“She makes a good point about the tuna casserole,” he deadpanned after Lucille stalked back to the kitchen. “Someone should do an intervention before Sylvia buys another can of tuna.”
“Be serious.” I added some lukewarm lasagna to his plate. “It’s not a big leap to think that Warren Straitham could be killing his patients.”
He cocked his head. “Give me a break.”
“Okay, it is, but you weren’t there when Aunt Alice told him that she wasn’t going to let him get away with it. He looked scared. Exposed.”
“Hey, she once chased me out of her kitchen with a carving knife. Trust me, the women in your family can be plenty scary.”
I ignored the cheap shot. “I’m just telling you what I saw.”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” he said, sniffing another casserole dish.
“Sure you will. And that’s Mrs. Lundgren’s pesto ravioli.”
“What the hell is pesto?”
“Just try it and stop sniffing around.”
His lips curled into a lopsided grin. “I will if you will.”
“Am I interrupting something?” Suzy Harte asked, carrying a platter piled high with fresh veggies, her light blue eyes gleaming as they darted between Steve and me.
Suzy seemed to be the queen of part-time jobs—one as an ER nursing assistant, one as an aerobics instructor at the senior center, and one as a self-appointed dispenser of unsolicited advice. When it came to sticking a nose where it didn’t belong, she even had Lucille beat.
I took the platter from her. “Not at all. Steve and I were just—”
“I don’t see Heather anywhere,” Suzy said. “Did she have to leave?”
All traces of Steve’s smile vanished. “Something like that.”
“What a shame.” The tiny crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes crinkled as Suzy beamed. Not at him, but at me.
Not the usual effect Steve had on women.
With short, straight, sandy blonde hair and a pert turned-up nose dusted with freckles, the slender aerobics instructor had the look of a middle-aged pixie.
The pixie leaned in, studying my face. “I hadn’t noticed the resemblance before. You do take after your mother.”
We had the same eye color. Other than that I took after that French bastard, but I didn’t detect any deception in Suzy.
With eyes wide like a chocoholic in a candy store, she gazed out the dining room window at Marietta, holding court with Mr. Ferris in the shade of a patio umbrella.
I’d seen the look on Suzy’s face many times before. She was a fan, and I was somebody because I was a child of a somebody.
“Thanks … for the veggies,” I said, hoping she’d move on to the patio like a good little fan so that she could deliver her adulation in person.
“I thought there might be a few people who’d want a healthy alternative to all these heavy desserts,” Suzy said as I set the platter next to the bundt cake on the sideboard.
No one I knew.
Steve grabbed a celery stick. “Bon appétit.”
Ignoring him, I met Suzy’s gaze. “Very thoughtful of you.”
She smiled contentedly, watching as Steve headed into the living room where Donna and several others from our old high school gang had gathered. “You’re cute together.”
Huh? “We’re just friends.”
“Obviously good friends.” Arching her eyebrows she waited.
“Just old friends.”
She glanced behind me. “Like your mom and Barry Ferris?”
I turned and saw Marietta fanning herself, showing a lot of thigh as she sat cross-legged under that umbrella with Mr. Ferris. All she needed was a mint julep to make the Southern belle image complete.
Since the last time she had spent any time with him was when she’d showed up unannounced at my high school science fair, they didn’t exactly meet the usual definition of old friends. But with the way she kept touching his hand, they seemed awfully chummy.
“I don’t believe it,” Aunt Alice muttered, rounding the corner.
My thoughts exactly, but I was pretty sure that she wasn’t referring to my mother and Mr. Ferris.
Lucille lumbered up to the dining room table with a steaming casserole dish and stopped in her tracks when she spotted my great-aunt. “Uh oh. What’s wrong?”
“Carmen.” Alice uttered the name of one of the Gray Ladies like she wanted to sic a gypsy curse on the woman.
What about her? I peeked into the living room and located Carmen sitting on the sofa with Norm Bergeson. She was patting his hand while Bonnie Haney, another widow, closed in on the empty sofa cushion opposite Carmen like a heat-seeking missile.
Lucille heaved a sigh. “Here we go again.”
Chapter Eight
By the time Rox and Eddie left Trudy’s funeral reception to head back to work, Bonnie, Sylvia, and Miriam Rybeck had each taken a spin through the revolving door of widows and divorcees vying for the seat on the sofa next to Norm. My mother even made a brief appearance on the comfort couch. Although she was clearly a benchwarmer in the Norm Bergeson sweepstakes, it didn’t make the spectacle any easier for my great-aunt to watch. At least it gave Marietta’s flirtation with Mr. Ferris a time-out.
Unfortunately, that was short-lived.
“What a delightful man,” my mother said, back under the patio umbrella while Mr. Ferris trotted to the makeshift bar in the kitchen to refill our wineglasses.
My buddy, Donna, sat down next to me and whispered in my ear. “Please tell me she’s not serious.”
I shrugged. Considering Marietta’s last husband had been eighteen years her junior and my former biology teacher was pushing fifty, I didn’t think I needed to worry about Mr. Ferris asking me to call him Dad anytime soon.
Marietta leaned in with a bright smile. “So, what do you want to do tonight?”
Go home, pull on my pajamas, and sleep for twelve hours straight in my own bed.
“Actually, we already have plans,” Donna said before I could come up with a creative fib.
My mother’s smile slipped. “We?”
“Char and me.” Donna shot me a you need to play along look. “Sort of … a double date.”
Sort of? If you’re going to tell a whale of a lie, at least tell it with conviction.
“Really!” Marietta licked her ruby-red lips like a tigress anticipating fresh meat. “With anyone I know?” She nodded toward Steve.
“No, Mother,” I said with all the disinterest I could muster.
She leaned back in her lime-green striped, padded deck chair and blew out a sigh. Silent seconds ticked by while she scrutinized me from head to toe. “What time?”
I glanced at the Versace watch she had given me for my twenty-first birthday, back when her telephone still rang with the occasional movie offer. “We’re meeting the guys at seven.” A quick answer devoid of unnecessary details—key to telling a believable lie.
Marietta grabbed my left wrist and peered at my watch. “But that only gives you a little over an hour to get ready.”
I’d made myself ready for real dates in less time. A fake one? “No problem.”
She pushed to her feet. “We need to go.”
“Really, you’re making too much out of this.” But since Barry Ferris was approaching the table with a glass of white wine in each hand, maybe this was the ideal time to say our goodbyes.
Disappointment etched into the furrows of his graying brows. “Leaving so soon?”
“Oh, Barry,” Marietta cooed. “Ah’m so sorry, but we have a little family emergency.”
“It’s nothing really,” I assured him.
She grimaced at my hair. “Trust me. It’s not nothing.” She took a glass out of Mr. Ferris’s hand, took a sip, then pressed her palm in his. “It’s been a pleasure.”
His eyes darkened as he kissed her hand. “The pleasure has been all mine.”
Gag.
I turned to Donna. “See you at Eddie’s at seven.”
<
br /> She grinned. “I can’t wait.”
That made one of us.
Marietta’s eyes were still locked with Mr. Ferris’s.
Way to let him down easy, Mom.
I angled between them and pushed my mother’s clutch bag into her ribs. “So, are we going or what?”
She gave my chignon a sideways glance. “I’m afraid we must.”
Waving her clutch at my grandmother sitting in the sunshine with Alice and Sylvia, Marietta shuffled toward the French doors in her stilettos. “Mom, we’re leaving.”
Gram aimed a frown at her. “What’s the rush?”
“Char has a date.”
“A date!” Gram held out her hand for Steve to help her get to her feet. “For pity’s sake. Why didn’t someone say something about this earlier?”
“Have fun,” he said, standing by the French doors as I followed Marietta into the house.
Like that could happen. “Tell me you’re wearing your gun.”
“Don’t usually wear it to funerals.”
“Too bad. I need somebody to shoot me.”
* * *
Eddie was filling a pitcher from the tap when I entered the bar a few minutes after seven. He did a double take when he saw me. “What the hell happened to you?” he yelled over the ZZ Top guitar riff blasting through the speakers.
I batted the eyelash extensions Marietta had spent most of the last hour applying. A few more coats of mascara and I could probably achieve lift off. “My mother happened to me.”
Eddie’s heavy brows knitted together. “You look …”
Ridiculous. He didn’t have to say it. I already knew.
“… a little like your mom.”
“Yeah, on steroids.”
“White wine?” Eddie asked as Rox zipped past me with a steaming hot pizza in one hand and a short stack of plates in the other.
“Make it a double.”
I didn’t have to search the room for Donna. I knew I’d find her at her usual barstool.
“You look hot!” she said as I slid onto the seat next to her.
Since the a/c was out in the Jag and my bangs had pasted themselves to my forehead, I felt hot and not in a good way. “That’s because I am.”
Donna, a cosmetologist and owner of Donatello’s, the local cut and curl, finger-fluffed my bangs. “Will you please just accept a compliment? You look great.”
The suck-it-all-in pantyhose I had on under my black jeans added a roll below my rib cage that threatened to send the bottom button of my green silk blouse into orbit. Short of some emergency liposuction, looking great was a physical impossibility, especially since I was working up a sweat sitting still.
Donna was the one who looked smoking hot. Sultry charcoal lined her sapphire almond eyes. A touch of bronzer lent a shimmery glow to her perfect peaches and cream complexion. Her favorite low rise blue jeans showcased her pierced navel, and the white eyelet lace cotton top hugging her breasts had a deep scoop neckline and spaghetti straps that revealed sun-kissed, freckled shoulders.
“Whoa, look at you!” Rox said, beaming at me on her way back to the kitchen. Then, she stopped dead in her tracks. “Holy crap! You look like your—”
I made a stop sign with my hand. “I know.”
“I love what you did with your hair,” Donna said.
I hadn’t done anything. “Marietta flat-ironed it.”
Donna’s gaze zeroed in on my eyelashes and she leaned closer, ignoring Eddie, who was delivering my drink and ogling the cleavage enhanced by her push up bra.
Rox slapped Eddie on the back of the head. “Don’t be a dirty old man.”
“You know I only have eyes for you, sweetheart,” he said to her backside as she swung open the kitchen door.
Eddie winked at me, keeping the moment light, but the way his gaze had followed his wife gave me a little pang of envy.
I reached for my drink but froze in my seat when Donna scooted her chair next to mine. “Trust me, I look better from a distance.”
“Shut up,” she said, staring at my left eye. A tiny frown line cracked the creamy skin between her perfectly arched brows. “What’d you use? Extensions?”
“Marietta’s.” I took a sip of wine. “Part of her new makeup line.”
More like a cosmetic line my mother was being paid to rep in infomercials—a career move birthed from the harsh reality that she hadn’t worked in anything but an indie film in the last five years but wanted to keep her house in Malibu.
“Well, you look awesome. Justin’s going to be so impressed.”
“Justin?” I smelled a set up.
“He’s a new client of mine. A landscaper.” Chewing on her lower lip, Donna tilted her head and her long, blonde hair spilled over her shoulder. “Or was he the scuba instructor? Anyway, he’s outdoorsy and very nice. You’ll like him.”
I cringed. “What have you done?”
“Nothing! I just happened to mention that a few of my friends might be hanging out here Saturday night and since he was new in town that he might like to join us.”
“Uh huh.” That sounded too much like how the former Donna Grazynksi met her second ex-husband.
I wasn’t in the market for a second anything, but since the alternative was heading home and telling Marietta and Gram all about the date I didn’t have, I sucked down some more wine and scanned the room for an outdoorsy type. That could describe half the guys in the bar, including Eddie and Little Dog. “Is he here?”
“I haven’t seen him yet,” she said, frowning at my right eye.
“What?”
“I think you’re losing an eyelash.”
“Great.” Marietta had warned me to stay out of the heat until the glue set. I hadn’t realized that also included my car. “Just pull it off.”
Donna plucked away the offending eyelash with her thumb and index finger. Then she squinted and plucked at another one. “Uh oh.”
“Now what’s wrong?”
“You have a little problem.”
I’d thought I’d left her at home with my grandmother.
Donna cupped three eyelash extensions in her palm. “If you brought the glue, I can fix this.”
“Do I look like someone who’d have eyelash glue in my tote bag?”
“At the moment, you look freakishly like your mom, so yes, you do.”
Lovely.
I drained my glass and made tracks to the ladies room to assess the damage. Five minutes and sans a couple dozen lash extensions later, I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Tonight, I had my mother’s green eyes. Maybe not all her lashes, but with her makeup and the right lighting, maybe I did look a little like her in a puffy Pillsbury Doughboy-as-my-father kind of way.
“Well, Justin, I hope you like brunettes.”
I unbuttoned the top button of my blouse to give him a glimpse of the girls, then painted on a fresh layer of raspberry lip gloss and smiled at the mirror. “It’s show time.”
When I returned to the bar, Steve was sitting where I had left Donna.
“What’d you do with Donna?” I asked as I slid onto the barstool.
“She hooked up with Justin somebody. Assuming you’re interested, they’re sitting by the window.”
So much for Justin meeting the girls.
I was considering buttoning up and calling it a night when I noticed Steve staring at me. “Why are you looking at me that way?”
“What’d you do to yourself?”
“I’ll have you know that I’m on a date, and I think I look pretty good.” At least from the boobs up.
“I never said you didn’t.”
“You insinuated.”
His gaze dropped to the swell of my breasts straining against the tiny buttons of my silk blouse.
I leaned closer to give him a better look.
The frown line between his brows deepened. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I could ask you the same question.”
His lips curled into the hi
nt of a smile. “I was just noticing that you might have missed a button.”
Sure. “Yeah, that’s what I figured.”
His smile broadened. “So, who’s the date?”
“No one you know.” I reached for my refilled wineglass. “In fact, you shouldn’t be sitting here.”
“And why not?”
“My date might get the wrong idea.”
“Don’t see why. Just two friends having a drink. Besides, I’d like to meet him.”
So would I. “He might be running late.”
“Then I’ll keep you company until he arrives.”
I looked over my shoulder at Donna and Justin. It didn’t look like that would happen anytime soon. “Okay, but on one condition.”
Steve gave me a sideways glance.
“You have to talk to me.”
“I don’t suppose I need to ask what we’re going to talk about.”
“Nope.”
He blew out a breath. “Go ahead.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange that Nell Neary, Jayne Elwood, Ernie Kozarek, and Sylvia Jeppesen are all in new relationships?”
“You aren’t going to let go of this, are you?”
No. “It’s too coincidental.”
I watched for a reaction as Steve stared at his sweaty beer bottle. As usual, nothing.
“Think about it. They were all caregivers,” I said, edging closer. “For years Nell took care of her mom. Jayne and Sylvia each had a decade of tending to a sick husband. In Ernie’s case, a bed-ridden wife. Then suddenly, Bernadette Neary, Mr. Elwood, Rose Kozarek, and Howard Jeppesen—all patients of Dr. Straitham—die. Months later, Nell has a boyfriend and Ernie shows up at Clark’s Pharmacy with a prescription for Viagra.”
Steve hung his head. “Can’t anyone in this town keep their mouth shut?”
He knew the answer to that question as well as I did. It explained why he and Eddie used to go to Port Townsend to buy condoms. Steve still did for all I knew. And I really didn’t want to know.
“And Ernie’s not the only one.” At least according to Lucille.
Steve swallowed the last of his beer. “Are you telling me there’s a Viagra connection between these deaths?”
Maybe, but that sounded so ridiculous I wasn’t about to admit it aloud. “Actually, I think it’s more like a matchmaking connection.”
Wendy Delaney - Working Stiffs 01 - Trudy, Madly, Deeply Page 7
