Knickers in a Twist

by Kim Hunt Harris

  “Are you okay” I asked loudly enough for those around us to hear. Then I leaned closed and whispered. “Reaping and sowing.”

  Genesis 25:26

  After this, his brother came out, with his hand grasping Esau's heel; so he was named Jacob. Isaac was sixty years old when Rebekah gave birth to them.

  When I read the Bible verse for my prayer time the next morning, I smiled and wondered if I should text Viv to let her know. What did it mean to get this verse the day after Viv had talked about Jacob just yesterday? Was it a warning, or a confirmation that Viv had been on track yesterday? Given the outcome, I had a hard time believing the second one, but I flat didn't want to believe the first. That was kind of scary.

  I decided to read the devotional part before I jumped to any freaked-out conclusions.

  Because his hand grasped his brother’s heel as he was born, he was named Jacob, which literally meant ‘heel-grabber.’

  I wrinkled my nose. Well, now. That seemed kind of mean. He was a newborn, for crying out loud. Maybe he was scared in there and hanging on to his brother for comfort. They were twins, after all. They'd spent every moment of their lives together up to that point. Maybe he just didn't want to be separated from his brother. So the poor guy gets labeled a 'heel-grabber.' It was as if they thought Jacob wanted to be first, so he was trying to pull Esau back in and shove his way to the front. Somehow, I doubted newborns thought that way.

  I was so sleepy. I curled up on the floor and put the pillow under my head, wondering what it did to a person to be labeled a heel-grabber for their entire lives. I had read the story of Jacob and Esau before, and always felt bad for Esau. He got the shaft. I couldn't remember what happened to Jacob after the whole stealing-of-the-blessing thing, but I thought it was something good.

  I closed my eyes, thinking about dysfunctional families and labels; what would that kind of upbringing do to a person's ability to make good choices?

  Maybe being called a heel-grabber was why Jacob turned out to be such a hot mess. He thought of himself as a heel-grabber. He came to self-identify with the label.

  Had he become a deceiver because he'd been named one? Or had his parents somehow been able to see that side of him the moment he was born?

  Unfortunately, I thought about this for too long. So long that I fell back to sleep and dreamed that I was trying to wash my aura but I kept making the stain darker. Then I realized I had gotten my aura confused with the comforter on my bed, which wasn't supposed to go into the washing machine anyway, and now it was ruined and my aura was still jacked up beyond all repair.

  On that happy note, I woke with a start, looked at the clock, and jumped up to head for the shower.

  As I was tugging on my shoes, my phone dinged. I didn't recognize the number, and I almost didn't answer it. It always feels a little too much like Russian roulette to me, answering an unknown number. But sometimes I like living dangerously, so...

  “Hello?”

  “Salem, it's Scott. Watson.”

  Instantly, my heart began to hammer. I almost dropped the phone. There was no good scenario for Scott Watson to be calling me.

  “What?” I blurted, because I was too shaken to remember my manners. “Is Trisha okay?”

  “Yes. Well. No, not exactly. But she's no worse than she has been. It's just...that's still not good. And I wondered if maybe you could...I don't know. Help me.”

  “I...what?” I said again. Because this was just too weird.

  He sighed. “This thing with Peter Browning. I don't know if it's the hormones or what, but it's like she's obsessed. I mean, she was upset about his death, obviously. But now people are saying it was suicide.”

  “I heard that, too. I heard there was a note.”

  “Right. That's what Trish said. But she's convinced it couldn't possibly be suicide.”

  “Yeah, that's a hard thing to wrap your head around.”

  “No, I mean...” He broke off, and I heard him sigh—he sounded very frustrated. “It's like she's taking it personally. She talks about him all the time, talks about Bitsy all the time. How heartbroken she must be. How betrayed she must feel. She talks constantly about how many different scenarios—mostly murder, but sometimes even accidents—I could have been, and is obsessed with each of them. The police aren't helping, either—they won't say a thing. I'm sure they're conducting their investigation, but since they won't tell her anything and aren't keeping her in the loop, she thinks they're not actually doing anything. She thinks they've just written it off as suicide. Or even that they're in on it—like, they're covering for someone.”

  “That can't be good for her pregnancy,” I said.

  “I know!” He went silent again, but I heard in those two short words just how distraught he was. “It's not good for her. It's not good for the baby. She shouldn't be working at all. She shouldn't be stressed right now. But she can't let this go.”

  “Do you want me to have a talk with her?” For the life of me, I couldn't imagine what I could say that would convince her to chill the heck out. Nothing that she didn't know good and well already, that her doctor and Scott hadn't already told her. But I could try.

  “No, I want you to see if you can find out anything. She usually has a lot of respect for the police, but she feels like on this case they're blowing it off because of Browning's past stories about the department. You remember all that stuff last year about the toy drive.”

  I did remember that—there was some unbelievable scandal about the police department Christmas toy drive, and a couple of people actually lost their jobs over it. Peter Browning had been in the middle of the whole thing, acting like he'd uncovered the scandal of the century. I could imagine how the LPD might not feel too fond of the guy.

  But I knew Bobby Sloan fairly well. He could be a pain in the neck, but he was earnest about his job. He wouldn't not follow through on an investigation because of a personal vendetta. “I have a hard time believing that,” I told Scott.

  “Me, too. But she keeps typing stuff into her phone, and I found out she was keeping all these notes on different stories Browning was working on, different calls to the station, different groups he'd offended. She's got a whole file that she can access from her phone and her computers, and she's adding to it all the time. When she's not looking at baby stuff, I mean, she's looking at all these conspiracy theories about Browning. I even found a search on our computer about how to murder someone and make it look like suicide. Maybe you and your—your, you know—partner—could look into it.”

  For a moment, I was too stunned to think of a reply. Viv considered us actual private detectives. My G-Ma had come to think of us as actual private detectives. But most sane people understood what I did—that we were two people with too much time on our hands who had gotten lucky a few times and accidentally solved a few crimes.

  “Well, sure,” I said. “We'd be happy to.”

  “I can pay you,” he said. “I don't know what your rate is, but—”

  “No!” I blurted, still shocked. Rate? Viv and I had never even discussed rate for our “services” because we were happy just getting away with asking people nosy questions. “I mean, this is Trisha. It'd be...what do you call it? Pro bono.”

  “Well, thanks. But I am happy to pay. I mean it. At least I could pay your expenses. You know, gas and supplies or whatever.”

  I quickly wracked my brain, but couldn't think of anything I could legitimately call “supplies.”

  “I'll let you know,” I said. “Is it okay for me to tell Trish we talked?”

  “No,” he said flatly. “Absolutely not. Her hormones are all over the place. One moment she's perfectly normal and the next she's crying—I mean, full-on sobbing—because I bought the wrong brand of ketchup. I'm not even making that up. If she knows I called you, she'll think we're ganging up on her.”

  Poor guy. He sounded shell-shocked.

  “How about this? How about I come to her office, tell her Viv and I have a feeling the p
olice aren't seeing the whole picture, and ask her thoughts on the matter? Ask if she has any ideas who might have wanted to kill Peter and make it look like suicide? Maybe she'll just turn over her notes to us.”

  “That would be fantastic,” he said. He let out a deep breath. “Yes, that sounds really good.”

  My heart squeezed in my chest. Seriously, the poor guy! How bad off did he have to be to look to me and Viv for his salvation?

  “That's what we'll do, then. Right after work tomorrow. Viv and I will meet with her and try to convince her—we'll be subtle, I promise—convince her to turn over her notes to us and we'll take it from there.”

  “I hope it works.”

  “Me, too. I just...Scott? What's the good news we're looking for here? Would it be so much better to find out he was murdered?”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but yes, I think that will give her some comfort. I mean, you should see the way she looks at me when she thinks I'm not looking. I think, in her head, her pregnancy and Bitsy's pregnancy are getting kind of tangled up. She talked to Bitsy and, I don't know...the enormity of the betrayal, I guess, is what knocked her for a loop. That Peter would rather end his life than spend it with Bitsy and their child. Then she looks at me like...like she's wondering what secrets I'm keeping.”

  “But she knows you're not Peter. And you two have a solid foundation.”

  “That's what I keep trying to tell her. But...this is going to sound weird, but did you ever have a superstition about something? Like, if this happens, everything will be okay? If I make it all the way to the loop without hitting a red light, it's going to be a good day? When that has nothing, really, to do with what's going to happen when I get to the office. But it feels like an omen. You know?”

  “Sure, I know.”

  “It's like that. It's as if, if she can make some sense of this thing with Browning, she can relax about our own situation. And man, would it be good if she could relax about our situation. She's freaked out about everything. It's as if we have to already know every single word we're ever going to say to this kid, and it's not even born yet. We have to make a lifetime of decisions, today. Gender-neutral toys. Church or no church. What kind of discipline for what kind of infraction. Nicknames. I mean, we're not even sure if it's a boy or a girl, and I have to know for sure what age we're going to let them date. And if I don't know, or I say I need to think about it, she freaks out and says we're not prepared for this. We're going to screw it all up.”

  That was weird. Trisha was the type to face everything head on, make a plan, work the plan, and then dust her hands and move on to the next challenge without skipping a beat. It really must be the hormones. I kind of remembered those fears from my own pregnancy. Trisha did not have the benefit of youthful ignorance that I had, but I had known enough to know that I had no clue what I was doing. When I panicked, I turned to G-Ma, and she assured me that no one knew what they were doing. The best you could do was pretend you did and then stick to your guns.

  Trisha spent roughly half her work day talking about people who had made bad decisions, so her level of awareness of bad people was different than mine.

  “I'll go see her tomorrow afternoon,” I promised, then hung up.

  Immediately, I felt guilty. Had what I'd just done violated what Tony wanted me to do? I mean, this one was kind of iffy, because general consensus was that there was no murder. Ergo, I was in no danger from confronting a murderer.

  Still. Did I really want a letter-of-the-law kind of relationship with Tony?

  No. No, I did not.

  On the other hand, I didn't think I had it in me to tell Scott Watson no to anything. I owed him too much. I would just...have to make Tony understand that.

  Chapter Six

  The Best-Laid Plans

  During a break that morning, I stepped out and called Viv to tell her about Scott's phone call.

  “I told him I would go see her tomorrow. You'll come with me, right?”

  “Of course. And tomorrow is better for me, anyway. I couldn't go today. I'm grounded.”

  “Grounded?”

  “They're calling it observation,” she said with a sneer. “Because of the trauma I experienced yesterday.”

  “Are you making air quotes right now?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well,” I said. “You did get a very special hug from Imogene. That's got to have an effect on a person.”

  “Don't make me gag!” Viv said. “That woman is being hailed a hero all over this blessed place. Can you believe that?”

  “Well, yeah. That was the intention, wasn't it?”

  “Shut up. You know what my intentions were. And they sure as heck weren't for Imogene Walker to suddenly find herself back in the flow of her purpose.”

  Poor Viv. I could certainly understand the frustration of having one’s plans go completely off the rails.

  “I'm making the best of it, though,” she said. “Miss Marple marathon on Amazon. If that is what Nigel's into, surely I can find a way to make it work.”

  “You're still into him, even when he stood by like a scared little old woman while an actual old woman saved you?”

  “I don't appreciate you talking about my boyfriend that way,” Viv said with a sniff. “He was only calling for help, as any sensible person would do. Imogene was the one who barged in and took over, like she always does. You're still going to yoga tonight, right?”

  I had forgotten about yoga. I considered for a moment. The yoga studio was right beside Serena's little shop. I was still kind of mad at her for giving me a weird dream this morning.

  “Actually, I'm going to skip, too. Everyone will just ask me about you the whole time. It'll get annoying.”

  It was true that yoga would be less fun without Viv. But tonight, I had a different set of awkward positions I needed to tackle.

  I pulled out of Flo's parking lot that afternoon with a knot of anxiety in my stomach. Schemes kept going through my head—schemes of how to get Tony on my side.

  Schemes were quickly replaced by guilt. I honestly did not want the kind of marriage where I schemed to get my husband to do stuff. Tony was always straight with me. I wanted to be straight with him. Whatever my role was, I didn't want it to be manipulator.

  But...would it be so wrong to just...make sure he was in a good mood when I did talk to him?

  I sighed and pulled into the grocery store parking lot.

  “Windy, call Juanita.”

  Juanita was one of Tony's many sisters, and she seemed pretty okay with me. I mean, basically everyone in his family took a better view of me since I helped prove Tony innocent of murder, but Juanita had liked me when we first got married and not many of the sisters had.

  When she answered, I said, “Juanita, I want to cook something nice for Tony. What's his favorite dish?”

  “Do you mean I wrecked the car nice, or I spent too much at the mall nice?”

  I scoffed. “Neither.” Good grief. Was I fighting a losing battle with this manipulator thing? “I just...want to do something nice for him.”

  “I forget you two are newlyweds, kind of.”

  “I use the term somewhat. Does he have a particular favorite that's not too complicated and doesn't require a lot of ingredients?”

  “You're in luck. Tony is notoriously easy to please when it comes to homemade cooking. Make him some tortillas, put some butter and honey on them, and he'll do anything you want him to.”

  “I'm not trying to get him to do anything,” I protested.

  “Well, I'd think of something if I were you. Because if you give him warm tortillas he's going to be ready to do something impressive. I'm just saying.”

  I chewed on that one for a second, but couldn't think of anything appropriate to say. “I guess. Let's just see if I can pull it off, first.”

  “No sweat. Tortillas are literally the easiest thing you can make. If you manage to mess them up, I'll be impressed.”

  “Remember, you grew up with a family
that cooks. It's in your genes. I grew up in a family where cooking meant reheating in the microwave.”

  “I'll text you the recipe. Don't worry. Follow the directions and you'll be fine.”

  My phone dinged with the text from Juanita as I was pulling the shopping basket out of the corral. She wasn't kidding—it was ridiculously simple. Corn flour and water. Don't be afraid to adjust the amounts to get the right consistency. Mix it up, roll it into balls, press it out in the tortilla press, grill it on a hot cast iron pan.

  My anxiety lifted. This was something I could definitely handle.

  I grabbed a bag of cornmeal, a jar of cooking oil, a package of wax paper, a pound of butter, and a jar of honey and headed home to pick up Stump.

  Back at Tony's, I found the key he kept hidden and let myself in. While I unloaded the few items I'd bought onto the counter, Stump busied herself dragging the bed Tony had bought her from the living room to the kitchen. I rummaged in the cabinets and found the tortilla press, a bowl for mixing, and a cast iron pan. I stood back and surveyed everything. Surely it couldn't be this easy.

  I measured everything out like Juanita had instructed. At first the mixture looked too lumpy. I divided it up and rolled it into balls, but they kept falling apart.

  I dumped everything back into the bowl and added a little bit more water. I grabbed a handful and tried to roll it into a ball. It mushed and stuck to my hands.

  “You will not panic,” I ordered myself, because I was starting to feel defeated already. “These are literally the easiest things you could make. You've made harder stuff before and it was fine.” That was true. Just the week before I had made a baked cod recipe from my Fat Fighters book that had looked beautiful on the plate. It hadn't tasted very good, but I think that was the cod's fault, not mine.

  I elbowed on the water faucet and washed the gritty, sticky gunk off my hands, took a deep breath, and headed back into the fray.

  I added more cornmeal. Too stiff. Then more water. Too mushy. Then more cornmeal. I decided that, even if the little balls fell apart, they would stick together once I smushed them in the tortilla press. That thing was solid cast iron and as heavy as an anvil. I thought—and then looked guiltily around in case there was a mind-reader in the room—that it would probably make a good murder weapon, should one need such a thing. I got the cast iron pan hot, added a little oil, and gently peeled the first tortilla off the wax paper. It ripped in two, but I put both halves in the pan anyway, feeling that if I didn't get something cooked, I was going to cry.