Top O' the Mournin' (27 page)

“What? You think people don’t know? People aren’t as dumb as you think.” She addressed the rest of us. “You all know about their little secret, don’t you?”

I
knew
it! I knew Ira Kuppelman was involved in illegal operations. “I know,” I said, shooting my hand into the air as if expecting to be called on. Ira snapped out of his deep freeze to fix his gaze on me.

“There’s nothing wrong with what I did,” he defended. “Everyone else is doing it. Why not me?”

I imagined a laundry list of crimes everyone else was doing. Insider trading. Embezzlement. Extortion. Murder for hire. Jaywalking. Boy, Ira was going to have the book thrown at him.

“Why don’t you tell us what everyone else is doing,” Etienne encouraged with the ease of a master interrogator.

“Aesthetic surgical recontouring,” confessed Ira.

Nope. That wasn’t on my list.

Nana sidled a look at Tilly. “You know what that is?”

“I think it has something to do with landscaping.”

“It’s plastic surgery!” squealed Ethel. “You’ve never heard of aesthetic surgical recontouring? Where are you people from? Mars?”

“Iowa,” said Nana. Although I’d seen it happen where news of certain trends had indeed traveled faster to Mars than to the Midwest, mostly in the fashion industry.

“Ira’s had more surgery than the Frankenstein monster,” Ethel cackled. “He’s had a full face-lift, a mid face-lift, cheek implants, drooping eyelid repair, a chin implant, collagen injections in his lips, nose surgery, pectoral implants, calf implants, and laser resurfacing. He’s practically bionic.”

“Don’t forget the abdominoplasty,” Gladys said. Then to the rest of us, she explained, “Tummy tuck. He used to be a real porker.”

My mouth fell open so far it almost banged on the table. “You said your youthful appearance was a result of your diet!”

“It is!” Ira shot back. “Diet…enhanced by a modest amount of facial and body rejuvenation. Mother Nature needs a little help every once in a while.”

Eh!
What a bunch of bull he’d fed us. What a phony! Diet, my foot. He’d had more bodywork than the Six Million Dollar Man. “Have you had all that surgery too?” I asked Gladys.

“Not as much as Ira’s had. There’s only so much money, so we’re talking big out-of-pocket expense, because Medicare won’t cover it. We used to be rolling in dough, but with the expense of some recent investments and the cost of our quarterly Botox injections, we’re about living on the edge.”

Recent investments? How could people living on the edge afford to make investments? I guess everyone was looking for that elusive pot of gold, whether they could afford it or not. And that thought tripped something in my brain. Investments? Pots of gold? That was it! That was the connection! All the pieces fit together now. I narrowed my eyes at Ira Kuppelman. Hadn’t heard any crying in the hall last night, had he? Huh! Not only was he a phony, he was a liar to boot!

“I’ve heard a those Botox treatments,” said Nana. “They jab a needle full a food poisonin’ into your face and it makes your wrinkles go away. That’s real progress. Used to be all food poisonin’ could do was make you barf.”

“The botulism paralyzes the facial muscles,” added Tilly. “You can always tell a person who’s had Botox injections because his face becomes virtually expressionless.”

“That’s not true,” argued Gladys. “I have full range of motion of every muscle in my face. You want to see? This is happy.” She strained the corners of her mouth and looked bland. “This is sad.” She strained the corners of her mouth and looked bland. “This is frightened.” She strained the corners of her mouth and looked bland.

“Can you do bewildered?” asked Ernie.

She strained the corners of her mouth and looked bland.

“Are you sure that’s bewildered?” questioned Nana. “I think it looks more like happy.”

“I think it bears a rather strong likeness to frightened,” said Tilly.

“Can we cut the million-dollar-makeover crap?” griped Ernie. “I wanna know who was doing all the crying in the hall last night.”

“The ghost,” said Jackie.

A beat passed before all eyes riveted to the end of the table. “What ghost?” Ernie asked her.

“The one who’s haunting the castle. Emily and I tried to find her last night, without any success, I might add.”

Uh!
I gave her “the look.” She furrowed her brow at me. “What? Is the ghost a secret? You didn’t tell me it was a secret!”

“What the young lady is referring to,” Etienne interjected, diffusing the situation, “is the fanciful legend ofa…friendly ghost who was purported to have roamed the halls of Ballybantry in centuries past.”

“Like Casper?” asked Ethel. “Ernie junior used to read all those Casper comic books when he was growing up. I wouldn’t mind seeing a little ghost like Casper. You think the image would show up on Fujifilm? Maybe I should have bought Kodak. The grandkids would like that a lot better than a picture of some fake rocks.”

“It’s Ireland,” Etienne explained in his beautiful French/German/Italian accent. “Ghosts are part of the country’s charm. But I assure you, you’re all quite safe.”

I could feel the tension level decrease with Etienne’s assurances. He really did have a wonderful knack for handling potentially volatile situations. I squeezed his knee under the table, beside myself with pride.

“Say, doll,” Ernie called down to Jackie, “what was your husband doing while you and Emily were out ghostbusting last night?”

Jackie looked at Tom askance. “He inflicted his choppy cut on some unsuspecting victims, hid my fuzzy pink slippers on me, and then he probably continued his conversation over the phone with the woman who’s trying to break up our marriage!”

Tom threw his napkin down on the table. “That does it! You want to know who I was talking to? I’ll tell you. It was the president of your class reunion committee. They voted to surprise you with a special award at your high school reunion, but I didn’t have a chance to talk to her before we left, so I called last night, and I haven’t heard the
end
of it since!”

Jackie’s eyebrows inched higher on her face. “An award? What kind of award?”

“Are you sure you want me to tell you?”

“Tell me, already!”

“It’s an award presented to the person who’s changed the most in the last twelve years. It’s going to be crystal and gold with before and after photos. A real masterpiece.”

“Really? That’s so…so touching.” Her expression changed suddenly. She gave Tom’s shoulder a thwack. “Dammit! Why did you tell me? You spoiled the surprise.”

“How have you changed?” asked Gladys. “Were you a porker like Ira? What system did you go on to lose weight? Weight Watchers? Jenny Craig?”

“Old news,” said Ira. “I want to know how the three of you manage to work out that thing you’re doing. I thought I was liberal, but you three take the cake.”

“Thing?” Jackie frowned. “What ‘thing’?”

Ira twisted his fingers in the air to signify the “thing.” “You know. The thing with your hubby and Emily.”

Uh-oh. I didn’t like the sound of this.

Tom leaned forward to eyeball Ira. “Would you care to be more specific?”

“You want me to be specific? I can be specific. We’re all adults here. Ashley spilled the beans when we got back from the causeway about the—uh—special relationship the two girls have there. I just wanted to say, it takes a real prince to share his wife with another woman, especially on his honeymoon.”

Tom nodded thanks to Ira before swinging around to face Jackie. “You swore it was all over between you and Emily!”

“It is!” Jackie cried. “I was only with her last night because I was mad at you! Ashley has it all wrong. Tell him, Emily.”

Etienne braced his elbow on the table and angled his head in my direction. “Yes, darling. Tell him.”

Shit.

“I had a hard time believing Ashley when she told us,” said Gladys. “Sometimes it’s pretty obvious when a man’s gay, but I never would have guessed it of you, Emily. You hide it so well. Don’t you think she hides it well, Ethel?”

“I am
not
gay,” I protested.

“Of course you’re not.” Ira smiled.

“You people are gettin’ everythin’ confused,” Nana corrected. “Emily’s not gay. It’s her ex-husband who’s gay.”

Jackie shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Now, see? That is just
sooo
inaccurate. I’ve been biting my tongue, but I can’t bite it any longer. Now hear this! I’m not gay! I never was. I had gender issues. I underwent sex reassignment surgery. Now I’m straight. Get it? I’m straight! Emily was my past. Tom’s my future. The end.”

Heads turned. Mouths hung open. Eyelids flapped upward like jet-powered window shades. I hung my head and expelled a breath. Ooh, boy.

Nana stared at Jackie with much the same expression Gladys wore when she was looking happy, sad, frightened, and bewildered. “Sex reassignment surgery? I don’t s’pose that has anything to do with landscaping, does it?”

“The doll used to be a guy!” hooted Ernie. “I’ll be damned! I never would’ve guessed. And the two of you used to be married?” He howled and slapped his hand on the table. “I love it! This is better than
Ripley’s Believe It or Not.”
He stopped laughing suddenly to eye the ceiling and walls. “Hey, we’re not on
Candid Camera,
are we?”

Jackie speared Ernie to his chair with an angry look and stabbed her finger at him. “Okay, buster, listen up. I do not wear size eighteen shoes! I wear a size fourteen, so let’s cut the seven-foot-giant crap, okay? My feet are not proportionally out of line with the rest of my body, although if you happen to be carrying any catalogs that advertise plus-size footwear, I’d
really
appreciate looking at them.”

“So Ashley lied to us?” asked Ethel. “You and Emily aren’t an item?”

“How can we be an item?” Jackie pleaded. “I’m married! Emily and I are just girlfriends—the kind who have sleep-overs and borrow each other’s lipstick. Isn’t that right, Emily?”

“Someone should put that Ashley in her place,” Ethel said, thumping her fist on the table for emphasis. “Spreading vicious gossip like that. I think she was jealous of all the attention the two of you were getting today. She’s put out that you girls are so competent. All she can do is break her leg.”

“Her foot,” I corrected, though, in hindsight, I kinda wished it had been her neck.

Nana stared quizzically at Jackie. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, dear?”

“Go right ahead, Mrs. S.”

“Who are you?”

“Jack Potter. Remember? Jack Potter? Emily’s ex-husband. Now I’m Jackie Thum.”

“And you’ve got breasts.”

“Real perky ones,” Jackie gushed. “You want to feel them?”

“No thank you, dear. And you’re not gay anymore. I’m sorry to hear that.”

She sounded so despondent, I reached across the table and patted her hand. “You should be happy for Jack,” I soothed. “He’s finally found his niche.”

“Oh, I’m happy for him…her…him. But the thing is, I’m the only member of the Legion a Mary who could say she’d ever met a gay person. It kinda gave me special status. Now I don’t know no one.”

“On the contrary, Marion,” Tilly said, sounding thrilled to be of help. “You know me!”

“It’s nothing really,” I said as I clawed at my face and neck and scratched my arms. “I’ve had them before. It’s just a nervous reaction. They’ll go away pretty soon.”

“Do you have medication?”

“Oh, sure. But you know us Midwesterners. We like to tough things out before we give in to drugs.” Which, translated, meant I’d rather suffer than smell like camel dung for the rest of the night. I guess it was a girl thing.

I was nestled in a chair before the fireplace in my room. Etienne was sitting on the armrest, smoothing his hand with a tender motion over the crown of my head. “What are you nervous about, darling?”

I shook my head and forced a laugh. “How much time do you have?”

He feathered two fingers along the curve of my ear. “I have all night.”

The Wishing Chair hadn’t failed me. I was getting my romantic evening alone with Etienne. I should be ecstatic! I should be entertaining lascivious thoughts about sex. But I couldn’t. I was too distraught, too preoccupied. “Could anything else have gone wrong at dinner?” I asked glumly.

“Ah. The cause of your nervous reaction. Dinner. What seems to have distressed you the most? Having to introduce me to the woman who used to be your husband, or learning that your grandmother is rooming with a woman who bats for the other team?”

“Actually, I think that’s great about Tilly. Nana was delighted too. She gets to maintain her exalted status with the Legion of Mary, and it knocks Tilly out of the running with George, so the coast is clear for Nana to make her move. Couldn’t have worked out better. And you sounded as if you really enjoyed talking to Jackie and Tom.”

Etienne laughed. “Your ex-husband does have a certain amount of charm about her…him…her. Very affable. Though you might want to mention to her that asking strangers if they’d like to feel her breasts isn’t such a good idea these days. And her husband offered to give me a complimentary trim.” He patted his hair. “Just a little off the top. He’s supposed to be something of a master stylist. The bottom line is, darling, everything resolved itself. You’ve nothing to be nervous about any longer.”

I cranked my head around to look up at him. “Nothing has resolved itself! What about the dead bodies, and the crying, and my furniture being rearranged, and personal items going missing, and the Kuppelmans?”

“What about the Kuppelmans?”

“Think about it. They’ve run out of money to perform any more plastic surgery. They need more. What would happen if they were partners with a man who stood to inherit a castle?”

“They’d suffer a lot of headaches, I imagine. The upkeep on these places is enough to throw you into bankruptcy.” He eased off the armrest, removed the crystal paperweight and porcelain Westie from his jacket, and set them on a side table. “I thought you were concerned that Kuppelman was conspiring to eliminate his wife.”

I gnawed the corner of my lip while Etienne slipped out of his jacket and folded it neatly over a chair. “That was my theory before dinner. Now that I know about all the reconstructive surgery, I’ve changed my mind. I didn’t understand their motive before. Now I do.”

Etienne sat down on the chair opposite me and untied his shoes. “Are you going to share?”

I scratched my chest and forearms as I watched him pull off his socks. “Okay. Here’s the way I see it. The original owner of the castle was an English lord by the name of Ticklepenny.” I thrust my hand toward the painting over the mantel. “Please note the feet of the children in the portrait. The toes are webbed in the same manner as the bloody footprints you found beneath the maid’s body, meaning that our purported ghost is no doubt related to the guy sitting on the horse there. However, all Lord Ticklepenny’s children died in their youth, so who was left to pass on the congenital anomaly from generation to generation?”

“If the bloodline was wiped out, no one.”

“Exactly, which means, the bloodline wasn’t wiped out. Someone survived. My money says Ticklepenny got frisky with one of the Irish serving girls while he was living here and fathered an illegitimate child who
should
have inherited the castle after Ticklepenny’s legal heirs died, but since the Irish weren’t allowed to own land, that didn’t happen.”
Scratch scratch scratch.
“When Ticklepenny returned to England, the castle fell into disuse, the government probably took it over for delinquent taxes, and it passed from one owner to another until some long-lost relative of the bastard child did his homework and realized
he
was a direct descendant of Ticklepenny and was entitled to the castle.”

“And you think Kuppelman is the relative?”

I buzzed him wrong. “Michael Malooley is the relative. You said yourself the key to the problem is in the dungeon. I think Michael is directing some kind of operation from one of the chambers down there. Forty-eight people have died since the castle was renovated two years ago, which tells you that someone is doing something. I bet you anything Michael was involved in the renovation project—as a carpenter, or a plumber, or an electrician. He refuses to say what he did before he became a bus driver, which has me very suspicious. But if he worked on the castle, he installed a lot more than light fixtures. He wired the place for sound, and cold, and who knows what else. He wants the castle back and he’s willing to kill innocent people to get it.”

“I suppose that makes sense. Bad publicity will dry up the tourist trade and force the present owners to dump the castle. Michael buys it back for a song, he makes a show of having the place exorcized, the deaths suddenly stop, and he’s in business again. A brilliant plan, actually. But how does Kuppelman fit into the picture?”

He unbuttoned his shirt, stood up, and yanked the tails from his waistband. My eyes lingered on his naked torso as he slid the shirt down his arms.
Scratch scratch.
“I—uh—I think Ira might have bankrolled Michael’s project. Sound systems are pricey, and Michael doesn’t look as if he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. I don’t know how they met, or how they ended up involved with each other—that’s a big unanswered question—but the Kuppelmans might have looked at this as an investment. They pay initial cash up front, and they receive dividends later to pay for more surgery. It’s probably a lot less risky than the stock market these days.”

He pondered this as he stroked his long fingers through the dark hairs of his chest. His skin was the most beautiful color—like warm mocha and cream. His shoulders were wide. His stomach flat. His arms lean and muscled. My brain numbed and my eyes burned at the sight of him. “So do you have authority to arrest Michael and Ira?”

“I have no authority in Ireland, Emily. But even if I did, I’d need more evidence than what we have to make an arrest. Your theory is entirely plausible, but at the moment, it remains just that. A theory.”

“But if we wait to check out the details, someone else might get frightened to death. Me, for instance. Or Nana!”

Etienne shook his head as he unzipped the fly front of his trousers. “Not to make light of the situation, darling, but it’s more likely your grandmother would frighten the ghost to death. Whatever happened to her hair?”

“Tom gave her a complimentary haircut. Just a little off the top, I think.”

“That’s Tom’s handiwork?” Some of the mocha color drained from his face. “Well, then…since the man is on his honeymoon…I probably shouldn’t bother him with that trim.”

“So what are we going to do?” I persisted. “We need to take the bull by the horns. We can’t wait for our boat to come in. We have to row out and get it.”
Scratch scratch scratch.
“I say we camp out in front of Michael’s room tonight and catch him red-handed when he starts his monkey business.”
Scratch scratch.

Etienne dropped his pants. “All right. He can’t very well cause any trouble tonight if we’re following him. Tomorrow we can look deeper into his background and see if we can make a case for his guilt. Is that agreeable with you?”

I nodded. I thought about being more verbal, but my tongue was pretty preoccupied licking my lips. I’d always considered Etienne a boxer shorts kind of guy, but he was standing before me wearing a plain black thong, and nothing else. The pouch hung halfway down his thigh and was so full, it was bulging at the seams. Not to state the obvious or anything, but my aristocratic Swiss police inspector was hung like a horse.
Unh!

He removed his watch after checking the time, then sauntered toward me, all sooty-eyed and hard-limbed. He braced his hands on the armrests on either side of me, then bent down and kissed my mouth.

Scratch scratch. Scratch scratch.
“I never pictured you in a thong,” I whispered numbly against his lips.

“What did you picture me in, darling? Boxers? You Americans would have everyone in boxers.”

“Boxers can be quite attractive. Especially the fitted kind. Calvin Klein makes—”

“They’re too confining.” His voice grew low, husky. “A thong makes me feel as if I’m wearing nothing at all.”

“You don’t think it’s a wee bit…showy?” I tried not to hyperventilate as he pressed his mouth against my throat.

“It’s a decidedly European vice,” he whispered.

“But you’re not like other Europeans. You’re Swiss.”

He looked me square in the face, an earthy glint smoldering in his eyes. “You forget, darling. I’m half Italian.”

UNH! Still…“Are you planning to camp out in front of Michael’s room dressed like that?”

“We have several hours to kill before we head to Michael’s. I have other plans for you until then.” He drew my lower lip into his mouth, cutting short my next question. Almost.

“Can I ax you somethin’?”
Scratch scratch scratch. Scratch scratch scratch.

He released my lip. “Ask me anything, darling, but when you’re done, I have a rather critical question of my own to pose.”

This was it. He was going to pop the question. But was I ready? Oh, lordy. I didn’t know. I DIDN’T KNOW.

“Emily?”

My question. Right. I dipped my eyes to the package between his legs. “Is that real?”

“Why don’t you peel off the thong and find out.”

My breasts tingled. My throat grew hot. A swell of erotic sensation arrowed downward from my navel.
Scratch scratch scratch scratch scratch.
AARGH! “Okay! I can’t STAND it anymore!”
Scratch scratch scratch.
“Where’s my anti-itch cream?” I scrambled around him and raced for the bathroom. “Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.”

“Would a bubble bath help?” he called to me.

Bubble bath. Sure. Water might help. I turned on the faucet full blast. I’d promised him a bubble bath anyway. I grabbed my toiletry bag and dug out my anti-itch cream. Maybe if I applied just a little, it would stop the itching long enough for me to open his surprise package. Oh, geesch, the
size
of that thing. Sonny Corleone, eat your heart out. I unscrewed the cap. From the next room I heard snippets of Etienne’s voice being drowned out by the roar of the bathwater.

“I…my imagination…the portrait…of someone.”

“I can’t hear you!” I yelled, as I slathered my neck with cream. “Say again?”

“I SAID, MAYBE IT’S MY IMAGINATION, BUT THE CHILDREN IN THE PORTRAIT REMIND ME OF SOMEONE.”

“Really?” I yelled back. “Who?”

A pause. “HOW DID THE PAINTING GET SO CROOKED?”

“That happened last night! It’s not hanging too securely, so don’t touch—”

CRAAAASH!

The bathroom mirror wobbled. The wall shook. The floor jumped. I screamed at the sound and ran into the bedroom. “Oh, my God!”

Etienne lay still as death, sprawled on his back by the fireplace, his head and torso buried beneath the cumbersome weight of Lord Ticklepenny’s portrait. “Etienne!” I sprinted to his side and, trembling with fear, levered the heavy painting ever so slowly off his body and angled it against the fireplace. I fell to my knees beside him, terror gripping me when I saw blood pooling onto the carpet beneath his head. “Etienne,” I soothed. He was out cold. I cradled his head in my hands and with gentle fingers found a gash near his crown that was turning the ink-black of his hair red with blood.

My mind operating on automatic pilot, I rushed into the bathroom and returned with an armful of towels that I pressed against his head to stanch the flow of blood. I ran to the telephone and dialed 999, giving the operator the necessary information for the ambulance. “Please, hurry!” I cried, hanging up. I prayed the driver could find Ballybantry Castle a lot faster than he’d found the Carrick-a-rede Rope Bridge. If not…

I didn’t want to think about “if not.”

I raced back to Etienne’s side. “It’ll be all right, sweetheart.” I flattened my palm against his cheek, willing him to wake up. “Help is on the way. You’ll see. They’ll be quick.”

BAM BAM BAM. I darted a look at the door. Not that quick. I dashed across the room.

“Your people are really starting to piss me off,” Ashley spat at me when I opened the door. “I just got a call from Alice something-or-other. Do you know where she was calling from? The Garda Station in Letterkenny. Do you know why she was calling from the Garda Station? Because Bernice something-or-other is behind bars. Do you know why she’s behind bars? Because she tried to buy a silk scarf with nonnegotiable currency, and when the shopkeeper told her her money was no good in the republic but they’d accept plastic, she accused them of trying to steal her identity, slapped her money onto the counter, and walked out of the shop with the merchandise anyway. The police picked her up and hauled her off to jail! I hope you plan to head over there and bail her out, because, I mean to tell you, I’m in no condition to do it. So…what are you going to do? Why are you looking at me like that?” She narrowed her eyes at me. “What are those red welts all over your face and neck? They’re really gross.”