A Catered Mother's Day (21 page)

Chapter 41

M
ission and Oak was on the far side of town. It had been a while since Libby and Bernie had been there, but they remembered the area being as close to slummy as anything in Longely got, which wasn't saying much. The houses here were smaller, two-story rental properties with no garages. Their postage stamp yards tended toward the unkempt and the landscaping mostly consisted of overgrown laurel hedges and impatiens.

But evidently things were changing, because this time when Libby drove by, Bernie spotted a few houses with new paint jobs, flower boxes, and extensive plantings, not to mention a couple of restaurants featuring organic ingredients, and an upscale food market advertising gelato—all signs that the far side of town was about to come up in the world.

“I wonder how Stu knows what Sandra's vehicle looks like,” Libby mused as she pulled up in front of the house. “And he called her Sandy. She doesn't seem like a Sandy to me.”

“The obvious answer comes to mind.” Bernie replied. “Although for the life of me, I can't see her and Stu together.”

Libby laughed at the idea. “Neither can I, but you never know. Look at Mom and Dad. I can't think of two more opposite people and they were really in love.”

“Yes, they were,” Bernie replied softly as she studied the driveway of the purple house. Even in the fading light the color popped, especially because the houses on either side were painted all white.

There was a car parked on the blacktop, but it wasn't a Civic. So either Stu was wrong or Sandra wasn't here. Well, there was only one way to find out. Bernie pressed her lips together as she contemplated the house Sandra was supposed to be living in. Constructed almost sixty years ago, the place had been conceived as a two-family colonial with one family living on the top floor and the other on the bottom. It must have been nice once, but over the years, time and weather had taken their toll. Paint was peeling off the windowsills, a couple of shutters were gone, the steps were listing to the left, and six heavy wooden posts supported the sagging wraparound porch on the second floor.

“I don't think I'd be sitting out there right now,” Bernie remarked, indicating the small table and two chairs on the balcony.

“Me either,” Libby agreed as Bernie scanned the windows for signs of life.

She couldn't see any lights or movement upstairs, but she did see a light shining through the curtains covering the window on the first floor. That and the car in the driveway led her to believe that someone was home.

Libby indicated the two entrance doors sitting side by side with a nod of her head. “I wonder which one is Sandra's.”

Bernie pointed to the mailboxes. “Let's find out.”

But they didn't. There was no name on either one. Bernie paused for a moment, then pressed the bell on the right underneath the sign that read J
EHOVAH'S
W
ITNESSES GO AWAY.

A moment later Bernie and Libby heard a cheery “I'm coming” and a moment after that the door was flung open and an elderly lady with flaming red hair, wearing a housecoat, a pearl choker, and bright yellow Converse sneakers confronted them.

“Yes?” she said, waving a cigarette holder around. A dribble of ash fell on her housecoat and she brushed it away.

Bernie started apologizing for the lateness of the hour, but the woman stopped her.

“Please,” she said, “I never go to bed before four. All those years in the theater, you know.” She peered at them through her glasses. “Do I know you?”

“I don't think so,” Libby said.

“I think I do.” The woman pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose to get a better view. They were bright pink circles and covered half of her face. “Yes, indeed I do.” She clapped her hands together. “You're Rose's girls, aren't you? I guess you don't remember me,” she said when she saw the blank looks on their faces. “I'm Thelma, Auntie Thelma. Hollywood?”

“Oh my God.” Libby's eyes widened as she recalled who the lady in front of her was. She put her hand to her mouth. “I remember now. You went off to Hollywood to be in the movies. You were supposed to marry Ronnie . . .”

“Zorn,” Thelma said. “But I broke the engagement, and off I went to seek fame and fortune.”

“And did you find it?” Libby asked.

Thelma grinned. “I never became a star, if that's what you're asking, but I got my SAG card and I've always worked steady, which, let me tell you, is no mean feat. I don't suppose either of you happened to see
Walk of the Zombies
or
Blood in the Sky
by any chance?”

Both Libby and Bernie shook their heads.

“No matter. Most people didn't, but I had starring roles in those.” Thelma waved her cigarette holder around. “I never regretted going there for a moment or, for that matter, not marrying Ronnie Zorn. Rose was right. I was never cut out to be your typical hausfrau. But enough about me . . . I want to hear about you two,” she said, shutting the door behind them.

Libby and Bernie spent the next half an hour perched on an ornate, carved, antique sofa, sipping iced tea out of jam jars, and catching up.

“Rose was such a wonderful lady. So talented. A regular domestic goddess is what she was,” Thelma enthused. She giggled. “Unlike me. I used my oven to store my sweaters in.” Thelma stabbed the cigarette holder in the air for emphasis. “Still do, for that matter. If you can't heat it up in the microwave I don't eat it.” She pointed to her stomach. “I guess it works, because I still have my girlish figure.”

She giggled again. “Well, as much as one can be girlish at my age.” Thelma leaned forward. “You know,” she confided, dropping her voice down to a stage whisper, “if it wasn't for your mom, I wouldn't have left Longely. She was the one who encouraged me to go to Hollywood to seek my fame and fortune. ‘Thelma,' she said, ‘you have to do what makes you happy.' And so I did.”

“Well, she sure didn't say that to me when I headed out to the West Coast,” Bernie recalled.

Thelma patted Bernie's knee. “You were her daughter. I'm sure she was scared you'd fall prey to evil influences—there's a lot of that out there.”

“Maybe you're right,” Bernie conceded, recalling Rose's words.

“Your mother was no fool,” Thelma said.

“I never thought she was,” Bernie replied.

Thelma beamed. “She was very proud of you, Bernie. You too, Libby.” Then Thelma straightened up and looked from Bernie to Libby. “But enough of the past. What delightful mission has brought you to my humble abode? What can I help you with?”

Bernie got straight to the point. “We're looking for a woman called Sandra,” she answered. “She works as a bartender at the Roost.”

“Ah, yes.” Thelma gave her head a little shake. “Poor dear.”

“So you know her?” Libby asked.

Thelma clicked her tongue against her teeth. “I should hope so.”

“Does she live here?” Bernie eagerly asked.

“Has for the last eight months,” Thelma replied. She carefully took her cigarette out of her holder and stubbed it out in the ashtray on the coffee table. “Filthy habit, but I can't seem to give it up. Oh well.” She gave a deprecating shrug. “Everyone has to die of something, right? Right?” Thelma repeated when neither Libby nor Bernie replied.

“Right,” Bernie quickly said. “Does Sandra have a last name?”

“I take it you're asking me if I know it.”

Bernie nodded.

Thelma snorted. “Of course I do. She's my upstairs tenant. Her name is Melon—as in the fruit.” She sighed. “I probably should have asked more rent from her; she's paying practically nothing. I've always been bad when it comes to business. But given the flat's condition, I couldn't charge her the going rate. What do you think about the color, by the way?”

“Of the house?” Bernie asked.

“What else?”

“Quite eye-catching,” Bernie said diplomatically. Which was true.

Thelma chortled. “That's one way of putting it. You should see it in the daylight. It positively sizzles. Let me tell you, the neighbors are not pleased, but I think it's good to expand people's horizons, don't you?” She sniffed. “They were quite unpleasant when I moved in.”

“Is that why you chose those colors?” Bernie asked.

Thelma's expression reminded Bernie of, to use a phrase of her mother's, the cat that ate the canary.

“Let's just say,” Thelma replied, “that it was an added benefit, but I chose those colors because I liked them. Also they were on sale, not a bad thing in my situation. Although I have gotten a call back for a toilet paper commercial and those do pay good money.” Thelma looked pensive as she rat-tat-ted her fingernails, which were long and red, on the top of the arm of the love seat she was sitting in. Then she smiled and clasped her hands together. “However, I'm sure you're not interested in my employment opportunities or lack of them. So why do you ladies want to speak to Sandra, if I might ask?”

“Well, we're hoping she can help us with some information,” Bernie replied.

“May I be so bold as to ask what kind of information you wish to solicit from her?”

Bernie and Libby looked at each other. They weren't quite sure how much they wanted to share.

Noting their reluctance, Thelma sat up straighter and smiled an utterly beguiling smile. “Oh, come on,” she urged. “My life is utterly boring. Make an old lady's day.”

Bernie and Libby couldn't help themselves. They both smiled back.
The lady's a charmer,
Bernie thought. No doubt about that.

“Well?” Thelma asked. She leaned forward expectantly. “Is Sandra . . . involved in anything interesting?”

“Not really,” Libby said.

Thelma's face fell.

“A little bit interesting,” Bernie allowed.

Thelma's smile returned. “Does this have anything to do with Manny and Miss Randall by any chance?” she asked.

Bernie took a sip of her iced tea. It had a chemical aftertaste. She guessed it was one of those instant mixes. “How did you know?”

Thelma waved her hand in the air. “It's been all over the news.”

“True,” Bernie allowed.

Thelma's eyes glittered. “You're investigating?”

“More like poking around,” Libby told her. In Libby's mind, investigating connoted warrants and wire taps.

“I see.” Thelma clapped her hands. “What fun. How delightful.” Then she realized what she'd said and put her hand to her mouth. “Oh dear. I sound dreadful. Absolutely heartless. That's not what I meant at all!”

“I'm sure,” Libby reassured her. “We want to speak to Sandra because we're hoping she can shed some light on where Daisy Stone is.”

“We just have a few questions we want to ask Daisy about Manny,” Bernie added.

Thelma cocked her head. “You want to speak to Daisy Stone?” she asked, surprised.

“Hopefully,” Bernie replied, slightly disconcerted by Thelma's tone.

“About Manny?”

Bernie nodded. “Yes. Is that going to be a problem?”

Thelma sat back in the love seat and frowned. “My dear, talking to her about anything is going to be a problem.”

“And why is that?” Libby asked.

Thelma reached for her cigarette holder. It was long, black, and shiny, with a series of red stars going down the side, and reminded Bernie of something out of a thirties movie.

“Because Daisy is,” Thelma began, “not to mince words, completely off her rocker. Has been for some time. She's at the Pines. Such a nice name for such an ugly type of place, don't you think?” Thelma shuddered. “I keep on thinking of that old movie
The Snake Pit
, even though I know those places aren't like that anymore. It's such a pity. They keep her so doped up it's hard to get a ‘hello' much less a ‘how are you' out of her.”

Libby took another sip of her iced tea for the sake of politeness. “So you've seen her?”

“That,” Thelma said, giving Libby a confiding smile, “is why I said what I did.”

Bernie raised an eyebrow. “How come you went?”

“That's simple. Sandra asked me to come with her when she visited.” Thelma put her cigarette holder down on the coffee table, looked at it, and picked it back up. “God, I would love a cigarette,” she said before putting the holder down where it had been. “Just thinking about that place makes me want to smoke.” She took her glasses off and rubbed the bridge of her nose before putting them back on. “I smoked half a pack when we got out of there, which is one of the reasons I haven't been back. I'm ashamed to say it, but I don't do illnesses, either physical or mental, well. I'm not a caretaker.”

Libby could sympathize. Neither was she. “Why did Sandra visit?”

Thelma shook her head. “Your guess is as good as mine. It's not something we discussed. Sandra has never been good with personal revelations.”

“She had to have said something,” Bernie insisted.

“She said”—Thelma paused to remember Sandra's exact words—“ ‘I need someone to come with me for moral support' and when we left she said, ‘I don't want to talk about it.' So we didn't.”

“What's wrong with Daisy?” Libby asked.

Thelma picked up her cigarette holder and waved it in the air. “Damned if I know. I'm sure there's a name for it. There always is, but really,” she confided, “despite what all the experts say, I don't think naming something makes the least bit of difference. If you're crazy, you're crazy, and that's that.”