A Dark and Stormy Murder (A Writer's Apprentice Mystery) (25 page)

She had told us, in the early days of our classes, that her family name meant “forsaken,” and I had remembered it when I, too, was betrayed.
Abbandonato
. How forsaken I had felt back then.

I turned off my phone and smiled at Mick, who was still licking his chops. We climbed out of the car and made our way to the cozy little cottage with its green wood door and berry wreath. Home sweet home.

I grabbed my mail out of the tin box and unlocked the door, letting Mick and me into our kingdom. We had hardwood floors, too, at least a few feet of them in our little foyer. The living room was carpeted in an unfortunate brown shag, but it was clean, and there was a fireplace that made the whole first floor snug and welcoming.

My kitchen was tiny and clean, and between my little dining area and the living room was a spiral staircase that led up to a loft bedroom. Every night I thanked God for Terry Randall and his generous heart (and for my savvy parents, who had talked him into renting me my dollhouse cottage).

As I set my things down, my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi, honey.” It was my mother. I could hear her doing something in the background—probably putting away groceries. “Are you going to bingo with me tonight?”

“Mom. Bingo is so loud and annoying, and those crazy women with their multiple cards and highlighters . . .”

“Are what? Our good friends and fellow parishioners?”

I groaned. “Don’t judge me, Mom. Just because I get tired of Trixie Frith and Theresa Scardini and their braying voices—”

“Lilah Veronica! What has gotten into you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sweetie, you have to get out. Dad thinks you have agoraphobia.”

“I don’t have agoraphobia. I just happen to like my house and my dog.”

“What song is in your head right now?”

My mother knew this odd little fact: I always had a song in my head. There was one in there when I woke up each morning—often something really obscure, like a commercial jingle from the nineties, when I was a kid—and one in my head when I went to bed at night. It was not always a conscious thing, but it was always there, like a sound track to my life. My mother had used it as a way to gauge my mood when I was little. If I was happy it was always
something like “I Could Have Danced All Night” (I loved musicals) or some fun Raffi song. If she heard me humming “It’s Not Easy Being Green,” she knew I needed cheering up. Nowadays my musical moods could swing from Adele to Abba in a matter of hours. “I don’t know. I think I was humming Simon and Garfunkel a minute ago.”

“Hmm—that could go either way.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mom.”

“You haven’t spent much time with young people lately. You need to get out on the town with Jenny, like in the old days when you two were in college.”

“I’m planning just that next week. We’ve been texting about it. But, Mom, I’m not in college anymore. And neither is Jenny. She’s busy with her job, I’m busy with my jobs—plural. And if you are subtly implying that you want me to meet men, I am not ready for that, either.”

My mother sighed dramatically in my ear. “One bad relationship doesn’t mean you can’t find something good.”

“No. It just means I’m not
interested
in finding a man right now. I think I’m a loner. I like being alone.”

“I think you’re hiding.”

“Mom, stop the pop psychology. I have a great life: a growing business, a nice house, a loving family, and a devoted dog. People who saw my life would wish they were me.”

“Except no one sees your life, because you hide away from the world in your little house behind a house.”

“Right. With my agoraphobia,” I said, choosing to find my mother’s words amusing instead of annoying. She had found me this house, after all.

“Come with me tonight. I heard that Pet will be making her chili. It’s my favorite,” said my mother, who was one of only three people who knew my secret.

“I guess I’ll go,” I said. “But only because I’m hoping your crazy luck will rub off on me and I’ll win the jackpot.”

My mother had won two thousand dollars at bingo six months earlier. She came home beaming, and my father groused about the fact that she went at all. Then she pulled out twenty hundred-dollar bills and set them in his lap. Now he didn’t say much about bingo, especially since they’d used the money to buy him a state-of-the-art recliner.

What I could do with two thousand dollars. . . .
I gazed around the kitchen and indulged a brief lust for gourmet tools, an updated countertop, or even a new stainless steel refrigerator—the wide kind that accommodated large pans.

“Great!” said my mother. “Do you want to come over now and we’ll hang out together before we go? I have a couple of Netflix movies. One is a Doris Day. Remember how we used to watch her when you were little, and have our tea parties?”

I laughed. “I do remember. And as I recall, you developed quite a crush on Cary Grant after watching
That Touch of Mink
.”

“Oh yes,” my mother said. “My secret crush.”

“It’s not secret. Dad knows about it and hates it.”

She giggled. “Your father is attractive when he’s jealous.”

“
Anyway
. I have to pass on the movies—I need to walk Mick. I have one last delivery, and then I’ll be there for our bingo date.”

“Okay.” Her voice had brightened since I’d agreed to go. My mother was an innately cheerful person.

I grabbed a water bottle from my fridge and hooked Mick’s leash to his collar. We went outside, through Terry’s amazing backyard, with its plush furniture and giant stone
birdbath, down his driveway, and out onto Dickens Street, where we walked at a leisurely pace and admired the Halloween decorations. The evening was cold and dark, yet somehow cozy because of all the glowing yellow and orange lights, and the occasional jack-o’-lantern lighting up a storefront window. The air smelled like woodsmoke and winter, and Mick kept pausing to sniff it. My brain was playing a song that my dad had once sung to me when I was little—something by Don Henley with the name
Lilah
in it. The melody was a pretty blend of love song and lullaby, and my father said he had started singing it to me almost the moment I was born. So I walked along hearing the refrain of my own name, which was both comforting and disconcerting. We went around the block and returned home, where Mick ambled to his basket beside the fireplace for a little evening nap.

“Okay, buddy. I’m going out for a while, but I’ll see you after bingo, okay?”

Mick gave a half nod because he was already dozing.

I went out and locked my door behind me. I returned to the car, where I had a Mexican casserole waiting, keeping chilled in the October air. This one was for Danielle Prentiss, who hosted poker parties at her house on Saturday nights. I drove to the outskirts of town, to Jamison Woods, a little forest preserve where Mick and I would sometimes go on a weekend morning to watch wildlife and enjoy nature. In Mick’s case this often meant chasing things, and once it had even involved pursuing a young deer. He stayed on its tail as far as the tree line, and then they both paused, looking at each other. Mick finally peered back at me, confused. He wasn’t sure what in the world he was supposed to do with this animal. I laughed and took pictures
on my phone; eventually the deer ambled off, no longer afraid of my big soft-hearted puppy.

I pulled into the empty parking lot; no hikers were visible on this particular day. Dani showed up in her station wagon with the wood-look sides, seeming as always like a throwback from the seventies. She climbed out of her car and met me at the back of mine. “Hey, Lilah. Thanks for meeting me at our little rendezvous point.” She grinned at me and blew out some smoke; only then did I notice the cigarette in her hand, although I shouldn’t have been surprised—Dani was a two-pack-a-day smoker, and her raspy voice told the tale.

“Sure. I made this one with some extra onion and cheese, as your patrons requested,” I said, pulling out the box that contained the glass baking pan. “I think you’ll like it even better than last time. I put in a new and wonderful spice.”

“What?”

“Just a little cumin. Not enough to change anything—just to enhance it.”

She looked at me, dubious. “I really liked it the old way.”

“You’ll love it. Have I ever given you anything bad?”

She shook her head. “No. I love your cooking.” She grinned at me. “And my poker pals love mine!”

“That’s right. And when they ask you why it’s so extra delicious, say it’s cumin.”

I set the box in her arms and slammed my door.

“Money’s in my jacket, hon,” said Dani, sniffing the box.

A little white envelope jutted out of her pocket. I took it out; it smelled like smoke.

“Thanks, Dani. Just e-mail me when you need another dish.”

“You got it, hon. Hey, your hair looks pretty. I like it in a braid like that. It’s so thick.” She sighed. “I always wanted blonde hair, like a Disney princess. Instead I got boring brown, and then it turned gray. What’re you gonna do?” she asked, and laughed.

I laughed, too. “Thanks, Dani. For the job and the compliment. See you soon!”

I climbed into my car and sighed deeply. My day’s work was done, and now I could relax. With my mother. At St. Bart’s bingo.

Some Saturday nights were more exciting than others.

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