Damsels in Distress (11 page)

“Understandable. Would you ladies care for another drink? Have you tried the caviar mousse?”

“I suspect the Japanese lads found it first,” Luanne said as we all regarded the unappetizing red-speckled mush.

“The idea of eating fish eggs makes me queasy,” said Fiona, who’d come up behind us with the stealth of a cat stalking a chipmunk. “I can’t help thinking of them as tiny fetuses. What could be more precious than the first manifestations of life?”

“Then you’re a vegetarian?” Luanne asked sweetly.

“Not precisely. I’m aware of the necessity of the food chain, but I do not condone unnecessary suffering. I refuse to eat veal or lamb, or the flesh of any animal that is not raised in a humane environment.”

“Nothing better than a kangaroo steak fresh off the barbie,” Gudgeon said with a chuckle. He stuffed a piece of cheese in his mouth and grabbed a bottle of bourbon. “Reckon I’ll go see if our young Japanese friends want to go snake hunting under the deck. I damn near stepped on a real beaut of a copperhead this afternoon, nigh onto six feet long and right proud of his fangs, he was.” He bounded down the steps to the yard.

“Where did you find these people?” Fiona asked Salvador.

I waited with interest for his answer, since it was a very good question. Etiquette precluded asking such things. It did not preclude allowing someone else to breach the rules.

Salvador shifted uneasily. “Gudgeon’s my Australian publisher. I stayed with him for a few weeks last year, and felt obliged to reciprocate. I met Hoshi and Dazai at a fan convention in Osaka.” He hesitated, aware that we were not satisfied. “They’re good boys, both in school. They came with a group this summer to improve their English, and then took off on their own. You know how impulsive kids can be.”

“A fan convention?” I prodded.

“Ah, yes, well... I mentioned I was a writer, didn’t I? Hoshi’s father plays golf with a relative of my editor over there. I suppose that’s how the boys found out my address. When they showed up on my doorstep yesterday, I really had no choice ...”

“What is it you write?” asked Luanne.

“Nothing you’ve read.”

Luanne gestured at his house. “But you must do very well to have a house this large and a Lamborghini in the carport. I knew some writers back on the East Coast. They wrote genre fiction and could barely afford wigwams and quart bottles of beer.”

Salvador tried to stare her down, but it was futile. Finally he shrugged and said, “I really don’t care to discuss my financial situation with anyone. I’ve just finished a project, and now I’d rather forget about it and relax. Surely you can sympathize with that.”

“Well, I do,” Lanya said from the shadowy niche behind the bar. “Last week I started a batch of cranberry mead for Thanksgiving, as well as a few gallons of sweet raspberry melomel to give as presents at the Feast of St. Stephen. My fingers were so waterlogged I could barely flip through my recipe files. It was such a relief when I finally had all of it fermenting in the cellar.”

^w
Melomel?”
said Fiona. “That sounds like some kind of disgusting candy.”

Lanya gave her a pitying smile. “I would have thought someone who claims to be well versed in British history would be familiar with it. Do you remember that rhubarb melomel I made last year, Salvador? I thought it came out well, even though I substituted lemon juice for the pectic enzyme.”

“It was tasty,” Salvador said reluctantly. “An excellent afterdinner drink.”

Fiona shrugged. “I don’t care for sweet wines. One might as well drink soda pop.” She smiled at Lanya. “In your case, you might be better off with diet drinks.”

“And you might be better off with a chastity belt,” countered Lanya. “Don’t forget to have several copies made of the key.”

Gudgeon was being attacked by stick-wielding Samurai warriors, but Salvador was in greater danger, I decided. His only hope lay in the return of Julius and Anderson. I nudged Luanne and rolled my eyes in the direction of the door.

“Would you look at the time!” she said, no more eager than I to serve as a referee when the spitting and hair-pulling began. “I have a shipment arriving first thing in the morning. Three steamer trunks from an estate sale in Frederick, Maryland. I can hardly wait to see what’s in them.”

We expressed our thanks for being invited, wished everyone well, and fled through the dining to the living room. Luanne caught my arm before I could open the front door. “I’m going to find a bathroom,” she said. “All that excitement is agitating my bladder.”

“Not to mention all that wine.”

“That, too. Don’t you dare desert me. Benny may have escaped and be hiding behind a door somewhere—and there are a lot of doors in this place.” She went down a hall, her footsteps hesitant.

I was idly gazing at Salvador’s art collection when I realized that a woman was seated on the black leather sofa. Her frizzy black hair and black clothes made her nearly invisible. Her face was coated with black and white grease paint, her eyes nearly lost under eyeliner and mascara, her lips a dark magenta. For a somewhat hysterical moment, I wondered if she might be a mannequin left over from a macabre Halloween party.

To my dismay, she turned her head to look at me. Almost imperceptibly, her lips moved as she whispered, “Wet.”

“Me?” I squeaked. “No, not at all. I’m waiting for my friend. She went to find a bathroom. It may take her a while. This is such a large house for the neighborhood. Quite elegant, though. There must be a wonderful view from these windows.” I finally stopped myself before I forfeited the last vestiges of any remaining dignity.

“Wet,” she repeated in the same slithery hiss.

“What’s wet?”

“The paint.”

“Then I won’t poke it with my finger,” I said. “Are you a friend of Salvador’s?”

“I don’t like it when people ask me that.”

The conversation was not going well. If I’d had a clue how to find Luanne, I would have barged in and dragged her out the front door, no matter the condition of her bladder. “I’m Claire Malloy.

My friend and I have been out on the deck with the others. Perhaps you should join what’s left of them.”

“My name is Serengeti.”

“How interesting,” I said. “Were you born there?”

“I don’t like it when people ask me that.”

It was getting monotonous. “Is there anything you do like people to ask you?”

She pondered this for a moment. “No, and I don’t like it when people ask me that, either.”

I was hardly in the mood to apologize. Wishing Luanne would hurry, I returned my attention to the paintings. They reminded me of posters from the 1970s, when marijuana and LSD were two of the four basic food groups. I looked more carefully at a particularly lurid collection of body parts and tortured faces, then at Serengeti. “Do you model for Salvador?”

“I don’t like it when-”

“Never mind,” I said wearily.

Eventually Luanne emerged from the hallway. “You would not believe this place,” she began, then noticed the motionless figure on the sofa. “Who’s that?”

“She doesn’t like it when people ask her that,” I said as I propelled Luanne out the door. Giggling like teenaged girls, we went down to my car.

“Well?” she said as I started the car.

I recounted my lame conversation with Serengeti, and added, “I’m almost sure I could see her depiction in a few of the paintings, but with all that black makeup and hair, I could be wrong. It’s happened before. Not often, of course.”

“That particular affectation is called goth,” Luanne said. “It was faddish when heavy-metal rock became popular back in the eighties. All those pathetic kids, rebelling against societal conformity by knocking themselves silly to look identical. At least this girl didn’t have paper clips stuck through her eyebrows and staples in her cheeks. That’s not to imply she hasn’t had other parts of her body pierced.”

I didn’t want to think about it. “Well, at least we escaped. Couldn’t you have come up with something more original—or at least been wearing a wristwatch?”

“Would you have preferred me to swoon?”

“No,” I said, “since Salvador would have insisted that he carry you upstairs to his bed. Lanya and Fiona would have turned on me, since they saw us arrive together. He seems to have gotten himself into a bit of mess, don’t you think?”

“Don Juan ended up being dragged to hell, at least according to George Bernard Shaw. Our boy may feel like he’s on his way as we speak.”

I laughed. “And hell hath no fury like two women scorned.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Luanne said thoughtfully.

“That hell hath no fury?”

“Of that I’m sure,” she said, then refused to discuss it further.

Sergeant Jorgeson came into the Book Depot the following afternoon. He never looked cheerful, but he seemed gloomier than usual. Instead of his customary brown suit and muted tie, he was wearing slacks and a pale blue cotton sweater.

“Ms. Malloy,” he said, “I trust you’re well?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I said cautiously. Jorgeson was not a customer, nor the type to make social calls. “You look very nice in your civilian clothes.”

“Mrs. Jorgeson wants to know if you prefer yellow or red chrysanthemums. “

“Please tell her that I’ll be delighted with whichever she selects. It’s very kind of both of you to offer your garden for the wedding.”

“Happy to do it,” he mumbled, looking around to make sure we were alone. “Then the wedding’s still on, I guess.”

I stiffened. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well, the lieutenant called me last night, said he was worried about you.” Jorgeson held up his hands. “It’s not like he said much, Ms. Malloy. He can’t call during the day on account of how busy they keep him, but when he’s tried to call you in the evenings, there’s been no answer.”

“So he sent you to check on me? How thoughtful, Sergeant Jorgeson. Perhaps you’ll be so thoughtful as to check on him next week while he’s at his mother’s house with his ex-wife. He seems to feel as though he should tell her in person about the wedding.”

Jorgeson rubbed his jaw as he looked at me. “Do I detect a certain note of coolness in your voice, Ms. Malloy?”

“You’re the detective, not I.”

“But I’m not the one you should be talking to.” His lips pinched as he fell silent, either hoping I’d say something or praying I wouldn’t. When I opted for the latter, he sighed and said, “Well, then, Ms. Malloy, I’ll be on my way. Mrs. Jorgeson wants me to go to the nursery and find a special brand of potting soil. She worries about things like that, even if the plants don’t. One more thing. The head of the traffic control wanted to know if you’ll be staging these outside performances today or tomorrow. What with the bikers arriving, Thurber Street’s going to be a three-block nightmare.”

“Not until Monday, but I’m not responsible for any of it. The events are being arranged by Fiona Thackery and members of ARSE. Did you hear about the knights in armor last Wednesday?”

“I did. I do not think you should expect a fruitcake from the chief of police at Christmas, Ms. Malloy.”

He left before I could point out that I’d never had a fruitcake from the chief, or even a greeting card. In truth, the chief held me in such regard that if Farberville had a
most wanted: dead or alive
poster, I’d be featured. I could easily imagine his expression when he’d learned that Peter and I were getting married. Which we most assuredly were, even if the lovely Leslie sat on a folding chair in Jorgeson’s backyard and wept throughout the ceremony. So what if she was beautiful, intelligent, independently rich, charmingly eccentric, well bred, sophisticated, and chic? So what if Peter’s mother doted on her?

No good answer came to mind, so I collected a stack of books on self-esteem and assertiveness, sat down at the counter, and looked through them. Outside, thunderous motorcycles began to make their way toward the strip of bars and restaurants up the street from the Book Depot. Engines revved in the parking lot of the beer garden across the street. Men and women clad in black leather jackets walked along the sidewalk, no doubt sweltering in the July heat. The ones who were dressed in more humdrum attire had graced tattoo parlors in their past. A few resembled ambulatory comic books. The plastic cups they carried most likely did not contain lemonade or one of Sally’s chilled herbal teas.

They seemed harmless and more interested in impressing each other than in creating problems for the police. However, I decided I might as well lock up and go home, since my customers were not daring enough to venture out among potential road warriors and Hell’s Angels, even if most of them qualified for Medicare.

Caron had gone to a bunking party the previous evening, so I had the car. I rarely had a chance to shop for groceries during the day, and the cupboard was nigh onto bare. An hour later I parked in my garage, grabbed a couple of heavy sacks out of the backseat, and lugged them upstairs. Two trips later my mission was completed, but my arms and shoulders ached. I poured a drink and flopped down on the sofa to recover before I faced the final chore of putting everything away. If Caron was home, she was holed up in her bedroom, aware that I might demand her help. She was a devious child, but she was the product of a gene pool that might have been murkier than I’d formerly thought.

On this occasion, however, she was blameless. The groceries had been dispersed to the cabinets, refrigerator, and freezer, and I was sitting on the balcony when she came home. A few minutes later she came out to join me.

“The telephone is not unplugged,” I said, wincing as a motorcycle cruised past with the subtlety of a 747. “I am simply enjoying the view of the campus. It’s much more attractive without students cluttering it up.”

Caron was not interested in my serenity or my sanity. “The most incredible thing happened this afternoon, Mother! Inez and I went to the bookstore, hoping you’d let us have the car. You were gone. While we were deciding what to do, Miss Thackery came by to see you about something or other. She had her fiance with her, the squirrelly guy who teaches drama at the college. He told us that if we volunteer to help out at some dorky community theater production for the next two nights, he’ll let us borrow costumes from the drama department wardrobe for the Renaissance Fair. Miss Thackery got all indignant because we’re supposed to make the costumes ourselves, so they had a squabble right there on the sidewalk. Inez and I were About To Die. Mr. Valens kept saying that all four members of the stage crew had quit because the director yelled at them, and the dress rehearsal was tonight. Miss Thackery said it wasn’t fair for us to get special treatment, but he said-”