by Norah Wilson
“That seems like a lot of … well, running around to give Mona an extra sticky bun.”
Mother shrugged.
“Why doesn’t she just grab a couple for herself. I’m sure nobody would mind.”
“You don’t know Mona Roberts. She wouldn’t ask for a handout if it killed her. She’s generous … to a fault, perhaps. When she could give, she always did. But these days … well, lets just say it’s easier for Mona to take a leftover sticky bun or two than it is for her to ask for a second one in front of everyone.”
“How do you know that her finances are so bad?” Mrs. P asked. “Did she tell you?”
Excellent question. One that had been on the tip of my tongue. Well, it would have been. Eventually. When I’d thought of it.
“God, no. She’d never say anything. But I suspected it, and Big Eddie confirmed it.”
Mother saw me frown. “I know what you’re thinking, Dix. He shouldn’t have broken her confidence.” She sighed. “Tell you the truth, I’m not so sure Eddie didn’t figure it out for himself rather than Mona telling him. He’s a pretty smart guy. And I’m Mona’s best friend. He discussed this with me because he’s worried about her, too. And because he was worried about me.”
I gave her the old raised-eyebrow look.
“He wanted to make sure I was all right.” She shrugged. “Eddie helps a lot of the widows out with things like that, Dix. He knows a lot about business and investments. Like it or not, years ago women just didn’t do any of that sort of thing. Husbands did. They drove the car and mowed the lawn and looked after everything else. Eddie just likes to make sure everyone’s looked after … that’s all.”
“What about Tish? She’s staying with Mona, right?”
“She’s staying with her, but she’s not helping her one damn bit. In fact, if anything, every day Tish McQueen is there, it gets a little harder on Mona. In every way. Let’s just say there’s only so much to go around. And Tish wants a bit of everyone’s share.”
I looked over to Big Eddie and Tish still talking in the corner. Big Eddie reached into his pocket and pulled out a golf ball wrapped in a napkin. Well, technically it wasn’t wrapped in a napkin, so much as Big Eddie was shaking a sticky napkin off his fingers as he pulled the golf ball out. Apparently, the decider himself got first dibs on the sticky buns. That’s why his fingers were sticky.
Using his other hand, Big Eddie re-deposited the napkin in his polyester pants pocket. He was holding the ball up for Tish in one hand and with an animated slice to the other, showing her just how far it could be shot. Tish reached for the ball, but with a wink and a mile-wide smile, Big Eddie pocketed it again. And no, Tish’s reach didn’t follow into Big Eddie’s pocket, but the look she gave him seemed to say someday it might. Then she turned and sashayed away toward the kitchen herself.
“Wonder what’s so special about those balls….” Mrs. P murmured.
A dozen smart-assed remarks leapt to mind, but I resisted giving voice to any of them.
My mother turned to me with one eyebrow delicately arched. Clearly she’d expected me to return that perfect lob.
I shrugged. “Too easy.”
Mother turned back to Mrs. P. “I don’t know what’s up with those golf balls, Jane. But I do know that whenever Eddie has Mona out there practicing her swing, she can’t shoot worth a damn with the regular white balls, but give her one of those colorful lucky ones and she can drive it half way across the lake.”
“Kind of like magic, Katt?” Mrs. P asked, in all seriousness.
“Maybe.” Mother’s smile was small, but it was real. “Magic’s a funny thing, Jane. A pretty great thing when it’s used right. Used for good, you know.” Inexplicably, her eyes welled up with tears. Be damned if she’d let them fall though; not in front of everyone. And Mrs. P and I both gave her a few silent minutes to put them back in check.
Of course, there had to be a logical explanation for the orange golf ball success. One that had nothing to do with magic. Or even luck, as Eddie maintained. The most likely explanation for their fantastic flight being that Big Eddie had replaced the regulation golf ball with something heavier or otherwise juiced up to make it fly just that much further. Or maybe Big Eddie had so convinced his clients that there was magic in that colored ball, they could shoot it to the moon if they wanted too.
However, I would never say any of this to Mother. And not just because she obviously needed a minute here, and not because she did not always appreciate my cynicism. I wouldn’t say anything because there was a fight breaking out in the kitchen.
Nothing was breaking. No fists were being thrown. No one was getting a good old-fashioned beat down. But the yelling that was coming from that little kitchen was enough to clear it.
“Tish McQueen, you’re nothing but a no-good, two-bit flirt!” Mona accompanied her proclamation with a stamp of her foot. “Everything I have, you want! And I’m damn tired of it!”
“There’s nothing two-bit about me,” Tish shot back. “And if you’re referring to Big Eddie, I wouldn’t be so damn sure he’s yours after all.” She bobbed a hand to her hair, though those blond locks were pretty much frozen in place with styling product. “Eddie Baskin has an eye for the ladies, Mona. Can I help it if he likes the pretty ones better?”
“Oh, since when did you become a lady?”
“Good one, Mona!” Mrs. P called across the room. She never was the queen of subtle.
Tish sent an icy glare in our direction, and if looks could kill, Mrs. P would be toes up. But they can’t, so Mrs. Presley just smiled back at Tish. Tish’s glare lasered back to Mona.
I kicked Mother under the table. No, not with the shut-up assault to the shin she’d given me earlier. More like a look-at-me tap, which I followed with the eyebrows raised what-do-you-think? look.
She leaned in. “This has been a long time coming,” she whispered. “Tish has been after Eddie since the first day she got here. Well, Eddie and everyone else. She was always flirting will all the men. Frankie too.” Mother’s lips drew thin here. She touched each of her wrists again and looked down as if she’d forgotten that the watch he’d given her was missing.
I trained my gaze back on the confrontation in the kitchen. Tish was staring hard at Mona, and Mona was staring right back. If I thought Tish’s stare had been icy, it was nothing compared to the frost in her voice when she spoke.
“Well, then, Mona Roberts,” she said, icicles dripping from the words, “suppose I just leave. Suppose I just pack up my bags this very night and head back to Alberta. I’ve lots to do there. Lots of business to conduct and lots of friends to see. Look after my other interests for a while. Maybe that would be best for all concerned.”
In two seconds flat, the look on Mona’s face dropped from furious anger to fearful panic.
“Well, I … I really don’t want you to leave, Tish.” Mona mumbled the words.
“Pardon me?” Tish leaned closer.
Bitch. She’d heard Mona perfectly well. I cringed as Mona repeated her statement, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Tish waved a dramatic hand. “Well, it sure doesn’t seem that way to me.”
“I … I’m sorry, Tish.”
“Sorry or not, I should go anyway. I’m not sure I like it here anymore.”
“Please stay.”
Jesus, it killed me to watch Mona so completely chastised and thoroughly defeated.
Everyone was staring at Mona now.
Mother leaned in to whisper — without a prompting kick beneath the table this time — and I had to strain to hear her. “This I just don’t understand. I’d have her sorry ass packing in a heartbeat if I were Mona.”
“Maybe she’s paying her rent?”
“Mona says she’s not.”
Tish, looking smug and self-satisfied, was about to rain another berating storm down upon Mona. A distraction was needed. Like a titillating Daphne Delicious tale. I was just about to heave a stage sigh and invite them to circle around when ano
ther distraction entered the room and I put my porn-primed mind on hold.
The brand new security guard, Dylan Hardy, strode into the room, followed very closely by Big Eddie whose shorter legs scissored to keep up.
Damn, he looked good. Dylan, not Big Eddie. And all over again, thoughts of the night before teased through my mind, causing sensations to tease through other parts.
With put-on awkwardness (“Hello, sir. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”), Dylan was introduced around the room. Apparently, the taker-charger had sneaked out of the room when the kafuffle started to get Dylan, no doubt thinking security might be warranted. Or more likely thinking if anything could break the tension of the Mona/Tish confrontation, the handsome new security guard could.
He was right.
When Dylan’s eyes met mine, there was an incredible, unspoken exchange. A barely-there smile packed with knowing, and not letting let on.
Of course, Beth Mary was the first one over to greet him. She gave him a welcoming hug. A long, drawn out (get your hands off his ass, you dirty old woman!) welcoming hug. Tish apparently forgot about Eddie Baskin as she introduced herself to Dylan. And it was with unmistakable, sad relief that Mona introduced herself. Mrs. P was in the kitchen this time, helping herself to a coffee and searching the cupboards for the sugar. And grinning, of course. She stopped long enough on the way back to the table with coffee in hand to ask Dylan, “Are you any good at crosswords, young man?”
“So what do you think, Mother?” I said still staring at Dylan. “Going to go introduce yourself?”
But there was no answer.
While I’d been watching Dylan at this Mona-rescuing meet and greet, Mother had disappeared.
Chapter 8
Dylan was appropriately fawned over by the ladies and put-’er-there’d by the men folk of the Wildoh community. With one exception — Harriet Appleton’s frown was pulled so tight her forehead looked permanently pleated. She didn’t greet the new security guard warmly. She didn’t shake his offered hand (and gave Wiggie a scathing look when he did). Harriet pointedly looked the other way.
You’d think Harriet would be delighted to learn that there was more security on the premises. After all, she was the latest victim. She should be thrilled to learn that there was someone besides Big Eddie and the ever-ready Deputy Almond to look after their interests.
Not the case.
Having already been introduced to Dylan earlier by Big Eddie, I didn’t rise with the group myself for a second introduction. But that worked well. Very well, in fact. Because from my vantage point (still at the crib table) I could watch everyone gathered in that recreation room and how they interacted with the popular new security guard.
People have no idea how much they communicate through non-verbal cues, and I’m not just talking about tone of voice or gestures. I’m talking about how close or how far they stand from others, their orientation to those in the group, their movements, posture, facial expressions. There’s so much to be learned from a lean. Surmised from a slouch. Grasped from a glance. Observed by an ogle.
And speaking of ogles….
Just as I was about to leave the rec room (it’s not that I was worried worried about my disappearing mother but I did want to know where she’d gone), Lance-a-Lot showed up again, announcing his arrival with that loud, musical truck horn of his.
Dylan was left hanging. Or rather, his hand was left hanging in mid-shake by a blue-haired lady from B Complex who made a mad dash toward the window, damned near taking Dylan out with her walker in her haste. Dylan stood there staring at the horde gathering for the Lance-a-Lot show. He looked a little bit dumbstruck, and maybe even a little bit put out.
What an ill-mannered bunch of biddies to abandon Dylan. If I wasn’t so busy elbowing my way past three grey-haired grannies, I’d have said something to them.
Fact-finding missions can be such a bitch.
Lance was at his usual full-mast attention. He gave his customary half turn with a smile. Flexing his butt cheeks for the onlookers, he made his way to the lake and dove in the water. Just like the last time, the ladies relaxed a little once he’d submerged himself, but they didn’t abandon their vigil at the window. Patiently they (okay, we) waited as he surfaced and dove, surfaced and dove. Finally, ten or twelve minutes later, Lance started making his way toward shore again, and the ladies came to full, vibrating attention. Lance emerged from the lake, the mesh bag of white golf balls he’d retrieved gleaming in the sun.
As if anyone was looking at those.
Lance drove off, giving his horn one more thrust. People then started to filter out of the recreation room, which was my cue to exit. My cue to go find Mother and see what was up.
“I don’t get it. What’s that boy got that I ain’t got?” Apparently, Big Eddie’s joke never got old. At least, not for Eddie.
Mrs. Presley and I passed Dylan on our way out the door. Grinning, she winked at him and he gave her an almost imperceptible little smile back.
“Lance-a-Lot?” He whispered, raising a questioning eyebrow.
I raised sheepish shoulders. “Dives for the balls,” I whispered back.
That eyebrow did not lower.
~*~
“I told you, Dix,” Mother said in her and-I’m-not-going-to-tell-you-again tone. “I was feeling tired. That’s it. I simply left.”
“But I didn’t see you leave. How could you have just….”
I was trying her patience. She looked at me with a hand on her hip and a tilt to her head.
I threw my hands up in resignation. “Okay. You just left.” But I couldn’t resist one long, dramatic sigh. Which of course she chose to ignore.
Katt Dodd was nothing if not mysterious. When Mrs. Presley and I had arrived back from the rec room, Mother was sitting on the sofa, tea in hand, soft music playing. I knew the tune. Love for this Desperate While, written by the late, great Peter Dodd himself.
She’d not sat for long after Mrs. P and I arrived. In fact she was up and making lunch in no time flat.
Oh, and yes, very shortly thereafter she was busy selecting my attire for the meeting with Deputy Noel Almond.
“What’s wrong with my own clothes?”
Mother looked at me as though I had three heads, and none of them were making any sense. “Come on, Dix. You can’t be serious. Wear that stuff on a date?”
“It’s not a date!” I protested.
“It’s a date.” For emphasis, she threw a black sequined halter-top at me.
Hot-potato style, I threw it back.
Okay, for the record, I am not opposed to flirty, drop-dead gorgeous clothing. Granted, my 71 year old mother had a more risqué wardrobe than I had (oh, God, even I know how bad that sounds). But still, I liked the stuff I’d brought with me to Florida (t-shirts, shorts, jeans, one blouse and skirt in case I needed to pose as a lady, Capri pants, more t-shirts).
Mrs. Presley was in the kitchen making her spicy pepperoni spaghetti — heavy on the garlic. When we’d been out shopping earlier, I’d made a quick dash in for the basics for Mother. Well, it looked like Mrs. P had dashed herself. She was making enough to feed a small army. Of course, I knew half of it would be heading Mona’s way. But like I said … army style. Yum. I loved Mrs. P’s spicy pepperoni spaghetti.
But my serving would have to wait till breakfast the next day. Not what I needed to be eating before a … non-date. Just as well, anyway. As wonderful as Mrs. P’s spicy pepperoni spaghetti is, when I eat it late at night, it’s been known to throw my sleep disorder into overdrive. Combine that and the stress of the current case, and who knows what Mother and Mrs. P would wake up to find?
Yet, I was glad she was doing the cooking right now. The last thing I needed was her and Mother both ganging up on me over my attire.
Mother held up a hot pink leather mini in her left hand, paired it with a low cut white sweater in her right. She looked at me hopefully.
“Not a chance.”
With a huff, she turned agai
n to her over overflowing closet. “You’re not making this easy, Dix.”
Fine, I’d not packed for a date. But was this really a date date I was going on with Deputy Almond? More than likely we were heading to the nearest Starbucks and I’d be paying for my own Caffè Americano.
Was Noel Almond hot? Yes.
Flirtatious? Definitely had been.
Sexy? As hell.
Was he Dylan?
Shit.
Weirdly, strangely, oh God stupidly, I was thinking of Dylan Foreman and the other night. How could I not be? Not that it had meant anything. Not that it was going anywhere or that it should go anywhere.
So why didn’t I tell Dylan about this dinner meeting with Deputy Almond? Why hadn’t I gotten that message to him? I certainly could have, but I hadn’t.
Too damned many questions for one brain.
And let’s not forget that Deputy Almond wasn’t exactly sweet and kind to my mother. Granted, he’d intimated it was all part of the ‘plan’ to root out the real culprit, but still….
I know I complain about her, but she’s my mother. And Mother had assured me Noel’s interrogation wasn’t nearly as bad as it looked. But my natural protectiveness toward her had kicked in.
“That security guard has a crush on you.” Mother was holding a blue blouse in her left hand now and smoothing her right hand over it.”
“Who? Big Eddie? Won’t Mona be jealous?”
“Don’t be funny, Dix. I’m talking about that new fellow. Dylan.”
I pffted my drink onto my chin. “You’ve got to be kidding.” I wiped my chin with the napkin she handed me. “That new guy? Dilbert?”
“Dylan.”
Well, now I was really glad Mrs. Presley was in the kitchen. She’d have had a field day.
But my interest was piqued.
The thing about my intuition … I got it from my Mother. So it was interesting that she’d picked up on this ‘supposed’ crush. Katt Dodd had a sense about these things.
“I saw the way he was looking at you,” Mother continued. “Well, you’re just as observant about these things as I am, Dix. You must have seen it too.”
