A Family Affair

by Shannon VanBergen

  He smiled and grabbed two menus. “Right this way.”

  He led me to a little table by the window. Once I was seated, he started his speech. “All of our sauces are made with white wine,” he said proudly. “And the pizzas are cooked in a…” He stopped and thought for a minute. “A fire oven. No, that’s not right.” His confidence was suddenly gone. Clearly, he hadn’t worked there long enough to memorize their spiel. “It’s an oven with fire. You know, it’s a…” He fumbled with some words, and his face grew red in embarrassment.

  “A brick oven?” I asked.

  His face lit up. “Yeah! That’s it! Would you like to hear the specials?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll just have water for now.”

  He looked relieved as he jotted it down on his little notepad.

  When he walked away, I looked around and was surprised to see Greta sitting at a table by herself, papers strewn all over in front of her.

  “Hey, Greta,” I said, walking over to her table. “What are you doing here?”

  She looked nervous as she grabbed the papers and tried to gather them into a neat stack. It wasn’t working. “I, ugh, came here to work on something. What are you doing here? How’s Geraldine’s arm?”

  I watched her continue to try to get control of the papers that refused to go into the neat stack she wanted them to. What was she hiding?

  “I’m meeting Les here. I think Grandma’s arm will be okay.” I was worried about Grandma, though. She didn’t seem like herself. But honestly, I wasn’t myself either. You don’t go through something like that and walk out unscathed.

  “So, what are you working on?” I asked.

  Greta sighed and gave up on the papers. She let them fall back to the table. “Well, I suppose I can show you. Maybe you can give me some feedback after you read it.”

  I sat down across from her, facing the door so I could see Les when he walked in. Greta looked at me, and I could tell she wasn’t completely sold on sharing. “I was actually pretty excited when I started this project, but now I’m questioning the whole thing.”

  “I’m sure it’s great!” I reassured her. “What is it?”

  She hesitated. I expected her to say she was writing a book and now had writer’s block. Or maybe she was tracing her genealogy and came across something scandalous. However, I did not expect what came out of her mouth.

  “I’m creating an abstinence class for Christian schools.” She looked at me, waiting for my reaction.

  I told myself, threatened myself even, to keep a steady face. No laughing, no cringing. Just stay neutral. I failed.

  “You think it’s a terrible idea,” she said, trying to gather the papers again.

  “No! I think it’s…interesting! It’s just not what I expected you to say.”

  “I just really felt there was a need for it, so I talked to a school principal and he said to go for it! I’m supposed to present it to the school board tomorrow, and I’m just not sure about it. Would you look over it for me?”

  My mouth said yes, but my mind said, Please, no!

  She looked through her pile and pulled out three pages. “Here,” she said, “read these first.”

  At the top of the first page, there was a logo of a big, fluffy, pink heart with an arrow going through it. In balloon letters next to it were the words, “Hearts Before Parts.” Uh-oh, she gave me this lecture once.

  “What do you think of the logo?” she asked me.

  I swallowed, more like gulped. “It’s…nice.”

  She smiled. “I had Lloyd make it for me. Did you know he could do stuff like that on his computer? He makes a lot of things for the retirement center, and it always turns out so nice.”

  “Lloyd made this?” I asked. But then I saw it. It wasn’t actually an arrow going through the heart, it was a… “Greta, did you see what he used instead of an arrow?”

  Her face turned red. “Is it too much? I thought it was. It was his idea.”

  Of course it was his idea. “Yeah, I think I’d take that out. That might not be appropriate for kids.”

  She nodded in agreement, and I looked down and read the first page. Then the second, and finally the third. “Wow, you really thought of everything.” Why was I suddenly sweating?

  “Do you think it’s okay?” she asked. “Do you think it will be effective?”

  I didn’t know what to say. I pictured myself as a middle schooler or high schooler sitting there listening to an old lady talk about the things I had just read and how mortified I’d be. She’d probably ruin sex for all the kids. I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yes, Greta. I think this will be very effective.”

  She smiled and sat up straight, happy with my answer. Just then, Les walked in, and I jumped out of my chair. “My lunch date is here.”

  Greta turned to smile and wave at Les. “I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow at the meeting,” she said to me. I wasn’t aware there was a meeting. Grandma Dean always worried about me and that morning’s events must have solidified it. I would be sent to the pool for every meeting now. But then again, after what I went through, maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea.

  I returned to my table, and Les sat down across from me.

  “You okay?” he asked. “You don’t look like yourself.”

  I wasn’t myself. But I didn’t want to think about why. I wanted to sit there with my friend and feel safe. I wanted to be distracted. I assumed that was what Greta wanted too, and that was why she was here working. She could be alone but not really alone, and she could dive into her work.

  “I’ve had a rough day so far. But I don’t really want to talk about it. Tell me what’s been going on with you lately! I haven’t talked to you in a week!”

  Les filled me in on the classes he was taking at the community college. He loved to write poetry, and he had his poetry notebook with him. “Want to hear a few?” he asked.

  To be honest, I wasn’t a big fan of poetry, but his were pretty whimsical and short…which I liked.

  He flipped through his book. “I wrote this one the other day at lunch.”

  Les cleared his throat and his face suddenly looked serious as he began to read.

  * * *

  Bean Sprout

  By Lesus Moore

  * * *

  Little bean sprout so full of doubt.

  Why do you pout and mill about?

  Don't be a lout and don't flout.

  Get some clout and change your route!

  Climb out of the dugout, be a scout.

  Stand out, step out!

  Be stout and give a shout!

  Go all out, be free little sprout.

  * * *

  He looked at me and waited for my reaction. His poem was weird and quirky, just like Les. “I love it!” I said, my worries already slipping away. He sat up, proud.

  Les had come a long way since I’d met him. He would always be a little different and awkward, but at least he wasn’t stalking me anymore and could actually talk to me without running away.

  Our waiter came back, and we ordered our pizzas. I still wasn’t very hungry, but I ordered a small pizza. I figured I could take home whatever I didn’t eat and maybe Grandma Dean would eat the leftovers.

  “I’m going to run to the bathroom before our food gets here,” Les said, standing up. “I’ll be right back.”

  The restaurant was quiet, which wasn’t a good sign. A new place like this should be packed at lunchtime. If the pizza was good, I’d tell the other Grannies about it. That thought made me think of Greta and I looked her way to see her feverishly scribbling something on her paper before sighing in frustration and crumbling the paper into a ball. She couldn’t concentrate. So far, the tally was two drunk grannies, one that was sleeping too much and now one that couldn’t concentrate. It was interesting to see how the same stress affected each person so differently. I wondered what Virginia was up to. She had seemed so eager to go into the building with us and disappointed when she had to stay in the car. The situ
ation seemed to make her bold and ready to fight.

  I felt antsy. I needed something to do. I looked over at Les’s poetry notebook. Would it be bad if I read a few? I looked toward the bathroom and he wasn’t coming out yet. Surely, he wouldn’t mind. He was always reading me one or two poems every time we got together.

  I reached over and slid the notebook toward me, glancing at the bathroom one more time. Still no Les. I flipped through the pages. He read that one to me…and that one too…and that one… Oh! There was a new one!

  * * *

  Who’s Next

  * * *

  Here it is, another crime

  A dozen for a dime

  Committed silently, like a mime

  Seems to happen all the time

  Turn around, hear the sound

  Of another crime abound

  Often lost, hardly found

  It's really not profound

  What are we to do

  Hunt out many or a few

  Sit here, simmer and stew

  Wondering how, why, who

  Don't waste more time

  Crime is always around

  Who will be next

  It could be you

  * * *

  A chill ran up my spine. Why would he write something like that? I saw movement and looked up as Les was walking toward the table, his eye brows were furrowed. He caught me.

  “What are you doing?” he asked as he sat down. He looked hurt.

  “This is really…good,” I said, motioning toward the poem. “Why didn’t you read this one to me?”

  He pulled the notebook from my hands. “Some of them are private.” His cheeks started to turn red. “Did you read anything else?”

  “No,” I answered honestly. “I’m sorry, Les. I’ve had a terrible day and I just wanted to take my mind off things and read another one of your poems. I love how fun they are. But I shouldn’t have done that without asking.” I really did feel bad.

  Les sat there quietly for a moment. “So…you really did like it?”

  “I did!” I answered. “I didn’t know you wrote serious things like that.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t usually. But something has been bothering me lately…”

  He stopped and looked troubled. “Did you hear about that guy that was killed the other day? The one they found at the lumberyard?”

  My stomach twisted. “Yes.”

  “I knew him, and I just can’t seem to get his death out of my mind.”

  “You knew him?” I practically shouted. Our waiter was pouring some more water for Greta, and I saw them both turn to look at us. I gave a little wave, and they turned back around. I lowered my voice and leaned toward Les. “You knew him?” I repeated, just barely above a whisper.

  “Yeah… Why are you acting so weird? Did you know him?”

  I leaned even closer to him and grabbed onto his arm. “Who was he? Tell me everything you know!”

  Les pulled away. “Nikki, you’re scaring me.”

  Judging by the look on his face, I knew he was telling the truth. “I’m sorry, Les. The Grannies and I are kind of…investigating his death.”

  Les’s face softened, the creases of worry disappearing. “Ah, I should’ve known. What do you know so far?”

  I sighed. “Nothing. Other than maybe it was gang-related.”

  Les looked surprised. “Really? I would’ve thought it was drug-related. Though I guess it could be both.”

  I hadn’t thought of drugs. “Why would it be drug-related?”

  He gave a disgusted laugh. “I had a class with him at the college. He always showed up high and never did any of his work. I don’t even know why he came to class at all.”

  Well, that was interesting. “Was he just a user or was he a dealer too?”

  Les shrugged. “I assume both. But he never acted like he had a lot of money. He didn’t dress like he did. Actually, he dressed like he was homeless. Except he always wore a pair of brand-new white tennis shoes.”

  I thought about this for a moment. “Wait a minute. How do you know this is the guy they found at the lumberyard? I don’t think the police have released any information yet.”

  “He didn’t show up for class,” Les answered. “Another guy in the class said it was because he was murdered.”

  That seemed strange to me. How would that guy know? Was he the one that killed him?

  “What was the guy’s name? The one that was killed?” I asked Les.

  “Jason Norris.” Suddenly, Les looked embarrassed. “I know I said I knew him, but I don’t really know him well. We just had that one class together. He’s a lot younger than we are...early twenties. Maybe twenty-two or twenty-three.”

  “That’s okay,” I said as I typed the information into my phone. “He doesn’t sound like the kind of guy I’d hang out with either. So,” I said, looking up at him again. “Do you remember the name of the other guy—the one who said Jason had been killed?”

  Les nodded. “Carson…” He stopped, and I could tell he was thinking. “Shoot, I can’t remember his last name.”

  “Les, I need that name,” I said. “That could be the killer!”

  He laughed. “I don’t think Carson is the killer.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “He’s so mousy and annoying. He seems more like the kind of person that would get murdered, not the kind of person who would be a murderer.”

  I sighed. “I would still like to talk to him. Can you find out his last name and let me know?”

  “Yeah,” he answered. “I’ll ask a couple people in the class. Surely one of them will know.”

  Finally, our pizza arrived. I looked up to see what Greta was doing, but she was already gone. When did she slip out?

  Les and I ate our pizza and made small talk. I needed to find out who this Carson person was and what he knew about Jason. But this time, I wasn’t going to go into the situation unprepared. I needed to know how to defend myself.

  I sent Hattie a text and asked if I could come by as soon as I left the pizza place. She asked why. I thought about coming up with some random excuse, but I decided to be honest. It seemed to take her forever to answer. Then I finally got a text from her.

  “Come on over. But bring some pizza.”

  15

  “So, you want to know how to defend yourself,” Hattie said, pulling a slice of pizza from the box. “You want to learn from the master?”

  I laughed. Something like that. “I’ve seen you in action. It’s impressive. Like when you hogtied that guy that killed Artie Henson.” That was the second case I had solved with the Glock Grannies and just saying his name made my blood boil. I hate that he was killed, but I couldn’t stand the guy. He was the one who had nicknamed me Poodles.

  Hattie chuckled. “That was pretty impressive, wasn’t it!”

  She took another bite then put her pizza on the counter, brushing the crumbs from her hands. “Okay,” she said. “Here’s my secret: I do something no one would expect, and I give it one hundred percent, and then I fight! I call it ‘distract then attack!’”

  “How do you do that?” I asked. I needed examples, step-by-step instructions, videos.

  “Let’s say a guy is coming at me,” Hattie explained. “He might expect me to run or to freeze in fear. Instead, as soon as he grabs me, I act like I’m being electrocuted. I even make a buzzing sound! I convulse! He’s confused! Then BAM! A knee to the groin!”

  She was getting excited now. She started bouncing around like a boxer.

  “Or let’s say I try to corner a suspect and it looks like he’s going to run. What does he expect me to do? Grab him? Ha! I don’t do that! That would be stupid! He’s much stronger than I am. Instead, I put my arms straight out and make airplane noises! I might even fly around a second or two. And then BAM! Knee to the groin!

  “Or maybe some guy comes up to me and pulls a knife and wants my purse. I’m not giving up my purse! I’ve got a week’s worth of food and pills in th
ere! He expects me to hand it over, so I act like I’m going to and then BAM!”

  “Knee to the groin.” I finished for her.

  “No,” she said, disgusted. “I give him my purse and when he turns to run, I pull a gun and shoot him in the back.” She shook her head. “Honestly, Nikki, it’s like you don’t even want to learn.”

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

  My phone vibrated and I pulled it out and looked at it. It was a text from Les.

  “I remembered the guy’s name! It’s Briggs. Carson Briggs.”

  I stared at my phone. Now what? I didn’t want to bother Grandma Dean, but I really didn’t want to go to talk to this guy by myself. I looked up at Hattie, who was finishing off her second slice of pizza. Did I dare ask her to go with me? I sighed. If I didn’t want to go by myself, then I didn’t have much of a choice.

  “Hattie,” I said, still trying to talk myself out of asking her. “I might have a lead on this case. Do you want to come with me to question a guy?”

  She smiled. “Shotgun!” she yelled.

  “It’s just you and I,” I explained to her. “You don’t have to yell shotgun when just two people are going somewhere.”

  She looked at me with a wild look in her eyes. “No, I mean I’m going to grab my shotgun!”

  16

  We got into Grandma Dean’s car, and I really missed my old truck. I didn’t like not having my own vehicle and I felt bad taking hers all the time. I sat in the driver’s seat while Hattie made a few calls. Within minutes, we had an address and knew where Carson worked—a gas station and convenience store called Gas and Go.

  When we pulled up, we immediately recognized the lowrider parked out front. My stomach twisted in knots. I wasn’t expecting this.

  “What do we do now?” I asked Hattie. “I can’t go through what I did this morning.” I was shaking. “I’m not ready for this.”