A Shattering Crime (3 page)

He headed back up the stairs, predictable spring in his step. No matter how old my mom was, this was still his little girl coming home. His gleeful anticipation had grown greater as Mom's arrival drew closer. What tasks he couldn't do himself in preparation, he supervised as I performed, going so far as to direct where I should put
Friday's cat box when I moved it out of my bedroom—which Mom would be taking over for her visit—and into the little guest room to which I had been relegated.

Sighing, I clicked the power switch on the soldering iron base to “Off.” Fifi's bark had shifted subtly from protect to curious and Grandy was shouting hellos out the door. It was time I, too, headed up the stairs to greet my mother and her new husband.

“Well, Friday,” I said, kneeling down to peer at her beneath the table. “Wish me luck.”

I didn't get a single mew out of her. I pretended her lack of response had more to do with being afraid of giving up her position and less to do with not giving a rat's tail how well Ben and I did or did not get along.

After switching off the radio that always played softly in the corner while I worked, I ran a hand over the tangle of corkscrew curls that passed for a hairdo, smoothed down the wrinkles in my sweatshirt, and headed up the stairs.

It doesn't take but a few seconds to climb the steps to the main floor of the house, and I didn't think I'd been dragging my feet at all. But by the time I reached the living room, my mother was already through the front door. Fifi was doing her famous back-end wiggle of joy, tongue lolling half out of her mouth as Mom greeted her with the same lovey voice that people tended to use around infants.

Of the many things I had been given when I adopted Fifi from her previous, short-term owner was a book akin to
Dog Ownership for Dolts
. I studied that manual in depth for the first two weeks Fifi was in the house whining
at Friday, stealing Grandy's slippers, and carrying her water bowl from room to room. In my reading I learned dogs often were able to recognize members of their owner's family even if they hadn't met them before. This nicely explained Fifi being instantly enamored of my mother.

And okay, even if Fifi lacked that skill or the theory of dogs recognizing family was bunk, I fully understood why she was instantly in love with my mother. My mom had that effect.

“Fifi, come,” I said.

Fifi sat.

My mother's gaze met mine, and I shrugged as I walked toward her. “We're working on it,” I said.

Mom's arms came around me in a fierce hug. “Georgia. I'm so happy to see you,” she said on a breath.

“Glad you're here,” I responded.

I leaned back to look at her. While she hadn't changed much since I had last seen her at her justice of the peace wedding, still I marveled at how she seemed to look more like Grandy every time I saw her. Or maybe it was because I was living daily with Grandy that I was finally seeing the resemblance—the same height and proud posture, same brown eyes, same “I see everything” expression intensified by narrow lips and a stern chin. Luckily, what made Grandy a handsome man made my mother an attractive woman—because it would really be a shame if she looked like a handsome man.

“Benjamin,” Grandy said. One hand holding the door open, he extended his other to shake hands with Ben as the younger man came through the door.

“Pete.” Ben slapped Grandy lightly on the shoulder as if they were buddies from way back.

As Grandy closed and locked the door, Ben joined me and Mom, leaning down to press a kiss to my cheek. “Georgia, sweetheart.” And then he skittered sideways a bit and looked down. Fifi stood by his side, nose smashed against his knee, working frantically to pick up every single scent on Ben's khaki slacks. “Well, hello there.” Easily as tall as Grandy had been in his prime, Ben had to both bend and crouch for his fingers to reach Fifi's head. He gave her a friendly pat; she continued to sniff.

Mom excused herself to the bathroom with reminders to us that it had been a long drive. She was one step up the stairs and on her way before she turned back. “Georgia, put the kettle on for some tea?”

I peered at Grandy, flicked a glance at Ben. Me going into the kitchen with Mom upstairs would leave the two men alone. There were only two ways that could go: perfectly polite or perfectly disastrous.

With a mental shrug I headed into the kitchen. “Fifi, come,” I said sternly. Of course, she left Ben's trousers instantly and trotted right behind me. It would have been nice to think she was showing a glimmer of learning that command, but it was more likely—okay, a certainty—that she was simply coming along because I was going into the kitchen. Fifi was highly food-motivated.

I lifted the red enamel tea kettle from its place at the back of the stove, kept an ear open for conversation from the living room.

“How was the drive?” Grandy asked.

I rolled my eyes, stuck the kettle under the faucet. The crash of water into the kettle drowned out what was no doubt a recitation of road conditions and traffic patterns from the bridges to the thruway, with a side note on the exorbitant price of tolls. Fifi padded into the kitchen and lay down in her favorite place beneath my customary chair, big eyes watching every move I made pulling down cups and saucers and otherwise assembling a tea service.

When I once again tuned in to what was happening in the other room, I was surprised to hear my mother's voice. She was chiming in on “the crazy fluctuations in gas prices.” And she said it as if she had honestly begun paying attention and perhaps even pumped her own gas. My mother is a lovely lady, but gasoline might as well have been her kryptonite. Learning she had potentially touched a gas pump made me bobble the spoons I was holding. Two of them fell to the floor with a clatter that brought Fifi to her feet.

“Everything all right in there?” Mom called.

“It's fine.” I crouched to retrieve the spoons then tossed them into the sink, making an even louder
clatter- clang-clunk
.

“Do you need a hand?”

“It's fine,” I repeated. And it was, wasn't it? I didn't really need help putting together some tea; it wasn't like I was trying to get a Thanksgiving dinner on the table. Tea was certainly something I could do on my own without parental assistance. I was an adult, wasn't I?

They kept on with mundane, polite talk while I buzzed in and out of the kitchen, setting out teaspoons
and cloth napkins and placemats on the aged table in the dining room. From the sideboard I grabbed four china dessert plates and my grandmother's pastry dish off their shelf. Some wistful voice in the corner of my awareness whispered about how nice it was to be able to include Grandma in this new family gathering.

Back in the kitchen, I sneaked Fifi a tootsie roll from Grandy's not so secret stash before giving the milk glass pastry dish a swipe with a damp dish towel, just in case. My mind hop-skipped past my current activity and settled on memories of the morning, memories of David Rayburn gasping for breath on the cold autumn ground. I shook my head to bring myself back to the moment and placed the pastry dish carefully on the counter then stood looking from plate to teakettle, trying to remember what I was supposed to do next.

As I opened the cabinet where I keep the loose teas, Fifi let out a little whine. I looked first to her, then in the direction her head was turned.

Friday had ventured out of the downstairs workshop and taken a few tentative steps toward the living room. Her fluffy white tail twitched and her ears seemed to angle forward, as if she was trying to take the measure of the strangers in the living room. She let out a particularly grown-cat
mrrooww
and crept into the living room, out of view.

Quietly, I moved to the doorway and poked my head around to see where she was going.

“Oh, this must be Friday,” Mom said. “My goodness, what a pretty cat.” Mom had tucked herself into the curved corner of the antique horse-hair couch, one hand
resting on Ben's thigh as he sat beside her. She leaned down and brushed her thumb against her fingers in that strange action that routinely lured curious cats. But not my cat.

Friday curled away from my mother then sidled up to Ben and gave his calf a nose-to-tail rub. “Oh. Could you please, Georgia, the . . .” Ben shifted his weight, moving closer to Mom. He lifted his feet a few inches off the floor and checked the gold brocade fabric on the couch cushion as if wondering if it was safe to put his feet up. “Oh boy.”

Friday U-turned and went in for another strike, and I rushed from the kitchen.

Ben lifted his feet higher off the floor and leaned over into my mother's lap. Gaze locked on the not-at-all-dangerous cat at his feet, Ben didn't see the displeased grimace on Grandy's face. I had no time to try and determine whether he was unhappy with his new son-in-law or with my cat. Quickly as I could, I scooped up Friday and gathered her in tight to my chest. Her long, silky fur slipped between my fingers. “Sorry,” I said over her offended
mrroowww
.

“Troublesome beast,” Grandy muttered. But his tone carried no malice, and he held out his hand to me, curled his fingers in a signal I knew well.

“Sorry, Ben,” I repeated as I passed Friday to Grandy. The moment Grandy took her in his hands, she started purring. “She's really very sweet.”

My mother gave Ben an affectionate pat on his arm. “First the dog, now the cat. Did you spill something on those pants when we stopped for lunch?”

“There now,” Grandy murmured, scratching beneath Friday's chin. “You stay with me.”

Starting soft but rapidly growing in volume, a sound reminiscent of bagpipes filled the room. Grandy smiled. “That'll be the tea.”

Ben's eyes went wide, as though he suddenly feared he'd arrived in a twilight zone, but he stood and headed for the dining room along with Mom while I went into the kitchen to switch off the light beneath the kettle. The sound of bagpipes faded away. I pulled open the deep drawer beside the refrigerator and took out the box of cookies. Tied with red-and-white baker's string, the box was decorated with predictable generic text:
BEST IN TOWN, BAKED FRESH, FOR YOUR ENJOYMENT
. But the generic text was fine. I didn't need the name of the bakery emblazoned across the cardboard to remind me the cookies came from Rozelle's.

Setting the box on the counter, I let out a breath. Sharp memories rushed at me again, images of the morning arranging cookies on platters scattered throughout the riverside tent. Those were followed shortly and powerfully by more thoughts of David Rayburn. I hoped that he had recovered, that he was resting comfortably at home—or at least had a nice private room at the hospital—and would be none the worse for wear. But a niggling in my gut warned me that wasn't the case.

I huffed and pushed away the mental fog, and once again arranged Rozelle's delicate cookies on a platter. I poured boiling water into the waiting teapot then carried pot and platter into the dining room, announcing, “Tea's ready,” as I went.

Ben took a seat at the end of the table nearest the entry to the kitchen, with Mom at his right. Not to be outdone, or lured away from his favorite chair, Grandy sat at the opposite end of the table, straight and proud so there was no doubt which end of the table was the head.

This left me in an unexpected predicament. The rectangular shape of the table meant I was left choosing to sit closer to my mother, or closer to my grandfather. I had the sudden, sinking feeling that the upcoming week might fall short of the ideal family get-together.

I set down the platter of cookies nearer to Ben and Mom then shifted the steel trivet to the center of the table and put down the teapot. I dropped into the chair nearest to Grandy and smiled a little apology at my mom.

“Look at these cookies,” Ben said, pulling the platter close for inspection. “They look too good to eat.”

Mom took in a breath that ended in a blissful sort of smile. “Are those from Rozelle's?” she asked.

“Of course.” I was happy the cookies somehow pleased her and I forced down memories of the morning, not wanting thoughts of poor David Rayburn to further distract me.

“My gosh. How I used to love her cookies. Is she still alive?”

“I beg your pardon,” Grandy said, his tone lighthearted despite the stern look on his face. “I'll have you know Rozelle is younger than I am. Why would you presume she's dead?”

Mom paused in her reach for a cookie. “Sorry, Dad. I didn't mean anything by it. Rozelle's been making
cookies since I was a kid.” She selected a rainbow square and transferred it to her plate. “Does she still make those little cream puffs? You know the ones I mean, Dad, with the chocolate shell?”

“Yes, she does,” Grandy said. “And your daughter won't let me have any of them.”

Mom smiled, the same smile Grandy had—equal parts happy and mischievous. She took a delicate bite from her cookie and her eyes slipped closed. “Mmmm.”

“Someone needs to make sure you don't have too much sugar in your diet,” I said as Fifi, strangely late to the party, wandered in from the kitchen and stood on the threshold, looking back and forth between me and Ben. The confusion in her big brown eyes said it all: I was not sitting where I should be. She let out a doggie groan and lowered herself to the ground midway between us.

“You know I was just reading that almost thirty percent of Americans over the age of sixty are suffering with Type 2 diabetes. Thirty percent. That's almost one in every three people,” Ben said. “Pass the tea, please?”

I flicked a glance at Grandy, transferred teapot and trivet to Ben.

“Georgia takes good care of me,” Grandy said.

I waited for his customary complaints about how I hid his butterscotch candies and threw away any single-serve cakes he brought into the house. No complaint came.

“I am glad to hear that,” Ben said.