Bubbles Ablaze (21 page)

A fireman was replacing the letters on the sign advertising tonight's get together at the Slagville Union Hall and I almost fell out of the Jeep.

“Hoagie Ho!” I shouted before I could catch myself. Actually so far the sign just said Hoagie H, but I got the idea. Stinky had told Jane he'd meet me at the Hoagie Ho and here I'd been keeping an eye out for hoagie shops when all along it had been the name of the next festival. No wonder it hadn't been in the phone book. I had to get over to that Union Hall, pronto.

“What're you so excited about?” Stiletto turned the corner and parked in front of a new vinyl-sided beige doublewide that was landscaped like it was Windsor Castle. Pruned bushes, hearty mums and fountains galore. “The Union Hall party?”

Shoot. I'd forgotten that Stiletto knew nothing of Stinky's surprise visit to me in Lehigh.

“Uh, Genevieve,” I said, not completely fibbing. “I've been racking my brain trying to think of a way to get her together with a nutty conspiracy theorist in Limbo named Pete Zidukis. They'd be perfect for each other. I think maybe the Hoagie Ho might be the ticket.”

Stiletto killed the engine. “Genevieve likes men?”

“Of course she likes men.” I frowned at him reproachfully. “She's been married twice.”

“And they left her?”

“No, she killed them. . . .”

“With her musket? Or a peashooter?” Stiletto said.

“With love,” I finished. “They died of heart attacks in the sack. Smiles on their faces, if you get my drift.”

“Talk about your conspiracy theories.” Stiletto opened the door and hopped out.

I joined Stiletto, who immediately launched into a speech about how we should not alarm Mr. and Mrs. Allen. They were simple, church-going people who ladled up food in soup kitchens and visited the elderly and sick. It would never occur to them that their son might have fallen to the dark side. We must be careful what questions we asked.

We found Mr. Allen in a cement garage that was more spotless than a biotech laboratory. Rakes hung on hooks. Green hose lay perfectly coiled. Even the dark plastic garbage cans were shiny clean like they'd been buffed. The place smelled faintly of Tide detergent and gasoline.

“Hey, hey, hey. If it isn't Steve Stiletto. How go things old champ?” Mr. Allen pulled his head out of the toolbox he'd been organizing and shook Stiletto's hand with both of his. “Mother! It's Steve. Champ's come to visit.”

Champ?

“Oh my,” a maternal voice replied from inside.

Steve introduced me as Bubbles Yablonsky, his “friend.” I flashed him a dirty, dirty look before I extended my hand, smiling sweetly.

Mr. Allen smiled back. “And look, honeybunch, he's brought his tart!”

I was stunned, to say the least, but Mr. Allen didn't seem to think he'd said anything, ah, inappropriate, as the guidance counselor at Jane's school would put it.

“Pardon?” I said. Mr. Allen ignored me and opened the door to the kitchen to call Mother one more time.

Stiletto poked me with his elbow. “That's the way they talk. I told you they were simple. Don't take it personally. They mean only the best.”

Easy for “Champ” to say. He hadn't just been called a slut.

Mother appeared looking every inch the part. Blue dress, flowered apron, permed and sprayed brunette hair with not a strand out of place. “This must be Bubbles.”

Mrs. Allen hugged me delicately, my eau de morning's jog,
smoke and grease from Lou's Eggs and last night's fire making for an oh-so-pleasant perfume. “How wonderful to meet you. She's not too much of a Jezebel, Earl.”

“These are running clothes,” I said for some inexplicable reason. “Champ bought them.”

Mr. Allen winked. “Thatta boy. Get it while you can before you find yourself an old-fashioned girl and settle down.”

My bottom jaw dropped.

“I'm sure Bubbles is old-fashioned.” Mrs. Allen rose to my defense. “Aren't you, dear?”

“I better be. I'm a single mother of a teenager.” My face felt hot and it didn't help when Stiletto put his hand on my shoulder to calm me down. “Not that it's anyone's business.”

“That's the hussy in her speaking.” Earl Allen slapped Stiletto on the back. “Say, who's up for a tour? I just redid the paneling in the rumpus room. Let's take a look-see.” And he escorted Stiletto out of the garage, leaving me alone to do battle with Betty Crocker on overload.

I said, “Before we join the men folk—” (Mama has an old Polish saying: When flying with crows, fly like a crow. Deep. Very Deep.) “I wonder if you might know how I can locate your son, Zeke?”

She smoothed her apron. “I think one man at a time is enough, don't you?”

“This is for professional reasons.”

Mrs. Allen blinked.

“I'm a reporter. Like Lois Lane.” She was a virgin.

“Why don't you ask Steve? He sent Zeke off to Colorado or some such place yesterday afternoon. Chartered a personal plane for him at the Allegheny Airport even.” She led me out of the garage. “To tell you the truth, I'm surprised to see Steve here. Zeke said he was in New York.”

Holy mackerel. Stiletto chartered a plane to Colorado? What the heck was going on?

“I see,” I said, keeping my voice normal, “and what is it exactly
that your son does for a living?” We had entered the kitchen, all yellow with checked curtains and matching place mats. Straight out of the Sears catalogue “Homemaker On Valium” section.

“Zeke's a dick.” Mrs. Allen slipped on yellow checked mitts and opened the oven door.

I thought about this. “A dick?”

“Yes. A private dick.” She proudly displayed a pan of cinnamon rolls that had just happened to be in the oven and had just happened to be ready when two impromptu guests arrived. “With your profession you should know all about that.”

Stiletto returned just in time to stop me from socking her. “What Martha means is that Zeke is a private detective. ‘Dick' is just slang for that.”

“Apparently, Champ, you chartered a private plane for Zeke, which he flew to Colorado yesterday,” I said.

Stiletto stifled a look of shock. “Yes.”

“Is there some problem?” Mr. Allen asked. Perhaps it had dawned on Earl that things were amiss when the client who had hired his son to fly three thousand miles away was suddenly in town looking for him.

“No problem. Just doing a bit of checking.” Stiletto rocked on his heels. “Well, we better be going. I need to get back to New York and wait for Zeke's call.”

Mrs. Allen put down the spatula, which she had been using to drizzle perfect curly-cues of white frosting onto the cinnamon rolls. “Don't you usually call him at eleven every night?”

“Ahh,” Stiletto said. “Right.”

“And, besides, you've obviously found Bubbles, so what do you need Zeke for?”

That was my cue. “You mean to tell me, Champ, that you hired a private dick to tag me? Is there no trust between us?” I pretended to be getting a head of steam. Hands on hips. Eyes flashing. Etcetera, etcetera.

“Don't get mad, babe. I was only concerned about your safety.”

“Sure. And with a loose goose like Bubbles for a girlfriend, you never can tell what sailor she's brought home, eh boy?” Mr. Allen nudged Stiletto in the ribs. “In this day and age with all them diseases around it's your safety, too, that's at stake.”

“I wouldn't know,” Stiletto said. “Bubbles is the most honorable woman I've ever met. Sorry to have disturbed you.” And, bowing slightly with respect, he put his arm around me and ushered me out the door.

“Doesn't that beat all,” I heard Mr. Allen remark to his wife. “I think he actually loves the floozy.”

Back in the Jeep I was frothing at the mouth. Let me at 'em. Let me at 'em. Stiletto had the good sense to get out of there hell for leather.

“I don't blame you, Bubbles. I got a bit ticked off in the end there, too. But you have to remember that the Allens are very basic people. What you see is what you get.”

“What I see is my running shoe in Mr. Allen's—”

“So, did Mrs. Allen tell you anything of worth?” Stiletto stepped on the gas. “Her husband kept yapping about his hand-hewn paneling. I could barely get a word in edgewise.”

When I told him what Mrs. Allen had said, it was Stiletto's turn to froth at the mouth. “The temerity!” He pounded the steering wheel. When Stiletto got mad he occasionally slipped into English Twit Speak. Some tic left over from years of boarding school. “Who in heaven's name had the audacity to pose as me? Right down to the most minute detail of my schedule.”

“Whoever had the audacity also had the bucks,” I said. “Think how much a chartered flight to Colorado costs.”

Stiletto leaned back and steered with one hand. “We're not using our brains. What's the key distinction of the person who set us up Wednesday night?”

“He knows us. He knows where we work, our pasts, or at least your past, and all about our relationship,” I said. “Though it could be a she.”

“A she?” Stiletto grunted. “No woman could imitate a voice as
deep as mine. Certainly not with my timbre. I've just got too much testosterone flowing through my veins.”

I tapped my head. “Sorry. What could I have been thinking.”

“I'm going to go back to the inn and make some phone calls. Maybe I can track down Zeke in Colorado,” Stiletto said, pulling up to the Main Mane. “What are you going to do?”

“Take a shower. I don't care if someone's watching me, planning an ambush. At least my corpse won't smell like scrapple and B.O.”

“Until next time,” he said as we stood on the stoop of Roxanne's, where I could hear the buzz of blow-dryers going full steam inside.

He bent down and, despite my sweat and grime, kissed me softly. I sensed a depth of concern I hadn't felt before. Stiletto was really worried about me. And that made me worried about me. “Do me a favor and don't go outside today, okay?” he said. “Not that I expect anything will happen.”

“Sure, Champ.” Although I was thinking, fat chance I'm staying in. I'm going to find Stinky at the Union Hall.

He kissed me again. “Champ. I like that.” And he was off, filled with more determination than I had ever seen in him before. Stiletto knew something I didn't and whatever it was I didn't know was something I knew I'd want to know.

You have to be a blonde to understand.

I
opened the door to find Roxanne catering to two clients at the same time. “Thank God you're back,” she said, holding out a tray of bleach. “I took on a last-minute walk-in. Can you do Tammy?”

The bleach secure in my hands, Roxanne dashed to the rear of the salon to towel off a woman dripping in the sink. I turned to Tammy. Tammy's hair was a dull, faded brown and badly in need of highlights that weren't too garish. Only the most experienced stylist could freshen up hair like this.

“Thank God you're back,” G said, entering from the living room and rubbing sleep from his eyes. “I want you to make me pancakes.”

“Can't now,” I said, painting on a strip of bleach. “If I don't finish this pronto, this woman's gonna be two-toned.”

“I'll tell Jane if you don't,” he threatened. “I'll tell her that she and I can't go out anymore. That I don't even like her.”

I combed out another section. “She back yet?”

“No. Her friend's here, though.” He handed me a strip of foil as I moved on. “That looks cool. Can I do it?”

“It's very technical, G. Too much bleach and she'll end up looking ridiculous. Too little and this woman doesn't get what she paid sixty-five bucks for. What friend?” Professor Tallow?

G thumbed over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving my hands for a minute. “Some girl. She's in the kitchen crying with your mother and Genevieve. How do you know where to paint it?”

Roxanne escorted her wet-headed client over to the chair next to us. “Thanks, Bubbles. I guess I've been a little preoccupied
these days, what with Stinky gone and all. I should never have taken on the walk-in.”

“There's some friend of Jane's in the kitchen, upset,” I said, pulling out another piece of foil. “I think she's crying.”

“Go, go see her. That's much more important.” Roxanne shushed me out. “I'll handle the foil . . . somehow.”

I hesitated. “That's too much work for you, Roxanne.”

“I can do it. I can do highlights,” G piped up. “C'mon. Pleeease.”

“Sure, why not? I'll direct him,” Roxanne said, motioning for me to hand G the bleach. “You run along.”

“Thanks, Roxanne.” To G I flashed an I've-got-my-eye-on-you look. He turned his back to me and began painting away merrily.

In the kitchen Mama and Genevieve were clucking over a redeyed Sasha whose hair was as straight as I'd left it, sure proof that she hadn't slept a wink. Genevieve held her hand and Mama slid a cup of tea toward the poor girl, who merely looked at it glumly.

“Thank God you're back,” Mama said as I entered.

“I've never been so needed in my life. Everyone's thanking God that I'm back.” I sat down opposite Sasha. She wouldn't make eye contact with me. “What's wrong?”

“Mom's gone,” she blurted. “She didn't come back to the hotel last night and I don't know how to find her. You were the only person I could think of. I . . . want . . . my . . . mom.” A torrent of tears followed.

Mama handed her another Kleenex and I patted Sasha's other hand. “Did you call the police?”

“I'm afraid to,” she said. “What if they arrest her?”

“Arrest her?” Genevieve said. “What in tarnation for?”

Sasha blew her nose and patted her eyes with the same tissue. Black mascara was smeared all over her face. “For shooting Mr. McMullen.”

That shut us up.

“Uh, we better let you handle this, Bubbles,” Mama said,
getting up and nodding for Genevieve to join her. “I don't want to get involved in no murder stuff.”

I waited until they left, closing the swinging door silently behind them. When they were gone, I asked Sasha how she'd gotten it into her head that her mother was a killer.

“I don't know that for sure. It's just that, well . . .” She twirled the tissue in her lap. “Mr. McMullen had been bugging us a lot. He used to phone Bud at home almost every night and after Bud died he started calling Mom.”

She leaned forward and stirred the spoon in the cup. “Mom told me never to talk to Mr. McMullen and to hang up if he called. He phoned all last night, right up until you came and then . . . then he was shot and Mom didn't come back.”

Nothing like mother-daughter trust. “You'll be relieved to know,” I said, “that McMullen wasn't murdered. He committed suicide.”

“You mean it?”

“That's what the cops say.”

“Oh.” Sasha nodded. “That is a relief.”

Not really, but why belabor a moral issue. “As for your mother not returning to the hotel . . . maybe she got stuck in traffic?” Hey, it was all I could think of on the spot. “Though you'd expect her to call if that had happened.”

“She called,” Sasha said matter-of-factly. “She called me last night and then this morning.”

“Your mom called?”

I was gonna strangle this kid. If this was some passive/aggressive attention-getting teenage girl maneuver, she was going right over my knee.

“Yeah. Mom said she was okay, but that she needed to take a break. She told me to stay at the hotel until Donatello picked me up on Sunday. Charge everything to room service and not to leave under any circumstances. She said that like fifty times. When I heard that Mr. McMullen was shot, I kind of freaked out, though.”

I had to admit, it was an odd “fact pattern,” as the cops term it. Then again, Sasha was only seventeen. Her stepfather had been murdered and her mother was off on a lark.

Sasha downed her tea. “Whew! I feel so much better. I guess I just needed to get that off my chest.” She opened her purse and pulled out a green Clinique compact and began rubbing at the mascara patches.

“Everything will be fine, I'm sure.” I took her cup to the sink.

“It just occurred to me. You don't suppose my mom's been kidnapped, do you?” Sasha asked, wide-eyed. “I saw a
Law and Order
show on that once. The woman was kept in a hole in the basement.”

I smiled to myself and turned on the water. “No. I don't think so.”

“Then I wonder how come her Jag is still at the Le Circe Restaurant.”

I flipped off the water. “Her Jag is still at Le Circe?”

“Yeah. In Wilkes-Barre. There was a message on our home answering machine about it. The manager said it was going to be towed if Mom didn't pick it up.”

What to do? What to do? “I think you better go back to the hotel, Sasha, in case your mother calls again. She might get worried if you're not there.”

Kidnapped, I was thinking. Chrissy Price had been kidnapped. No. Couldn't be. Why would she have called to say she was okay?

“But I took a taxi,” Sasha whined, “and I'm out of cash. There's no way for me to get back to the hotel.”

“I'll get G to drive you. In the meantime, promise to call us as soon as you hear from her. If your mom doesn't call by this evening, we might want to contact the police just to, uhm, cover all our bases.”

This did not go over well with Sasha, who promptly started crying again. I ran into the salon in search of G.

He was standing by the hairdryer studying his watch. Roxanne was barking instructions to him as she swept up from her last customer.

“Bubbles. This boy is a natural!” she exclaimed, leaning on her broom. “The way he applied that bleach, it was artistic. I was in awe. Such delicate handiwork. Such instinctive layering. He knows all the terms. Chunky. Buttery. He's a genius.”

Just like G always claimed.

“Thirty more seconds should do it,” he announced.

Tammy flipped through the
Family Circle
, unaware that she was being handled by a junior Vidal Sassoon. I asked G if his car was back from the Texaco.

“Yeah. But it's got a funny smell. I think they just Elmer-glued the airbags in.”

“Can you take Jane's friend Sasha back to her hotel in Glen Ellen?”

He lifted up the dryer hood and unwrapped a foil for a peek. “Not bad,
n'est-ce pas
?” he asked, holding up a strand for Roxanne's inspection.

“Oui, oui!”
said Roxanne.
“C'est magnifique.”
Turning to me she said, “I'm sorry, Bubbles, he can't go.”

“We're in the moment,” he said, gently helping Tammy out of the chair.

“Is he ready?” Sasha stepped into the salon, her lips pouty enough to make Liz Hurley jealous.

G let go of Tammy and wolf whistled. “Sweeet.”

“This is Sasha,” I said. “She's the one who needs a ride.”

“For that bodacious babe, I'd drive to Mars.” He wiped his hands and sauntered over to her. “Let me finish up with this client and then I'll be at your service. Just as soon as I, uh, unplug my car.”

“A guy who does hair. Awesome,” Sasha said. “And you drive an electric car? Cool. It's like so Ed Begley Junior.”

G, the hairdressing, battery-powered stud muffin. Would wonders never cease?

After a thorough, hot shower, I grabbed my favorite jeans and a bateau-neck, three-quarter sleeve top in purple spandex. Perfect
for a day of kicking around town. I slipped into my high-heeled boots with the little zipper on the side and pulled my hair up into a ponytail. Plucked a few stray eyebrow hairs, applied a tasteful line of midnight blue liner, jet black mascara (triple coat, of course) with eyelash curler, Plum Passion shadow and I was done except for the lipstick.

I ran down the stairs and was turning into the salon when I bumped into Mama and Genevieve heading out the door, suitcases in hand. Genevieve was in the black-and-white striped dress that made her look like a referee. Mama was wearing faded dungarees, a black Harley shirt and a hairnet.

“Going back to Lehigh?” I asked, taking their suitcases from them.

“First, we're off to make hoagies at St. Stanislaw's Church,” Mama said. “They're selling them at the Hoagie Ho tonight as a fund-raiser to buy new carpeting for the parish hall.”

Mama and community service? Not likely.

“Hold on, Rambette.” I plunked the suitcases down on the sidewalk. “Since when do you care about fund-raisers for a church parish hall?”

“Since Vilnia's showing up. We've got to find out what she plans to do with the Nana diary,” Genevieve said, tossing the two suitcases with ease into the back of her Rambler. “I bet she photocopied it cover to cover.”

“And if she did,” Mama opened her jeans jacket and pulled out a wooden rolling pin. “We're going to war.”

I gasped. “A rolling pin? You won't go to war, you'll go to jail. You'll kill someone.”

“Nah. Women in these parts of PA got hard heads, say Genevieve?”

“Say.” Genevieve opened the driver's side door and got in.

“No way.” I tried to grab the rolling pin from my mother's shriveled and newly tattooed hands, but she was stronger. “You two old dames can't waltz into town and pick a fight.”

“They started it,” Mama said, getting in and slamming the
door. “Those Slagville Sirens stole the Nana diary and I can tell they're cooking up something.”

“Literally,” Genevieve added, revving the engine. “Now listen up, Bubbles. If we don't come back alive, don't forget to demand Charlaine at Gupka's Funeral Home. She's the only one who knows how to do decent makeup at that place.” And off they went.

Ugh. I stamped my foot on the sidewalk in frustration. More trouble. Here I had one day left in Slagville to find Stinky and who set us up Wednesday night and I'm suddenly swamped with aggravation. I had to track down Jane in the woods and find out if Chrissy Price went on a bender or was kidnapped. Then there was this craziness with Zeke Allen and the pseudo Stiletto he was supposedly working for. Now my mother and her friend were starting a rumble with the ladies auxiliary.

“Bubbles?” Roxanne was at the door holding the portable. “It's for you. That Mr. Salvo again.”

I ungraciously snapped the phone from her hands. “I know, I know. I'm on for Sunday.”

“You make those advance calls to the Catasauqua Republicans yet?” Mr. Salvo must have been calling from his home. The television was on in the background. Football.

“No,” I said, curtly, “I've been too busy breaking page-one stories.”

“Too bad I got such a short memory. I've promised Dix Notch you'll do a bang-up job on both Sunday stories, by the way.”

I dead headed a purple mum by Roxanne's door. “Both stories?”

“Guess you didn't get the message. The Hellertown waste haulers are taking an early morning vote tomorrow on whether to strike. You should be there for that.”

“Define early morning.”

“Uhm. Five should do it. Tell you what. Since I'm such a nice editor, I'll fill out the photo assignment slip for you.”