Confessions of a Red Herring

by Dana Dratch

  Rasmussen scratched his ear and backed up a step. “Well, uh, thanks for clearing that up.”

  “Hey, no sweat. It’s important to get the details right.”

  As I closed the door, the house phone rang. Trip.

  “You’re not using your Hotmail account to confess to murder, are you?”

  “Not today. I’m too busy defending my gopher.”

  “Is that slang for your lady parts?”

  “No, a real gopher. With fur and fangs.”

  “Gophers have fangs?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never actually seen one. But my neighbor says it’s vicious. And for my money, vicious means fangs.”

  In the next room, I could see Nick stretched out on the couch, flipping channels with the remote. He hit a basketball game and stopped.

  “Is that the idiot who was on the news last night?” Trip said.

  “Yeah, Rasmussen. The news crews were gone when I got up. But he’s been banging on my door carping about the gopher. Did someone really sign my name to an email confession?”

  “’Fraid so. To us and the cops.”

  “Are they following up?”

  “Nah, they’re not taking it seriously, either.”

  Suddenly, there was a loud pounding on my door.

  “Shit. That’ll be Rasmussen. Again.”

  Nick got up and checked the peephole. “Not this time,” he hissed. “It looks like a kid. All I can see is the top of his head.”

  “Oh please. Nobody’s going to let their kids within a half-mile of this nuthouse. And the only neighbor who’s still speaking to me wants to put out a hit on a gopher.”

  Bang! Bang! Bang! “Alexandra Edwardovna!”

  Nick and I looked at each other and froze.

  “It’s Baba,” I whispered into the phone.

  “On the other line?” Trip asked.

  “On the front porch.”

  “Forget the Farm,” he said. “You need witness protection.”

  Chapter 27

  Oh God, how could I have forgotten Baba?

  Baba is a tornado packaged in a deceptively small, deceptively sweet-looking human form. But the minute you lower your guard, you’re finished.

  If scientists were studying her, they’d call that “the Baba effect.”

  Seriously, if Allied forces had come to their senses and air-dropped Baba behind enemy lines, World War II would have been over in an hour. Baba would have strangled Hitler with a wooden spoon and used it to cook lunch for the liberating armies.

  She’s the toughest woman I’ve ever met. Half of me wants to be exactly like her when I reach her age—whatever that is. The other half is just glad she’s on my side. Most of the time.

  She is, in the words of my father, “very Old World.”

  According to family lore, Dad didn’t take Mom home to meet her until just before the wedding. And it did not go well.

  My mother, who’s been known to airbrush a few uncomfortable truths, claims that’s total hogwash.

  But I’ve seen the wedding album. Baba’s the only one wearing black. Head to toe.

  I opened the door. Baba looked up at me with wide, worried eyes. “What they mean, this ‘Vlod the Impaler’? How can they say these things? Lies! All lies!”

  Trip was wrong about one thing: Baba understood English as well as any native. But when she got emotional, her normally thick accent got even thicker. At this point, I practically needed subtitles.

  I folded my arms around her. She was such a force of nature, I forgot how small she was—not quite five feet tall. The top of her head, covered with a black watch cap that matched her sweater, smelled like violets.

  “Nichevo,” I murmured in Russian. “Nichevo. It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s all just a big misunderstanding. It’s gonna be OK.”

  “Da, da,” she said, hugging me.

  When we parted, I noticed Baba had on her traveling clothes: a brightly flowered housedress that came well below her knees, stockings, socks, black sweater and watch cap set, and a new pair of Asics running shoes that Annie and I had helped her pick out.

  Behind her on the porch I also spied two very large suitcases.

  Uh-oh.

  “Here, let me,” I said, reaching for both bags.

  I hefted one easily enough. The other felt like it was weighted with rocks. Or bricks. Or a body.

  “Uh, what’s in here?”

  “Pots. Pans. Potatoes. Carrots. Onions. I cook. You need good meal. Good food.”

  Double uh-oh.

  Baba’s cooking is in a class by itself. She starts with the finest ingredients. Then she scrubs, peels, pounds, and boils them beyond all recognition.

  My father used to joke that he actually gained five pounds in the army because mess hall chow had more flavor.

  But Baba had packed her pots and pans (and potatoes), and left her home in Baltimore to come and cook for me. Because she loved me.

  So I guess I could stand to lose five pounds.

  “How did you get here?” I asked.

  “Dog bus.”

  I had a momentary vision of Baba driving a dogsled through the streets of urban D.C.

  “Greyhound bus?” The station was at least five miles from my house.

  “Da!”

  I set the lighter bag inside the door and went back for the other one. I threw my back into it and managed to lift it ankle-high. I’m guessing Baba brought the cast-iron stuff.

  “Vheels!”

  “What?”

  Baba motored over, took the bag from my hand, dropped it, and yanked it up quick. Four black rubber wheels popped out of the bottom.

  “Vheels!” she said triumphantly.

  “Cool.”

  Wheeling her suitcase into the kitchen, I realized that the house was quiet. Too quiet.

  Then I heard Nick’s car engine in the driveway. I beat it to the front porch just in time to see taillights and a cloud of exhaust.

  Baba was already unpacking the first bag in the kitchen, so I grabbed the second one and headed for my bedroom.

  “Hey, Baba, Nick’s in town. He’s set up in the guest room, so I’ll just put you in with me.”

  “I can sleep on sofa. Is closer to kitchen.”

  My house is the size of a shoebox. Everything is close to the kitchen.

  “My bed’s plenty big enough for two. And it’s a lot more comfortable than the sofa. I’ll clear space in the closet, too. We’ll be roomies.”

  She said something that I couldn’t hear over the clanking of heavy metal kitchenware. But I know Baba. It sounded like happy clanking.

  I opened my bedroom door. There was a crash and a jet-propelled, doe-colored streak.

  Lucy.

  She shot into the living room and ran circles around my coffee table as if she was chasing an invisible rabbit. Panting, she bounded over to the sofa and pounced on an unsuspecting throw pillow. Once she had it subdued, she began to gnaw on it.

  “Oh no, you don’t, you little goofball,” I said, lifting her to the floor and patting her back. “Pillows are not on your diet. Let’s go get a cookie.”

  Here’s what Lucy heard: “COOKIE!”

  I know this, because at the C-word, the oversized ears went straight up over her head. She puppy danced all the way into the kitchen.

  You gotta love anyone who gets that excited over a dog biscuit. I’ve tasted them. Hard-baked crud with a meaty coating. But Lucy loves them.

  The minute she crossed the threshold into the kitchen, Baba whirled around and fixed Lucy with a gaze. I swore the pup froze, mid-wag.

  “You have dog?”

  “She’s Nick’s. Her name is Lucy. She’s just a puppy. She was abandoned. Gab . . . uh, a friend of Nick’s found her eating out of a garbage can and took her hom . . . um, over to his place.”

  Baba’s face softened slightly, and she wrinkled her nose. “Humf! Dogs in house. Foolishness.” She turned back to wiping down my stove.

  Lucy stood stock-still, her eyes glu
ed to the back of Baba’s head. Slowly, her tail started to wag.

  I slipped her a dog treat from the big mason jar on the counter. “You’re not out of the woods yet,” I whispered. “You’ve got to be a good doggie.”

  She looked at me hopefully.

  * * *

  Baba spent the rest of the afternoon wiping, sponging, polishing, and scrubbing every surface in my kitchen, with Lucy nestled under the table. She even took down the curtains and threw them in the washing machine.

  She was miffed when she discovered I didn’t have a big bucket and scrub brush for the floor. She eyed my snazzy, purple Swiffer with suspicion and distrust.

  Both times I tried to help, I was shooed from the room like a single guy at a baby shower. I exiled myself to my desk and decided to update my “Who Killed Coleman” file.

  My suspect list was a lot longer since the wake. So how come I was the only one who made the metro front?

  Piper had a good motive. But if I’d been on his jury, I’d have voted for justifiable homicide and taken an early lunch.

  Margaret had at least fifteen million reasons to kill her husband. And she was very anxious to get her hands on that insurance check. I didn’t know anything about their personal finances. But, Coleman being Coleman, if he really had been planning to split from the marriage, he would’ve moved a lot of their money out of her grasp. Serene or not, that would not have gone over well.

  I needed to learn more about those insurance policies. And why they hadn’t paid.

  When the phone rang, I wasn’t surprised to see Nick’s cell number on caller ID.

  “Vlodnachek Hotel. Felons welcome.”

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “Hey, Houdini. How’s the Invisible Woman?”

  “Baba still there?”

  “That’s a big ‘yessir!’”

  “Any idea when she’s leaving?”

  “Judging from the amount of cleaning and luggage, I’d say sometime next month. Where the hell are you?”

  “The mall. Gabby needed to do some work for the store.”

  “Yeah, we gotta talk about that.”

  “Later. Look, what are we gonna do?”

  “We? I wasn’t the one burning rubber out of the driveway.”

  “You know what I mean!”

  “Have you got any money on you?”

  “I don’t want to stay in a hotel. Gabby needs her clothes and laptop and stuff. Plus she’s got more deliveries coming.”

  More deliveries?

  “I’m not talking about a hotel. Listen. Here’s what you do. You come home. And you face Baba like a man. But before you do, you stop off at the store and pick up some groceries. I’ve got a list. I can pay you back in cash. Oh, and I’m sure Baba’s got a few ingredients she needs, too.”

  “Oh God, she’s cooking?”

  “When it rains, it pours. Welcome to my monsoon.”

  “What am I gonna do?”

  “Time to face the consequences, Romeo.”

  “It’s not the consequences I’m worried about. It’s the firing squad.”

  “Hey, she might take to Gabby and love her as much as you do.”

  “You think so?” He actually sounded hopeful.

  “Hell, no. But at least your secret wedding will distract her from the wreck I’ve made of my life.”

  “You’d throw me under the bus?”

  “Have you seen my life lately?”

  “Good point. So what do you want from the store?

  Chapter 28

  As Baba was finishing up in the kitchen, there was another knock at the door. Ever the optimist, I was hoping it was Trip with a pizza. Or Nick and Gabby with a pizza. Or the neighborhood flasher with a pizza.

  Instead, it was a man I’d never seen before, wearing what looked like an old-fashioned gray chauffeur’s uniform, complete with cap. He was carrying a large wicker basket wrapped with cellophane and topped with a giant gold bow.

  OK, definitely not a pizza delivery boy. But he also didn’t look like a UPS driver or a member of the Gopher Death Brigade. And even if he was a process server, at least he’d brought something resembling food.

  Cautiously, I opened the door.

  “Good afternoon, Miss,” he said, in the plummy tones usually reserved for the British upper crust—or employees of the British upper crust. “Sir Ian wanted you to have this basket of scones, with his compliments. They are just out of the oven.”

  Sir Ian?

  “Oh, wow,” I said, accepting his offering. “That’s so nice of him! Please tell him thank you very much, Mr. . . . ?”

  “I’m Harkins, Miss. The master was very sorry he wasn’t able to offer you any scones the day you came for tea. But he hopes that this will make up for it.”

  The way the news crews descended Saturday, I should be the one buying gift baskets for the whole block. I can’t believe Ian is still speaking to me. Much less sending over a present.

  “More than. They smell wonderful. Please thank him for me.”

  Harkins tipped his cap. “I will be happy to do so, Miss.”

  With that, he was gone.

  I walked into the kitchen with my parcel, and what I’m sure was a goofy grin on my face. I felt like I’d just won Miss America. Or at least first runner-up.

  Baba had a Swiffer pad pasted to her palm and was going at my kitchen floor like it was a terrorist withholding information. Lucy was stretched out under the table, watching from a safe distance.

  “Schtow eta?” she asked, pointing at the basket.

  “It’s a gift from the new neighbor across the street. Scones. Kinda like biscuits. He bakes them himself.”

  “Could be poison?” she asked. Given where she grew up, it was a perfectly legitimate question.

  “No, no, just his way of being kind. He’s turning his place into a bed-and-breakfast. They’re going to serve tea and all kinds of pastries. He’s just making nice with the neighbors.”

  “What is bed-and-breakfast?”

  “Kind of like a place where people come to stay, just for a few days.”

  “Humpf! Boardinghouse!” With that, she went back to punishing my floor.

  I looked around amazed. I’d always thought my kitchen was clean. But now it positively gleamed.

  “Hey, Lizzie Borden, open up! Your groceries are here!”

  Lucy shot out from under the table. By the time I made it to the front door, she was clawing at it frantically.

  “Yeah, yeah, your favorite guy is home,” I said to her. “At least try to play it a little cool.”

  I should talk. I still had that silly grin on my face. I scooped her up and threw open the door.

  “About damned time,” Nick said. “I thought my arms were gonna break. We got everything.”

  I looked out and saw the backseat of Nick’s sporty black Hyundai stuffed with grocery bags. It looked like they’d cleaned out the store.

  “Lots of snack food and stuff that doesn’t have to be cooked,” he said, barely above a whisper.

  “Awesome.”

  Lucy, freed from the prison of my arms, hopped at his feet. I’d never seen anyone so happy. Then Baba emerged from the kitchen, her face beaming.

  “Nicholas! Let me see you! My little Nicholas!”

  Nick had at least fifteen inches and a hundred pounds on her. But to Baba, he would always be “little Nicholas.”

  He dropped the groceries in a chair and wrapped her in a bear hug.

  “Hey, you look great,” he said. “Have you grown? Somebody’s getting taller!”

  “Bah, Mr. Smart Mouth,” she said, hugging him back. And in that moment, I swear I saw a tear trickle down her cheek. She hadn’t seen her “baby” grandson in a year. And in Baba-time, that was way too long.

  “Good news,” Nick said, his arm around her shoulders. “I’ve sold the emu farm. I’m moving back to D.C.”

  At that point, her tears really started to flow. And I was crying watching her crying. Even Nick’s eyes were moist.
Lucy, the maniac, was dancing around on her hind legs, trying to get in on the hugging.

  “Don’t stop there, sugar! Tell ’em the rest!”

  Not only hadn’t I heard Gabby come in, but—in that fleeting moment of pure joy—I’d forgotten she even existed.

  I looked at Baba, whose eyes darted back and forth between Nick and Gabby. From the sobering expression on her face, I’d say no one had to tell her anything. Baba was nobody’s fool.

  “Baba, I want you to meet Gabrielle. Gabby. At some time in the not-too-distant future, we’re getting married.”

  Say what?

  Baba took in all of Gabby—from the peroxide locks to the platform pumps—in one long up-and-down glance. Then she did something that seriously scared the crap out of me.

  She smiled.

  If I’d had a basement, I’d have been checking for pods. As it was, I was afraid someone or something had taken over her brain. Or maybe she’d had a stroke.

  Baba reached out and took one of Gabby’s slim, well-manicured hands gently in her two strong, gnarled ones, looking deeply into her eyes. For a split second, time stopped. “I am very happy to meet you,” she said slowly, in carefully enunciated English. “Nicholas is a good man. He deserves a good woman.”

  When she let go of the hand, Gabby sagged and grabbed the back of the sofa.

  “Now,” said Baba with a sprightly twinkle, “I make us all a good dinner.”

  When she was safely out of earshot in the kitchen, I lit into Nick. “What the hell? Getting married? At some time in the not-too-distant future? Are you married or not?”

  “I’ll get the rest of the stuff from the car,” Gabby said, disappearing out the front door.

  “I’ll help you,” Nick chimed in.

  I blocked his path. “Oh, no, you don’t. Married or not? Did you lie to me, or did you lie to Baba?”

  “I can’t lie to Baba!”

  “Why did you lie to me? I’ve shared everything with you. OK, admittedly nothing great, lately. But everything I’ve got at the moment.”

  “I know, I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry. It’s just that the whole family still treats me like a kid. I was afraid if I showed up with Gabby and no job, you’d never take us seriously. But this time, it really is different.”