1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun (13 page)

I COULDN'T BLAME THIS additional dose of Bad Luckitis on my
dearly departed husband, though. In a classic case of Murphy's
Law, some entrepreneurial burglar had decided to do a little postChristmas shopping and chose the Pollack homestead over bucking the traffic at the local mall.

"He did a real number on your place," said a lumbering uniformed officer who met me at the door. His name badge read Fogarty. He ushered me around a puddle of orange and white glop
that covered my foyer floor and led me into my ransacked living
room.

"Lucky me."

"Huh?"

"Forgive my sarcasm," I said. "I'm having a really bad week."

Avoiding eye contact, he shuffled his oversized black Oxfords
on my hardwood floor. "Uhm ... right. Your mother mentioned
your recent loss."

I turned my attention to Mama. She sat on the sofa, her clasped
hands shaking in her lap. A second officer, an older man whose
name badge read Harley, sat beside her, his pencil stub poised over
a small notebook. I guess even in the wealthier suburbs pencil
stubs and small, lined notepads were standard issue. Made me
wonder just what my local taxes paid for.

I crossed the room and knelt beside my mother. "Mama, are
you all right?"

"Oh, Anastasia, it was awful. Simply awful."

"You were here?"

"I was coming back from visiting that dear, sweet Bernadette
McPhearson down the street. Her brother recently lost his wife,
you know."

"You saw him?"

"Her brother? No dear. He lives way up in Moosehead, Maine.
Or was it New Hampshire? I'm so rattled, now I forget what Bernadette said."

"Not her brother, Mama. The burglar."

"The burglar? Of course I saw him. He nearly trampled me on
his way out! Knocked Bernadette's Ambrosia Surprise right out of
my hands. And after she went to all that trouble to make it for you
and the boys."

That explained the mysterious orange and white glop on the
floor.

"At least I prevented him from stealing anything," said Mama.
"He ran out empty-handed"

"Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head. "Scared the bejeebers out of me at first,
but I think I scared him more."

"From the way he tossed the place," said Officer Fogarty, "it appears he was searching for something specific."

"What do you mean?"

"Either that or he was more interested in vandalizing than
stealing. I don't see any evidence of missing electronics equipment.
All the computers, stereos, and TVs are still plugged in. You'll have
to check to see if he grabbed any of your jewelry or any cash you
have around the house. And check out the stuff you keep in the
garage and the apartment above it. Looks like he ransacked those
before he hit the house. But again, from what I could see, nothing's
missing."

Ralph squawked from his perch on top of an emptied bookcase. I could have sworn I placed him in the laundry room and
closed the door before I left the house. "Something is rotten in the
state of Denmark," he editorialized in-between squawks. "Hamlet.
Act One, Scene Four."

The officers stared up at Ralph. "That's one damn smart bird,"
said the officer sitting next to Mama.

I nodded as I viewed the mess surrounding me. Every book was
toppled from the bookcases. Furniture was overturned, cushions
slashed. Pieces of what used to be knickknacks littered the floor. In
the time it had taken the burglar to trash my home, he could have
carted off three computers, four televisions, two stereos, two DVD
players, and the VCR. I couldn't disagree with Fogarty.

"Any idea what the thief was after, Mrs. Pollack?"

Not only did I have a pretty good idea what the thief was after,
I also had a pretty good idea of the thief's identity. I thought about
mentioning Ricardo's call but just as quickly dismissed the idea.
"No. No idea."

If I told the Officers Fogarty and Harley about Ricardo, I'd
have to tell them about Karl's secret life. We live in a small town
where gossip spreads as quickly as bathroom mildew in August.

The last thing I needed was to have my dearly departed's affair
with Roxie Roulette and its aftermath the topic of town gossip, not
to mention emblazoned across the front page of the local paper. I
might not be able to protect my kids from the financial disaster we
had suffered, but I'd do my damnedest to keep their father's seamier extra-curricular activities from them as long as possible.

Besides, I had no proof that Ricardo-if that was even his real
name-was connected to the break-in. The timing of his calls and
the subsequent break-in were probably a coincidence. Murphy's
Law throwing me a huge gotcha. I was experiencing a lot of those
lately.

But if it had been Ricardo, maybe he'd now believe I didn't
have his fifty thousand dollars and would leave me alone. The
Fates could cut me that one small break after dumping so much
tribulation on me, couldn't they?

One of those tribulations chose that moment to arrive home.
Lucille, looking like some deranged fashion faux pas in a purple
and chartreuse paisley polyester pantsuit, circa nineteen seventy,
barged her way into the house. She swatted her cane at Fogarty as
he tried to stop her.

"Manifesto!" she screeched at the top of her lungs.

"What's in a name?" asked Ralph. "Romeo and Juliet. Act Two,
Scene Two."

The cops reached for their guns.

Mama screamed.

"Don't," I yelled. "She's my mother-in-law."

The officers eyed Lucille, keeping their hands poised on their
guns but not drawing them.

Mephisto, the Devil Dog, lumbered in from the kitchen. Some
watchdog! I'll bet a month of triple-shot lattes he'd buried himself
under a mound of dirty laundry at the first sign of trouble.

Steadying herself with her cane, Lucille stooped and with one
Schwarzenegger-like arm and a grunt, lifted the lump of dog. Cuddling him against her sagging breasts, she clucked and cooed as
she checked him from head to tail. Doggy jowl to Lucille jowl,
Devil Dog responded with a drooly slurp.

Satisfied that the ugly mutt wasn't harmed, Lucille turned her
attention, her shrill voice, and her wildly waving cane toward the
police. "What's going on here? Where's your search warrant? How
dare you ransack the home of a law-abiding citizen!"

"We've had a break-in, Lucille."

She glanced around at the chaos. "A burglary? I don't believe
it.

"Flat burglary as ever was committed," squawked Ralph. "Much
Ado About Nothing. Act Four, Scene Two." He swooped off the
bookcase and landed on my shoulder.

Ignoring me, Lucille proceeded to harangue the officers. "A police state, that's what this country has turned into, thanks to certain people, and don't pretend you don't know who I mean. Any
excuse to stick your snooping noses where they don't belong. Well,
I won't stand for it."

She waved her cane at an upturned end table and broken lamp.
"How do I know this isn't all your doing? You people engage in
conspiracies and covert operations all the time. I know how you
work. I have my sources."

Fogarty bristled. "Lady, back off, or I'll charge you with obstructing an investigation."

"You lay one hand on me, young man, and I'll have your
badge."

"Ignore her," I advised him.

"Does she..." He cast a sideways glance at Lucille and cupped
his mouth with his hand, "you know... have Alzheimer's Disease?"

Lucille thumped her cane on the carpet. "Don't you dare whisper about me in the third person. I'm saner than any of you."

Officer Fogarty's expression mirrored his skepticism.

"She's a communist," I said.

He nodded in understanding, as if Alzheimer's and communism were one and the same. Maybe to him they were.

Lucille lowered Mephisto to the floor, then hobbled off down
the hall. The dog followed at her heels. They reminded me of the
villainous relative with the Siamese cats in Lady and the Tramp,
except for the fact that Mephisto was a dog and not a cat. I guess I
should be glad he didn't have a twin. Or that my mother-in-law
wasn't versed in cloning.

Fogarty started to call her back.

"Leave her," I said. "Trust me. There's nothing in her room a
thief would want."

He looked to Harley for guidance. The older officer watched Lucille disappear down the hall, then he turned to me and shrugged
his oversized shoulders. "It's your house, Mrs. Pollack."

At least for today, I thought, righting an upturned chair. As I
inspected the damage to the seat cushion, the phone rang.

I excused myself to the kitchen.

The display on the phone read Out of Area. Probably a telemarketer, but even a telemarketer would be a welcome reprieve at the
moment. "Hello?"

"Where'd you stash the dough?"

At least now I knew who had broken into my house, but under
the circumstances, I would have preferred your garden variety
burglar.

"You trashed my house!" I wondered how long it took to set up
a phone tap. Was Batswin or one of her cohorts listening in at this
very moment?

"Smart lady. Now get this: Next time I'll do a lot more than
toss the place."

Scared as I was, his veiled threat sent a surge of defiant anger
pumping through my veins. I gritted my teeth to keep from yelling
into the phone. "I told you, I don't have your money. That should
have been evident after the strip search you conducted on my
home."

Ricardo made a noise that sounded halfway between a tsk and
a kiss. "And I told you I know otherwise. Now you know I mean
business. I want that money by Friday."

"You said I had a week."
"

I changed my mind."

"That's not fair!"

"Fair?" He snorted. "Fuck fair. Life ain't fair, bitch. Friday. Or
else." With that the phone went dead.

I shuddered to think what Ricardo might do if Batswin and
Robbins botched their end and he discovered I'd set him up, especially if their suspicions about him being Mafia were correct. And given that this was New Jersey, how could their suspicions not be
correct?

As much as I loved my house, my neighborhood, and my town,
living in New Jersey definitely had its downside. I'd learned to accept the sky-high taxes. At least we got great schools and decent
public transportation in return, even if the cops didn't have smart
phones. I just never expected the seamier side of the state's reputation to enter my life. I doubt there's much organized crime in
North Sandwich, New Hampshire, or Cat Creek, Montana.

I glanced around the kitchen. So much for assigning cleaning
tasks to Mama and Lucille. Dirty dishes teetered in precarious
piles in the sink. More soiled plates and glasses were scattered
across the kitchen table.

No one had bothered to put away any of the breakfast food,
not even the perishables. I grabbed the nearly full gallon of skim
milk and sniffed. Sour milk assaulted my nasal passages with a
one-two punch.

"God damn it!" I screamed, pouring nearly five dollars worth
of skim down the drain.

Based on the state of the kitchen, I knew I'd find wet towels on
the bathroom floors. Laundry spilling out of the hamper. A layer
of cat and dog hair covering every upholstered piece of furniture
and all the carpets. And now on top of all that I had to contend
with Ricardo's handiwork.

Between Mama the Scatterbrained and Lucille the Prima
Donna Commie, I now had four children instead of two. Nick and
Alex were more reliable and considerate than either of their grandmothers.

Feeling way too much like Cinderella before her fairy godmother dropped in and bibbidi-bobbidi-booed her into a happilyever-after, I put away the food, loaded the dishwasher, and wiped
the English muffin crumbs off the counter.

"There's never a fairy godmother around when you need one,"
I muttered as I headed back into the living room to find Mama
batting her eyelashes at the cops.