Chapter 4
M
y grandma’s lawyer’s office space hadn’t been updated since the eighties. It was U-G-L-Y, ugly, but it was clean and smelled of Old Spice aftershave and peppermints. Mr. Lundberg and his wife had been dear friends with my grandma for many years. They were lovely people. But I was less than delighted to see Tandy Lundberg McOath, their granddaughter, sitting behind the receptionist’s desk.
“If you don’t have an appointment, Kristy,” she snapped, staring at my boobs, “my grandfather won’t be able to see you.”
She was clearly trying to figure out if my chest had been enhanced. Damn, those old lesbos worked fast.
“Would that be because his office is so full of clients?” I politely inquired, indicating the empty lobby. She huffed and went back to her computer, ignoring me.
Me and Tandy Lundberg McOath. We had history.
High school. Junior Miss Pageant. Talent competition.
Right before the talent portion of the pageant, Tandy Lundberg stole my black jazz shoes. Of course at the time I didn’t know it was her, but I had my suspicions. All I knew was that I had a three-minute interpretive-style jazz dance to the theme from
Star Wars
coming up and no jazz shoes. How in the hell was I supposed to become Darth Vader, Yoda, Princess Leia, and Luke Skywalker without jazz shoes?
In a fit of desperation, I ripped the feet out of my tights and danced barefoot. I did stick to the floor a couple of times during the Jedi Fight Sequence, but I only wiped out once. The beauty of it all . . . I still kicked Tandy Lundberg’s ass.
Even hitting the deck and giving myself a mild concussion, I reigned victorious over her display of self-made garments accompanied by a bizarre and disgusting monologue. Her monologue droned on and on while she frantically changed from one butt-ugly homemade outfit to another. She changed behind a screen completely decoupaged with photos of herself sewing. She then ran out, delivered more monologue, and sprinted behind it again. Sixteen times. I don’t want to gloss over the importance of the monologue: a diatribe about having stabbed herself with a sewing needle and how she bled like a stuck pig, culminating in how the needle broke off in her hand and would be with her the rest of her life.
After the show, the pageant directors did a search and rescue for my jazz shoes. They busted Tandy when they found them at the bottom of her sewing basket. She was disqualified and still living it down to this day. Suffice it to say, there was no love lost between us.
I leaned over her desk, giving her a fantastic cleavage shot. “Your grandfather knows I’m coming,” I told her cheerfully. “If you don’t let him know I’m here, I’ll tell everyone that you didn’t even make those butt-ugly clothes for the pageant. Your aunt Tudie did.”
“Who told you that, you silicone piece of trash?” she screeched, growing pale and visibly uncomfortable.
No. Freakin’. Way. I was right? I had pulled that one out of my butt, just like the lesbian thing . . . Maybe I was psychic. “Your mom told me,” I cooed.
“You’re a boob-job liar,” she yelled, turning a mottled red.
God, it would be so easy to call her a fucktard, but I was letting that word into the universe and out of my vocabulary. I would have to settle for giving her more crap.
“First of all,” I announced slowly and clearly, “my boobies are real.” I laughed, lifted my shirt, and flashed my tatas. “One hundred percent real.”
She gasped and covered her eyes. “You are so uncouth,” she hissed.
“Correct. And you”—I grinned—“have sticky fingers.” I hummed the theme from
Star Wars
.
She screamed like a fishwife and climbed over the desk to choke me. This had gotten slightly out of hand. I backed away and ran smack into Mr. Lundberg. Both Tandy and I froze.
“Well now,” he said kindly, stepping between us. “Tandy, it looks like you could use a break and a higher dosage of your medication. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, dear.”
Tandy muttered something about humongous plastic hooters and left in a huff. Mr. Lundberg gave me the eyeball and a hot flash of shame settled in the pit of my stomach.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.
“You girls need to put the past behind you. I think it would be a fine idea if you two went to lunch sometime and worked out your differences.”
“I’ll get right on that, sir.” I smiled, attempted to convey sincerity, but failed. I think I almost threw up in my mouth.
“I don’t believe you girls will ever be friends, but it would make me happy if you could get along.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, caving. He was right. The pageant was forever ago, plus I knew my grandma would agree with Mr. Lundberg. “I’ll try.”
“Good, good. Now what can I help you with?” he asked, shuffling slowly back to his office.
“Well, when we went over Grandma’s will, I was still really upset and I think I may have overlooked a few important details.”
“Of course, my dear. Mrs. Lundberg and I miss your grandma terribly. She was a wonderful old gal,” he said fondly, seating himself behind a big mahogany desk.
“I miss her too,” I replied quietly.
We sat in comfortable silence for a bit. When his head nodded over to the right, I was concerned he might have died or fallen asleep, but thankfully I was mistaken. “Now about your questions,” he said, pulling out a file.
“Yes, um, I was wondering about Edith and Mrs. C. I think they’re under the false impression that they come with the shop.” I laughed a little shrilly, praying to the Virgin Mary they were mistaken.
“You know that your grandma found the good in everyone,” he said, flipping through the file.
“Yes, she did.” I didn’t like the direction this was going. Damn it, I knew praying to the Virgin Mary had been a bad call. I was Lutheran . . . what in the hell had I been thinking?
“Most people find the old sisters, um, rather difficult.”
“I believe that might be an understatement, Mr. Lundberg,” I said as sweat began collecting on my upper lip. I wondered if it was too late to make a deal with God . . . the Lutheran one.
“Yes, well, your grandma knew it would be difficult for the old gals to find jobs, since they’ve offended most of the town, so she guaranteed them employment after her death for five years.”
“Shit, I mean shoot,” I said, slapping my hand over my mouth. “Is there any way around this?”
“If you want to contest the will . . .”
“No, I would never do that. I’m sure Grandma had good reasons for, um . . . making my life a living hell,” I told him, trying to figure out what Grandma had seen in the old lesbos.
“Maybe she found something in them that we’re missing,” he said, gently.
“Possibly.” I shook my head and wondered how much it would cost me to pay Mariah to kill them . . . or maybe just maim them.
“I think your grandma would want you to show compassion.”
I felt the heat creep up my neck and land squarely in my face. My guilt over the planning of their demise weighed a lot. I would try . . . and if all else failed, I was armed with some good lesbianic blackmail.
As I left Mr. Lundberg’s office, I got a call from Mariah Carey that made my gut twist. The shelter had been broken into and the intruders were still there. She was there alone, painting over all the swear words she’d decorated the lobby with recently.
“Mariah,” I yelled, “get out of there.”
“I can take them,” she whispered into the phone.
“You listen to me right now. Get your skinny ass out of there. If something happens to you, I will kill you,” I hissed.
“You like me, you really like me,” she whispered, giggling.
“I am serious. I want you out of there. Did you call the police?”
“They’re on the way,” she murmured. “I’m not letting these dick-wits get away.”
“Yes, you are,” I insisted, frantically. “They might be armed. You could end up dead. For real dead.”
“Nah, it’s not my day to die.” She laughed like a psycho and hung up on me.
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
I got in my car and drove like a bat out of hell to the shelter.
Thankfully the police had arrived before I did. I raced into the shelter and found Mariah Carey on the floor, giving a statement to Jack while nursing a black eye and a bloody lip.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, dropping to the floor by Mariah, “are you okay?” My heart seemed to be beating throughout my entire body and I was shaking with relief. “Why didn’t you leave?” I demanded. “I told you to get out.”
“This is my safe place.” Her voice broke and her eyes welled with tears. “They can’t come to my safe place.”
“Oh, baby.” I cradled Mariah, tough little Mariah Carey, in my arms and rocked her. “It will be okay,” I promised. “This will still be your safe place.”
Jack took me by the arm and led me away when the paramedics came in to check out Mariah.
“She’ll be okay,” he said. “The intruders suffered far more damage than she did.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, looking back at Mariah. She looked so tiny and young.
“There were two of them. She broke both their noses and crushed one of their hands. Not to mention she kicked their man jewels up into their chest cavities.” He laughed. “She is a walking menace to society.”
“How do you know all this?”
“We apprehended them crying and limping down the street.”
“Were they armed?” I asked. We’d never had any problems in this area. It scared and infuriated me that someone would steal from a shelter.
“Nope. They were kids. Fifteen years old—looking for some money for booze or drugs.” Jack ran his hands through his hair and sighed. “I have to finish talking to Mariah before they take her to the hospital. I want you to look around and see if anything is missing.”
“Is it safe?” I asked, scanning the mess.
“It should be, but I’m sending an officer with you,” he said, giving me a funny look. “Wait here.”
“Fine,” I said, wondering if the cops would let us open our doors tomorrow. The mess wasn’t bad at all considering the injuries sustained by the intruders and Mariah. It looked like the main room was the only one that had suffered any damage. The computer was smashed and a couple of chairs seemed to be broken.
“Are you the one who wants to look around?” a deep voice asked from behind me.
“Yes, I . . .” I was speechless. In front of me stood the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. Taller than Jack, he had dark brown, messy, sexy hair and the most unusual ice blue eyes. Built like Adonis . . . he was perfect. Even his voice was hot. I could feel my heart pounding in my ears and I thought I might pass out. Was he a movie star? Was he gay? His jeans, black T-shirt, and tennis shoes were nothing special, but on him they looked like foreplay. First I would peel his shirt off with my teeth and then I would . . .
“Are you okay?” he asked, watching me with concern. “Maybe you should sit down.” He took my arm to help me to a chair and I could swear a shot of electricity blasted up my arm and straight to my panties. It was like those vampire romances . . . Maybe he was a vampire. Or maybe I was insane.
“What’s your name?” he asked as he squatted in front of my chair. He smelled like heaven—Irish Spring soap, fresh laundry, and man. He was talking to me . . . God, if he was gay, I’d have a sex change for him . . . He asked me a question, but he was so pretty . . . Wait, what the hell did he ask?
“I’m sorry,” I said in a porn-star voice I seemed to have no control over. “I didn’t understand the question. Could you repeat it?”
“I asked you what your name was.” He chuckled. Was he staring at my mouth? He reached out and pulled on one of my curls and my brain stopped functioning.
“My name,” I stammered. What in the hell was my name? I knew it earlier, I swear I did. Balls, he’s going to think I’m mentally challenged or just really stupid. Oh my God, his eyes . . . Why can’t I remember my freakin’ name? How hard can it be? I think it starts with a C or maybe a K.
“Her name is Kristy,” Jack interjected, grinning at me like an idiot. “And this is Mitch, my best friend and new partner.” He waggled his eyebrows and kept tilting his head toward Mitch.
Kill me now.
Why oh why did the man who sent electrical shockwaves to my undies have to be the cop who could make me lose Cardboard Brett Favre and have to dine with Edith and Mrs. C for two weeks? And why in the hell was he looking at me like he wanted to eat me? If I could just rip my eyes away from his perfect mouth, I’m sure my grasp on the English language would return.
“Hi, Kristy.” Mitch grinned. “Why don’t we take a walk around the shelter?”
“Um, no . . . that’s okay,” I stammered, jumping to my feet and putting some distance between us. I had a very real fear of grabbing his ass. “It’s all good. You must be really busy with all that hair and those eyes.” Motherhumpin’ assclowns, what in the hell was I saying? “I’m just going to look around and then call all my husbands to help me clean up this mess.” I smiled and started backing into my office.
“Ookay,” Jack said, enjoying himself immensely. “There are a couple of problems with that.”
“Really?” I hissed at Jack through clenched teeth.
“Yep.” He grinned. “First of all, I didn’t realize your office was in the men’s bathroom and unless you did it this morning, I’m pretty sure you’re not married or Mormon.”
“Did I say
husbands
?” I laughed heartily at my mistake. “I meant my band . . . my folk-rock, um . . . thrash, you know . . .” I was dying here. “Punk band.”
They both stared at me in bemused silence. I gave Jack a death stare, daring him to dispute the crap that had just flown out of my mouth. He didn’t.
“So, it was nice meeting you, Mitch. I’m absolutely sure I will never see you again. So have a nice butt, shit, I mean life.”