Ladies Courting Trouble

by Dolores Stewart Riccio

  “Uh oh,” I said.

  “Right,” Deidre agreed.

  Annie gurgled and tried to swallow her fist. Absently, Deidre handed her a zwieback and continued her story. “Jenny said, ‘Look, Mom, this dairy guy is offering us a free sample of Maraschino Milk.’ I recognized Deluca instantly from that school photo Millie had showed me. So I grabbed him by the jacket and pulled him into the house. He’s not a very big guy, shorter than I am, if you can believe it. Millie said how charming and handsome he is, but to me he looked like an evil elf.”

  “Of course,” I murmured. “The pixie connection.”

  “‘What poisonous tricks are you up to this time?’ I demanded. ‘Hey, lady,’ he said, ‘I’m just giving out free samples, like your girl said.’ ‘If you’re trying to hurt my family, I’ll kill you myself,’ I said. But he was wiggling free of my grasp. Quite a muscular little scoundrel. So I screamed for Will, but by the time he got himself out of his coma, Lee had run off and taken the bottle with him. Oh, I am so shook!”

  I hugged her, feeling how small and delicate Deidre was, reminding me of my Cathy. I reached for the Light of Universal Energy to surround us both. This was a time when I really felt its warmth; it was like love turned luminous. “We are safe. You did wonderfully,” I said. Of course, I could have wished she’d got hold of that Maraschino stuff, but at least we still had the Naturally Nice Pear and Papaya. “I’ve just come from the parsonage, where there was a similar crisis.” I poured the coffee I’d made and I told her about the new attempt on the Peacedales.

  “There’s one thing that worries me the most,” Deidre said, making a face at the strength of the brew. She added another half-teaspoon of sugar and stirred.

  “What?” I took a sip. To me, the coffee was just right.

  “When Lee Deluca ran off, he looked back at me for an instant with the most malevolent grin you can imagine. He touched his cheek and looked at the blood on his hand. Those skin things really bleed profusely. So then he said something weird. ‘You shouldn’t have marked my face, lady. I play a mean Richard the Third, so watch out.’ What do you make of that?”

  The murdered princes in the tower, I thought. This was a threat directed toward Deidre’s children. I should have told her right then and there, but it seemed to me, looking at her anxious blue eyes, usually so mischievous and merry, that my spunky friend had had enough for one day.

  “That changeling fancies himself a Shakespearian actor,” was all I said.

  I left the bottle in Phillipa’s care. She, too, gave it an intelligent sniff. “Ugh. Smells sickeningly sweet.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. Lock it up someplace until you can put it into Stone’s hands. Any sign of Lee yet?”

  “Stone and Billy Mann are making that kid their priority. Hopefully they’ll get their hands on him before he finds yet another way to eliminate the Peacedales.”

  “Yes, the little fox is quite adaptable. I wonder what concoction is in this, don’t you?” Right as I said that, I had an idea of how Lee might be traced. Instantly, I rang home on my cell. “Let me speak to Freddie,” I said.

  “Freddie! Oh, goodie!” Phillipa’s smile was like megawatts of sunshine, softening her sharp features into beauty. “She’s here to rescue your computer, isn’t she? That blessed girl. Do you think she’d have time to have a look at mine, too?”

  “Hi, Freddie. Listen up, hon. Don’t send that virus. Repeat. Don’t send that virus.”

  “Hey, Cass, are you having an attack of the mundanes? I’ve got this thing all ready to unleash on the Bad Seed. His computer will be toast. Burned toast. I’m going through your copy of The Complete Plays of Shakespeare, trying all the main characters’ names. Have you come up with anything.”

  “Puck,” I said absently, surprised at the word coming out of my own mouth. Sometimes being clairvoyant simply means getting out of the way, letting what you know in your unconscious mind emerge without thought barriers.

  “Is that with a P or an F?” asked Freddie.

  “Did you know that the hacker boy’s disappeared? What I’m thinking is, the kid may come back at night to get stuff off his computer. I don’t know. Information, maybe. To read his e-mail. Or maybe he’ll contact his computer from elsewhere. Is it possible for you to get into his computer without his knowing about it and trace his activity, maybe even lift his correspondence?”

  Freddie laughed. “If he turns it on and you’re right about the password, it’s a cinch. Or if you have any idea of what his favorite sites might be, I could set up a phony one to hook him good.”

  “I have no idea, but my guess is that Deluca might be tempted by scholarships to theater schools or, better yet, casting calls for a production at some South Shore amateur theatrical company.”

  “Any special play?”

  “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “That’s Shakespeare, with the fairies and other fey types? What a blast! I’ll get a worm on the hook in case he logs on. Say, did you know that your Indian kid is here?”

  “Oh, Tip…good. I’m on my way home. We’ll all have lunch together.”

  “Cass…his father died this morning at Jordan Hospital.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” I tried to think good thoughts for S. E. Thomas’s journey to Summerland, but I also couldn’t help feeling relieved that now Tip could get the education he deserved without interference from his dad, who’d always wanted to drag him out of school and into some dead-end job for minimum wages. So finally the old man had drunk himself to death. Good and bad, so inextricably woven together that the one would always contain aspects of the other.

  There was something inflexible about Tip’s reaction to grief. He stood as straight as a soldier at attention and allowed himself to be hugged, never for a minute breaking down. But I could see in his eyes all the pain and guilt of a difficult relationship that now never could be mended. “Maybe I should have stayed with the old man instead of traipsing off to Wiscasset,” he said. I did my best to explain that Tip had a right to live his life and develop his talents in his own way; it was as nature intended.

  Although I wanted him to stay with me, Tip stalwartly insisted on going home and “getting ready for the family.” Later, I was surprised to discover how many relatives there actually were when they all gathered at S. E. Thomas’s funeral. But not his ex-wife, Mary, Tip’s mother. One of the great-uncles had to escort Tip’s younger brother to their father’s funeral. The sibling’s given name was Little Bear, Lib for short, just as Tip was Thunder Pony. But the boy now preferred to be called Chris, the name he’d been given at the Catholic school in Bangor where Mary had deposited him like an unwanted bag of clothes in a missionary box. From what I could observe, the boys were distant and shy of one another, set as they were on different paths, but before the weekend was over and Chris returned to his school, some of the old sibling camaraderie surfaced.

  Big, red-haired, fair-skinned John Thomas, Tip’s uncle, his father’s brother, who had appointed himself Tip’s unofficial guardian in Wiscasset, had taken care of all the arrangements—and paid for them, too. The Reverend Peacedale officiated—Tip’s suggestion—and Tip himself played a haunting tune on the Native American flute he’d designed and made. His hidden grief soared movingly through the music and brought tears to other eyes as well as mine. Except for family, though, the funeral was sparsely attended, just a few wasted drinking buddies of S. E. Thomas’s. So I was glad all five of us were there, plus husbands. More heads for Patty to count.

  Tip introduced us as “the medicine women, my friends.” Fiona seemed especially pleased with that. She was still carrying the bag of corn pollen she’d brought home from Arizona, a pinch of which was used to bless and heal us as the occasion arose.

  Just before the service, Stone leaned over and whispered to me the results of the test on the Naturally Nice juice. It was found to contain a killing amount of sweet, odorless ethylene glycol—the chemical used as antifreeze. How, then, did b
oth Phillipa and I decide that it “smelled” too sweet?

  “Psychic noses,” Phillipa explained it. “Every sense must have its extrasensory counterpart.”

  “Ah, yes,” Heather said. “I often smell a rather distinctive scent of tobacco in my study—very pleasant, really, with a touch of molasses—although no one’s smoked in the Morgan house since old Captain Morgan passed away to Summerland. And when I catch a whiff of that pipe smoke, it’s sure to be accompanied by an idea or impulse that seems to have no relation to me. ‘Out of the blue,’ as they say.”

  “Maybe Captain Jack’s been hanging around the study, enjoying a pipe while browsing through your great-grandfather’s collection of old sea stories,” Deidre suggested.

  “Captain Jack has given up tobacco, he tells me, to spare Ishmael. Apparently the bird cannot tolerate secondhand smoke.”

  “Coughing a phony little cough, is he? The one that the Health Police have developed to perfection?” Phillipa asked. She’d given up smoking only a few years ago and was still bitter about it. Occasionally she still enjoyed a puff or two when no one was around.

  “If you’re going to sneak a smoke, it’s better not to have a clairvoyant friend,” I told her. “Especially one with a psychic nose.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Although I still had worries about Adam’s future with Freddie as his wife and the mother of his children, I had to admit that having my former protégé for a daughter-in-law might prove to be a blessing after all. The one I admitted this to was Joe, in the privacy of our bedroom.

  “But aren’t you proud,” he had said, “that he’s chosen an amazing gal who’s something like his mum rather than some cheerleader chick with designer nails and a registered sterling-silver pattern?”

  “Yeah, I suppose. And she is, as you say, amazing. And not just for reprogramming the Earthlore Herbal Preparations Web site, which required finding the original program in my office, a monumental task.”

  “Where was it?” As I was lying on my folded arms, gazing out the window at the leafless world of winter etched against the rising full moon, Joe began to massage my back. I felt myself melting into liquid pleasure.

  “Mmmmmm. In a folder labeled, for some strange reason, Genesis. But that’s not all. She’s constructed the most wonderful fake Web sites to lure Lee Deluca. I’m trying to detect whether he’s sneaking home—or rather, to his grandmother’s house—to use his computer. If he opens his e-mail at all, it will, in a very few seconds, install a secret gizmo to allow us to delve into all his files. Oh boy, do that shoulder again, will you? It’s heaven.”

  “Muscles are a little tight right there.”

  “Not any more, lover.”

  “What’s the lure?”

  “The first one is a theater thing. Freddie found a legitimate amateur theater company called the Provincetown Troubadours and created a fictitious casting call for a phony production Lee will find irresistible—A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It looks completely authentic and links to what appears to be the Troubadours’ home page—simply a work of genius. The second one is a link to a site called ‘Poisons in the Kitchen, A Guide to Dangerous Substances Commonly Found in and around the Home.’”

  “Yesterday morning, when Freddie picked up a Post-it notepad, a pen slid right across the kitchen desk into her fingers.” Joe said. “She didn’t even appear to notice that anything unusual had occurred.”

  “That’s not surprising for Freddie. I just hope she’s more careful at Iconomics.”

  “How would you like to roll over?” Joe kissed the back of my neck, an electrifying zinger. Relaxation turned to anticipation.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “What are your plans now?” I asked Tip. After the onslaught of Thomas relatives had departed, I’d insisted he have dinner with us, and he’d agreed readily enough. “You’ll be finishing the school year in Wiscasset, won’t you?”

  “Nah. Got too much to do, so I’m going to complete this term, anyway, in Plymouth. Uncle John laid down the law on that one. As soon as I get things closed up properly—sorted, stored, dumped, and like that—I’m back in the Wiscasset system. Two more years, and then I can fly free as an eagle, Uncle John says. Unless I want to work with him at the shipyards. Good wages and all. But I’m thinking of studying music, you know. Especially primitive music. I think that’s my path, the one I should follow.”

  “What about your dad’s house?” Joe asked.

  “Soon as the court says I can, Uncle John is going to arrange for its sale. He’s already had a real estate lady in to evaluate the property. Lib and me will split the money. Only Uncle John is going to put it away for us, so that Mom…well, so Lib’s share will be there when he graduates from high school. That should give us a start at college. If my dad ever knew that little house of ours is on a piece of land that’s actually worth something, he’d have sold it a long time ago.”

  And drunk away the money, we all thought but didn’t say.

  “You may find some colleges offer scholarships to Native Americans,” I suggested.

  “Yeah, my guidance teacher in Wiscasset said that. She’s going to do a search so that we can apply for early admission. Hey, they haven’t found Deluca yet?” Tip asked. “What’s he up to, anyway?” We’d finished dinner and dessert. Tip glanced at the fruit bowl, and I passed it to him. This was a kid who used to eat raw potatoes in lieu of apples.

  Hey, how about another bite of meatloaf? Scruffy was resting his nose on Tip’s moccasins, sensing the easy touch.

  “You’ve had quite enough, fella.” Tip grinned at me and peeled a banana. Tuning in to Scruffy was something special we shared. “Unless you’re fond of banana.”

  I beg your pardon—do you think I’m some kind of monkey? Scruffy growled in disgust.

  “Deluca knew he was about to be questioned in the hemlock matter, and other incidents, so he’s made himself scarce,” Joe said. “It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that his mother and/or his grandmother have him in hiding somewhere locally.”

  “Fiona’s on the case,” I said. “She’s our champion finder.”

  “What about that program Freddie set up before she left?” Joe asked. “If Deluca takes the bait, it will prove your theory. Put a watch on Grandma and you’ll have him nailed.”

  “Freddie showed me how to check her little traps, but so far, nothing. I’m pinning my hopes on Fiona. In fact, I thought I’d drive over there now. If nothing else, it’s such a pleasure to share her joy in her grandniece. I suppose Fiona’s guardianship won’t last forever, but that’s all the more reason to revel and celebrate. Do you want to come with me?”

  “You don’t mean that,” Joe said. “You ladies probably do better on your own. ‘Mysteries of Isis’ and all.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if we were tuning into the Mysteries. Most of what we do dates back to ancient times, perhaps even to prehistory. So I believe, but there are two schools of thought on that.”

  “You believe in the old gods—or should I say goddesses?—because you’re an incorrigible romantic. Are you sure you’re not part Greek?”

  “With a name like Shipton? I’ll own to being romantic, though.”

  Tip was beginning to look uncomfortable. “Don’t worry,” I said, “we’re not going to get mushy. Come on, I’ll give you a ride home on my way to Fiona’s.”

  “Aren’t you going to call her first?” Joe asked.

  “I’m betting she already knows I’m coming. Think of it as a little drop-in test.”

  “I had an idea you’d be turning up. I’ve got the kettle on,” Fiona said when she opened the door to her picturesque, fishnet-draped cottage. Laura Belle was clinging to her great-aunt’s colorful striped skirt, smiling shyly. She was wearing a sweet flannel nightie with sparkling stars scattered over a violet-blue background, a perfect match for her eyes, and holding a soft stuffed spider under one arm. I raised an eyebrow and glanced at my hostess.

  “That’s Grandmoth
er Spider, who brought fire to the Choctaws and taught them spinning and weaving,” Fiona said a bit defensively. “Laura Belle loves her spider, and Aunt Fifi is going to tuck them in together, warm and snug. Say good night to Aunt Cass, sweetheart.”

  Is the child speaking at last? I stooped down so that we were on the same level. and gazed into her morning-glory eyes. Everything about her was delicate and flowerlike. Rosebud mouth. Camellia-petal skin. But, alas, still the silence, the gentle smile. Laura Belle merely gave me a soft hug and kissed my cheek, the spider dangling over my back. I’d forgotten how sweet little girls smell and almost envied Fiona. Wouldn’t I be thrilled to have a little girl like this to love? I had to shake myself to remember I’d already lived that mother part of life with my own little girls, two of them, now all grown-up, grown away. And a son, too. Nostalgia had me in its sweet, enclosing grip. You can’t go back to where you were, you can’t go back to who you were, the little voice of reason insisted.

  “Shall I make the tea while you tuck her in?” I asked.

  “Good idea. Everything’s ready.” Fiona scooped up her charge, silver bangles jangling, and sprinted up the stairs, very spry for a formerly arthritic old lady.

  Fiona’s little kitchen, once a galley of gruesome grease, had undergone a magical transformation indeed. Every shelf gleamed with neatly arrayed dishes and goods. Pots of rosemary, sage, and mint thrived on the windowsill despite the waning winter sunlight. Every surface was tidy, only a bowl of shining apples and a cookie jar in the shape of a troll sitting on the countertops. A tray with thistle-pottery teapot, mugs, and a plate of poppyseed cookies was laid out on the diminutive wooden table, now scrubbed to the golden grain. I measured Lapsang Souchong and filled the teapot from the steaming kettle. I really ought to have a go at my own kitchen, I thought as I carried the tray into the living room. Whoever thought Fiona’s housekeeping would put me to shame?