Moss Hysteria (23 page)

“Not at all, but you're right. This isn't going to end well unless you let me explain.”

Marco pulled him over to a kitchen chair and sat him down. “Abby, find something to tie his wrists.”

“You're going to tie my wrists?” Alfie said, as I hunted through a kitchen drawer. “Now you're really scaring me. What are you planning to do to me?”

Marco kept both hands on Alfie's shoulders and had me use the cord from an electric mixer to bind his wrists. “I need to hear just one word come out of your mouth, Alfie. Is my mother safe? Yes or no?”

“Have you lost your mind?” Alfie cried as I tied the cord to the chair leg.

“Don't play innocent. I had a local investigator check you out. So we know all about your
proclivities
, Alfred Donnerson.”

“Look, I never claimed to be innocent, and I'm not exactly sure what you mean by
proclivities
, but I can assure you I have the same needs as any normal man. And to answer your question, your mother is upstairs, but I'm warning you, don't go up there.”

“Keep your eye on him, Abby. I'm going to find my mother.”

“Marco, stop,” Alfie pleaded. “If you do that, this will end badly for
everyone
.”

“Nice try,” Marco said.

“Okay, okay,” Alfie said. “You don't trust me. I get it. At least take me upstairs with you.”

Marco eyed Alfie for a second then untied the cord from the chair leg and pulled him to his feet. “If anything has happened to my mother,” he said, pushing him up the hallway, “you will pay.”

“Son, if I had any idea to what lengths you would go to protect your mother I would never have brought her up here.”

He led us up a massive curving staircase at the front of the house, then up a second staircase to a set of double doors on the third floor. Alfie reached for the door latches, but Marco stopped him. “What's on the other side?”

“I believe it's the answer to what your friend meant by
my proclivities
.”

Marco grabbed Alfie's arm. “I don't know what kind of sick game you're playing, but we're not falling for it. Abby, it's time to bring in the cops.”

“No, Abby,” Alfie said firmly. “Both of you take a look at my collection first. Then if you want to call the cops, go ahead.”

A scene from
The
Silence of the Lambs
sprang into my mind, and I wrinkled my nose in disgust. “You turned them into a collection?”

“I have a whole floor dedicated to them,” Alfie said with some pride.

Marco and I exchanged horrified glances, and then Marco gestured toward the doors. “Open them slowly. Abby, move back.”

I slid behind Marco as Alfie used both hands on the latches and gave them a shove. “This,” he said expansively, as the doors swung open, “is my collection.”

A feeling of dread washed over me as I peered around Marco into a room that seemed to take up the entire third floor. Glass display cases lined the walls and freestanding cases filled much of the floor space. I followed Marco into the room, gazing around in shock. Every case contained the same thing, and it wasn't at all what I was expecting.

“Oh,” I said to Marco on a long breath. “
Cereal
collector
, not
serial killer.
”

There must have been hundreds of cereal boxes, some old and faded, some bright and shiny, with cartoon characters on them I hadn't seen since I was small. There was even a display of toy prizes that came inside.

My eyes met Marco's. He was as stunned as I was.

“This is my museum,” Alfie said proudly as Marco untied the cord around his wrists. “I owned a cereal company before I retired. I got interested in the boxes after I found some of the original ones from the nineteen fifties in a warehouse. So I started collecting them over the years, and somehow it turned into this.”

He gestured around the room as though giving a guided tour, not as though he'd nearly been hauled off to jail for murder. “Magnificent, isn't it?”

“You still haven't told me where my mother is,” Marco said.

Alfie blushed to the tips of his scraggly hair. “She should be getting out of the shower about now.”

I exchanged a chagrined glance with Marco and then I rushed forward to grab the poor man's hands. “We are so deeply sorry, Alfie. We had a bad phone connection with Marco's PI friend and completely misunderstood what he was trying to tell us. Then we couldn't reach Francesca and feared the worst.”

“I am truly sorry,” Marco said humbly. “This isn't how I normally operate. But it was my mom, so—”

At the sound of a throat being cleared all three of us turned to see Francesca leaning against the doorframe, her hair still wet. She was wearing a red satin robe with a black sash and black lace trim, and little black mules with red fur trim. Her arms were folded and her eyes blazed with fury, the very image of righteous indignation.

“Here's our Franny now,” Alfie said uncertainly.

“Mom,” Marco began, “I'm . . .”

She turned on her heel and left.

•   •   •

I chortled nearly all the way home, my laughter like a steam valve releasing the pent-up stress on my overtaxed nerves. Marco, by contrast, stayed stone silent, that little muscle in his jaw twitching, clearly not enjoying my mirth. I tried to quiet myself for his benefit, but then I'd replay a scene in my mind and start giggling all over again.

The bloody knife on the counter (Alfie had carved a roast into steaks for a romantic dinner); Alfie with his hairy legs hanging out of his untidy maroon robe, his hands bound with a white electrical cord, his thinning hair in disarray, looking like anything but a serial killer; Alfie proudly showing us hundreds of cardboard cereal boxes and offering to tell us each one's history if we'd like to stay.

Alfred Donnerson truly was a kind—and very forgiving—man. No hard feelings, he'd told Marco. But we never saw Francesca after that one furious moment.

It wasn't until we'd pulled into the garage and Marco had shut off the engine that he finally said something.

“We will never speak of this again.”

That started me laughing all over again.

M
arco and I sat at the Down the Hatch for over two hours that evening waiting for Mitzi's boyfriend to show. Maybe Mitzi was playing us, I said to Marco, or maybe she was stalling for time. But time to do what? Run? I finally called it a night and took Seedy home, leaving my husband to his bartending duties. It had been a long, emotionally taxing day. We decided to deal with Mitzi in the morning.

At home, I changed into pajamas and a robe and had just settled in to watch a mystery on the Hallmark Channel when Seedy began to paw at the sliding door in the dining room, wanting to go into the backyard. I turned on the patio porch light then stepped outside with her and waited while she took care of her business. As she sniffed out a spot at the bottom of the yard, her head suddenly came up and she stared fixedly toward the pond.

“What is it, Seedy? What do you see?” I called as though she could give me an answer.

Suddenly she went on alert, bracing her legs as though prepared for an attack. I searched the area with my eyes but didn't see anything move. Was it a snake? A muskrat? Or something on two legs? Whatever it was, it made Seedy whirl around and hobble as fast as she could back to the house.

I opened the door to let her in then quickly jumped in after her and shut the screen and sliding door, dropping the steel bar into place. Thoroughly spooked, I pulled the curtain and headed to the kitchen to calm my jitters with a cup of chamomile tea, while Seedy leaped onto the sofa and circled in her favorite spot, preparing for a nap.

“Enjoy it while you can,” I called. “You won't be sitting on the new one.”

As I leaned against the kitchen counter waiting for the kettle to heat, I jumped at a sudden tapping on the sliding glass door. Seedy immediately lifted her head, her big butterfly ears forward as she stared at the door. Then she hopped down from the sofa and wriggled underneath.

The tapping got louder and more frantic.

Holding my phone in one hand, I tiptoed to the door and moved the curtain aside a fraction of an inch. There stood Mitzi, shivering in a sleeveless dress, glancing over both shoulders as though afraid of being seen. She didn't have a purse or jacket with her, as though she'd just darted across our backyards on a whim.

“Abby?” she called. “Abby, Marco, are you there? I need to talk to you.”

I blew out the breath I'd been holding and opened the curtain.

“Oh, thank God,” she said, and then stood there as though expecting me to let her inside. But did I trust her enough to be alone with her in my house?

“What do you want, Mitzi?”

She rubbed her upper arms. “I need to explain what happened tonight.”

“Go ahead,” I called.

“Seriously? You're going to make me stand out here?” She shivered.

I debated for a moment. Would she really try to hurt me? She didn't know whether Marco was home. I finally lifted the security bar, keeping it in one hand, and slid both doors back. She stepped inside, eyed the piece of steel in my hand, then glanced around the room. “Isn't Marco here?”

“He's still waiting for your boyfriend at Down the Hatch.”

“I was afraid of that.” Mitzi glanced past me. “Your teapot is about to whistle.”

I headed toward the kitchen and she followed. I propped the bar against the cabinets, turned off the burner, and then waited, my arms folded, my hip against the counter.

“So,” she said with a wry twist of her lips, “no tea for Mitzi. I guess I'm persona non grata now.”

“What did you expect? We waited for your boyfriend to show all evening.”

She traced the pattern in the granite countertop. “His wife had plans. He couldn't get away.”

“Right.”

“I'm serious, Abby. He couldn't get away without tipping his hand. Don't you think I
want
him to clear my name?”

“I don't know what to think at this point.”

“Then think this. Mitzi knows she's in hot water and will do everything she can to set up another meeting.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow evening. I swear he'll be there at Down the Hatch.”

“The bar is closed on Sunday, and Sunday evenings are bad for us anyway. We have family commitments. How about in the afternoon, right here?”

She looked doubtful. “I'll have to check with him.”

“Marco is not a patient man, Mitzi. If your friend doesn't show up tomorrow afternoon, we'll go to the detectives with our information and they'll haul him in for questioning. I'm sure his wife won't like that one bit.”

“Fine. Tomorrow afternoon. I'll find a way to make it happen.”

I walked across the kitchen and through the dining room to the sliding door. “We'll be waiting for your call.” I opened the slider and waited. She stared at me for a moment then turned and marched out into the night.

Sunday

“You
are
coming to dinner this evening,” my mom said to us after church. “I'm making something special. Everyone will be there.” She nodded toward the group around us.

All of the Knights—my parents, brothers, sisters-in-law, and niece—had gathered outside the sanctuary after the service, as was our habit. My sisters-in-law were deep in conversation about fashion and my brothers were sipping the coffee that was provided between services, discussing sports. Tara was checking her phone for messages.

“What's the occasion?” Marco asked.

“You'll have to wait and see,” Mom said with a smile, patting his arm.

“Hey, you two,” my dad said, rolling up in his wheelchair, “we've got a great meal planned for tonight. Rosa and her son are coming.”

And there was the occasion.

“Awesome,” Tara said, and gave my mom a high five, her gaze never leaving the phone's screen.

“What can we bring?” Marco asked.

My mom tweaked my chin. “Some enthusiasm, I hope.”

•   •   •

As we got into the Corvette to head home, I said, “I'd really like to skip the family dinner tonight.”

“Then you should've spoken up.”

“And say what?
We'll pass—thanks. I see enough of Rosa all week
? I know my mom. She'd be hurt, and I don't want that.”

“You don't think the frown you gave her hurt her feelings?”

“Was I that obvious?”

“Sunshine, you wear your emotions on your sleeve. If you don't want to go, we should stay home. Pretending to enjoy yourself this evening isn't going to make anyone's day brighter.”

I sighed. He was right. All the same, if I didn't show up, Mom would take it as a snub and so would Rosa. And that wouldn't make anyone's day at Bloomers brighter, either.

•   •   •

That afternoon, Marco and I planted pink, purple, and white sweet peas in six white ceramic pineapple-shaped pots and lined them along our front walk. Then we sat on the porch swing with glasses of iced tea, Seedy snuggled in beside Marco, waiting for Mitzi to call.

“I'll bet her boyfriend is a no-show,” I said. “Watch. She'll have another excuse.”

“It's early yet. Let's give her the benefit of the doubt.”

He was always giving Mitzi the benefit of the doubt.

Half an hour later, we were still swinging lazily back and forth when I spotted Theda striding up the street in a zip-front white hooded sweatshirt, gray sweatpants, and lilac sneakers. She waved to us, used her remote to open her garage door, and then disappeared inside. Five minutes later she stepped out onto her front porch with Kitty in her arms.

She put the harnessed cat down in the grass and tied the rope to the porch column, then started toward us, calling, “Have you heard the news? Mitzi's been in a car accident.”

“Is it serious?” I called.

“I don't think so,” Theda said, coming up to the porch. “Just a fender bender, from what I gathered, but she insisted on being taken to the ER anyway.”

“I told you Mitzi would find another excuse,” I whispered to Marco.

“Where did the accident happen?” Marco asked, ignoring me.

“In front of the Burnses' house on the other side of the pond. And under very odd circumstances, I might add. You may remember Sarah Burns, Abby. She's one of Mitzi's Bees. Apparently Sarah rammed Mitzi's Jaguar after she came home unexpectedly and discovered Mitzi there with Tom. Mitzi phoned the police and Sarah was arrested.”

My shocked gaze met Marco's.
Sarah's
husband was Mitzi's boyfriend?

“How did you hear about the accident?” Marco asked.

“I was out for a walk and stopped to visit with Sarah Burns's next-door neighbor. This woman's a chatty sort, so I'm sure the news will be all over Brandywine by morning.”

Kitty began to meow plaintively and strain at the end of his rope, twisting as though trying to get out of his harness so he could reach us. “I think he wants to come play with Seedy,” Theda said.

As though she understood, Seedy hobbled down the porch steps and across both yards until she reached the Russian Blue. Kitty butted his head against Seedy and then the two began to romp like puppies. “I swear Kitty is more dog than cat,” Theda said.

“Any luck finding him a home?” I asked.

“Not yet. He's not a kitten, and unfortunately, adult cats are hard to place.”

“I hate to interrupt,” Marco said, patting my knee, “but we need to get some errands done before we have to be at your folks' house for dinner.”

Theda smiled, watching the two play together. “Why don't you leave Seedy with me? Then they can continue to enjoy their playtime.”

“Are you sure you don't mind?” I asked, handing her Seedy's leash.

“I'll be outside doing yard work anyway. If I do go in, they'll come with me.”

“What errands are you talking about?” I asked Marco when we were back inside.

“We're going to visit Mitzi at the hospital.”

•   •   •

I called my best friend and former roommate Nikki, an X-ray tech at the hospital, and asked her to find out Mitzi's status. She reported back in a whisper that she'd just finished doing a series of X-rays on her and that Mitzi had just been admitted and was being taken to a private room.

“Is she that badly injured?” I asked.

“You know, I'm not supposed to be telling you this, but I'm betting it's nothing more than a case of whiplash,” Nikki said. “I sure didn't see anything broken on the X-rays. In fact, the doctor on call wanted to release her with a neck brace, but your neighbor caused such a commotion, claiming she'd sue if anything happened while she was home alone, that he finally admitted her.”

“Was anyone with Mitzi?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Can you get us in to see her?”

“Tell me what time you'll be here.”

•   •   •

For a woman who was supposedly injured, Mitzi looked amazing cheery—until she saw me peering around the corner at her. Wearing a blue print hospital gown, she had the bed in an upright position and the television on the wall tuned to a shopping channel. The moment she spotted me, however, she clicked it off and placed one hand on the white neck brace at her throat, the other on her forehead, her face screwed up as though in excruciating pain.

“You've heard the news already?” she asked in a scratchy voice as Marco and I came up to her bedside.

“Theda told us,” Marco said.

“Of course she would,” Mitzi rasped. “This is all her fault, you know.”

“Tell us what happened,” Marco said.

Mitzi swallowed several times then whispered, “I was on Emmett Lane, the street on the other side of the pond, when my phone rang. I pulled over to answer it and suddenly,
bam!
Sarah Burns drove straight into my rear bumper.”

“Didn't she see that you'd stopped?” I asked.

“Of course she did. This was no accident, Abby. She rammed me three times.” Mitzi put both hands on her brace. “My poor neck! The doctor says I have a terrible spinal injury, one of the worst cases he's seen in years. I can't even feel my toes. I'll probably have to spend months in rehab. I could've been paralyzed!”

“Why would Sarah ram your car?” I asked. “I thought you were friends.”

“
Best
friends, Abby,” Mitzi said in a hurt voice, “but who knows with Sarah? She can be mean. She's very unstable. She's been treated for depression before. I have my suspicions that she's bipolar.”

“But for her to ram your car,” I said, “knowing that she'd damage her own car, not to mention get in trouble with the law, means she must have felt justified.”

“That's Sarah for you,” Mitzi said, her gaze straying to the television screen.

“Doesn't your Jag have a built-in phone system?” Marco asked.

Mitzi gazed at him, blinking hard, clearly trying to think up a good response. “Silly me. I forgot about that. I should use it so I don't have to pull over to answer a call. Of course, most people don't mind if you stop in front of their house. Not Sarah, though. She was on Ambien for years—a terrible insomniac. I think that addled her brain.”