by Lois Winston
“But?”
Cloris wrinkled her nose. “But behind the scenes. She’s a glaring Fashion Don’t.”
“With zero self-esteem,” I added. “There’s no way she’d survive the vultures of Seventh Avenue. And what about Fashion Week?”
“The press and tabloids will use her for target practice,” said Cloris.
“But instead of arrows, they’ll pierce her heart with a volley of Manolo Blahnik stilettos,” I said.
“Right,” said Cloris. “Don’t get us wrong, Naomi. We all like Erica, but she’s not exactly anyone’s idea of a fashionista.”
Naomi offered up one of her serene Grace Kelly smiles. “She will be.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have faith.” Naomi turned and headed down the hall, waving her Movado clad wrist in the air, Kim scurrying behind her. “Ciao, ladies. Let’s get back to work.”
I groaned.
“What?” asked Cloris. “You worried about Erica?”
“Right now I’m more worried about myself. I was hoping Naomi would cave for once and let me pull a wedding spread from an old issue. I didn’t get to bed until nearly three last night.”
And now besides crafting several pairs of bridal tennies, I’d have to remake three dozen birdseed roses before tomorrow morning.
Since I couldn’t work at the office until Kim bailed my supplies and models out of the brig, I headed home, stopping along the way to pick up replacement materials for both projects.
I had planned to spend the evening cleaning out the apartment above the garage for the new tenant, but that would have to wait. At least I still had three more days before he moved in, as long as no new disasters hit between now and then. Too bad I couldn’t appropriate a few of Kim’s Speedy Gonzales genes.
~*~
Between the commuting time and a stop at A.C. Moore for supplies, I didn’t arrive home until nearly two o’clock. Two police cruisers were parked in front of my house.
A million possibilities raced through my brain. None of them good. All of them somehow or other connected to the recurring theme of what-else-had-Karl-done
TEN
I couldn’t blame this additional dose of Bad Luckitis on my dearly departed husband, though. In a classic case of Murphy’s Law, some entrepreneurial burglar had decided to do a little post-Christmas shopping and chose the Pollack homestead over bucking the traffic at the local mall.
“He did a real number on your place,” said a lumbering uniformed officer who met me at the door. His name tag read Fogarty. He ushered me around a puddle of orange and white glop that covered my foyer floor and led me into my ransacked living room.
“Lucky me.”
“Huh?”
“Forgive my sarcasm,” I said. “I’m having a really bad week.”
Avoiding eye contact, he shuffled his oversized black Oxfords on my hardwood floor. “Uhm...right. Your mother mentioned your recent loss.”
I turned my attention to Mama. She sat on the sofa, her clasped hands shaking in her lap. A second officer, an older man whose name tag read Harley, sat beside her, his pencil stub poised over a small notebook. I guess even in the wealthier suburbs pencil stubs and small, lined notepads were standard issue. Made me wonder just what my local taxes paid for.
I crossed the room and knelt beside my mother. “Mama, are you all right?”
“Oh, Anastasia, it was awful. Simply awful.”
“You were here?”
“I was coming back from visiting that dear, sweet Bernadette McPhearson down the street. Her brother recently lost his wife, you know.”
“You saw him?”
“Her brother? No dear. He lives way up in Moosehead, Maine. Or was it New Hampshire? I’m so rattled, now I forget what Bernadette said.”
“Not her brother, Mama. The burglar.”
“The burglar? Of course I saw him. He nearly trampled me on his way out! Knocked Bernadette’s Ambrosia Surprise right out of my hands. And after she went to all that trouble to make it for you and the boys.”
That explained the mysterious orange and white glop on the floor.
“At least I prevented him from stealing anything,” said Mama. “He ran out empty-handed.”
“Did he hurt you?”
She shook her head. “Scared the bejeebers out of me at first, but I think I scared him more.”
From the way he tossed the place,” said Officer Fogarty, “it appears he was searching for something specific.”
“What do you mean?”
“Either that or he was more interested in vandalizing than stealing. I don’t see any evidence of missing electronics equipment. All the computers, stereos, and TVs are still plugged in. You’ll have to check to see if he grabbed any of your jewelry or any cash you have around the house. And check out the stuff you keep in the garage and the apartment above it. Looks like he ransacked those before he hit the house. But again, from what I could see, nothing’s missing.”
Ralph squawked from his perch on top of an emptied bookcase. I could have sworn I placed him in the laundry room and closed the door before I left the house. “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,” he editorialized in-between squawks. “Hamlet. Act One, Scene Four.”
The officers stared up at Ralph. “That’s one damn smart bird,” said the officer sitting next to Mama.
I nodded as I viewed the mess surrounding me. Every book was toppled from the bookcases. Furniture was overturned, cushions slashed. Pieces of what used to be knickknacks littered the floor. In the time it had taken the burglar to trash my home, he could have carted off three computers, four televisions, two stereos, two DVD players, and the VCR. I couldn’t disagree with Fogarty.
“Any idea what the thief was after, Mrs. Pollack?”
Not only did I have a pretty good idea what the thief was after, I also had a pretty good idea of the thief’s identity. I thought about mentioning Ricardo’s call but just as quickly dismissed the idea. “No. No idea.”
If I told the Officers Fogarty and Harley about Ricardo, I’d have to tell them about Karl’s secret life. We live in a small town where gossip spreads as quickly as bathroom mildew in August.
The last thing I needed was to have my dearly departed’s affair with Roxie Roulette and its aftermath the topic of town gossip, not to mention emblazoned across the front page of the local paper. I might not be able to protect my kids from the financial disaster we had suffered, but I’d do my damnedest to keep their father’s seamier extra-curricular activities from them as long as possible.
Besides, I had no proof that Ricardo—if that was even his real name—was connected to the break-in. The timing of his calls and the subsequent break-in were probably a coincidence. Murphy’s Law throwing me a huge gotcha. I was experiencing a lot of those lately.
But if it had been Ricardo, maybe he’d now believe I didn’t have his fifty thousand dollars and would leave me alone. The Fates could cut me that one small break after dumping so much tribulation on me, couldn’t they?
One of those tribulations chose that moment to arrive home. Lucille, looking like some deranged fashion faux pas in a purple and chartreuse paisley polyester pantsuit, circa nineteen seventy, barged her way into the house. She swatted her cane at Fogarty as he tried to stop her.
“Manifesto!” she screeched at the top of her lungs.
“What’s in a name?” asked Ralph. “Romeo and Juliet. Act Two, Scene Two.”
The cops reached for their guns.
Mama screamed.
“Don’t,” I yelled. “She’s my mother-in-law.”
The officers eyed Lucille, keeping their hands poised on their guns but not drawing them.
Mephisto the Devil Dog lumbered in from the kitchen. Some watchdog! I’ll bet a month of triple-shot lattes he’d buried himself under a mound of dirty laundry at the first sign of trouble.
Steadying herself with her cane, Lucille stooped and with one Schwarzenegger-like arm and a grunt, lifted the lump of dog. Cu
ddling him against her sagging breasts, she clucked and cooed as she checked him from head to tail. Doggy jowl to Lucille jowl, Devil Dog responded with a drooly slurp.
Satisfied that the ugly mutt wasn’t harmed, Lucille turned her attention, her shrill voice, and her wildly waving cane toward the police. “What’s going on here? Where’s your search warrant? How dare you ransack the home of a law-abiding citizen!”
“We’ve had a break-in, Lucille.”
She glanced around at the chaos. “A burglary? I don’t believe it.”
“Flat burglary as ever was committed,” squawked Ralph. “Much Ado About Nothing. Act Four, Scene Two.” He swooped off the bookcase and landed on my shoulder.
Ignoring me, Lucille proceeded to harangue the officers. “A police state, that’s what this country has turned into, thanks to certain people, and don’t pretend you don’t know who I mean. Any excuse to stick your snooping noses where they don’t belong. Well, I won’t stand for it.”
She waved her cane at an upturned end table and broken lamp. “How do I know this isn’t all your doing? You people engage in conspiracies and covert operations all the time. I know how you work. I have my sources.”
Fogarty bristled. “Lady, back off, or I’ll charge you with obstructing an investigation.”
“You lay one hand on me, young man, and I’ll have your badge.”
“Ignore her,” I advised him.
“Does she...” He cast a sideways glance at Lucille and cupped his mouth with his hand, “you know...have Alzheimer’s Disease?”
Lucille thumped her cane on the carpet. “Don’t you dare whisper about me in the third person. I’m saner than any of you.”
Officer Fogarty’s expression mirrored his skepticism.
“She’s a communist,” I said.
He nodded in understanding, as if Alzheimer’s and communism were one in the same. Maybe to him they were.
Lucille lowered Mephisto to the floor, then hobbled off down the hall. The dog followed at her heels. They reminded me of the villainous relative with the Siamese cats in Lady and the Tramp, except for the fact that Mephisto was a dog and not a cat. I guess I should be glad he didn’t have a twin. Or that my mother-in-law wasn’t versed in cloning.
Fogarty started to call her back.
“Leave her,” I said. “Trust me. There’s nothing in her room a thief would want.”
He looked to Harley for guidance. The older officer watched Lucille disappear down the hall, then he turned to me and shrugged his oversized shoulders. “It’s your house, Mrs. Pollack.”
At least for today, I thought, righting an upturned chair. As I inspected the damage to the seat cushion, the phone rang.
I excused myself to the kitchen.
The display on the phone read Out of Area. Probably a telemarketer, but even a telemarketer would be a welcome reprieve at the moment. “Hello?”
“Where’d you stash the dough?”
At least now I knew who had broken into my house, but under the circumstances, I would have preferred your garden-variety burglar.
“You trashed my house!” I wondered how long it took to set up a phone tap. Was Batswin or one of her cohorts listening in at this very moment?
“Smart lady. Now get this: Next time I’ll do a lot more than toss the place.”
Scared as I was, his veiled threat sent a surge of defiant anger pumping through my veins. I gritted my teeth to keep from yelling into the phone. “I told you, I don’t have your money. That should have been evident after the strip search you conducted on my home.”
Ricardo made that noise that sounded halfway between a tsk and a kiss. “And I told you I know otherwise. Now you know I mean business. I want that money by Friday.”
“You said I had a week.”
“I changed my mind.”
“That’s not fair!”
“Fair?” He snorted. “Fuck fair. Life ain’t fair, bitch. Friday. Or else.” With that the phone went dead.
I shuddered to think what Ricardo might do if Batswin and Robbins botched their end and he discovered I’d set him up, especially if their suspicions about him being Mafia were correct. And given that this was New Jersey, how could their suspicions not be correct?
As much as I loved my house, my neighborhood, and my town, living in New Jersey definitely had its downside. I’d learned to accept the sky-high taxes. At least we got great schools and decent public transportation in return, even if the cops didn’t have smart phones. I just never expected the seamier side of the state’s reputation to enter my life. I doubt there’s much organized crime in North Sandwich, New Hampshire or Cat Creek, Montana.
I glanced around the kitchen. So much for assigning cleaning tasks to Mama and Lucille. Dirty dishes teetered in precarious piles in the sink. More soiled plates and glasses were scattered across the kitchen table.
No one had bothered to put away any of the breakfast food, not even the perishables. I grabbed the nearly full gallon of skim milk and sniffed. Sour milk assaulted my nasal passages with a one-two punch.
“God damn it!” I screamed, pouring nearly five dollars worth of skim down the drain.
Based on the state of the kitchen, I knew I’d find wet towels on the bathroom floors. Laundry spilling out of the hamper. A layer of cat and dog hair covering every upholstered piece of furniture and all the carpets. And now on top of all that I had to contend with Ricardo’s handiwork.
Between Mama the Scatterbrained and Lucille the Prima Donna Commie, I now had four children instead of two. Nick and Alex were more reliable and considerate than either of their grandmothers.
Feeling way too much like Cinderella before her fairy godmother dropped in and bibbidi-bobbidi-booed her into a happily-ever-after, I put away the food, loaded the dishwasher, and wiped the English muffin crumbs off the counter.
“There’s never a fairy godmother around when you need one,” I muttered as I headed back into the living room to find Mama batting her eyelids at the cops.
ELEVEN
“I have work to do,” I told Mama after Fogarty and Harley left. “I’ll be in my studio.”
“What about this mess?”
“It’s not going anywhere.”
“Really, Anastasia. I brought you up better than that.”
“Mama, I have work to do. Work that can’t wait. This can.” I glanced at the foyer and the ambrosia glop staining my hardwood floors a garish shade of Halloween orange. “Although it would be great if you could clean up that,” I said. “You’ll find the Murphy’s Oil Soap, a bucket, and a sponge in the basement.”
She didn’t look thrilled, but she didn’t argue with me as I grabbed my bags of supplies and headed for the back door.
Now more than ever, I couldn’t afford to lose my job, but the last thing in the world I wanted to do at that moment was work on crafts projects. Especially bridal crafts, considering the recent less-than-happily-ever-after ending of my own trip down the aisle. Someone should definitely update all those male-penned fairy tales.
The modern version had better warn Cinderella that Prince Charming might have a secret, serious gambling addiction that could leave her and the little princelings up a moat without a paddle. Forget about the ball. Maybe instead of turning a pumpkin into a coach, her fairy godmother should change the huge veggie into a trust fund that the prince can’t get his hands on. Just in case happily ever after isn’t.
Which it certainly wasn’t for me. Thanks to Karl, I now had to find some way to earn more money. Even if Batswin and Robbins were successful in nabbing Ricardo, I still needed to pay off all that credit card debt, the past-due bills, and the home equity loan.
And then there was college for the boys
I unlocked the studio door, dumped my bags of newly purchased materials on the counter, and pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. The bridal crafts could wait. Starring as the celebrity whiner of my own pity party, wasn’t going to get me out of the mess Karl had plunged me into. Short of winning the
lottery—not that I had an extra George Washington to waste on such a long-shot solution—I needed to come up with a creative way out of my financial quagmire.
I began jotting down a list of possible moonlighting jobs that would pay more than minimum wage and didn’t require me to paste on a phony, perky smile and ask, “Do you want fries with that?”
Within a few minutes, I had listed several possibilities. I knew people who knew people. I could call in a few favors and maybe get hired as a crafts expert on one of the local morning programs. I doubted Trimedia would object. Publicity whores that they were, they’d love the exposure—especially if it didn’t cost them anything.
I could put together a proposal for a series of crafts books. The advance would knock a story or two off the Leaning Tower of Debt, and the royalties would help with college tuitions.
I scowled at the next item on my list. If neither the TV nor book deals panned out, I could always teach in the evenings and on the weekends. Bernadette McPhearson served on the board of the Methodist Home, and one of my other neighbors managed the local A.C. Moore. Both women were constantly after me to teach classes.
Been there, done that. After ten years of captivity in a junior high school art room, I had sworn I would never teach again. But that was before Karl’s clandestine affair with Lady Un-Lucky. Teaching was definitely preferable to the only other idea on my list.
I glanced down at the remaining item on the page and wrinkled my nose. If I really got desperate, I could mass produce my own crafts and sell them to gift shops and at bazaars and fairs. The thought literally made me queasy. I enjoyed designing projects and making them once, not the mindlessness of assembly line crafting.
Which was probably why I was sitting making lists instead of tackling those three dozen birdseed roses—for the second time—thanks to Batswin and Robbins.
Of course, all of these money-making enterprises hinged on me not being charged with murder, which necessitated compiling another list. I tore off the first sheet of paper and set it aside. No way could I quietly sit back and leave my destiny in the hands of that undynamic detective duo. I labeled the top of the page Who Killed Marlys? And listed the three most likely candidates:
