“Um, can I help you with something?” My nerves were starting to get the best of me as her eyes were focused more on her purse than the road.
“Oh no, I’ve got it. I’m sure it’s in here somewhere.” She dug a little more, pulling out a package of AA batteries and then a ham sandwich.
Brake lights lit up in front of us and I screamed, bracing myself for impact. The old woman glanced up and pulled the car to the left in a quick jerk before returning to her purse. Horns blared from behind us.
“There it is!” She pulled out a package of wintergreen Life Savers. “Do you want one?”
“No, thank you.” I could barely get the words out.
“I learned a long time ago that it was easier if I just drove and did my thing instead of worrying about what all the other drivers were doing. It’s easier for them to get out of my way instead of me getting out of theirs. My reflexes aren’t what they used to be.” She popped a mint in her mouth and smiled. “I love wintergreen. I don’t know why peppermint is more popular. Peppermint is so stuffy; wintergreen is fun.”
She seemed to get in a groove with her driving and soon my grip was loosening on the sides of the seat, the blood slowly returning to my knuckles. Suddenly I realized I hadn’t asked her name.
“I was so confused when you picked me up from the airport instead of my Grandma Dean that I never asked your name.”
She didn’t respond, just kept her eyes on the road with a steely look on her face. I was happy to see her finally being serious about driving, so I turned to look out the window. “It’s beautiful here,” I said after a few minutes of silence. I turned to look at her again and noticed that she was still focused straight ahead. I stared at her for a moment and realized she never blinked. Panic rose through my chest.
“Ma’am!” I shouted as I leaned forward to take the wheel. “Are you okay?”
She suddenly sprung to action, screaming and jerking the wheel to the left. Her screaming caused me to scream and I grabbed the wheel and pulled it to the right, trying to get us back in our lane. We continued to scream until the car stopped teetering and settled down to a nice hum on the road.
“Are you trying to kill us?” The woman’s voice was hoarse and she seemed out of breath.
“I tried to talk to you and you didn’t answer!” I practically shouted. “I thought you had a heart attack or something!”
“You almost gave me one!” She flashed me a dirty look. “And you made me swallow my mint. You’re lucky I didn’t choke to death!”
“I’m sorry.” As I said the words, I noticed my heart was beating in my ears. “I really thought something had happened to you.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Well, to be honest with you, I did doze off for a moment.” She looked at me, pride spreading across her face. “I sleep with my eyes open. Do you know anyone who can do that?”
Before I could answer, she was telling me about her friend Delores who “claimed” she could sleep with her eyes open but, as it turned out, just slept with one eye half-open because she had a stroke and it wouldn’t close all the way.
I sat there in silence before saying a quick prayer. My hands resumed their spot around the seat cushion and I could feel the blood draining from my knuckles yet again.
“So what was it you tried to talk to me about before you nearly killed us?”
I swallowed hard, trying to push away the irritation that fought to come out.
“I asked you what your name was.” I stared at her and decided right then that I wouldn’t take my eyes off of her for the rest of the trip. I would make sure she stayed awake, even if it meant talking to her the entire time.
“Oh yes! My name is Hattie Sue Miller,” she said with a bit of arrogance. She glanced at me. “My father used to own most of this land.” She motioned to either side of us. “Until he sold it and made a fortune.” She gave me a look and dropped her voice to a whisper as she raised one eyebrow. “Of course we don’t talk about money. That would be inappropriate.” She said that last part like I had just asked her when she had last had sex. I felt ashamed until I realized I had never asked her about her money; I had simply asked her name. This woman was a nut. Didn’t Grandma Dean have any other friends she could’ve sent to get me?
For the next hour or so, I asked her all kinds of questions to keep her awake—none of them about money or anything I thought might lead to money. If what she told me was true, she had a very interesting upbringing. She claimed to be related to Julia Tuttle, the woman who founded Miami. Her stories of how she got a railroad company to agree to build tracks there were fascinating. It wasn’t until she told me she was also related to Michael Jackson that I started to question how true her stories were.
“We’re almost there! Geraldine will be so happy to see you. You’re all she’s talked about the last two weeks.” She pulled into a street lined with palm trees. “You’re going to love it here.” She smiled as she drove. “I’ve lived here a long time. It’s far enough away from the city that you don’t have all that hullaballoo, but big enough that you can eat at a different restaurant every day for a month.”
When we entered the downtown area, heavy gray smoke hung in the air, and the road was blocked by a fire truck and two police cars.
“Oh no! I think there might have been a fire!” I leaned forward in my seat, trying to get a better look.
“Of course there was a fire!” Hattie huffed like I was an idiot. “That’s why Geraldine sent me to get you!”
“What?! Is she okay?” I scanned the crowd and saw her immediately. She was easy to spot, even at our distance.
“Oh yes. She’s fine. Her shop went up in flames as she was headed out the door. She got the call from a neighboring store owner and called me right away to go get you. Honestly, I barely had time to make you a sign.” She acted like Grandma Dean had really put her in a bad position, leaving her only minutes to get my name on a piece of poster board.
Hattie pulled over and I jumped out; I’d come back for my luggage later. As I made my way toward the crowd, I was amazed at how little my Grandma Dean—or Grandma Dean-Dean, as I had called her since I was a little girl—had changed. Her bleach blonde hair was nearly white and cut in a cute bob that was level with her chin. She wore skintight light blue denim capris, which hugged her tiny frame. Her bright white t-shirt was the background for a long colorful necklace that appeared to be a string of beads. Thanks to a pair of bright red heels, she stood eye to eye with the fireman she was talking to.
I ran up to her and called out to her. “Grandma! Are you okay?” She flashed me a look of disgust before she smiled weakly at the fireman and said something I couldn’t make out.
She turned her back to him and grabbed me by the arm. “I told you to never call me that!” She softened her tone then looked me over. “You look exhausted! Was it the flight or riding with that crazy Hattie?” She didn’t give me time to answer. “Joe, this is my daughter’s daughter, Nikki.”
Joe smiled. I wasn’t sure if it was his perfectly white teeth that got my attention, his uniform or his sparkling blue eyes, but I was immediately speechless. I tried to say hello, but the words stuck in my throat.
“Nikki, this is Joe Dellucci. He was born in New Jersey but his parents came from Italy. Isn’t that right, Joe?”
I was disappointed when Joe answered without a New Jersey accent. Grandma Dean continued to tell me about Joe’s heritage, which reminded me of Hattie. Apparently once you got to a certain age, you automatically became interested in people’s backgrounds.
He must have noticed the look of disappointment on my face. “My family moved here when I was ten. My accent only slips in when I’m tired.” His face lit up with a smile, causing mine to do the same. “Or when I eat pizza.” I had no idea what he meant by that, but it caused me to break out in nervous laughter. Grandma Dean’s look of embarrassment finally snapped me out of it.
“Well, Miss Dean. If I hear anything else, I’ll let you know. In the meant
ime, call your insurance company. I’m sure they’ll get you in touch with a good fire restoration service. If not, let me know. My brother’s in the business.”
He handed her a business card and I saw the name in red letters across the front: Clean-up Guys. Not a very catchy name. Then suddenly it hit me. A fireman with a brother who does fire restoration? Seemed a little fishy. Joe must have noticed my expression, because he chimed in. “Our house burned down when I was eight and Alex was twelve. I guess it had an impact on us.”
Grandma Dean took the card and put it in her back pocket. “Thanks, Joe. I’ll give Alex a call this afternoon.”
They said their good-byes and as Joe walked away, Grandma Dean turned toward me. “What did I tell you about calling me ‘Grandma’ in public?” Her voice was barely over a whisper. “I’ve given you a list of names that are appropriate and I don’t understand why you don’t use one of them!”
“I’m not calling you Coco!” My mind tried to think of the other names on the list. Peaches? Was that on there? Whatever it was, they all sounded ridiculous.
“There is nothing wrong with Coco!” She pulled away from me and ran a hand through her hair as a woman approached us.
“Geraldine, I’m so sorry to hear about the fire!” The woman hugged Grandma Dean. “Do they know what started it?”
“No, but Joe’s on it. He’ll figure it out. I’m sure it was wiring or something. You know how these old buildings are.”
The woman nodded in agreement. “If you need anything, please let me know.” She hugged Grandma again and gave her a look of pity.
“Bev, this is my…daughter’s daughter, Nikki.”
I rolled my eyes. She couldn’t even say granddaughter. I wondered if she would come up with some crazy name to replace that too.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Bev said without actually looking at me. She looked worried. Her drawn-on eyebrows were pinched together, creating a little bulge between them. “If you hear anything about what started it, please be sure to let me know.”
Grandma turned to me as the woman walked away. “She owns the only other antique store on this block. I’m sure she’s happy as a clam that her competition is out for a while,” Grandma said, almost with a laugh.
I gasped. “Do you think she did it? Do you think she set fire to your shop?”
“Oh, honey, don’t go jumping to conclusions like that. She would never hurt a fly.” Grandma looked around. “Where’s your luggage?”
I turned to point toward Hattie’s car, but it was gone.
Grandma let out a loud laugh. “Hattie took off with your luggage? Well, then let’s go get it.”
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Preview: Croissants and Corruption
It was the beginning of a perfect late spring day in North Bank, Virginia, despite the fact that the sun hadn’t yet come up. The crisp air coming off the Potomac invigorated Margot Durand as she picked up her pace down the street on the way to her bakery, The Parisian Pâtisserie. It sat at the river’s edge waiting for lights and the scent of baking pastries to fill the space.
It was a typical early morning—a baker’s morning—aside from the fact that, as Margot unlocked the front door and rushed to disarm the alarm, her phone vibrated in her pocket.
Who in the world is calling me at three in the morning?
Depositing her bag on the counter and flipping on the bright halogen lights, she dislodged her phone from her back pocket and jammed her finger against the screen before she lost the call.
“Hello?”
“Heya, sis.”
“Renee?” Margot blinked in shock. Her sister lived in California and, with a little mental math, Margot realized it was midnight for her. “Why are you calling me so…late?”
“It’s early there, right?”
Margot nodded then remembered her sister couldn’t see her. “Yes. I’ve just made it to the bakery.”
“I figured…” Her sister trailed off, but Margot caught the hint of warning in her voice.
“Rae, what is it?”
After a lengthy silence, Renee said one word. “Taylor.”
“Oh no.” Margot dropped into her desk chair, swiveling her knees under the counter and propping her chin on her palm. “What’s she done this time?”
An image of her niece—long blonde hair and the perfect California tan that came from living in Laguna Niguel—filled her mind. She was what, nineteen now? And there was no end to the grief she had given Renee.
“She’s all but failed out of her second semester at Coastline Community College and I’m at my wit’s end to know what to do with her. She’s running around with a bunch of beach bum surfers and I swear she thinks she’ll be able to live like that for the rest of her life. She has no idea what hard work means and…” Her sister took in a shuddering breath. “I think she could be into drugs.”
“Oh, Renee…” Margot shook her head, sending up a prayer for her sister’s daughter as much as for her sister. “What will you do?”
Another long pause. So long, in fact, that Margot began to wonder if her sister was still on the line.
Finally, she spoke again. “I need to ask a huge favor.”
A feeling of dread sunk into the pit of Margot’s stomach. It was the same feeling she got when trying out a new recipe and knowing for a fact that it wasn’t going to turn out.
“What do you mean?”
“Can you please take Taylor for the summer?”
“Take…her? What do you mean?”
“I don’t care that she’s old enough to make her own decisions.” Renee’s voice steeled as she went on. “I want to send her to live with you for the summer. I want her to work for you. I think showing her how rewarding owning your own business can be will be a really great thing for her. It may even save her life, Marg.”
Save her life.
The words echoed through Margot but the terror remained. “Are you crazy?”
Renee laughed. “I’ve been accused of worse.”
“No, I mean, what makes you think she’ll want to stay with me?”
“Because we’re cutting her off if she doesn’t go.”
“Cutting her off?” Margot repeated the words, trying to make sense.
“We’ve been footing the bill for her little escapades, but no longer. We’re giving her an ultimatum. She either goes to stay with you and work for you for the summer, or she’s…out of the house.” Her sister’s voice broke on the last word.
“I’m so sorry, Rae. That’s not something you want to say about your own daughter.”
“No.” Her sister let out a heavy sigh. “With Dillon working on that oil rig months at a time, I haven’t had the strength—or the clout—to deal with this. Am I a bad mother, Marg? You know it was hard for me to step in like this…”
“Of course you’re not a bad mother!” Margot was quick to reassure her sister. “You’ve done a great job with her. It’s not your fault she’s acting out. She just needs some guidance.”
“So…” Her sister’s voice was full of hope.
“I’ll take her.” God help me.
“You will?”
“Yes. But she should know there will be strict rules. The life of a baker isn’t easy and—”
“She’ll do it. Trust me. When her father comes home and conveys our rules, she’ll agree. Or, at least I hope so. Thanks, sis. I really want to see this turn her life around.”
The weight of what Margot was agreeing to rested squarely on her shoulders as they said their goodbyes.
Shining stainless steel counter tops beckoned for their daily dusting of flour as Margot made her way back into the kitchen. She stretched her fingers and donned her apron, turning the stereo on so that classical music wafted from her mounted speakers.
But
, just before she dropped the first ingredients into her mixing bowl, she stopped, resting her hands against the cold metal top of her workstation.
What was she doing? Had she lost her mind, agreeing to take in Taylor? The teen was notorious for being a troublemaker, but it was more than that. There was a lot of hurt for her to deal with having lost her mother at age eleven. When Renee married Dillon, Taylor was thirteen and not looking for another mother. Six years and she still hadn’t accepted Renee.
Wiping away a stray hair from her shoulder, Margot dropped eggs one at a time into the sugar and milk concoction in the industrial mixer. Maybe the Lord had a bigger use for Margot’s spare bedroom than a place to collect the dusty stacks of paperback mysteries she had collected. Maybe it was time to open up her home and her heart to her niece in a way that could bring healing to them both.
“I thought you were getting that young thing at the airport today.”
Margot delivered a steaming caramel pecan cinnamon roll and cup of black coffee to the small, round table where Bentley Anderson, one of her regular customers, sat with newspaper in hand.
“I’m just waiting for Rosie to show up.”
“Saw her at the senior center last night,” Bentley said taking a sip of his coffee. “She and Betty were tearing it up at the pinochle table.”
The corner of Margot’s mouth quirked. “Real exciting, I’m sure.”
“Hey, watch it, young lady.” He stared her down, one bushy eyebrow raised. “Things get exciting over at the senior center. You’d be surprised.”
“Don’t I know it?” She propped hands on her hips. “I volunteer at least once a month over there. You all are a rambunctious bunch.”
“You should bring that niece of yours over.”
Margot narrowed her eyes. “You know, that’s a good idea.”
“I’m full of them.” Bentley’s laugh was rough and mingled with the sound of bells from the door opening.
“There you are,” Margot said, watching as Rosie stepped into the bakery and undid the bright yellow scarf she had tied around her short, gray and black hair.
Murder, Money, and Moving On Page 13