Lizz Lund - Mina Kitchen 02 - Christmas Bizarre

by Lizz Lund

  “Help – prisoner 1465 Conch Avenue, Mantoloking, NJ!”

  “It does not say that,” Bauser said.

  “It certainly does.”

  “Give me that.” He grabbed my fortune.

  Norman made motions for the check.

  “Son-of-a-gun. She’s right.”

  Norman took the fortune. “It is a little disconcerting that it’s actually handwritten.”

  I nodded, crunching on what remained of my cookie, since had Jim relieved me of the first half of it.

  “Probably some practical joker.” Bauser swallowed the rest of his cookie, much to Jim’s chagrin.

  “Of course.”

  After we argued about paying the check, with Norman winning, (or losing?) as usual. We left the tip and shuffled out into the cold toward the truck.

  “Lickety Split?”

  I nodded.

  Norman pulled up at the corner of Orange and Prince Streets. I hadn’t been there in a while, not since they’d gone legit, anyway. So I was kind of looking forward to it, in a nervous kind of way.

  “I’ll be right back!” I hopped out with my soiled Sparkle and into the store.

  No one was there. I tapped the bell on the counter.

  “Just a minute!”

  Mrs. Phang’s sister-in-law poked her head out from behind a curtained back room.

  “Can you have this cleaned by tomorrow?”

  The woman looked just as stumped as if I’d asked her about her last trip to the moon. Eventually, the penny dropped and she pulled out a three-ring binder from behind the counter. She opened a section, and ran her finger down the page, frowning. Then she nodded and smiled. “Yes, I can!”

  I was beginning to understand who the brains behind the actual dry cleaning business was and worried a bit about Mrs. Phang not being in charge of cleaning my Sparkle.

  “Where’s Mrs. Phang?”

  The woman scrunched up her face with worry. “You know her?”

  “Yes. She’s friends with my aunt. And my mom.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mina Kitchen.”

  The woman jumped a bit. “Oh, you’re Mina.”

  My reputation preceded me.

  “I’m Fen. Tina’s sister-in-law.”

  She extended a hand warily and we shook.

  “That’s what I figured.” I gazed down at the notebook of instructions, then quickly back to Fen, lest I offend.

  Fen shrugged. “I don’t know where she is. The last thing she told me was that she was headed for the mall. She hasn’t come back. I figured she’s just giving me a rest.”

  “How come?”

  She sighed. “We had a tiff. She’s really all business sometimes. Anyway, she’s not returning my phone calls.”

  “Well, maybe she’ll come back with lunch, as a peace offering.”

  “I sure hope not.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s been gone since Sunday.”

  I counted on my fingers and toes and realized this was more than forty-eight hours. Very unlike our Mrs. Phang. She was one of those people who didn’t consider OCD a personality disorder. She embraced it as a lifestyle.

  “Don’t you think you should report her missing? I mean, what if she had an accident and is hurt somewhere?”

  Fen, who didn’t seem like the sharpest chopstick in the drawer, opened her mouth and gaped at me. “You really think so?”

  “Probably not. But it would be awful not to call, if it were true.”

  “I never thought of that!”

  Fen was on the phone and dialing before I could utter another peep. I stared resolutely at the cover of the dry cleaning manual, realizing that if I were going to wait for this conversation to be over, I would no longer need my Santa Sparkle - it would be Easter.

  I read the instructions while Fen yacked at the police, then wrote out a ticket for my clothes, and a receipt for myself. I made sure to circle the ‘one day pickup’ option.

  I waved bye-bye while she stayed on hold, and headed back to Norman’s truck. It was nowhere to be seen.

  I was beginning to wonder if being stranded in front of the dry cleaners was going to be a habitual practice. I shivered next to the traffic post. A zillion cars and workers passed by, doing their lunchtime thing. No sign of Norman.

  Across the street, there was a new culinary shop, Gourmet Gadgets Galore. The window display sported some new-fangled garlic presses, and what looked like some high-end mandolines. And it was sure to be warm inside. I could wait for the fellas on the other side of Prince Street just as well as here, right?

  Just as I dashed across the street, a motorcycle came up behind me and slid sideways into the parking meter.

  “Oh my gosh, are you okay?”

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “What?”

  “You’re lucky I didn’t run you over!” The irate driver got up, brushed himself off, and tugged his jacket into place over a sleeve tattoo on his right arm.

  “Sorry?”

  “Cross at the green, not in-between, you know?”

  I glanced guiltily at the specialty lemon zester winking at me from the window. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t realize. Are you hurt?”

  The man glared at me. “Lucky for you, I’m all right.”

  A crowd had gathered. I felt the urge to become invisible by hiding in the shop. At this rate, I’d be walking home laden with an entire kitchen.

  The guy bent over to right his bike, and I saw several smashed boxes on the ground. I tried to help him pick them up, when several boxes of tape tumbled out.

  “Tape!” a voice rang out.

  “Tape?”

  The guy held up a hand, while hopping back on the bike. “Hey, this here’s a delivery!”

  “A delivery? Where?” a woman shouted.

  “Special delivery for Country Side Mall.”

  “Which store?”

  “Mail-It-2.” He revved his engine, then glanced nastily back at me. “Thanks a lot, lady.”

  Before I could utter a word, he was off. Several people around me texted frantically. A car peeled away from the curb in pursuit.

  Bauser and Norman pulled up.

  “What was that all about?” Norman asked.

  “I don’t know. I think I caused an accident. But not on purpose.”

  Bauser took in the kitchen shop, and shook his head. “You really have a problem, you know?”

  I nodded glumly.

  They dropped me off at home, where I found Vito in a content post-Swiffering mode, whistling happily with his dish towel over his shoulder. But so was Miriam – she was humming. The sudden image of their having a senior moment – that has nothing to do with senior moments as we know them – sprang to mind. I willed myself not to picture the particulars – especially under my own roof. I blinked a bit, and counted to ten, willing my blood pressure toward something normal. They were well past the age of grownups, yes? Well, at least they weren’t sharing a cigarette. Although I had serious reservations. So did the rest of my undigested lunch.

  “I just came back for my heels! Ain’t they beauts?” Miriam held up a pair of 4-inch, lime green stilettos. Good Lord – Miriam had lime green knock-me-downs.

  “Gee.” It was all I could manage without losing my lunch all over my newly Swiffered floors.

  Vito held up a hand. “Miriam got here just after I finished.”

  “Oh.” I was glad to be spared the details.

  “Your floors are still wet. You might wanna hang out upstairs for a little bit, ‘til they dry.”

  “Sure! You don’t wanna go traipsing around now! You’ll get the floors all schmutzed!”

  Miriam had a point.

  “Actually, you might also wanna check your answering machine,” Vito blushed.

  “How come?”

  “I kinda overheard part of a message, while I was Swiffering.”

  “Was it James?”

  “Not so good. Basically, it sounds like y
our cable’s getting shut off.”

  Vito and Miriam made a hasty exit – shoes and all – while I shuffled upstairs, reluctant to listen to my first collection notice.

  I found Vinnie sprawled across my bed, yawning. Well, at least he had enough sense not to get his paws wet from Swiffer juice. I played the message, took down the contact information, and gently pounded my head against the desk. Vinnie patted me on the shoulder.

  “Thanks.”

  I called the number and after several hundred dial-up menus, I finally reached a person: Edna.

  “So, once I pay the remainder due, can I cancel the service for a while?”

  “You could, but it would only cost you more to get reconnected later. You’d have to pay a $200 installation fee.”

  “What would they install? I’ve got all the equipment. Don’t you guys just hit a button somewhere?”

  “Not exactly. All I know is that if you disconnect your service now, you’ll pay a whole new installation fee later.”

  “Crud.”

  “I’ll tell you what you can do, though. You can put your service on ‘vacation’ – that’s just $5 a month. People with vacation homes do that all the time.”

  “Let me get this straight: I’m collecting unemployment, and working enough part time jobs to qualify for a personality disorder, but I can’t get a break because of financial hardship?”

  “Nope.”

  “But someone who’s rich enough to have two homes can put their second home satellite receiver on vacation for five bucks a month?”

  “Oh, you don’t have to be rich. Anyone can do this.”

  “The benefits of this being?”

  “You don’t have to pay a new installation fee.”

  Edna had me there. I gave her my financial particulars to take care of the truant amount, and told her I’d get back to her about vacation status. As much as I hated the idea, it probably would be sensible to put the satellite on hold until I was employed full-time again.

  I stared at the pile of bills whimpering in the corner from neglect. I wondered which system of payment to try out this month: toss them on the floor, and the first five get paid? Pay just the little ones? Or pay the ones in the pink and blue envelopes screaming at me? Well, at least I had my stamps at the ready.

  Luckily, Vinnie volunteered to be this month’s financial advisor, so a few calculator clicks and tail thwackings later and I soon had all the past dues paid. Mostly, anyhow. The current ones would have to wait in line until the next paycheck. Maybe if I got called by another collection office, I could say it was a fermentation process? Like wine? I had a funny feeling they would prefer payments that were a lot less vintage.

  The phone rang, and I cringed, fearing another bill collector. I let it go to the answering machine.

  “Hey, it’s me! Trixie! You there? Pick up!”

  I pounced on the phone. “Sorry!”

  “What are you doing, screening your calls?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? You getting obscene callers?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s too bad. Who’re you screening?”

  “Bill collectors.”

  “Yikes!”

  “Wazzup?”

  “Mike’s taking me to dinner at that cute new place by the movies. He was thinking of inviting his coworker. Do you want to come along?”

  “You’re setting me up on a date?”

  “That was the general idea.”

  “Sorry. More work plans.”

  “Oh for crissakes, you’re not being Santa’s Sidekick at night, are you? Those little monsters will bust your kneecaps.”

  “Agreed. Happy to report it’s not that. I picked up an extra shift for a dinner party.”

  “Oh. Well at least it’s the kind of part-time job you like. Even if it is at night.”

  “Thanks. Sorry.”

  “No biggie. Actually, I was kind of hoping to not double-date tonight. Mike’s schedule has been at polar opposites with mine for weeks.”

  “You have a schedule?”

  “Ha, ha.”

  I heard Trixie exhale. “Hey, you’re not smoking again, are you?”

  A cacophony of coughing responded across the wire. “Whoops! Sorry, gotta go. Catch you later.”

  Trixie had quit smoking. Several times. I had a suspicion Mike was behind it, which bore the hallmarks of a serious relationship. Trixie and Mike. Vito and Miriam. Gosh.

  Well, at least I have Vinnie and Marie.

  I checked the time and realized I’d better get moving and changed into service wear. Which meant I didn’t have to worry about Vinnie attacking my costume – he was cool with the orange crocs.

  I dressed and hustled downstairs, and held up two cans of Finicky Fare to him. He stared at me, and pointedly meowed at the kitchen clock: it was only a quarter past four.

  “I know, I know. But I have to leave in fifteen minutes. Do you want to eat now, or at ten o’clock?”

  Vinnie muttered something about being ill considered, comparing himself with some fluffy faced cat he’d seen in a television commercial, who at least had staff, and wasn’t he clearly the more intelligent, given his recently demonstrated financial prowess?

  “Of course you’re smarter than that brat cat. But I gotta go. What’ll ya have?”

  He turned his back to me and knocked one can from the counter onto the floor with his tail.

  “Beefy Bottoms it is.”

  He settled down to eat, while I pulled on my jacket. “Now be good, and no shenanigans, okay?”

  He looked at me, winked, and returned to his feast.

  I slalomed across town toward my last job for the day. I headed up 741 toward Route 30, realizing I’d better mail my bills – pronto – before tomorrow. Luckily, 741 crosses Harrisburg Pike, where the main post office has late hours. I pulled in, tossed the bills in the mailbox, and wished for nano-second delivery to avoid any further late notice nasties.

  By the time I reached Squirrel Run Acres, Chef was almost finished loading the van. Crap.

  “Do you need any help?” I asked.

  “There are two hotel pans on the counter; can you get them?”

  I nodded and hurried away, while Chef re-arranged the cambros.

  I spotted Hector in the kitchen on my way out with the pans.

  “Still here? You late! Hurry!”

  “Okay! Sorry!”

  Hector waved me off and walked away shaking his head, muttering something about vans and lost advertising opportunities. I ignored the leap in logic and hustled out the door.

  “Here you go!”

  Chef responded by whacking his head on the van’s roof.

  “Oh-my-gosh! Are you all-right?” I put the hotel pans down on the floor of the van and rubbed his forehead without thinking.

  Chef looked at me funny. Well, who wouldn’t when someone starts feeling up your forehead?

  I quickly shoved my hands in my pockets. “Right! Sorry! Hey, isn’t there ice in one of the cambros?”

  “It’s okay. It just sounded bad.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.” He took the hotel pans, and stacked them along with the others. “You ready?”

  “Sure. Just give me a minute to start the van. Do you have the address, in case I lose you?”

  He shook his head. “You get to ride gun. The dinner’s in Ephrata.”

  “Oh, okay thanks. You sure?”

  Chef nodded toward the Doo-doo. “I want to make sure you get there, in case your radio loses its signal.”

  Ha, ha.

  I went to hop in, and noticed some snow still on the van’s roof. I grabbed some and bunched it into a ball. “Here.”

  He looked at me funny.

  “For your forehead – you don’t want to have a lump, do you?”

  “I don’t need a stupid snowball.”

  “It’s not a snowball. It’s an ice pack. Here.”

  “I don’t need it.” He rubbed his head.


  “Oh for Pete’s sakes!” I held the snow lump to his forehead, while it melted down my arm. “Could you please hold this on your own forehead?” I shook my arm free of water.

  He held the snow lump, and looked at me. “Thanks. It actually does feel better.”

  “See?”

  “I’m beginning to.” He gave me a sidelong smile, and started the van, and off we went.

  The trip from Squirrel Run Acres to Ephrata was about half an hour. Which was good – it gave us time for Chef to fill me in on the party set-up, menu and details.

  We pulled into a reserved parking space on Main Street, in front of a humungous Victorian that had long ago been converted into offices. Now it appeared to house a financial consultant, a tax attorney and a coffee shop.

  “Wow, this must have been something back in the day,” I mused.

  “You like old buildings?”

  “Almost bought one downtown.”

  “Really? Ever been to Cape May?”

  “It’s my favorite place!”

  We finished our chatter just as we reached the front door. Chef rang the bell. “I need to find out where they want us to unload, and see if they have a kitchen entrance.”

  I nodded. Funny - I had Chef pegged for a chrome and steel guy. Victorian Cape May – who knew?

  A matronly middle-aged faux blonde, wearing lots of velvety sparkle and earring bling answered the door. We were quickly given directions to a side entrance.

  I picked up a couple of half hotel pans. Chef carried in four whole ones.

  He set them down with a thump on the counter. “Look, you set these up. I’ll get the rest.”

  “I can help you carry the rest.” I turned around and he was gone.

  Well. I commenced with my non-marching orders.

  We quickly had things heating and warming, and soon set out a buffet in a room that served as a conference room, but must have once been a showcase dining room.

  The guests arrived and everyone was fed hors d’oeuvres and cocktails. Before long, we met Tipsy Town Gal.

  “Tell you what I’m gonna do,” she slurred at a poor newbie accountant type. “I’m gonna fix you up with my sister.”

  The object of her affliction gave rapid glances toward another man leaning in the doorway, smiling and shaking his head.

  “My kid sister’s great! You’re gonna love her!”

  The man glanced back at doorway man, who was determined to hide his laughter behind some fake coughing. A woman’s face appeared next to him.