Death of a Domestic Diva (7 page)

So now, in my dream, I looked right at Mrs. Oglevee, and smiled, and hollered, “Peanut butter!”

Mrs. Oglevee whimpered and threw her arms up to shield her face—and kind of faded. So, of course I just kept right on yelling, “Peanut butter” over and over again, until she disappeared all together.

And me, I woke up, sweating and thrashing and screaming, “Peanut butter!” So much for longlasting protein counteracting panic attacks. After a few seconds—when I realized with relief that I had not awakened Tyra Grimes—I made my next big mistake.

I called Winnie Porter again.

This time she answered, and I told her how Tyra was here, asleep on my couch, and how she'd redecorated my living room, and how her assistant Paige was staying at the Red Horse, and how I'd eaten too much peanut butter and then dreamed about Mrs. Oglevee.

Then Winnie said, “Don't you worry, sweetie. I'll take care of everything.”

So I went back to sleep—this time, without dreaming.

And woke the next morning to the sound of all hell breaking loose.

4

Truth be told, I'm not sure what all hell breaking loose actually sounds like.

But when I woke up the next morning, my head was throbbing. I looked over at my clock. It was 9:30
A.M.
on a Monday morning—an hour and a half after I was supposed to open up my laundromat. My first dim thought was that I'd forgotten to set my alarm. My second thought was that I had a peanut butter hangover.

Then I realized there's no such thing as a peanut butter hangover and that it wasn't my head throbbing, but music—loud jazz—in my laundromat, right below my apartment.

I moaned as I sat up. What was going on? Then I saw
The Idiot's Guide to Home Decorating and Style in General
where it had fallen to the floor—and it all came back to me. Tyra Grimes was here. In my apartment. Asleep on my couch.

At least, she'd been safely asleep on my couch last night. . .

I forced myself to stand, my stomach feeling as though it had reshaped itself into a giant peanut. I pulled my light blue robe on over my Tweety Bird nightshirt and shoved my feet into my matching Tweety Bird slippers. I waddled into my living room—it's not easy to move fast when you feel like a giant goober. No Tyra.

I blinked. Maybe I'd imagined the whole thing?

No . . . the tabloid origamis were still scattered artfully about, the forks-turned-window-scarf-holders still poking out of the wall, the tiny, tiny black suitcase still there, the jazz music cranked up a notch downstairs. Oh, Lord, what was the woman doing to my laundromat?

I lurched out of my apartment, down the tiny hall, and out the door to the metal stairs, galumphing down them to the front of my laundromat, where I came to an abrupt stop. My stomach roiled again, this time partly from shock at what I saw.

My laundromat's front window had been scrubbed clean of my store name and logo, the grinning toad amid ferns. Now, my plate glass window proclaimed—in fancy calligraphy and gussied up misspelling—Josephine Todeferne's Laundrette.

Plus, two big clay pots—filled with geraniums—had appeared on either side of my door. The sight of them made me nervous. I'm terrible with plants, as Rocky—my only house-plant, this poor viny thing with six leaves—would attest if it could talk. (I named it Rocky in one of my purest moments of optimism.)

But right then, I wasn't feeling the least bit optimistic. I was mad. Tabloid origamis were one thing . . . but Tyra Grimes didn't have any right to mess with my business. So I charged in, hollering—for the second time in less than twelve hours—“What in the hell do you think you are doing?
Stop!
”

But Tyra wasn't in my laundromat.

In a way, my laundromat wasn't in my laundromat, either.

In fact, if it weren't for the dozen washers and dryers—which are pretty hard to disguise—I wouldn't have recognized my own place. The jazz came from a small stereo on the folding table which had once held Billy's Cut-N-Suck demo machine, but which was now covered with a white tablecloth and held, besides the stereo, the weirdest looking coffeemaker I'd ever seen. Billy's Cut-N-Suck was nowhere in sight.

The metal utility shelf with small boxes of laundry soap and dryer towels had disappeared. In its place was an oak bookshelf.

Winnie was by the cash register, arranging a bouquet. Owen stood in front of the bookshelf, his arms full of books, his forehead glistening. Both grinned at me expectantly.

Winnie trotted over and hugged me, enveloping me in her favorite black shawl and the scent of patchouli. “Josie, I'm so glad you finally woke up!” she shouted over the music. “See, I told you not to worry! I told you I'd take care of everything!”

I wriggled free and went over to the boom box. I turned off the music. Suddenly the only sounds were just the weird coffeepot—hissing. And me—breathing hard.

“I couldn't help but wake up,” I said. “I'm surprised the whole town isn't awake. What's going on here?” I stopped. “Where is Tyra?”

I looked around, panicked. Oh Lord. What if my friends had gone totally mad, maybe tied Tyra up in the storeroom while they wrought these bizarre changes? There'd be a lawsuit, I'd go out of business, I'd be drummed out of town . . .

“Tyra was down here earlier—excited about our changes. She said it would make a lovely backdrop for her show,” Winnie said, her voice drained of excitement now. “Paige Morrissey—her assistant, quite a lovely woman—came by to pick her up. They're shopping in Masonville for tonight's entertaining.”

I looked over at Owen. He stared pointedly at a book. I looked back at Winnie. “Entertaining? Tonight?”

“Yes,” Winnie said. “They thought a little salon-style soirée would be nice, in the upper rooms over the laundrette. Just a few people. I provided a guest list of the upper echelon of Paradise society. The mayor, of course, and Lewis Rothchild since he's the wealthiest business owner in town, and—”

I glared at her. Winnie stopped talking. Her chin quivered. I was unmoved. Since when did Winnie use such hoity-toity language?

“What's next?” I asked. “Stenciling the washers and dryers? Maybe with lilies. I remember reading in the
Idiot's Guide to Decorating
that lilies are always a sophisticated choice.”

Winnie's chin quivered hard enough now that her little bell earrings literally tinkled. Owen looked up from the book, and I could see the pain in his eyes. But I went on.

“Or maybe we could make washer-and-dryer cozies. Kind of like super-sized tea cozies. Embroider them little flowers. God forbid this place should actually look like a laundromat on TV, talking about how to get out stains . . . God forbid that. . .”

By now, Winnie and Owen looked positively hurt.

I staggered over to a folding chair and plopped down. At least they hadn't yet replaced my practical metal folding chairs with chaise lounges or whatever is considered refined seating.

“Josie, you were panicked last night and. . . well, what did you expect?” Now Winnie's voice was quivering, too. “I took the day off for this, and Owen doesn't have classes until afternoon.”

I sighed. “All I wanted was a little moral support.”

“Well,” Winnie sniffed, “not all of this was my idea.”

Owen smiled nervously. “I have to admit, after Winnie called me at two o'clock this morning, I came up with the cappuccino machine and the bookshelf and the books. And the music.” He was warming to his subject now, forgetting that I was mad. “I wanted to create an intellectual waiting area for patrons to enjoy between loads. Winnie and I compared notes on our ideas and went to Big Jim's 24-hour Warehouse up in Masonville, got what we needed, and got to work.” He beamed at me. “After all, you love reading. So isn't it a wonderful idea for you to encourage reading among your patrons, between loads? To lift the intellectual level of Paradise?”

I peered for a moment at the books on the shelf behind him. They were paperbacks, but classics.
Jane Eyre. War and Peace. Of Mice and Men
. I recognized them as paperback extras from Owen's house—he was on a mission to replace all the paperbacks he'd collected with hardcover volumes. That mission was one reason I found him endearing. Usually.

I turned to Winnie. “And where is Billy's Cut-N-Suck?”

“Well, he took it with him. When he left.”

Now, this was alarming news, because I couldn't think of anywhere else Billy could go. His car still wasn't fixed.

“Why did Billy leave? And where did he go?”

“We explained the situation quite clearly to Billy right after we got back from Masonville—”

“You woke him up at, what, four in the morning?”

“No,” Owen said. “He was just getting back from the Red Horse Motel—some woman in a white truck dropping him off.” Owen frowned, shook his head. “He didn't look happy. He was upset by something—which is probably why he took our news so poorly.”

“Your news?” I said.

“Now, Josie,” Winnie said. “You know Billy can't be here while Tyra's here. He'll spoil the whole ambience. And wouldn't it be better if Tyra had her own suite, rather than you having to sleep on your couch?” I'd envisioned
Tyra
continuing to sleep on my couch, but I didn't bother to explain that. “So we told him he needed to move in with Owen, while we redecorated your spare apartment to get it ready for Tyra—as a Bed and Breakfast.”

“Just what am I supposed to feed her? Pop-Tarts?”

Owen ignored my question. “Billy went into a rage, something about people with too much power hurting people with too little power. He said if Tyra Grimes came here, there'd be real trouble—which was pretty odd, considering he was wearing his Tyra Grimes T-shirt. Then he took his Cut-N-Suck and walked off, saying he was going back to the Red Horse Motel.”

I groaned. Now the list of people predicting trouble if Tyra came to town was made up of Lewis Rothchild, Vivian Denlinger, the ghost of Mrs. Oglevee, and my nutty cousin Billy Toadfern. And Tyra was already here. Oh, Lord, was she ever here.

I groaned again.

“Maybe a nice cup of cappuccino will help you,” Owen said.

He trotted over to the weird coffeemaker and in a few minutes came over to me with a mug filled with frothy stuff. I don't function well without coffee in the morning, and if I didn't take a sip I was liable to say something really, really hurtful to these two dear people who I loved very much and who were now making me crazy.

So, I took a sip. And right off, I started choking. All that white frothy milk on top was deceptive. The essence of the stuff was a thick liquid, riddled with coffee grounds.

I half swallowed, half chewed to get the mouthful down.

Owen grabbed the mug from me. “Must be the flubberguster,” he said. Or something like that. He was muttering about mechanical parts. I stared at him, but he didn't notice.

This was Owen? My philosophical boyfriend? My society's-obsession-with-pretenses-will-undermine-us-all boyfriend, who was currently teaching the Art of Angst (or maybe it was the Angst of Art) at Masonville Community College? I didn't recognize him.

Then I stared over at Winnie. She was fussing with the books, trying to arrange them just so.

This was Winnie? My literary best friend? My all-individuals-are-equally-important-in-the-sight-of-God best friend, who knew the reading tastes of everyone on her bookmobile route, and who made sure her shut-ins got a fresh supply of their favorite books every week? I didn't recognize her.

I needed some real coffee. Around people I'd definitely recognize—across the street at Sandy's Restaurant. So I left. Owen and Winnie didn't notice.

I crossed the street to Sandy's. Just before I went in, I looked back at my laundromat.

Now that my window said, “Josephine Todeferne's Laundrette” in fancy script, it didn't look like my place at all.

Not at all.

At least things were normal over at Sandy's Restaurant.

The framed Norman Rockwell poster was still hanging in its spot on the knotty-pine paneling—the Rockwell of the police officer in blue uniform sitting at a diner stool next to a runaway boy. I just love that poster.

And then there was dear old Sandy herself. I took my usual spot at the counter and Sandy came right over to me, with a fresh mug of coffee. Just plain, black coffee. No froth.

As usual, Sandy had on her blue-and-white checked apron—which cleverly matches the place mats—right over her favorite NASCAR T-shirt and black leggings. As usual, her bluish-white hair was teased up so high that if she wanted to take a drive somewhere later on, she'd need an extra airbag just for the hairdo. And as usual, her voice was a gravely bass, made so from about 50 of her 60 years being spent smoking.

I could have hugged her, just for being her usual self.

Sandy said, “Lord, child, you're a sight. You okay?”