“I have a tray of croissants stuffed with turkey breast if you’re hungry.”
I was piling croissants on a dinner plate before I asked the burning question, “What happened with that private investigator, O’Neill? Did you get summoned to the police station?”
No answer.
I grabbed the bottle of Pinot Grigio and headed back to the living room.
“Did you hear me?” I set the plate and the bottle on the coffee table.
She nodded. “It’s taken care of it. Forget about it. It never happened. See? My door looks as good as new.” She pointed to the front door. “It never happened.”
Brenda retrieved her pack of cigarettes and slid one out. It signaled the end of the conversation about the break-in. The rest of our private happy hour was spent with turkey croissants, wine and Brenda lecturing me for stringing Max along. I knew she was right.
SIX
BRENDA’S HONDA PILOT glided past the intersection of Shea and 36th Street as we headed to the Dumont residence.
“Did you tell Sunny?” I asked.
“What difference does it make?” Vintage Brenda's answers were always questions.
“I don’t know. I feel funny showing up under false pretenses.”
“Oh, are you not related to me? And is this the first time you've helped with my catering business?”
“No, but ––”
“But what? You told me you were dying to see how the remodeling turned out. Here's your chance. By the way, a word of caution, Sunny wants to make sure we don’t say something inappropriate like, ‘Is that your son?’ Apparently, Mr. Dumont is younger than the wife. A lot younger.”
“Oh, a lucky gigolo?”
“Now, why would you assume that?” she asked sharply.
“You said the husband is much younger than the wife, so young that Sunny is afraid we’ll mistake him for Mrs. Dumont’s son.” My prejudices were about to get a jolt.
“Well, guess what? He’s the one with the money.”
I took that in for a moment. “All right. A man who can see past looks.”
“Are you saying Mrs. Dumont is not attractive?”
“N-n-oooo. Why are you being so pissy? I should have stayed home.”
“Monica, I’m hoping you see that most of the statements you’re making are all tired cliches, stereotypes. Oops, here we are. What do you say? We park here or by the house?”
I turned to Brenda and motioned zipping my lips. I didn't trust myself to say anything right. I was clearly a mass of bigotry.
She laughed that raspy laugh of hers and turned onto the drive. “Drama queen,” Brenda muttered as she drove up the newly paved driveway.
The house looked great. Old-world flair mixed with all the benefits of modern day products like spotlights and such. The area where I'd seen the construction workers was the new motor court. I couldn't believe it. A frosty blue convertible was parked there, sort of screwy, taking up two spaces.
“Brenda, Brenda.” I shook her arm. “Isn’t that Celine’s Sebring?”
“Celine? Sunny’s kid? It’s possible. I’m sure she knows the Dumonts. What do you care? One thing we can count on, she’s not competition for the catering gig. According to her mother she can’t boil water, as they say.”
“Neither can I,” I mumbled.
“And no one is asking you to. Will you stop fretting about nothing?”
We were getting out of the SUV when the massive front door of the home opened and a middle-aged woman with gray hair and a rather pudgy figure waved at us.
“Well, Mrs. Dumont looks friendly,” I said.
“That can’t be Mrs. Dumont. Probably hired help, maybe her caregiver. Mrs. Dumont is not ambulatory.” Brenda poked my elbow to get me moving.
“Ambulatory? In plain English?” I could see the helper’s pleasant grin as we approached.
Brenda whispered, “Wheelchair bound most of the time, according to Sunny.” Brenda pinched my arm as if making sure I was paying attention. “Smile.”
“Welcome, welcome. I’m Lois Thomas, Mrs. Dumont’s personal helper.”
She offered her hand. Brenda shook it and made the introductions.
“She’s tickled pink to have you stop by. We don’t get many visitors these days.”
I was dying to ask about the driver of the blue convertible. Perhaps Brenda could read my mind because she gave me the look, the one that meant “Monica, don't embarrass me.” I silently followed the two women inside the home.
The entry hall was the same as before, sort of. The walls had been painted. No, not just painted, wallpaper? I had to ask, even if it earned me another dose of the look.
“Excuse me, Miss Thomas, is that wallpaper on the walls?”
She smiled and adjusted the collar of her beige shirt. “Please, call me Lois. The wall is an illusion. Tristan did it. An ancient artistic technique from Venice, I believe.” She continued speaking as she guided us deeper into the vast home, “Venetian plaster, but then he added something else, and now the texture looks like a pattern, almost like old-fashioned wallpaper. I find it very interesting, but then everything Tristan — oh, here we are.”
We'd passed through what I remembered had been a dark, low-ceilinged living room but was now transformed into a welcoming filled with sunlight and charming furniture. We were standing in a room off to the side, with floor to ceiling windows looking out onto a covered patio and a luscious garden, neither of which I recalled from earlier.
Had this room been here before? Or was it an add on? I had no clue. It flowed seamlessly from the living room. I was so busy checking out the remodeling results that I hadn't noticed the frail old woman sitting in a dark, tufted wing-back chair, until Brenda loudly cleared her throat. I got the message, pay attention.
“Mrs. Dumont,” the assistant's voice rose a notch. “Mrs. Dumont,” she repeated patiently, “The caterers are here to discuss your party.”
The elderly woman shook her head and like magic, a sparkle in her dark eyes lit up her face, making her look lovely.
“Welcome, welcome.”
It was more a whisper than your usual greeting. While talking, her right hand hugged the base of her throat. I strained to grasp what Mrs. Dumont was saying.
“I've heard so much about you from Sunny, of course.”
She coughed. Lois handed her a glass of water and the woman sipped, oh, so slowly.
“We were thinking about a fall theme, you know, too late for Halloween, too early for Thanksgiving.”
A soft attempt at laughter was followed by Lois offering her a tissue. Mrs. Dumont used it to dab her lips. I noticed the trembling of her hands. Poor woman. What was wrong with her? It was hard to tell her age. She was dressed in a loose dark blue caftan that covered her from head to toe. I didn’t know if she was old or only looked old because of her illness and her gray hair.
Brenda took a seat in a chair next to Mrs. Dumont, then opened up her catering portfolio, full of notes, photos and recipes.
I wasn’t sure what to do with myself and I quickly became distracted by a joyous, childlike laugh coming from somewhere in the garden. It was a woman, and the laughter turned into a series of giggles.
“No, no, stop it!”
Celine. I'd recognize her annoying, whinny voice in the midst of fog horns blaring. She crossed the patio, inches from the window I was standing near and, of course, she saw me. Celine stopped in her tracks and waved at me, continuing to laugh. I was dying to know what she was doing there, and who had her so happily entertained. She opened one of the garden doors and made a grand entrance, her heels clip-clopping on the tiled floor. Her eyes bypassed me and turned to the corner where Mrs. Dumont, Lois and Brenda were engaged in the party planning.
“Oh, hi. So nice to see you, Brenda. Mom told me you’d do the Dumont’s fall extravaganza. It'll be so much fun. I'd love to stay and bounce ideas around with you, but I really have to go.” Celine walked away, and what I saw left me speechless. Pricey Roberto Cav
alli black jeans, her derriere filling the seat of them to near perfection, were marked with the outline of two white hands, each of the ten chalky fingers clearly outlined. OMG! It looked like someone had cupped her bum with hands freshly dipped in a bucket of paint.
Celine swirled around, flashed me a smug smile and left. She didn’t know.
I searched the faces of the three women. Had they seen it too? They seemed to let out a collective sigh of relief once they heard the front door close, then they all laughed. Lois was nearly hysterical with laughter. Brenda let loose with her raspy cackle. Mrs. Dumont did a lot of snorting between laughs and short bouts of coughing. As for me, bees could have toured my mouth undisturbed. I seemed unable to shut it.
Mrs. Dumont was the first one to regain her cool. She shook her index into the air and said, “That Tristan…”
Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of someone entering the room. A man’s amused voice said, “You called?”
Mr. Red Bandanna. He wasn’t wearing it, but the ponytail construction worker stood in the opening between the living room and us. He seemed momentarily blinded by the light from the garden. He blinked while searching our faces. His eyes lingered on mine. He nodded, better yet, he acknowledged me with a barely perceptible bow.
“Hi, Fiat. How's Dior?”
He remembered my car and the dog’s name? Impressive. I noticed the white paint or plaster splattered on his ripped jeans. More of the same stuff was all over his gray t-shirt. When he extended his hand to shake Brenda’s we all stared at his hands that were covered by a white substance caked on his fingernails. It looked very similar to the stuff that had left the imprints on Celine’s bum.
Mrs. Dumont extended an odd invitation to the construction worker, “Sit, help with the party planning, if you want.”
“It’s okay, Angelique,” he said. “You and Lois can do it. I have plaster all over me. I don’t want to mess up the furniture.”
Angelique was Mrs. Dumont’s name? How lovely.
Brenda asked politely, “Excuse me, Mr. Dumont. I’m curious how you know about Dior? I’m the owner of the Great Dane by the way.”
No fooling me, she was pissed, suspicious. I could swear I’d told her about running into the construc — oh — Mr. Dumont. Mr. Dumont? Mr. Red Bandanna, the construction worker, was Tristan Dumont, Angelique Dumont’s young husband? Wow. I did not see that coming. And his wife thought it was funny he'd cupped another woman's bum? Double wow.
SEVEN
“YOU DIDN’T TELL me you'd already met Tristan Dumont.”
Why was Brenda so ticked off about this?
“How many times must I explain it? I had no idea the construction worker, A.K.A. Mr. Red Bandanna, was really Tristan, Lord of the Dumont Manor.”
I wasn’t trying to be flippant, I just felt frustrated and hurt that Brenda would assume I'd purposely played mind games with her. And about what? A catch of the day who, according to Brenda’s hand-me-down information, happened to be married to a penniless soul from some foreign island, a woman old enough to be his mother.
Hmm, perhaps it was some island paradise of eternal youth and beauty for inhabitants, but only as long as they remained on the island. Dream on, Monica.
Well, that was a load of unexpected facts dear Brenda had piled on me on the way home. Why? And she seemed anxious to get home and get the hell out of her car. So much for spending a pleasant afternoon snooping around the redesigned Dumont estate. However, something did bother me, a lot, so I asked Brenda about it just before we arrived home.
“I don’t get it. How come Angelique Dumont didn’t throw a tantrum when she realized her husband had been playing finger paint on Celine’s butt cheeks?”
We were turning into the driveway as Brenda started to answer me, but she stopped short and slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting Dior. The dog had come running toward the car from out of nowhere. I'm sure our collective screams could be heard throughout the neighborhood.
“Oh, dear God, how did he get out?” Brenda turned to me.
“Why are you looking at me? I wasn’t the one who locked your door. I met you here, in the driveway. Remember?”
The answer appeared before us in the form of Tommy, my ex husband, Brenda’s nephew.
“I’m going to kill him.” Her hands tightened around the steering wheel, her knuckles whiter than Kelly Ripa’s teeth. “Did you know he was coming over?” she asked.
“Me? You kidding? The less I see of him, the better I like him.”
Tommy opened the driver’s door while trying to contain Dior’s impromptu greeting rituals. Brenda was so angry I think I saw steam exit her nostrils.
“You idiot, what were you thinking? Thinking? You? No, of course not. What do you want?” she demanded of Tommy.
I quietly slipped out of the Pilot and hurried to my own place. The last thing I wanted was to witness yet another fight between aunt and nephew.
Made it. I locked my front door and promised myself not to open it no matter what sad story Tommy tried to sell me. He wasn’t the kind of guy to stop by to say hello, not to me nor to his aunt Brenda.
What was he up to? Letting Dior roam outside without a leash on wasn’t going to put Brenda in a giving mood. As for me, I still had a long way to go before I absolved myself from the sin of marrying him. Yes, I had been young and naïve. And he had been handsome, still was, at least on the outside. Without Tommy, once my year as an au pair was over, I would have gone back to Italy and said bye-bye America.
I heard the unmistakable slamming of a door, followed by Dior barking. I held my breath, please, God, please, make Tommy go away. I don’t want to be mean to him, but I have to.
A few minutes later the loud rhythmic thumping of his Harley getting fired up was the perfect answer to my prayers. He'd parked the bike beside my one car garage. The louse. That’s why we didn’t see it. Better to take us by surprise, I suppose.
Part of me wanted to kick off my shoes, get a glass of wine, and suspend all reality by watching some feel-good sitcom on television. Except it was six o’clock and most of the local stations had the news. I was too cheap (meaning too poor) to pay for extra channels, and besides, I could always walk past the pool to Brenda’s place, like I was about to do now, to get the extra channels.
I wasn't going to watch television now, however. I was passing the pool to find out from Brenda what Tommy had wanted. Without bothering to knock, as was the norm, I let myself in via the back door.
I was a bit surprised not to have to fight off Dior’s welcome dance, wet kisses and all. Where was the Great Dane? The rooms were dark, twilight having embraced us quickly, like it does in Arizona. Brenda had not turned on any lights.
She was on the couch, sitting stone-faced. I felt invisible. There was not a single acknowledgment of my presence, not from her nor from usually exuberant Dior. A quick glance and I located the dog curled up on his dog bed. He raised his muzzle for a brief moment as if letting me know he was there and he'd seen me, then he readjusted his front paws and tucked his head down.
Huh? “What’s with Dior?” I asked.
Brenda let her eyes scan me once, then she resumed her staring stance, like one of those artful mimes you find at tourist spots, dressed and made up to look like statues. Was she sick? No, more like scared, was my best guess. Had Tommy threatened her?
“Brenda, hey, what happened? What did Tommy want?”
“Oh, you know Tommy…”
Her voice was a low rasp, her eyes avoided me. She reached for her pack of smokes. Even in the dusk I could see the tremor of her hand. Her fingers searched feverishly. Was she out of cigarettes? Anger fueled the scream that escaped from her tight lips as she sent the crumpled empty pack flying across the room, barely missing Dior who yelped and buried his head deeper into his pillow. He looked more annoyed than anything else.
What was going on? Enough already, I clicked on the side table lamp.
Brenda turned her head away from the light an
d rubbed her eyes.
Maybe the light bothered her or maybe — was she crying? Brenda? Not possible. Not Brenda. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I felt like a peeping Tom — peeping into a heart’s despair. Then I noticed a business card, right next to where the cigarette pack had been. I picked it up to see who it was from.
Wham, Brenda snatched it from my fingers.
“Hey, what the hell is wrong with everyone today? Is that Private Investigator O’Neill's business card? Where was it? Did you find it in the house? On the door?”
“Forget about it. You hear me?”
“Who are you and what have you done with the real Brenda?” My attempt at humor didn’t work. Then it hit me. “Does this have anything to do with Tommy? Tommy and O’Neill? Talk to me.”
She squeezed her fist around the white business card and looked me straight in the eye. “Go home, Monica. There's nothing you can do here. I’ll be fine. It will all work out, somehow. Do your best to avoid Tommy, he’s not in a good place right now and forget — look at me — forget you ever saw this business card. Okay?”
“Business card? What business card?” I batted my eyelashes and forced a smile.
“That’s my girl. Now go home and fix yourself something to eat. Brenda’s kitchen is closed tonight. I’ll make it up to you.”
I shrugged to show she didn't need to make up anything, then I patted Dior’s head on my way out, to let him know that at least I was still my old self.
My cellphone vibrated in my pocket as I passed the pool. I fished it out and glanced at the number. Max. No. I let it go to voice-mail. Yes, I was still my old self, my old chicken self.
Finally home, with my back against the closed front door, I took inventory of the messy state of affairs I found myself in, not by my doing. Brenda was upset at me because of Tristan Dumont. I felt upset at Celine because of Tristan Dumont. Wait a minute. It was obviously all Tristan Dumont’s fault. Case closed.
My summing up was interrupted by the sound of Brenda’s SUV pulling out of the driveway. A cigarette run, for sure. Not her first, and certainly not to be her last until Brenda decided to change her lifestyle for good. Nah, that wasn’t likely to happen.
Cooks, Crooks and a Corpse (Baker Girls Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 4