Everybody Loves Evie

by Beth Ciotta

  “Interesting,” Jayne said.

  “I’ll say.” Nic strode for the door. “I’m going to get my soup and—be warned—I’ll be eating slowly. I want details. Every position. Every location.”

  Jayne hovered in Nic’s wake. “I meant, interesting how you have this fascination with monkeys. Remember when you e-mailed me from the ship asking what my dream books said about gorillas?”

  I slurped some broth. “Uh-huh.” I’d been plagued by dreams of me in a gorilla suit hawking used cars. The hairy demise of my entertainment career.

  She crossed her arms over her gauzy peasant blouse. “Do you remember what I wrote back?”

  “Word for word.” I had this gift. Mostly, after reading something once, it was ingrained in my brain. Memorizing scripts had never been a problem. I’d retained a character profile Arch had given me after one reading. I remembered how impressed he’d been. That same night we’d shared our first atomic kiss.

  I squeezed my thighs together and cursed some inappropriate tingling. Beckett had asked me if Arch was out of my system. Normally I’m a damn good actress. That I hadn’t been able to disguise my infatuation was disconcerting. Either I was slipping or Beckett had a superior bullshit detector. I’m thinking the latter, which meant I needed to pull off a major deception to earn my Chameleon stripes…scales…whatever.

  I broke some crackers into my soup and glanced at Jayne, who was still waiting for me to reiterate her summation. “You said that if I dreamed about apes, then beware of a mischief maker in my business or social circle. Unless the gorilla was docile. Then the dream was a forecasting of a new and unusual friend.”

  “I’m guessing since you dumped Arch, he was a mischief maker. At least you got great sex out of it,” she said with a beaming smile. “And also proof that there is some stock in my metaphysical interests.” She flounced out of the room, glanced over her shoulder. “Just so you know, I’ll be eating as slowly as Nic.”

  In their absence, I thought about Jayne’s dream interpretation. Arch was a mischief maker, to be sure, but I’d considered him that new and unusual friend. No matter our differences, there’d been that indefinable connection. It bothered me that he’d been able to sever it so easily. A friend would have returned my call right away. A friend wouldn’t have left me a message with no invitation to call back.

  “Ouch.”

  So much for the new and improved Evie who dumped gorgeous flings without a second thought. No emotional ties. No promises. Just great sex.

  Right.

  CHAPTER NINE

  AMAZING WHAT SIXTEEN hours of sleep can do for a rundown body. By midday the next day I felt half human. Although I suffered the occasional sneeze and my voice was still ragged, I’d stopped coughing and I could breathe fairly well. Chicken soup and girl talk had worked miracles—and, okay, later I’d broken down and taken a slug of nighttime cold medicine. Desperate for relief, I didn’t care about the groggy side effects. In fact, I counted on the greenish liquid to knock me out, which it did. No dreams about Arch winging through London with a flock of pretty birds or a certain honeymooning couple breezing around Paris.

  I did, however, dream about my folks. First thing, I tried to call Mom, then Dad. I got their respective answering machines. My brother was unavailable, as well, tied up in back-to-back meetings, according to his secretary. I left messages. I wrestled my runaway imagination to the ground. Don’t borrow trouble, I could hear Arch say.

  “Don’t think about Arch.” He sure wasn’t thinking of me. I told myself to stop pouting. I wanted a hot fling. I got it. I wanted to break off. We did. Possible his idea of friendship differed from mine. Possible things were hunky-dory between us and I was overreacting due to an overactive imagination. Yeah. That was it.

  After a healthy breakfast and a reviving shower, I was ready to face a new Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah day. Beckett had barred me from the club until my cold was kaput, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t prepare. I’d spend the next day or two cramming. Bone up on jazz standards and common grifts. Somewhere I had the soundtrack from Lady Sings the Blues. I’d be hard-pressed to find a cheery song on that Billie Holliday tribute, but at least it was jazz. I could listen and absorb while reading up on classic cons. Since I’d paid for rush delivery, I expected the books I’d ordered today. The better I understood the mechanics and lingo, the better my chances of being taken seriously by Chameleon.

  Shopping was also on today’s itinerary. I had an apartment to decorate. Even Beckett’s bachelor digs had more personality. I needed to get a life. I was pretty sure I could find one at Wal-Mart. That store had everything. I’d shop for CDs featuring jazz vocalists and DVDs featuring con artists—anything to immerse myself in the world of grifters and scams. Then I’d stroll the home-furnishing aisle looking for colorful curtains and toss pillows. Maybe a coordinating area rug and whimsical wall hangings.

  Sipping my second cup of tea, I peeked through the blinds to check the weather and saw my car sitting in the parking lot. It made me think of Beckett. He could’ve poured me into a cab. Instead he’d insisted on seeing me home personally. He’d driven my car, asking Tabasco to follow so that he had a ride home. I thought about the way he’d blown off business to look after my welfare and blushed. He’d been a perfect gentleman. I’d been a pain in the neck.

  I’d barged into his apartment and picked a fight…while under multiple influences. My first day with Chameleon had been a mortifying disaster, yet instead of focusing on the negative, I contemplated Milo Beckett’s caring manner. First in the hospital after the Simon the Fish shooting. Then yesterday. Granted, he hadn’t given me the job I’d wanted, but his reasons had merit. He didn’t think I was ready to tangle with professional grifters. The opportunity, however, was there. At least he was giving me a chance to prove myself. To think, I’d first pegged him as an obnoxious womanizer. Then again, I’d first met him as Tex Aloha.

  Now I could only think of him as Beckett or Jazzman. Everyone at Chameleon had a nickname. Pops, Tabasco. Even Bearded Boy, whose real name, I’d learned, was Woody, answered to The Kid. Arch was Ace. Oh, and let’s not forget Gina. Of course the boys would dub the brunette bombshell something sexy like Hot Legs. Me, I got stuck with Twinkie. Although it could’ve been worse. Nipples. Headlights. Hooters. Yeah, could have been worse.

  I rinsed out my cup and headed for my bedroom. My phone chirped with an incoming call. My hopes soared. My heart raced. “Yeah?”

  “What kind of way is that to answer the phone?”

  Arch’s way. “Sorry. Hi, Christopher.” My brother.

  “What’s wrong with your voice?”

  “I have a cold. No biggie. It’s almost gone.” God forbid he feel compelled to offer comfort. “Thanks for returning my call.”

  “I was going to call you today anyway.”

  “You were? Is everything okay?” Because my brother never called to chat. He was, after all, a Parish.

  “No, everything is not okay.”

  I sat on the end of my bed. I struggled not to borrow trouble and failed. “Mom didn’t file for divorce, did she?”

  “No. But Dad might when he gets wind of her shenanigans.”

  “Shenanigans?” Our mom made June Cleaver look like a party girl. We’re talking straight arrow. An apple-pie conservative. She did not engage in shenanigans.

  “She’s taking dance lessons.”

  “Dance lessons? Mom?”

  “There’s a new instructor in town. He’s teaching over at the civic center. Line dancing. Ballroom. Rumor has it Mom’s kicking up her heels.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “That’s the least of it.”

  I braced myself. Converting to Democrat? Drinking cosmopolitans?

  “She cashed in two war bonds.”

  “What? Like savings bonds?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I didn’t know she owned bonds.”

  “Neither did I. Given the date of purchase, someone must have gifted them
to her as a child.”

  “And she’s just now cashing them in?”

  “She showed up at the bank on my day off and withdrew the bonds from her safe-deposit box. I’m convinced she didn’t want me to know about it. But it was a sizable amount. It was Mom. Naturally it came to my attention.”

  Naturally. He was, after all, the bank president. “Did you ask her about it?”

  “She told me to mind my own beeswax.”

  My stomach clenched at an uncomfortable thought. “Are Mom and Dad hurting for money?”

  “No. Between their savings and pensions, they’re set. Even with the purchase of the tavern.”

  “That’s a relief. So what did Mom need the money for?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  My brother, the man who never panicked, the man who considered himself a superior problem solver, sounded worried. My pulse galloped. “How much money are we talking?

  “Six thousand.”

  “Wow.” I nibbled my thumbnail, deep in thought. “Maybe she’s buying a new fridge or converting my bedroom into a home office like she’s been talking about forever. You know, treating herself to something special since Dad treated himself to the Corner Tavern.”

  “I haven’t seen any workers at the house or a delivery truck in the driveway.”

  “Well, what do you—”

  “You don’t want to know what I think.”

  Shrieking would only aggravate my scratchy throat. “Just tell me.”

  “I think she has a boyfriend.”

  “What!” So much for staying cool. I bolted to my feet and paced to walk off anxious energy.

  “Someone’s put a spring in her step.”

  “Maybe it’s the dance class.”

  “Or someone in that class. She’s been spotted with that instructor—once at JCPenney, once at Pizza Hut.”

  “So what?”

  “So they were together. As in shopping together. Eating together.” Dramatic pause. “Like a date.”

  I rubbed a dull throbbing at my temple. “This is crazy talk, Christopher. Mom wouldn’t…she couldn’t…she’s married.”

  “So was Michael.”

  Ouch. “Nice.”

  “Sorry,” Christopher said, his tone as tight as his wallet. “It’s been a rough few weeks.”

  I could envision my brother squeezing one of those squishy stress-reliever balls, whereas I clenched my jaw.

  “This all started when Dad bought the Corner Tavern against Mom’s wishes,” he said.

  “Why did he do that, anyway?”

  “I’m pretty sure he did it for you.”

  I stopped in my tracks, sank to my knees. “What are you talking about?”

  “Dad’s been pretty closemouthed. All Mom and I got out of him was that retirement was for the birds. He needed to keep busy. Missed shooting the breeze with the town folk. But yesterday I stopped in there, and what do I see?”

  “I’m scared to ask.”

  “A stage. Complete with a lighting and sound system. The bartender said Dad’s been auditioning bands. Bands without a female singer and not opposed to adding one.”

  I’m thinking it’s time we discussed your moving home, little one.

  “Oh, no.”

  “Here’s the thing—I thought this tiff between Mom and Dad would blow over. It didn’t. I thought I could reason with them. I can’t. Between my responsibilities at the bank and the time I’ve spent trying to mend parental bridges, I’ve been neglecting Sandy and the kids.”

  My brother’s wife and stepkids were high-maintenance, his job high pressure. To relax, he played tennis and golf and worked out in a home gym. Although he was younger than me, he was probably a prime candidate for a heart attack or a stroke or some other god-awful ailment that plagued type A personalities.

  “After telling me to butt out of her business,” Christopher added in a low voice, “Mom threatened to never speak to me again if I mentioned the bonds to Dad. Whatever she’s doing with that money she’s doing behind his back. What if she’s become addicted to the shopping network? What if she’s plotting to run off to Mexico with her boy toy?”

  “This is our sixty-three-year-old, never-been-on-a-plane mom we’re talking about.”

  Only Christopher wasn’t listening. He’d made up his mind and, if you asked him, he was never wrong. “Maybe I should confront Fancy Feet. Tell him to back off. If he thinks he’s going to seduce her out of her savings…”

  “Maybe he’s sincerely attracted.” I didn’t want to believe anything tawdry was going on, but I felt compelled to stand up for Mom. She was tough, but she wasn’t an ogre.

  “Men aren’t typically romantically attracted to women several years their senior, Evelyn.”

  Double ouch. I pressed a hand to my hot cheeks. Some men are, I wanted to say but didn’t. “Don’t confront the man, Christopher. If you’re wrong, you’ll embarrass Mom. And if you’re right…” What a mess. “Just don’t.”

  Meanwhile, his accusations rooted and blossomed. What if Mom had been suckered by some sort of swindle? I could envision Arch sitting across from me, lecturing me on a grifter’s prime mark: the weak and gullible and, often, as with the investment scam we’d busted on the cruise, the retired.

  Adrenaline surged, clearing my clogged sinuses and rocketing me to my feet. I was halfway to my closet when my brother said, “I could use some help here, sis.”

  This was a first. My brother crying uncle and reaching out. To me, of all people, the black sheep of my grounded, successful family. And he wasn’t the only Parish acting out of character. Knowing work was sparse in Atlantic City, my suit-and-necktie Dad had bought a seedy redneck tavern to bolster my singing career. No-nonsense Mom was learning the Bus Stop and the mambo and spending a wad of dough on who knows what. Was she having a breakdown? Was her message about me coming home for the benefit a veiled cry for help?

  “I’ll be there day after tomorrow, latest.”

  Tears pricked my eyes as I dragged out Big Red—the monstrous suitcase I’d toted to the Caribbean and London—for the third time this month. My noncommunicative, wholly reliant family needed me.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE SUN WAS SHINING as I peeled rubber through the Inlet and parked in the semimuddy lot of the Chameleon Club. My mood was black. I’d tried calling Arch three times while I’d packed. I needed his advice and all I got was his voice mail. Instead of leaving a message, I’d hung up, disconnected from the man in more ways than one.

  My pulse and brain raced in tandem as I scaled the steps and power walked toward the boardwalk entrance. No umbrella. No spiky heels. No mishaps. I breezed inside and glanced at the bar. Pops was engrossed in conversation with two barflies, neither being Tabasco. I scanned the club for Beckett. Not seeing him, I strode for the door marked Private.

  “Not there.”

  I forced a smile and faced the leathery bartender, dressed much as he’d been the day before, only his vest was red instead of black. “Is he around?” Again I thought of secret rooms for secret-agent plotting. “Somewhere?”

  “He is.”

  I motioned Pops to the opposite end of the bar, away from his friends’ big ears.

  He approached me with wary eyes, palming that retro rolled-brim hat to the back of his silver head. He looked a little like Morgan Freeman, dressed a lot like Buster Keaton and sounded exactly like Barry White. “Aren’t you supposed to be home, recovering?”

  I fidgeted under his stern expression. “I feel much better.” I pinched my nose and suppressed a sneeze.

  “Uh-huh.”

  I bucked up before he could offer me a shot of whiskey or fatherly advice. “I need to speak with Beckett. It’s important.” I could have called but felt better asking for a leave of absence in person. My stomach knotted thinking I could be ruining any chance of ever becoming a full-fledged Chameleon. Quite possibly the government agent would question my reliability, my dedication to the cause. Sure he was nice, but busines
s was business.

  “He’s in a meeting,” Pops said. “Also important.”

  I instinctively knew that, unlike yesterday, he was not going to steer me in the direction of the boss. The silver fox had shifted into guard dog. Any other time I’d be tempted to win him over. Just now, I was desperate to split town.

  “Okay. Here’s the deal.” I braced my hands on the bar and leaned forward, delivering the spiel I’d intended for Beckett. “I need to take a leave of absence. Postpone my engagement. Whatever. I know this looks bad—I haven’t even started—but this is an emergency. A family emergency.”

  “Should’ve said right off.” Pops turned and made a phone call. His voice was low, the conversation brief. He hung up, telling Stan, one of the two old coots sipping beer, to mind the store. He grasped my elbow.

  Thinking back on how I’d pulled one over on that bartender in the London pub, I leaned in to Pops and whispered, “Aren’t you afraid Stan might steal from the register or liberate a beer from the fridge?”

  “Nope.”

  A trusting con man? At least I assumed Pops was a former con man. Beckett had called him a vital part of the team. Someday, when I wasn’t in a hurry and he was more talkative, I’d try to find out more about him. Just now, I followed silently as he guided me through the ill-arranged tables and chairs, past the jukebox and appropriated sound system. Tabasco sprang to mind.

  From what I remembered of my Midol-fogged discussion with Beckett, in addition to being a transportation specialist, Tabasco also begged, bargained and borrowed props for stings. Location scout was the technical term. Apparently his many talents extended to the acoustic guitar. Whether he was a decent player remained to be heard.

  I banged my hip on a chair, swallowed a yelp and focused on where I was going. For the first time I noticed a pronounced hitch in Pop’s step. “What’s wrong with your—”

  “Old injury,” he said, a mind your own beeswax lingering in the stale air.

  He unlocked a door and guided me through a jam-packed storage room. I was rubbernecking at the eclectic collection of stuff, likening Beckett to Arch’s pack-rat granddad, when I realized Pops had opened a second door, a door I hadn’t noticed. A dangling yellow bulb cast minimal light on a cobwebbed stairwell. Pops and I descended the creaky wooden stairs into near darkness. Together we clung to the banister—me for nerves, him for support.