Ladies Courting Trouble

by Dolores Stewart Riccio

  “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Deidre said.

  “That’s not the way I operate.”

  “Hi, sweetheart.” The deep, sexy voice of my beloved always surged through my nerves and descended like a hot rum toddy to my midsection. Wasn’t it time for me to cool down? After all, we’d been married for almost a year.

  “You’re out of jail, I hope?” I said.

  “Oh, sure. Rather a publicity stunt on both sides. What have you been up to?”

  “Not much. We went to the Luckeys’ wake and funeral. You know Plymouth, they were standing six deep in back. And we rescued the Luckey cat. A lovely Maine Coon cat. Everyone had forgotten about the poor thing’s existence, I guess. Found it in the old coal cellar. We talked Patty Peacedale into adopting the critter. Just good works, honey.”

  “Me too. But I’m taking the shuttle home the day after tomorrow. Keep my dinner warm.”

  “And everything else.”

  Splashing cool water on my flushed face in the downstairs lav, I caught sight of my hair, wild as usual. One good thing about sandy hair, I’d always told myself, it doesn’t show gray, but that was no longer quite true. I vowed then and there to get a stylish cut and a reviving rinse at Phillipa’s hair salon before Joe got back from Washington. Those Greenpeace gals were always blond, tanned, and looking as if they were on spring break from Bryn Mawr. Maybe I’d get Scruffy groomed, too.

  “Phillipa!” I said without preamble. “Could you get me a really early, really urgent appointment tomorrow at your salon. What’s it called? I’d like to get my hair out of my eyes before Joe gets home. And colored.” I’d carried a cup of tea into the living room and was perched on the window seat with Scruffy, already watching the road as if Joe’s Rent-a-Wreck might be zooming in the driveway at any moment.

  “Out of jail again, is he? I’ll see what I can do. It’s called Sophia’s Serene Salon. Not your usual clip joint—very classy. Mozart, Vivaldi, no big hair. Yes, you could use a color rinse, too. Although I wouldn’t go so far as to suggest you become a flaming redhead, as Fiona recommended to Patty.”

  We chuckled, but I said, “Never underestimate Fiona. Maybe a merry shake-up is just what the parsonage needs.”

  “One shake-up at a time. Right now they have Buster to deal with.”

  “True. And from what I heard from Patty this morning, it hasn’t been going well. Say, how about I come over to your place after I get clipped, and we’ll go snooping—I mean, shopping—at that Deluca art gallery, and have a look at Jean Craig and her garden.”

  “Oh dear. I’m supposed to be getting a start on writing a column for the Pilgrim Times. Restaurant reviews. I’m going to call it ‘Whine and Dine in Plymouth.’ Whine with an H. What do you think?”

  “Catchy. But crime-fighting is more exciting. That’s probably why Stone does it. Men keep all the fun stuff for themselves.”

  “Okay, you talked me into it. Your car, right? Are you bringing that horsey dog?”

  “Yes, but I’m going to drop him off at the groomer’s.”

  At this, Scruffy instantly sprang up off the window-seat cushions, ears at full alert. Hey, Toots. What do you think I am, some wimpy, water-loving retriever? We briards don’t need baths. It’s against nature to dunk us in water. I won’t go, and you can’t make me.

  “You’ll go if I have to drag you in by the scruff of your neck.”

  “No need to get nasty,” Phillipa said.

  “Will you stop gazing at yourself and keep your eyes on the road!” Phillipa demanded.

  I moved the rearview mirror back to its rightful place and eased into a parking place near Deluca’s Sea Garden Gallery and Gift Shoppe. “I love what Sophia did to my hair, Phil. It’s lighter, but not that ubiquitous old-lady color, and this ethereal fringe—it’s just like Crystal whatshername’s. And my skin—my skin is all aglow from that Inner Light facial.”

  “You know, girlfriend, you could actually treat yourself to a salon more often. Say, twice a year instead of once. Especially if you want to keep that attractive color. Well, well—isn’t this nauseatingly charming.”

  We studied the cute shoppe housed in a white Cape Cod cottage with Wedgewood green shutters and window boxes, the latter overflowing with fake ivy and dried flowers in autumn colors. A small side building appeared to be an art studio. The curtained upstairs windows, with various objects on the sills, looked as if the family lived there. Past the cottage, one could see an assortment of fishing boats in the harbor. The deceptively bright sunlight of early winter made their colors seem sharper than at other times of the year, when a hazy vista prevailed. The white picket fence enclosed remnants of a patterned garden with crushed seashell walks. Two picture windows offered glimpses of gray-framed seascapes of the kind that can be seen in every gallery on the South Shore.

  “It’s perfect, like Disney World.” A sudden gust of cold air off the Atlantic was making me shiver. “Let’s go inside and meet the proprietors. I’m interested to see that a true gardener has been at work here, albeit a little too cute in her tastes.”

  As we entered, a musical bell announced our presence. The shop didn’t seem much warmer than the outdoors. Perhaps I simply hadn’t shaken off the chill of winter by the sea. But a moment later, I decided the coldness was emanating from the shop itself. Just then a small brown-haired woman appeared through mossy curtains from a doorway in back. She had dark eyes, golden skin, and the kind of permanent smile that gets frozen in place over the years—how many years it would be difficult to guess for one so petite. Her leafy green smock was clean and crisp, and she was carrying a tray of painted cups or pitchers that at first glance looked like Toby jugs.

  “Great Goddess of Avebury, those little critters are pixies!” I exclaimed. There’s nothing quite so gratifying to a clairvoyant as having many bits and pieces of intuitive knowledge finally click into place, like completing a giant jigsaw puzzle. “Getting the picture” in its truest sense. So this was the pixie person! Even her short, casual haircut echoed the theme.

  “Good morning, ladies. May I help you?” Her voice was high and girlish, but pleasing.

  “Our friend Fiona Ritchie lives just a few doors down the street, and we must have passed your gallery dozens of times,” Phillipa said. “We thought it was high time we said hello and had a look around. Such as charming place!”

  It’s always a shock to discover how well one’s friends can dissemble. “I was particularly attracted to your garden,” I said. “Those lovely shell paths. I’d love to see what comes up in the spring,”

  “Fiona Ritchie. Ah, yes. Has those merry parties in her backyard.” Jean Deluca was still working on Phillipa’s first remark.

  “Herbs, perhaps?” I pursued.

  “A variety of lavenders, heathers, sages, and other small shrubs. I don’t have a lot of time, so I rely on hardy perennials. Do you garden yourself?”

  “Oh yes. Cassandra Shipton.” I fished a business card out of my pocket and laid it on the counter. “And this is my friend, Phillipa Stern. You may have seen her cooking show on PBS?”

  “I’m Jean Deluca. I rarely watch television, but your names certainly sound familiar. But that’s Plymouth, isn’t it? Welcome to our shop, ladies. Is there anything special I can show you?”

  Hoping Jean wouldn’t connect our names with certain lurid crime stories of the past few years, I plowed ahead. “Adorable little jugs. Brownies, or pixies, are they?”

  “Oh yes,” she said vaguely. “Elfin creatures, to be sure. We Scots are always attracted to the fey.”

  “Lovely paintings!” my duplicitous friend enthused, gazing at the sand dunes, seagulls, beach roses, and picturesque boats that sailed across the walls in weathered gray frames. “So original.”

  Jean’s smile deepened, lifting the upturned corners of her mouth a bit more and exposing tiny white, even teeth. “Yes, aren’t they marvelous! And so reasonable, too. I’m always telling my husband, ‘Arthur, work like yours of museum quality
should command a price to match,’ but he assures me he’s much more interested in sharing his work with ordinary people of modest means.”

  Phillipa pinched me on the arm and flashed her brilliant smile at Jean Deluca. “How generous of him!”

  This insincere exchange might have continued to the point of nausea if a young figure hadn’t darted through from the back room. “Mom! Mom, you promised me. I need those keys now. They’re not on your dresser like you said.” The teenage boy’s eyes flashed with exasperation.

  “Lee, calm down, honey. We have customers, dear.” His mother fished out the desired keys from the pocket of her leafy smock and dangled them in the air. “Allow me to introduce my son, Leonardo. As you can see, he’s in a flaming hurry.” No one would have doubted that this was Jean’s son, the same dark eyes and diminutive stature, although beautifully muscled. His hair was darker, a cascade of Italianate curls. His mouth, upturned at the corners like his mother’s, resisted suggesting a perpetual smile.

  “Hi. Nice to meet you.” Lee’s voice lowered to an agreeable range, and he gave us a charming smile before snatching the keys out of his mother’s hand, carelessly hitting the tray on the counter as he did so. The elfin jugs careened into one another. “The audition’s today. Don’t you remember, Mom? I told you at breakfast.”

  “Of course you did, dear. Would I forget that?” But Jean was talking to the closing front door, with its musical tinkle somehow turned into a jangle. “Boys!” she exclaimed. Her smile never wavered as a green Volkswagen revved up outside and peeled out of the shop’s driveway. “It’s the Assumption Drama Club, you know. They’re auditioning for A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “A Midsummer Night’s Dream! At Assumption?” Phillipa exclaimed. I kicked her ankle bone lightly.

  “Yes, the kids have persuaded the drama coach. I’m not so sure the principal will find Midsummer an acceptable choice, the old fart. The thing is, Lee wants that part. Puck, you know—it’s made for him. And I can tell you, I’m going to be pretty pissed if our youngsters get guided toward something safe and banal that happens to have the Church’s imprimatur. The kids want Midsummer, and they should be allowed to have it. I simply won’t stand for my boy to be passed over.” Jean’s smile never faded during this whole tirade, but her voice got a little shrill. “Are you taking that?”

  Without thinking, I’d picked up a fat little jug from the tray—a cute brown-garbed figure with green shoes and pointed ears. Not my usual sort of objet d’art. I was much more at home with a Zuni fetish. Still, I was moved to buy the thing. “How much?”

  Jean tapped a few keys on the Mac computer next to her cash register. “Twenty-nine, ninety-nine,” she said. “I call that one Syllabub.” I took out my wallet and handed over two twenties, studiously avoiding Phillipa’s incredulous expression. Jean gave me change, and carefully wrapped Syllabub in pale green tissue paper and a plastic bag bearing the legend Deluca’s Sea Garden and decorated with several seaweed fronds.

  “Well, good-bye, then. Love your shop!” I stuck out my hand hoping I’d get to shake Jean’s, but instead she handed me the package.

  As soon as we were safely in the Jeep, “What crap!” Phillipa exclaimed. “Well, what do you think? Any vibes?”

  “There’s a chill in the shop, and Jean Deluca herself is a bit of a creepy character—that pasted-on smile—but still, I have to say I’m not sure,” I confessed. “I was hoping she’d shake my hand, but no luck there. It’s my feeling, Hazel’s spell or not, we should check out the other Craigs as well.”

  “I noticed the chill myself, but I just figured they were saving on fuel. Can’t be too many customers this time of year, judging from the way she leaped on you, dearie. Syllabub, indeed! I guess she knows her medieval treats, eh? But in the interest of fairness, if nothing else, I agree with visiting all the Craigs. Unfortunately, today I really need to get right back to my computer and bang out something for my new column. Already I’m racing the deadline.”

  “I wonder if Jean Deluca knows her medieval herbs as well? So, then, who are you skewering—I mean, reviewing—for openers?”

  “Why, Winston’s New England Nuovo, of course. I love the place, but at times he gets too, too desperately fusion. I mean, really—enough with the Tabasco-marinated cherries and maple aioli on an otherwise decent chop.”

  “That’s okay. You’re off the hook after inspiring my amazing makeover. Scruffy won’t know me.” I touched my chic hair with awe.

  “Will you, for Goddess’s sake, keep your eyes on the road, Cass!” Phillipa insisted. “Scruffy will know you, essence of jasmine and lavender. It’s Joe you’ve got to worry about.”

  “Fiona says that men love surprises.”

  “Speaking of change, get Heather to go with you,” Phillipa advised. “She’s our lady of leisure. And it will do her good to get away from the doggies for an afternoon.”

  “Good idea. Although it may be Deidre who really needs to escape. Did you perceive a continuing theme at Deluca’s?”

  “Kitsch, you mean?”

  “There’s that. But I was thinking more of the leafy green motif. Jean’s smock, the curtains, the tissue wrap. Even the Volks was green, did you notice that?”

  “So?”

  “That’s what I’m working on…what does that motif indicate? Poisonous Herbs-R-Us? You know, Phil, I was hoping you’d get her chatting on the subject of cooking.”

  “Ho ho. Like, inquire if she’d been baking any lethal brownies lately?”

  “Exactly. But maybe Fiona. They’re neighbors and both Scots, after all. Yes, that’s it. Fiona will have to invite Jean Deluca for tea and scones. Bring up the subject of baking. Or maybe indigenous poisonous plants.”

  “That’s a tea party I won’t mind missing. What if Deluca brings an edible gift, say, brownies?”

  “Not to worry. Fiona will check out any food gifts with her pendulum.”

  “Does that work, do you suppose?”

  “Each of us has her own magic, that works for her, if not for anyone else. That’s one of Fiona’s, and I have boundless faith in Fiona.”

  “Okay, but warn her off anyway. What did you say hemlock smells like?”

  “The bottom of a mouse cage.”

  “Well, then. A good nose is as useful as a pendulum any day.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Joe’s still away, and I have a new gorgeous haircut ’n color, practically a makeover. So how about you and I go out for drinks?”

  “This afternoon? Sure. But I can’t believe I’m hearing this from Cautious Cass,” Heather said. “Where? What are you up to?”

  “Oh, ye of little faith. What’s the name of that little bar where Bruce Craig’s wife, Sherry, works?”

  “Why her? I thought it was Jean Deluca we’re after. It’s called the Wander Inn. Affectionately known as the Wander-Inn-and-Stagger-Out. Not the place to order a fine wine, but I hear they make a very decent Margarita.”

  “I’ve never actually had a Margarita,” I confessed. “Phillipa and I checked out Jean Deluca this morning, after I emerged from Sophia’s Serene Salon as a new woman. I came away from Deluca’s shop with a handmade elfin jug called Syllabub and no firm conclusions. I’d like to have a look at Bruce Craig, too, but I can’t think of a good excuse.”

  “That’s easy. We’ll take Ashbery’s Dodge over to Johnny D’s garage for a tune-up and whatever else it needs. Captain Jack’s been after me to get that old car up and running again. He craves wheels. Do you know the upholstery still smells of cinnamon and cloves?”

  “Ashbery was a wonderful cook. Remember those sticky pecan rolls?”

  We reminisced for a few minutes over Heather’s former housekeeper until we were both teary, then agreed to meet later that afternoon for a run on Johnny D’s before rattling over to the Wander Inn to knock back a few Margaritas.

  “Sounds like a plan. I’ll follow you, then, in the Jeep.” I wondered what condition I’d be in when Joe finally got home. With H
eather, somehow the simplest occasion often got out of hand.

  Bruce Craig didn’t look much like his cousin Jean. True, he had the same dark hair and eyes, but his skin was as white as if he never got out in sunlight—except for the heavy shadow of one-day’s beard, the fashionable stubble look. Of medium height, he walked with a thin-hipped swagger. Quite good-looking in a Saturday Night Fever way.

  “No way he gardens,” I whispered to Heather while Bruce was having a look at the Dodge. “Or whips up batches of brownies.”

  “Maybe his wife. They could be working together. Bonnie and Clyde sort of deal.”

  “They robbed banks, my dear.”

  “Because that’s where the money was,” Heather explained. “But in the case of the Craig relatives, the money is in Reverend Peacedale’s pocket.”

  “Later,” I whispered. Bruce was through with the exploratory examination and ready to deliver the bad news with a suitably grave expression. I wondered if he knew that Heather was mistress of the Morgan mansion. Probably, I decided. Most Plymouth tradesmen had an internal Who’s Who of the town’s “old money.”

  Bruce outlined the work that would have to be done to bring the Dodge up to code. As I’d expected, it would be cheaper to buy Captain Jack a “new” used car, but the Dodge had its sentimental value, after all. Heather signed some kind of agreement, and we took off in the Jeep.

  “So what did you think?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t want to be Sherry. Bruce Craig is the lean-and-mean type. But I don’t think he’s a murderer.”

  “Let’s go check out the wife, then.” Heather was still hopeful of an investigatory hit.

  Soon we were nestled in a dark booth with a red tablecloth at the Wander Inn. The walls, too, were red, the ceiling was black, and the windows of the former L-shaped farmhouse were obscured by heavy red drapes. A laquered black bar stretched across the back wall. Several men and one woman were watching a NASCAR race playing on a color TV above the bar, the sound turned down to a dull roar almost entirely drowned out by the jukebox wailing “Everybody’s somebody’s fool…” with the characteristic nasal twang of country music. I thought there were couples in some of the other booths, but I couldn’t quite see them, the bleak winter sunshine replaced by the light from tiny lamps with red shades.