Stamped Out

by Thayer, Terri

  Deana put an arm around her shoulder and hugged her. “Ken?”

  April took a breath and shaded her eyes. A heron skidded to a graceful stop on the edge of the pond, flapped his wings once and settled down to watch the water.

  April turned toward Deana. “I’ve left him. He stole a Biedermeier vase from a client. I found the pawn ticket in his pants pockets. When I went to the shop, the vase wasn’t there. My engagement ring was.”

  “The one you thought you lost down the drain?” Deana was shocked.

  “Yup. That rat let me think I’d been careless. Even insinuated that I lost it to get him in trouble with his family. It had been his mother’s. Meanwhile, he’d swiped it out of the little dish on the sink.”

  Deana’s face was a mask of empathy, her mouth turned down in frustration. “What did you do?”

  “When Dad called about work at Mirabella, I said yes. I promised to pay the client back for the vase, and got in the car and drove here.” Broke.

  Deana hugged her friend again, hard. “I’m glad you did. You’ve been taking care of Ken for too long. You’ve completely neglected yourself. Let me and your mother take care of you for a while.”

  “You, yes. My mother, not so much.”

  They laughed. Both of them had been at the receiving end of Bonnie’s smothering attention.

  “Seriously, Deana, my mother doesn’t know about Ken. Please don’t tell her.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good. I need a little time to prepare her. She’s going to be really upset. She loves the bum.”

  They sat quietly for a few moments. April soaked up the affection she felt from her friend. She wanted Deana to know everything. “Ken robbed from other customers, too. He’s been doing it for years. The vase was just the last humiliation. My jobs were drying up. The dot-com money was mostly gone, and with Ken driving away my customers, it got so no one would hire me. He trashed my reputation.”

  Deana knew how important a pristine reputation was. She treasured her good name and worked hard to keep the Hudock integrity in all of her dealings.

  Deana caught her hand. “I’m really sorry, honey. I feel a little selfish saying this, but I’m glad you’re home. I just wish you hadn’t had to go through all that to get here.”

  April felt the muscles in her throat relax. She felt her burden lift. She could always count on Deana.

  She tried for a lighter tone. “But I went from the frying pan into the fire, I’m afraid. I didn’t even tell you about the Mirabella job. It’s a disaster. Mrs. H. has this ginormous mural in her living room depicting Benjamin Franklin and the Indians signing a peace treaty.”

  “Hold on. Benjamin Franklin and the Indians never signed—” Deana said.

  April held up a restraining hand. “I know, I know. It’s awful, not to mention borderline racist. But it’s some kind of freakin’ family heirloom. Thanks to my father, I have the job of restoring it.”

  Deana hid her mouth behind her hand, a sure sign she was going to lose it. “Can you talk her out of it? Or how about this: spill a bucket of red paint right down the middle?”

  April started to laugh, too. “She’d probably make me remove it with a toothbrush and paint remover. I’ll die from turpentine inhalation poisoning and you’ll have to bury me.”

  Deana was laughing so hard now, she snorted. “You don’t want to be buried. You always said you want to be cremated. And tossed off Ocean Beach.”

  “Yup, in San Francisco. Which means you’ll have to get on a plane and take me there.”

  Deana hadn’t flown since September 11. “I can drive,” she said quickly.

  “Three days cross country with me on the passenger seat beside you? You’ll flip out.”

  “At least you won’t eat my Snickers. Or yell at me for going through yellow lights. You won’t even care if I play Bob Seger night and day.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. Two days of ‘Like a Rock’ might make me mad enough to haunt you.”

  Deana squeezed April’s hand. “I’m going to love having you back in town.”

  April felt better for just having talked to her friend. “Me, too.”

  “I better get inside. Mark’s ice cream is going to be mush,” Deana said, standing and stretching. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

  “No, I promised Mom she could feed me. After that, I’ve got to go home and brush up on my painting techniques.”

  “Brush up, funny.” Deana smiled.

  “Well, I better do something or I’ll be run out of town on a rail. I think those Winchesters have done that before.”

  “Not on my watch. I’d hire you. You can be a Stamping Sister dealer. You’d be a big hit.”

  April’s face reddened. That was another humiliation. “Not after last night. I didn’t sell a thing and the party broke up early. And Mary Lou didn’t pay me for the stuff her daughter took. I wouldn’t last two minutes as a salesperson.”

  Deana said, “I heard all about it. The stampers are coming here tonight, for a makeup session.”

  April groaned. Her friend didn’t sound upset, but it was her fault that the party was such a bust. “Oh crap, now I feel even worse.”

  Deana looked at her askance. “Not to worry. They’ll spend enough tonight to make up for any lost commissions. Guilt is a wonderful thing.”

  Deana and April made their way back to the parking lot. “I’ve got your supplies in my car,” April said as they reached the asphalt. “I’ll help you unload the groceries and bring that stuff in.”

  The pair worked together to get Deana’s fabric grocery bags out of the car. She’d stamped images of fruits and vegetables along the top.

  April carried the box of Stamping Sister items. Deana pulled the slider door open and led April into the cheery kitchen. The white bead-board paneling, yellow gingham curtains and bright rag rugs screamed country, a style not found much in San Francisco. Deana’s tastes weren’t April’s, but April admired the sunny colors and rooster theme.

  They dropped the bags on the counter, and Deana put the ice cream in the freezer.

  “You haven’t seen my new studio. Follow me,” Deana said, leading the way down the hall to a familiar door.

  “This is your old bedroom,” April said.

  “Plus the room next door. Mark has my father’s old study, and we still have one room for Dad when he comes up from Florida, so I took two rooms and combined them. Isn’t it decadent?” she said. Her grin told April Deana felt entitled to every inch.

  She indicated a shelving unit straight ahead. “You can put the box over there. All my Stamping Sister stuff is stored in bins on that wall.”

  A waist-high, L-shaped countertop ran the length of two walls. On it were racks of colored and patterned paper, boxes and boxes of inks, and a die-cut machine.

  Deana opened the door to the closet. April gasped. Floor-to-ceiling wire baskets were filled with stamps.

  “I have nearly three thousand stamps,” Deana said proudly.

  “I thought I was bad,” April said. She thought of her extensive collection of antique stamps and her vast array of inks. Nothing like this.

  “Well, I don’t smoke or drink. Got to have a vice of some kind.”

  “Mark doesn’t mind?”

  “Mind? He’s got more lures than I have stamps. Fishing is far more expensive. In a race to see who spends the most on a hobby, I’d say we’re even.”

  April saw the time on a wall clock made from recycled metal. She was due at Bonnie’s in just a few minutes.

  “I’ve got to scoot,” she said.

  “Come back after you have dinner with Bonnie. You’re going to need to talk after you see your mother.”

  “I always do.”

  “More than usual,” Deana said cryptically.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” April remembered her mother said something yesterday about a surprise. Deana obviously knew what it was.

  Deana said, “You’ll find out. Trust me. You’
re going to want to talk.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The surprise Bonnie had promised had gone out of April’s head with all the other events of the day. As she drove the familiar route between Deana’s and her mother’s, April wondered what it could be. Other surprises from Bonnie had included a trip to the orthodontist that resulted in a three-year stint with braces, a bunny that got out of its hutch in the first week never to be seen again, and under-wire bras brought home from a Philadelphia shopping trip. All of them memorable, none of them exactly welcome.

  Once she’d pulled into her mother’s driveway, April stopped to call Ed. He wasn’t answering, so she left a false cheery message for him. She hadn’t figured out a way to clear him with Yost yet. Deana’s news about the skull had not helped her cause. She called the Imperiale number again, too. If this was Frankie Imperiale, and he called back, she’d tell Yost he could go pound sand. She wanted to do that, badly.

  Hanging up, she leaned across the steering wheel, peering out the windshield, looking for changes in the house she’d grown up in. Everything looked the same except that the margarine yellow aluminum siding had faded another hue to a soft buttery color. If Ed hadn’t moved out, he would have torn off that siding long ago. Any surprise her mother had for her was not on the exterior.

  The house that Ed had built as a wedding present for Bonnie was a long rancher with three bedrooms and a full basement. A bay window with nine large panes defined the living room. A vine of pink climbing roses just starting to bloom surrounded the red front door. Next to it was the double-hung window of April’s childhood bedroom. Bonnie had turned it into a sewing and craft room years ago when it became apparent that April wasn’t coming home for more than a week at a time.

  She sent up a silent thanks for the barn. She wouldn’t have to spend the night in the fussy guest room where she and Ken had always slept on their visits. Her mother’s display of her Marie Osmond line of porcelain dolls always caused Ken to erupt in a naughty rendition of “I’m a Little Bit Country, I’m a Little Bit Rock ’n’ Roll.” She’d laughed every time. It was too hard to remember the connection they’d once had, now gone. She turned away from the sad feeling.

  Trips home had always been tightly choreographed. They usually stayed at Bonnie’s but made sure to spend days with her father. Her itinerary was negotiated minute by minute so that each parent got equal time. Thankfully, now the barn gave her a place to live independent of them. If she was going to stay in this town, even for only a few short months, she needed a place of her own.

  Being an only child, she’d had no one to help her navigate through the minefield of divorced parents. But she’d learned quickly that the key to having a good evening with Bonnie was to avoid talking about Ed. April had determined, through much trial and error, that a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy was best. Tonight, despite the skull at the job site, she was hoping to keep the conversation clear of Ed. That wasn’t going to be easy.

  April climbed out of the car. She couldn’t be late. Her mother’s dinners were works of art, and timing was everything. Bonnie had probably spent the morning shopping for food, maybe even going all the way to Wegmans in Wilkes-Barre for the good Pugliese bread and real Pecorino.

  Expecting her mom to be in the kitchen, April walked to the side door and went in.

  Just inside the door, half of the kitchen space was taken up with a bright orange diner-style banquette that April had always hated. In the wintertime the faux Naugahyde was cold and clammy, in the summer, hot and sticky. The plastic made a horrible farting noise that was a constant source of embarrassment.

  She was surprised to see that the kitchen was empty. April dropped her purse on the cushion, skirted the table and went through to the U-shaped food preparation area, which was anchored by a copper stove, refrigerator and stained porcelain sink.

  April could hear a TV on in the next room.

  “Mom?” she said loudly.

  “In here, April. We’re in the living room.”

  We? She searched the kitchen for any sign that her mother had gotten a dog or a cat. No water dish or cat-food bowl. She sniffed the air. Nothing but the smell of garlic and basil.

  She was waylaid by her stomach, growling in protest as she passed the stove. The oven light was on, and she could see a bubbling casserole inside. She’d missed getting the cooking gene. Her idea of cooking was microwaving whatever Trader Joe’s had on special. So the wonderful smells of her mother’s cooking caused her stomach to rumble. She grabbed a piece of tomato off the salad on the counter.

  Insistent theme music of the local news came from the living room. April walked toward it.

  “Hello,” Bonnie said. She was sitting in her favorite chair, an upholstered recliner, a knitting project in her lap, frowning at the television. The news had gone to commercial. Bonnie muted the volume. April kissed her cheek and was surprised to realize Bonnie’s skin was getting papery, older.

  Bonnie sighed dramatically. “Leave it to your father to make the news.” She pointed with the remote. “After the commercial, there’s going to be a story about the skull,” she said sharply.

  “It’s not exactly Dad’s fault.” April felt herself reverting to her default position, defending her father. Old patterns were hard to break. She tried to access her more mature nature so as not to object to every word her mother uttered.

  “I didn’t say that it was,” Bonnie said. She looked wounded.

  April fought the urge to head back out to her car. She took a breath. “Mom, I just meant that Dad had nothing to do with the fact that someone died at the Castle long ago . . .”

  “Just his luck,” Bonnie said. “His rotten luck.”

  It was hard to disagree with that, so April tried a smile. Bonnie’s face was shuttered. “Okay, Mom, I’m sorry . . .” she began.

  She was interrupted by the noise of a toilet flushing down the hall. She stopped in midsentence and flashed a questioning look at her mother. Her mother’s face, to her surprise, had turned pink. She was blushing.

  “Who’s . . . ?” April didn’t get to finish that thought, either.

  A gravelly voice, with a British accent, came from the hall that led to the bedrooms. “Don’t mind your mother. She’s just taking the piss.”

  April turned to see a man in the doorway, zipping his fly. April took a step back. She couldn’t have been more surprised if a leprechaun had come out of her mother’s bathroom. Which, with his slight build and wild hair, this man did resemble.

  He had one hand stuffed down his Wranglers, tucking in an olive green T-shirt that said, “All My Good Ideas Land Me in Hot Water.” On his feet were brown corduroy slippers with broken down heels. He finished his dressing and made a beeline for April, looking as though he was going to hug her. She backed up into the coffee table. Her mother watched April’s reaction.

  “Mom?” April said, begging for an explanation.

  Bonnie stood and gestured the man to her side, and he obliged. She took his hand and reached for April’s. April gave her her hand reluctantly. Bonnie brought the two hands together and smiled.

  “Clive, this is my daughter, April,” Bonnie said. “April, this is the surprise I was telling you about.”

  Surprise? That was an understatement. April searched her mother’s face, but she seemed determined to treat this as nothing out of the ordinary. Yet it was monumental. Her mother had never had a boyfriend. Oh boy, Deana was going to pay for not preparing her.

  The man bowed in front of April. “Clive Pierce,” he said with a flourish, his British accent clipping off his words. “Bonnie has told me so much.”

  Feeling unsettled, she gave him a quick smile. “That makes one of us,” April said.

  Bonnie frowned, and April cast her a look. Come on, Mom, she thought. You could have told me. Her mother gave a tiny head tilt.

  April noticed now that the living room looked different. There was a huge leather recliner in one corner and a pile of Rolling Stone magazines on the table
. A new picture on the wall seemed to be of the Queen of England.

  The shifting image on the television caught April’s eye. Next to the perfectly coiffed newscaster, a graphic read, “Aldenville Mystery.”

  The television went black.

  “Mom!” April caught the remote in her mother’s hand. Bonnie pulled it out of reach.

  The Ed embargo was on. April let her hand drift. If there was any more news out of the Castle, surely her father would call. She’d let Bonnie have this victory.

  “That’s enough of that. Dinner’s ready,” Bonnie said. “I’ve got to get the chicken Parm out of the oven before it dries out. Go sit down.”