Hit and Run

by Sandra Balzo

  ‘Actually, I’ve been thinking about that,’ he said, following his acknowledged daughter into the mansion’s two-story, marble-floored foyer. ‘As I mentioned earlier, a long weekend seems appropriate, since some people will no doubt need to travel. On my tab, naturally. But there’s plenty of room here, so most, if not all, can stay under one roof.’

  AnnaLise had to admit the idea of being feted – along with any other illegitimate children, their mothers and assorted ex-wives and ‘girlfriends’ – at Dickens Hart’s east-shore estate did have its attractions.

  If only for people who loved watching sunsets and train wrecks.

  ‘I do hope you’ll come, AnnaLise,’ Hart continued. ‘Although I have to warn you: I intend to use the opportunity to conclusively identify my heirs and put them in my will.’

  She stopped, dead-center on a huge marble tile. ‘Meaning I’ll be required to share my inheritance? No need to worry, Dickens. I don’t want anything from you.’

  ‘Like mother, like daughter,’ Hart said, opening the closet across from the sweeping staircase to retrieve AnnaLise’s jacket. ‘I hope the other attendees aren’t burdened by the same scruples, or Boozer may not be able to assure their attendance.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Patrick Hoag’s invitation letter will tell them upfront that you’re searching for heirs, right?’

  ‘Wrong,’ Hart said, now holding the coat spread so she could easily slip into it. ‘But Boozer probably will. And should.’

  ‘Ah.’ AnnaLise turned as she buttoned up against the November wind beyond the main entrance. ‘Might he also allow them to assume – mistakenly, of course – that you’re in poor health?’ As opposed to what appeared to be the real why behind the event: the aging, randy scoundrel wanted to revisit his conquests. Or, more accurately, have them revisit him.

  Another theatrical shrug. ‘Perhaps. I’ll leave the optional tools of persuasion to Boozer.’

  Shaking her head, AnnaLise reached to open the door before Hart could. A reprehensible bastard in every way save circumstances of birth, the man had the manners of a Sir Walter Raleigh.

  She stepped out onto the veranda, flipping up the collar of her jacket. ‘You aren’t just out of your mind, Dickens. This “reunion” of yours can only stir up trouble.’

  ‘I know that, and rest assured Boozer is of the same opinion. However, we are talking about my life. And even if I can’t change the way I’ve lived it, I do intend to provide for my progeny, as I will for you. None of us – not even me – is getting any younger.’

  Supressing a smile at the God-like ‘not even me,’ AnnaLise started down the steps, reaching the circular drive before she turned back. ‘Much as I hate to admit it, Dickens, I wouldn’t miss your get-together for the world.’

  He winked over a sly smile. ‘It will be an event, I can promise you that.’

  AnnaLise had her hand on the door handle of her mother’s old Chrysler before she realized Hart hadn’t given her any dates for his soiree. ‘So, when might all this take place?’

  ‘I’ve just decided while we’ve been talking,’ he said. ‘It’ll be on Thanksgiving weekend. That way people can arrive Wednesday night or even the next morning. We’ll have a gourmet feast of turkey and all the trimmings on Thursday, allowing everyone to stay on afterwards and enjoy the grounds here before leaving Sunday to travel home.’

  But his mention of the holiday had slammed into AnnaLise Griggs like a sledgehammer – or, better, a meat mallet – to her chest. She managed to croak, ‘Thanksgiving?’

  ‘And I’m hoping we’ll all have a lot to be grateful for.’ With the sly smile virtually plastered on his face, Dickens Hart, self-appointed Emperor of the High Country, waved haughtily before disappearing into his hard-won palace.

  TWO

  ‘Does your mother know about this, AnnieLeez?’ Phyllis ‘Mama’ Balisteri – Daisy Griggs’ best friend and, after Timothy Griggs’ death, AnnaLise’s second mother – was shaking a crooked finger at the girl. ‘Does she know you’re gonna spend your first Thanksgiving home in ten years with that rich retrobate you’ve started calling “Daddy”?’

  AnnaLise, sitting red-faced in the ‘family’ booth of Mama Philomena’s restaurant, didn’t bother to tell Phyllis the word was ‘reprobate.’ Nor point out that the calendar had turned just seven, not ten, years since she’d been home in Sutherton for Thanksgiving. To do so would only be splitting hairs, and besides, AnnaLise had long ago given up on correcting Phyllis. Even the older woman’s mispronunciation of the younger’s first name as ‘AnnieLeez’ rather than ‘Anna-lease.’

  But the reporter did intend to set one thing straight. ‘I don’t call him “Daddy,” or even “Father.” He’s just “Dickens” as far as I’m concerned. Besides, Daisy—’

  ‘And that means what, can you tell me?’ Phyllis interjected. ‘Why, you call your own mother by her first name.’

  At least that was true, though ‘Daisy’ itself was actually a nickname. AnnaLise had taken to calling Lorraine Kuchenbacher Griggs that instead of ‘mom,’ ‘mommy’ or ‘mama’ because, according to the then five-year-old, her mother ‘looked like a daisy,’ the halo of curly yellow hair like petals around the center of a tanned face.

  It had been a comforting fiction for the little girl as her father – real father still, in her opinion – lie in a hospital bed slowly dying. Even so young, AnnaLise knew she didn’t have the power to make Timothy Griggs well, but she could turn her mother into a flower. The nickname stuck and, quite frankly, simplified things, since AnnaLise also had a surrogate ‘Mama’ in her mother’s lifelong friend.

  Phyllis Balisteri had inherited the cozy handle from her own mother, Philomena, when the older woman died, leaving Mama Philomena’s, a landmark on Sutherton’s Main Street, to her daughter. The only complication? Philomena had been so busy cooking for all of Sutherton and its tourist visitors that she’d neglected to pass the craft of traditional Italian cooking on to the next generation, resulting in Phyllis subsisting on convenience food while all sorts of other folk savored Philomena’s made-from-scratch delicacies.

  After a few unsuccessful attempts at replicating the Italian classics her mother had never reduced to actual, written recipes, Phyllis had resorted to what she knew: down-home dishes featuring the likes of Campbell’s mushroom soup and Bisquick baking mix, Philadelphia Cream Cheese and whatever else one might find on a grocery shelf.

  In fact, on the booth tabletop next to AnnaLise was Phyllis’ trilogy of inspiration: Best Recipes from the Backs of Boxes, Bottles, Cans and Jars, 1979; The Kraft Cookbook, 1977; and Favorite Brand Name Recipe Cookbook, 1981.

  All of AnnaLise’s life, she and Daisy had helped out in the restaurant, just as Phyllis had in Griggs’ Market until it closed the prior year. AnnaLise had grown up bouncing between the two of them – the older women as well as the business establishments that provided both a living and a way of life for all three of them.

  That explained why AnnaLise was now seated at the ‘family booth’ amongst the cookbooks, menu boards and dry-erase markers as a line of patrons waited outside for tables. It was also why the twenty-eight-year-old had to convince Phyllis to amend the unconventional family’s Thanksgiving plans, as well as her own mother.

  Who – or ‘whom’ – truth to tell, AnnaLise hadn’t even informed of Hart’s holiday weekend invitation yet.

  Silly girl. She’d thought that Mama might be the easier of the two to start with, at least regarding the reunion.

  ‘Dickens is inviting Daisy,’ AnnaLise told her. ‘And you, too, of course.’

  That last sentence was a fib, unless Phyllis Balisteri’s name was to be found in Hart’s Black Book, which AnnaLise dearly hoped would not prove to be the case. Regardless, though, as the daughter of all three by nature or nurture, AnnaLise had the clout to make the invitation happen, especially given her new assignment as the keeper of the soiree’s invitation list, such as it was.

  Phyllis visibly softened. After so many years
of serving other people Thanksgiving dinner at the restaurant, maybe an invite somewhere else was unexpectedly appealing. ‘What’s this shindig about again?’

  AnnaLise considered soft-peddling, so Phyllis wouldn’t make a scene. On the other hand, it was important that AnnaLise get the restaurateur on her side and, as a result, Daisy as well. And that would happen only if Mama’s interest was piqued.

  Her prurient interest, that is.

  ‘Hart wants to invite all of his former lovers for the weekend.’

  Phyllis’ eyes went wide, her mouth dropping open. Nothing escaped, though, except a ‘No!’ which sounded more like a thrilled gasp than a dictionary word.

  ‘Yes.’ AnnaLise was nodding. ‘But we’re shortening the list to just those with any children he may have fathered by them.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Now Phyllis looked unhappy.

  Had AnnaLise lost her or was there yet another Sutherton secret revolving around Dickens Hart and his sex life? ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, but … doesn’t that mean you’ll have to split the retrobate’s fortune once he’s on the wrong side of the grass?’

  AnnaLise sat back. ‘Mama, I don’t want Hart’s money. We’ve gotten along fine on—’

  ‘Whether you want it or not, you’re his only blood, leastways that I know of for sure. What with your mother’s memory spells and all, you never know. We may need that money.’

  We. The mothers-and-child union had always seemed comforting. Now it carried a faintly conniving thorn. ‘I thought you hated Dickens Hart.’

  Phyllis shrugged. ‘Doesn’t mean I can’t like his money. Or what turns into yours, eventually.’

  This was a new wrinkle. And a fresh side of Phyllis, one AnnaLise could incorporate within her reunion campaign. ‘Dickens wants to do right by me and all his heirs.’

  ‘So there are others?’ Mama asked as a couple passed them on their way to the front counter to pay.

  ‘None confirmed yet. And there won’t be for at least a couple of weeks.’

  ‘Thanksgiving.’ Phyllis was stroking her chin.

  ‘Exactly. Now, think about it. Don’t you want to be there? Don’t you think Daisy should be there, too? Meaning the both of you with me, protecting my interests?’

  The ‘ring-for-service’ bell next to the cash register sounded. Twice.

  Phyllis ignored it, except to raise a palm toward the front counter. ‘’Course you should be there, AnnieLeez. In your lawful place, by your father’s right hand. And Daisy and me, we’ll be there, too, aside you.’

  Ahh, the sweet smell of success. And tuna noodle casserole, if AnnaLise was any judge of the odor wafting from the kitchen. ‘Perfect. Whither thou goest, Daisy will, too.’

  The bell sounded a third time.

  ‘Hold your horses,’ snapped Mama over her shoulder. ‘Now, AnnieLeez, you shouldn’t try to get around your mother like—’ A thought seemed to strike the older woman. ‘You know, I have this restaurant to consider. What time will we be eating on Thanksgiving, do you suppose?’

  ‘It’s still up in the air. People should be arriving Wednesday night and Thursday morning, and Hart is inviting everyone to stay the weekend. Or at least, that’s his plan.’

  ‘The whole long weekend?’ Phyllis’ eyes narrowed. ‘Up in that big house?’

  AnnaLise nodded.

  ‘Bet he has servants, Dickens Hart.’ Mama was gazing off into the distance.

  ‘I’ve only seen Boozer Bacchus, but I assume Dickens has someone else to clean and so on.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure,’ Mama said. ‘A big place like that doesn’t run itself. I’m seeing a real opportunity for an entry-penner like me to appreciate how everything runs.’

  ‘Entrepre— Oh, never mind. Sounds like you want to stay over.’ AnnaLise had been thinking the three of them would attend Thanksgiving dinner, then return home to post-mortem the event. Maybe go back again as visitors on Saturday or Sunday. But Phyllis obviously had more in mind. ‘What about the restaurant here?’

  The ‘entry-penner’s’ eyes fell, then came back up, shining brightly. ‘No problem to close down for the holiday itself. And the whole weekend falls in our quiet time anyway, what with the pretty leaves on the ground from that last hard rain and its wind. No snow for the skiing yet, so our winter tourists—’

  The bell interrupted again. One, two, three, a nearly unimaginable four times. And hard, like a fist was pounding on it.

  Phyllis Balisteri more grunted than sighed as she began sliding out of the family booth. ‘That invitation, now – you respond civil-play to it, AnnieLeez. We’re entitled to a break – all three of us.’

  THREE

  ‘I’m still not sure this is a good idea,’ Lorraine ‘Daisy’ Kuchenbacher Griggs said on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.

  Mother and daughter were in Daisy’s bedroom on the second floor of the two-story building she’d lived – and worked – in most of her life. The storefront that had been Griggs’ Market took up one-half of the ground floor, its entrance fronting diagonally on the corner of Main Street and Second. That space was now rented to young Tucker Stanton and had been transformed into a coffeehouse/nightclub called Torch.

  Around the corner on Second Street, you’d find the entrance to the Griggs’ over-and-under apartment. The door led directly into the kitchen of what to others might seem like an unconventional living space, but AnnaLise just called it ‘home.’ At least, she had until she’d gone away to college in Wisconsin, returning only for short visits.

  And even those, as both Daisy and Phyllis liked to remind her, had become sporadic at best.

  ‘I know it’s my first Thanksgiving here in years,’ AnnaLise said as Daisy picked through her lingerie drawer. ‘But look at it this way. You won’t have to cook. According to Boozer Bacchus, Dickens Hart has brought in some high-powered chef from Las Vegas for the weekend.’

  Her mother snorted, turning from the drawer with what looked like a very expensive – and skimpy – thong in her hand. ‘A chef – I can’t wait for Phyllis to hear that. Besides, you know full well that I never made a holiday dinner. Thank the Lord, that’s always been at the restaurant.’

  And, therefore, a supermarket-case turkey with pop-up timer, stuffing from a box, and canned green beans and mushroom soup, topped with crunchy French-fried onions. Also canned.

  None of which AnnaLise could ever remember sneering at.

  ‘… oyster stuffing,’ Daisy was saying, ‘which they’ll call “dressing,” of course. And maybe fancy cranberry-orange relish. I’m sure this chef—’

  ‘Cranberry-orange relish?’ AnnaLise interrupted, nearly reconsidering the campaign to shepherd her two mothers to Hart’s mansion for the holiday. Even after leaving home, AnnaLise insisted that her Thanksgiving berries be jellied and capable of slithering like a short, squat snake from can directly onto plate.

  Tradition was, after all, tradition.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it’ll be a fine meal.’ Daisy picked out a few more lacy frills and dropped them into her overnight bag. ‘But it won’t be Thanksgiving.’

  ‘Is that why you think our going is a mistake?’ Not for the first time, AnnaLise reflected on the fact that Daisy – at age fifty – had an inventory of lingerie far sexier than AnnaLise did at twenty-eight.

  Given they were leaving late that afternoon to spend a long weekend with her mother’s one-night stand, along with his other former lovers and assorted ex-wives, it didn’t seem to be the time to ask about the origins of the underwear collection.

  Either that, or perhaps the perfect time to ask, though AnnaLise was damned if she would. Way too much information was to be had and, on that front, the last two weeks had been tough enough.

  She’d finally found Hart’s ‘Big Black Book’ and dutifully – if gaggingly – gone page by page, recording ‘pertinent data’ on each woman listed.

  In total, there were sixty-three possibilities BV – or Before Vasectomy – that she’d passed on to Boozer Bacchus.
Amazing, but then AnnaLise had honestly expected worse, or probably ‘better,’ from Hart’s point of view – given the man’s self-proclaimed reputation as a ‘hound.’

  There were further encounters, mentioning even more females, but the descriptions were pretty sketchy. Sketchy, that is, in the completeness of information Hart had provided. AnnaLise resisted judging the character of his conquests, as God knew both Daisy and she harbored their own glass-house problems in that regard.

  Hart had been right about Bacchus’ investigative abilities, though. Boozer and his ‘emissaries’ had been successful at tracking down nearly eighty percent of his boss’ encounters. How they’d winnowed those down from there to focus on just those who may have the potential heirs, AnnaLise didn’t know. But she had been told that at least three of Hart’s former lovers would be joining them for Thanksgiving and bringing along their respective flesh-and-blood tickets in the legacy lottery – two boys and a girl.

  ‘… powder keg.’

  AnnaLise, who’d been sitting on her mother’s bed lost in thought, looked up. ‘I’m sorry, Daisy. What were you saying?’

  The older woman sighed, then zipped up her bag. ‘I was just answering your question about why I think this is a bad idea. However, that’s neither here nor there. We’re committed.’

  ‘No, but we should be,’ AnnaLise said. ‘Committed, I mean.’ She rolled her eyes and stood, too. ‘Come on, let’s get this party started.’

  FOUR

  The plan was for AnnaLise to drive the three of them in Daisy’s Chrysler to Dickens Hart’s estate. Even if AnnaLise’s own Mitsubishi Spyder had been big enough to fit the trio and their luggage, two months earlier that beloved convertible had met an untimely – not to mention violent – end on a mountain road.

  ‘Can’t say this place has been boring,’ the dual-daughter muttered, moving the gearshift into reverse so she could inch the car out of the old and narrow garage her mother shared with their octogenarian neighbor, Mrs Peebly.

  ‘It was before you came back,’ Daisy muttered in reply, alternating glances between her own and AnnaLise’s side window. ‘When are you going to buy a new car?’