’s murder?”
Traffic began to move. I pushed the speakerphone button and placed my cell in the console beverage holder. Not that I’m ungrateful, but my life would be less stressful if Ira had found a Bluetooth enabled car for me. “Probably. I wonder if she told anyone where she was going or whom she planned to see.”
“If she suspected someone, she probably told Batswin and Robbins when they questioned her.”
“Not if she cared more about revenge than justice.”
“I wonder if the detectives have any leads. Do you think they still suspect Gruenwald?”
“I’m guessing he’ll remain at the top of their list until they can prove otherwise.” My own recent experiences had made me realize that innocent until proven guilty only worked in court cases. The cops believed in a suspect’s guilt until they had enough proof to the contrary. “I haven’t heard anything one way or the other, though. Not from Batswin and Robbins and not from Tino. And I haven’t spoken with Gruenwald since our one and only conversation last week.”
“Do you think Norma was on to something?” asked Cloris.
“It sounds logical on the surface—”
“I sense a but.”
“The but involves where we found her body. How would anyone from her old life have access to Trimedia? And not only have access but have enough knowledge of the security cameras to be able to remove them without being seen?”
“But if it’s not someone from her gang days, it must be someone from Trimedia,” said Cloris. “Who else would have access to the building and know about the security cameras?”
“Unless that’s what the killer wants us to think,” I said. “Why would someone connected to Trimedia dump the body back here? That’s what puzzles me. If we knew the killer’s motive for dumping Philomena’s body in our models case, we could probably figure out who did it.”
“Oh, is that all?” asked Cloris. “Piece of cake.”
“Indubitably.”
~*~
I arrived home to find Lawrence’s car parked in front of my house. Now that Mama and Lawrence had moved into their own apartment, I was looking forward to a little less chaos at Casa Pollack, not to mention lower food bills. Silly me. With the two of them living a mere two miles away, I’d probably now have one more mouth to feed, not one less. Mama had never met a recipe she couldn’t burn to a crisp, and Lawrence didn’t seem the handy-in-the-kitchen type.
For that matter, Lawrence didn’t seem the handy-at-anything type, which made me wonder about his pre-retirement profession. Whatever he’d done, he certainly hadn’t saved for his golden years. Or maybe he had and lost it all in bad investments like Mama’s last fiancé. I knew next to nothing about Lawrence Tuttnauer. Then again, aside from my own father, I’d known little about any of Mama’s husbands. Most hadn’t lasted long enough for in-depth back-stories to emerge.
The blended aromas of chicken, broccoli, and cheese wafted through the house, telling me one of my sons had read my text and remembered to pop the casserole in the oven. A baseball game blared from the den. I assumed that’s where I’d find Alex, Nick, and Lawrence. Lucille was either camped out in her bedroom or off rabblerousing with her fellow Daughters of the October Revolution.
Mama sat alone at the dining room table, her brow furrowed, a myriad of papers spread haphazardly before her. One glance at the assorted computer printouts of venues and menus told me she’d entered into serious wedding planning mode.
“Have you settled on a date?” I asked.
“Sunday,” she mumbled without looking up.
“This Sunday? Six days from now?”
“Of course, dear.”
I waved toward the papers on the table. “And you haven’t settled on a restaurant yet?”
“We’re having the reception at Ira’s home. I’m trying to decide on a caterer for the dinner.”
Early October had become a huge wedding month for New Jersey brides. How many of these caterers even had an opening for Sunday?
Not my problem, I told myself, tamping down the urge to voice my opinion. Instead, I asked, “Speaking of dinner, are you and Lawrence planning to join us this evening?”
Mama finally looked up from her papers and beamed me a gracious smile. “We’d love to, dear.”
Great. I hoped I had enough salad in the crisper or an extra box of rice to stretch a chicken and broccoli casserole for four into one that would feed six.
“Why are you doing this here, Mama? I would have thought you’d be happy for the peace and quiet of your own apartment. No Lucille. No Mephisto. No Ralph.”
“We took the boys to be measured for their tuxedos after school. Besides, I wanted to see you in your dress.”
“My dress?”
“It’s hanging on your closet door.”
“You bought me a dress?” I had served as matron-of-honor for each of Mama’s last four weddings, but she’d never picked up the dress tab before. Nor had she paid for tuxedo rentals for her grandsons. Either Mama had robbed a bank or she’d wheedled a credit card out of Mr. Ira Moneybags. I’m not sure which option bothered me more.
“I also wanted to ask Zack if he’d do me the honor of walking me down the aisle, but he’s not home.”
“Zack?” Alex and Nick had escorted Mama on her last four trips down the aisle. “Why Zack?”
“Why not? I thought I’d mix things up a bit this time. Alex and Nick are old enough to be ushers now.”
“Whom will they usher?”
“Why all of the guests, of course.”
“What guests?” Mama’s previous weddings had been small, intimate affairs with just the immediate family present.
“All of our friends. Plus Ira’s friends and business associates.”
“For a wedding this Sunday? When are you planning to invite these people?”
“Heavens, Anastasia! You’re so last century. I sent out e-vites this morning. The RSVP’s are already pouring in.” Her entire face lit up. “We should have quite a crowd.”
I never thought I’d live to see the day that Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe, a lifelong member of the very proper DAR, would turn her back on her Emily Post sensibilities and send wedding invitations via cyberspace. Then again, I never thought my not-so-dearly departed husband would turn into a dead louse of a spouse. So what did I know?
All of which makes me wonder about my ability to read people. I’m no detective. Part of me felt guilty about taking Alfred Gruenwald’s money under false pretenses, even though he’d really left me no choice. Batswin and Robbins would find Philomena’s killer long before I came up with a credible suspect. At least I’d uncovered the embezzlement, thus saving Trimedia countless millions, which in turn helped assuage my guilt over taking Gruenwald’s money.
Turning my thoughts back to Mama and her gala wedding, I asked, “Who’s paying for all these guests?”
“Ira gave me his AmEx card and said not to worry about the expense. I’m sure he’s writing part of it off as business entertainment.”
That solved one mystery. Mama hadn’t robbed a bank. “I doubt he meant for you to charge clothes for your grandsons and me on his card.”
Mama sighed. “Why do you have to be so obstinate, Anastasia? Ira has plenty of money, and he enjoys spending it on his family.”
“We’re not his family.”
“Of course we are, dear. Besides, you should be happy.”
“How so?”
“You don’t have to do anything for the wedding this time. No centerpieces, no bouquet, no decorations. Thanks to Ira’s generosity, I’ve hired professionals to handle everything. All you have to do is show up and enjoy yourself.” She reached over and patted my hand. “Now go try on your dress.”
I bit my tongue as I headed for my bedroom. Had Mama expected me to craft her a wedding in six day’s time, she would have been sorely disappointed. I’ve been known to pull off a crafting miracle or two but not on such short notice during a work week. I suppose I should be grateful to Ira for not having to deal with a Flora meltdown over a lack of wedding frou-frou.
I stopped dead in my tracks as I entered my bedroom and gaped open-mouthed at the dress hanging on my closet door. I’ll say this for Mama, she has exquisite taste. Exquisite but expensive. Oscar de la Renta expensive.
I grabbed the price tag and nearly choked at the numbers staring back at me. The two thousand dollar dress, an evergreen sleeveless silk faille, had a ruffled round neckline and bias seams that extended from the bodice to the narrow cocktail length skirt. I’d need to squeeze into seven pairs of Spanx to keep from looking like a stuffed pepper in it.
I turned around and marched back into the dining room. “Are you out of your mind, Mama?”
She looked up from her menus and frowned. “Don’t you like it, dear?”
“The dress is gorgeous. What I don’t like is the price tag. I will not let you take advantage of Ira in this way.”
Mama slammed her hand onto the table. “I am not taking advantage of Ira. He insisted on paying for everything.”
“I doubt he expected you to choose a two thousand dollar cocktail dress for me. We’re returning it after dinner.”
“We’re doing no such thing. You’ll hurt Ira’s feelings. He chose that dress for you.”
“What?”
“Ira took me shopping today.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Well, I couldn’t exactly have Lawrence drive me. It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her dress prior to the wedding.”
“What about your dress, Mama?”
Her face lit up at the mention. “Oh, you’ll love it, dear! It’s Vera Wang, a metallic jacquard sheath with crystal beading around the neckline.”
“How much?”
“That’s really none of your business, Anastasia.”
“How much, Mama?”
We stared each other down for a full minute before Mama finally capitulated. “Twenty-five hundred.”
I half expected her to say five thousand. Or more. Still, the total for both dresses came to a staggering forty-five hundred dollars, the equivalent of one third my real estate tax bill for the year or six months of mortgage payments. And Ira thought nothing of throwing that kind of money away on two dresses that would be worn for all of a few hours. I found that obscene.
“This ends with the wedding,” I said. “Mr. Moneybags will not be spending another dime on this family after Sunday.”
“You can’t tell Ira how to spend his money.”
“Watch me.” With that I headed back to my bedroom to try on a dress that turned my stomach into knots.
It fit like a glove. And with only one pair of Spanx. I stepped into the bathroom. As I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of the door, the creepy crawlies skittered up my spine. Had Ira really picked out the dress, or had Mama chosen it and strongly suggested he buy it? I had to admit, I looked stunning. Very stunning and very sexy. And I didn’t want my husband’s half-brother having those kinds of thoughts about me. Ever.
“You look beautiful, dear.” I turned around to find Mama standing in the middle of my bedroom. “Ira has good taste.”
“He really picked out this dress?”
When Mama nodded, the creepy-crawlies traversed another lap up and down my spine. “Ira should spend more time fixing his own problems and less time picking out clothes for me.”
Mama frowned. “Don’t be so hard on him. He’s had a rough time the last few years.”
“As opposed to whom? Me?”
“He’s trying to help you.”
“I don’t
want his help. Besides, spending two grand on a dress doesn’t help me.”
“Honestly, Anastasia, did you expect us to shop at Wal-Mart?”
Mama didn’t get it; Mama would never get it. In her world men took care of women.
An awful thought popped into my head at that moment. Had Mama seduced Lawrence because of Ira’s money? She’d previously admitted to such a scheme with the recently deceased Lou Beaumont. Was her relationship with Lawrence a case of déjà vu? He might not have money, but his son-in-law certainly had plenty. And judging from the way Ira was tossing Franklins at Mama and Lawrence, he seemed to care more about his father-in-law than his soon-to-be ex-wife.
“Well?” asked Mama, hands on hips.
Rather than answer her, I slipped out of the dress, placed it back on its hanger, removed the Spanx, and stepped into a pair of jeans. After tossing on a T-shirt, I headed for the kitchen to start the rice and cut up a salad.
~*~
Lawrence, a diehard Mets fan, suggested eating dinner in the den so he and the boys could continue watching the National League Wild Card playoff game. When Alex and Nick cast pleading eyes in my direction, I agreed. After all, how often do the Mets make it to the playoffs? Mama, having chosen her caterer and menu, decided to join them. Lucille remained off with her fellow rabble-rousers. I filled my plate and settled into a kitchen chair with only Ralph to keep me company.
“So how was your day?” I asked the bird.
He flapped his wings and squawked. “Nor night, nor day, no rest. The Winter’s Tale. Act Two, Scene Three.”
I stabbed at a piece of broccoli. “Like you have something to complain about. I’m the one who never gets any rest. Make yourself useful, Ralph. Tell me how to deal with Ira.”
Instead of offering up further pearls of wisdom, the bird decided to ignore me and preen his feathers. Apparently, Shakespeare never wrote about an Ira problem.
EIGHTEEN
The next morning Tino greeted me as I stepped out of my car. He looked no worse the wear for having slept in my office. No stubble. All tucked and pressed and ex-Marine intimidating. Then again, he may have awakened shortly after I left and spent most of the night in his own bed. Since he didn’t mention anything, I decided not to bring up the subject. Tino didn’t strike me as the sort of guy who’d take kindly to being reminded he’d fallen asleep on the job—literally.
