Killer Chameleon (6 page)

So now the sofa, coffee and end tables, lamps, easy chairs and étagère, everything was mine. I'd left the arrangement to Duck, who had a flair for decorating I envied. Still, there was something not right about this room. Perhaps if I shifted both easy chairs to right angles of the sofa with an end table between them . . .

I rolled up the braided oval rug to get it out of the way and began moving things around. Periodically I get an itch to shove a piece from this corner to that, and before I know it, the whole room's been changed. I knew Duck wouldn't mind; he was under the impression it was part and parcel of PMS, and I'd never disabused him of the notion. Men can be so dumb about some things, thank God.

I moved the étagère, then wrestled the couch into a different place. Still not satisfied, I tried another configuration. And another.

I'm not sure how many I had tried when I heard the knock at the door. Stunned, I checked the time. Nine fifty-five! I'd been shoving furniture this way and that for two hours.

I groaned, dismayed at meeting this woman who had her tentacles wrapped around Duck' s heart when I was now sweaty, disheveled, and probably smelled like a polecat.

“Just a minute,” I called and pulled the neck of my sweater out to get a whiff of my underarms. It wasn't too bad. Perhaps if I kept some distance between us she wouldn't pass out.

Adjusting the sweater, I crossed to the door and, after wrestling with the deadbolt, opened it. “Hello. I'm—”

“Dillon's Leigh, of course.”

“It's nice to meet you,” I said, moving out of the way. “I've heard a lot about you from Duck.”

She peered at me curiously. “Uh . . . I've heard a lot about you, too. Look just like your picture. Only I thought you were taller. Oh, there they are!” Waddling in, she grabbed a set of keys from Duck's desk, leaving a sizable brown grocery bag in their place. “Don't know where my head is these days. Speaking of which, I wish I had the nerve to wear my hair like yours. When did you get it cut?”

“Day before yesterday.” I smoothed my edges, dismayed. If she had to ask, I must still have that just-plucked chicken look.

“Sorry, darlin', I've gotta come out of these shoes.” She plopped herself down on the sofa, shedding her coat to reveal a deep purple sweatsuit. Evidently her shoes weren't the only things that pinched. Wincing, she tugged off her earrings, bright, dangling mini-chandeliers, then massaged her earlobes with gusto. She leaned over to loosen her laces, puffing a little, and I gave serious consideration to killing Duck.

Clarissa was perhaps five feet tall and as wide as she was high. Light-skinned with a hint of olive, she had a moon face and full cheeks, her complexion as clear and smooth as a baby's. Bright, hazel eyes squinted myopically from beneath reddish-brown brows a couple of shades darker than a head full of Shirley Temple curls generously streaked with gray and held off her face by a yellow plastic headband. She was sixty-plus if she was a day, in other words, almost an old lady. And an eccentric one, considering the number of colors she wore. The effect was blinding. I liked her already, just as Duck had known I would.

“Things are different in here,” she said, toeing off each shoe. “Nice. What happened to the rug?”

“Over there in the corner so I could move stuff around.”

She cut her eyes at me in a semisquint and smiled. “PMS, huh? Used to hit me and Sister the same way. What will you put on the shelves of the étagère? It's awfully pretty to stand there empty.”

She had a point. Perhaps filling it up might give me the quality I kept feeling was missing from the room, whatever that was. “There's a whole box of things, knickknacks and stuff. If I can find it, I'll unpack it.”

Three horizontal lines zipped across her forehead. “That's yours?”

“Everything in here is, except for the desk.”

She nodded. “That explains it. I didn't think this room looked like him. Not that I can see it all that good today.”

It was my turn to frown. “Why not?”

“It's Sister's turn with the eyeglasses because she's driving today. I took the Metro. Can't see boo without them. Shoot, we're both so nearsighted that . . . Uh-oh.” Her mouth turned down at the corners. “That wasn't what you meant by your ‘why not.'” She sighed. “Me and my big mouth. Sister always says I talk too much.”

“You haven't said anything wrong,” I assured her. “The room hasn't felt right to me, and I haven't been able to figure out what the problem is. That's why I've been moving things around.”

She hoisted a brow. “You're sure you don't mind me meddling? I mean, sometimes folks want your opinion, but only if it matches theirs. That's Sister, for one.”

“I'm sure. Feel free.” I propped one butt cheek on a corner of Duck's desk to wait. I didn't have long.

“Understand,” Clarissa began, “you've got nice things and I can tell you've taken good care of them. But it looks like an old folks' room, child. I had a sofa like this when I first got married—high back and these big round arms—and I'm no spring chicken. And these mahogany end tables. What do you call that? Louis the Something? Or French something? It's not just that these things don't look like Dillon, unless I miss my guess, they don't much look like you either.” Her eyes narrowed. “Bet they came from your mama's house. Am I right?”

“My lord.” Flabbergasted, I dropped onto the desk chair. “Of course. I couldn't figure it out. I've had this stuff for ages. Some of it comes from down home but—”

“Down home? Where's that?”

“Sunrise, North Carolina.”

“Sunrise? Sister and I, we're from Rocky Mount, but I never heard of Sunrise.”

“Most folks haven't. It's in the mountains. Anyway, when I moved into my apartment, I was trying for the same feel as the house I grew up in. But it's my foster mom's taste, not mine. Or Duck's. And he never said a word.”

“He wouldn't. That Dillon's a sweet boy. Well, let me get up off of here, put that lot in the refrigerator, and get to work. I always start with the bathroom. Makes you appreciate having room to move around when you come out.”

It took a couple of pushes on the cushions on each side before she made it up, but once on her pudgy feet, she moved with a speed that surprised me. She snatched the big grocery sack off the desk and headed for the kitchen. If that was her lunch, no wonder she had a weight problem. Whatever was in it, it smelled damned good, though.

I stayed put for at least fifteen minutes, trying to figure out how to resolve the problem with the furniture. The chintz, the old-fashioned lamps. No doubt about it, it had to go. Well, most of it, anyway. There was nothing wrong with trying for eclectic. I'd talk to Duck about it tonight, see if he thought our savings could survive the big chomp it would take to refurnish.

The glass-shelved étagère could stay, another piece we'd picked out together. The least I could do was fill it with my knickknacks.

I massaged my knee for a moment. All the furniture arranging had put more stress on it than it liked. I'd be paying for it the rest of the day. And night. Poor Duck. Our first night living together and I'd be reeking of Ben-Gay.

His guest room, which he'd used as a workroom during his ceramics and pottery period, contained the remainder of the items moved from my apartment, most packed in boxes stacked against one wall. I squeezed my way around my little desk and two kitchen chairs, grateful that Duck had been smart enough to put all the cartons marked “Fragile” on the top layer. The one I needed was also labeled “My Babies,” since it contained my collection of crystal owls and dolphins. I might have overdone it with the Magic Marker, but there was no doubt as to what was in what.

I found it easily enough, bless Duck, moved it from a stack and set it on my desk to get a better grip when a subconscious nudge from somewhere prodded me to examine those stacks again. It took me a couple of seconds before the reason surfaced. The last time I was in here, the boxes had been stacked like stairs, one lone carton on the left end, two next to it, then three, then four, etc. Now the configuration was one, two, three, four and four. A box was missing.

In search of it, I slithered around my den furniture and the chest of drawers we planned to leave in here. No box. Duck, in one of his cooking moods, had asked me which one contained the wok he'd given me in hopes I'd fall enough in love with stir-fry to use it. Perhaps he'd unpacked the whole thing. But no, there it was. “Pots, Pans, Wok” printed clearly on the two sides I could see. So which one was missing?

Knickknacks forgotten, I went in search of the errant carton, Clarissa's tuneless humming from the bathroom grating on my nerves. Nothing in the kitchen or shallow pantry. I didn't bother with the bedroom; I knew it wasn't in the closet. Where else could he have put it?

“Oops.” Clarissa, a pair of sheets draped over one arm, caromed off me as she exited the bathroom. “Hope you don't need to use the facility for a few minutes. Floor's wet. I declare, I don't know why Dillon bothers to keep me on. This place is always as clean as an operating room. But then, after y'all get married, you probably won't. Need me, I mean.” A wistful expression softened her features. She resembled an elderly baby.

I couldn't do it, damn Duck's butt. He'd known it too.

“Duck is genetically disposed to be neat,” I said. “I, however, am not. I'm a clutterer from way back. After a month of my being here, you'll probably demand a raise.”

She smiled so sweetly I felt like hugging her. “I'm glad. Not about the raise; he's already paying me too much, considering how little there's been to do. It's just a joy to work for him. He's such a nice child. Sister just loves him.” She clamped her lips together, as if afraid she'd said too much again.

“Your sister's met him?”

“In passing. The thing is, he reminds me of my boy. He's crossed over now, killed in a construction accident. Likes to eat, just like my Shelton did. Your Dillon, I mean. I made some barbecue last night. Brought some for lunch and a couple of helpings for him.”

Mention barbecue and I begin to drool, mentally. It must have shown.

“You cotton to barbecue? Not the Texas kind,” she added. “Nothing against it, but I prefer the way they make it in North Carolina where you take the pork and—”

“Don't, please. All I had for breakfast was a corn muffin and a banana.”

“You poor child! Why don't I warm you a little barbecue soon's I finish in the bedroom? I brought rolls and everything.”

I couldn't have said no if you'd paid me, even though, truth be told, the only reason I hadn't eaten more for breakfast was because I'd been a little queasy. Perhaps the three-fire-alarm chili and Zinfandel Janeece and I had feted with last night hadn't been the best combination.

“By the way, Duck hasn't stored one of my boxes in the linen closet, has he?” I peered past her into the bathroom.

“No, ma'am,” she said, shaking her head. “Nothing in there but sheets and towels and the like. Can't find your knickknacks?”

“I found them all right but a box is missing and I can't imagine where he might have put it.”

“It's bound to be around here somewhere,” she said, with a pat of assurance on my arm. “Let me go change these sheets and dust so I can feed you. Shouldn't take me two shakes.”

Suddenly, her left hip began to trill “America the Beautiful.” She grinned at my surprise and dug into her pocket, pulling out a tiny cellular phone. “Just my way of waving the flag,” she said and flipped open its top. “What, Sister? I'm busy.” Executing a perfect about-face, she hurried into the bedroom.

I left her to it and went back into the kitchen. I hadn't checked under the cabinets. I knew which ones contained the holy Calphalon. No point in looking there. No room. The others were empty, waiting for my assortment of cooking utensils. Frustrated, I grabbed the tea kettle, filled it, and put it on to boil, then just in case I should have enough for two, stuck my head in the bedroom door.

Clarissa, smoothing the bottom sheet with one hand as she circumnavigated the bed, barked into the phone. “No, ma'am, I will not sub for Geneva Ladyslipper tonight. You know what she's got her students reading?
War and Peace,
for Lord's sake! I agree they ought to be introduced to the classics, but Tolstoy? They aren't ready for that. What's wrong with Hemingway or O. Henry?” Spotting me, she blinked. “Hold on a minute. Need something, sugar?”

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “I just wanted to know if you'd like a cup of tea.”

“That would be nice. I'll be done shortly. Sister, I've got to go or I'll never finish this bed.”

Back in the kitchen, I found the tin of tea bags, the conversation from the other room drifting across the hall.

“Yes, she's as nice as can be and looks just like her picture. She likes to shove furniture around, just like you. Even moved the sofa. You wouldn't think somebody as little as she is could even budge it.”