by Nancy Bush
She picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hi, Mom. It’s Jane. How are you?”
A studied pause. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine.” I ignored the tacit worry I could hear forming inside her head like a distant roar. “It’s really lousy weather here. What’s it like down there?”
“Sunny. About seventy-two. Have you heard from your brother lately?”
It defies any known ability beyond ESP the way Mom can zero in on underlying tensions within seconds. Takes my breath away sometimes. And though Booth wasn’t why I’d called, his text message had undoubtedly helped spur my need to make contact with my family. If not my brother, my mother.
“He left me a text message. Said he’s going to contact me later.”
“Text message?”
“On my cell phone.” When she didn’t respond, I said, “It’s typing a message so it appears as text on the LCD, the screen?”
“Why doesn’t he just talk to you?”
“Lot of people text, Mom.”
“Do you think he’s in some kind of trouble?”
“No,” I responded heartily, but her words were like darts, puncturing holes in the balloon of my denial. Something was going on with Booth, but I didn’t think it warranted the kind of all-out hand-wringing my mother was warming up to. “Actually, I understand he’s trying to make detective. Sometimes that can happen sooner, rather than later, if he takes a more challenging job.”
“Dangerous job, you mean?”
“Not necessarily.”
“You’re lying, Jane. Minimizing.”
Why is it that I can lie to nearly everyone convincingly except my mother? Well, and Dwayne. Maybe Booth, too. But otherwise I’m seriously good at it. No looking away, no hemming or hawing, no guilt. The trick is to believe you’re telling the truth, easier to manage some times than others. But with Mom…
“I don’t know what Booth’s up to,” I said. “I got a text, he said he’d call. When I hear from him, I’ll let you know.”
“Do you think he and Sharona are okay?”
My brother and his fiancée were planning a summer wedding. I would have liked to jump on that and allay Mom’s fears, but she’s too smart for that. In a half-assed attempt to mollify, I said, “I don’t think it has anything to do with Sharona. Booth’s just busy. So’s Sharona, I’m sure.” I knew of a few cases she was involved in. A criminal defense attorney’s life isn’t exactly uneventful. Sometimes your clients are scared enough to call you every minute of every day. I know for a fact that if I were ever in serious trouble with the law, I would be parking myself at Sharona’s front door, beating it down, begging for help.
Now I wanted off the phone. I’d reached my mother and learned the weather in Southern California was nauseatingly terrific. Mom was clearly fine as well, so now I was done. Unfortunately, Mom wasn’t. She continued to worry about Booth and after a fashion, started in on me.
“Mr. Densworth? In the upper back unit? He hired a private investigator to look into his daughter-in-law’s background, because she married his son, but then was with some other man, and I don’t know what else, but all of a sudden this private investigator shows up dead. Shot twice through the head.”
This was not what I wanted to hear. “Mom…”
“I know you’re careful, Jane. I’m not saying that. But the daughter-in-law’s gone, and she took Mr. Densworth’s grandson with her. Sounds like she was involved in something really bad. Bad people.”
“Was the private investigator killed over this particular case?” I asked. “Was that verified?”
“I don’t really know. But this is the business you’re in.”
“Mostly I write up reports and process-serve,” I said.
“But didn’t your friend get hurt? Got his leg broken?”
I had not told my mother about Dwayne. She had to have heard this from Booth who normally laments loud and long about my foray into the “information specialist” business, which is a benign, catchall term for private investigation. Booth must have relayed this information. I questioned my mother on this and she admitted as much, which only served to irk me. Booth has absolute no faith in my abilities, which really ticks me off, especially since I question those abilities in myself all the time. I can do that, but Booth can’t.
“Don’t worry about me, Mom. When things look bad, I’m gone.”
“Good. Keep to that plan.”
“I’ll call you later,” I said. “After Booth calls.”
“Try to make it down for a visit.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said and hurriedly hung up. I turned to Binkster, who’d been snoozing on the couch, but seemed to understand I needed her attention as she lifted her head and looked at me expectantly.
“Sheesh,” I said, and plopped down next to her. We spent the rest of the day doing next to nothing together and it felt great.
The Lake Chinook Junior League Bake Sale was being held at the Lake Chinook Community Library. I parked my car in the lot, luckily grabbing a spot being vacated by one of the slowest drivers on record. While I waited, drumming my fingers on the wheel, the older gentleman and his wife backed their cream-colored Chrysler out of the spot, then slowly turned it around and herded it toward the exit. A woman in a green Mazda made as if to outscore me for the spot, but I lay on the horn like I was announcing Armageddon. She glared at me with true bitchiness, but I kept my face neutral, as if I didn’t realize what a pain in the ass I’d been. Inside I was happy, happy, happy. There are unwritten rules that must be adhered to in any culture. Parking issues are at the top of my rule list. Anyone who steals, or attempts to steal, a spot from someone who clearly has dibs on it, is the lowest of the low. Bitchy Lady was lucky to get off with a warning.
I locked my car, just managed to avoid stepping into a serious puddle, then bent my head to the rain again, one eye watching the green Mazda circle the lot as I headed for the library, a two-story brick building with a front portico. I ducked under the portico, then quickly hurried inside, finding a niche for myself by a rack of paperbacks with a good view of the front windows. I wanted a good look at Bitchy Woman before I started meandering around. I’d caught a glimpse of a black and white scarf around her neck, dark hair and pinched lips.
Pretty soon she appeared, stopping under the portico, hauling down her umbrella and shaking rain onto the ground. For a moment I panicked. What if this was Melinda Hatchmere? Not a great way to earn myself points. Another woman joined her, going through the same umbrella routine. They walked inside together and I heard them call each other by their names: Anne and Kathleen. Relieved, I pretended to peruse a book while they headed toward the main area, which was set up with tables for the bake sale. I realized they, like Melinda, were part of the Junior League.
There was a coven of Junior Leaguers hanging around several rows of tables loaded with baked goods. They wore slacks with matching sweaters or silk blouses and jackets, or skirts and blouses and scarves and jewelry. It looked like an Ann Taylor convention from where I stood. My jeans, soaked boots and damp gray windbreaker were regular attire for a large percentage of the Oregon population, but these ladies were a couple of notches up the fashion ladder. Didn’t mean those clothes might not get ruined in the blasting wind and rain. One thing I know how to do is dress for the weather.
There were quite a few prospective customers milling about. I wondered if Bitchy Anne had given me the hard stare like I’d given her and therefore might recognize me. If she did I would have to brazen my way through it. I have a penchant for making these little wars happen; I don’t know why. I must be really hard to get along with. This idea pleased me far more than it should.
There were about six tables all lined up with Junior League ladies standing near the ends, ready for all questions. I wandered amongst the crowd, examining the plates of cookies, cakes, pies, brownies and breads. My mouth watered over a pan of apple bars, the scents of cinnamon, nutmeg and ho
t fruit making me want to part with my hard-earned money as if I were a philanthropist. I dug out thirty dollars as it was a big pan and paid for it before I could stop myself. The ladies smiled at me as if I’d make a fabulous purchase.
“Jody makes those,” one of them said. “Oh my gosh, the peach bars! It’s enough to make you swoon.”
“Where are the peach bars?” I asked with trepidation. I feared I might have to fork over some more cash.
“Oh, gone already. Out the door by ten-thirty. Her stuff just flies off the table. It’s almost criminal.”
Her tag read LEIGH. I’m never sure if that’s pronounced Lay or Lee. I was about to inquire when the question was answered by a woman with blondish, chin-length hair swept away from a delicate face that was softly peach-colored. Her petite figure was swathed in a chic, silvery blue pantsuit and white silk shell that sported a plunging decolletage. A pewter chain was looped several times around her neck and her earrings were tiny silver and mother-of-pearl birds. Doves, maybe. There was something dovelike about her. She said, “Leigh, could you help Mr. Early restock Table Four? Jody’s fruit bars are all gone, but we’ve got extra cookies in the back.” She pronounced it Lee. I read her name tag. Melinda.
“Melinda Hatchmere?” I asked with a smile.
She looked at me blankly, trying not to stare at my less than stunning outfit. “Yes?”
“I called you. We’re planning to meet? I’m Jane Kelly.”
“Oh! Oh yes. I’m so sorry.” She broke into smiles. “I forgot. We’ve been getting this bake sale together and it’s just taken over. I see you bought some of Jody’s apple bars. You won’t be disappointed.”
“Good to know.” I couldn’t remember the last time food had actually disappointed me. Availability is all that matters.
“I’m going to be about half an hour more,” she said, looking around.
Leigh broke in, “Don’t worry about it, Melinda. We can finish up.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she answered back. “Do you mind waiting?” she asked me, but it was just for show. This was her baby and she wouldn’t leave it to someone else’s care.
But Leigh was up for the challenge. “No, no. Go on.” She flapped a hand at Melinda. “Jody’s going to be back any minute with that rum cake she promised. She had to go make another one today,” Leigh said to me in a low voice that said she was imparting “big news.” “Five were sold by noon, and Mrs. Merker nearly had a hemorrhage when she learned she couldn’t get one. So Jody headed home to make her another one. Just like that. Jody’s amazing.”
Melinda’s peach complexion turned a rosier shade. “Jody’s our star,” she agreed through a stretched smile. “I’ll be out in about thirty minutes.”
Dismissed, I turned away but I kept them in my peripheral vision. I could feel the wall of ice building between them. God help me if I ever do something like that, I prayed; then I remembered my own battle with Bitchy Anne. Maybe I wasn’t so different after all.
Bitchy Anne and Kathleen were chatting up a storm at the end of one table. They didn’t appear to have any serious function apart from offering support to their Junior League buddies. Customers were buying the baked goods at a regular clip, and the working Junior League ladies kept bringing out more and more delights. I could spend my life savings in nothing flat at a place like this.
I ran to my car, shielding the apple bars with my body. The ladies had put a sheet of plastic wrap over the bars when I’d made the purchase, but I wasn’t going to chance anything ruining my bounty.
Inside the car I pulled out one of the bars and with apple filling dripping warmly on my fingers I chomped it down in seconds flat. Leigh was right about the swooning. I let my head fall back against the headrest and made moaning sounds as if I were in pain.
I ate another one and made it halfway through a third before I felt slightly ill. Setting the pan aside, I waited for Melinda but she didn’t appear. I had to dodge more rain and puddles as I went back inside to see what was keeping her.
Near the library front door I smacked directly into Bitchy Anne who’d been yakking away with Kathleen under the portico and turned into me just as I rounded the corner. Anne’s umbrella went flying and I grabbed her hard to keep us both from tumbling onto the concrete apron.
“Jesus,” Anne spat. “Look out next time.” Then her expression tightened as she recognized me. “Oh,” she said. She didn’t know what else to do or say.
Kathleen, unaware of everything, said on a laugh, “It’s hell getting out of this rain, isn’t it?”
“Sure is.” I smiled, just to show how amiable I was.
“Parking sure is tough,” Anne said snarkily.
“You got that right.”
Kathleen chimed in, “I had to beat out somebody for a spot. They were kinda mad.” She giggled.
“Really?” I smiled some more.
“Oh yeah. It was this young girl? And she wasn’t very nice. I could see her through the windshield. She was swearing a blue streak! Her mother should wash her mouth out with soap!”
“Stealing someone’s parking spot…” I shook my head. “Dangerous stuff.”
Kathleen blinked. “It’s not like they’re numbered or anything. It’s a free country.”
Anne said coolly, “Come on, Kathleen. We’ve got some important things to do.”
They glanced back at me as they took off. Anne was talking rapidly in Kathleen’s ear. I turned back and another gal came hurrying up to the library, carrying a large box. As she swept by I saw a dark cake inside and the smell of sugared rum ran by with her. Ah. This must be Jody. I wondered pensively if I could talk her into making one more rum cake beyond Mrs. Merker’s.
Melinda was manning her table with no apparent desire to leave any time soon. I wondered if she’d forgotten about me. She spied Jody and stretched her smile even wider. “There you are,” she said. “We were beginning to wonder if you forgot us.”
Jody was thin, small and harried. “Traffic,” she said, then, “Has Mrs. Merker come back?”
“Not yet. Don’t worry,” Leigh said. “You made it in time.”
“It must be incredibly gratifying to have so many happy customers,” I said.
All three of them looked at me. Jody smiled uncertainly, as if afraid to take the compliment. “We all work hard.”
“Yeah, but you’re the queen bee. That’s all I’ve heard since I got here. Jody, Jody, Jody. Your apple bars…oh my God.” I held my stomach. “I had to stop myself from eating the whole pan.”
Jody flushed with delight but Melinda and Leigh went silent. Deciding I’d better stop before Melinda gave me the old heave-ho, I said, “I was standing outside. All of you are getting rave reviews. Everybody who came from the bake sale thought it was the best ever. I heard somebody say something about better than the Food Channel’s recipes.”
“Really?” A tiny line formed between Melinda’s brows.
“That must’ve been about Noreen’s shortbread,” Leigh said. “Somebody said she copied that recipe, but she acts like it’s her own creation.”
“She did the same thing last year with the Christmas decorations. I saw those yarn Santas on TV,” Melinda reminded her.
Jody pretended her rum cake needed further arranging on the table, even though it was still in its box, waiting for Mrs. Merker.
Now that Jody was back I was hoping to snag Melinda away from the event, but she was bound and determined to stay until the last crumb was either sold, eaten or swept away. I kinda kept hoping Mrs. Merker would be a no-show, but she finally blew in just as they were disassembling the tables, pouncing on Jody’s rum cake and throwing a hundred-dollar bill on the table. The ladies were all agog about the size of Mrs. Merker’s donation. I kinda thought it might include a tip for Jody, but hey, this event was supposed to be a fund-raiser for permanent Lake Chinook art, so I guess Jody was going to have to live with it. Based on the selection of art that’s currently lining the streets of Lake Chinook, some of which a
re obvious phallic symbols, I feel maybe the art procurement committee is either blind or collectively getting a huge inner laugh. Either way, Jody was screwed.
“Are you…about wrapped up here?” I asked Melinda.
“Oh. Yes.” She looked around. “Ummm…” She sidled away from the group, touching at her hair and licking her lips as if she were getting ready for a television interview. I wondered if I should remind her it was just little old me but decided against it. Whatever works to get you ready. I followed after her.
“Let’s go to my place,” she suggested, throwing a glance toward Leigh, Jody and the rest of the Junior Leaguers still hanging around. “More privacy.”
“Is it far?”
“Just around the corner. I have one of those new condos on B Street. I’ll just be a minute.” Her heels tippy-tapped quickly across the linoleum and to a door in the back where she disappeared.
I’d been wondering how she’d been involved with the Lake Chinook Junior League when Roland’s address was Portland. I hadn’t realized when she and Roland split that she’d moved to Lake Chinook.
She returned in a long, white wool coat with a white fur collar. “It’s faux,” she said, pulling out a red umbrella. “You ready?”
I nodded.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I followed her outside. She popped the umbrella and tippy-tapped to her silver Lexus, skirting puddles with ease.
I didn’t even try to dodge raindrops as I headed to the Volvo again. Pulling out behind Melinda, I drove about four blocks before she turned into the Chinook Villa Condominiums’ parking lot. I looked around with interest, as I had a friend/acquaintance who was converting apartments to condominiums in this same area of town, a section of Lake Chinook known as First Addition. This particular project was brand-new, the smaller, older homes that had once sat on these parcels of land gone to make way for chic, new condominiums and offices.