by Noreen Wald
Billy had been brave all the way to Coral Springs, but he’d cried when they had to leave Ballou in the car. No dogs allowed in the animal trainer’s building. Now in the Vieras’ third-floor walk-up apartment located in a modest section of the mostly upscale town, the familiar surroundings seemed to soothe the boy.
The small living room smelled of floor polish and lemon-scented Pledge, and the bathroom and kitchen sparkled. Donna slept on a pullout couch, and Billy had the only bedroom.
“And we have to bring my sheets, the ones with the sailboats.”
“How about we bring the pillowcases? You’ll be sleeping in my guest room in a full-size bed tonight.” Kate gestured to the bunk beds. “Those sheets will be too small.”
“What’s a guest room?” Billy put his hands on his hips. “I want my own room and my own sheets, or I’m not going. I don’t want to sleep in any guest room.”
“We’ll pack the sailboat sheets, Billy.” Marlene started to strip the bottom bed. “And deal with the logistics later.” He smiled—his first since he’d heard his mother was going to the hospital—and ran over to a red toy box. “I have logs. Let’s take them too. I can build a cabin.” Bending halfway into the box, he pulled out a plastic container filled with wooden logs. “You can sleep in it, Marlene.” Billy paused, checking her over from head to toe. “It’s okay. I’ll build a very big cabin.”
Marlene roared, her laughter bonding the three of them, making their mission a little lighter.
While Billy and Marlene raided the kitchen cupboards for Billy’s favorite foods, Kate, feeling surprisingly little guilt—though her attitude toward Donna had softened somewhat—put on her glasses and rummaged through the maple desk in the living room.
Kate found it odd there was no computer on the desktop, which held several inexpensively framed baby pictures of Billy and one of Donna with a fair-haired, middle-aged man. Whitey Ford?
Even behind closed drawers, Donna remained neat and orderly. She filed her bills in two manila folders, marked “paid” and “to be paid,” and her outgoing checks were duly recorded in her checkbook with the balance up to date. More than Kate could say about her own bookkeeping.
But no personal correspondence anywhere. No letters. No cards. No invitations. Nothing.
In the lower left drawer, the last one Kate opened, Donna had stashed clippings from magazines and newspapers in a folder. A mixed bag, ranging from recipes to articles on child-rearing to makeup tips.
Kate was about to put the clippings back in the folder when she spotted an article on animal abuse torn from the New York Times: an editorial about the living conditions and treatment of circus animals across the United States. Though Kate couldn’t picture Donna reading the Times, someone had scribbled in the margin, “Find out how much this guy knows.”
Kate stuck the clipping back in the folder.
Laughter drifted from the kitchen. Marlene and Billy were discussing the merits of dropping marshmallows into hot chocolate.
A sliver of something shiny in the rattan wastebasket next to the desk caught Kate’s eye. Bits of negatives, cut into small pieces, dotted the bottom of the otherwise empty basket. She scooped them up and walked over to the window, checking each in the bright sunlight
Tempted to take the pieces home and lay them out on a table like a jigsaw puzzle—certain they’d develop into a negative of an abused elephant—Kate couldn’t bring herself to remove what might be evidence in a murder case.
She dropped the pieces back into the wastebasket wondering if she’d doomed Billy’s mother.
Seventeen
An agitated Mary Frances waylaid them in Ocean Vista’s lobby. “There’s a woman waiting out by the pool, Kate. Said she had a six o’clock appointment with you.”
Ballou yapped, not happily, at Mary Frances. Billy petted him, and the Westie quieted down.
Yikes! MonaLisa Buccino. Kate had forgotten all about her date on the beach with the Humane Society volunteer.
“She has this great big Lab with her. You know Miss Mitford would never allow such a huge animal in the lobby.” Mary Frances sounded peeved. At Miss Mitford? No, more likely at the dog and her owner. “The dog’s name is Tippi, like the actress Tippi Hedren. She—the dog, not the woman—doesn’t like me. Growled and growled. The lady seemed embarrassed by Tippi’s bad behavior. She struck me as spoiled silly.”
“The dog, not the woman, right?” Kate laughed.
So, it wasn’t just Ballou who didn’t like Mary Frances. The female Lab had reservations about the dancing nun too. And Labs like everybody!
“I tell you what, if you’ll help Marlene upstairs with all this stuff, I’ll go talk to MonaLisa.”
“Is he staying here?” Mary Frances smiled at Billy, who was dipping his hand in Aphrodite’s fountain, then splashing the water. A wary Ballou watched him protectively.
Miss Mitford coughed. A rebuke missed by Billy, who hopped into the fountain and straddled one of the cupids. Mitford’s cough segued to a loud, horrified gasp. As keeper of the condo’s keys and enforcer of its rules, the desk clerk sounded both frustrated and furious.
“It’s a long story,” Kate said to Mary Frances, then turned her attention to Billy. “Get out of there right this minute, young man, and take off those wet shoes.” Whirling back to Mary Frances, she added, “Marlene will fill you in while you two unpack. Then maybe we can all have dinner together and celebrate Billy’s arrival. My treat.” She hoped Marlene had packed an extra pair of sneakers for her guest.
The Humane Society operator had burst into song to describe MonaLisa Buccino, and now Kate understood why. The woman’s classic beauty reminded Kate more of Nat King Cole’s song than of Da Vinci’s painting.
Words and music rushed through Kate’s head, transporting her back in time…a chestnut-haired girl sitting in front of a black-and-white television set in her mother’s neat, floral-print chintz living room, watching Your Hit Parade’s Snooky Lanson sing “Mona Lisa,” the show’s number one song for the fortieth straight week. “Hi, sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Kate.”
The yellow Lab, as pretty as her owner, tensed when she saw Ballou. Then Tippi, more than twice the Westie’s size, dropped to a submissive position on her stomach, acknowledging the older Alpha dog. Neither of them barked, a hopeful sign. And Tippi, realizing Ballou wasn’t a threat, sat up.
The tall, slim brunette—she looked a lot like Suzanna Jordan—smiled, extended her hand, and said, “And I’m MonaLisa. Nice to finally talk to you, Kate, after all those passing nods. Shall we walk these dogs?”
Both dogs understood the word walk. Their tails began to wag in earnest and they sniffed each other.
Dusk often made a dramatic entrance during April in South Florida, preceded by spectacular sunsets and purple-muting-to-violet horizons over the ocean.
At twilight, as Kate and MonaLisa walked north toward the Palmetto Beach pier, the sun seemed to be sliding down behind the blue velvet sea and above them, in the Technicolor sky, a silvery new moon waited in the wings.
Ballou, asserting himself as the only male in the group, led the way, moving at a fast clip, and ignoring Tippi.
MonaLisa made easy conversation, telling Kate all about her duties as a volunteer at the shelter. How she’d be assigned a sick or mistreated stray and would help nurse the dog or cat back to health. And she worked as a nurse—for humans—in her day job.
“Tippi’s beautiful.” Kate spoke with total honesty. The yellow Lab was a magnificent animal.
“Yes, isn’t she? I named her for Tippi Hedren, who’s done so much work for animal rights.”
Kate, basking in the still-warm rays of the setting sun and savoring the slightly salty air, was jolted back to reality. She had lots of questions on that very subject, and MonaLisa Buccino, no doubt, had some answers.
�
�Another vendor was murdered at the flea market today,” Kate said. “In the animal quarters at the circus, shot through the head.” That ought to open up a meaningful dialogue.
“Good lord, not Freddie Ducksworth!” MonaLisa sounded stricken. Not the reaction Kate had expected. “I heard there’d been a fire or a smoke-bomb scare at the Cunningham Circus, but the news didn’t mention any murder.”
“No. Not Freddie. Carl Krieg. Why did you think Freddie might be the victim?”
“The Nazi? Dreadful man. Still, why him?” MonaLisa brushed stray tendrils out of her eyes. A light wind had kicked in, swirling sand around and wreaking havoc on hair. “Carl Krieg lived in Whitey Ford’s apartment building, you know, on the first floor, facing the street. I wonder if he saw something or someone on the night Whitey was murdered.”
Kate nodded. “Possibly.” This afternoon, Suzanna Jordan had screamed at Freddie Ducksworth after he’d accused her daughter. Freddie, by his own admission, had been at Carl’s apartment that night. If he’d been telling the truth—and he claimed to have the photographs to prove it—Olivia had been at Whitey’s too.
“I’m convinced someone murdered Ford to prevent him from sending those elephant-abuse photographs to me.” MonaLisa sighed. “Of course, his killer didn’t know he’d already mailed the pictures, so, you see, Whitey died in vain. Somehow, I feel responsible.”
“You do? Why?”
“If I hadn’t been nosing around, conducting my own unauthorized investigation, Whitey Ford would still be alive.” She bit her lip.
Kate sensed MonaLisa was holding something back. What? And why?
“Tell me, why did you think Freddie Ducksworth had been shot?”
“Because, Kate, Freddie’s the one who really took those photographs. Whitey just wanted the glory. Or to impress me. Who knows? But his lie led to his dying. And now Krieg is dead too.”
Her stomach’s craving for a Pepcid AC told Kate that MonaLisa was still holding back. Time to push the envelope. “Any idea who killed them?”
Ballou shook his head as a gust of wind blew sand in his face. Tippi pulled her mistress, and veered south, where the wind would be at their backs.
MonaLisa smiled, a slight, enigmatic smile, showing no teeth. “Donna Viera, of course, to protect herself from facing animal abuse charges. Any woman who could mistreat an elephant is capable of murder.”
Eighteen
If Kate didn’t come back soon, Marlene would have to send Billy to his room and Mary Frances upstairs to her condo.
Two things Marlene long suspected to be true had now become self-evident: A—she’d made the right choice not to reproduce. And B—despite the ex-nun’s sexy, sophisticated facade, inside Mary Frances Costello beat the heart of a silly, self-absorbed teenage girl.
Whine. Whine. Whine. Billy wanted to go to the beach and find Kate and Ballou. Not even building a log cabin to house Marlene appealed to him anymore. He wanted his mother and, if he couldn’t have her, he wanted Kate.
What Mary Frances wanted was to bore Marlene and Billy to death with tales of the Ms. Senior South Florida Pageant, her potential rivals, and the judges’ lack of appreciation for the intricacies of her tango routine for the talent competition. Whine. Whine. Whine. Way worse than Billy.
One more word about that bloody pageant and Mary Frances was out of here. As a former teacher, why the hell couldn’t she entertain Billy?
“Enough, already.” Marlene rose to her feet with purpose. “We’re going to surprise Kate and fix dinner. I’m the chef, and you two,” she glared at Mary Frances and Billy, who’d shut up and were listening, for a change, “will serve as my sous chefs. Now, both of you go wash your hands, then follow me to the kitchen.”
While Mary Frances led Billy to the guest bathroom, Marlene mixed a pitcher of martinis. The first step to a balanced meal. Then she concocted a Shirley Temple for Billy, ginger ale and grenadine, topped off with two maraschino cherries and a straw. For a fleeting moment she considered adding a shot of gin, thinking it might make him sleepy, but settled for a third cherry. Mary Frances could make her own damn drink.
Marlene prided herself on her cooking—innovative, if somewhat sloppy—but after shooting off her big mouth, she wondered if Kate had the makings of a meal in her pristine kitchen. Their tolerance for each other’s foibles remained a testament to their friendship.
For sixty years, ever since the first grade, the messy Marlene and the orderly Kate, the original Odd Couple, had formed a bond that mere clutter couldn’t put asunder. Or so she hoped, as she filled up Kate’s counters and tabletop with leftovers, frozen food, slightly wilted lettuce, just-right tomatoes, a nice hunk of imported Swiss cheese, a jar of olives, two cans of tuna fish, mixing bowls, frying pans, tinfoil, and knives.
Reaching for a box of rigatoni, she spotted Mary Frances and Billy standing in the dining area, staring at her, seemingly frozen, unable to cross the threshold.
“Come on in here. I have your assignments ready, but first, pour yourself a glass of wine, Mary Frances. I saw a nice Chablis in the fridge.” She handed Billy his Shirley Temple, then pulled out a chair. “Sit right down at the table.” Trying to sound maternal, she added, “Cheers, kid. Drink up. You’re going to handle the hors d’oeuvres.” Billy ate the first of his cherries, appraised Marlene in silence, then sipped his drink, and nodded in approval.
“And what am I doing?” Mary Frances rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, reached for one of Kate’s Waterford wine glasses, and poured the Chablis right up to its brim.
“Fill that big pot with water, add a teaspoon of salt, bring it to a boil, then add the rigatoni. While the water’s boiling, open those two jars of spaghetti sauce, dump them into the other big pot, and I’ll doctor it up. Since you’re there at the stove, set the oven to three hundred and fifty degrees. We’re having baked ziti, only with rigatoni as an understudy for ziti. And Swiss as a substitute for mozzarella.” Marlene laughed. “Sort of like Annie Hall cooking Southern Italian. But you work with what you’ve got.”
“More, please.” Billy pushed his empty glass toward Marlene.
“A little later. We need you sober, Billy, you have work to do.” Marlene drained a jar of olives into a small bowl and lined up nine Ritz crackers on a plate. “Now watch, I’m cutting up these pieces of cheese. You’ll put a piece of cheese on each cracker, then shove an olive onto one of these big toothpicks, and stick it through the cheese. Can you handle that Billy?”
“Yes.” He sounded almost happy.
Marlene checked out the spice rack—the same one Kate and Charlie had for decades in Rockville Centre—wondering how old the oregano was. In her own kitchen, she’d be able to judge shelf-age by the dust on the jar. No chance of that in Kate’s overly clean kitchen.
With dinner perking along, and the smell of the canned sauce, jazzed up with basil and oregano and bits of deli ham, whetting her appetite, Marlene fixed Billy another Shirley Temple and poured herself another martini. Mary Frances, who hardly ever drank, was already on her second glass of wine.
“That’s very artistic, Billy,” Marlene said, meaning it. The plate of cheese and crackers was very tempting—though, of course, Marlene acknowledged she was easily tempted. “They look almost too good to eat.”
“Sometimes I help my mommy.”
Kate would have known how to parlay Billy’s casual comment into a Q-and-A session, but Marlene didn’t have a clue.
“Do you and your mom eat dinner at home together every night?” Mary Frances asked.
He shrugged. “Sometimes. Sometimes we go to Denny’s.” His eyes filled with tears. “I want my mommy.”
“Tell me about Denny’s.” Mary Frances sat down next to the boy and picked up a cracker. “What do you like to eat there?”
“Pancakes.” Billy smiled. “I like them with syrup.” Marlene re
membered the doll lady saying the same thing earlier today about the House of Pancakes.
“For dinner?” Mary Frances asked.
“No, silly, for breakfast.”
Mary Frances slipped the olive off the toothpick, plopped it on top of the cheese, and devoured the cracker in three tidy bites. “It’s delicious, Billy. Do you want to try one?”
“I don’t want that ugly green button.”
Mary Frances removed the offending olive and gave Billy a topless cheese and cracker. He beat her record by a bite. She handed him another, then asked, “Does anyone ever go to Denny’s with you and your mommy?”
“We go for breakfast with Uncle Carl when he stays overnight.”
Nineteen
What in the world had gotten into Marlene and Mary Frances besides too many pre-dinner drinks? Not so unusual for Marlene, but Kate had never seen Mary Frances over-imbibe. You’d think with a child to mind, they might have been on better behavior.
Still…Kate felt touched by all the trouble the girls had gone to, creating a great meal out of nothing. She’d planned to treat everyone to dinner at the Neptune Inn, but this was much better. Billy, exhausted, would have never made it through the first course.
Obviously pleased to see Kate, the boy now clung to her side like an appendage, while petting Ballou who, in turn, tried to lick Billy’s face.
While Marlene and Mary Frances were, indeed, acting very peculiarly, Kate realized they weren’t tipsy, just on edge and cryptic. They kept giving her arch looks, as if expecting her to interpret their body language.
What the devil was going on?
Over coffee, Billy’s head drooped, and Marlene whispered, “I’ll fill you in after he’s asleep.” She stood and started to clear the table. “Go get him ready for bed. Mary Frances and I will clean up. Then we need to talk.”
Both Marlene and Mary Frances kissed Billy goodnight. Kate watched him hug them back, taking great pleasure in the unlikely trio’s interaction.