Coming Unclued (36 page)

“You wish you’d killed me?” A shocking thought was beginning to percolate in my brain.

“I didn’t mean that,” said Heather.

“Heather — did you? You did! How could you? We’re friends!”

“Oh Val, it was like temporary insanity. I was all alone on that Saturday night and Evan wouldn’t see me anymore — he wouldn’t even take my calls — all because he knew you’d kick up such a fuss about him being with me. And I saw his key lying there, because he’d forgotten it that last time and I just couldn’t control myself. I just wanted to get rid of you so that Evan and I could be together. And I thought I did kill you. But Val I was so happy the next morning when I found out it was just that old boss of yours. I was thrilled. I was all over wanting you dead by then and I felt just terrible about killing you. But it all worked out and you’re fine and now I’ve met Paul.”

Heather tried to kill me. My friend Heather stabbed me to death. Well not me, but she didn’t know that at the time. I was flabbergasted.

“Heather we need to tell the police.”

Bad move. I shouldn’t have said that.

“We’re obviously not calling the police,” said Heather in a cold voice. “I’m not taking the fall for this.”

Taking the fall for it? She’s the one who did it.

“Well I’m not,” I said in my best don’t mess with me voice.

“You have to.”

Suddenly Heather was all business. “I saw you go into your condo,” she said in a menacing voice. “I followed you. I’m your friend. I tried to convince you to turn yourself in, but you’re crazy. You attacked me with a knife.” Heather pulled a knife out of the block.

“A knife!” I yelled. “Like the one you stabbed Mr. Potter with. The one you didn’t even bother cleaning off. I cut a slice of banana bread with that knife.”

“I gave it a quick wipe. I was a bit frazzled at the time.”

“As you should be after you slaughtered someone. An innocent man.”

“I explained the mistake,” said Heather. “Your bedroom is very dark. Anyway, I followed you in here and you attacked me,” she said, clearly not in the mood to discuss her lackluster knife cleaning. She took the blade of the knife and ran it down her arm. Blood started pouring out of the gash. It was gruesome. She’d probably have a scar. That would fix her. “I tried to fight you off and somehow you were stabbed.” Heather took a step toward me, brandishing the knife like a character in a slasher movie.

Jesus. She was nuts. She was trying to kill me again. I took a step backwards, and then another one and then dashed toward the living room, Heather hot on my tail.

“You stay away from me,” I screamed at her. “No one is going to believe you.” Actually everyone was going to believe her. Her version of events made perfect sense.

“Of course they’ll believe me,” yelled Heather. “I present well.”

She did too. There was no denying it. Without slowing down, I grabbed a vase off the hall side table and slung it backwards over my shoulder, hoping to momentarily slow Heather down.

“Owww!” she yelled.

Good — a direct hit.

I frantically looked around my living room, which didn’t offer a myriad of hiding places and certainly no place where I would be safe from a knife-wielding maniac. I needed a place to barricade myself and in desperation I dashed behind the couch.

“Don’t come any closer,” I threatened.

“Or what?”

I pulled Julie’s phone out of my pocket. “I’m taking your picture,” I yelled. “Evidence!” I said, as I snapped a picture of the now crazed Heather brandishing my knife.

“Good plan,” she said. “I’ll just leave your phone lying around after I finish.”

After she finished. Wow. I pressed a button on the phone. “I’m recording you Heather. Tell the world how you were the one who killed Mr. Potter.” Not that there was a recording feature on these cheap little pay as you go phones, but she didn’t know that.

“Jesus. How stupid are you?” asked Heather, as she lurched closer to the couch.

Couldn’t she see I was buying time?

“Tell them! Tell them how you stabbed Mr. Harold Potter.”

“Stop screwing around. Paul is coming to dinner.”

911. Forgot about them. “I’m calling 911 now,” I yelled, hotfooting it back and forth in the narrow six-foot-long space behind the couch in the off-chance I could evade Heather. “There’s no escape for you!” Except for knifing me. That would be an effective escape. I punched in 911 and ducked down behind the couch. “911,” I heard a woman’s voice say. “What is your emergency?”

“Help me,” I screamed. “Heather Elliott is trying to kill me. Come quickly. 948 Kingston Rd. Suite 402. She’s trying to kill me,” I screamed again.

I looked up to see Heather, knife poised, leering down at me. I scuttled along the floor to the edge of the couch and scrambled to my feet, prepared to run.

Heather suddenly reached down and gave the corner of the couch a firm push, trapping me against the wall.

“Don’t kill me,” I pleaded. “I won’t tell anyone what you did.”

Heather stepped back a bit but her eyes remained glued on me like a hyena eyeing over a wounded lion cub. I was paralyzed with fear, mesmerized by the blood dripping down her arm and the huge knife that was poised to strike. And then I happened to glance down at the couch. Lying in the corner was a little mouse, curled up, a bit shriveled and very dead. I grabbed the mouse by its tail and flung it at Heather.

“Ahh!” she kind of wailed, the knife flailing around as she tried to brush the mouse cooties off her.

She didn’t lose her focus for long. “Enough,” she snarled, and with the knife poised, Heather lunged at me.

And with a crash, she fell to the ground.

“Ha!” said Rose. “Got her good.”

Standing over Heather, my cast iron frying pan in her hand, was Rose.

I clambered over the couch and crouched down to feel Heather’s pulse. “Jesus Rose. I was in such a state, I didn’t even see you there. She’s still alive.”

“Well she’s going to have a hell of a headache.”

“If she ever wakes up. Cast iron? T-fall would have done it.”

“She’s a maniac. Maniac’s have a lot of adrenaline. It takes something heavy to bring them down.”

I could hear the sound of sirens getting closer to my building.

“How about a thank you?” asked Rose. “I saved your life for cripes sake.”

“Thank you. What are you doing up here?”

“Oh I knew you were going to be too soft on her for stealing my tree. I wasn’t having it.”

“She killed Mr. Potter,” I said. “It was Heather all along.”

“I told you!” said Rose in a gratified voice. “What did I say that first day? I said I bet Bambi was involved. And did you listen to me? No you didn’t. Could have saved yourself a whole lot of trouble.”

“I hope they believe me,” I mused.

They believed me. Eventually they believed me. They took me down to the station, and Detective Crowley of the hirsute nostrils listened to my story and studied the picture of Heather brandishing the knife and they checked fingerprints and it turned out Heather’s were all over my bedroom. And there was even a partial one on the murder weapon that forensics had been wondering about. So, eventually, begrudgingly, Det. Crowley believed me. He wasn’t very pleasant about it. There weren’t any effusive thank yous for catching the real killer, but after a lot of interrogation and an intervention from Walter, by Christmas Eve I was officially in the clear.

So on a calm, clear night before Christmas we were all sitting around the fire in Julie and Andrew’s living room, celebrating my return to freedom. Rose was there, and Evan and Mikel, and Sharon had even called from the Turks and Caicos to say Merry Christmas and she hoped to hell this had all blown over before she had to face all her friends.

Rose and Julie and I were feeling pretty pleased with ourselves. I’d told Detective Crowley everything I knew about the underhanded goings on at Secure Your Future and he was going to see that the police looked into it. So we were heroes, more or less. I was out of a job, mind you, but Julie and I were tossing around the idea of maybe setting ourselves up as private investigators. Julie thought the agency would make a nice sideline to the poop scooping business and we do have a knack for detective work. Rose says our slogan should be, “When You Can’t Afford the Best.” Because of course Rose insists on being involved. “Without me, you two were as useless as a screen door on a submarine,” she said.

So maybe Rose too.

And — oh yes — I dropped four pounds without even trying. And they found Boo, safe and sound, and he’s back home with little Madison.

So, on that wonderful Christmas Eve as I gazed around Julie’s living room at these people who were so important to me — plus Mikel — I decided to give a toast. I lifted my glass of barely alcoholic eggnog.

“To all of you,” I said. “Thank you for your support and your love and your unflagging confidence in me. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“God bless us one and all,” said Mikel.

“Thank you Mikel,” I said, with a beatific smile. “That’s a lovely sentiment.”

Just like I promised. It was a whole new me.

• 2 cups all-purpose flour
  
• 1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
  
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
  
• 4-5 very ripe bananas (I keep overripe bananas in the freezer. Just thaw and bake.)
  
• 1 cup sugar (½ brown, ½ white)
  
• 3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) butter, melted and cooled
  
• 2 large eggs
  
• 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
  
• 1/2 cup pecans, toasted for 5 minutes in oven on parchment lined pan and coarsely chopped
  

Directions

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F and grease a 9 by 5-inch loaf pan.

In a bowl, combine the flour, baking soda, and salt; set aside.

Mash 2 of the bananas with a fork in a small bowl so they still have a bit of texture. (If you use melted, frozen bananas there won’t be much in the way of texture, but it will still taste great.) With an electric mixer, whip the remaining bananas and sugar together for 2-3 minutes until you have a fluffy banana cream. Add the melted butter, eggs, and vanilla; beat well and scrape down the sides of the bowl. Mix in the dry ingredients just until blended. Fold in the nuts (not necessary to toast, but nice) and the mashed bananas. Pour the batter into the prepared loaf pan. Give the pan a good rap on the counter to get any air bubbles out.

Bake for about 1 hour and 10 minutes, until golden brown and a toothpick inserted into the center of the loaf comes out clean.

Cool the bread in the pan for 10 minutes or so, and then turn out onto a wire rack to cool completely before slicing with a clean knife.

“Oh honey, you’re losing so much weight. You’re just skin and bones. And look what it’s done to your face. I’m going to get you a nice rich cream to plump you up.”

“She’s not too thin mom. She looks fine.”

That was Sharon. Of course she wouldn’t ever think I was thin. And wasn’t this typical of my family? Talking about me like I wasn’t even in the room. Fortunately I was adept at blocking them out, thinking my own thoughts. They could blather on all they wanted; I had reached a point where they no longer even irritated me. I could float above it, calm and enlightened.

“All I’m saying is some people don’t look their best when they get too thin. Take me for example. I look better with a few extra pounds. Most woman our age look better with a little padding. Fills out the wrinkles.”

“What do you mean our age?” snapped Sharon. “Me and you? All of a sudden we’re the same age?”

“We’re what the French call ‘un femme d’un certain age.’ Forty three — seventy. There’s not much difference.”

“There is a huge difference,” said Sharon. “Huge. I am still in my prime. I could still have a baby if I felt like it.”

“Oh I don’t think so honey,” said Mom. “Maybe a test tube baby, or with a surrogate mother but not a regular penis in the vagina baby.”

“Honestly Mom! Are you even capable of having a conversation any more where you don’t say vagina?” For a doctor, Sharon was quite squeamish about vaginas. But it was true. Ever since my mother became a lesbian, she did seem to have quite a fixation with female genitalia.

The room was so hot I was finding it difficult to ignore my family and think serene thoughts. My head hurt. If I wasn’t so hot and tired and my head wasn’t throbbing I’d take something for the headache. And open a window. I just didn’t have the energy.

“Val,” said my mother. “Val, are you listening?”

Hard not to.

“I want to know what you think of my menu for Easter dinner. Now I know we usually have ham, but I saw a documentary on factory farming and we are no longer going to be eating meat at my table. So I’m thinking a nice kale salad with slivered almonds and then a delicious eggplant parmesan with roasted baby vegetables and maybe a meringue with fresh fruit for dessert. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

It did sound nice. Maybe a little heavy on the fruits and vegetables but Mom was always on the cutting edge of every new food trend and back to the farm was big right now.

“The girls are not going to eat that Mom,” said Sharon. “I’ll bring a mac and cheese for them.”

“You have to expose them to new foods Sharon. Do you want to raise a couple of Philistines?”

“They are eight years old. They’re allowed to not like kale.”

“And dairy will make them phlegmy. Your father had a lot of phlegm. You need to monitor that with the girls.”

“You’re impossible,” said Sharon. “You raised us on Hamburger Helper and Pop Tarts and I can’t feed my kids a nice homemade pasta?”

For once I agreed with my sister. My mother tended to be quite judgmental when it came to how her grandchildren were being raised. She seemed to be under the impression her own mothering had been flawless, which, judging by how Sharon turned out was clearly not the case.

“I am more enlightened now,” said Mom. “But I did the best I could under the circumstances. It wasn’t easy for me you know. Your father wasn’t an easy man. Some days it was all I could do to fry up that hamburger.”