The Readaholics and the Gothic Gala

by Laura Disilverio

  The toilet and the floor around it gleamed, but I still wished I had rubber gloves as I shifted the heavy porcelain top and looked into the tank. Nada. Feeling a little silly, and trying to hurry, I walked into the second stall. The door closed most of the way behind me, leaving a two-inch-wide gap. Leaning over the toilet, I dragged the lid aside with a scraping sound. Something caught on the lip of the tank and I had to lift the lid higher to free it. A piece of gray duct tape dangled down, cleanly sliced.

  I caught my breath and bent my head to examine the inside of the tank. To my disappointment, there was nothing there. I flipped the lid over and rested it upside down atop the tank. In addition to the piece of duct tape I’d already spotted, there were gummy spots inside the lid that suggested more tape had been removed. Given how sticky they still were, I didn’t think it had been there too long, certainly not weeks or months. I reached for the duct tape, intending to peel it off, then hesitated. What if I was right? What if Van Allen had stashed his package here, had come prepared with duct tape and secured whatever it was inside the tank? If so, where was it now? Had Van Allen removed it prior to his meeting with the killer, or had the killer gone through the same thought process I had and found it after stabbing Van Allen? I shivered. If the latter, then the duct tape might have the killer’s fingerprints on it.

  I was so lost in thought, I must have missed the restroom door opening, because the next sound I heard was a tuneful whistling and a zipper whizzing down. Oh, no! Panicked, I eased the stall door closed and slid the lock home silently. Then, I sat on the toilet and pulled my feet up so the man wouldn’t see my very un-male shoes. The man must have heard me, though, because he said, over the sound of urine splashing into the urinal, “Quite a party, hey? Hard to believe Bob’s fifty. I’ll be going over that hill next May. My doctor’s already talking about colonoscopies and prostate exams.” He laughed and zipped up.

  I quickly flushed the toilet, hoping he’d think I hadn’t heard him. The whistling resumed and the restroom door whooshed as he left without washing his hands. Letting out a squeaky sigh, I replaced the tank lid, figuring the duct tape was secure enough for the moment, dashed out of the men’s room and into the adjacent women’s room to wash my hands, and then called Hart. He thought I was calling to tell him I was on my way over, but he snapped to attention when I told him what I’d found.

  “Can you keep people out of that bathroom until I get there?”

  I told him I would and hung up to go in search of Wallace’s deputy, who located a cone with a CLOSED FOR CLEANING sign attached. With that in place, I hurried back to the party room, where I discovered that everything was going beautifully with Al in charge. The DJ was playing “Y.M.C.A.” and almost all the guests, including the birthday boy’s octogenarian parents, were boogying on the dance floor.

  “Everything okay, boss?” Al asked when I came up to him.

  “Ducky,” I replied. Then, prompted by the excitement buzzing through me at the thought of a breakthrough in the case, I added, “I think I found a piece of evidence related to the murder. In the men’s room.”

  “I’m not even going to ask,” Al said, shaking his head. “Only you, boss, only you.”

  * * *

  Later that night, I watched Hart mix up a late-night snack of waffles. I sat on a stool pulled up to the counter at his place, chin on my hands, and admired his economy of motion as he moved around the kitchen, cracked eggs one-handed, and added cinnamon and vanilla without measuring. The drapes were drawn against the dark, and a fire flickered in the gas fireplace. I was tired, but still buzzed from my discovery in the men’s room and the end of my event, which had dissolved into disaster when the birthday boy informed his wife, in front of everyone, that he wanted a divorce. He’d been seeing a twenty-six-year-old and planned to marry her. Talk about your midlife crisis. Luckily, by that time, Hart and a crime scene officer were working on the evidence in the bathroom, and they’d managed to separate the warring couple after the spurned wife leaped on her husband, trying to beat his brains out with the foot-tall, ceramic Viagra pill a guest had brought as a gag gift. Despite the disruption, Al and I had sent each guest home with a wrapped-up piece of birthday cake, as previously planned.

  Hart and I had talked briefly about the case, standing outside the Club, watching the stragglers pull out of the parking lot. The wind had died down, having delivered a cold front with frigid temps and clear skies. The stars stood out against the cloudless black, each one a twinkly jewel, seemingly within touching distance. If only I could reach high enough . . . Hart brought me back to earth by saying they’d know about fingerprints on the duct tape or the toilet tank lid in a couple of days, but he wasn’t counting on anything useful.

  “In all probability, Van Allen hid the package in the men’s room and came back for it. If not, if he told the murderer where to find it, or he got lucky and stumbled across it like you did—”

  “I didn’t stumble,” I protested. “I applied my analytical abilities, came up with a reasonable hypothesis, and tested it.” I felt Lola, the scientist, would have been proud of me.

  Hart slanted a grin. “Regardless, this murderer’s been pretty savvy so far. I doubt we’ll pick up his prints.”

  “What about on the keys that Allyson had?” I asked.

  “Only partials. I talked to her and she can’t remember where she got them, says that her therapist tells her that she dissociates from the act of stealing. The idea is that she finds it abhorrent—her word, not mine—to the point that she doesn’t have clear memories of what she stole from where, which is partly why she doesn’t return more of the stuff she steals. Mumbo jumbo,” he said, “but she seems to believe it and either truly doesn’t remember where she picked up the VW keys or has convinced herself she doesn’t remember.”

  “What are the chances of the murderer believing that?” I asked, suddenly fearful for Allyson.

  “I’d say pretty good at this point. In all probability, the murderer was in the room when Allyson returned her loot. When Allyson didn’t confront him or her, or try to return the keys to anyone in particular, it probably set his or her mind at ease.”

  I hugged my arms around myself against the near freezing temps as the woman who’d organized the party, the wife of the honoree, staggered out of the Club, spectacularly drunk. Her sister had an arm around her waist and was guiding her to the passenger side of a Volvo. The wife began to retch and her sister shoved her toward some shrubbery, saying, “For goodness’ sake, Jan, not in the car. Get it out of your system now.” Jan was thoroughly and loudly sick into a clump of lavender. I winced. I had a feeling she was going to balk at paying the rest of what she owed me. Clients did that sometimes—took it out on the event planner when their parties or functions didn’t live up to their expectations, even when that was due to something—a cheating, inconsiderate louse of a husband, for example—over which the planner had zero control.

  “Ready to go?” Hart asked, touching my shoulder.

  “More than ready.”

  Now, in the warmth of his kitchen, Hart informed me, “This is an old family tradition.” He ladled the batter onto the waffle iron. “I’m not sure where it started, but it was a postgame ritual and definitely an after-prom thing. After football games on Friday nights, me and a few buddies from the team would come over and Dad would make waffles. We’d eat two or three each, load up on milk or soda, and rehash each down. Or”—he grinned—“talk about girls. After prom, we’d bring our dates and a couple of friends over after the dance at midnight, and Dad would have the batter already made.”

  A heavenly aroma was rising from the waffle iron. “That’s a nice tradition,” I said. “The PTA sponsored an after-prom get-together at the high school here, with lots of gift card giveaways and games and food. That’s where everyone went. I like your folks’ idea better.”

  “I know they only started it to keep us from partying somewher
e, or getting in cars with drunk friends, but I have to admit, I liked it, even if it was dorky.” Using a fork, he pried the first waffle from the iron, split it in two halves, and plated them. He slid a plate in front of me, and passed a tub of butter and bottle of syrup.

  “Who’d you go to prom with?” I asked.

  Ladling more batter onto the waffle maker, he got a reminiscent smile on his face. “Junior year, I went with my girlfriend, Isabella Chavez. We’d been dating for two months. She wore a mint green dress, one of the kind that are shorter in the front than in the back—?” He looked at me questioningly.

  “Hi-low,” I supplied around a mouthful of waffle.

  “I had a matching bow tie and cummerbund. Can you imagine me in mint green?” He laughed at the memory. “We had a great time, and she broke up with me the next day.” He shrugged.

  “Bitch,” I said.

  Hart laughed so hard he dribbled syrup across the counter. “That’s exactly what my sister said, and exactly how she said it.” Still chuckling, he wiped up the syrup, picked up a quarter waffle, and took a big bite. His next words were muffled. “Senior year I went with Abby Delaney. She was one of my good friends, a real brainiac, went to college at RPI. We went out to dinner at Chick-fil-A beforehand, with a bunch of friends, and we all hung out together, dancing in a big pack, playing some air guitar.” He demonstrated by strumming the air. “When I got up about one the next afternoon, my folks told me we ate forty-six waffles and six pounds of bacon.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I said, mopping up the last of the syrup with a waffle chunk.

  “How about you?” He freed the second waffle from the maker and looked a question at me. I shook my head; I was full. Switching off the appliance, he came to sit beside me.

  “I went with my boyfriend, Doug, both years,” I said. “We started dating as sophomores. It took a lot of the angst out of the prom thing, not having to wonder if I’d have a date. The first year, he asked me over the PA system during the morning announcements.” I still flushed at the memory—it had been so embarrassing, but in a good way. “I always thought prom itself was kind of a letdown, that the real fun was getting ready with Brooke and another friend or two, painting our nails, doing each other’s makeup, dress shopping together.”

  “Yeah, that’s what guys like best about prom, too,” Hart said mock-seriously. “Bonding while we pick out corsages together.”

  I slapped at him. “Don’t make fun of my sacred high school rituals.”

  He stood, drew me off the stool, and put his arms around me. “I wouldn’t dare.” He kissed me. It started out light, but got more intense very quickly. I felt drugged with passion by the time he lifted his lips a millimeter from mine, said, “We can clean up in the morning,” and walked me backward toward his bedroom, kissing me the whole way.

  Chapter 23

  I slipped out of Hart’s condo early the next morning, taking half a cold waffle from the plate in the kitchen. Hart volunteered to make hot ones, but I was running late for church, and feeling guilty that I’d skipped last week’s service, so I told him I’d take a rain check, kissed him, and left. I stopped at my bungalow to change out of last night’s black dress, and scooted onto the pew beside my mother at St. Luke’s Lutheran four seconds before the organist launched into the intro for the opening hymn. Mom smiled and patted my hand before turning her attention to the service. I sat there, letting the familiar rhythms of the liturgy wash over me, alternately tuning into the sermon and reliving parts of last night. A happy haze enveloped me. I managed to be present mentally while taking Communion and during the final prayer.

  After the service, I drifted into the parish hall with my folks for coffee, cookies, and socializing. When I was younger, the church used to have donuts during the coffee hour, but I guess budget cutbacks had led to the less-enticing store-bought cookies. I took one anyway and nibbled it. There were probably forty people hanging around, and I spotted a couple who’d been at last night’s party, the pastor (who had been three years ahead of me in high school and whom Lola had gone out with a few times), and Cletis Perry, getting around better with his crutches. I waved when our gazes met and he winked at me.

  “How’s it going at the pub?” I asked Mom. Dad had hugged me and then beelined for his cronies, and was deep into a conversation that revolved around great poker hands, huge fish landed, or amazing golf shots. A mathematician by day, he was one of the guys in his off time, as capable of discussing lures and club lofts as he was of explaining theorems and formulas. A caftanlike garment swathed Mom’s bulk, its stand-up mandarin collar lost in the folds of her multiple chins. Its royal blue color was dramatic against her pale magnolia-petal complexion, the envy of every woman north of forty in the entire town. Her naturally curly hair was pinned up, as usual for church. Sheena at Sheena’s Hair Jungle was responsible for dyeing it back to its original chestnut every month or so. Her eyes were hazel, like mine, and she had a wide mouth slicked with a coral lipstick. I had fond memories of helping her pick out lipstick at the drugstore when I was younger. She’d always gone for bright colors, saying a smile was one’s best accessory.

  Mom shifted from foot to foot. I knew her feet had been bothering her lately and wondered if Dad had talked her into a doctor’s appointment like he’d promised. Her face lit up. “I am having more fun at the pub, Amy-Faye, than I’ve had in years. Even though I’m sorry for Derek that Gordon’s death made things so difficult financially, I can’t help but be glad. Working at Elysium has been just what I needed. I hadn’t realized how much I missed the library since I retired, how much I missed people. It has cut down on my reading time and the number of reviews I can do, but it’s been worth it.”

  Mom was always a voracious reader, but since retiring from the library, she’d taken to reading a dozen or more books a week and posting reviews online.

  “Well, you and Dad have saved Derek’s bacon. I hope he appreciates it.” Long history with my brother suggested that he would take it for granted. I didn’t know if that level of ingratitude was standard for youngest kids, but I suspected Derek took his sense of entitlement to new heights. I’d filled in as temp bartender for him on numerous occasions, and he never even said thanks, unless I counted the occasional free beer or bison burger as “Thank you, sister dear, for saving my ass by playing bar wench when my flaky employees don’t show up.”

  Mom smiled, not one whit disturbed. “I know he appreciates it,” she said comfortably. “He might not express it, but I know he’s glad to have your dad and me taking care of the books and the day-to-day management. He likes being left alone to get creative with his brewing.” She chuckled, the sound almost lost in the rising hubbub of conversations around us.

  “Well, I’m grateful to you,” I said, kissing her cheek. “I’ve got a lot of money invested in Elysium, and it’s nice to know it’s not going down the drain.”

  She waved to an acquaintance, and then asked, “What are you and the gals reading this month?”

  “We read Rebecca.”

  “Du Maurier was a genius,” Mom said, “a genius. I was always sorry she didn’t write more books. I loved the way she made Manderley come to life, made it a character in the novel. It was grand and unsettling all at the same time. Were you glad or sorry when it burned at the end?”

  I hadn’t thought about it. “Glad, I think. It gave the unnamed wife and de Winter a chance to start over, to make a life without the shadow of Rebecca flitting around.” I raised my arms and wiggled my fingers, making like a ghost.

  “I felt the same way. My feet hurt—I’m going to sit down. Would you mind getting me more coffee if you’re getting a refill?” Taking my agreement for granted, she began a slow shuffle toward the handful of chairs set up near the wall.

  I wasn’t planning on more coffee, but I was happy to take my mom’s foam cup and refill it at the coffee urn, chatting with acquaintances while I stirred in the two p
ackets of sugar she insisted on. When I crossed the room to where she now sat, I found her laughing at something Cletis Perry had said. He sat in a folding chair drawn up near hers, his crutches resting against the wall.

  “How are you doing, Cletis?” I asked, handing Mom the steaming cup. She took it with a “Thank you,” and began chatting with old Mrs. Chintala, who had doddered over, clutching her old-fashioned purse between both hands as if afraid a mugger would leap out from a poster advertising the past summer’s Vacation Bible School.

  “I’ll be running marathons as fast as I ever did in another week or two,” Cletis said, slapping the cast lightly.

  “I didn’t know you ran marathons,” I said, surprised and impressed.

  “I don’t.” He let loose a laugh that made everyone within earshot smile. “So, I’ll be as fast as I ever was.”

  I smiled. “Got a lot of work on your plate? I might have another event in mid-October for you. The Chamber of Commerce is trying to settle on a date for a ‘slave auction’ fund-raiser where people bid on the Chamber’s members and put them to work cleaning their houses or fertilizing their yards—whatever chores they need done.”

  “Is that right?” Cletis looked thoughtful. “I’ll have to buy Big Al Farraday and put him to work mucking out my goat pens. That’ll teach him. Give me a call at the office and I’ll check my calendar.”

  I didn’t know why Big Al needed “teaching,” and I didn’t pursue it. I was about to make my excuses and leave when Cletis asked, “Did you ever find out who played that trick on that writer fellow?”

  I wrinkled my brow, unsure what he meant.

  “You know,” he said impatiently, in response to my confusion, “that guy whose manuscript ended up on the sale table at the auction for the gothic shindig, the one that lady with the hat bought.” He bunched his fingers over his head, as if to indicate the flowers on Francesca Bugle’s hat.