Shifting the phone away from her mouth, she looked to the left and to the right. We must have been hidden from her view by the shadow of a tall van that was parked right next to us. We could see her, but apparently she couldn’t see us.
“Okay, I cannot be the source of this information, right?’’ She glanced over each shoulder, and continued walking. “I’ll sue your ass to Sunday and back if you quote me by name. This is strictly on background.’’
Barbara’s voice paused as she listened to the caller. Jeb raised an eyebrow at me. I put my finger to my lips.
“I wanted you to know the latest news from this nightmare of a project,’’ she said. “There’s been an attempt to poison someone in the cast.’’
She kept walking, phone to her ear.
“Nobody, so far. But a raccoon keeled over dead today. Our redneck animal wrangler says it ate a poisoned sandwich …” she paused, listening for a moment.
“How the hell would I know what kind of sandwich? My fear is Toby Wyle might be the target.’’
Toby Wyle? I mouthed the name to Jeb. He mouthed back at me: Redneck wrangler?
“The cops are looking into it, right.’’
That was the last thing we heard Barbara say as she opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat of the pearly white sedan. The interior light stayed on for a moment or two after she shut the door. It was just long enough to tell she was still talking full speed into the phone, as she gunned her engine and roared out of the lot.
As the Jaguar sped past us, I wondered: Could Barbara have been the mystery driver of the light-colored vehicle that nearly killed Toby in the parking lot?
“Hurt her again, and I’ll kill you!’’ The sound of a sharp slap—and the frantic yelping of a Pomeranian—punctuated the angry words.
“Ouch, Jeez!’’
“Shhh, Sal, you’re not supposed to say anything. Use your actor’s physicality. React.’’
Physicality? Surely the book Mama checked out about the Actor’s Studio must be due back at the library by now.
The yapping grew louder. On the other side of Mama’s front door, I could hear her and Sal, along with the scrabble of pedicured paws clicking against the tiled entryway.
“I can’t help it, Rosie. That really stung. I think you’re supposed to pull your punches, honey.’’
I stood on the front stoop, debating whether I was up to the Mama-Sal-and-Teensy circus. The promise of Pizza Night enticed me onward, though. I may have been lovelorn, but I was also hungry. Not counting the brownie, I’d barely had a bite to eat since breakfast.
I opened the door, nudging aside Mama’s pet with the toe of my boot. Of course, Teensy was extremely put out. The little Pomeranian high-tailed away from me, taking a flying leap onto the back of Mama’s peach-colored sofa.
“Teensy! You know better than that,’’ she yelled. “Get off of that couch.’’
As usual, the little yapster paid no mind to his mistress. Burrowing deep between two lemon-sherbet accent pillows, Teensy made himself comfortable. Head resting on his front paws, he lay on the couch and fastened his eyes on Mama and Sal.
They stood, center stage on a wide expanse of peach-colored carpet. Sal rubbed his cheek. Mama gave me a cheery wave. “Hey, darlin!’ We’re running my lines.’’
“Line, Rosie. There’s just the one.’’
“Well, not if you count it by sentences, Sal.’’
I walked over and lifted Sal’s chin. In the peach-colored glow coming from Mama’s Lucite chandelier, I could see a hand-shaped outline starting to show on his cheek.
“That’s got to smart.’’ I leaned closer for a better look. “You should know by now, Sal. Mama’s never been one to pull her punches.’’
She pouted, prettily. “I surely did not mean to hurt him. But the scene has to be believable. Some drunken cowpoke has just gotten fresh. I’m angry. I’ve had all I can take with all these men pawing at me.’’
“Ruby,’’ Sal said. “Ruby has had all the pawing she can take.’’
“Well, of course, Sal! We all know I’m not Ruby. I’m ACTING here.’’
Mama stood on tip-toes and put a hand toward his cheek. Sal bobbed out of reach like a glass-jawed boxer. His palms went up in surrender.
“Don’t come any closer! I’m okay.’’
“So,’’ I said, “Sal’s the stand-in for the drunken cowpoke?’’
He bowed from the waist, pretending to doff a cowboy hat. “At your service, purty lady.’’
Mama harrumphed. “You can offer to serve Mace all you want, darlin,’ but she won’t take you up on it. She prides herself on being independent; not needing anyone. Plus, she’s as stubborn as Grandpa Pete with a pork chop.’’
“We don’t have a grandpa named Pete.’’
“It’s a saying, Mace.’’
“Well, it doesn’t make any sense. Why would a pork chop make someone stubborn?’’
Rolling her eyes, Mama heaved a dramatic sigh: “See what I mean, Sally? Mule-headed.’’
He ignored her, a defensive tactic he’d picked up from my sisters and me. “Any progress on Carlos?’’ he asked. “Are the two of youse getting along any better?’’
My response was a scowl, which must have been surly enough to scare him. Sal pressed his lips together, scurried over to the couch, and scooped Teensy up from between the pillows. Without another word, he and the dog hastened to the safety of the kitchen.
Mama looked at me, her face creased in sympathy. “Oh, honey!’’
A part of me wanted to collapse into tears, and fall into her comforting embrace. But when she leaned over to brush the bangs from my eyes, I jerked my head away. Old habits die hard.
She tsked. “You surely do make life a lot more difficult than it has to be, Mace. Why do you try to push away everyone who loves you?’’
That was a pretty good question. I was still searching for some way to answer, when Teensy let out a yip and tore out of the kitchen. The little dog threw himself at the front door like he’d been shot from a cannon. Each time Mama had a visitor, Teensy believed he was the sole defense against whatever invading force was about to overrun the helpless humans inside. Right now, he was barking at a pitch high enough to make my ears bleed.
A shout came through the window from the front walk. “Mama! If you don’t muzzle that animal, I swear I’m going to skin him alive and make him into a clutch purse.’’
Mama swooped down and put her hands over the dog’s ears. “Hush, Maddie! You’ll hurt Teensy’s feelings.’’
Sal followed the dog to the door. As Mama opened it, he took a pizza box from each of my sisters’ hands. Once Mama and Sal got married, he started taking part in our weekly tradition. It had always been Girls’ Night, but neither my sisters nor I minded him joining in. He helped us keep Mama in line. Lord knew, we needed all the help we could get.
After we’d fixed our drinks and settled into our usual chairs, we divvied up the pizza. I piled three everything-but-anchovy slices on my plate. Between Maddie and Sal, I never knew if I’d get the chance to eat my share. Marty cut her slice of plain cheese into tiny pieces, and slid her crust onto Maddie’s plate. Mama rolled up her slice like a cigar, and took a nibble from the end. Sal covered his with a gale of red pepper flakes, and then ate half the piece in a single chomp.
When he swallowed, he held the remainder of his piece up for our inspection: “I know you girls don’t like to hear this, but this sure ain’t New York–style pizza.’’
“That figures,’’ I said, “since we don’t live in New York.’’
“Thank you, Jesus,’’ Mama added.
“Funny, the fact that Himmarshee pizza is substandard never seems to stop you from eating it,’’ Maddie said.
He finished the first slice, and shook pepper flakes on a second. “I’m just saying …’’