1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun (8 page)

"ANASTASIA, WHERE IN THE world have you been at this ungodly
hour?"

"Mama!" My mother enveloped me in one of her all-consuming embraces, my nose and mouth smothered by her eggplantcolored nubby wool suit. I twisted my head to gulp in some air, the
wool scratching against my icy cheek.

"My poor baby. So young to be a widow!"

I stepped out of her bear hug and stared at her. "You know?"

"The boys told me." She jutted her chin toward the sofa where
Lucille sat camped out in all her angry glory, the Devil Dog on her
lap. "That despicable woman tried to keep me from entering the
house."

"No one in her right mind comes calling after midnight," said
Lucille. "She woke me out of a sound sleep. And scared Manifesto
half to death the way she wouldn't stop pounding at the door."

Ignoring Lucille, Mama turned to me and launched into an accusatory tirade. "Why didn't you call? You had our itinerary in case of an emergency. If Karl dying doesn't qualify as an emergency, I
don't know what does!"

Seamus O'Keefe, Mama's current husband, had taken her to
Ireland several weeks ago to meet his family. I wanted to call herwould have called her-if I could have called her. "Because you
mailed me your dry cleaning claim check instead of your travel
schedule"

Mama's face glazed over in puzzlement. "Did I? So that's what
happened to it. I turned the apartment upside-down looking for
that damn piece of paper. Good thing the cleaner knows me. You
remember that nice Mr. Wong, don't you, dear?"

"Focus, Mama."

"At this hour? You want coherent conversation, I need eight
hours sleep." She shook her head to dismiss the birds from her
brain. "Anyway, like I said, it was a good thing my grandsons woke
up or I'd have frozen to death on your doorstep. That nasty taxi
driver zoomed off the moment I stepped out of the cab."

She motioned toward Alex and Nick who were camped on the
living room carpet. They both seemed to be enjoying this family
farce far too much. Who needed reality TV? "You guys should get
back to bed," I said. "Tomorrow's a school day."

"And miss the good stuff?" asked Nick.

I pointed in the direction of their bedroom. "Now!"

Mama blew them a kiss. "Sweet dreams, my knights in shining
armor.

"'Night, Grandma."

"'Night, Mom."

Both pointedly ignored their other grandmother. Not that I
blamed them. I'd like to ignore the old battle axe, too. However, I'm the parent-the only one they had left-so I had to act like
one. I cleared my throat, the universal Parent Signal.

"Good night, Grandmother Lucille," they sing-songed from
halfway down the hall.

Lucille didn't even bother to respond with her usual, "Hmmph!"

"Saved me from frostbite or worse, those two sons of yours did,"
continued Mama. "Not to mention trying to find a hotel at this ungodly hour, not that I had any way to get to one. Can you imagine?
Barred from my own daughter's home by Comrade Lucille!"

My mother, a lifelong member and past social secretary of the
Daughters of the American Revolution was convinced my motherin-law, president of the Greater New York area chapter of The
Daughters of the October Revolution, was plotting to overthrow
the government. Considering the total membership of The
Daughters of the October Revolution consisted of thirteen semicrippled female octogenarians, I found the threat negligible.
Mama thought otherwise.

"We don't have room for her," said the Comrade in question.
With one hand she clutched the lapels of her ratty gray robe to her
throat. Her other hand rhythmically petted the growling Devil
Dog curled up on her lap. With her closely cropped head of steel
gray hair, her large ears, wrinkled skin, and perpetual scowl, my
mother-in-law bore a more than striking resemblance to her bulldog. And right about now she looked two seconds away from
echoing one of his deep, menacing growls.

I followed Mephisto's slit-eyed doggy grimace to the object of his
own growl. Catherine the Great, my mother's extremely corpulent
white Persian cat, crouched in attack mode on the fireplace mantle.

Mama had feigned innocence when I accused her of an ulterior
motive in naming the cat, but I knew she knew it would annoy the
hell out of Lucille. Anything smacking of Czarist Russia launched
Lucille into seethe mode. I suspected Mama was trying to provoke
the old bat into a stroke.

"Braaaawk!" Ralph kept watch over the interlopers from the
relative safety of the top of the bookcase. Luckily, he could take
wing faster than Catherine the Great could pounce, thanks to her
over-indulgent mistress.

I glanced around the room; a queasy feeling tiptoed its way
into my stomach. "Where's Seamus?"

"Dead"

"What!"

"He's dead," said Ralph, with a squawk for emphasis. "Troilus
and Cressida. Act Five, Scene Ten."

"Honestly, Anastasia, when are you going to get rid of that filthy
flying rat?"

I glared at Ralph, daring him to comment further. He glared
back but kept his beak shut. Sometimes Ralph seemed smarter
than all the rest of us put together, and I suspected he knew it.

I turned back to my mother. "Forget Ralph, Mama. What happened to Seamus?"

"That damn parrot of Penelope's will outlive us all. What is he?
A hundred years old by now?"

"Mama! Can we please get back to Seamus?"

With her classic Talbots fashion sense and chin-length, L'Oreal-
enhanced natural strawberry blonde waves, on a good day Flora
Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O'Keefe bore a striking resemblance to Ellen Burstyn as the older Doris in Same
Time Next Year.

Today was not a good day.

Seamus's death and jet lag had taken their toll on my mother.
She still looked like Ellen Burstyn, but more like the lonely widow
Sara Goldfarb in Requiem for a Dream.

Mama's face became a haggard mask of resignation. She inhaled deeply, releasing the breath in a dramatic sigh. "Face it, Anastasia. When it comes to men, I'm cursed." She collapsed onto
one of the two overstuffed easy chairs that flanked the bay window. "He had to kiss that damn Blarney Stone! I told him it was
dangerous, but would he listen to me? No!"

I'd never been to Ireland, let alone Blarney Castle, but I assumed they had certain safeguards in place for such a popular
tourist attraction. "He fell?"

"No, no, no. He suffered a fatal cerebral aneurysm when he
leaned backward to kiss that damn stone. Died instantly. And on
our six-month anniversary!"

Poor Seamus. So much for the luck of the Irish. And poor
Mama.

Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O'Keefe
had a knack for losing husbands. With Seamus gone, she was fast
approaching Liz Taylor territory. In truth, Mama didn't lose them
so much as they wound up dying on her in a succession of odd
circumstances. My own father had drowned while scuba diving in
the Yucatan on their twenty-fifth anniversary.

A year and a half later, Mama remarried. Husband Number
Two, an adventure-seeking daredevil, lasted four months before the bulls gored him to death as he raced through the streets of
Pamplona.

Number Three made it to their first anniversary. Barely. Highly
allergic to shellfish and having forgotten to bring along his epinephrine, he asphyxiated after inhaling the aroma from a sizzling
platter of shrimp that a waiter carried past their table.

Number Four lost his footing at the Grand Canyon and plunged
to his death during their honeymoon.

So now Mama was once again widowed. A temporary situation. Mama was the kind of woman who needed a man. And
whenever Mama was between husbands, she came to stay with us.

Except that every other time Mama had camped out at Casa
Pollack during a husband-hunting campaign, we hadn't been stuck
with Lucille. If I bunked them together, would either still be alive
tomorrow morning?

The grandfather clock in the hall bonged two-thirty. Mephisto
growled.

Catherine the Great hissed.

Ralph squawked.

Lucille glared a SCUD missile at Mama.

Mama countered with a Patriot missile aimed back at Lucille.

Batswin and Robbins suspected me of murder.

Ricardo wanted his fifty grand, or else.

A multi-species World War III was about to erupt in my living
room.

How lucky could one slightly overweight, more than slightly in
debt, middle-aged widow get?

King Solomon would have thrown his arms up in defeat if he'd
had to figure out sleeping arrangements at Casa Pollack that night.
Nick had already doubled-up in Alex's room, sleeping on the trundle. That left the trundle under the twin in his room, where Lucille
now slept, and my master bedroom with its queen-size bed and
attached bathroom.

Call me selfish, but having already lost my husband and my financial security last week, I wasn't about to give up half my bed
this week. Not even to my mother.

I took a mental deep breath and laid out the sleeping arrangements. "Mama, I'm afraid you and Lucille will have to share a
room.

"Absolutely not," said Lucille. She grabbed her cane and
pounded it into the carpet. Mephisto yelped. "She can sleep with
you. My room is too small."

I refused to let my mother-in-law boss me around in my own
home. Comrade Lucille could share. Like a good communist. "No"
I turned to my mother, "Mama, I'm sorry."

Her jaw dropped, her eyes widened in horror. "Anastasia, you
can't-"

"I'm the one paying room and board," said Lucille, her voice
rising several octaves. "That entitles me to a room of my own."

"Paying?" Mama's brow wrinkled. "You mean she's not just visiting?"

"Unfortunately."

"That woman's living with you?" Mama's shrieked question did
wonders for the headache that had begun the moment I walked in
the house-ratcheting it up from a quartet of percussionists to the
entire New York Philharmonic pounding out the 1812 Overture. At glass-shattering decibels. I quickly explained about the fire. And
Lucille's life savings going up in flames.

Mama turned on Lucille. "Wake up and smell the twenty-first
century, you stupid old Bolshevik cow. The Depression ended over
sixty years ago. Ever hear of FDIC? Banks have been safe for decades."

Lucille pounced on Mama. "Capitalists like you caused the Depression. It happened once; it can happen again. FDIC or no
FDIC. Ever hear of Enron? Or Tyco? Or WorldCom?"

That was hitting below the belt. Mama had heard of all three.
She'd lost much of her retirement savings because of them. And
Lucille knew it.

"Enough!" I grabbed my mother's suitcase and marched down
the hall. On my way to what used to be Nick's room, I grabbed a
set of fresh sheets, a blanket, and a pillow from the linen closet.
Behind me I heard Mama and Lucille continuing their political
knock-down, drag-out boxing match.

Forget detente. I needed an iron Curtain between their beds.

After dumping Mama's suitcase and the linens, I headed for the
kitchen. Yanking open the freezer door, I grabbed a bag of frozen
peas, a spoon, and the last carton of Ben and Jerry's I'd be able to
afford for Lord knew how many decades. After settling into bed, I
placed the bag of peas across my pounding forehead, closed my
eyes, and savored a large spoonful of Chunky Monkey.

Thirty minutes later I was basking on a deserted, sunny beach in
Maui. Sipping a frozen pina colada, I sank my toes into the warm sand and my mind into the latest of Janet Evanovich's Stephanie
Plum books.

As I inhaled the rich scent of orchids, the ground began to
rumble and shake. An angry Kilauea yanked me off the sand and
out of REM sleep.

I glanced at the illuminated digital display on my alarm clock.
With a groan, I rolled over to confront the volcano. "Mama, please,
I have to get up for work in a few hours. I can't have you sleeping
with me."

"I simply cannot share a room with that woman!" she said,
burrowing under the blankets beside me. In the process she appropriated more than her fair share of both the mattress and the
quilts.