CHAPTER EIGHT

Before I left Jimmy’s, I snuck back in the house and found him and Max baking bread. Max was dusted in flour, and the countertop was a mess. This setup was ideal. Jimmy had something else to focus on, and Max was even happier than if he’d had Phyllis around to insult. Plus, I’d had enough of Max’s hovering for one day.

It wasn’t like I was Wonder Woman with her cool gold headband and boots, ready to take on the world alone. To tell the truth, I couldn’t get past the jitters after guessing Ziggy’s deadly plan. But I had to be brave. I had to put an end to this madness where this whacko was concerned. And though I loved Max, he was no Robin. Then again, I was no Batman either. But he was better off where he was…baking. The last thing I needed was a quasi crusader hindering my footsteps. I gave a decisive nod at my bold course of action and carried on.

By the time I got to my parents’, it was late afternoon. Not exactly an hour later as I’d promised. And if I hadn’t been so busy rummaging through cookbooks for clues instead of being the dutiful daughter, I would’ve given my mother a call to say I’d be late. As for the artwork on the salon window—another reason why I was delayed—I’d keep that bulletin to myself.

Before I went in to face the music, I shut off the engine, tossed my keys in my bag, and pulled out my phone. I wasn’t sure how Max would feel about being abandoned, but it wasn’t fair to ditch him without an explanation.

“You’d better get right back here, missy!” Seems he wasn’t too thrilled with being deserted.

“You were busy getting that bread machine up and running.” I grabbed my bag, took a cursory glance over my shoulder, ruling out that I was being paranoid, and trekked into the garage. “And I’m not going to be alone. I’ll have Tantig with me. We’re going to Kuruc’s and coming right back here. So stop worrying. I’ll call you later, okay? If you need a ride home, I’ll come back for you.”

“Promise?”

I warmed at his devotion to me and did a three-finger salute, not that he could see it. “Scout’s honor.”

“You weren’t a scout,” he grumbled. “You weren’t even a Brownie.”

Boy. Appreciative or what. I hung up and click-clacked to the door, hoping my mother wouldn’t be too upset by my tardiness.

My parents live in a long, ranch-style house with lots of bathrooms and no shortage of bedrooms. I’d grown up in a much smaller home in a busier neighborhood. When I moved out, they bought a house with more land and fewer neighbors because two people with no secrets needed lots of privacy. This place had never been “home” to me since I’d never lived here, but in a sense, wherever my parents lived would always be home.

I stepped into the house, the usual smell of cleaning agents replaced by the aroma of cinnamon, vanilla, and cloves. Fortunately, my mother and Tantig had been so busy baking, my presence wasn’t missed. But what about the grape leaves? My mother had specifically called about the trip for these earlier.

She looked up at me, spatula in hand, apron around her waist. “What happened to your hair?”

I dropped my bag by the door and scrutinized myself in the hallway mirror. Cripes. I flattened my crown again and twisted my hair back off my shoulders. “Nothing.”

“Nothing.” She wiped her free hand on her apron. “Looks like you got electrocuted.”

“Fine. I got electrocuted.”

“Don’t be smart.” She handed Tantig the spatula and walked over to me, focusing on my face. “Why is your eye makeup smudged? I’ve never seen you with smudged makeup.”

“Mom! I didn’t come by for an inspection. I’m here to pick up Tantig.”

She turned her head to the kitchen clock and back at me. “You’re a bit late.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that.” Not wanting to open the floor for discussion on the reasons why I was late, I marched to the closet, grabbed Tantig’s coat, and folded it over a kitchen chair. Then I slipped a kiss on her cheek and said we could go now.

Tantig was in one of her usual polyester printed dresses, her hands were caked with dough, and her white hair was rumpled. I could fix Tantig’s hair so she looked like a movie star, and the next day it’d be sticking out in every direction like Einstein’s.

I took the spatula from Tantig and handed it back to my mother. Then I led Tantig over to the kitchen sink to wash her hands, keeping the conversation with my mother light. “We shouldn’t be more than an hour,” I said with as much conviction as I could muster, considering my mother was glaring at me over my shoulder.

“Don’t pretend that nothing happened today.” She crossed her arms, spatula standing straight up in her hand like a machete.

“What are you talking about?” I feigned a childlike innocence.

“The murder at Jimmy’s restaurant.”

Sheesh. “How did you hear about that?”

“Half the town knows.” She tapped her foot for emphasis. “Even Holly knows, and she’s at some drug enforcement conference in Washington this week.”

Holly is my older sister who also happens to be a police detective. She came out of the womb on Christmas Day three years before I appeared on Valentine’s Day. My parents thought they were being original when they picked our names. But for babies born on special occasions, it could’ve been worse. Holly could’ve been named Snowy or Frosty or Donner or Blitzen. And I could’ve been honored with a host of romantic terms, the most notable, Cupid. This did, however, have a cute ring to it.

Knowing Holly was away did pose a problem since I could often rely on her help when certain nameless detectives kept me at bay.

My mother gave one of her loud ahems, bringing me out of my daze. “Romero also called, looking for you. I told him you weren’t here.”

Thank heavens for that. Speaking of nameless detectives, I wasn’t completely trying to avoid Romero, but he wouldn’t be too happy with me after I’d hung up on him. I was hoping absence would make the heart grow fonder, but I was only fooling myself. I had new information for him, too, about the journal. I’d deliver that when I was sure he wouldn’t kill me first…before Stoaks had a chance to.

Putting that thought to rest, I gazed at my mother. Her soft brown hair was pinned back, a daring streak of flour stuck to a sliver of gray. I smiled inside, remembering about a month ago when she’d had her hair done in the shop and Jimmy had wandered in. Jimmy thought my mother was riiiiighteous because she always had a plate of cookies ready if he ever materialized when she was there.

“So?” She gestured with the spatula. “How’d he look?”

“How’d who look?”

She whacked the spatula on the counter with impatience. “Jimmy’s cousin.”

“He looked dead. How do you think he looked?”

“I don’t know. When you find these bodies, there’s always a story behind it. You never find normal dead people. They’re either tangled in cords, covered in food, or frozen like a Popsicle.”

I didn’t know what normal dead people looked like, but I wasn’t about to tell her Dooley had been stuffed in a barrel and shot in the head. Some things were better left unsaid.

Ditto on this morning’s dildo-and-perm-rod delivery. If my mother suspected I was the victim of foul play, I’d never hear the end of it. Bad enough I was coming to grips with this myself, I didn’t need well-intentioned fretting from loved ones to keep me company. I’d already escaped further interference from Max—and Romero—on that score. Jock, too. Of course, there was my future ride on his Harley to worry about.

“You live your life like Rhoda Morgenstern.” My mother raised her palm to the ceiling. “Carefree yet daring.”

“Who?” I gaped at her like I was supposed to understand her sudden one-eighty.

“Mary’s best friend from ‘The Mary Tyler Moore Show.’” She gestured like I should’ve known who she was talking about. “Scarves on your head. Scarves on your windows. Beanbag chairs. Jeweled lamps.”

I held up a finger. “I only have one beanbag chair.”

Her face went deadpan. “Your life is like a TV show. The only thing missing is a husband. Someone who’ll keep you from getting into these messes.”

I’d seen enough TV reruns to argue the point. “From what I remember, Rhoda did get married…and she still got into trouble.”

She eyed me grimly. “I don’t recall Rhoda ever finding dead bodies in a restaurant.”

“Maybe she didn’t eat out.”

The sharp silence told me she wasn’t pleased with my humor. “The Wee Irish Goat was one of our favorites, too.” She looked over at my great-aunt. “Wasn’t it, Tantig?”

Tantig stood like a statue, watching my mother and me go at it. “They did not have kay-bob on the menu.” She rolled her eyes in disgust at this culinary oversight.

My mother gave a patient sigh. “Shish kebab is an Armenian dish. They didn’t have it on the menu because the restaurant was Irish-Italian.”

“They should’ve had kay-bob.” That said it all for Tantig. She wasn’t impressed by Irish, Italian…or Chinese cuisine. She’d immigrated to the U.S. as a young woman during hard times, and her heart and tastes still belonged in the old country.

“The restaurant has a new owner and a new name. The Wee Irish Dude.” My mother helped Tantig on with her coat. “And there’s been a murder there.”

“Who-hk cares?” She made the scraping noise in her throat that always trailed the word who.

Tantig wasn’t one to mince words. It wasn’t that she was heartless in the face of another murder. Her interests just didn’t stretch beyond the weather channel or soap operas. If she never saw Jimmy’s new restaurant or never learned more about the slaying, she wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. With that, she turned her back on us, picked her patent leather purse off the floor, and trundled out the door.