He also recommended talking to others on surrounding streets to find out what they knew, since the neighbors on my street either didn’t know or wouldn’t talk. Did anyone around town know the owner? Did they know Grumpy Lawn Mower Guy? Stuff like that. Colt said to do the preliminary research and then call him back. After I collected some good information about the house, we’d start looking into the testing lab. He thought it was possible that some of the information about the house might lead us to the labs, anyway. I wasn’t sure how he connected those dots, but he was the pro, not me.
It was Sunday, and as eager as I was to get started, I had promised the girls a fun day in Washington, DC, so the investigative work would have to wait. Talking to Colt had lifted my spirits as well as boosted my confidence to tackle this little endeavor, so I decided to call it a day on that job and put in some hours on the Mom-job.
Visiting the museums and monuments in Washington DC is a real treat. Driving in DC is not. I liken it to riding a roller coaster while on Quaaludes. Still, having vast amounts of American history and culture at your fingertips is a treasure and makes the thrill-ride worth every scary turn. The museums are my favorite. The girls love the museum gift shops. So, over the years, we have come to a workable arrangement—they don’t complain about the museums if I don’t complain about how much money we spend afterwards. Howard hates museums and won’t go with me, so I take what I can get.
After rounding up the girls and taking a vote, it was decided, rather un-unanimously, that we would go to the International Spy Museum. That’s because Callie wanted to see the Japanese American Memorial instead, while Bethany wanted the Museum of Modern Art, and Amber wanted the Museum of Natural History (for the hundredth time). My vote for the International Spy Museum carried the day when we let Indiana Jones act as the tie-breaker—he agreed with me. The International Spy Museum. Besides, if I was going into spy mode, it seemed appropriate that I should get psyched up.
Bethany and Amber were still shoving their way into shoes and coats when the front door flew open. It was my mother, presenting herself in her usual grand Endora-from-Bewitched manner.
“Mom, what are you doing here?”
“Checking in on you, of course. How’s that cold of yours?”
I had forgotten about my fictitious cold. I sniffled once or twice. “Oh, you know, it comes and goes,” I said.
She started stripping off her coat and gloves as the girls were piling theirs on.
“Mom,” I whined, “can’t you see we’re leaving? Why didn’t you call first?”
“I was out and about, anyway. Besides, I’m your mother—do I need an invitation?” The question must have been rhetorical, because she continued to blabber on. “Do you like my new gloves?” She rubbed them against my face. “Feel that—cashmere. Do you want some? I can order you a pair.”
“Shopping Channel?”
“Daily special. I’ll order you a pair. Do you want cranberry red or camel?”
“I don’t want new gloves.”
“How about a coat? Tomorrow’s special is spectacular—lamb’s wool, full-length, and it comes with a matching hat.”
“I don’t need a coat.”
“Of course you do. Look at that thing you’re wearing. It’s falling apart.”
“It’s brand new.”
“That’s a shame. Really, you should check out the Shopping Channel—their merchandise doesn’t wear so quickly. And they’ll take anything back at any time, no questions asked.”
“Mom!” She was wearing me out. “We are leaving now,” I said throwing my purse over my shoulder.
She looked at us as if she had only just then realized that we were dressed up for outdoor weather. “Oh! Where are you going? I’ll go with you.”
“You wouldn’t enjoy yourself. We’re going to the International Spy Museum.”
“Are you kidding? That’s right up my alley. I was a spy once.”
“Mom, you were never a spy.”
She shook her head, dismissing my comment. “It was brief. Before I met your father. Very exciting time of my life.” Everything my mother claimed to have done in her life, including getting drunk with Ernest Hemingway, had happened before she met my father. Since she would never confess to her real age, I figured she was either a very precocious teenager, or she’d met my father when she was sixty. Which would make her about . . . a hundred.
As it turned out, the museum was a hit—the girls marveled at the James Bond car with its nifty spy gadgets, while my mother told the story of how she was once considered for a role as a Bond Girl. This was, of course, before she’d met my father. As luck would have it, I knew my Bond movie trivia. I had her.
“Mom, Dr. No was the first James Bond movie and it came out in 1962 and you were married to Dad in 1962.”
“Your point, dear?”
“I think you’re making this up.”
“Well, Miss Smarty Pants, 1962 is when the first Bond movie FINALLY came out. What you don’t know is that a little known movie producer by the name of Harry Schmenck tried to make a James Bond movie seven years before Dr. No. Do you know what the name of THAT movie would have been? Hmm?” She was looking down at me, very haughty and pleased to know something I did not. “Casino Royale—the name of the first novel by Mr. Fleming introducing the James Bond character to the world. THAT was the movie I was considered for.”
How did she do it? The girls giggled, while I tried not to appear embarrassed. I’d get her yet. Most likely, this Harry fellow was a shy accountant with an 8 mm who once speculated to her that someone should make Casino Royale into a movie.
After wandering through most of the exhibits, we stopped for lunch at the museum café, which was a real treat, since a person practically had to take out a second mortgage or sell a kidney to afford the exorbitant prices. Anyway, I used a credit card, deciding to let Howard pay the bill. Revenge is sweet.
The younger girls got pizza, Callie and my mother had chef’s salads, and I splurged on two very greasy chili dogs with cheese—and onions.
“You aren’t exactly setting a good example for your girls eating a meal like that,” chided my mother.
“Mom, I’m a grown woman. I can eat what I want.”
“Okay. I’m just saying . . .”
“Mom! I got it!” A small part of me—okay, a large part of me—okay, most of me—knew she was right, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of agreeing, and besides, today I was indulging. I had just turned forty-five, my husband had moved out of the house, I was finding body parts in neighborhood houses and potentially diseased monkeys were running rampant through Northern Virginia. I really, really deserved those chili dogs. Really. Every delectable bite. I chased them with an icy cold Coke. Regular. Bring on the calories, baby. Bring ’em on.
“Mommy, can I get something at the gift shop?” Amber mumbled through a mouthful of pizza.
“Sure! Here’s a twenty—go wild!” I gave each girl twenty dollars and off they trotted. Probably not wise to be so nonchalant about money now that my husband was playing Mr. Single Guy, but I was looking forward to “accidentally” leaving the receipt in the middle of the table the next time he came over. It was another personality flaw of mine—finding ways to purposely piss people off when they’ve made me mad. Like the time in college when my male roommate’s new girlfriend threw away all of my plants, claiming she thought they were dead. They were a little brown maybe; limp and droopy, but not dead. Her name was Micah. So I started calling her “Minah”—like the bird. “Hey, Minah, can you turn the TV down?” “Minah, is that your toilet overflowing?” “Yo, Minah, I think someone is towing your car.” I thought it was a hoot. Minah, Minah, Minah. She practically turned purple each time I said it. Of course, I learned the hard way that you can’t go around purposely irritating people too much, or it comes back to haunt you. Because, shortly afterwards my pet rabbit, Mel Gibson, mysteriously found his way out of his cage and into the condo complex pool—without a life pre
server. Poor Mel Gibson. Of course, I knew Micah was the culprit—mostly because of the tell-tale note tied around Mel’s little neck that said, “My name is Micah!” I said it was a personality flaw. Thank goodness Mel had responded to CPR and went on to live a healthy life.
One would think that after nearly losing little Mel, I would have learned my lesson not to goad people who made me mad. While I pondered my obsession to rile Howard, my stomach grumbled. I rubbed my tummy. “Shhhh, tummy,” I said. “We’re in public.” My stomach answered back with a bit of a gurgle. I was starting to feel somewhat on the gassy side. Hmm, this isn’t good, I thought. Better get home.
We all crowded back into my white Grand Caravan, the girls with their packages from the gift shop, my mom with her new gloves, and me with a growing sense of gastric urgency.
Shortly after turning onto Constitution Avenue heading toward I-66, my body sent me a strong message. The message wasn’t good. The chili, the dogs, the cheese and the onions were waging a war somewhere between my small and my large intestines.
Okay, I thought, I can make this. It was only twenty minutes until we got home. Well, maybe thirty. That was if there was no traffic. Sweat was starting to form on my brow.
Bethany and Amber were singing songs. Callie asked me a question, which I didn’t hear because all five senses had shut down instinctively to prevent outside stimuli from distracting me. Concentration was the key. Get home.
“Mom! Didn’t you hear what I said?” she moaned.
“What?” I asked. “Sorry. I have . . . a problem.” I shifted in my seat to make things a little more comfortable, putting my pedal to the metal.
My mother gripped her arm rest. “Barbara, don’t you think you’re going a bit too fast?”
“Not now, Mom,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Barbara, what’s wrong?” my mother asked.
Now there was sweat on my upper lip. From the rearview mirror, I could see Callie giving me that look teenagers give their parents when they’ve decided we’re all really the stupidest people alive and they know everything.
“Mom,” Callie said in her new condescending tone, “you’re acting very weird.”
“What’s wrong with Mommy?” cried Amber from the back, cluing into the activity up front.
“Nothing’s wrong, Sweetie,” I said, “I just have to go to the bathroom, that’s all. I’ll be okay.”
My mother clicked her tongue. “I told you so . . .” she sang, shaking her head. Click, click, click. The woman could make the most annoying tongue clicking noises ever.
“What?!” I screamed.
“Those chili dogs . . .”
“You’re supposed to go to the bathroom before we get in the car,” Bethany sing-songed. “That’s what you always tell us.”
In my misery, I could only mentally acknowledge Bethany’s statement of truth. Certainly I did not follow my own rules, and was suffering the consequences.
“Mommy,” cried Amber, “are you sure you’re okay, ’cuz you don’t look so good!”
“I’m fine!” My knuckles were white on the wheel, my eyes focused on staying safe while speeding forth. “Really! I’m fine, just . . . just keep it down so I can concentrate,” I said.
“Concentrate on what?” asked Bethany.
I chose not to answer that question.
As we neared Rustic Woods, the discomfort grew worse. I flew down Purple Poplar Road, the final leg of our trip. My rate of acceleration was far exceeding the posted limit. I probably only had ten minutes to go, provided I hit all green lights. Maybe I could roll through a red if no one was around.
My eyes were fixed on the road. They weren’t, however, fixed on the police cruiser I passed while going, if I had to take a guess, oh, sixty in a forty-mile-an-hour zone. The lights shone in my rearview mirror. Oh, man! I was going to have to stop. This could get real ugly. I pulled slowly to the side of the road, wiped the sweat off my face, and rolled down my window. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I looked into the rearview mirror and saw who was sauntering up to my van. Officer Brad.
He stepped up to the car and looked in. His head tilted in recognition. He almost smiled. “Ma’am,” he said. “Nice to see you again.” Then he rambled on about speeding, safety on the road, and some other vehicular nonsense—all things that were not registering, since my mind was on other matters.
“Oh no,” I said. “Oh no, oh no, oh no.” I was muttering, half crazed.
“What was that, Ma’am?” he frowned.
“Mommy has to poop!” screamed Amber from the backseat. “Can’t you see she’s all sweaty?”
Officer Brad looked horrified, losing his stoic policeman’s composure for only a nanosecond. He took a good long look at me. My face flushed red. It was burning like lava. If someone had put a white sickle and hammer in front of me, I could have passed for the communist flag.
“Sir,” my mother interjected, crossing her body in front of mine to get a better view of Officer Brad. “My daughter here made a poor dietary choice and ate some chili dogs that appear to have disagreed with her. She now has a serious need to use the restroom.” She whispered the word “restroom” as if it was a communicable disease. “Of course, I told her she should eat something more healthy, but you know children never want to listen to their parents. Do you think you could let us go just this once?” Officer Brad’s face did not change expression. “Please,” he said. “Go.”
“Are you sure?” I said, even though I was already moving away at a good clip. “Thank you!” I yelled, as I sped toward home.
“You see that,” said my mother, “You should be glad you had me along. I used to be involved in law enforcement.”
I made it home in the nick of time, throwing my keys onto the floor while pulling my pants down as I ran to the bathroom. Not graceful, but definitely efficient. I remained in the bathroom for a while, contemplating the obvious parallels between my life and the crapper. My mother called out that she had to get home and change for Tae Kwon Do. Something about not being late for the new instructor. Thank God for small mercies. As I crawled out of the bathroom to face the rest of my Sunday, the doorbell rang.
Amber, who has two speeds—stop and go—was at the door in record time. By the time I reached her, the door was open and I was greeted by a pimple-faced, curly-headed boy of about sixteen, uniformed in gray and blue. He was holding a long, large box wrapped with a red velvet ribbon. It looked suspiciously like . . . flowers! I peeked quickly at the boy’s name tag: Alex. Beneath his name: Rustic Woods Floral Center. They WERE flowers! My Howard had come through—he felt guilty and sad and horrible. How wonderful! I grabbed the box while Amber announced loudly throughout the house that I’d gotten flowers. I tore off the red ribbon and threw off the top. Red roses! He’d never sent me red roses before.
I grabbed the small envelope and started to pull out the note, a smile as wide as the Mississippi shining on my face. I stopped short, though, as a memory flooded in. I HAD been given red roses before. But not by Howard. My smile faded and my stomach gurgled again—from nerves, not chili dogs. Only one person had ever given me red roses, and he had done it more than once. It was his signature—his MO. I read the note silently. Happy Birthday, Curly. They say Virginia is for lovers. I thought I’d find out for myself.
Holy cow. What had I done?
Chapter Eight
THE DELIVERY BOY TOOK MY signature with an embarrassed smile and moved off quickly. I stood frozen on my front door stoop, staring at the card like an idiot. Colt was there—I could see him in my peripheral vision as he walked around the corner of my house. Emotions of sweet joy and utter guilt played ping pong with my heart.
“What’s a guy gotta do to get a hug in this town?”
I smiled in spite of myself. Geezie Louisie, he was cute. Colt Baron was one of those men who definitely aged with grace. In college he was a blond, trim, and muscular surfer boy. Today, he was still blond, trim and muscular, but he was all man. Little lines th
at grow around the eyes might make a woman look old, but on Colt they were like butter cream frosting—the proverbial icing on the cake. Whereas Howard had a significant amount of gray, Colt had hardly any, and what little there was remained nearly hidden in a full, feathery blond head of hair. In fact, I’d have killed to have hair like his—soft and wispy. Perfect to run your fingers through. At five feet ten inches, he was just barely taller than me. He was still dressed for California weather—a brown, faded Dos Equis t-shirt, khaki cargo shorts and well-worn leather sandals. A black computer case hung from his left shoulder. The muscle bulge showing through his t-shirt was quite pleasing to the eyes. My eyes wandered lower—his calves weren’t bad, either.
“How did you get here so fast?” I finally tore myself away long enough to ask.
“Caught the first plane out of town, gorgeous. You think I’m going to let you go through this alone?” By “this,” I wasn’t sure if he meant my dead monkey problem or my Howard problem. I looked at my watch. It was 5:05 pm. It’s a four or five-hour flight from L.A. non-stop. He moved fast.
“You can’t just pick up and leave town like that,” I said.
“Maybe you can’t, but I can. Right now, there’s nothing I need to do there that I can’t do here.” He held up an olive duffle bag that looked like it had been through both world wars. “Can you put me up?”
That was Colt. Spunk and spontaneity. Always the can-do attitude. This wasn’t the first time he had just shown up on our doorstep unannounced. Some fifteen years earlier, soon after Callie was born and long before we moved to our house on White Willow Circle, we were roused out of bed one morning by his loud knocking on our apartment door. That time, he had been bicycling up the East Coast from South Carolina with his paramour du jour. They had stopped in Northern Virginia—her to see a brother in Leesburg, and him to stir up the pot in the new Marr household. The thing was, I always loved to see Colt. Howard, who did not, would stew like a chicken in a pressure cooker. Turn up the heat to high with Colt staying over, and we might find Howard splattered on the ceiling. Therefore, the question was not COULD I put him up, but SHOULD I put him up. Colt sensed my hesitation.
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