An Uplifting Murder (31 page)

Frightened yips, yaps, and inarticulate phrases followed: “. . . He didn’t mean it. . . . Didn’t do it on purpose . . . He’s just a little dog. . . . I’m sorry. He’s sorry. We’re sorry.” Amelia sounded small and scared.

“That animal has no business doing its business in my yard!” Mrs. Mueller roared.

Amelia was frozen on the edge of Mrs. Mueller’s lawn like an ice statue.

“Amelia Marcus, you are as worthless as your mother,” Mrs. Mueller shouted. “No wonder you’ve turned out the way you did, with men running in and out of your house at all hours.”

Josie ran to her daughter’s side. Jane was already facing down their battle-ax neighbor. “What do you mean speaking to my granddaughter in that tone?” Jane drew herself up to her full height, which still made her six inches shorter than Mrs. Mueller.

“That thing—” Mrs. M pointed to the cowering Stuart Little. “That thing urinated on my roses.”

“Of course he did,” Jane said. “You scared the pee out of the poor animal. Now you listen to me. That dog didn’t hurt your precious yard.”

“He did, too. Look at the yellow spots on my snow!”

“Your snow?” Jane said, her voice dangerously low. “It’s God’s snow, and every dog in the neighborhood has been walked on this street. You can’t blame my Stuart Little. Besides, it’s just a small puddle. He probably improved your roses. Last year they were infested with aphids.”

“They were not,” Mrs. Mueller said. “My roses win prizes.”

“Only because you run the garden club,” Jane said.

“May I remind you, Jane Marcus, that I am the chair of three major church committees
and
the garden committee and responsible for the selection of next year’s members?”

“That doesn’t give you the right to criticize my daughter,” Jane said. “Or my granddaughter. My girls are polite and well behaved. Certainly better behaved than that gambler daughter of yours.”

“She’s in treatment,” Mrs. Mueller said.

“She should be, and you should be, too. The idea! Attacking my grandchild, my child, and a little dog.”

Josie was lost in admiration for her small, irate mother. Jane had kowtowed to the old bat for too many years. She’d lusted for those committee positions and lived in fear of Mrs. Mueller’s good opinion. Today, she was undoing years of caution.

“You know what you can do with your committees?” Jane asked. “And your criticism of my family? You can shove them right up your—”

Jane stopped.

Josie held her breath. Jane never used off-color words.

“Up your—”

Josie waited. Would her mother say “ass”?

“Your floribunda!” Jane said. “Come along, Stuart, Amelia, and Josie. Let’s go somewhere civilized.”

Chapter 33

“I could just kill that woman!” Jane was sharpening a fearsome butcher knife in her kitchen.

Josie giggled. “Better take your rage out on the stew meat, Mom.”

Josie, Amelia, and Ted were upstairs in Jane’s flat, celebrating her encounter with Mrs. Mueller as a crushing verbal victory.

“You were awesome, Grandma,” Amelia said. She fed Stuart Little scraps of leftover roast chicken and scratched his silky ears, which seemed unscathed by the fiery battle.

“The nerve of that old bat!” Jane safely stowed the knife next to the cutting board. Now she paced her kitchen in ever slower circles, like a windup toy that was running down.

Josie gave her mother another hug. “Thanks, Mom. You fought the good fight. Mrs. Mueller is one tough woman.”

“She’s tough? Hah! I’m tougher,” Jane said.

She felt small and fragile in Josie’s arms. She noticed that her mother’s gray hair was thinning at the crown. Josie felt sad and hugged Jane again, inhaling the old-fashioned fragrance of her Estée Lauder.

“I don’t know what I saw in that interfering old shrew,” Jane said.

Josie wisely didn’t respond, though those words felt like balm on a painful wound. She’d waited more than twenty years for her mother to come to her senses. Josie had been nine years old when her lawyer father abandoned Jane and his daughter to start another family. He went to Chicago. Josie and Jane moved from pricey Ladue to Maplewood, a neighborhood considered low-rent back then. Now Maplewood was fashionably funky.

Jane, friendless, penniless, and reeling from her unwanted divorce, had fallen under Mrs. Mueller’s witchy spell, following her with sheeplike devotion.

Today, at long last, Jane had defended her daughter from their overbearing neighbor—loudly and publicly.

“Stuart’s walk was interrupted by the fight,” Josie said. “Would you like me to take him outside again?”

“He doesn’t need it,” Amelia said, and snickered. “He gave Mrs. Mueller’s bushes a good watering.”

Ted’s shirt pocket started barking. “Oops. That’s my phone,” he said.

“Your phone barks?” Jane asked.

“My clinic partner’s son programmed the ringtone.” Ted looked endearingly embarrassed. He checked the display and said, “It’s the clinic. I have to answer.”

Ted politely took his call in Jane’s living room. He seemed upset when he returned. “Buddy the beagle is having complications after his emergency surgery this morning. I need to see him. Will you be okay if I leave for a short time?”

“I can handle anyone,” Jane said. “Amelia and I are making beef stew. We’ll be armed with knives.” She brandished the butcher knife.

“They’ll have to get by me first,” Josie said. “Go see your patient.” She kissed Ted and pushed him toward the stairs. “I’ve put 911 and Officer Doris Ann Norris’s number on speed dial in my cell phone. I’ll call them both if there’s an emergency.”

“Then you’ll call me,” Ted said, rushing for his Mustang.

“Promise,” Josie said.

“Come back for stew,” Jane called after him.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Ted said.

“Are you staying up here with us, Josie?” her mother asked as she closed the upstairs door. “You might learn something watching us cook. Your stew tastes like a boiled boot.”

“I’m hurt you think that,” Josie said, laughing. “But I’ll stay.” She didn’t want to leave her mother and daughter alone. It was five o’clock and darkness was falling fast. Josie hoped it was too early for troublesome home invaders, but she was taking no chances.

Josie sat at the kitchen table watching her mother and daughter do an elaborate dinner dance. Both washed their hands at the kitchen sink. Then Jane set out the ingredients on the counter and Amelia got the cooking equipment. Her mother had used the same pots, knives, and measuring cups for decades. Josie enjoyed their worn, homey familiarity.

“Josie,” Jane said, as she dug potatoes out of the bin, “if you let that man get away, you’re making a big mistake.”

“Won’t be the first one,” Josie said.

“I see that stubborn look on your face.” Jane tossed a bag of carrots on the counter. “But Ted is a good man.”

“Yeah, Mom,” Amelia said. “Harry likes him. And Stuart Little. And me.”

Josie felt cornered. She said nothing.

Jane, not normally sensitive to Josie’s moods, seemed to know she’d pushed her daughter far enough. She switched the subject back to cooking. “This is how my mother made stew, Amelia. I’m leaving the turnips out of her recipe, knowing how you and Josie feel about vegetables.”

“Ew,” Amelia and Josie said together.

“In my opinion, turnips produce a richer stew, but I will honor your prejudices. The carrots and celery stay.”

Jane and Amelia chopped stew meat, carrots, celery, and potatoes on adjoining wooden cutting boards. Then Amelia volunteered to chop the onion. She wanted to try Ted’s “no tears” method again. Jane gave her a sugar cube to chew.

“You get one, too, Josie, though you aren’t doing a thing but sitting there,” Jane said.

“I’ll set the table,” Josie said, and reached for the dishes.

“Be careful with those soup plates,” Jane said. “You’re sleepwalking around this kitchen.”

Her mother was right about that: Josie was in a daze. This afternoon’s events nagged at her. Something was forming in her mind, like a face through wisps of fog. She could almost see it. She had to know who killed Frankie and spattered blood on her car. The answer was at the edge of her mind. But when she reached for it, the fog rolled in and obscured everything.

Josie desperately wanted Amelia to be safe. She wanted her life back to normal, or as normal as it could ever be. She wanted Ted to return to his own home. She didn’t want him to go away permanently. She wanted that voice whispering “too soon” to shut up. Most of all, she wanted Jane to quit pushing her into marriage.

Josie laid out napkins and silverware for four while she sang off-key the old Rolling Stones song about how you can’t always get what you want.

“I hope that horrible yowling isn’t about my dinner,” Jane said, attempting to lighten Josie’s mood.

“Never,” Josie said. “GBH.”

That was the family rule. Those letters stood for Great Big Hug. If you said “GBH,” you had to hug the person, no matter how mad you were at her—or she was at you.

Josie hugged her mother, and the foggy picture she’d been trying to see vanished.

It was close to seven o’clock when Ted returned from the clinic. The vet looked pale and his shirt was rumpled. Fluffs of short brown hair decorated his jeans.

“Sit down, Ted. You look tired,” Jane said. She tested the potatoes and carrots with a fork. “The vegetables are tender. All we have to do is thicken the stew. It will be ready in five minutes.” Jane gave him a dazzling future-son-in-law smile, which terrified Josie.

Maybe I’m resisting Ted because Mom wants me to marry him, she thought.

Josie knew that was ridiculous. She’d be married to Mike now if Amelia and his daughter had gotten along. Jane had disapproved of Mike from the beginning.

“Good timing on my part,” Ted said. “What can I do to help?”

“Relax. It’s under control,” Jane said. “How is your patient?”

“Buddy is young and strong. He’ll be fine. The beagle’s temperature spiked a bit and our new assistant vet panicked.”

“Do you like your stews thick or thin?” Jane asked.

“Thin,” Ted said.

“Good.” Jane didn’t bother hiding her approval. Josie suppressed a childish desire to say, Just because you and Ted agree about stew doesn’t mean I should marry him.

“I use a tablespoon of flour for every two cups of liquid,” Jane said. “Otherwise, it’s too much like gravy. We’ll use the jar method to thicken the stew, Amelia. That was another of your great-grandmother’s tips.”

“Can I watch?” Ted asked.

“Of course,” Jane said. “You put a little cold water in the bottom of a glass jar.” She held the jar under the tap. “Then add the flour and the liquid from the pot. I use a Mason jar and make sure it’s tightly closed before I start shaking it.”

Jane wore her rubber-grip kitchen mitts and gave the jar a vigorous shaking. “See? No lumps. Now keep stirring, Amelia, while I add the liquid to the pot. Then dinner is served.”

The stew was meaty and fragrant. Josie barely tasted it. She kept trying to see through that fog in her mind. Mrs. Mueller was part of the picture. And Harry. And Amelia. And the woman in the black-and-white scarf. The killer.

Did Rosa or Trish murder Frankie? Did Trish kill that terrible woman to protect her future career in law enforcement? Did Rosa want Frankie dead because the nurse knew her Mexican parents were in this country illegally? What about Victoria? Why was she in that handicapped stall? Did she find Frankie? Or kill her?