Dirty Tricks: A Kate Lawrence Mystery (22 page)

“And what?”
I couldn’t wait to hear the end of the story.

May
looked
abashed. “It was the funniest thing. I’d been absolutely fine right up until I
saw that strapping young man
lookin
’ at me like I was
a lunatic, which I guess I must have been at that point. I hadn’t even worried
about my ankle, because I didn’t need my left leg to drive Bob’s automatic. But
when I crawled out of the car, I was so stiff and tired, and my ankle hurt so
badly, I just wanted to bawl. So that’s what I did. I threw myself on nice
young Officer Katz and blubbered.”

I laughed out loud, remembering a
similar incident or two in my own recent past. “Been there, done that. How did
Katz react? Did he slap you in handcuffs and toss you in the cruiser?”

May
patted
Margo’s arm. “I always suspected you’d made a smart move by marrying an officer
of the law, honey, but now I’m sure of it. That young officer couldn’t have
been nicer if I’d been his own grandmother. He called back-up to collect Bob
and the Toyota, which is when he connected us with the APB and learned that
about half the police in the Northeast were looking for us. Then he phoned Judy
to tell her where to find her errant hubby, and he personally drove me to the
Doylestown Hospital emergency room to get my ankle taken care of. He also found
me a cup of really bad coffee, but I wasn’t all that persnickety by then.”

“That’s not what we heard,” Margo
muttered, but she was grinning.

“By the time John and Margo
arrived to collect me, I was practically comatose,” May finished up. “I fell
asleep as soon as I crawled into their car and slept all the way home.”

We were quiet for a moment, torn
between horror at the danger into which May had put herself and admiration for
her spirit. May
broke
the silence.

“Carla Peterson called a little
while ago, and I told her most of the story. It was only fair, considering the
police were grilling her and her kids before dawn yesterday. When I got
through, she got pretty quiet, like all of you just did. Then she kind of
laughed and said she thought I was going to be a much more interesting neighbor
than Wilma Abernathy was. I took it as a compliment at the time, but now I’m
not so sure. What do you think?”

“I think Carla Peterson just said
a mouthful,” was
Strutter’s
dry comment.

“So what’s the scoop on you and
Isabelle
Marchand
?” I demanded. “You were together
all day Friday and a good part of the evening. Anything you’d care to share
with us about that?”

May leaned her head against the
back of the sofa and spoke with her eyes closed. “As a matter of fact, there
is,” she said. “We’ve decided to become partners in Romantic Nights.”

Our collective gasp only made her
smile.

“This past submissions period
while moving into a new house, and then the business with the teenage
pranksters, has worn me out. For the first time in ages I’m actually looking
forward to
writin
’ another cozy little
Ariadne
Merriwether
mystery, but
in order to have the time to do that I really need some help with the business.
It all sort of came together on Friday when
Izzy
and
I stopped screeching and settled down and leveled with each other.
Izzy
may not be a tip-top writer at the moment, but who knows?
One day she may be. In the meantime I’m up to my eyeballs in aspiring writers
who could benefit from competent editorial help, and
Izzy
will make a wonderful editor. She’s hated every job she’s ever had, but a
recent inheritance will allow her to choose work that she enjoys, even if it
doesn’t pay much. Plus, with all of her computer skills and business
experience, she’s better equipped than I am to handle production and
distribution, not to mention all of the financial paperwork. She’ll also be a
lot better at
writin
’ all those rejection letters,
havin
’ been on the receiving end of one written by an
insensitive fool.” She made a face. “
Izzy
made it
quite clear to me that I have a few things to learn about constructive
criticism.”

The three of us gaped at each
other. Whatever we had expected to hear, this wasn’t it.
Strutter
was the first to recover her powers of speech.

“What about those awful reviews
she posted about your books?” she demanded.
First things
first.

May opened her eyes and smiled.
“All gone,” she said, “poof, vanished. Apparently, if the reviewer herself asks
that her comments be taken down, the sites will do it. It’s just that nobody
else can remove them.”

Strutter’s
hackles went down, and we all subsided again. Then I had a thought.

“Will she have time to learn the
business, do all of the things you just outlined and still keep up with her
Vista View job?”

May shook her head but didn’t lose
her smile. “That was never going to work out. She intends to give her notice
tomorrow morning, which is the bad news for Vista View management. The good
news, for us and for management, is she’s decided to buy a one-bedroom unit in
the Phase I building. She really likes the place, just not her boring little
job there. She’s looking forward to being one of the residents. You mark my
words,
in no time at all she’ll be a loyal member of Bert’s
harem.”

That image tickled us all. Then
Margo posed an interesting question.

“Will you be running Romantic
Nights out of your house, or will Isabelle be moving it to her new digs?” She
gave her aunt a knowing look, correctly anticipating her answer.

“None of the above, smarty,” May
retorted. “See, that’s the beauty of a virtual business. You can operate it
almost anywhere, as long as you register it and pay taxes and so on in a
designated state. We’ve decided to relocate our physical operation to a lovely
facility right here in Wethersfield, as a matter of fact. I happen to know
there’s a vacancy on the second level of the Law Barn on Old Main Street.”

A broad smile broke across Margo’s
weary face. “At least now we’ll be able to keep a closer eye on you, since you
seem to have a talent for
gettin
’ into trouble.”

Strutter
and I bumped knuckles. “Look who’s talking. This loose cannon thing must be
genetic. You should fit right in,” I assured May, and
Strutter
nodded in agreement.

“What about Judy Holloway? How
does that part of the story turn out?” she asked May.

The older woman’s expression grew
pensive. “We haven’t gotten to the last chapter on that one, I’m afraid, so it’s
hard to say. I spoke with Judy this morning, and things are a bit up in the
air, to say the least.”

“Is Bob facing charges?” I asked.

“For what?
He didn’t do me any harm, other than startling me into twisting my ankle,” May
replied, wiggling the discolored toes peeking out from the ice bags that encased
her ankle. “He blustered a lot and passed out in the back seat of his own car.
By the time the Doylestown P.D. caught up with us, I was the one driving, and
Bob had mostly slept off the whiskey, so he didn’t even qualify for a drunk and
disorderly. He was an absolute pussycat, as a matter of fact.”

“So now what?”
Margo persisted. “Judy’s such a terrific writer and one of your best sellers.
Since Bob’s got the wind up about the sexy nature of her books, will she be
able to continue
writin
’ them?”

May shook her head. “Not for a
while anyway, and after that, I couldn’t tell you. At the very least Judy’s
taking a break. I tore up her latest contract, so she’s under no obligation to
Romantic Nights anymore. I’ll keep the books she’s already written in the
catalog, so she’ll continue to receive royalty payments, but whether she’ll
write any new titles, I couldn’t say right now.” She smirked into her wine
glass. “Now that she has Bob’s full attention again, I think she may be more
focused on renewing his interest in the pleasures of wedded life. I mean, the
Old Testament is full of erotic references. Have you read ‘Song of Solomon’
lately?
Whooee
!”
She fanned herself with one hand, her eyes glinting with
mischief.

Beside me
Strutter
giggled.

“What?” I asked.

“I’m having a hard time imagining
Isabelle
Marchand
editing erotica,” she deadpanned,
and we all laughed at the thought.

“I think I’ll start her off on the
tamer stuff like historical romances,” May said. “I mean, with all the help
she’ll be giving me on the other aspects of the business, I’m going to need
something to do, right?”

Twenty

In midweek, as a sort of apology
to the neighbors whose lives she had been inadvertently disrupting, May convened
the first meeting of what she called The Wednesday Club. The club met at May’s
house, and any child of school age, Beth Peterson being the exception, was
welcome to attend. Myron
Lifschitz
and T.J. Harris
were compulsory attendees, as a condition of May’s dropping all charges against
them. They were closely supervised by May’s trusty handyman Tommy, a burly twenty-something.
The distressing events of the past few weeks had brought out the young man’s
protective instincts, and May doted on him as if he were her grandson.

After closing the office down a
bit early, Margo,
Strutter
and I drove to Wheeler
Road in a convoy to see how things were going. As we turned into the street we
could see what appeared to be a carpentry workshop spread out across May’s
front lawn and spilling onto the little green at the center of the circle.

Tommy was being assisted by Myron
Lifschitz
, who hobbled along on crutches. Together they
presided over a large, makeshift table of plywood supported on sawhorses. What
looked like randomly sized bits and pieces of wood were being energetically
sanded and inexpertly nailed together to form, according to Tommy and Myron,
regulation bat houses. Two poles, about fifteen feet high, had already been
installed in May’s back yard and soared sturdily above the hedge that
surrounded her tidy lawn.

“I looked it up on a bat
conservation website,” Myron volunteered. “The best place to put bat houses is
high up and about twenty feet away from trees so the bats can find them by
echolocating
. They’re blind, you know.”

I was impressed. Emboldened by his
friend’s speech, T.J. spoke up next. “Bats are really good guys. They eat
mosquitoes and stuff, and they don’t bother anybody as long as they’re healthy.
People think they’re all rabid or something, but that was way back in the early
1990s. The last case of rabies contracted from a bat in Connecticut was in
1995.”

Strutter
and I exchanged smiles behind the boys’ backs.
“Way back in
the 1990s?”
I murmured.

“Auntie May strikes again,” Margo
mused, surveying the crowd of kids.

“She’s like the Pied Piper,” Tommy
agreed. “I wish I’d had a grandmother like her when I was a kid. She knows how
to make things fun.”

“It’s because she really likes the
kids, and they know that, right?” I said to the group at large and noticed a
few grins break out.

“Her cookies are awesome, too,”
said Tommy with a wink. “Never hurts.”

The lady herself left a group of
smaller children, who were painting the assembled bat houses on the green, and
came to join us, stepping carefully in the air cast that encased her left leg
below the knee. She gave Tommy a knowing look.

“Next week we’re making pumpkin
bread. The local markets always have leftover pumpkins they’re happy to give to
us, and I think the kids will find putting them to good use is more fun than
smashing them.”

Myron reddened slightly, and his
pal T.J. looked distinctly uncomfortable, but both took her jibe with firmly
closed mouths. May laid a kind hand on each boy’s shoulder.

“Got any more houses for us to
finish up? We need enough for everyone to take one home.”

“Coming right up, Ms. Farnsworth,”
Myron assured her, and May gave him a pat.

“Will we see you tomorrow?” I
asked May as we moved to rejoin the gaggle of young painters on the green. Most
had more paint on themselves than on the bat houses, but May assured us it
would wash right off.

“No, but
Izzy
will be dropping around on her lunch hour to take some measurements for file
cabinets and sign the lease forms. She’s also promised to leave the security
deposit check with you for the landlord.” She grinned. “It’s great to have a
partner with big bucks.”

Friday was Halloween. With
Isabelle’s help, Margo, May and I had wangled invitations to the Vista View
party and were delighted to see the dining room filled to capacity—but only to
legal capacity, Isabelle assured us—with residents and their guests of all
ages. It certainly made the dance floor a more interesting scene as costumed
guests crowded the space to gyrate and flail to juke box hits. The three of us
were taking a break at our favorite table by the window and watching Bert do
his gallant best to demonstrate the finer points of “The Monster Mash” to
Isabelle.

“When you think about it,
trick-or-treating is sort of a metaphor for life itself,” May observed out of
the blue, swirling ice chips in her plastic cup before upending it for a final
swallow.

Margo examined the contents of her
own cup and looked at her aunt closely. “Are you
drinkin
’
the same stuff as the rest of us, or did you bring a pocket flask?”

May ignored her. “I mean, when it
comes to doling out tricks and treats, the universe is the greatest prankster
of all. Take Kate, for example.
 
I never
met a more loyal friend or decent person …”

 
“She has her good points,” Margo muttered as I
blushed, grateful for the dim lighting.

“ …
but
life nevertheless threw her a few curves over the past few weeks,” May
continued, undeterred. “Having your only daughter start what could turn out to
be a serious relationship with a man who
lives on the West
Coast, especially when he’s originally from the town right next to
Wethersfield, is
pretty ironic, you have to admit. And how about a woman
who hates the heat almost having to uproot her whole life and move to Florida?
That would have been an unbelievably dirty trick for life to play on her.” She
crunched ice chips thoughtfully.

I was frankly amazed. “With
everything that’s been going on with you, I’m impressed that you even noticed
my little problems,” I told her.

Her smile was sympathetic.
“Problems are never little when they’re yours, are they? Anyway, it seems to me
that the great prankster in the sky has been fairly even handed with you gals.
If I remember correctly, you have some sweet treats
waitin
’
at home for you.”

That made us both smile until we
remembered May didn’t have a loving husband waiting at home for her these days.

“Do you still miss Uncle Doug?”
Margo asked. She put her hand over May’s where it rested on the table.

“Every day for the rest of my
life,” she said simply. Then she grinned, refusing to spoil the party. “
Which doesn’t mean I’ve stopped
appreciatin
’
the finer things in life.
If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go over
there and appreciate the George Clooney lookalike by the punch table.” She got
to her feet.

“You’re shameless, May,” chided
Margo. “That man is totally spoken for.”

 
“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist. The
freedom to flirt with handsome young men is one of the great pleasures of a
woman’s
advancin
’ years. I can pinch cheeks and pat
behinds from one end of the day to the other without
rufflin
’
a feather. The wives and girlfriends simply look on with amused tolerance, and
the men actually enjoy it. It’s all perfectly harmless in a way it wouldn’t
have been twenty years ago. You’ll find out.” She grinned and added
thoughtfully, “Of course, that’s in my persona as a mystery writer. The people
who know about my alternative line of work might feel differently about it.”
She giggled and headed toward the group of soon-to-be acquaintances, her punch
cup held high.

We blinked after her, a little
stunned and a lot charmed by this relative of Margo who clearly had a lot to
teach us.

“Just when you think you know
someone,” Margo murmured. She looked down at her empty glass.
“Time for a refill.”

“More sparkling
water and lime?”
I questioned.

“Why, no.
I believe I’ll give that spiked punch we’re not supposed to know about a whirl.
Do you think the hunky waiter over by the bar might like to dance?” She wiggled
her eyebrows and stared at the young man in question. His snug-fitting gray
trousers as he bent over to lift a case of sparkling water out of the cooler
were attention worthy.

“Seriously?”
I asked her.

“No,” Margo admitted, “I’m just
window
shoppin
’.”

“Down, girl.
You’re years from being able to get away with an Aunt May maneuver,” I reminded
her.

“That’s true, isn’t it?” Margo
smiled to herself, pleased with the knowledge. “I wonder how poor
Strutter
is
doin
’ with all of her
trick-or-treaters?”

“I’m sure she and J.D. are having
a fine time, especially since Charlie and Duane volunteered to take Olivia out
to make the rounds this year.
Strutter
never liked
that part, she told me, or having to weed out the kids’ haul to make sure there
weren’t any razor blades or other ghastly surprises hidden in the candy.”
 
I shuddered. “My biggest problem was doling
out the sugary stuff after Halloween in digestible portions.”

“How did you manage it?”

“When they got back from
trick-or-treating, they had to dump every last bit of candy into a big bowl. I
kept it on top of the refrigerator and parceled it out from there. What they
didn’t know was that I hid a big handful of it in my purse every day and pawned
it off on the people at work.”

Margo made a face. “Sugar, you are
kiddin
’ yourself if you believe they really didn’t
know about that. Kids know everything. What
you
didn’t know was that every day, they probably stood on kitchen chairs and
helped themselves to fistfuls of candy, which they hid in their backpacks.”

I thought about it, remembering
how quickly all that candy had disappeared years ago. “Huh, you’re probably
right.”

Margo patted my arm. “It’s okay, mom.
You tried, but the little devils usually find a way to outsmart parents when it
comes to candy.”

“How did May dare to leave her
house unattended on this risky prank night?”

“I wondered that, too, but May
said she’s got it covered. She just turned on the front lights and left a big
ol
’ box of candy on the porch with a sign
invitin
’ the kids to help
themselves
on the honor system. They mostly go around with their parents these days, so
she didn’t think she’d get ripped off. Besides, Carla and the other neighbors
are on the alert.”

“That should do it,” I agreed.

As the party continued in full
swing, Isabelle slipped out of the dining room and into the hall of the
administration building,
then
let herself into her
office for what would be the last time. “I’ll just be a minute, George,” she
reassured the custodian on duty. “I dropped an earring somewhere and thought
I’d take a look,” she fibbed.

She walked to the big back window
and gazed at the familiar scene. On Monday she would start yet another new job,
but the feeling of dread that had accompanied such a thought in the past was
absent. This job would be a success in every sense of the word, she just knew
it. May would show her how to do all the new things she would have to learn,
and she thoroughly enjoyed the prospect of a challenge. Best of all, she had
something to teach May in return, something that would be valued and
appreciated.

A feeling of well-being overcame
her, and it wasn’t entirely due to the vodka-spiked punch she held in a plastic
cup. She gazed at the moon-drenched lawn outside her office window, sloping
down to the community garden, now tidied for the winter, and attempted to
identify this new and quite wonderful sensation. Maybe heirloom tomatoes would be
welcome in the vegetable plot, she thought, like the ones the Barefoot
Contessa
always made look so luscious on her TV cooking
show. Isabelle had long wanted to try those, and the new owners of Comstock
Ferre
in Old Wethersfield specialized in heirloom vegetable
seeds. She would look into it, she decided.

It came to her that she was
looking forward with pleasure. No longer filled with ennui, she would be happy
to get up in the morning and see what the day might hold. She was allowing for
the possibility of joy in the seasons ahead. It was a new and heady sensation,
and Isabelle savored it.

“Find what you were looking for,
Ms.
Marchand
?” The congenial custodian stuck his head
in the door.

“I did, George, thank you. I was
very lucky.” She took a quick look around and straightened the mirror on the file
cabinet one last time. “I
am
very
lucky,” she amended and dazzled him with an unaccustomed smile before hurrying
back to the dining room and her new friends.

Meet Author Judith K.
Ivie

A lifelong
Connecticut resident, Judith
Ivie
has worked in
public relations, advertising, sales promotion and the international tradeshow
industry. She has also assisted several top executives in corporate and
nonprofit settings.

Along the way,
Judi authored three nonfiction books, as well as numerous articles and essays.
In 2006 she broadened her repertoire to include fiction, and the popular Kate
Lawrence mystery series, set in historic Wethersfield, Connecticut, was
launched. All are published by Mainly Murder Press in trade paperback, and all
are available as e-books and audio books at a variety of online sites.