A Tale of Two Biddies (3 page)

“You don’t think—”

Kate hushed Chandra’s question with a well-placed elbow to the ribs.

“Well, it’s only natural to ask,” Chandra hissed. “Mike was on the dock, and Mike can’t stand Richie.”

“And Gordon was around, too. And now . . .” Luella stood on tiptoe and glanced around the park. “I don’t see him anywhere. He disappeared. Just like Mike did.”

“Oh, come on!” It wasn’t unusual for me to be the voice of reason. After all, I was the one who tried to talk these ladies out of investigating a murder just a few months before. Of course, that hadn’t worked.

The realization sat on my shoulders, as real as my clammy clothes. I knocked it away with a twitch.

“You don’t really believe any of what Richie’s saying, do you?” I whispered. “Nobody would try to kill somebody in front of so many people. And even if they wanted to . . . well, they wouldn’t want to. Nobody’s trying to kill Richie. Sure, he’s screwed up some things, but I’m sure Gordon has insurance on his boat, and I know that big summer house on the other end of the island is already being rebuilt. Nobody would actually want Richie dead because of any of that.”

“Except maybe the guy whose house he blew up,” Kate said.

“Or the guy whose boat he damaged,” Chandra added.

“Or Mike,” Luella said. “He lost everything, remember.”

I cut her off before she could go any further. “Okay, I get it. So lots of people are mad at Richie. But murder?” I scrubbed my hands over my face. “If you wanted someone dead, there are plenty more efficient ways to get it done than to push someone in a lake.”

“Listen to her!” Chandra screeched her approval, then remembered that we were supposed to be keeping our conversation under wraps. “You do have a freaky imagination, Bea. Just like FX O’Grady.”

“Thanks for nothing.” I gave her what I hoped was an intimidating look. Since Chandra went right on grinning, I guess it didn’t work. “Just because we caught one murderer doesn’t mean there are others lurking around every corner.”

“No one said there are,” Kate conceded. “But it does seem mighty coincidental, don’t you think that Mike was on the dock. And so was Gordon. And then Richie—”

“Tripped and fell. Or slipped and fell. Or wasn’t watching where he was going. Or was in such a hurry to stow that cooler he was carrying, he moved too fast. Or he—”

“Bea’s right.” Luella patted my arm. I had a feeling it was more to make me keep quiet than because she bought into what I said. “We all know Richie can be a little overemotional. Once he calms down, he’ll forget all about what happened and he’ll be as good as new.”

“But I told you. Somebody pushed me!” Richie had a new audience, a group of well-wishers who’d come over to see how he was doing, and his lament filled the gazebo.

“Of course, you’ve got to ask yourself how good ‘as good as new’ is,” Kate whispered, leaning my way.

I didn’t have a chance to consider it. There was a commotion at the dock and, grateful for a break from the Richie drama, we all looked that way.

“Well, that proves it. The storm is officially over,” Luella said. “One of the jet ferries is here from the mainland, and by the look of things . . .” She craned her neck. “Looks like lots of new visitors.”

“Including my rock group, I bet.” I groaned. I hadn’t forgotten that the members of Guillotine would be checking in to Bea & Bees that evening; I’d just been a little too busy saving Richie’s life to care. “Chandra, can you drive me back to the B and B?”

Chandra wasn’t listening. But then, I guess I couldn’t blame her. Like her, my attention was suddenly caught by a flurry of activity over near the cinder block building that housed the public restrooms, where a group of a dozen or so women emerged from what little protection they’d been able to find from the rain under the eaves. As near as I could tell from this distance, they were all about Chandra’s age, that is, close to fifty. You wouldn’t have known it by what they wore.

Miniskirts.

Leg warmers.

Acid-washed jeans.

Fishnet gloves.

Shoulder pads.

Lots and lots of shoulder pads.

“A Madonna convention?” I asked no one in particular.

“More like a flash mob stuck in a 1980s time machine.” Kate stepped back to watch the action. “They’re headed for the ferry.”

Kate was right. The women ringed the dock, and when the first passengers stepped off the ferry, they started to squeal like teenagers.

“You’re kidding me, right?” I had to raise my voice to be heard over the excited wails.

“Guillotine has fans?”

“Weird, 1980s fans,” Chandra pointed out.

I pictured the posters hung all over the island to advertise the big Saturday night Bastille celebration here in the park that would feature a concert from Guillotine. In the picture, the five members of the band were dressed in faux French Revolution style. Tight trousers, shirts with puffy sleeves, hair pulled back in ponytails. None of this meshed with the eighties throwbacks jumping up and down and yelling their lungs out.

But then, when five long-haired guys stepped off the ferry, suitcases in hand, I had to admit they didn’t exactly live up to what I’d been expecting, either.

Kate’s expression was sour. “They’re old!”

“And overweight,” Chandra added.

“And my goodness, aren’t they loving the attention!”

Luella was right. The women closed around the smiling rockers, who dropped their suitcases and offered handshakes and kisses like they were stumping for votes.

With their groupies right behind them, Guillotine swaggered through the park.

“I’ve got to get back home,” I said. “Luella, if you leave everything from dinner, I can come back later and help clean up.”

She held up one hand. “No worries. I’ve got it covered.”

By now, the five members of Guillotine were close to the gazebo. They smiled and waved, and I reconsidered my plan. If I raced home, it would only look rude when they realized they’d already seen me in the park and I’d left as soon as they arrived. I’d introduce myself, and offer them a ride.

I stepped forward just as the guy leading the way—middle-sized, and with a round beer belly and a mullet so dark I knew there was no way the color could be natural—stepped into the circle of light thrown by a nearby lamp.

“What the hell!”

Behind me, I heard Richie Monroe grumble and, surprised, I turned to see what he was talking about.

I shouldn’t have bothered. Richie was gone, so fast that he left behind that blanket Hank had brought him. It was soaking up that puddle of lake water.

I
f there was one thing I’d learned to appreciate over the last six months, it was having a routine.

Back in New York, see, I didn’t have one at all. Sure, I worked, but I also partied and jetted from one place to another on a frantic schedule that included more work and more parties, plenty of schmoozing, and lots of stress. It was all good in its own weird way, and I’m not complaining. Working like a madwoman back then allowed me to live the life I was living now. But as exciting—and profitable—as it all was, my hectic schedule never left me with enough leisure to develop a day-to-day, make-it-a-habit, sit-back-and-enjoy routine.

No way I would ever go without again.

I reminded myself of all this when I grabbed my first cup of coffee on Tuesday morning and, just like I did every day, took a deep breath of sun-kissed air and headed out to the front porch for a few minutes before my guests stirred and breakfast was served at nine. From the white wicker couch with its floral pillows in shades of teal and purple that matched the colors of the house, I could watch the never-ending changes in the lake across the street, listen to the gentle whoosh of the waves against the shore, and savor these special, quiet moments.

That day, I was fully prepared to do it all over again. After all, that’s what a routine is all about.

I would have fallen right back into the comfortable habit if a couple things didn’t happen the moment I stepped outside.

Number one: I caught a glimpse of the hindquarters of Jerry Garcia, Chandra’s cat, just as he leapt over the front porch railing—and out of the flower box where he’d no doubt been continuing his lowdown dirty ways by peeing on my pink geraniums.

And number two . . .

Well, number two left me stunned and frozen in place just outside my front door. Otherwise I would have made at least a symbolic stab at chasing Jerry and reminding him (as I did every morning) that he was one very bad pussycat.

“There’s a guillotine on my front porch.” Yes, this was me talking to myself, but let’s face it, it’s kind of hard not to say something when you suddenly find yourself staring at a six-foot-tall instrument of death.

I edged around the dangerous-looking thing, checking out the honed-to-a-deadly-edge blade that hung at the top and the ghastly red wooden frame that held the stocks where a victim’s head could be locked into place.

“There’s a guillotine on your front porch.”

When Chandra spoke from down on the front lawn, I shrieked and pressed a hand to my heart.

“Sorry.” Her sandals slapped against the front steps. “I was just coming to say good morning and—”

“Hey, there’s a guillotine on your front porch.”

Out on the street, Kate beeped her car horn. Since it was a beautiful morning, she had the top down on her BMW convertible.

“A guillotine!” As if I wasn’t capable of seeing what was three feet in front of me, Kate waved and pointed. “There’s a guillotine on your front porch!”

I gave her the thumbs-up to make it perfectly clear that I realized this, and when she drove off, I took the time for another once-over of the guillotine.

As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t take my eyes off the head chopper. “Coffee?” I asked Chandra.

“I brought some tea. Japanese red glossy ganoderma.” She stuck her mug under my nose and I sniffed and made a face. “It’s great for detoxing,” Chandra said, “and I figured after what happened last night, that couldn’t hurt. I mean, at this point, the detoxing is only for me, but at least that’s a start. First me, then the rest of the island. I need to find a way to dissipate the prevailing aura.”

It wasn’t easy, but I forced myself to look away from the guillotine. “And which prevailing aura would that be?”

“The one of impending doom, of course!” Chandra took a gulp of tea and I guess it didn’t taste any better than it smelled because she made a face, too. “First there was the storm.”

“A perfectly natural occurrence, especially at this time of year.”

“Then there was the attempt on Richie’s life.”

“Which may or may not have happened but probably didn’t.”

“And now this?” With her mug, Chandra indicated the guillotine. “You don’t think it’s coincidence, do you?”

“I think I need to figure out what this monstrosity is doing on my front porch. And how to get rid of it.”

Alas, I didn’t have the chance. Because two vans pulled up and stopped, and suddenly the street in front of the house was filled with women in miniskirts and fishnet gloves.

“Uh oh.” Chandra said what I was thinking. “The fan club is back.”

I watched the women unload signs.

I
you, Dino!

Jesse for President!

Scotty, Paul, and Nick Forever!

“Whatever they’re up to,” I called back to Chandra, automatically starting down the front steps, “they sure aren’t going to do it at my B and B.”

I intercepted the bad fashion posse just as they were coming up the front walk.

“Excuse me?” Remember, I used to live in New York. Like every Manhattanite worth her (or his) weight in salt, I was perfectly capable of giving those two little words all the oomph of a full-out rant. “Where do you ladies think you’re headed?”

Leading the way, a woman with bright blue eye shadow and very big hair looked at the woman next to her, but before that miniskirt-clad woman could speak, a lady in a pleated cheerleader skirt stepped out from the middle of the pack.

“I’m Tiffany Hollister.” She said this in a way that made me think it was supposed to mean something, and when it was obvious I didn’t get it, Tiffany tugged at the ponytail she wore over her right ear. “I’m president of the International Boyz ’n Funk Fan Club.”

“That’s . . .” I searched for a word and came up with, “terrific,” even though I was pretty sure I didn’t sound like I meant it. “What are you doing here?”

“What are we doing?” Tiffany snapped her gum and raised her voice to a decibel level that hadn’t been heard on the island since the night before when thunder rattled the rafters. “What are we doing here, girls?”

They all started up on cue, chanting to a singsong beat.

We’re here because we love Dino,

and Scotty and Paul, too.

We’re here ’cause Nick is awesome,

and Jesse’s awesome, too.

We love them to the max,

they’re totally tubular hunks.

We’re here because we love ’em,

Boyz ’n Funk!

Honestly, I think they would have started up again if I didn’t hold out both hands like a traffic cop. “That’s enough.” I emphasized my point by shooing them toward the street. “This is private property and if you want to conduct a protest of some kind—”

“Did you hear that, girls!” Tiffany squealed with laughter. “She thinks we’re here to protest!”

“What we’re here to do is worship at their feet,” the woman with the blue eye shadow said, and sighed.

“And to let them know they’ll always be number one in our hearts,” another one crooned.

“We love them to the moon and back!” Tiffany assured me.

I hadn’t had a chance to take as much as one sip of my morning coffee, so in an effort to kick-start my brain, I glanced toward my house. I looked back at the so-eager-I-thought-they’d-burst middle-aged ladies. And I had to ask. “Guillotine?”

My perfectly logical question was greeted with even more shrieks of laughter.

I closed my eyes, and prayed for strength.

When I opened them again, Chandra was beside me. “Boyz ’n Funk,” she said, as if this was supposed to make things clearer. “Come on, Bea. You’re a baby, sure. But even you must have heard of them.”

Some distant memory stirred in my brain, along with a vision of a girl named Jennifer, my long-ago babysitter who these days would be about the same age as the women on my front lawn. In my pre-pubescent eyes, Jennifer was the epitome of teenage glamour, leg warmers and all. When she showed up at my house, she always had her boom box with her, and the way I remember it, her boom box was always playing the latest and the greatest by the hottest eighties group this side of New Kids on the Block: Boyz ’n Funk. The pieces clicked into place, even if they didn’t quite mesh with the five middle-aged, overweight, and very tired-looking guys who’d piled into the B and B the night before. “The boy band?”

“
The
boy band!” Tiffany assured me. “Still going strong after all these years!”

“But if they’re still going strong,” I pointed out, “why are they—”

“Guillotine?” Tiffany had an endless supply of giggles and she threw them around with abandon. “It’s a charity thing. Didn’t you hear? Dino and the boys, they wouldn’t normally do a gig like this in the middle of nowhere. I mean, why would they when they used to sell out stadiums all over the country? They’re doing this for charity. Because—”

“They’re wonderful!” the woman behind Tiffany said.

“And so giving and caring,” another one put in.

“They’ll always be number one in our hearts,” a third assured me, and she emphasized the point when she jumped up and down.

Pretty soon, the rest of the ladies joined in. Oh, it was a sight, all right. Especially when a couple of the women needed to stop mid-squeal to catch their breath. Bad enough, but the noise only got worse when the front door popped open and the man who’d introduced himself as Dino Lucci when he checked in the night before stepped outside.

“Dino! We love you!” Tiffany screamed and waved the sign she was holding. “Come on.” She waved him to the front lawn. “Pictures! Please. Pictures!”

Dino started down the steps and I knew if I didn’t take things in hand, I’d never have a chance. I herded the women out to the street.

“Public property!” I pointed down at the pavement. “And I can’t do anything about what you do out here. But that . . .” I pointed back at my front lawn and the house beyond. “You don’t step one foot there or I call the cops. You got it?”

I think maybe they did. But then, the closer Dino got, the more intense the swooning. I left them at it, and more anxious than ever for coffee, not to mention a little peace and quiet, I turned back to the house just as Richie Monroe pulled his beat-up pickup truck into the drive. He was right on time with the delivery of fresh croissants I’d had flown over from the mainland for this morning’s breakfast.

Croissants, café au lait, brioche, fruit.

After all, this was the week of the Bastille celebration and I was all for joining in the fun. Besides, Luella’s daughter, Meg, who usually took care of breakfast at Bea & Bees, was on vacation. Having the food brought in from a reputable—albeit expensive—bakery on the mainland was the most logical choice.

I said good-bye to Chandra, waved to Richie, and told him to bring the food around the house to the back door. When I headed inside to set the table, Dino and I passed each other in the middle of the lawn. What with the waves of adoration coming from the curb, I thought for sure he’d look as smug and puffed up as he had the night before when he realized his fans were waiting at the ferry dock, so I was surprised to see him glance toward the driveway and stop dead, his face folded into an expression as grim as a thundercloud.

I stopped, too, and turned to find Dino with his fists on his hips and Richie opposite him. And what with all the uncontrolled—and very loud—screaming coming from the Boyz ’n Funk fans, I couldn’t hear what Richie said. I could not, however, fail to catch on to the fact that he was angry.

Richie’s jaw moved up and down like the pistons on an engine going full throttle. His fists were clenched. His cheeks were the color of flame. I heard snatches. “You gotta lot of nerve!” “. . . scumbag, no good—”

And Dino? He listened. For maybe half a second. Then he tossed that glossy black mullet, turned, and strutted out to the street where he was instantly enveloped by his adoring fans.

• • •