Happily Ever Madder: Misadventures of a Mad Fat Girl (24 page)

40

O
n Saturday, I get up early and take Buster Loo for a walk, stopping on the way home to pick up some doughnuts, which I later share with Mason on the back porch. He leaves for work and I take off to run errands, not the least of which is picking up his tux for the charity ball tonight. I’m excited, not just because of the mayhem that Jalena and I have planned, but also because I haven’t been on a formal date with Mason since our junior prom in high school.

After taking his tux home and carefully hanging it in his closet, I call Jalena to see if she’s ready to make the station wagon transaction. She is, so I get in my car and drive ten minutes to Sam Pettigo’s garage. He’s outside when I pull up and motions to where I need to park. He tells me that he has a newer-model Chevrolet truck that I could drive instead of the station wagon, but I politely decline. He hands me the keys and tells me to give myself plenty of room to stop.

“As you know,” he says, glancing over at my car, “accidents happen. I adjusted the brakes, but you still have to mash ’em.”

“I’ll mash ’em, then,” I say, and he laughs and tells me to be careful. I get into the sky blue wagon and crank it up.

I almost run through two red lights and nearly hit a pedestrian before I shake, rattle, and roll that thing into the parking lot across from the Downtown Inn. Jalena is there when I pull up, and she’s standing in front of her Jeep holding up her phone.

“What are you doing?” I ask when I get out of the station wagon.

“Making a documentary,” she says, sticking her phone into her pocket. “I’ll do the interview later.”

“Ha-ha,” I say.

“Nice car,” she says when we’re both in her Jeep. “You should see what kind of a deal he might give you on a trade.”

“Right,” I say, handing her the keys to the old blue wagon. “That thing is a tank.”

We have an early lunch at Las Cantinas Mexican restaurant, during which we discuss our dresses and jewelry for the night. On the drive to my house, we go over our plans one last time. We say good-bye when she drops me off, and I go upstairs and get started with the primping, which takes up most of the afternoon. When Mason comes home at five thirty, I’m sitting on the bed with hot rollers in my hair, and Buster Loo is snoozing next to my feet.

“Hey, sexy lady,” he says on his way to the shower, “ready for our big night?”

I get a little nauseous when I think about how upset he would be if he knew I’d been scamming so hard on Lenore Kennashaw. “Can’t wait,” I say and lean back to look at him in the bathroom. “Are you going to dance with me tonight?”

“Well,” he calls, “that depends on if you plan on putting out later or not.”

I take the hot rollers out of my hair and start to work on my makeup. When Mason finishes his man-primp routine, he steps out of the bathroom looking and smelling like heaven. He puts on his tux, then helps me into my dress. After a lot of elaborate bragging about how great the other one looks, we go downstairs and find Buster Loo sitting beside the front door.

“Aw, don’t worry, little guy,” Mason says. “We won’t be too late.”

* * *

We pull into the circle drive of the Downtown Inn, and after a valet opens my door I step out onto a red strip of carpet.

“Look at us,” Mason says, taking my arm. “Just like Hollywood.”

When we walk into the hotel, we are met by a ticket taker who hands us a program, and then an usher takes us to our seats. I look around for Jalena but don’t see her. Mason knows one of the two couples at our table, and as he makes introductions, I see Lenore Kennashaw up on the stage in a dress that looks like it was designed for a seventeen-year-old hootchie mama.

I look around for Jalena again and notice that the place is filling up fast. Everyone has a program, but no one appears to be going haywire about anything, so I assume our special box hasn’t made it to the table yet. My phone starts buzzing inside my sparkly clutch, so I discreetly slip it out of my purse and onto my lap. It’s a message from Jalena telling me that she saw me come in and I look too foxy for my own good. She sends me another text telling me that she wasn’t able to swap the place cards because they had women posted around the room watching the tables like hawks, but she did get the valet tags swapped after doing some first-class flirting with the guy who parked her Jeep.

“Gold hammer key chain,” she texts. “How corny is that?”

She sends me another text five minutes later and says that our box just got rolled to the main entrance. I get butterflies again and start second-guessing our plan, not because I’m worried about Lenore, but because I’m worried about Mason finding out I was involved. I send Jalena a message asking if we’re doing the right thing. She sends back an immediate “Hellz yes”; then Mason asks who I’m texting, so I put my phone back in my purse. A minute later, a third couple joins us, apologizing for their “almost late” arrival. We all make introductions and small talk, and the evening begins a few minutes later.

A very pretty lady in a beautiful yellow gown steps up to the podium and announces that dinner is about to be served. She also tells us that she will start a slide show about Caboose Charity’s biggest project to date, which is the construction of a new activities facility. She stops talking while everyone claps. When the applause stops, she talks about how many children have signed up for the after-school program, which began this past August, and goes on to say they were able to fully fund staffing for the entire academic year. Everyone claps again, and she starts the slide show. I almost start crying when I see pictures of such pitiful-looking kids enjoying brand-new slides, swings, and really cool project tables.

“This is great,” Mason whispers, and I nod. “We should get involved with this.”

“That exactly what I was thinking,” I tell him.
Unless Jalena and I get caught trying to pull this stunt tonight and get banned from this organization forever.

After dinner, the speeches start and I excuse myself and go to the restroom so I can check my phone. Chatty-Cathy-come-lately gets up to go with me, so I have to actually go into a stall and pretend to pee.

I see where I received a text from Jalena forty minutes ago that says our box of programs has been handed out. She said they went fast with the rush of people trying to get in before the ceremony started. I text her back and say I got in trouble for texting at the table and she tells me not to worry because all we have to do now is wait. I flush the toilet even though I didn’t use it and step out to where my bathroom buddy is applying a fresh coat of powder to her heavily made-up face. I wash my hands, then get out my lip gloss, and she starts asking nosy questions, which I answer with very polite, but vague responses, because I’m just not one of those people who feels compelled to bond deeply with women who follow me to the ladies’ room.

She tells me all about her husband and her kids and her cats and her best friend’s romantic problems, and I smile and nod all the way back to the table. She sits down and picks up her program, and I get excited wondering if it might contain one of our inserts, but instead of opening it, she simply looks at the cover and lays it to the side.

“The auction is about to start,” Mason says, leaning over. “Are you excited?”

“Very much so!” I can’t wait to see what my paintings go for, but I don’t get to see that because the auction begins and ends with no sign of a single one of them.

“I thought you said you donated something,” Mason says when the auctioneer steps down. “That would’ve been great publicity.”

“I did,” I say and lower my voice to a whisper. “Remember Lenore won that big painting on opening night at the gallery?” He nods. “That was one, which she never paid for and later claimed to have donated, and then I gave them two more when they came by
soliciting
the first day I was open.”

“I’m sure there’s a logical explanation,” Mason says, and his dismissive attitude makes me madder than I already am. I get even madder than that when I look around and see no indication that any of our notices are being noticed. I think about taking my dessertspoon and pushing Chatty-Cathy’s program off the table, just to see if something flies out. But I don’t because the lights go dim again and another beautiful woman in another beautiful dress starts making a speech thanking everyone for their attendance and continued support of Caboose Charity. She starts a slide show highlighting some other things Caboose Charity is involved in, and I’m once again impressed by the reach of this organization. The only thing I don’t understand is how people who do such good things can’t sniff out a rat like Lenore Kennashaw. I see the band setting up, and then yet another lovely lady takes the podium and announces, to avid applause, that the band is almost ready and the bar is about to open.

“I’ll go get us a drink,” Mason says. “Then we’ll dance.”

I check my phone and don’t have a message from Jalena. Mason comes back with the drinks and we sip on those for a while, and then a waiter starts circling the tables with trays of champagne, so I have few glasses while we sit and chat with the other couples at our table. My purse starts buzzing, and while Mason is talking to the man to his left, I quickly check it and see a message from Jalena that says, “Notices noticed! The scramble is on!” I look around but see no sign of a scramble.

“Are you okay?” Mason asks quietly. “You seem distracted.”

“I was just hoping to see Jalena, but I guess she’s busy,” I tell him, making one more swooping look around.

I slip my phone back into my purse, and then our entire table decides to join the party on the dance floor and I forget all about Lenore Kennashaw because I’m having such a good time with Mason.

41

A
n hour later, Mason drifts into one of the man-circles forming on the fringe of the dance floor, so I go back to the table, sit down with the other ladies, and check my phone. I’m sorely disappointed to see that I don’t have an update from Jalena. I’ve just decided that part of our plan isn’t going to pan out after all, and I’m certain the station wagon stunt will flop too, when Chatty-Cathy opens her program and a little white card flutters onto her lap.

“Well, what is this?” she says. She reads it, says, “How tacky,” and slips it back into her program. I get sick all over wondering if that’s how everyone reacted. The lady to her right, whose name is Amanda, wants to know what was tacky, so Cathy flips open the program and hands her the card.

“Wait a minute,” Amanda says. “Frank and Lenore Kennashaw are sitting over there with the rich people, and according to what I read in the program earlier . . . hold on—” She opens her program and starts running a finger down the columns of each page. “Yeah, this is grouped according to how much people give, and a one-star is someone who only donates their time.” Amanda leans over and points. “So what is her name doing in the five-star column and why is she seated over there with those folks?”

Cathy is looking at her program now. “Five stars means a donation of ten
thousand
dollars or more?”

“Every year,” Amanda says, studying her program.

“And this woman who gives nothing but her time is over there trying to act like she’s one of them?” Cathy says.

“That is tacky,” I say, hoping this isn’t the only table in the building having a conversation like this.

“I can’t stand that Lenore Kennashaw,” Amanda says, and my heart jumps with joy.

“Now, who is she again?” Cathy asks.

“Her husband owns Kennashaw Home and Garden,” the other woman at the table says. “They sell very cheap things for very high prices and refuse returns.” She looks at Amanda. “I don’t think much of them, either.”

I listen with great interest as Amanda and the other lady, whose name I can’t remember, talk about run-ins they’ve had with Lenore Kennashaw. I throw a little fuel into the fire every chance I get, and when they get it all figured out, Cathy is ready to talk to some other people about Lenore being an impostor. She takes her program and goes to find one of her friends. I sip champagne and listen with great interest and amusement as Amanda and the other lady, whose name I find out is Melody, talk about how ridiculous it is that Frank and Lenore are seated with the big shots of Pelican Cove. I’m about to launch into my story about the worthless paint I bought from their store when Jalena comes up to the table.

“Hello, ladies,” she says politely. “It seems as if a few people have found unapproved notices in their programs, and we’re out trying to collect those.”

Melody flips through her program, then puts it back on the table with a visible look of disappointment. “Only one at this table,” she says, pointing to Cathy’s chair, “and she’s gone with it.”

“How’d those get in there?” Amanda asks. “And how did Lenore Kennashaw get listed as a five-star patron if she’s supposed to be in the one-star category?”

It’s all I can do not to laugh when Jalena says somberly, “We’ve been asked not to discuss it.” She finally looks at me. “Thank you ladies for being here tonight, and I’m sorry to interrupt. Please enjoy the rest of your evening.”

She walks off and I can’t help myself. I start to smile and I can’t stop.

“All they’re doing by telling people they aren’t going to discuss it is making people want to talk about it that much more,” Melody says.

“Well, I think it’s pretty funny,” Amanda replies.

“Me, too,” I say to my two new pals. “Let’s go dance.”

When we get out on the dance floor, I see Tia and she waves but doesn’t make any effort to speak. She disappears a minute later, and I wonder if she somehow found out about the crush I have on her boyfriend or if she’s still really
that
embarrassed.

A few minutes later, the music stops and I turn to see Lenore Kennashaw at the podium.

“If I could have a moment of your time,” she says coolly. “I’m sorry for the bother, but there is an issue I need to address.” She looks out across the crowd. “Let me offer my sincerest apologies for the ridiculous assertions that some of you have found on program inserts that I assure you were not authorized by me or anyone at Caboose Charity. Everyone knows that Frank and I have been giving generously to this charity for years, and I do plan to file charges of slander against whoever is responsible for this. Thank you.”

A rumble goes through the crowd, and a small group of people gather around the steps coming off the stage. I see Chatty-Cathy in that crowd, so I start working my way over there to eavesdrop. The people gathered are not fans of Lenore, as it turns out, and they badger her until she blurts out, “What do you people want from me? Get back! Get away from me! Frank!” She bustles through the crowd to her table, where Frank, who is leaning back with an unlit cigar in his mouth, looks at her and barks, “What?”

“We’re leaving,” she says. “I won’t stand to be disgraced in this manner. Not after all I do for this organization.”

Frank doesn’t say a word, just gets up and follows her out, and all eyes are on them as they strut into the lobby. People gather here and there and try to look like they’re not looking, but everyone is watching their every move. I go with the flow of the crowd, then post up in a corner of the lobby that has a great view of the circle drive out front. I see Jalena come out another door, and she sees me and smiles. She goes to the other side of the lobby and gets out her phone.

A few seconds later, my phone beeps. “Could this get any better?”

I text back, “Only if a station wagon pulls up.” And a few minutes later, it does.

Frank and Lenore Kennashaw are standing on the sidewalk looking supremely self-righteous and proud when Erlene Pettigo’s sky blue station wagon rumbles up to the curb. The two boys at the valet stand exchange a look; then the one closest to the car steps over and opens the door. He looks at Lenore like she’s got cooties flying out from under her too-short skirt, and she looks at him like he must’ve misunderstood something. When the poor guy who fetched the car walks around and hands Frank Kennashaw the keys, Lenore tears into those boys so bad that hotel security shows up and makes her stop. Lenore walks over to the valet stand and rifles through the keys. Not finding what she was looking for, she stalks back into the hotel lobby, and I try to blend in with the tree I’m standing next to as she storms to the desk. She demands that they call the police because her keys have been stolen. The clerk looks at her like she’s crazy, then produces a set of keys with a gold hammer, and I hear the clerk say something about “lost and found” followed by the words “hotel security.”

Lenore marches out the door and hands the keys to Frank, and they walk across the street to the parking lot. I walk outside and listen to the valets openly discuss what a hateful wench she was and then get worried when they talk about what to do with the station wagon. I think for a second that I’m going to have to go over there and fess up, but then one of the guys says that he’s just going to park it back where he found it and then put the keys back where he found those, too.

I turn to go back inside and run right into Sylvie Best.

“What are you out here sniggering about?” she hisses. “You better hope you weren’t involved with any of this, or we will
end
you in this town.”

“Fuck off, Sylvie,” I say and walk past her.

“Don’t say you weren’t warned,” she calls out.

I don’t even respond. I just stick my middle finger in the air and keep walking. The valet guys get a good kick out of that, and I make a mental note to slip each one of them a twenty before I leave.

I enter the lobby and see Ramona Bradley.

“Hi, Mrs. Bradley,” I say walking up to her.

“Well, hello,” she says pleasantly. “How are you doing tonight?”

“I’m great,” I say. “Can I ask you a quick question?”

“But of course.”

“The paintings I donated weren’t in the auction. Do you have any idea why, or where they might be?”

“Sweetheart, can you tell me your name again? We’ve been seeing so many people, I can’t keep them all straight.”

“Graciela,” I say. “Ace Jones. I have the art gallery.”

“Oh right, yes, well, I don’t know what in the world might have happened to those.”

“Okay,” I say, realizing this conversation is a waste of time.

I walk back into the auditorium, where I meet Mason at our table. He asks me where I’ve been.

“Just out getting some fresh air,” I say. “I think I had a little too much champagne.”

“Are you ready to go, or do you want to stay a while longer?”

“I’m having a blast!”

“Well, come on,” he says. “Let’s get out on that dance floor!”

We end up shutting the charity ball down, and we’re in the group still on the dance floor when the band stops playing and the lights come on.

“Party’s over!” someone yells as the pretty lady in the yellow dress takes the podium.

“Thank you all so much for coming tonight,” she says with unflappable poise. “I hope each and every one of you had a wonderful time. Good night!” Our bunch starts clapping, and then people come in with trash cans, and we all go back to our tables, gather our things, and file out the door.

The sidewalk chatter is all about Lenore Kennashaw, and I relish every detail I hear. One man wonders aloud how much she really gives, and several others agree they’d like to know that, too. Some people think what happened to Lenore was a disgrace; others think Lenore herself is disgraceful. Someone brings up the rumor that Kennashaw Home and Garden is going under, and that gets everyone’s attention. Someone else brings up the station wagon incident, and everyone stops chattering about the hardware store and starts listening to one man’s account of how the curbside drama went down.

“There it is,” Amanda says, pointing across the street to the station wagon in the distance. “Way out there in the corner.”

“How did the valet have the key for it?” another man asks, and that gives way to talk of a conspiracy, and then someone points out that there’s usually a little truth in even the most bald-faced lie, to which someone says, “Looks to me like she finally pissed off the wrong person.” Everyone is in complete agreement that Lenore Kennashaw was deliberately targeted.

I look at Mason, who has said nothing since we came outside, and he has this look on his face that tells me I’m going to have some explaining to do when we get in the truck. A little explaining and a lot of lying.

Mason doesn’t say anything for the first few minutes on the ride home. Then he looks at me and says, “What do you think about what happened tonight?”

“I agree that someone was targeting her.”

“Now, who would do something like that?” he says. “Who would pull a stunt like that at an event like this?”

“I have no idea,” I lie.

I can sense that he’s looking at me, but I keep my eyes straight ahead.

“Ace, did you have anything to do with this?” he asks, point-blank. “Because you were acting like a teenager checking your phone all night, and you went to the bathroom about fifteen times.”

“I drank a lot of champagne,” I say evenly. “And Jalena was there, and I was trying to figure out where she was because I wanted to see her, but she kept moving around all over the place because she was helping out with the event.”

“You and Tia didn’t talk much.”

“Tia’s got some weird stuff going on right now,” I say. “She’s kind of been avoiding everybody.”

“I just hope that you didn’t have anything to do with any of what happened,” he says as we pull up in the driveway. “Where is your car?” He eyes me suspiciously.

“I dropped it off at the shop,” I say. “Remember, I told you that man was going to fix it this weekend.” I can’t remember whether I told Mason that Erlene Pettigo was driving a station wagon the day she rolled into the back of my car at Bueno Burrito. I hold my breath in a full-fledged state of panic and wait for him to respond.

“Oh yeah,” he says, and I don’t know if I didn’t tell him or if he doesn’t remember, or maybe he just doesn’t want to continue a conversation that begins with “remember, I told you.”

We go inside and find Buster Loo asleep on the sofa.

“See, little man,” Mason says, scooping him up. “Told you we’d be back.”