An Affair to Dismember (30 page)

“The best shortstop in Padres baseball history,” Spencer said, his voice all awe and boyish enthusiasm. “You made the greatest play in MLB history.”

“Eighty-four World Series. Dick Williams, the manager, didn’t want me to play that day. I had a pulled hamstring. Hurt like a son of a bitch. I told him nothing was going to stop me from playing in the Series. He didn’t care what I had to say. Our owner had died a couple months before, and his widow heard that Dick was going to keep me out of the lineup. She came down to the locker room and told Dick I was playing, no matter what he had to say on the matter. And then I made the play.”

Spencer supplied the rest, his voice reaching the rafters. “Lance Parrish, the Big Wheel, hit one made of thunder, and you made a miraculous catch, jumped ten
feet in the air to catch it and triple play.” He bounced on the balls of his feet.

“And I made the play. We won that game. The only game of any World Series the Padres ever won, I might add.”

“Gee, Mr. Livingston—”

“Call me John, son. Call me John. And sure, I’ll autograph whatever you got handy.”

We carried our gifts back to the car.

“John Livingston.” Spencer shook his head and smiled. “What are the odds?”

I leaned my head against the window. Grandma thought I was like her, but I had no third eye, no heightened sensitivity. I had let Betty Terns turn me all around with her lies about Lulu. I’d spent energy over her so-called plight, and even cried with her.

“That little visit we had,” Spencer told me about fifteen minutes outside of Cannes, “didn’t get us any closer to finding the murderer. And I want you to remember that two of the deaths are still considered natural and accidental.”

I ground my teeth. “You’re not even going to question Betty Terns?”

“Of course I am. Let me handle this investigation, will you? You’ve taken it as far as you can take it. Got it?”

I looked out the window and whittled my molars down further.

“Got it?” he asked again.

“I suppose you’re right,” I said.

“And I don’t need to tell you to stay far away from Betty Terns. At the very best she’s delusional. But she’s probably closer to a sociopath or worse. And organized, too. It takes a lot of organization to stalk and harass a woman, all the while making her husband think it was the woman doing the stalking and the blackmailing.”

I had a hard time picturing Betty as a criminal mastermind, but love makes people do crazy things. And Betty was a woman scorned, which was the scariest and most unpredictable of states.

We stopped at the police station on the way home. It was a madhouse. The ball, which had transformed into an outdoor event with the promise of a romantic fog bank, had taken over the town and put the police in the center of the frenzy. Roads had to be closed. Traffic had to be rerouted. Every cop, paramedic, and dogcatcher was on duty and waiting for orders. It was two o’clock, and the ball started at eight-thirty with the dark and the roll-in of the much anticipated fog.

“I’ll be back in a bit to take you home,” Spencer said. “If I get caught up in this mess, I’ll have one of my men escort you. Pinkie, under no circumstances are you to leave without an escort. Do you hear me?”

I put three fingers up. “Scout’s honor.”

“Good girl.”

I followed him into the police station. People came and went like ants in an anthill. The chairs were piled high with party favors, and I didn’t have a place to sit. With all the commotion, I hadn’t noticed Fred at the front desk. He stood, slumped over, his chin resting on his hands, a look of total defeat on his face.

“Hey, Fred, how goes it?” I asked. “A little overwhelmed by all the action?”

“Huh? Yeah, sure.”

“Fred, it’s me. Underwear Girl.”

His eyes rolled in their sockets until he managed to focus on me. “Oh, hi,” he said, his heart not really in it.

“Is something the matter, Fred? How’s Julie?”

Fred inhaled a ragged breath and let out a loud sigh. “Julie.”

“Is something the matter with Julie? Did she break
something important? Did she start a fire?” The possibilities were endless.

“Just the water heater at Tea Time. But she hates me, Gladie. She hates me.” His head fell on the desk with a loud thud.

“She can’t hate you. You’re perfect together,” I said.

“Gladie, she hates me, and I will never be happy again.”

The world spun, and I gripped the desk for support. I was failing at everything: murder, love. I was good for nothing. I was letting down Grandma, and I would wind up back at one of my old jobs like Porky’s Pig Farm for sure.

“I don’t like pigs, Fred,” I said.

“I like bacon,” he said, his face against the desk’s fake wood top.

“Bacon’s fine, but pigs smell,” I said. “Come on. Let’s go.” I yanked at his arm. “I’m going to fix your love life.”

“How?”

“Fred Lytton, you are going to the ball.”

“I am?”

“While we’re on the subject, you can make the check out to me or Zelda’s Matchmaking Services, whichever is more convenient for you.”

“Do you take Visa?”

“I’M SUPPOSED to watch the desk,” Fred said.

“The chief told me I need an escort home. You’ll be my escort.”

Fred’s eyes darted around, unsure where to turn. He was a goner. Lovesick.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get the chief to sign off on it.” I patted his back.

“FRED? ARE you kidding me?” Spencer was at his desk, drowning in paperwork. He barked orders intermittently. “Is this boyfriend thing for real?”

I shrugged and smiled. “I don’t know. Something about Fred’s red hair …”

Spencer followed me out of his office toward the reception area. “Are you
kidding
me? Seriously?”

I stopped suddenly and turned, making Spencer run into me. “I feel that you and I have shared a moment together,” I said in my sultriest voice. “I feel we’re closer.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Oh, yeah? I was feeling the same thing myself.”

“Good. So when the time comes, you can walk me down the aisle,” I said.

“You’re killing me.”

FRED REVIVED a little when we arrived at Grandma’s. “Nice house. It’s an oldie, isn’t it?”

“Yes, over a hundred years old,” I said. “Come on in. I’ll introduce you.”

Grandma was still in the kitchen with Bridget and Lucy, but now Sister Cyril was with them. At least six slabs of ribs in varying stages of being eaten were on the table, and Grandma had a telltale dab of sauce on her chin.

“Oh, Gladie, I’m glad you’re back. Look who came to visit. Sister Cyril.” Grandma had perked up considerably. Sister Cyril was one of her favorite people and had an inspiring influence over most. I caught Lucy’s eye. I didn’t think the nun was there by accident. Lucy had probably gotten tired of trying to lift the morale of both Grandma and Bridget. Lifting spirits and bringing back sinners to the fold were Sister Cyril’s specialties.

“You look better,” I noted.

“Still blind as a bat, but the ribs and the company helped considerably. You’re back sooner than I expected. Who’s that?”

Fred popped out from behind me.

“Fred Lytton, the man in the glass box,” Sister Cyril declared. “Your story is legendary.”

Fred smiled for the first time that day. “Really? That box was cunning. Had a devil of a time getting out.”

“I heard it was hair-raising,” said Sister Cyril, making the event sound heroic instead of what it really was.

“It was, ma’am. I think other men would have freaked out.” If Fred had freaked out any more, he would have been picked up by a circus.

“Clearly,” she agreed.

“I heard you almost became Swiss cheese,” said Bridget.

“How are you holding up, Bridget?” I asked.

“I’ve passed self-loathing, but my psyche is scarred from being betrayed by a man of God. A so-called man of God.”

“We’re working on it,” Sister Cyril said with an optimistic smile.

“Aren’t you Julie’s boy? How’s that working out?” asked Grandma, pointing a rib bone at Fred.

Fred made a strange noise, like a chicken being strangled. His head slumped to his chest, and he let out a long sigh.

“That’s what we’re working on, Grandma,” I said. “Lucy, can I borrow you after lunch? I have a project that I need help on.”

Fred managed to eat a slab of ribs and a quart of potato salad. I didn’t do too badly myself. At this rate, pretty soon I wouldn’t be able to fit through the door.

Lucy, Fred, and I took the police cruiser to Fred’s apartment, a small back room in Loretta Swine’s house, way out in the southernmost tip of Cannes. Loretta
owned the Christmas store in town. She sold Christmas all year round, and she took that holiday enthusiasm home with her. Her house was decked out from sidewalk to roof in lights and decorations.

“I’m blinded,” Lucy said, stepping out of the car. “Somebody help me. I might be having a seizure.” She closed her eyes tight and wandered around with her hands in front of her, Frankenstein-style. “Why would this woman have a hundred and fifty thousand Christmas lights turned on in the middle of the day in August?”

“Ms. Swine is very festive,” Fred explained, his voice rising above the blaring Christmas music that played in a loop from loudspeakers over the front door.

“I heard about this house, but I never saw it in person. There’s a lot of reindeer going on here,” Lucy noted, letting her eyes open just a smidge. “I’m worried I’m going to get stampeded. What the hell is that over there? Is that baby Jesus playing with Santa?”

“Made of Legos. Yep,” said Fred.

Lucy clutched her chest and took a step back. “Oh, lordy! I just now noticed the snowman collection on the roof. That’s got to weigh two tons. Aren’t you afraid the roof will cave in?”

Fred shook his head. “Loretta had the roof reinforced with steel beams. She has a life-sized nativity scene in the back totally in neon.” He was plainly impressed.

“I’ve got to see that,” said Lucy.

Fred had his own entrance at the back of the house. It was a lot quieter back there, away from the speakers. The entire structure was painted like a gingerbread house, and the door to Fred’s apartment had a doorknob disguised as a green gumdrop.

“Do you mind if I take a couple of pictures?” Lucy asked when we stepped inside. Fred’s bedroom was decorated in a winter wonderland theme. Giant tufts of
cotton outlined his bed, making it look like he slept in a snowdrift. There were more lights. His mirror flashed green and red, and the floor was a replica of the Candyland game. Lucy took her phone out and snapped photos.

“This is so good,” Lucy muttered.

“Fred, let’s get you dressed,” I said. “What do you have for a ball?”

Fred opened the candy-cane-striped closet. “I got a nice pair of pants from Sears. I had a good shirt, but my arms grew.”

It was slim pickings. I didn’t see anything that would bring Julie rushing toward Fred with love in her heart. “What do you think, Lucy?” I asked.

Lucy clucked her tongue. “Desperate times call for desperate measures. As General Robert E. Lee used to say, ‘I can anticipate no greater calamity for the country.’ Change of direction. Let’s head over to my place.”

LUCY’S HOUSE was just outside the historic district. It was a glorious Frank Lloyd Wright–style house all in white and glass. She had every luxury installed. My favorite was the eternity Jacuzzi on a large deck outside her bedroom. The power jets called out to me. If I hadn’t had Fred to match, I would have jumped in.