Mother (27 page)

Half his mouth grinned. “Yes. One never knows exactly who-”

Prissy stepped closer and sighed. “I am not interested in your family history or your candy, Mr. Dean. I’ve come by to inform you that we of Morning Glory Circle have taken a vote and it’s been decided that we don’t appreciate your refusal to participate in the neighborhood events.”

He blinked his rat eyes at her. “You voted about not appreciating it?”

Prissy raised her chin. “That’s correct.”

He watched her a long moment, then sighed. “Well, Mrs. Martin, I wish I could say that I’m sorry, but quite frankly, I’m not. I don’t have the time or the inclin-”

“Mr. Dean,” interrupted Prissy, “your failure to fulfill your neighborhood obligations is not to be taken lightly. You
have
to take part. You
must
. You listen to me, Mr. Dean, as President of-”

Earl closed the distance between them with one long stride, his buggy-whip body towering over her. “No, you listen to me, missy. I will not have you ordering me and my family around.” His voice was powerful, commanding, and Prissy couldn’t help shrinking under the finger he jabbed at her nose. “Furthermore, I don’t give a good goddamn how you or anyone else in the neighborhood thinks my family should be spending our time. To be honest, Mrs. Martin, we don’t like you either, not one single bit, and while you may be able to get away with bullying everyone else on the block, you will not come into
my
place of business, throwing your political propaganda around, and making demands of me or anyone in my family.” He took a slow, deep breath and straightened. “Am I understood?”

Prissy’s mouth moved, struggling for words.

“Mrs. Martin? Am I
perfectly
understood, or do I need to take this harassment of yours to the next level?”

“I … I …” Prissy’s cheeks flared, the humiliation burning like a rapid fire under her skin. A cold sweat broke out above her lip but did nothing to cool the flames. She fingered her hair necklace with rapid, nervous rubs. “I …”

Earl Dean smiled. It was superior, self-satisfied, and both sides of his mouth participated this time. “There now. I think we’ve reached an agreement.” The smile collapsed as his eyes went grave, his voice lowering to a near growl. “Now get the hell out of my store before I call the authorities to escort you out. And don’t come back. Don’t you
ever
come back.”

Threatened by Earl Dean! The neighborhood pervert!
It was more than Prissy could take. She spun on her heel and stalked toward the door. She paused, raised a fist. “You’ll get your comeuppance, Mr. Dean!” She slammed the door behind her.

Yes. Earl Dean would pay for this, and she knew exactly how to make that happen. She had everything she needed, and had for years. It was a simple matter of timing … and delivery.

“Well, what do you think?” Claire asked as she handed her laptop to Jason.

“It looks terrific! You’re going to become a Fortune 500 company if you keep turning out this quality of work. Your client is going to love his new website.”

“Thank you. If he likes it half as much as you do, we’ll probably have a check next week. A pretty nice one. Maybe even enough for a deposit and first and last month’s rent on our own place.” She beamed up at him.

“That would be nice,” Jason agreed.

“I have three more jobs due this month, too. And I’ve been getting more inquiries. Things are looking up. I’m sure if I do good work, we’ll be able to move out in March. At the latest. Before I start showing. That’s when the snapdragon wars really get going. I’d like to miss that.”

“Snapdragon wars? What’s that? A reenactment?”

Claire laughed, “No, Jase. Nothing so exciting. You’ve seen all those flower beds they’re getting ready along the cul-de-sac?”

“There does seem to be an awful lot of garden prep going on, considering February starts tomorrow.”

“Yep. The neighbors compete to win that flag Mother flies. Well, not that one. There’s a little pennant flag for each street and Mother doesn’t bother to fly it because the one she flies is for the town-wide competition. Which she
always
wins.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“Not at all. It’s brutal. Sometimes fights break out. Flowerbeds are vandalized. You’ve heard of the War of the Roses, right?”

“Yeah …”

“That’s nothing compared to the War of the Snapdragons.”

“Charming.” He chuckled.

Claire saved her work and shut the computer. “Mother should be headed out to the cemetery by now. Let’s go see Dad and get the stuff out of Timothy’s hidey-hole.”

“You’re sure she won’t come home?”

“Yes. Once a month, she always goes out there. She won’t be back for hours. It’ll be safe.”

“Okay, let’s do it.”

Aida Portendorfer stood on the sidewalk in front of Phyllis and Clyde Stine’s two-story home, staring at the neatly trimmed hedges as Phyllis continued rehashing the morning gossip. “She said he’s recovering just fine.” Phyllis dug into her bag. “Apparently, he misplaced his seizure medication or something. That’s pretty much all she said.”

Aida gasped as Phyllis pulled out a pack of Benson & Hedges and corked one into her mouth. “Phyllis! I thought you quit!”

Phyllis’ bangle bracelets jangled as she raised a match to the cigarette, her mouth puckering around it like a chapped anus. She inhaled and blew out a stream of smoke, then looked around self-consciously. “I did quit, but ever since my sister Constance’s tragic death, I just can’t seem to put them down. My nerves are shot.” She took another long pull and Aida stepped away from the thick blue cloud of smoke. “Did you
see
what Prissy was wearing this morning?”

Aida nodded.

“It looked like Jacqueline Kennedy’s suit on the day of her husband’s assassination. Why I thought that rose Prissy wore was a chunk of JFK’s brains!” Her girly laugh quickly turned to a barking cough. Aida examined Phyllis’ scoop-neck blouse, denim skirt, and scuffed white Nancy Sinatra go-go boots, and thought that people who live in the 1960s shouldn’t throw stones at each other.

“It
was
pretty ghastly,” agreed Aida. “Tasteless.”

“Well, I don’t think
pink
is appropriate for church at all. Or for Prissy’s age.” Phyllis pulled hard on her cigarette, the cords in her throat straining against the thin, withered skin of her neck. From this viewpoint, it was apparent how much work Phyllis had had done on her face.
She really ought to do something about her neck, too. It doesn’t match.

Aida waved away a cloud of smoke. “So what are you planting for the Snapdragon Festival?”

“I just fill them in a little between the roses. Why bother trying? You know who’ll win, of course.”

Aida nodded. It was true. Prissy had never lost the competition - not once; but still, Aida couldn’t help thinking it might not be so easy a win if people tried a little harder. “I’m doing an American flag,” she said proudly. “It’ll take up the lawn, all red, white and blue snapdragons. It will take Prissy’s breath away. I think I might even win this year.”

Phyllis snorted. “Not likely.” She eyed Aida’s binoculars. “So what are those for?”

Aida looked down. The field glasses rode so comfortably on her bosom she’d forgotten she was wearing them. But she didn’t miss a beat. “I was looking down at my lawn so I could get an idea about how to do the spacing of the stars and stripes.” It wasn’t true. She’d been looking in Priscilla Martin’s windows for some hint of what Prissy planned to do for the festival this year. When Aida had seen Phyllis step out - for a smoke, she now realized - she’d been eager to hear about Jason Holbrook’s seizure and bustled outside, her binoculars forgotten.

“Well,” said Phyllis. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up. Prissy will never let you, or anyone else, win.” She pointed her fingers at Aida, the cigarette clenched between them. “That woman refuses to lose. At anything.” She drew in another lungful of nicotine then dropped the cigarette, crushing it beneath her boots-made-for-walking, then dug into her purse for a mint, a surefire sign Clyde wasn’t aware she’d picked up her old smoking habit again.
 

As if a mint could kill that stench.

Phyllis pointed at Priscilla Martin’s house. “I thought Prissy was at the cemetery.”

Aida saw movement in one of the upstairs rooms. “She is.”

Phyllis gave a self-righteous snort. “Seems her kids have gone snooping around. While the cat’s away …”

“Prissy would be
very
upset if she knew they were poking around up there,” said Aida. “Unless they have permission - the girl
is
her daughter, after all.”

Phyllis considered. “Have you ever been allowed upstairs? I’ve lived here for thirty years and she’s never let
me
up there. Why, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Frederick since his accident!”

Aida nodded. She hadn’t seen Frederick either, nor had she seen beyond Prissy’s first floor. She watched the curtains move in a second-story window. “I wonder what they’re doing up there.”

Phyllis’ gaze lit on Aida’s binoculars. “There’s only one way to find out. Come on, let’s go inside.” She tilted her head toward her own front door.

Aida considered arguing - for appearance’s sake - but didn’t bother. She was just as eager to see what Claire and Jason Holbrook were doing.
Plus, this close, I might finally be able to see inside some of those rooms!

“I hope Dad’s okay,” Claire said, as she peered out the curtains in Timothy’s room. She saw Phyllis and Aida walking into the blue-and-white Stine house. “He was sleeping so heavily it seemed like he was drugged.”

“Maybe he was - after all, your mother has gone out for quite a while today.”

“It’s not right. She shouldn’t drug him.”

“If she did, I agree,” Jason said.

“She should have asked me to look in on him.”

“She’s been doing it alone all this time; I don’t think it’s something she’d think of. Remember sweetheart, we’re not going to be here much longer.”

“True. It really bothers me though.” She dropped the curtains. “Not a car in sight. Let’s clean out the hidey-hole.”

“I’m on it.” Jason uncovered the secret compartment and began moving the contents - mostly composition notebooks with black and white splotched covers - into a plastic bag. The compartment was almost a foot deep and about half full. It only took a moment before he completed the task and stood up.
 

“Good.” Claire lifted the curtains again. “All clear. Let’s get out of here.”

At one-thirty, Father Andrew arrived at the Daffodil Grill and found Dave Flannigan waiting. Andy had been unable to keep his mind on the sermons at either mass, but during the eleven-thirty, he’d been completely unfocused.

Father Dave waved Andy over. He sat in a corner booth beneath a wisteria and daisy stained glass hanging lamp, a tall glass of beer before him. Andy noted the second glass Dave had ordered for him, and he’d never been happier to see an alcoholic beverage in his life.

“Good to see you, Andy.”

Andy took a seat in the tall oak booth and sipped his beer. It was crisp, cold, satisfying. “Good to see you, too, Dave.”
 

Before he could say more, a waitress appeared. Andy ordered a bacon cheeseburger and Father Dave asked for a Caesar salad. “I don’t digest the way I used to,” he told Andy after the waitress left. “Enjoy it while you can.”

Andy took a gulp of beer in hopes the alcohol might work its magic quickly.

Dave sat forward, clasping his hands in front of him. A candle in a small red hurricane glass lit a little smile on his face. “You’re nervous.” It wasn’t a question.

Andy gave him a weak smile. “I wanted to ask you about something. I’m not quite sure how to approach the subject.”

Dave Flannigan watched him a long moment.

“It’s about Priscilla Martin, Dave.”

“What about her, Andy?”

Soft music played overhead - something classical and comfortable, but it did nothing to ease Andy’s nerves. “Well, she’s been really putting the heat on me about moving the homeless shelter out by the airport. I believe her only motive is vanity and I can’t agree with her. I paid a visit to the bake sale she ran yesterday and she managed to get me alone.” He cleared his throat. “She invited me into her house for tea. Her neighbor, Geneva-Marie Collins, is running against her for president of the Auxiliary this year and I think that’s gotten Priscilla more ambitious than ever to have full control of the group.” He cleared his throat again - something seemed to be lodged there, but aside from pending words, there was nothing. “I managed to pacify her. For now. But this is going to come to a head and I see no way to divert her - and there is no compromising on this.” He paused. “How can one woman wield so much power? No one seems able to cross her, though Geneva-Marie is evidently going to try. Dave, you’ve told me not to stand up to her. What’s going on?”

Dave Flannigan raised a brow. “And what was her response to having the issue of the homeless shelter put off?”

“She wasn’t happy about it, but she backed off. Though I doubt that will last long.” He took another gulp of beer; it fizzed deliciously down his throat and warmed his belly, but his nerves were still taut. He looked around the dining room.
 

“I trust you handled her with care.”
 

“Oh, of course. I simply told her I wasn’t comfortable having the discussion in the absence of the other Auxiliary members. She appeared to understand and was quite polite about it, if a little condescending. I do believe she thought me weak.”

“Then what’s bothering you?”

There was no delicate way of saying it. “It’s her behavior, Dave.”

The old priest narrowed his eyes.

“Toward me, I mean. It’s … well, it’s subtle, but it’s …
inappropriate.
”

Dave leaned forward. “Inappropriate in what way?”
 

Andy cleared his throat. He felt like a child confessing a terrible deed to his parent.
But I didn’t do anything wrong.
“Well, I can’t help getting the impression she’s trying to-”

The waitress startled Andy. She gave the men a bright smile and moved to top off their beers. Andy placed a hand over his glass and said, “No, thank you,” but Dave allowed her to fill his, watching the amber liquid with hungry eyes.
Now he’s the one who seems nervous.