An Affair to Dismember (8 page)

“I won’t take you because I don’t feel like it,” Jane said, her voice even and calm. “I won’t lend you my car because the judge suspended your license after you got a DUI while your baby was in the backseat without a seat belt. The baby you lost to social services.”

Yikes. The Brady Bunch this was not.

Christy took notice of me for the first time and had the decency to blush. “What are you doing here?” she asked, none too charitably.

“Gladie just came by to see if we needed anything,” said Betty, tapping out her cigarette in an ashtray.

“We could use some sanity,” Jane suggested. Christy took a seat and lit up as well. The only ones in the kitchen who were not smoking were me and Cindy, who was dancing in and out of the kitchen in a purple caftan, happily rummaging in a purse as she spun around. I was pretty sure I felt tumors forming in my chest.

I didn’t want to make chitchat. My enthusiasm had waned, less because I was sucking in the equivalent of two packs of smokes than because of the fact that—faced with all three daughters—I was no closer to discovering which one thought their father had been murdered. All three daughters, it turned out, were blond.

Just eat the cake and leave
, I told myself. Why was I there in the first place? I didn’t want to get involved with these people. Of course the old man had slipped and hit his head. Old men did those kinds of things. It happened all the time.

I took a bite of the cake. The oozy frosting settled on my tongue. My taste buds came to life, triggering my fight-or-flight response, and I nearly spit out the cake. It was awful. Worse than awful. Was Betty trying to poison me?

Emily Post would have swallowed the cake. She wouldn’t have cared if it was gross or poison. But Bird Gonzalez would have spit that baby out halfway across the room. I weighed the advice of two sage women, and I came out on the side of my hairdresser.

It was not worth the calories. Or food poisoning, for that matter. I scooted the cake over to the side of my mouth between my cheek and gums and asked to use the restroom. I spit the cake into the toilet and flushed it. Bird was a wise woman. I felt invigorated and empowered.

It was time to get out of there. I had to reprioritize my priorities. I needed to match up my new neighbor and let Randy Terns rest in peace.

I opened the bathroom door and walked face-first into Jane, who must have been waiting for me to get out of the bathroom. She wasn’t her usual smug self. Instead, concern etched every line in her face. She put her index finger up to her lips in the international shushing gesture. She moved in close to me until I felt her cigarette-laden breath on my face.

“I have to speak to you,” she whispered. “Please, you have to help me.” Sweat beaded on her forehead, and I smelled fear on her.

I nodded.

“I have to talk to you about something,” she said. “I have to talk to you about murder.”

“The blond daughter,” I whispered in realization. My heart beat with a
thud thud thud
, surely loud enough to bring attention to our conversation from the rest of the house. I was rooted to the spot, unable to move. I was riveted, determined to hear what Jane had to say.

Then Peter, the Porsche driver, appeared in the hallway from nowhere. He was still wearing a very expensive suit, but it was wrinkled, and his tie was askew.
“Jane, are you bothering Gladie?” He was clearly irritated at her.

“Get lost,” Jane told him. Gone was the worried Jane of a few moments ago; the hard-as-nails Jane was back. “Gladie and I were just talking. She wants to talk to me.”

“Yeah, right,” he said. “Nobody wants to talk to you, Jane.” He grabbed my upper arm and gave me a strong tug, sending me flying past Jane. He walked me down the hall, my arm clutched in his hand in a viselike grip. I turned long enough to see Jane wave at me, her cat smile plastered on her face.

“Toodles,” she called.

Outside, I found my voice. “Let go of me! I wanted to talk to Jane. You interrupted us.”

He tightened his grip. “You don’t want to talk to her. She’s nuts. She has nothing to say.” His eyes twirled around in their sockets. Crazy eyes. “You want to know about Jane’s childhood love of cutting off the heads of her sisters’ Barbies? Or maybe you want to hear about Jane’s first and last babysitting job. Huh? You wanna know about that?” He shook me.

“Not particularly,” I said.

“I have to talk to you,” he continued. “I’ve learned something very disturbing about my family. I need you to solve the murder.”

I gasped. Murder was the catchword of the day. Did everyone in the Terns household think Randy Terns was murdered?

“Why don’t you go to the police?” I asked.

“You think I haven’t? Of course I did. They don’t believe me. The coroner ruled it an accident, and that’s all they care about. Listen, I don’t care if my father was killed, but it’s not the end, Gladie. I might be next.”

“You?” I breathed. “Did someone threaten you?”

“I know who you are. I know about your grandmother.
She tells everyone that you’re just like her, that you have the gift. And since she won’t help me …”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked. He was scary and hurting my arm, but I wanted to know what the very disturbing thing about his family was and what it had to do with murder and why he might be next. The disturbing thing had to be worse than Barbie heads, babysitting horrors, and DUIs with babies in the backseat. Nothing could have stopped me from hearing what he had to say. I wished I had a stiff drink or at least some popcorn to eat while he spoke.

“Is there a problem?” Arthur Holden, my new neighbor and possible new client, seemingly materialized from thin air. He was dazzling in the daylight. He looked yummy. I thought about licking him: much tastier than Betty’s coconut cake and well worth the calories.

“Piss off,” said Peter. “Can’t you see we’re talking?”

“I see that you’re manhandling this young lady, and I want you to stop.” He’d called me young. I sucked in my stomach.

“Who the hell are you?” Peter demanded.

“I’m the one telling you that you better let go of her and go back in your house before I get in your face.” Arthur Holden stood a good head taller than Peter. Some kind of silent man code passed between them. Peter had sized up the situation and decided on the wisest choice of action. He let go of my arm, scowled at me, and went back into the house.

“Are you okay?” Holden asked. He tenderly lifted up my arm for inspection. It was red and throbbing and would probably be black and blue for days. All I felt were the tiny pinpricks of sexy filtering through his fingertips.

“I got no information,” I said, waking out of my haze. “You interrupted Peter before he could tell me anything.
Everybody talked about murder and they wanted to spill the beans to me, but I didn’t get any information. I had to spit out cake!”

“This sounds like an issue for the police,” he said. I couldn’t argue with his reasoning, but I was obsessed, and I was still annoyed at him for blocking me from getting at the truth.

“Look, the man was shaking you.” He touched my arm gently. “Welts,” he said with sympathy. Goose bumps rose all over my arms. I gasped. “Are your eyes blue or green?” he asked, leaning down.

I pulled my arm away and swayed in place. “Stay on your property,” I mumbled. I ran halfway across the street when I remembered. “I’m finding you somebody. Your soul mate,” I called to him.

“OH, GOOD. You’re alive. I was about to call the cops. What’d you find out?” Bridget demanded over the phone. I had called her as soon as I got home.

The kitchen phone was plastered to my face, and I had a mouthful of chili cheese dog in my mouth. Grandma was busy in the parlor with the Cannes Ladies’ Craft Show board, discussing the importance of chairs made of twigs. She had kindly left me a lunch of hot dogs and onion rings on the kitchen table.

“They’re all crazy. I am never going over to that house again. I’m with my grandmother on this one. I wish Betty Terns would sell and they would all leave”—after they told me about Randy Terns’ murder. Was that so much to ask?

I told Bridget all about crazy Jane and crazy Peter and Holden running interference.

“Sounds like Arthur Holden has a Superman complex,” Bridget said. “Men are all alike. How dare he think he can save you? You’re some kind of hopeless
female, and you need his help? You can’t take care of yourself like a grown-up? Tell me more about his chest.”

We talked all about murder, the crazy Terns family, and Holden’s body parts until I finished the hot dog and two orders of onion rings.

“You know, Gladie, you can’t just let this Randy Terns death drop,” Bridget said. “Those crazy people think you can help, and they might not leave you alone until you do. You might have to see this through just so they’ll get off your back.”

“I’ve got other things to worry about. I have to fix up Holden. I have to get my waistline back, and I just ate thirty-five hundred calories. I should have spit.”

“It sounds like Holden is an easy one. Pick a match at random from your grandmother’s index cards.”

I jumped a foot off my chair as the kitchen door swung in and slammed into the wall with a loud crack. Lucy Smythe stood in the doorway in a sparkling blue and black Chanel cocktail dress and four-inch black Prada pumps with white silk bows. She had an air of achievement around her, as if she had just conquered Mount Everest or the Hermès twice-yearly sale.

She pointed at my phone with an imperious gesture. “Whoever that is you are talkin’ to, darlin’, tell them you will call them back later. You and me, we’ve got business to attend to.”

“Who’s that? Who’s that?” asked Bridget on the phone. I hung up. She would figure it out eventually. There weren’t too many Southern belles in Cannes.

“You can’t go like that,” Lucy said, eyeing me.

“Can’t go where?”

“You are going to die when you hear what I’ve got to tell you. Let’s get you changed. Come on, get up. I’m not going with you dressed like that.”

A minute later, we stood in front of my closet. Lucy
shook her head. “I don’t believe this. I know there’s more.”

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“If you tell me where the real clothes are,” she said, tapping her foot on the floor.

“These are the real clothes. These are my clothes, Lucy.”

Lucy poked my chest with her manicured finger. “You are holding out on me, Gladys Burger. I’m convinced there is an inner tramp in there somewhere.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and don’t call me Gladys.”

“I know they’re around here. I can smell fashion, you know.”

Lucy walked slowly around my room, pointing at drawers and doors. “Duck, duck, duck, duck,” she said, “and goose.” She stopped at a narrow door in the corner. I ran and threw myself in front of it.

“It’s nothing. It’s the ironing board,” I cried.

Lucy tried to push me away. We struggled. She was stronger than she looked. “This has to happen, darlin’. You have been a nun for too long.”

She had a point. Besides, I had had enough physical violence for one day. I stood aside. Lucy opened the door. The closet was stuffed with garment bags from ritzy stores, and the floor was lined with shoeboxes.

“I knew it! I knew it! Don’t worry, darlin’. This won’t hurt a bit,” she said, pulling out the garment bags and throwing them on my bed.

“I don’t want to wear them until I lose weight,” I explained.

“Hogwash. Don’t you know that clothes are supposed to fit? They’re not supposed to hang on you like potato sacks. I’m sure the police chief isn’t fond of potato sacks. He didn’t look like the potato sack kind of man. Or your sexy neighbor, either.”

I pawed the ground. “Can I know what’s going on now?” I asked.

“Okay.” Lucy sat on my bed and flipped her hair. “Randy Terns was no ordinary man. Randy Terns was a bank robber.”

“A what?”

“A bank robber. A criminal. A thug. A murdered ex-con. Gladie, the plot thickens.”

My mind raced. Did Randy Terns’ family know of his criminal past? Maybe Peter was actually looking for gold in the walls, like my grandmother said. Didn’t bank robbers hide their loot in walls and floors? Maybe the family was in danger, and that’s why they needed my help.

“I recognized his name when you mentioned it yesterday at lunch,” she said. “Already a murder in our sleepy town got my attention, but there was something about his name. I knew it was important. I couldn’t remember where I had heard his name before. It bothered me all night. Randy Terns. Why did his name sound so familiar? Then, around two-thirty this morning it hit me like a ton of bricks. Of course, Randy Terns was a bank robber. A little-known bank robber, obviously, but a bank robber all the same. I had no idea he lived here. Gladie, this is really big.”

Lucy pulled out a red dress from one of the garment bags.

“This will do nicely,” she said.

“Where are we going?”

“We’re going to Uncle Harry’s house. He knew Randy Terns, and he’s going to help us solve this case.”

This case? Were we on a case? Was this an episode of
Law and Order
?

I unbuttoned my blouse.

“Years ago there was an idiot walking around dressed like a tree and robbing banks,” Lucy said. “You’re probably
too young to remember. I’m a few years older than you, and I was just a child then, and it got national news. Uncle Harry mentioned it to me only recently. That’s why it was fresh in my mind.”

“A tree-dressing bank robber?”

“Randy Terns painted his face green and stuck branches and leaves to his body with duct tape. Then he went into a bank with a gun. He got a bunch of cash, but he had trouble running away. Trees don’t move fast, you know.”

I tried picturing Randy Terns dressed as a tree, robbing a bank. It wasn’t something a person saw every day.

“What a rack,” Lucy announced, eyeing my cleavage. The red dress was cut a little low with cap sleeves and flowed down to just above my knees.

“You think it’s too much?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? You can rule the world in that dress. That’s the original va-va-voom dress. But be careful. You don’t want the va-va-voom to bust out altogether and take someone’s eye out.”