Everybody Loves Evie. Beth Ciotta
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around Paris.
I did, however, dream about my folks. First thing, I tried to call Mom, then Dad. I got their respective answering machines. My brother was unavailable, as well, tied up in back-to-back meetings, according to his secretary. I left messages. I wrestled my runaway imagination to the ground. Don’t borrow trouble, I could hear Arch say.
“Don’t think about Arch.” He sure wasn’t thinking of me. I told myself to stop pouting. I wanted a hot fling. I got it. I wanted to break off. We did. Possible his idea of friendship differed from mine. Possible things were hunky-dory between us and I was overreacting due to an overactive imagination. Yeah. That was it.
After a healthy breakfast and a reviving shower, I was ready to face a new Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah day. Beckett had barred me from the club until my cold was kaput, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t prepare. I’d spend the next day or two cramming. Bone up on jazz standards and common grifts. Somewhere I had the soundtrack from Lady Sings the Blues. I’d be hard-pressed to find a cheery song on that Billie Holliday tribute, but at least it was jazz. I could listen and absorb while reading up on classic cons. Since I’d paid for rush delivery, I expected the books I’d ordered today. The better I understood the mechanics and lingo, the better my chances of being taken seriously by Chameleon.
Shopping was also on today’s itinerary. I had an apartment to decorate. Even Beckett’s bachelor digs had more personality. I needed to get a life. I was pretty sure I could find one at Wal-Mart. That store had everything. I’d shop for CDs featuring jazz vocalists and DVDs featuring con artists—anything to immerse myself in the world of grifters and scams. Then I’d stroll the home-furnishing aisle looking for colorful curtains and toss pillows. Maybe a coordinating area rug and whimsical wall hangings.
Sipping my second cup of tea, I peeked through the blinds to check the weather and saw my car sitting in the parking lot. It made me think of Beckett. He could’ve poured me into a cab. Instead he’d insisted on seeing me home personally. He’d driven my car, asking Tabasco to follow so that he had a ride home. I thought about the way he’d blown off business to look after my welfare and blushed. He’d been a perfect gentleman. I’d been a pain in the neck.
I’d barged into his apartment and picked a fight …
while under multiple influences. My first day with Chameleon had been a mortifying disaster, yet instead of focusing on the negative, I contemplated Milo Beckett’s caring manner. First in the hospital after the Simon the Fish shooting. Then yesterday. Granted, he hadn’t given me the job I’d wanted, but his reasons had merit. He didn’t think I was ready to tangle with professional grifters. The opportunity, however, was there. At least he was giving me a chance to prove myself. To think, I’d first pegged him as an obnoxious womanizer. Then again, I’d first met him as Tex Aloha.
Now I could only think of him as Beckett or Jazzman. Everyone at Chameleon had a nickname. Pops, Tabasco. Even Bearded Boy, whose real name, I’d learned, was Woody, answered to The Kid. Arch was Ace. Oh, and let’s not forget Gina. Of course the boys would dub the brunette bombshell something sexy like Hot Legs. Me, I got stuck with Twinkie. Although it could’ve been worse. Nipples. Headlights. Hooters. Yeah, could have been worse.
I rinsed out my cup and headed for my bedroom. My phone chirped with an incoming call. My hopes soared. My heart raced. “Yeah?”
“What kind of way is that to answer the phone?”
Arch’s way. “Sorry. Hi, Christopher.” My brother.
“What’s wrong with your voice?”
“I have a cold. No biggie. It’s almost gone.” God forbid he feel compelled to offer comfort. “Thanks for returning my call.”
“I was going to call you today anyway.”
“You were? Is everything okay?” Because my brother never called to chat. He was, after all, a Parish.
“No, everything is not okay.”
I sat on the end of my bed. I struggled not to borrow trouble and failed. “Mom didn’t file for divorce, did she?”
“No. But Dad might when he gets wind of her shenanigans.”
“Shenanigans?” Our mom made June Cleaver look like a party girl. We’re talking straight arrow. An apple-pie conservative. She did not engage in shenanigans.
“She’s taking dance lessons.”
“Dance lessons? Mom?”
“There’s a new instructor in town. He’s teaching over at the civic center. Line dancing. Ballroom. Rumor has it Mom’s kicking up her heels.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“That’s the least of it.”
I braced myself. Converting to Democrat? Drinking cosmopolitans?
“She cashed in two war bonds.”
“What? Like savings bonds?”
“Exactly.”
“I didn’t know she owned bonds.”
“Neither did I. Given the date of purchase, someone must have gifted them to her as a child.”
“And she’s just now cashing them in?”
“She showed up at the bank on my day off and withdrew the bonds from her safe-deposit box. I’m convinced she didn’t want me to know about it. But it was a sizable amount. It was Mom. Naturally it came to my attention.”
Naturally. He was, after all, the bank president. “Did you ask her about it?”
“She told me to mind my own beeswax.”
My stomach clenched at an uncomfortable thought. “Are Mom and Dad hurting for money?”
“No. Between their savings and pensions, they’re set. Even with the purchase of the tavern.”
“That’s a relief. So what did Mom need the money for?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
My brother, the man who never panicked, the man who considered himself a superior problem solver, sounded worried. My pulse galloped. “How much money are we talking?
“Six thousand.”
“Wow.” I nibbled my thumbnail, deep in thought. “Maybe she’s buying a new fridge or converting my bedroom into a home office like she’s been talking about forever. You know, treating herself to something special since Dad treated himself to the Corner Tavern.”
“I haven’t seen any workers at the house or a delivery truck in the driveway.”
“Well, what do you—”
“You don’t want to know what I think.”
Shrieking would only aggravate my scratchy throat. “Just tell me.”
“I think she has a boyfriend.”
“What!” So much for staying cool. I bolted to my feet and paced to walk off anxious energy.
“Someone’s put a spring in her step.”
“Maybe it’s the dance class.”
“Or someone in that class. She’s been spotted with that instructor—once at JCPenney, once at Pizza Hut.”
“So what?”
“So they were together. As in shopping together. Eating together.” Dramatic pause. “Like a date.”
I rubbed a dull throbbing at my temple. “This is crazy talk, Christopher. Mom wouldn’t … she couldn’t … she’s married.”
“So was Michael.”
Ouch. “Nice.”
“Sorry,” Christopher said, his tone as tight as