Read Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky Online

Authors: Sharon Love Cook

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Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky (22 page)

BOOK: Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky
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I paused, remembering. “Then it hit me like a gale force wind. The only reason I was going through with a wedding was because of her. I didn’t want any of it. I didn’t want an expensive dress I’d never wear again. I didn’t want new pots and pans. I didn’t want to invite people I ordinarily avoided. I hated all the anal details. It seemed like Cal and I were disappearing into this whirlpool with no choice but to go along with it.

“So, in the Lenox China section of Bliss, I handed my mother the plate and told her she was right, the pattern was inappropriate. In fact, the whole store was inappropriate. I would have none of it.”

B.A. whistled. “What did your mother say to that?”

I fished my keys from my bag. “I don’t know. I turned and marched out of the store. I walked home. It was five miles. I could have walked twenty, I felt so good, so free. Not long after that I did the only thing I could under the circumstances. I left Granite Cove.”

“And returned when your mother had a stroke,” Betty Ann added.

I looked at her. “Are you connecting the two, my walking out and her illness? Didn’t we get enough guilt in Sunday school?”

“I didn’t connect the two, you did. It’s plain to me you still feel guilty about your mother. She was devastated when you called off the wedding. You stayed away to avoid dealing with her disappointment.”

I unlocked the car and slid in. “A nice theory, Dr. Zagrobski. Thanks for the free analysis.”

“Rose, I’m your best friend. I’m not judging you. I just want you to see it objectively. After your mother’s death, remember how you insisted your dad move in with you even though he didn’t want to? It was like you were atoning for your sins. You had to make it up to everybody.” When I didn’t answer, she continued. “It explains your obsession with Dr. Klinger.”

“My obsession?” At that, I leaped out of the car, slamming the door.

“Just see it my way,” she said. “You’re a local gal who’s won awards for your writing. Meanwhile, the snooty Women’s Professional League takes no notice. They choose Dr. Klinger, an outsider, as Woman of the Year. Don’t tell me you didn’t resent that. Remember how you referred to her as Dr. Anal?”

When I protested, Betty Ann held up a hand. “Then when Dr. Klinger was murdered, you felt guilty and unworthy all over again. Can’t you see? For you, Vivian Klinger is a mother figure.”

After several moments I spoke. “I do see, Betty Ann. I see that you should have gone to Pawtucket and stayed there.”

She threw her head back and laughed, saying, “Give me a hug.” We rocked back and forth on the asphalt. “Sorry I’m such a big mouth,” she said.

“I’m used to it,” I said, pulling away. “Where are you headed now?”

She jiggled her keys. “It occurred to me that I’m in the parking lot of Marilyn’s goddamn Pie Palace. It’s two-thirty in the morning. Something is wrong with my head, but I can’t fix it by running away.” She got into her car. “Holy crap, I hope I get home before Tiny reads that note.”

“Let him worry for a change,” I said, sliding into the Jetta’s front seat.

She started the ignition and rolled down her window. “Rose?

I leaned out. “Yeah?”

“I just want to say thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Dear Auntie Pearl:

I leave my condo building early in the morning when few tenants are up. Lately, though, I’ve noticed a man who occupies the ground floor unit in front of my assigned parking space. On several occasions he’s been outside on his deck watering the plants. Sometimes his bathrobe falls open, revealing he is naked underneath.

When it first happened, I was in my car and thought I was mistaken. The early morning mist collects on my windshield, making it difficult to see clearly. But after repeated “exposures,” I am certain he is doing it deliberately.

Now I am considering making a formal complaint to management. My roommate, however, says to notify the police. What do you think is the best course of action, Auntie Pearl?

Grossed out in Gloucester

Dear Grossed:

I keep the niftiest item in my glove compartment—a “moisture mitt” for windshield condensation. It sounds like you have that problem as well. Here’s what you do: Take an old pair of white cotton gloves (you may have to ask your mother for hers) and sprinkle with ammonia. Roll them up tightly and put inside a plastic bag, sealing it well.

Stored inside your glove compartment, this little driver’s helper will provide a clear view, no matter what time of day!

Happy motoring!

Auntie Pearl

Twelve
 

On Tuesday, I was searching the archived photos from the Wellesley College yearbooks dated 1981 to 1985 when Yvonne returned from lunch. I knew she had something up her sleeve when she placed a Styrofoam cup on my desk.

“Caramel Mocha Chill. Your favorite,
n’est pas
?”

I stared at the sweating container. “Hey, thanks.”

Yvonne is not in the habit of opening her purse strings unless there’s something in it for her. This was one of those instances. Instead of returning to her workstation, she hefted her buttocks onto the edge of my desk. Leaning toward me in a confidential manner, she said, “I’ve just had the most delightful lunch with Chip Pennyworth.”

“Who’s Chip Pennyworth?”

“He’s the theater director at the community college. He’s going to work with the actors.”

“For the play you’re directing?”


Guys & Dolls.
I can’t tell you how relieved I am. Directing is demanding enough without having to be an acting coach as well.”

“I imagine he’s had a lot of experience.”

“Are you familiar with
The Music Man
?”

“Sure, somewhat.”

“Chip had the leading role at the Ogunquit Theatre in Maine. That was several years ago, of course.” She patted my hand. “You must come to opening night. A percentage of the profits are going to Youth at Risk.”

“What’s that?”

“Instead of sentencing juvenile offenders to a locked facility, the court sends them to theater camp. Isn’t that a marvelous idea?”

“Sounds good. I’ll buy a ticket. Matter of fact, put me down for two. I’ll bring Kevin.”

“Kevin attends the theater?” Her eyebrows rose to her hairline.

“Kevin adores the theater, particularly Ibsen.”

She blinked. “I had no idea.”

I turned back to my monitor. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got one more yearbook to search.”

The following day I forfeited lunch and instead headed for Granite Cove Community Hospital. Doc Moss had been after me to get my thyroid checked. During my last visit I’d complained of a general malaise. Life had all the appeal of a bowl of shredded wheat. I doubted my thyroid was to blame. If anything, I needed sun. Not just an hour or two, but a week in St. Lucia. Such a trip would alleviate my symptoms.

The sky was gray and threatening when I left the house. I took an umbrella. Once inside the hospital, I followed the central hallway to the lab. On the way I passed patients in johnnies, some ambulatory, some in wheelchairs. A thin, elderly man tethered to an IV pole shuffled past. His legs beneath the flimsy gown looked like straws. I was reminded of Shakespeare’s line, “An aged man is but a paltry thing.” Silently, I counted my blessings.

In the lab’s waiting area, I took a seat on a plastic bench. A large woman in green sweatpants sat inside a cubicle at the end of the room. She grunted when the lab tech removed the IV needle from her hand. What nearly made me swoon was the bulging sack suspended above her. While I can watch slice ’n’ dice movies without cringing, faced with real blood, I’m weak kneed.

Before long a young woman in a white lab jacket called my name. Reluctantly, I followed her to the cubicle next to Green Sweatpants. “Roll up your sleeve and hold out your arm,” she said. Running a finger over my inner arm, she said, “Mmm hmm. Please make a fist.”

“They always use a pediatric needle on me,” I reminded her. “My veins are small.”

“I’ll do that,” she said, “soon as I locate one.”

“I’m having a bad vein day.”

It’s my lame joke for those occasions when I have to give blood. Eventually, after fruitless poking and probing, the lab tech calls in the top gun, a phlebotomist who’s been there for decades. They could insert a needle while wearing oven mitts.

That was how the session played out, with me finally jumping to my feet and threatening to leave. “Sit tight,” the young tech said. “I’m calling my supervisor.”

“Finally,” I muttered as she fled the room.

Seconds later, a frizzy-haired woman in a white coat swept into the room. “You the troublemaker?” she asked, peering at me. I nodded meekly, and before you could say “Type A Negative,” she slid a needle into the vein.

I peeked at the free-flowing blood filling the syringe. “Piece of cake.”

After that ordeal, my hemoglobin needed fortification, so I took the elevator to the basement cafeteria. It was after lunch, and most of the tables were empty. I grabbed a tray and headed for the salad bar. The offerings were impressive, everything from deviled eggs to kielbasa. I filled a large plastic bowl with everything but lettuce and stopped at the frozen drink dispenser for a mocha iced coffee with cream.

At the register, the cashier was nowhere in sight. “Excuse me,” I called.

A young woman who’d been chatting behind the soup tureens approached. “Sorry,” she said, sliding my hefty salad onto a scale. “That’s seven dollars and eighty-five cents.”

I handed her a ten dollar bill and glanced at the plastic name tag on her breast pocket reading Sunni: Food Services Associate. “Sunni’s a pretty name,” I said. The remark is an icebreaker, I’ve found. It helps if the name really is pretty and not something like Bertha.

“Thanks. It’s not a nickname. Sunni’s my real name.”

“Have you worked here long?”

“Three years this June,” she said, “part time. I’m taking classes to be a massage therapist.” The row of gold hoop bracelets lining her arm clanged when she handed me my change.

“Then you must have been familiar with Dr. Klinger.”

She made a sad face. “She came in here a couple days a week seeing patients on Bigsby, the third floor mental health unit.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“Dr. Klinger wasn’t what you’d call friendly. She came in alone, always bought the same lunch, always ate it over there by the window.”

I had to ask. “Do you remember what she ordered?”

“Uh huh. A plain salad, lemon on the side.”

I glanced down at my salad mountain smothered in a puddle of blue cheese dressing. “So she never talked to anyone?”

“Not really, though she got to know the kitchen employees. Dr. Klinger helped them out big time.”

“How is that?”

She glanced around before speaking. “It’s not confidential. After all, it was written up in our newsletter,
The Dietary Digest
. See, the hospital had a policy that women working in the kitchen had to wear hair nets, but not the men. It wasn’t a problem until they hired some high school girls who squawked. They wanted to know how come the cook has a ponytail and doesn’t have to wear a hair net. They got a petition going, but before they could get enough signatures, my boss fired them.”

“Sounds like they had a grievance,” I said.

“That’s what Dr. Klinger said.”

“How did she happen to get involved?”

“One of the girls saw her on that cable TV show,
Speak Up, Citizens,
and got in touch. Dr. Klinger contacted the Attorney General’s office.” She giggled. “My boss was written up. After that, you better believe she hated Dr. Klinger.” Sunni leaned closer, lowering her voice. “She said she hoped there was an E. coli outbreak the day Dr. Klinger came in for lunch.”

“She said this to you?”

“She said it to the cook.”

“The ponytail guy?”

“No, the head chef. He’s older. They’re always chit-chatting.” She rolled her eyes.

“I take it your boss isn’t here today?”

“She works three afternoons a week for her sister’s catering company, thank God. Soon as I’m licensed, I’m quitting this place.”

“Good luck,” I said. “By the way, do you know the name of the catering company?” When she shot me a suspicious look, I added, “My boyfriend and I are marrying next year. We’re looking into caterers and bands.”

“Awesome,” she said. “It’s called Clarissa’s Catering, and between you and me, they’re a rip-off.”

I thanked her and asked, “By the way, did the kitchen workers get their jobs back?”

“Yup. Now everyone in food prep has to wear a hair net, guys included.”

“How’d they like that?”

She shrugged. “Most of them shaved their heads.”

Normally, I eat breakfast at home except when I oversleep. That’s what happened the next morning. The thick towel I placed over the alarm clock to muffle the sound had worked too well; I didn’t even hear the buzz. Chester was perhaps miffed that I didn’t take him when I went out to meet B.A.

In the bathroom I did an abbreviated version of my routine. Instead of foundation, powder and blush, I slapped on bronzer. The mascara and lip gloss I would apply while driving. There was no time to make coffee. I decided to kill two birds with one stone, get an egg sandwich and coffee at Stella’s and have a quick chat with Brandi.

I got the last space in the parking lot, pulling in next to Spencer Farley’s shiny Mercedes. I peeked in the window. The car, inside and out, was immaculate. Even the tennis racket on the back seat had a nice leather cover. I hoped he didn’t leave Stella’s before me. I wouldn’t want a neatnik like Spencer seeing the rubble inside my car. On the other hand, Spencer Farley doesn’t strike me as a peeper. Some people are born nosy. Thank God I’m one of them.

A guy in a fluorescent vest had just vacated a stool at the end of the counter when I walked in. I grabbed it and looked around. It was the usual early morning mix of office and construction workers and retirees. The latter sat at a round table wearing sweatshirts with the group’s name, The Gab & Gaiters, printed across the front. Their morning walks always end with Stella’s blueberry pancakes.

BOOK: Sharon Love Cook - Granite Cove 01 - A Nose for Hanky Panky
6.85Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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