An Affair to Dismember (6 page)

I explained about Randy Terns and his fatal fall. Then I filled them in on the crazy family. The family looked so normal, so all-American through the window of my attic office. But at the very least, Betty’s daughter Christy had just been released from the “slammer” for whatever reason, Jane was an angry “bitch,” Rob seemed aimless and hopeless, Cindy was brain-damaged
and liked pennies, and Peter was a creepy Porsche owner who spent his evenings ripping holes in walls.

I put my fork down and cleared my throat. “I don’t think Randy Terns slipped and hit his head on the table,” I confided to Bridget and Lucy. “I think he was murdered. I think someone hit him over the head.” I told them about the clean table, how he’d had a dent in the back of his head but had fallen forward away from the table, and how suspicious the kids were.

“Brain bits,” Bridget added. “It would have been covered with brain bits and shards of skull. What? I saw it on the Learning Channel.”

I nodded. “It would have at least had bloody goop all over it. But Betty Terns’ son said Betty didn’t even have to clean the table.” I leaned forward. “Betty Terns, the OCD clean freak, didn’t clean the table.”

Lucy pointed at me. “Look at you. Look at you. You’ve got the bug like your grandma. But instead of love, you have the murder bug. You can’t help yourself. You
know
things.”

I wasn’t like my grandma. I didn’t
know
things. But Lucy was right. I couldn’t help myself.

“Let’s call back the police chief,” Bridget urged, scanning the restaurant for Spencer Bolton.

“Randy Terns was older than dirt. Old people slip,” I explained before she could call him over. “They say he slipped.”

“It’s that regional coroner’s fault,” Bridget said. “He comes around whenever it suits him, stuffs his face with pie and full-strength eggnog, and does nothing.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Bridget, there hasn’t been a murder in Cannes in at least one hundred years,” she said.

“How do we know that?” Bridget said. “The coroner never rules a death as murder. For all we know, there’s been a murder a day here. Besides, autopsies are performed
on less than one percent of all deaths of people over sixty. What? I saw it on PBS.”

“Murder is usually committed by the spouse,” Lucy announced. Her eyes were shining with the excitement of a possible murder in quiet Cannes. “The skinny wife must have done it. Hungry people can get awfully mean.”

“Lucy Smythe, I’m shocked that you would dare to say something so blatantly discriminatory and sexist!” Bridget sat up straight in her chair. Her face was bright red and she looked like she was ready to blow. I headed her off before she could start her rant.

“Randy and Betty were married for a million years,” I said. “I don’t think Betty was big enough to do anyone harm. Besides, he did the gardening and he took out the trash. I watched him through Grandma’s attic window. How many wives would kill a husband who did that?”

Bridget and Lucy nodded.

“I think Peter did it,” said Bridget. “It sounds like he had a real axe to grind with his father.”

“Or it could have been Christy,” said Lucy. “I mean, we don’t know why she was in prison. Maybe she’s a habitual criminal. Maybe she evolved from a sociopath to a psychopath. I saw that on
Dr. Phil
.”

They went down the list of possible suspects, shouting “He did it!” or “She did it!” until they ran out of suspects.

“It could have been anybody,” I said. “Even a five-year-old boy could have broken in. There’s no lock on the door.”

“You know,” Lucy said, “the name Randy Terns is awfully familiar to me. I can’t place him, but I’m sure I’ve heard of him somewhere. Give me time. I’m sure I’ll remember who he is. Or was, I should say.”

I got home just as the rain started. Big drops hit the dry pavement. It was odd to see rain in Cannes in August.
I had a moment’s sympathy for Ruth at Tea Time. She had looked forward to catching Grandma in a mistake.

It was bedlam at my grandmother’s house. People milled about, moving chairs into the large front parlor. “The monthly Cannes Astronomy Club meeting,” Grandma explained. She supervised, as usual, telling amateur astronomers where to sit. “We were supposed to meet in the back garden, of course. No one believed me about the rain, and now they are running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Instead of looking at the stars, we’re just going to talk about them. It’s got Gerald all turned around.”

She pointed to a tall, thin man in a threadbare tweed suit, who I figured was Gerald. “He’s president of the club, you know, and he takes these things very seriously. But his focus will shift after tonight’s meeting. We have a new member coming: Sweetie. Sweetie and Gerald were made for each other!” Grandma clapped her hands and bounced on her toes.

“Do you want me to help?” I asked. “It’s about time I get started matchmaking.”

“You will! You will!” she said, patting my arm. “Tonight’s the night for you. But not at the meeting. Just go back up to your attic and organize some more. It will come to you.”

I sighed. I didn’t have my grandmother’s knack for things coming to me. If nothing had “come to me” after all the days I had spent in the attic, I doubted anything would come to me tonight.

“I’m having sex! I’m having sex! Zelda, I’m having sex!”

A middle-aged woman with long brown hair and a euphoric smile ran toward us. Startled, Grandma took a step back.

“Right this second?” Grandma asked.

“No,” the woman explained. “This morning. Last night. Practically every day, thanks to you. You set me up with Daryl.”

Grandma blinked several times. “Oh, right, right. Good. Good. Sex is lovely, isn’t it? I remember it fondly. It’s been a while, of course. Let’s see, the last time for me was … hmm … I think it was a leap year.”

We had entered the realm of too much information. I was dangerously close to picturing my little grandma in her control-top pantyhose getting her freak on. I snuck out of the parlor and crept up the back stairs to the attic.

I TOOK a break around dinnertime to raid the Cannes Astronomy Club’s potluck offerings. There was a wide array of astronomy-themed foods. While the group was listening to Gerald describe the expanding universe, I grabbed three moon pies, a handful of starfish sticks, and some cosmic potato salad.

I stood in a corner and ate while Gerald wound down, finishing up with a prediction of our planet’s eventual destruction. “That was lovely, Gerald,” Grandma said as she stood and initiated applause. She gently nudged him toward a seat next to a platinum blonde in a tiny skirt. Surely that couldn’t be Sweetie. She didn’t look like Gerald’s soul mate. She looked more like Lou the auto mechanic’s soul mate. But who was I to question Grandma’s tactics?

Grandma introduced the next speaker, the man who cleaned the lenses of the Palomar Observatory telescope near San Diego. I ate the last of my moon pies and returned upstairs.

At around ten that night, I finished cleaning the attic. On the desk were only a clean stack of blank index
cards, an ancient Polaroid camera, a stapler, and some pens and pencils.

“Ready for business,” I announced to the empty room.

Then the rain stopped.

The house was abruptly draped in complete silence. Grandma must have gone to sleep, and the amateur astronomers were long gone. It seemed like the whole town was tucked away safely in their beds.

I yawned. It was time for me to go to bed as well. I went to turn off the desk lamp when movement outside caught my eye. A shadow passed across the lawn in a blur. It was large. I stood and pressed my face against the window to get a better look. I stayed like that for a moment until the shadow moved into view again. I jumped back.

The shadow was a man. A man stood on my grandmother’s front lawn. All the talk of murder and death had my mind reeling. I grabbed the stapler for protection but immediately felt ridiculous. “What am I going to do? Staple him to death?” I asked and set it back down.

I turned off the light and pressed closer to the window. The man was tall and wide, and it looked like he was inspecting Grandma’s bushes. Then he turned, and his gaze locked onto mine, a story above. There was the unmistakable glint of metal in his hand.

MY BREATH hitched. I forgot how to breathe. I waited for the inevitable shot to ring out in the night and hit me right between the eyes.

But there was no shot. The shadowy figure turned and rooted around in the bushes again.

I took a gulp of air and seethed with anger. It had been a rough couple of days. I had been humiliated and frustrated, but I was not about to be scared by anyone. I ran down the stairs and out the front door, stopping to grab a flashlight on the way.

The man was bigger up close, tall and muscled. I
shined my light on him and cleared my throat. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” I asked.

He stood and faced me. He had dark blond hair and striking green eyes. He was wearing Levi’s, a T-shirt, and work boots. Our eyes locked, and I moved my hand to my face to see if it had caught fire.

“Oh, hello,” he said. He had a rich baritone voice that turned my spine soft. He was quite possibly the most handsome man I had ever seen. He lifted up a metal tape measure and brought the long metal tape back to its holder with a snap. “I was just measuring.”

I wanted to ask something, but for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what it was. In fact, my tongue had swollen, and I wondered vaguely if I was going to swallow it and die right there in my grandmother’s front lawn next to her prize-winning roses.

“The property line is marked incorrectly,” he said. “I’m going to have to dig up part of your lawn.”

“What?” My hormones were popping all over. My head was spinning, and my body was sweating. I had a sudden craving for a mango smoothie.

“Dig it up. Move my fence over,” he said.

“What?” I snapped to attention. My hormones stopped popping. I didn’t know what he was talking about, but the gist was clear: he was threatening Grandma’s lawn. “You’re going to dig up my grandmother’s lawn? You can’t do that,” I said.

“Oh, this isn’t your house? I just assumed.”

“This is my house. I live here with my grandmother. This is her lawn. Those are her prize-winning roses.” I pointed to the roses with the flashlight.

“They’re very nice,” he said. He smiled and put out his hand. “I’m Holden. Arthur Holden. I just moved in next door.”

I gasped. “The single guy?”

Holden dropped his hand. He arched an eyebrow,
and his lips curved up in a small smile. “Yes, I’m single,” he said softly. His baritone voice dripped out all velvety soft and yummy.

It’s amazing how life plays tricks on a person. I was standing two feet away from Mr. Perfect, and I had to match him with someone else. I sighed. It was now or never. I owed it to Grandma. How could I let this guy get away?

“I know someone for you,” I blurted out. It was almost the truth. Who wouldn’t want him? Who wouldn’t give their right arm to be near him?

Holden took a step toward me. “You do?”

“Uh …”

“Tell me, what does your husband think about me digging up the lawn and moving the fence?” he asked. His eyes twinkled bright enough to give any of Gerald’s constellations a run for their money. They also sent a message my way. He didn’t care a thing about what my husband thought about the garden, but he did care if I had a husband. I noticed him eyeing my ring-free left hand. I clutched it to my chest and stumbled backward. He shot forward and caught me, easily.

“Easy does it,” he said. I pushed against him, trying not to feel his muscles and extremities. Too late. I felt all of them.

“Uh …” I stammered.

I ran back to the house and slammed the door shut behind me. I leaned against it and caught my breath. “Wimp,” I said out loud. “Wimp. Wimp. Wimp.”

“GLADIE, YOU don’t look good.”

“I know.” I turned the coffeepot on and fell onto one of the kitchen chairs. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“That means you got unfinished business. Make a list. Finish it up, and you’ll sleep like a baby.” Grandma
stood by the open refrigerator. She was drinking orange juice out of the carton. Her hair was rolled tight in big electric rollers, and she wore a blue and orange housedress with pink slippers that clacked when she walked. She looked well rested.

Two bagels popped out of the toaster. She grabbed them and brought them to the table with a tub of cream cheese. I flipped through the community paper, looking for potential clients. There was a photo of the mayor and his dog, a piece about a lice outbreak in the local high school, and a blurb about the upcoming city council ball, which would take place in the high school gym. I guessed the city council didn’t care about lice.