by Celia Kinsey
One man slipped on a slick of lettuce and vinaigrette and jostled his female companion who then upended a plate of spaghetti on another member of their party (accidentally, I think). A third diner, while attempting to collect his scattered bruschetta and return it to his plate, sat himself down on someone else’s linguine and then accused the owner of the linguine of leaving his dinner in a spot where others were likely to sit. After that, the scene devolved into a food fight.
In the end, Officer Finch made five arrests that evening.
One arrest (Randell’s) was for attempted bodily harm. The other four were for public intoxication and disorderly conduct.
Arnie and I never did get to eat dinner. We did make it to the concert, however, and bought hot dogs off a vendor at the edge of the park.
“I like ours better,” I said as I took another bite of my dog. “They didn’t grill the wieners long enough.”
“Their relish is good, though,” Arnie said. “I wonder where they get it from.”
Shoptalk. Good old comforting shoptalk.
“Arnie?”
“Yes.”
“Is this really a date?”
“Well, it was a supposed to be a date, although it ended up being more of a riot.”
“Sorry about that,” I said.
“I’m ok with it,” said Arnie. “It was just bad timing, that’s all. I’d hardly be so churlish as to suggest that you should have let Clarence get all cut up with razor blades just so we could have a nice peaceful evening.”
“I didn’t know they’d be razor blades,” I said. “I just had an inkling that Randell was about to up the ante. I’m just shocked at who actually outed him.”
“You mean Marcella?”
“She must have known it was Randell all along,” I said. “I guess she let Randell get away with it because she was mad at Clarence, but when Randell escalated to trying to inflict serious injury, she’d had enough.”
“Well, it is a fine line between love and hate,” said Arnie.
“Well, love and obsession, anyway.”
“But why did Randell have it out for Clarence to begin with?”
“Randell thinks he’s in love with Marcella,” I told Arnie.
“And Marcella is still in love with Clarence?”
“Apparently.”
“And I’m in love with you,” said Arnie.
I couldn’t think what to say. I think I just stood there with my mouth hanging open. The band had started to play something with a lot of swing to it, and couples were getting up to dance.
“Shall we?” said Arnie.
I don’t dance, but that night I made an exception.
“There’s something I should make perfectly clear,” said Arnie.
“What?”
“When I say I’m in love with you, that’s in no way implying that I intend Scott Finch any harm whatsoever, even if you don’t love me back.”
“Well, there’s something else I should make perfectly clear,” I said. “I do love you back.”
After that, we danced so close together that I completely forgot I was wearing Eau de French Fry and look like a deranged ostrich with a balance disorder when I try to keep time to any kind of rhythm.
The End
Chapter One of The Good, the Bad, and the Pugly
“Do you have any questions, Mrs. Iverson?” my Great Aunt Geraldine’s lawyer asked as I finished reading the first half of my aunt’s will and placed it back on his immaculate desk, too overwhelmed to go on.
The surface of the desk was so shiny that I could see that my eyeliner had smudged and that I had a bit of spinach stuck between two of my front teeth.
Aunt Geraldine’s lawyer had instructed me to call him Jason, although, as he persisted in addressing me as Mrs. Iverson, rather than Emma, I’d decided it was safer to stick with Mr. Wendell.
“Aunt Geraldine is leaving me Little Tombstone?”
“According to the terms of her will, Mrs. Montgomery has left you nearly everything she possessed, yes,” Mr. Wendell said. “The few exceptions are addressed in the later pages.”
He smiled an impersonal smile, displaying a row of very white, very straight teeth. I doubted Mr. Wendell ever went around for hours oblivious to the fact that part of his lunch was on display every time he opened his mouth. At least everyone I’d seen since noon would know I was the sort of responsible citizen who ate her vegetables and did her part to keep rising health care costs at bay by practicing preventative medicine.
I smiled back at Mr. Wendell with my lips pressed firmly together. Smiling with my mouth shut makes me look slightly deranged, but as Mr. Wendell had obviously had extensive dealings with my Great Aunt Geraldine, he shouldn’t be surprised to discover that being slightly deranged runs in the family.
“I’m getting the café building?” I asked.
“Yes. The Bird Cage Café is included on the deed.”
“And the little shop with that funny old man—Hank? He runs that weird museum thingy?”
“The Curio Shop and Museum of the Unexplained, yes. Hank Edwards leases that portion of the premises, although I understand his rent amounts to a purely symbolic sum.”
“Hank will become my tenant?”
“In the latter half of the will, Mr. Edward’s use of the premises is discussed. It seems your aunt had granted Mr. Edwards tenancy for life at what seemed to me a rather reduced rent.”
“How reduced?”
“The will stipulates the rent to remain, in perpetuity, at ten dollars a month.”
If I hadn’t been so shocked by the will in its entirety, I would have asked a lot more questions about the relationship between Hank Edwards and my Great Aunt Geraldine—not that Mr. Wendell would have been in a position to answer them—but I didn’t. At the moment I had more pressing concerns.
“Aunt Geraldine left me the trailer court too?”
“Yes, also with several long-term tenants, although I won’t deceive you that the rents amount to much. You are free to raise those rents, unlike Mr. Edwards’, at your discretion.”
“And the motel?”
“There are the two tourist cottages as well as the eight-room motel, all of which are vacant and virtually derelict.”
“If Aunt Geraldine was this loaded,” I pointed down at the documents on Mr. Wendell’s desk, “why is Little Tombstone in such bad shape?”
“I’m afraid Mrs. Montgomery did not confide in me her reasons for allowing things to run into such disrepair.”
“But what about Abigail?” I asked. “Shouldn’t she be the one getting all this?”
“Mrs. Montgomery’s daughter?”
My cousin Abigail had been on the outs with her mother off and on for years, but I had a hard time believing that their relationship had deteriorated to the extent that my Aunt Geraldine would cut her daughter out of the will entirely.
“Mrs. Montgomery did leave her daughter a small bequest,” Mr. Wendell said. “You’ll find it on page eighteen.”
I consulted page eighteen.
“’A blue 1978 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme with an extra set of hubcaps (needs new carburetor and windshield, hood ornament missing).’ What about Abigail’s daughters?”
“Keep reading,” said Mr. Wendell. “Mrs. Montgomery left something for each of her granddaughters.”
I scanned the page once more.
“A large box of miscellaneous Tupperware (some have lids) for Freida and a set of World Book Encyclopedias (missing volume B and U-V) for Georgia?” I said. “Isn’t this all a bit insulting?”
“It’s not my place to interpret the intent of the deceased,” said Mr. Wendell, and for a few seconds his stuffed-frog demeanor slipped a little, “but I have reason to believe that Mrs. Montgomery may have been less than pleased with her daughter and granddaughters at the time of her death. Mrs. Montgomery altered the will, shortly before she died, to leave her real estate and the bulk of her personal property to you. Your name was added as sole beneficiary to al
l her banking and investment accounts at the same time Mrs. Montgomery altered her will. Those accounts are not reflected in the will itself, and their existence may be kept confidential if you wish.”
“But why would my Great Aunt Geraldine leave me practically everything?”
“I believe that your grandmother had specified that her half of Little Tombstone should pass on to you upon your aunt’s death. I understand that it was joint property between your great aunt and your grandmother. The earlier version of the will had named you and your cousin Abigail as joint inheritors of Little Tombstone, but your great aunt must have had misgivings about the arrangement.”
I checked the date on the will. It had been signed just three weeks before Great Aunt Geraldine had passed away.
“But I didn’t even come to see Aunt Geraldine when she was sick,” I said. “I haven’t visited Little Tombstone for almost three years. I always called my aunt at Christmas and on her birthday, but that’s about it. I don’t deserve this.”
The truth was, I hadn’t known my great aunt even had cancer until I’d received a call from Aunt Geraldine’s best friend, Juanita, telling me that my aunt was already gone. There’d been no service. Just a quiet cremation.
I’d inherited Great Aunt Geraldine’s ashes too, apparently. The bright blue ceramic urn containing all that was left of my aunt sat on Mr. Wendell’s shiny desk next to the manila envelope which held my copy of the will.
“Your aunt did not confide in me her reasons for leaving you the bulk of her property. The only comment she made when she came in to draft the changes was that she was doing it for Earp.”
“Earp? Aunt Geraldine’s dog, you mean?”
I was shocked that Earp was still alive. I’d not been back to visit Little Tombstone since my grandmother’s funeral three years before, and even then, Earp, my Great Aunt Geraldine’s ancient and irritable pug, had looked about a hundred years old—in dog years, of course.
Earp had taken an obsessive shine to me. I suspected that it was not my personal charm which fueled his possessiveness, but because I surreptitiously fed him little powdered sugar-covered lemon cookies out of the package I always keep in my handbag. Whatever the reason, for my entire visit to Little Tombstone, Earp had refused to let me out of his sight.
“You’ve not made it to the section addressing the matter of Earp,” said Mr. Wendell. His lip twitched a bit at one corner as if suppressing a genuine smile of amusement, but he hastily replaced it with a professional display of his straight, white teeth. “If you’ll skip to page nine, you’ll find the matter of Earp addressed in great detail.”
I read page nine, then page ten, followed by pages eleven through thirteen. By the time I was finished reading the lengthy passages addressing the care, feeding, and sweatering of the pug, I understood why Mr. Stiff-as-a-Double-Starched-Shirt was having trouble keeping a straight face.
There was a condition attached to my inheritance of Little Tombstone Café, Curios, Museum, and Trailer Court: I was obliged to Love, Honor, and Cherish my Aunt Geraldine’s beloved pug ‘til death-do-us-part. Those were her exact words.
If I didn’t, Little Tombstone, along with what appeared to be a substantial stash of cash and even more substantial investments, would go to the Animal Rescue in Albuquerque, and all I’d be left with was an old set of golf clubs formerly used by my late Uncle Ricky to hit rocks at rattlesnakes.
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