Was this girl talk? Was she kidding?
She sighed, continued. “You came home sooner than I expected, so I was stuck in your coat closet for a while.”
I was stymied and finally blurted, “How in the world do you know how to break into houses?”
“It’s a gift,” she said with a cocky grin. “I didn’t always live on Nob Hill, you know. I grew up on the streets, learned to survive. Otherwise, I would’ve died out there.”
I clutched the bone folder more tightly.
“Hey,” she said, taking notice of my movement. “Back away from the table.”
I took a step closer to her, then threw the bone folder. It was absolutely useless as a weapon-but very effective as a diversion. Sylvia screamed and pulled the trigger at the same time. The bullet went wildly off course. We fell against each other and I pushed the gun away. She grabbed my chin and raked her nails down my neck.
“Ouch!” I knocked her back and reached for the gun. She tried to aim it toward me, but I grasped hold of her wrist and we fought for power.
“You stupid cow, let me go!” she cried as she smashed my face with her other hand.
“Damn it!” She was getting in plenty of smacks and slaps, but at least they weren’t bullets.
The door burst open and my mother dashed in carrying a huge pizza box, just as Sylvia smacked me in the ear with her fist, then grabbed for the gun.
Mom used the only weapon she had to protect her daughter. The pizza. She flung the box and struck Sylvia in the head. Sylvia squealed in fury as the gun went flying and the pizza tumbled to the floor.
Derek rushed in behind Mom, grabbed Sylvia by the back of her peach jacket and hauled her to her feet.
“Don’t step on the pizza,” Mom cried.
I looked up and grinned at Derek, delighted to see them both. He rolled his eyes and stepped a few feet away, out of pizza range, dragging Sylvia with him.
“You son of a bitch, take your hands off me!” she cried, twisting and struggling to free herself.
Mom scampered around to rescue the pizza. “It’s your favorite, sweetie. Mushrooms, onions and garlic.”
“Extra cheese?” I asked.
“You betcha.” She put the heavy box on the worktable and burst into tears. I grabbed her and we hugged tightly.
“I love you, Mom,” I whispered.
“I know, sweetie,” she said, sniffling as she stroked my hair. “I love you, too.”
Footsteps pounded outside in the hall and my studio was suddenly crowded with cops. Inspector Lee followed them in, clutching her gun with both hands. She holstered it as soon as she saw Derek gripping Sylvia’s arms behind her back.
“You got my message,” I said.
“Nope,” Lee said. “Conrad Winslow called to report his wife.”
“That bastard!” Sylvia shouted.
“Men,” I said, shaking my head.
Derek released Sylvia to one of the cops and Inspector Lee suggested we clear the area. I grabbed the pizza box and led the way back to the kitchen, where she questioned me for the next half hour.
As soon as she left, I poured three hefty glasses of wine as Derek explained that he’d heard my message, called the police and swung by headquarters to spring my mom. They’d picked up a pizza and were on their way over to surprise me.
“Why did you confess to the murder, Mom?” I asked as soon as I’d fortified myself with several stiff gulps of wine.
“Sweetie.” She glanced at Derek, then back at me and whispered, “I was trying to protect you.”
My jaw dropped a few feet. “Me? Why would you-”
She smiled self-consciously but said nothing.
“Wait,” I said. “You thought I killed Abraham? Why?”
“Because you hated him,” she explained.
“I did?”
She nodded solemnly. “You found out he and I were having an affair and you blamed him for destroying our marriage.”
I bobbled my wineglass, dumbfounded. “Y-you and-and Abraham were having an affair?”
“Oh, heavens no.” She took a dainty sip of wine.
“But…” I looked at Derek, who was biting back a smile. He seemed to be enjoying the show.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Mother, what are you talking about?”
“Your friend confided in me the day of Abraham’s memorial,” she said. “She told me everything.”
My eyes narrowed. “What friend was that?”
“The chubby one in the leopard gloves? What’s her name? Minky? Monkey?” She waved the question away. “You know the one. Anyway, she told me how worried she was about you. How she hoped the police didn’t find out how much you hated poor Abraham.”
Minka. I gnashed my teeth as I planned my revenge. I was seriously going to destroy her. I just had to figure out how.
“Oh, I assured her it wasn’t true about the affair,” Mom continued. “But I was afraid the damage had been done. When you told me the police were hauling you in, I decided to take matters into my own hands.”
“It wasn’t necessary to go to jail for me, Mom,” I said softly.
“Better me than you, sweetie.” She took a quick sip of wine, then put her glass on the counter and nonchalantly cracked her petite knuckles. “I’ve been in jail and know how to survive. You wouldn’t last a day.”
I leaned back and drained my wineglass, then reached for the bottle, determined to be good and tanked before this conversation was over.
Epilogue
A month later, on a warm afternoon in Dharma, Mom and Dad celebrated their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary with seven hundred of their closest family and friends.
Mom looked beautiful and rested after spending a week at the Laughing Goat sweat lodge. After detoxification, she’d shared in the sacred pipe purification ceremony, which had allowed her to channel shamanic drum meditations and astral travel to Alpha Centauri with her spirit guide, Ramlar X.
Dad beamed with love as Mom reminisced.
Guru Bob offered the use of his elegant hilltop home and terraced patio for the occasion. He made a heartfelt toast, and then I presented my parents with a nicely bound leather photo album containing pictures and keepsakes of their life together, from the Deadhead days to the present.
There were photos of all of the kids along with pictures and mementos of the various Grateful Dead concert sites or weapons facilities protest marches we’d all been named after.
For the album, I had experimented with a flamed-heat iron to brand an embossed grapevine pattern into the thick leather cover. The stock was thick, acid-free paper, deckled and interleaved with delicate sheets of rice paper. I hoped it would become a family heirloom.
Mom cried like a baby when she saw it, so I know she liked it. Dad’s eyes swam with tears and he couldn’t speak for twenty minutes. It wasn’t as grand as the first-class tickets to Paris my brothers surprised them with, but I think they loved it just as much.
A month before, the night Sylvia Winslow was taken off to jail, Mom had sat me down and begged me to put the album together. She’d confessed that Abraham had been her original choice to do the project she wanted to keep a secret from our family.
“I don’t believe it!” I’d said when she’d explained what she wanted. “That’s why you were meeting him at the Covington that night? To sift through family photos?”
“It was his idea to meet there,” Mom explained. “He’d been so busy, but he knew that once the exhibit opened, he’d finally have a free minute or two to go over my plans.”
“That’s crazy.”
She frowned. “What’s crazy is me waiting in the wrong workroom for almost an hour.”
I shivered. “That mistake probably saved your life.”
“I never even heard the gunshot,” she wailed. “I was practicing for my cosmic bilocation class.”
“I would’ve done the same thing,” I’d assured her.
Now we raised our champagne glasses and toasted another round for my parents. They kissed and the crowd applauded.
“They’re the most wonderful people in the world,” someone said next to me.