Death on a Platter (11 page)

Dark clouds hid the sun now. The wind whipped the leaves into small fiery tornadoes. The weather was turning cold. A fat raindrop plopped on the bench as they ran toward Ted’s orange Mustang.

Rain slashed Josie’s Honda. The wind battered its small body and nearly blew the car sideways. She clung to the steering wheel and dodged a downed tree limb. At a red light, she scrubbed her fogged windshield with a tissue, but it didn’t help. Josie could hardly see through the storm.

She could hardly see where she was going with Ted, either. After their tiff at the park, Josie and Ted had run to his car, dodging raindrops. They were laughing once they were inside his ’68 orange Mustang, cushioned by the leather bucket seats. Josie loved his warm man smell—coffee and cinnamon with a dash of wood smoke—in the closed car. Before he started the engine, Ted kissed her again, then licked the raindrops off her eyelids. The windows had fogged.

“No,” she said. “I really do have to get to my car and pick up Amelia.” It took all her strength—moral and maternal—to push him away. Josie remembered those stories of fear-maddened mothers who’d lifted whole cars to save their babies. That’s what it felt like to refuse Ted. She wanted to spend the afternoon making love in that car—hot, hasty, hormonal love.

You’re a mother with responsibilities, she told herself. You’re too old to be lovesick.

“Josie, I really do love you,” Ted said.

“I love you, too,” Josie said. Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked.

Was she? “No,” she said. “I just wanted you to understand.”

“I do,” he said. “I needed reminding. That’s all.”

So do I, Josie thought. I need to remind myself my tween daughter is waiting for me at the Barrington School for Boys and Girls.

Josie wiped away the condensation on Ted’s windows and he drove the few blocks to her home. By the time he reached Phelan Street, the trees whipped restlessly and fat leaves were plastered to the windshield. The sky had turned so black the streetlights came on.

“Looks like tornado weather,” Ted said. “The sky is green.”

“I don’t hear the warning sirens,” Josie said. But the storm made her feel uneasy. She was anxious to get to Amelia and protect her. Maternal instinct had trumped hormones.

“There’s my car. Gotta go!” She kissed Ted lightly, then ran for her Honda. If the rain held off, she could pick up Amelia with time to spare.

The storm wasn’t all that made Josie uneasy. She was in love with Ted. Soon she would have to decide if she wanted to marry him. Amelia adored Ted, but what would happen when she turned into a surly teenager? Would Ted be a steadying influence, or would he make it more difficult for Josie to bring up her daughter? What if he didn’t want a teenager around? He said he liked Amelia—now—but people changed after marriage.

I’ll have to make up my mind soon, she thought, or our romance will wither and die.

She was almost grateful when the storm broke about a mile from Barrington and she could no longer think about her love life. As the rain pounded down, Josie flipped on the headlights and inched up the school’s semicircular drive, careful not to hit the children sprinting for their family cars. She crawled past the humpbacked shapes of SUVs, each holding a waiting mother. Luxury vehicles were second cars at the upscale school.

She made out a Hummer’s blinker flashing dimly through the rain and pumped her brakes to slow her car. The dark, bulky monster powered out of its parking slot, confident it couldn’t be hurt. Josie tapped her horn to let the driver know she was behind her. Another ding wouldn’t make a difference on Josie’s ancient Honda, but hellfire would rain down if she scratched a trophy vehicle.

Josie didn’t fit in at Barrington. The other mothers never let her forget that she was a single mom who worked a low-paying, no-status job. Josie tried not to care.

Amelia was a scholarship student. Barrington prided itself on its diversity. Living in Maplewood, a red-brick suburb more than a hundred years old, made Amelia a “city kid.” She was an exotic species in the rich, sheltered suburbs where women bragged that they hadn’t been downtown in years.

Even with a scholarship, Amelia’s schooling wasn’t free. Josie used a small legacy from her aunt and occasional help from Amelia’s Canadian grandfather. Jane would pick up Amelia after school in a pinch, but she disapproved of Barrington. Jane wanted Amelia in a Catholic school.

Amelia seemed to thrive at Barrington. She was stronger and more mature than Josie had been at her age. Josie had winced when the mean girls at her high school made fun of her mother’s styleless purse as a “cleaning lady’s bag.” When an overprivileged Barrington child had asked Amelia if their dented Honda was the maid’s car, Amelia had shrugged off the insult.

“Her daddy better leave her a bunch of money, because she’s too dumb to make her own,” she told her mother.

Josie watched her daughter carefully for signs that she felt slighted or bullied, but Amelia seemed at home there. Josie would shrug off the petty slights to give her daughter the best possible education.

She was determined that Amelia would dress as well as the other students. Josie stalked the sale racks so her daughter was as stylish as her classmates. Her mystery-shopper skills helped her achieve that goal.

Josie pulled into the Hummer’s recently vacated slot and a loudspeaker blared, “Amelia Marcus!” Barrington students didn’t rush out of the school in packs. They were announced, and only when their ride had arrived. They could be picked up only by designated drivers. Anyone else needed written permission, filed at the office in advance.

She saw her daughter’s yellow hoodie bobbing through the downpour. Amelia opened the car door, flopped into the passenger seat, and dumped her backpack on the floor.

“Awesome storm,” she said. The rain had plastered Amelia’s bangs to her forehead.

She still allowed her mother to kiss her, and Josie was grateful. Amelia no longer had the sweet smell of a little girl. Now Josie caught the strawberry scent of her shampoo.

“You’re just like your father,” Josie said. “He loved bad weather. We used to go out on the balcony at his apartment and watch the wind and rain until we were drenched. Even when the tornado sirens were blaring, he didn’t want to go inside. One night, a barbecue grill sailed past us on the second floor.”

“Daddy was fearless,” Amelia said proudly.

And reckless, Josie thought. That same disregard for risk led Nate to fly drugs into the US and get arrested and sent to a Canadian prison. It also made him an ardent and inventive lover. Josie remembered making rainy day love while thunder crashed and lightning lit up the bedroom, but she couldn’t say that to her eleven-year-old.

“Am I like him?” Amelia asked.

That was the opening Josie had been waiting for. The storm had eased to a light shower. Josie turned onto the wider, safer lanes of Lindbergh Boulevard. Time for that mother-daughter talk.

“You’re brave like he was,” Josie said. “It takes courage to go to a school like Barrington on a scholarship. You have your father’s brown hair and eyes. It’s a richer color than mine.”

Amelia’s smile was as bright as her yellow hoodie.

“You have his freckles, too. I noticed you covered them up with my makeup when Ted made us dinner.”

“Freckles are fugly,” Amelia said, her face sullen.

“Please don’t use that word,” Josie said.

“Why?”

“You know why. It’s a contraction of the F-word and ugly. And freckles are not ugly. Rashida Jones has them.”

“She was Karen in
The Office.
The cute one who got dumped for Pam,” Amelia said.

The cute one. That was progress, Josie thought.

“That’s her,” she said. “Her parents are Quincy Jones and Peggy Lipton from
Twin Peaks.
Rashida could cover up her freckles or laser them off, but she doesn’t. Neither does Emma Watson. A few freckles didn’t keep her out of the Harry Potter movies.”

“Okay, I get it,” Amelia said. “You’ve been surfing the Internet for ways to make me feel better about myself.”

Josie stopped at a red light. A pale yellow sun peeked through the clouds.

“Busted,” Josie said. “I also found out that Miley Cyrus has no freckles.” She grinned at her daughter. Amelia hated Miley.

“She smoked salvia in a bong,” Amelia said, her lip curling in disgust. “The light’s green.”

Josie figured she’d made her point. “Are you and Grandma having a cooking class at her place tonight?” Josie asked.

“I’m worried about Grandma.” Amelia was talking too fast. Josie’s daughter seemed eager to distract her from the uncomfortable subject of freckles, covered or uncovered. “We were supposed to make stuffed steak. Now Grandma says we’re making deviled egg casserole instead.”

“It sounds rich but good,” Josie said.

“It’s lame and disgusting,” Amelia said. “We’ve made eggs for the last two classes, Mom. Eggs are cheap. We used to fix meat and fish. We’d make pork chops, catfish, sirloin tip roast, even stuffed peppers. Now she’s teaching me about cooking on a budget.”

“That’s good,” Josie said.

“Maybe. But we couldn’t make that frittata until Grandma found twenty-seven cents in the couch cushions so she could buy a dozen eggs. I think Grandma needs money.”

“I see.”

Josie didn’t like what she saw. Jane had had a shopping addiction, an uncontrollable urge to buy things she didn’t need or want from the Home Shopping Network. Jane’s closets and the spare bedroom had been crammed with lamps that switched on by clapping, collectible dolls, even ankle bracelets.

Jane had almost bankrupted herself with her addiction. She knew the UPS drivers by name and the times of their deliveries. She had neglected her home, her friends, and herself.

To Josie’s relief, her mother finally realized she had a problem. She saw a counselor for more than a year. The treatment seemed to be successful. Jane had stopped seeing the counselor three months ago. Was she backsliding? Jane had been fixing herself an omelet when Josie saw her at noon.

She hadn’t noticed any signs that Jane’s shopping addiction had returned. She didn’t see the telltale piles of UPS packages on the porch this afternoon, but she’d been running for her car.

I thought that problem was solved, Josie thought. I knew it was too easy. Or maybe Jane was just temporarily short of cash. It happened to Josie often enough.

“I don’t want to take advantage of Grandma,” Josie said. “Maybe we could help by buying the groceries for your class.”

“I told her I could shop for the food, Mom, but Grandma said she could handle it. She sounded mad that I even brought it up. That’s why I’m worried.”

“Me, too,” Josie said. About a lot of things.

“I still think I should go with you,” Jane said. She stepped in front of Josie, barring her way to her daughter’s front door.

Josie neatly sidestepped around her mother, a sure sign that Jane still wasn’t quite herself. A hunk of hair stuck out over her left ear. Jane had failed to tame it with hairspray. Josie wondered if her fastidious mother would wait two more days for her standing hair appointment or call for an emergency fix.

“Mom, we’ve been through this,” Josie said. “Tillie can only have two visitors a week and she wants to see Lorena tomorrow.”

“I know. I just think I could help if I was there.” Jane had the stubborn bulldog look that Josie dreaded.

“I’m sure you could,” Josie lied. “But I promised I’d help Tillie and I need to talk to her right away.”

“I could wait in the car at the jail,” Jane said.

“I need you to be here with Amelia. I still don’t trust her to stay alone after she went off the reservation last winter. I’ll be fine, Mom. Downtown Clayton is safe and there are police all over.”

“Well, those people make me nervous,” Jane said.

“What people?”

“The ones you’ll be standing in line with at the jail.”

“Mom, they didn’t commit any crime. They’re just visitors. I’ve been in that line before. They’re tired, unlucky people.”

“But they’re seeing criminals,” Jane said. “Drug dealers, robbers, murderers.”

“Murderers like Tillie?” Josie said. “She’ll attract a vicious crowd.”

“You know what I mean,” Jane said.

It was mean to tease Mom, Josie thought. Jane was frantic about her friend, and rightly so. Jail was a hardship and a humiliation, especially at Tillie’s age. Josie wondered if a person could die of shame.

“I do know, Mom, but we can’t change the county rules. You can see Tillie next week. I promise to give you a full report tonight. I’ll come straight home, no stops. Now, GBH?”

Jane refused to budge.

“Family rules,” Josie said. She stepped forward and folded her small, stubborn mother into her arms. GBH stood for Great Big Hug. After a disagreement, if one called GBH, a hug was required, no matter how angry the Marcus women felt.

Josie felt her mother’s stiff spine soften slightly and rubbed her back.

“I’m just so worried about Tillie,” Jane said. “She’s not young anymore. Some of those women in that jail are vicious, and you know it. Some are guilty. They’ll enjoy tormenting an old woman, like bad boys enjoy hurting cats. Those guards can’t be everywhere.”

Josie was touched. For her mother to call a friend her age an old woman was a huge admission.

“I’ll do my best to help her. I promise.” She kissed Jane and heard her mother sniffling.

Josie reached into her coat pocket. “Here’s a tissue, Mom.”

Jane wiped her eyes and said, “I’m not crying. I’m coming down with a cold.”

“That happens in this changeable weather.” Josie wanted to leave her mother with some dignity.

“I think I’ll take Stuart Little for a walk,” Jane said. “A brisk walk will cure a cold.” She called down the hallway, “Amelia, are you coming with me? I’m walking the dog.”