Moose Willow Mystery E-Book

Terri Martin

• Herausgeber: Modern History Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 519

Beschreibung

A suspicious death in a game processing meat locker is just the beginning of bizarre events happening in the Upper Michigan village of Moose Willow. It all starts when a mysterious woman appears at the Methodist church during choir practice. Janese Trout and her best friend, State Trooper Bertie Vaara, team up to connect the woman to a growing number of disturbing occurrences around town including the disappearance of Janese's eccentric lover, George LeFleur, and an undeniable increase in Bigfoot sightings. Meanwhile, Janese faces a multitude of personal challenges as she grapples with a sagging career at the Copper County Community College, an elusive pregnancy test, and a controlling mother who inserts herself into every hiding place of Janese's life.
"Moose Willow Mystery, by Terri Martin, lets cozy mystery fans know they are about to experience something wildly different with edgy characters, a big dose of humor, and an insider's look at America's best-kept secret the mysterious Upper Peninsula of Michigan."
-- Carolyn Howard-Johnson, award-winning writer of fiction, poetry, and the HowToDoItFrugally Series of books for writers
"Terri Martin manages to present the ordinary, the bizarre (of which there is a steady stream), and even the violent in a way that will open a hilarious glimpse into the world of a small town. With brilliant characterization, she takes the reader on a wild ride of murder and mayhem, so let me warn you. Don't start reading until you have the time to keep going."
-- Bob Rich, PhD, author of Sleeper, Awake!
"Take a mini-vacation and read this delightful mystery! Laugh away the problems of the world (and cry a few times) along with the remarkable, talented characters in Moose Willow Mystery. A refreshing whodunit with plenty of mystery to keep the reader unable to put the book down."
-- Carolyn Wilhelm, M.A., Midwest Book Review

Leseprobe

Moose Willow Mystery: A Yooper Romance

Copyright © 2022 by Terri Martin. All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-1-61599-689-6 paperback

ISBN 978-1-61599-690-2 hardcover

ISBN 978-1-61599-691-9 eBook

Published by

Modern History Press          www.ModernHistoryPress.com

5145 Pontiac Trail               [email protected]

Ann Arbor, MI 48105

Tollfree 888-761-6268 (USA/CAN)

FAX [phone]

Distributed by Ingram Book Group (USA/CAN/AU)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Martin, Terri, 1951- author.

Title: Moose Willow mystery : a Yooper romance / Terri Martin.

Description: Ann Arbor, MI : Modern History Press, [2022] | Summary: "A suspicious death in a game processing meat locker is just the beginning of bizarre events happening in the Upper Michigan village of Moose Willow. It all starts when a mysterious woman appears at the Methodist church during choir practice. Janese Trout and her best friend, State Trooper Bertie Vaara, team up to connect the woman to a growing number of disturbing occurrences around town including the disappearance of Janese's eccentric lover, George LeFleur, and an undeniable increase in Bigfoot sightings. Meanwhile, Janese faces a multitude of personal challenges as she grapples with a sagging career at the Copper County Community College, an elusive pregnancy test, and a controlling mother who inserts herself into every hiding place of Janese's life"-- Provided by publisher.

Identifiers: LCCN 2022037603 (print) | LCCN 2022037604 (ebook) | ISBN 9781615996896 (paperback) | ISBN 9781615996902 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781615996919 (epub)

Subjects: LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction. | Romance fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3613.A786238 M66 2022 (print) | LCC PS3613.A786238 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23/eng/20220808

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022037603

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022037604

Dedicated to all the good folks

who proudly call themselves Yoopers.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

About the Author

Prologue

He had hidden his truck off in some brush to wait, then when the coast was clear, he sneaked in on the weedy two-track that came up behind the Indian’s place. The road was used by every kid and dick-hound in town looking for a spot to screw around, drink, and smoke weed—and things had been busy. The man was used to waiting, being dead quiet, sometimes barely breathing. And the bottle of liquor tucked in his coat made the wait a whole lot easier. He couldn’t see much from where he was concealed in the brush but caught an occasional blink of light—probably when car doors opened and closed. Two cars in and two cars out. Time to go. The man had kept his headlights off as he drove around to the back of the building and shut off the engine.

If there had been a padlock on the door handle, it was gone now. No surprise there. The bonehead who owned the place was dimmer than a two-watt bulb and crooked as the winter was long. The man tripped over a wooden pallet next to the door and almost went down. “What the hell?” he muttered, giving the pallet a shove with his boot. He slipped inside the building, flicked on a light switch, and quietly shut the door behind him.

The front part of the place was a big walk-in cooler where animals, mostly deer, hung in a gruesome row, eyes blank, stiff tongues protruding. He tried not to look at them or think about their grisly end. It reminded him of things he wanted to forget.

The next room was even worse. It smelled of blood and decaying flesh. The only light came through a slat around the door from the “hanging” room. The man turned on the glaring overhead lights, instantly regretted it, and flicked them off. It was pretty clear that this was where the butchering took place and four-legged creatures were transformed into roasts, steaks, and burgers. An ugly assortment of saws, grinders, and knives lurked in the gloom. A propane stove held an enormous kettle. The man had heard of skull boiling. He had no idea how or for that matter why it was done. If the animal had a good rack, then the head would be mounted and become a trophy. Why the hell would anyone want a skull hanging in his den?

The man figured that the Indian probably stashed the illegal stuff in the next room. It only made sense to keep it frozen. He staggered a little as he pulled open the freezer door and lurched into the vault-like room, groping along the wall. The door slammed shut behind him, plunging him into darkness. After fumbling around, he found a light switch and flipped it on. Damn it was frickin’ cold and his head felt like it was lost in a fogbank. Maybe he should have gone easy on the booze. He looked around and wished he could see better. Hadn’t thought about it being so dark in the place. He tried to beat back the panic that sometimes came with darkness. The man took a deep breath, working to refocus on why he was there. The one crappy bulb in the whole room was making it a bitch to see anything. He reached for his cell phone, planning to use the flashlight. When he felt the pocket where he kept his phone he fingered instead a partial pint of Canadian whiskey. He remembered taking the phone out of his jacket to make room for the liquor. Left the damn thing sitting on the truck seat and he didn’t want to go back for it.

Eventually his eyes adjusted to the dark and he started with the boxes, tearing them open one by one. Next he dumped the contents out of a dozen plastic tubs and riffled through columns of pull-out trays mounted on shelving units. But he came up empty. Just a bunch of venison steaks and bear gonads wrapped in butcher’s paper. Indian thinks he’s so slick. Well, I’m slicker, he thought.

The man shivered and swayed unsteadily as he pawed angrily through the mess he had created, knowing it was useless. He couldn’t miss something so obvious. Then off in one corner, shoved behind some big plastic barrels, he spotted a dozen or so empty five-gallon pails along with a pile of oddly shaped plastic tubs. Not started yet, eh? Well, the cheater would have to get to it pretty soon. Time was running out. Bastard wasn’t gonna get away with it, though. Not again, thought the man. He was cold and woozy and disappointed that he didn’t find any real “evidence.” But he knew how to bide his time. The man knew he’d be in deep shit when he got home. It was way past suppertime and she’d be wondering where he was, calling around, working herself up. He’d say he had a flat. She’d believe anything, except the truth. Truth be told, he was getting hungry. It had been a while since he had his grilled cheese and hot cocoa for lunch.

The man worked his way out of the freezer and through the butchering area to the hanging room. If he could just catch his breath, maybe open a window—except there weren’t any windows. Only the door. Okay, he’d leave, but he’d be back. Yessir, he’d be back. Was chased off by the Indian last time. This time he got in. Next time he’d find what he was looking for.

The man braced against the wall, trying to steady himself. A deep growl filled the room, startling him. The noise continued, steady and methodical. The man felt stupid for being so jumpy. Damn refrigeration compressor had kicked on, that was all. He tried to slow his breathing. Maybe it was a panic attack or maybe just the lack of air in the damn place. Like being buried alive. That’s what it reminded him of. A tomb, sealed up for all eternity. He labored to breath: In. Out. In. Out. A lot of work and it made him dizzy. He’d go outside, get some air. He pushed on the knob that was supposed to release the door latch. Goddamn: jammed. He tried again and again, fighting terror, lungs burning, heart hammering in his ears. His legs buckled and he went to his knees. The door was fuckin’ stuck and so was he.

Suddenly, he found everything incredibly funny and started to laugh. What the hell, he’d gone through worse in ‘Nam, he told himself.

Good thing he brought his hooch. Yessir. A man’s best friend. Funny, he wasn’t feeling cold anymore. He’d just cozy up under the swaying carcasses and wait for the sumbitch to find him. The man smiled. He couldn’t wait to see the look on the Indian’s face when the door opened in the morning.

- 1 -

She just showed up one night, and said, “Hi. I’m Derry. I’d like to sing in the choir.”

It sounded a bit like an AA introduction. Nonetheless, we all smiled idiotically and mobbed her in order to extract as much information as possible, mainly if she sang soprano (God, please) or alto.

“Welcome,” said our choir director, Hannu, who extended a limp hand toward her. She touched his fingertips delicately, as a Victorian lady might do.

Where had this woman come from? She had not been within the humble walls of the Moose Willow Methodist Church that past Sunday. Usually, people shopping around for a church sneak in after the service has started and sit discreetly in the back pew. However, anyone—especially anyone female—who wanders in does not get past the Moose Willow Methodist Women or MW-MW.

The Methodist Women are a tenacious group of church ladies who strive to fulfill their God-mandate of recruitment for “auxiliary activities.” Any woman, lady, or slut, who dares enter the handicap-accessible doors of the Moose Willow Methodist Church will undergo an inquisition. Before her hand has cooled from multiple welcoming grips, she will be asked to join the MW-MW.

This new woman appeared to be in her thirties. Blonde hair cascaded around her head like a flaxen halo. I judged her jeans to be about a size six. She wore a stretchy top that displayed a tease of cleavage. She studied her surroundings with hooded light-blue eyes—bedroom eyes. In spite of blushed cheeks and bright lipstick, the woman exuded a pale, haunted presence.

“So, Dairy is it?” I asked. “Spelled like Humbolt’s Dairy?” Maybe she was from Wisconsin where they take their dairy products very seriously. I was used to odd names. I lived in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, or U.P. where people proudly called themselves “Yoopers.”

Our small village got its name from an Ojibwe moniker, Mooz Oziisigobiminzh, which basically translates as Moose Willow. Perhaps at one time the area abounded with moose munching on their favorite willowy browse. However, today, sightings of Bigfoot were more frequent than those of a moose.

“Well, actually, it’s spelled D-E-R-R-Y,” she said. “Parks. The last name’s Parks.”

“Very glad to meet you,” I said. “I’m Janese – rhymes with geese. JanESE,” I repeated. “Last name’s Trout, like the fish.”

Needless to say I had gone through my whole life with my first name being mispronounced and my last name being ridiculed.

A warm presence prickled the back of my neck. It was James. Not Jim, mind you, James, like in the Bible. Although our James was no saint. Quite the contrary.

“James Rush,” he said, extending a manicured hand toward Derry. “Baritone,” he added, “and your friendly television news reporter. Perhaps you’ve seen me anchoring the TV13 news?”

“I’m afraid not. I haven’t been in town long and don’t watch much television.”

James regaled Derry with a toothy, veneered smile and reached up to correct any hair that may have strayed. He did this with his left hand in order to display his bare wedding-ring finger. James had been married and divorced three times, much to the consternation of our pastor. Not that I had any room to judge, what with my supposed “jaded” living situation. I needed a roommate and George LeFleur came along, with benefits; so there you have it.

“Will your husband be joining us?” James asked. He could be so obvious.

“I’m a widow,” Derry said.

That took us aback for a sec.

James arranged his face into a perfect display of condolence. “I’m so terribly sorry—and you are so young.”

“Thank you,” she muttered.

I was beginning to feel like a third wheel or fifth wheel or whatever.

“Let’s get started,” our choir director shouted. His name, Hannu, is Finnish, and trying to pronounce his last name is hopeless, so he’s just Hannu. Like “Cher” or “Prince” or “Lassie.” Well, maybe Lassie isn’t a good example. Hannu was a saint and hardly ever yelled at us. I attribute his tolerance to his strong Christian spirit. I do not believe, for one minute, that the rumors are true about the misuse of communal wine or prescription drugs. Alcohol, though frowned upon by the Methodist Church, can serve a legitimate purpose when carefully monitored. I allow myself one glass of wine a day, except on days when two glasses seem more appropriate, such as after a long, meeting-plagued day at the Copper Country Community College where I work.

“All right people,” Hannu bleated as he banged his baton on the music stand. “Take your places.”

Our pianist, Azinnia Wattles, pounded out a few scales while we noisily clambered up onto the choir platform we shared with the pulpit and the stained-glass window of Jesus. The scene depicted in the window suggested good times. Jesus was surrounded by bunches of fruit, sunshine, and lush foliage. He wore a toga and sandals and held a lamb in the crook of his arm. No matter where you were in the sanctuary, you could not escape Jesus’ gaze. His normally benevolent expression had taken on a more reproachful look that evening.

“Where do you want me?” Derry asked.

“Squeeze in there next to Janese,” Hannu said.

This bit of shifting would cause the usurping of Eleanor Heimlich from her ordinary seat to a folding metal chair perched on the edge of the platform, and she was not a person to take such a maneuver lightly.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Eleanor, scoot over,” Hannu snapped. “It won’t kill you to sit on the folding chair.”

Eleanor was apparently unaware of the logistical problem she created. While of average height, her towering “Marge Simpson” hairdo tended to block voices from the back row. I suspected this was a strategic move on Hannu’s part who hoped to position Eleanor where she would block the fewest number of voices. If she capitulated to the folding chair, which she had not yet done, she would be sitting smack behind the pulpit. Anyone stuck there spent the entire church service staring at the assortment of mundane items on the hidden shelf within the unit. One can ponder a box of tissues and the “pennies for pastors” jar only so long before boredom sets in.

But it was a matter of status, not scenery that caused Eleanor to glower at the folding chair. She fancied herself a reverent rock star and likely viewed a folding chair as spiritually degrading. I couldn’t help but stare at her coif. It truly defied all principles of physics. I thought of the toy—Weebles, I think they were called, with the marketing phrase “Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down!” I couldn’t suppress a giggle thinking about Eleanor’s wobbly hair, which earned me a deadly look from Eleanor. A chill passed over me. Rumor had it that Eleanor was once part of an obscure religion from down South (I did detect a drawl) where they spoke in tongues and performed satanic rituals. Of course, it was all rumor churned up by the Moose Willow Gossip Mill. Eleanor moved to Moose Willow, where she had “connections,” and took a job as secretary at the elementary school. Eventually, she found her way to the Moose Willow Methodist Church where she quickly moved up in rank among the MW-MW—mostly because she terrified them—and became the queen/president of the organization.

Eleanor shifted her disdain for me to the substandard chair that was to be her new place.

“I can sit on the end,” Derry said.

Azinnia was still hammering out scales. Most of the choir had started to warm up their voices—except the soprano section, which was in turmoil because of the seating debacle.

“I want you between Janese and Eleanor. Sit!” Hannu barked.

We all sat abruptly with a unified thud. The piano music trickled to a stop.

Hannu always gets testy during cantata time. Every year, in addition to our regular Sunday anthems, we pull a musical program together for the community. Predictably, it has a religious theme, and the plot is generally the same each year: People of the world are living in darkness, despair, and gloom. They have nothing to look forward to, since the afterlife has not yet been confirmed. Christ Child is born in a manger in a lowly stall because the inn is full. This is the innkeeper’s “humanitarian” solution for a young woman in the throes of heavy labor. A special star shines—presumably a sign from God that a major event is occurring in Bethlehem. Shepherds, while tending their flocks at night, marvel at the heavenly phenomenon and summon up some angels from the realms of glory. Wise men come from afar, following the star. They bring some nice gifts of gold and frankincense, and also the myrrh, which is a funeral embalming material. This particular gift does not bode well for the youngster’s future. The story plays out through the robust singing of the choir. The practices are brutal. Hannu’s sparse hair takes on a maniacal Gene Wilder appearance and large rings of sweat stain his underarms.

This year’s cantata may have a welcome shot of freshness, due to the timely entrance of Derry. She was not only a soprano, but we quickly learned during warm-up that she was also solo material. This would do nicely for the solo piece where Mary sings to Baby Jesus laying all the world’s problems on the little tyke and telling Him, with a multitude of high notes, that He is the world’s savior. Derry sat primly, staring down at her lap. She smiled, but it wasn’t a joyous expression—more fixed, like a mannequin.

The whole thing put Hannu in a very good mood. Perhaps, if the rumors about his habits were true, which I am not saying they are, he would be able to sleep without help that night. However, Eleanor Heimlich, likely still stinging from the chair downgrade, had been singing the solo “just for practice purposes.” Eleanor, nostrils flaring, glared at Derry who focused rigidly on the music folder she held in her lap.

Somehow, James had managed to position himself behind Derry, which was not his normal place. As choir practice got into full swing, Derry and I were assaulted with James’ vigorous singing—obviously intended to impress. I felt, as I’m sure she did, his spittle land on the back of my neck with each word beginning, ending or in any way containing the “S” sound. I was plotting ways to decommission James when Hannu noticed that something was askew in the back row.

“What are you doing there?” Hannu snapped at James. “You move to where you are supposed to be. You won’t project there. And watch the S’s. You sound like a leaky radiator.”

James slunk to his normal place where he would properly project for the baritone solo he was to sing. Now, when he sang of the lonely shepherd in the desert doing God-knows-what with all those sheep, the S-induced spit would find its way elsewhere, possibly hydrating the poinsettia plants, which looked a little droopy anyway.

Once practice ended, I managed to elbow my way through the crush of yakking choir members into the brisk night air. I flapped open my coat, trying to catch the brace of cold. Snow had begun to fall, lazy and innocuous. What seemed so lovely that night—so Christmassy and all—would lose its appeal as winter progressed. The sparkling fairy-tale world would all too soon evolve into a cold, white monster that would make the gloom and despair people endured B.C. seem like a walk in the park.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Derry said. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

There she was again. The woman simply materialized.

“So, where are you from?” I asked, trying to sound as if she hadn’t unsettled me.

“Oh, originally not too far from here.”

“Back to see family?”

“You could say that.”

“Well, welcome, um, we are happy to have you.” Boy, was that lame.

“My pleasure,” she said, equally as lame.

The unmistakable voice of our very own Channel 13 newscaster and baritone soloist wafted into the night air. I turned to look at the door as the choir straggled out, with James leading the way. He always talked in a booming voice, as if on stage for a Shakespearean play.

The Pastor’s wife, Kaaron Saaranen, worked her way through the crowd and brushed up against me. “We have a funeral on Monday. Could I get you to bring something in on Sunday to contribute to the luncheon?” she said.

“Sure, I guess,” I said. “Who passed away?”

“Paavo Luukinnen, poor dear. He was ninety-three.”

I had no idea who Paavo Luukinnen was, but suspected he was another nursing home casualty. I had only rudimentary kitchen skills and always resorted to making a trip to either Tillie’s Bakery or the IGA to buy bakery items. For purposes of a funeral luncheon, IGA peanut butter bars were my go-to contribution. Of course, I removed them from the plastic store container and put on a plate to pass off as homemade.

“Bring your peanut butter bars?” Kaaron said as if reading my mind. “They are always so much better than the ones from the IGA?”

The question at the end of her comment implied that she was on to my fraudulent bakery offerings.

“See you Sunday,” she said.

“Peanut butter bars—Sunday. You can count on it,” I said.

When I turned back to find Derry and suggest we carpool next time (a clever way to find out where someone lives), she was gone. No crunch of footsteps in the snow, no car door shutting, no engine turning over. Just gone.

- 2 -

I went straight home after practice to my little cabin in the woods. I liked where I lived, all snug in the forest with the nearest neighbor a half mile down my road—Silver Road—and they went South for the winter.

“Hello? Hey George, I’m home!” I hollered as I tromped into my miniscule entryway, stomping snow off my boots. There was no answer, so I slipped off my boots and went up the steps to the loft where I found George throwing a pot. The throwing did not involve a random act of violence, but rather the creation of something sloppy on a spinning potter’s wheel. Wet clay hung from George’s beard and his bib overalls were a mess.

“Damn. Too wet,” he muttered.

I could have been standing there buck naked with my hair on fire and George wouldn’t have noticed. When he was working on one of his pots, you might as well forget finding out if he wanted peas or corn for dinner or if he had paid the electric bill. All of those trivial things didn’t matter one iota when George was in a creative mood.

That didn’t stop me from trying. “Did you have any dinner?” I asked.

“Hmmm.” He was furiously working a long funnel of clay that looked a teeny bit lopsided to me.

“Want a cheese sandwich?”

“Hmmm,” he repeated as he moved his hands to the top of the piece where he tried to close it in a bit, presumably to form a neck. I figured he was making a vase. He actually made some nice ones, considering he had only been doing pottery for about a year. It was something his doctor recommended—as therapy. George’s craft had moved very quickly from therapeutic to a job teaching at the Copper Country Community College where I worked. The Community Center—located on campus—couldn’t get enough of G. LeFleur pottery, which never sat on display long before someone snapped it up. Some said each piece had a story hidden within it. I admit the blobby, drippy stuff that he glazed on did seem a bit peculiar. Sometimes a face would emerge. Sometimes a tree. It was a little creepy if you ask me. I’m not much of an art critic.

I turned and went back down the loft steps into the compact kitchen of my cabin and poured my first glass of white zinfandel.

“Well, I’m hungry and I’m making a grilled cheese. You can just be a starving artist,” I yelled. I knew darn well that I’d make a sandwich for George, too. I thought about opening a can of tomato soup.

I heard a soft, tragic splut followed by a string of curses; the whir of the potter’s wheel stopped.

Uh oh, I thought, taking a generous swig from my wineglass.

George thudded down the steps from the loft. It had originally been a guest loft for the occasional visitor that wanted to see how “Mrs. Henry David Thoreau” lived, as Mother called me. When George moved in, he converted it into his pottery studio. I broke out into a cold sweat every time I looked at it: clay hardened on the floor, walls, and windows—even the skylight. If Mother ever saw it…

“Fuck it,” George said, and headed toward the bathroom, presumably to remove the clay from his person and deposit it on the walls and floor of the shower.

I buttered some bread, slapped it on the griddle, and added a few slices of shiny, yellow cheese. I decided not to bother with the tomato soup. I topped off my wineglass.

Eventually, George emerged from the shower. He slumped down into his seat at the table and absently picked up half of his sandwich. His dark blond hair, still wet from the shower and in desperate need of cutting, gave him a slightly wild look. The beard could have used a trim, too. However, his body—well, no complaints there—had kept good muscle tone from a few years of working for a logging company. While he made his way into the second half of his grilled cheese, he seemed to come out of his defective-pot funk.

“Hey, Trout, thanks for making this,” he said. Calling me by my fishy last name was George’s way of being affectionate. Of course, if we got married, my last name could be LeFleur. I would gladly abandon “Trout,” which was the last name of Mother’s original husband who had also been my father. I was their little surprise. My father, whom Mother described as a free spirit, died hang-gliding while stoned on cannabis. A double high, so to speak. His death, which occurred when I was still toddling, left Mother with nothing but me. I guess it was tough, bringing me up alone with no family to speak of. Mom managed a motel and restaurant in town and worked long and hard to make ends meet. I think that was when the church became so important to Mother and me. Just about the time I graduated from college, Mother met husband number two: Sherman C. Caldwell the third who took a vacation every year in the Copper Country where he could shoot animals and gamble at the casino. Shermie, as Mother called him while they were courting, conveniently died during the honeymoon (probably because he was 86) leaving Mother a sizeable fortune. Tragic yet fortunate that Shermie had no offspring. This enriching turn of events helped build my cabin in the woods. Mother sometimes shared her good fortune, but there were always strings.

Currently, Mother—known to most as Madeline and to her closest friends as Maddie—was on a cruise in the Gulf of Mexico, taking a break before the holiday rush at The Straights Inn. She owned the place, which was clear at the other end of the Upper Peninsula (praise God) in St. Ignace. Thanks to Shermie, Mother no longer worked at a motel: she owned one.

George let out a huge sigh. “I guess I tried to make the damn vase too tall,” he said. “I still got the other two to go to work with you tomorrow for firing.”

Since the average home doesn’t include a kiln room, George used the one in the art center at the Copper Country Community College—we called it the 4Cs for short—to fire his masterpieces. That was where we met—not in the kiln—but at the art center in an enrichment class. My job at the 4Cs, among other things, included coordinating community enrichment classes, such as art, dancing, basket weaving, kantele lessons, and other life-altering opportunities. One night I had decided to stop in and try pottery. What the heck, it was free to 4Cs’ employees. However, since I never will see a blob of clay for more than a potential mess (George says I’m anal), I gave up my wheel to a senior lady who wore a bright floral smock and, God love her, called me young lady. Though I failed miserably at pottery, George and I hit it off.

I thought about Mother and her occasional surprise visits. I had not yet told her about George, who was forbidden to answer the phone. Quite frankly, I was sure she would either try to run George off or trick him into marrying me. Even though my biological clock was ticking along at an alarming rate and the potential for grandparenthood remote, Mother was intent on meddling in my life, giving me ridiculous advice about men. According to her, a woman should be married at least once, even if she were to get divorced. Like having lots of shoes, it was something women did. I looked at my wineglass, which was empty again. Had I already had my daily allotment?

“Earth to Janese,” George said.

“Huh? Oh, sorry, I was thinking about Mother.”

We sat in silence for a while, George probably thinking about clay and me thinking about her.

“Um, so how much for the pieces I’m taking?” I asked.

“Oh, seventy-five—the usual. Ah, how was choir practice?”

“Same ol’—except there is this woman, Derry, who just showed up. She sings beautifully and wanted to join. She’s never been in on Sunday and I have no idea why she’s in town.” My glass was still empty and I got up to refill it. I didn’t offer George any because he didn’t touch the stuff.

“Yeah? Well, maybe they came here because of the hiring at the prison,” George said.

“See, that’s the thing,” I said, sitting back down at the table. “There is no they. She says she’s a widow. Don’t you think it’s strange that a single woman—a widow at that—would come here? I mean she might have family, but she was kind of vague about it. And she’s drop-dead gorgeous, but a little—haunting,” I added. Those pale blue eyes were still with me.

“Ah, then I bet Rushinski was sniffing around her.”

Rushinski was James’s real last name. He had shortened it to “Rush” for show-biz purposes. On those rare occasions when George attended church, he made a point of calling James Jimmy or Jimbo, just to annoy him. In retaliation, James responded by calling George Georgie or Georgie Boy. Somewhere over the Wisconsin border, George and James shared a history. I could never find out much about it, except it went back to their days of working for Plante Forestry Products. As one might guess, forestry products are trees. To Plante, trees are potential logs, but they don’t call them logs, they call them forestry products, which is more politically correct.

“So this Derry woman just showed up, eh?”

“Yeah, and she can sing. I think she’s going to do the solo for the cantata. I don’t think Eleanor is happy, either.”

“Oh yes, Heimlich. She’s the old battle ax that screwed me outta getting that custodian job at the school,” George said.

“Well, you have your teaching job at 4Cs now,” I said.

“True. But I’ll never get anywhere there,” he said. “Don’t have the degree.”

It was true, George didn’t have a higher ed degree, which interestingly wasn’t mandatory to teach but essential for job security. Mother had insisted that I go to college in spite of the economic hardship. I did okay and got my bachelor’s degree from Upper Michigan University. I majored in business and minored in partying.

George looked a bit forlorn, so I offered: “There’s always the prison. They’re always hiring.” I really didn’t want George to apply at the prison. It was a sucky job, but they hired regularly and had benefits.

George smiled. “Don’t think I’d check out with them.”

“How come?”

“Oh, that’s between me and my shrink,” he said.

“Same as the logging accident.”

“What do you want to know about the accident?”

“You never said what really happened, only that someone died, and that you could have prevented it.”

“Yeah, well I don’t exactly remember it; that’s why I go to the head doctor, who says I’m suppressing things.”

“And he—or she—is trying to un-suppress you?”

“I guess. Let’s not talk about it, okay?”

George had been living with me for several months and refused to open up. He went to regular court-ordered appointments with a psychiatrist or psychologist—someone in the mental health field. I hadn’t seen much progress.

I cleaned the congealed cheese off the griddle while George put the dishes in the dishwasher. I retired my wineglass for the evening and headed for the bedroom. Since the guest loft had become a potter’s studio, George had the choice of sleeping up there on the futon or with me in my nice pillow-top bed. The man liked his comfort, and since I wasn’t collecting rent in the conventional sense, I felt due some sort of compensation. Normally, George was quite accommodating. However, that night he instantly fell asleep. I thought about his vase that apparently self-destructed when it was stretched too thin. Sometimes I felt that way, stretched too thin and ready to ooze into an amoebic puddle. I envied George’s quiet strength—his resolve to invert his soul and emerge with a new identity; to reshape like a lump of clay. It made him maddeningly unreachable, and alluring. George was different than the other men I had known who basically wanted sex, beer, food, fishing, and football, in varying order.

I dozed off, thinking about ropes of clay and the stacks of projects on my desk at work. I dreamed that I was ensconced in an igloo with no windows and no doors. I lay there, cocooned in the oppressive, hot confines of a mummy sleeping bag with no zipper. The heat was overwhelming. The igloo started to drip, melting away. I was in my office and angry people pounded on my door, calling me names.

And then George shouted something weird that sounded like “gaaa,” which jolted me awake, thank God not in a mummy sleeping bag or an igloo, but instead in George’s house of horrors.

George moaned like a distant foghorn, low and painful.

“George, wake up,” I whispered, nudging him gently. “You’re doing it again.”

More deranged moaning.

“George! Wake up!” This time I jabbed him. That did it.

He sat up in the darkness. “Hey Trout, was I snoring? Take it easy. I’m gonna have a bruise,” he said massaging his ribs.

He turned to me. “Was I having the dream?”

“Apparently.”

“I guess we’re both wide awake,” he said.

“Yeah. I was having a doozie of a dream myself.”

“What about?”

“Igloos.”

We were quiet a moment.

“Igloos,” George said.

“Uh huh. Probably because of the New Year’s Eve thing,” I said.

“Mmm?”

“You know, the igloo building competition that 4Cs sponsors. It started out as a spur-of- the-moment-fun-alternative-to-getting-drunk on New Year’s Eve and now it’s, well, it’s just ugly. Do you know that people cheat?”

George gave a snort. “Really?”

“I mean they’re supposed to wait until December 26th,” I said. “They can’t start until the day after Christmas, and I’ve heard that Bucky Tanner—you know Bucky’s Game Processing and Taxidermy—supposedly stores items for his igloo contest entry that he makes ahead of time in the freezer of his meat locker. And all this trouble so he can beat Weasel Watkins.”

“What people won’t fight over,” George said absently. “So, you have to run the thing?”

I gave George my most withering look. I had told him all about how coordinating the igloo contest had fallen on my desk. This was the second year, not counting the spontaneous teen/quinzhee competition that had started the whole thing. It had been my colleague, Brenda Koski’s idea, supposedly to turn it into something “way cool,” as she described her alleged epiphany. Most likely the college president, Patrick Neil, had planted the idea with Brenda, hoping it would grow there. However, Brenda lacked the brainpower to “grow” anything, and the project had somehow gotten shoved off on me. Brenda was the resident floozy at the 4Cs. Her title varied, depending on who she was chummy with. I had been racking my brain to come up with a way to pay her back for shoving the igloo contest off on me, but so far had only been able to think of things that would get me fired or possibly arrested.

George and I lay in the semi-darkness, listening to the silence. George shivered.

“Want some hot cocoa?” I said.

“Nah,” he said looking at me.

I had seen that look; I liked that look. It was my turn to shiver. I preferred to think it was desire causing my chill rather than the drying perspiration from my bad dream. Whatever the cause—and I was pretty sure it was George’s finger tracing down my… Anyway, I didn’t want any cocoa, either.

- 3 -

As I parked in Lot B at the Copper Country Community College, I noticed that I had beaten Brenda Koski in—or at least her big, pretentious SUV was not there. When I got to my office, the evil red eye on my phone message light blinked at me. I started some coffee, booted up my computer, and dialed into my voice mail. The first two messages were people asking about getting entry forms for the igloo contest and the third was from someone inquiring about folk dancing lessons. The fourth message took me a while to figure out.

“Yeah,” it began. “Tell that prick—‘scuse my French—tell that jerkwad Weasel Watkins to quit poking around my place, eh? If he’s gotta beef, he needs to come face to face. Next time I call the cops—or worse.”

The gravelly smoker’s voice was unmistakable: Bucky of Bucky’s Game Processing and Taxidermy. As I told George, last year when Bucky won the igloo contest, Weasel Watkins swore he had cheated. What had begun as a wholesome and fun activity had evolved into a monster.

It all began on a New Year’s Eve when we had a big, wet snowfall—perfect for packing. Kids were out cruising the three blocks of Moose Willow when the girls challenged the boys to a quinzhee-building contest. While igloos are constructed of ice, quinzhees are basically hollowed-out piles of snow that provide emergency shelter in a winter wilderness setting. The kids who built the makeshift quinzhees selected one boy and one girl to be lodged in their respective shelters and see who could stay there the longest. Plans were made for food, soda pop, and sleeping materials. However, sanitary facilities were not part of the construction, which forced the girl—who had had an extra-large diet pop for dinner—to default. In the spirit of fairness, (the girl being at an anatomical disadvantage and less inclined to seek relief where she was to sleep and eat) a tie was declared and the couple was crowned King and Queen of the quinzhees. A brief coronation ceremony took place, which involved snowballs being crammed down the king and queen’s backs and the brutal destruction of the quinzhees.

During the contest, the citizens of Moose Willow abandoned the neighborhood bars and holiday parties, and came outdoors to cheer the kids. Everyone sang Auld Lang Sang and went home sobered up from the cold. The next year, the Copper County Community College had agreed to sponsor an annual contest. The activities expanded to include the whole community and involved an “igloo” building contest, which concluded with an awards banquet wherein the winners were announced and prizes were given out. The term igloo was a loose term for “something constructed of snow and/or ice.”

Somewhere along the line, it got ugly.

I deleted Bucky and cued the last message. I got up to get a cup of coffee while it played. I stopped mid-pour to listen. It wasn’t anyone calling to kibitz about the igloo contest, that was for sure. The voice, which was being disguised but sounded female, gave me goosebumps.

Tell George I’m so glad I finally found him. The voice, unmistakably menacing, was definitely not like a long-lost friend tracking down an old pal. There was a pause, then: If you wonder who this is, just ask George. Tell him I’ll be in touch. No name, no number, no reason for calling. The mystery of George continued to grow. I did not delete the message.

Speaking of George, I remembered that I had his pottery in my car, which needed to go over to the art center for firing in the kiln. I vaguely recalled him warning me that it shouldn’t get too cold or too hot or something. I dashed out of my office—never did get my coffee—and hurried to the parking lot. Brenda Koski’s big SUV was parked so close to my car that my driver’s car door could only be opened about six inches. Perhaps someone anorexic could squeeze through, but not me. I also noticed that the wheel wells of her SUV had huge mounds of snow packed up in them. For some reason, I loved kicking snow out of wheel wells—felt compelled to do it. George said it was my obsessive compulsive disorder. There, on Koski’s car, was a prime icy snow hump begging to be dislodged. I casually gave it a kick, which scuffed the toe of my boot and hurt my instep. The ice held steady. I opened the hatch of my car and got a hammer out of my tool kit. My blows with the hammer only produced a few chips of ice, one of which lodged in my right eyeball. I blame my blurred vision on the inaccuracy of my next hammer swing. Did you know that splash guards are really flimsy—brittle, actually, especially when encrusted with ice? There was a bad noise—a cracking sound, and an impressive slab of ice fell to the parking lot with a fractured piece of plastic splashguard embedded in it.

Uh oh.

I stood and looked around. I was the only one in the parking lot. The distant scrape of a snow shovel reverberated off the buildings. I was certain that Brenda had insurance—good insurance. Anyway, that’s what happens when you park so close to another car. It gets the owner all upset and the adrenalin pumping. I would have just gotten into my Subaru and driven off to deliver George’s vases to the kiln room. Besides, you see all kinds of things that are far more intentional than a little chip in the splash guard—well, okay, a fairly good-sized break. You see obscene things written in the salt residue, such as “wash me bitch” or scratches that you know were intentionally done with keys, or major dings in the doors. No, a little nick—well, okay, a fairly good snap—in the splashguard, which is really just ornamental anyway, is certainly no cause for concern. Just a victim of the harsh Michigan winters, as I saw it.

I quickly put my hammer away, took one more look around, and climbed into my car through the passenger door. I crawled over the console, careful to avoid a bodily violation by the shift lever, and maneuvered around until I managed to slide into the driver’s seat. In the process, I tore my coat pocket, which hooked on the shift knob and one of my gloves (leather—a gift from Mother) fell into the muddy slush on the floor mat. I was feeling less guilty about the tiny bit of damage that had happened to Brenda Koski’s car.

* * *

My brain was completely numb after enduring one of those long, boring meetings that makes you either contemplate suicide or vow to cast off civilization and become a subsistence-living recluse. Or, I could have a little wine and enjoy a quiet dinner with George. After all, it was Friday, with two glorious days of no bizarre phone messages, long-winded meetings, or moral dilemmas. I did a mental inventory of my wine and food supply. I was pretty sure the wine was low and certain that there was nothing much to eat in the fridge. Also, I (miraculously) remembered that I had promised to bring “bars” to church Sunday for what’s-his-name’s funeral on Monday afternoon. I would have to stop at the IGA. Of course, their wine prices were exorbitant. If I wanted a bargain, I knew I had to stop at the Bayview Bar and Grill for a box of my favorite white zin. I hated going in there, with all the old farts sitting at the bar, watching me as if I were a bikini model strutting the runway.

The IGA had the peanut butter bars and I picked up some ground beef and hamburger buns, a bag of chips, and some deli baked beans and slaw. As an afterthought, I selected an apple pie from the bakery. I had sworn off desserts until my clothes quit shrinking. George, of course, looked like an ad for a crop walk (also an event that I coordinate) and could eat all he wanted without gaining an ounce.

Inside the Bayview Bar and Grill, the air hung stale with decades unwashed humans and a spilled-beer-Friday-night-fish-fry smell. It was dark, which was probably for the best. At one time, there had been a large picture window with a view of the bay. Herb Heinki, who is the Bayview’s proprietor and perpetual bartender, boarded it up after the health department nearly shut him down. His logic is that if they can’t see the grime, nobody cares. I shudder when I think about the kitchen.

Country music thumped so loudly that I suspected the cockroaches were packing up to move. Eventually, my eyes adjusted to the gloom and I headed toward the wine cooler that stored the take-out beverages. Several men sitting at the bar rotated on their stools and watched my progress. I endured this inspection, as did every woman, each time I came in the place. I took a quick look around. It was pretty empty. Two guys were playing pool; one had a toothpick hanging on his lip, apparently a substitute for smoking, which was no longer allowed in bars or restaurants. A couple sat huddled at the far table, crouched over their drinks. I recognized the coiffed back of the man’s head. It was none other than our church choir’s finest baritone, James Rush. And, well, I’ll be damned, I thought, if it isn’t the lovely and mysterious Derry Parks sitting across from him. She appeared to be rummaging in her purse for something, so didn’t notice me—I hoped. I admit that I was a little surprised to see that Derry had succumbed, at least to the degree of meeting in a north woods bar, to one of James’ propositions. I sidled over to the cooler and selected a box of low-end white zinfandel and set it on the bar by Herb.

“Hey, Janese,” Herb shouted to be heard over the blaring music. Then he said something about my cottage.

“What? My cottage? I yelled back.

“COLLEGE. HOW-ARE-THINGS-AT-THE-COLLEGE?

“GREAT, HERB, JUST GREAT,” I shouted back, straining my vocal cords. They were out of whack anyway, since cantata practice had started. At least I didn’t have to worry about James and Derry overhearing me.

I think Herb told me how much for the wine and I slid my debit card toward him. He looked at the card as if were toxic. Of course, he couldn’t fudge the books if there was a record—like from a debit card. Mercifully, the song ended.

“Sorry. I forgot to hit the ATM—no cash.” My voice rasped as if I’d been shouting at a football game. He sighed and scanned the card, then tossed it back. I signed the appropriate slip and scuttled past the men at the bar.

“Ya gonna have a little party, eh?” One of them said. Another snickered. I wondered if saving a few bucks on wine was worth the harassment. I risked a quick glance over my shoulder at Derry and James. She had her head tossed back and was laughing. I’d have bet anything he had his hand on her knee, but of course I couldn’t see. Well, to each her own, I thought as I passed through the squealing door into the brace of fresh air and brightness. I remembered how aloof Derry had been toward James at choir practice, or was she being coquettish? In any event, he could be charming in his own, narcissistic way. When I got to the parking lot, I saw that someone had parked a truck so close to my driver’s door that I couldn’t possibly get in. Ditto on the passenger-side. I may have said a bad word or two as I hit the unlock button and flung open the back hatch. “Why me?” I muttered. Perhaps I should have reported the damage to Koski’s car. After all, even though there were no witnesses, God was watching, and He sends signs. Monday, first thing, I’d fess up. Maybe.

* * *

It was nearly dark when I pulled onto my road. A couple of inches of snow had fallen and a single set of fresh tire tracks wound its way down the middle of my street. George may have taken the truck and run out somewhere. Sometimes he went to the Silver River Tavern to get a deep-fried donut. It was a strange thing, having fried donuts and beer on the same menu. I wondered if I should try to grill the burgers in the garage or fry them in a pan. I had pretty much decided on the frying pan when I pulled into the driveway and saw not only George’s truck still parked there, but another car as well. It looked vaguely familiar but was so caked with road salt that I couldn’t even tell what color it was. Whoever it belonged to had blocked the garage door, forcing me to lug the groceries in through the service door.

I clamored into the entryway of my cabin, as the peanut-butter bars slipped out the grocery bag and smashed onto the floor.

“Well, sh—MOTHER!—what’re you doing…I thought…aren’t you on a cruise?”

She was sitting in George’s favorite chair and he was perched on the edge of the couch, as if ready to bolt.

“Hello to you too, Janese,” Mother said, rising from her chair. She and I met in the middle of the living room and exchanged an airy kiss. “Cruises do come to an end—thank God. Are you growing out your hair, dear?” she asked, her eyes scrolling me like the cursor on a computer screen.

I absently touched my hair. Perhaps the roots were starting to show.

“Being a blond is so much trouble, isn’t it? That’s why I’m back to my natural color,” she said.

I hadn’t noticed, until then, that Mother’s hair was an unlikely shade of red. Was that new? She sat back in her chair and smiled. “George, here, has been a wonderful host. Thank heavens for instant coffee!” She took a sip, winced, and set the mug on my oak coffee table. My eyes shifted to the mug, wondering if it would leave a ring.

“I am so sorry I couldn’t reach you, Janese. I tried, but I kept getting your answering machine.”

“Did you leave a message?” I asked.

“Of course not dear. I refuse to talk to machines.” Her eyes shifted around the room. “I see you’ve done some, uh, rearranging of things.” She gazed up at the vaulted ceiling of the living room and her eyes darted toward the loft/erstwhile guest room. She lowered her chin and looked at George who moved even closer to the edge of the couch.

“Well!” I chirped, “Isn’t this just lovely? I’m going to fix some burgers for dinner. George, come help me.”

George shot off the couch and retrieved the box of wine that I had dropped in the middle of the hallway. We stopped briefly in the kitchen to deposit the groceries and, without speaking, moved toward the bedroom door where we became entangled until George backed off and allowed me to enter. I gently shut the door behind us.

“What is she doing here?” I hissed. “Why didn’t you answer the phone?”

“You told me not to. Remember? And I tried to call and text you,” he snarled. “Don’t you ever have your cell on?”

“I keep forgetting. Why did you let her in?”

“Like she gave me a choice.” George shot back. “I was doing some sketching in the loft when someone knocks on the door. When I open it, she hardly gives me a look then sashays in and asks where are you and who am I.”

“And you said...?”

“I told her you were at work and that I was George, a friend. And she says is that so? I still didn’t know who the hell she was and when I asked, she said she was Madeline, your mother. I had just gotten her some coffee and sat down when, thank God, you came home. Why the hell do you pay for a stupid smartphone if you never turn it on? Christ, it feels like the inquisition has arrived.”

“It has arrived, George,” I said in a chilly, calm voice. “And if you choose to leave—and it is a choice that I would not make lightly—please know that I will put all your stuff out in the driveway and set fire to it. That includes your potter’s wheel.”

George looked as though he were considering his options.

Could he fit through the bedroom window? It was one of those crank-out jobs with a screen and a feisty mini-blind that always catches on the window crank. There really was no escape, except directly through the belly of the beast whose name was Madeline.

I slid into the kitchen and put the groceries away. Mother was no longer sitting in the chair and I spotted her fiery-red hair moving about in the loft. That hair would keep her safe in the woods during hunting season. I also noticed her overnight bag—a very large one—sitting at the base of the steps. She came to the loft railing and looked down at me.

“What, in God’s name, is all this—this, stuff up here?”

I stuck my head in the fridge, trying to buy some time.

“Wine, Mother?” I asked.

“I asked you a question, Janese. What is this…mess? And yes, wine would be nice. I need to get that nasty taste of instant coffee out of my mouth.”

Thumping came from the bedroom. Maybe George was trying the window. I was deadly serious about my threats of arson. All the men in my life had abandoned me: my father along with a couple of boyfriends. Of course my father died, but that was because he was acting like a fool rather than a responsible family man. The others, well, they—

I heard a crash. Had George broken a window? No, it was Mother.

“Oh dear,” she said. “I wonder what that thingy is—was.”

George poked his head out of the bedroom. He was only wearing his boxers. “What th’ hell was that?”

“Nothing, George, just a thingy,” I said, waving him off. “Why did you take your clothes off?”

“I need a shower. Keep her away from my pottery,” he snapped, slamming the door.

“Right. Keep her away,” I muttered. For some reason it all seemed very funny and I started to giggle. I had poured two glasses of wine: one for her and one for me. Mine wasn’t completely full anymore. I silently thanked the nectar gods for the brand spanking new box of white zin in the fridge.

“Mother, please come down, and leave, ah, George’s things alone. Here’s your wine.”

“George’s things?” she said. “I thought maybe you had taken up—whatever it is that’s up there.”

“No, it’s George’s,” I said, not offering any more information.

Mom clacked down the steps into the living room. How she could stand those high heels was beyond me.

“So,” she said, “tell me all about George.”

I busied myself making hamburger patties and setting the table. “Nothing to tell. He’s a friend. I gave him a place to, um, live for a while.”

“I see.”

She seemed thoughtful, which was unsettling. I got a pan out and slapped the hamburger patties in it. I opened the fridge and put my wine glass under the little spigot that came with the box of wine. As I emerged, I had the ketchup and mustard, and an onion of questionable vintage—and a full glass.

“Ah, well, men…” she said absently.

I gave her a covert look.

“So, tell me about the cruise to—where was it?”

“Well, truthfully, Janese, I never went. A bunch of old, desperate people trying to pretend they are having a great time. Not for me,” she said as she took a generous swallow of wine. She smiled. “I’d rather be with my darling daughter than with a bunch of old farts who want to get it on with me, or worse yet, they want a nurse or a purse.” She waved her wine glass around, miraculously not spilling any.

“What about the resort. Don’t you need to be there, ah, overseeing things?” I asked as I sat on the couch.

“Yes, well, I closed it down for a few weeks—until just before Christmas—you know, while I was on the cruise and then had the renovations all lined up.”

“What kind of renovations?”

“Oh, the usual. A little paint and personnel change.”

“Personnel change?”

“Yes, dear. You remember Stephen?”

“Sure,” I said. “He’s a wiz, according to you; runs the restaurant and the motel. You positively love him.”

The bedroom door opened. George sidled into the kitchen and touched the frying pan.

“He’s a queer,” Mother said matter-of-factly. “I let him go.”

The bedroom door slammed shut.

“Queer, as in a homosexual or gay? You can’t fire him for that,” I said, straining to see toward the bedroom.

“Well, he was putting the moves on Rick, the nice young man who works the night shift. I can’t have that kind of behavior. It’s sexual harassment. I could be sued.” She sighed. “So hard to get good help these days. Used to be the people you worked with were family—family,” she repeated, looking directly at me.

I leapt off the couch and hurried into the kitchen.

“Need any help, dear?” she asked.

Oh, I needed help alright. “No thanks. So, you don’t want to oversee the renovations—the painting and such?”

“Oh Janese, you know I’m allergic to latex,” she said. “Do you have any more wine?”

I got her wine glass and refilled it. Mother had many allergies of convenience: paint, animals, cleaning products. “So how long will the fumes be keeping you, um, here?”

“Oh, only a week or two.”

This time a crash came from the bedroom.

Mother smiled at me. “Are you still singing in the church choir, dear?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Is Azalea still abusing the keyboard? God, she must be in her eighties.”

“Her name is Azinnia,” I said. “And the answer is yes.”

“And that hunk—what’s his name? His voice is positively hypnotizing—Peter, Paul, Matthew?”

“James,” I said. “He’s still there.”

“And is he still single?”

“Mother!”

“Well, now that I’ve fired Stephen, I’m available.”

“What!” I said. “Stephen and you…?”

“Well, I guess he was—how do you say—AC/BC?”