Ladies Courting Trouble

by Dolores Stewart Riccio

  Heather was studying a laminated snack list by this faint light when a tall, slender girl with pink cheeks and mahogany hair cut short as a boy’s appeared out of the gloom. I was encouraged to see Sherry embroidered on the black bolero she wore over a low-cut white blouse that almost laced up the front. “Ladies?” she inquired dully. As far as I could see, she was the only waitress serving the booths. No one was seated at the small round tables in the center of the room. One concluded this was a hideaway sort of place. Rumor around town suggested that although Wander Inn was an inn in name only, there might be a few rooms that could be rented by short-term guests.

  “Sherry, dear,” Heather read from her waitress’s chest. “May we have a basket of Riki Tiki Shrimp and a pitcher of frozen Margaritas?”

  “Ma’am, it’s only beer in pitchers. But I could bring you two Big Ritas. The Big Rita comes in a frosted twenty-ounce glass with extra lime and salt on the side.” Sherry seemed to brighten up, perhaps sensing such a thirsty couple might leave a bigger tip.

  “Right. We’ll have those, then. Big Ritas.” Heather fished out a handful of quarters and dropped them into the pocket of the ruffled red apron Sherry wore over her black miniskirt. “And for Goddess’s sake, would you see if there’s any music on that box and play it for us? Jimmy Buffett would be my first choice. And you, Cass?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Vivaldi. Or Albanoni.” I spoke absently, my attention wandering to a picture that was forming in my mind’s eye. There was an overpowering urge to reach out and touch the girl, to receive the rest of the picture.

  “Never mind her,” Heather was saying. “Buffett, or the Beach Boys. Or even the Rolling Stones.”

  Sherry smiled wanly and turned to leave. I put my hand out and took hers, framing an instant excuse. “Oh, wait just a minute, Sherry. Those Riki Tiki Shrimp—could we have some ketchup to go with them?” She turned back, and I quickly removed my detaining hand.

  “Ketchup’s right there on the table, miss. And there’s sweet ’n sour sauce that comes with the shrimp.”

  “Okay. Sorry. I didn’t notice.” The vibes from Sherry’s limp white hand enveloped me like a dense, warm mist. What I needed to clear my head, I decided, was that frosty twenty-ounce Big Rita.

  “So…” Heather whispered in a stagy voice as soon as Sherry had left to give our order, “what did you feel? Is she the one?”

  “Just give me a moment to process my impressions.” I really couldn’t communicate my visions until they’d sorted themselves out into words.

  “Oh, what a prima donna!” Heather complained but let me sink into silence for a few moments. Soon, however, Sherry was back at our table with the Big Ritas.

  My companion took a sip. “Sweet Isis, it’s perfect. Cuervo tequila, triple sec, actual real lime, and, yes, a splash of curaçao! It’s Margarita paradise.”

  “It’s just a drink, Heather. But a colossal one, I’ll give you that. It’ll take me all afternoon to drink this,” I said, hoping to forestall the notion of ordering seconds. “Okay, what I feel is that Sherry is involved in some scheme concerning money, but there’s no suggestion of poison or murder. Of course, I don’t get more than a fleeting sense of the person from such a brief contact.”

  “Hush!” Heather warned as Sherry appeared again and plunked down the crispy shrimp in a plastic basket. Some familiar Beach Boys’ hit began to surf through the Inn. Fun, fun, fun… “Thanks for the tune, Sherry.”

  “No problem. Enjoy!” She trailed off tiredly in the little outfit that was meant to flounce with every step.

  “A money scheme,” Heather whispered. She picked up a crusty shrimp by its tail and dipped it into the sauce with a thoughtful expression “I knew you’d come up with something.”

  “Yeah, but not necessarily the right thing.”

  Later, when we staggered out into the sunshine, drunk with sudden light as well as tequila—I’d successfully resisted another Big Rita, but Heather hadn’t—Heather suggested we continue our investigations with the Geoffrey Craigs. “Maybe I can get Violet to introduce us. Violet Pickle Morgan, my cousin by marriage, runs the G.M.S with an iron trowel.”

  “If you can arrange something, that would be great.”

  “You can count on me, Cass. Old pickle-puss will be putty in my hands.” Heather closed her eyes and fell to humming the fun fun fun song while I eased around the curves of Route 3A with unusual care, not wanting to be stopped while breathing out the fumes of Big Rita.

  After I’d poured Heather out of the Jeep at the Morgan mansion, I crept along home with the windows cracked open for a sobering blast of cool air.

  And, oh, joy! There was Joe’s rental, a blue Honda, parked in the driveway. I found him in the kitchen, opening a bottle of Australian merlot. Just what I need, I thought, more booze. Then I was enveloped in my lover’s passionate hug and spicy aura. This went on for some time until Scruffy began to nose between us in an alarmed fashion.

  Say, Toots, what am I, chopped liver?

  We broke apart a little. While Joe poured wine with his other hand, I patted Scruffy consolingly and wondered when this guy of mine was going to notice my great new hair. “So, how was jail, honey?”

  “American jails are okay, but there was that one little jail in Belgium I liked better. The usual overcrowding, of course, but great hot chocolate.” He took a deep swallow of merlot. “Ah, that’s good. I’ve brought a couple of steaks, too—got ’em at Angelo’s. Thought we could grill them.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, honey, we don’t own a grill. But I do have a broiler. Same thing, only no carcinogenic carbon.” I sipped cautiously, eyeing the large package on the counter. Scruffy pranced around the kitchen, pointing toward it with his nose from time to time. Hey, Toots. Make mine really rare.

  “You’ll get it the way I cook it,” I said.

  “Of course, sweetheart,” Joe said. “Whatever you cook up will always be fine with me.”

  In that case, it might be a good moment to tell him about our recent forays into detecting. While I made a baby-spinach salad and scrubbed baking potatoes, I described the Deluca gallery, Jean Deluca, Bruce Craig, and Sherry at the Wander Inn.

  “I noticed that you got an early start on the happy hour,” he commented. “And you’ve done something different to your hair—shorter, is it?”

  “Lighter, too. Sophie mixed this color especially to reflect the real me. She calls it Sahara Spring. And the bangs are just like Crystal whatshername’s. And I had a mini-facial called Inner Light by Zensations. I thought you’d never notice.”

  “I notice everything.” Joe’s voice got that low, husky tone. “Like that trace of salt on your lip…Margaritas?”

  “Very good, Watson. Very good, indeed. Wouldn’t you like another taste? Actually it was called a Big Rita. That Heather. She’s such a bad influence.”

  Joe spent some time looking for more traces of salt on my lips while Scruffy thumped around in a disgusted manner on the faux-sheepskin bed I keep for him in the kitchen.

  Finally I nuked the potatoes and broiled the steaks. The rich, fatty taste was deliciously decadent. The dog sighed with satisfaction over his share, and licked his chops plaintively when it was gone.

  Later Joe made a fire in the living room fireplace, and we lounged around on the big sofa watching Joe’s favorite, the Discovery channel. I heard all about the intricacies of sneaking twelve tons of sod onto the steps of the USDA building.

  “When I saw you standing there grinning with the Greenpeace director,” I murmured into his shoulder, “I wondered if you’re getting so popular with headquarters that they might want to offer you a permanent management position. Do they have an office in Boston? Wouldn’t that be ideal?”

  “Washington’s the closest, and there’s an office in San Francisco, too, sweetheart. Either of those suit you?”

  No! I thought instantly. I love my home, I love this town, I have roots here…friends…an agenda. What will I do if Joe should want to move? M
aybe I should never have married.

  “Wow! All your muscles just tensed up. Not to worry, sweetheart. I’m just one of those guys who’s not meant to hold down an office job, no matter how tempting. I’m an old sea dog, and, to tell you the truth, I enjoy the challenges and the company of like-minded idealists. And I believe you’re much the same. Aren’t you hell-bent to solve these poisonings with your own team?”

  “Not such an old sea dog.” I sidestepped admitting the truth of that insightful remark by falling instead into a long, tender clinch that soon had us heading for the bedroom, peeling off clothes as we dove into the timeworn softness of Grandma’s quilts.

  “She’s coming to tea? Really? Outstanding, Fiona!” I crowed into the phone. Now Fiona would have her chance to divine the truth about this woman that Hazel’s sorting spell had fingered.

  “Three o’clock, dearie. Be here.”

  “Me? You want me there, too?” Tea with the Plymouth poisoner? Oh, why not!

  “I don’t know what to think,” Fiona confessed. “Jean has always been a pleasant neighbor, not like some I could mention, with their snide remarks about our circle gatherings. The notion that we might feel free to dance in the moonlight does tend to get on people’s nerves around here. So you’ll come?”

  “Backyards are a trifle close in your neck of the town,” I said. “Sure. Good to have another go at the gal.”

  “Jean said she’s bringing a treat from her own kitchen.”

  Hecate protect me! “You don’t suppose Jean’s onto us, do you?”

  “Oh, do you think so? How fascinating. And a wonderful chance for you to see how dowsing for poison works, Cass.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I’m off to Fiona’s for tea.” I leaned my head into the bedroom, where Joe was occupied with measuring floor and walls with an eye to enlarging the closet. Perhaps he was getting tired of having to keep most of his clothes upstairs in the guest room. “If anything happens to me, you will take good care of Scruffy, won’t you? And remember that I loved you and the children.”

  Joe shot to his feet, dropped the tape measure, and put two strong hands on my shoulders, pulling me into the room. “What are you talking about? Are you in some kind of danger you’re not telling me about? But you’re saying ‘tea with Fiona’?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing, honey. Don’t you worry. It’s just that a person never knows what may happen on the road. And I don’t even have a will.”

  “Okay, that’s it. I don’t know what you’re up to, but you’re not going to do it.”

  “I am too. Good Goddess, what a fuss you’re making. I’ll be home by five.” I ducked away from his restraining hands, grabbed my bag, and was out the kitchen door faster than Joe could take hold of me again or Scruffy could leap up off his sheepskin to demand a ride. “I’ll be just fine,” I hollered back in the door before closing it quickly and scuttling down the porch stairs.

  Better not turn on the cell phone, I thought as I sped away. A light drizzle was falling. ICE POSSIBLE, the dashboard informed me. The outside temperature was exactly thirty-two degrees. It was true, what I’d told Joe. Driving can be dangerous. Even air travel, they say, is safer than automobiles. I slowed down and turned the radio up, WCRB, my old standby. I only wished the music programmer weren’t so fond of double-trumpet concerti.

  Warm amber lights were shining in the windows of Fiona’s fishnet-draped cottage, and Jean Deluca’s green Volkswagen was parked out front. I noticed the little car had actual seaweed fronds painted on its sides. Very leafy and suspicious. “Hello…it’s me,” I called as I stepped in the door. It looked as if our hostess had made some effort to clean up; at least there weren’t the usual piles of magazines in the entry. The fragrance of Fiona’s freshly baked cream scones wafted past my nose.

  “Oh, Cass. How lovely!” Fiona crooned. “You know my neighbor Jean, of course. You’re just in time for tea. It’s Lapsang Souchong.” She filled thistle-decorated mugs with the steaming, smoky brew. On the table were plates of scones, shortbread, salmon and cucumber triangles, and, yikes! brownies. The brownies were arranged on a plastic plate, not Fiona’s thistle pottery.

  Wearing a prim green twin set and a tweed skirt, Jean sat stiffly on the sofa, where Omar Khayyám, was parading back and forth behind her head, hissing. That permanent smile affixed to Jean’s face never wavered. Perhaps Omar would lick up a crumb of brownie and we’d all learn something. No! No! Banish that thought. I wouldn’t want any animal to be harmed just to save my own hide.

  “Jean! So nice to see you again. I was in your shop recently…bought that adorable Syllabub jug, if you remember.”

  “Yes, of course. Cass Shipton, the herb lady. You were there with your friend, the lady in black. She put me in mind of the stepmother in Snow White.”

  “Oh, that must have been Phil,” Fiona said with a chuckle. “Amazing gal. Reads the tarot for us all. Writes poetry and cookbooks. She even has her own cooking show.” She got up and bustled to the window, taking down the crystal that hung there catching the afternoon light. Then she turned back to me. “Jean made those delicious-looking brownies, Cass.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid the credit for those belongs to Baker Boy.” Jean’s smile beamed modestly. “My little specialty is simply to add extra vanilla and a drop of Godiva liqueur.”

  What about the poison hemlock? I wondered. That adds a unique touch to a mix.

  “How very original, dear. There’s a secret ingredient in my scones, too, but I have to admit I rarely reveal it. Have you ever played with a pendulum, Jean?” Fiona was swinging the crystal over the coffee table in a seemingly absentminded fashion.

  “Is that an old Scots thing?” Jean watched with fascination as Fiona zeroed in on the brownies. “I think I recall someone’s grandma…”

  The pendulum swung in sedate circles. Fiona smiled in a satisfied way and handed the crystal to Jean. “Not exactly Scots,” Fiona said. “Pict, maybe.”

  “They say that the Craigs—I was a Craig before I married—are descendents from the Picts,” Jean said.

  The kitchen phone rang jarringly, and Fiona went to answer it while I brooded on what subterfuge I could use to take hold of Jean’s hand. Absent a genuine vision, I had to use my secondary talent for receiving impressions from physical contact.

  “It’s Joe, for you,” Fiona said.

  I ducked into the kitchen to answer, averting my gaze from the bowls and dishes piled haphazardly in the sink. “Hi. What’s up?” I said. Picking up a piece of toweling hanging on the sink, I began to scrub bits of drying pastry off the countertop.

  “You got me worried with that touching farewell speech, sweetheart. I just wanted to be certain you made it to Fiona’s in one piece,” Joe said.

  “Yeah. Route 3A isn’t too bad at this hour. I told you not to worry.”

  He laughed. “Okay. Something’s going on that has you alarmed, and you’ll tell me what it is in your own good time?”

  “Hmmmm. Sure I will. My tea’s getting cold. Talk to you later, honey.”

  “Drive carefully.”

  “Always.” It was eating carefully that concerned me at the moment.

  But when I went back to the living room, Fiona was already halfway through a brownie. If worse came to worse, I’d call Rescue and have her pumped out immediately.

  “Extra vanilla—very tasty.” Fiona offered me the platter. What could I do? I might claim I was allergic to chocolate, but I really wanted to do my own kind of dowsing. So I accepted a brownie, placed it on a napkin and brought it up into sniffing distance. No telltale mousy odor, but that might have been masked with so much vanilla. Artificial, I deduced, not the natural flavoring. Wretched stuff but strong.

  I put the napkin down on the coffee table and sipped my tea, determining to chat serenely while I watched over Fiona for any trace of faintness, numbness, or shortness of breath. “So…how did Lee do at the play reading?” I asked. A question about some
one’s youngster generally elicited several minutes of discourse from the doting type of parent, which I suspected Jean was.

  I wasn’t disappointed. Although her smile remained in place, her face flushed angrily as she complained that A Midsummer Night’s Dream, with its pagan and sexual content, had been bumped by Assumption’s principal in favor of a stage adaptation of Franz Werfel’s Song of Bernadette. “In Midsummer, Lee would have been Puck, of course. He really wanted that role, too.”

  “Well, he can’t very well play Bernadette, but how about one of the Doubting-Thomas priests?” I suggested.

  “There’s really nothing in Bernadette that’s equal to Lee’s special talents. Oh, if I could, I’d transfer him to Phillips Exeter Andover right after the Christmas break. I wouldn’t even wait for the school year to end. Andover has a wonderful theater department and state-of-the-art facilities. Well, I mustn’t burden you with my frustrations. This tea is so deliciously bracing, Fiona!”

  “You must believe in your dream if you want a dream to come true,” Fiona said as she refilled Jean’s mug.

  “Is that a song from South Pacific?” Jean looked bemused.

  “I’ve never been to the islands. Tuition out of sight, is it?” Fiona asked.

  “Might be South Pacific. But Fiona is referring to the philosophy, or rather, the article of faith,” I said. “Positive thinking.”

  “Positive magic. For the highly evolved,” Fiona added, continuing to muddy the waters.

  “It’s this way, Jean. If you focus on your heart’s desire, really visualize it as you wish it to be, sometimes the Universe of Infinite Solutions will bring your vision into reality.” What was I saying? This woman’s heart’s desire might very well be to reclaim the Craig millions by poisoning the Peacedales so that she could send her son to a pricey private high school.