Panic Button (30 page)

“A few?” Kate ticked the list off on her fingers (which is actually a pretty pithy
way of putting it since while she was at it, she was ticking me off, too). “There
was the truck that brought the new windows, and one that took care of the heating
and air conditioning, and one from the painters and one from—”

“I thought you said you were busy and had better things to do?” Ah yes, me at my sarcastic
best! Not one to be intimidated (see the above comment about New
York), I, too, crossed my arms over my black turtleneck and adjusted the dark-rimmed
glasses on the bridge of my nose, the better to give Kate the kind of glare anybody
with that much time on her hands—not to mention nerve—deserved. “Apparently, you don’t
have anything better to do than spend your time looking across the street at my place.
Once the renovations are complete—”

“At least those trucks won’t be spewing fossil-fuel exhaust fumes near my herb garden.”
Chandra tugged at her left earlobe and the three golden hoops in it. “Once
she
gets rid of those—”

“And
she
cuts down on the traffic jams—”

“And
she
takes care of that damned cat—”

“All right! That’s it. Quiet down!” In the weeks I’d been appearing before Alvin in
the basement courtroom, I had never seen him so red in the face. He fished a white
cotton handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. “This has gotten…” There
was a plastic bottle of water on his desk and he opened it and took a gulp. “This
situation has gotten out of control. You’re out of control.”

I would have been willing to second this last comment if he’d kept his gaze on Chandra.
When it moved to Kate…well, that was understandable, too. But when it slid my way
and stayed there, I couldn’t help myself. My chin came up and my shoulders went back.

Alvin scraped a hand through what was left of his mousy-colored hair and pointed a
finger at Kate. “You’re mad at…” He arced his finger in my direction. “Her because
of the traffic. And you’re…” His slightly trembling finger remained aimed at me. “Mad
at her…” The
accusatory gesture moved to Chandra. “Because her cat—”

“Pees on my flowers. All the time. What’s going to happen in the summer when I have
guests and they want to sit out on the front porch and—”

“I get the picture.” A muscle jumped at the base of Alvin’s jaw, but he kept his gaze
on Chandra. “And you, Chandra, you’re mad at Kate. Do I have that right? Because…”
He flipped open a manila file on his desk and consulted the topmost piece of paper
in it. “Because Kate plays opera too loud on Sunday mornings.”

Chandra nodded, and her bleached blond, blunt-cut hair bobbed to the beat. “I do my
meditating in the morning.” She said this in a way that made it sound like public
knowledge. For all I knew, it was. From what I’d heard, Chandra Morrisey had lived
in Put-in-Bay (the little town that was the center of life on South Bass) nearly all
of her nearly fifty years. “She’s messing with the vibrations in the neighborhood
and that affects my aura.”

“Oh, for pity sake!” Kate’s screech fell flat against the pocked tiles of the drop
ceiling. “She hates opera? Well, I hate that creepy sitar music that’s always coming
from her place. And I don’t have time for this. Any of it. I need to get to the winery.”

“Oh, the Wilder Winery!” If we hadn’t been enmeshed in our own little version of a
smackdown, I might have laughed at Chandra’s attempt at a la-di-da accent. “Play your
screechy opera at the winery, then, why don’t you,” she suggested to Kate. “And leave
the rest of us in peace.”

“Which actually might be possible,” Kate snapped back, “if it wasn’t for you, Chandra,
and those stupid full
moon bonfires you’re always building.” She fanned her face with one perfectly manicured
hand. “The smoke alone is bound to kill somebody one of these days. Add your singing
to it—”

“It isn’t singing.” Chandra was so sure of this, she stomped one Ugg-shod foot. “It’s
chanting.”

“It’s annoying,” Kate countered.

“And it’s getting us nowhere.” Me, the voice of reason. “It all comes down to the
stupid cat. If you’d just make Jerry Garcia—”

“In the animal kingdom, cats are among the highest beings, intelligence-wise.” Need
I say that this was Chandra talking? The heat kicked on and blew my way and it was
the first I realized she was wearing perfume that smelled like the herbal tea they
sold in the head shops around Washington Square Park back in New York.

I wrinkled my nose.

And ruffled Chandra’s feathers.

Her eyes narrowed and her voice hardened. “In fact,” she said, “the ancient Egyptians—”

“Are dead, mummified, and poohed to dust. Every single one of them,” I reminded her
and added, just for the sake of a little drama, “they died from the germs because
they let their cats pee anywhere they wanted. Like on their neighbor’s flowers.”

“Oh, yeah?” It was the ultimate in bad comebacks, and yes, I knew better. I swear,
I did. I just couldn’t help myself. I answered Chandra with a “yeah,” of my own.

It should be noted that at this point, Alvin dropped his head on his desk.

I’m convinced he would have kept it right there in the
hopes that when he finally looked up, we’d all be gone, but at that moment, the door
to the courtroom opened.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were busy.” The woman who poked her head in, then
stepped back, looked familiar. Short. Round. Dark hair dusted with silver. I’d been
introduced to Marianne Littlejohn, the town librarian and Alvin’s better half, at
a recent potluck.

Only the evening of the gathering, her eyes weren’t puffy and her nose wasn’t red.
Not like they were now.

“Marianne! What’s wrong?” Yes, this would have been a perfect thing for Alvin to say,
but it wasn’t the magistrate who raced to the door and grabbed Marianne’s hands. It
was Chandra. She drew Marianne into the room. “Your aura is all messed up.”

“It’s…it’s…” Now that it was time to explain, Marianne hiccuped over the words. “I’ve
had such terrible news.”

Kate checked the time on her phone. “And that’s a shame, really, but we need to finish
up here. I’ve got to get over to the winery—”

“And I’ve got someone coming to repair the stained glass window in my front stairway,”
I piped in, refusing to be outdone by Miss I’m-So-Important. “So if I could just pay
a fine or something, I’ll be heading home. And by the way…” I hoped Kate could see
the wide-eyed, innocent look I shot her from behind my glasses. “I hear the stained
glass artist is going to be driving a really big truck.”

A head toss from Kate.

A click of the tongue from Chandra.

A whimper from Marianne.

And Alvin was on his feet.

His teeth clenched and his palms flat against his desk, he turned to his wife. “Marianne,
honestly, this isn’t a good time. We’re kind of in the middle of something and—”

“I know. I said I was sorry.” She sniffled. “It’s just—”

“That we need to finish up,” Kate said.

“And get out of here and back to the B and B,” I put in.

“Nobody’s going anywhere. Not until you women learn to get along!”

In all the weeks I’d been appearing in court thanks to my neighbors’ not-so-neighborly
complaints, I’d never heard Alvin raise his voice. Now, it ricocheted against the
walls like buckshot on a barn door.

We pulled in a collective gasp and as one, took a step back and away from his desk.

Alvin, apparently, was as surprised by his outburst as the rest of us.

“Look what you’ve reduced me to!” he said, suddenly ashen and shaking like a hoochie-coochie
dancer. “I’ve been doing this job for nearly thirty years and in thirty years of weekend
drunks and fighting fishermen and vandals tearing up the mini-golf course…in thirty
years I’ve never lost my temper. Now you three…”

Since Marianne was standing next to me and sobbing, I can’t say for certain, but I
think Alvin growled to emphasize his point.

That was right before he pulled in a long breath and let it out slowly. “Maybe what
we all need,” he said, “is a time-out.”

“Great.” Kate reached for her Coach bag and slung it over one slim shoulder. “I’m
out of here.”

“No. That’s not what I meant. You’re not going anywhere, Kate. Not yet. None of you
are.” Alvin sat back down and folded his trembling hands together on the desk in front
of him, his suddenly flint-hard gaze hopping over each of us before it came to rest
on his wife. “You have the floor, honey. Tell us what’s going on. That will give us
all a chance to take a few deep breaths and get our collective heads back where they
belong before we figure out what we’re going to do about the problems in Ms. Cartwright,
Ms. Wilder, and Ms. Morrisey’s neighborhood.”

“Okay. Sure.” In a perfect mirror image of her husband, Marianne clutched her hands
together at her waist. “It’s the library. Our funding. We’re…” A single tear slipped
down her cheek. “Oh, Alvin. What are we going to do? We’re going to lose Lucy Atwater’s
grant!”

It goes without saying that this meant something (and apparently something important,
from the looks on the faces around me) to everyone but me. Newcomer, remember, and
I leaned forward, to remind Marianne that I was there. And I was lost.

“Lucy Atwater,” she said, her voice clogged with tears. “She died…oh, it must be twenty
years ago now. Don’t you think, Chandra? Wasn’t it the winter Bill Smith over at the
hatchery fell into the fish tank and drowned? It must have been right after that,
because I remember Lucy telling me how much she missed Bill. They used to date, you
know. Well, I’m not exactly sure it could be called dating. But they’d step out together
and—”

Alvin cleared his throat.

Marianne gulped and collected herself and the quickly
untangling ends of her story. “When Lucy died, she left the library a chunk of money.
It funds most of our programs, but there’s a catch. We can only get our yearly payment
if we have an ongoing book discussion group. And…” Marianne’s shoulders rose and fell
in a slow-motion shrug. “These days no one’s signing up.”

“People are too busy,” Kate said.

“Yes, of course, that’s part of the problem.” Marianne dug a tissue out of her purse
and touched it to her nose. “There are so many other distractions these days, books
aren’t high on enough people’s lists. The other part of our problem is that there
are so many summer visitors here to the island. They don’t sign up for programs because
they know they’re not going to be around long enough to participate more than once
or twice. I don’t know what to do. I’d hate for kids to come to the island in the
summer and stop at the library and…” A fresh cascade of tears started and Alvin handed
Marianne his handkerchief. She blew her nose. “Wouldn’t it just be awful for some
poor, sweet child to show up at the library and find it closed?” she wailed.

“It’s really too bad,” Kate agreed. “Now can we leave?”

In the hope that she was actually right about something, I grabbed my purse.

Chandra didn’t move a muscle. That is, until she slipped an arm around Marianne’s
shoulders. “Of course you’re upset. Who wouldn’t be!” With her other hand, she grabbed
for the denim hobo bag she’d plunked on a nearby chair when she entered the courtroom.
She opened it, dug around inside, and came up holding a small glass bottle.

“It’s neroli oil,” Chandra said, pressing the bottle into Marianne’s hand. “Rub it
on your solar plexus. You know, right here.” She pressed a hand to a spot just under
her own stomach. “That’s your Manipuri chakra, and remember what we talked about when
you came for your last crystal healing, that’s the chakra that corresponds to feelings
of fear and anxiety, and that’s what we need to contend with first before we look
for an answer to your problem. No worries,” she added, when Marianne gave the bottle
a questioning look. “Neroli smells really nice, zesty and spicy with a little flowery
note. Go on, Marianne, just pull up your sweater and—”

“Not in my courtroom!” Alvin was on his feet again and one look from him and Marianne
blanched and handed the bottle back to Chandra.

With a sigh of epic proportions, Kate dropped into the nearest chair and checked her
text messages. “This is a perfect example of everything I’ve been telling you, Alvin,”
she said, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “I told you, the woman plays sitar
music. Loud. Day in and day out. Chandra’s nuts. Do you get what I’m talking about
now that you see her in action? Someone needs to do something about the music and
the bonfires and the chanting.”

“Actually…” I stepped back, my weight against one foot, lest Alvin get lost in the
moment and forget the real reason we were there. “What someone needs to do something
about is Jerry Garcia. That stupid cat—”

“Is nicer than a lot of people I know,” Chandra grumbled.

Since she really didn’t know me, I didn’t take this personally.

Kate dropped her phone back in her purse. “Can we leave now? It’s obvious nothing’s
going to get done. And I don’t have time for this nonsense. Just tell Bea here…” she
cast an icy green glance in my direction, “to cool it with Grand Central Station,
and the Good Witch of the North over there…” She looked toward Chandra. “To put a
sock in it, and—”

“And the cat!” I butted in before Kate could get even more carried away. “Don’t forget
the freakin’ cat!”

Honestly, I hadn’t even noticed that there was a thick legal book on Alvin’s desk
until he picked it up and slammed it back down.

That got our attention. So did his voice. He spoke in what was nearly a whisper, each
word so clipped and so precise, there was no doubt that he meant what he said.

“I’ve had enough. We’re going to solve this problem once and for all. And we’re going
to do it right now.”

“Make Bea close her B and B?” Kate asked.

“Make Chandra keep her cat inside?” I countered.

“Make Kate turn off that horrible music?” Chandra retorted.