Secondhand Stiff (9 page)

“Where else would I be?”

ten

We weren't so lucky
this time on the 405. It was bogged down, moving like a glacier as we headed north. Traffic was moving along nicely on the southbound side, but Torrance wasn't south of us. It was north—twenty miles north. As slow as traffic was moving, you'd think we were driving an ox cart across bumpy, unpaved terrain. My mission today was to hit at least two of the secondhand stores on my list. The first stop was Goodwin's Good Stuff in Torrance, but if traffic continued this bad, we'd be lucky to visit any stores beyond Buck's. Hell, we'd be lucky to get to Buck's at all.

Buckled into the passenger's seat next to me was Mom, buzzing with excitement like a Taser charged and itching to zap someone. I had tried my best to convince her to stay behind and rest, but no such luck.

“I'll rest when I'm dead,” she'd shot back at me as she wandered down the hall. “Give me a minute to powder my nose and grab my pocketbook.” I'd used that minute to squelch a moan of frustration.

I glanced over at her when traffic came to a halt for the umpteenth time. The weather had turned cloudy and damp. The weatherman had said to expect light drizzle off and on the rest of the week. She sat primly in the seat next to me bundled in slacks, sweater, and a light jacket. Her purse was on her lap. Her hands clutched the top of it as if she was worried someone might smash the passenger-side window and snatch it. Greg might be right. Mom could be good cover for my nosiness. An elderly woman standing next to a middle-aged woman might give off an air of innocence. It seemed to have worked with Heide at the food truck. Problem was, Mom was a loose cannon. You never knew what was going to come out of her mouth. Yesterday's blog bit had blown my socks off with surprise.

Last night I'd taken my laptop to bed and looked Mom's blog up while Greg read a book. The late news played on our TV. Reading and the news—it was our nightly ritual. I was still wondering if the blog had been a hoax to get Heide to talk, but it wasn't. As soon as I'd keyed
An Old Broad's Perspective
into the search engine, up popped the blog.

“Greg, did you know my mother had a blog?”

He looked at me over the top of his reading glasses. “A blog? Grace?”

“Yes. It's called An Old Broad's Perspective and covers all kinds of topics. She's even journaling about her visit here, including the murder at the storage locker.”

“Is it any good?”

“Surprisingly good. There are a lot of grammatical errors and it's rather rustic and folksy in the wording, but it's very entertaining.” I turned the laptop so he could see what I'd found. “And look,” I pointed out. “She's already posted the photo of Heide van den Akker in front of the Comfort Foodies truck, along with an account of our day. At least she had the good sense to leave out the part about us nosing around.”

Greg scanned the article, his lips pressed together to keep from laughing. “How'd she get the photo? Didn't you take it?”

“Mom insisted I take it with her phone.”

“She's pretty IT savvy for an old broad. Maybe I could use her at the shop while she's here.”

I looked Greg in the eye. “Did you know my mother had an iPad with her?”

“Yeah, I did. She asked about using our WiFi while she was here. I set it up for her.”

“And you didn't think of telling me that?”

He shrugged. “I thought you knew she had it.”

“Not until today, when she threatened to do her own research if I didn't let her come along.”

This time Greg laughed out loud, giving LOL a whole new emphasis.

“What's so funny?”

“Nothing.” He straightened his glasses and went back to his book.

“Nothing, my fat behind. Tell me.”

Greg put his book on the nightstand and set his reading glasses on top of it. After turning off his light, he turned to me. “No way am I telling you what's on my mind. I want to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

My nose twitched. “Does it have anything to do with apples falling from trees?”

“Maybe.” He tapped my laptop. “Now put that thing away so we can get some sleep.”

While I shut down my laptop and turned off the light on my side of the bed, Greg turned off the TV. Quiet and in the dark, we cuddled. Greg kissed my ear, but I could feel a snicker vibrating behind his lips.

“I don't know how
you people put up with this.”

I turned to Mom. We were still inching ahead on the freeway. “You mean the traffic?”

“No, I mean the Rose Parade in January.”

“No need for sarcasm, Mom.”

She was right, though. I didn't know myself how we put up with the increasingly horrible Southern California traffic. It seemed to be getting worse daily.

“We just work around it best we can,” I told her. “Although this is very unusual. There's probably an accident up ahead.”

Mom leaned forward, peering out the front window with keen interest. “Or maybe another slow-speed cop chase like with O.J.”

From the hope in her voice, I could tell she was already drafting her next blog entry.

“By the way, Mom—I read your blog last night and really enjoyed it.”

She turned to me in surprise. “You did?”

“Yes. Greg and I both looked it over last night. You're doing a nice job with it. I can see why you have so many readers.” I started to say something else but held my tongue.

“But?” Mom pursed her lips in my direction. She looked like a fish with lipstick.

“
But
, what?”

“From the sound of it, you were about to tack on a bit of a scold.”

“Not a scold at all. I'm just concerned about you saying too much about the murder, or at least any information we might uncover in the next day or so.”

“I do know how to keep my mouth shut about things that are important.”

“I know you do.” I started to point out she'd kept her mouth shut for more than thirty years but wisely decided I didn't need to open that can of worms again. I'd wanted Mom's visit to build a bond between us, not dredge up old pain we'd already discussed and beaten into the ground. She'd made it quite clear when I'd found her that she felt she had good reasons for leaving me all those years ago and had no regrets about her decision.

The car filled with silence as thick as the heavy dampness outside until Mom said, “Do you still see that woman?”

“What woman?”

“That woman your father married. The one with the stripper name—Koko, Bambam, Tata—something like that.”

“You mean Gigi?”

Mom was staring straight ahead at the cars in front of us. As far as the eye could see, vehicles were lined up like lemmings waiting for a turn to jump off a cliff in mass suicide.

“I only saw her a few times after Dad died. Gigi passed away a little over a year ago.”

“Did you go to the funeral?” Mom stared at the bumper of the car in front of us as if it were an eye chart.

“Yes, I did. I heard her son, J.J., died shortly after from liver failure due to alcoholism.”

My stepmother's funeral had been one of the few times Greg and I had disagreed vehemently. I didn't want to go, but he insisted we should, saying it would be closure for me and the right thing to do. I told him he was welcome to go without me. The day of the funeral, he put on a suit and started out the door, ready to do exactly that. In the end I caved and went with him. I had hated my stepmother and her two kids. They had been hateful to my father until the day he died. J.J. wasn't at the funeral because he was so ill. My stepsister, Dee Dee, a real harridan, was as imperious as ever, even in the face of her mother's death. She made some snarky remarks as Greg and I paid our respects, but much to my surprise I had no problem letting them slide. As usual, Greg had been right. Going to Gigi's funeral had been closure.

Closure. That word was invading my brain a lot lately. It felt like a schoolteacher nagging me to do a task over and over until I got it right—like having Mom visit when I really only half wanted her here. Greg and I had talked about it last night behind the closed doors of our bedroom.

“Would you come to my funeral?”

“What?” I'd been lost in thoughts of closure and wasn't sure I heard Mom.

“My funeral,” she repeated. “Would you fly out for it?”

My first response was almost this: “Don't be silly, you're not dying.” But in reality, Mom was in her eighties. She enjoyed relatively good health but was definitely slowing down.

“Yes, of course I would. Greg and I would both be there. Why would you think otherwise?”

She shrugged, not saying the words we were both thinking: that because she hadn't been there for me for decades, why should I pay good money on travel to see her put into the hard New England earth? If the car wasn't already at a near-dead stop, I would have pulled over for the discussion. Buck's store would have to wait. Instead, I turned to her, keeping half an eye on the car in front of me.

“Mom, if you ever need me to come back east to help you, just ask and I'll be there. You don't need to die to get me on a plane. And you don't need to wait until Greg and I plan a trip.”

She looked skeptical.

“No matter what,” I underlined. “If you're sick and need me or just want to see me, call, and I'll find a way to get to you as fast as I can.” I reached over and covered her hands with my right one. “Just because we're both pigheaded doesn't mean we have to wait until it's too late.” When traffic moved forward a few inches, I put my hand back on the steering wheel.

“In fact, there's something I want to talk to you about.” I did have something on my mind, something Greg and I had discussed last night, but I wasn't sure how to broach the subject with my often cantankerous mother.

Before I could say anything further, my phone rang. It was Clark. I answered it via my hands-free car console feature, something Greg insisted I get in the new car.

“Hi, Clark.”

“Sounds like you're in the car,” he said.

“Yes, and hardly budging. Mom's with me.”

“Good,” said Clark's disembodied voice. “It will save me a call. I have two issues to discuss.”

“Issues?” Mom asked. Unsure of where the sound was coming from, she leaned forward to speak into my dashboard. “You sound like you're addressing bad employees.”

“Humph,” said my brother. “If it were only that easy.” A car to my left honked at the car in front of it.

“What was that?” Clark asked. “Someone honking at you?”

“We're on the freeway,” I explained, “and there is a big traffic jam. And no, the honk was not at me.” I glanced at the GPS. We still had five miles of this hell to go. “So what are your
issues
?”

“I'm basically calling to say I won't be back to pick up Mom this week. It looks like early next week is the soonest I can get to Cali. Is that okay, Odelia?”

“That's a stupid question,” Mom responded on my behalf. “I'm right here in the car. Do you think Odelia can honestly say no?”

She had a point, though I was tempted to advise my big brother to tell Willie to function without him long enough for Mom to get home. In spite of the warm and fuzzy moment we'd just shared, I needed the freedom to dig into Ina's problem without a denture-wearing encumbrance.

“And,” Mom continued before I could answer. “What about me? What if
I
don't want to stay longer? Did you consider that, Clark?”

I jerked my head toward Mom. “Are you saying you don't?” Me not wanting Mom around was one thing, but I had never considered that she might be tired of us—of me. Then again, maybe she simply wanted to get back to her own routine in her own home.

Clark's sigh on the other end was not only audible, it was palpable, like his warm, wet breath was filling the closed space of my car, turning it into a steam room. “Mom, I can't break away from work right now. Do you mind staying longer with Greg and Odelia?”

“What are my options?” Mom asked.

Options?
I was tempted to reach across Mom, open her side of the car, and tell her to get out and hitch a ride. There's an
option
.

“There are three options here, Mom.” I turned my head forward and tried to pay attention to the traffic. “One, you can stay; two, I can take you home myself; three, you can fly home solo. Think about it; number three might be quite an adventure.”

The issue with number three wasn't the flight east, which Mom was capable of handling, but what to do once she got there. Mom didn't live in a place easy to get to from the airport. She'd have to take a plane to Boston, then travel by bus or car to the small town in New Hampshire where her retirement home was located. We'd have to hire a car service for her, which would work providing they didn't dump her on the side of the road in frustration after ten minutes.

“Considering my second issue…um, concern,” said Clark. “Maybe you should escort Mom home, Odelia, and as soon as possible.”

“And why's that?” As I said the words, I noticed that up ahead the left lanes of the freeway were starting to merge into the right lanes. Whatever was causing the traffic jam must be up ahead on the left. I craned my neck and could see emergency vehicles with flashing lights in the distance.

“I read Mom's blog,” Clark answered.

“You read my blog?” Mom asked with surprise.

“Odelia, couldn't you have put your murder business on hold until Mom went home?”

“It's not like I planned this,” I snapped. “We went to the auction, and there was the body in the storage locker.” From reading Mom's blog, I knew she hadn't given out any details, especially that the corpse was someone in our extended family. “Trust me, murder was not on our agenda for the day. Lunch, yes. Murder, no.”