“DeeDee Pearson. It’s nice to meet you, Monica.”
“I’ve never met anyone actually named DeeDee before. It’s so quaint, so old-fashioned. I love those mid-century names like Debbie and Linda and Sharon. So 1950s.”
“It’s short for Denise. Denise Deborah, actually.”
“How alliterative of your mother,” Monica replied. She peered at me closely. “Do you know what ‘alliterative’ means, sweetie?”
“Yes––”
Monica ignored me. “It’s when two words start with the same letter. Like ‘Robert Redford’ and ‘black beauty,’” she explained in a slow, patient tone of voice that instantly made me want to dump the salad on top of her platinum head. “I know I’m just an administrative assistant but I feel it’s my mission—no, it’s my duty to educate everyone I meet. We are a school and we should take education seriously. At least, that’s how I feel.” She sniffed. “Although I know not everyone employed here feels the same way.”
“How noble of you,” I said.
Monica looked pleased with my response. “Well, I think so. I wish some of our other staff members would get with the program and understand what I’m talking about. Everyone here should care about education. Even the custodian.”
“I’m sure you all do an exemplary job,” I murmured.
“Some more than others,” Monica replied. “So, are you all set for today’s soiree? That’s French for ‘party.’”
“Yes, I am,” I said as I tried to remember how to say I know in Spanish.
“We’ve all been looking forward to this lunch ever since Claudine announced that Junebug was finally retiring. Yum yum and all that. We are a gang who loves to eat so I do hope you won’t disappoint us with whatever you’ve whipped up.”
“I think you’ll be pleased,” I said as I tried to convey the impression that I was able to cater meals almost in my sleep. Interesting. Frank Ubermann had made a point of saying that the staff at Eden Academy didn’t like to celebrate special occasions and now Monica was saying that they loved to eat. Who was telling the truth?
“It’s just wonderful that Claudine was able to get you on such short notice. You must have a very open calendar,” Monica said, raising a penciled eyebrow. “Not a lot of dates?”
“I just started my business so I’m quite open at the moment,” I admitted. I had the feeling that someone like Monica would pounce on the news that I wasn’t a seasoned caterer with the glee our cat had when pouncing on a baby robin.
“You’re a brand new caterer?” Monica’s eyes lit up. “Oh, dear. That means we’ll be your guinea pigs. It would be awful if someone walked away with a bad case of botulism today.”
Not so awful if that someone was you, I thought. “That won’t happen.”
Monica patted my arm patronizingly. “I wish you all kinds of luck, dear. We wouldn’t want your first catering job to be your last, would we?”
“Being your usual charming self, Monica?” A short, round man with dark hair and a neatly groomed beard came up behind Monica.
“Hello, Simpson.” Monica’s voice became flat. “I didn’t expect to see you here—although I suppose I should have. We all know you’d walk through a downpour in your pajamas to score a free meal.”
Simpson turned to me and smiled. “Don’t mind her,” he said. “Monica hasn’t been in a good mood since Jimmy Carter was president.”
“I was in preschool when Jimmy Carter was president,” Monica snapped.
“Exactly my point. You never quite got over the fact that milk and cookie time ended that year, did you, dear? Such a blow.”
“Simpson, you are a jerk,” Monica said before flouncing off.
“Simpson Ingalls,” the young man said after Monica left. He had a beautiful smile with perfect white teeth.
“DeeDee Pearson,” I told him.
“It’s nice to meet you, DeeDee Pearson. Sorry about Monica. She doesn’t particularly like me,” he said. “It’s because I’m gay.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m gay and Monica can’t stand it. You see, our dear Miss Monica comes on to every man who comes into her radar but it doesn’t work with me,” Simpson explained. “She could flirt until the cows come home and it wouldn’t get to me. Never has, never will. It drives her nuts.” He picked up a croissant from the basket that I set out and broke off a piece. “I don’t know why she gets so upset. She has all the other guys around her going gaga over her. Jack thinks she’s the next best thing since Play-Doh and Frank is banging her more regularly than Big Ben. Every hour on the hour. But for some reason it makes her crazy that I don’t fall for her oh so obvious charms.”
I couldn’t think of a thing to say, a state I was finding myself in a lot that afternoon. Finally I settled for, “Well, that’s too bad, I guess.”
Simpson shrugged. “It doesn’t make for a good working relationship. I’m sure if I gave into her once, we’d get along a lot better but I just can’t seem to bring myself to take one for the team.”
I decided to change the subject. “I have homemade marmalade for the croissants if you’d like some.”
“I’d love some,” Simpson replied. “These are good. Did you really make them or did you buy them at the Walmart bakery?”
“I really made them. I made everything. I was going to make popovers but I decided on croissants instead.”
“They’re too good for Junebug and the rest of our illustrious staff so I’ll just have to eat them all myself,” Simpson said, helping himself to another croissant. Looking up, he must have seen the shocked look on my face. It was hard to believe that these people were able to work together without someone ending up killed. “Don’t mind me. We’re all so jealous of Junebug for being able to retire while we’re still stuck at Eden Academy that you can be sure that some bitchy comments are going to pop out today. Honestly, though, I wish her all the happiness in the world,” Simpson said so insincerely that I half expected to see his nose start to start growing right in front of my eyes.
“I’m sure you do,” I told him.
“When are you going to start serving the real food? These croissants are delicious but I want something with a little more substance.”
“As I understand it, Claudine’s going to give a little speech and then it will be time for lunch.”
“Fantastic! The sooner we eat, the sooner we can get away from each other.” Simpson leaned over until his mouth was next to my head. I could feel his breath warm against my ear and could smell the buttery scent of the croissant. “Want to hear a secret?”
For once in my life, I really didn’t but I didn’t know how to refuse politely so I shrugged noncommittally instead. Simpson took that as a yes.
“No one here likes each other,” Simpson whispered. “We only tolerate each other because we have to but most of the time we can’t stand to be in the same room together.”
It took all of my self-control not to blurt out No shit, Sherlock! Instead, I smiled weakly. “How about another croissant?” I inquired.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Simpson said.
At ten after one, I did a fast head count of the people sitting around the square table in the Eden Academy staff lounge. Jack, Frank, Claudine, Monica, Simpson, and a pretty girl in her late twenties. That made six. It seemed that everyone had arrived with the exception of the honoree, Junebug McClellan. The other teachers were getting impatient. They kept glancing over at the food and noisily scraping their chairs back and forth while waiting for Junebug to put in her appearance.
“Well, where is she?” Frank Ubermann asked from his seat at one fifteen. “What’s keeping her?”
“She’ll be here when she gets here,” Simpson said, sounding bored. Simpson was playing with a few croissant crumbs that had fallen on the table in front of him. From where I was standing it looked like he was making a small picture of Hitler out of the crumbs.
“I don’t want to wait that long,” Frank said impatiently. “Someone go and se
e where she is!” Frank barked as he glared at the other members of the staff. No one moved. Instead the other Eden Academy staff members looked around the room as if they were seeing it for the first time, each one avoiding eye contact with the rest. “Emily, you go,” Frank ordered.
The younger woman sitting next to Jack Mulholland looked up like she’d just been poked. “I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” Emily said.
“Would you calm down, Frank?” Jack suggested. “What’s the rush?”
“The rush is that I’m about to faint from hunger.” Frank leaned back in his seat and fell silent. The whole room was silent, the only noise the ticking of the large electric clock that hung on one wall. I glanced around the room, taking idle note of where each staff member was sitting. Frank Ubermann sat at what was more or less the head of the square table. Claudine was on his right and Monica was on his left forming a cozy tableau. Frank reminded me of a movie mogul from the 1930s with two fawning starlets flanking him, each vying for his undivided attention. Next to Claudine sat Simpson and then there was an empty chair followed by Jack Mulholland and Emily. In spite of the pretty centerpiece and the smell of food in the air, even I could see that Junebug’s party had all the joy of a picnic in a funeral home.
I began to circle the table slowly, refilling coffee cups and glasses of iced water and iced tea while we waited for Junebug. As I moved around the table, I couldn’t help but overhear snippets of the various conversations.
“Claudine, we’ve been over and over this same old ground,” Monica was saying during one of my passes. Monica was leaning over Frank, practically falling into his lap as she hissed at Claudine. “It’s out of the question. You know we can’t afford it. I’m not quite sure how more plainly I can tell you that.”
“I know that’s what you think, Monica, dear,” Claudine responded in a chilly voice. “Is it really necessary for me to remind you that you don’t have any real say in what ‘we’ can afford?”
“I am Frank’s administrative assistant,” Monica told her, glancing at Frank for support. None was forthcoming. Frank was drinking a glass of iced tea and staring up at the ceiling in a bored manner. “I know how much money comes into the school and I know how much money goes out. You don’t.”
“And as such, your job is to make sure the bills get paid so the electricity doesn’t get turned off and that the books are balanced,” Claudine sniffed. “It isn’t your job to concern yourself with educational matters that you know nothing of.”
“How can I balance the books when you want to blow thousands of dollars on a stupid trip to San Francisco? A stupid unnecessary trip?”
“How would you know if it’s necessary or not?” Claudine inquired. “You aren’t a teacher. You never finished college. You have no idea what an educator needs to help him or her grow in the classroom. I have a master’s degree and I know what’s important. The seminar that I want to attend with Frank would be highly beneficial to the students of Eden Academy.”
“I know what we can and can’t afford,” Monica said. “And we can’t afford that trip! Besides, why should you go with Frank? Why not Jack or Simpson? Or for that matter, perhaps I should go.”
“You!” Claudine didn’t try to hide her disgust. “Why on earth would you go?”
“Because I’ve never been to San Francisco.”
“Oh, dear God—what does that have to do with anything? Who cares where you’ve gone or haven’t gone over the course of your dreary little life?”
“Ladies, ladies, let’s not get into this right now,” Frank said, his deep voice pouring a little oil on the troubled water between the two women. “We’re here to celebrate a colleague’s retirement, not argue. Can we drop this? Please? The two of you are giving me indigestion and we haven’t even eaten yet.”
Monica made an obvious attempt to calm down but her cheeks remained red and I could see her hands shaking. “You’re right, Frank; we should be dancing on top of the table to celebrate Junebug’s retirement. It’s about time that dinosaur retired.”
“Kindness, dear. You’ll be the one getting honored before you know it,” Claudine murmured. “Retirement is just around the corner.”
“You’ll be there before me,” Monica shot back.
Frank looked up and noticed me standing behind them. “Yes?”
“More iced tea?” I asked.
Frank smiled. “I’m good,” he said in his low, sexy voice that made me feel like throwing myself into his lap. I’m the most married person I know and I could almost see why Monica and Claudine were clutching at Frank like a couple of preschoolers fighting over a Ken doll. The man oozed sex appeal.
“I’m fine,” Claudine snapped.
“I don’t care for your iced tea,” Monica informed her. “I prefer sweet tea.”
I forced myself to move on although the conversation between Claudine, Monica and Frank was definitely the most interesting one happening in the room. Next I paused behind Jack Mulholland and Emily. “More coffee?” I asked. “Iced tea? Iced water?”
“Don’t you have anything stronger?” Jack questioned..
“Sorry,” I replied. “Nothing with any kind of a kick.”
Jack sighed. “Okay, I’ll take some more coffee.” Leaning back, Jack stretched his thick hair covered arms up into the air, a move that made him look a lot like an orangutan. I had never seen such furry, muscular arms on a human being.
“How about you?” I asked the woman sitting next to Jack.
“I’d love some more iced tea. It’s delicious. I’m Emily Abbott, by the way. No one’s bothered to introduce us.”
I smiled at Emily. Emily looked nice, like the kind of girl I’d like my son Tyler to date. She also looked completely out of place with the rest of the teachers, the way a lamb might with a group of jackals. “I’m DeeDee Pearson.”
“And her husband’s name is Steve,” Jack added. “Isn’t that great? Steve and DeeDee—just like Steve and Eydie.”
Emily looked confused. “Who are Steve and Eydie?”
“Ah, youth,” Jack said. “Never mind. Emily is our student teacher this year,” Jack explained. “We hit the jackpot with her.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Emily replied modestly. “I have a lot to learn.”
“You’re the best, babe, and you know it.” Jack looked impatiently toward the door. “Geez, when is Junebug going to show up? I’m starving and I want to eat. Can’t we start without her?”
“Jack, this party is for Junebug. No, we can’t start without her. Just relax, she’ll be here soon,” Emily chided. “It takes people longer to walk down the hall when they get to be her age.”
“That’s why I don’t plan on getting old,” Jack announced. “As soon as I hit seventy I’m going to go on the Jack Mulholland Old Age Special plan.”
“What’s that?” Emily asked.
“I’m going to eat every single meal at a buffet. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. I’m going to eat about five thousand calories a day and I’m going to take up smoking again. Plus I’m going to drink around the clock. I figure it will knock me off within a few months.”
“That’s horrible!” Emily said. “You’ll have a heart attack or a stroke!”
“And die fast with any luck at all. It beats the hell out of ending up in one of those places where they feed you gluey oatmeal, make you talk about your bowel movements all the time and force you to participate in bingo tournaments. Now that sounds horrible to me.”
“You won’t see seventy,” Frank said to Jack, joining the conversation from his end of the table. “You don’t need to start eating at buffets. You already have an unhealthy lifestyle and some very bad habits.”
Jack obviously didn’t appreciate Frank’s input. “Look who’s talking,” Jack replied.
“I have a very healthy lifestyle.” Frank patted his flat stomach. “I’m not carrying around an extra ounce of flab unlike some people.”
“You can look healthy but still be rotten on the inside,
” Jack shot back. “Happens all the time. Joggers, marathoners, people like that look fine but they drop dead for no apparent reason. The doctor does an autopsy and it turns out that they are filled with bile. That’s what will probably happen with you.”
“Highly unlikely, Jack.”
“You never know,” Jack said darkly. “When was the last time you had a check up, Frankie?”
“Last month and I’m in tip top shape. My doctor actually said that I’m an exceptional specimen,” Frank said.
“Undoubtedly because of the excessive amount of exercise you get,” Jack said, looking from Monica to Claudine knowingly.
“Good for the heart, Jack. You might want to try to get more ‘exercise’ too,” Frank replied. “If you can find anyone willing to spot you, that is.”
“Now children,” Simpson said, “try to get along with each other. This is supposed to be a celebration.”
“When I want your opinion, Simpson, you’ll know,” Frank informed him.
“And that will be a cold day in hell, won’t it?” Simpson looked in DeeDee’s direction beseechingly. “Are we ever going to eat? Some of us have plans for the afternoon.”
“You know,” Emily said thoughtfully, “There’s always the possibility that Junebug forgot about this lunch.”
“How could she forget?” Claudine demanded. “This lunch is for her! It’s in her honor.”
“Well, she does seem to be getting a little…senile lately.”
“Now, Emily, be nice,” Jack said. “She’s not senile; she’s probably pickled. You know how Junebug likes to have a shot of vodka in her OJ every morning followed by a healthy splash of Jack Daniels on her corn flakes.”
Emily laughed. “You’re terrible.”
Although I hadn’t yet met Junebug, I felt sorry for her. Unless Junebug was a complete nincompoop, she’d have to know how her fellow teachers felt about her and that they were all happy to see her go. I glanced discreetly at my watch. It was almost one-twenty. Where was Junebug?
The door to the faculty lounge flew open. Everyone’s head turned to see the latest arrival. Standing in the doorway was a tiny white haired woman wearing blue jeans, a red and yellow plaid Western style shirt with green piping and the smallest red cowboy boots I had ever seen. They looked like something out of a toy catalog. My eyes dropped to the newcomer’s waist, half expecting to see a leather holster and a pair of pearl handled pistols but instead the woman was wearing a rope in place of a belt, a rope that was probably all of twenty-five inches long. Hands planted on her hips, she surveyed the small group clustered around the table. “The party can start,” she said in a voice that was vaguely reminiscent of vintage Bette Davis. “Junebug’s here and you can all start to cheer.”
1 Catered to Death Page 3
