Priced to Move (18 page)

The gas stove gives me the willies to light, but I brave fumes and potential obliteration and plunk the pan on the burner. A quick swipe of the counter where the cocoa dust landed, and— “What are you waiting for?” Aunt Weeby demands. “You’ve been putzing around this kitchen, plumb giving me heartburn from the anxiety, and you
still
don’t say a word. You’re like to give a body a conniption fit, you’re so contrary.”

About that pot calling the kettle black . . . ?

“I seem to remember telling you I needed a cup of cocoa.”

Worry creases her forehead. “That tells me, sugarplum, that something’s gone very, very bad.”

The stool Aunt Weeby likes to use while chopping veggies by the sink offers me a good look into the saucepan, so I perch there and face my aunt. “I don’t even want to talk about it. I know it’s going to worry you, and that’s not so cool. You do crazy stuff when you’re worried.”

“If you didn’t go doing stuff that worries me in the first place, I wouldn’t have to be doing crazy stuff to take care of you.”

“Sure. Blame it on the victim.”

“Victim? I don’t see you as any downtrod doormat.”

“I shouldn’t have used that word.” True, but I also know she’s going to find out everything that went on in Myanmar. It’ll go easier on me if I’m the one who does the telling. “But it does sorta fit this case.”

I go ahead and fill her in on the details of our trip. Then I notice the silence. “What’s with Rio? In the short time I’ve known him he’s never been quiet this long. He nearly cost me my hearing when I walked in.”

“That’s on account of you woke the poor baby up.” She preens. “You see, Andie, I’ve decided to become an expert on sit . . . p-sit. . . . Oh, phooey! It’s a long formal name for them Sun Conures like that Rio of yours . . . psittacines! That’s it. Anyway, they’re right fascinating, let me tell you.”

My aunt, the parrot expert.
Oh-kay.
See the consequences of world travel?

“Very well, Madam Expert. Tell me why that loudbox is suddenly so silent.”

“I got him a cage cover.”

“A cage cover.”

“That’s right. Parrots like to sleep in cozy, dark places, you see. So I had Mona’s Edwina drive me to a pet supermarket. Did you know such places exist? You’d never believe all the things they sell there. Anyway, Edwina drove Rio and me to the pet place, and I got him his very own little cozy cover.”

The idea of a bird under a tea cozy doesn’t quite cut it. What’s worse, the idea of Aunt Weeby turned loose on the greater Louisville population, accompanied by that hearing aid’s best friend, is not a thing of beauty.

“How did you get Rio to the pet place? You didn’t lug that cage around, did you?”

“’Course not, Andie. That cage’s almost as big as I am. I got myself on that there World Wide Web, and I ordered us a little ol’ travel case. It’s the sweetest thing! You’re just plumb gonna love it. Rio looks adorable inside.”

My head throbs like a hammered thumb. “What you’re trying to tell me is that they sell cage cozies at that place you went to.”

“That’s it! And the cage cover almost matches our travel case. It’s got all the same colors and the same black piping on the seams. Only problem’s that the cage cover has cute little parrots all over, but the travel case—can you believe this?—is covered with cats! I’m telling you, it’s an outrage.”

My mind conjures the image of Rio entering the drooly mouth of a big ol’ meowser. Aunt Weeby’s all outraged on the bird’s behalf while all I see is a tasty feline snack. And I’m the bird’s lucky owner. What’s wrong with this picture?

“Why are we talking about the dumb bird?” I ask.

“Why, Andie! Rio’s not dumb. He’s already talking to me.”

Imagine that conversation.
What did I get myself into when I moved back to Louisville?

“Fine, he’s not dumb, and he beats Oprah at repartee. Can I finish my cocoa and go to bed?”

She crosses her arms. “Only after you’ve gone and told me every last little detail about that sleeping together you and Max did.”

I’d hoped she’d forget. Then again, Aunt Weeby has a mind like a fox trap.

“It’s no big deal.” I take my now-empty cocoa cup to the sink. “Every armchair at the airport was taken, so we both sat on a sofa. While I slept, I must’ve slipped sideways, and neither one of us noticed that I landed on his shoulder.”

“You landed on his shoulder?”

“Must be. ’Fraid I can’t tell you more than that. I was sleeping.”

“That’s it?”

“Sorry to disappoint. And now I get to go to bed.”

“Mm-hmm. You’ll need all the rest you can get, sugarplum.”

“I . . . will?”

“Uh-huh! Why, you’re going to be mighty busy, girl. What with your show and all that sleeping on Max’s shoulder and all that investigating you’re gonna be doing, that is.”

I ignore the sinkholes in Aunt Weeby’s words. “Investigating?”

“Sure, Andie. No one’s figured out yet why that dead guy wound up dead in our vault. Someone’s gotta do it. I figure you’re snoopy enough. That’s all it should take, some good ol’ fashioned snooping on your part. I’d do it, but I got me a cast and a bird to hold me back some.”

Okay. Help me here. Do I accept the compliment to my abilities or do I yelp at the insult? After a nanosecond’s thought, I decide to do neither.

“I bet you’re gonna tell me what I should do.” Why am I wasting breath? This is Aunt Weeby. She tells everyone what they should do.

“There’s only one thing to do. You’re gonna have to sniff out every last little thing there is to know about everyone who works out at that TV shopping network Mona’s got herself.”

Now there’s an appealing prospect. Stick my nose where it doesn’t belong to alienate my co-workers. “And how do you want me to do that without landing behind bars?”

“Easy, sugarplum! You just chat them up at work, ask all kindsa them subtle questions they do on TV, and maybe get a look inside their handbags. You know what they say about women’s handbags, right?”

They have something to say about handbags? “No, Aunt Weeby. I don’t know what they say about women’s handbags. But I’m sure you do. And I’m sure you’re just dying to tell me.”

“I don’t rightly know about any dying, but I can most certainly tell you about pocketbooks. They always say you can know all about a woman by the stuff she stashes in her purse.”

What’s in mine? Gum wrappers, a brush, my favorite Copper Rose lip gloss, my checkbook, wallet, sunglasses, a hair scrunchy, keys. That’s it. Pretty boring. And then I remember the no-man’s-land at the bottom, the flotsam that litters the lining. Receipts, the four-inch spiral-bound notebook I fondly think of as my brain . . .

Okay. Maybe “they” are onto something. There’s just one minor detail. “How do you expect me to get into these handbags?”

She stands and smacks her fists on her hips. “What? Do I have to do everything for you?” After an indignant sniff, she sails out the kitchen doorway. “You figure it out.”

Did I tell you I’m squeamish about sneaking around? No? Well, I’m telling you now. I mean, I do have the urge to snoop, but not the guts. That’s why there’s no way I’m diving into other women’s handbags. Dead ruby vendor or not.

No way.

No how.

Not in this lifetime.

14
⁰⁰

“Are you just the clumsiest cow or what?” Danni demands.
Or what.
Time to punt. “I’m so sorry, Danni.” I kneel. “Here. Let me help you pick it all up. I owe you that much.”

Okay. I’m busted. I accidentally on purpose bumped her purse off the makeup counter while we wait for Allison to show up. And, of course, I’m on those spilled contents like stink on skunk. Against all logic, I’m pulling an Aunt Weeby.

“What are you doing now?” she shrills.

Innocence when you feel like the worst rat doesn’t come easy. “Me?”
What to say?
I grab a fistful of rubble, none of which checks out as remotely interesting. “Ah . . . what does it look like I’m doing? I’m . . . uhm . . . trying to help. I made the mess, and the least I can do is give you a hand picking it all up.”

“You are the most obnoxious creature I’ve met in all my born days.” Her big brown eyes spit hate my way. “First you come and steal my job away from me, then you score the cutest guy in town as your partner—and don’t think I didn’t hear all about that cozy little sleep deal during the exotic vacation you took on the network’s nickel—you bring down on us some crazed criminal who kills some guy you know, and now you’re going through my stuff like an alley cat in a dumpster.”

I snag a lipstick from under a cart of fuchsia, lime, and cobalt hair rollers, and stick it in Danni’s bag. Is this how people at the S.T.U.D. see me? If that’s the case, then I’m in worse shape than I thought.

Oh, Lord Jesus, help me! I know, I know. I got myself into
this, but I don’t know how to get myself out. I know you can
show me, though.

Danni’s response is so extreme that it does make me wonder. “You’re acting as though you’re hiding Queen Lizzie’s favorite tiara in there.”

I watch her like the proverbial hawk. Will my pointed question get a reaction from her?

Danni yanks her bag out of my reach. “Well, as you can now see—and everyone else too—there’s nothing special in my purse.”

But as she blindly shoves run-of-the-mill items into the black leather rectangle, I spot something. Okay, yeah, it’s interesting. That is, if a mini-ziplock baggie with one large, beautiful ruby in it snags your fancy.

Again, I choose to play dumb. “Oooh, Danni! Did you just treat yourself? You scored a stunner there. And you know I have to ask. Is it Burmese?”

“You are despicable.” If her eyes were knives, I’d be hamburger. “You’re butting in where you’re not wanted. But if you really have to know, not that it’s any of your business, yes, the ruby is for me. I’ve always wanted a nice one, and

Miss Mona said this morning I could go ahead and choose whichever I liked from the vault. And before you ask, I’m paying for it with deductions from my paycheck, Miss Big Ol’ Nosy Nose.”

What an image! I touch my offending feature before I catch myself. Time for a new topic.

Since there’s no way I can pick up the comb and handful of pennies still on the floor without risking bodily harm, I stand. “Miss Mona is a dear, isn’t she? Most other bosses would insist on keeping that stone to sell on air. She’d get a whole lot more that way than selling it to you. Employee discounts cut into profits.”

Comb and pennies disappear into the bag. Then she stands. “And you working here cuts into my profits. You ready to do the right thing and sacrifice so I don’t come up short at the end of the month?” She drops her purse on a chair, crosses her arms, and taps a toe. “I’m on-screen fewer hours than before, and when she started the network, Miss Mona set up the pay scale, as you well know, by hours.”

“No way! That’s plain wrong. I don’t buy your sad story, Danni. You’re doing all those underwear shows now that I’m here. That’s a bunch more hours a week than I work, so go get a calculator. It doesn’t add up to fewer hours for you.”

She blushes, glares, and then sticks her cute little button nose way up in the air. “I sell more than lingerie. You should see the cute new spandex Capris we got in this morning. And remember, it’s lingerie, Andrea, not underwear.”

Spandex Capris? Oh my! “I call ’em as I see ’em. The first things you put on your butt before you put anything else on: what’s that if not underwear?”

“No wonder you’re not married,” she says with a toss of her blond mane. “No guy’s ever going to want to take on someone who knows less than nothing of romance. Poor Max.”

She’s not married either! But that’s not the worst . . . “Poor Max! Are you nuts? I don’t even like him as a cohost. Haven’t you noticed how dumb he comes across on-screen? He doesn’t know a thing.”

“He’s got a college degree. He must know something.” Hers is a feline smile. “And he sure does look good on those camera shots.”

“Take him—please! Have him help you sell underwear. I’m sure he’ll look a different kind of cute holding up a frilly camisole.”

Go with me here. A jock selling women’s underwear? Just desserts for the gem-dunce, if you ask me. “Who knows? He might send your sales right through the roof. I bet there’s enough women out there who think like you and will order just because he’s cute.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Cute? That’s a stupid word. He’s gorgeous, and you’re blind.”

No, I’m not. I see gorgeous too, but I’ll take an order of brains with my serving of gorgeous, thank you very much. Maybe a little less of that potent oozing charm would help. I don’t have the experience—or the guts—to handle a guy like Max.

I open the door and step out into the hall. “You know what? I apologized for dumping out your stuff. I offered to help, and all I got for my efforts was abuse. I’d rather clean toilets with a toothbrush than listen to you rant.”

I learned all I was going to learn from that fun episode. Danni lusts for rubies. Now all I have to figure out is how much she lusts. And the provenance of that stone she bought.

Did it come from Myanmar?

The only good thing about my encounter with Danni is that no one else was there. Especially not Aunt Weeby.

Or Max.

Mortified, I skulk well away from Danni’s radar screen until her makeup’s done and she’s in the wings waiting for her cue. I hide out in my dressing room, cheeks ablaze, guilt heavy. And then my cell phone rings. “Hello.”

“Hey, Andie!” Great. The unmistakable voice of Trophy Tiff. “Who is the S.T.U.D.’s stud? He’s hot!”

Did I tell you I hate that term? Well, I do. And I’m not fond of Tiffany Hammond either. Never could see what Roger saw in her . . . except the silicone and the bleach-blond mane and the ten-feet-long legs. “Hi, Tiff. How are you? I’m surprised to hear from you. Is Roger okay?”

She sniffs. “He’s fine, but sooo boring, I’m about dying here. Wish I had a stud like yours.”

Her spoiled two-year-old whine gets on my nerves, as it always had. And I have nothing to say. This isn’t my kind of conversation. So I keep my peace—for once.

Tiffany blathers on. “What kind of guy gets married then dumps his wife inside four walls? He absolutely ignores me. I’m bored. Bored, bored, bored!”