Ladies Courting Trouble

by Dolores Stewart Riccio

  “That should do it,” Fiona said. “Carry on, ladies.” Soon we were dining and reveling again, each somehow assured that right would prevail.

  We might never know if our thoughts and prayers had a real effect. But however she was moved to see the light, Judge Lacrimas was not taken in by Lee Deluca’s deceptive version of events. The facts remained that three small children had been lured away from their home, driven to a deserted tourist park, and nearly drowned in the Deluca car while Lee himself was watching from a safe distance. She found Leonardo Deluca guilty of aggravated assault and sentenced him to two years in a maximum-security juvenile detention training center in Framingham. He would be released when he was eighteen. In addition, Lee was ordered to take part in a new psychiatric program for youngsters who had shown high scholastic achievement and/or artistic promise before they got into trouble with the law.

  “And the sessions will be off-campus, so to speak. MacLean Hospital is running the project, which is privately funded. You might call it a ‘gifted delinquent’ program,” Phillipa announced. “I’m disgusted with the way this sociopath is being coddled.”

  So were we all. We’d gathered at Deidre’s to discuss the verdict. Jenny and Willie were in school, but Deidre was kept busy running up and downstairs to tend to Will, home from the hospital, and to get Bobby and Annie into their beds for afternoon naps. Phillipa had offered to make the coffee, which, brewed by her hands, gave a bright-eyed caffeine boost to the afternoon slump. “And that charming lad will seduce all his therapists for sure. So we’d better all watch out when he’s released in two years,” she predicted.

  “Too late, though, for him to murder Wyn and collect that inheritance,” I pointed out.

  “I wonder how tight security will be when they’re schlepping those delinquents over to MacLean twice a week,” Phillipa mused.

  “Well, one good thing—Arthur’s moving his family out of town. No one will say where, but I’ll wager it’s not far away from the training school,” Deidre said. “Still, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe.”

  “Fiona will know where,” Heather said. “Won’t you, Fiona?”

  Fiona smiled mysteriously. “Don’t worry, ladies. I’ll see to it that Leonardo never gets near my little darling again.”

  “Uh oh. Watch it, Fiona,” I warned.

  “Never mind that, Cass,” said Deidre. “Whatever you’re going to do, Fiona, include all of us and our families. That depraved kid got off way too easy. No more Ms. Nice Witch, I say.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Honeycomb gave birth to a litter of seven pups on Valentine’s Day—and through Valentine’s night as well—effectively canceling out the romantic plans any of her attendants might have been entertaining. It was a home birth, in the familiar surroundings of the conservatory, the rest of Heather’s canine companions being relegated to their lavish garage kennels. The golden was attended by her personal veterinarian with Heather assisting.

  I thought it best to leave Scruffy at home, but I was there for the first five whelps before exhaustion claimed me. Tip had wanted to witness, as he described it, “the miracle of birth,” but at the sight of the first pup emerging in its bloodied caul, which the mother immediately licked off, he turned grayish-green and rushed out of the conservatory.

  We were all back the next morning, however, this time with Scruffy, to admire the litter. Honeycomb, weary, but proud and poised, accepted our effusive praise as only her due. She knew she had done something extraordinary. The soft, roly-poly pups blinked their first at the world, nuzzled against their mother, and drank deeply of their new lives.

  Picking up an abandoned tennis ball, Scruffy wandered over nonchantlantly, and looked down with some amazement at this new development. Perhaps he would have dropped the ball into the whelping box for the little buggers to play with, but Honeycomb simply raised her lip, showed her teeth, and growled low and mean. It was clear that she meant business. Scruffy immediately backed away and thereafter remained just beyond the big double doors that led into the conservatory from the main house. Geez, what got into her! Was it something I did?

  “Honeycomb’s really tired now. She’ll be in a better humor in a few days,” I said, hoping it was true.

  All newborns are adorable, even this motley crew. Tip grinned with delight, his quiet chuckle ending in a cough, so like his father’s. Under her close supervision, Honeycomb permitted him to sit on the edge of the whelping box and delicately examine each pup. Two had the sleek, wavy coat and silky ears of a golden retriever, except for being sandy in color. The other five sported ears that were perkier, fur that was shaggier, and a squarer jaw than Mom’s. One in particular instantly claimed my attention, the spitting image of his old man, already cocky and spunky, not too quick to mind Honeycomb when she was barking her brood into a manageable heap.

  “See that one trying to get out of the whelping box?” I said to Heather.

  “I know. Chip off the old blockhead, and I’m saving him for you. What are you going to name him? And, more importantly, how is Scruffy going to react?”

  “He looks like a ‘Raffles’ to me. Thief of hearts. Scruffy will just have to cope. What about the rest of the litter?”

  “I’m anticipating an easy sell. Tip wants to take a pup down Maine with him this summer, and Patty said she’d be interested.”

  “Patty! How’s she going to get that idea past Wyn and Loki?”

  “Patty can be a fairly determined woman when she sets her mind to something. And I think hanging around with us has been a consciousness-raising experience as well. Especially Fiona, who is rather like the Wife of Bath in her views on marriage. Speaking of Fiona, she would just love to take a pup for Laura, but we fear that Omar would never adapt.”

  “What about Phil?” I suggested.

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t even dare to broach the subject.”

  “I will. We have eight weeks or so to work on her, right?”

  “Oh yes. We won’t let the pups go until they’re fully weaned.”

  “Perfect! It will be spring then, well past the vernal equinox. A beautiful season to welcome someone new into the family. We’ll have already celebrated Ostara to shake off all the nastiness and negativity of this winter,”

  “I like your optimism,” Heather said as she busied herself in preparing a tray of mimosas to toast the blessed event. In Heather’s view, it was never too early in the morning for champagne.

  “Well, I have to admit to a certain frustration with the outcome of the Deluca case. That boy is a murderer, and all he’s been tapped for is aggravated assualt,” I said.

  “The murder evidence was not only circumstantial, it was dubious at best. You know the truth, we know, but nothing could be proved. The Plymouth church poisonings, like so many other crimes, will forever go unsolved. But personally, if I were you, Cass, I’d watch my back with the Deluca boy in the future.”

  “I think of my continued well-being as proof positive that magic happens.”

  “Let’s get the others. Time to propose a toast. To life and all its glorious complications, even mixed-breed mutts and postponed justice.”

  “All part of the cosmic cocktail,” I agreed.

  “Oh, thank Goddess,” were Deidre’s first words when I answered my kitchen phone.

  “Is something wrong, Dee?” In truth, she sounded more triumphant than troubled.

  “As the mother of three close-in-age children, I just wanted you to be the very first to know that my search for an au pair has paid off, finally. Well, she’s not an au pair, exactly. She’s a bona fide nanny, and she’s affordable. And you know who recommended her? Serena Dove, the doyenne of Saint Rita’s Refuge for Women. Serena just happened to see my plea on the Nanny Network. A plea that was being royally ignored, probably because I have this mob of children, practically the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe.”

  “Listen, Dee, are you okay? You sound a little hysterical.”

  “‘Free at last, free
at last, Goddess Almighty, free at last.’ The children seem to adore her—she has this amazing knack of getting right down on their level.” Deidre giggled.

  “Wow! Amazing good fortune. But what’s so funny?”

  “She really is at their level—tiny, round little woman, brown as a berry. Betti Kinsey. Betti with an i.”

  Bettikins! “Does she carry a teeny-weeny sewing basket?”

  Deidre began giggling again. For a minute there, I thought she might not pull out of it. “She just happened to have a basket over her arm when she appeared on my doorstep. It gave me a turn, I’ll tell you. And to think that there are still ladies out there who don’t believe in magic,” she said, chortling.

  “Not to throw a bucket of cold water on this love match, but how exactly did she come into Serena Dove’s sphere of attention?”

  “Some Catholic charity. I didn’t get all the details.”

  “Oh, good. Then they probably did good works together. For a minute there, I was worried that Bettikins might be another abused wife fleeing to Saint Rita’s from a homicidal husband.”

  “You know what I think? I think I conjured this woman out of thin air.”

  “Yes, I know. When you get to know her better, you’ll probably find out she has a Pictish heritage.”

  “Talk about ‘the winter of our discontent,’” Phillipa complained. “Nothing but ice, snow, gloom, and poison. I don’t think I’ve ever been so thankful to see the willow branches turn yellow and the maple buds redden.”

  “‘If winter comes, can Beltane be far behind?’” Since we were waxing poetic, I paraphrased from my own store of memorized lines. We were sitting on my glassed-in porch, wearing heavy sweaters and gazing out at the waves, hot mugs of coffee warming our fingers and noses. A few sailboats were braving the Atlantic in April, their white sails dazzling in the light of the lowering sun.

  From where I was sitting, I could see my own sailor in his navy pea coat, collar turned up, and his jaunty Greek cap set firmly in place as he raked off winter’s debris from the perennial herbs. In two days’ time, he’d be leaving on another assignment, to join up with Rainbow Warrior II on a campaign against pirate fishing in the Pacific. Now he was hurrying to finish some of the heavy cleanup that he deemed to be “man’s work,” as if ignorant of the fact that I’d done those laborious tasks by myself for all those lonely springtimes before he came into my life.

  Scruffy was larking about with a long, trailing branch that winter had trimmed from the white birch. He dropped his prize and looked up at the sound of an approaching car, which he was always the first to detect.

  With a riff of soft, celebratory honks of her horn, Heather eased into the driveway and parked the Mercedes. She got out, grinned, and with a flourish, opened the back door of her Mercedes, otherwise known as “the dog car.” With a cautious sniff of the air, eight-weeks-old Raffles, a veritable clone of his sire, emerged from the dog carrier and jumped out of the car, looking through the shaggy fur over his eyes with wary bravado. Even his tail had that characteristic briard hook at the end.

  Hurrying down the porch stairs, I greeted the little fellow with a dog treat in my hand. I crouched down to his level so that we could exchange kisses, and Raffles chomped up his treat. Feeling a little surer of himself, the pup showed off by peeing on the nearest tree (an art he had not quite mastered yet) and racing around the yard like a wild thing.

  Scruffy surveyed this performance with amazed disapproval and his sternest alpha-dog stare. What’s that little baggage doing here? Why isn’t he home where he belongs—with his mother?

  Actually, Honeycomb had been giving every evidence of being heartily bored by the whole business of pup-raising. She often left the pups to wander around the conservatory on their own, unless Ishmael appeared. Honeycomb had some sixth sense where Ish was concerned and would chase him remorselessly as he squawked and screamed epithets, green feathers floating through the air, if he ventured anywhere near her pups. But the puppies barked shrilly in Honeycomb’s ear, roughhoused and often pulled on her tail, and bit her when they nursed, which they rushed to do every time she lay down to catch a moment’s rest. She’d struggle up with an expression of disgust, toss them off, and stalk away. Enough is enough.

  “This is Raffles,” I explained to Scruffy. “It’s time for him to leave home, so he’s going to live with us and help you in guarding the property.”

  This scrawny little scamp? He’s still wet behind the ears. You got to be kidding, Toots.

  “You can teach him how to chase squirrels and crows and UPS men.”

  Don’t know about that. It’s very tricky, creeping up on those critters. We briards are famous for our excellent stalking and herding skills.

  “Raffles is a briard, too.”

  Hearing his name, the pup picked up one end of the birch branch, lowered his head, and waggled his rear end. A minute later the two dogs were tug-of-warring around the yard, tussling through piles of soggy old leaves that Joe had collected into a heap. Heather unloaded the wire crate she was loaning me for housebreaking, and we watched the game’s progress with indulgent smiles.

  “Scruffy is going to really enjoy the company once he gets used to sharing,” I said.

  “Sure he is, dreamer,” Phillipa said, leaning out of the porch door to watch. “But I have to admit, Raffles is a cute little mutt.”

  Heather and I glanced at each other. Was this a chink in Phillipa’s armor? There were still two pups needing homes. “Try talking up the runt,” I whispered to Heather “The one that needs special feeding and care. And how the poor baby can’t stomach commercial dog food.”

  What are friends for if not to con each other into fun new experiences?

  Beltane! Surely it was my favorite of all the Sabbats. But, then, I managed to be totally enchanted by whatever Sabbat turned up on the wheel of the year—the drama of Samhain, the hopefulness of Imbolc, the richness of Lammas. Still, Beltane, with its heady mixture of frivolity, creativity, blossoming beauty, and robust sex, had much to recommend it.

  We’d decided to celebrate the first of May at Heather’s with a traditional Maypole dance during the day. The private Beltane ceremony would be celebrated by starlight and moonlight.

  It was a gloriously azure afternoon with a few puffy white clouds like a flock of Summerland sheep. Deidre’s children and Laura Belle were invited to dance with us, while Dick manned a hidden CD player playing medieval flute music. The little girls wore Kate Greenaway–style dresses and the boys Greenaway print shirts that Deidre had made. We danced the circle together, each holding a gaily colored ribbon attached to the flower-decorated Maypole. By the ancient, intricate steps of the dance, we wove the ribbons until we were tightly knit together. Then we reversed the steps in the same order to unravel the web.

  Our first Maypole—our technique was hardly perfected. As we fell on the soft grass in the highest good humor, exhausted with merry high-stepping, especially we older Maydancers, in a lull that came suddenly upon us, we all heard a sound more welcome than music. It was Laura Belle’s voice. She said, “I’m thirsty, Aunt Fifi.”

  There was laughter to follow, and tears, and hugs, and our hostess pouring glasses of lemonade and woodruff-flavored May wine to toast the miraculous occasion.

  The balmy temperatures continued that night; a half moon shone on the ring of stones Heather had laid out on her extensive grounds. Surrounded on three sides by trees, the circle for our celebration was all wonderfully magical.

  But to me, the loveliest celebration came later when Joe and I took a midnight walk on the beach, leaving the two disappointed dogs at home, noses pressed at the kitchen window. I’d brought a blanket that we spread between secluded rocks. On Beltane, another sacred tradition, the fertility of earth always must be encouraged by lovers. In New England, on the Plymouth seashore, it might be just a little chilly, but we hardly noticed until much later that night. The moon was long down, but the brilliant constellations above us described their ti
meless mythic patterns. I felt at that moment that they belonged to us—our own lucky, loving stars.

  Epilogue

  “The tarot,” my friend Phillipa declares, “is a key to ancient wisdom. Each card has a story to tell—about the future and the past.” She turns up The Fool, a card of the Major Arcana. “See this youngster walking along the cliff’s edge with a merry dog companion? That’s you, dear Cass, and your faithful dog, Scruffy. You are gazing into the horizon, not watching your step, careless of danger. Probably leading your friends along the same narrow trail. About to make another leap of faith.”

  What could I say? It was all so true. Phillipa reads people as well as she reads the tarot.

  “But there’s much to be said for The Fool,” she continues, tapping the deck with her finger, the shining dark wings of her hair falling forward. “She’s on the path to adventure. Risky but rewarding. Exciting. Edgy in the true sense of the word. And, always, amazing. There may not be safety and security ahead, but there will be love, laughter, and bad news for bad guys.”

  Not such a terrible prospect. I’ll take it.

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  Copyright © 2006 by Dolores Stewart Riccio

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  ISBN: 978-0-7582-6659-0