A Corpse in a Teacup (15 page)

“Guess who?”

Tuesday’s least favorite words in the English language, especially at eight in the morning. Only one person announced herself that way, as if Tuesday wouldn’t recognize her mother’s boozy voice.

“Hi, Tessa. What’s up?”

During Tuesday’s adolescence her mother
insisted she stop calling her
mommy.
For a while, she tried to pass her off as her baby sister. Tessa wasn’t her real name. After a free makeover at a department store cosmetics counter she decided that Ruth, her given name, was too bland for her wild, inner spirit and she became Tessa. The boyfriend she wanted to impress at the time with an exotic moniker had long ago departed, but the name stuck.

Names becam
e a thing with Tuesday. She could not contain the joy she felt for people important to her in a name. Nor could she go around constantly saying
I love you
to her friends, so she called them honeybunch, sweetie, lovie or dear one. Her mother had just three names. Tessa on most occasions, Tessie when Tuesday felt relaxed, and mommy when it seemed things were spinning out of control again, and she became a vulnerable little girl needing her mother.

Tuesday gave her mother another prompt to announce the reason for her call. “Everything okay?”

The question made her nerves start to ping. A call from her mother meant one of three things. She wanted to borrow money, a double edged sword: on one hand it meant her mother wasn’t dealing drugs, but also Tuesday wouldn’t ever get the money back.

It could
mean Tessa was once again on the wagon and practicing the step where she had to atone for her sins. They would have endless conversations about what a bad mother she was. Until guilt or cravings overwhelmed her, and she fell off the wagon.

Or, she was into the tequila again
, and the conversation could go anywhere.

“Tuesday girl,
” she finally said, “I have good news. I couldn’t wait to tell you.”

This time h
er voice revealed very little that could prepare Tuesday for her state of mind, so she decided to stay positive. What could it hurt?

“I’m all ears, Tessie.” Tuesday picked up her iPad and skimmed her email
, actually giving her mother only half an ear. Until she said, “I need you to give me a recommendation.”

“A what? A recommendation for what?”

The last time she backed her mother was for an apartment so Tessa could have one more
fresh start
. Tuesday ended up losing the deposit she had fronted and had to pay to have the wine stains removed from the carpet.

“I
just told you, Tues. Weren’t you listening? This job. It’s the chance of a lifetime. And I’ll only have to stay with you until I get my first paycheck and can get my own place.”

Tuesday sat up and the iPad slid to the floor
. “Wait, mommy. Go over this again. Start from the top.”

It wasn’t that Tuesday didn’t love her mother, but as she had explained to Olivia the night they traded
mother
histories, she needed to worship hers from afar. Tessa had made genuine sacrifices to keep Tuesday out of the clutches of foster care. Tuesday knew she was the center of her mother’s life. It was just that the center of her mother’s life was chaotic, and Tuesday did better hanging out on the fringes. Like living in Los Angeles while her mother resided in Phoenix, or St. Petersburg, or Buffalo, her last address. They hadn’t roomed together since Tuesday was seventeen and went off to live with her grandmother to attend junior college.

“I have this job, Tuesday. I’m a life coach.”

Another call came through. It was from Holley. Tuesday let it go into voice mail. This was one conversation she couldn’t put on hold.

“A what? Tessa you have to train to be a life coach. It’s like a profession. Sort of. And you have to have life experience to help people with their problems. Like find
ing a job or coping with motherhood or something. What kind of coaching are you going to do?”

A text
from Holley came across the top of the smart phone screen.
I think Roger is dead. Call me.

Tuesday stared at the
message, disbelieving, while trying to get the gist of Tessa’s explanation. “Cosmetic Reinvention. And I’m certified. I’m qualified. I wouldn’t be able to do this if I weren’t. And the company that trained me wants to hire me. I just need a recommendation.”

Tuesday said, “What?” at the text.

“I said Cosmetic Reinvention. Aren’t you listening to me? This is my life plan I’m talking about.”

“Tessa I just got a text.”

“But I need you to listen to me.”

“
I am. What are you saying? What company? What’s Cosmetic Reinvention?”

What did Holley mean, Roger was dead?

“You know, for women who’ve been choosing the wrong cosmetics all their lives. They are in ruts and can’t get ahead because their look is all wrong. CRI. That’s Cosmetic Reinvention International. They trained me and now they want me to work for them.”

“How much did you pay for the training?”

Another text arrived, this time from Natasha.
Find the cat or you don’t work here no more.

“Mommy, I have to go.”

“No. Just listen to me.
It was an investment. And they have a payment plan.”

Wh
y should she have to find the cat? Tuesday was trying to keep all this bad news sorted out in her mind. Tessa was hounding her to pay attention.

“Okay. So what
is the job?”

“Well, it’s really exciting. I’ll build my own team.”

Tuesday recognized the pie in the sky tone in Tessa’s voice. She had a new plan to
start afresh
. This was going to cost Tuesday, it always did, either in cold cash or painful life lessons. “You mean you’ll train them to sell more coaching programs.”

“Yes. How to
work out a life plan for the clients.”

Another text. From
Mr. Gorgeous.
Lunch?

Now she had to negotiate a trifecta of trouble. This avalanche of texts had to stop.
One more and she wouldn’t be able to cope. She had to get her mother off the phone. “Do you get a salary or a commission?”

“Oh, commission, of course. That’s where the money is. You basically work for yourself.”

“Because a 9-5 job limits you.”

“Exactly. You’ve
heard of the company.”

“Actuall
y, I have Tessa. It’s called Scam International. Tessa! I have to go.”

“You’re so negative. What have I told you about thinking
positively? You’ll get so much further in life, dear. I think you need a Cosmetic Reinvention. I’ll do one for you. Free, of course. Then you’ll see the value of this. And the best part is I’m relocating.”

“Tessa, I think you should
stay where you are and rethink this. We can have a Skype call and figure out a life plan for you. I’ll coach you and it won’t cost you a dime.”

Holley called again.
Tuesday debated putting her mother on hold, but let the call go into voicemail again. Holley followed it up with another text:
We’re all going to die. I’m doomed.

Tuesday just stared dumbfounded at the message. Her mother became insistent.
“What do you mean, stay where I am? I can’t do that.”

T
uesday’s impatience seeped into her voice. She couldn’t help it. She always tried to be nonjudgmental with Tessa. It was the path of least resistance. She worked at keeping her voice even. “Why, what’s happened to your apartment? I thought it was secure.”

“Oh I’m not in my apartment any more. Phoenix wasn’t happening for Cosmetic Reinvention.”

“Tessa. I mean it. I have to go. If you have a new number, give it to me and I’ll call you. Real soon. Where are you?”

“Here.”

Tuesday paused. She didn’t like the sound of that. “Here where?”

“Here in LA.
I’ve been on a bus all week. I finally made it to the bus station. I’m waiting for you to pick me up. Surprise!”

“Holley, how do you know Roger is dead?”

Things were happening to
o fast. Tuesday’s blood pounded in her neck. It had been a tossup which message she would return first. In the end it had been no contest. Why did Holley think Roger was dead? Not Roger. She hadn’t made up her mind whether he was capable of criminal acts, but she was going to give him the benefit of the doubt until she knew otherwise.

Holley’s voice cra
ckled from tears clogging her throat. “Miss Tuesday, he won’t answer his phone or texts. I’ve been trying to reach him since yesterday. He never makes me wait for a return call. You heard what Gray Star said. The police left the meeting because there is another murder. He’s the next one.”

“Holley we don’t know that. Have you turned on the TV? Is there any news?”

“No, not yet.”

“Then don’t jump to conclusions. I want you
to stay calm and stay put. Don’t let anyone into your house unless you know them.”

“Oh, Miss Tuesday.
I’m too sensitive for all this. I can’t be alone. Harry left after breakfast. You have to stay with me.”

“Holley, I can’t. My mother is in town. I have to pick her up at the train station now.”

“Your mother? Oh, Miss Tuesday. You are truly blessed to still have your mother.”

“Oh, Holley, I’m so sorry
. I didn’t know you had lost your mother.”

“Oh, I haven’t lost her
. I know where she is.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She moved far away. For her health.”

“Oh, where did she go, Arizona?”

“No, the south of France.”

“I beg your pardon?
” Holley had given few clues about her family life in the months Tuesday had known her. Their time was spent on readings, not socializing. “What’s wrong with her? Did she sprain the hand she uses to sign her credit cards?”

“Something like that.
Her nerves. She has a nervous condition.

Tuesday thought, so it runs in the family.
“And where is she exactly?”

“Some town cal
led San Tropiz.”

“
Do you mean San Tropez?”

“I don’t know. I’m reading it off her postcard
. She’s in a sanitarium there.”

”I
wonder which one. Dior? Yves St. Laurent? Valentino? Holley, nobody goes to sanitariums any more.”

“
Well my mother did, and I wish she was back here with me. If someone is trying to kill me, I might never see her again.”

Holley began to cry
, big hiccoughing sobs. Tuesday had a thought. “Holley, stay put. I’ll be there shortly.”

“You promise?
”

“Oh, girlfriend. I promise.”

The next call was to
Mr. Gorgeous. She got his voice mail, so she left a jumbled message explaining that getting together was complicated because her mother was in town. She’d text him later.

He texted
back immediately that he was ready when she was. Tuesday grabbed her tote bag and took off for East 7
th
Street, the Los Angeles Greyhound Bus Station in a far more buoyant mood than a confrontation with her mother or Natasha would explain.

Tuesday arrived early at the Café before anyone else. It was Saturday, and they drew in the weekend shopping crowd. Natasha had made it clear that, for reasons Tuesday couldn’t fathom, she held her responsible for the disappearance of the cat. Rather than spend time defending herself against the charge, Tuesday decided to take the path of least resistance and try to find it.

She
arrived early before any of the staff and even though a janitorial service swept up every night, she grabbed a wide broom and went over every square inch of the floor in the main restaurant and the patio. She swept every corner, including the storeroom, utility closet, kitchen and freezer. She found no trace of the missing glass sculpture. She even had a freezer burn to show to Natasha from touching the meat rack as proof that she had done everything and looked everywhere possible. The cat was not in the restaurant, she declared to the rafters as the rest of the staff began to arrive.

When
Marco and Natasha arrived, the chef declared an impromptu staff meeting. Tuesday grumbled that she was attending more meetings these days than the president of General Motors. When everyone had assembled, Marco stood at the cash register casting an evil eye over the room. A dozen or so gathered around the front tables in their uniforms, an embroidered outline of the missing cat mocking them from their breast pockets. Natasha stood behind him, severe and accusing. The creator of the creature, Victor, was absent, perhaps in mourning in his studio. Missing as well were two servers, on vacation since before the theft, so not under suspicion. The evening staff gave Tuesday puzzled glances, not recognizing the girl in the feather and camo camisole and duct tape mini skirt as one of their own. Her look today channeled early Bjork, but the new boots with cushy soles and British school tie were head-scratching accessories.

Natasha gave Marco the sign to begin. The beefy chef often addressed the staff when he was trying out a new dish or explaining how they should describe an elaborate preparation to customers. He also barked at them regularly, if they weren’t picking up orders fast enough or were too rough with a plate and a towering creation fell over and ruined the
artful presentation. But he had never taken over the reins of a disciplinary meeting. He cleared his throat and demonstrated, what Tuesday always knew, a distinct aptitude for chewing out the underlings.

“I’m telling you, I cannot have my kitchen disrupted with this cat business any longer. Someone in this room knows what happened to The
Mulberry Cat. The longer you put off admitting your guilt in stealing it or, god forbid, breaking it and disposing of it, the harder the hammer will fall on you. Now we all know that accidents happen. We’re all human.”

He said the last with a decided sneer to indicate that he exempted himself from the scourge of human foibles.

“If the guilty party will step forward and admit his or her guilt,” at this Natasha hardened her stare, twisting the knife, “we, that is Natasha, will consider the matter closed. We will say no more. You have until noon, until we open our doors, to come forward. After that, the perpetrator, when found, will be prosecuted under the full extent of the law. And make no mistake. We will find you.”

Natasha interrupted him
and pointed to the ceiling. “I have friends in the police. You will not insult me or my husband this way.”

Peter, the sommelier, fiddled with the pale blue ribbon holding his tasting cup. He’d known Natasha back when she was a dishwasher at a restaurant where they had started their careers. Her body count, dropped plates, that is, was so high she was fired. Years later a divorce settlement from her fir
st husband allowed her to open the Café. In a stroke of sheer luck she crossed paths with Marco when he was looking for his first job. He’d had a dream to open his own restaurant. She convinced him to raise some capital. He did and they became partners. His Lemongrass Chicken and Pear and Chocolate Tart put the Café on the map. The restaurant’s subsequent overnight success lured Peter to guide the Café’s famous wine list. Without Peter and Marco there would be no Mulberry Cat Café. Natasha’s threats were lost on Peter.

“Seriously, Tasha,
” he argued, “who is going to come forward? They identify themselves and boom,” he smashed his fist into his palm for emphasis, “they’re out of a job. Or worse.”

Natasha surprised everyone by tearing up. “You
all have my word.” Her voice vibrated with increasingly heavy sobs, embarrassing everyone. “As long as my restaurant stays open, that person will have a job. Just give me back my cat. You don’t know what it means to me.”

She made a big, slobbery gasp and her employees looked away, down at their feet, at each other, a few coughing into their hands to cover smirks. Who doesn’t enjoy seeing the mighty brought low?

No one had ever seen Natasha break down or show any empathy to anyone who wasn’t a customer. The sun coming through the front windows shifted just then, sending shadows across the room, darkening the circles under her eyes, made slightly grotesque now from mascara leaking down her cheek. She swiped at her eyes, making the streaks worse. But she succeeded in swallowing her tears and composing herself.

Marco stepped in
. “I have not discussed this with Natasha. But I am going to offer a reward of $1,000 to anyone who gives me or Natasha information leading to the return of The Mulberry Cat.”

He made it sound like he was after
someone on the FBI’s ten most wanted list. The group stirred, staring at one another in their surprise, speechless. Natasha gasped. Clearly, this offer was new to her. Marco looked at her and nodded his sincerity before he turned back to the employees.

“There will be no questions asked. Just leave the statue in its spot here where it belongs,” he
pointed to the cash register, ”and we will all get back to normal. You can leave it anonymously. No one will know.”

The sommelier rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, “Then how will you know who to give the money to?”

Everyone nodded as they realized it was a poorly thought out offer. There was no way to return the cat without implicating oneself in its theft or destruction.

Peter stood up, effectively bringing the meeting to a close.
“Tasha, just chalk it up to the cost of doing business, declare it as a loss on your income taxes and have Victor make another one. We’re wasting time here. We have work to do before noon to get the Café ready for its first customer. You know how busy we are on weekends. Let’s get back to work.”

He headed for the bar, showing his disgust.
Marco’s look threw daggers at him.

“Peter!” Natasha had composed herself and was back in her Iron Maiden pose. “You have no idea of the value of that cat. Or what it means to me personally. How dare you dismiss it like
that? It’s worth thousands.”

Peter had reached his tolerance for cat discussions. “Tasha, a Mason jar is worth more than that piece of junk. The only reason it has any value is because of the restaurant. If Victor weren’t married to you he wouldn’t be able to sell his glass sculptures at street fairs. Have him make another one. No one will know the difference. You spend more on broken glasses and dinner plates than what that thing is worth.”

“Peter! It is worth millions to my heart. And you know that. It inspires me, that cat. My customers love it. It is why they come here.”

Peter, as short tempered as Natasha, had had enough.

“Tasha, so Victor gave it to you because you gave him a good roll in the hay. I get it. You told me about it. So do it again. You’re married now. You can get another, call the police. Whatever. I don’t care. But let me get back to work. My wine list is why people come here. Not that stupid cat.”

Natasha almost said
, “You’re fired!” but she stopped herself in time. She knew he was right. Except for the roll in the hay. Their sessions weren’t that exciting now that she and Victor were married.

Tuesday tried to slink down in her chair. She felt sorry for Natasha. Not for losing her cat. Peter merely said what everyone knew. It was an ugly piece of work. But Natasha had always been fair with her. Stern, even harsh when she was rushed, but she always gave her an accounting at the end of the week,
showing her the receipts of customers who had added a reading to a lunch or tea service check. Natasha never tried to cheat her. But she also tried to make herself small because she knew she was an easy target for the restaurateur’s wrath.