“Of course.”
“She tried to get him into rehab but he refused to admit that he had a problem. Finally, when she found out he was hurting other people and not just himself, she went to the authorities.” Phil looked at me. “It was the right thing to do.”
“Absolutely.” I thought of Ern’s protestations that he was innocent and that Debbie had set him up. She had a lot to gain by getting Ern out of the way. She had a scam to profit from—and a chance at Phil.
“How long after Ern left did you two marry?”
Phil blushed. “The day he was shipped off to the penitentiary, Debbie and I drove to Maryland. She didn’t want to. It was my idea. She refused to . . . you know . . . until she had a ring.”
Ah, yes. That old trick. Holding out until the ink on the marriage certificate is good and dry. It’s surprising more women who want to get married haven’t figured out all they have to do is claim a vow of chastity.
“I have to ask you, Bubbles,” he said, after an uncomfortable moment of silence had passed. “Was there anything else Debbie said today?”
There was a lot Debbie said, most of it obnoxious bragging, but this was not the appropriate occasion to go into detail. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I guess . . . ” He played with the pom-pom on his hat some more. “When she knew she was . . . uh . . . having an attack. Did she say anything? I wouldn’t ask except that I have this burning need to know, for some reason.”
“She said something about having a deadly wheat allergy.”
Phil shook his head. “She’s not allergic to wheat. She’s allergic to latex.”
Was,
I thought. “I know. I must have misunderstood.”
“Anything else?”
“She said she felt dizzy. And hot.”
“But what were . . . what were her dying words?”
I sat back. In the span of only a few hours, I’d been asked that question twice, first by Ern Bender and now by Debbie’s own husband. Though, between both of them, Debbie’s husband made the most sense.
“She said she loved you, Phil. Those were her dying words.”
“Really?”
“Honest.” And it was true, sort of. Okay, so Debbie hadn’t specifically croaked, “I love you, Phil,” before collapsing, but she’d said as much.
“You don’t know how much better that makes me feel. Debbie and I loved each other more than you could imagine. A lot of people doubted that because she travels so often and I’m always making house calls late at night. The thing is, they don’t know. They couldn’t know how special our relationship was.”
“I know,” I said, though I didn’t. And I never would.
Chapter Ten
T
he unfortunate thing about Phil Shatsky showing up at my door weepy and flattened with grief was that I couldn’t very well launch into the fourth degree about his affair with Marguerite and whether what Ern Bender had told me was true.
I mean, there he was sobbing and sobbing after I lied that Debbie’s last words were that she loved him. He used up all my tissues and one roll of toilet paper, which happened to be my last roll. And then he moved on to paper towels. His nose was bright red and raw.
Meanwhile, I was keeping one eye on the clock, picking over what was left of the chicken and cold mashed potatoes on Jane’s plate and trying to come up with an easy exit line so I could take a shower to get ready for the fund-raiser.
No matter what I said, Phil wouldn’t leave. “I can’t go back there. Oh, no,” he moaned, wistfully parting the shades to see his house across the street. “I can’t be there among her things, alone.”
“You won’t be among her things alone,” I said. “There are twenty women crowding your living room right now.”
“Yes. But they’re not Debbie. Can’t I stay here? It’s so homey and warm. There’s so much dusting to do. I promise I won’t get in your way. And I’ll help around the house.”
In the end, I agreed to let him stay until I left for the fund-raiser. Can’t say it was the most comfortable arrangement, me taking a shower with Phil clanking pots and pans downstairs in the kitchen, playing the score from
Rent
full-blast. For one thing, I was treated to a jet of cold water whenever he turned on the faucet. For another, he was making a lot of noise.
And crying. Crying. Crying. Crying. It was enough to make a healthy adult woman rethink the virtues of creating more sensitive men.
When I emerged a half hour later in the silversequined halter-top dress I’d bought from Almart, my hair in a classic twist, my feet stuffed into black pumps, I found that Phil had dried his tears and completely transformed my kitchen.
It was spotless. Not a dish was in sight, not even a Tupperware container of leftovers. The counters were scrubbed clean. The refrigerator gleamed. Even the decades-old grime ringing the burners was gone. The air smelled of cinnamon and fresh nutmeg.
Phil was rearranging my spice rack. I never even knew I had a spice rack.
“This is incredible.” I ran my finger along the banister. “It’s totally clean.”
He tossed a jar of Mama’s Butter Buds into the trash and shuddered. “It’s my therapy. Some men have football and beer. Some men get rid of their stress on the links. Others go hunting or fishing. I organize. I can’t tell you how much better I feel.”
I could have made a crack about my home being in a lot better shape if more people in his life died more often, but decided on second thought that might be tasteless.
“My, my.” He put his hands on his aproned hips. It was the blue flowered one Mama used on special occasions; it went nicely with his red Santa pants. “Look who’s all dressed up and ready to party.”
“I’m going to the Help the Poor Children Fund-raiser.”
“Not in those shoes you’re not.”
I glanced down at my shoes. Basic black pumps. “No?”
“They’re just fine . . . if you like looking like the church secretary.”
I brought my hand to my mouth. “The church secretary!”
“How about red? You have anything in red?”
Of course. I had
everything
in red.
I ran upstairs, dug out a pair of red sparkled high-heeled stilettos from the back of the closet, blew off the dust and returned. Phil was done organizing the spice rack, and he was frowning at my cluttered refrigerator. He also might have had a batch of Christmas cookies going. Explained the cinnamon.
“I thought you were going to a fund-raiser, not off to see the wizard,” he said when he saw my red sparklies.
It took five tries for Phil to be satisfied with a pair of silver slingbacks. I’d forgotten I’d bought them last fall for Mickey Sinkler’s wedding.
“Now about those lips . . .”
“Phil. I
have
to go.” I gave him a quick hug.
Phil held on to me. “You have saved me tonight, Bubbles. I didn’t know how I was going to make it. You’re an angel.”
“It’s okay, Phil.” I tried to break away, but he clung on. “Really. No problem.”
He gently brushed back my hair and kissed me softly on the cheek. “I will never forget your kindness.”
When he bent to kiss me on the lips, I ducked and dashed to the door and ran outside.
Smack into Chinchilla.
She was bundled in her coat, side by side with two other women. They did not look like they were from the Welcome Wagon. There wasn’t a casserole or a pan of brownies among them.
“Funny thing,” Chinchilla said, playing with the heart pendant at her neck. “Once Phil read your note, he was worse than he was with Marguerite. Had to see you right away. Like a teenager in love.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to pass through them to get to my car. “I’m very late.”
“Not as late as Debbie.” Chinchilla gripped my arm. Before I could wiggle free, I found myself completely encircled by angry housewives in furs, smelling of scalloped potatoes and corned beef hash.
Chinchilla wouldn’t let me go.
“Okay, what is it? You want me to get Phil out here?” I asked. “What have I done?”
“Rumor has it you were the one who was doing Debbie’s hair when she ‘mysteriously’ and ‘suddenly’ collapsed.”
“So?”
“So we were talking. You do Debbie’s hair, she dies. You come home and Phil can’t wait to take you in his arms. It’s all coming together. You two are shacking up.”
This was crazy. “We are not shacking up. He came over to my house to get away from you harpies.”
A vixen in Chinchilla’s gang let out a hiss.
“Don’t tell me you two weren’t in a clutch. We saw you two making out. We saw through the windows.”
Damn. Phil had left the shades parted. That’s always dangerous in this neighborhood. Cable’s too expensive, so most of us have to find other, and cheaper, forms of entertainment. And spying on neighbors across the street doesn’t necessitate a subscription to
TV Guide
.
“It was a quick hug! It didn’t mean anything. Look, I’m engaged. I’m getting married Saturday.”
“Yeah?” Chinchilla grabbed my left hand. “I don’t see a ring.”
Because I refused to wear it out of protest, though I didn’t see why I should have to tell her that. “Let me go.” I kicked and missed. The women laughed.
Chinchilla dropped my arm. “Seems to us you had opportunity, means and motive, Bubbles Yablonsky. Looks to us like you might have murdered Debbie so you could get your hands on Phil.”
Her gang nodded and flexed their fingers, which were covered with gold and silver rings studded with diamonds. The suburbs’ answer to brass knuckles.
Chinchilla sneered. “Well, it’s not going to work, your plan. I have connections in the police department and I informed my husband about everything I saw tonight. Let me tell you, he was very interested. Very interested. Said it wasn’t the first time you’d had a run-in with the law. He should be paying you a visit real soon.”
“Your husband?” My stomach was twisting into a painful knot.
“Detective Burge. Know him?”
Know him? He was my most ardent enemy, next to Dix Notch. Above all, Detective Burge despised Stiletto. Stiletto went on the lam once when we found a dead body in the park, just to avoid Burge, and since then Burge had never forgiven me.
In Burge’s mind, it was just a matter of time before he could pin me with something.
Like Debbie’s murder.
I couldn’t make sense of my evening with Phil. All the crying and the clutching. I’d been so stupid not to notice the drapes were open so everyone could witness Phil making himself at home in my house.
Then there’d been the pass he’d made at me. I hadn’t wanted to be kissed or hugged. But Phil had been so “clingy.” It wasn’t easy rejecting a distraught widower. You can’t very well slap him in the face or dump a glass of water over his head, not with his eyes still red from constant crying over his dead wife.
If only he hadn’t opened those damned drapes.
I parked in the Masonic temple lot, yanked the key from the ignition, got out and remembered who was there. Stiletto.
I felt a new anxiety, different from the anxiety of being caught with Phil or being pegged by Burge for murder. It was the kind of quivering I hadn’t felt since my first dance in Northeast Junior High when Randy Mahl, the drop-dead cutie from my eighth-grade typing class, asked me to slow shuffle to “Dust in the Wind.”
I negotiated the steep steps to the impressive Masonic temple with its grand pillars and felt a surge of excitement. Music spilled out the double front doors along with high-pitched laughter. Stepping into the marble lobby, I was relieved to see I wasn’t the only woman in a sparkly dress. In fact . . .
Wait a minute—that’s all there were! Women.
Specifically, women between the ages of twenty and sixty whispering and holding fancy pink drinks in martini glasses. Clearly, they had spared no expense because their makeup jobs were professional and their hair . . . well, let me just say that Debbie wasn’t the only woman in town with a passion for extreme up dos.
“May I have your name?”
A matronly woman in a blue gown beamed up at me from a registration table. Her name tag read PAULINE.
“I need your name,” Pauline said again, “so I can check you off our list and give you a number. For the auction.”
Oh, right. The auction. “Um, actually I’m a . . .”
Hold on. I had to be discreet. People were always trying to get their names or their kids’ names into “Talk of the Town,” Flossie once told me. Sometimes she went incognito. If it got out in this crowd that I was temporarily taking over for Flossie, I might be so swamped I’d never have a moment alone with Stiletto.
“Reporter,” I murmured. “For the
News-Times
.”
Pauline checked her list. “I’m sorry. We already have a reporter for the
News-Times
here.”
“Really?” Uh-oh. Flossie must have slipped out of her hospital bed. I searched the crowd for a fat woman with a walker and a bum left knee.
Keeping the same sour puss, Pauline said caustically, “To tell you the truth, we had to turn her away because she didn’t meet the dress code. Oh. Hold on. She’s back.”
I followed Pauline’s gaze to the door, where a dour figure slouched. She was in the most Gawd-awful teal blue dress that was three sizes too big. However, she was neither fat nor with a walker. She was in a bad mood.
She was Lorena Ludwig, our personality-challenged pugnacious photographer, and she looked none too pleased.
“This is all your fault, Yablonsky,” she accused, trudging over in what appeared to be snow boots under the flounces of teal. “I had to go home and dig out my sister’s bridesmaid dress. Look at me. I’m drowning in this thing.”
Lorena’s brown hair was pulled into a sloppy ponytail, the better to show off the cigarette wedged behind her ear, I supposed.
“You didn’t have to wear
that,
” Pauline said. “Any skirt would have been fine. Just not jeans. Especially,
those
jeans.”