“We don’t care about either of those things. We like younger men. They’re easier to train. As for married, we’re only here for a few days. It’s not like we’re looking for commitment,” said Grandma Papa.
“No. No commitment. We know what that often leads to, don’t we?” said Grandma Mama.
Death. That’s what it leads to, I thought. Men don’t have a fighting chance in my family. There are no male relatives left on either side. I’m aware that women live longer than men, but with my relatives the imbalance occurs at a much younger age than in the general population. My female relatives are hard on their men. Take my dad, for example. He died young, and my mom remarried five times, outliving all but her last husband, and last I heard he’s not doing well. My Aunt Nozzie’s husband met the same fate as the Thanksgiving turkey one year. Both my grandfathers died soon after their children were grown and left home. Having to live alone with one of the women is something the Y chromosome is not armed to do, and it’s my assumption that children are only a temporary buffer. I was once married, but, as Aunt Nozzie pointed out, it “didn’t take.” Additionally, she insisted I get busy finding a replacement before my eggs went bad. I wasn’t certain I wanted to sentence any man to a short life with me. Maybe I’d just adopt.
“These are pretty good cookies,” said Grandma Mama, “although they could use a little brandy. They’re kind of dry.”
I made a mental note to keep my eye on the crisps in case Grandma Mama decided to “moisten” them up.
Aunt Nozzie had told me early in the summer that she purchased a used motorhome, and she and the two grandmothers were traveling the country for the late summer months and into the fall. At that time she asked me if they could visit me near Halloween. And so here they were. Halloween was less than a week off.
“You are having a Halloween party, aren’t you?” asked Aunt Nozzie, reaching for another crisp.
“Well, I, uh, well not really…More tea?” I held the pot up.
“Tea is fine, but this has been a long journey. We could use something a little more…bracing.” Aunt Nozzie winked at me.
I looked at my watch. I pointed out to Aunt Nozzie that it was only four in the afternoon. She gave me a look of despair and shook her head.
“Darcie, Darcie, Darcie. I thought I raised you right. Where’s your liquor cabinet?”
Grandma Papa clapped her hands together. “Oh, goodie. Scarlet O’ Hara cocktails.”
Aunt Nozzie, like a bloodhound trained to the scent of booze, went straight for the dining room and my liquor cabinet there. “We’ll have to restock soon. This is a pathetic selection.”
“And we should invite the man next door over. Maybe all he needs is a little hooch to make him lighten up and smile,” added Grandma Mama.
“Oops, too late,” said Aunt Nozzie, glancing out the kitchen window as she carried several bottles into the kitchen and set them on the counter. “Looks like he’s going on a trip.”
We all gathered at the window to watch Mr. Smith put a suitcase in the trunk of his car and then back out of the drive. He gave one brief fear-riddled glance at my house and sped off down the street.
“I was going to dress for cocktails, but if we’re not having company, I just won’t bother,” said Grandma Papa.
“Did you bring something special to wear?” I asked. I immediately regretted my question, remembering that her most fashion forward garb was a silver lame blouse, its voluminous fabric made to fit with duct tape, and silver ribbons on her Nozzie castoff shoes. No, I hadn’t been at my aunt’s Christmas gala, but I did see pictures of my grandmother sitting on the mayor’s lap holding one of Aunt Nozzie’s famous Scarlet O’Hara cocktails. Grandma Papa looked to be in better shape than the mayor, who had something perched on his head that looked very much like the purple glass grapes from the coffee table. Those grapes have made the rounds. Grandma Papa wore them last Thanksgiving hanging off her cummerbund. I remember that holiday so well. But that’s another story.
As for those Scarlet O’Hara cocktails, Aunt Nozzie makes them every holiday. She was a part-time bartender when I was growing up. She used to babysit me when Mother had one of her “bad” days, any day between Tuesday and Monday. Mother would tell Nozzie not to take me to the bar, and my aunt would assure her she was only taking me bowling. Mom never once questioned why Aunt Nozzie bowled almost twenty hours a week.
I loved the bar. I’d sit with my Shirley Temple, feeling grown up and so sophisticated, and watch all the drunks in town wander in. The drunks weren’t as interesting as the town’s elite who liked to sneak in the back door so they wouldn’t be seen. The traffic through the rear door was so heavy that the bar owner had to shovel the back alley as well as the front sidewalk when we had a snowstorm.
Nozzie and I got the skinny on everything of any interest in town, including who was cheating on whom and with whom and who drank and denied doing it. I learned that a bar provided more in the way of small town news than the local newspaper (the editor of ours came in most Saturday nights and Nozzie would have to call his wife to drive him home). My aunt cautioned me to be discreet and not tell anyone what I saw on a Saturday night, but I can tell you now that I’m grown that the mayor of our town has always liked older women, not just those like my grandmother who sit on his lap wearing silver lame blouses. Of course, I don’t think he took to wearing glass grapes on his head until he met my grandmother. She brings out the animal in men.
Although this wasn’t exactly a holiday, how often did my aunt and grandmothers visit me? Anytime with the three of them together seemed like the right occasion for drinking. Nozzie explored my cupboards, finally locating glasses she found acceptable for her Scarlet O’Hara cocktails. She stirred up a pitcher full. The cocktail hour lasted until the Southern Comfort ran out and Nozzie decided it was time to begin planning our trip the next day. My brain was too alcohol saturated to plan anything but bed time and I said so. Nozzie looked disappointed in me, but nodded her agreement.
“It’s been a long day, so off to bed, my chickies.” Nozzie shooed the grandmothers toward the motorhome.
“No, no. You’re guests here. Aunt Nozzie, you take my room, and the grandmothers can sleep in the guest room. I insist. I’ll make do with the couch.”
“Thank goodness for that,” said Grandma Mama.
“I don’t think I can stand another night smelling Spies, Macs, Empires and Jonagolds. It’s apple overload in there.” Grandma Papa pushed her sister-in-law toward the stairs.
“Sweet of you, Darcie.” Aunt Nozzie gave me a hug and a kiss and joined them.
~*~
Late that night a noise outside awoke me. When I got up to see what it was, I noticed a figure in my neighbor’s drive followed by a light coming on in his kitchen. How about that? It appeared Mr. Smith had hidden his car somewhere and was sneaking back home. If he stayed out of sight, he wouldn’t have to deal with my family while they were here. I never took the guy for a wimp, but my relatives did take getting used to.
Chapter 2: Love is in the Autumn Air
The next morning, Aunt Nozzie rousted us out of bed before six and insisted we visit the apple orchard near my house.
“I thought you bought apples in Michigan and in Western New York on your way here. How many apples do you need?” I asked.
“More than we have,” said Aunt Nozzie, herding us toward the motorhome, which she insisted we take to the orchard. “How else can we transport all the apples we’re going to buy?”
“I don’t understand why you need more. You’ve got enough here to start your own produce company.”
Nozzie winked at me. “Kind of.”
“But where are we going to put all the apples? The back bedroom in the motorhome is already overflowing,” I said.
“Do you not want to be part of this adventure, Darcie? It’s as if you aren’t interested in helping us restart our cottage industry.”
“I thought you were all done with that. Didn’t the health inspector
close your operation down?” I asked.
The cranberry sauce business had not prospered, for which I was glad. There had to be safer ways for the family to make money other than taking fruit, putting it on a stove, and bringing it to a boil. My family doesn’t play well with fire.
“To be specific, the state closed our cranberry sauce business. This is different.”
“Only if you consider apples different,” I pointed out.
“They are a much larger fruit,” said Nozzie. “You can help or not. I don’t care. But don’t get in our way. And I hope this doesn’t mean you’re reneging on allowing us to use your kitchen to make our applesauce.”
I didn’t remember volunteering my kitchen for the project, but I kept my mouth shut. It would be a shame to waste all of these apples. If we didn’t can them, they’d never get them home to Illinois before the rig became a dumpster on wheels rolling down the interstate.
I shrugged and decided to go along with the shopping spree, hoping the gals would lose interest before the stove was turned on and the fire department showed up.
What a stupid thought on my part.
My two grandmothers got into the RV first, taking the bench seat at the table. Aunt Nozzie allowed us each a cup of coffee before we got on board, but no one had breakfast because she was eager for us to buy our apples and get back here early.
The strong smell of apples past their prime enveloped me as I swung up the steps and sank into the passenger’s seat.
“I think some of your fruit is turning.”
“We know,” said Aunt Nozzie, sliding into the driver’s seat and starting the engine. “We need to start making applesauce this afternoon or we’ll lose the lot.”
I turned my head to see into the entrance of the rear bedroom where bushels of apples were piled from floor to ceiling.
“Where did Grandma Mama and Grandma Papa sleep? It looks as if both bunk beds are piled with apples.”
“The table makes into a bed, and I sleep up there.” She pointed to a bed over the driver and passenger’s seats.
Aunt Nozzie tugged her signature red and purple silk caftan to one side to free her feet for driving and backed out of the drive. A few apples liberated themselves from the back and rolled down the aisle past the kitchen table. Grandma Papa grabbed two of the renegades as they went past and offered me one. I shook my head. The smell of too ripe apples was making me nauseous, and I wondered how well I would tolerate the orchard.
We made good time thanks to Nozzie’s liberal interpretation of the speed limit signs.
“They’re just meant as suggestions, not rules,” she said as she piloted the rig around a curve marked 35. I could see the speedometer read 50 and, once she’d navigated the bend, Nozzie pressed her red suede shoe onto the accelerator, and the motorhome shot forward.
“Whee!” yelled Grandma Mama.
“She’s going too fast,” insisted my other grandmother. “I never drive this thing above 50.”
I gulped. Nozzie let my tiny grandmother drive? How could she see over the dash or reach the pedals? I was about to ask these questions, when Nozzie, spotting the look of concern on my face, tried to reassure me.
“Show her the shoes,” said Nozzie, picking up speed as we headed down a hill.
“Back in a sec,” said Grandma Papa, and she struggled through the apples on the floor to get into the back. She scaled the mound of overloaded bushel baskets, tossed apples over her shoulder when they impeded her progress and finally re-emerged with what looked like wooden blocks in her hands.
“Look at these beauties,” she said, holding up a pair of Nozzie’s loafers, grosgrain ribbons sewn onto them and blocks of wood at least five inches thick glued to the soles. “I just shove the seat up as far as it can go, stuff my suitcase behind me and put on my driving shoes. I can reach the accelerator and the brake just fine.”
“Can you see over the wheel?” I asked, hoping the answer was yes.
“Most of the time,” she replied.
I turned my attention back to Aunt Nozzie and noticed we had gathered yet more speed down the hill.
“You need to take a left at the intersection. And you’re going too fast!” I yelled.
“Nonsense,” said Nozzie, who stomped on the brake and turned the wheel at the same time.
The motorhome shifted up onto the two wheels on the left side, then righted itself with a bang as we slid around the corner into the path of an oncoming car.
“Coming through,” said Nozzie. The other driver yelled something in return and gave her a one finger salute.
“Back at ya,” said Nozzie who returned the gesture. “What’s his problem? He could see I was turning. I had my signal on.”
“A turn signal indicates you’re turning right or left, not into his lane,” I said.
“I suppose you think I should have turned on my hazard lights for that maneuver?”
I thought about it and decided that wasn’t a bad idea, but since a scream of fear had lodged in my throat, I could only nod my agreement.
“I’ll remember that next time, but you’d think he could tell what I was doing.”
Not unless he understands being on the road with my aunt is no different from driving in a demolition derby.
~*~
Sam’s Famous Cider and Sauce had been a regional favorite for over fifty years and boasted the same apple press used on its opening day was still employed to make its famous cider. An antique brass plaque with this information was displayed at the entrance to the cider mill, almost as if the mill stood at the same level of historical importance as any revolutionary war battle.
“Hmmmph,” muttered Aunt Nozzie, “If they’ve used the same press, I wonder how many generations of bacteria inhabit it. It’s made of wood, I’d wager, and that holds a lot of moisture…and germs. Well, girls, let’s get our apples and get out of here.”
We followed the arrows indicating apples for sale were located through the gift shop and to the rear. We could hear the sound of the steam engine operating the press in the building next door.
“Can’t we see the press in operation before we buy the apples?” asked Grandma Papa.
Having my family join a crowd in a small room with a machine that pressed fruit into juice seemed like a dangerous idea to me, given the family’s past encounters with food preparation had evolved into events where people had been killed, maimed or arrested.
“It’s boring,” I said. “Just an old wooden screw device that crushes the apples. No big deal at all.”
“Darcie’s right. Besides, we need to hustle so we can be back home early. We’ve got cooking to do. Each of us grab one.” Nozzie pointed to the shopping carts.
I mulled over the idea of all of us in my kitchen cooking apples, sterilizing jars and filling them with hot sauce—boiling hot water, boiling hot sauce. That, too, sounded like a dangerous venture, but there was no way around it. We were going to make sauce in my kitchen, which I worried I’d have to remodel after Nozzie and my grandmothers got through with it. Unless, of course, they burned down the house, kitchen and all. I wondered if my homeowner’s insurance covered unintentional arson by relatives.
I followed the three of them into the sales room, dutifully pushing my cart, keeping my head down. Maybe when the inevitable happened—like one of my grandmothers crawled into an apple bin to extract ones from the back and made the entire pile tumble onto the floor—well, maybe no one would identify me. Instead I ran my cart over a man in front of me.
“Yeow! You almost took my foot off.” The man, smallish with thinning white hair and a knit vest, fell to the floor and grabbed his foot.
“I’m so, so sorry.” I dropped to my knees to examine his wound, and then realized I recognized him. It was the president of the college where I taught. Was I about to lose my job due to a hit and maim?
He looked up at me. “You.”
I wasn’t the president’s favorite faculty member, being one of those who advocated unionizing our
ranks.
“Is this man bothering you, Darcie?” asked my aunt.
“No, I….”
“What’s your problem, buddy? Trying to hit on my niece? She must be thirty years younger than you, ya old coot.”
She’d identified me as her niece and called me by name, so there was no way I could pretend she was just some crazy woman I didn’t know.
“This is my Aunt Nozzie.” I felt a nudging at my elbow. “And my two grandmothers. This is President Anderson. He’s the head of my college.”
“Hmmmph,” said my aunt. “The president of a college and you’re cruising orchards for young stuff? What kind of a man are you?”
“Uh, Aunt Nozzie. I shoved my cart into him and ran over his foot. He’s not trying to pick me up. In fact, maybe someone should pick him up and see how badly he’s hurt.”
She gave him a careful once over. He did the same to her.
She reached down and pulled him to his feet. She continued looking at him, changing from suspicious, to interested, to something I hadn’t seen in Aunt Nozzie’s gaze since my uncle died. Aunt Nozzie was sending lustful signals to my president, and he, a widower for several years, was returning fire. They held onto one another for a moment too long before Aunt Nozzie started to dust him off and apologize for me. She towered over him by at least six inches. He didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, all his face registered was complete fascination with a woman of her physical stature.
“My niece means well, but she’s a bit clumsy. She was just too eager to get in here and grab some apples. I told her to slow down, but she wants to get home and start making the sauce. We’re here to help.” She gestured to my two grandmothers.
“Have you ever seen an old-fashioned apple press at work?” he asked.
“No, never.” Nozzie sounded absolutely breathless with fascination.
“Well, why don’t you let Darcie get the apples, and the three of you ladies can accompany me to the pressing room? They have a catwalk above the press where we can get a bird’s eye view.” He offered his arm to Nozzie and gestured the grandmothers out the doorway.
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 10