Dead Men Don't Get the Munchies

by Miranda Bliss

  Seventeen

  TALK ABOUT A DILEMMA!

  Or was it a conundrum?

  After Kegan’s confession about his feelings for me, I couldn’t imagine how I’d face him or what I’d say the next time we were together. I didn’t want to see him.

  On the other hand, I was anxious to tell him about my visit to Mamie Dumbrowski’s and my theory about Reggie Goldman. I couldn’t wait to get to class that Monday night.

  See what I mean about a conundrum?

  I guess that’s what I was thinking about as I pulled out of the parking lot of the bank and headed over to Bellywasher’s for the night’s class: Bar Food with a Spoon? (There were three kinds of chili on the menu—turkey, one that had dill pickles in it, one made with no beans or veggies in it at all—as well as a killer lobster bisque, cheddar cheese and potato soup, and the pièce de résistance as Monsieur Lavoie might say, a banana split so loaded with syrup and fruit and whipped cream, it was sure to send every student’s daily caloric intake into hyperdrive.)

  Maybe I was thinking about that banana split.

  Either way, when I changed lanes on the George Washington Memorial Parkway and my car bucked, I didn’t think a thing of it. My Saturn was a couple years old, and I’d been pretty busy lately. I was a few hundred miles past needing an oil change and—

  The steering wheel wobbled in my hands.

  I’m no mechanic, but I doubted this had something to do with my poor oil-changing habits. I held on tighter to the wheel, but even as I did, I knew it wouldn’t do me any good. No matter how hard I tried to keep it going straight, the car pulled sharply to the right, and since I was in the left lane at the time…well, I won’t bother to describe how the fellow in the car next to me signaled his displeasure.

  Like I cared?

  Right about then, I didn’t have the luxury of being offended. When he saw I wasn’t going to stop, the other driver backed off and repeated the gesture he’d made the first time. Good thing, too. About him backing off, not about the gesture. I veered into the right lane and did the only thing I could think to do: I jammed on my brakes.

  When my brake pedal fell all the way to the floor and I didn’t slow down a bit, my stomach turned to a solid block of ice.

  There I was, surrounded by rush hour traffic and completely out of control, but not like regular D.C. drivers are out of control (which they always are, but that’s because everyone’s in a hurry to get somewhere and to get to that somewhere before the person next to them gets there first). I knew there was something seriously wrong. I was going sixty in a car I couldn’t steer or stop. Oh yeah, and I was scared to death, too.

  My fingers gripping the wheel, I closed the gap on a red station wagon up ahead that was going too slow. I checked my mirrors and glanced over my shoulder. There was a black sedan in the left lane, not nearly far enough away, but I didn’t have a whole lot of choice. I threaded the needle.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I groaned, though I knew there was no way the other driver could hear me, and I suspected that even if he could, he wouldn’t have cared about my flimsy apology. Besides, I didn’t have much time to worry about it. There was a furniture delivery truck directly ahead of me, slowing down, its right turn signal on. If he didn’t move fast enough, something very bad was going to happen. I didn’t bother with my signal (a first for me who, needless to say, always follows the traffic rules), I yanked my steering wheel to the right and slid into the lane just in front of that station wagon. Of course, that didn’t help at all when the furniture truck inched to the right and moved directly in front of me.

  Fortunately, though my fingers were frozen on the wheel and my heart was pounding so hard, I was sure it was going to jump out of my chest, my brain was still working. And boy, did it work! Going even faster than my speeding car, it scrambled over every piece of driving how-to I’d ever heard or read.

  “Pump the brakes! Pump the brakes!” My brain sent the message, and I screamed the words, and somehow, my body obeyed. I slowed the car just enough to get over to the berm. A few more pumps, a couple more screams, and I skidded to a stop.

  Good thing, too. The next second, I heard a noise like a crack, and something snapped. The right front side of the car buckled. When it hit the ground, my teeth clattered.

  Never let it be said that D.C. drivers are not compassionate. The driver of the furniture truck must have seen my erratic stop in his rearview mirror. He blared his horn. The red station wagon zipped by, and that driver screamed something out his window. I was glad he was going fast and I didn’t quite catch it. The folks in back of him, of course, slowed down to see what was going on, and going slow in rush hour in that city…well, nobody was happy about it. I got glared at. I was cursed. I had a couple fists waved in my direction.

  Through it all, I hardly noticed. I sat with my hands clamped to the steering wheel, my knuckles white. My heart pounded harder and faster than ever, and I swear, I never even took a breath. My lungs felt as if they were on fire.

  I guess that’s how the police officer who stopped behind me found me. The lights on top of his patrol car were swirling, but I never even saw them. Not until he knocked on my window.

  “You all right, ma’am?”

  I don’t remember doing it, but I guess I had turned off the car, because I had to turn it on again to hit the button to roll down the window.

  “Something happened,” I said. As if he couldn’t see that.

  Big points for him, the officer simply nodded and went around to the front of the car. I saw him peer at the right front tire. He bent down and took a closer look. When he stood up again, his forehead was creased, and his mouth was pulled into a thin line.

  At least I had the presence of mind to check for traffic before I hopped out of the car. I carefully made my way over to where the cop stood. I was shivering and I wrapped my arms around myself.

  “What is it?” I asked the officer. “Is there something wrong? I mean, I know there’s something wrong. My tire went wonky. And my brakes wouldn’t work. I mean, there’s got to be something wrong, but the way you’re looking at the car, I don’t think your version of wrong and my wrong match up.”

  “Ma’am.” He’d apparently dealt with hysterical drivers in his time. He looked into my eyes and kept his voice firm and low. Like a trainer would if he was working with a really bad dog. “Take a breath.”

  I did.

  “Better?”

  I nodded.

  “You sure?”

  I wasn’t. I took another breath.

  He watched me carefully and, don’t ask me how, but he knew I was in control before I knew I was in control. When I was ready to listen and proceed, he pointed to my front right tire. It was lying on the ground next to my car. Even in my current state, I knew this was not a good thing.

  “You get new tires lately?” the officer asked.

  I shook my head.

  “You change a tire because of a flat?”

  Again, I indicated that I hadn’t.

  “Anybody else do it for you?”

  Another shake. My head was starting to hurt. But maybe that was because the enormity of all that had just happened hit me like a ton of bricks. I staggered back against the car.

  Again, the cop looked over at my tire and at the rim of the car, now resting on the ground. He shook his head. “You’ve got bigger problems here than just a flat tire and a bent frame,” he said. “If you didn’t put that tire back on cockeyed, and you nobody else did it for you…”

  Even if I wasn’t a private investigator, I would have seen where he was headed. I gulped down the sour taste in my mouth. “You’re saying if I didn’t do it, and I didn’t ask somebody to do it, then someone else loosened it. Purposely. Without me knowing about it.”

  He backed up a step, and really, I couldn’t blame him for being noncommital. I was already shocky. He didn’t need a fresh outburst of delirium there on the side of the road. “We can’t know that for sure, and reall
y, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. If someone loosened your tire and messed with your brakes, that would mean—”

  He refused to say it, and I knew why. I didn’t want to say it, either. But we both knew what it meant.

  Somebody had loosened that tire and cut my brake line, all right. Somebody who knew exactly what would happen when I left the bank.

  Somebody had just tried to kill me.

  BY THE TIME I WAITED FOR A TOW, CALLED A CAB from the lot where my poor car was taken, and got over to Bellywasher’s, our students were already cleaning up the last of the pots and pans from the night’s class. I saw that Kegan and Agatha were busy washing and drying banana split bowls, and I was glad; I was in no shape to deal with either the fallout of his unrequited love or my guilt at being the unrequitee.

  Of course, Jim didn’t know any of that. Or about what had just happened over on the parkway. The moment I was through the door, he stepped into my path.

  “Your eyes are like starlight,” he said, and honestly, who can blame me? When I heard this, I figured I must have bumped my head when I had my close encounter with nearly being the late Annie Capshaw. That was the only thing that would explain the slightly pained expression on Jim’s face. And the rest of the corny words that came out of his mouth.

  “Your lips are luscious, like summer strawberries.”

  OK, I should have said something. Anything. But remember, I was shell-shocked. And if I hadn’t been before I walked in there, I would have been by that time, what with Jim talking crazy and looking deep into my eyes as if he was the hero of some really bad romance novel, and I was the brainless heroine who was about to fall under his macho spell.

  In frustration, he threw his hands in the air. “What does a fellow have to do to light a fire around here?” he asked.

  “Fire?” This was not the response he was expecting, but it was the only thing I could manage, and apparently (and for reasons I couldn’t comprehend), it was encouraging. Back on track, he cleared his throat and paused, like an actor who’d forgotten his lines. When he found his place again, he kept his voice to a low rumble.

  “The color in your cheeks is like…” He bent to give me a closer look. “Gads, Annie,” he said, that rumble lost beneath a rush of honest concern, “there’s not a spot of color in your cheeks at all. You’re as pale as ashes, and you look terrible. What’s happened to you?”

  I guess it was the opening I was waiting for because even before he clamped a hand on my arm and led me over to the stool next to his worktable, my fragile composure cracked. The second I sat down, I burst into tears.

  For a class that had already had one of its members tossed in front of a moving train and one of the people who worked at the place where they took their classes arrested for murder, it was only natural to be curious. Before I knew it, I was surrounded my our well-meaning students. Their voices overlapped when they asked, “What’s wrong, Annie?” And “What can I get you, Annie?” And “What happened to Annie?” All at the same time.

  The words swirled and pounded through my already aching head. I cried harder, and worried as I always do that crying makes me look like a puffer fish, with eyes so swollen I can barely see. My hearing was just fine, though, and I heard Jim loud and clear when he yelled above the babble, “Back up, people! Give Annie some room to breathe.”

  When they didn’t move fast enough, Jim shooed them away. They left—reluctantly—and just to make sure we had some modicum of privacy, Jim stationed himself directly in front of me with his back to the class. “What is it?” he asked. “What happened?”

  I told him. Not quickly. And not without stopping a whole bunch of times to hiccup, and catch my breath, and wipe my nose. But eventually, Jim heard the story about the tire and the out-of-control car and the brakes that mysteriously stopped working. In keeping with my vow to turn over a new leaf when it came to investigations, I told him about Reggie Goldman, too, and about how I was sure my recent meeting with him and the problems with my car weren’t coincidental.

  That’s when he got really mad.

  “It isn’a a good thing, that, Annie,” he said, and I braced myself. When Jim’s accent thickens to the consistency of peanut butter, we’re in for trouble. “You’ll promise me you’ll na have naught to do with this Reggie fellow again. I’ll na be havin’ you plastered on some freeway somewhere in little pieces.”

  “I’m not, though.” I sniffled and sniffed, and when he handed me a glass that I thought was water, I took a big gulp. It was white wine, but I didn’t complain. In fact, I took another drink. “I’m fine,” I told him, though I guess I really wasn’t or I wouldn’t have needed the wine to begin with. “I handled it just fine, too. And now that I know Reggie’s involved, I’ll be more careful, and I’ll talk to Tyler, too, I promise I will. Really, Jim…” I squeezed his hand. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “There’s you.” It was as simple as that. At least for Jim. He lowered his voice, and this time when he spoke, he didn’t sound nearly as corny as he did sincere. “I canna bear the thought of somethin’ happenin’ to you, Annie, dear.”

  I was no brainless heroine (at least I didn’t think so!), but it would have taken a stronger woman than me not to fall under Jim’s macho spell. The look in his eyes was sweet and strong and more tempting than any banana split ever concocted. “I can’t bear it, either,” I said, and this time, my voice was clogged not with tears, but with emotion. “If I couldn’t be with you, I—”

  “We’re here!”

  Leave it to Eve to make a grand entrance that cut me off at the knees. Jim and I both looked over to where Eve stood with her back to the kitchen door to hold it open. She had Doc in her arms. Even as we watched, a neat and orderly line of little girls marched into the kitchen. It took me a moment to realize I knew them.

  Doris, Gloria, Wendy, Rosemary, Alice, Emma, and Lucy were dressed in pink dresses that matched Eve’s (and—not incidentally—the froufrou outfit Doc was wearing). Every single one of the girls held her head high as she walked into the room, hands at her sides. Like a chorus line of mini-Rockettes, they stopped on a dime and looked my way.

  “We’re on our way to get our hair done,” Eve informed me. “What do you think?”

  “I…” I glanced from girl to girl and then over to Fi, who stood near the door, beaming at them with tears of joy in her eyes. Each child twinkled like a beauty pageant queen. “I mean, I…Wow, girls!” I slid off the stool to get closer. “You’re all beautiful, like fairy-tale princesses.”

  Doris, stepped forward. “We might be beautiful, but don’t get the wrong idea.”

  “Beauty isn’t nearly as important as brains,” Alice added.

  “And brains…” This came from Emma, whose ear-to-ear smile revealed dimples that wouldn’t quit. “In the long run, brains will do more than beauty to earn us decent salaries.”

  I was speechless.

  Which is exactly why Eve grinned. “I’m teaching them to stand on their own two feet,” she said. “No Weasel will ever take advantage of these girls.” She clapped her hands, and Doris, Emma, and Alice fell back into place. “Thanks, Annie.” Careful not to squish Doc, Eve gave me a quick one-armed hug. “This was exactly what I needed. The girls are great, and working with them…well…I haven’t had time to worry about…you know!” And before she could get emotional, too, she headed out the door. The girls marched behind her, and I was back on the stool, too stunned to do anything but watch them go.

  “Ach, they’re little angels, aren’t they?” Fi had stayed behind, and she sniffled and smiled. “I knew they’d blossom someday. I’m so happy I brought them here, Jim. It’s made a world of difference.” She wrapped her arm through her cousin’s. “I only wish…” She sniffled some more, but this time, pride and happiness had nothing to do with it. Fi’s lower lip trembled. “I wish I could be as happy.”

  “You might be yet.” Jim unwound her arm from his, but he held on to her hand. “I’ve got a surprise for you,
Fi. That’s why I asked you to stop down this evening.” He signaled to Damien, who opened the back door. A medium-height, whip-thin man walked into the kitchen. He had buzz-cut sandy hair and dimples I would have recognized anywhere. The moment he saw Fi, he raced forward and took her into his arms.

  “Surprise!”

  Nobody had to tell me; I knew this was Fi’s husband, Richard. He kissed the top of her head.

  “Jim called and said it was about time we were a family again, and I knew he was right. I couldn’t wait to see you and the girls. We’re heading back home to Florida, Fi, all of us. Together. We’ve got to get things ready for our little fellow.” He touched a gentle hand to her bulging belly. “I heard from Jim that you’ve bought some clothes, but we’ve still got a lot to do. We need trucks for him to play with, and cars, and speaking of that, another car seat, too. Oh, and wait until you see what I stopped and bought on my way up from Florida. It’s a little bat and ball and catcher’s mitt. He’s gonna love to play baseball!”

  Tears streamed down Fi’s cheeks. “That’s wonderful, Richard. But are you sure you’re ready—”

  “I want you back. I always have. And I’ve got everything ready back home. The house is spick-and-span. The beds are made. The carpets are vacuumed. The floors are washed. You won’t have to lift a finger, Fi, I promise.”

  “You’ve done all the work?” New tears erupted, and Fi backed out of his arms. “You just don’t get it, do you, Richard?” she bawled, and before anyone could stop her, she ran out of the kitchen.

  I wouldn’t have blamed Richard for being upset. Instead, he just watched her go. “Happens every time.” He didn’t sound happy or unhappy. He was just reporting the facts. “Fi gets pregnant, her hormones go wacky, and she gets emotional. She’ll settle down as soon as the baby’s born. You’re a real saint to have put up with her, Jim.”

  “Aye.” Jim didn’t sound happy or unhappy, either. Like Richard, he was just reporting the facts. “It’s been an interesting few weeks.”

  “We’ll be out of your hair in a couple days.” Richard slapped Jim on the back. “Until then, we’ve got plenty to do. We don’t have boys’ names picked out. And we need to shop.” Excited by the prospect, he took off in the direction Fi had disappeared.