Happy Birthday, Marge

by Shari Hearn

  “He’s staying.”

  Gertie raised her brows. “I don’t think I vetted him properly.”

  “You didn’t,” Marge said to her. “Call him now. Cancel.”

  Ida Belle shook her head. “You do this every year at Marge’s birthday. I don’t know whether it’s just the anxiety about her party, or if somehow those meteors affect you in some way, but every year at this time you go slightly off the rails and make a bigger mess of things. You need to stay out of your own way.”

  Gertie started to say something, but Ida Belle talked over her. “He’s staying. Okay, so who wants to do what?”

  Gertie yawned. “Sleep.” She reached for her mug and noticed it was empty of coffee, then grabbed Fortune’s mug and slugged down what was left.

  “Hey,” Fortune said, “go get some of your own.”

  “I need the caffeine to give me the energy to go to the pot and pour more.”

  Fortune grabbed both their mugs and filled them. Marge took in the aroma, hoping the coffee fumes would help rev her engines as well.

  Fortune set Gertie’s mug in front of her. “This is your third cup. Didn’t you have any coffee at your house?”

  “She had plenty of coffee,” Ida Belle said. “She made me wait while she drank a couple of cups.”

  Gertie formed her fingers into a bird and flipped it at Ida Belle then dropped her hand limply on the island. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Join the club,” Fortune said.

  Gertie tore a bite-sized bit of muffin from her plate and popped it in her mouth. “Weird dreams all night.”

  Fortune nodded. “Yeah, me too. My head was so filled with rawhide bones, swords, the Hoovers and their bag of shredded papers that it’s a wonder I got any sleep. But when I did I had the weirdest dreams.”

  They both looked at Ida Belle, expecting her to chime in, but she was busy emptying a grocery bag of Sinful Ladies Society Cough Syrup nip bottles that were to be stuffed inside the piñata.

  “Don’t look at me. I slept like a baby.” She pulled her attention away from the bag and watched as the two chugged coffee. “You two are pathetic.”

  “It’s her fault,” Fortune said, pointing to Gertie. “Number one, she invited the Gidleys, so I had to research Marge’s family to help reunite Mrs. Gidley with her history. Number two, she filled my head with her anxiety about this party and it ran through my dreams.”

  Ida Belle poured herself a cup of coffee. “Like I said, she does this every year.”

  Gertie yawned. “Actually, this year is different. We’re all going to die at the party.”

  Fortune almost choked on her coffee. Ida Belle just rolled her eyes.

  “I didn’t say you were all going to die at the party,” Marge said. “You always exaggerate.” The ghost pointed at Fortune. “I said SHE was going to die at the party if you weren’t all prepared.”

  “What do you mean we’re all going to die at the party?” Fortune asked.

  Gertie pulled away from the island. “What do we know about this magician fellow anyway? For all we know, he could be a serial killer. And I think you’re right about the Hoovers. They’re up to no good. George thinks we should be careful today.”

  “George the butcher?” Fortune asked.

  “No,” Gertie said, “George Clooney. Denzel and Meryl Streep agreed with him.”

  Fortune shrugged at Ida Belle.

  “Her dream,” Ida Belle said. “And I was there. And you were there. And Marge was there. And half of Hollywood was there.”

  “I don’t care if it’s anxiety or just my intuition,” Gertie said, pointing her finger at Ida Belle, “which sometimes can be pretty spot on, if I do say so myself. But if George Clooney tells me in a dream to wear a bulletproof vest, I’m wearing one.”

  Marge shook her head. Damn George Clooney. He got it wrong. He was supposed to tell her that FORTUNE should be wearing a bulletproof vest.

  “You’re wearing one now?” Fortune asked.

  Gertie nodded. Her eyes bore into the young woman. “I think you should put one on too. No one will even see it under that baggy Hawaiian shirt of Marge’s.”

  Ida Belle sighed. “I’ll be so glad when the party and those meteor showers are over. What you had was just a dream.”

  “I had them all night long, and Marge was in every one of them,” Gertie said. “It felt as if she were really there telling me to be careful.” She smiled. “It was nice to see her again, even though Meryl Streep dominated the conversation.”

  “Word,” the ghost said. “But I didn’t mind. Even in a dream that Meryl is one amazing lady.”

  Fortune took a sip of coffee. “Well, you can forget about me wearing a bulletproof vest. Those things restrict your movements. It’s bad enough I’m wearing a Hawaiian shirt that feels like a Mumu.”

  Marge watched as Fortune picked at her muffin. “It’s not my fault I’m stocky and you’re skinny as a rail. You’re just making this difficult for me. You know why I call you three Swamp Team Two Plus One? Because you have to earn your way into this organization. You’re a whiz with weaponry, but you need to show me what you have up here.” Marge tapped on Fortune’s head as she drank her coffee. Or, rather, tapped through Fortune’s head. Marge thought of the vision of Fortune slumped on the floor. “And don’t you dare die on them. Me leaving was hard enough. You die and I will be pissed. And you don’t want to arrive in the afterlife with me being pissed at you.”

  Fortune took one huge gulp of coffee, set the mug on the island and walked right through Marge, sending a chill through Marge’s ghostly body.

  “Fine,” Marge said. “I’ll have to do the best I can to keep you alive.” The only one who noticed her was Bones, who lifted his head from his dog bed in the corner of the kitchen. He whimpered and promised to do his best to alert her to any wrongdoing. Seconds later, his eyes drooped and he fell back asleep. Marge would be totally on her own on this mission, because the cat was worthless, running away every time Marge came around.

  “Well, I’m keeping my eye on that magician,” Gertie said. “And taking my gun out of my purse and putting it in my bra where it belongs.”

  “You’re wearing a holster bra over your bulletproof vest?” Ida Belle asked. “How roomy is your Hawaiian shirt?”

  “I chose a shirt from my plump years,” Gertie said, pulling at her Hawaiian shirt to show she had plenty of room left. “I could fit a rocket launcher in here.”

  DIDI AND THE COMFORT Shoes, Sinful’s very own senior “girl group,” were the first guests to arrive, setting up their instruments and sound system in Marge’s backyard. They were followed by the magician, who grabbed a blinking hat from a party favors table and plopped it on his head. Marge had heard him refer to himself yesterday as “Jeff,” but to them he was known as “The Amazing Andrew.”

  Ida Belle introduced herself to Andrew as he and his big-haired, blonde assistant, “Terrific Teena” unloaded their magic equipment and set it up on the opposite end of the yard from Didi and the Comfort Shoes. Gertie stood several feet away, scrutinizing their every move. Her eyes widened as she watched Fortune help him carry a large coffin-like box from his van and place it on top of a stand that big-haired Teena had set up earlier.

  “What’s that for?” Gertie asked.

  Andrew opened the coffin-box and pulled out a smaller box, about a yard long and a foot wide, setting it up on the lid. “One of my signature tricks,” he said. He opened the smaller box. It was filled with several swords. Ida Belle joined Fortune and Gertie as they stared down at the box. Andrew pulled one out and held it up.

  “Ladies,” he said, waving the sword in the air, “welcome to the Amazing Andrew’s Blade Box.”

  The ladies exchanged glances.

  “Holy crap,” Marge said.

  Fortune leaned in to take a closer look. “That’s some collection of swords.”

  Andrew waved her off. “They’re cheapie, magician swords.”

  Ida Belle picked
up one and felt the end of it. “It’s a rounded end, but I bet it could still cause injury.” Her eyebrows arched.

  “Well, yeah, you don’t want to impale yourself on it,” Andrew said. “But, with the way the box is set up inside, the blades never touch the ‘victim.’”

  “But I bet if you put some ‘oomph’ behind it, you could hurt someone. Maybe kill someone.”

  He shrugged. “You ladies plan on killing me?” He laughed as he and Teena walked to another table they’d set up and unpacked a box of assorted magic props.

  The Swamp Team Two Plus One huddled together. “Swords?” Gertie said. She looked at Ida Belle. “I guess my dream is starting to look more psychic by the minute.”

  “George advised us all to wear bulletproof vests,” Ida Belle said. “So far we haven’t seen a gun. But those swords do remind me of the sword burglar.”

  Fortune nodded. “Andrew did say he travels around. I wonder if he’s been to Lake Charles recently.”

  Ida Belle held up her hands. “Listen to us. We’re getting carried away. Many magicians have sword acts.”

  Gertie shook her head. “There’s just something ‘off’ about Andrew. I’m wearing my vest just in case.”

  Ida Belle laughed, “He has swords, not guns.”

  “Oh ladies,” Andrew called to them. “I think you’re going to like my ‘tour de force.’ I usually save this trick for the end.” He walked over with a wooden box. “Behold.” He opened the box, revealing three handguns.

  Marge threw her hands in the air. “What’d I tell you?”

  Gertie gasped. Ida Belle and Fortune stared at the guns in the box, both casually placing their hands on their own handguns hidden in the waistbands of their jeans. Gertie lifted her hand and placed it on her chest, close to her bra holster.

  “They’re just props,” Andrew said, laughing. “They eject wax casings. They make a loud pop, but that’s about it.” He picked up one of the guns and pointed it at Fortune.

  The gun.

  The blinking hat.

  “Drop!” Marge yelled.

  Just then a gust of wind blew through, distracting Andrew and blowing his top hat that he had set on his table onto the ground.

  “Hold these,” Andrew said, shoving the box and gun at Fortune as he ran to retrieve his hat.

  “I did it!” Marge said, excitedly. “That wind? That was me.”

  Fortune handed the box to Ida Belle and closely examined the gun in her hand, before examining the other two in the box. “They’re blank guns,” she said to them. “I’ve used them when I’ve staged shootings to snare an arms dealer or two.”

  Blanks? Marge thought. Was she wrong about him?

  “Well, that was weird, huh? Like that wind came out of nowhere,” Andrew said as he came back with his top hat.

  Marge’s excitement about causing the wind evaporated when she remembered her other vision: Fortune slumped on the floor in her bedroom. She got in Andrew’s face. “I’m either wrong about you, boy, or you’re concealing the real weapon and will fire it later upstairs.”

  Andrew took the box from Fortune. “The audience always goes nuts with this one. I fire toward Teena and she ‘catches’ a bullet in her teeth. It’s a real nail-biter.”

  Andrew joined Teena as she took props out of boxes. Ida Belle tried to suppress a laugh. “Tell George Clooney not to overreact next time.”

  Ida Belle continued to chuckle as she joined Didi and the Comfort Shoes and helped them set up their gear.

  “She’s so smug,” Gertie said to Fortune. “I’m still keeping my eye on Andrew and Teena and my hand near my bra.”

  “As you should,” the ghost said.

  “I think you’re wasting your time,” said Fortune. “These two seem harmless. The Hoovers, however... Something doesn’t add up about them. Those are the people I’m keeping my eye on.”

  At 12:00 sharp the doorbell rang signaling the party guests were arriving. Marge took a deep breath. Until a few minutes ago, she was certain the shooter was going to be Andrew. Now, doubt was creeping in. Doubt she was trying to keep at bay, because the alternative was too unthinkable.

  But creep in it did.

  What if it isn’t Andrew? she thought. What if one of my guests wants to kill Fortune?

  Chapter Thirteen

  SINFUL WAS NO WASHINGTON, DC. In DC if the party started at noon, you’d expect people to start arriving at 12:30, maybe 12:45. Oh sure, you could get there at noon if you wanted to look desperate for company. Not that I’d been a social butterfly back home. Far from it. But I’d been invited to many department get-togethers that were must-attend affairs, and I knew the social protocol as well as anyone.

  Sinful, however, was another story. A party starting at noon started at noon. By 12:15 the Comfort Shoes were entertaining a crowd gathered in the backyard, while the living room was filled with gray- and white-haired old ladies (and some men) milling around the food table.

  “Where’s the deviled egg tray?” Martha Germain, local alligator wrangler, asked as she stomped into the living room from outside.

  Gertie pointed to the food table against the wall.

  Ida Belle put her fingers in her mouth and whistled to get the throng’s attention. “Food is inside, coffee’s in the kitchen, beer is in the ice chests in the backyard, bathroom is upstairs.”

  A man with thinning gray hair, whom I recognized from a photo of Marge standing with a group of hunters, crossed into the living room and stopped to survey the balloons and other decorations. “Marge would like this,” he said. Suddenly, he lurched forward as if he’d been bumped from behind.

  “Get a move on!” The voice sounded familiar.

  Gertie blanched. “Oh dear Lord, it’s Cookie.”

  Cookie, the oldest (just shy of 100) and crankiest woman in Sinful, barreled her way past several guests in her motorized wheelchair.

  “Cookie,” Gertie said, forcing a smile. “How nice of Delphine to bring you.”

  “Coming through.” The guests in the living room stepped aside as Delphine, Cookie’s 75-year-old daughter, zipped into the room, seated in her own motorized scooter.

  “Mama, I told you to go around the side to the back. There’s no ramp out the back door.” She looked up at Gertie and mouthed, I’m sorry.

  “Delphine, how nice to see that you brought your mother.” The smile combined with her murderous eyes made Gertie look like a poster for a horror movie.

  “Where’s the cake?” Cookie asked, nudging Gertie with her wheelchair.

  “We’re having it delivered in a bit, Cookie,” Gertie said sweetly.

  “Cookies? You’re having cookies for a birthday cake? What a gyp!”

  “I was saying your name,” Gertie said loudly.

  “What?”

  “She was saying your name, Mama! Would you please turn up your hearing aid!”

  “Clearing blade? What the hell is that?”

  “Hearing aid, Cookie! Turn it up!” Ida Belle shouted.

  “7-Up? I like Pepsi. Where’s the Pepsi?” Cookie shouted.

  “Outside!” Gertie shouted back.

  “Is it cold?” Cookie asked.

  Ida Belle stepped closer to Cookie. “We’ve got ice!”

  “Lice?”

  “Ice, Mama! Ice!”

  Cookie looked around the room at the other party-goers. “This party stinks. They have lice!”

  “ICE, Mama!” Delphine screamed, making her voice hoarse.

  Ida Belle grabbed onto Cookie’s wheelchair. “I’ll take you to the lice and Pepsi.”

  She guided Delphine and her mother out the front door. Gertie looked at me, her face grief stricken. “She’s right. This is going to go down as the worst party ever. Marge hated her. She’d never want Cookie at her party.”

  I patted her on the shoulder. “Everything will be okay.” I gestured to the Sinful Ladies milling about the living room, fixing plates of food, chatting among themselves and looking at the photo board we’d set up with
photos of Marge’s birthday parties from past years. “Marge’s friends are here to celebrate her birthday. That’s the most important thing. All the people who loved Marge are here.”

  “I didn’t love Marge.”

  Gertie and I both directed our eyes to Barb Geroux, who had slipped in without our notice, as she stood by the mantel staring at Marge’s trophies. The crowd in the room suddenly thinned out. If Cookie was the oldest Sinful resident, Barb apparently was the least popular.

  “How’d she get in here?” Gertie whispered.

  “You invited her, remember?” I whispered back. “We used our invitation as a ruse to learn about the sword burglar.”

  “Well, I know that. But I didn’t think she’d actually accept,” Gertie hissed before doing a 180 and turning on her charm. “Nice to see you, Barb.”

  Barb turned toward us and held up a hand, which was covered with her Lambchop puppet. “I brought Cloris, in case you need some entertainment.”

  “We have entertainment. Didi and the Comfort Shoes are performing, and later we’ll have a magician. You’re welcome to go back there. Now. You can go now.”

  Barb rolled her eyes and “spoke” through her puppet. “Magic is so hokey. Now, ventriloquism, that takes real talent.” Barb’s mouth never so much as twitched. She was good. Crazy, but good.

  “Is this party for the lady who cheated?” the puppet asked.

  Barb put her hand over the puppet’s mouth. “Now, Cloris, that’s not nice. But, yes, you’re quite correct. Marge cheated a lot.” Barb turned back to the mantel and removed a trophy and held it in front of the puppet. “Take this trophy, for example. It should be mine.”

  “Marge was not a cheater,” Gertie whispered angrily. “Barb has been saying that since high school. Every time Marge beat her at something, Barb would accuse her of cheating.”

  “That looks like a fencing trophy,” I whispered to Gertie. During the time I’d lived in Marge’s house, I’d never taken the time to look at all her trophies. I knew she’d earned medals in Vietnam, but didn’t know her civilian accomplishments, other than her trophies as a skater for the Sinful Sliders Roller Derby team.