Occasion of Revenge

by Marcia Talley

  “Plays Einstein, the practical Bohemian. I stopped by the Legislative Services building this afternoon just in time to catch his show.” He pointed to the phone. “What’s up?” he whispered.

  I pushed 33 on the keypad, cutting LouElla off in mid-rant, then 2 to save the message in our in-box. Maybe I’d finish listening to it later … much, much later. “It’s a message from LouElla Van Schuyler.” I stood, hung up the phone, and turned to face my husband. “She wants our help saving the world from Virginia Prentice.”

  “And you’re taking her seriously?”

  “LouElla’s grasp of reality is rather on-again, off-again, isn’t it?” I said, more to reassure myself than my husband.

  “Then let it go, Hannah. Relax.” He used his thumbs to knead the tension out of the muscles over my shoulder blades.

  “I’ll try. Emily did call Virginia to warn her that LouElla was having one of her off days.” I gestured with my glass. “Wine?”

  “You read my mind.”

  I poured Paul a glass of Chablis and we sat down together at the kitchen table. “So, you were out gallivanting, huh? And I thought you’d be spending the afternoon making sure the math department computers wouldn’t go into meltdown tonight.”

  “No, we didn’t need to do anything special with the computers.” Paul raised his glass. “Mark my words, Hannah, Y2K will go down in history as the biggest bust since Comet Kahotec.” He took a sip of wine and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “I had to write up a couple of MAPR reports is all, for some mids who have to appear before the Academic Board. But I finished early so I thought I’d catch the Einstein show.” He rested his elbows on the table and rolled the wineglass between his palms. “So, what does the old dear want this time?” he asked, referring to LouElla’s message.

  “To warn me about smallpox virus on the loose.”

  “Oh.” He smiled. “Is that all?”

  “And to wish us a Happy New Year,” I said.

  Paul laughed out loud. “Are you going to return her call?”

  I shook my head. “She left me her number, but I doubt I’ll use it.” I grinned. “That would be one sure way to spoil our evening.”

  Paul grinned back. “Speaking of which, what’s the plan for tonight?”

  “Emily and Dante already took their admission buttons and have gone with Chloe to the magic show at St. John’s, then they’re going to get their faces painted and after that, I think it’s the Punch and Judy Show.”

  Paul glanced around the kitchen where there was absolutely no evidence of a meal being prepared, raised an eyebrow, and asked, “Dinner?”

  “We’re stopping by Mother Earth to pick up Daddy and Ruth, then we’ve reservations for dinner at McGarvey’s.”

  Paul carefully positioned his glass in the wet ring it had made on the tabletop. “McGarvey’s? I thought you’d had enough of that place.”

  I shrugged. “Daddy’s choice. I think he’s hoping to run into Darryl. He actually liked the guy.”

  “I thought Darryl would be arrested by now.”

  “Younger tells me he needs proof. Based on what the clerk at the post office said, he’ll probably be able to get a search warrant. He’s looking for the fake ID Darryl used to set up the post office box. And credit card receipts. There’s also the possibility he’s been taking advantage of his position as a waiter to steal credit card numbers from customers at McGarvey’s.” I remembered my recent lunch there with Deirdre and was glad I had paid cash. “There may be merchandise, too, although Younger suspects Darryl’s already fenced most of it.”

  “And in the meantime?” Paul asked.

  “In the meantime we have to live with the creep.” Captain Younger had asked me not to tell anybody what I had learned about Darryl at the post office for fear it would leak back to him. I had sworn Paul to secrecy, of course, but it took every bit of willpower I possessed not to set Ruth’s mind at ease. I tugged at Paul’s hand. “C’mon. We need to get dressed.”

  Paul remained firmly seated. “If Ruth’s going with us, who’s minding the store?” He nibbled playfully on my fingers.

  “She’s arranged for some temporary help.”

  “Are the kids going to join us?” Paul asked, referring to Emily and her husband.

  I smiled. “No. Dante didn’t want to rent a tux.”

  “Tux? What for?”

  “Dinner at McGarvey’s is special tonight. Black tie.” Before Paul could groan, I laid my fingers lightly on his lips and cooed, “And I’ll be wearing my new electric blue number.”

  Paul clutched at his heart with both hands. “Short skirt? Spangles? Back bare all the way down to your ratsgazabo?”

  I nodded. “The very same.”

  “My goose,” he said, “is cooked.”

  “I certainly hope so.” I told Paul that the kids planned to pick up a bite somewhere on Main Street and that we’d meet them at the laser light show at City Dock around eleven. Then we’d wander over to the sea wall where we’d have an unobstructed view of the countdown clock and the fireworks.

  “Isn’t midnight a little late for the wee one?”

  I shrugged. “Lighten up, old man. It’s the new millennium, a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

  Paul looked around. “Does that mean nobody’s home?”

  “Just us chickens.”

  “How about a little Afternoon Delight?” He took my hand and pulled me around the table and into his lap.

  Outside our kitchen window, the winter sun had set. The bare branches of the trees danced in black silhouettes against the tangerine-and-pink sky. “Five o’clock is afternoon?”

  He kissed me then, soft and long, his tongue just tickling my lips in a way that drives me crazy. Later, much later, as I stood in the shower with the hot water sluicing over my head, I remembered something. First thing after the holiday, I’d call Captain Younger about it. It was about the mailboxes. Maybe Virginia wasn’t putting things into mailboxes at all. Maybe she was taking things out.

  chapter

  18

  New Year’s Eve in Annapolis, Maryland—a symphony of lights and music and laughter. Streets in the historic district, closed to the usual traffic, thronged with people in a holiday frame of mind. Paul and I, our formal wear covered with casual coats, joined the celebration, wandering up Maryland Avenue, taking advantage of the late-night hours to window-shop and spoil our dinner with the cookies and hot, spiced cider—champagne, if we were lucky—many shops put out for their customers.

  Peggy Kimble snagged us as we strolled by Galway Bay and charged us with desertion for passing up their Irish shindig in favor of the one at McGarvey’s. Looking sheepish, I blamed it all on my father. The petite hostess, stunning in a white tux jacket and black slacks, good-naturedly shamed us into having a drink at the bar. When the staff began setting up for dinner, we waved a cheery good-bye and moved on.

  At Aurora Gallery I oohed and aahed over a jeweled enameled pin, but Paul was being obtuse. As we left the store, Jean shot me a conspiratorial wink; she’d place the jewelry on hold. When my birthday rolled around in February and Paul turned up, clueless, she’d need to look no further than her hold drawer for a suggestion.

  I dived into Nancy Hammond’s studio to admire a cut-paper-and-tempera painting of a Caribbean isle that had me pining for last year’s vacation in the British Virgins. I batted my eyelashes. Paul claimed he had forgotten his checkbook. Besides, he pointed out reasonably, I hadn’t even found a place to hang the painting L.K. Bromley had given me.

  We strolled around State Circle with hundreds of revelers, then cut through the alley next to the roped-off pit where our favorite Indian restaurant had burned to the ground two Christmases ago. Like most Annapolitans, I wanted to bury the owner of this eyesore up to the neck in his own rubble.

  We wandered up to the Court House where I thought we might meet up with Emily and Dante, but they’d apparently moved on. “Let’s go.” I pulled on the sleeve of Paul’s overcoat.

>   “This looks interesting.” Paul planted his shiny black Corfams on a carpet of flattened cardboard which had been taped securely to the floor. From the table in front of him, he selected a red plastic disposable cup with a number taped to the side. He stared inside, as if contemplating a sip of its contents, a particularly unappealing cocktail of peacock blue paint. He looked from the cup to me to the dozens of paint-by-number portraits set up on easels around the room—Einstein, Shakespeare, Napoleon, Churchill, Kennedy, Elvis—all waiting for the next Leonardo da Vinci to step up, paintbrush in hand.

  Paul smiled at me like a kid, his eyes bright with excitement. I shrugged permission. How could I resist?

  I was sure he’d paint Einstein. He fooled me, though. I waited, patiently amused, until he dabbed the final splotch of silver paint on the canvas of his masterpiece. Then he made me blush by singing “Burning Love” in his ruined baritone all the way around Church Circle and down Main Street, each “hunka hunka” delivered with teenage exuberance directly into my ear.

  In a window of the Annapolis Shirt Company a few doors down from Mother Earth, we watched Leigh Bo, a mime wearing a white tailcoat with a fuschia tie and cummerbund, perform magic maneuvers with her top hat. By the time we barged through the door at Mother Earth, extracted the owner and her father, said hello to the temp, and listened to Ruth tell us three times how she should have gone the temporary route a long time ago, Leigh Bo was being replaced by the Beauty Shop Quartet wearing pink satin shirts and black bow ties.

  Darryl, oozing so much charm that I wondered if it hurt, met us at the door of McGarvey’s. I could hardly bear to look at him. Exuding bonhomie, he escorted us to a round table in the back. Before sitting down, Daddy extended his hand to shake Darryl’s while simultaneously gripping the younger man’s bulging biceps. “I’m sorry I wasn’t around to help after your mother died.”

  “I heard you came unglued,” Darryl said bluntly.

  Daddy mustered up a smile from somewhere. “It’s as good an explanation as any.”

  Darryl laid beer label coasters about on the table. “What can I get you to drink?”

  I wanted a beer in the worst way, could practically taste it, could feel the hops and the malt exploding on my taste buds. I ordered an iced tea. With a quick questioning glance in my direction, Ruth ordered a coffee. When Paul followed suit by requesting a Diet Coke, Daddy shaped his hands into a T. “Wait a minute! Time out!”

  All heads, including Darryl’s, swiveled in his direction. “Don’t coddle me, please! I’ve got to learn to live in the real world, a world where other people drink alcoholic beverages. Otherwise, what’s the point?” He pointed a finger at Darryl. “Sam Adams all around, Darryl. And bring me a cup of coffee, black.”

  When Darryl returned with our drinks order, Daddy said, “Can you join us for a moment?”

  I held my breath, dreading a yes.

  Darryl laughed. “Not if I want to keep this job. I’m not even your server.” He waved a slim blond woman over to the table. “Take good care of these folks, Mary Ellen,” he told her. “They’re relatives of mine.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “Later, dudes!”

  Mentally, I shot arrows into his retreating back while Mary Ellen took our orders. When my quiver was empty, I sat back and watched Daddy as he sipped his coffee, trying to decide if he was comfortable with it or fighting with every molecule not to reach out, grab Ruth’s beer, and down it in a single gulp.

  My father must have read my mind. “LouElla was a gift from God,” he said.

  “How can you say that, Daddy?” Ruth fumed. “She held you prisoner, like that poor guy in the Stephen King story.” She looked to me for support. “You know, the movie with Kathy Bates and James Caan?”

  “Misery?”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  Daddy smiled. “LouElla wasn’t offering to break my legs with a baseball bat if I didn’t shape up.”

  “Still, you were being held against your will.”

  “For the last time, Ruth, I was there because I wanted to be there.”

  I decided to jump in before Ruth ended up spoiling the evening. “You know, Ruth, I was thinking back to the party, and what happened may have been partly my fault. I was going into the living room to check on Chloe and I remember pointing to Daddy and asking LouElla to keep an eye on him. I didn’t realize she’d take me quite so literally.”

  “She lied to us, Hannah.”

  “I’m certain that in her own mind, she wasn’t lying, just giving us her own cockeyed interpretation of the truth.” I nibbled on a bit of the smoked bluefish that had just appeared on the table in front of us. “For example, she told me, ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up hale and hearty’—”

  Daddy interrupted. “And abracadabra! Here I hale and heartily sit!”

  I stared at him suspiciously, wondering if he weren’t trying too hard to be jovial. “And when she said …”

  “George?”

  I paused in mid-sentence, unaccountably annoyed at the interruption, and turned in the direction of the speaker. Deirdre wore knee-high black boots and a slim, shimmery strapless gown in an odd shade of green that did little to detract from her pale, washed-out face. Her too-black hair stuck up in overmoussed spikes. She looked like a “before” photo in a magazine makeover.

  Daddy sprang to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair. “Deirdre! Do join us!” He grabbed a chair from the adjoining table and dragged it over to ours, squeezing it into the space between his chair and Ruth’s. Deirdre heaved herself into it with a grateful sigh. “Thank God! A friendly face.”

  “Here for First Night celebrations?” Ruth asked.

  “What a zoo! I had to park way down on South Street.” Deirdre turned to Ruth. “I’m only here to switch cars with Darryl. He’s going skiing again and doesn’t trust his jalopy to make it all the way to Vermont.”

  I wondered what had happened to Darryl’s fancy motorcycle. I hoped it had been repossessed. It would have been a sight, though, to see him riding up I-95 with skis and poles tied to the side of his Harley. I wondered how he’d attach them to his mother’s Porsche.

  Paul passed me a plate of crab balls and I picked one up with my fingers. Just as I popped it into my mouth, my beaded bag began to squawk. I plucked out the cell phone and stared at the illuminated window where the incoming number was displayed. “LouElla,” I groaned. I made an executive decision. LouElla had interfered with one too many family dinners, so I decided to punish her by stuffing the phone back into the depths of my bag. I chewed on the crab ball and tried to ignore the ringing tone that Emily had changed from Mozart’s 40th Symphony to laser gun warfare from Star Wars.

  “Why don’t you want to talk to LouElla?” Deirdre inquired.

  Ruth beat me to the draw. “She’s got some crazy theory about Virginia Prentice. What was it, Hannah?” She stared at me from across the table. “Smallpox virus in the drinking water?”

  “Who’s Virginia Prentice?” Deirdre wanted to know.

  Paul pushed the empty crab ball plate across the green-and-white checked tablecloth toward the center of the table. “You probably remember her from the engagement party. Stark white hair, red plaid suit?”

  “Boston accent,” I added.

  “Not really Boston,” Daddy corrected. “She’s from Row Die Lan.”

  “Rhode Island?” I poked him in the ribs with my index finger. It was wonderful to have my old Daddy back, along with his sense of humor.

  Deirdre leaned back to allow Mary Ellen to set a steaming bowl of Maryland crab soup in front of her. “I remember her now.” She picked up her spoon. “You know, that name Prentice rings a bell.” Squinting thoughtfully, she tapped the spoon against her chin. “I think Carson McPhee was married to a woman named Prentice before he married Mother.”

  Now it was Ruth’s turn to ask, “Who’s Carson McPhee?”

  “Lucky husband number two.” She grinned wickedly over her soup spoon. “He augered his Piper Cub into a cornfield in New J
ersey rather than stay married to Mother. My theory, anyway.”

  Something LouElla had said was nibbling at the edges of my brain. Wasn’t Carson McPhee from Fall River, Massachusetts? Or was it the Tinsley guy? The Lizzie Borden house was in Fall River, too. I had visited the Borden house once, and remembered Fall River being just across the state line from Tiverton, so close to Rhode Island it was practically in it. And didn’t Virginia tell me she came from Tiverton? With growing curiosity I asked, “Who was the first Mrs. McPhee?”

  Deirdre wrinkled her brow. “I don’t remember. Maybe Darryl does.”

  When Mary Ellen returned with our entrees I asked her to find Darryl and send him over to our table.

  Eventually Darryl swaggered over, tucking a plastic bill server into the back of his pants. “Whatcha want, Didi?”

  “Didi” rolled her eyes. “Do you remember the name of the woman Carson divorced so he could marry Mother?”

  Darryl squinted and wagged his head back and forth like a metronome, thinking hard. “Can you give me a hint?”

  “She was youngish. Had a name like an actress, you know, the one with the fat lips?”

  Darryl’s face brightened. “Kim Basinger?” he tried.

  Deirdre shook her head. “Not that one. She was with Hugh Grant …” She turned to me in triumph. “Julia Roberts! That’s it. Her name was Julia. Julia Prentice.”

  I tried to remember if Virginia had mentioned her daughter’s name, but couldn’t.

  Deirdre favored her brother with a plastic smile. “Thank you, Darryl. You’ve been such a help!”

  “Don’t mention it, dudette.” He thrummed his fingers on the top of his sister’s head, disturbing her over-laquered do, then moved quickly out of the range of the flat of her palm.

  “Does that help?” Deirdre asked as she fluffed up her hair with nimble pinches.

  “Yes, thank you.” I nibbled thoughtfully on a cracker. “Virginia told me she’d had a daughter once, but she died. I wonder what her name was.”