Authors: Lorena McCourtney
Mac caught up with me. “What’s with the furniture store van? They must have the wrong address.”
Two men were already opening rear doors and letting down a ramp on the van.
“They’re delivering something I bought.”
“You’re buying
furniture
?”
“A sleeper-sofa. It’s more practical than getting a new mattress for the bed. Now I’ll have a sofa and a bed too.”
“Very practical,” he muttered. Approving words, but the feeling behind them was about as enthusiastic as if I’d announced I’d sent the Braxtons a housewarming invitation. I knew he saw the acquisition of furniture as my putting down ever deeper roots on Madison Street. Well, he was right.
I hurried on ahead and got the house unlocked and door open for the delivery men. It took only a few minutes for the husky guys to deposit the plastic draped sofa on the far side of the living room. That wasn’t where the old sofa had been, but I thought this was a better location for sleeping.
“Enjoy your new sofa,” one of the men said as he handed me the delivery ticket. He glanced around the otherwise empty room. “And if you need more furniture, be sure to keep Laurance’s in mind.”
“Oh, I will. Thank you.”
I followed the men out to make sure they hauled off everything the saleswoman had agreed to with my purchase of the sofa. Although I have to admit I’d been a bit fuzzy with her about the smell aspect. One man scrunched up his face and the other coughed when they picked up the mattress, and they both looked at me as if wondering how this inconspicuous little old lady had managed to imbue her furniture with such an odor.
“There was a dead person in my bathtub,” I explained.
They looked at each other, and I could tell they were skeptical about this as an explanation for the smell. But finally one man muttered, “If you say so,” and they trundled off without asking questions.
After they also loaded the old sofa and chair in the van, I gave them a nice, well-deserved tip. It was only after they were gone that I realized I should have bargained for inclusion of the old drapes and mannequin head. Now the head sat there like some macabre growth sprouting in my weed-patch, and the drapes smelled as if something had died in them. Which was too close to the truth for comfort, of course. When I went back inside, Mac had the plastic covering stripped off the sofa and Koop was doing a prowl-by inspection.
The light blue sofa went nicely with the darker blue carpet, although it also looked a little lonely as the sole piece of furniture in the room. I’d left the house fully furnished, but by now everything had disappeared. Maybe Lillian Hunnicutt had a sideline selling used furniture?
“I’m going out to the motorhome for some bedding and get everything ready so I can sleep in here tonight.”
“You’re sure that’s a good idea?” Mac asked.
“That’s what I bought the sleeper-sofa for.”
“You could move the motorhome out to the RV park and stay there. It might be better to keep out of sight until we get something to take the Braxtons out of action.”
Maybe I should do that. Meeting Zack Braxton yesterday had rattled me, and going eye-to-eye with Drake Braxton today made me feel as if I’d stepped into a rattlesnake pit.
But I immediately dumped the idea of hiding out at the RV park. This was my
home
, and I’d let the Braxtons keep me away from it much too long. Tonight I was staying in it. Though I might consider some kind of defense system, just in case.
Apparently picking up on my negative response to his suggestion without my voicing it, Mac said, “I’ll head on out to the RV park, then.”
“You’ll come back for dinner with Magnolia and Geoff later?”
He hesitated, as if he might be going to decline, which was an uneasy reminder that our relationship had changed. I was home. He wasn’t. But, after not seeing Magnolia and Geoff for so long, skipping dinner with them would be rude and Mac wasn’t like that. He finally said, “Sure. I’ll be here.”
***
I piled the sofa cushions in a corner of the living room and pulled out the concealed mattress that made a bed. It was queen size, same as the bed in the motorhome, so my old sheets and blankets would fit fine. I intended to fold it up again, but Koop curled up in the middle of the mattress, and I didn’t want to disturb him. I moved his cat bed into the house – occasionally he
does like to sleep in it – along with his sack of dry cat food. There wasn’t a regular clothes closet in the living room, of course, so I stuffed as many clothes in the little coat closet by the front door as it would hold. By then I was really into moving mode and carted stuff from motorhome to house until it was time to start dinner. Soon I’d have a big decision to make: should I sell the motorhome and buy a car? Or keep it in case I needed a fast escape in the middle of the night?
I decided on meat loaf and baked potatoes for dinner. On impulse I went down the street to invite Tasha and Eric. I found Eric working in the yard outside the shop. Their back yard was almost a jungle of trees, green leaves spreading a cooling canopy overhead, more shade from the tall hedge running from house to garage. He was putting the motorcycle-handlebar horns on the cow, and said Tasha was at a downtown department store being an old lady again today.
“So, yeah, dinner would be great! Tasha comes home really tired so she’ll be glad not to have to cook. She says being an old lady is hard work.”
Tell me about it.
I circled the close to life-size cow. I couldn’t tell where the slabs of rough metal it was made of may have originated. “Do you ever paint your creations?” I asked.
“Not usually.” He stepped back to contemplate the cow. “But I’ve been thinking Matilda here needs paint.”
Matilda. Yes indeed. “What color did you have in mind?”
More reflection. “Purple, I think.”
My arms prickled.
Beware the purple cow,
my fortune cookie had warned, which seemed an odd coincidence, with Eric now thinking about painting Matilda purple. “Black and white might be nice,” I suggested. “I’ve seen big black and white cows.”
“No, Matilda is definitely purple.”
I felt a . . . what’s that fancy word? Frisson! Yes, I felt a definite frisson of uneasiness. But what possible harm could the junk sculpture of a purple cow do? Besides, I don’t believe in fortune cookies.
I decided I should stop and tell Magnolia about Lillian Hunnicutt’s body in my bathtub so she wouldn’t have the shock of learning about it over dinner. She was shocked, but not really surprised.
“If anyone is going to find a dead body in her bathtub, it would be you,” she declared.
Magnolia isn’t one to hide her opinions, but neither does she tend to be snarky. I decided to take the statement as a compliment.
“Thank you.”
“The police are investigating?” she asked.
“I think she was killed because the Braxtons thought she was me, but the police don’t seem inclined to think that way. They’re focusing on someone from her past who had it in for her.”
“What about Mac?”
“He thinks I should pick up and leave before they kill me too.”
“He could be right, you know.”
The possibility of my demise here on Madison Street seems to be a recurring theme.
***
Mac showed up first, and he made lemonade out of the fresh lemons he’d brought. Eric and Tasha arrived next, then Magnolia and Geoff.
It was a great evening. Mac offered the blessing at the dinner table. I think Eric and Tasha were surprised, but they didn’t seem uncomfortable with it. I murmured an “Amen,” and, after a moment, Eric did too.
The meat loaf turned out juicy and tasty, the baked potatoes soft and fluffy. Tasha shared some of her experiences as an older woman and declared that every young person should be required to try it for a day or two, just to know what being old was like. We stayed away from the subjects of dead bodies, murder,
and Braxtons. Mac mentioned spending the afternoon helping a woman at the RV park look for her lost cat, which he found meowing in the garden shed behind her travel trailer. Mac’s a good guy; helping people is the kind of thing he does. Even though I suspected this woman had
stuffed the cat in the shed herself, just so she could enlist Mac’s help. She’d given him a big plastic sack of homemade chocolate-chip cookies for his help.
The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
Fortunately, Mac likes cheesecake even better than chocolate chip cookies, and mine was a big hit. After dinner and dishes we sat around the table still talking. Actually, given that my furniture consisted of one sofa, there was nowhere else for any crowd larger than two to sit. On the way out, heading home, Eric spotted the mannequin head.
He stopped short. “Hey, look at that!”
I jumped on the opportunity. “Would you like to have it?”
“Yes!” He ran out to the garden area and came back clutching the head to his chest as if it were some long-lost treasure. “Wow, this is great!”
I didn’t want to discourage this unexpected opportunity for disposal of the head, but I had to ask, “What can you do with it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had a head to work with before.”
“There’s a picture of Elvis. Would you like to have that too?” I asked.
“I would!” Tasha said.
Hey, maybe I was on a roll here. “There’s also that pile of old drapes,” I offered hopefully. “They might be good for . . . something.”
“Ummm, no,” Tasha said.
Well, two out of three wasn’t bad. Maybe if I spread the drapes over the garden area they’d smother the weeds.
Magnolia and Geoff left a few minutes after Eric and Tasha, Magnolia calling back, “Don’t forget, potluck and barbecue Friday night. Tell anyone you see.”
I’d make peach cobbler, I decided. That’s what I’d taken to that barbecue where I met Mac. Maybe it would make him feel nostalgic about our meeting. I’d also wear that beautiful pendant of turquoise and silver he’d given me. Our relationship needed a jump-start. Then I gave myself a mental thumping. Going our separate ways was a foregone conclusion now, wasn’t it?
Mac stayed for a last cup of coffee out under the maple tree. We didn’t talk much, which wasn’t unusual. We often enjoy a companionable silence. But this was different, a definite rift. Eventually, Mac slapped his thighs and stood up. He gave me a goodnight peck on the cheek.
Don’t overdo it,
I grumbled silently.
Even if there was a rift between us, I was pleased that I could finally sleep in the house. I made up the bed in the sofa, intending to slide into it right away, but I decided there was one more job to take care of. Mac would probably scoff. So would Officer DeLora. I determinedly set about figuring how to do it anyway.
Paint would work best, but it was too late to drive to the store. What else would work? Syrup? Why not!
The project took longer than I figured, of course. The gallon jug of syrup – bigger than I needed when I bought it, but there’d been this great sale at a store back in California – was right there in the cupboard of the motorhome, but it took me a while to locate a suitable plastic bucket and a length of hefty string. Then it took even longer to figure out the logistics of my plan. That Home Alone kid was better at this than I was.
I surveyed the results when I was done. Okay, it would never qualify as high-tech home defense, and Mac would no doubt shake his head in skepticism or exasperation, but I could go to bed feeling reasonably safe and secure.
No Braxtons would be sneaking in unannounced or unscathed tonight.
Chapter Fourteen
I windmilled my arms, appreciating the luxury of space, before slipping into my new bed. The left-behind air conditioner, although it now sounded a little like an asthmatic lion, cooled the sleeping area to where I didn’t need windows open, which reinforced my feeling of security. The mattress on the sleeper-sofa was just right when I stretched out on it, not too hard, not too soft. Koop looped himself into a furry horseshoe around my head, and I quickly drifted off to sleep.
Deep, sweet, dreamless sleep. In my own home at last.
***
Something wakened me. I didn’t know what, but my body went frozen-fish stiff and my nerves flashed warning signals. A noise. The asthmatic-lion air conditioner? That, but something more. A window breaking and a thud
of Braxton
feet? No. An ominous creak in the kitchen?
Something more, much more. Strange lights flickering at the uncurtained windows. Koop standing on the back of the sofa, electrified fur ridging his arched back. An ominous feeling that something had rumbled right through my body, with vibrations lingering like the aftershocks of an earthquake. And my ears, with a world-shattering thunder still echoing in them—.
I jumped out of the bed and stumbled to the window. I stared out in disbelief.
The motorhome . . . Dense black smoke billowed upward, flames whipping within the dark cloud. Tongues of flame spurted out the windows. A roaring inferno raged behind them. Pieces of flaming debris
littered the yard, more spiraling down like falling fireworks. A larger chunk of something . . . a piece of the motorhome
roof
? . . . blazed
on the ground. The maple tree flamed a fiery torch within the billowing smoke.
I stood there paralyzed, momentarily unable to comprehend the reality of what was happening. The snarl of the fire amped up even as I watched. Now it was the roar of an oncoming train. Something whizzed toward the house as if shooting out of a 3D movie, and I automatically ducked. It thudded against the house
I fumbled for my cell phone on the cardboard box I’d set beside the sofa to use as a nightstand. Flames lit the room and flickering shadows danced on the far wall. Koop clawed his way under the bed. I punched in the 911 numbers and garbled a yell:
Fire!
An explosion . . .
another
explosion? . . . rocked the house and I clutched the sofa. A fireball spewed out the top of the motorhome where the roof had once been.