Authors: Kelly Rey
Angle extended his arm toward her. He was holding the pencil halves. Without actually picking up the pencil halves. My jaw went slack. I had to give it to him on that one. That was pretty impressive. He dropped them into her hand. "Here's a tree for you to hug," he told her.
"You," Maizy told him, "are a real doofus."
Oh, boy. I could almost smell the sulfur coming off him in waves.
"Let's go," I hissed at her.
"Now."
I grabbed her by the arm and hauled her out of the office, moving as fast as my hamstring would let me, which was just fast enough to walk into another coughing fit from the phone jockey.
It was just that kind of day.
Maizy and I were on the Atlantic City Expressway by nine the next morning. Not my choice. I'd had my usual night full of grim thoughts, and I felt as if I'd slept a total of two hours. Nowhere near enough for me. I'd met babies who required less sleep than I did.
Maizy, on the other hand, was practically vibrating with excitement as she pointed the Escort toward A.C. It seemed to me we were putting a lot of miles on the Escort and not getting anywhere for it. Probably Vicky Auerbach wasn't going to change that. Still, you didn't know until you knew, and the way Maizy drove, I'd be back at my desk before noon either way.
My stomach growled fiercely as we rolled past the Hammonton exit.
Maizy glanced over at me. "Didn't you eat anything before we left?"
Not sure what she'd had in mind—she'd seen my refrigerator. I shook my head. "Stop if you see a Dunkin' Donuts." I looked out the window. There wasn't much to see except more cars and scrub pines.
"Lucky for you," Maizy said, "we don't have to stop. I packed a few snacks." She reached into the backseat and hauled her backpack forward. "Help yourself."
I took a look inside. Sweet potato crisps. Carrot sticks. Dried cranberries. Walnut pieces. "Where are the doughnuts?"
She rolled her eyes. "You can't eat doughnuts all the time, Jamie."
"I don't eat them all the time," I told her. "But I want to eat them now." I dug deeper into the backpack and came up with a little Tupperware container of brown rice mixed with raisins. I looked over at her. "What, no wood shavings?"
Maizy did a sad little headshake. "You don't know what you're missing." She put on her turn signal, checked her mirror, and angled out from behind a white-haired couple in an Oldsmobile inching their way toward the casinos at forty-five miles per hour. They smiled and waved at us as we went by. "Eating healthy isn't so bad. Why put chemicals in your body when you don't have to?"
I was pretty sure that I could eat nothing but wheatgrass 'til the cows came home, and it still wouldn't make up for all the Butterscotch Krimpets I'd known and loved. "Don't try to change people, Maize," I told her. "It never works."
She frowned. "I'm not trying to change you. I'm trying to improve you. Look what healthy eating did for Uncle Curt. I mean, he's old, but he looks pretty good, right?"
More than pretty good, from what I could remember. I hadn't actually seen Curt in four days. Not that I was counting. "I think genes have something to do with that," I said. "So what's going on here, Maize?"
She kept her eyes on the road, but her cheeks turned slightly pink. "I was just thinking about you and Uncle Curt."
"You probably shouldn't do that," I said. "There is no me and Uncle Curt."
"Sure there is. I think you two could be awesome." She slid me a glance. "And I'd be okay with an Aunt Jamie."
"Hold on," I began, but she overran me.
"It's not a big deal," she said. "You know Uncle Curt works out and stuff. And he doesn't eat a lot of—well, he doesn't eat like you do. So maybe you two could meet in the middle. Like he could have a potato chip once in a while, and you could have…" She tipped her head toward the backpack. "…that stuff. Do you eat dairy?"
I felt a sigh working its way up from my toes. "Maizy…"
"You shouldn't eat dairy," she told me. "Try almond milk. Or coconut milk. You can get cute little coconut milk ice cream sandwiches. I'll show you. When we shop for the dinner you're making for Uncle Curt."
My jaw went slack. "When we—for the
what?"
"We talked about this, remember? There's nothing to it." She slowed down for the Egg Harbor toll plaza backup. "Except about that meatloaf thing. I don't think meatloaf is such a good idea. I mean, red meat and all. You're going to roast a turkey. Like a 'normal'
woman."
I didn't know squat about cooking, except I knew my mother was a normal woman, and even she only roasted a turkey once a year, on Thanksgiving. And if childhood memory served me, we had the leftovers until the following Thanksgiving. I remembered the whole thing involved a lot of guts and gizzards and side dishes and elaborate appetizers and desserts, and I didn't think I could pull that off if Martha Stewart herself dropped by to help me.
"Sure you can," Maizy said.
Had I been thinking out loud?
"I'll help you," she said. "It'll be a good bonding experience."
"Right." I nodded. "We can bond over the takeout we'll be getting after I burn the turkey."
"Uncle Curt wants a normal woman, right?" she reminded me. "Normal women cook. Or they hire cooks to do it for them. Can you afford to hire someone to cook for you?"
I dropped my head back onto the headrest. "Fine. I'll cook his stupid dinner. But he's doing the dishes. I'm not cooking his stupid dinner and then doing the dishes too."
Maizy grinned. "I don't know what Uncle Curt's problem is. You seem perfectly normal to me."
* * *
Vicky Auerbach lived in a tiny clapboard bungalow on a narrow side street that ran between Atlantic and Pacific Avenues a few blocks from the beach. Back in the day, it had probably been prime real estate, within walking distance of the then-vibrant Boardwalk. Now it was another casualty in the decline of the once-thriving resort town, lying in the shadows of a few shuttered casinos. The house itself was weather-beaten, badly in need of a fresh coat of paint and some serious upkeep. Empty flower boxes sagged under the barred front windows. A few shingles were missing from the roof. The driveway was narrow and weed-choked. A Ford Fairlane was parked on the tiny scrubby front lawn.
The day was overcast with a cold breeze blowing in off the ocean. Vicky met us at the front door. She was somewhere in her mid to late thirties, slender, with good skin and dull auburn hair that fell to just below her collarbone with a side part and brown roots. She was wearing skinny jeans and a pink T-shirt with
Hard Times
written across it in sparkling cursive. No kidding. But Vicky had good bones, and with some better luck and a little effort, she could be pretty. I tried to imagine her a few years earlier, when she'd had her run-in with Tippi McWirth.
"I didn't expect you so soon." She pushed the door open. It creaked on its hinges. I noticed her storm door had security bars, too. "I've just been straightening up a little."
She led us into a tiny living room straight out of pictures I'd seen of the '70s, with brown paneling and a burnt orange shag rug. She'd managed to cram a brown leather recliner and loveseat and two end tables into the room. There were white shades on the windows.
"Whoa," Maizy said, looking around. "This is so
Brady Bunch."
"Tell me about it." Vicky grimaced. "My father left me this place with strict instructions not to touch a hair on its head. I've been trying to sell it, but the market's kind of soft." She shrugged. "And where am I gonna go? I work in the Borgata, and it's cheaper to stay here than to buy a condo in Egg Harbor or something."
I looked at the bars on her windows. "Is it safe here?"
"Oh sure. What've I got to steal? That's not a Mercedes out front, you know." She cocked her head toward the back of the house. "Come on into the kitchen. I've put some hors d'oeuvres together."
The kitchen was marginally better than the living room. White wood cabinetry with glass fronts, white appliances, sheet vinyl flooring, but the walls were painted yellow, and the curtains were lacy and buttercream colored. A tiny white dinette set was pushed against the wall. And Vicky's plate of hors d'oeuvres waited on the table. I'd expected the traditional veggie slices and dip, or cheese and fruit chunks, but this was a whole lot better. This was Tastykakes. Kandy Kakes and chocolate cupcakes and a few coffee cakes sprinkled in for variety. Along with some cheese crackers and little square Lorna Doone shortbread cookies. I loved Lorna Doone shortbread cookies.
Maizy stared at the assortment with her mouth open. Then she turned to look at me. I smiled and gave her a
What can you do?
shrug.
"Come." Vicky patted a chair. "Sit. Want something to drink? I don't really have company too often, but I do have coffee and some decent wine and some juice. Grape, I think." She looked at each of us with raised eyebrows.
"Wine will be fine," Maizy said.
I shook my head. "She'll have grape juice."
"Grape juice would be better," Maizy said. "I am driving, after all."
"Just some water for me, please," I added. I eyeballed the hors d'oeuvres. Maybe I could mooch a doggie bag for the trip home.
Vicky delivered our glasses to the table and sat down. She looked at Maizy. "I have to say, you don't look old enough to be a lawyer."
"There's a reason for that," I said.
"The reason is that I graduated ahead of my class," Maizy told her. "In fact, I skipped from first grade right to sixth, and then eighth grade too. And I entered college as a sophomore. I was something of a prodigy."
"She's something," I said darkly.
"I really admire you," Vicky said. She sipped from her coffee cup. "I barely graduated from high school. So you mentioned something about more charges against Tamryn McWirth? It's been awhile since that all happened. I'm surprised she's not in jail by now."
I pushed my glass aside and sat forward. Closer to the Lorna Doones. "Why do you say that?"
Vicky shrugged. "That temper. Harvey was always talking about what a hothead she was. He came into the Lamplighter at least four times a week, and four times a week he'd have a story to tell." Her mouth quirked a little, remembering. "He was a good tipper," she added. "The servers always fought for his table, because he tipped at least twenty-five percent. You don't get tippers like that very often, believe me."
"What kind of stories would he tell you?" Maizy asked. She sipped her grape juice and grimaced. Probably tasted too much like real food.
Vicky ran a finger around the rim of her cup. "She'd argue over parking spots. She'd argue over her spot in a checkout line. She'd argue with servers about her food order. You name it."
I got it. Tippi was a bona fide hothead. "What happened between you two?" I asked. My hand was resting on the table, my fingers curled. If I straightened them, I could probably snag a Lorna Doone. But then I'd have to listen to Maizy lecture me on the evils of refined sugar on the way home. I wasn't up for a lecture. I left my fingers where they were.
"One night, Harvey brought her into the Lamplighter for dinner," Vicky said. "And I asked him how his meeting with an important client went. He'd been talking about it for days, and I figured it was the polite thing to do. He was a nice guy, you know? But Tamryn thought I knew too much about his personal affairs, and she blew a fuse. She started screaming and accusing us of hooking up. Threw her
pasta e fagioli
soup all over me and said she'd kill me if she ever caught me near her husband again. The police came and everything." She shrugged. "My manager wouldn't let me serve him after that. Just as well, since he wouldn't look me in the eye anymore."
"Did you ever see Tamryn again?" I asked. On the other hand, I was the adult in this relationship, and I wanted a Lorna Doone. My fingers twitched.
"Oh, sure." She grinned. "At the courthouse. When she pleaded guilty to terroristic threats and battery. Got some sort of probation and community service, I think. She
should
have gotten jail time. What a nut job."
Maizy was watching me. More specifically, she was watching my hand, her eyebrows raised into her hairline. I took a cookie anyway, resisting the urge to stick my tongue out at her. Maizy wasn't the boss of me. I could lure Curt back into whatever Curt and I had and eat cookies at the same time. To be honest, it hadn't been my culinary skills that had attracted him in the first place.
It had been my rent check.
I stopped chewing and stared at the cookie, then at Maizy. Her brows had come back down to their usual spot above her eyes, and her mouth was cocked sort of sideways. Darn it, Maizy had ruined Lorna Doones for me. Well, she wasn't going to ruin coffee cakes, too. I made a move toward one, and an image popped into my head of Curt, smoking hot as ever with his six-pack abs, standing on the beach next to me, with my little potbelly, thanks to cookies and coffee cakes.
Damn it.
I pulled my hand back and wrapped it around my water glass. It was going to be a long winter.
"Did Mr. McWirth ever mention a Dorcas Beeber?" Maizy asked.
I had to get my head back in the game. That was a question I should have thought to ask instead of worrying about my potbelly.
Vicky considered it. "Is that a therapist? Because he said he was talking to someone about his marriage. He loved his wife and all, but I got the impression he had kind of a crush on the therapist."
"Why do you say that?" I asked quickly.
Vicky shrugged. "The way he talked about her, as if she understood the meaning of life. I think he put a lot of stock in her advice."
And Dorcas had put a lot of stock in his bank account. It struck me as a sad relationship but maybe a symbiotic one. If both parties were happy, had a crime been committed? Maybe not before Tippi had entered the scene, it hadn't.
"Is there anything else you need to know?" Vicky asked. "My shift starts in an hour, and I still have some errands to run."