68
As I lather with one of those nylon loofahs Mamma always gives me as part of my X-mas stocking, I make a mental list of everything that needs to be packed by morning and grasp swiftly that it’s really not all that much. How sad. Mainly just clothes, toiletries, the meager contents of my hope chest, and the box of pictures I took the year I thought my life’s calling was to be a National Geographic photographer. The fly in the ointment was that I really only ended up taking pictures of shoes. I was drawn to photographing feet of all colors, sizes, and social classes. Anyway, as weird as the pictures are, they mean something to me. Maybe I’ll take up photography again.
Who knows? The world is my clam. Right?
69
Cat woman has nothing on me. I stealthily make my way around Mr. Bentley’s office building and find Parella looking down right edgy as he waits by the back dumpster.. Me thinks patience is not one of his virtues. He’s wearing a worn, brown leather jacket over a black t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. He shakes his head in mock disgust as he catches sight of me in my ninja attire. Motioning towards the doorway illuminated by a dim bulb, he holds up an index finger. A signal for me to wait and watch. He then pulls a homemade slingshot from his back pocket and shatters the light on the first try. The recessed entry is now pitch black. He shoots me a self-satisfied look that I can discern even in the darkness.
He leads and I follow closely as we move swiftly towards the darkened doorway. Within moments he’s sprung the lock and we’re in. After the door is shut, and we’re safe from prying eyes, I give him a punch on the arm.
“Hey, what’s that for?”
“For hogging all the B&E!”
“Liza, this is not a game.”
I put on a pouty face and make a harrumph noise, digging my heels in.
“Fine, you can jimmy the lock on the file cabinet, okay?”
“And the door to his office,” I retort, standing my ground firmly.
“Fine, now let’s get on with it. Sheesh.”
We head down the hall, searching for Mr. Bentley’s office. Jack shines the small flashlight onto each doorway until we find “Fields MD” on a polished brass placard. He hands me his silver lock pick, and I proceed to try my darndest to trip the lock.
Hmm…I’m not having much luck.
Parella whistles the theme to Jeopardy as I fumble with the doorknob. I flounder for another thirty seconds or so then surrender. Defeated, I stand back and motion for him to do the honors. “Go ahead, hovercraft.”
He grabs the pick and in one swift movement unlocks the door to the inner office and grants us access.
“Show off,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Don’t worry, doll, I’ve had a lot of practice.”
We enter the darkened room, and I grope around and flip on the light. Jack immediately turns it off and scolds in a serious tone, “First rule of B&E, never turn on the lights.”
Using his tiny Maglite we find a file cabinet that I manage to jimmy open in a jiff. Inside are recent patient files and nothing we can use to shed more light on Mr. B, or his infidelity. We shift our focus to a large mahogany desk placed on a worn Persian rug in the center of the room. A large sterling picture frame of the Fields family adorns it, along with a hand carved ivory letter opener. There are several ample locked drawers that may hold a clue to our case. We open each one gingerly as to not leave any signs of tampering. Inside is the good doctor’s stash of cognac, a few golf digests, and a couple of brand new shirts. I’m about to announce that the desk is a dead end, when I notice an opening in the wood. It’s a small cubbyhole in the side of the top drawer.
“I found something,” I whisper.
I reach inside, hoping it’s not booby-trapped or home to Mr. Bentley’s pet tarantula.
Hmmm… feels like paper.
Gently tugging, three black and white photographs flutter from the secret compartment and onto the ornate rug. Jack plucks them and flashes the light onto the photos for a closer look.
“Looks like a mom with her little bundle of joy.”
I give him a cynical smirk. “Maybe the good doctor has an illegitimate kid or two running around town. That would explain the secret visits and late nights.”
Parella nods but has a quizzical expression as he studies the next picture, then hands it to me. “Notice anything about that picture?”
Hmmm...There is something, but I can’t quite put my finger on what.
“Check out Ma’s hairdo. These pictures are pretty old.”
As I take another look, I realize that the woman in all three photographs has a beehive hairdo. Duh Liza. In one photo she’s wearing an old fashioned waitress uniform like the kind Alice used to wear on that TV show about Mel’s Diner and she’s smoking a cigarette. The pictures have a faded look to them too. Definitely old. But why would the high falutin’, Bentley-driving doctor be hiding aged pictures of a blue-collar woman? The plot thickens.
We return the pictures to the cubby then unlock the remaining drawers. Finding nothing else of consequence, we make our way out of the building, taking care to relock all the doors we jimmied in our quest for clues.
We slide into the Karmann Ghia all stealth like then drive about two blocks to where Jack’s motorcycle is parked.
“So whatdya think, Toots?” Parella asks as he pulls himself out of the passenger seat.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Let me sleep on it. I’m going out with the girls tonight so I’ll be in late tomorrow.”
He smirks and shoots me a look. “Try not to drink too much.”
“Don’t you worry about little old me,” I retort.
“See you later,” he says breezily, then leans in and pecks me on the cheek. It’s an innocent gesture, but as I watch him walk away, I realize that this man is starting to feel like home. I better put a stop to it. Fast.
70
A night out with the girls always seems like such a good idea until the morning after. Either I’ve had too much to drink and have a splitting morning-after headache, or not enough to drink and still have a splitting headache from all the noise. Last night was the latter of the two. Surprising, given my track record lately.
I wasn’t in the mood for libations so I had Shirley Temples all night, which the lesbian bartender found so endearing that she didn’t charge me past the first one. Throughout the night I had several fleeting thoughts of going gay.
I mean heck, if that redhead from Sex and the City can do it, why can’t I?
I did some awkward flirting with the bartender, who resembled Sara McLachlan with longer hair, but then decided that I’m just not suited to swing both ways. Maybe it was my conservative Southern upbringing, but I just can’t cross that line. Though thinking about it was kind of fun. The girls all doted on me as we snacked on bar munchies and at one point the burly bouncer had to throw someone out for peeing on the jukebox, which I was assuming was a first, but Mr. Burly said it was actually the second time. Same offender.
They all wanted details on Jack, but I was elusive, which I’m sure made them even more curious. But the fact is, I don’t really know what to say about him other than the fact that we’re working together. I mean, I have come onto him a few times now—to my horror—and he’s denied me every time. A pretty kick in the pants obvious sign of disinterest. But then again, he says and does things that seem like he’s into me, so who really knows. He’s confusing. The only thing I can be sure of is that I’m absolutely, positively not interested in a relationship with him…I think.
I grab a couple of Advils and down them with the stale glass of water on the nightstand. The professor left me a message last night that said he’s coming by at 9:00 this morning, so I’ve got to hustle. I pull myself out of bed and spread the patchwork quilt we got from an antique store in Nantucket on the mattress haphazardly.
FYI, I’m also not a talented bed maker. So what?
I manage to get a few things packed, but I’ll have to finish up before the afternoon when the mo
vers show up. Anyway, Evvy said she’d come by to help and bring some lunch. I’m just hoping it’s not the liquid kind because I’ve got way too much to do.
The doorbell chimes promptly at nine and I feel oddly nervous as I round the corner to open the front door.
“Hello, professor,” I say awkwardly.
He gives me a chuckle. “You know, you can call me Robert.”
I feel my pulse quicken at his quirky smile. “Come on in. I’ll be all packed by the afternoon,” I mention as he glances around the living room, strewn with suitcases and the boxes I brought in from the garage.
At least one good thing came out of Bernie’s freakishly anal behavior. He always kept moving boxes and the plastic sleeves that stuff like sheets and comforters came in for a rainy day. Well, I guess that thunderstorm has officially arrived.
I lead Professor Robert to the built-in desk in the kitchen, where I’ve written up a makeshift lease agreement listing the basic monthly rent, starting date, and the other pertinents. He adds a couple of details that seem fair and signs it with a dramatic flourish of his pen. The signature seems oddly eccentric for him. I sign in my usual chicken scratch, but add a fancy curlicue on the Y at the end of my last name just for shits and giggles.
“Pleasure doing business with you, Professor...I mean, Robert,” I say as he offers me a check after I hand over the keys. We smile pleasantly then shake hands and that’s when I glance down at his hand. My gaze lands on a pewter ring. It has an insignia. A crest! I back away slowly and clear my throat. The floor starts to tilt and I take a deep breath.
“ Elizabeth are you alright?”
I catch my breath and nod. “Yeah, just got a little dizzy. Low blood sugar or something.”
Okay, I’m getting paranoid. The timeline is all wrong. I didn’t meet the professor until after the notes started showing up. Duh. But heck, what are the odds of two clansmen suddenly appearing in my life? Weird. But just a coincidence, I guess.
It’s arranged that he can start moving in some things tomorrow and we say our cordial goodbyes. Then I go back to filling the suitcases first and move onto boxes, since I definitely want my luggage at my new place and not in the attic crawl space here. Especially the rust-colored leather duffels we bought in Argentina the summer after he opened “The Foot Clinic.” Our relationship wasn’t all bad. But I certainly wouldn’t want him back. A famous Robert Frost poem unexpectedly comes to mind; it makes me feel like I’m in a yellowed wood where two roads are diverging. I took the obvious path the first time around, now it’s my chance to take the road less traveled. Way cool and way scary at the same time.
71
Ahh….the joys of packing. As I rummage through my closet I surmise that I’ve accumulated quite a tidy sum of clothing since college. I still have Bernie’s Sigma Pi sweatshirt with the grape juice stain, a whole shelf of cutoff denim shorts that I wouldn’t be caught dead in now, and all sorts of other undesirables that have been cluttering up my walk-in for years. I grab one of the boxes, scribble “Goodwill” on the side with a smelly Sharpie, and begin filling it with unsavory items like Gund teddy bears from Bernie, a spandex leotard, and all sorts of other things that one has no use for after thirty.
By the time Evvy arrives, I’ve done an impressive amount of “purging.” She’s brought cocktails, of course, which makes me giggle and I realize in that very moment, that even though I’ve shed a fair share of tears for Bernie, it’s not all as awful as I thought. I mean, sure, the idea of him doing “it” with another woman doggie style still makes me feel like someone kicked me in the diaphragm, but somehow, someway, during the years we were together, I think I just fell out of love with him. Anyway, let’s just say the Band-aid ripped off a bit easier than I ever would’ve imagined.
“I’m impressed,” Evvy smiles.
We’ve finished packing and are sipping juleps on the front porch as the movers load up the truck. I smirk. “Me too. I somehow thought it would be harder to walk away. Maybe it’s because we didn’t have kids. Who knows?”
“Or maybe your relationship just lasted as long as it was supposed to. I mean, whoever sold us this idea of one man and one woman for eternity was a great spin doctor,” she exclaims, punctuating it with a slug of her drink.
“Come on. You’d never leave David. Would you?”
She gives me a nonchalant shrug. “Look, what David Jr. and I have after fifteen years of marriage is a lot of responsibilities. Between the kids, summers at Martha’s Vineyard with his family, and Christmas in Nantucket with mine, we don’t have time for a divorce, much less sex. But after the kids are out of school, who knows? The idea of meeting someone new is exciting. And the idea of meeting a different guy every night of the week is even more exciting.” She bellows a “Yeeeeehaw” and whirls her Hermes silk scarf in the air.
The movers throw a quick glance at the two of us sitting on the porch rockers. One of them has his shirt off, and I can’t help but notice the muscles ripple beneath his tanned skin as he lifts another of my boxes onto the truck.
“Like that topless one right there. I wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more of him,” Evvy declares with a purr.
I let out a snort. “I can’t believe we’re a couple of old ladies ogling guys that are barely out of high school.”
She gives me a devilish grin. “I’ve heard it’s good to get them while their young. Easier to train.”
“You’re bad,” I say with a mild sense of awe as she gives me one of her signature wicked smiles. Evvy is the type of woman that goes through life effortlessly, being admired and befriended everywhere she goes.
Must be nice. Must be really nice. I on the other hand am a poster child for how one would never want to end up. Maybe the Peach Pageant judges knew a thing or two after all….
72
As the moving truck pulls away, I give Evvy the European kiss on each cheek goodbye—which she’s been fond of since she and David went to France a couple years ago—then I’m off to my new digs. A combination of excitement and nervousness flutters in my belly and I feel like I did the first time I went to sleep away camp. Pine Trail Camp was close to Baton Rouge and my first overnight away from my parents. Between the mosquitoes, and the kind of humidity you could cut with a butter knife, I fell head over heels for Gerry Munch, another third grader. He had silky brown hair that fell like a curtain around his head (I guess his mom preferred the Tupperware bowl method rather than Super Cuts, but somehow it worked on him). It was an unrequited love that blossomed during that week of activities, which consisted of being woken up at the crack of dawn by a trumpet and canoeing on the murky river, all the while being eaten alive by relentless, bloodthirsty mosquitoes. Something about this move reminds me of boarding the bus to Pine Trail. And the feeling’s not all that bad.
73
The moving truck hasn’t arrived yet. I pull down the long driveway of my new place and into the parking stall area. Mine is all the way on the right and I can barely squeeze in without sideswiping a massive oak tree. Mamma calls oaks majestic, and I can understand why. Something about the full crown of leaves and the height give them a regal air. The trunk of this particular tree is probably four feet wide. I feel honored to share my parking spot with horticulture royalty.
I squeeze out of the Karmann Ghia then struggle up the three flights of stairs. I think I’m going to have “buns of steel” pretty soon, which means I should get to indulge in some guiltless carbs. I perch myself on the built-in bench at the bay window seat and wait for the movers, contemplating where I’ll put my new treasures. A buzzing sensation vibrates my butt cheek and I suddenly remember that I put my cell phone on silent in my back pocket. Hmm, it’s a Savannah phone number.
“Liza here.”
There is a brief silence on the other end before I hear his voice. John Gainey in his “all American” splendor is on the other end and sounding more than a bit nervous. I address him as “Savannah High’s Golden Boy,” which was how he was known by nearly everyone fro
m faculty to students after scoring the winning touchdown at an away game his sophomore year.
“Hi, um, I’m so glad you remember me.” He has the faint hint of a Georgia accent mixed with an aristocratic tone that reminds me of Rhett Butler.
“Of course I remember you. Every girl in our science class had a mad crush on you; and you somehow managed to make those rubber aprons look good.”
More awkward silence.
“I was just thinking that maybe I could take you out for dinner.”
I smile to myself. “So you said in your message. I’m just not sure about the geographical logistics of it all.”
“You leave all that to me; geography was one of my best subjects.”
I let out a snort. How corny. That was the kind of joke my Daddy would make. “What exactly do you have in mind, John?”
“I thought I might fly up this weekend and take you to dinner and then the opera.”
My eyes widen. “Opera, huh? Well, there’s always a first.”
“So, is that a yes?”
I lie back on the window seat and smile. “That’s a definite yes.”
We exchange pertinent info and the date is set for Saturday at six. I’ve never been to the opera and don’t have the faintest idea what’s appropriate to wear. I’m betting Evvy will know. I know I’m supposed to be off men but I was just too intrigued to turn him down. I’m sure it’ll be a one time thing, and heck, I’ll get to go to the opera, which is so deliciously Pretty Woman.
Being single is pretty cool so far….let’s hope it stays that way.
74
Moving sucks. The movers are begrudgingly carting things up the three flights. I can see that having buns of steel is not high on their priority list. The Penny Saver Thrift delivery truck arrives in the midst of the portly mover complaining about the stairs, and I hurry down to wave them into the loading zone, which happens to be occupied by an early nineties Corvette. Great. They double-park, turn on the flashing hazards, and jump out of the truck in a huff. There are two of them and they’re each missing a couple of front teeth and the ones they have left are stained the color of rusty metal.
Eye Spy (Liza Radley Housewife Detective Chronicles) Page 16