She presses an ice pack on her right arm. “What’d you do to your arm?”
“It’s called SIS. Symbiotic injury syndrome,” she says, managing to sit up while still holding the ice pack over her bicep.
“What’s that?” I make the mistake of asking. Griffin has hold of my arm and is examining it.
Juniper explains, “It’s when a person close to you suffers a traumatic injury and you experience their pain. It’s not a common syndrome and mostly occurs in highly sensitive people. Such as myself.”
“I see. Well, I’m sorry I hurt your arm by hurting my arm,” I say. I look over at my father who rolls his eyes. He knows, like we all know, that Juniper is a wee bit crazy. We keep it on the down-low because her hypochondria is her reason for living. It’s a hobby, like making birdhouses or crocheting afghans. I feel sorry for Griffin, but he takes it in stride. It’s part of his world and he’s never known anything else. He seems happy and well-adjusted, so we must be doing something right as a family.
My mother sits on the edge of the couch and places the cucumber slices on Juniper’s arm. I snag one. My mother slaps my hand. “These are for your sister.”
“But I’m hungry,” I grouse.
Mom layers the cucumber slices up and down Juniper’s arm. “Have a heart. Your sister is in pain.”
My father hands me the bread basket he’s taken from the table. “Have a piece of bread,” he offers.
“Edward Bravo, you put that bread back on the table. It’s for dinner.”
We both snag a piece before he returns the basket to the table. It’s delicious.
My mother finishes applying the cucumber slices to Juniper’s arm. “You really shouldn’t have done that to your sister. It wasn’t very thoughtful of you. You know how sensitive she is about these things.”
“Believe me, I didn’t have any intentions of getting my arm eaten.” I sit down in the recliner. The seat is still warm from my father’s butt. “What about my arm? No one seems to care about the actual person who suffered the actual injury.”
“I do, Aunt Jamie,” Griffin says, bringing out another plate of cucumber slices. “These are for you. Can I put them on your arm?”
“Of course, sweetie, that would be so thoughtful of you,” I say, glaring at my mother and Juniper. “At least someone cares.” I pull up my sleeve, and he gets to work. The cucumbers do feel good.
“It’s turning all purple and black,” Griffin says.
I look down at my arm. He’s right. It does look bad. Now that I’ve looked my arm really begins to throb.
Juniper sits up, looks at my black and blue arm, and faints.
My mother purses her lips. “Now look at what you’ve done.”
“Does that mean I can have her eggplant parmesan?” I ask. It’s a legitimate question. We’re Italian. Food is a priority.
“No,” Juniper says, suddenly regaining consciousness.
Damn.
We all sit down for dinner. My mother waits until my mouth is full of eggplant before asking me about my wretched day…without mentioning the snake. I tell her about my latest assignments—the butter one and the Veronica one.
“How is Veronica?” she asks sweetly.
Mom adores Veronica. She wants us to get married because it’s prestigious to have a lawyer in the family—not to mention the family discount for all legal matters. She’s got some sketchy cousins that have legal troubles every now and then. She thinks Veronica would come in handy and is very attractive as she endlessly points out to me.
“She’s her usual self.” I stuff another piece of bread in my mouth in an attempt to divert the conversation.
“She doesn’t trust her own client?” my dad asks.
“Who would?” my mother pipes in. “They’re criminals.”
My dad seems to consider this as he reaches for another piece of bread. Bella slaps his hand away. “Remember your cholesterol.”
Griffin isn’t interested in Veronica. He doesn’t like her, which is saying something because Griffin likes everyone. I don’t blame him. She is condescending. To everyone. “What’s going on at the fair? Did you catch the bad butter guy yet?”
“Not yet, but we’re working on it. Travis is getting really good at sculpting.”
“I thought you were going to be the sculptor,” Griffin says.
“I’m bad at it. Really bad. So, he’s going to dress up and pretend to be me.”
“I get to come see, right?” Griffin says, putting on his big-eyed pleading look. The kid has perfected the art of persuasion via facial expressions.
“Of course,” I say.
“If Travis is being you, who are you going to be?” Griffin asks.
I stop chewing. That is a very good question. One I hadn’t considered.
***
I wake up to find both Ivan and Veronica the cat snuggled up to me, one on either side. They barely tolerate each other, but last night was freezing so we’re all huddled under every blanket I could find. I crawl out of bed leaving them behind. They must’ve been up late last night watching Travis carve. Veronica snuggles up against Ivan. I pick up my phone from the nightstand and snap a picture. It’ll make a great screen saver—my fur family. I put on my puffy down parka and my bunny slippers and head to the kitchen.
The kitchen is not a pretty sight and to make matters worse, there’s no coffee. Travis is splayed out on the kitchen floor with a trowel in his hand. He’s passed out and snoring. On every conceivable surface are butter houses, butter animals (the hedgehog is my favorite), the complete cast from the musical Mama Mia, and a two-foot tall Trump with his tiny hands covering up his tiny you-know-what. Its likeness is stunning. Just then Michael walks in behind me and screams.
Travis sits up, his eyes blinking frantically. “Wha, what?”
“It’s awful, simply awful. How could you do this?” he says, jabbing his finger at the Trump sculpture. “I hate him. I hate him so much.” Then Michael does something I never thought him capable of—he picks up a butcher knife and whacks off the tiny hands and the tiny you-know-what.
“Wow. You really do hate him,” I say.
Michael is sobbing and waving around the you-know-what that’s stuck to the tip of the knife. “How can you do homage to that terrible man?”
“I did it for you, Baby,” Travis says, wrapping his arms around Michael.
“Why would you do that?” Michael asks, his sobs subsiding.
“Because I know how much you despise him and now you can take your frustration out in butter.” Travis hands him a machete.
Michael beams. “Really?” He hands me the butcher knife with the you-know-what attached. I stare at if horrified.
Michael grips the machete with both hands, straight-arms it out in front of him, pirouettes, and the head goes flying. Right into the arms of Veronica. The person, not the cat. She must’ve slipped in during Michael’s piercing screams. Lord knows, she has her own key. I stopped changing the locks way back when. It was an exercise in futility.
“What the hell is this?” she asks, holding up the head of Trump ala Kathy Griffin.
***
Veronica takes me to the Starbucks near my office. We sit at a table in a tucked-away corner and sip our coffees. She breaks the silence. “How’s your surveillance going?”
“Speaking of which, why was Del Hargrave coming out of your building last night with a redhead? She went in with you and came out with her.”
Veronica smiles slightly, the kind of smile that indicates she has a secret she is not going to share. I hate it when she does that. “It was business. The redhead had business she wanted with Del. I told them they could meet at my place. I had Jeffrey, the doorman, let her in to wait.”
“What sort of business?” I sip and study her over the lip of my mocha white chocolate latte with three shots of espresso.
“Private business.”
“How am I supposed to collect information on Del if you won’t tell me what’s going on?”
>
“That’s just it. I want you to find it out. It’s imperative. If I tell you everything then I won’t get your fresh perspective, now will I?”
This makes sense—in a Veronica kind of way. She always does this to me. She keeps me guessing about things that make sense to her but not to me. That was a deciding factor in all seventy-two of our break-ups. I don’t like being kept in the dark and Veronica loves the chase and the confusion. Opposites do not attract in my world, well, except they do sometimes when I find myself under her spell.
She reaches under the table and lightly runs her hand up the inside of my thigh. I feel the heat rush to my cheeks. I hate when she makes me blush. I hate myself even more for succumbing to her charms.
She plants her foot between my thighs and wiggles her toes. I gasp. She’s slipped off her shoe and her pantyhose are silky, and her ankle is so sexy. Veronica may not have a good heart, but she’s got great ankles. I run my thumb along the beautiful curve of her ankle and feel things I shouldn’t. She smiles suggestively at me.
“I don’t have to go to the office immediately,” she says.
That brings me to my senses. “I don’t do booty calls.”
“Since when?”
“I’m out of here.” I stand.
She laughs and tugs me back into my chair. “Tell me what you know about Del’s whereabouts and doings.”
“Your bill is growing, you know.”
“Not a problem.”
She is so frustrating, but I agreed to take the case on and I don’t let go until I get my man or woman. “Here’s what I’ve got so far.” I slide a manila file folder across the table.
She quickly peruses the file. “Hmm…looks good.”
I squint. I can’t shake the feeling that she’s playing me. Oh well, it’s her dime. I get up. “I’ve got work to do.”
Veronica flashes her white teeth at me. “Call me if you change your mind about that booty call.” She winks.
I don’t answer. I frown at her for good measure. “Thanks for the coffee.” I dump the empty cardboard cup in the trash on my way out the door. Once in my car, I sigh, put my head on the steering wheel and chastise myself for even considering the booty call. It would be so easy, so pleasant, so satisfying.
I swat the thought away and drive to the fairgrounds. I’ve got a meeting with Betty Butter. I need to give her an update. Arthur will also be there. So will Travis. We need to see if the disguise will work.
The morning is growing warm, which feels good after sleeping in a freezer. I hope Veronica the cat is all right. I know she’s got fur, but she’s not a Norwegian forest cat with their thick fur coats that are able to withstand dangerously low temperatures. Despite my reservations that Veronica is a decent and kind cat under her hellcat exterior, I have grown quite attached to her. I know if I die unattended, she’ll eat my face off, but I hope her better nature might keep her from doing it for a day or two. That and a full food bowl.
This early at the fairgrounds the parking lot is mostly full of vendors unloading their wares and senior citizens taking advantage of the early hour to avoid the crowds and the heat. I make my way to the butter barn but get sidetracked by the smell of coffee and tiny, freshly fried, lightly-coated-in-sugar donuts. What the hell, I tell myself. Living in a refrigerated apartment burns calories – everybody knows that. I probably burned eight thousand calories just sleeping last night. I deserve a donut or dozen. They’re small.
The man gets me a coffee and a small bag of warm donuts. I put one in my mouth and groan with delight. “Oh, my god, these are good,” I tell him.
“You got the very first batch,” he says, smiling proudly.
Then it hits me. His donut stand is right across from the butter barn. It’s a perfect spot to see all the comings and goings. “Say, you see a lot of what goes on here, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Lots of people-watching at the fair.” He leans on the counter, his elbows resting between the condiments and the napkins. “I see things, all right. Things you wouldn’t believe.”
I pop another donut into my mouth, chew, then ask, “Ever see anything odd going on at the butter barn?” I shove another donut in my mouth and let him think.
“Not much going on between competitions. Mostly just trucks delivering butter.”
“No other people? Suspicious people? Creepy people?”
“I did see Caroline Swank sneaking around one night late. She’s pretty creepy. Never seen anyone so intent on butter. Don’t get me wrong; I like butter as much as the next guy. Love it on cornbread. You can’t eat that stuff without it.”
There are so many ways for people to love their butter, I think. “What do you think she was doing?”
“Funny you ask that. I was fixing the fryer that night. I couldn’t do it during the day because I’d lose a lot of business. I was taking a break and smoking a cigarette... Don’t go harping on me. I know it’s bad for me... And I see Caroline wheeling in a dolly. Now she may be strong for a woman but trying to lift something heavy in high heels is not a good idea. I’m a gentleman, right? So, I go over to see if I can help.” He pauses, building suspense.
“What was she doing?” I sip my coffee and eat another donut. I was going to save some for Travis, but he’ll just have to get his own bag.
“She was moving these three good-sized chunks of butter into her booth. Usually, they have the butter drivers put the butter into the cold booths, but here she was trying to do it by herself.”
“What did she do when she saw you?” I pop the last donut in my mouth.
“She was nervous as a black cat on Halloween. She didn’t like me being there, that was for sure. But she let me help get the butter in the booth. I asked her what she planned on carving for the big competition and she clammed right up. Told me it was top secret.”
“Why do you suppose she was so nervous?”
“I don’t know. I just got the feeling that she was doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing. You know, like when a kid gets caught and then tries to cover it up. I could be way off base, but I got good instincts.”
“I could make it worth your while to keep an eye on what goes on over there.” I pull out a hundred dollar bill and slide it across the counter.
He squints one eye. “You the mob?”
“No,” I say. I don’t tell him that I know mobsters and sometimes I do a little collection work for them and, of course, I can eat my weight in gelato. Everything I do is legal, but people still get nervous about anyone who has anything to do with mobsters. “I’m a private investigator.”
“What’re you investigating?”
I hesitate, then decide I’m not going to string him along like Veronica does to me. How will he know what to look for if I don’t tell him? “I’m looking into the disappearance of Lehane Noster.”
“Ah, that guy. He’s a favorite to win.”
“Except he’s not around to win.”
“You want me to keep an eye out?” he says, picking up the hundred and folding it. He sticks it in the front pocket of his white button down shirt.
“Yeah.”
“I got you covered.”
We introduce ourselves. His name is Jerry.
I finish my coffee, wad up the empty donut bag, and walk over to the butter barn. Betty, Arthur, and Travis are waiting for me by the sculpting area.
Travis is fit to be tied. He’s dressed for work in his lederhosen but he’s holding a black duffle bag. We decided last night that we need to let Betty and Arthur know about the switcheroo in case they need to distract Caroline. “Where have you been?” He glares at my upper lip. “Donuts? Really?”
I wipe my lip, feeling the sugar. “I’ve been setting up a contact who’s going to keep watch for any unusual, you know… things. It was necessary to purchase donuts and coffee before I set out my proposal.”
Betty comes to my rescue. “I think better after a donut and Jerry’s Tiny Donuts are a fair favorite.”
I gloat in Travis’
s direction.
“Just so long as it was work related,” Travis says. He lifts up the black duffel bag. “We’ve got to get this show on the road. I need to help Michael get set up. He’ll get all frosty if I don’t. I’ll be right back.” He heads off to the restroom.
Betty and Arthur look at me expectantly, waiting for my explanation. “I’m terrible at carving. Travis is a whiz at it. So, we’re going to trade out. He’ll be me.”
“We can’t do that. The butter board has allowed you in. Only you. They do not like change,” Betty says.
“They are sticklers for the rules,” Arthur agrees.
“They’re not going to know that it isn’t me,” I say.
“How are you going to pull that off?” Arthur asks. Then his face lights up. “Is this like the video where the dog wears a hoodie and human hands do all the stuff? I love that video.”
“Uh, no, it’s not like that. But we might try that if this first idea doesn’t work out.”
Travis comes out of the dressing room wearing a pale yellow jumpsuit with a cape. He’s wearing white, four-inch, square-heeled shoes and a white fedora slanted jauntily over one eye. And, of course, the dark-brown wig. He sashays towards us. We’re going to have to work on the walk, but other than that he looks pretty darn good. In fact, he looks better as me than I do.
“Goodness me,” Betty says placing her hand over her heart. “It’s remarkable.”
Travis beams. “And I’m not wearing any mascara.”
“Neither do I,” I say.
“No, but you should,” Travis says. He twirls around, giving the cape lift. “Well, what do you think? Am I not a stunning look-alike?”
Arthur is dumbstruck. “How’d you do that?”
“We live together. It happens to all couples,” Travis says. “Especially gay people.”
“You’re gay?” Betty asks me.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Do you know Cecily Sack?” Betty asks. “She’s a lesbian.”
Why do straight people always think that all gay people all know each other?
“She works at the Home Depot,” Betty says. “The one on 4th Street.”
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