“See, puzzle pieces. That’s what it’s all about. Figure out one thing, and another piece of the puzzle fits. Then it leaves a gaping hole to be filled before the picture becomes clear. But you always have the clue of the interlocking pieces. What once was a flower becomes a stem, and you work your way through it all, right down to the roots.”
God, I thought, she is crazy. I’m on the road to an asylum with an escaped inmate. Had I gone willingly? Would I read it that way in the headlines? Would I still be alive to read? Janie’s fantasies were of daring deeds and stupendous adventure. Mine were more like images of the waiting grave plot next to my parents at Rosehill. I was between them, of course.
Janie disturbed this soulful image by asking, “Okay, it’s your turn, Honey. Why are you going along with this?”
Why indeed?
I fit the protocol requirements. Innocent bystander. Caught up in a mystery by the sudden death of stranger. A diamond ring thrown in for good measure. Abundant clues and no danger yet, but who knew what we would find in the swirling waters of a Jacuzzi? And I had a sudden chill when I thought of the final condition of a real mystery: retribution.
I shuddered and said to Janie, “I have no earthly idea why I am here. I know nothing about mysteries. I wouldn’t know a clue if it hit me in the face. But I think I am here because I don’t have anything better to do. I’m in an in-between stage. I’ve never had money before, and I’m not sure I like how it’s changing my life. On the other hand, it sure is nice. I guess until I get used to it, I’ll just play amateur detective. I’m in a transition stage, my old life versus new opportunities. I’ll let you know how it comes out when the paperback is published.” I grinned at my reading fool of a friend. But she was in too serious of a mood for light humor.
“We’re on top of a very big story, Honey.”
“Practice calling me Lydia, Mom.”
I know that The Bargello is in Italy. Even Janie knows The Bargello is in Italy. Obviously, Marcie knew of one in Greece. Which is a tacky way of saying Corinthian columns do not a villa make. Since I was the one who drove the last leg of the trip, I pulled the van over to the side of the road of the Greek Revival entrance to The Bargello, and Janie and I sat there in awe.
She broke the silence by saying, “Doric would have made it easier to accept.”
“I don’t think we’re gonna see Donatello’s David here, Janie.”
“Zeus, maybe.”
“At least.”
“Drive on,” she commanded. “We’ve come this far. Oh, my, I just thought of something. Do you think there will be togas?”
“Hmmm, do you remember that The Bargello was once used as a prison?”
This I have to give Marcie: all tackiness aside, we were welcomed at The Bargello like long-lost relatives. Rich relatives, to be sure, but that didn’t lessen the hospitality and pleasant humor of the uniformed greeters at the main entrance of the spa.
“Mrs. Bridges, welcome to The Bargello. And this must be Lydia. We’ve all looked forward to meeting you. And where is that scamp, Bailey? The kennel staff is so excited he’s joining us.”
“And he’s so happy to be here,” I said as I watched a swarm of attendants take my keys, my luggage, and my dog. “He’s already done his business,” I added as one Roman-clad attendant led Bailey to the area where the sign announced Pet Haven. “I think he’s ready for a power lunch, though,” I continued.
Babbling. That’s what I did as the van was driven away, bags were whisked away, and Bailey led, slobbering as usual, toward another sign that announced Doggie Spa. I felt I had to babble to cover the dumbfounded look on Janie’s face. That’s the problem with fantasies, I thought. When you are faced with the reality of the situation, sometimes the scripted words won’t come out. She got great marks with theories but failed to comprehend that when the wheels hit the dirt, the plane has gotta fly. Somehow that sounded wrong, but bottom line, I remembered how Janie actually reacted when she was in the middle of a crime scene: She melted like butter.
“Mother, are you all right?” I asked, going over to where she stubbornly held on to her backpack full of contraband junk food.
“Honey, this isn’t quite like I imagined it would be.”
For not the first time in my life, I thought of how my name sounding like an endearment was convenient. Even if she forgot I was Lydia, it would be okay.
We marched behind the lute and flute players as they escorted us to our rooms.
I whispered in her ear as I dragged her along the walkway with me, “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.”
THIRTY–THREE
“I forgot to tell you something, Janie. Something that Kantor wrote.” I huffed and I puffed as I remembered what Kantor had written in his letter. It’s not easy to talk when you’re doing rocking horses in the pool. We weren’t in the deep end, the water was only bosom high, but it was hard to keep balance even in that depth, especially when you’re only five foot one. And it also depends on the height of your bosom.
The best arena to gauge bosom size of our fellow mother/daughters was the Olympic-sized swimming pool where we did our daily water aerobics. The Bargello furnished everyone with bathing suits, and while they weren’t exactly one-size-fits-all, there was still a very ambiguous fit. Mine kept falling off at the shoulders while my new best friend Minnie’s suit screamed with the effort of trying to cover her ample chest. It was Minnie doing her rocking horses beside me that kept swamping me, pulling me under water, and turning me into the picture of the famed drowned rat.
Janie waited until we had switched the set to frog leaps before she asked, “What did Kantor say? Or do I have to give you artificial respiration before you answer?” Cute remark from someone who didn’t put her heart and soul into the leaps. How she could ignore the instructor’s cries of “Harder, ladies. Harder. Put some feeling into it” was beyond me. I always thought the teacher—who stood on dry land—was talking directly to me, and I doubled my efforts until I swirled as much splash as Minnie. Then I would look over at Janie, who was smiling absently as she gently moved her arms and legs through the water.
I stopped in mid-leap; lived through the resulting wave that swept over me, and sputtered, “Honestly, Janie. You might as well have stayed in bed.”
“What did Kantor say?”
“He wrote that Ms. Potter was coming to the Hill Country this week to give him computer lessons.”
“But he hates computers.”
Janie switched to jogging in place with the rest of the group while I stood at her side. It’s easy to talk in the pool. In fact, that’s what most of the guests did—shouting gossip to one another—while the drill instructor raged on and on. “Right, but he likes Ms. Potter.”
Janie grinned. “Do I sense another romance in the air? Has Evelyn given up on Steven Bondesky?”
“If Kantor is buying a computer, there’s something in the air. My guess is that he’s planning on pumping her for information about Clover Medlock. I think he wants to break the story about Twyman and his books. The fact that Twyman didn’t write them. And we all know that Ms. Potter is jealous of Clover. Imagine Bondesky as a love object!”
“Speaking of the devil,” said Janie. “I’ve just seen her on television, but look over there, will you?”
I stopped in midstream to follow her gaze. Walking around the edge of the pool, her rubber pool shoes giving her a shuffling look, was Clover Medlock following a loquacious Marcie. Both, clad in plush white Bargello terry robes, were deep in conversation, ignoring the storm-tossed waters of the water aerobics class. However, instinct made me duck underwater as Clover suddenly turned her head toward the activity in the water.
Did I imagine it, or was there recognition in that fleeting eye contact with Clover as she watched me emerge for air?
I couldn’t tell because she turned away just as quickly and continued her conversation with Marcie. They were headed for the serious swimmers’ lane of the pool, separated from ours by long bo
bbing lengths of oval buoys.
“Do you think she saw me?” I asked Janie.
“Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you. You look like a terrier caught out in the rain.”
“You are my mother,” I reminded her.
“Well, I don’t know you. And the water has darkened your lighthouse red hair.”
“Still,” I insisted, “I thought I saw some recognition …”
“The big question, Honey, is what is she doing here? I thought the meeting with Gabriella, et al., was on Saturday.”
The golden oldies tape that we water danced to switched to Handel, the signal that the session was over. Or it would be over following a slow, ethereal cooldown that concluded in the participants giving themselves a wet hug and then a drippy round of applause in appreciation to the instructor who hadn’t dampened her wetsuit.
Minnie stood by my elbow. “Will you help me out, Lydia?”
“We’ll do it together, Minnie. Inch by inch.”
No one had told us our first time in the water, that leaving the pool was like reentry from outer space. The gravitational pull of weight on our bodies, which had been buoyant for the last hour, was suddenly unbearable, and my 120 pounds made me feel as heavy climbing the pool steps as Minnie’s three hundred. Exiting the pool the first time had equalized us all. It was easier for me now; I didn’t feel as leadened, but Minnie still suffered. Holding her by the elbow and hiding behind her was the perfect way to avoid Clover spotting me as I left the pool. As was the terry robe with the monk’s hood that I slipped into as soon as I reached it at poolside. Unlike the bathing suits, the robes were not part of the package and were on sale at the gift counter—a misleading name if I ever heard one—for only $295. I had already bought three.
Minnie thanked me, and I let her go first into the showers while I stood and watched Clover taking sure, swift strokes through the water. She outdistanced Marcie by several lengths, much to the frustration of the spa owner, who obviously was still trying to impart something important to Clover.
Silently, I agreed with Janie. Clover, by my calculations, wasn’t due until Saturday. What was she doing at The Bargello on Wednesday? A further question nagged me. If Clover was already here, did that mean the others were, too? Babe and Gabriella. Had Steven Hyatt gotten the dates wrong?
THIRTY–FOUR
I met Minnie and her mom when we attended the group orientation cocktail party on Monday evening following our morning arrival. By that time, Janie and I had been measured, weighed, and assessed. Special dietary needs had been discussed … and no, they seriously told Janie, Twinkies did not figure in the plan. Calorie counts had been recommended. I was given the whole 1,500, and Janie received the 1,200 menu, but I knew one of the Snickers Janie had squirreled away in her backpack would put us on an even calorie count.
They kidded Janie about her daughter’s red hair, joking about the postman or the milkman, while we slipped in and out of the androgynous white robes for the data gathering. The dietitian was especially attentive to Janie, who was concerned primarily about food. That was before she knew about the required exercise classes. “We need to know about your allergies and your preferences,” the dietitian told us.
Janie was fascinated by the shorthand on the lists, similar to the style she used in her investigation book, that the dietitian used to record our information. “What is this recommend feathers only? Wait, let me see that. Allergic to fins. Hoofs ok? I got it. That’s my profile. You’re saying I should only eat chicken, but beef is okay, and you have noted my fish allergy.”
Now, I know Janie is not allergic to fish. I’ve seen her put away too many fried catfish dinners. But she was so afraid she would be on an almandine diet while she was at The Bargello that she took liberties with her profile.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Minnie Hudson was on the 1,000-calorie-count diet list. In fact, she was joking about it when the daughters were separated from the mothers for a precounseling session. “Don’t you just love it?” she had asked of no one in particular when we met in a big Doric-columned room on the east side of the spa. “They honestly think we’re gonna stick to that diet. I never have before, but they never give up on me.”
“You’ve been here before?” I questioned her.
“Oh, yeah. Mom comes a lot, but I only come during mother/daughter weeks. She always signs us up for them and, what the heck, it’s the only time we seem to get together. This your first time? I can give you all the skinny, pardon the pun, on the week. Like how to get chocolate cake out of the kitchen or seconds of potatoes.”
“I think Janie—I call my mother Janie—has already covered the food angle.” I laughed.
Minnie was the world’s stereotype of the beautiful large woman with the jolly personality and gorgeous face. Her blond shag haircut swung easily around her face, and she seemed very comfortable with her weight and height, her almost six feet towering over me. Eyes as blue as Janie’s smiled guilelessly upon the crowd of robed daughters as the first motivational speaker began her talk. She grabbed my arm and led me to a chair in the back. When Minnie led, you followed.
She whispered in my ear as we laughed at the counselor’s introductory jokes about mothers and daughters and the eternal desire of mothers to know that their daughters were well-fed, meaning, of course, that they were good mothers. “Honestly, Lydia, if I lost weight, I’d be out of a job.”
“How so?” I whispered back, thinking of circuses and sideshows.
“I’m a model for large lady catalogs. Now, don’t get me wrong, I like to stay in shape, but hey, big is me. Wouldn’t your weight look stupid on me?”
I looked at her again. She was right. A skinny Minnie—oh my, and I thought Honey was an awful name—would not have fit the self-assured young woman beside me. “So, I come to the sessions and Mom and I have some laughs. And I remember some of the good habits I always forget when I drive out the driveway here.”
Knowing someone who had been at the spa before appealed to me; she was bound to know her way around the buildings. “Hey, maybe you can show me around later?”
“Sure,” she agreed as we moved to another area of the room to begin a craft project.
There was lots of laughter as twenty women of all ages and sizes began pulling together bits and pieces from the imaginative selections on the tables to create a symbol of their respective mothers or daughters. I was at a loss until I watched Minnie wrap dozens of Three Musketeer bars in a red cellophane paper and tie it with a big purple bow. “Three M’s are Mom’s favorite candy. Don’t worry, though, they only use Styrofoam bars under the wrappings. Too many women ate their symbols.”
Carefully, I perused the tables and finally selected a silver Mylar balloon, which I surrounded with the fresh cornflowers and daisies I found in a bucket. I tied them all together at the base of the balloon with a huge bow, the same color as the cornflowers and Janie’s eyes. Not satisfied, I added streamers of blue satin ribbons. Finished, I stood back to admire my creation and the helium-filled balloon headed straight toward the top of the pseudo Greek columns. It would have made it, too, except for Minnie’s long reach. She grabbed it and handed it back to me. “Hey, that’s pretty. Hold on tight, or it will reach the rafters.”
I think I had chosen Janie’s symbol well.
As had she mine.
We laughed as we exchanged the symbols in the comfortable auditorium where we all met together again. Janie had caught me in a candy cane Styrofoam shape wrapped with pink and green satin ribbons, the same shades as the Laura Ashley collection she had helped me pick out for my bedroom. Tied to the crooked end of the cane were streamers of dainty satin ribbons in all colors, each ribbon sporting a gold star, and the whole cane shimmered with gold glitter that glistened and flew in all directions with each movement of the cane.
“Guess I got a little carried away with the glitter.” Janie grinned as she handed me my symbol.
“This is how you see me?” I asked, aw
ed at her gift.
“This is how you see me?” she echoed as I handed her the balloon. “And of course, that’s you. You’re my support system.”
I can see why The Bargello used this opening exercise. Tears came to both our eyes as we clutched the tangible symbols of our affection.
Similar laughter and sniffling was heard throughout the auditorium as mothers and daughters saw each other through the other’s eyes. Minnie held one long-stemmed yellow rose and cried, “Aw, Mom. You did it to me again.”
We were so caught up in the moment, we almost missed the introduction of our hostess, Marcie Coleman, Twyman’s third wife and the real reason why Janie and I were at The Bargello.
Over the roar of the excited women, I heard Janie say, “She’s fat. Marcie Coleman is fat!”
“Hush, Janie, or I’ll burst your balloon.”
“But, Honey, she’s the Martha Stewart of weight loss. How come she gets to be fat and I have to diet?”
I jabbed her with my elbow as we sat down from the standing ovation for Marcie Coleman and repeated, “Hush.”
One of the reasons Marcie had become such a national and international success was evident as she went directly to the issue. “Now, I know all of you are wondering what on earth I’m doing up here—big as the side of a barn—telling all of you about weight loss and nutrition. Ladies, trust me. No one works harder to lose weight and stay in shape than I do. What is a struggle for you is a struggle for me, too. We are all in this together.”
Another roar of approval from the ladies.
Marcie didn’t actually tear up, as far as I could tell, but there was a definite catch in her voice as she went on. “Most of you know that my ex-husband, the author Twyman Towerie, died recently. I do what you do in times of stress. I eat. And eat. And eat.” This time, the audience was silent as they didn’t know whether to laugh or not. “So, I am a bit over my goal weight right now. I know you understand that. I’ll be just fine when I lose those stubborn extra ten pounds.”
The Complete Honey Huckleberry Box Set Page 32