Chapter Six --
“Wouldn’t that just make my life complete!” she sighed. “Do you know how many folks I’ve pissed off over the years?”
“Okay,” I responded, taking the subject seriously. “Any weird phone calls or emails lately?”
“Playing amateur detective again, Miss Marple?”
“Humor me.”
“Fine, I will. No, nothing out of the ordinary. Twelve nasty letters from folks I put behind bars or their relatives, almost all of them signed. I had a handful of hang-up phone calls this month, one obscene call that ended when I announced I was a cop, but I checked out the telephone numbers. There were a couple of emails sent by spammers. It’s hard to be anonymous in this day and age of technology.”
“Anything strange happen at home?” I continued.
“Other than having a teenager with an attitude and parents who can’t get along to save their lives? No. Thanks for the meal. It really hit the spot. And thanks for keeping an eye on my kid. I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Sure. Let me walk you to the door.” I led the way to the foyer. She grabbed her coat from the closet as we passed by. “Did you want to talk to Bur?”
“Not really. I just said that so Mickey would leave us alone.”
“Oh. Well, here he comes, so you’d better think fast.” I pointed out the window at the two figures rapidly approaching the front porch of the Four Acorns Inn. Bur and Mickey were having an animated conversation, the teenager gesturing with open arms.
“Nuts. Quick...what did I want to talk to him about? Think of something.”
“Your dad needs a ride from the airport tomorrow and you just want to make sure it’s convenient for Bur to pick him up.”
“Perfect.” Slipping on the black wool coat, she tied the belt around her waist, straightened out the collar, and pulled her leather gloves from the pockets. She tucked her glossy black hair under a black knit cloche. “And just remember. Don’t say anything to Michaela. I don’t want her to worry.”
“No problem,” I promised. “Mum’s the word. Or would that be Mom?”
As he came through the door, snow falling off his boots, Bur was singing about Rudy the Red-Hose Rain Deer, even as Mickey giggled. It might have had something to do with the fact that he twisted the lyrics of the classic song into something unrecognizable. Last time I checked, the real Rudolph wasn’t a volunteer firefighter who worked with Smokey the Bear.
“You got here just in time,” I told him. “Larry’s got to get back to work.”
My brother opened his arms to her. “How’s my favorite detective?”
“Overworked and understaffed,” she groaned, as she was enveloped in a bear hug. I noticed Bur was in no hurry to let her go. For a moment, he seemed to bury his face in her neck. Did he just sniff her hair? It sure looked like it.
“And cranky,” Mickey added. “She’s making the Grinch look like Santa’s best elf.”
“Ouch!” he recoiled. “Coming from you, that’s harsh, half-pint.”
“Harsh, but true. I was supposed to go to the mall with my friends tonight, but she said no.” The teenager pointed a thumb at her mother.
“Michaela, I explained to you why I needed you here at the Four Acorns Inn tonight. I don’t do it to be mean.” Larry sounded almost petulant, disappointed by her daughter’s reaction.
“Yeah, I know. You’ve got a stiff in the morgue. I get it.” Was that resignation I heard in the teenager’s voice? Things were definitely off-kilter at the Rivera house.
“Any reason why I can’t take her to the mall?” Bur wanted to know, even as the homicide cop attempted to make a quick exit out the front door of the inn. Did my brother just offer to drive a teenager across town, fight traffic, and hang out during the busy holiday madness less than a week before Christmas? He must be trying hard to get into Larry’s good graces. It occurred to me he might be trying to snag a date for the big New Year’s Eve party we were hosting.
“Ah....” Larry hesitated long enough for me to realize she hadn’t completely shaken her concerns about being followed. Oddly enough, Bur seemed to pick up on it.
“I promise I’ll remain in the mall at all times.”
“Let me guess,” said the experienced investigator. “You two worked this out before you walked in.”
“Please, Mom?” As I watched the tension-fraught mother-daughter negotiations, I was struck by how much Michaela resembled Larry, especially around the eyes. Thirty pounds lighter and two or three inches shorter, the fourteen-year-old was a chip off the block. When she grew into her adult body and the braces came off her teeth, she’d be every bit the knockout her mother was.
“I don’t know....” Larry was reluctant to say yes.
“I swear I’ll bring her home in one piece,” he added. “Scout’s honor.”
“You’d better, Bur Wilson. It’s not a matter of ‘you break it, you buy it’. I wouldn’t want to be arrested so close to Christmas.”
“Arrested?” He seemed baffled as he stood there. “Why would you be arrested if something happened to Michaela?”
“Because I’d kill you,” she replied, making her point in rather dramatic fashion. “Nobody messes with my kid.”
“Right. Got it. What did you want to talk to me about?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Oh, that. I...I just wanted to make sure you can pick my dad up at the airport tomorrow.”
“Sure, no problem.”
“No problem? Are you kidding?” Mickey giggled.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bur wanted to know.
“Seriously? You think my grandfather is going to get into your car?” Mickey thought that was hilarious. “No way!’
“Of course. Why wouldn’t he?” I saw the mental fog that overtook him and I winced. My brother, the baseball nut, had a New York Yankees decal on his back window.
“There’s something I should probably mention....” Larry began to say, but her daughter cut in.
“Big Larry will take a chunk out of you if you’ve got that nasty thing on your window. He might even take a baseball bat to the glass.”
“Nasty thing?” repeated the clueless Yankees fan.
“Michaela!” Larry warned her daughter.
“What?” the teenager retorted. “You know it’s true!”
“Bur, there’s something you need to know about Big Larry,” I broke in hurriedly. “He’s a big baseball nut, too. He’s an assistant coach up in....”
“Oh, no!” A look of horror came over my brother’s face. “Please tell me your father is not Larry Rivera, former center fielder for the Boston Red Sox!”
There it was, out in the open. For a long moment, I held my breath, waiting to see what Bur would do with the knowledge.
“Leaping Larry the Lawnmower, scourge of the Yankees....” His eyes traveled over Larry like he was seeing her for the first time. In a stunned voice, he asked, “Is he your father?”
She nodded, watching him cautiously for a moment or two before she spoke. “Yes. Is that going to be a problem?”
“The guy coached his team to victory, even when Jessup had that injury and Marston was embroiled in that embarrassing fiasco down at spring training.” Bur sat down on the chair by the console table, took off his knit cap, and ran a hand through his thick bangs. “I can’t believe he’s your father.”
“Are you going to be okay with that?” Larry seemed to be studying him the way she might study a suspect about to flee. “I need to know, because I can make other arrangements if....”
“Wow, I’m going to meet Leaping Larry the Lawnmower,” he sighed. Was that awe in my brother’s voice?
“It sounds like Grandpa’s got an admirer,” Mickey laughed. Larry and I were still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Could it really be this easy to transform a diehard Yankees fan?
“So, you’ll pick him up at the airport?” the homicide investigator inquired.
“Oh, sure. Anything for you, Larry.”
“You can take my car, Bur,” I offered. Decked out in the Four Acorns logo, my trusty Ford hatchback was the official inn vehicle and wouldn’t offend the assistant baseball coach. It also happened to have more trunk room than Bur’s rather sporty set of wheels.
“Yeah, sure...whatever. Wow, I can’t believe I’m going to meet a baseball legend. What a great Christmas!”
“Who knew?” Laughing, I turned to mother and daughter. “We wasted all this time worrying about whether they’d get along.”
“Believe me, it wasn’t wasted time. You folks still haven’t met Leaping Larry the Lawnmower.”
“Oh?”
“He’s a tough, old goat.” The coach’s daughter shook her head. “Hard-headed, stubborn, and bossy...talk about bossy! The man’s a maniac when it comes to baseball!”
“I know!” Bur gushed, like a high school boy about to meet one of his childhood heroes. “He’s a walking encyclopedia of baseball history. I can’t wait to talk to him.”
“And bend his ear,” I added, rolling my eyes towards the heavens. “That might not be a good idea.”
“Are you kidding?” Mickey giggled. “If there’s one thing Grandpa loves, it’s talking about baseball. He’ll even tell you all about the importance of the stitching on the ball, if you let him.”
“On that note, I’ve got to get going. I’m interviewing witnesses.” Larry wrapped Michaela up in a loving hug and kissed her cheek, threw an affectionate arm around me, and then leaned down and planted a sisterly kiss on Burr’s forehead. His timing was off and he just missed brushing his lips on hers by a fraction of a second.
“Be careful,” I told her, as I saw her to the door. “Tread lightly through that quicksand in the swamp.”
“I will, Miz Scarlet. And thanks again for looking after my kid.”
“Are you kidding? My mother is already going through ‘Jenny withdrawal’. She’s miserable whenever there isn’t a crowd around here for the holidays.”
“By the time the Rivera clan leaves, she may regret that.”
“Nonsense.” As I opened the door, I felt the chill penetrate my bones. The air was heavy with moisture and the conditions were ripe for a killer snowstorm. Larry noticed it, too.
“I just hope Edna’s flight isn’t canceled. All I’d need is for Big Larry to be here for Christmas and have my mother stuck in Atlanta. Santa might as well give me a cemetery plot, because I’ll be a goner.”
“When’s she arriving?”
“First thing Saturday morning. Lucky for me, my father will be on his way to Boston with Mickey.”
“Mickey....Oh, good heavens!” Bur suddenly exclaimed, dancing around the baffled teenager. “Were you named after Mantle?”
“That’s my cue. I’m out of here.” As Larry’s hand turned the door knob, she gave a final instruction to her daughter. “You get to bed at a reasonable hour, young lady. And you’re home by ten.”
“You named your daughter after Mickey Mantle, the Yankee center fielder?” Bur wasn’t going to let it go. “You naughty girl!”
“Her name is Michaela and you’ll never prove it, even if you try!” said the woman with the sly smirk as she disappeared out the door. I heard the latch click into place in the stunned silence that followed.
“Mom?” Michaela stood there, hands at her side, dazed and confused. It was too late. Larry had already fled the scene. I could see her hurriedly crossing the driveway to her vehicle.
“Well, what do you know? Larry named her kid after a Yankee legend!”
“Bur, don’t you dare cause trouble for Larry! I’m warning you!”
“Why would my mother do that?” Mickey asked, still trying to fathom the news. “She knows my grandfather hates the Yankees!”
“Maybe it had nothing to do with his team affiliation. Let’s face it. He was one of the all-time greatest center fielders,” Bur said, trying to console her. “And it’s not like Boston ever had one of their own in the last forty years, except maybe Dom DiMaggio or Fred Lynn.”
“Wow....”
“Don’t feel bad, kid. It could have been a lot worse. Your mother might have called you Dominique or Fredericka. Dom...that would have been the kiss of death in school. Dumb Dom....It makes you sound like a lollipop.”
“Not true,” the teenager retorted. “My nickname could have been Nicky. That’s cute. Or Ricky.”
“Or Icky,” Bur teased. I left them to it, making my way back to the kitchen to get some work done.
Bur and Mickey left for the mall just after five. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that I had a few hours to myself, to get things done. I took the dogs for a long walk, bundled up against the cold, and I let them sniff to their hearts’ content as we made our way down the snowy trail in White Oak Hill Park. Half an hour later, I met Lacey on the front porch. She had a hot date with one of the widowers in her social circle.
“He’s taking me out for a burger and a Diet Coke,” she informed me. “I won’t be late.”
“Have fun.”
There seemed no reason to cook for just two, so I offered to take my mother out for a bite at the Cheswick Cafe. We ran into friends and lingered over our meal, engaging in a lively conversation about the new plans to expand the library. By the time we stopped at the grocery store for a couple of items, it was nearly eight.
“Shall we take a drive to see the Christmas lights?” I suggested.
“Oh, yes.” My mother sat in the passenger seat, delighted as we cruised down street after street, checking out the holiday decorations. From automated snow globes to nodding reindeer, the neighborhoods were alive with illuminated splendor. “I love this time of year.”
Twenty minutes later, I stopped the Ford Focus by the handicapped ramp off the porch, retrieved my mother’s wheelchair from the back of the car, and helped her into it. Once she was safely inside the house, I returned to the driver’s seat, shifted into gear, and proceeded to drive into my bay in the carriage house. As I was retrieving the packages, the other garage door lifted. Bur pulled his car into the empty bay next to mine, his teenage companion waving enthusiastically from the passenger seat. I waited for them.
“Hey, Scarlet! Guess what I got pierced!” Mickey yelled to me as she climbed out of the car.
“Tell me you didn’t,” I groaned, trying to imagine what it might be. Larry was going to kill me for encouraging the trip to the mall. Please let it be something like an ear, God, not a lip or a tongue...or worse. I saw the pair of them laughing.
“Told you she’d fall for it,” my brother told her.
“Boy, did you looked scared,” giggled the fourteen-year-old.
“Very funny!”
After I showed Mickey where to find snacks and drinks in the butler’s pantry, I led her up to the third floor and gave my temporary guest the grand tour.
“We share the sitting room and bathroom. Feel free to watch TV. This is my bedroom,” I said, pointing to the open door on the left side, “and this is yours.”
I stood in the doorway, enjoying the fourteen-year-old’s enthusiasm as she explored. Her eager eyes glanced all around, taking in the vibrant colors and quirky furnishings in Jenny’s funky garret.
“This is awesome.” Michaela loved everything about it, from the bohemian beaded table lamp to the purple leopard-upholstered headboard. She dropped her small suitcase on the floor and flopped onto the comforter-covered bed. “Jenny’s so lucky to live here.”
“Luck had little to do with it. When Jenny came to live with us, this was just a storage room in the attic,” I explained. “We worked hard to fix this space up. She even painted the floor herself.”
“She did? That’s so cool,” said Michaela, the girl with a mouthful of metal, as she admired Jenny’s artistic efforts. “She could be a professional decorator.”
It was probably true. As a big fan of HGTV, Jenny had picked up some tips and used them to transform her attic into a cozy, charming space. It was the teenager’s idea to paint the floorbo
ards in alternating lime green and lavender stripes.
“I love this bed. And the fluffy rug is so soft.” Mickey kicked off her shoes and danced barefoot on the area rug that Jenny and I found on clearance.
“We got that dresser at a yard sale. You should have seen what a beat-up mess it was. We sanded it, primed it, and painted it. Jenny picked out the crystal knobs. She said she needed some sparkle.” I pulled out the bottom drawer. “You can put your things in here. Jenny cleaned it out for you.”
“She’s so nice!”
“She is, I agreed, thinking of the good-hearted, generous-spirited girl who was now in California, getting to know her late father’s side of the family. “We have a few rules here, Mickey, so let me just fill you in. Don’t go out of the house without letting someone know. We have an alarm system and it will go off. It’s loud enough to wake the dead, not to mention the fact that the local police will show up. Believe me when I tell you they won’t be amused by a false alarm.”
“Oh, now I get it.” She flopped back down on the bed. “That’s why my mom wanted me to sleep here tonight.”
“What?” I looked askance at her, surprised at her comment. “What does that mean?”
She sat up, crossing her legs as she leaned up against the headboard, before she confided in me. “She’s worried about some creep.”
“Is she?” I cautiously measured my words. “What makes you say that?”
“I heard her talking to Dennis Pisciotti on the phone. She told him to check on a license plate because she thought she was being followed.” There it was -- proof that little pitchers do indeed have big ears.