by Norah Wilson
“Well, yes, it was tiring.”
I stifled a snort. Mrs. P was tired?
“Mother, I really think we should talk about—”
“Not now, Dix, we have company.” She turned back to Mrs. P. This was getting frustrating as hell. “Can I get you a beer? Iced tea?”
“Do you have something with an umbrella in it?”
“Let me see,” Mom answered. “I think we have some left over from Maudine’s stagette party.”
“Stagette party? Mother don’t you think you’re a little too old to be hosting stagette parties?”
If looks could kill, I’d have it from both ladies.
Mother sighed. “Dix, when are you going to get that stick extracted from your butt?”
“Never, thank you very much.”
I was beginning to be even gladder that Dylan hadn’t come along.
“Oh, I almost forgot, Jane. Two very pleasant young men have been calling — Cal and Craig — they seem anxious to know you’ve arrived.”
“That’d be my boys.” She shook her head. “Those two just can’t get along without their mama. I’d better call them.”
“Aren’t children wonderful though!”
I followed Mom into the kitchen — and made myself at home. Not that I was familiar with her kitchen, but she was my mother so it was by default that her refrigerator was mine to snoop through and I had automatic dibs on any cookies I found. (I said a prayer for chocolate chunk.) I plunked down on a cushion covered kitchen stool that deflated with my weight. Having found no cookies, I grabbed a bag of Doritos from the counter and, ignoring the ‘you’ll-ruin-your supper’ raised eyebrow glance from my mother (on which she had automatic dibs, being my mother), opened them and munched one.
“Dix, will you see if there are any ice cubes, please?”
I jumped up and checked the freezer compartment of her tiny refrigerator — moved around the frosted bags of tiny peas (no one ever eats the tiny peas, so why bother with them?), Pizza Pops and what looked like a vodka/fruit slush concoction.
“No ice cubes, Mom.”
“You sure about that?”
“Sure.”
“Very sure?”
“Yes, very sure.”
Mother stepped up then down from the little step stool — bag of multi-colored drink umbrellas in hand. But she didn’t rush around the kitchen in usual company mode. She dallied, and Katt Dodd rarely dallied in this life. I took that as my cue.
“What’s going on, Mom? Why do I get a fax from the local Sheriff’s Department telling me you’re in legal trouble?”
“Well, Dix, because I told them to fax you. How else do you think they’d have gotten your fax number?”
That wasn’t what I meant, and she knew it.
“How much do you know?” she asked.
“The Sheriff’s Deputy faxed me that—”
“Oh, Noel Almond? You’ll like him. So handsome! Beth Mary MacKenzie called ‘dibs’ as soon as she saw him drive into the yard and step out of his cruiser. But she didn’t have her teeth in so we all pretended not to hear her. And Mona Roberts — she’s in Suite 222 — just about fainted. Which didn’t go over well with Big Eddie Baskin, let me tell you. I think he’s sweet on her. I’d never seen the woman looking so pale! And Tish McQueen — she’s staying with Mona for a while — out and out flirted with him.”
“Big Eddie?” I said sarcastically. “Let me guess, Big Eddie is the guy who wears leather, slicks back his hair and does the wheelies on his motorized cart? Oh, and I bet he wears at least a half dozen gold chains dangling down in his wide open shirt collar.”
“Don’t be a smartass, Dix You have no right to mock my friends.”
Okay, she was right. That was uncalled for. It was just so damn frustrating trying to get Mother to focus. And truthfully, I was worried. But it was always like that. Well, since Dad died, anyway. Mother had always been fun loving, but had so much responsibility taking care of Dad in his later years. And stress. And though she never let on to Peaches or me, I knew there was more worry behind her smiling face. Peaches might be the one with the academic smarts, but I was the one who could read people. And I could read the strain on her face no matter how well she hid it behind the Pinch-Me Pink.
“Sorry, Mom,” I said. “I’m an idiot.”
I waited for her to correct me on that.
And waited….
“Er, did I get something right?”
“Okay, young lady. But those chains and charms are very fashionable these days.”
I couldn’t wait to meet, Eddie.
And mom couldn’t wait to tell me more about Noel Almond.
“Deputy Almond is tall and so good looking. Deepest blue eyes. Honey-blond hair and he does this adorable comb through thing with his fingers. And that body!” She scrunched her shoulders up and down as if hugging herself. “Broad shoulders, long legs. And Dix, if I’m any judge of these things — and I am — Deputy Noel is so goddamn wonderfully hung—”
“Mother! I don’t want to discuss how well hung the Deputy is!”
She feigned shock. Poorly. With a dramatic hand to chest gesture. She swung open the door to the living room and called out to Mrs. P, “Jane, does Dix always talk so filthy?”
“She does.” Mrs. P paused in her channel surfing. “Gotta watch that one of yours, Katt. The words that come out of her would make a sailor blush. You should have heard her in the car on the way here. I didn’t even know some of them words, to tell you the truth.”
She let the door swing shut again. “Why, Dix Dodd!” Mother said. “I was going to say the Deputy is so hung up on finding out the truth about the strange happenings around here.”
“No you weren’t”
She grinned. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Mother, do you really think it’s a good time for shlong jokes?
“Is there ever a bad time for them?”
She had me there. Despite myself, I finally smiled. “Good to see you, Mother.”
“Dix,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
I let out an exasperated sigh. And by the eye roll I got from my mother, she knew my fakes as well as I knew hers. But this was serious. And I had to get her to realize that. “Mom, no matter how good looking Deputy No Nuts is, or how grandly he’s hung…” (oh I wanted to go places with this one myself) “…up on finding the truth, that’s not really important right now.”
She looked at me strangely, a minute. Then snorted a laugh. “Oh I get it — Noel Almond, No Nuts! That’s good, Dix.”
I guess my penchant for naming male police officers wasn’t restricted to Detective Richard Head, (aka Dickhead) of Marport City. But come on, his name was Noel Almond. That was a kick me sign waiting to happen.
I pulled off a strip of paper towel to dust my Dorito-orange fingertips on. I thought it would be easier to start with the thefts. Hit less close to home. “So, tell me about the missing jewels.”
She hauled out the small cutting board and began chopping. Her back to me, she began talking. “They started about two months ago. Vanessa Trueman’s ruby earrings went missing. She’s a dear, but a little on the forgetful side, so we all just sort of thought they’d surely turn up somewhere. But then Quinn Foster’s diamond ring went missing, the next day Annamarie Tildman checked her jewelry box and all the diamonds out of her antique broach were missing. Plucked right out!. The alarm went up, Dix. This wasn’t just a matter of a few things going missing. This was a shitload.”
I hated to ask. But I had to. “The diamond ring, the one Daddy got you, Mom … our lucky diamond … is it…?”
“It’s safe. I don’t keep it in my jewelry box. I keep it in the wall safe, behind that picture of you and Peaches Marie that I love so well.”
I knew the picture. Peaches and I had been 5 and 7 respectively. Playing at the beach. Building a sandcastle while the waves played in the background. And over the two sun-drenched smiling Dodd girls, our mother’s shadow … holding the cam
era in one hand, waving with the other. And you could feel the delight of her doing so.
I also knew the safe. Well, not it specifically, but a zillion just like it. The Wildoh condos were fairly new, but cookie-cutter similar in construction. Just like the eat-in kitchen and the convection oven, the mini wall safe was no doubt standard in all the condos, though each would have its own combination.
“I didn’t steal the jewels, Dix,” Mom said.
“I never said you did. Never thought it for a minute.”
“No, but I wanted you to hear it from me. We have to be upfront about everything with each other. That’s what families do.”
I swallowed down my guilt at hiding Dylan away. For her own good, I reminded myself.
“There’s a lot of … a lot of suspicion around here. And a lot of it is aimed at me.”
“Why?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Well, I didn’t know at first. But … but with Frankie’s … hopping off like he did. People just naturally turned their suspicions on me. They stayed stuck on me.”
I wasn’t suspicious of my mother, but was starting to have suspicions about Frankie. I kept them to myself for the moment. “And what about Tish, Beth Mary and Mona? Do they suspect you?”
“Don’t underestimate the power of female friendships, Dix. Mona wouldn’t ever say a word against me. And by default therefore, neither would Tish. And there are others here who are so very friendly. You’ll meet them all tomorrow.”
And I couldn’t wait. Inserting myself into the flow of life at the Wildoh would be a piece of cake. Unless…. “You didn’t tell them I was a private investigator, did you?”
“Of course not!”
I relaxed. “Excellent, better to have them off guard.”
“I told them you ran a bordello.”
“Mother!”
“Kidding, Dix. Lighten up! I told them you wrote erotica. And that you were here doing research for a book. Told them you’d have some questions for them.”
I waited for the sly grin, the ‘ha-ha, got you again’.
And waited….
Ah hell.
“What about Beth Mary and Big Eddie.”
She rolled her eyes. “Beth Mary is as jealous as the day is long. She’s been after my Frankie since the day I introduced them.”
Jesus, I hated to ask: “This is only a one bedroom suite. Does Frankie … live here too?”
She laughed. “Of course not. He rents a little bachelor place in Complex A. Moved in just after we met.”
My shoulders lowered and I sighed with relief. There are some things a daughter just doesn’t want to picture about her mother.
“But often he’ll sleep over after sex, especially if we’ve gone around two or three times.”
Shoulders of steel! Back ramrod straight. Mind cringing.
She turned. Somehow in the midst of our talking she’d made a tray of sandwiches, cubed up some cheese and put some fancy little pickles on a plate. There were three different kinds of crackers and some kind of pate thing. None of her domestic skills had rubbed off on me. She was fine china and haute cuisine. I was chili in a Styrofoam bowl.
“Bring the drinks, Dix.”
They clinked in the glass as I grabbed them. “Ice? Weren’t you … weren’t you out of ice?”
She smiled. “Did you forget? I’m magic.”
She started toward the swinging door again to join Mrs. Presley. But I had one more question.
“Mom.” I approached this carefully. Diplomatically. “Where do you think Frankie disappeared to?”
“Oh, he didn’t disappear.”
“Huh?”
“He changed. I changed him.”
Did she really think she could change that man? Apparently, she did.
Mother continued. “I told him I didn’t like his flirting with all the women. I wasn’t about to put up with it! So I told him it had to stop — or else.”
“What did he say?”
“He croaked.”
Croaked! Oh, sweet Jesus, she’d killed him! I could picture poor Frankie Morell now — his smarmy smile, his bushy sideburns and inch high eyebrows, stuffed in the freezer. Ice hanging from his fingertips. Frost stuck to his nose hairs. Where the hell had these ice cubes come from?
“Mother you … you…?”
“I changed him into a frog.” She plucked an olive off the tray and popped it into her mouth. She was serious. Three chews later: “That’ll teach him to flirt with other women.”
Oh shit! She really thought she’d changed him into a frog!
Mother rolled her eyes. “You’ve always known I have the magic, Dix. I just used it.”
She backed into the door to push it open with her butt, her hands occupied holding the tray. “Close your mouth, honey. You’ll catch a fly. Frankie’s gonna need those.”
I closed my mouth.
Chapter 3
You’d think after such a long drive, I’d have slept like a log once I’d finally showered, put my PJs on (baggy t-shirt and boxers) and finally crashed on my mother’s pull out sofa in the living room. And, well, you’d be right. Holy shit, did I sleep!
Despite all the drama and tension, once I closed my eyes, I was out. I know that I snored. I know this because at least once during the night, Mrs. P came out and rolled me onto my side to get me to stop. The pullout wasn’t the most comfortable bed in the world, but I’m a PI. I can sleep practically anywhere. Besides, the beautiful Florida night more than compensated for any shortcomings the bed might have had. I’d left the French doors open right up until bed time, and the breeze had blown right in through the screen. It was closed and locked now (both Mother and Mrs. P double-checked it, thank you), but I could still faintly hear the palm trees in the yard swaying and rocking me to sleep. And it was blessedly quiet compared to Marport City.
Mrs. P bunked in with Mom. She had a large double bed in her room, which she insisted Mrs. P take. And she herself slept on a small, foldout bed that we brought up from her storage locker in the basement. I know the two stayed up late talking. Before I turned out the lights, I could hear the giggling through the thin walls. Mother and Mrs. P were so very different, yet alike in many ways. Both widows who’d done a lot of the childrearing on their own. And both looking for fun in life now. Despite everything going on, Mom was determined to make Mrs. P’s visit to Florida enjoyable. As much as she frustrated me by times, I had to hand it to her. She did have this way of connecting with people, making everyone feel like they belonged.
Even me.
I did of course spend my pre-sleep hours going over (and over) everything mom had told me. The conversation hadn’t ended in the kitchen of course. One thing for sure, she was really smitten with Frankie Morell. Mom’s one tough lady, strong as they come, but she obviously had a soft spot for Frankie. She felt awful about him ‘hopping’ away in a huff. But she had to teach him a lesson. And she hadn’t expected him to hop off before she turned him back.
Yes, Mom really believed she’d turned him into a frog.
Now there was a vision for you — a geriatric frog waiting for a kiss to turn back into a prince. Good luck with that one, Frankie.
Why was mother doing this, though? Was she going senile?
True, she always attested to being ‘magic’ and with a conviction that made Peaches Marie and me believe it when we were younger. She could pull rabbits from hats and sneeze out flowers. She could make white milk into chocolate! And she always, always knew when we were lying. Or holding something back from her. Guess that’s where I got my own intuition. Of course, as we got older, we (or at least I) realized that kind of magic just didn’t exist in the world.
So, yeah, I was worried about mom. If she didn’t tell us what really happened to Frankie, she’d be in deep shit. But would her pride let her? She might have to admit he’d left her, or worse, left her holding the bag. If he’d stolen the jewels, taken off and left her to take the blame, this didn’t bode well for mother. I had to f
ind Frankie. I had to find the jewels. Thus I had tossed and turned with these thoughts in my sleep, waking on the floor half under the pullout and half out (and not the sunny half), my pillow bunched tightly in the crook of an arm. Damn that REM sleep behavior disorder.
But when I did awake, it was to the smell of bacon, eggs and toast. Mrs. Presley was in her element whipping up breakfast. Mom was just getting in from her early-morning power walk, looking like a million bucks in her white tracksuit, hot pink sneakers, and flawless make up. And best of all — carrying a tray of coffees.
I had a funny feeling I’d be needing that caffeine today.
And, was I ever correct on that.
You see, yesterday had been golf lesson day. Big Eddie had taken the ladies out to help them improve their game. They’d shot balls into the lake. That meant today was lake-cleaning day. And mother assured me I wouldn’t want to miss that.
Personally, I had my doubts. I mean, come on! How boring could life be here?
~*~
“So tell me, Ms. Dodd….”
“Please, Mona dear, call her Dix. Just because she’s a rich and famous author doesn’t make her pretentious. Why, she’s very down to earth.”
I flashed my mother an I’m-right-here look that she chose to ignore.
We were sitting in the front room — the recreation room. And it was beautiful. The sun shone in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside flowers bloomed and trees hung lush and green. There were a few people strolling on the walkways over the lawns, and each one turned and waved. And the man-made lake was well within sight — less than forty or fifty yards from the rec room. Close enough that I could see the water’s surface was dotted at intervals with floating markers, distance indicators on a watery driving range. According to Mother, this was quite the popular spot, though she didn’t golf herself. At least I didn’t think she did. (Yes, yes, another stab of guilt.) There were lawn chairs out front, so that anyone could watch Big Eddie and his golf instructions. My first visual had been of swimmers getting whacked on the head with golf balls, but Mom had assured me that no one swam in the lake during driving practice. There were swim times (though everyone used the heated indoor pool instead), there were driving-range times, and there was the time when Lance, the pool boy slash diver guy (We call him Lance-a-lot … get it Dix? / Yes mother. Ha, ha. I get it. / No, I don’t think you do.) cleaned out the golf balls from the previous day’s session.