by Dana Dratch
I put an arm around Baba’s shoulders, and the three of us—Gabby, Baba, and I—strolled down the lawn and jaywalked across the street to my yard.
The reporters had dropped all pretense and were pointing cell phone cameras at the back of the squad car, shouting questions, and trying to get shots of Walters, as he slouched down in the seat.
I heard more sirens. Lots of them. Thirty seconds later, two cop cars and an ambulance came to a screeching halt in the middle of the street halfway between my house and Ian’s.
And a shiny red Corvette jumped the curb and fishtailed into my driveway.
Trip leapt out looking stressed and totally disheveled. “Are you OK? Is everybody OK? I got here as fast as I could. What the devil’s going on?”
“Everybody’s fine,” I said, in my new Lauren Bacall voice. “Walters is handcuffed in the back of that police cruiser, getting his fifteen minutes of fame. And Margaret’s off to the hospital.” I waved at the two EMTs pouring a limp, languid Mrs. Coleman into the back of an ambulance.
I’d been in the kitchen when they first tried to get her onto the gurney. She bit, kicked, and hit anyone who got close. I’d left as one of the EMTs was loading a very large needle.
In her natural habitat, they’d have had to use a tranquilizer gun.
Trip took it all in—glancing at Walters, then Margaret, over to Baba and Gabby, and back at me. “I had a front-row seat to a multi-car fender-bender, and the cops pulled me over as a witness. What happened?”
Baba took his arm and patted him on the back reassuringly. “Nichevo, nichevo. Is good. Is all good.”
I kissed Trip on the cheek. “We caught the bad guys. And I’ve got my life back.”
Chapter 55
Crime scene or not, it was great to be home.
After the police let us back into my house, Trip returned to the vet clinic to wait for Nick and Lucy, while Baba settled in for a well-earned nap.
Gabby was strangely quiet. I thought it might have had something to do with the squadron of police officers who’d commandeered the block.
Turns out I was wrong. Again.
“Sugar, I don’t know how to say this, but I’m going home,” she started.
“We are home,” I said. “Finally.” For a while there, I didn’t think it was ever going to happen.
Gabby looked almost sad. Or as sad as I’d ever seen her. “Not here, sugar. My home. In Vegas. With Rick.” She plopped down on the sofa.
I thought I must have heard her wrong. “Rick? Who’s Rick?”
“He’s kind of my boyfriend.”
“Kind of?”
“We’d been together for three years,” Gabby said. “I thought he was the love of my life. But he’s married to his job.”
I sat down next to her. “What’s he do?” I asked, expecting her to say he was a doctor or an engineer. Or a mobster.
“He’s a professional wrestler.”
“Wrestler?”
“His professional name is ‘Rodeo Rick Steed,’” she said proudly. “But that’s just his stage name. His real name is Richard Stumpelfig.”
“Yeah, I’d stick with ‘Rick Steed.’”
“It’s a really competitive field,” Gabby said. “Once he was picked up for the pro circuit, that was all he ever thought about. Every minute of the day. If he wasn’t at the gym, or the tanning booth, or rehearsals, or doing promotions, he was working. I felt like he was taking me for granted. But in the last few weeks we’ve been talking. Really talking. About us. About our future.”
That explained the marathon phone sessions in the bathroom.
Gabby dug into the very bottom of the giant pink purse and produced a worn paperback. Some kind of self-help tome. From between its pages, she slipped out a picture.
Mr. Photo Strip.
Only in this one, he was dressed as a cowboy. Or a male stripper’s idea of a cowboy. He wore aviator frames, tight jeans, cowboy boots, and a lasso strapped to one slim hip. A brown suede vest didn’t do much to hide what looked like about six and a half feet of tanned, rippling muscles. His jaw reminded me of a granite boulder dusted with a five o’clock shadow.
Gabby touched the photo like a talisman and grinned.
I knew the answer before I even asked the question. “Are you sure?”
She nodded her glossy blond hair. A thin line of black roots told me it was probably her own. “I was crazy about Nicky. But Rick—he’s my true love. My soul mate. I want to be with him. I want to have his babies.”
I tried to picture their offspring. All I got was a vision of little bleached-blond, aviators-sporting tots with deep spray-tans running around with lassos.
This is going to kill Nick.
Weirdly, I was going to miss her, too. I had plenty of honest, trustworthy friends who’d totally ghosted during my recent travails. But Gabby had been right there, helping out, every dreadful step of the way. With a smile on her face and a bouncy attitude to match. My never-quite-in-law, sometimes outlaw houseguest might have been a thief and a bit of a grifter, but she had a big heart.
She really was the most likable girl Nick ever dated. If I’d had to share a house for two weeks with the surly Avril Lavigne fanatic, one of us would have “disappeared.”
Coin flip as to which one.
“I’ve already got my plane ticket,” she said. “And I’ve called a cab. If I pack my stuff into a couple of cartons, can you just drop them off at the shipping store?”
After everything we’d been through together, how could I refuse? Although it was a toss-up whose name I’d sign when I delivered those boxes.
I sighed. “If you change your mind, or you ever need anything, you call me.”
“You got it, sister girl,” Gabby said, hugging me.
“What do I tell you-know-who?”
“I’ll stop by the vet’s before I blow town,” she said. “He already kind of knows. Both of us suspected this was just temporary. He’s a great guy. And if it wasn’t for him, Rick and I wouldn’t have finally come to our senses. Nicky’s going to find someone, and she’s going to be sensational. He deserves that.”
“He does.”
“And you, keep your eye on that English stud muffin. He’s cute. And he’s hot for you. Trust me, I know hot.”
Turns out she might have been right about that, too.
Chapter 56
After Gabby left for the airport—and while Baba was still napping—I dialed Annie’s cell. I wanted to share the good news that my long ordeal was finally over. Though hers, I suspected, was still ongoing.
Annie answered on the first ring. “Elia’s gorgeous. I’ve already signed her.”
“That’s fantastic!”
“Hey, I’m the one who’s impressed. You’ve got a good eye for talent. I may just have to put you on the payroll.”
“No objections here. By the way, I wanted to let you know that that other little situation’s been resolved.”
“Is that Alexandra?” Mom called from the background. “Tell her London does smell much better than Venice.”
“Glad to hear it,” Annie said to me, pausing. “Is everything, um, the way you want it?”
At this point, she might as well have been speaking in Morse code. Or pig Latin.
“Total vindication. Cleared my name, and the real killers are cooling their heels in jail. Pending their very public trials.”
“Aces!”
“But the crowds are hell,” Mom continued in the distance. “And the prices? Nothing short of highway robbery.”
“Mom sends her love,” Annie said.
“So I hear. Better you than me.”
“Don’t laugh,” my sister said, dropping her voice. “As soon as she clears customs next week, she’s your problem.”
* * *
A few minutes after I hung up, there was a firm knock on the door.
I flinched. At this point, it was a reflex. And sheer exhaustion.
Trip and Nick were still at the vet’s with Lucy
. And Baba was making up for lost sleep.
I checked the peephole. Ian.
After crashing his sedate Victorian garden party with cops, criminals, sirens, bodies, EMTs, and gurneys, I figured we’d go back to polite-neighbors-from-a-safe-distance status.
So what was he doing on my front porch?
I took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Hullo again,” he said cheerily. And that’s when I noticed he was hefting a big, stainless-steel Dutch oven. And Harkins was coming up the walkway bearing a large casserole dish.
“Thought you might not be up to cooking tonight,” Ian said. “So we whipped up a little something to feed the army. Beef bourguignon with some nice Duchess potatoes. All you have to do is heat and serve.”
My three favorite words. And it smelled delicious. Rich and meaty. I was also pretty sure it didn’t have peanut butter in it. Or liquified noodles.
“Ian, I just want to apologize,” I stammered. “About this afternoon . . .”
“No need. You caught the villains. Everyone survived. And it certainly didn’t hurt the B&B. Five groups want to book afternoon tea. And we’re already sold out for our first murder mystery weekend.”
“You’re kidding.”
He grinned. As he handed off the pot, our fingers brushed, and I felt that strange, happy tingling in my stomach.
“But if you’re still feeling slightly guilty,” he added, leaning in and lowering his voice. “I may ask for your help with plotting the mystery. That body in the kitchen was a nice touch.”
Chapter 57
Over the next week, I called, visited, and pestered every source I had, piecing together the last details of Coleman’s murder. The real story. Not the Mira Myles melodrama.
I even played the guilt card with a couple of the cops who’d used me as a red herring.
It was surprisingly effective.
And I had to hand it to Walters. His plan was elegant, brilliant, and totally Machiavellian. Thank God it failed anyway.
Something “seemed off” from the beginning, according to one of the detectives. Especially after they learned about the audit and the missing money. Once they started pumping Billy Bob for information on me (big surprise: leaks go both ways), they realized that the stories they were getting from C&W were just that. Although they didn’t mind using that fiction for cover.
I should have been angry. But I was just relieved. The sky looked bluer. The sun felt warmer. Even Baba’s goulash tasted better.
Though that could have been because I finally cleared the lime cleaner out of my sinuses.
I took Trip’s advice and sold my story—a first-person account of the implosion of Coleman & Walters—to The Washington Tribune, my former newspaper. They’re planning to run it as a three-part series under the headline: “When Good Companies Go Bad.”
It’s not an insider exposé of the P.R. industry. But it is a pretty good snapshot of what happens when one company and its executives go totally off the rails.
I even managed to snag a decent price: five thousand dollars.
That only took two solid days of negotiating and a “special dispensation” from the managing editor. “But don’t tell anyone, because we can’t do this again,” he pronounced confidentially.
I felt like saying the same thing when he offered me my old job back. At my old salary. I suspect he just wanted to get my exclusive without having to pay extra for it.
Trip showed up at the house that evening with a bottle of champagne.
“Damn, this is the good stuff!” I said, hefting the bottle as he rummaged through the cupboards.
“Yup,” he said, pulling out a jelly jar and a couple of wineglasses. “Uh, do you have any champagne flutes?”
“Sure, left over from the last time I hosted a reception for the Queen.”
“What about New Year’s Eve?”
“Plastic from the party store.”
“Just like the champagne you served,” he said. “As I recall, it tasted more like shampoo.”
“Hey, I splurged twenty-five bucks. I wanted to have really good luck this year.”
“Clearly that worked.”
“So how much was this stuff?” I said, studying the French label as he set two wineglasses on the counter.
“It’s not what you spend, it’s what you get for the money,” he said, grabbing a tea towel in one hand and carefully taking the bottle with the other.
“You stole it from Tom, didn’t you?”
“Right out from under his very nose,” Trip said, popping the cork. “After he recommended the brand and vintage, of course. I told him we were going to toast to your freelance success.”
I was truly moved. Especially since Trip had been lobbying hard for me to rejoin the paper.
And I’d been seriously tempted. Even with the puny salary. But I decided to keep freelancing for a while. No paid health insurance. No paid vacation. No regular income.
Also no meetings, no bosses, and no corporate intrigue.
For once, I was setting my own schedule and calling my own shots. It was scary, but I liked it.
“To fame and fortune,” Trip said, lifting one glass and handing me the other.
“To staying out of jail and making the mortgage,” I countered, and we clinked.
“Oooooh, this stuff is seriously good,” I said.
“That it is. Although you can’t use the leftovers for paint stripper, like you did with your last bottle.”
“I didn’t use it to strip paint. I used it to wash windows. Besides, I don’t think there’s going to be any left over.”
“Got that right.”
“Let’s take this party outside. I’ll snag a practice batch of Nick’s chocolate chip cookies.”
“Best offer I’ve had all day,” Trip said. “Speaking of which, where’s the rest of the Vlodnachek clan?”
“PetSmart. Nick needed a few things for Lucy, and Baba’s riding shotgun.”
“Not literally, I hope.”
“All the cast-iron pans are present and accounted for,” I said. “But she did mention something about wanting to make sure the dog treats are ‘best quality.’ Her words.”
On the front porch, we sipped in silence for a few minutes, savoring the warm spring evening. There was a gentle breeze, and I could smell ozone. Rain was coming.
“I still can’t believe Jennifer faked a pregnancy,” Trip said, refilling both our glasses.
“I don’t think it started out that way. I heard her in the office bathroom right after Coleman died. She really did believe she was pregnant. And Coleman’s death left her in the lurch. So she devised her own plan. Then, when she found out it was a false alarm, she decided to bluff.”
“She underestimated Walters,” he said quietly.
“They both did.”
“Fortunately for us, his strategy was upended by a puppy and a sock,” Trip said.
“And Margaret. Walters tried to contain her here. She was supposed to stay put until I arrived home. But when she saw me going to Ian’s party she had to follow. And Walters couldn’t stop her. But give the man credit, he devised a detailed plan. You know the cops discovered that while they were camped out here, Walters even called Margaret’s house a couple of times from my landline. To bolster his story that I ‘lured’ her to my home.”
“You’ve got to be the only person I know under forty who still has a landline.”
“It’s classic tech,” I said.
“It’s one step above two tin cans and a string,” he said.
“It’s the centerpiece of my new home office. Which is mere steps from Nick’s new home business. You’ll never guess what he’s calling it.”
“House of Carbs?”
“Baba’s Bakery.”
“No!” Trip said.
“Yup.”
“Your Baba doesn’t bake,” he said. “She doesn’t even cook. Not well, anyway.”
“And no one ever has to discover that. Nick even wants to use her
face on the marketing.”
“He’s got marketing?”
“OK, he’s talking about using her face on the marketing,” I admitted.
“And she’s all right with that?”
“Thrilled. Literally can’t stop smiling.”
“To new beginnings,” Trip said, clinking my glass.
Chapter 58
The Sunday that part one of my series ran, Baba hit the kitchen at dawn. And for once, it was cause for celebration.
Because she was making the one thing she really could cook: potato pancakes.
She spent hours grating potatoes and onions by hand. No food processor for her. According to Baba, if you didn’t risk your knuckles, they weren’t real potato pancakes.
I tried to help on several occasions. It always ended the same way: a pile of wasted potatoes for her, and half a box of Band-Aids for me. So now I mostly just kept her company.
As a result, I’ve picked up a few things. About her, about our family, about life. Like the time Baba admitted she cried when she first saw the Statue of Liberty. But not for the reasons you’d think.
Baba was twelve when she traveled to this country alone. She never talked about what came before.
She’d been ill for most of the voyage, so she was on the deck when they entered New York Harbor. She had no idea where she was going or even if they’d let her off the ship. She was sick, exhausted, and terrified she’d be sent back.
Then she saw The Lady.
A crew member had loaned Baba his binoculars. What astonished her was the face: Lady Liberty looked just like her mother.
At that moment, a lost child knew she was home. That everything would be all right. And that her own mother was still watching over her.
The chance to hear that story? Worth a few scraped fingers.
Our breakfast was one for the books. Nick scrambled some eggs, and we gorged until we were ready to pop. I was relieved to see that he finally had an appetite—for the first time since Gabby had left.
Baba even made an onion-free batch of potato pancakes for Lucy. Still navigating the satellite-dish collar after her surgery, the pup was so excited running for her bowl, she clipped the doorway and went spinning across the kitchen like a car on ice.