by Nic Saint
To Bianca’s critical gaze, he looked just the kind of wastrel she’d been half expecting to find.
“Rick Dawson?” she asked, just to be on the safe side. When he nodded, she stepped into the house, not waiting for an invitation, and came straight to the point. “I’ve heard you’ve been seeing my daughter Felicity?”
The confused and slightly annoyed expression lifted from his face, and was replaced by one of jovial surprise. “Mrs. Bell? How nice of you to drop by.”
This display of cordiality did little to appease her. She’d been on the receiving end of male charm before, and she was quite immune to it. “That’s all right. Now tell me: what are your intentions with my daughter, young man?”
If Rick was surprised at her abruptness, he didn’t show it. Reporters, used to working in the trenches of life, and hardened by interviewing dictators, terrorists and other scum of the earth, aren’t easily thrown, not even by curvy women with a scowl, their hair covered in flour. To him, she looked exactly what she was: a baker’s wife, and since she wasn’t carrying a rolling pin, he wasn’t worried.
As it was, he’d done some serious thinking about Felicity since their pleasant drive that morning, and had come to the conclusion that she was just what the doctor ordered by way of a woman to spend the rest of his life with. Unlike the first impression he’d had of her, she was kind-hearted, cheerful and intelligent, and extremely attractive to boot. The fact that from time to time she enjoyed throwing frying pans at his head, pelt him with baby peas or bombard him with eggs, didn’t bother him in the least. It was merely a testament to the kind of boisterous spirit he admired in a girl. And since they’d cleared up that whole misunderstanding about working for his father, he’d had a complete change of heart.
“My intentions are strictly honorable, Mrs. Bell.” And he meant it.
Bianca, whom thirty years at the counter of Bell’s Bakery & Tea Room had turned into a great judge of character, saw that the sparkle in this man’s eye wasn’t merely the kind of lustful gaze she’d seen in so many a male. If she wasn’t mistaken, and she rarely was, this was love. In other words, the real deal.
“You like my daughter, don’t you?” she asked, wanting there to be no misunderstanding.
“I like her very much,” he said fervently. “In fact we’re having dinner tonight, and, and, and…” He merely grinned like an ape for a moment, then added, “I really hope I have your blessing, Mrs. Bell.”
Though she found it a little premature to be giving blessings at this stage of the proceedings, she had to admit this man wasn’t the monster she’d feared. Still, before allowing this thing to play out, she needed clarification on an important point. “You’re a reporter?”
“Yes, I am,” he admitted. “I work—used to work—for the New York Chronicle.”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t like the Chronicle. Full of sex and sleaze.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I was let go.”
“So you’re an unemployed ex-tabloid reporter.”
The indictment, though correct, stung, and he was quick to correct it. “I never wrote for page six if that’s what troubles you. And the reason I was let go was because I insisted on writing an exposé on Chazz Falcone, denouncing his corruption and shady business dealings. When he found out, he put pressure on the editor to nix the story, and when I refused, I was given the boot.”
The story affected Bianca powerfully. In her opinion, there was a big difference between a sleazy reporter being canned and an investigative journalist getting kicked to the curb because of his refusal to budge on a point of principle. She applauded him for it. “I always thought Chazz Falcone was a scoundrel,” she said, losing some of her frostiness. “He owns the house next door, Casa di Vitae.”
“I know. I spent many a summer down here as a boy.”
Her face lit up. She now saw all. “As a boy… Don’t tell me that you’re little Rickie who used to come into the bakery every day asking if he could scoop out the cake pans!”
Rick grinned. “That was me. I hope I didn’t give you too much trouble.”
“You certainly did not!” she cried, her face suddenly morphing into a picture of delight. “Little Rickie Falcone. Of course! You were crazy about my husband’s cake batter. Never could get enough.” She clucked her tongue. “Pity Fee is too young to remember. She was just a little girl.”
“A beautiful girl, I’ll bet.”
“Oh, she was. She was indeed.” She heaved a sigh of relief. “I should have made the connection when Fee mentioned you. Dawson is your mother’s name, isn’t it?”
“It is.” A look of devotion came into Rick’s eyes. “Felicity mentioned me?”
“Only in passing.”
Rick’s face fell. “Oh.”
“She was pressed for time. Running out the door.”
He perked up again. “Oh.”
“Well then.” She clasped her hands together. “This is most gratifying. And all I can say is, any time you feel like cleaning out Pete’s cake pans, don’t hesitate to drop by, young man. Always delighted.”
Like Bianca, Rick’s face was now wreathed in smiles. A happy acquaintance had been struck, and he assured his future mother-in-law—though he refrained from addressing her like that—he would be happy to take up his boyhood hobby of scooping out cake batter again.
And he was waving her goodbye as she drove off in her Mini Cooper, when he saw another visitor pull up the driveway. To his horror, Bomer had made good on his promise, and was grinning cheerily from his Porsche as the car rolled to a stop.
“Here I am, Rickie! Here I am!”
“So I can see,” he said with barely concealed horror. He watched on as a van followed in his friend’s wake, and he saw to his dismay that ‘Fronk & Frank—Premium Party Planning Solution’, had arrived.
“Oh, God,” he groaned, and reached for his cell. Though he’d hoped Bomer would be all idle words as usual, apparently that tireless party animal really had returned to his old ways, and intended to make good on his promise to party till he dropped.
“Felicity? Rick. About that dinner…”
Chapter 38
Felicity stared down at the mortal remains of the cat she’d adored for about as long as she could remember. Granted, Gaston had been of considerable age—he was probably closer to twenty than ten—but he’d still been so full of joie de vivre that he could have been mistaken for a much younger cat. The way he tucked into his dinner, with so much gusto…
Just in that moment, Alice returned, and she turned on her friend with justifiable pique.
“Gaston died and you didn’t even bother to tell me?”
Alice frowned. “What are you talking about? Gaston is perfectly fine. Oh!” Dumbly, she stared at the dead cat. “This can’t be right.”
“Are you telling me you didn’t put him there?”
“Of course not. Do you really think I would put a dead cat in Uncle Charlie’s freezer? He’d embalm me alive if he knew.”
“Then who did?”
Alice approached the animal for a closer investigation, then wrinkled up her nose. “Something is seriously wrong here.”
“I’ll bet it is. Someone has smuggled Gaston out of the house, killed the poor little creature, then dumped him here.”
“No, what I mean to say is…” She pointed to the animal’s nose. “This isn’t Gaston.”
Felicity frowned. She hadn’t really dared take a closer look but now she did, and found that even though this cat looked like her cat he was missing the telltale twin freckles that were a dead giveaway for Gaston. And as she bent down, she found that not only was this cat not Gaston, he or she wasn’t alone. Four more cats were tucked away in the drawer.
“Oh, my God,” breathed Alice, clutching a hand to her heart. “Who would do such a thing?”
“Your uncle…has he gone mad or something?”
Alice shook her head. “Those poor creatures.”
Felicity brought a hand
to her brow, trying to regain her composure. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. For all we know, this is simply one of your uncle’s contracts. Somebody’s cats died, and they’ve asked him to take care of the burial.”
“If he had, he would have told me about it. Besides, I thought he was running a strictly human operation here. I don’t even think he’s allowed to mess around with animals. Don’t you need some special license or something?”
“I just hope he’s simply burying them, not some sick cat killer on the prowl.”
Both women shivered at the thought of Uncle Charlie running around at night, knocking off cats and stuffing them into a gunny sack, all the while laughing maniacally.
“I knew he was a bit…eccentric, but I never thought he was homicidal.”
“I don’t think homicidal is the right word,” mused Felicity.
“I think we should call Virgil.”
“And throw your uncle to the wolves? I think we should give him a chance to explain first.”
“Right. Of course.”
“As soon as he returns from his congress, we’ll talk to him,” Felicity suggested.
“And if he can’t come up with a reasonable explanation, we’ll hand him over to the proper authorities,” added Alice, who was a stickler for law and order.
“Deal.”
Felicity returned to her seat, though she didn’t really feel like prepping for her dinner date after the horrific discovery they just made. When her phone rang and she saw that it was Rick, she was glad of the opportunity to tell him what had just happened. She hoped the reporter in him would be able to come up with an explanation. And she was just about to launch into the mystery of the dead cats when he mentioned the calamity that had befallen him.
She agreed that it would be hard to organize an intimate dinner while Bomer Calypso threw one of his parties. Nor could she blame him for not wanting to have dinner in town while Jerry and Johnny were still on the lookout.
Then, suddenly, she had a brilliant idea. “Why don’t we have dinner at my place? I could cook, Alice could make herself scarce, and I will make sure to refuse all Jerrys and Johnnys, with or without fake NYPD badges.” She threw her friend a pleading look, and got a wide grin and two thumbs up in return.
When she finally disconnected, an intimate candlelight dinner was in the bag, and she’d all but forgotten about the cat horror.
She threw up her arms in a silent hurrah, then noticed the one armpit still fully covered in fur, and gave Alice another pleading look.
Alice, with customary briskness, picked up the Gillette, and grunted, “Lather up!”
Chapter 39
The dismay Rick had felt when he saw Bomer striding up to the house, fully intent on filling it with the foulest representatives of New York’s club crowd, had dissipated by the time he ended his conversation with Felicity. In fact he felt so buoyed that he even clapped Bomer on the back while the latter was inspecting the living room, loudly instructing Fronk and Frank to ‘throw out all this garbage and festoon the place with garlands from baseboard to molding.’
“You seem to feel a lot better,” Bomer said, when he caught his friend’s eye.
“While you are celebrating the end of your engagement, I’m about to celebrate the beginning of mine,” he said with a wide smile. If all went according to plan, he felt, and dinner proved a mere prelude to wonderful things to come, he wouldn’t be surprised if tonight was the night he kissed Felicity for the very first time.
Bomer eyed him with concern. “Don’t do it, buddy. Don’t even think about it.”
“Eh? What? Think what about what?”
He placed a brotherly arm around Rick’s shoulder. “Don’t get engaged. It’s not worth it. And this comes from a man with experience in such matters.”
“But I love this woman,” Rick said.
“That’s how it all starts, and next thing you know she’s telling you to lose twenty pounds, quit drinking, stop inviting your friends over for game night, and encouraging you to make something of yourself by applying yourself in your father’s company. Did I tell you that it was Charlene who talked father into cutting off my allowance and coercing me to start work? No? I thought so. Before I met your sister—”
“Half-sister.”
“Whatever. Before I met Charlene life was great, life was wonderful, life was a long string of happiness. Next thing I know, father is putting the squeeze on me and accusing me of being a wastrel and a disgrace to the family name. I’m asking you, is that the way to treat a beloved son?”
“Felicity isn’t like that. She would never talk my father into setting me up at the firm.”
“Apples and oranges, brother Rick.”
“I really hate it when you call me that.”
“Even if this—Felicity is what you call her?”
“The most beautiful name in the world for the most beautiful girl in the world.”
“Even if this Felicity asked your old man to give you a job, he wouldn’t. My old man? He’s been dying to put me to work. Only needed the teensiest tiniest excuse, which Charlene promptly decided to give him. I’m telling you, don’t do it.”
“And I’m telling you that not all women are like my sister.”
“Half-sister.”
“Whatever. Felicity would never curtail my freedom. She has the kindest heart—”
“Isn’t she the one who beaned you with a skillet?”
“That was a simple misunderstanding.”
“Watch your back, buddy, is all I’m saying.” He gave him a pointed look. “Watch your back like a hawk.”
For a moment Rick wondered how he could watch his back—it seemed physically impossible, even to one as limber as himself—but then decided to let it go. It was clear to him that his friend was suffering from extreme emotions, and nothing he said or did would alter his opinion that marriage was just about the worst disaster that could befall a man. Instead, he sauntered up the stairs with a spring in his step, picked up his briefcase from the bed where he’d placed it, sauntered down again and then out the back door to the fishing lodge which was located at the bottom of the garden, right on the shoreline. Until he was due at Felicity’s, he would put in a few hours of honest work.
He entered the small wooden shack, and found it just about the same as it had been many summers before, when he used to spend countless hours down here with Bomer playing pirate’s cave or civil war. Grover Calypso, an avid fisherman, had kept the place in pristine condition, and he looked with appreciative contentment at the sturdy table, the easy chair placed next to it, and the small television attached to the opposite wall. He eyed the fishing rods, neatly racked up, and had to admit it brought back fond memories of bygone summers.
Then he plunked himself down in the chair, took his laptop from his briefcase, and fired it up. He would make Felicity proud by writing the best exposé on a billionaire crook ever written. Within minutes, he was deeply engrossed in his text, and wasn’t even aware of prying eyes studying him through the window.
Chapter 40
Alice stared at the cats. Felicity had come and gone, and after a great deal of work, was looking her level best, even if Alice said so herself, which she had, and Felicity had readily agreed. They’d tamed her hair, filed her nails, plucked her eyebrows, and generally done as complete a makeover as humanly possible in the time frame they had.
But now that all the excitement had settled, and Felicity had run off to prepare Rick a meal he would never forget, she was wondering about those cats again. She scratched her short blond hair as she thought about what could possibly have induced her uncle to deposit five dead cats in a place usually reserved for dead humans. She wrinkled up her nose in a gesture of disapproval, and briefly considered giving him a call. He’d left his number ‘in case of emergency’, putting emphasis on the last word, and she wondered if this would fit into his definition of the term.
Perhaps not, she decided. While it was certainly unusual to store dead cats in a
mortuary, it didn’t constitute a threat to anyone, and neither did she need the space they took up. While death works in mysterious ways, it does seem to follow the seasons. This being April, there was a dearth in deaths, and plenty of room in Charlie’s freezers.
Poor creatures, she thought. They didn’t even look sick or anything.
She wandered over to the showroom, and was just about to flip the card that indicated Charlie’s Funeral Delight was now closed for business, when she noticed a strange figure lurking outside. It was a man of bedraggled aspect, who seemed to waver whether to step inside or not. Since hers was essentially a kind heart, she opened the door and asked, “Can I help you, sir?”
The man whirled around, startled, and stared at her for a beat. She saw that his clothes were tattered and torn, his face lined and haggard, and his bushy beard unkempt. “I’m, erm…” he began, then seemed to draw courage from Alice’s cheerful demeanor, and added, “it’s just that I’m, ah—I was wondering if I may use the bathroom.”
Alice, who’d once been a girl scout, and had kept a good deed diary, instantly invited him in. “Restroom is to the left, past the oak caskets.”
The man merely nodded, and started off in the direction indicated. Alice thought that his eyes, which were red-rimmed and shifty, looked just as curious as the man himself. Poor soul. Though she’d never really seen a beggar or homeless person in Happy Bays, she’d seen plenty of them in New York, and felt for them.
Alice flipped the sign on the door from Open to Closed, locked the door, and pottered about, waiting for her late customer to return from his errand. Business had been slow today, and she’d finished all the paperwork. Now all that was left to do was go home, assist Felicity in preparing the meal of a lifetime, and then make herself scarce by going to see a movie, and fritter away the remaining hours at Jack’s Joint, her favorite hangout.
And she’d just planned out her evening in broad strokes, when the man came shuffling back from the lavatory. There was a noticeable difference in his demeanor, as he appeared to have lost his hesitant gait, and walked straight up to her.