Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 01 - Kitchen Addiction!

by Lizz Lund

  Appletree sighed. “It used to be a lot easier,” he said. I shrugged.

  “I’m here for the Doo-doo,” I said.

  “I know. Fill this out.” He thrust a form at me that was only few hundred pages long.

  Hazel’s replacement came while I sat in the very nice waiting area, complete with Brazilian Cherry counters, filling out the form. I handed it over to Hazel II. Hazel II was the male version of Hazel I, complete with grunts and instructions. Well, at least they were consistent.

  “Detective Appletree said he was taking care of this,” I offered.

  More grunts. Then ringing of intercoms followed by grunted telephone instructions. “Wait there,” Hazel II commanded. I curtseyed again and obliged.

  Buzzers buzzed, doors opened and Appletree entered the lobby. “C’mon,” he directed, waving me toward the entrance doors.

  I shrugged and followed him outside. The temperature out here felt like it was a thousand degrees. My sandals stuck to the pavement. I figured this was because they were melting. I checked, and scraped a wad of gum off the bottom. I followed Appletree around the corner to the chain-linked impound lot on the corner of Chestnut and Queen.

  Appletree approached the manned kiosk and showed his badge. The officer in charge of baby-sitting impounded cars buzzed us in. Appletree showed him a ticket, with a number – which would hopefully indicate the location of the Doo-doo. The officer looked up the number in the kiosk records, read the description and groaned. “Oh, that one,” he said.

  I sighed. This did not bode well.

  Appletree and I followed the attending officer to the back of the lot. By the time we walked back there, Appletree’s neatly pressed detective shirt was completely wet across his back, neck and underarms. And I realized I wasn’t much better. Ick. And there would be no air conditioning in the Doo-doo. Double ick.

  “Here she is,” the attendant said, gesturing to the Doo-doo. He produced a clipboard. “Sign here for the keys, please.”

  I did as instructed and got the keys for the Doo-doo. I swatted at the flies buzzing in and out of my smashed window

  “I can give you a ride back to the station,” I offered Appletree as I opened the driver side door. A blast of hot air rolled out at us that was scented with a thousand turds.

  “Uh, no thanks,” he said, fanning his hand in front of his face.

  I held my nose and peered in. The Doo-doo was immaculate. There wasn’t even any dust. “Ah dawnt undethwand,” I said, still holding my nose. “Doo-doo’s weeewy qween.”

  Appletree didn’t respond.

  I came back out of the Doo-doo and looked around. Appletree had backed several feet away, still fanning his face.

  “I don’t get it,” I said, walking toward him. “The Doo-doo LOOKS really clean; spotless.”

  Appletree nodded. “She would; she was dusted for fingerprints within an inch of her vinyl,” he answered.

  “But why does she have the poopy smell?”

  Appletree shrugged. “Hey, they remove evidence, not smells. It’s not like you brought her here for detailing.”

  “But now the Doo-doo smells like her name,” I whined.

  Appletree shook his head. “Look, just roll the windows down and air her out. She was probably sitting in the lot for a few days with the poopy bags in her, until they got around to dusting her.”

  “You mean they left Doo-doo sitting here for days with poopy bags cooking inside her?”

  “Probably,” Appletree answered, holding his nose and rolling down the van’s windows. I sighed and climbed aboard. Appletree closed my door. “Here, try this,” he said, offering me a spray bottle of breath freshener. I took it and sprayed some in my mouth. He shook his head. “No, not for you. Here.” He reached over and sprayed the breath freshener inside the van. I sniffed. Great. Now the poop was spearmint flavored.

  I started up the Doo-doo and drove out of the lot. I waved bye-bye to Appletree who stood chatting with the guard at the kiosk. They both held their noses and waved bye-bye back as I exited and turned onto Queen Street. I made way back to Orange Street and toward Marietta Avenue, which would take me to Auntie’s.

  I pulled into Auntie’s driveway and did my usual seventy-seven-point-seven turn to maneuver the Doo-doo around to face forward, and left room for Massage Man to park. A lone wasp buzzed toward the smashed window, hovered, then retreated hastily. Well, at least there was an upside. The Doo-doo’s new aroma doubled as wasp repellant.

  I got out and walked over to the garden gnome I’d given Auntie as a house present. I lifted off his cap and fished around for Auntie’s spare key. The gnome is a bit out of place with the rest of Auntie’s décor, but it’s a useful hiding place. Then again, there’s no place like gnome. Ba-dump bump.

  I opened up the front door, and walked inside. Auntie’s house was cool and quiet and full of fresh cut flowers. As usual. I sighed. I love it that Auntie goes out and buys herself fresh cut flowers. Even if they are courtesy of Uncle Max.

  I went into the living room and looked at the erect massage table. It reminded me of a people-size ironing board. How had I ever been comfortable enough to fall asleep on it?

  The front door knocked. It was James.

  “Good morning,” he said nicely.

  “Morning,” I mumbled back, letting him into Auntie’s foyer.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Great, thanks,” I said.

  “Do you mind if I just…” He nodded toward his table.

  “Oh, no, really, help yourself. It’s all just where you left it. Except for me, of course, ha ha,” I said, forcing a laugh.

  James nodded at me and went toward the massage table and started picking up sheets and whatnot. As he started dismantling the table, I realized that this was a very transportable structure. And that James had incredible shoulders and back muscles. And a cute butt. And that he would shortly be leaving again. Very shortly.

  “So, uh… sorry about falling asleep on you yesterday. It wasn’t a criticism,” I started.

  “Actually, I took it as more of a compliment,” he said. Huh.

  “So, uh, what interested you to become a massage guy, anyway – I mean, masseuse,” I asked.

  “Massage therapist, actually” he answered. Then he stood up and smiled at me. Huh. James also had an amazingly brilliant smile. Oh-please-oh-please-oh-please-don’t-be-wearing-a-bridge, I hoped. And please-oh-please-oh-please for my ego’s sake don’t be gay. I mean, it’s perfectly alright to be gay. Except that my illusionary love interests are starting to show a distressing inclination toward exceedingly unavailable men.

  “You know, if I had a nickel for every time someone asked me that, I could probably retire,” he answered.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because the people who knew me in my past lifetime ask me that a lot,” he said.

  Past lifetime? Oh crap. Why was I alone with this nut?

  “Oh,” I said, nodding, hoping to end the conversation.

  “You see, up until a couple years ago, I was a capital investments broker.”

  Oh. Investments. Okay, well that’s pretty normal. “Pretty stressful, huh?”

  “Not too bad,” he answered truthfully. “Actually, the massage thing began as a hobby.”

  “Really?” I asked, hoping to continue the conversation until he asked me out.

  “My girlfriend was getting kind of stressed out,” he answered.

  Girlfriend? I smiled brightly and was completely crestfallen. On the upside, I’d broken my tendency toward being attracted to gay men. On the downside, I’m apparently still attracted to unavailable men. Rats.

  “Oh, really?” I smiled politely. I disengaged and put myself on autopilot.

  “Yeah. She was a Victoria’s Secret lingerie model.” Lingerie model!? “It’s pretty stressful. Mostly because she traveled a lot. You see, she’s got a real fear of flying. So the only thing I could do to help
her relax was massage,” he said.

  “Right, of course. Well, it’s not like she can have an ice cream sundae to take the edge off,” I answered smartly.

  “Exactly,” he answered. Well then. “And then the market got shaky about the same time as she was setting me up with her model buddies for massages. Then my investment buddies got word, and of course they trusted me with their families and partners, knowing that I’m not some kind of a nut,” he said.

  “Right,” I replied, and regretted thinking him a nut.

  “So I kind of started with a built-in niche,” he finished. “It’s not the income I had as an investment broker. But I sure sleep better at night.” Huh. After massaging his girlfriend and her lingerie modeling buddies, I felt sure he did.

  James left a few minutes later, and I sat in the middle of Auntie’s living room deflated and at odds with myself. On the one hand, there was something about him that made me feel defensive. On the other hand, I was starting a new trend toward being attracted to straight guys. Okay, maybe things were getting better.

  The grandfather clock in the hall bonged. Crap. I had to get moving so I could get dressed up and pick up K. and crew. Double crap. Because that’s what the Doo-doo smelled like. Transporting humans for several hours in a van with no air-conditioning to New York City in the summer was looking like a bad plan. The dinner, ride and the Doo-doo were now a trifecta of crap.

  I locked up Auntie’s florist shop home, and got back in the Doo-doo and held my nose. I wound my way back across town singlehandedly, acutely aware that not only did Auntie’s side of town look more upscale than mine, it smelled better too.

  I pulled up Mt. Driveway and jumped out of the Doo-doo panting, having held my breath for the last mile. Clearly there was no way I could transport anyone across town, much less across state lines. I wondered if there was an environmental law I’d get arrested for, like transporting stench without a license?

  “Hey, Toots, how ya doin’?” Vito asked from his charred front porch. He had the newspaper in front of him and Stanley by his side, gnawing peacefully on a burnt porch spindle. I shrugged. Vito raised his eyebrows in return. “Hey, aren’t you happy to be getting ready to go on your big night out and all?” he asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah, I ran into K. at Madam Phang’s, ‘cause he was picking up his fancy dry cleaning and all for your Supper Club party tonight. He couldn’t stop talking about it. Seems like you kids are in for a good time.” Vito smiled. Complete with bridge.

  I gulped. “Well,” I started, and began to rehearse my explanation about the Doo-doo to Vito, and being sorry to let my friends down and all, but these things happen, etc., etc., etc.

  Vito folded up his paper and came across to my side of the driveway, with Stanley snarling affectionately and hanging onto a new trouser cuff. I looked at Vito. “He has separation anxiety,” he answered.

  Vito came toward the Doo-doo and did a repeat action of the wasp at Auntie’s. “Wow, twad’s pweddy baaayd,” he said, holding his nose.

  Stanley hopped right inside and jumped in the way back, digging at the wheel well.

  “What the?” Vito and I asked together.

  I opened the doors to the back, and Stanley’s attempts to dig toward China via my spare wheel storage. Vito said something in Polish and held his nose. He dug out a doggie treat from his front pocket. Stanley looked from the wheel well to the treat and back again. Clearly, this was a decision. Finally, as Stanley realized the doggie treat might be more appetizing than the vapors from the wheel well, he yapped and jumped down, taking the treat and crunching happily on the lawn.

  Vito and I looked at the wheel well. And the almost visible cloud of noxious gases hovering over it.

  “Didn’t they fingerprint this at all?” Vito asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “They thed they dwid,” I added, holding my nose.

  “Amateurs,” Vito said, shaking his head. “Scuse me, Toots.” He crossed in front of me toward the back of the open van.

  “Hey, Vito, you don’t have to,” I began, but it was too late. Vito was opening the wheel well.

  He unscrewed the cover and took off the cap and we almost fell backward. “What the!?” he asked.

  Curiosity got the better of us. We held our hands to our faces to check out the contents. Apparently, my spare wheel was missing. Dumped in its place was a huge stash of loosely bagged doody.

  “Yeesth, no whanda your car thmelled,” Vito said, holding his nose.

  “Ugh-huh,” I replied, holding my nose and hoping my eyelashes weren’t melting.

  Vito closed the back of the van. A fly came in through the back open window. Several zillion followed. I sighed.

  Vito led me by the elbow back to his front porch. “Hey, Toots, I don’t want to butt in or nothin’, but I think I can help yous out here,” he said. Visions of the Doo-doo going up in flames ‘mysteriously’ raced through my mind.

  “NO! You are not going to torch the Doo-doo!” I yelled.

  “Yeesh. You really have an overactive imagination, you know?” he said. I sighed. “No, seriously, I’ve got a buddy who does car detailing for rental car companies. You should hear what he’s told me he’s had to clean up. This kinda crap won’t be nothing to him, literally.” I looked at him. “Sorry, Toots, I wasn’t trying to talk off color or nothin’. But we are talking about a lotta crap.”

  “Agreed,” I said.

  “Well, yeah.”

  “But I still have to let K. know I can’t pick him up this afternoon.”

  Vito smiled. “No you don’t, Toots; I’m not going anywhere, so why don’t you just drive my car?” Vito asked.

  The Towncar? Air conditioning? Wow. Things might not be so bad after all.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure,” Vito said and handed me his keys. “Besides, this ways I got an excuse for not showing up at Miriam’s tonight,” he said quickly.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, she’s having one of those Majong things. I’m not too up on it.” I shrugged. “Besides, she’s getting a little territorial,” he added, and blushed.

  “How do you mean?” I asked.

  Vito sighed. “She came over with an outfit for Stanley.”

  “An outfit?”

  “Yeah, you know. She bought him doggie vest and bowtie. She made him wear it. He looked like a used car salesman,” he said.

  “Yeeshkabiddle,” I said.

  “Times two,” Vito added.

  I called K.. “Okay, I have good news and bad news; which first?” I asked.

  “Oh no, please do not tell me you are without transportation this afternoon!!” he cried.

  “Well, yes and no,” I replied.

  “Alright, alright… give me the news.”

  So I told him the bad news was we couldn’t go in the Doo-doo. Which was actually the good news, since Vito was loaning the non-doo-doo smelling Towncar complete with air conditioning.

  “Oh, this is wonderful!” K. bubbled. “Oh-my-gosh– you better hurry, girlfriend!”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re supposed to pick me up in forty-five minutes, dearie!” he said and hung up briskly. I looked at the clock and rubbed my butt. Well.

  After arranging an impromptu pet feeding schedule with Vito, I ran upstairs and made every attempt to look clean, upbeat and in style. I knew this meant a lot to K. Because we were going to New York, I made sure I wore all black and was slightly rumpled, to make sure I’d fit in.

  I picked K. up at his Craftsman home, parking along the very tree lined and very reputable State Street. K. literally bounced out of his house as he opened his front door. I hadn’t seen him this excited since his favorite big-box store opened a new branch on Lincoln Highway East.

  K. had also costumed himself as a Native New Yorker: he wore a white shirt, black hip-hugging slacks and Ray-Ban sunglasses. I exited the Towncar and greeted K. tottering on my 3-i
nch strappy sandals. They elevated me to almost 6-feet tall, which was okay since this was definitely not a date. If ever a venue existed for me in which to display ‘forbidden footwear’, this was it.

  We stood together for a moment on the walkway to K.‘s front door. Together we resembled the ex-patriated wait staff of ‘Tavern on the Green’.

  K. gasped and sang, “Look at you, NEW YORK!! NE-EEW YORK!!”

  I smiled gratefully and began to totter toward Vito’s Towncar. Already my right pinky toe had started to protest. I wondered how long it would take for the rest of me to do the same.

  “OMG! We have pimped our RIDE!! OMG!” K. squealed in delight. I hung my head. “Oh, it’s alright,” K. soothed. “Everyone will just think it’s our ride, which is the same thing!” he bobbled. I nodded.

  K. leapt into the Towncar swinging a clipboard, directions, maps, bottled water and a Tony Bennett CD. Figuring out how to play the CD wasn’t too successful; I ended up spraying car washing fluid. But we finally managed and Tony was crooning just before we picked up Ida Rose.

  Ida Rose lives with her very old and very rich Aunt Gladys in the very huge and very impressive Watt & Shand mansion on the corner of Marietta and President Avenues. That is to say, Ida Rose lives in a servanted mansion, as well as a genuine historic landmark. K. and I once visited for a poker game last winter. At some point during our poker tea (Ida’s Aunt Gladys does not serve alcoholic beverages) I went to the powder room and got lost. By the time I found my way back, everyone had left. This was unfortunate as I have not been invited again by Ida’s Aunt Gladys. I found out later that Aunt Gladys thought I had cheated at poker, because I was winning, and my being lost was interpreted as ‘casing the joint’ thanks to a female detective novel she was reading at the time.

  So K. and I pulled into the U-shaped turn-around drive to the mansion. I looked at K. to get out and ring the bell for Ida. K. looked at me likewise, then returned to reading his map. I shut off the ignition and waited. It got hot. K. sighed, folded up his map and hopped out. I clambered out muttering under my breath at my toes to stop complaining or I wouldn’t buy them fancy new attire ever again.