by Judith Ivie
May opened her eyes and smiled. “All gone,” she said, “poof, vanished. Apparently, if the reviewer herself asks that her comments be taken down, the sites will do it. It’s just that nobody else can remove them.”
Strutter’s hackles went down, and we all subsided again. Then I had a thought.
“Will she have time to learn the business, do all of the things you just outlined and still keep up with her Vista View job?”
May shook her head but didn’t lose her smile. “That was never going to work out. She intends to give her notice tomorrow morning, which is the bad news for Vista View management. The good news, for us and for management, is she’s decided to buy a one-bedroom unit in the Phase I building. She really likes the place, just not her boring little job there. She’s looking forward to being one of the residents. You mark my words, in no time at all she’ll be a loyal member of Bert’s harem.”
That image tickled us all. Then Margo posed an interesting question.
“Will you be running Romantic Nights out of your house, or will Isabelle be moving it to her new digs?” She gave her aunt a knowing look, correctly anticipating her answer.
“None of the above, smarty,” May retorted. “See, that’s the beauty of a virtual business. You can operate it almost anywhere, as long as you register it and pay taxes and so on in a designated state. We’ve decided to relocate our physical operation to a lovely facility right here in Wethersfield, as a matter of fact. I happen to know there’s a vacancy on the second level of the Law Barn on Old Main Street.”
A broad smile broke across Margo’s weary face. “At least now we’ll be able to keep a closer eye on you, since you seem to have a talent for gettin’ into trouble.”
Strutter and I bumped knuckles. “Look who’s talking. This loose cannon thing must be genetic. You should fit right in,” I assured May, and Strutter nodded in agreement.
“What about Judy Holloway? How does that part of the story turn out?” she asked May.
The older woman’s expression grew pensive. “We haven’t gotten to the last chapter on that one, I’m afraid, so it’s hard to say. I spoke with Judy this morning, and things are a bit up in the air, to say the least.”
“Is Bob facing charges?” I asked.
“For what? He didn’t do me any harm, other than startling me into twisting my ankle,” May replied, wiggling the discolored toes peeking out from the ice bags that encased her ankle. “He blustered a lot and passed out in the back seat of his own car. By the time the Doylestown P.D. caught up with us, I was the one driving, and Bob had mostly slept off the whiskey, so he didn’t even qualify for a drunk and disorderly. He was an absolute pussycat, as a matter of fact.”
“So now what?” Margo persisted. “Judy’s such a terrific writer and one of your best sellers. Since Bob’s got the wind up about the sexy nature of her books, will she be able to continue writin’ them?”
May shook her head. “Not for a while anyway, and after that, I couldn’t tell you. At the very least Judy’s taking a break. I tore up her latest contract, so she’s under no obligation to Romantic Nights anymore. I’ll keep the books she’s already written in the catalog, so she’ll continue to receive royalty payments, but whether she’ll write any new titles, I couldn’t say right now.” She smirked into her wine glass. “Now that she has Bob’s full attention again, I think she may be more focused on renewing his interest in the pleasures of wedded life. I mean, the Old Testament is full of erotic references. Have you read ‘Song of Solomon’ lately? Whooee!” She fanned herself with one hand, her eyes glinting with mischief.
Beside me Strutter giggled.
“What?” I asked.
“I’m having a hard time imagining Isabelle Marchand editing erotica,” she deadpanned, and we all laughed at the thought.
“I think I’ll start her off on the tamer stuff like historical romances,” May said. “I mean, with all the help she’ll be giving me on the other aspects of the business, I’m going to need something to do, right?”
Twenty
In midweek, as a sort of apology to the neighbors whose lives she had been inadvertently disrupting, May convened the first meeting of what she called The Wednesday Club. The club met at May’s house, and any child of school age, Beth Peterson being the exception, was welcome to attend. Myron Lifschitz and T.J. Harris were compulsory attendees, as a condition of May’s dropping all charges against them. They were closely supervised by May’s trusty handyman Tommy, a burly twenty-something. The distressing events of the past few weeks had brought out the young man’s protective instincts, and May doted on him as if he were her grandson.
After closing the office down a bit early, Margo, Strutter and I drove to Wheeler Road in a convoy to see how things were going. As we turned into the street we could see what appeared to be a carpentry workshop spread out across May’s front lawn and spilling onto the little green at the center of the circle.
Tommy was being assisted by Myron Lifschitz, who hobbled along on crutches. Together they presided over a large, makeshift table of plywood supported on sawhorses. What looked like randomly sized bits and pieces of wood were being energetically sanded and inexpertly nailed together to form, according to Tommy and Myron, regulation bat houses. Two poles, about fifteen feet high, had already been installed in May’s back yard and soared sturdily above the hedge that surrounded her tidy lawn.
“I looked it up on a bat conservation website,” Myron volunteered. “The best place to put bat houses is high up and about twenty feet away from trees so the bats can find them by echolocating. They’re blind, you know.”
I was impressed. Emboldened by his friend’s speech, T.J. spoke up next. “Bats are really good guys. They eat mosquitoes and stuff, and they don’t bother anybody as long as they’re healthy. People think they’re all rabid or something, but that was way back in the early 1990s. The last case of rabies contracted from a bat in Connecticut was in 1995.”
Strutter and I exchanged smiles behind the boys’ backs. “Way back in the 1990s?” I murmured.
“Auntie May strikes again,” Margo mused, surveying the crowd of kids.
“She’s like the Pied Piper,” Tommy agreed. “I wish I’d had a grandmother like her when I was a kid. She knows how to make things fun.”
“It’s because she really likes the kids, and they know that, right?” I said to the group at large and noticed a few grins break out.
“Her cookies are awesome, too,” said Tommy with a wink. “Never hurts.”
The lady herself left a group of smaller children, who were painting the assembled bat houses on the green, and came to join us, stepping carefully in the air cast that encased her left leg below the knee. She gave Tommy a knowing look.
“Next week we’re making pumpkin bread. The local markets always have leftover pumpkins they’re happy to give to us, and I think the kids will find putting them to good use is more fun than smashing them.”
Myron reddened slightly, and his pal T.J. looked distinctly uncomfortable, but both took her jibe with firmly closed mouths. May laid a kind hand on each boy’s shoulder.
“Got any more houses for us to finish up? We need enough for everyone to take one home.”
“Coming right up, Ms. Farnsworth,” Myron assured her, and May gave him a pat.
“Will we see you tomorrow?” I asked May as we moved to rejoin the gaggle of young painters on the green. Most had more paint on themselves than on the bat houses, but May assured us it would wash right off.
“No, but Izzy will be dropping around on her lunch hour to take some measurements for file cabinets and sign the lease forms. She’s also promised to leave the security deposit check with you for the landlord.” She grinned. “It’s great to have a partner with big bucks.”
Friday was Halloween. With Isabelle’s help, Margo, May and I had wangled invitations to the Vista View party and were delighted to see the dining room filled to capacity—but only to legal capacity, Isabelle assured us—with
residents and their guests of all ages. It certainly made the dance floor a more interesting scene as costumed guests crowded the space to gyrate and flail to juke box hits. The three of us were taking a break at our favorite table by the window and watching Bert do his gallant best to demonstrate the finer points of “The Monster Mash” to Isabelle.
“When you think about it, trick-or-treating is sort of a metaphor for life itself,” May observed out of the blue, swirling ice chips in her plastic cup before upending it for a final swallow.
Margo examined the contents of her own cup and looked at her aunt closely. “Are you drinkin’ the same stuff as the rest of us, or did you bring a pocket flask?”
May ignored her. “I mean, when it comes to doling out tricks and treats, the universe is the greatest prankster of all. Take Kate, for example. I never met a more loyal friend or decent person …”
“She has her good points,” Margo muttered as I blushed, grateful for the dim lighting.
“ … but life nevertheless threw her a few curves over the past few weeks,” May continued, undeterred. “Having your only daughter start what could turn out to be a serious relationship with a man who lives on the West Coast, especially when he’s originally from the town right next to Wethersfield, is pretty ironic, you have to admit. And how about a woman who hates the heat almost having to uproot her whole life and move to Florida? That would have been an unbelievably dirty trick for life to play on her.” She crunched ice chips thoughtfully.
I was frankly amazed. “With everything that’s been going on with you, I’m impressed that you even noticed my little problems,” I told her.
Her smile was sympathetic. “Problems are never little when they’re yours, are they? Anyway, it seems to me that the great prankster in the sky has been fairly even handed with you gals. If I remember correctly, you have some sweet treats waitin’ at home for you.”
That made us both smile until we remembered May didn’t have a loving husband waiting at home for her these days.
“Do you still miss Uncle Doug?” Margo asked. She put her hand over May’s where it rested on the table.
“Every day for the rest of my life,” she said simply. Then she grinned, refusing to spoil the party. “Which doesn’t mean I’ve stopped appreciatin’ the finer things in life. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go over there and appreciate the George Clooney lookalike by the punch table.” She got to her feet.
“You’re shameless, May,” chided Margo. “That man is totally spoken for.”
“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist. The freedom to flirt with handsome young men is one of the great pleasures of a woman’s advancin’ years. I can pinch cheeks and pat behinds from one end of the day to the other without rufflin’ a feather. The wives and girlfriends simply look on with amused tolerance, and the men actually enjoy it. It’s all perfectly harmless in a way it wouldn’t have been twenty years ago. You’ll find out.” She grinned and added thoughtfully, “Of course, that’s in my persona as a mystery writer. The people who know about my alternative line of work might feel differently about it.” She giggled and headed toward the group of soon-to-be acquaintances, her punch cup held high.
We blinked after her, a little stunned and a lot charmed by this relative of Margo who clearly had a lot to teach us.
“Just when you think you know someone,” Margo murmured. She looked down at her empty glass. “Time for a refill.”
“More sparkling water and lime?” I questioned.
“Why, no. I believe I’ll give that spiked punch we’re not supposed to know about a whirl. Do you think the hunky waiter over by the bar might like to dance?” She wiggled her eyebrows and stared at the young man in question. His snug-fitting gray trousers as he bent over to lift a case of sparkling water out of the cooler were attention worthy.
“Seriously?” I asked her.
“No,” Margo admitted, “I’m just window shoppin’.”
“Down, girl. You’re years from being able to get away with an Aunt May maneuver,” I reminded her.
“That’s true, isn’t it?” Margo smiled to herself, pleased with the knowledge. “I wonder how poor Strutter is doin’ with all of her trick-or-treaters?”
“I’m sure she and J.D. are having a fine time, especially since Charlie and Duane volunteered to take Olivia out to make the rounds this year. Strutter never liked that part, she told me, or having to weed out the kids’ haul to make sure there weren’t any razor blades or other ghastly surprises hidden in the candy.” I shuddered. “My biggest problem was doling out the sugary stuff after Halloween in digestible portions.”
“How did you manage it?”
“When they got back from trick-or-treating, they had to dump every last bit of candy into a big bowl. I kept it on top of the refrigerator and parceled it out from there. What they didn’t know was that I hid a big handful of it in my purse every day and pawned it off on the people at work.”
Margo made a face. “Sugar, you are kiddin’ yourself if you believe they really didn’t know about that. Kids know everything. What you didn’t know was that every day, they probably stood on kitchen chairs and helped themselves to fistfuls of candy, which they hid in their backpacks.”
I thought about it, remembering how quickly all that candy had disappeared years ago. “Huh, you’re probably right.”
Margo patted my arm. “It’s okay, mom. You tried, but the little devils usually find a way to outsmart parents when it comes to candy.”
“How did May dare to leave her house unattended on this risky prank night?”
“I wondered that, too, but May said she’s got it covered. She just turned on the front lights and left a big ol’ box of candy on the porch with a sign invitin’ the kids to help themselves on the honor system. They mostly go around with their parents these days, so she didn’t think she’d get ripped off. Besides, Carla and the other neighbors are on the alert.”
“That should do it,” I agreed.
As the party continued in full swing, Isabelle slipped out of the dining room and into the hall of the administration building, then let herself into her office for what would be the last time. “I’ll just be a minute, George,” she reassured the custodian on duty. “I dropped an earring somewhere and thought I’d take a look,” she fibbed.
She walked to the big back window and gazed at the familiar scene. On Monday she would start yet another new job, but the feeling of dread that had accompanied such a thought in the past was absent. This job would be a success in every sense of the word, she just knew it. May would show her how to do all the new things she would have to learn, and she thoroughly enjoyed the prospect of a challenge. Best of all, she had something to teach May in return, something that would be valued and appreciated.
A feeling of well-being overcame her, and it wasn’t entirely due to the vodka-spiked punch she held in a plastic cup. She gazed at the moon-drenched lawn outside her office window, sloping down to the community garden, now tidied for the winter, and attempted to identify this new and quite wonderful sensation. Maybe heirloom tomatoes would be welcome in the vegetable plot, she thought, like the ones the Barefoot Contessa always made look so luscious on her TV cooking show. Isabelle had long wanted to try those, and the new owners of Comstock Ferre in Old Wethersfield specialized in heirloom vegetable seeds. She would look into it, she decided.
It came to her that she was looking forward with pleasure. No longer filled with ennui, she would be happy to get up in the morning and see what the day might hold. She was allowing for the possibility of joy in the seasons ahead. It was a new and heady sensation, and Isabelle savored it.
“Find what you were looking for, Ms. Marchand?” The congenial custodian stuck his head in the door.
“I did, George, thank you. I was very lucky.” She took a quick look around and straightened the mirror on the file cabinet one last time. “I am very lucky,” she amended and dazzled him with an unaccustomed smile before hurrying back to the dining room
and her new friends.
Meet Author Judith K. Ivie
A lifelong Connecticut resident, Judith Ivie has worked in public relations, advertising, sales promotion and the international tradeshow industry. She has also assisted several top executives in corporate and nonprofit settings.
Along the way, Judi authored three nonfiction books, as well as numerous articles and essays. In 2006 she broadened her repertoire to include fiction, and the popular Kate Lawrence mystery series, set in historic Wethersfield, Connecticut, was launched. All are published by Mainly Murder Press in trade paperback, and all are available as e-books and audio books at a variety of online sites.
Whatever the genre, she strives to provide lively, entertaining reading that takes her readers away from their work and worries for a few hours, stimulates thought on a variety of contemporary issues and gives them a laugh along the way.
Learn more about Judi and her Kate Lawrence Mysteries at www.JudithIvie.com or contact her at [email protected].
Sample another great mystery in the
Kate Lawrence series.
A Skeleton in the Closet
by Judith K. Ivie
The long, wet spring had finally turned the corner into a Connecticut summer so glorious that the residents of Old Wethersfield decided among ourselves it had probably been worth the wait. Now that we were into June, the houses on both sides of the Broad Street Green boasted lush lawns and flower beds glowing with every color imaginable under canopies of trees in full leaf. The fields behind the farmhouses showed promising signs of the sweet corn to come, and although I knew very well that I had another month to wait, I was already salivating at the thought of wolfing down a tomato so fresh it was still warm from the sun.
The grand old specimens of oak, elm and beech that anchored the green itself dozed in the morning sunshine, no doubt congratulating themselves on having survived yet another New England winter. Property was proudly maintained here, and nearly every Cape Cod, Colonial, Victorian and farmhouse along our route shone with fresh paint and liberally applied elbow grease.