From Bad to Wurst (5 page)

“With the way things are starting to unravel, you'll probably end up sitting next to her on the flight back.”

“What?”

“Mom is threatening to fly home early because of Dad. He's embarrassing her.”

“No kiddin'?” Nana led me farther into the room while Tilly closed the door. “That could work. If Margaret goes, I'll stay.”

I collapsed into the room's lone armchair. “Have you ever heard Dad play an accordion?”

“Your father don't play no instrument. He don't even hum.”

“That's what Mom said.” I closed my eyes and blew out a tired breath. “Lord, what a day.”

“I imagine you'll be needin' this,” said Nana as she dropped my shoulder bag onto my lap.

“My bag!” I gave it an affectionate squeeze before riffling through it to fish out my makeup mirror. Holding it in front of my face, I stared at my reflection…and screamed. My face was pockmarked with a half-dozen ulcerations that were big as peas and red with dried blood. “I look like I've been shot with beebees.”

“Or been huntin' with Dick Cheney,” said Nana.

I touched a particularly angry lesion on my cheek. “I can't be seen in public like this. I'll scare people.”

“Tilly's got somethin' that'll heal them sores overnight, don't you, Til?”

Tilly walked over to her suitcase and removed a small jar from her toiletry bag. “This is a restorative compound that I stumbled upon in New Guinea on my first trip into the jungle. Shaman approved and a must-have among the headhunting set. Guaranteed to heal all types of weals, gashes, and wounds within twenty-four hours. When you're in the business of shrinking human heads, you're all about treatments that are strong and fast acting.” She handed me the jar. “The witch doctor was kind enough to share his secret recipe with me, so I've been making it at home for decades.”

I opened the jar and sniffed the contents, stunned by the pleasant fragrance. “You're able to find all the ingredients in Iowa?”

“Not exactly. The witch doctor's grandson sends me a shipment of special additives once a year. Mail service has improved so much from the Pacific Rim. Our postal service might be shutting down offices here in the States, but in New Guinea, FedEx is opening branch offices in strip malls all throughout the jungle.”

“So…how do I use it?”

“Like a moisturizer, with a special concentration on the affected areas. One application should work. I guarantee positive results by morning.”

It was worth a try. I figured it was either Tilly's cream or a paper sack with cutouts for my eyes.

“I got somethin' for you too,” said Nana. She shuffled over to the closet, removed her wind jacket, and started rummaging inside the pockets. “George sneaked it to me when we was hikin' to the beer hall. He said I could use it to escape your mother.” She seized the object, returned her jacket to its hanger, and hurried back across the room.

She pressed it into my palm. I stared at it, my confusion surpassed only by my alarm. “George is encouraging you to stab Mom with a Swiss army knife?”

“No. I was s'posed to use it to cut through the dang leash she slapped on my wrist. So here's the scoop. If she traps you tomorrow, wait 'til she's not lookin', then cut the cord and run. I hijacked the one she used on me today, but I don't know how many of the things she brung with her. She might have backups.”

I lengthened my eyes to slits. “If you already had a plan in place to solve the problem, why did you go out of your way to sic her on
me
? Couldn't you have just carried out your scheme without dragging me into it?”

“There's only one thing important enough to stop your mother from fussin' over me, Emily, and that's you. It's a whole lot easier for you to stomach her 'cuz she don't treat you like you're a dotty relic what's in danger of goin' off the reservation. And you got your young man to swoop down and draw one a them lines in the sand if her fussin' goes over the top.”

“Her fussing always goes over the top.”

“I know, dear. That's why I handed the baton off to you. I been exposed to her a lot longer than you have, so I've reached the point of what you call critical mass.”

My lips twitched involuntarily. I was trying to remain irritated, but it was a struggle. “Don't think for one minute that I've forgiven you, Nana.”

She bowed her head and lowered her gaze in contrition. “I'm probably lookin' at extra time in Purgatory for what I done, so don't you worry. I'll have my day of reckonin'. I just hope the Good Lord'll take pity on me and postpone my punishment 'til after the trip.” She looked up, an impish flicker in her eyes. “Now that I don't got your mother on my back no more, George and me can really let loose.”

five

“This is really nice
of you folks to open up Astrid's room for me.”

“We'd like to accommodate the hotel by vacating her room as quickly as possible,” Etienne confided as he unlocked the door, “so it's no inconvenience. What is it you said you're looking for?”

“Just some silly…trifle,” said Otis. He smoothed his hand over the bristly white hairs of his beard as if he were caressing a security blanket. “Something I lent her that I'd like to get back.”

I'd skipped the group buffet dinner in favor of room service and quiet, and amazingly, after enjoying a hot meal and a long bath, I'd felt so restored that I'd volunteered to lend Etienne a hand while he packed up Astrid's belongings. Otis had knocked on our door before we left, asking if it would be possible for him to retrieve a personal item from Astrid's room, so since we were headed in that direction anyway, Etienne had invited him to join us.

Etienne pushed open the door and flipped on the wall switch, casting light into the far corners of a room that was an exact replica of ours—queen size bed, desk with rolling chair, mirrorless dresser, flat screen TV, upholstered barrel chair, floor lamp, glass-top side table. The only difference was that Astrid's room looked as if it had been upended by the
Wizard of Oz
tornado.

“Oh, my.”

Clothing tumbled over the tops of opened drawers. Bedding hung to the floor down to the mattress cover. Underwear and nylon stockings lay scattered about the floor. An emptied suitcase sat atop the luggage rack. The closet door was halfway open, the hotel ironing board lying on the floor, the guest safe unused.

I gaped at the chaos. “Are we looking at the aftermath of a burglary?”

“Hell, no.” Otis fisted his hands at his waist, his eyes hooded and unreadable. “Tidiness wasn't one of Astrid's virtues—or time management. When the two clashed, the result often looked like this.” He shrugged. “The place actually looks pretty good if you consider she was running late this morning.”

Etienne remained anchored to the spot, surveying the scene with doubt in his eye. “Was ripping her bed apart an integral step in her morning routine?”

“You bet. Bed bugs. She's been terrified of them ever since she got bitten on one of our overnight gigs a couple of years ago, so she's been a little obsessive about hunting them out no matter how nice the hotel. You wouldn't believe how long it took for those bites to disappear. She kept scratching them. They got infected. It was a mess.”

“So you're saying that
this
”—Etienne gestured toward the disarray—“is perfectly normal?”

“No. I'm saying that in Astrid's world,
this
”—Otis tossed out his meaty hand in a gesture that mimicked Etienne's—“would be considered
House Beautiful
.”

Etienne arched his brows. “If you say so.”

“I'll—uh…I'll pull up the bed covers so we can have a place to fold her clothes.” I crossed the floor, snatching up her nylons and underwear as I went. “Have you spied your trifle yet, Otis?”

“Nope, but don't you folks pay any attention to me. I'll just snoop around the room for a minute and hope for the best.”

“If you tell us what you're looking for, we might be able to help you find it,” I insisted.

He slid the closet door all the way open and poked his head inside, moving hangers and sorting through the shelves. “It's kind of a book thing.”

“A novel?”

“Uhhh…poetry.”

Otis read poetry? Aww. Apparently there was a romantic disguised beneath that bushy beard of his. “What's the title?”

He stepped into the bathroom. “Title?” His voice echoed out to us.

“Of your book of poetry.”

“Oh.” I heard the
zzzzzt
of a zipper being opened and closed. “I—uh, I can't remember.” He stepped back into the room. “I'm not very good with titles.”

“Large book or small book?” asked Etienne as he removed clothing from the dresser drawers.

“Uhhh…average size.”

I was beginning to think that Otis knew less about this book than Prissy knew about birthin' babies. I exchanged a curious look with Etienne. “It's not a library book, is it?”

Otis regarded me with bright eyes. “That's it exactly! A library book. So if I don't find it, I'll be looking at a pretty hefty fine.”

Why did I feel as if I'd just given him an out? “When did you give it to her?” I asked as I began to fold the sweaters and tops that Etienne placed on the bed.

Otis searched the drawers that Etienne had just finished emptying and scratched his head. “At the airport?”

I smiled. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I guess I gave it to her at the airport.” He went down onto his knees to look under the bed.

“Maybe she stashed it in her handbag.” I glanced around the room. “Has anyone seen it?”

“She was carrying it with her this morning, bella.”

“I know. It was a huge high-end designer bag that probably cost a small fortune. Hard to hide something that big. So…where do you suppose it is?”

Etienne's voice grew soft. “Her accordion case is apparently indestructible, but the only personal item of Astrid's that the police could salvage from the explosion site was the badly damaged photo page of her passport. Her handbag didn't fare well in the blast. I'm afraid there was nothing left of it to recover.”

“Oh.” Obviously, my brain was still a little addled because I sure hadn't connected those dots. Of course her handbag had been obliterated; that's what bombs were built to do. Obliterate things.

“So if she was carrying my book with her, it's gone?” asked Otis. “Destroyed?” He pulled open the drawer of the nightstand to find it empty.

“That would be my guess,” said Etienne.

Otis looked oddly pensive before heaving a disappointed sigh. “Maybe the librarian will go easy on me if I explain what happened.”

“My mom works in a library. Would you like her to write you a note?”

“No, thanks. I'll wing it.” He circled the bed, peeked behind the drapes, and checked under the barrel chair before scratching his head again. “Must have been in her pocketbook because it's sure not here. Okay, then. I'll get out of your hair now and let you finish up what you're doing. Thanks for helping me out.”

“No problem,” said Etienne as he escorted him to the door. “I just wish the outcome had been better for you.”

“Me too. Me too. But at least I tried.”

Etienne walked back to the bed with Astrid's lime green spinner suitcase in hand and set it on the mattress. “I know the man is grieving and might not be feeling himself, but did he seem a bit disingenuous to you?”

“A bit? What I'd like to know is, if he wasn't actually looking for this book that he knew nothing about, what
was
he looking for?”

“Whatever it was, he didn't find it. I'll clean out the bathroom.”

As I placed a couple of stacks of folded clothes into the suitcase, I noticed a bulge in a side pocket. Peeling the Velcro strips apart, I dug out a household storage bag filled with a dozen truffles that were so badly squished, the interior of the plastic was a dark smear of melted chocolate. “Astrid was a chocoholic,” I called out to Etienne before depositing the bag in the wastebasket and heading for the closet.

Every hanger had something dangling from it. Ankle-length dresses in assorted colors for her beer hall performances. Crisply starched aprons. White blouses with short puffed sleeves and low-cut ruffled bodices. And at the end of the row, a frothy display of femininity in pastels as pale as butter mints. “Aww.”

Etienne emerged from the bathroom with an armful of zippered toiletry bags. “
Aww
what?”

“Look at these nighties. They remind me of something TV housewives wore in the boudoir a few decades ago, in the days when they scrubbed floors and vacuumed carpets in high heels and pearls.”

Lace. Silk. Nylon. Spaghetti straps. Ruffles. Feathers. Ankle-length confections with see-through cover-ups as delicate as gossamer. “Peignoirs. I didn't think women wore peignoirs anymore.”

“Astrid Peterson obviously did.”

I fingered the bodice of one nightgown, noting how the lace design was missing several strategic threads and the satin ribbon was frayed at the edge. “Do you suppose these were part of her wedding trousseau? Trousseaus and hope chests were a must with brides in my mom's generation. Women embroidered little flowers on pillowcases and collected pieces of their good china and bought provocative intimate apparel for their honeymoon. These days brides-to-be register at Home Depot and ask for gas grills and nail guns.”

“Her lingerie does look a bit tattered.”

“I remember my mom wearing a peignoir once when I was little. I thought she looked like a princess, so I asked her if she was going to a ball. I never saw her wear it again. I think she traded it in for flannel pajamas and wool socks.” I grinned. “The closest thing I've come to a peignoir was one Halloween when I bought a French maid outfit. It had a flirty little short skirt, an apron, a lace choker and cuffs, and a lace garter belt with black fishnet stockings. I was the most popular girl at the party that year.”

A slow, seductive smile worked its way across his mouth. “No doubt.”

I removed her nightgowns from their hangers and returned to the bed, folding them neatly into her suitcase before emptying the closet of her folk costumes. When I'd compacted all her belongings into her spinner, Etienne made a final sweep of the room and gave me a thumbs-up. “I think that's everything.”

I closed the lid, checked to make sure that none of her costumes were poking out the sides, and zipped it shut. After hoisting it to the floor, Etienne preceded me into the hall. “Would you get the light, bella?”

I cast a final look back before I flipped the switch. I had no logical reason to doubt Otis, but why couldn't I shake off the niggling feeling that the room hadn't been carelessly cluttered by Astrid? Why did I get the feeling it had been ransacked?

Once back in our room, I lingered in the bathroom, applying Tilly's shaman-approved restorative compound to the lesions on my face. I didn't expect miracles, so if the cream did nothing more than fade the redness, I'd be a happy camper.

By the time I finished, Etienne had returned Astrid's room key to the main desk and was already in bed. I crawled in beside him, snuggling against the sinewy contours of his body and tingling all over as he cocooned me in his arms. “You won't have to wake me up in the middle of the night to check my pupils or pulse or anything, will you?” I asked.

He pressed his mouth to my ear, his lips soft, his breath warm. “Should I wake you in the middle of the night, bella, it won't be to check your pulse.”

I was so happy to be safe in bed beside him, I almost purred. I probably would have if a darker thought hadn't intruded. “What did you do when you heard the bomb blast today?”

His body stiffened involuntarily before he relaxed again. “I was disoriented initially. I couldn't pinpoint the location of the sound because it seemed to come from everywhere. But Zola didn't hesitate. She grabbed my arm and spun me around in the direction of the main boulevard. And she didn't mince words. She told me it was the street with the spooky sculpture and I should go find you.” He paused. “You did say she's a practicing clairvoyant.”

“She told me this evening that she had a bad vibe that something was going to happen on that street, but she didn't know that Astrid would be fatally injured.”

“I'm not sure how this is going to play out, Emily. Depending on people's belief systems, a psychic among the guests could either prove to be a delightful novelty or a thorn in everyone's side. If she remains low-key, we should have no problem. If not…”

He let me fill in the blank.

“We'll work it out,” I assured him. “She's a really nice person, so if she pushes the envelope a little too far and we're forced to ask her to tone it down, I'm sure she'll cooperate.”

He responded by growling softly against my earlobe and giving it a playful nibble.

“And while we're discussing nice people, does my dad seem all right to you?”

“Define ‘all right.'”

“He doesn't play the accordion.”

“Yes, he does.”

“No. He doesn't.”

“All right: to be precise, he played in grammar school and gave it up, so he hasn't touched an accordion for decades. So what I should have said was, he
used
to play.”

“Who told you that?”

“Your father.”

“When?”

“I spoke to him briefly after the musicians dispersed this evening. He's never mentioned his musical ability to you?”

I racked my brain for occasions on which Dad had voluntarily uttered a complete sentence. “You do realize that conversation isn't Dad's strong point, right?”

“I'm not entirely convinced that your father is as taciturn as you make him out to be, Emily. He might turn out to be a regular chatterbox if someone would take the time to listen to what he has to say. I don't think he lacks verbal skills. I think he lacks an audience.”

I swallowed slowly, enlightenment hitting me like a lightning bolt. “Omigod, you're right. The whole family does it. We ignore Dad—we talk over him, we forget he's there, we assume he has nothing to say, so we don't even try to engage him anymore.” I pinched my eyes shut, mortified. “What if he's had tons of stuff to share all these years but kept it all to himself because the rest of us were talking so much, he couldn't get a word in edgewise?”

“Then you'll have a lot to look forward to when you give him your undivided attention and let him talk.”