Lucky Stars (18 page)

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J
ack said he
was
busy, so I went off to Victor’s by myself, courtesy of Vincent, who was very soliticious—and smiley. Every time I glanced at him in the mirror, he had a grin on his face. Now there’s a guy who’s happy in his job, I thought.

When I arrived, I observed that my mother was wearing yet another brand-new outfit that revealed more of her than her old wardrobe ever did.

Who kidnapped Helen Reiser? I thought as I checked out her short skirt and skimpy top and strappy sandals.

I also noticed that she had taken on the role of lady of the manor, giving instructions to Carlos and Rosa and the others. “They’re hardworking,” she whispered to me, “but they’re not used to a woman’s touch around the house. So I stick my two cents in every now and then. For instance, Rosa is a lovely cook when it comes to arroz con polio, but ask her to make a nice brisket and she’s lost.”

Perhaps Helen Reiser hadn’t been kidnapped after all. She was still in there somewhere.

For our dinner that particular evening, Rosa had prepared tenderloin of pork with grilled vegetables—a meal so fabulous that I was dying for a second helping. I was about to take my plate into the kitchen when Mom hassled me.

“Sit, Stacey,” she said after I’d gotten up from my chair. “Let Rosa bring it. That’s what she’s here for. Right, Victor?”

“Right, Cookie!” he boomed. “My people are at your disposal. You tell them what you want them to do and, by golly, they’ll do it.”

“Such a knight in shining armor,” she cooed at him.

“Why wouldn’t I be when my lady is the fairest in all the world?” he replied.

“You make me blush with your compliments,” she said.

“You make me float on air,” he said.

You both make me want to hurl, I thought, then said, “There’s no need to bother Rosa. I’d rather get the food myself. I need to stretch my legs.” And escape all the lovey-dovey crap in here.

I was en route to the kitchen, plate in hand, about to
push open the swingin
g door, when I overheard Rosa
speaking to Carlos in Spanish. She was saying, “Do you believe she told me that my vegetables were undercooked? Hasn’t she ever heard of al dente?”

“She’s from the Midwest. What does she know,” said
Carlos.

“Nothing,” said Rosa. “Not about cooking. And not about cleaning. Did you hear how she told Betty to watch for mold the next time she scrubs the stall shower in the master bath?”

I giggled to myself. M
om was a tireless campaigner
to rid the planet of mold. Mold and dust mites. Victor’s caretakers were no match for her, even in her new Hollywood glamour girl mode.

“Well, not to worry, baby. This won’t last much longer,” Carlos reassured his wife.

I smiled again, thinking that Carlos and I were on the same page; that the romance between Mom and Victor was sure to be over soon. And then, when I heard the rest of their conversation, my smile faded.

“I’m getting the impression from Victor that she’ll be next,” Carlos added.
Next?
Next what? Next to be conned into handing over her money to Victor? Next to be forced onto his sailboat? Next to
die
?

I pressed my ear against the door, straining to hear more.

“It does look as if he’s heading in that direction with her,” Rosa agreed. “And I, for one, won’t be sorry. She’s the pushiest woman I’ve ever met.”

Yeah, yeah. So my mother was pushy. I couldn’t argue with Rosa about that, but what did she mean about heading in that direction? What direction? And why should she be sorry about it?

“Life could definitely get exciting around here,” said Carlos. “Maybe we should buy our earplugs now, just in case.”

What did he mean by that?
Exciting
in a way that suggested police detectives and medical examiners and forensic technicians in latex gloves? And why would they need earplugs? To keep them from having to listen to my mother’s screams?

I was scared now. Scared that maybe Rosa and Carlos, as Beverly Hills fancy-shmancy as they seemed, might have helped Victor kill his first wife. Yes, maybe they were his accomplices—maybe they were
all
his accomplices—and now they were gearing up for another crime with the intended victim being my poor mommy!

I burst into the kitchen. “Okay, listen up. I’ve got a problem.”

Rosa peered at my empty plate and grinned proudly. “I can see that you enjoyed the pork. Are you here for another serving? I would have been happy to bring it out to the dining room for you.”

“Skip the niceties, missy,” I said. “This isn’t about the pork.”

“Ah, then it’s more vegetables you want?” she asked sweetly.

“It has nothing to do with food,” I said. “I happen to
understand Spanish and I overheard your little chat before, about how you and Carlos think that my mother will be next and that her relationship with Victor is heading in a certain direction and that you’re planning to buy earplugs. I want to know what you meant by all that, and I want to know right now.”

Rosa looked startled. “My goodness. We weren’t talking about your mother. We were talking about the secretary that Mr. Chellus hired not too long ago. She’s taken it upon herself to interfere in every aspect of our work here.”

“Yeah, his secretary, sure. You were talking about my mother and I know it. Remember how you said, ‘She’s from the Midwest’? Well, guess where my mother is from?”

“I don’t know, but the secretary is from Chicago,” said Rosa.

Oh. Okay, so it was possible that I had misunderstood and that they really were gossiping about another member of the Chellus household. But I wasn’t sold. Not a hundred percent.

“You said you thought this secretary would be next and that you would need earplugs,” I reminded them. “What was that about?”

“First let me say that I’m embarrassed for both Rosa and myself,” Carlos replied. “We should never have been talking about private matters in the public rooms, not even in Spanish. But, since you did hear us, what we meant was that we expect Mr. Chellus to fire his secretary and that there’s sure to be a lot of shouting when it happens.”

“I see,” I said. “That’s your story and you’re sticking to it, huh?”

They looked at each other and shrugged, as if they
honestly didn’t know why I was getting so riled up. But I
was
riled up and I
was
going to get to the bottom of this little mystery once and for all.

I deposited my plate on the kitchen counter and marched back into the dining room. Before my mother could protest, I grabbed her hand and dragged her off to the library, where I slid the pocket doors shut and sat her down.

“I’ll try to say this as gently as possible,”
I began.

“There’s nothing gentl
e about your manners, Stacey. To walk out on Victor in the middle of a meal is so rude that I—”

“Let me continue,” I interrupted. “It’s for your own good.”

“So continue.”

“Victor is dangerous.”

She giggled as she batted her eyelashes. “Dangerously sexy, you mean.”

“No. Dangerous. The way
killers
are dangerous.”

“What in the world is wrong with you, dear? Did you have too much wine?”

“No. I overheard Rosa and Carlos in the kitchen, and guess who they were talking about?”

“Victor’s secretary?”

I was speechless momentarily. So there
was
a secretary?

“That’s what they claimed,” I said. “Supposedly, Victor’s about to fire her.”

“He very well may fire her. She gets on everybody’s nerves.”

“Okay, here’s a question for you,” I said. “Is she from Chicago?”

My mother laughed. “Not with that southern accent.
She’s from Memphis, I think. Or is it Nashville? What does it matter anyway?”

I jumped up from the sofa, waving my arms like a crazy person. “It matters a lot,” I said. “So Rosa and Carlos weren’t talking about her, just as I suspected. They were talking about you, Mom, and they didn’t want me to know it. They said they thought you were pushy and that you would be next and that they wouldn’t be sorry and that they were going to buy earplugs. When I asked them to explain themselves, they made up the story about the secretary. I think you’re in danger, Mom. I think you should get out of here and never see Victor again—before it’s too late.”

“Stacey, Stacey. What’s gotten into you?” She pulled me back down onto the sofa. “Maybe Rosa and Carlos
were
talking about me. So what? They don’t like me, because I butt into their business. At first I didn’t want to interfere with the way Victor ran his household, so I kept my opinions to myself. But lately I’ve spoken up about those two—they act like they own the place and neither takes kindly to a single suggestion of mine. I’m sure they wish I weren’t around.”

“Mom,” I said. “They’re not the issue. It’s Victor who doesn’t want you around.”

“What?” Her nostrils flared. “Victor loves me and I love him and I’d really appreciate it if you’d get over this adolescent hostility of yours. You can’t seem to face the fact that your father’s gone and I’m moving forward with my life.” She shot daggers at me as if
I
were the troublemaker.

“I do miss Daddy. You’re right about that. He wasn’t a saint, but he came pretty close.”

“There. You see? This
is
about your father and the
close relationship you had with him—the close relationship you never had with me!”

“Mom, Mom. Please believe that it’s
you
I’m concerned about, not Daddy or his memory. Rosa and Carlos were talking about you, about you following in the footsteps of Victor’s wife—his dead wife.”

“Stop this nonsense,” she snapped. “What you overheard is that Rosa and Carlos are afraid that Victor and I will get married. They don’t want me supervising their duties once I’m Mrs. Chellus, which accounts for their snippy remarks having to do with me being ‘next,’ as in his next wife.”

“But you’re not planning to marry him, right? I mean, you hardly know the man.”

“I know all I need to know."

“Really? Okay, here’s a question you might want to ask him. How come he calls his dead wife Elizabeth one day and Mary the next? Isn’t there something a little odd about that?”

“It’s not odd at all. Victor’s wife’s name was Mary Elizabeth Biddlehoffer. Sometimes she liked to be called Mary. Sometimes she liked to be called Elizabeth. And sometimes she liked to be called by her childhood nickname, which was Binky. She came from a family of nicknamers, according to Victor. She had an uncle named Harold and everyone called him Roldie. You know how WASPs are.”

Why wouldn’t she listen to me? How could I
make
her listen?

“Okay, here’s something else,” I said. “Maura dated Victor, Mom. My thirtysomething best friend Maura Lasky. He picked her up at a party and brought her here, and they had intimate relations.”

She rolled her eyes. “Victor dated a lot of girls your
age before he met me. He didn’t mention Maura, specifically, but it doesn’t matter, because that chapter of his life is over. He and I are in love.”

“But his wife died in a sailing ‘accident’ only months after she married him. I don’t want that to happen to you!”

“Don’t be morbid. Why should it happen to me? Jewish women don’t sail.”

I sank back into my chair, utterly spent. How do you explain to your mother why it should happen to her? How do you explain that she’s putty in the hands of a smoothie like Victor? How do you explain that because she’s a widow who hasn’t been with a man in years, is newly rich, and is as gullible as it gets, she’s exactly the sort of woman he’d target? “Mom.” I touched her shoulder. “Doesn’t it scare you even a little bit that Mary Elizabeth was wealthy and that Victor profited from her death so soon after they were married?”

“What scares me is your attitude, Stacey.” She was really angry at me now. I was being a bad girl, and I was in for a lecture. “You have met Victor. You have witnessed firsthand how lovely and sweet he is. But you are determined not to see your mother happy. Why, I can’t fathom, other than that you preferred me when I was the little Cleveland housewife whose only source of pleasure was
you.
”

Before I could refute her theory or warn her further, she had opened the pocket doors and hurried out of the room.

It was obvious to me then. My mother would not take my warnings seriously, because she was infatuated with Victor and distracted by her celebrity. If I had a prayer of convincing her that he was not the right man for her,

I needed proof of his misdeeds. I didn’t know how to go about getting such proof, but you do what you have to when your mother is about to make a fatal mistake, just as she would return the favor.

t
wenty-three