by Elise Sax
Sandy smiled wide. “I’m so glad you said that! We can do a seven-layer cake, each layer a different cake.”
“Perfect,” I said, overjoyed. “Except for the raspberry.”
“Except for the raspberry,” she agreed.
“This was fun. Thank you,” I told my grandmother and gave her a hug.
“All of this cake was a wonderful appetizer. I’ll order us some ribs and macaroni and cheese for dessert,” she said.
Spencer cleared the dishes and gave her a kiss on her head. “You’re the best, Zelda,” he said.
After dinner, Spencer and I went upstairs. I had almost forgotten about my father during the cake tasting, but it all came flooding back to me during the ribs. I was so worried that I was going to spill the beans at the table that I kept feeding my face. Rib after rib went into my mouth, so that the words wouldn’t escape. As soon as possible, I was going to have to find the truth out about my father, or there was no way I could hold back from telling my grandmother that I believed my father had faked his death.
Spencer kept his hand on my lower back while we walked upstairs. The secret was too much for me to keep. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut any longer, and there weren’t any more ribs to stuff in them. Grandma was finally out of earshot, and I couldn’t wait to tell Spencer about my father.
“You know,” I started.
“Yes,” he said, as we reached the second floor. “I know. I feel it, too. If I had known that commitment and monogamy were so powerful, I would have gotten married years ago.”
“You didn’t know me years ago.”
“What’s your point, Pinky?”
“I’m going to let that slide.”
“Seriously, I’m pretty overwhelmed with the house and the wedding, and the reality that we’re going to be together forever. Overwhelmed in a good way,” he pointed out, as we walked into my bedroom. He pulled me in close and rested his forehead on mine. “And I wanted to let you know how happy I am that the house and the wedding are now your number one priority. No murder investigations. No wreaking havoc on the town or sticking your nose in with the DICK nightmare. No tilting at windmills. Just focusing on us. Thank you, Pinky. It means a lot to me. I love you.”
Shit.
He was so earnest and romantic that I didn’t have the heart to tell him about my father, that I had another windmill to tilt at, and that I was literally hunting for a ghost. I didn’t want to let Spencer down. So, I would have to keep my father thing to myself, find out the truth, and then tell Spencer afterward, all the while pretending to prioritize couch shopping and flower girl dresses.
Being in a committed relationship was a minefield.
After Spencer and I romped in the hay for two hours and then romped in the shower, he fell dead asleep, and I snuck out of bed to call Lucy.
She picked up on the first ring, and I told her about my plan to get to the bottom of my father’s so-called death. She was totally on board.
“The cock crows at midnight,” she whispered into the phone when I was done telling her the plan. “Roger, over and out. Second star to the right and straight on ‘til morning.”
I didn’t sleep a wink. About an hour before sunrise, I rolled out of bed and landed with a soft thud onto the floor. From there, I crawled out of the room and shut the door with a click. I had stashed my clothes in the hallway when Spencer had fallen asleep…black yoga pants, a black sweatshirt, and white Keds because I didn’t have black sneakers.
Miraculously, I managed to drive away without waking my grandmother or Spencer. Lucy was waiting for me on the sidewalk outside of her new house, which looked a lot like Hearst Castle. Lucy was wearing black, too. I stopped the car, and she opened the door, slipping into the front seat and dragging a large shovel in with her.
“What’s the shovel for?” I asked.
“You know,” she said, breathlessly.
I took a good, hard look at the shovel. “We’re not going to do you know,” I insisted.
“It’s a good shovel. I got it at Neiman Marcus.”
“What do you think we’re doing?” I asked, even though I already knew what she thought.
“We’re going to prove that your daddy isn’t dead, darlin’.”
“Yes, that true, but we’re not going to use a shovel.”
Lucy adjusted her black ski cap on her head. “Then, how are we going to dig him up? You have a machine? Did you bribe a couple gravediggers? Clever, Gladie! Very clever.”
“Lucy, we’re not going to dig up my father. It’s my father. I’m already traumatized enough from finding dead people who were total strangers. I’m not going to come face to face with a dead person who’s my father.”
Lucy seemed to think about that for a moment and then nodded her head. “That’s understandable.”
“We’re going to break into the records’ room at the police department and get a DNA sample that way. There should be a box of his bloody clothes, there,” I explained.
“Oh, that’s smart.” She dumped the shovel onto the backseat. “By the way, Bridget said she wanted to come with us. So, pick her up on the way.”
I found Bridget standing on the sidewalk in front of her townhouse. She was wearing a dark muumuu, and she was doing some kind of dance. I stopped the car in front of her, and she got in.
“Thank goodness you called, Lucy,” Bridget said. “The nights are the worst. I can’t wait until I have the baby, and I can finally get some sleep.”
I put the car into drive and drove off toward the Historic District. “What were you doing on the sidewalk?” I asked Bridget.
“Zumba. I heard it was good for starting labor. I still have the farting labor, but the real labor is eluding me.” As proof, she farted. “I’m a monster. I fart. I have hemorrhoids. My feet have grown two sizes. I don’t buy into gender normative stereotypes of women being dainty little females, but…but…but…I want to be pretty.”
She sniffed and started to weep but stopped after a couple seconds. “Tea Time is open,” she announced, excitedly, hopping up and down in her seat and pointing as we drove near the tea shop. “Let’s get me some coffee.”
“Aren’t pregnant women supposed to stay away from coffee, darlin’?” Lucy asked.
“I don’t give a shit. I haven’t had caffeine in months, and maybe it’ll jolt the baby out of my pelvis.”
I didn’t want to stop. It was almost sunrise and the chances of getting caught would increase with daylight, but I hadn’t slept all night, and I could go for a free latte before I committed a felony. I made a U-turn and parked in front of Tea Time. I noticed that there was a large DICK poster glued onto every lamppost along Main Street.
We walked into Tea Time, and we were the only customers in the shop. Tea Time used to be a saloon in the late 1800s when Cannes was founded after gold was discovered. There were still a couple of bullet holes in the wall from its Wild West days and the original bar, which was meticulously kept in pristine condition by the owner, an ornery octogenarian named Ruth Fletcher, who loved all things tea and hated all coffee drinkers. I had done a favor for Ruth a few months before, and she awarded me with a car and free lattes for a year.
Ruth’s customer service left a lot to be desired, but she made a kickass latte.
“Not you, again. I’m done taking your shit!” Ruth hollered as we entered. She wielded a broom over her head, like she was starring in a 300 remake, cast entirely of geriatric women in sensible shoes.
She took two steps forward and stopped, squinting at us. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “I thought you were DICK, again.”
There were so many comebacks, I didn’t know where to start.
“Don’t get me started on those DICK people,” Lucy complained. “Who are they to lecture me on decency?”
There was an awkward silence. We had recently found out that Lucy had been a high-priced call girl before she got married a few months before.
“Well, you know what I mean,” Lucy added after a moment.
�
��What’s going on with this DICK thing?” I asked. “I haven’t been around. I haven’t gotten the full rundown.”
“Ruth, I need a coffee,” Bridget interrupted. “Full octane. And give me three chocolate chip scones. On the double, Ruth. I’m not joking. I’m bearing life.”
“Big deal,” Ruth spat at Bridget. “I slept with FDR. When you sleep with FDR, then you can talk to me about bearing life.”
“I’ve grown a human being in my belly!” Bridget yelled, stomping her feet.
“Okay, okay,” I said, stepping in between them. “This is getting ugly. Can’t we just be friends? Don’t let DICK bring you down to their level.”
“Fine,” Ruth grumbled. “I guess I’ve been in a bad mood. I’ve had too much DICK. DICK won’t leave me alone. They’re in here all the time since they showed up in town. If they think I give a shit about decency, they’ve got another thing comin’. Decency hasn’t been alive and well in this country since my Aunt Fanny was in diapers. They want me to rat out kids who’re turning left when they should be turning right. You know what I told them?”
“I have an idea,” I mumbled.
“I told them to stick it where the sun don’t shine.”
“Did you mention that you were the one who stuck the dildos onto the doors next door, so you’re responsible for them invading Cannes to clean up our filthy town?” I asked Ruth.
“Don’t poke the bear, Gladie,” Ruth growled.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
Bridget took the entire platter of scones off the bar and put it on a table, where we sat down. We ordered coffee, much to Ruth’s annoyance. I watched Ruth make our coffee, and it dawned on me that she knew my father and had been around when he had had his accident.
“I’ll get the coffee,” I told Lucy and Bridget, and walked up to Ruth at the bar.
“It’s not ready, yet,” Ruth grumbled.
“That’s fine.” I drew an invisible circle on the counter with my finger and avoided eye contact with her at all costs. “So, you were there when my father had his accident, right?”
Ruth’s head snapped up in my direction. “Where did that question come from?”
“Nowhere. Just curious.”
“I’ve never spoken about that day.” We locked eyes, and I saw tears in hers. I had never seen Ruth cry before. I didn’t even know her tear ducts still worked. My chest got tight, as if there was a little man inside, squeezing it hard.
Guilt. Sympathy. I knew it well. I would have to do without her first-hand account.
“Sorry, Ruth,” I said, took the coffee, and walked back to our table.
“I feel great!” Bridget announced, hopping up and down in the backseat after our trip to Tea Time. “I don’t know why I have so much energy!”
“Maybe because she had three cups of coffee after six months of no caffeine,” Lucy said to me out of the corner of her mouth.
“So, where’re we going?” Bridget asked, still hopping up and down.
“Records room,” I answered. “Sun’s coming up. We’ll have to hide the car a couple blocks away. We’ve been training our whole lives for this, ladies. Don’t let me down.”
We drove through the quiet town to the police station. As far as I knew, there really wasn’t any way to break into the records room. We were going to have to finesse our way in, which was breaking in through lying instead of physical force.
Luckily, Sergeant Fred Lytton had the night shift and was still around for another hour when we showed up, and Fred liked me. I texted him from the back door, where we stood in our black outfits, and I was waiting for him with a large to-go cup filled with hot chocolate and a bag filled with a half dozen rum balls from Tea Time.
The door opened, and Fred gave me a big smile. “Underwear Girl,” he breathed, like I was Princess Grace or some other angelic beauty.
“Hi, Fred. We’ve brought you a morning treat.”
“Oh look at that. You brought me a present. I forgot to get you something. Oh, wait a minute.” He riffled through his pants pocket and pulled out a cellophane-wrapped gumball. “Grape gum. You want?”
“Sure,” I said, taking it.
“Got any more?” Bridget asked, hopping up and down on her heels. The caffeine was working on her like a trip to the bathroom at Studio 54 in 1982.
“That was my last one,” Fred told her. “It was a twelve-gumball night.”
I handed Bridget my gum. “Here. For the baby,” I said. “Hey, Fred,” I continued, giving him all of my attention and possibly batting my eyelids and flipping my hair. “I’m taking the girls on a small tour of the station. All right?”
“Sure, whatever the Chief says, I do.”
I felt terrible lying to Fred. Spencer definitely didn’t say I could take my friends on a tour of the police station before sunrise, and there was no way he would let us run free in the records room. I crossed my fingers behind my back.
“Yep,” I told Fred, looking up at the ceiling.
He turned sideways and let us enter. “Smooth as my grandmother’s chocolate puddin’,” Lucy whispered in my ear as we walked inside. “After this, you might think about robbing banks.”
CHAPTER 4
High Hopes. That’s a song, bubbeleh. It’s about high hopes. Your matches will have high hopes, and sometimes you’ll have to tamper down those high hopes to a low or middle hope and sometimes you’ll have to boost those high hopes to over-the-top high hopes. You understand, dolly? One match might need high hopes in order to muster the enthusiasm required to be a good date. Another match might need lower hopes so that they’re not disappointed when even Clark Gable walks in the room and tells them he loves them. Hope is subjective. Hope varies from one person to another. At least I hope it does.
Lesson 39, Matchmaking advice from your
Grandma Zelda
Fred was delighted to be our tour guide, and no matter how I wracked my brain, I couldn’t figure out how to ditch him and get us down to the records room in order to steal my father’s clothing, so that we could do a DNA test.
“This is my desk,” Fred explained, running his palm over it. “I stand here and talk to people and do paperwork. The place would go down if it weren’t for me at this desk.”
“Very interesting, darlin’,” Lucy said. “Where’s the records room?”
I elbowed her in her side, and she oophed loudly.
“Downstairs,” he explained. “We don’t normally go there during a tour.”
“But this is a VIP tour, darlin’,” Lucy said, like she was at Neiman Marcus, turning her nose up at an off-the-rack collection.
Fred rubbed his chin, and I could practically see the cogs of his brain spinning. He was stuck between wanting to please me and not wanting Spencer to go down on him hard. I felt the familiar wave of guilt again. I didn’t want to get him into trouble, but there was no stopping me from finding out the truth about my father. So, I was about to tell him a big whopper in order to get us down there when Bridget saved me from myself.
“I have to pee,” she said, her voice sounding like a villain from a comic book movie. “Now. Pee. Now!”
“Down the hall,” Fred squeaked, pointing.
Bridget grabbed his arm. “Take me there,” she ordered.
The minute they were gone, Lucy and I jumped into action, making a beeline for the stairwell. “I feel like Kiefer Sutherland, and I’m going to save the world in twenty-four hours, or in this case the three minutes it takes Bridget to pee,” she said, as we rushed downstairs.
I opened the door to the basement, and we were greeted by a chain-link fence, and behind it was a giant area of shelves filled with boxes. “It’s like Raiders of the Lost Ark,” I breathed, pulling out my lock pick set from my purse. I couldn’t sew or cook, but I had taken to lock picking with amazing skill and speed. The padlock to the chain-link fence opened easily, and we walked inside.
“Where on earth do we start?” Lucy asked.
“Let’s look under B for Burge
r.”
But it didn’t take us long to discover that the boxes were organized numerically and not alphabetically. “We could hack the computer system,” Lucy suggested. “If we knew anything about computers.”
We looked at the computer on a small table by the chain-link fence. “Do you know how to turn it on?” I asked Lucy.
“There should be a button.”
We couldn’t find a button, so it was reasonably certain we wouldn’t be able to hack the system to find where my father’s case box was. “Let’s do this old school,” I suggested. “If it’s numerical, then it should be by date. Let’s go backward and find it that way.”
It was a dumb plan. There were a gazillion boxes. I had more of a chance of finding the actual Lost Ark than finding my father’s box. But Lucy was game to search through the private, confidential boxes, so we went back five aisles and opened a random box.
“Sam Dervish, September 2000,” Lucy read from a file inside a box. “Oh my God. I think his toe is in this box. Do you want to see his toe?”
“I’m pretty sure I don’t want to see his toe.”
Reluctantly, she closed the box, and we moved on. “Who would have thought you could lose a toe, making a smoothie?” Lucy wondered aloud, as we searched through boxes. “I never trusted those smoothie people. Why would you turn food into a drink when there are perfectly good drinks? Oh, speaking of lunch and drinks, let’s have Mexican for lunch today with margaritas. With lots of salt. Yum.”
It was good that Lucy’s appetite wasn’t affected by the toe. I had to admit that margaritas sounded good to me, too, even though my stomach was roiling as we got closer to 1992, the year my father died.
“I might have to pee, again,” I heard Bridget say by the entrance to the records room. They had come back. Lucy and I froze, throwing our bodies against the boxes, as if we could hide that way.
“Do you have two bladders?” I heard Fred ask Bridget.
“Of course I don’t. I have one bladder, and one baby sitting on it. It’s not easy creating life, you know. I’m making a person from scratch inside my body.”