An Affair to Dismember (15 page)

Ruth practically skipped back to the bar. Betty studied her surroundings. She picked up the lace doilies off the plates and put them back down. She fingered the silver napkin holders with nothing short of wonder.

“Have you been to Tea Time before?” I asked.

“Oh, no. Randy and I were homebodies. He liked my cooking better than the restaurants, and we didn’t like the movies on account of the language. Why do they have to use such words to get their point across?”

Shit if I know
, was what I was thinking, but I said, “They don’t make them like they used to.”

Ruth arrived with the iced tea and scones. She beamed, her mouth curled up in a smile that made her unrecognizable and a little scary.

“Taste that and tell me it’s not the best thing that’s ever passed your lips,” she ordered. We took sips and gave her the accolades she sought.

“Where’s your grandniece?” I asked Ruth.

“Getting stitches.”

“Stitches?”

“That damned girl. Her arm can be fixed, but not my
antique blue willow china. Service for sixteen. What are the odds on breaking the whole lot at one time?”

“Astronomical, I would think,” I said.

“My sister made me take on that girl. ‘All she needs is a chance,’ she said. I’m going to be chanced right out of business by that tsunami on legs.” Ruth pointed her finger at my nose. “I’ll give you some words of wisdom free of charge. Family sucks. Don’t let anybody tell you different.”

“She’s usually much nicer,” I told Betty after Ruth left.

“She’s wrong, you know,” Betty said.

“Don’t I know it. Coffee is much better than tea.”

“I meant her comment about family. Family is wonderful. My family is wonderful. They’ve brought me only joy in my life.”

Either Betty was mixing up her family with someone else’s or Ruth had put something extra in her iced tea.

“Is that so? That’s so nice,” I said. “I’ve had the pleasure of speaking to a couple of your children. They seem very devoted.”

She looked past me, as if seeing a scene play out in the empty room.

“They are devoted, each in their own way,” she said.

I took a big breath. “They mentioned that maybe Randy’s death might not have been an accident.”

Betty snapped to attention. “Suicide? Oh, no. No. Randy was very happy. Not a care in the world.”

“Well, they didn’t mention suicide, actually.”

“What else could it be?” Betty took my hand in hers. “You have been very kind to me. You’ve been such a source of comfort in my grief.”

Suddenly it was hard to swallow. I had a big lump of guilt blocking my throat. I tried to speak, but I squeaked instead, and tears welled up in my eyes.

“You are such a sweet girl, feeling that way for me
and my poor Randy,” she said, mistaking my guilt for heartfelt emotion. “You’re so pretty. I didn’t see it at first, but you are. Real pretty. I used to be pretty.”

“You’re still pretty.”

Betty pounded the table with a swipe of her fist. “I have stayed the same weight for the past forty-five years, except for the times I was pregnant. How many women can say that?”

“Certainly not me. That’s admirable.”

“I shrugged off the baby weight within a month. Each time. How many women can say that?”

“Certainly not me.” I giggled, but Betty was all seriousness.

“Randy wasn’t concerned about my weight. He thought I was just fine and told me I didn’t need to watch my figure as much, but I did. I did it for him. I took my wifely duties very seriously, Gladie. I believed in my vows. They were given in front of God, after all.”

I touched her hand. “Of course you believed in your vows. You were a wonderful wife. You were a lovely couple.” It was a stretch, but I thought she could use some cheering up.

“Thank you. Well, I’ve got to go.” She stood up, our conversation seemingly forgotten. She patted her purse. “Just came from the pharmacy. The doctors have me on so many pills. I have to take one and go to sleep.” It was a curt dismissal, and it threw me, considering the emotional conversation we were having.

“Oh, okay.” I stood and shook her hand.

“Perhaps we can do this again sometime. Maybe lunch.”

“My treat,” I said. What was I saying? I had no money, and Betty hadn’t gone out to eat in forty years. She was probably sleeping on half a million dollars under her mattress.

Fifteen minutes alone with Betty, and I had made no
headway into her husband’s possible murder. I hadn’t wanted to upset her any further, and my empathy made the experience a thorough waste of time. Betty hadn’t even eaten her scone. What a crime that was. I grabbed it from her plate and took a bite. Delicious and well worth the calories. Besides, how many calories could a scone have?

I finished eating and dusted the crumbs off my chest. Tea Time was abandoned except for me. I found Ruth in the back, counting tea balls.

“How many calories in a scone, Ruth? One hundred? A hundred and fifty?”

“The kind I gave you? Around five hundred.”

I gasped. “Five hundred calories? Five hundred
American
calories?”

“Look at me,” she said. “Do I look like I speak Hungarian calories or something? Five hundred American calories.”

“For a chocolate chip scone?” I asked.

“Did I give you a chocolate chip scone? Oh, for heaven’s sake. Sorry. The chocolate chip ones are five hundred and fifty calories.”

“I ate two!” I touched my stomach to see if it had grown.

“Stop whining,” Ruth said. “There isn’t an ounce of fat anywhere on you. Besides, you eat worse than that every day with your grandmother. I swear, that woman’s a human garbage disposal.” She had a point. The scones weren’t any worse than chili cheese dogs. I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to focus.

“Has Julie come back?” I asked.

“You’re awfully curious about my grandniece.”

“She’s new in town, and I thought I would be neighborly.”

Ruth grunted and started on the doily count. “Wear a helmet and protective clothing while you’re doing it.
Julie is a one-woman walking natural disaster. I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.”

With my future client more elusive than I planned, I decided to go the other route and seek out her match-to-be. I had gotten halfway to my car when my cellphone rang.

“Gladie, I’m hurt.”

“Grandma? Is that you?” She sounded weak and frightened, two things my grandmother never was.

“Yes, dolly. I’m hurt. Someone hurt me.”

“I’ll be right there.” I ran to my car while I dialed 911 and then I remembered that Cannes didn’t have a call center yet. My car roared to life, and I peeled out of my parking spot. I was a menace on the road, driving fifty in a twenty-five-mph zone, swerving around old ladies and poodle-walking middle-aged men. I was also illegally on my cellphone, calling information to get a number. When Spencer answered, I screamed incoherently into the phone.

“Come to my grandma’s house! Hurry!” And I hung up.

I screeched into the driveway, clipping a hydrangea bush and sending pink flowers flying over my windshield. I ran into the house and found my grandmother in the kitchen, sitting at the table, eating her way through a box of Pop-Tarts. I stood for a while and took stock of the situation. She was breathing. She wasn’t bleeding or lying in a coma.

“Look closer,” she told me.

I sat down next to her. Sure enough, her left eye was swelling up, and a bruise was forming. “I was attacked,” she said.

“Who did this to you?” I choked. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I wiped my eyes with the hem of my dress.

“I don’t know.”

“You didn’t see the attacker?” The question came from behind me. I whipped around. Spencer stood in the kitchen. His face was all police seriousness, even though he was wearing baggy basketball shorts, flip-flops, and a neon multi-colored baseball jersey.

“Oh, you must be Chief Bolton,” said Grandma. “No, handsome, I did see the attacker. I was surprised, and I was surprised that I was surprised. Gladie, you know I’m rarely surprised.”

“Grandma’s never surprised,” I said, sniffling.

Spencer sat at the table. “Tell us what happened.”

“I was at the sink, getting myself a glass of water. The window was open, and I recall thinking how glad I was it was open on account of the lovely breeze blowing in at that moment. Then, all of a sudden,
boom!
I was smacked right in my face. Somebody threw this in and hit me right in my face. Hang on, I’ll get it.”

Grandma pulled a brown round blob about the size of a deck of cards out of the sink.

“It looks like—” I started.

“A knish,” Grandma provided.

“You were injured by a knish?”

“A frozen knish. Potato-filled.”

“What’s a knish?” Spencer asked. “No, scratch that. I don’t want to know. Maybe it was thrown in by accident, or a kid was playing outside.”

“It was no accident,” Grandma said. “I saw the top of a head right before the attack. A blond head. I think it was a woman because I smelled Shalimar. It was thrown with intent to harm.”

“A blond head?” I asked.

Spencer sat up straighter. “Why? You have somebody in mind? Does that ring a bell to you?”

It rang a lot of bells. There were six blond heads across the street, capable of all kinds of weird behavior, even assault with a frozen knish.

“A lot of people are blond,” I said.

Spencer’s eyes narrowed.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I pushed back my chair, putting some space between us.

He worked his jaw but stayed silent. I think my grandmother had a quieting effect on him. I tucked my arm under hers and rested my head on her shoulder. She patted my head lovingly.

“Don’t worry, Gladie. The attacker was sending a message, but she won’t come back,” she said.

“A message?” asked Spencer. “What kind of message? A knish message? How do you know she won’t be back?”

“I think the knish wasn’t important. A wonton or twice-baked potato would have served the same purpose. They were trying to scare me off or scare off a loved one through me. Maybe I was an easier target.”

The room fell silent. The attention was on me and with it a lot of unspoken questions. And accusations. But I didn’t know who’d thrown a knish at my grandmother, and I didn’t know what the message was or whether it was intended for me.

The blond head could have easily be one of the Terns heads, but both Jane and Peter had talked to me about the murder, even asking me to look into it. Perhaps they had changed their minds, or perhaps it was one of the other Terns family members. It could be that Rob wasn’t as clueless as he let on. And just maybe it wasn’t one of them. It was also possible that the third gang member, Chuck Costas, was blond. Grandma could have been wrong about the Shalimar, or maybe Chuck liked to smell like flowers with amber, woody accents.

Someone knew I was the mysterious woman who fled the scene of a crime, the scene of Jimmy the Fink’s murder. Someone thought I knew more than I did, and whoever
it was wanted to scare me through my grandmother. I shivered.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Gladie dear,” Grandma said, breaking the awkward silence. “Meryl is coming over to spend time with me after the incident, so I need someone to replace her.”

“Replace her for what?” I asked. Meryl was the town’s blue-haired librarian. She personally brought Grandma a selection of library books every Tuesday so that Grandma didn’t have to venture out. But today was Sunday, and the library was closed.

“Meryl was going to do a little spying for me today,” Grandma said. “I finally got Shep Smothers matched, and he’s going to surprise his girl with a proposal this evening right at sunset on the rocks at the beach in San Diego. Oh, it’s going to be so lovely. I need a report and photos.”

“Grandma, San Diego is over an hour away.”

“And you’ll just make it if you leave now.” The screen door slammed, and we heard someone shuffle through the house. “There’s Meryl now. You’ll go with Gladie, Chief Bolton. You’ll come in handy.”

“Uh—” Spencer began, but it was too late. Grandma had set her face. She would brook no discussion. She handed me a picnic basket from the counter.

“I prepared a picnic for you two to share during the drive,” she said, and scooted us out of the house.

“You don’t have to go with me,” I said once we were outside.

“Get in the car.”

“This is not my fault.”

“Get in the car.” He opened the passenger door of his car. “Watch your head,” he muttered.

“It’s not my fault.”

He drove out of Cannes in silence. It was a beautiful drive. Grandma had thoughtfully pinned the directions
to the outside of the picnic basket. Inside was an old Instamatic camera, two Reuben sandwiches from the deli, a bag of barbecue potato chips, two cans of root beer, and an apple.

“Wow, an apple,” I said. “I wonder who that’s for.”

Spencer wasn’t hungry, and neither was I. I took off my seat belt and turned around to put the basket in the back. I narrowly missed knocking Spencer in the head, and I had to do a bit of gymnastics to get it done. When I turned back around, I realized my dress had hitched up pretty high, and I caught Spencer ogling my backside. I sat back down with a thud.

“What was that?” I asked.

“What was what?”

“That. You looked up my dress.”

“I did not.”

“You did. I caught you looking.”

“Fine. I looked.”

Spencer kept his eyes forward, his mouth set in a wide smile. His dark hair was slightly mussed where he had run his fingers through it in exasperation earlier. Now, his hands were locked on the wheel at the ten-and-two position. They were large hands, made to work. Since his baseball jersey was short-sleeved, I got a good look at his forearms and a good chunk of his biceps. I wondered how much working out it took to get so muscular. I cracked my window to let in some fresh air.

“Why did you look?” I asked.

“What do you mean? I’m a man. I looked.”

“Hmm …”

“You don’t believe me? You want me to say you’re my type.”

“Oh, please. I am so not your type.” I giggled like a little girl and flipped my hair back, hating myself instantly.