Chapter Ten

Thursday morning Libby phoned Mae to confirm the doctor’s appointment.

“I’m not sure why you keep calling, Elizabeth?” Mae grumbled. “I said I’d be ready at three and I will. Are you afraid I’ll skip the country or something?”

“Siberia’s nice this time of year,” Libby snapped. “Need a ride to the airport?”

“There’s no need to get snippy.”

“There’s no need to get defensive.”

Mae sighed. “Just be on time, I’ll be ready.”

Hanging up, Libby clicked a leash on Stump and set off for a mind-clearing walk. Rhyme’s postcard-perfect shoreline was the ideal spot to regain composure and prepare for a day with Mae.

A mile from home, Nichols Lighthouse stood surrounded by caramel sands and deep blue surf. Built in 1880, the weather-beaten red and white striped building was Libby’s resting point. She let Stump off leash to run in the surf. Splashing madly into the waiting tidal pools, he sniffed out a pile of rotting fish and began to roll.

“No!” Libby yelled, but it was too late.

As Stump rejoiced in his fragrant discovery, a black and white police SUV pulled into the parking lot.

“Crap,” Libby said. “This day keeps getting better and better.”

Anticipating a hefty fee for breaking Rhyme’s leash law ordinance, Libby breathed a sigh of relief as Jimmy Battaglia stepped out of the cruiser.

“A-freaking-men,” she muttered.

A lifelong friend, Jimmy grew up next door to the McGinn’s and coincidentally had two Labradors of his own. His tall, muscular frame commanded attention, and his striking Italian features strongly resembled a young prizefighter’s. Fortunately he sounded nothing like a guy who’d received repeat blows to the head.

“Libby.” His gaze traveled to Stump. “Nice day for a walk on the beach.”

“Nice to see you, Officer Battaglia.” Libby said. “You look mighty snazzy today. What is with the full dress blues? Is there a parade?” Rhyme’s finest typically dressed in jeans and golf shirts; not much need for formality in a small town.

“Meeting with my CO later,” he said. “I’m up for a pay grade review. Hoping for the big bucks.”

“What?” She feigned shock. “Are you saying my tax dollars don’t already pay you six figures? That can’t be.”

He grinned. “Oddly enough, no.”

“Go figure,” she laughed. “Are you busting me for allowing my vicious canine to roam?”

Jimmy looked at Stump; the dog’s head was a mop of seaweed. “You’ve got no chance of keeping a Lab out of the water. The Pope will convert before that happens.” He pulled a citation pad and started writing, “Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m pretending to write you up in case anyone is looking, but this is my buddy Dave’s address. He has a place on the water a bit further down the road and only uses the place during the summer. Stump can run off the energy down there since it is private property and ordinances don’t apply. I take my dogs there at least once a week.” He ripped off the form and handed it to Libby.

“Jimmy Battaglia, you big softie.” Libby grinned. “How has no woman snapped up your sweet soul?”

“They’ve tried Lib, they’ve tried. I guess I’m too much to handle.”

“So not true, you’re all heart!”

“Shh, not so loud, you’ll ruin my Bad Cop image.”

“Won’t say a word, I promise.” Libby crossed her heart. “Hey, did Sean finish the job over at your mom’s place?” Jimmy’s mother Lucinda had Multiple Sclerosis. Sean converted much of her ranch-style home to handicap accessible living.

“Yeah, looks great,” he answered. “Mom loves being able to stay in her own house. The thought of assisted living was giving her nightmares—I owe Sean big time.”

“He was glad to help, and he adores your mom. After all, she kept him fed through most of our childhood.” Libby drooled over the mouthwatering smells wafting from the Battaglia’s house every Sunday. Lucinda jarred homemade marinara each summer from her herb and vegetable gardens. Night breezes brought the smell of fresh basil and rosemary through Libby’s open bedroom window.

“Like my Sicilian mother ever lets anyone out of her house without feeding them?” Jimmy grinned as he closed his citation pad and turned toward the parking lot. “I’ll catch you later, Lib, and good luck getting the stench out of that hairy beast of yours.”

Jimmy climbed into the cruiser and waved goodbye.

Libby whistled for Stump. He charged toward her. “Whoa, buddy.” She held her breath as she clipped on his leash. “We’re breaking out the extra strength doggie shampoo when we get home.”

Twenty minutes later Libby strolled up the driveway and noticed Cha-Cha snoozing on the roof of her car.

“Uh-oh,” Libby whispered and firmed up her hold on the leash. Unfortunately, Stump had the memory of a lima bean, and forgot he and Cha-Cha were friends with the start of each new day.

“Here we go; three, two, one.”

Spotting the cat, Stump launched onto the hood of the minivan and howled uncontrollably. Unfazed, Cha-Cha stretched and began a tongue bath.

Dom flew out his front door. “Sorry, Lib,” he yelled. “She must have snuck over while I was in the shower.”

“No problem,” Libby yelled over the howls. “Stump likes to prove his big, brave guard-dog skills once in a while. Bob thinks it’s because we let the vet emasculate him—his words, not mine.”

“Makes sense,” Dom laughed. “Cha-Cha! Get your lazy behind over here, troublemaker.”

With a final lick, Cha-Cha leapt to the ground, inches from Stump. The fearless canine whimpered and rolled to his back and allowed the cat to pass without further fuss. Libby shook her head.

“Big wuss.” She giggled. “Some protector you are. Come on; you’ve got a hot date with the hose.” Stump trailed Libby to the backyard and willingly subjected to a good scrub.

Two lather-and-repeats later, she tossed him a doggie treat and left the dripping pooch sleeping in the sun to dry. On her way into the house, she turned back to check his water dish and caught Cha-Cha sneaking in. Before she could scoot her away, the cat curled up alongside Stump and settled in to nap.

“I swear, you two are an old married couple with tails,” Libby said.

Entering the house, she checked the time, two o’clock. After a quick shower, she left for Mae’s, purse loaded with patience-strengthening supplies: Chocolate, antacids, and more chocolate.

****

“You can do this,” Libby gave herself a pep talk in the parking lot outside Mae’s condominium. “She’s your mother, be supportive.”

Autumn Hills, a fifty-five-and-over complex, had been Sean’s first solo construction project. Mae took immense pleasure in bragging about the exceptional artisanship to all who listened.

The six conjoined structures resembled New England-style ranch homes with dove gray exteriors, white trim, and black shutters. Although each occupant’s front door was identical dark oak, the tenant’s board, of which Mae was president, encouraged residents to decorate their entryways to reflect individual tastes.

No one would confirm or deny the rumor, but there was an implied competition between neighbors to display the most eye-catching entryway. Mae’s porch, decorated with matching oversized red urns, was full to overflowing with yellow and orange mums. The front door opened, and Mae exited.

“Smile,” Libby told herself. “Don’t let her get to you.”

Mae stormed to the car, climbed in, and slammed the door.

“You’re in a hurry,” Libby commented and backed out of the drive.

“This is nonsense,” Mae harrumphed and picked specs of lint off her sensible navy blue velour tracksuit. “I’m old, what does the doctor expect to find? I think it’s just another way to get more money out of me.”

“Mom,” Libby soothed, “I’m sure there’s a valid reason Dr. Cooper wants you to see this neurologist.”

Digging into her handbag, Mae pulled out a hubcap-sized pair of sunglasses and slid them on. “Cooper and this Rashan doctor are probably in cahoots,” she speculated.

Libby shook her head but remained silent. In addition to her other strong opinions of medical professionals, Mae often indulged in conspiracy theories. “All those fancy specialists are the same,” she continued. “They milk helpless seniors for unnecessary tests and spend the profits on fancy cars and vacations, while we struggle to survive.”

Mae painted a picture of herself begging for change in the subway. Libby prayed for patience.

“You are hardly destitute, Mom,” Libby said. “Daddy left you comfortable, and Dr. Cooper just wants to cover all the bases.” She shifted approach. “It’s okay to be a little afraid about today’s visit. That’s normal.”

“I’m not afraid, Elizabeth,” Mae protested. “The appointment is simply a waste of time, and I resent natural aging being treated as some type of dire illness.” She tugged at the delicate necklace peeking from beneath her jacket.

“Mom, I can tell you’re anxious, you’re playing with your locket.” For as long as Libby could remember, Mae fiddled with the heart-shaped locket in times of stress.

In the early years of their marriage, jewelry was a luxury Mae and Bernie could not afford. Despite the cost, Bernie had the delicate locket hand-crafted in honor of their late daughter Meghan, and engraved with her initials, MRM. Mae kept the treasured remembrance of their lost daughter close to her heart at all times. Holding the warm metal in her palm, Mae’s voice shifted to a more neutral pitch.

“Enough about me and this ridiculous doctor visit,” she said. “Tell me what’s going on with the kids. How are they doing at school?”

After the academic and sports recap, Libby recounted the call from the school social worker.

“For the love of God,” Mae boomed. “Charlie is six! How can that twitty woman diagnose him as a mass murder? For heaven’s sake, he hasn’t even got permanent teeth yet, let alone murderous instincts.”

Libby tried to explain. “I know but—”

“But nothing! Kevin went to the bathroom outside until he was nine. Does that make him an exhibitionist? We only convinced him to use the toilet after that awful bee sting.” Kevin’s obsession with urinating everywhere except the bathroom affirmed Mae and Bernie’s parenting skills.

“I’m not agreeing with the social worker,” Libby said, “Bob and I want to see the artwork and if it raises concern, we’ll decide whether or not to get Charlie professional help.”

“Huh! Professional help.” Mae scoffed. “Charlie is a sweet-natured little boy. Leave him be.”

Spoken like a grandmother, Libby thought.

Mae went on. “Now that Sam friend of his,” Mae continued, “he’s got Connecticut Penal System written all over him. I bet a few dozen Hail Marys and a dose of those ADVD drugs would work wonders. Do you know if his parents take him to church? They should register him at Immaculate Conception. Catholic education would settle that mischief-maker right down.”

“Sam’s Jewish.”

“Even better,” Mae brightened. “Jews know how to raise successful, upstanding children. I think it’s the Hebrew school, sucks the hellion right out of them.”