Ladies Courting Trouble

by Dolores Stewart Riccio

  “Witch! Bitch!” Jean screamed, trying to dodge around the briefcase, which Becky kept shifting so adroitly that I wondered if she’d had some previous experience in using it as a defensive weapon. Perhaps some martial arts course for female attorneys?

  “I know all about you, Cassandra Shipton. You and your devil-worshipping friends fancy yourselves crime-solvers, and now you’re out to ruin my family. Tell me where I can find that little blond sneak so I can scratch her eyes out.” Jean huffed and puffed. “The one you sent to dig up dirt on Lee. Did you think that fat tart, Millie Murphy, could keep it to herself for two minutes?”

  “Maybe we should have a quiet talk about this,” I suggested while I danced out of range. “For your son’s sake.”

  In a flashing motion, Jean bent over, grabbed a handful of gravel from the driveway, and hurled it at me. I ducked most of the barrage, but the stone that got through stung my cheek.

  Inside the house, Scruffy had begun barking wildly and throwing himself against the living room window. I prayed he wouldn’t dive through it, which had happened once when the UPS man was delivering my PC. (The monitor case was a bit dented, but the computer worked okay.)

  With a quick shift of her little body, Jean tried again to dart around Becky to get at me. Becky shoved her back against the car none too gently. “Mom,” my daughter cried out, “for heaven’s sake, get in the house and call nine-one-one. This woman is deranged and dangerous.”

  “Oh no you don’t!” Jean scrambled into her car and locked all the doors, as if she fancied that we were the attackers. “Stay away from us or else I’ll make you sorry,” she screamed out the partially open window while she started the engine. Suddenly the Volkswagen jumped forward as if it had been shot out of a cannon. It seemed that Jean intended to run down my daughter. With a leap I didn’t know I was capable of, I pushed Becky out of the way, and we both fell into the foundation plantings near the back stairs.

  Jean gunned the motor and sped out of the driveway. In a moment, she had disappeared around the pines and onto the main road.

  “Good grief! What was that all about?” Becky pulled herself and me up from the bushes, and we brushed ourselves off.

  “It didn’t go well, did it? I wish she’d been calm enough to discuss what’s been going on. I can’t imagine that she wants the boy to go right on poisoning the heirs and anyone else who gets in his way.” The barking inside had now reached the level of frenzy, so without further explanation, I hurried onto the porch to unlock the kitchen door.

  Scruffy zoomed out of the house like a streak of light. Help! Help! Murder! Let me at ’em. I’d forgotten about our new porch pet door. He bolted through it lickety-split, intent on chasing down the intruder. Luckily she was far away by now. “Whew! I didn’t know he could still run that fast,” I said. “He’ll be limping back soon enough, poor baby. He was going crazy locked in here while we were being attacked.”

  “And I was going crazy out there!” Becky complained, falling into a kitchen chair. She examined her navy blue hose, where an inch-wide run snaked from her ankle to where it disappeared under her lawyer-lady suit. “What in the world got her so revved up? Who is that crazed character, anyway? Maybe we’d better talk about a restraining order. Or at the very least, a criminal complaint.”

  I examined my face in the little shell mirror beside the back door. My cheek was still smarting from the gravel pellet, but the skin was merely scratched. “Hell hath no fury like a mother defending her young,”

  “So I noticed when you tackled me and threw me into the bushes. Out of harm’s way, I guess. I could use a shot of something, couldn’t you?”

  “Joe keeps a bottle of Jim Beam in the parson’s cupboard. It’s that hidden cabinet in the pine paneling beside the fireplace. Or we could have a glass of wine. There’s a bottle open in the refrigerator. A nice fruity white called Fat Bastard.”

  “Oh, you’re kidding.” Becky pulled herself out of the chair and opened the refrigerator door. “No, you’re not.” She laughed and examined the bottle’s label. While she was filling wineglasses, I punched in Phillipa’s number on my cell.

  “Listen, Phil. No time for long explanations. Jean Deluca was here, out for blood. Millie Murphy told her about Dee’s interest in the Deluca boy. Plus, I guess she researched our press clippings on the Internet.”

  “I can’t believe it. Why would she want to confront you? It’s like an admission of guilt—someone’s guilt.”

  “Who can figure? So I want you to tell Stone everything we know and suspect. Maybe it’s crazy. Maybe there’s no evidence. But it’s about time for Stone to take a cold, hard look at the kid.”

  “It’s more than about time,” Phillipa said. “He’s in the living room right now watching some Chaos Theory thing on the Discovery channel. A perfect moment to shake up his orderly investigation. Is Becky staying the night, I hope? How are Fiona and the kid doing?”

  “Yes, Becky’s here. Fiona and Laura Belle are just fine. I’ve got to go now.”

  Becky handed me a glass. I sipped while I punched in Deidre’s number. “Dee, take all possible precautions. Jean Deluca is hot on your trail, and it won’t take her much time to find out where you live. She’s behaving like a madwoman. Look out for a green Volkswagen.”

  “Shit! How’d she find out?”

  “How? Your old school chum. We should have foreseen that one. If Millie would blab about Lee to you, she’d blab about you to Lee’s mother. Is Will home?”

  “Nope. Night shift all week.”

  “Go lock the doors and windows. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Okay, that’s out of the way,” I said to Becky. “I guess Fiona and Heather can wait until tomorrow. Shall I make us a sandwich?”

  “Absolutely. I’m starved.”

  The mere mention of food seemed to make Scruffy materialize out of the night. He scratched at the bare place on the wood frame, and I opened the door. The dog was panting as if his little heart would give out at any moment. He threw himself onto his kitchen bed, tongue lolling out of his mouth, sides heaving. Boy, am I pooped, Toots! I almost caught that green monster, though.

  “Scruffy,” I said sternly. “You know you’re not supposed to chase cars for any reason. Now look at you! You’d better have a long drink of water.” I brought the water bowl over to where he was sprawled across the sheepskin, breathing heavily. He put his nose into the bowl, then flopped back without drinking.

  “Honestly, Mom. Will you please stop fussing over that dog and tell me about the nutcase?”

  I took the remains of a roasted chicken out of the refrigerator and began to cut slices off the breast. Lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise, sourdough bread.

  Scruffy showed signs of reviving. No rabbit food on mine, Toots.

  While I put together two hefty sandwiches and a dish of chopped chicken for the dog, I told Becky about the Delucas and how I had come to suspect the son, Leonardo, of the Plymouth poisonings.

  “Good Lord, Mom. If only you’d leave this sort of notion to the police to investigate. I mean, why did you send Deidre, of all people, to ferret out school records? You must have known it could only get her into trouble. You’d think she’d have enough on her hands with four little ones, never mind some clandestine operation that borders on being illegal.”

  “Yes, you’re probably right. But when sharing gossip becomes illegal, who shall escape jail? And I doubt any detective would have got the goods on sealed records and family scandals as surely as Deidre. It needed a woman’s touch.”

  Becky’s sigh of exasperation was a response I’d heard often over the years. What her life needed, I decided, was a bit more irregularity to stir her out of the maturity rut she was sinking into. Maybe I would add a pinch of spice to Fiona’s promised ritual for Becky.

  We ate, we finished the wine, we went to bed exhausted—Becky in the rose guest room and Scruffy in my room. He flopped on his other bed, the L.L. Bean bolster bed with the built-in pillow. I changed into a
flannel nightgown, lay down, and, looking at Joe’s empty pillow, sighed. Oh, where is my wandering husband tonight? Too tired to read the book Fiona had pressed into my hand, Secrets of Psychic Karate, I turned out the light and a moment later was soundly asleep.

  I was awakened by a hysterically barking dog and a strong, steady pounding on the front door, the one we never use. Incredibly, it was only half-past midnight. Becky came trailing down the stairs, barefoot, wearing an oversized pink T-shirt.

  She was yawning but not too sleepy to take charge and direct activities. “Don’t you dare open that door, Mom. That crazy gnome-woman must have come back. Maybe she went home for a gun. And don’t let Scruffy out, either. Best thing would be to close him into the bedroom while I call the police.”

  “Let’s see who it is first,” I said. “Might be one of my friends, you know.”

  “Pounding at the front door?”

  “Stranger things have happened. I’ll just peek through the bay window. Don’t hit those buttons yet, please, honey.”

  I snapped on the outdoor light, and we all peeked through the window. Scruffy pushing under my arm, growling, and Becky’s chin resting on my head, we formed a curious totem pole. On the front step, a woman with a matted wasp nest of gray hair was pounding on the door with a sturdy cane. Apparently she’d driven up in the black pickup truck now parked behind Becky’s Volvo. “Open up! Open up! I will talk with you, strega woman.”

  “Don’t do it, Mom.”

  Let me out…let me out. My teeth are sharp and my jaws are strong. Scruffy jumped at the front door, snarling.

  “Okay,” I agreed, and took hold of Scruffy’s collar. I hauled him into the bedroom and shut the door. Fortunately, I’m inured to canine obscenities.

  “I believe that’s Lee Deluca’s grandmother. Let’s hear what she has to say. Maybe she wants to give the boy up before he kills any more innocent people.”

  Becky shook her head as if in disbelief. She put the cell phone she was carrying on the antique sea chest that serves as my coffee table and picked up my grandma’s black walnut walking stick. The door groaned a little, but I got it open. “Yes? Would you like to come in?”

  “I am not stepping a foot inside your cursed house. I’m here to demand that you leave alone my grandson and my daughter-in-law, who is pazzo. She screams at me that it is you and some friend of yours who are trying to keep Leonardo out of college by false accusations, maybe even force him to stay in a juvenile detention place. If you don’t stop attacking our family, I will stick a knife in your heart.” She tapped her own heart and her old black leather handbag, where I imagined she kept the family stiletto sharpened and ready for the occasional vendetta.

  “Okay. Calma, calma.” A useful Italian phrase I’d learned from Lucrezia, who’d been Heather’s interim housekeeper and was now in witness protection. “I understand your concern. I’m a mother myself.”

  “Maledetta la Madonna!” the old woman cried, and flicked her finger against her teeth in a gesture that needed no translation.

  But I went right on, hearing myself talking coolly as if I were someone else. “Your grandson has often been in trouble, isn’t that so? The family wants to protect him. That’s perfectly natural. But if the boy is doing something wrong now—terribly wrong—you’ll want to save him from getting in any deeper. And the only way you can do that is to stop him from poisoning anyone else.”

  Becky was right behind me. “Mom, I’d feel a lot easier if you’d let me call the police. This isn’t right.”

  The old lady hawked and spit on my front step. “I have warned you. Now it’s your grave.” And she stomped off. It was then that I noticed she was wearing bright green Wellington boots.

  “The idea was that it would be too tiring for me to drive all the way back to Boston tonight when I could spend a restful night at Mom’s and get a fresh start in the morning,” Becky said with a moan. “How will I be able to sleep now? I’ll be waiting for the third mystical sister to show up with the final curse on you and your firstborn.”

  I was fixing us a cup of cocoa and thinking about those boots. Probably he borrowed them from Granny. After all, how many boys own gardening boots? He’s small for his age, so they probably fit well enough. And what about those plants I saw in my vision? Is that where Lee stashed the hemlock?

  “Mom,” Becky said. “Have you heard a word I’ve been saying?”

  “Of course I heard you, honey. And I’m really sorry that these little upsets had to happen tonight of all nights. Do you want to have your cocoa in the living room or take it upstairs with you?”

  “Oh, it’s all right. But I do worry about you. Is this what your life is like? I thought you’d be different after you got married. Settled, you know.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek, then backed away, the better to see my face. “I didn’t realize that you actually got hit. You’d better put an icebag or something on that bruise—it’s right under your eye. Want me to take a photo while it’s fresh? In case you decide to make that complaint.”

  “No, thanks. I don’t want to make matters any more complicated than they are.”

  “You have a point there.” She picked up the mug of cocoa. “But, frankly, I’ll feel better when Joe gets home to look out for you.”

  “Please keep in mind that I took care of myself for many years, my dear, and that grown-up women do not need keepers. But for your information, Greenpeace is wrapping up the soyameal thing in Greece, and Joe’s managed to stay out of jail. He’s even resisted the urge to visit his mother. The last time he called, he said he’ll be able to get home soon.”

  “I’m so relieved. Let him deal with the crazies, I say. Thanks for the cocoa. I’ll take mine upstairs. See you in the morning, then.”

  When I finally got into bed myself, a freezer cold pack held against my face, Scruffy was barely speaking to me. Instead, he grumped and muttered, tossed and turned. No one truly appreciates the fierce dedication and keen intuition of dogs. Finally, he stalked out to the kitchen for a long drink of water. I took up Fiona’s book again. Under the present circumstances, maybe this was one I ought to read. By the second page, just as the author was averring that psychic force always can be generated by profound meditation, I literally passed out with the book on my chest. It had seemed like too much trouble to reach over and shut off the light.

  I woke in terror.

  Someone had switched off the light and was standing beside the bed!

  Much as I wanted to scream my head off, no sound would come out of my mouth but a pathetic squeak. How I wished I had a neat pistol like Fiona’s! What use was Grandma’s rifle hanging over the living room mantel? The only weapon I had to hand was the book. I whipped it up into the air, ready to smack the intruder on the head. But something made me hesitate a moment.

  Why had Scruffy trotted amiably into the bedroom to greet the figure looming over me?

  “Oh, for Goddess’s sake, Joe! You gave me such a start. Why didn’t you call?”

  He switched the light back on. “Darling, I did call when I grabbed that last-minute cancellation in Ravenna. Then when I got to Boston, it was three in the morning—why call just to wake you up? So I just jumped in my rental and tore on down here. But didn’t you check your messages when you came home?”

  “I never even went in my office to look. Long story, and it can wait until later.” Gazing into those ardent blue eyes, I lost my train of thought entirely and simply held out my arms. His embrace surrounded me with warmth, his scent filled my senses, and I was lost. A kiss like that makes me forget my own name.

  “Jesu Cristos, sweetheart—what happened to your face?”

  “I ran into a cabinet,” I murmured. No point in ruining the mood of the moment with tales of the mad Deluca women. I could handle those two.

  Scruffy stalked out of the bedroom. Too much thumping around in here. I’m dog-tried from chasing off that green monster, and I need my sleep.

  After the dog left, Joe closed the door and shut of
f the light again. I heard him slipping out of his clothes and tossing them on the chair. Somehow, although I’d had practically no sleep at all, I wasn’t the least bit tired.

  When his naked body slid under the covers next to mine, it was like a flash of sweet fire searing my flesh everywhere we touched—which was everywhere we could. Lovemaking is another entrance to that space between the worlds, the magic place.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  If I’d gone into my office that night to check the answering machine and e-mails, I’d have discovered that my computer had been invaded by a merciless virus lurking in one of those e-mails. But such a catastrophe surely would have cast a pall on that romantic reunion with Joe.

  The next morning was soon enough! As I began to realize the full scope of the calamity, I felt much more sympathy for Phillipa’s similar losses. Hadn’t I been a bit too cavalier about her predicament? After all, I’d reasoned, she had a hard copy of the cookbook manuscript her virus had deep-sixed, and how arduous could it be to rewrite the restaurant reviews?

  “What a disaster!” I wailed as I tried to access missing or blocked files. There was no one except Scruffy to hear my tirades, and he disappeared upstairs the moment I threw the first instruction manual across the room. Becky had already driven back to Boston, and Joe was making an emergency trip to Home Warehouse for remedial electrical equipment. The new track lighting in the cellar kept blowing fuses.

  A flock of customers had ordered my herbal products and paid by credit card, and now I wouldn’t even know who, what, or where. “And it’s January!” I moaned. January is the month when everyone wants to shake off the winter blahs and make a fresh start. It was a big time of year for rejuvenation teas, sensual message oils, and wishcraft incense. “Oh, Sweet Isis, where is Freddie when I need her?”

  The monitor kept flashing weird error messages. bad command or file name…invalid file specification…fatal application error…illegal entry, you are being closed down…permanent loss of data…file is locked…incompatible file format…invalid drive/directory…abort, retry, fail? Phrases calculated to chill the heart of any novice in electronic communication.