A Teeny Bit of Trouble Page 12

  On our way to Heads ’N’ Tails, a tall, angular woman in a white nurse’s uniform walked toward us, her blond hair jutting up like cockatoo feathers. Her turquoise eyes blinked wide open. “Teeny!”

  “Dot!” I blasted out her name. My mock enthusiasm matched her seemingly genuine joy. I looked up. She towered over me like a swing set. “I haven’t seen you in—”

  “Eight years. It’s taken me that long to get an MA in nursing.” Dot was talking to me, but her eyes were on Coop and Red. She was taller than both of them.

  “Eight years?” I repeated, shaking my head. I could have gone another eighty without seeing her. She knew about my tortured romance with Son Finnegan.

  Dot couldn’t keep still. She smoothed one hand down her flat chest; then she fingered the gold praying-hands brooch that was pinned to her collar. Her gaze slid to Coop, then back to me. “Where are you all off to?”

  “Dinner with my folks,” Coop said.

  “I won’t keep you.” She darted a look at me. “Give me a call, Teeny. I’d love to catch up.”

  I nodded, and my lips slammed into a smile.

  She walked off, her narrow hips switching back and forth. Red stared until Coop hit his arm.

  “I can’t help it,” Red said. “She’s pretty.”

  “But skinny,” Coop said. “I thought you like big-chested women.”

  “You don’t know what I like.” Red flashed a mysterious smile.

  We stepped into the Heads ’N’ Tails lobby. The air smelled pleasantly charred, with a hint of fennel and caramelized onions. The brown-eyed hostess glanced up from a podium and smiled at Coop. “Your parents are already here, Mr. O’Malley.”

  The hostess plucked three menus from a stack and led us into the dining room. It was U-shaped, with zebra-striped walls, a red ceiling, and a black-and-white marble floor. Smoke curled beneath the track lighting, floating over the empty tables and a small dance floor. In the corner, a band played Leona Lewis’s “Run.” My favorite heartbreak song.

  I looked around for exits—you never know when a restaurant will catch on fire—but didn’t see any. I spotted Irene O’Malley, and my stomach cramped. Her chin-length brown hair was pushed back with a blue band that matched her eyes. She was an older, stouter version of Coop’s first wife, Ava, which made me wonder if he had a type.

  “Hello, Teeny,” Dr. O’Malley said. He rose to his feet, candlelight glancing off his salt-and-pepper hair. My heart pounded in the roof of my mouth as Coop seated me next to his dad. Coop pulled out the chair beside me and sank down next to Irene. I breathed in her perfume, Eau du Bitch. Did she know Coop had given me a diamond ring? I still wore it on the chain, but it was hidden by my dress.

  “Why, Teeny,” she said, drawing out the Es and the N in my name. “I haven’t seen you since the summer you dated Coop. He brought you to our pool party, and you wore a red polka-dot bikini.” She broke off and touched the back of her head.

  “Nice to see you again, Miss Irene.” I tried not to remember that party. I had, as usual, dressed wrong for the occasion. I’d assumed a pool party had meant we’d swim, but the guests had worn shorts and sandals. I’d wanted to make a good impression on Coop’s parents, so the night before the party, I’d given myself a home permanent, taming my ungodly frizz into glossy, dark blond spirals. Unfortunately, I’d left a curler in the back of my hair.

  Now, all these years later, I was pretty sure I’d committed another beauty faux pas. I touched my hair, and sure enough, a lone bobby pin jutted out. I plucked it out.

  Irene turned her gaze on Red. “Mr. Hill, how long have you been working for my son?”

  “Two years. Before that, I was a homicide cop. Cold cases. Stuff like that.” He lifted his finger and pulled an imaginary trigger. “Boss and I get along like mashed potatoes and sour cream.”

  Irene leaned forward. “Who’s the sour puss? You or Coop?”

  “We’re a good team.” Red looked at his menu.

  “A word of caution,” Dr. O’Malley said. “Avoid the pan-fried goat brains—even if you like fennel and garlic.”

  Irene tilted her head, the tips of her pageboy swinging like scythes. Her blue gaze impaled me. “Teeny, you look just as fetchin’ as ever.” She turned to Coop. “But do I know you?”

  Coop looked embarrassed. “What have I done now?”

  “Hmph,” she said, and lifted her wineglass, the burgundy swaying. “Your daddy told me you were in town, but I didn’t believe him. Because if my son came to Bonaventure, he would have visited his mother.”

  She pronounced mother like a native Bonaventurian: muh-tha.

  “I apologize,” he said.

  “Your grandmother is in town,” Irene said. “She’d like to see you, too.”

  “Why didn’t she join us for dinner?” Coop glanced at the empty seat beside Red.

  “You know how Minnie is. She can’t leave those damn Chihuahuas.” Irene toyed with the gold buttons on her suit. “She’s cooking beef Wellington tomorrow night. Ava used to love it. But you used to love Ava.”

  His cheeks reddened. “I’ve never been fond of British cuisine,” he said.

  “Not even English trifle? We’re having that for dessert.” Irene set down her wineglass.

  Coop’s right shoe slapped the floor ten times.

  “Are you trying to send me a message in Morse code?” Irene asked. When he didn’t answer, she kissed his cheek, leaving a red smudge. “Lighten up, Poopy-Coop.”

  “I’ll try, Mommie Dearest,” he said.

  “Flatterer.” She grabbed her purse and stood.

  All three men scrambled to their feet. She flipped her hand. “Sit, sit. I’m just going to the ladies’ room, not Antarctica. See y’all later.”

  She bustled away, giving off gusts of perfume, her wide hips easing between the tables. Most Bonaventure women traveled in packs, but she hadn’t asked me to join her. I should’ve felt offended, but I was relieved.

  Coop reached for my hand and squeezed it. “Mother isn’t always that way.”

  “Which way?”

  “A helicopter mother.”

  The hostess walked by our table. She was followed by a man with green eyes and a blond pony-tail.

  Dammit. Son of a bitch. I was totally busted.

  thirteen

  I held the menu in front of my face and forced myself to study the entrées. Rooster Heart Tartare, garnished with garlic pods and cockscombs. Porcine Testicles with Crostini. Five-Brain Portobello Burger. The cheapest item was french-fried entrails.

  Our waiter drifted around the table, setting out flatware, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight. I lowered my menu and looked up at him. He handed me a tiny calico bag that was tied with a red ribbon. A fragrant, herby smell rose up.

  “Compliments of the chef,” the waiter said. “It’s Herbes de Bonaventure. Kinda like Herbes de Provence, but without the lavender.”

  He gave everyone at the table a bag. “The cocktail du jour is the greyhound,” he said.

  Red’s face turned chalky. “Please tell me it don’t have a real dog in it.”

  “No, just vodka and grapefruit juice.” The waiter grinned.

  “I’ll have one,” I said.

  “Me too,” Dr. O’Malley said.

  “A glass of milk for me,” Coop said.

  “From which animal?” the waiter asked.

  “You pick,” Coop said.

  Irene returned from the ladies’ room, her lips freshly dipped in red. Coop leaped up and pulled back her chair. From the next table, Son winked. He pointed to the dance floor, then to me. I looked away and rearranged my knife and spoon. Was I flattered? A little. Alarmed? Totally.

  Coop glanced at Son, then back at me. I was relieved when the waiter set down our drinks. I took a bracing sip of the greyhound.

  Irene cut her gaze to Son’s table. “Is that Dr. Finnegan over there? What a handsome fellow he is. And a marvelous plastic surgeon. Why, just last week, I sat next to him at a cookout
. We had a long conversation. He asked about you, Teeny. I told him I hadn’t seen you in a decade, not since my party. You had a darling little curler in your hair.”

  My mouth went dry, and I took another swig of the greyhound. So what if I’d slept with two men in this restaurant? The Baptist in me said, Slut. My backsliding part said, Nobody’s keeping a tally.

  The waiter returned with something that looked and smelled like homemade bread. Coop sliced off a hunk and reached for the butter—at least, I hoped it was butter. I kept rearranging my fork and spoon, wishing I could readjust my past just as easily. I’d fix it so that Barb was alive and Son was her old lover. Emerson could be their daughter. I’d give O’Malley and me a brown-eyed, dark-haired child named Coopette.

  Red polished off his drink. “So, Teeny. What’s the story on your nurse-friend? The one with the hair.”

  Dr. O’Malley and Irene set down their drinks. “Who?” they asked.

  “We ran into Dot Agnew,” Coop said.

  “Her?” Irene’s nostrils twitched as if she’d caught a bad odor. “Didn’t her muh-tha used to breed budgies?”

  “What the heck is that?” Red asked.

  “Parakeets,” I said. “Mrs. Agnew made bird recordings, too.”

  “I don’t care about the mother.” Red smiled. “Tell me about the daughter. I didn’t see a wedding ring. Is she single?”

  “Ring or no ring, don’t get mixed up with her,” Irene said. “She’s got a bit of a reputation.”

  This was true. Though I’d lost touch with Dot, her romantic history had been chronicled in the Bonaventure Gazette’s society pages. She’d been married, divorced, married, divorced. From the gossips, I’d heard about her in-between men: bikers, dirt movers, musicians, bankers, doctors, pilots, and even one of her divorce lawyers.

  “What kind of reputation?” Red asked. “I noticed she had a pin on her collar. Praying hands. Is she religious?”

  “Dot won those hands when she was fourteen,” I said. “She appeared on a radio show called Name That Bible Verse.”

  “I remember that,” Irene said. “The disc jockey couldn’t stump Dot. She won an all-expense-paid trip to visit Oral Roberts University.”

  Irene’s mouth twisted into a sardonic smile, though I was sure she didn’t know the rest of the story. Dot had dated juvenile delinquents, hoping to reform them. Repent, she’d tell the boys, so your sins may be wiped out. Acts 3:19. Then she’d beat them off in green pastures, near the valley of the shadow, and their rods and staff were comforted.

  Red looked disappointed. “So she’s churchy?”

  “She’s a born-again skank,” Irene said.

  “I might marry her.” Red looked Irene in the eye. I knew for a fact that he liked zany, free-spirited women as long as they didn’t veer into loon territory. But he hated bitches.

  Another silence descended. I finished my greyhound. I needed a stronger drink: a double martini, heavy on the Beefeater, a gin-soaked olive skating along the bottom of the glass.

  Irene’s eyes widened. “Oh, goodie. Here comes Dr. Botox.”

  Son angled toward our table, moving more like a cowboy than a physician. His cattle-rustler genes wanted to make trouble. He stopped beside my chair.

  “How you doing, Dr. O’Malley? Miss Irene.” His gaze skipped over Coop and Red, then settled on me. “Teeny.”

  Only Son could make my name sound like a four-letter word. The candle on our table sputtered, and light rippled over his teeth, giving him a vampy look. My lungs felt ripe and plump, as if they’d turned into mutant spaghetti squash, packed with seeds and stringy flesh, the skinny girl’s substitute for pasta. It’s low-cal and edible, but nothing like the real thing.

  He chatted with the O’Malleys about yesterday’s storm, then he gave me a quick two-finger salute. Instead of returning to his table, he left the restaurant.

  Irene looked offended. “Was it something I said?”

  Our waiter set a domed platter in front of her. He raised the lid with a flourish. There, on a curly layer of romaine, lay three hamster-like bodies, skinned and headless, butter dripping from their tiny claws.

  “Perfect.” Irene lifted her fork and knife.

  Coop brushed his mouth against my ear. “Anything you want to tell me about Son Finnegan?”

  Not unless I was under oath. Not unless he pulled it out of me with sharp tweezers.

  “He worked for Aunt Bluette one summer,” I said under my breath. And we made love until I was limp and breathless. He had to run to the house and get my inhaler.

  “It’s not polite to whisper,” Irene said, and sank her teeth into a hamster.

  fourteen

  When we got home, I ran straight to the bedroom to fetch my emergency stash of chocolate. In the center of the floor, a trail of bikini panties led from my overturned suitcase to the bed. My little girl pillow with the daisy-print was topped with a black lace bra. Gardenia blossoms circled my green plaid nightgown. White gunk was splattered over it. A Nokia cell phone lay in the center of the bed. Was it my phone? It wasn’t playing The Twilight Zone. All I had to do was press a button and I’d find out. But I knew the truth.

  The guy in the mask had found me.

  I opened my mouth to scream, but a rasp shot out. This wasn’t a panic attack, it was real asthma, and I was going down. Where was my inhaler? In my purse.

  I bolted from the room and skidded into the hall. The kitchen loomed ahead, a rectangle of cozy light. I tried to suck in air, but my throat was locked. Black slashes churned in front of me, a plague of locusts. I battled them away and lurched through the doorway.

  “Teeny, what’s wrong?” Coop’s brows came together.

  I swerved past him, stopped by the counter, and snatched my purse. I turned it upside down. Keys, lipstick, inhaler, wallet clattered across the Formica surface. The noise startled Sir, and he scooted under the table.

  A wheeze tore out of my throat as I grappled for my Ventolin. But I couldn’t stop shaking. Coop pushed the inhaler between my lips and pressed the button. Tart vapors shot against the roof of my mouth.

  “Deep breath, Teeny. Good. One more.”

  I hadn’t seen his eyes this wide since he’d fallen off that old merry-go-round. Back then, he’d been worried for himself. Now he was worried for me.

  “Baby, should I call my dad?”

  No baby. No dad. I couldn’t form words, so I shook my head. I’d be mortified if Dr. O’Malley saw the lurid mess in my room. My panties had been laid out neatly on the floor, like they’d been pinned to a clothesline. And what was that sticky stuff on my gown?

  Coop put the tip of the inhaler into my mouth. I pushed it away. “Phone,” I said. “Gown.”

  Each word held in the air, white-hot, like steam hissing from an iron.

  “Breathe.” Coop made me take another dose of Ventolin.

  My lungs were starting to open up, but I could feel my pulse bumping under my jaw. I grabbed his finger and tugged him to the bedroom. He stepped gingerly around my panties, as if braving a piranha-filled river. I flattened my shoulders against the wall and gulped air.

  Red stood in the doorway. “Sheesh, is that Teeny’s phone? How’d it get here?”

  “A prowler,” Coop said.

  Red laced his fingers together on top of his head and wouldn’t meet my gaze. My bronchial tubes dilated a bit more, and I drew in a huge, ragged breath.

  “I lost my phone at Barb’s rental,” I said in a croaky voice. “Now it’s here? The guy in the mask did this. He killed Barb, and now he wants to kill me.”

  I lunged for my phone, but Red caught my arm. “Geez, don’t touch nothing, homegirl.”

  An hour later, a skinny policeman showed up. Officer Dale Fitzgerald had graduated from Bonaventure Senior High last year. He was slow moving and precise like all the Fitzgeralds. It was ten o’clock by the time he’d taken our statements, dusted for fingerprints, and bagged the evidence.

  After he left, I pulled on rubber gloves and
marched to my bedroom. I ripped the sheets off the mattress, then I sprayed it with Lysol. The smell triggered another breathing attack, but it was too soon for another dose of Ventolin, and besides, I felt sick to my stomach. When Templeton women get upset, we vomit, but I forced myself to keep moving.

  I shut the bedroom window and locked it. Next, I shook out a Hefty bag and stuffed the sheets inside. Laura Ashley, 300-count, one of my garage sale finds. I dragged the bag to the laundry room, threw the linen into the Maytag, and added a box of 20 Mule Team Borax plus bleach.

  Deep breath. Come on. I gripped the sides of the washing machine and stared at the old mural Mama had painted. It depicted zombies attacking Graceland. The violent art flowed over and under the shiny red cabinets. A mob at the gates. Elvis and Priscilla on the roof, throwing guitar picks at the crazed fiends while Lisa Marie hurled fried chicken.

  The washing machine thumped, giving off sharp chemical odors. Coop walked up behind me. As he stared at the laundry room walls, his eyes got bigger and bigger. Bless his heart, he didn’t comment about the mural.

  “You shouldn’t breathe these fumes,” he said. He took my hand and led me out of the room. “Let me fix you a drink.”

  “I don’t want a drink.” I wished I lived in Iceland. Emerson and I could study volcanoes.

  Coop opened the front door. “Take a big gulp of fresh air.”

  I knotted my fingers in my dress. “I’m scared.”

  Coop hugged me. “I’ll keep you safe.”

  Was it really that easy to keep someone safe? I pressed my face against his shoulder.

  “You’re shaking,” he said. “Maybe you should lie down.”

  “I can’t sleep in my room.” I lifted my face and gazed up at him. His hair stuck up in tufts. I smoothed them down. “I’ll sleep on the sofa,” I said.

  “I’m not leaving you alone.” Coop shut the front door and locked it. He took my hand and guided me to the parlor sofa. As we curled up together, the dogs padded into the room and stretched out on the floor. I forced myself not to think about the prowler.