by Jada Ryker
They watched until the white ship was lost among the white-diamond stars.
The End of “An Alien Act of Honor”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Praying for patience as she stood over the stove in her kitchen, Marisa gritted her teeth.
“You’re frying bacon, not running a welder.” Barbara scolded her daughter. “Do you really need to wear those silly goggles? I never heard of anyone losing an eye due to flying bacon grease.”
Marisa added a plea for tolerance to the prayer.
“Don’t let the bacon get too crispy,” Barbara continued. “When you get to the eggs, please remember I like mine fried, with the yolks not broken.”
Marisa jerked off the goggles. At the last moment, she forced herself not to slam them on the counter. “I’ll let you fix your own breakfast, Mom.” She injected a sickly sweet note into her voice. “I don’t want to get it wrong.”
Barbara looked up in surprise from the newspaper spread out on the table in front of her. Her eyes widened, and then fixed on her daughter. She motioned with her coffee mug. “I hope you’re going to change your clothes. Alex seems to like you a lot. What if he comes over? That baggy shirt and ratty gym shorts make you look like a homeless person. You’re nearly forty. You need all the help you can get to look as nice as possible.”
Marisa clamped her lips shut and stomped to the living room.
From his vantage point on the long picture window sill, Laithe twitched his long orange tail into a question mark shape and meowed in warning.
“You’re right,” she agreed with the cat. “I shouldn’t get annoyed with my mother.”
Laithe straightened his tail into an exclamation mark and yowled.
Marisa hurried to the window. “Oh, my God. Television news vans are crowded at the curb in front of the house. There are camera-ready personalities ready to record sound bites. They’re surrounded by techie-looking people with bags on their shoulders, holding the cameras. Neighbors and strangers are milling around the sidewalk like it’s a street fair.” She grabbed her laptop.
“I hope Parvis Stidham is far away on a plum assignment,” Marisa continued, the cat her audience. “I don’t need him here, investigating Mayla Kenton’s murder. Over the spring and summer, something special was growing between us. Then he deliberately hurt me by outing Althea’s secret use of my life in her books. He chose to communicate it in the most humiliating way possible.”
Laithe’s yowl was a battle cry.
“Don’t worry, Laithe, you left battle scars on Parvis’ leg during your last sortie.” Marisa bent over her computer. “Oh, no. Listen to this. ‘Berea Kenton, winner of fifty million dollars in the Kentucky Lottery, announced at a press conference that Marisa Adair, Alex Caldwell, and Tara Ross have joined the team to investigate her daughter Mayla Kenton’s twenty-year-old murder. The team is headed by Burke Lee Creed, the famous detective from Clearwater, Florida.’ Great.”
Laithe stretched his length up the window and meowed in warning.
Marisa closed her laptop. “Now what?” She peered out of the window. A huge white van pulled up into her driveway behind her diminutive, red Mazda Miata. A portly figure in a baseball cap, gray work shirt, and dark pants staggered out of the driver’s door, and then hopped around to the other side of the whale-sized van. “That’s Fred. What’s he doing here? And who are all of those people with him?”
Laithe didn’t answer.
* * * * *
In Marisa’s crowded kitchen, Berea Kenton turned from the window over the sink. A large pink bag hung from her bony shoulder. She leaned against the counter as if she couldn’t hold herself erect against the weight of the bag. “I admit I tricked the others into coming here. Fred thought he was driving everyone here at your request, Marisa, and he brought his girlfriend Clara along for the ride. Burke Lee, Althea, and Clay thought they were going with me on a field trip to the scene of the crime.”
Burke Lee rested his length against the bisque refrigerator. He raised his white head from the tablet in his slender fingers. His black leather jacket was heavy for the unseasonably warm fall day. In contrast, his thin face was cool and composed. His dark eyes were watchful, seeming to take in everyone at once.
Althea huddled in a chair next to Clay. Her dark hair, streaked with gray and pinned in a bun, was settled against his shoulder. Her eyes were on her thin hands clasped in front of her on the table, and her cheeks were white with misery. Clay’s silver head was angled over her like a protective bird of prey.
“Fred believed Alex had agreed to go with us,” Berea continued. “Alex was surprised when we stopped at his apartment, but he gamely jumped aboard. I told him Tara had agreed to go, so Alex directed Fred to her home.”
His blue eyes wide with agitation and the lines on his face deepened by his emotion, Fred raised his hands, knobby with arthritis. Clara, retired lunch lady and his girlfriend, sat next to him, her eyes on his face. Fred’s large, battered rolling suitcase was near his shined black shoes. “I’m sorry, Marisa,” he said. “This is my fault. I knew Mrs. Kenton from both the nursing home and the assisted living center. It never occurred to me that she’d scam me.”
“I don’t blame you, Fred.” In spite of the ruckus, Marisa had to smile. The rolling suitcase, known as The Library, leaned against his leg like a faithful dog. The Library held an amazing volume of addiction and recovery books, informational CDs, and pamphlets for their support group. Wherever Fred was, the scuffed rectangle housing The Library was with him, either reposing at his feet or rolling along behind him.
“Ever since she won that cursed lottery, Mrs. Kenton has been hell on wheels.” Fred’s round, lined face was white, and his jowls shook. He absently reached down and patted The Library. The contact appeared to calm him.
Leaning against the counter, Alex looked freshly scrubbed and athletic. His tanned legs were dark against his white shorts, and his navy golf shirt caught the color of his eyes. “I’m sorry, Tara.”
“It’s not your fault, Alex. The old harridan thinks she can control everyone like mute pieces on a chessboard, simply because she won a butt-load of money.” Tara’s green eyes were as hard as cat’s eye marbles. Her normally smiling mouth was set in a harsh line, and her face was cold.
Berea’s face whitened, leaving bright patches of red powder on her concave cheeks in sharp relief. “Harridan!” She pulled a silver object from her pocket. She twisted it, telescoping it into her long pointer. She smacked Tara on the arm with the end.
“Ouch! That hurt!” Holding her arm, Tara advanced on the older woman. “Give me that before you hurt anyone else with it.”
“I confiscated one from her. She must have had a backup.” Clay plucked the pointer from Berea’s hand. He twisted it closed and put it in his pocket.
Burke Lee straightened from his position against the gleaming refrigerator. His white hair caught and held the sunshine streaming in the kitchen window, the fluffy hair as round as a full moon. “Mrs. Kenton, you must be truthful and stop hitting people. Otherwise, we can’t work together.”
Ranged around the table and its periphery, everyone talked at once.
Berea’s harsh voice rose over the pandemonium. “Lying was the only way I could take charge of the situation.”
The kitchen door rattled. Marisa peered around the edge of the curtain. “It’s Verna.”
Berea perked up like a dog about to receive a treat. “Who’s Verna? Is she another amateur detective?”
Alex shuddered. “Verna is Marisa’s nosy neighbor. She watches the neighborhood while pretending to work in her yard. She gathers intelligence by walking her odious little dog and speaking to anyone she can trap into conversation. If she sees a strange car in Marisa’s driveway, she invents an excuse to find out who’s here. I’m surprised it took her this long to get her inquisitive butt over here.”
Berea smacked her lips, as if she’d gotten the coveted treat. “She sounds like she’d make an excellent addition to our cold c
ase squad. I bet she even keeps a log of her interrogations and surveillance activities.”
“We don’t have a squad, cold or hot or lukewarm.” Marisa hauled open the door, arresting the next round of knocking and Berea’s enraptured theorizing.
Her neon bright blue shorts and matching sleeveless top streaked with dirt from her ruthlessly weeded flower beds, Verna hopped through the opening. With her short gray hair slicked straight back from her forehead under the bright blue kerchief, her elongated head, and her large, hooked nose, the senior citizen looked like a tiny bird. As her head bobbed in excitement, she reminded Marisa of a toy bird, perpetually swinging up and down to drink.
“Marisa, how are you?” Verna asked, her dark eyes wide in her avid face. “The street is jammed with news vans and reporters. I didn’t see our dear little orange kitty in the window lately, and I thought he might have run outside into the ruckus. Oh, there he is.”
The ‘dear little orange kitty’ danced sideways around Verna. He hissed at her.
“Laithe is really not a friendly cat, Verna.”
Undeterred, Verna trotted over to Laithe, her birdlike head bobbing in anticipation. His tail puffed up to the size of an industrial feather duster and his back arched. His hissing escalated to yowling.
“We’re a little busy at the moment.” Marisa gripped Verna’s arm firmly, and propelled her to the door. She tried to shove the old lady through the doorway as Verna protested. “Wait, Marisa, I want to know why there are news vans out front. And I want to meet your friends—”
Berea carefully placed her large bag on the granite kitchen floor. Her face set, she lunged to Marisa and shoved her away from the door.
“Umph.” Marisa staggered, her arms flailing.
Alex leaped from his chair, neatly caught Marisa, and deposited her in the empty chair.
Clay applauded, his gray eyes sparkling. “Well done, young man.”
Berea offered her hand to Verna. “I’m Berea Kenton. I have to solve my daughter Mayla’s murder. We could use your help.”
Verna’s dark little face lit up as she shook the other woman’s hand. “I saw you on television, Mrs. Kenton. I was a teacher at the elementary school. I remember Mayla. She was a lovely and intelligent child. I’d love to help.”
A pretty face appeared at the open door. Dark eyes behind academic black glasses peered into the kitchen. “Hello? Marisa?”
Marisa jumped up. “Di—”
“Dee Forrest, your friendly neighborhood realtor.” Diana’s eyes flashed in warning.
Marisa’s eyes widened. I’ve never seen Diana in her real estate persona. Althea looked at Clay in consternation. Marisa smiled warmly to make up for it. “My realtor and my friend. Come in, Dee.”
In the doorway, Diana winked at Marisa as one hand smoothed the heavy black bun at the back of her head. Her navy suit with muted gray pinstripes and tailored lines lent her body angles while hinting at the hidden curves. A giant bag emblazoned with the outline of a house hung from her shoulder. A thick layer of pale foundation and light beige powder covered her exotic features. A touch of soft pink lipstick thinned her full mouth, but couldn’t hide the amused twist of her lips.
Verna’s head flew up like a bloodhound catching a juicy scent. “Are you thinking of leaving our lovely neighborhood, Marisa?”
Marisa narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “Yes, in fact, I am thinking of moving. The neighbors tend to be nosy and intrusive.”
Verna nodded her head in sage agreement. “I’m sure you mean Mr. Roberts. He’s so inquisitive. He always has to know everyone’s business.”
Marisa’s mouth fell open. “Mr. Roberts is nosy?”
“And he likes to run around his house naked as a jaybird.” She compressed her mouth in a thin line, but her eyes sparkled in excitement.
“You don’t have to look in his windows, Verna.” Marisa’s tone was dry as dust.
“I’m sure I’d never peek in anyone’s window.” Verna threw up her thin hands in excitement. “Where are you thinking of moving? I can look at properties with you. Perhaps we can find two adjacent houses.”
Like a general on the battlefield, Laithe advanced on Verna. He hissed, and then opened his mouth wide to show his opponent his sharp teeth.
“Laithe, behave yourself.” Marisa’s heart wasn’t in the rebuke.
The orange cat retreated. He positioned himself between Alex’s bare ankles and glared at his archenemy.
Between Diana’s sensible, low-heeled shoes, a small brown and blue streak flew through the open kitchen door.
Berea’s bag fell over. A Pomeranian ball of fur spilled out onto the floor with a happy bark.
Laithe wound his way across the floor to the Pomeranian as a Chihuahua with a blue kerchief over his elongated head skidded to a stop and formed the third corner of the triangle.
“Princess!” Berea started to bend over.
Marisa stepped to the tableau. “Laithe!”
Alex recoiled. “Punky! Everyone cover your ankles!” He hoisted himself up on Marisa’s countertop.
Verna grasped both women’s arms. “Wait.”
The Abyssinian and the Pomeranian faced one another. They ignored the twitchy Chihuahua as if he were a lowly serf, allowed to live only as long as it pleased their royal majesties. Laithe was taller and more sinewy, while Princess was lower to the ground and brawny. In tandem, they gracefully sat on their haunches. The cat extended his nose, his orange wedge-shaped face stately. Princess mirrored his movement, managing to look down her nose at the cat even though she had to raise her golden muzzle.
Tara sucked in an audible breath. “They’re like visiting heads of state, gracefully greeting one another via ambassadorial protocol.”
Alex laughed. “It’s as if they’re saying: ‘We’re willing to sign peace treaties, but if the terms aren’t honored, we’ll tear one another’s throats out.’”
Marisa shook her head. “Now, as if negotiations are settled, they’re turning to Punky.”
Declining to sniff the dog, as if disdainful of the canine who represented less than a quarter of his own body mass, Laithe gracefully retreated from the field. He sat next to Marisa, as if granting her a coveted, yet lesser, status in his royal court.
Punky lowered his tail and tucked it between his legs. Cringing and pulling himself to her on the floor, he approached Princess as a supplicant.
She graciously allowed him to settle in front of her.
“Princess has either hired him as her royal bodyguard or she’s acquiring him as her male concubine.” Clara’s short, stout body was military straight in her normal uniform of polyester smock and matching pants. The ribbons from her hat grazed her broad shoulders.
Berea bent over and scooped up her dog. “Princess would only be interested in dogs of impeccable pedigree. Not that little mutt…”
Verna’s chest swelled in indignation. “I’ll have you know that Sir Punky of Brewster has his papers!”
“Puppy training papers,” Berea argued. “If you don’t keep that mongrel away from my precious Princess, I’ll have the dog warden on you.”
Clara’s round, wrinkled face collapsed in laughter. Her mass of short, suspiciously brown curls shook.
“Shut up, Clara.” Verna rounded on the other woman. “You’re my sister and that makes you Punky’s aunt. Now stand up for your nephew.”
“Verna, you think because you were a teacher and I was a lunch lady,” Clara said, “my opinion doesn’t count. If you try to keep those two dogs apart, we’ll have a canine version of Romeo and Juliet on our hands.”
Fred growled. “Verna, you’re a shameless busybody, and you’re always putting Clara down. She’s by far the smarter of the two of you. When Berea calls the dog warden, I’ll have him throw you in his truck.”
Verna’s shriek filled the kitchen and sent Laithe’s head up in warning. “Are you calling me a bitch?”
“If the furry little ass fits,” Fred drawled, “then wear it.”
Diana advanced into the kitchen, sidestepping the dogs and the boiling controversy. “Marisa, Alex, Mrs. Flaxton, and Mr. Napier, may we talk in the living room?”
Marisa stopped rubbing her forehead. “God, yes, D-D-Dee. Let’s go.”
Barbara looked up from her place on the stepladder. “Marisa, is your stutter coming back? I thought you’d gotten over that after those speech therapy visits at school.”
Marisa repressed a scream.
* * * * *
Diana twirled in a slow, graceful pirouette. “I’d forgotten how comforting it is in your home, Marisa. The floral couch and love seat are inviting, and the green sage curtains let in just the right amount of sunshine. The landscapes on the wall are bucolic and soothing.”
Clay stared up at the realtor. At six feet tall, she towered over his muscular, average-height form. He cocked his head. His wintery gray eyes thawed. “Diana from the club.”
“You have a very discerning eye, Mr. Napier. It’s as if you’ve used both your outer and inner eye for detail all of your life.” Her dark eyes twinkled behind her glasses.
“You’re not leaving me behind in that melee.” Tara’s blonde curls bounced as she landed in the living room. Laithe trotted behind her. She curled up on the couch, her short bare legs twisted to one side. The orange cat settled between Alex and Tara, curled his long tail around his body, tucked in his paws, and stared expectantly at Diana.
Althea allowed Clay to guide her to the love seat. He lowered himself next to her thin form.
Diana reached into her huge bag.
“Diana, if you have a dog in that bag, you’re banned from my house.” Marisa crossed her arms and glared up at her friend.
“The dancer Diana?” Tara sat up straight. “I didn’t recognize you in that getup. I knew you were working on your real estate license, but I didn’t make the connection.”
Her lips curved in an enigmatic smile, Diana pulled her silver arrow from the bag. The silver feather dangled.