Mother had set out three ingredients on the counter: spaghetti, V-8 juice, and bacon bits. She had invented this cheap, easy meal back when I was a snot-nosed kid, and this was probably the only food we had left in the cupboard. The concoction doesn’t taste too bad, but really stinks up the joint when cooked . . . a terrific houseguest-clearer-outer. (If you make it, I won’t be held responsible.)
I broke up the spaghetti, threw it in the frying pan, poured in the juice, tossed in the bacon, slapped on the lid, and let the thing simmer. Remember: I am not liable.
Jake appeared in the kitchen. He wrinkled his nose. “What died?”
Didn’t I tell you?
“Supper,” I said.
“Yuck. I’ll just have candy.” He tromped out.
Another mother might have called out, “Come right back in here, young man!” Another mother who wasn’t competing with Jake’s father’s money, that is.
I was setting the table with paper plates (this dish didn’t deserve china) when I heard someone coming in the front door. Expecting Mother, I went into the living room to greet her, instead coming face-to-face with a furious Peggy Sue.
“How dare you attack one of my friends!” Sis shouted, her cheeks nearly as red as her lipstick. She was in an orange silk blouse with signature pearls and tailored black slacks, her upscale idea of a Halloween getup.
I shrugged. “She asked for it.”
Peggy Sue stood with her hands on her hips, like Supergirl deciding whether to tear a villain’s head off or maybe arms and legs. “How would you like it if I—” She stopped and frowned in thought. “Who is your best friend?”
My own sister didn’t know the name of my BFF? How sad was that? I knew every one of her horrible, despicable pseudo-pals.
“Her name is Tina,” I said. “And Tina, not being a sociopath nitwit, would never talk to you in the insulting way Connie did me. She trashed not just me, but Mother, by the way. Why aren’t you mad at your so-called friend? Whatever happened to standing up for family?”
“Whatever happened to civility is a better question,” Peggy Sue said, and waggled a finger. “I want you to apologize to Connie. I don’t care if you phone her, or send her a note, or better still go over to her house.... However you do it, that’s your choice . . . but you will say you’re sorry.”
“Will she be apologizing for calling Mother and me whack jobs?”
Peggy Sue’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “Connie actually said that?”
“Well . . . I may be paraphrasing a little.”
Peggy Sue folded her arms. “All right. What did she say? Better still, what did you say?”
Another shrug. “All I did was offer her some fashion tips.”
“I bet,” Sis snapped. “You will call her and say you’re sorry.”
I couldn’t remember Peggy Sue more riled up; this was the most emotional I’d seen her since childhood.
“Okay, okay,” I said, holding up my hands in surrender. “If it means so much to you, fine! I don’t know why you want that backstabber for a friend, anyway. She’s always treated you terrible. Remember those awful rumors she spread about you, after high school?”
The red had left Peggy Sue’s cheeks and now she went deathly pale. “How . . . how do you know about that?”
“I heard you and Mother talking about something like that more than once, when I was little.”
“Well, that was a long time ago,” Sis huffed. “No one’s perfect and the Christian thing was to forgive Connie, and I have. She’s been a good, loyal friend ever since.”
I grunted. “Some friend . . . insulting your mother and your sister.” I had to keep bringing this around to being Connie’s fault, because, really, you know and I know the truth: I’d been way out of line.
But now we were at an impasse, glaring at each other . . . and since I would rather cut off my right arm than apologize to that load Connie Grimes, I came at it another way.
“Sometimes,” I said, “I think you’re afraid of that witch.”
Boy, did that hit a nerve!
Peggy Sue’s eyes widened. “Why . . . why would you say that?”
“Because you act that way—scared. What does she have on you, anyway?”
“Nothing!”
Suddenly I could smell blood in the water. “I’m right, aren’t I? What is it, Peggy Sue—what does she know? One of those ‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’ moments? Only it won’t stay in ‘Vegas’ if you ever cross that monster. . . .”
Peggy Sue stood frozen. The nerve I’d hit had paralyzed her, and now . . .
. . . now I felt sorry for her. Damn! Just when I was finally getting on the scoreboard, I had to go and feel guilty and concerned. You can’t win.
Thankfully, Mother chose that moment to make her latest grand entrance, fluttering in the front door like a wayward butterfly, putting an end to our sisterly conversation.
“Why, Peggy Sue,” Mother said in surprise, “I didn’t know you were coming over.... Would you like to stay for supper?”
I smiled at Sis, trying to mean it. “I’ve made Mother’s specialty—spaghetti and V-8 juice—I’m sure there’s plenty.”
My sister did not share my nostalgic love for the nasty-smelling dish.
Peggy Sue backed up toward the door. “No . . . no . . . I’m afraid I have to go. I already have dinner made at home.”
Mother said, “Well, then, dear, perhaps some other time.”
Sis shot me a We’ll talk later about this look before making her escape out the front door.
Mother turned her wild, wide eyes to me. “Brandy, I have wonderful news!” she announced. “Mrs. Norton was murdered!”
A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip
Where can antiques malls be found? Defunct shopping strips, out-of-business factories, old dead churches . . . I once stopped at a former prison that had been converted to retail, only I had trouble wrapping my head around shopping in booths with bars—particularly close to closing. The place enjoyed a low rate of pilferage, though.
Chapter Ten
Fire Urn and Cauldron Bubble
Only Mother could think she was bearing good news.
She was saying, “Your teacher was not killed by either the first or the second pit bull. She was murdered!”
“Yeah, I heard you.” My eyes narrowed. “Where have you been?”
“Oh . . . out and about.”
No words could strike more terror in my heart than those three spoken by Mother.
“Out and about where?” I asked.
“Here and there.”
Better add those other three words to the terror alert.
I put my hands on my hips and chided, “Now, Mother—whatever makes you think Mrs. Norton was murdered?”
Mother’s eyes were dancing a jig. “I don’t just think it, dear, I know it! When I went to the antiques mall to take inventory of our booth, who do you think was conducting it? Your childhood friend, Mia! Policewoman Mia!”
Mother began moving around the living room, gesturing like a demented interior decorator.
“Now I ask you, Brandy, dear, what made that a police matter? Certainly not because a few antiques had been reported missing.... No! It’s because they believe Mrs. Norton was murdered!” She needed a breath and took one. “Then it was out to the animal shelter, to Jane—she runs the shelter, you know—and she told me that when Brad Pit Bull was brought in, he had signs of having been sedated by Animal Control, when we know for a fact that the animal hadn’t been! So you see, Brandy, it all fits!”
So does a straitjacket.
I shrugged. “I don’t mean to take the wind out of your sails, Mother, but first of all, it makes perfect sense that the police would be called in to take the mall’s inventory, particularly if any antiques had been reported stolen.... And second, maybe the Animal Control officer did in fact sedate Brad.”
“Brandy, you saw it with your own eyes—”
“Granted, we witnessed a docile Brad getting into the van, but
who knows what that dog’s disposition was by the time it got to the shelter? Think about how Sushi behaves every time she thinks she’s going for a car ride, only to end up at the vet’s?”
Mother’s face fell.
I sort of changed the subject, asking, “What about the rolltop desk?”
She frowned. “Still there, dear. I thought you said that young man from the auction was going to buy it.”
I frowned. “Troy must not have made it in time. It was close to closing when I sent him there.”
Was it possible the desk wasn’t Troy’s main interest? Did I have a stalker, as Joe suspected?
Mother sighed. “Well, now he’ll have to wait like the rest of us, until this whole thing is resolved.” Her eyes landed on the dining room clock. “Oh my! I have to change.”
She whirled and whisked from the room.
I called after her, “Now where are you going?”
By the time I reached the living room stairs, Mother had disappeared up them.
I stood at the banister and yelled up the stairwell, “Isn’t anybody going to eat with me?”
No response from either Mother or Jake.
Grumbling, I returned to the kitchen. Apparently, the gourmet meal was mine alone. I stood and stirred the muck awhile until it looked done—it’s not a science. Grabbing the pan handle, I turned away from the stove . . .
. . . and shrieked as I came face-to-face with a witch wearing a pointy black hat and a black caftan!
The pan tumbled from my hand, red spaghetti splattering onto the floor like blood at a vicious crime scene.
The witch cackled. “It’s only me, dearie!”
“Mother,” I snapped, “you scared me half to death!”
She grinned, showing fake rotten yellow teeth. “No actress could hope for a better review, darling . . . proof positive that my costume and makeup will bode well for tonight’s performance.”
I stood amidst the mess, hands on hips. “What performance? I thought you’d given up acting.”
She adjusted her fake nose with its prominent wart. “This is an exception, dear. Two of the girls from my club and myself are replacing the Shakespeare cauldron witches at the Haunted House tonight.”
The club Mother referred to was the Red-Hatted League—an offshoot of the Red Hat Social Club—made up of her dearest friends; they read mysteries and got together twice a month to discuss them—although I suspected local gossip was served up between fictional murders.
I asked, “What happened to the other haunted house witches?”
“Oh. Most unfortunate. Toxic poisoning from too much dry ice in the cauldron. But I hear they’ll recover.”
But would I?
Jake’s voice called from the living room. “Hey! There’s two ugly old witches in a golf cart sitting in the driveway!”
“Ah!” Mother said. “My ride . . .”
Alarmed, I asked, “You’re going in a golf cart?”
“They’re called Club Cars, dear.”
“I don’t care what they’re called, Mother, you’re not supposed to drive them anywhere but on a golf course.”
She wrinkled the exaggerated wrinkles of her forehead. “Why not?”
“How about,” I said slowly, “number one, it’s dangerous? And number two, you’ll get arrested?”
“Pish posh tosh.”
“Pish what?”
“There’s no chance of apprehension if we stay on the sidewalk, dear. There’s no city ordinance against that.”
But there might be after tonight. Mother was, after all, directly responsible for any number of city ordinances.
I touched my forehead as if checking for a fever. “Help me out here. Why aren’t you going in one of the other ladies’ cars?”
“Because, dear girl, we’ve all lost our licenses, for one silly imagined infraction or another.” The witch made a clucking sound, and her expression indicated revenge was called for. “Most unfair. Frannie was the last to go, when she knocked over a gas pump. Bad luck, really.”
“Bad luck.”
Witch Mother nodded. “She should have hit it before filling up the tank. What use is a full tank when your license is revoked? And at these prices . . .”
I said, “Please . . . let me drive you in my car.”
“Nonsense. We girls must remain independent. Besides, this in no ordinary Club Car! Frannie had it custom-made! It’s got headlights, a horn, a radio . . . why, it even has On-Star!” Mother raised a bony finger with a glued-on, warped nail, and pronounced, “They can take away our licenses, they can take away our cars . . . but they can never take away our resolve!”
And with that, Mother was out the front door and down the steps, black caftan swishing, pointy hat bobbing.
Jake and I went out on the porch and watched as Mother hopped into the front passenger seat of the golf cart. The thinner witch—a woman I recognized as Alice Hetzler, because her makeup wasn’t as elaborate as Mother’s—had been relegated to the backseat where golf clubs normally were stowed, with Frannie behind the wheel.
“Brandy!” Mother called out. “Do wait up for me. We have much to talk about . . . such as the scarlet claw!”
“The what?”
“Scarlet claw, dear! Later. . . .”
The golf cart—excuse me, Club Car—backed out of the driveway, bumped down over the curb, careened back up, then took off down the sidewalk, horn tooting, a few early trick-or-treaters jumping out of the way, the three witches holding on to their black pointy hats, caftans flapping in the night wind.
“Well,” I said, “there’s something you don’t see every day.”
Jake asked quietly, “Is Grandma all right?”
“I think she’s just having a good time, honey.” Was I kidding him or myself?
He squinted at me. “What’s a scarlet claw, anyway?”
I thought for a moment. “You know, I think it’s a Sherlock Holmes mystery. One of the old movies, not one of the real stories.”
“Sounds like science fiction.” His eyes were off me and onto the sidewalk. “Uh-oh . . . here come the trick-or-treaters.”
“Could you handle them?” I asked. “I have a big smelly mess to clean up.”
Jake nodded and scurried over for the orange bowl of candy, while I returned to the kitchen where I found Sushi sniffing around the splattered spaghetti on the floor.
I was about to say, “No, girl, that’s bad for you,” when she turned up her nose at it and trotted away.
Blind but not dumb.
Then I got to work scrubbing the Jackson Pollack off the floor and the lower cabinets, amazed at how far the food had flung. After a short while, an exasperated Jake came in holding Sushi, who was driving him crazy with her yapping every time the door bell rang. I shut her in the kitchen with me, where she drove me crazy every time the doorbell rang.
After about three-quarters of an hour of elbow grease, the kitchen sparkled, and I joined Jake to help at the front door. But the onslaught of treaters had slowed to a trickle, and the ones showing up now seemed to be teenagers, whose costumes were more realistic and sometimes as gory as a George Romero movie.
I checked my watch; the two-hour time limit decreed by the city to stuff grocery sacks with free candy was fast approaching. I was contemplating shutting off the porch light a tad early—and risk being egged—because we were down to just a handful of candy, when the bell rang again.
I opened the door to a tall trick-or-treater wearing jeans and a tattered dark gray hoodie over a torn black sweatshirt . . . and a hockey mask.
I waited for the evil Jason from Friday the 13th to say “Trick or treat,” before offering the paltry remains of sweets; but when he didn’t speak (maybe the plastic mask prevented it), I held out the bowl anyway.
But Jason ignored the candy, his eyes behind the mask’s slits, cold and dark, as he studied me . . .
. . . and then Jake.
“Go on and take it,” I said, indicating the candy.
He
just stood and stared. Now and then a teenager liked to really creep out the poor candy givers on Halloween, but this was getting weird. Really weird.
Sushi, let loose from the kitchen on account of good behavior, took an instant dislike to this Jason, even though she couldn’t see him. She made little stops and starts toward his feet, barking wildly as she advanced and retreated and advanced.
Jason reacted by trying to kick her!
Jake snatched Sushi out of harm’s way. I yelled, “Creep!” at the guy, then slammed the door in his hockey-masked face and threw the bolt.
I went to the front window and looked out.
Jason remained standing on the porch for a few more seconds, then turned and walked calmly down our front steps, disappearing into the night.
“What a jerk!” I said.
Jake, putting Soosh down, nodded. “You were right the first time—he’s a creep . . . and creepy. Didn’t even want any candy! How old you think he was?”
“Too old! There ought to be an age limit for this. . . .” I went back to the entryway, turned off the porch light with an indignant click, then joined Jake, who had gone over to the couch.
We sat in silence for a few minutes, sharing a disconcerted feeling.
Jake was the first to throw it off. “Let’s do something.”
“Okay, what?”
“I dunno, anything.”
I reached for the evening paper on the coffee table, and scoured it. Serenity was host to numerous Halloween haunted houses.
“How about going to the Field of Screams?” I suggested.
“What’s that?”
“Another maze.”
“Been there, done that.”
“All right, then . . . the Haunted Forest.”
“Naw . . . too buggy.”
“Okay. What about Sleepy Hollow?”
“What happens there?”
“A headless horseman chases you down a dirt road.”
Jake made a game show “buzzer” sound. “Next!”
I thumbed through the paper. “We’re running out of options. The only thing left is the JC Haunted House . . . sounds lame, but it really is always pretty scary.”
Jake smiled wryly. “How can it not be? That’s where Grandma’s working, isn’t it?”
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