Bubbles Ablaze (27 page)

“Christ. Then are you driving home?”

“Never fear, Mr. Salvo. I'll be at the five a.m. waste hauler's meeting.”

“I don't care about that. I just want you home, safe and sound.”

“You want to schedule some other reporter to cover the waste haulers?” I asked brightly.

“Hell, no. You can't use this as an excuse.”

“Okay.”

“And Bubbles?”

“Yes.”

“For what it's worth, you're not fired.”

I felt a lump in my throat. Though it might have been turkey. “I know.”

Bubbles's Peel-Off Face Mask

Gelatin is a mystery to me. Kids eat it for dessert. Adults mix it with vodka at parties. I use it to strengthen my nails and teenage girls wear it as a face mask. Hello? This recipe produces a firmly sticking mask that peels off like a Band-Aid.
Be careful
not to apply it to sensitive areas—e.g., upper lip. Think, Would I want a Band-Aid peeled off that part of my body? And don't use it everyday. It's really intense.

1 packet of Knox gelatin
1
½
tablespoons of milk
2 drops of glycerin
(Optional: Substitute
½
tablespoon of straight aloe vera for
½
tablespoon of milk)

Mix in microwave-safe cup and heat on full power for ten seconds. Stir and test on inside of wrist. When it is cool enough, apply. Apply in covering coat across nose and face, careful not to spread into sensitive areas or to hairline. Let sit thirty minutes or until hardened and rubbery. Peel off. Moisturize.

I
opened the yellow Columbia County phone book and looked up Allen. Zeke lived on Railroad Avenue but no one answered his phone, so I left a message. Then I took a deep breath and dialed the other Allen I had circled. Earl.

“Hal-lo.” Super. Zeke's mom.

“Mrs. Allen, it's Bubbles Yablonsky.”

“Gracious. Champ's tootsie. How are you, Bubbles?”

I swallowed my pride and the rest of my turkey sandwich. “Mrs. Allen, I'm very concerned about Steve and Zeke. Are they back yet?”

“Well, Zeke is. He's taking a nap, poor boy. He was exhausted, all that flying around.”

“Do you know if Champ met him at the airport?”

“I don't believe so, dear. It's why Zeke was late. He waited an hour for Champ to show. After that, Zeke assumed Steve must have been tied up. So Zeke drove home in his own truck that he had parked in the long-term lot, eight dollars a day. Though I have to say, I think your mother's friend should pay for the damage she did to my son's tailpipe. He walked in the door positively reeking of baked potatoes, not that baked potatoes are bad, mind you, only that—”

I held the phone away from my ear. Ay, yi, yi. If I had been Mr. Allen, I would have wood-paneled my wife into a soundproof booth.

“I don't mean to interrupt, Mrs. Allen—”

“Of course you don't
mean
to, dear. It's just your upbringing. Uncouth.”

Ignore that, Bubbles, my brain instructed. “We're having a hard time finding Steve anywhere. I'm afraid something terrible has happened to him. May I speak to Zeke?”

“Have you tried his girlfriend?”

“Zeke has a girlfriend?”

“Mercy no, over my dead body. I'm talking about Steve. Steve's girlfriend Esmeralda. They've been working together for years, don't you know. We think it'd be wonderful if he'd propose to her. Just wonderful. Maybe Esme and Champ would settle in her hometown then. Slagville is such a nice place to raise children.”

I fought hard, I really did, to keep the edge in my voice to a minimum. “Why do you think Steve is with Esmeralda?”

“Well, I ran into her in the Acme this afternoon. She said she couldn't stop to talk, that she was in a hurry and I said, ‘Where to, dear?' And Esme mentioned something about going to Steve's house back in Saucon Valley. I couldn't catch it completely, what she was saying, because she was halfway out the door.”

The phone cord twisted around my fingers, nearly cutting off the circulation. “If you wouldn't mind asking Zeke to call my cousin's salon when he wakes up, I'd certainly appreciate it. I'll check my messages after the Hoagie Ho before I return to Lehigh.”

“I'll let him know,” she said. But I doubted it.

I remained frozen with the portable in my hand for a good five minutes. Should I call him? Should I not? How many times have I and countless other women asked the same question? We women really should get rid of these phones. We'd be much better off.

Against my better judgment, I dialed the number for Stiletto's Saucon Valley mansion. 1-610—

“Hello?”

I froze. I froze like a fourth grader who had just called the gym teacher at home looking for a Jacque. Jacque Itch.

“Hell-oo? Who is this?” the sultry voice on the other end asked.

“Uh,” I realized I was breathing heavily and clicked off the phone.

Esmeralda! She was there. In Stiletto's house.

Roxanne came down the stairs ready for the Atlantic City runway. Sapphire dress covered in rhinestones. Red hair piled up with matching clips and dangle cubic zirconia earrings (my contribution).

“How do I look? Do you think Stinky will take me back?”

“Definitely,” I said, though I thought Stinky might take her to the insane asylum for showing up like that for a hoedown.

The phone rang in my hand. I could only stare at it.
Brrrring! Brrring
! Roxanne's caller ID system displayed Stiletto's number on the phone console. Esmeralda must have dialed *69.

“Aren't you going to answer it?” Roxanne asked.

“Nah.” I clicked it on and then off, so the ringing would stop. “It's only Mr. Salvo. Let's go.”

“You've got to get ready. You can't go in pants. I'll get a couple of wine coolers for us while you get dressed.”

I waited until she passed through the swinging doors into the kitchen. That's when I disconnected the phone in the rear of the console.

Looking back, it was the worst move I could have made.

The Union Hall was hopping when we arrived. There was lots of whooping and cheering inside thanks to a lively boom-bass band and, I guessed, not an infrequent amount of bolio—coal country's potent whiskey cocktail.

“You're not coming?” Roxanne asked, fixing her lipstick in the rearview of my Camaro.

“I'm sticking around until Mama shows up with Genevieve.”

“Listen, Bub, I know you're antsy because of this Stiletto imposter who hired Zeke to keep tabs on you. So, I took the liberty of buying you some self defense.” She displayed a rounded oblong tube. It looked pornographic.

“Is that a—?”

“What?” She put it in my hand. “It's a battery-powered portable curling iron. To zing your stalker in the you-know-whats. Heats one minute after you pull it open, so plan accordingly.”

“Thanks Roxanne.” I said, stuffing it in my purse. “You're a great cousin. Gorgeous, too.”

“That goes for both of us. Too bad Stiletto's not here.”

Ouch. That hurt. Looking over my snakeskin bodysuit and taupe skirt, which I had purchased for a romantic night with Stiletto, all I could think of was Esmeralda letting her red hair fall against his bare chest. And here I was wearing an outfit that was snugger than cling wrap to a hoagie hoedown at the Union Hall.

Big drops started falling on the windshield. “My hair's gonna get ruined,” Roxanne said, opening her compact umbrella. “What's our plan again?”

“You look for Stinky while I keep Chief Donohue occupied.”

My pre-Hoagie Ho scope out of the Union Hall had been a failure, I decided. I hadn't found Stinky and I had tipped off Donohue to the possibility that Stinky was hiding somewhere in the building. I was only glad I hadn't told Mr. Salvo about my appointed rendezvous with the most wanted man in Slagville. Donohue would no doubt have listened in on our conversation and upended the Union Hall to find Stinky first.

“What happens when I find my husband?” Roxanne asked. “Then what are we going to do about Donohue?”

“I have a solution. All we need is a code word for when either of us finds Stinky.”

Roxanne pointed to my purse. “How about the curling iron? That'll never register with Donohue.”

“Excellent. Now go before the rain picks up.”

She opened the umbrella and dashed across the road to the Union Hall. The golden oldies arrived fifteen minutes later in Pete's rust-colored Dodge Dart. Pete was dressed to the nines in
a plaid shirt buttoned to the throat and brown blazer that didn't quite go with the shirt, but that was okay. It was the effort that counted.

He ran around the front of the car like a teenager and opened the passenger door. Mama got out first in her standard black leather and swaggered—as much as a Polish bowling ball can swagger—toward the door. Genevieve was next in a purple raincoat that made her look like a giant plum.

I cornered all three in the coatroom and gave them the skinny. Bless Pete and Genevieve for being such diehard conspiracy nuts. They ate it up.

“You think maybe it's FEMA that sicced Zeke Allen on you?” Genevieve asked.

Pete nodded in agreement. “I've thought for years that FEMA started the mine fire in Limbo, just so it could claim marshal law when the blaze got out of control. I bet Zeke's a secret agent for them. I bet he's involved in your Stiletto's disappearance.”

I told them I still didn't know who had hired Zeke or if Stiletto had officially disappeared. I kept my private theory about him secretly cocooning with Esmeralda to myself. No point in coming off like a jealous girlfriend.

“But we do have to keep our eyes and ears open,” I added.

“I'll turn up the cochlear,” Pete said, giving his hearing aid a twist.

Mama was a harder sell. “What exactly are we supposed to look for, Bubbles?” she asked.

“I'm not exactly sure. But if you see someone out of place following me, that's not good.”

“You suggesting that whoever this mysterious person is, he's going to bust in on your rendezvous with Stinky?”

“It's a distinct possibility.” I put my hand on her tiny shoulder. “And that's where you come in.”

“Me? I can't shoot as well as Genevieve.”

“No shooting.” I motioned them to the back of the closet. “Mama, I want you to occupy Chief Donohue while I meet with
Stinky. I don't care what you have to do, if you have to throw a fit about your arrest this morning, just keep him busy.”

Pete cupped his hand to his ear. “We gotta arrest Donohue?” he hollered.

“Keep your voice down,” Genevieve said with a poke. “I'll tell you later.”

“No problem,” Mama said, patting her gray permed hair. “Donohue and I have chemistry.”

I gave her a doubtful look. “Since when is a demand that you get out of town by sunrise chemistry?”

“You don't know much about sexual tension, do you, Bubbles?” she said. “For your information, Donohue wanted me out of his sight so I'd quit being a temptation to him. We're star-crossed.”

“They're running low on halupkies,” complained Genevieve, who'd been peeking out of the coat closet. “Let's go.”

We did a round of high (and in Mama's case, low) fives and emerged from the closet looking like the Odd Squad—me in my snakeskin bodysuit, Mama in her biker leather, Genevieve the purple plum and Pete the deaf Mr. Green Jeans.

It cost two bucks to be admitted to the Hoagie Ho and it was well worth it. White papered tables were piled high with noodle casseroles, stuffed cabbages, endless desserts and, oh yes, hoagies for sale from various organizations around town. Matrons in aprons dished out the food and pocketed the change, teasing their patrons mercilessly as they did so. A platform at one end supported a boom-bass band that was doing it up right with “Old Time Polka,” including a fiddler who had dancers whirling their skirts and stomping their boots in a frenzy.

“Where's the rival gang?” I asked Mama, as I dumped a spoonful of macaroni salad on my plate. “I'd have expected this place to be swarming with Slagville Sirens.”

“Maybe Genny and I scared them off. Either that or they're up to something like I've been saying.” Mama sneered at a plate of pierogies. “The sirens must have dropped off this dish and
run. Potato, onion and cardamom. A specialty from the Slagville Siren cookbook.”

“They have a cookbook?”

“It's a necessity. A siren's always looking for new recipes, otherwise the Nag 'N Feed spell loses its effectiveness.” Mama flipped open the switchblade from her back pocket and stabbed the pierogi, taking a tiny bite. “Hmmph. Not bad. Too much salt, though, for my blood pressure.”

“Maybe that's why they stole the Nana diary,” I suggested, helping myself to a cup of cider. “They just needed the new recipes.”

“That's exactly what Vilnia told me after the fight at St. Stanislaw's. Guess Genevieve and I kind of jumped the gun.”

“Yeah, kind of.” I bit into a pierogi just as Donohue ambled through the door, his thumbs stuck in his black leather holster.

“What a pompous jerk,” I whispered to Mama. “Do you know he listens in on everyone's calls in this town? He's sneaky.”

“I think he's kind of dreamy, in a pig-like authoritarian way.”

I squinted. Donohue dreamy? He strode around the hall puffed up and important. His black boots hit the floor with resounding thuds as he nodded to various citizens. But he was not here for a community festival or even to keep the peace.

He was here for Stinky.

“He's got the hots for me, oh yes. I could tell when he cuffed me, the way his hands lingered on my wrists.” Mama put her plate on a table and removed a compact and lipstick that had bulged from her hip pocket, next to the switchblade. “I'll venture that he's never before seen a woman like your mother, so dangerous and feminine.”

“You might want to get rid of this,” I said, removing the cigarette from behind her ear.

Mama plucked it out of my fingers and replaced it. “Please, I got a bad girl image to maintain. Shut up, here he comes.”

Donohue strolled over. “Well, well, well,” he said, “if it isn't Belle Starr with the pastry pin.”

Mama winked at me and mouthed, “Told you so.”