Thank you, Grandma. The thing around my neck loosened, and I could breathe again. I leaned over and retched unproductively, happy to finally get some air into my lungs. Then I realized I shouldn’t be lounging about, trying to breathe, and should be considering my safety. I whirled around, rolling pin in hand, and immediately tripped over a rolled up rug behind me.
Correction: not a rug.
Not a Rug
I lay sprawled on the floor, disoriented, gasping, still clutching the rolling pin. I had landed on my left arm, and it hurt. At least it wasn’t my nose. A face can only take so much unexpected harassment. Whatever I had tripped over wasn’t moving. I stood up with much more energy and grace than I would have thought possible under the circumstances (all that boring yoga paid off) and squinted at the floor.
Finally, I had the sense to find the light switch by my shoulder, and flip it on.
A person was lying on my floor. It had a knitted cap pulled down over its head, a scrawny sort of build, a cheap polyester/cotton blend green-checked shirt, faded jeans, and dark blue Crocs on its feet. It seemed relatively masculine. Its chest was heaving slightly, with a little rasping noise. At least it was alive, so I wasn’t a murderer.
He was still holding a rope in his hand, so I came to the brilliant conclusion that this pathetic creature was the same person who, thirty seconds before, had tried to strangle me.
Ethical dilemma. Part of me wanted to smack him with Grandma’s rolling pin. The other part of me wanted to feed him chicken soup. The latter inclination lasted about two seconds. Then my first impulse took over, and it took all of my willpower not to pound him like a mound of pastry dough, flattening him into a nice pie crust.
What stopped me was my compassion, his pathetic appearance and my general unfamiliarity with the law. Could I be charged with murder if I offed a home intruder? I had read about those hapless souls who had fought off an attacker, only to be sued by his or her family five years after the fact. How much money did I have in my union pension fund after Stan had tinkered with it? Enough to handle a rolling pin murder? No, I decided. But I still held the pin aloft, waiting for Mr. Pipsqueak to wake up.
He opened his eyes, saw me with the rolling pin over my shoulder like Casey at the Bat, and started to tremble. His eyes filled with tears, which then spurted down his grubby cheeks as if his eyes were a leaky eavestrough.
“Don’t hurt me,” he squeaked. “Please don’t hurt me.” Once he spoke, I realized that although he looked like a kid, he must be closer to twenty, with the build of a twelve-year-old.
“You miserable little piece of ragweed. Don’t ask me for any mercy,” I roared. Wow, that was great. It was ten years since I had delivered that line in a truly forgettable Western, and I had called it up just like that.
He cried even more, and I felt like a big meanie.
“Could I have some water?”
I sighed and went into the kitchen. I poured him a big glass of water and trudged back into the living room, trailing the rolling pin.
He was gone.
I was mostly relieved, but also annoyed that I hadn’t managed to grill him. Ryga would have grilled him. But I wasn’t Ryga. And I wasn’t sure I wanted Ryga grilling everybody who was popping up, trying to kill me. Who knows what cat they would let out of the bag?
I needed to act like a private eye. Unfortunately my experience was solely in the secondary world of film and television. So I didn’t have a clue. Makeup, wardrobe, lines, marks—no problem. Dealing with real criminals, however badly dressed, was a new calling.
Stan had been murdered, maybe by somebody I knew. Mr. Size Twenty had been killed by a gnome-happy Good Samaritan. The little runt who maybe had tried to strangle me at the shoe store, and who apparently had tried the very same thing in my very own home (while breaking some vintage crockery), had disappeared. Far, far worse was the matter of Horatio.
I went to the front door, threw it open with all the grandeur I could muster, and howled into the night, “Horatio, wherefore art thou?” It was stupid and melodramatic, but it felt darned good. I nursed a faint hope that somewhere he would hear my howl of yearning and come back. But he was apparently in the clutches of demented dognappers, who were shaving his hair or worse while I was carrying on. What sort of dognappers were they, if they didn’t have the brains to do follow-up calls? Whoops. I realized I hadn’t checked my phone messages.
I stepped over the broken saucers and started to pull the patio doors shut, but was stopped by a high-decibel screech and a flood of light that smacked me in the eyes. Mrs. Lauterman, by dangling over her far balcony, could manage to get her security light onto my patio. I prayed she wouldn’t take a dive over the railing into the rose bushes.
“Lulu! Are you all right? Do you have a new boyfriend?”
I rolled my eyes at the thought of the punk as a suitor.
“No!”
“Good,” she called. “You can do better. He’s way too short for you, but his shoes are cute.”
Her assessment was off, but at least somebody had noticed that things were not totally serene chez Malone.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“I like the other one better. The policeman is more your type.”
The lights came on in the Mortons’ bedroom windows.
“He’s not my type,” I called back.
“Then why is he your boyfriend?”
“He is not my boyfriend. Mrs. Lauterman, please! Don’t wave your hands like that! Hold on to the railing!”
The Corellis’ front light turned on, and their bulldog started to bark. He was a snarling tank on canine wheels. I didn’t want to be on the street if they let him loose.
“Thanks, Mrs. Lauterman. You take care now,” I shouted. “I’ll call you if I need you.”
“Okay” she said, after a disappointed pause, and closed her window. The searchlight went out with a sad little click, and I felt a pang of guilt. She was trying to help me, and I was shutting her out. But at least now she was safe inside and not planted in a rose bush.
No More Desserts
What did I really know about Mrs. Lauterman? She was old, she was only slightly nutty, she was funny and she cared whether I lived or died. Which, at the moment, was more interest than my various pals were showing.
Her husband had been the best bowler in the Still on Our Pins seniors’ bowling league, until he had keeled over in the middle of a bowling game, two years ago. Just when he had a strike. At least he had died happy.
Mrs. Lauterman had never seemed that upset about his departure. He was a crabby sort of guy. You could hear him shouting at her, usually about desserts. She might have been secretly happy to be free of the never-ending tirades about how she could improve her apple cake, raisin rolls, banana cream pie and walnut torte. I noticed that when I took her to the supermarket, she never bought desserts. I asked her once, and she said, “No more desserts, dear. Ever.” She loved fudge and chocolate bars, but resolutely refused anything that had been near an oven.
I found it comforting when her searchlight flashed on at strange hours, frightening away would-be muggers (good) and would-be lovers (bad). It was a small price to pay for security.
Mrs. Lauterman tottered over with her walker for tea every few weeks. She liked to give me decorating tips, most of which were fifty years old, but then I am a retro sort of girl, so I was interested. She always brought garlic olives or croutons for Horatio. No wonder he adored her.
I wondered if I would end up like Mrs. L., thirty years from now, buying searchlights at home improvement stores for my evening’s entertainment. What sort of young neighbours would I have? Punks with purple hair who would strip and snort coke when I turned the spotlight on them? Worse, would they sic their robotic vacuums on me? Or would they be grateful that a doddering old actor was interested in their welfare?
I was touched by this thought whenever it flitted across my mind. And that is why I took Mrs. Lauterman shopping and bought her milk and bread
whenever I went to the convenience store, why I occasionally took her a potted plant and why I cared about her.
I loved that she cared about me.
I knew that my friends and colleagues cared. But they tended to be somewhat self-involved, and viewed my dilemmas as accidents on the freeway of life, which they slowed down to examine briefly as they whirled through their busy lives. Mrs. Lauterman was old, and she had all the time in the world to worry about me.
I knew Horatio cared, but where was he? So many times I had crawled through the door after a fifteen-hour shoot, which, despite the glorious overtime, was still exhausting, and had collapsed onto his pillowy back. Even a long shift at McDonald’s had at least been balanced, at the end of the day, by a slurpy kiss from Horatio when I limped into the condo, reeking of burger. (Perhaps that is why he was so glad to slurp at me.) Now I was being hounded by an assortment of thugs, and Horatio was missing.
He was a totally lousy guard dog, and I hated that about him. And I missed him.
I picked up the phone to call the animal shelter, then realized it was after midnight. I thought about leaving another message, “Have you seen a large, famous sheepdog?” and then wisely decided to wait until morning. They would think I was a crank caller. Part of me hoped the animal shelter would be big Bow Wow Dog Food fans, and expend extra-special effort on Horatio sightings. However, I had learned over the years that minor celebrity is incredibly fickle and unpredictable. Just when you are puffed up over your great fame, you run into a family of fifteen that has never heard of you. On the other hand, at the moment you think you are totally anonymous—for example, the moment when you have a barbecued chicken wing hanging out of your mouth, along with a few strings of pasta—a crowd of people surrounds you, singing your song.
And who was I kidding? I knew that Horatio probably had been kidnapped by illiterate dognappers who didn’t respect his noble name. What sort of idiot would kidnap a humungous sheepdog with an eating disorder (as in way too much) and who weighed way more than a smart car? Worse, and this is what I didn’t want to think about, how were they treating Horatio? Would they give him his special treats? Would they fluff his ears every evening before he woofed his way into dreamland? Would they tickle his paws just so, until his tongue came out and drooped happily?
I knew I would never get to sleep. I wondered who I could call at this hour, and couldn’t think of any civilian who wouldn’t hate me for calling so late. I could phone my actor friends at late hours (unless they had a morning shoot with a 6 AM call time), but I was hesitant. Pete had his own problems. Geoff was no doubt being Geoff, with the nearest willing female body. Gretchen would just whisper. Bent would rant about today’s headlines. But my other, real friends, the ones not in the business, would not appreciate being awakened after midnight. They loved me, but they needed their sleep.
I slid Ryga’s card off the side table and dialed the cell number.
It rang five times and I decided I was an idiot, realizing with a sinking heart that he probably had caller ID, and if I hung up, he would know I had called. And just as I was trying to decide whether or not to hang up, he picked up.
“Ryga.”
Yay. Sounded as if he didn’t have caller ID.
“Lu?”
Damned caller ID.
“Hi,” I said, trying to sound casual.
Long pause.
“And you are calling because … ?” He sounded annoyed. I couldn’t blame him, as my clock said 12:10 AM.
“Oh … well … I know you like to be informed on developments, and I thought you’d like to know that a punk wearing blue Crocs just tried to kill me. Bye-bye!” I gushed cheerfully, and hung up the phone with a clunk.
Ten minutes later he was at my door.
Blubbering Weapons
Ryga looked tired when I opened the door.
I had left the evidence without touching it: a yard of brown rope, which looked disgustingly as if it might have once been a white clothesline. Great. Now I had a black eye, a bruised arm and a dirty neck. I was pretty sure I had some disinfectant wipes in the bathroom, but I wasn’t sure if they were intended for contact with human skin.
After a ten-minute rehash of my encounter with the punk with the blue Crocs, Ryga sighed.
“You don’t know why anybody would want to attack you? This is past being random.”
I looked at him blankly. I was pretty sure it had something to do with the dreaded Stan.
I pulled out my dolly face from the kids’ series I did when I started out. I had played Dorothy Dolly and had to wear a blue plaid pinafore with little lacy bloomers and black boots (and the production being low low-budget, the only boots they could find were half a size too small. My feet still hurt when I thought about it).
“Golly—” I started.
“Ms. Malone,” he said. So we were back to formal again—what happened to Lu? “I don’t know you very well, but even I can tell that the moment you start a sentence with the words ‘Golly’ or ‘Gee,’ you are up to something.”
I had been under the impression that I was a clever, sophisticated conversationalist, with smarts, wiles and sensitivity. I had two degrees, the first in theatre and the second in English literature, so that if a career of uncertain prospects in acting did not work out, I might try a career of uncertain prospects in writing. Obviously, I was failing in both areas, if in conversation I was unable to write or deliver material that was believable.
I felt like an idiot and, even worse, a lousy liar. And my dimples didn’t work anymore. This was awful.
“My dog’s missing, too,” I said. “He’s a lousy watchdog but nice to have around.”
I blew my nose and tossed the tissue over my head into a Roseville bowl (Renfrew Flea Market, ten dollars; someday I will have to sell it to pay my electricity bill).
He watched the ball of tissue arc over my head with some admiration.
“Nice shot.”
I blew my nose again and did it again.
“You cry very easily.”
“I am not crying.”
“Like blubbering storm clouds. Ominous. Looks like a never-ending supply of rain.”
Ominous? Since when had I become ominous? And blubbering? I was supposed to be adorable.
“I have a good reason to cry. Although I am not crying. Plus, I am an actor. I need to keep my emotions near the surface.” What a pile of guff.
“So you’re keeping your chops up by blubbering in front of me?”
I thought this was somewhat unkind, but couldn’t deny that he had a point.
“Could you stop using that insulting word, please?”
I tossed another tissue.
He watched it soar over our heads and land in the Roseville bowl.
“Okay. Impressive. Any other tricks?”
I sent a few more tissues on their way to Roseville. Ryga continued to be impressed, but we were no further ahead than before.
I rather liked his dry humour, but noted that he seemed not at all interested in Lulu Malone or her welfare, other than in a perfunctory way. I didn’t know if detectives normally came calling on people who had recently been attacked, but even by stretching my imagination to the extreme lengths of my ego, I couldn’t pretend that he was expressing any interest in me, at least in a male-female dynamic. Unbelievably, I appeared to have lost all my social smarts and sexual appeal. Soon, I would start wearing Birkenstocks to cocktail receptions. I would go out in public with baggy T-shirts sporting ominous slogans, and grey wrinkled pants with strings hanging from them. Perhaps I would have pink sponge rollers in my hair. This was my future. I began to get very depressed.
He left, with more advice on securing my doors. Good grief, thanks a lot. Couldn’t he just camp out here with a semi-automatic?
I closed the door behind him and leaned my forehead against it, trying to centre myself.
Weapons. I needed weapons.
I went through the condo and came up with the following: the aforementioned roll
ing pin, which clearly was worth its weight in gold (and I was miffed that Ryga hadn’t noted my brilliance in fighting off an assailant with such an unusual weapon), several cheap carving knives (which I hid in a bottom drawer once I realized an assailant would put them to far better use than I would), a badminton racquet, four large stainless steel pots, and a metal helmet I had worn in a summer stock production of Oh, What a Lovely War!
I went to bed, listening to the sounds of the condo pipes creaking softly in the night and waiting for the sound of more crockery breaking. If a werewolf had howled, it might have been a relief. Finally, I drifted into sleep, into a world of nightmares and terror.
When I awakened, life was pretty well the same as my dreams. Oh well.
Harry’s and Hankies
“Hi, honey,” warbled my dad.
“Hi, honey,” my mom sang backup.
I knew I was in trouble. This unknown suitor was going to be a problem.
“This isn’t a good time,” I said.
“Oh, she has an audition!” my mother said. “We’ll call back, won’t we, Jimmie?”
My father was less accommodating.
“Sweetie,” he said, “just listen for a moment.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and took deep relaxing breaths, while thinking of self-help books ranging from The Four Agreements to The Dummy’s Guide to Filial Interaction. I loved my parents and had a far healthier relationship with them than most of my contemporaries had with their respective parents. My mother and father had suffered through my eccentric teenage years, hadn’t batted an eye when I decided to become an actor instead of a lawyer and had even survived the deranged performance artist I had brought to Thanksgiving dinner in my late teens. My parents were troopers. Yet even though they tried hard to cover up, I knew they still had hopes that, despite the fact I was well past the dewy bride age, I would find The Right Man. To give them credit, I doubted they had fallen into the stereotype of wanting their single daughter married off and no longer a source of embarrassment. I always knew it was more that they defined happiness as being settled into a relationship. Their marriage was volatile and far from settled, but always fun. Neither of them was mean or nasty. They howled away, between bridge hands or mah-jong games. They batted the greenery with croquet mallets, but never threatened each other.
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