Deadly Dues (22 page)

“I don't want you to think I have any other motive for visiting.”

“Oh, I wouldn't,” I smiled back at him. I was such a grown-up.

“I find you slightly attractive, if that makes you feel any better.”

Good grief, the man was behaving as if I had torn off my clothes and thrown myself at him. I had no recollection of doing any such thing. I found him attractive, but I hadn't said or done anything to reveal that. Either he had a huge ego, or he had a gift for reading subtext that went far beyond the norm.

“How nice,” I said warmly. “I am so flattered that you wanted to share that information with me.”

He paused. “Well, your eyes really had me going now and then, but you are somewhat of a loose cannon.”

Maybe it lost a little in translation but I got the drift. The loose cannon part I didn't buy into, but then everybody has different perceptions. Some people might find me adorable, effervescent, unusual, spontaneous, resourceful, determined, emotional, a true artist. Others might find me strange, annoying, unpredictable . . . a loose cannon. Still, I had to note, nobody ever before in the history of civilization had ever found me only
slightly
attractive.

Of course it didn't bother me. Not much. Not much at all. I had other things to worry about. Like Stan's body and Zonko, and then, yikes, Stan's missing body, and then, although I didn't like to dwell on it, this new trend of people trying to kill me.

“I know how difficult that must be,” I said, with a pleasant smile plastered into my dimples. “So many times . . .” I paused and tried to strike just the right note of antebellum, blended with contemporary belle. “I have had men desperately in love with me—”
I really worked to keep the Southern accent out of my voice. Damn that mini-series
—
so many years ago and that accent had never left me . . .
“—and I had to tell them . . . No! No! I am pledged to another!”

Oh, good grief. If he bought into that pile of nonsensical baloney, he had to be the biggest idiot I had ever encountered. I groaned inwardly at how low I had sunk.

A pause. I knew that he had probably lost all respect for me and was going to tell me that I was insultingly transparent. Well, give a girl a break. I was doing the best I could under awkward circumstances. I blessed my lucky stars that I hadn't made a pass at him. And that since he never watched commercial television, he wouldn't recognize the dialogue.

He looked at me sombrely.

“Wasn't that a line from a movie?”

“Mini-series.”

He shook his head and made his way to the door.

“Actors.”

“What? What did you say?”

“Actors. You can't tell from one minute to the next if they're being real.”

“Excuse me?” Now that he was disparaging my profession, I was truly insulted.

He smiled faintly and shrugged as he went out the door. Was it my imagination or was he being somewhat patronizing?

“I'll tell you what's real.” I followed him to the door, gearing up into a rant. “
Real
is a man dying on top of me.
Real
is being choked in the middle of a shoe sale.
Real
is losing my dog. I know what
real
is, and what real emotions are. And I am grateful that I am capable of feeling all of it, even when it's painful, because that's what makes a person truly alive!”

He turned in surprise and opened his mouth, probably intending to insult me further. But I was too quick for him.

I slammed the door in his face.

I blew out a breath and felt much better. Nothing like a good rant to relax a person.

And I was on my own once more, trying to stay alive.

• • •

That healthy rant didn't decrease my need for a friendly, nonjudgmental ear, preferably one attached to a body that was holding a plate of hot food.

I punched in Pete's number and got his recording. I left a clear and measured message, along the lines of “Oh God, I feel so awful and I need to talk to somebody and I was in a dumpster and do you have any of those great squash tarts or maybe a tourtière hanging around in your kitchen? Call me on my cell. I am going out to look for Horatio.”

I hung up and gagged at my idiocy. In e-mail, there is the convention of recalling troublesome or inaccurate e-mails. How does one do this with phone messages? It is humiliating to call back and ask the person to delete the message because most answering machines play the idiotic messages in order and they will have already listened to your first edition of drivel before encountering your second edition of different drivel.

The next number I dialed was Geoff's. He answered, breathing heavily.

“Hey, Lu, baby, how are you?”

“You're drunk,” I said.

“Not drunk,” he breathed.

I heard a high-pitched moan on the other end of the phone.

“Right. You're busy,” I sighed.

“You bet,” said Geoff. “Talk later.” He emitted a groan and clicked off. I heard the dial tone and wondered why I was the only person in the world not engaged in amorous activities. Now that I thought of it, I was not the only one. Bent was always alone. Pete was alone and lonely since Sally had left him. Gretchen had lovers, but rarely brought anybody home to Chez Havisham. Stan and Sherilyn were the only constant couple I knew, and they were pretty frightening.

And after my conversation with Gretchen, I was no longer sure they
were
a happy couple.

My phone rang.

“Pete?”

It was Geoff.

“Hey, Lu. You need me? I can come over. I'm not
that
busy.” I heard an outraged female yelp from his end of the phone, and then a little
oof
from Geoff, as if somebody had punched him.

“Hey, I'm fine. Let's talk tomorrow.”

He signed off, sounding relieved, and I returned to my thoughts about Stan and Sherilyn.

Where was Stan? Or what used to be Stan? He was a horrible person, but he didn't deserve to be carted around town like a flea market find.

That brought me to Stan's handkerchief. I had been so distracted that I now realized I hadn't really examined it. All the rummaging through the dumpster debris must have clogged some of my brain cells. Hunting for a dog who clearly wasn't out roaming the streets, while ignoring a major clue?

I rummaged for plastic gloves under my kitchen sink and found two lefties, with no right glove in sight.

I wrangled them on and pulled the horrible hanky from the right boot by the door. Gagging, I ran up the stairs to the bathroom, holding it at arm's length. I closed the sink drain and plopped it in the sink. Ran hot water and organic household cleaner on it. Where are the environmentally incorrect powerhouse chemicals when you need them? Emptied the water, holding the hanky in place. Did it again. And again, this time with shampoo. I rinsed it maybe only twenty-five times. I sprayed lavender on it (lavender is a mild antiseptic, although I doubt any aromatherapy bottle labelled Lavender Dreams would do much good in this case). Finally, I figured I could take off the gloves (my right hand hurt only a little bit from wearing a left glove on it for half an hour— nothing a good chiropractor couldn't fix), and I shook out the hanky, holding it by one corner.

Something clunked onto my bathroom counter. Something gleaming, hard and brassy. It was a safety deposit key.

This is wonderful, I thought. How handy to have a safety deposit key and not a clue regarding the whereabouts of the box it matched.

My cell phone rang. Holding the key in my now overly disinfected hand, I ran to answer. Not desperate for human contact, no, not me.

“Hello?” I said calmly.

“Man, Lu, you sound terrible. You okay?” asked Pete, his voice warm and concerned.

I took a few deep breaths.

“Are you baking?”

“I'm always baking. Come on over.”

So I grabbed my handbag (four dollars, Kenneth Cole, Sunrise Flea Market, and I must note, a vastly superior Kenneth Cole to the one Sherilyn had sent my way), sneaked out my door, scurried into the Sunfire, slammed the door, pressed the lock (not that it always worked), backed down my driveway with an unpromising rumble, and headed towards Pete's place. I was such a coward.

Only when I was on 17th Avenue did I realize I was still clutching the safety deposit key. I even had an imprint of the number 247 on my palm. Great. Hope no hand commercials came up in the next few days. I started imagining a scene in which my beautifully arranged dead body washed up on shore, my hand elegantly stretched out, with the imprint of 247 on my palm.
Lu, stop that. You are not going to be washed up on shore. For one thing, you are nowhere near a shore.

I decided not to be so creative about my future and concentrated on getting to Pete's place. I stuffed the key into my bag, steering with one hand.

When I arrived at Pete's bungalow, I pulled into his driveway, climbed out of my car and took a moment to breathe in the night air. I might be frightened, threatened, de-dogged and no doubt fired from my job with the overly dressed clown, but at least I could appreciate a crisp fall evening. The leaves settled around the trees in Pete's yard in bouquets of orange and rust, which I could just see in the lights from Pete's windows. His home was so civil, so comforting.

I walked through the disintegrating leaves on Pete's side walkway, my Rockport loafers kicking them aside like pieces of old confetti. How unlike him. Usually he was out with a leaf blower the moment the first brave little stem hit the ground. I knocked on his kitchen door. He must have been waiting on the other side, because the door whipped open immediately. I squinted into the warm, bright light from his kitchen.

“Hey, Lu. Come on in. I have parsnip pie.”

Parsnip pie. Was this a great life or what? Pete put something into his parsnip pie (Was it cumin? Cinnamon? Cloves?) which made one bite a transforming experience. I had arrived at just the right time.

Pete looked even worse than he had on my last visit. The dark shadows under his eyes were more pronounced, and his apron looked as if it needed a good wash and maybe a disinfection, too. I hear that baking is great therapy, but even I know that you have to clean the gunk off yourself every now and again. He had a five o'clock shadow that was way old, and I was shocked to see that he had major white hairs in his bristle. I almost offered to do a Miss Clairol on him, then thought better of it. I could barely handle my own beauty treatments. Why inflict my incompetence with hair dye on him? Besides, men could get away with the greying look: it made them respectable, dignified and sexy in an authoritative way. Women counted the grey hairs and knew that until society went through a major revolution, we were at risk of becoming invisible unless we made a lot of noise. Luckily, I was accustomed to making a lot of noise.

I threw my bag on the floor and collapsed into a chair at the table. Pete slid a plate in front of me.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

I did, and inhaled. It was wonderful. Warm, spicy. A scent that took me to the casbah and back.

“Open wide,” he said.

I obliged, and he spooned a mouthful of pie into me. Heaven.

I chewed, and moaned, and felt the best I had in days.

“Oh, Pete,” I murmured, in the middle of a chew, “why bother with acting? You could have your own restaurant. Or at the very least, a catering company. Or a bakery.”

“That's what Sally always said.”

There was an awkward pause while I looked at what was left of the glorious pie and tried to decide what I could say that wasn't a stupid cliché, patronizing or just plain dumb. Sally had left him and it was unfair. She had taken the kids, and Pete now received regular missives from her lawyer. All because Stan had convinced the world, including Sally, that Pete had been having an affair with Sherilyn. Anybody who knew Pete, with his quiet substance and authenticity, was offended by the thought. Pete and Sherilyn? No way.

“I'm sorry, Pete. I hate to see you so sad. Stan was such a liar.”

He fidgeted with the serving fork for a moment.

“I always felt bad that I never told you the truth, Lu. You're just about my best friend, aside from Sally.”

I looked at him, wondering what was coming. A confession? I wanted to run out the door, but he was between the door and me.

“I did have a thing with Sherilyn. It was only one night. I thought nobody would ever know.”

I stared at him blankly, realizing that my powers of perception were rapidly diminishing into that of a fourth-grader. Pete and Sherilyn? No way. Okay, maybe he fell for the pink lipstick. Or the cleavage.

I looked at him, stunned, the parsnip pie trapped in my mouth. I stared at him, finally chewing it away.

“How could you? She and Stan have done horrible things to all of us. How could you?”

“I hate myself,” he said softly. “It just happened.”

And he had denied, denied, denied. And we had believed him. He had looked stunned when Sally had left him, and knowing how he adored her, none of us believed for a moment that he would ever be unfaithful.