Ladies Courting Trouble

by Dolores Stewart Riccio

  “Stone is tearing out his hair,” Phillipa said. “I would never urge you to do anything illegal, you know that, but if you gals could, for instance, stumble across a more convincing piece of evidence, something to persuade those candy-ass judges to sign a warrant…Well, I’ll say no more. Besides, the oven bell just rang, and I’ve got to take out the madeleines.”

  “Madeleines?”

  “This happens every time I read Proust. I even bought the damn pans. Let me know what you come up with…preferably after you’ve done it. Bye!”

  I pondered this challenge, and how my good friend Phillipa was dumping the quest for evidence on me while she covered herself with a cloak of deniability. I would sooner storm a Medici castle than break into Bianca Deluca’s immaculate ranch house on Summer Street. I needed to concoct a ruse. I needed a crafty think tank. I needed confederates.

  I called Deidre and Heather.

  We decided this was no time to involve Fiona, who only had temporary custody of the beloved grandniece. We would go it alone, without our mistress of the invisible glamour and trigger-happy finder.

  But how?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Perhaps it would be better not to break into the old lady’s house,” Deidre said, sticking a needle firmly into the Bettikins doll she was sewing together. Not yet attired in peasant dress and apron, the doll appeared to have actual breasts and a V-shaped cleft between her thighs. Inverted chevron, symbol of the Goddess.

  We’d met at Heather’s. The day being too raw and miserable to enjoy the conservatory (or “dog playroom,” which it really was) we were lounging in the library, my favorite room in the Morgan mansion. On one wall shelves were stocked with leather-bound volumes of nineteenth-century travels and adventures that had belonged to Heather’s great-great-grandfather, the redoubtable Captain Morgan. On other walls were Heather’s collection of arcane and recent volumes about candle-making, candle-burning spells, and the ways of animals, plus Dick’s holistic veterinary texts. The sweet little fireplace was surrounded by tile portraits of historic naval leaders. A small, brisk fire sparked cheerily, and the decanter of excellent port on the library table, liberally poured by our hostess into crystal glasses, was adding to our bonhomie.

  “No one said ‘break in,’ Dee.” Heather curled herself up in a dark leather chair and sipped her port, which was the same ruby shade as her tunic and tights. “We need someone to have a look at Bianca Deluca’s house legitimately. I don’t suppose she ever orders a pizza delivery?”

  “With a name like Deluca, who needs Domino’s,” I said. “I bet she hurls her own pizza dough into the air to create perfect circles that fall neatly into their pans.”

  “Okay, what about an Avon lady, then, or a Fuller Brush person?”

  I chuckled. “Bianca wears the traditional black dress and scowl of the Mediterranean matron, so, naturally, no makeup, and her hair in a gray tangle, like a hank of yarn or a hornet’s nest. Her back has that matriarchal hunch. Come to think of it, she’s reminiscent of the witch in ‘Rapunzel.’”

  “Oh, wash out your mouth with soap,” Deidre said. “I resent all those ‘ugly old witch’ stories and would personally like to rewrite them to feature dirty old men instead. Makes a lot more sense for a guy to lock up the nubile maiden in a tower, I’d say. Want me to drop in with a basket full of senior-citizen gifts—Geritol, Metamucil, Viagra, and what-you-will—from the Chamber of Commerce?”

  “Do they really do that?” I asked. “How nice.”

  “Ha!” Deidre said. “Don’t hold your breath. Although I must say you gals are almost at the right age to collect your baskets.”

  “Dee, you can’t go near Bianca Deluca,” I said. “When she banged on my front door in the middle of the night, she was mumbling about a blond bitch investigating her grandson—and she meant you, honey.”

  “What about me?” Heather asked. “I could get away with it, I think. Some historical pretext. I do belong to the Plimouth Historical Society, you know.”

  “Of course,” I murmured. “And everything else. I bet you’re even an Odd Fellow.”

  Heather ignored me and continued. “I could say I was collecting oral history from Plymouth seniors. I bet old Bianca has a tale to tell. And while I’m in there, I’ll get her to show me the cellar where Lee has his computer. I guess I probably couldn’t walk out with that, but I could take a leaf off one of the potted plants you believe are down there.”

  “Hey, that just might fly,” Deidre said.

  “Or, here’s another idea.” I found that I didn’t want to be left out of the fun investigative work. “You have a chat with Bianca about her history, and while she’s in the kitchen making espresso or something, you surreptitiously unlock the outside door that leads into the cellar. Then I duck in while you two are upstairs. I’ll have a look at those plants myself. Or anything else of interest.”

  “And that’s not a break-in?” Deidre tossed the Bettikins back into her workbasket and took out a Bobbikins, the Brownie Shoemaker. She held it in the air and gazed at it reflectively, as if considering alterations.

  “Good Goddess,” I said. “I hardly believe my eyes. Isn’t that male doll anatomically correct? Haven’t you been receiving letters from irate parents?”

  “The subscribers to the Deidre’s Faeryland catalog are a fairly broad-minded bunch, but it’s true that not all the Puritans are in Plymouth. You’d think they’d be more upset by eunuch dolls, wouldn’t you?” Deidre’s busy little fingers stitched quickly and efficiently while she talked. She was wearing several needles threaded with bright yarns, woven through her Irish sweater like a row of medals. She grinned impishly. “Money back if not satisfied, my dear. If the parents can yank my dolls out of the arms of the kids who got them. But never mind that, hasn’t your hacker already researched our circle’s past crime-solving endeavors on the Internet? Is there a chance that Bianca will recognize Heather’s name?”

  “I think I was still Heather Morgan then. The woman who calls on bellicose Bianca will be Mrs. Devlin. Listen, Cass, if you want, I’ll try it your way—white-light myself and unlock that cellar door. But be warned that if you get caught, I’m going to say I’ve never seen you before in my life. Because I’d like to get out of there without having a stiletto stuck between my ribs.”

  “Fair-weather friend,” I said. “By the way, how are those art classes going with Deluca?”

  Heather raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve learned nothing except how to paint a sand dune at all times of the day and in all seasons. Arthur Deluca seems to know a lot more about mixing shades of gray or beige than he does about what’s going on in his own family. Definitely out of the loop. And anyway, I’ve been expelled.”

  “Expelled! Really? You?” Deidre grinned. “The Vassar valedictorian?”

  “Hell hath no fury like the mother of a defamed son.”

  “At least Lee hasn’t crashed your computer yet,” I said. “And that reminds me, before I leave here today, may I use your e-mail to write Adam and Freddie about the sad demise of my system? They may be trying to contact me and can’t get by the ‘mystery chef.’ In fact, I guess I’d better write to Becky and Cathy as well.”

  Which I did. Brief but brave notes to multiple recipients. Subject line: “Mother is out of order.”

  When Heather called Bianca Deluca to make the appointment, there really was an ongoing oral history project she could cite—“Plymouth Old-Timers in Their Own Words”—although it tended to seek its material from Yankee old-timers rather than from the Italian population. I could just imagine the patrician tones in which Heather introduced herself as “Mrs. Richard Devlin of the Plimouth Historical Society.”

  Distraught over her grandson’s disappearance though she might have been, Bianca agreed to allow Heather an hour or so in which to explain the importance of the “In Their Own Words” project, and jot down a few preliminary facts about the woman’s life history.

  “Not very much tim
e to get the house tour and unlock the cellar door. I’ll have to play it by ear. Then, if I do succeed, you’ll have to work fast,” Heather warned me. “Friday. Three P.M. Be out back where you can see the cellar windows. I’ll wave or something. Watch yourself, now. All we don’t need is your getting caught at this.”

  What happened on Friday came in two versions, mine and the story I heard later from Heather.

  Between the backyard of Bianca Deluca’s house on Summer Street and the backyard of her neighbor’s house on Billington Street were several scraggly pines and an overgrown privet hedge (another possible source of Lee’s privet berry poison?) By two-thirty, I was at my post, lurking under the cover of the evergreen branches, hoping not to be spotted by either resident. I’d planned to synchronize with Heather, but it didn’t seem like a good idea to be carrying a cell phone while sneaking through someone else’s house. I’d have to keep it turned off, so what good would that be?

  It was a raw, wet day, with an off-and-on icy drizzle that threatened to become snow by nightfall—which in January would be only a couple of hours later. I was wearing Joe’s navy wool pea coat because my new Rugged Ridge parka was purple—a dark shade but still eye-catching in winter. The parka would have been much warmer. I was thoroughly chilled, peering through the freezing drips and drops.

  Finally, at a quarter past three, I thought I saw a hand waving from the cellar-level window. I skulked around the edges of the backyard in the afternoon shadows until I reached the cellar door.

  Cautiously, I turned the knob. The door opened. I would congratulate Heather on a job well done, I thought, as I stepped into the room. It was very like the room I had envisioned—not so much a cellar as a lower-level workroom, finished in light oak paneling with a tile floor. A bank of sophisticated computer equipment took up the wall near the stairs, and tall plants were arranged on a old table under the two windows near the door overlooking the backyard. In my vision, however, I hadn’t seen the sagging, overstuffed sofa against the wall at one end of the room or the laundry area at the other end—washer, dryer with a heaping clothes basket perched on top, and an ironing board set up for use. Nor had I seen the plywood door that probably led to the real cellar stuff.

  It was just after I’d taken in this mise-en-scéne that I heard an ominous sound. The door at the top of the stairs opened. I glimpsed heavy shoes, thick cotton stockings, and the black hem of Bianca Deluca’s dress. It was the work of one desperate moment for me to open the plywood door, leap through, and shut it with a click I hoped would not be heard over the woman’s footsteps. I found myself in a place dark as a cave, but I could make out the shape of a furnace and an oil drum. Crouched behind the oil drum, where a number of unsavory webs and bugs made for a creepy, crawly cubbyhole, I thought, Where the hell is Heather?

  From my miserable hiding place I heard Bianca humming something Puccini-ish. “O Mio Babbino Caro,” I thought. After a while I heard the slap of the iron hitting the ironing board. Again and again and again and again. If that basket I’d seen was filled with ironing, I would be here for some time. And I began to itch mightily down the back of my turtleneck sweater. Between smacks of the iron, Bianca continued to hum Puccini’s Greatest Hits.

  Had Heather come and gone already?

  It was an eternity later, or maybe a half hour, when I heard the doorbell ring upstairs—a booming sound, reminiscent of Big Ben at noon. Bianca stopped ironing and clumped up the stairs, speaking loudly in Italian, and from the tone, I guessed she was swearing at this interruption. Possibly she’d just got herself into the swing of ironing and regretted being torn away from her task. Don’t tell me that’s Heather just showing up now. I glanced at my watch. Four P.M. Oh, thanks a lot, good buddy.

  Unclenching my body after crouching for ages behind the oil drum was not an easy task, but now I was really anxious to get out of there. Slowly, I opened the door to the workroom/laundry. I would settle for a leaf of each of those plants. I tiptoed across the tile…softly…softly.

  Then I heard Heather’s voice. She was caroling on about what a lovely home Bianca had and was it okay if she just looked around. Bianca said, “I go with you. This is only the basement downstairs. You want to see the basement, too?”

  I shuddered to hear Heather’s clarion, clear voice insisting that she wanted to see every corner of “this charming home.” There wasn’t time to reach the plywood door at the other end of the room. Looking around frantically, I saw nowhere else to hide except behind the sofa, although I’d have to shove it slightly away from the wall. Maybe Bianca wouldn’t notice that the sofa had moved a foot into the room. I wedged myself in back of the sofa with my cheek on the floor and my rump in the air, the better to see the feet of whoever was in the room.

  Heather’s faux-alligator boots stepped merrily across the tiles toward the plant table and the outside door. Older and slower, Bianca was still laboring down the stairs.

  “Psssst,” I hissed. “Get her out of here.”

  “Oh, Sweet Isis,” Heather murmured, then, in loud tones suitable for the elderly, “How very special this is! And I see you have quite a computer setup here. What a commanding view of your backyard, too! Must be lovely in the summer. Now let’s press on to the kitchen. I know you don’t want to dilly-dally.”

  The boots turned swiftly and headed back toward the cellar stairs.

  “Something wrong with that couch,” Bianca said. “Out of place.”

  “It looks good that way. So modern not to have everything plunk against the wall,” Heather said.

  “Move it back for me, missus, will you? My back, from ironing, you know.”

  “Oh, of course, Mrs. Deluca. I’d be glad to help.” Heather took hold of the couch and shoved it into my ribs. My rump fell to the floor as the couch plastered me against the oak wall. Its feet scraped against my outstretched hands, my waist, and my toes. I expected my flesh would be permanently indented by the grooves in that paneling.

  “A place for everything, and everything in its place, I agree. And as fast as possible,” my untrustworthy friend was saying loudly.

  “I’ll never play the piano again,” I whispered.

  “Did you hear something?” Bianca asked uncertainly. “Wall groaning?”

  “Oh, you know how old houses are. I expect it’s just settling a bit,” Heather said. “Well, now, shall we go upstairs and have a look at your elegant living room?”

  “This house is new, missus.” Bianca’s heavy shoes were headed my way but stopped when, I imagined, Heather took her arm and piloted her back up the stairs, continuing to make lively conversation on the wonders of Bianca’s split-level ranch.

  I almost didn’t want to get up and feel how bruised I’d been by Heather’s crushing sofa maneuver. Still, the thought that Bianca might come back to see why her wall was making pained noises gave me sufficient energy to get myself together. But I’d be damned if I’d leave without examining those plants.

  Ficus lyrata, Dracaena, Dieffenbachia, Maranta, and BINGO! I pulled a plastic baggie from my pocket—every crime-scene investigator’s basic equipment—and nipped off a branch of the hemlock without actually touching it. I tossed one last, longing glance at the computer—wouldn’t it be fun simply to smash the hard drive a few times with Bianca’s iron! But, in a major triumph of good sense and maturity, I gave up thoughts of revenge and tiptoed out the cellar door. By now, it was dark enough to sprint across to Billington Street and into my Jeep.

  I looked forward to having a few crisp words with Heather! But first things first. I drove right to Phillipa’s house, told her about my misadventures, and left the sprig of hemlock for Stone. “Keep it in strict quarantine,” I instructed. “Don’t even touch it.”

  “You mean, then, that I shouldn’t chop this up into tonight’s mesclun?”

  “Don’t even joke.”

  “Okay, all joking aside, what do I tell Stone?”

  “Tell him Heather went to see Bianca on an absolutely legitimate excuse—the Plym
outh Old-Timers oral history project—and just happened to notice the hemlock plant.”

  “And just happened to have a plastic bag open as a branch of it fell off?”

  “Yeah, that’s good. You’ll manage. The main thing is that Stone now has a perfectly good piece of evidence to demand a search warrant.”

  “I don’t know if he’ll see it that way—and I know he won’t believe the story you’ve concocted. But I’ll try,” Phillipa said. “Want a cup of cappuccino? You’re looking a tad fatigued.”

  “No thanks. You’re observing the stresses and strains of being a psychic P.I. I’m going home to put wintergreen liniment on my bruises. Do you suppose Joe will believe that I ran into a sofa?”

  On the way home I called Heather on my cell. “I hope you’ve got a damned good excuse,” I said. “The cellar door was unlocked, so naturally I thought you were already in the house and keeping the old lady busy upstairs. But you hadn’t even got there yet!”

  “You were supposed to wait until I arrived. We had a little accident here, and I was delayed. Ishmael got out of the house, and we needed to lure him back. It took ages, because despite his partially clipped wings, the little bugger got himself rather high up in a willow tree. We had to wave handfuls of goldfish crackers under his beak. You could have knocked me over with a witch-hazel wand when I realized you were behind that sofa. You have to admit I saved your ass there.”

  “Bruised it, you mean.”

  “But, did you get the hemlock?”

  “Yeah. I took it straight to Phil.”