Dying in Style (23 page)

Josie sidestepped that shopping lesson for the more serious issue. “Are you sure? Grandma hates toe rings. She says they’re tacky. She wouldn’t let me wear one in high school. I know she wasn’t buying it for you.”

“I don’t think she was buying it for anyone,” Amelia said. “It was a good price, so she got it.”

That didn’t make sense. Maybe her mother bought the toe ring as a gag gift. Except Jane didn’t go in for thirty-dollar jokes. She had a little money now, thanks to her pension and Social Security, but she’d spent her life scrimping and saving. Thirty dollars was serious money. She wouldn’t throw it away.

Maybe Mom had secretly wanted a toe ring all her life and finally indulged. Josie had a sudden vision of her mother wearing leopard thong underwear and toe rings under her staid pantsuits and sensible flats.

Josie smiled for the first time that day.

“Well, it’s your grandma’s money,” she said. “She worked hard for it. If she wants a toe ring, more power to her.”

“Can I have an ankle bracelet if I buy it with my own money?” Amelia said.

“Absolutely not,” Josie said. “You are not wearing an ankle bracelet. You are nine years old.”

“But Zoe wears one.”

Precocious Zoe also wore padded bras, stick-on nails, eyeliner—and probably a diaphragm. She was the bane of Josie’s existence.

“I don’t care what Zoe wears,” Josie said. “You’re not getting an ankle bracelet.”

“Why not? I’ll pay for it.”

“Because I’m the mom and you’re the kid,” Josie said.

“It’s not fair.” Amelia stuck out her lower lip like a Ubangi princess in an old
National Geographic.

“Life isn’t fair,” Josie said. “When you get your own house, you can do it your way.”

Three mom clichés in three sentences. Josie was mortified. She sneaked a look at her daughter. Amelia took the pompous parental remarks in stride. Josie was glad they were in the car. Amelia talked more there. At home, she’d started lapsing into long silences, which Josie feared were a prelude to permanent teenage sullenness.

Her daughter was getting a new voice. Amelia wasn’t really a teenager yet, but she didn’t sound like a little girl anymore. She wanted her own way all the time. This afternoon, when Josie picked her up at the Barrington School, the first thing Amelia did was take over the radio. She was also getting very opinionated.

I wonder where she gets that from? Josie thought and smiled for the second time.

She glanced at the dashboard clock. It was 3:02. Josie switched to a local news station.

“Mooom, what are you doing?” Amelia said.

“I have to listen to the newscast. Then you can switch back to your station.”

“We’ll be home by then.” Amelia stuck out her lip again.

“—that makes the third murder this month,” the news announcer finished.

Murder? Josie hoped she hadn’t missed Olga’s story while she was bickering with Amelia for the radio.

“Another suspicious death in the Danessa Celedine case today,” the announcer said. “A sales associate at the Plaza Venetia store was found shot to death in her South Side home. The victim’s name has been withheld pending notification of next of kin. Police will not say if the victim’s death is related to the recent murders of the entrepreneur and her longtime companion, Serge Orloff.”

They won’t say. But they know, Josie thought.

The announcer said, “In Washington, Missouri senator—”

“Okay, you can switch it back, Amelia.”

“Did you want the story about the lady who was shot to death?” Amelia said.

“Yes,” Josie said, as she negotiated a tricky left turn into traffic.

“Did you know she was going to be dead?”

Josie nearly ran off the road. “What? No, of course not. Listen, would you like a Granny Smith pie for dessert tonight?”

“With ice cream?” Amelia said.

“Absolutely,” Josie said.

“Yeah! And macaroni for dinner?”

“That, too.”

“No salad?” Amelia raised one eyebrow. This was the ultimate demand.

“None. But you’ll have to eat some broccoli.”

“Yay! I hate salad.”

Apple pie and macaroni and cheese was Amelia’s favorite dinner. After a day when Josie had discovered a dead body, had lunch with a suburban siren and nearly accused an innocent woman of murdering her baby, she needed to do something wholesome. The kid didn’t care if her pie had a prefab crust. Josie felt like a magazine mom when she had one of her semi-homemade pies in the oven.

Pounding the top crust with a rolling pin helped her think. She really needed to figure out the Serge and Danessa murders. She couldn’t see any connection between the three victims. Olga’s death could be a break-in in a bad neighborhood, but Josie didn’t think so. It was too much of a coincidence. It was too soon after the other two deaths.

If Olga had been blackmailing Serge or Danessa, they both had a reason to kill the snoopy saleswoman. But they’d already been murdered when Olga was killed. Someone else had to be involved. Was that person involved in the fake nuclear weapons scam, or was there some other reason?

Who? And why?

Josie had no idea. Unless—wait a minute. Josie still believed Serge’s death was personal, not a professional hit. What if Serge and Danessa had been killed by one of his jealous lovers, and Olga had figured out who the murderer was? Smart Olga. Serge had a taste for rich women. Olga must have thought she could bleed the killer forever.

Josie ran the tart Granny Smith apples through the Cuisinart, then set out the other ingredients: lemon juice, cinnamon, nutmeg, brown sugar, white sugar—

Oops. The sugar canister was empty. Amelia probably used the last of it on her cereal. Josie checked the sugar bowl. Also empty. She’d loaded her coffee with sugar after she came home from Olga’s. I can’t believe this, Josie thought. I actually need to borrow a cup of sugar.

She went up the steps to her mother’s flat and knocked on the door.

“Moooom?” She sounded like Amelia.

No answer. Jane wasn’t home. Josie stood on tiptoe and felt along the top of the molding for the key. She didn’t feel guilty going inside. Jane was always breaking into her place.

“Mom?” Josie said as she stood inside the door. Her mother’s home was unnaturally quiet. The TV was off. The green couch sagged against the wall, the slipcovers gone dingy at the arms. The rug was worn, too. One lamp had a tear in the shade.

When did Mom start letting the place go? Josie wondered. She’d always been a good housekeeper.

“Mom?” Josie called again.

There was no sign of her mother.

Josie marched boldly to the kitchen, sniffed, and wrinkled her nose. The trash needed to be taken out. Unwashed dishes were piled in the sink. The floor could use a good mopping. Josie’s shoes stuck to the tile. This was so unlike her mother.

I should have checked on her more, Josie thought. Jane was always popping into Josie’s home, but Josie rarely made the trip upstairs. I was so busy keeping Mom out of my life, I never bothered looking at hers. Mom needs help. I’ll come up and clean the house for her.

Josie looked around the untidy kitchen and wondered if Jane was aging suddenly, or if her mother just needed a little help. Either way, Josie had a date with a mop and a broom.

On the old Formica kitchen counter was the same cheery red canister set that had been there since Josie was a kid. The sugar canister felt light and slightly sticky. Josie opened it. Empty. She looked in the kitchen cabinets. There was no sugar—and hardly any food.

Jane usually kept enough canned goods to ward off a famine. Josie didn’t like this.

She opened the old-fashioned walk-in pantry. Jane always kept it stocked with sale staples, including flour, sugar and enough salt to preserve downtown Maplewood. Josie sighed with relief when she saw its crowded shelves.

She looked again. That wasn’t food.

There were hundreds of cardboard boxes. Some were the size of a shoebox. Others were bigger than an end table. All were from the Home Shopping Network. Most had never been opened.

What on earth was going on?

Josie ran to the hall closet and yanked the door open. The closet was crammed with unopened packages. More boxes bulged out of the linen closet. The closet still smelled of lavender, but it didn’t hold a single sheet or towel.

In her mother’s bedroom Josie was relieved to see the crisp ruffled spread and pink china lamps. She smelled Jane’s familiar Chanel cologne. The closet doors were discreetly closed. Josie prayed she’d find her mother’s clothes on their padded hangers.

They were gone. All of them. Josie stared at hordes of boxes from the Home Shopping Network, stacked higher than her head. How many thousands of dollars were sitting in that cardboard, unopened, unused and unwanted?

How long had this been going on?

Bits of conversation came back. She heard Amelia saying, “We watched the Home Shopping Network at Grandma’s.”

Jane telling her, “I could buy it cheaper on the Home Shopping Network.”

Amelia saying, “Grandma bought a toe ring last night.”

Josie had thought that was funny. She wasn’t laughing now as she looked at the towering boxes. She ran back into the kitchen. On the counter was a new knife set—from the Home Shopping Network, no doubt. At least Jane used that purchase.

Josie pulled the biggest knife from the set, grabbed a box from the pantry, and slashed it open. Inside was an olive-oil lip-finishing stick for $22.50 plus $4.95 shipping and handling. Josie didn’t even know what a lip-finishing stick was.

Another box held a blond doll, all ruffles and curls, with a fancy $159 price tag. Josie’s mother had never bought Amelia a doll that expensive. This beauty sat unopened in the closet.

The biggest box had a Body by Jake Ab Scissor with a Cut the Fat Program ($229.95). Jane had never worked out in her life.

There were tons of toe rings, earrings and ankle bracelets with hearts, daisies and fake gems.

Josie remembered the sad story of those two elderly brothers who lived in an apartment piled with newspapers. Was her mother turning into them? Why didn’t I notice all these package deliveries? Did Mom schedule them when she knew I’d be working?

Now there was an irony, Josie thought. I shop for a living. Mom lives to shop.

This was sick. But it was her mother’s money. If Jane wanted to spend it on the Home Shopping Network that was her business.

No, it wasn’t. This was a disease, like gambling or drinking. My mother is a shopaholic.

It was almost funny. Except it wasn’t. Jane’s once immaculate apartment had been neglected. So had her appearance. From the looks of her hair, Jane had stopped her weekly trips to the beauty parlor.

Come to think of it, the only places her mother went these days were to the doctor and to Sunday Mass. Jane used to have a long list of activities: dancing, card games, bingo, or “going bumming,” as she called it, with her friends. Jane hadn’t mentioned such things for weeks. Her phone used to ring constantly with invitations. Now Jane’s phone was silent. Josie checked the answering machine. No blinking message light.

Jane had shut herself away with her television, buying gadgets she didn’t need and would never use.

Oh, my God, Josie thought. My mom needs help. I used her as a free babysitter but never bothered checking on her.

When did this start? When did it get out of hand? How could I know so little about my own mother?

Josie could not answer any of those questions.

Chapter 23

“Josie, I want to talk to you.”

Her mom was standing in Josie’s bedroom door, in violation of their privacy agreement.

And I want to talk to you, Josie thought. Why are you hoarding boxes from the Home Shopping Network? What’s happened to you, Mom? Have you looked in the mirror recently?

Jane’s pink tailored pantsuit was a pretty color with her gray hair, but it had a spot of spaghetti sauce on the collar. Her hair had turned dingy. She was wearing the pink plastic earrings she’d bought at Marshalls.

Mom, you have boxes of gold and silver jewelry you’ve never opened. Why are you wearing plastic earrings?

“Mom—” Josie started to say.

“Don’t interrupt me,” Jane said. “I want to talk to you about your date with Stan tonight.”

I’ll tackle Mom tomorrow, Josie decided. One crisis at a time.

“I know you think Stan is dull,” Jane said. “Well, think about where that man who was so exciting got you. Stan is a good provider.”

Josie sighed. All through college, Jane had pushed her into dating budding lawyers, doctors and business tycoons because they were good providers. The men bored her, but who else was there? She didn’t want to marry some Maplewood truck driver.

Josie had dated dozens of young tycoons who talked about “challenges,” “issues-based questions” and ‘’implementing maximum productivity.” They sounded like her father, Robert. At least, the few times she’d talked with him. Robert lived in Chicago with his new wife and family. She hadn’t seen him in five years.

“Mom, Stan is a friend. That’s all he’ll ever be.”

“Friendship is an excellent basis for marriage, Josie,” her mother said. “Your father and I were friends before we married.”

And look what your friend did to you, Josie thought.

Jane thrust out her bulldog jaw, as if she’d read Josie’s mind. “I know our marriage didn’t have a happy ending, but we had many good years together. You can’t deny that.”

Jane was the queen of denial. She’d been deliriously happy with her country club life in Ladue. She’d had the perfect life. She told everyone that Robert worked late because he was a good provider. When Josie was seven, Robert provided himself with a younger, blonder wife.

Jane got minimum alimony and child support and a two-family flat in Maplewood. She nearly died of shame. Maplewood was so low-rent Jane couldn’t admit she lived there. She told her Ladue friends she lived “on the border of Richmond Heights.” They knew better.

Josie, who started like the privileged little girls at the Barrington School, grew up to be a public-school kid in Maplewood. As a child, Josie told herself she didn’t miss her father. She hardly ever saw him. Maplewood had seemed more fun than stuffy Ladue. She’d only wished her mother would quit crying.