Seeing Red

by Dana Dratch

  “You’re just in time for dessert,” I said, ignoring the jab. “Nick baked a cherry tart. And Ian brought ice cream.”

  “Ian, Marty, this is my mother,” I said, as the men rose to greet her. “Mom, Ian lives across the street. And I’m collaborating with Marty on a project for the Sentinel.”

  Nick jumped up and headed to the kitchen. He was either going to get her a plate or beat it out the back door. My money was on the back door. That would have been my choice.

  Baba stayed put and never stopped spooning tart à la mode into her mouth. Her expression was completely neutral. But I noticed a spritely glint in her eyes.

  “Dessert I’ll skip. But a cappuccino would be lovely.”

  “We have coffee, Mom,” I said. “Or tea.”

  She wrinkled her nose.

  “I’ve got it,” Nick called from the kitchen. “Cappuccino for anyone else?”

  Marty raised his hand. So did Ian. And I had to admit, I was curious. “Make yourself at home, Mom,” I said, offering her my spot on the couch. “I’ll help Nick with the tray.”

  “What do you mean by offering her cappuccino?” I whisper-shouted to Nick when I hit the kitchen. “And by the way, we’ve got two more out there who want to try it.”

  “I’m making six,” Nick said. “I’m gonna be baking all night, so I need the caffeine. And this is too good for you to miss. Plus, I think Baba will love it.”

  “You do know I don’t have a cappuccino maker? Or cappuccino?”

  “Yeah, I’m guessing right now, that’s the least of your problems. But never fear, Nick the miracle man is here.” He had six cups of coffee lined up on the counter, along with a shaker jar of cinnamon. Mismatched mugs, of course. He opened the freezer door and grabbed Ian’s vanilla ice cream.

  “Did you know she was coming?” he asked, as he spooned a couple of tablespoons of ice cream into each cup.

  “I didn’t. But I should have. She called this afternoon when Alistair was screaming.”

  “And you didn’t check caller ID.”

  I shook my head.

  “You’d never make it as a man. You always check caller ID.” He stirred each of the cups, then gave each a sprinkling of cinnamon. The result was a foamy concoction that actually looked like cappuccino.

  “Try it,” he said.

  “Oh my God, Nick, this is wonderful. This tastes like the real deal.”

  “It kind of is. It’s a little trick I learned recently. Cappuccino is coffee with cream and air and a little sugar. Ice cream is cream with air and sugar whipped in. So in a pinch, coffee plus ice cream equals cappuccino. You don’t need a machine. It even makes the foam. Then you top it with cocoa or cinnamon.”

  “OK, that is more than slightly brilliant.”

  “Yeah, I’m a mad genius. It’s all about the science.”

  “So what are we going to do about Mom?” I asked.

  “What do you mean ‘we’? I was just here for the pot roast. I don’t have tickets to the floor show. After she enjoys a high-class cup of coffee prepared by her loving son, I’m gonna spend the rest of the night baking at the inn. Whatever’s going on over there is a heck of a lot easier to deal with than this drama.”

  “So not fair.”

  “Look, I’ve got a batch due to Angela by Monday. And I think I might have a lead on another client. But they need pies and tarts. So I’m teaching myself to make pies and tarts.”

  “While you’re doing that, I’m going to be Aunt Margie,” I said, sipping. “But don’t tell anyone.”

  “For real?”

  “A six-week engagement while Marty’s on the mend.”

  “Marty is Margie?” Nick said. “You’re kidding! I wonder what Aunt Margie would do in this situation?”

  “Somehow, I don’t think Aunt Margie would have gotten himself into this mess.”

  “Mom can’t stay here,” Nick said, quietly. “Not with Baba here. Those two are like garlic and chocolate. You can have one or the other, but never both.”

  “First, coffee time. Then you go back to work. I’ll figure something out.”

  “Just in case it’s necessary, I call dibs on my own bed.”

  “Not necessary,” I said. “I’m hoping the lack of sleeping accommodations will actually work in our favor.”

  Nick the hero carried in the tray, and I trailed along behind him. Big surprise, everyone loved the drinks.

  “Very good!” Baba proclaimed.

  “Thank you!” he said, beaming. “By the way, Marty, that pot roast was fantastic.”

  “Eh, it’s nice to have people to cook for,” Marty said. “I’m glad you liked it.”

  “Now I hate to eat and run,” Nick said, “but I have to get back to work.”

  “Before you leave, sweetie, could you bring my bags in from the car?” Mom said, reaching into her purse. “Here are my keys.”

  “Mom, we need to talk about that,” I said. “I’ve got a houseful right now. I’d love for you to stay, but we don’t even have a spare bed.”

  “If I didn’t have the brand-new knee, I’d give you the sofa and sleep on the floor,” Marty said, looking at her with puppy-dog eyes. “A beautiful woman should always have the best of everything.”

  “He’s staying here?” my mother asked, horrified, totally ignoring Marty.

  “For a couple of nights while he’s recovering from surgery,” I said. “Yes.”

  I snuck a glance at Baba. I could see her brown eyes twinkling over the top of her coffee mug.

  “Actually, I think I might be of service,” Ian said. “I’m the proprietor of the B&B across the street. The Cotswolds Inn. And due to a last-minute cancellation, we have a room available. The Cheshire Suite. It has a lovely view of the garden. It would be on the house, of course. It’s the least I can do, under the circumstances.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. uh . . .”

  “Please, call me Ian. Your daughter has been helping me with a few business snafus, and your son’s pastries are the star attraction of our teas.”

  “Are they now?” Mom said, locking her eyes on Nick with a look that declared, “We’ll discuss this later.”

  I may have neglected to inform her when I had—temporarily—been a murder suspect. But apparently Nick was keeping his whole new life under wraps.

  I don’t know who I felt worse for at this point: me, Nick, or Marty. Possibly Ian. Because the poor guy just didn’t know what he was getting into with my mother. Inviting her to stay was like opening the door to a vampire. Once you did, she’d never completely leave. And you’d never have another moment’s peace. Guaranteed.

  “Well, that’s a lovely offer, Ian. My daughter Anastasia spoke very highly of your inn. I’d be delighted to stay there. But I will be paying my own way.” Looking at me, she added pointedly, “I’m just so glad that I’m welcome.”

  Chapter 32

  The next morning when I walked into the kitchen, Nick was sitting at the table drinking coffee. He had Alistair cradled in his right arm and a coffee cup clutched in his left hand. The sports section was open on the table.

  Alistair cooed and grinned at Nick, who made funny faces, stuck out his tongue, and jostled the little guy. But my brother looked awful. It wasn’t just the bedhead, the five-o’clock shadow, or the circles under his eyes. It was as if someone had taken the starch out of him.

  I hadn’t seen him this way since Gabby left. And I had a pretty good idea who was responsible.

  “You two are up early,” I said.

  “I got a lot less baking done than I’d planned and made it an early night,” he said glumly, putting his cup on the table. “Apparently, having a room at the inn also gives Mom free access to the kitchen. She parked herself in there all night. ‘Just wanted to chat,’” he said, forming air quotes with his free hand. “Totally threw off my baking mojo. After four burned batches, I finally called it a night.”

  He took a long sip of coffee. “I work for myself, and I love what I do. But to
day? I don’t want to go anywhere near that kitchen.”

  “Jeez, I’m sorry,” I said. “I was hoping she might go home.”

  “Three suitcases,” he said, holding up the same number of fingers. “She’s here for the duration. Wants to help me get my life back on track. Starting with finishing college, then medical school. Or law school. Or business school. Any of the above.” He grimaced. “Can you picture me in medical school?”

  “I can, actually. You’ve got the brains and the aptitude. But if it doesn’t make you happy, it’s not for you.”

  “I just want my kitchen back.”

  “Too bad Simmons isn’t around,” I said. “I’m sure a free-range mother must violate some kind of health-code regulation.”

  Nick smiled.

  “Just talk with Ian. I’m sure there’s a ‘no guests in the kitchen’ policy he could invoke. Or invent.”

  “Tattle on my mother?”

  “It’s not tattling. It’s setting boundaries. She doesn’t belong there. And it’s getting in the way of your work—which is vital to Ian’s business. Besides, he’s only putting her up as a favor to you. Well, us. Look at it this way—the sooner we cut off access to you, the sooner she leaves and he can put another guest in that room. One who doesn’t spend all her free time annoying his star attraction.”

  Nick nodded. I could tell he was considering it. I thought about what Marty said about pulling back and seeing the big picture.

  “She’s background noise,” I said finally.

  “Huh?”

  “The reason she’s talky-talky-talky,” I said. “She can’t make you do anything. She can suggest. She can persuade. She can push, push, push. But she can’t do anything. You like running your own bakery?”

  “Love it.”

  “You’re good at it. So you’re doing it. That decision’s already been made. It’s not up for debate. She’s just background noise. Let her chatter all she wants. She means well. She just wants us safe and happy. Eventually, she’ll see that you are, and she’ll stop. And if she never does, so what? You’re doing great.”

  His face bloomed into a smile. “I am doing great. Aren’t I?” he said, looking down at Alistair. “Aren’t I?”

  “How about a little more coffee?” I said, getting up. “And some chocolate to go with it?”

  “I could use some of that. Any of that tart left?”

  “With Marty around?”

  “Yeah,” Nick said, grinning. “The guy does kind of have a hollow leg. Oh, how about some of that pot roast? I’ve got brioche rolls in the freezer. We could heat ’em up. It would make for some great sandwiches.” He looked down at Alistair. “Yes, it would! You know it would!”

  “Now you’re talking,” I said, dropping the jar of Nesquik on the table, as I topped off his coffee. “Breakfast is served.”

  Chapter 33

  Early that afternoon, Baba took Lucy and Alistair and headed out for “good long walk.”

  I so wanted to tag along. But Marty was giving me another Aunt Margie seminar. We’d been at it all morning. Even Marty thought I was doing pretty well.

  “Don’t get too used to this gig,” he warned with a grin. “Once I get going on my physical therapy, I’m coming back strong.”

  “Don’t worry,” I told him. “Solving other people’s problems is way too much pressure.”

  A light, rapid tap, tap, tap on the door startled both of us.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” I asked Marty.

  “My PT girl,” he said. “Terri. She’s great. She’s gonna put me through my workout. But she’s not ’sposed to show up ’til four.”

  This time, I used the peephole. A cluster of middle-aged women in dresses and suits.

  “It’s a bunch of women,” I said. “But I don’t recognize them from the neighborhood.”

  Bang, bang, bang. Louder this time.

  “Maybe they’re selling something,” Marty said, grabbing the crutches and hobbling toward the door. “I could use a little entertainment. Let ’em in.”

  I opened the door a crack.

  “I’m Helen Westwood,” said the ringleader, a short, squat blonde in an expensive-looking lavender suit. “I’m here for Martin Crunk.”

  “Oh crap, it’s Helen!” Marty muttered behind me. The comment was followed by the sound of some fast shuffling and a door slamming. The bathroom. Then the distinct ping of a lock.

  Oh, great.

  “Hi, I’m Alex Vlodnachek. Your uncle has decided to stay here for a few days, while he recovers.”

  “We know who you are,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “You’re the one holding him here. Against his doctor’s orders.”

  The rest of the group nodded in the affirmative. And I heard a couple of “uh-huh’s” testifying in agreement.

  “I’m his niece, and his guardian,” she continued. “And I’m not leaving here without him.” With that, she planted her pudgy feet on my porch and looked at me defiantly. The Greek chorus behind her nodded in unison.

  Good luck, I thought. No one’s getting him out of that bathroom without a crowbar.

  “Look, I talked with Mr. Crunk. He wants to stay here for a couple of days. He’s a grown man, so it’s his choice. I’m sorry, but I really can’t help you.”

  Helen held up a cell phone. “I don’t want to get the authorities involved, but I will. Uncle Martin has to get back home and back to his routine. His health depends on it. And it’s my duty to see that happens.”

  “Helen’s a saint,” one woman said.

  “Absolutely!” agreed a second.

  “The young floozy is a kidnapper,” said a third. “She could have him chained to the radiator. That poor old man.”

  “Probably soaking him for money. She looks like she needs money.”

  “Did you see what’s written on her car? Naughty words!”

  “Maybe it’s drugs,” another one stage-whispered. “She’s taking his money for drugs. Or stealing his medications.”

  “Don’t bother arguing with her, Helen,” the first one chimed in again. “Just call the police. They know how to deal with perps.”

  “Yeah!”

  “Poor Helen!”

  I stepped back, closed the door, and turned both dead bolts.

  When I put my ear to the door, I picked up snatches of conversation and tittering. Still, no retreating footsteps.

  Next came the phrase that was certain to put a crimp in my day.

  “My name is Helen Westwood, and I want to report a crime . . .”

  Chapter 34

  At least by the time the cops showed up, Marty had exited the bathroom. He’d traded it for a defensive position in one of the overstuffed chairs.

  Helen and her ladies swept into the living room with the cops. I stepped in behind the boys in blue and blocked her path. “You and your friends can wait on the porch,” I said evenly.

  “I’m here to report a crime,” she said imperiously. “This is a crime scene. You’re a criminal.”

  “The police can stay. But this is my home. It’s private property. And you and your friends are not welcome. You can wait on the porch. Or at the curb. Or in the middle of the street, for all I care. But not in my home.”

  “Officer!” Helen yelled. “This woman is holding my poor, defenseless uncle. I need to be here to protect him.”

  “Go home, Helen!” Marty shouted.

  “Clearly, she’s using undue influence. Drugs or”—she dropped her voice—“s-e-x.”

  I heard one of the ladies gasp.

  “Oh, no!” said another.

  I saw one cop look at his partner and roll his eyes.

  The second cop, whose name tag read LEWIS, shrugged. “Lady, until we sort this out, why don’t you and your friends wait on the porch.”

  “Out!” I said, pointing to the front door. “All of you! Out! Now!”

  “Ooh! Redhead’s got a temper,” Marty said, grinning.

  I glared at him.

  Twenty minutes late
r, the police had determined that Marty was very much in charge of his faculties, his finances, and his life. And that he had plenty of all three. They also confirmed that he worked at the Sentinel and even talked with one of his doctors.

  “That’s amazing,” Marty whispered to me, watching the cop chat with his physician. “Took me the better part of an hour to get that sawbones on the phone last time. He calls, and boom, ‘Hello, doctor.’”

  “So what’s with the bunch on the porch?” the other cop asked. His name tag read ZEFKOWITZ.

  “My niece and her do-gooders,” Marty said. “The ladies are OK, but Helen’s a pill. Give her an inch, and she takes over. My sleeping in her guest room for a week after knee surgery suddenly morphed into her being my jailer. I nodded off the first night, and she confiscated all my stuff—even my meds. I felt like I was James Caan in Misery. So I left.”

  “And you’re staying here?” Zefkowitz asked.

  “Just for a couple of days. The kid here works with me. She and her family have been good enough to put me up. As soon as I can navigate stairs with my crutches, I have a reservation at the B&B across the street.”

  Uh-oh. I wonder what Mom’s going to say about that? Could that be the final straw that sends her packing? If so, way to go, Marty!

  “That sounds nice.” the cop said.

  “They do an afternoon tea that’s first-rate,” Marty said. “You should take the wife.”

  If only they knew about the freezer in the basement.

  “Hey, if you could get back my keys and my laptop, that’d be great,” Marty said to Zefkowitz. “I’ve got replacements coming for the credit cards, and doc’s already sent over my meds. But that laptop’s my life.”

  “You’re probably going to have to pick it up,” he said. “We can compel her to turn it over, but we can’t make her bring it to you. Give us a ring when you’re ready to collect it,” he added, handing Marty his card. “We can make sure the handoff goes smoothly.”

  To me he explained, “Better safe than sorry with some of these domestic situations.”

  When the cops left, I turned both dead bolts.