Frugal Lissa Finds a Body

by Ritter Ames

  “Jamey, Mac, front and center,” I called up the staircase. A series of thumps told me the boys were in transit. Seconds later they looked down at me over the top railing. The dog thundered up the stairs to join them. “Is your room done?”

  My eldest fidgeted. “Almost. We only—”

  “Five more minutes, Mom,” Mac, my little liar, wheedled. “We want to make it perfect.”

  I looked at my pair of hooligans, wondering if this was such a good idea. Waffling on mandates was never a good practice, but my inner-Lissa reminded me that Abby was only in town for the weekend, and my parenting skills had plenty of time for a total makeover later. One look at my best friend, and I knew I might as well be listening to the little devil on my left shoulder because her grin and nod made clear what she thought.

  So, quit being the only adult, I told myself.

  “You can make it perfect tomorrow,” I said, smiling to remind myself this was all going to work out okay—and to keep from frowning. “Change in plan. Tommy’s mom will be here soon to pick up the both of you for a sleepover at their house. Grab your backpacks and put in your jammies, a change of clothes for tomorrow, and clean socks and underwear. Come on, let’s move!” I clapped my hands, and they barreled back through their bedroom door.

  “It’s okay not to be a parent right out of the lesson books,” Abby said, reading my mood as usual.

  I shrugged. “Not that I’d ever make Mother of the Year by any yardstick. But good company tonight and a cold margarita will ease my conscience.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  In another ten minutes, the boys had packed up and were standing at the front door. Then I went through their backpacks, and they ran back upstairs for pesky things they’d forgotten like toothbrushes. Mac already had his favorite teddy bear nestled in with his clothes, but I noticed him trying to hide a flashlight in his jeans pocket when he headed downstairs the second time.

  I held out a hand. “Give it.”

  “But, Mom, what if I get up in the middle of the night and I forget where I am, and all the lights are out, and I pee in someone’s closet by accident?” He crumpled his mouth and gave me his sweet, brown-eyed puppy dog look.

  “I’ll hand it over to Tommy’s mom, and she can decide if you need some independent lighting for later. Her call, not yours.” Yeah, I was wimping out, but I’d pretty much mentally hung up my super-mom cape for the day when I picked up the boys’ crumpled ones.

  Honey gave two loud barks an instant ahead of the doorbell ringing.

  “Hi, Donna,” I greeted Tommy’s mom. She was a sharp corporate exec in her late-thirties who followed her life-plan to schedule everything. I couldn’t remember exactly what she did for a living, but it was something in finance, and I figured she’d waited to have Tommy once he had fit into her next twenty-year plan. The running suit she wore probably cost as much as my whole wardrobe. I’d often thought she loved having my little guys around to remind herself why Tommy needed to be an only child. “The boys have everything in their backpacks for tonight and tomorrow morning, and I’ve already confiscated a flashlight.”

  She took the contraband light, while Mac and Jamey scooted around us to join Tommy on the lawn where he was already tossing a football that had been left on the grass.

  “Tommy, help them put their bikes in the back of the Lexus,” Donna called to the boys.

  Yes, she had a Lexus SUV to haul around her kid and his friends. My poor little Honda wagon flushed with embarrassment in our driveway, and I mentally promised the sweet old car a good wash and wax soon to make it feel better. Jamey jumped up on the Honda’s hood and slid at an angle across the top to get to the garage door faster. Well, at least the dirt was wiped off that part of the car, even if everything was transferred to my kid’s jeans.

  “Was that John Harper I saw in the yard on the corner?” Donna asked.

  “Huh?”

  She shielded her eyes with one hand and pointed to my new neighbor’s house with the other.

  “Oh, yes,” I said. “Mr. and Mrs. Harper have been moving in the last couple of days. You know him?”

  Donna nodded and waved a hand, laughing a little as she said, “Eons back. I interned in college at the conglomerate he worked for years ago. I received my baptism by fire in the real estate and mortgage industry that summer, before I moved on to something less frightening. He had one of the most creative minds I’ve ever known regarding ‘landing the deal.’”

  “He seemed nice when we were there earlier,” Abby said, speaking up quickly. “Lissa made a cake to welcome them to the neighborhood.”

  “I’m surprised they moved here.” Donna frowned. “I imagined he’d retire in some golf community somewhere. Guess he likes a quiet, established family neighborhood for a change.”

  Oh, this didn’t sound promising. “I hope they don’t—”

  Abby spoke up and cut me off, saying, “You need to renew your acquaintance with him.”

  Donna laughed again. “I doubt he’d even remember me. If he did, he would likely recall me stammering whenever anyone asked me a question.”

  A shout from the yard got our attention, as the boys dog-piled one another in the yard, with the actual dog racing around them barking.

  “Hey, you three, get into the backseat and we’ll head out,” Donna called. She turned and said, “Thanks so much for letting the boys come over tonight.”

  Leave it to Donna to thank me when I let her do me a favor—and make me feel guilty to boot. “I appreciate this. You call me if the boys are any trouble,” I said.

  “They’ll be great,” she said. “Tommy and his dad have been driving me nuts working on a soapbox derby car for Scouts. Having your boys over tonight will let John finish up the car without Tommy arguing over every bit of fine-tuning.” Donna raised her hands in the air, palms up. “I mean, what can you do?”

  Abby dug her elbow into my side, but there was no need. My lips gave Donna a tight smile. I already knew what Abby was trying to remind me—keep your mouth shut. I kept my lips pressed firmly together to stop myself from saying that the one thing they could do is quit trying to micromanage Tommy’s successes and let their son make his own car for an elementary-aged contest. And, yes, I didn’t feel guilty using her for free babysitting anymore.

  As the Lexus drove away, and I waved at the back glass, Abby gave me a side-hug and said, “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Just be glad they were leaving quickly,” I replied. “Otherwise, we probably would have lost our sitting services for the evening.”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  A HAPPY GANG WAS ALREADY filling up the club tables when we arrived at the hotel and made our way into the bar. Our town isn’t a touristy site. Mostly, our claim to fame is some Will Rogers connections, he was born in nearby Oologah. Hence our town getting renamed Rogerston after his tragic death, to commemorate this favorite son. But Rogerston was near enough to Tulsa to get fringe business clients during the week. The weekends, however, meant more available parking spaces, and specials like their special Karaoke Night to draw in the locals. This wasn’t a regular thing for Abby and me, but we were more than happy to oblige on rare nights like this Saturday.

  A mini-spotlight shined on the tiny corner stage, and one of the waitresses, Vonda, helped a tall cowboy pick a Blake Shelton song to perform. Abby and I headed to the bar and ordered.

  “Margaritas ladies?” Billy Ryan played barman on weekend nights. Through the week he tuned up Toyotas. “Good to see you, Abby.”

  “You too, Billy. Been awhile.” She smiled at him and I watched him melt a little. They’d had a thing back in high school, but it didn’t last. LSATs and grease mats didn’t work long-term, though I had a hunch they’d tried off and on in the years since.

  Abby flipped back a brunette wave, and Billy ran a hand through his blond surfer cut, each not looking the other in the eye. I squinted at the pair. May need to do some investigating. Abby looked at me and widened her ey
es. “Stop it.”

  “What?”

  “You know.”

  I grinned and pointed to a table near the stage. “We’ll be sitting over there if you decide to take a break and join us later, Billy.”

  He pushed two margaritas across the bar: mine with salt and on the rocks, Abby’s frozen and salt-free.

  “Thanks.” I grabbed the glasses, and Abby flounced toward the table I’d pointed to. Inside I was laughing, but I made sure I kept my face neutral. If I’d learned one thing about dealing with children, it was to not let them see you having a good time at their expense. No matter if the kids were under-ten or over-thirty.

  Wannabe-Blake Shelton finished his set by the time I got seated. Vonda was still close by, so I asked for a cocktail napkin and pulled a pen from my purse. I set my drink out of the way and turned to Abby. “What do you think? ‘Walking on Sunshine’ for our first duet?”

  “I don’t feel very sunshiny at the moment.” She took a slug of her margarita.

  “Got ya.” I wrote the title in the lower third of the square. Best to wait until she’d had a refill before suggesting that song again.

  “Hey, Lissa’s here!” Someone shouted from behind us. “You gonna sing ‘I’ll Always Love You’ for us tonight?”

  I turned and saw a karaoke regular at the next table. He didn’t come to sing but wanted the free show.

  “Sorry, Red,” I told him. “Dek’s out of town, and that song’s retired until he gets home.”

  “You can sing it to me.” He waggled his silver eyebrows. His hair color nickname was decades past its ability at honestly describing the man.

  “Some other time.” I smiled to take away any sting, but he grinned. I said, “Pick another favorite.”

  He went back to his longneck to contemplate. A retired husband and wife duo tried to out-do Kiki Dee and Elton John with “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.” Unfortunately, they broke more than a few notes along the way and had the room hunching ears into our shoulders by the time they finished.

  Vonda slinked up behind us and whispered. “I have my guitar and amp behind the stage if y’all want to do a little ZZ Top.”

  Abby grinned. “I can play air bass guitar to your real thing?”

  “What I had planned,” Vonda said.

  “And I suppose you want me to sing lead while the two of you have all the fun.” I huffed.

  “Since you’re the only one among the three of us who can sing lead, that sounds like the best plan,” Vonda said, slapping my shoulder. “I gotta go grab some orders, but I’m up for a break in a few minutes. I’ll take the stage when we can do this thing, okay? Our version of ‘Sharp Dressed Man,’ right?”

  “You picked out the song, too?” I said.

  “Yeah, and you know you love it,” she said. Before she sashayed off, she added, “Get yourselves some sunglasses.”

  Abby grabbed her purse and rummaged inside. “We must look the part.”

  “So long as we don’t have to wear beards,” I said, taking a small sip of my drink for courage.

  A quarter hour later, we were wowing the crowd. Just we three females singing about how we loved sharp-dressed men, instead of the standard rendition. Vonda’s solo was a work of art. I did not understand why that woman still waited tables when she could play guitar like that, but it probably had to do with the fact the lead guitarist in most groups tended to still be male. And she had two kids and a laid off husband to support.

  As our song ended, I flipped my shades to the top of my head and walked down the stage steps, but several from the crowd called out song requests. I waved my hands for everyone to quiet down and moved back to the microphone. “Sorry y’all, but our set has ended for the moment. We’ll be up again once Abby and I get a little more tequila lubrication.”

  Then someone shouted out, “Do ‘Amazing Grace’ for us.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not on the karaoke machine. Sorry.”

  “You don’t need no music, girl. You got it inside you.” It was Red again. I swear the man was out to get me.

  A table chanted “A Capella, A Capella,” and I knew the jig was up. My grandma taught me “Amazing Grace” and “How Great Thou Art” when I was about four, so I honestly could not remember when I didn’t know all the words to both songs. Through my teens, I’d sung them at dozens, if not hundreds, of local funerals and memorial services, mostly with no musical accompaniment, and this motley crew knew it. So, there was no way I could talk my way out of singing the song tonight. Too darn many people in this town knew me.

  I dropped my head for a moment, and everyone went silent. Abby and Vonda left the stage, and I took a few seconds to focus. Then I raised my head and lifted my voice.

  By the time I sang all four verses and began the final repeat of the first verse, slower this time, my fans were on their feet. The last note rang out, and the applause started. I will not lie and say it didn’t feel great. Sure, every talent competition on reality television had a boatload of contestants who were all younger and better than I was, but this hometown crowd made me glad in that moment I’d convinced Dek he had to bring me home after Mac was born. I couldn’t keep trooping around Europe any longer, carrying two little boys and all the trappings of parenthood while I followed him job to job, country to country. The boys needed roots that couldn’t come if we continued living the photojournalist life, and I needed to stop feeling like a pack mule. This kind of response to my singing from longtime friends was a sweet bonus.

  Not that I’d hadn’t had second thoughts repeatedly.

  Someone in the crowd yelled a karaoke favorite I didn’t want to hear.

  “Sing ‘Don’t Stop Believing,’ Lissa!”

  If I ever needed a song explaining why I’d originally run off to the vagabond life with Dek, dropped out of college, broke my grandma’s heart, and disappeared on a train to anywhere, that song summed it up with the opening line. And the next line might as well have been written for my husband, except he was running away from Baltimore instead of south Detroit. I waved my hand and holstered the mic in the stand.

  “Sorry, folks, this singer is finished for the time being.” I saw a tentative duo hedging their way the long route toward our stage. Pointing to the pair, I said, “I think Steve and Kaylie are ready to come up here and sing. Cheer them on.” I clapped, and everyone followed suit. As I again took the short steps down, the couple waited their turn, blushing furiously and grinning ear-to-ear, then they took their place onstage.

  A strange guy caught my arm as I headed for the table and Steve cued up the mic.

  “Mrs. Eller?” The stranger asked.

  I nodded and smiled but shook my arm free and continued moving toward Abby and our table. I didn’t want to be rude, but I’d learned long ago it was easy to get unwelcome admirers after I sang, and the guy had a vibe that made my teeth grind a little. I wanted to get backup around me. Besides, while I knew my drink was completely melted by then, my throat needed some relief.

  My new shadow was in his late forties and dressed nicely enough, navy twill slacks and a khaki jacket that couldn’t quite button around his belly. Brown hair a little too dark to look like it didn’t come out of a bottle in his bathroom. But there was something off-putting about the man. I think it was the way his smile seemed a little forced.

  “I want to see about coming by to assess your house,” he said.

  I stopped short. “What? What are you talking about?”

  The music started up for “Don’t Stop Believing,” which threw me for an instant until I realized Steve and Kaylie must have thought they’d sing it since I wasn’t. My unwelcomed friend leaned closer, so I could hear his words, close enough I could smell the whiskey on his breath when he said, “I’d like to see your house. Make an inspection. An assessment.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Why to work up an offer to buy it, naturally. I wouldn’t want to insult you by offering too little.”

  I was floored. All I could do was
stare at him and try to process this incredible statement, with the music of Journey and the vocal harmonizing of Fred and Wilma Flintstone blasting around us. Finally, I motioned for him to follow me and we moved closer to the bar. Abby watched me from the distance and frowned. I held up a finger to tell her I’d be there shortly.

  “Another margarita, Lissa?”

  “Sure, Billy,” I said without thinking since I hadn’t even drunk my first one yet. At that point I would have agreed to anything. I’d only come to the bar side of the room, so we wouldn’t have to shout while I found out what this man meant with his crazy talk. I turned to him and said, “My house is not for sale, and it isn’t open for inspection, Mr...”

  “Carlisle. J.C. Carlisle,” he said, offering me an outstretched hand.

  I hated shaking hands, but it seemed too rude not to do so. “Mr. Carlisle.”

  “J.C. And can I call you Lissa?”

  “No, I think we need to leave things at Mr. Carlisle and Mrs. Eller,” I said. “I’m sorry, but you’re misinformed.”

  He shook his head. “I’m extremely well informed, Mrs. Eller. And I’m determined to buy your house.”

  Carlisle withdrew a small scheduling diary and gold pen from a pocket inside his jacket and opened the small book. There was a tiny badge or insignia on the clip of the pen.

  “Unfortunately, my house isn’t for sale,” I said.

  “It’s on the list.”

  “What list?” I asked.

  He looked uncomfortable and hemmed and hawed a few times, then said, “Your credit has problems, and I can get this sale closed in a week.”

  I blew up. “My credit isn’t any shakier than the rest of the ninety-nine percent of hard-working Americans, and I’m telling you for the last time, Mr. Carlisle, you are very much mistaken because my house is not for sale!”