Something shady, p.2
Something Shady, page 2
part #2 of Stoner McTavish Mystery Series
“Now I get it. This is one of your famous manipulations.”
“Manipulation!” exclaimed Aunt Hermione. “My dear, I would never fiddle with your karma.”
“Why not? Will it make you go blind?”
“Worse than that. I might develop a fatal attraction to Jerry Falwell. The Cosmic has been known to play very nasty tricks.” She toyed with her fork and cleared her throat. “Stoner, dear, while you’re in Maine ... do you suppose you could ... look for a cat? Just a tiny cat,” she went on quickly. “I know you’re not fond of cats, but it wouldn’t have to be a great hulking beast like Diablo. A cute little fluff-ball of a kitten.” She glanced up. “Maybe?”
Stoner grinned. “Now we get to the truth of it.”
“A sweet kitten. One with hair the color of yours, if you like, though I don’t recall ever seeing a chestnut kitten.”
“It’s okay, Aunt Hermione. I’ll try to find you a kitten.” She touched her aunt’s hand. “You miss Diablo, don’t you?”
“I suppose I do. Animals claim bits of our souls, if we let them. And, while our souls are still connected, of course, I sometimes miss him in the material sense. He had such sensuous fur. Just the other morning, before I was fully awake, I could have sworn he was curled up against my shoulder the way he used to. Perhaps he was, in spirit.” She laughed. “Your experience of Diablo was entirely different, wasn’t it? You had a contentious relationship.”
“That’s putting it nicely.”
“But a kitten could get used to you while it’s still young.”
What I had in mind was training. Not to claw my ankles, not to bring dead birds into the house, not to mutilate the McTavish Blue Runner Stringless Hybrid Snap Beans.
“There was sibling rivalry between you and Diablo, I suspect,” her aunt said. “Perfectly natural under the circumstances.”
“He treated me better than he treated the Blue Runners. Remember the time he ate the entire season’s crop and nearly put you out of business?”
“Not only me. Think of all the bean-less roof gardeners in Back Bay. If you hadn’t been clever enough to find some in the bottom of my knitting basket, it would have been the end of an era.” She looked at Stoner fondly. “Sometimes I don’t know how I’d get along without you.”
“More would have turned up.” In the silverware drawer, among the laundry, in the attic awaiting discovery by archaeologists in the year 3000. “But there’s only one of you.”
“For which,” Aunt Hermione said, “the world offers up hymns of Thanksgiving every Sunday morning.”
“And I offer up daily hymns of Thanksgiving because, if there can only be one Hermione Moore in the world, she happens to be my aunt.”
For the first time in her life, she saw Aunt Hermione blush. “You’d better run along,” the older woman said. “If you’re late for work, I don’t want to be blamed for it.”
Stoner pulled her raincoat from its peg by the back door. “Aunt Hermione, was Diablo your Familiar?”
“Dear me, no. He was much too violent. I’ve never known such a violent cat.”
“I have the scars to prove it.”
“I’ll never forget the day he got in your underwear drawer,” Aunt Hermione said happily, “and ate the crotches out of all your panties.”
She clutched the doorknob. “If I can’t have you, can I have Gracie Allen?”
Her aunt frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t think so, dear. She isn’t due to reincarnate for at least forty years.”
***
Fists stuffed in her coat pockets, Stoner tramped through slush and glared at the scummy street, at the dead, glistening, black trees, at the gutters clogged with ice and sand and mauled beer cans. Overhead, the late-winter sky was the color of mildew.
Boston. The city, they said, was built on garbage. Tons of garbage dumped in a swamp. She didn’t doubt it for a minute.
She searched for the light on top of the Hancock Tower, but it had been obliterated by mist. A pigeon huddled beneath a park bench, a sooty lump of misery. The windows of the drugstore on the corner were decorated with plush bunnies, plastic eggs, and unaffordable boxes of Russell Stover chocolates.
Happy Easter, she thought. Anyone who resurrects in this weather is a damn fool.
The door to the travel agency was stuck, as usual. She slammed it open with her hip and half-fell into the warm, muggy room. Marylou glanced up from her paperwork.
“Good morning. May we help you?”
“I need a ticket to hell. Make it one-way.”
“You’re in luck. We have two last-minute cancellations on a charter. Will you be traveling alone, or bringing the hubby?”
“Alone.” Shuddering with distaste, she draped her scarf and sodden coat over a hook in the coat closet. “Sorry I’m late.”
Marylou fluttered a hand to the accompaniment of jangling silver bracelets. “Think nothing of it.”
“Has anything happened?” she ran a comb through her hair, not really caring which way it fell.
“Not much. A visit from Boston’s Finest warning us to be on the lookout for shoplifters. A couple of cruise reservations - I left them on your desk. And a class outing by Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt Elementary School.” Marylou adjusted her skirt. “Have you ever noticed how rain brings out the nuns?”
Stoner steeled herself and glanced up at the shelf. There could be anything up there. Chopped liver, Greek salad, tabbouli. Once she had found a ten-pound wheel of overripe extra sharp Vermont cheddar cheese. Today it was deviled eggs, dozens of deviled eggs, some dotted with green specks, some with red, some she’d better not think about “Marylou, what’s with the eggs?”
“Passover. Want one?”
“It’s too early in the morning for eggs.” She tugged off a boot, lost her balance, fell against the wall, and stepped in a puddle of water. “I hate my life.”
“Another bad night, huh?”
“Worse. Aunt Hermione wants me to go to Maine.”
Marylou chose three eggs, placed them neatly on a paper napkin, and carried them to her desk. “To cavort among the moose and blueberries?”
“To look for someone. One of her clients lost a sister.”
“That seems inordinately careless.” She flicked a bit of egg yolk from her blouse.
“I think I’m afraid of Maine,” Stoner said, picking up the egg yolk and depositing it in the wastebasket.
“Say no.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“After all she’s done for me?”
“I really don’t think Aunt Hermione keeps score, Pet.”
Stoner leafed through her mail. “That’s not the point.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Go, I guess.”
“Alone?”
“Unless you want to go with me.”
Marylou screamed.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Take the widow.”
Stoner shook her head. “Gwen won’t go.”
“Have you asked her?”
“No.”
“Then how do you ... ?”
“I know, that’s all. She’ll be busy. She’s always busy.”
Marylou shrugged. “Have it your way. The cruise reservations, please?”
She went to her seat and took the first sheet from the pile. Anguilla, for God’s sake. She reached for Fodor’s and read through the description.
“Thirty-five square miles of arid, eel-shaped, beach-fringed land ... “ Arid? Eel-shaped? Wonderful. “Wiggles along for sixteen miles.” Good God. “Whoever is at hand will welcome you and make you feel at home.” Robinson Crusoe, no doubt.
Five hotels. Let’s push the cul-de-sac on Blowing Point. There’s a name to warm the soul and delight the senses.
These people, whoever they are, will hate Anguilla. Twelve hours after they arrive, welcomed by whoever is at hand, there will be a military coup. They’ll be placed under house arrest at the charming cul-de-sac on Blowing Point, which will immediately run out of sushi and wine. Three days later, the President will send in the Green Berets and they’ll be herded into a military transport. It will be highjacked by Libyan terrorists and flown to Algiers. Algiers will refuse them per- mission to land. They will proceed to Johannesburg, Athens, Frankfurt, and Havana, finally touching down in the Falkland Islands while the nation is held hostage by Cable News Network. In due time they will be greeted at Andrews AFB by mobs of clean-shaven Reaganite's singing “Born in the USA,” interviewed (tired, disheveled, and un-photogenic) by a battalion of network reporters, and driven to the White House down streets lined with trees sporting yellow ribbons, while their luggage is sent on to Boise and never heard from again. Kasselbaum and McTavish will be held responsible for everything. We’ll have to refund their money, and they’ll sue us for trauma.
She tossed the book onto the desk. “Forget Anguilla. We can’t afford litigation.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Sorry. I didn’t know you were on the phone.”
Marylou waved away her apology and turned her attention to the receiver. “Gwen Owens, please.”
Stoner stood up. “Marylou…”
“I,” said Marylou to the phone, “am Marylou Kesselbaum. Who are you?”
“Marylou, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Well, Mrs. Bainbridge, this is an emergency. I’m calling from Boston General. We’ve had an outbreak of hepatitis here, and we think we’ve traced it back to Ms. Owens.”
“For God’s sake, Marylou.” She snatched the phone.
“Too late, Pet. They’ve patched you through to the teachers’ lounge.”
“I hate you.”
“Me?” Gwen said on the other end of the line. “Who is this?”
“It’s nothing,” Stoner said. “Just one of Marylou’s sick jokes.”
“Well, hi, Stoner. It’s good to hear your voice. What’s up?”
Stoner held out the phone to Marylou. “You started this. You finish it.”
“Not me,” Marylou said. “I have to go to the bathroom.” She scurried out the hall door.
“I’m sorry.”
Gwen laughed. Her voice was like touch. “You all must be pretty bored if you’re making prank calls. I haven’t done that since I was seven.”
“Well, actually ...” She wiped her hand on her pants leg. “I did want to ask you ...”
“Yes?”
“Well ... Aunt Hermione ... I mean ...” She took a deep breath. “I have to go to Maine this weekend,” she said in a rush. “You don’t want to go, do you?”
“To Maine?”
“If you don’t want to ... I mean, if you have a date or something, I’ll under .. .”
“A date? Why would I have a date?”
“You had a date last weekend.”
“That wasn’t a date, Stoner. It was a teacher’s meeting.”
“You went out afterward.”
“Nine teachers having beer and grinders at the Watertown Leaning Tower of Pizza may have been a date at sixteen. At thirty-one, it’s a meeting.”
“Oh.”
“I’d love to go to Maine with you. Let’s take Friday off and make it a long weekend.”
Stoner swallowed hard. “Can you do that?”
“After nine years of teaching in this place, I can do anything I darn well want.”
The inside of her mouth felt fuzzy. “Okay,” she said shakily. “I’ll call you tonight and we can make plans.”
“Fine. Any time.”
Stoner hesitated.
“Is something wrong?” Gwen asked.
“Uh... Gwen, what are you wearing?”
“Tan slacks and a navy shirt. Why?”
Stoner sighed.
“Stoner McTavish, is this an obscene call?”
“Yes. No! Talk to you later.”
She slammed down the phone and raced for the hall. “Marylou!” She pounded on the restroom door. “Marylou! She’s going to do it!”
“For God’s sake!” “I thought you were a mugger.”
CHAPTER 2
“Do you have to read while I’m driving?”
“I’m not reading,” Gwen said. “I’m looking at the map.”
“It’s the same thing. Honest, I’m going to be carsick.”
“Okay.” She folded the map. “Didn’t you take dramamine?”
“If I took dramamine, I’d fall asleep and miss the scenery.”
Gwen laughed. “What scenery?”
They were passing one of the score of industrial towns that form a brick necklace from Boston to Gloucester. The factories were busy. Those that weren’t busy polluting were busy decaying. A small river oozed sluggishly under the highway, its surface frosted with muddy foam.
“Do you know,” Stoner said, “you’re part of the one-tenth of one percent of the population that can refold a road map?”
“Maybe they’ll give me the Nobel Prize. Where is this Castle Point, anyway?”
“Outside of Castleton.”
“Cute.”
“About sixty miles from Portland, I think, as the gull flies. Look on the map.”
“You just told me not to look at the map.”
The windshield fogged over. Stoner turned on the defroster, releasing a blast of suffocating heat. She turned it off and cracked her window. The car filled with skin-crawling dampness. She closed the window, and the windshield fogged up. “I hate New England,” she muttered.
“Yes, dear,” Gwen said. She scrounged an old rag from beneath the seat and wiped the glass. “Better?”
“Thanks.”
A Ford Bronco passed them, spraying the car with sooty mist. She flicked on the wipers. Oily streaks reduced visibility to zero. She pushed the washer button. Nothing happened. “I thought you just had this car tuned up.”
“I did.”
“They didn’t fill the washer.”
Gwen shrugged. “What do you want for $25 an hour, service?”
“Nobody takes pride in their work anymore.”
“You’re absolutely right.”
“They shouldn’t get away with it.”
“Absolutely not.”
She stabbed at the button, with no effect. “I hope you complained about it.”
“How could I complain about it?” Gwen asked. “I didn’t even know about it.”
“You mean you just got in your car and drove off without checking to see if they’d filled the windshield washer?”
“That’s right.”
“You have to keep after people, Gwen. Otherwise, they’ll walk all over you.”
“I don’t doubt it for a minute.”
“If everyone complained, something might get done.”
“Stoner,” Gwen said, “there’s a rest area ahead. Pull into it.”
She parked the car as far as possible from a smoke-belching diesel truck and two decal-spattered campers. It put them directly in front of an overflowing trash can.
Gwen reached over, turned off the motor, removed the keys, got out, opened the trunk, extracted a bottle of windshield solvent, popped the hood, and filled the washers. “Anything else, lady?” she asked, letting the hood slam.
“I could have done that,” Stoner said.
“I’m a liberated woman. Think of it as a political act.” She got back in the car. “Aunt Hermione was right,” she said, fastening her seat belt. “You’re awful in the morning.”
Stoner rested her head on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry.”
“Want me to drive?”
“I’ll throw up.”
“Take a good look at this place. Do you think anyone would notice?”
Stoner looked around. “God, it’s all so ugly.”
“It won’t get any better if we just sit here. Any suggestions?”
She stared out at the highway, at the endless stream of gray traffic splashing through gray water on the gray roadbed. To go back into that held all the charm of skinny-dipping in a shallow pond in an automobile junk yard. “Castleton’s probably a horrible place,” she said. “The restaurants, if there are any, will be closed for the season. We’ll have to drive to Augusta to find a motel. The only one open will be a Howard Johnson’s that smells like dirty carpets, and we’ll get a room with no heat next to a reggae band from Lynn.”
“Sounds like fun,” Gwen said.
“We’ll have to live on half-thawed hamburgers on soggy whole wheat bread and wilted coleslaw and HoJo cola, and catch salmonella.”
“You don’t catch salmonella, you come down with it. And they don’t have HoJo cola any more. Augusta probably has great libraries, I like reggae, and all motels smell like dirty carpets.”
“Do you have to be so cheerful?”
“What’s not to be cheerful? We’re on vacation.”
Stoner shook her head. “I think we’re basically incompatible.”
“Only in the morning.” Gwen touched her arm. “What’s wrong, Stoner?”
“I want it to be nice.”
“It’ll be nice.”
“I want it to be perfect.”
Gwen reached over and ruffled her hair. “It’ll be nice. And if it’s perfect, what is there to live for?”
“Reruns.”
“You’re having nerves. It’ll be what it is.”
“And you’re having philosophy.”
“Well,” Gwen said, “I’m nervous, too.”
“Why?”
“Are you kidding? Our first vacation together? The situation is fraught with peril.”
She had to laugh. “I hope we get along.”
“We’ll get along. This friendship was made in Heaven.”
“Actually,” Stoner said, “it was made in Wyoming.”
“Rising like a phoenix from the ashes of my charred and broken marriage.”
“You know, Gwen, I really wish that hadn’t turned out so horribly for you.”
“It was doomed from the start. I ask you, could you spend your life with a man whose idea of a wedding present is a pale green Renault?”
“At least,” Stoner said as she started the motor, “it gets great mileage.”
She pulled out into the traffic, tail-gated a van for a while, then passed and cut in front of a middle-aged, cigar-smoking successful businessman with a grimy Eldorado. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she saw with satisfaction that his windshield washer was empty, too.
