Uprooting Ernie (Jane Delaney Mysteries Book 2)

by Pamela Burford

  The sad fact was, even the legitimate press had turned Sophie into a punching bag. Even if she was proved innocent—I mean, when she was proved innocent—it would probably be too late to salvage her local political career. Nina Wallace might very well be our next mayor. The thought made me want to follow Teddy Waterfield’s example and become a well-heeled hermit.

  I said, “You mentioned you were out of state when Ernie was killed?”

  “Boston. Flew there for an info seminar about a franchise opportunity,” he said. “One of those drive-through convenience-store chains. Didn’t work out.”

  What a shock.

  “You know this crap I’m going through now, with that girl detective?” he said. “It’s all Teddy Waterfield’s fault. That crazy old bat convinced herself that Sophie and I killed her son for the money. This was back when everyone else thought he offed himself. I figured that nonsense was ancient history, but whaddaya know? Turns out the guy really was murdered.”

  I played dumb. “What money?”

  “Sophie didn’t tell you about that, eh? Better get over.” An emergency vehicle was coming up fast behind us, whooping and hollering. I moved to the right lane and we watched it race past. He continued, “So Sophie marries the love of her life only to find out he’s a f— he’s gay. I mean, how dense do you have to be not to figure that one out before you start choosing china patterns, am I right?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘dense.’ Maybe too innocent for her own good.” I honked at a driver who’d never heard of checking his blind spot before changing lanes, forcing me to swerve and tap the brakes. This car was responsive, another plus.

  “Okay, whatever,” he said. “I know you two are tight. You gotta stand up for her.”

  Dean fell silent and I gave myself a mental kick in the pants for defending his ex when I’d had him talking. “I love this car, by the way,” I chirped. “You’ve made a sale, Dean.”

  “Now, that’s what I like.” He thumped the dash. “A girl that knows her mind. I can’t tell you how many female customers bust my chops over colors and cup holders.”

  Now that he knew the sale was in the bag, I said, “So if there was money involved like you said, where did it come from? I thought Ernie and Sophie were just scraping by.”

  “The Wicked Witch of Crystal Harbor.”

  “Teddy?” I asked.

  He nodded. “You know she’s loaded, right? I guess you never met her?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Yeah, she’s not what you might call a social butterfly, eh, not since her precious boy died. Consider yourself lucky your paths never crossed. That’s one serious ball-buster. ’Scuse my language.”

  I waved off his apology. “Why mince words? If she’s a ball-buster, she’s a ball-buster.” That’s me, Jane Delaney, your friendly, foulmouthed Death Diva. Anything to keep him talking.

  He chortled. “Ain’t that the truth. You know what, Jane? You’re okay.”

  “Thanks. You’re not bad yourself, Dean. So. Ernie’s mom gave the newlyweds money to live on. Not exactly the actions of a ball-buster.”

  “Wait, I didn’t get to the good part. Mama Waterfield is thrilled that her son the, uh, the gay guy is married. Her cute new daughter-in-law will turn him around, she thinks—Sophie was hot stuff back then, believe it or not.” He made a hot-stuff gesture, and I held my breath against the chemical onslaught of the cologne he’d splashed on with such enthusiastic abandon.

  Dean went on. “Everything’s gonna be okay, Teddy thinks. She’ll get the grandkids she’s always wanted and all will be right with the world. Only problem, the new Mrs. Waterfield isn’t getting any from her bridegroom, eh, and when he finally admits the reason, she’s ready to give him the old heave-ho. Are you with me?”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Like a tick.”

  “Teddy isn’t about to stand for that. She just knows that a little hetero whoopee will cure her boy. So she makes Sophie an offer she can’t refuse.” A pause for dramatic effect, then: “Three. Million. Dollars. That’s how much Teddy paid Sophie to stay married to her homo son. Three million smackers.”

  “Wow. That’s a lot of money,” I said.

  “She couldn’t divorce him, is all. Otherwise the dough was hers to keep.”

  And Dean’s, too, I thought, if he somehow ended up married to her. Which could happen only if her first husband kicked the bucket. Technically the money would be Sophie’s, not his, but as her husband, he’d benefit from her windfall.

  I said, “Were you and Sophie, um... No, I shouldn’t ask.” Oh, that Jane Delaney, such a coy wench.

  “Were we getting it on when she was married to Ernie?” He grinned. “Is that what you’re too polite to ask?”

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “Nah, she kept it under lock and key,” he said. “Wouldn’t cheat on him, even though nothing was happening between the sheets.”

  “That must have been frustrating for you.” I passed the dealership on the left and got ready to make another U-turn.

  His bark of laughter reverberated inside the close confines of the Mazda. “You’re telling me. I was a horny young buck back then, eh, used to getting what I wanted—not bragging, just telling it like it was—and she was, well, she was hot stuff like I said. Tell me I can’t have it, I want it all the more. Sexy and rich, an irresistible combo, you know what I mean?”

  “I’ve always thought so.” He was describing Dom.

  His arm snaked over the seatback behind my head. “So why aren’t you married, Jane? I don’t see a ring.”

  No no no, we’re almost at the dealership. Don’t get sidetracked now. “I was. Didn’t suit me. So nothing happened between you and Sophie until Ernie died?”

  “I moved in fast then, I don’t mind telling you.”

  “Who could blame you?” I said. “If you hadn’t acted on your genuine love for Sophie, someone else might have grabbed her on the rebound and married her for the wrong reason.”

  “Wrong reason?”

  “Her money?” I said.

  “Oh, right. Turn here,” he said, unnecessarily.

  I got into the turning lane and waited at the blessedly red light. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you and Sophie,” I said.

  “Yeah, me too, but what are you gonna do? Marriage means mutual support, you know? Like doing for each other.”

  You were never willing to help me when we were married, Dean had said that day at Sophie’s house. Why start now? The house she’d bought for him to live in wasn’t enough?

  “She didn’t support you?” I asked. “You mean emotionally?”

  “In all ways. When it came to groceries and whatnot, I mean sure, we both pitched in. But I had a dream, you know? A no-lose business idea. All I needed was capital. Woulda barely made a dent in her bank account.”

  “What was this idea?”

  “Okay.” He ran his palm across an imaginary sign. “Robot vacuum cleaner.”

  “Wow.”

  “Incredible, right? And remember, eh, this was thirty-something years ago. Was I ahead of my time or what? Would’ve made millions. Only, my robot vacuum cleaner’s nothing like that dopey little round thing that cats ride on. Mine looks like a…” He made a va-va-va-voom gesture in the vicinity of his chest. “Like a sexy girl, you know? Dressed in a little apron. High heels.”

  “Wow.” Words, as they say, eluded me.

  “Well, that’s what she would’ve looked like if I had the dough to get a prototype made up. But Her Highness wouldn’t part with a nickel.” His wary gaze flicked to me. “Don’t mean to be running her down.” Suddenly worried about his sale.

  “Forget about it.” I executed my U-turn. “Listen, I’ve been friends with Sophie forever. There’s nothing you can tell me about her faults that I don’t already know.” I gave Sophie’s ex a conspiratorial wink, feeling like the worst friend in the world.

  Get over it, I admonished myself. You’re doing this for her.
/>
  “I’ve done the math,” he griped. “How much money I would’ve made if she’d just loosened the purse strings a little. Like, seventy million, that’s how much her pathological stinginess cost me. And after everything I did for her.”

  Like what? I wondered. “Maybe she thought your idea wouldn’t work,” I suggested, “and she’d lose her investment.”

  “Yeah, she made all those noises, but bottom line, she sabotaged my dream. Which should’ve been her dream too, eh, if she was a normal, loving wife.”

  I’d told Sophie I didn’t know anyone who didn’t like her. I supposed I could no longer make that claim.

  I turned off the highway and into the dealership’s lot. After I parked, Dean insisted on demonstrating, in exhaustive detail, the climate-control system, sound system, seat adjustment, wipers, lights, console storage, fold-down backseats, how to access the spare, etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseam. No feature was too inconsequential to rate mention. Did you know you can change the taillight bulbs from inside the trunk? Well, okay, you probably knew that, but it was a revelation to me. Not that I’d stop paying my mechanic to perform the task. I mean it’s, you know, car stuff.

  I followed Dean to his desk on the sales floor, where we haggled over the price and I eventually prevailed. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s drive a hard bargain. We talked about the warranty and all that boring grownup stuff. I stood to leave. Dean stood too, glancing at his fake Rolex.

  “Listen, it’s quitting time,” he said. “There’s a nice bar down the road. Fifty-two beers on tap. Great fried mozzarella. Feel like getting a drink?”

  That was just what I needed, two shoot-me-now dates in less than twenty-four hours. Last night’s dinner had been memorable, to put it politely. My date, Ralph, not only loved dogs, he breeded them. Wait, that didn’t come out right. You know what I mean. My date hauled a fat grandma’s brag book out of his man-purse and proudly displayed dozens of photos of golden retrievers—thirteen at last count—of all ages and in various stages of sleep and activity throughout his house.

  All floor space not strewn with well-used newspapers was thickly carpeted in dog hair, as was the furniture, including the kitchen table and counters. It drifted in corners and collected into balls like golden tumbleweeds. I’d assumed my itchy nose was psychosomatic until I noted that Ralph’s clothing bore a liberal coating of the same yellow hairs. He even, yes, smelled like a golden retriever. After dinner, he invited me back to his place for dessert.

  Okay, that gagging sound you just made? I’d manfully refrained from making that same sound while I’d graciously declined his offer.

  I smiled at Dean. “Sounds like fun, but I have an important assignment.” The important assignment was to pick up some General Tso’s and fried dumplings, park my carcass in front of my gargantuan TV, and channel-surf until I inevitably stumbled across an episode of Law & Order. “Give me a call when the car’s ready.”

  7

  Freezer-burned Giant Tortoise

  The tantalizing aroma of grilled food made my stomach squeal as Sexy Beast and I joined the happy swarm of humanity at the annual Crystal Harbor street fair. A large section of Main Street had been closed to traffic. Booths lined the roadway, offering everything from cups of beer and lemonade to food of every type to children’s games and local information booths.

  The first of these we passed was sponsored by a no-kill animal shelter. Three young people from the shelter had brought a few dogs and cats needing a good home. I was proud of SB. Not the most well socialized animal—one of the many things Irene didn’t believe in was exposing her precious pooch to other dogs—he’d been making progress during the spring and summer, thanks to regular trips to the town dog park. Thus he now did more friendly butt-sniffing than growling.

  In particular he hit it off with the sweetest white pit bull mix named Showgirl. They made quite the striking couple, as you can imagine. I was so tempted to take her home and love her forever, and don’t think her handlers didn’t try to make that happen, but I knew my limits. For one thing, I didn’t see how I could fit sixty-pound Showgirl in my tote bag as I went about my busy day. Regretfully, we bade the menagerie farewell and moved on.

  It was midafternoon on Sunday, and I was thankful we weren’t being treated to yesterday’s brutal heat. The temperature hovered in the low eighties, the sky slightly overcast, which was okay as it enhanced the comfort level. SB and I strolled among the throngs of locals and day-trippers, exchanging greetings and following our noses to the nearest ginormous grill, set in front of a Thai restaurant. The grill was manned by the restaurateur and his family. I treated myself to marinated chicken skewers, and then to a big plastic cup of beer at the next booth, operated by a local brewery. I looped the handle of SB’s leash on my wrist to perform the all-important food-beer-and-dog juggling act.

  Sexy Beast coveted the Thai chicken in his polite way, licking his lips while making tiny sounds deep in his throat. I gave him a couple of bites from the inside part of the meat, which I’d determined bland enough for him. Then he heard, “All gone” in that distinctive singsong tone that informed him that even though he saw more chicken on the skewer, it wasn’t for him. He happily, or at least obediently, gave up begging and trotted alongside me.

  I recognized the tall, white-haired man examining a striking cobalt blue vase at a booth featuring pottery made by the young couple who owned the gallery next to Janey's Place. Sten Jakobsen had been Irene’s lawyer and close friend, and it was his responsibility to see that her bequest of the house and maintenance funds, as well as my guardianship of her darling Sexy Beast, were being properly managed. We shared a clumsy hug as I tried to keep every precious drop of India pale ale in my cup. I wondered what he’d say if I told him the house Irene had bequeathed to me—or rather, bequeathed to Sexy Beast, but let’s be real—had been turned into a kind of bachelor’s boardinghouse. I decided to keep that bit of news to myself.

  I’d always had a great deal of admiration and affection for Sten. I’d bet serious bread he wasn’t a Ramrod News viewer, but he had to have at least heard of my disastrous appearance on the show. Perhaps he’d even made a point of catching a rerun or recording of it, considering the position of responsibility I held in caring for his late client’s estate and pet.

  The thought of proper, upright Sten Jakobsen seeing me in that sexed-up lingerie—and those granny panties!—made me want to step on a landmine.

  My expression might have given me away. In lieu of a simple good-bye, Sten placed his big hand on my shoulder and gently smiled down at me. In his signature leisurely, basso profundo way, he said, “Remember, Jane, we have no control over the bottom-feeders. All we can do is be our best selves.”

  My eyes misted. I placed my beer on the pavement, balanced the chicken skewer on the cup’s rim (with a firm command to SB to “leave it”), and gave my friend Sten a proper hug.

  “Get a room, you two.” The voice and pugnacious attitude belonged to none other than Mayor Sophie Halperin. I turned with more than a little trepidation, even though I’d spoken with her on the phone just after the show aired. She’d had approximately thirty hours to ponder my performance and realize why she should be good and mad at me.

  Indeed, Sophie wore a scowl, as well as a colorful, strawberry-dotted sundress and, for some reason known only to her, a gigantic sombrero, complete with dangling pompoms. She pushed the sombrero back on its lanyard and propped her fists on her wide hips as the hubbub of activity around us stilled. Our friends and neighbors stared, eager for a show.

  If they were looking for a catfight, they were to be disappointed. Sophie opened her stubby arms wide and said, “What, no hug for your mayor?” I fell into her arms, squeezing my eyes against the stinging tears and hugging her for all I was worth. SB barked madly, standing up against my legs and demanding to be let in on the love-fest. Sophie made it a good, long bear hug, ensuring that everyone in the vicinity got an eyeful, then stood with her arm around my waist an
d commanded our stunned audience to stop by the high school’s booth and donate to the seniors’ upcoming trip to Europe.

  “Go on now, get over there,” she barked, and they meekly obeyed.

  I felt like disgraced Scarlett O’Hara being publicly embraced by the wronged Melanie Wilkes in Gone With the Wind. What good deeds had I performed in some past life to deserve a friend like Sophie Halperin?

  I thanked her again for being such a stand-up pal and moved on before I could start blubbering in earnest.

  SB and I passed a pocket park where a couple of dozen youngsters congregated. There was the requisite bouncy castle, and next to that a fenced-in pig race. The things an otherwise self-respecting hog will do for an Oreo! On the other side of the castle was a pony ride. Sexy Beast couldn’t seem to decide whether to growl at the big, ugly dog with the toddler on its back or to grovel in submission, so he did both. Talk about mixed messages. The pony just clopped on by, unimpressed.

  I tossed my empty cup and skewer in a trash barrel and we continued on, SB having himself a sniffing extravaganza, me greeting friends and acquaintances and trying to ignore the occasional smirk or speculative glance. We passed a baked-goods booth manned by Nina Wallace, the profits to benefit the town Historical Society, according to the sign. I looked the other way, pretending not to see Nina as she, believe it or not, waved cheerily and tried to beckon me over. Yeah, that would happen.

  Dom manned a food booth in front of Janey’s Place, accompanied by an excessively bored looking Cheyenne O’Rourke, both of them wearing apple green Janey's Place T-shirts. I led SB over so he could greet his beloved Dom as if it had been years since he’d last seen him. Dom offered him a small piece of some vegetarian crap meant to resemble meat. You’d think it was the real thing the way SB scarfed it up.

  Dom turned to me. “I know what you want.” His smile was a tad suggestive, or maybe that was my imagination. He started tossing ingredients into a blender. Okay, it was my imagination. “One papaya-ginger smoothie coming up. On the house.”