Slay Belles (4 page)

He said, “You going to tell me what happened now?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“You look plenty shaken up. Who’s dead?”

Chapter 4

Later, at Blackbird Farm, after I’d told him everything and spent a couple of tumultuous hours reaffirming life, I once again heard Michael’s unique perspective on crime.

With one shoulder propped against the headboard, he said, “It’s the assistant.”

“You think Darwin killed Popo?” I filed my broken fingernails with an emery board while deciding if we were tired enough to sleep or had just reenergized ourselves for a long night. “Why?”

“The twerp assistant has the best motive. He wanted her job. And he’s probably got access to the security system.”

“But he didn’t have enough time. He locked me in the bathroom, and then— Wait, that’s why you want to see him arrested, right? Because he locked me up?”

Michael grinned slowly. “If he’d hurt you, he’d be in a hell of a lot more trouble.”

“From you? Tell me, Tarzan,” I said, dropping the emery board on the bedside table, “precisely how does your family exact revenge on the reckless fools who mess with your women?”

“Is that what you are now? My woman?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said.

“Nora—”

“Let’s just be happy that you’re not in police custody at the moment, shall we?”

Reminded of our recent argument, he rubbed his face as if to erase the events of the last several days. “They didn’t arrest me. It was the usual drill, a bunch of questions. The whole thing was blown out of proportion in the papers.”

“Michael,” I said with mock solemnity, “please tell me you didn’t throw a dwarf.”

“Monty’s not a dwarf. He may be altitude-challenged, but he’s technically not a dwarf. Anyway, he makes up for his size in orneriness. The crazy son of a bitch has been known to bite. And nobody likes a biter.”

“The papers say his nickname is Monty Python.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t want to know why. He’s liable to show you.”

I had learned not to challenge Michael when it came to matters of taste. “So Monty once worked for the Abruzzo family?”

“For a couple of years, yeah, he did collecting—you know, debts. He was very good at it. He could crawl through doggie doors when customers refused to let him inside.”

“But now he’s going to testify against your father? Over the racketeering thing?”

“He was lined up to testify. But he fell into a Dumpster and got a few bruises.” Michael shrugged. “A junkie snitch told a cop that I— Look, I wasn’t even in the same county at the time.”

“Really?”

“I was at a truck auction with a couple of hundred witnesses, so the cops let me go. Simple.”

“Even I’m not naïve enough to believe it’s simple, Michael. Intimidating a person from testifying against your father’s organization is tampering with a witness. That’s a felony.”

He shrugged. “The police claim he’s being coerced, but they can’t prove it.”

“The papers say somebody stole property of Monty’s and is holding it hostage for his silence. What property might that be?”

For a moment he considered not answering, then said, “An Elvis suit.”

I blinked. “He likes Elvis?”

“Monty’s very big into Elvis. He puts on a little white suit and jumps out of cakes as Elvis. It’s a good line of work when you’re a dwarf.”

“You’ve seen him jump out of a cake dressed like Elvis?”

“Only pictures. It’s mostly a girl thing.”

“You mean he takes off the suit?”

“Parts of it.”

I debated whether to ask Michael if he knew who was currently in possession of the little Elvis jumpsuit and decided I didn’t want to know the answer. He watched me think it over and smiled.

I said, “Just promise me you won’t get your picture taken with him, Elvis costume or not. You’re nearly two feet taller than Monty. The two of you will look like something in Ripley’s Believe It or Not.”

Michael rolled over and pinned me to the pillows. Without his clothes, his body was lean and hard. He said, “I promise. You’re cold again. What do you have against central heating?”

“It’s expensive.”

I’d returned to my family’s drafty homestead when my parents gave me the deed to the family farm. I’d moved into the ramshackle mansion with a firm vow to keep the family legacy out of the hands of land developers, and ever since then I’d fought a hard economic battle. In addition to the estate, my parents handed over to me their delinquent tax bill, which amounted to an impossible two million dollars. After the shock wore off, I’d sold everything of value to organize a tax repayment plan, then gotten a job and drafted Lexie to help me find creative ways to pay the monthly bill. So far, I was keeping my head above water. But barely.

Michael had been the first creative source of income. We’d met when he and a friend purchased five acres of my prime riverfront farmland. I’d received enough money to hang on to Blackbird Farm a little longer, and Michael had promptly built Mick’s Muscle Cars, a used-car lot that I could see from my bedroom window. Since our relationship had evolved, however, I didn’t feel right about accepting money from him. It felt too much like my old life.

Michael said, “Why don’t you move over to my place for the winter? It’s not a palace, but at least we won’t be Popsicles by spring.”

I traced the line of his collarbone with my fingertips and didn’t answer.

He said, “Don’t be upset about Monty. This thing will blow over.”

“And then what?”

“I’m doing my best,” he said, already nibbling his way down my ribs one by one. “It takes a while for the tiger to— What did you say before? To change his stripes?”

“Michael . . .”

“Hmm . . . ?”

His mouth felt better and better, and I sighed. “Never mind.”

Later, we slept tangled up in each other’s limbs, breathing in sync and perhaps dreaming together, too. Only once, when my subconscious mind began to churn with images of Popo’s death, did Michael nudge me awake.

“You’re having a nightmare,” he murmured, half-asleep himself.

I held him tighter and tried to forget about crime.

In the morning, he dressed and went out to buy a newspaper while I showered. In my pajamas and with wet hair, I went downstairs and found coffee made and Michael reading the paper at the kitchen table. He read aloud while I puttered with oatmeal at the stove. Spike trundled his little cart around the kitchen, his front paws propelling him while his hindquarters healed from his accident. When the bell chimed in the front hall, Michael and I exchanged a look.

“Expecting company?” he asked.

“Not at this hour.”

“Want me to get scarce?”

I ruffled his hair. “No need.”

Spike dragged his cart to the entry hall. When I hauled open the front door, I found a former
Penthouse
Pet on the porch.

Cindie Rae Smith glared at the sagging doorjamb and the warped porch floor. “God, does this museum even have indoor plumbing?”

“Hello, Cindie Rae,” I said. “Is it cookie season already?”

Cindie Rae’s morning attire did not resemble a Girl Scout uniform. She wore a hilarious attempt at a business suit—pinstripes with a white blouse that actually bow-tied under her chin. But the jacket barely buttoned around her wasp waist, and her breasts threatened to explode from their prison any moment. The pants were tighter than the skin of a tomato, and she tottered precariously on very high heels. She had managed to stuff the hugeness of her blond hair into a Monica Lewinsky beret. No amount of Botox or plastic surgery on her face could have hidden the fact that she hadn’t slept much since I’d seen her the night before.

“I need to talk to you,” she said.

“I can guess what this is about, Cindie Rae, and I don’t think the police would be pleased to hear we tried to get our stories straight.”

“I don’t care what your story is,” she snapped. “I need your help.”

She pushed past me into the house. “Boy, that’s an ugly dog. Do I smell coffee?”

She headed for the kitchen, hesitating only when she arrived in the butler’s pantry and couldn’t figure out which door to choose. I led the way into the kitchen. Spike followed Cindie Rae, ready to bite her if she made a wrong move.

Michael lowered the newspaper and looked at Cindie Rae over the tops of his reading glasses.

She stopped dead at the sight of him, too. “Oh, wow.”

“Morning.”

“You must be . . .” She simpered, awaiting a formal introduction.

Briskly, I said, “Cindie Rae, this is Michael Abruzzo. Cindie Rae Smith.”

Michael appeared not to notice the jiggle in her blouse or the camel toe in her pants. He picked up the newspaper and went back to reading. I suspected he was playing it safe.

I could almost see the steam rising from Cindie Rae’s overtaxed brain as she desperately tried to figure the best way to engage Michael in a conversation that dealt with her area of expertise. Before she reached a decision, I poured her a cup of hot coffee and pushed it into her hands. “Here you go. Sit down.”

“Thanks.” She took a tentative sip and eased her bottom into the chair opposite Michael’s. She leaned sideways to peer around his newspaper. “I, uh, hope I’m not interrupting.”

“What’s on your mind, Cindie Rae?” I knocked my knuckles on the table to get her attention. “You said you needed my help.”

From behind his paper, Michael shot me a grin.

“Is it safe to have a discussion while . . . we’re not alone?”

“Safe?” I said. “That depends on your definition, I guess. Why don’t you try, and we’ll see what happens?”

Cindie Rae sighed. “I don’t have a choice, is that it? Well, surely you know all about last night. Popo dying, I mean.”

“Popo’s murder, you mean.”

“Right. Somebody said you locked yourself in the bathroom. I’d like to know what you saw before you ran in there.”

“I didn’t run or lock myself anywhere, Cindie Rae. And I’ve already told the police what I heard and saw. If they want to know more, I’m sure they’ll ask.”

“But . . .” She set down her coffee cup. “Okay, I’ll put my cards on the table. Early this morning, the police arrested Alan.”

“Alan!” I sat down hard. “You’re kidding. For Popo’s murder?”

“Yes, they say he’s the only one who could have turned off the electricity and the security systems. How silly is that? My little Pookums wasn’t in the store at all. There’s a tape that shows him leaving. And besides, why would he murder his best sales associate? The store is worthless without Popo.”

“Who told you that?”

“It’s what Alan says. Of course, he could have mentioned that teensy detail a little sooner!” She worked her oversize lower lip into a huge pout. “How was I supposed to know Popo was so damn valuable?”

Michael put the paper down. “Exactly how valuable?”

Perhaps annoyed that Michael hadn’t sufficiently noticed her yet, Cindie Rae unbuttoned her jacket to reveal her weapons of mass seduction. “Alan says other retail companies have offered to buy Haymaker’s, but only if Popo’s employment contract was renewed.”

“And now that Popo is dead?” I prompted. “The store is less valuable?”

“She sold a lot of shit,” Cindie Rae said. “Apparently, she was more important than I thought she was.”

“So why did the police arrest Alan?” I asked.

“Because there’s a tape. The same one that shows when he left the store. Earlier in the evening, Alan and Popo had a big fight. And it was caught on one of the security cameras.”

“What kind of fight?”

“A lot of yelling, that’s all I know.” Cindie Rae directed her answers to Michael, although I had been the one asking questions.

I said, “I presume Alan has a lawyer?”

“God, yes, the executive suite is crawling with them.”

“Not a corporate lawyer, a criminal lawyer.”

“Why would he want a criminal lawyer?” She dragged her attention away from Michael to frown at me. “Oh, I get it! You don’t mean a criminal who’s a lawyer, you mean—”

“Cindie Rae, what exactly do you want from me?”

Michael got up from the table and ambled over to the stove to stir the oatmeal. Cindie Rae watched him with a carnivorous expression. “Alan says you can figure out how that Pinkerton woman killed Popo.”

“Pinky? That’s ridiculous.”

Sensing I might turn her down, Cindie Rae focused the full force of her personality on me at last. “Alan says you’ll do it because you’re old friends. He says you can do a better job than the police. And you heard what she said last night.”

“I’m sure Pinky never meant—”

“She’s a menace! She shouldn’t be walking around. She killed
both
her husbands, didn’t she? She’s as bad as you Blackbirds.”

We heard a clatter as Michael dropped the wooden spoon.

I said, “Her husbands died of natural causes, Cindie Rae.”

“That’s the official story, but she has friends in high places. She probably bought her way out of both of those murder charges. I saw it on re-runs of
Stripperella
once. Pamela Anderson figured it out. It shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

“Miracles do happen.” I sighed. “I don’t know, Cindie Rae.”

“You should ask around. You’re naturally nosy, right? And my Pookums seems to think you’re relatively smart.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly. “But—”

“He said you’d help. He said you valued friendship very highly, and you’d prove Mrs. Pinkerton did it because you’re a nice person.”

I stewed for a moment. I liked Alan, and I was sorry to hear he’d been arrested. Although I was reasonably sure Pinky hadn’t laid a finger on Popo, it wouldn’t hurt anyone to ask a few questions. And, frankly, I wanted to know who had locked me in the bathroom.

I didn’t realize I was frowning.

Michael said, “I know that expression.”

“Oh,” said Cindie Rae brightly. “Have you seen my Web site?”

Chapter 5

While I dressed in a suit that had belonged to my grandmother—a woman of discerning fashion sense and a penchant for trips to Paris to indulge her taste—Michael rearranged his schedule for the afternoon. When I went downstairs, he told me he liked the Dior skirt.

“I wish I’d had a chance to see the old girl wear these duds.” Michael touched my skirt, perhaps to better judge the tailoring, but I doubted it. “She must have been almost as easy on the eyes as you.”

As he drove me over to the Main Line, the winter sun shone bright and warm through the windshield. Michael took the back roads out of Bucks County. Occasionally he interrupted our conversation to speak on his cell phone to various business associates. I couldn’t help thinking he had begun to sound like a mogul.

When he disconnected for the last time, I said, “Are you starting another business?”

Among his many concerns, Michael ran a used-car dealership, a motorcycle garage with an attached tattoo parlor, a fly-fishing outfitter, a limousine service, a grass-growing venture called the Marquis de Sod, and, of course, Gas ‘n’ Grub, a gas station that had blossomed into an enormously successful chain of gasoline and convenience stores. While I scraped every penny that came my way, Michael was suddenly swimming in money.

He said, “I’m thinking of investing in automotive parts.”

“Factory authorized?”

“Used.”

“Do I want to know anything about that?”

“It’s perfectly legal,” he said. “Tell me about the woman we’re going to see.”

“Pinky Pinkerton. She used to play doubles with my grandparents.”

“Doubles?”

“Tennis,” I said. I checked on Spike in my handbag and found him snoozing peacefully. “She had a serve that looked as if it had been fired from a bazooka. Pinky could play just about any sport, as a matter of fact. If she’d been born in another era, she’d probably have become a professional athlete. Her granddaughter is an up-and-coming pro golfer. Kerry Pinkerton. Have you heard of her?”

“Uh, we didn’t follow golf at the correctional institution.”

“Did you follow Cindie Rae’s career instead?”

He smiled at the road. “Probably. I don’t remember her.”

“You didn’t look at their faces?”

“She’s had a lot of work done on her face, hasn’t she?”

“And a few other places. She hardly looks human to me. Did you find her attractive?”

“Is there any way I’m going to come out good in this conversation?”

“Probably not.”

He patted my knee. “You’re the one who makes my temperature rise, sweetheart. Besides, she could be one of your suspects, right?”

“Technically, yes,” I said. “Pinky made threats against Popo, but not as vicious as the ones Cindie Rae made.”

“Would Cindie Rae have a motive to kill the shopping lady?”

“Only to get her hands on more merchandise, which seems a little flimsy. And why would she come to me for help if she was the one who murdered Popo? Or was she fishing for information?”

“I don’t think she’s on the short list for any Nobel prizes. Anyway, I still like the assistant.”

“We’ll find Darwin next. But first— Oh, turn here.”

“Here?” Michael peered up through the windshield at a set of iron gates pinned open to reveal a long, meandering driveway paved with cobblestones. “What is this? A monastery or something?”

“It’s the Pinkerton house. Careful. Pinky has a gazillion little dogs. If you hit one, you’ll have to move out of the country.”

Michael turned the car into the shady lane. “Is that a golf course?”

“Just three holes. It’s very pretty in the springtime.” I pointed. “See the barn? They used to keep Shetland ponies there. My cousin Brophy and Pinky’s son Kelpy were best friends, and Brophy brought me here a few times.”

“Why can’t you people have normal names?”

“Like Big Frankie and Monty Python? Or Johnny the Cap and—”

“Okay, okay. Which way?”

We had come to a fork in the driveway. I indicated a left turn, and we arrived a moment later at a wide curve of cobblestones in front of a tall house fashioned after a Norman abbey. A stone statue of a medieval pilgrim stood by the front door, his hands outstretched to accept a tithe or to hold the reins of a visitor’s horse.

I rang the bell and heard it echo inside the vast house.

A chorus of barking convinced us the doorbell had been heard. A minute later the door was opened by a wizened man wearing an apron printed with
KISS THE COOK
. Half a dozen little pug dogs swarmed around the dusty bedroom slippers on his feet, panting and barking in hoarse hysteria. Their agitation whipped up a distinctly doggie smell. Bunton, the Pinkertons’ aged butler, bore the pandemonium with Zen-like calm. I always suspected he was partially deaf.

“Hello, Bunton,” I shouted over the ruckus. “I’m Nora Blackbird, here to see Pinky. Is she at home?”

Bunton gave Michael a slow blink, then stepped aside and waved us indoors.

As we stepped across the threshold, Spike heard the call of his brethren and poked his head out of my Balenciaga bag. Michael prevented bloodshed by scooping Spike out of the bag and pinning the puppy in the crook of his elbow.

Making no effort to make himself heard over the yelping pugs, Bunton turned and scuffed down a long, black-and-white checkerboard marble corridor lined with faded tapestries and some very ugly Victorian furniture. As Michael and I followed, I noticed the ball-and-claw feet of the chairs and tables had been chewed almost to oblivion.

We passed a faded dining room with a crusty chandelier and a library with few books and dozens of sporting trophies, until we finally arrived in a large solarium at the back of the house. Bunton opened the beveled glass doors.

Lined with tall windows and packed with too many yellow sofas, the solarium had obviously been decorated by an interior designer who planned the whole room around the vivid yellow dress on the woman depicted in a life-size portrait over the mantel. She was a leggy brunette swinging a golf club—Pinky in her youth. The painter had captured the tensile strength in her lean yellow-clad body, and the decorator drew attention to it by his color choices in the room. Now the furniture was faded, but the yellow dress in the portrait shone as brightly as the day it was painted.

It had been a lovely room at one time, but today the place looked worn and smelled strongly of dogs.

Bunton paused in the doorway. “Miss Nora Blackbird, ma’am, and friend.”

The pugs pushed past Bunton and raced into the solarium. They leaped onto the lemon-yellow furniture, snarling and yapping at each other for the best seats in the house.

Pinky Pinkerton sat in state in the middle of one of the yellow sofas with a lap desk across her knees. Two more ancient pugs flanked her, snuggled up to her legs and snoring wheezily. As we stepped into the room, Pinky dropped an ice pack down into the cushions of the sofa.

“Good God.” She waved us off. “Bunton, show them out immediately. I’m not to be disturbed this afternoon.”

Perhaps the cacophony of barking prevented him from hearing correctly, because Bunton muttered something inaudible and departed back the way we’d come.

I took my cue from Bunton and walked across the solarium, pretending I didn’t hear her command. “Hello, Pinky,” I said cheerily. “Sorry to bother you today!”

“I’m busy.” She indicated the piles of paperwork.

“My goodness, what a mess.” I knelt on the carpet and picked up some of the paper scattered there. Bills, I noted with a quick glance. From a hotel chain, a sporting-goods store, and a suburban boutique. On the lap desk lay a pair of scissors, and I realized Pinky was cutting coupons from the newspaper.

I put the bills back onto her little desk. “Here you go, Pinky. You’ve got quite a project going here. Can I help in any way?”

“Of course not. I can manage quite well.” To prove her mettle, Pinky picked up her scissors and brandished them. But her grip faltered, and she bobbled the scissors.

Still on the floor, I picked them up for her. “You’ve hurt your wrist, Pinky.”

“It’s nothing,” she snapped, covering her bruised hand and wrist with the sheaf of bills. “I’ve had worse injuries. It’s just a bump.”

“Here’s your ice pack.” I passed her the pack, then sat on the plush sofa opposite her.

Brusquely, Pinky accepted the cold bundle. “Young man, what are you doing over there?”

Michael had strolled to a library table that displayed three golf trophies—all of them deep silver bowls etched with a woman driving a golf ball into the distance. Absently, he stroked Spike’s head to keep him quiet. “This is a lot of hardware.”

“Yes, it is. Don’t get any fingerprints on them.”

“Did you win all these?”

“Of course not. Can’t you read the dates? Those belong to my granddaughter. This year she’ll start winning the big tournaments. You mark my words.”

“She must take after you.” Michael tipped his head toward the portrait above the mantel. “Can she beat you yet?”

“Certainly she can. Kerry’s much better than I ever was. Of course, I taught her a few things.”

He sauntered back to us. “I bet you still teach her things.”

Pinky bit back a small smile. “Maybe I do,” she said. “Come over here.”

Michael obeyed, standing above her and rocking back on his heels as he held Spike captive in one arm. “Close enough?”

She put on her glasses and gave him a long appraisal that ended with his face. “Maybe too close,” she said at last. “You’re nothing to write home about, are you?”

“You’re not so hot yourself anymore.”

She took off her glasses again. “You look as if you could swing a club, though. Do you play?”

“Golf?” He shook his head. “The closest I get to a country club is . . . well, nothing you want to hear about.”

She snorted. “You think I don’t know what men do outside the gates when they have to cover their side bets? Is that what you do? Finance weakness?”

With a shrug, he said, “I do a little of this, a little of that.”

“Hmph. Well, I can see you’ve got good red blood in your veins, none of this thin blue stuff.” She pointed her scissors in my direction. “What are you doing here, may I ask?”

He nodded at me. “I go where she says.”

Pinky seemed to relax. She shifted her fierce gaze to me. “All right, Miss Blackbird. If he isn’t here to collect a debt, I can guess what brings you to my doorstep. But I’ll tell you right up front—I’m not going to spill anything to the police that didn’t really happen.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to do that, Pinky. Have you spoken with the police?”

“Of course. They were here first thing this morning. Woke up Kerry, in fact.” Pinky’s fingertips slipped to the bruise on her wrist. “She’s in training and needs her sleep. So I told them what happened, and they left in good order.”

“I wonder if you’d mind telling me what happened last night?” I asked. “After you left Popo’s salon, I mean. Did you see her in the store?”

Pinky eyed me with suspicion. “Why do you want to know? Are you helping that milquetoast, Alan Rutledge? I hear he got himself arrested.”

“I don’t think he killed Popo. Do you?”

“I doubt it. That boy was under his mama’s thumb too long to have enough gumption to hurt a fly. He’s not much of a man, is he?” She couldn’t help glancing up at Michael as he sauntered over to the tall windows with Spike.

I said, “If Alan didn’t kill Popo, the real killer is still on the loose. And from what happened in Popo’s salon last night, I’m guessing she was murdered by someone who was there. I heard some very ugly talk.”

Pinky’s fierce gaze sharpened. “Are you accusing me?”

“No. But I wonder if you know something about Darwin, something that maybe you didn’t tell the police.”

“Popo’s assistant? That little mole with the pointy nose?” Pinky bristled. “I only know him as Popo’s gatekeeper.”

“I couldn’t help noticing that you . . . well, you tried to give him some cash.”

“A Christmas gratuity,” she said quickly. “I’m as generous as possible during the holidays, especially to service people.”

“But he reacted as if you were trying to bribe him.”

“I did no such thing!” Pinky moved with such agitation that her lap desk overturned and landed on top of one of the sleeping pugs. He snarled, but subsided when Pinky put her hand soothingly on his back. More calmly, she said, “It was a tip, that’s all. Can I help it if he refused? He’s been in trouble at that store, so he’s probably playing it safe.”

“Do you know about his trouble?”

“Only gossip, which you don’t expect me to repeat, I’m sure.”

“Of course not.”

“He nearly lost his job before,” Pinky said promptly. “He was in hot water over some missing merchandise. Even Popo suspected he was the culprit.”

“Did you hear that from Popo herself?”

She looked uneasy. “I don’t remember. But Popo disliked her assistant. I believe she was trying to get him fired.”

“How do you know that?”

Before Pinky had time to respond, we were interrupted by the arrival of Kerry Pinkerton, a tall, powerfully built young woman with none of her grandmother’s natural physical grace, but plenty of brute strength showing in her shoulders.

She strode into the room without noticing me. “Where the hell is Bunton?” she demanded. “He was supposed to have my towels ready when—”

“Hello.” I stood up. “You must be Kerry. I’m Nora Blackbird. What a pleasure to meet you.”

I moved to shake her hand, but Kerry skidded to a stop several yards away. Dressed in damp running clothes, she had pulled her dark hair back into a no-nonsense ponytail to exercise. Her face, suntanned and shining with perspiration, had a stormy set to the jaw and brow, but I saw her throw a mental switch that engaged her professional expression instantly—a bland smile, a superior tilt to her nose, no light in her hazel-eyed gaze.

“Hello,” she said coolly, keeping her distance. “I hope you don’t mind if I skip the handshake. I have to keep my grip healthy for the tour.”

“Of course. Congratulations on your success. Your grandmother tells me you’re going to be a big winner this year.”

Kerry walked closer, hands on hips, her athletic stride long-legged and loose. Her running shoes were caked with wet crumbs of dirt, as if she’d been jogging on the grounds of the estate. Ignoring the carpet, she came close enough to loom over her grandmother. “Really?” Her voice had an edge. “What else have you been saying about me, Gramma?”