Authors: Maggie Toussaint
Tears brimmed in her eyes. She inhaled shakily. “I’m having the baby. It’s all I have left of Dudley.”
I exhaled slowly. Bringing a baby into the world when there were two people sharing the parenting load was a lot of work. Doing it alone was gutsy.
“Did Dudley know about the baby?” I wanted to recall my uncensored question immediately, but the damage was done.
Bitsy stood and walked over to look out the gingham-framed windows, her hand curved protectively over her womb. Now that I knew about her pregnancy I saw that she was already rounding. “He knew. And he seemed relieved because in his mind, we
had
to get married again, only I wouldn’t have it. Not when he hadn’t mended his ways. He swore he’d changed and that he deserved a second chance, but I foolishly believed him.”
Bitsy turned to face me. “Oh, Cleo, what am I going to do? I loved that man beyond all reason, and now he’s gone and gotten himself killed. How am I going to raise this child on my own? I can’t bring myself to tell Mother or the boys about the baby.”
I could just imagine Mama’s hysterics if I was three months pregnant with a dead man’s baby. And my Mama had adored the ground Charlie walked on until he’d cheated on me. Bitsy’s mother had hated Dudley from day one and she constantly found ways to let Bitsy know she’d married beneath herself. I didn’t know how Bitsy lived with that harpy.
My heart went out to my friend. “I’ll help you any way I can. Are you going to stay in Virginia?”
Bitsy strolled back across the office and stopped near my chair. “I don’t know. I want to move out, but Mother was so good to take us in after the divorce. I hate to uproot the boys again, but what choice do I have? Mother has every right to throw me out on the street. I’m an unwed mother at thirty seven. My father is probably spinning in his grave at the disgrace.”
All Bitsy had ever wanted was Dudley, and he hadn’t lived up to her trust and love. The least I could do was to offer her shelter. “Bitsy, you and the boys are welcome to stay here for as long as you like. It won’t be good for the baby if you and your mother are arguing a lot.”
Dudley had paid Bitsy child support. With his death, all of that would stop. A cold chill snaked down my spine all the way to my throbbing ankle. How would Bitsy make ends meet? Was she financially unable to leave her mother?
What if she actually took me up on my offer and came to live with us? At that thought I turned slightly green. How could I afford to feed three and soon to be four more people? Would I need a second job?
Bitsy’s lower lip trembled. She reached over and squeezed my shoulder. “You’ll never know what your offer means to me. You’ve always been my friend, Cleo. Thank you for standing by me. Thanks but no thanks.”
She took a deep breath and stood tall. “We should be okay financially. I was worried at first because his investment accounts were cleaned out, but Dudley always lived larger than life. He always had one deal or another on the horizon where he was going to make it big. Fortunately for me and the boys, Dudley never changed the life insurance policy he bought early on in our marriage. I’m the sole beneficiary of that policy.”
Dudley had bragged incessantly to Charlie of how well off he would leave his family in the event of his untimely demise. If memory served me correctly, Bitsy stood to receive ten million dollars from that policy. She’d never have to worry about money again.
Because my mind is always thinking of ways things fit together, another thought occurred to me that I couldn’t make go away. Even though Bitsy lived in another town, she’d been wronged by Dudley. Could she have shot him knowing that insurance money would free her from him and her mother for the rest of her life?
How could I ask her if she had an alibi for the night of his death? She was my friend and this was definitely her hour of need. Later when things were calmed down I could, in a nonthreatening way, ask her about her alibi. Right now Bitsy needed my support, not my suspicion. “I’d forgotten about the insurance policy. How do you go about getting that money?”
Bitsy’s face turned an interesting shade of green. I recognized that shade from my pregnancy days. Bilious green. Moving quickly, I opened the bathroom door and flipped on the light and the fan.
“I already contacted them.” Bitsy brushed past me into the bathroom, closing the door.
I heard the sound of retching. The fan kept the sour odor of vomit contained. With any luck, all that scotch would come back out too.
Just then, Bitsy’s youngest son, Grant, dashed into the office. The door crashed against the wall with a loud bang. “Mom! Aunt Cleo! Come quick. The dogs are fighting.”
Chapter 11
“Hey, Grant.” I crushed him in an embarrassing hug. Dudley’s slate-gray eyes stared back at me from the boyishly angular face of his youngest son. At thirteen, Grant was all elbows and knees with manly feet he had yet to grow into.
I glanced at the closed bathroom door. Grant didn’t need to find out about his mother’s pregnancy this way. Who knew how long Bitsy would need to pull herself together? The least I could do was handle her dog problem.
“I’ll take care of this, Bitsy,” I said to the door. “Take your time and join us in the house when you’re done.”
“Okay,” she said.
I followed Grant outside. The two Saint Bernards were behaving in less than a saintly manner. There was a lot of teeth snapping, rolling on the ground, and general racing around. But there was a distinct masculine gleam I recognized in Mozart’s eye when he chased Madonna that gave me the biggest clue to what was going on. I was certain canine mating behavior was unsuitable for an impressionable teen.
I was about to suggest to Grant that we leave them alone when Grant observed in a squeaky voice, “Great gravy. Mo’s humping her.”
Good thing my teeth were still original or they would have fallen out for sure. Regardless of the level of Grant’s sexual education, I wasn’t prepared to discuss doggie sex with him. It had been traumatic enough talking to my own kids about the facts of life. That settled it for me.
I wasn’t going to come between consensual sex between two jumbo dogs, and even if Grant was familiar with procreation, he didn’t need to watch. “Grant, why don’t you go inside and help set the table for dinner?”
Grant remained intently focused on the dogs. “Look at him go. He’s never done my leg as many times as that. Do you think they’ll have puppies?”
The awe on Grant’s boyish face made me groan. Men and boys. Leave it to them to be amazed by another male’s prowess.
What would Bitsy do if these super-sized dogs reproduced? Having never had dogs, I didn’t know how long the gestation period was, but quite possibly Bitsy could be having puppies about the same time as she was having her baby. Thank God I wasn’t in her shoes.
I latched the wooden gate and shooed Grant into the house. I didn’t need to see the dogs go at it either. It was a sad state of affairs when your pet had a sex life and you didn’t. I might as well have a big “L” for loser tattooed on my forehead.
As I passed through the kitchen, I sniffed lasagna in the air and a faint tang I couldn’t quite place. A sense of foreboding flitted through me. “Mama? How long until dinner?”
“It’s all ready, dear,” Mama said. “We’re in the dining room.” I followed her voice to discover that Grant had spread the word. Everyone had their noses pressed up against the glass to see the doggie antics.
This was not good. Would I be arrested for showing doggie pornography to minors? What would my oddball neighbor Ed Monday think of all the yipping and racing about? Would he murder us for disturbing his peace? I hoped not. At least not until after dinner. I was starved.
I hugged Dudley’s older son. Artie blushed furiously. Mostly because he was fourteen but also because he seemed embarrassed to be caught watching the dogs go at it. “When are you going to talk your mom into moving back to Hogan’s Glen so that we can see more of you?” I asked as I ruffled his wavy hair.
Artie had gotten the best combination of his parents’ physical features. From his father, serious gray eyes and dark poetic hair; from his mother, a cherubic face and lush eyelashes. He was as handsome as sin and looked as innocent as a lamb.
Artie’s voice was as deep as Dudley’s had been. “Mom said we might be moving back.”
Charla squealed with glee. “Really? That would be so cool. Mama, Artie plays football. He’s the starting quarterback on his JV team. If they moved back, that’d be awesome.”
Artie seemed fairly enthralled by Charla’s exuberance. Charla was four months older than Artie, but because of their birthdates, they’d been in different grades throughout their education. I’d be worried about his potential attraction to my daughter if I didn’t know Artie.
He’d sooner cut off the nose on his face as do anything with a girl. But maybe that was the old Artie. Now that his voice had changed and peach fuzz adorned his chin, maybe hormones ruled his mind, in which case, Charla should watch her step around him.
How much of Dudley’s philandering ways had his son inherited? I shuddered to think of a second generation of Dudleys let loose on the general populace.
Were my daughters in danger from these potential womanizers? Would there be a repeat demonstration of what was going on out in the backyard in a bedroom upstairs with Artie and Charla as the participants?
Not if I had anything to do with it. “Why don’t we all sit down to supper? I’m sure you boys must be starved.”
“Yes ma’am, I’m right hungry,” Grant answered as he slid into a seat.
I started for the kitchen to help bring the food out but Mama stopped me with a curt look. “Cleo, sit down and rest that foot of yours. We’ll get the food out here. Where’s Bitsy?”
Bitsy was becoming intimately acquainted with my office toilet, but I wasn’t going to mention that. “She’ll be along in a minute.”
I glanced over at the table. The bases of all the silverware were perfectly aligned, the floral patterns on the gold-rimmed china plates were precisely oriented in the same direction. The linen napkins and the tablecloth looked like they’d been freshly pressed. And the centerpiece of massed candles was absolutely stunning. Charla had outdone herself.
Her usual idea of setting the table was to throw things down as she dashed around the table. She deserved praise for making the effort to achieve such a wonderful presentation. “Nice job on the table, Charla.”
“Lexy did it,” Charla said as she placed a basket of rolls on the table while Lexy filled the crystal glasses with iced tea. Charla gave me her best two-hundred-watt smile.
“We switched jobs because I wanted to cook with Grandma.”
I noticed Artie reeled under the force of that smile, and I made a mental note to keep close track of that boy. Charla didn’t need to experience the joy of motherhood at fifteen.
Another jolt of anxiety shot through me as I complimented Lexy on her elegant table setting. I’d counted on Lexy keeping Mama on track with the cooking. Surely Charla wouldn’t have helped Mama prepare something inedible for company?
Bitsy came in and sat down next to me. She took a roll and pinched a bit off the edge to eat. She still looked a bit pale. I felt sorry for her, but I couldn’t quite forget that insurance money. Bitsy had ten million dollars worth of reasons to murder her ex-husband.
How was I going to get through this dinner if I kept thinking about that insurance money? The list of things I didn’t want to think about at dinner just kept getting longer and longer. There was doggie sex outside, Bitsy’s love child, and the teenagers sizing each other up at my dinner table.
All my troubles were related to sex. And there was a murderer on the loose. I couldn’t forget that. Keeping my family safe was my top priority. Safe sex for my daughters came in a close second when survival was an issue. A mother’s job was never done.
Charla lay hot pads on the table, then disappeared as Mama brought out the casserole dish full of bubbling lasagna. I heaved a sigh of relief. So far, so good. Charla returned with the salad, and that’s when I knew trouble was afoot. The salad was a colorful composition worthy of artistic greats like Picasso and Rembrandt.
The dark green spinach leaves ringed the lighter iceberg lettuce. Another concentric ring consisted of purple cabbage, followed by an orange ring of grated carrots and cheddar cheese, a red ring of cubed tomatoes, and an unidentifiable blue lump in the center. All of the rings were perfectly concentric. “What? How?” I sputtered.
Mama beamed. “This is Charla’s creation. She calls it Rainbow Salad. Didn’t she do a nice job?”
“How’d you make it look like a bull’s-eye?” Grant asked.
“Nested mixing bowls,” Charla said. “I put in the spinach, then the upside down bowls. As I completed a layer, I removed a bowl.”
Clever. But what was the blue stuff? “And the center?”
“Ricotta cheese,” Charla said, in a tone that suggested we were annoying her with our remedial questions. “It was the wrong color for my rainbow, so I fixed it with food coloring.”
Okay, no reason to panic. Ricotta cheese was edible, even if it was royal blue. Only, the ricotta cheese should have been in the lasagna. Not good.
Fear hammered through my veins. If Charla had been in charge of the salad, then Mama prepared the lasagna. Unsupervised.
I eyed the cheesy, bubbling mass with growing suspicion. There was a distinct fishy odor in the midst of all the regular lasagna smells. What had she done? Mama cut into the mass and carved out a jumbo slice for Artie. He stared at the lump on his plate. “It’s green.”
Mama nodded. “I played with the recipe a little to personalize it. This is my new signature dish.”
I held my breath, afraid to ask what else was in the lasagna besides spinach. Why hadn’t she put the ricotta cheese in the lasagna? I wanted to snatch her up and shake some sense into her. “Mama,” I started.
She raised her hand. “Just give it a try. I’m sure you’re going to love Spickle Fish Lasagna.”
Bitsy turned green and pressed her napkin to her lips. “Excuse me,” she muttered, fleeing from the room.
Artie took a big bite. We watched him chew in morbid fascination. His eyes grew very moist as he pondered the taste sensation of Mama’s main dish. After a few moments, he swallowed. “Interesting. You have to try it.”
Mama beamed as she dished out generous servings to everyone. I noticed that Artie hadn’t taken another bite of his “interesting” lasagna and some sixth sense kept me from digging into mine. However, when Charla, Lexy, and Grant all took big bites of their lasagna, Artie couldn’t keep the laughter inside. I watched the teens eating lasagna turn green.
Lexy spit hers out on her plate. Charla and Grant followed suit. “What is this stuff?” Lexy asked. “It tastes vile.”
“There’s tuna fish in here,” Grant said.
“The pickle relish is crunchy. Grandma, you didn’t say it would be crunchy,” Charla admonished.
I picked apart my vile-smelling helping. Spinach, pickle relish, and tuna fish. In lasagna. For grieving houseguests.
It was just too much. I wanted to howl with frustration. I should have known better than to trust Mama to follow a recipe.
“Don’t eat this,” I cautioned as I gathered up the plates. I had visions of summoning paramedics to come save us from food poisoning. “I’ll order pizza and we’ll eat in about thirty minutes. Meanwhile, have some rolls.”
“What about my salad?” Charla asked. “Can we eat that?”
“Your salad should be fine. I’ll call the pizza delivery place from the kitchen.” I glared heatedly at my mother. “Mama, I’d like a word with you.”
Charla sniffed at my sharp tone, but I couldn’t worry about her delicate feelings right now. I lifted the huge pan of lasagna and limped into the kitchen. I heard Mama say something to Charla as I ordered the pizza, then I waited for Mama to come to me.
I was spooning the awful casserole into the trash when she marched in. It was all I could do not to retch at the fishy odor emanating from the pan.
My frustration boiled out of me. “How could you do this, Mama? Bitsy’s going to think we’re out to murder her entire family.”
Mama’s spine was so stiff you could iron on it. Her amber-flecked brown eyes glittered with fury. “It’s not my fault her ex-husband got killed. If he’d kept his thingy where it belonged none of this would have happened.”
“This isn’t about Dudley’s womanizing. How could you embarrass me this way?”
The slack muscles in Mama’s forearm arm flailed as she shook her finger at me. “You’ve made my life a living hell by keeping me out of my kitchen. What fun is plain lasagna? Spickle Fish Lasagna is an original.”
She had me there, but the reason Spickle Fish Lasagna wasn’t on anyone’s menu was because it tasted terrible and smelled worse. But what about her other statement? Had I made her life a living hell?
I had curtailed her creativity in the kitchen because her meals weren’t edible. It was a simple economic decision. “I’m sorry that I limited your creativity, but I had reasons for doing so.”
Mama pounded her fist on the kitchen counter. “Your trouble is that you’re wound too tight all the time. If you don’t release all that stress, you’re going to end up just like me.”
Seeing as how Mama could run me into the ground any day of the week, I didn’t see that as much of a problem. But she was right about me being wound tightly. Between my divorce, living with Mama, running my business, dealing with Charlie and the girls, and finding a murdered friend, I was over my limit for stress.
I sighed deeply. A stress-free woman would be generous with her own flesh and blood. I wanted to reinvent myself and here was a good place to start. “Why don’t we compromise? I’ll agree to let you cook again, say dinner two nights a week. You can try out your creativity on us. How does that sound?”
Mama grinned big. “Sounds mighty fine to me.”