Sis Boom Bah

by Jane Heller

  There was a moment while we were dancing when Ray drew his face very close to mine. My heart started to pound as I thought he might actually lean over and kiss me, kiss my lips.

  Wait! I wanted to yell out. We’re just friends! Don’t ruin this!

  But I didn’t have to. Ray did lean over but only so he could shout something in my ear. The music was so loud I wouldn’t have heard him otherwise.

  “How do our dreadlocked friends stack up against the bands at your New Yawk clubs?” he asked with a sardonic smile.

  “I didn’t go to a lot of clubs when I lived in New York,” I said. “I spent a lot of time in front of the television set, working.”

  He nodded and wheeled me around the floor, around and around and around. I felt lightheaded, giddy, happy. A dancing fool.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I said as we danced. “How did you get that scar?” Letting go of his hand, I took my index finger and traced the scar, which was about an inch in length, just under his lower lip.

  “I had it tattooed on,” he teased. “I figured if it worked for Harrison Ford when it came to getting girls, it could work for me.”

  “Ha ha. Now, how did you really get it?”

  “I knocked myself in the chin with a two-by-four.”

  “On purpose?”

  “No, silly. It was an accident. It happened while I was renovating the house. But it could just as easily have happened on a job. Occupational hazard.”

  “Well, I think it gives you character.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “Yes. Character and a sort of rugged, lived-in quality.”

  Ray seemed flattered by my remark. He tightened his grip around my waist and rubbed the small of my back. I realized that I was still stroking his face, still tracing the scar with the tip of my finger. Embarrassed that I had initiated such intimate contact, I quickly pulled my hand away.

  “So,” I said, hoping he didn’t pick up on my discomfort. “How about dessert?”

  And then I laughed to myself, recalling that I’d made the same request to Barry Shiller a few nights before. My sister’s always interested in dessert, Sharon had sniped. Judging by her waistline.

  “Maybe you want some birthday cake?” I said. To hell with my waistline. “We could tell them to put candles in it and get the band to play ‘Happy Birthday,’ Reggae-style.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve never been a fan of sitting there like a stooge while a bunch of strangers sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you. I’d rather keep dancing.”

  And so we did.

  It was 11:30 by the time we left the restaurant.

  “Do you want me to follow you home, in case the beer-swilling, shaving-cream vandals have put in another appearance?” Ray asked as we stood in the parking lot, the lights from across the bridge, from the high-rises on Hutchinson Island, twinkling at us.

  “No. I’ll be fine,” I assured him.

  “But you’ll call me if there’s any problem at the cottage, right?”

  I smiled. “By ‘problem,’ you don’t, by any chance, mean a problem with my toilet or my air conditioner or something of that nature?”

  “I guess I’ll never live that day down, will I?”

  “Nope.”

  “So, I repeat, you will call me if you need me? We’ve established that?”

  “I’ll call you, I’ll call you.” I laughed.

  “Good. Thanks for being with me on my birthday,” he said. “It’s not everyone who’s willing to watch you take that next step toward geezerhood.”

  “Thanks for asking me to,” I said.

  Ray reached for me then, encircling me in a bear hug. We held each other for several seconds, swaying to the music as the band played its final number.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I awoke to a fabulously sunny Sunday morning, the sunrise over the ocean a spectacular canvas of red and yellow and pink. I ate breakfast out on the porch and spent a lazy few hours sipping coffee, reading, watching the seagulls. At eleven o’clock, the phone rang. I contemplated not answering it, such was my vegetative state, but I thought better of it, given my mother’s heart attack.

  “Hey, Reggae lady,” said Ray.

  “Hey, yourself,” I said, delighted to hear from him so soon.

  “I’m having dinner with my brother down at Jetty’s in Jupiter tonight, but I was thinking about going to the beach this afternoon.”

  “It is a perfect beach day,” I agreed.

  “And, since you’ve got a beach right in your own backyard, I was hoping I could invite myself over and we could do the beach together.”

  “A great idea. What time do you want to ‘do the beach’?”

  “One. One-thirty. Something like that. I’ll bring us a couple of sandwiches from the Pantry over by the Indian River Plantation. Turkey okay?”

  “Sure, but I could make us lunch, Ray.”

  “Nope. You contribute the beach. I contribute the lunch. See ya.”

  After he hung up, I hurriedly straightened up the cottage, jumped in the shower, and rummaged through my dresser drawer in search of a bathing suit that wouldn’t make me look like a beached whale. Actually, I had lost a few pounds since leaving New York, and my figure reflected that. I wasn’t exactly a waif, but I wasn’t a whale either.

  With an hour to go before Ray arrived, I remembered that it had been his birthday the day before. Deciding I wanted to buy him a present, I hopped into the Pontiac and drove over to The Gate, a shop in Sewall’s Point that sells unusually appealing home accessories and gifts—virtually something for everybody.

  Relieved to find the store open on a Sunday, I went inside and browsed, trying to come up with just the right gift for Ray. We hadn’t known each other that long, so I didn’t want to spend an extravagant amount of money. And we were friends, not lovers, so I didn’t want to buy anything ultra-romantic. I was in the market for a gift that would be utilitarian yet whimsical, good-looking yet not too frou-frou, stylish yet classic—like Ray’s motorcycle, like Ray’s house, like Ray himself.

  I knew the minute I spotted the small brass weather vane that I had lit on the perfect present. It was an old piece, or so it appeared, the brass a deep, rich antique color as opposed to a shiny gold, the rods pointing north, south, east, and west each a little distressed, a little dinged, the wind arrow fashioned in the shape of a tiny sailboat. It was a stunning item that anyone would be proud to display. I could easily picture Ray placing it in his living room, on one of his handsome built-in bookcases.

  Yes, he’ll love this, I thought as I paid the saleswoman. She wrapped it, I scribbled “Happy 45th Birthday” on a gift card, and when the transaction was complete, I rushed back to the cottage.

  Ray arrived at one-thirty, bearing gifts of his own: turkey sandwiches, a couple of bags of chips, a six-pack of Pepsi, and two large beach towels.

  “Hubba hubba,” he said when he walked in the door and saw me in my bathing suit—a black one-piece number that really did hide a multitude of sins.

  “You don’t look so bad yourself,” I said. He was wearing light blue swimming trunks, flip-flops, and no shirt. I’ll be honest here: I’ve never been big on men with hairy chests, but Ray’s was definitely not a liability. Yes, his body hair was so thick it was more like fur, but with his broad shoulders, flat stomach, and muscular arms, the total package was extremely attractive, and my overriding feeling when I took him in was, this guy is adorable. And so I blurted out the question that had been on my mind ever since he’d told me about Beth. “Why haven’t you remarried, Ray?”

  He was clearly taken aback. “Where’d that come from?”

  “I don’t know. I was wondering, I guess. It’s been six years since Beth died. That’s a long time to go it alone.”

  “Look who’s talking,” he said. “You’ve never been married, not even once.”

  “You sound like my sister.”

  “I didn’t mean it as a criticism.”

  “It sou
nded like one. No, I haven’t been married, but I was thinking about you, about the fact that you had a successful marriage but not a remarriage. I read somewhere that men who are happily married tend to remarry fairly quickly after their spouse dies. And yet you’ve stayed single. You don’t even date, except when your friend at work fixes you up. Why is that, Ray? Are you afraid of getting involved again? Afraid that if you let yourself love another woman you’ll lose her too?”

  Ray scratched his head. “I could have sworn I came over here to go to the beach, not to be psychoanalyzed. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to get out there before it starts raining.”

  “It’s not going to rain, Ray. This is the sunniest day we’ve had since I moved here.”

  “Great. Let’s enjoy it instead of standing here picking apart my love life.”

  “You’re annoyed.”

  “Sort of.”

  “Then this is our first fight.”

  “I don’t want to fight with you, Deborah. You’re my friend.”

  “Am I?” It seemed odd that he could be so buddy-buddy with me one minute and so hands-off the next. Was he just protective of his emotions or did he have something to hide?

  “You know you are,” he said. “Sorry I barked at you.”

  “You’ll be even sorrier when you open this.” I handed him the gift-wrapped box.

  “Hey. What is it?” He held it next to his ear and shook it.

  “Only one way to find out.”

  He read the card, then tore off the wrapping paper and opened the box. His eyes widened as he lifted the weather vane out and brought it up to the light. “It’s beautiful—really sharp-looking, Deborah. But you didn’t have to buy me a birthday present.”

  “I wanted to. Is that all right or do you get as weird when people buy you birthday presents as you do when they ask you to reveal your innermost feelings?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Ray?” I pressed him.

  “I really do love the weather vane,” he said. “There. I’ve just revealed an innermost feeling.”

  I sighed. “Is this a man thing—to shut people out?”

  “I don’t know. Is it a woman thing—to nag?”

  “Why don’t we go to the beach.”

  “An excellent idea.”

  I made sure to keep the conversation light for the rest of the afternoon. Not that we talked all that much. We ate lunch and soaked up the sun and watched the other beachgoers, and I went combing the sand for shells while Ray went swimming in the ocean. At four o’clock he collected his towels and his weather vane and said he was going home to shower and change for dinner with his brother.

  “I’m crazy about my present,” he told me as he was getting into his car.

  “Where are you going to put it?” I asked.

  “I was thinking about the living room, on the bookcase.”

  “I pictured it there too.”

  “Thanks again.” He gave me a quick hug and was off. I sensed that what had happened between us earlier was still upsetting him. I hoped not. I didn’t want anything—particularly anything I did or said—to drive a wedge between us.

  After he left, I cleaned myself up and was about to head over to my mother’s for the evening when Helen called.

  “How’s the weather in New York?” I needled her, having read that Manhattan had been blanketed by its third big snowstorm of the winter.

  “Rotten,” said Helen. “I suppose it’s gorgeous there.”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Well, I’m calling to tell you I’ve made contact with that nut-job boss of yours from the Hysterical Society, Melinda Carr.”

  “I really appreciate it, Helen. When’s she flying up for the taping?”

  “In a couple of weeks. By the way, does she always talk like she just stepped out of a dictionary?”

  “I’m afraid so. She’s a little stiff, but you’ll take good care of her, won’t you, Helen?”

  “Sure.”

  I asked her how the show was going and she was full of gossip as usual. The only interesting tidbit, as far as I was concerned, was that Philip and the ex-Harlequin editor had broken up, that the breakup had been ugly, and that Philip—through his agent—was rumored to be making overtures to Days of Our Lives.

  “Listen, Helen. Before I let you run off, I want to talk to you about the murder down here, the one I told you about.”

  “Oh, right. Are the police still harassing you?”

  “No, it’s not that. I just wish I could figure out who did kill Jeffrey. Solving this thing has become an obsession with me. Which is where you come in.”

  “Me? How?”

  “You’ve been writing for the soaps a long time. Longer than I did.”

  “Too long.”

  “And in all those years, you’ve written hundreds of storylines revolving around a murder, the murder of a man, specifically.”

  “So?”

  “So which character generally has the motive for his murder? In other words, who turns out to be his killer most often?”

  “I don’t know about ‘most often,’ because I’ve never sat down and actually done a study. There’ve been way too many murders for that.”

  “Okay. Then, off the top of your head, give me some examples of characters who’ve ended up being the guy’s murderer.”

  “Well, there’s the wronged woman.”

  “Swell. Jeffrey wronged practically every woman in town.”

  “There’s the wronged son or daughter.”

  “Nope. Jeffrey didn’t have any children.”

  “There’s the wronged space alien.”

  “Helen.”

  “Don’t tell me you forgot that storyline, Deborah. Our ratings went through the roof.”

  “I’m serious about this. I want realistic scenarios.”

  She thought for a minute. “There’s the wronged business associate.”

  “The wronged business associate,” I mused.

  “Yeah, you remember. We had that storyline two or three years ago where George Latham, Mr. Social Register, was secretly dealing in something illegal—dope, prostitution, whatever. He was about to double-cross Billy Olson, the punk he was in the illegal business with, but Billy bumped him off and went into hiding and wasn’t caught until Sweeps Week. Of course, even though George was dead, technically, we brought his character back a month later—as a ghost—so he could haunt Billy in prison and seduce Billy’s wife.”

  “It’s coming back to me now.”

  “Do you think it could help you with your murder?”

  “Who knows? I haven’t really delved into the business aspect of Jeffrey’s life, other than to question the nurse who ran his office and one of the doctors who worked in his practice.”

  “Maybe you should delve into it,” she urged.

  “The wronged business associate, huh?”

  “The wronged business associate,” she confirmed.

  “I can’t see it somehow. Not in this case.”

  “Why? You said your guy was a womanizer.”

  “Yes, but he had a squeaky clean reputation, professionally.”

  “Deborah, when you first told me about this doctor, you said he was two-timing you with your sister. If he was a double-crosser in his personal life, he could have been a double-crosser in his professional life. True?”

  “True. It’s just that Stuart is such a small town. If Jeffrey was involved in some sort of illegal business dealing and he was double-crossing his partner in crime, everybody around here would have heard about it. Even I would have heard about it.”

  “Maybe you did hear about it but you weren’t paying attention.”

  “Helen. I may be a little dense sometimes, but I’m not stupid.”

  “Who said you were? Look, you wear glasses, right?”

  “Yes. For reading. But what does that have to—”

  “Haven’t you ever driven yourself crazy looking for your glasses? You’re positive that you’v
e lost them, so you go through every drawer, every handbag, every pocket, and you still can’t find them, right? And then, what do you know: they’re on your face, exactly where they’re supposed to be. Do you get what I’m saying, Deborah?”

  “You’re saying that the key to solving the murder is in front of my face.”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  My mother and I went out for dinner, to the Flagler Grill in downtown Stuart—the same restaurant Jeffrey had mentioned the very first time he’d asked me out. The Flagler is one of the town’s most popular eateries and boasts terrific food in a relaxed yet sophisticated setting. I was delighted that my mother had suggested it.

  “You’re really back to your old self,” I commented after we were seated. She looked lovely in a blue silk blouse that matched her eyes.

  “I’m better than my old self,” she said. “I told Rose she doesn’t have to come twice a week anymore, and I told Sharon she doesn’t have to drive up every Wednesday, and now I’m telling you not to feel you have to babysit me on weekends, dear. I’m over the hump.”

  “Maybe I like being with you on weekends, Mom.”

  “Yes, but I’m sure you’d rather be with that young man you went out with last night, the one who works for the county.”

  “Ray and I are just friends. We’re not dating.”

  “Oh. Well, apropos of dating, the gentleman who volunteers at the House of Refuge called me this morning.”

  “Fred?”

  She nodded shyly. “He said you were a sweet girl and sweet girls usually have sweet mothers. He invited me to go to the movies next week.”

  “Mom! That’s great!”

  She shrugged. “We’ll see. In all these years, I’ve never bothered with other men; I loved your father and that was that. But you can do one of two things after you’ve had a heart attack. You can either crawl in a hole and wait to die, or you can decide you’re going to live the rest of your life to the fullest. So I told this Fred I’d have a date with him. At my age, can you imagine?”

  “What have you got to lose?” I said, thinking I was the one who would lose if they hit it off, my visions of Fred’s four daughters threatening to spoil my appetite.