And I couldn’t wait. Inserting myself into the flow of life at the Wildoh would be a piece of cake. Unless…. “You didn’t tell them I was a private investigator, did you?”
“Of course not!”
I relaxed. “Excellent, better to have them off guard.”
“I told them you ran a bordello.”
“Mother!”
“Kidding, Dix. Lighten up! I told them you wrote erotica. And that you were here doing research for a book. Told them you’d have some questions for them.”
I waited for the sly grin, the ‘ha-ha, got you again’.
And waited….
Ah hell.
“What about Beth Mary and Big Eddie.”
She rolled her eyes. “Beth Mary is as jealous as the day is long. She’s been after my Frankie since the day I introduced them.”
Jesus, I hated to ask: “This is only a one bedroom suite. Does Frankie … live here too?”
She laughed. “Of course not. He rents a little bachelor place in Complex A. Moved in just after we met.”
My shoulders lowered and I sighed with relief. There are some things a daughter just doesn’t want to picture about her mother.
“But often he’ll sleep over after sex, especially if we’ve gone around two or three times.”
Shoulders of steel! Back ramrod straight. Mind cringing.
She turned. Somehow in the midst of our talking she’d made a tray of sandwiches, cubed up some cheese and put some fancy little pickles on a plate. There were three different kinds of crackers and some kind of pate thing. None of her domestic skills had rubbed off on me. She was fine china and haute cuisine. I was chili in a Styrofoam bowl.
“Bring the drinks, Dix.”
They clinked in the glass as I grabbed them. “Ice? Weren’t you … weren’t you out of ice?”
She smiled. “Did you forget? I’m magic.”
She started toward the swinging door again to join Mrs. Presley. But I had one more question.
“Mom.” I approached this carefully. Diplomatically. “Where do you think Frankie disappeared to?”
“Oh, he didn’t disappear.”
“Huh?”
“He changed. I changed him.”
Did she really think she could change that man? Apparently, she did.
Mother continued. “I told him I didn’t like his flirting with all the women. I wasn’t about to put up with it! So I told him it had to stop — or else.”
“What did he say?”
“He croaked.”
Croaked! Oh, sweet Jesus, she’d killed him! I could picture poor Frankie Morell now — his smarmy smile, his bushy sideburns and inch high eyebrows, stuffed in the freezer. Ice hanging from his fingertips. Frost stuck to his nose hairs. Where the hell had these ice cubes come from?
“Mother you … you…?”
“I changed him into a frog.” She plucked an olive off the tray and popped it into her mouth. She was serious. Three chews later: “That’ll teach him to flirt with other women.”
Oh shit! She really thought she’d changed him into a frog!
Mother rolled her eyes. “You’ve always known I have the magic, Dix. I just used it.”
She backed into the door to push it open with her butt, her hands occupied holding the tray. “Close your mouth, honey. You’ll catch a fly. Frankie’s gonna need those.”
I closed my mouth.
Chapter 3
You’d think after such a long drive, I’d have slept like a log once I’d finally showered, put my PJs on (baggy t-shirt and boxers) and finally crashed on my mother’s pull out sofa in the living room. And, well, you’d be right. Holy shit, did I sleep!
Despite all the drama and tension, once I closed my eyes, I was out. I know that I snored. I know this because at least once during the night, Mrs. P came out and rolled me onto my side to get me to stop. The pullout wasn’t the most comfortable bed in the world, but I’m a PI. I can sleep practically anywhere. Besides, the beautiful Florida night more than compensated for any shortcomings the bed might have had. I’d left the French doors open right up until bed time, and the breeze had blown right in through the screen. It was closed and locked now (both Mother and Mrs. P double-checked it, thank you), but I could still faintly hear the palm trees in the yard swaying and rocking me to sleep. And it was blessedly quiet compared to Marport City.
Mrs. P bunked in with Mom. She had a large double bed in her room, which she insisted Mrs. P take. And she herself slept on a small, foldout bed that we brought up from her storage locker in the basement. I know the two stayed up late talking. Before I turned out the lights, I could hear the giggling through the thin walls. Mother and Mrs. P were so very different, yet alike in many ways. Both widows who’d done a lot of the childrearing on their own. And both looking for fun in life now. Despite everything going on, Mom was determined to make Mrs. P’s visit to Florida enjoyable. As much as she frustrated me by times, I had to hand it to her. She did have this way of connecting with people, making everyone feel like they belonged.
Even me.
I did of course spend my pre-sleep hours going over (and over) everything mom had told me. The conversation hadn’t ended in the kitchen of course. One thing for sure, she was really smitten with Frankie Morell. Mom’s one tough lady, strong as they come, but she obviously had a soft spot for Frankie. She felt awful about him ‘hopping’ away in a huff. But she had to teach him a lesson. And she hadn’t expected him to hop off before she turned him back.
Yes, Mom really believed she’d turned him into a frog.
Now there was a vision for you — a geriatric frog waiting for a kiss to turn back into a prince. Good luck with that one, Frankie.
Why was mother doing this, though? Was she going senile?
True, she always attested to being ‘magic’ and with a conviction that made Peaches Marie and me believe it when we were younger. She could pull rabbits from hats and sneeze out flowers. She could make white milk into chocolate! And she always, always knew when we were lying. Or holding something back from her. Guess that’s where I got my own intuition. Of course, as we got older, we (or at least I) realized that kind of magic just didn’t exist in the world.
So, yeah, I was worried about mom. If she didn’t tell us what really happened to Frankie, she’d be in deep shit. But would her pride let her? She might have to admit he’d left her, or worse, left her holding the bag. If he’d stolen the jewels, taken off and left her to take the blame, this didn’t bode well for mother. I had to find Frankie. I had to find the jewels. Thus I had tossed and turned with these thoughts in my sleep, waking on the floor half under the pullout and half out (and not the sunny half), my pillow bunched tightly in the crook of an arm. Damn that REM sleep behavior disorder.
But when I did awake, it was to the smell of bacon, eggs and toast. Mrs. Presley was in her element whipping up breakfast. Mom was just getting in from her early-morning power walk, looking like a million bucks in her white tracksuit, hot pink sneakers, and flawless make up. And best of all — carrying a tray of coffees.
I had a funny feeling I’d be needing that caffeine today.