Lucy’s face was inches from my own.
“There’s a strange woman downstairs,” she whispered, leaning over me, eyes wide.
“Some would say there are two strange women upstairs,” I said, raising myself onto my elbows.
“This one has two black eyes.”
That got my attention. I sat up.
“Anna? їEstб aquн?”
Anna responded in the slow, third- grade- level Spanish she knew I could understand.
“That’s Anna Peсa,” I told Lucy.
“Annapurna?”
“Pena, you idiot. Let me get up.”
Lucy had been up for hours, plowing through a month’s worth of Hollywood Reporters that she’d brought with her, while I slept off a hangover. She looked crisp and polished in a New Yorker’s idea of country gear-corduroys, turtleneck tucked in, with a belt. By way of contrast, I looked and felt rumpled, like I’d been on a bender.
“Why does she have two black eyes?”
“She’s had her eyelids tattooed.”
“Ouch.”
“Make some coffee, I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
I dressed quickly, avoiding the mirror as much as possible.
“You’ve turned into a lightweight,” Lucy said, pouring coffee as I stumbled into the kitchen.
“I just don’t put away three bottles of wine on a regular basis anymore.”
“My condolences. Here, drink up.” She handed me a mug. “I know,” she said nostalgically, “our ranks are dwindling. Everyone’s so healthy these days, it’s depressing.”
“Anything else depressing you?”
She shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said, but her face had darkened.
“Bull. I know how I feel when I say I’m fine, and it’s rarely fine.”
“Work. All the same people, hawking all the same stuff. I did an enormous amount of work on that kids’ show and then it fell through. Kaput. So then you end up pitching another remake of some classic you hated in school or, worse, reality shows. Sometimes it all seems so stupid. Plus… I’m not the cutest little girl in the room anymore.”
“Sure you are,” I said in true sisterly fashion. “And you definitely are this morning,” I whispered, “compared to me and Anna. It’s just preshow anxiety. You’re worried you won’t find the next big thing, but you always do.” That cheered her up.
“We’ll go to the Paradise,” I said. “I guarantee you’ll feel better after you meet Babe. She’s my new role model.”
Just then Anna walked in. She did, indeed, look strange. A large woman, she was partial to stretchy, pastel leggings and tiny jeweled slippers, what ever the weather. Her denim jacket was bedazzled in elaborate patterns.
But what had startled Lucy were Anna’s eyes. They were tattooed with two stripes of permanent eyeliner, one black and one green. And her eyebrows were filled in in solid chocolate brown, giving her a look of perpetual surprise. Then came the lips-bee-stung is a word that’s often used-these looked more like rattlesnake bites. Until all the swelling went down, she’d look like a Maori who’d been in a fight and lost big.
I told Lucy I needed five minutes more to regroup before we left for the diner, then took my coffee and left the pair of them to what would undoubtedly be an unusual conversation.
Five minutes was wildly optimistic. My face was puffy. I hadn’t had a good haircut in months. Roberto, astronomically priced stylist to the mid- level media types in New York, kept canceling my appointments. I should have known it was a mistake to leave a phone number with anything other than a New York area code.
I was fanatical about working out, but all that maintenance stuff-manicures, pedicures, facials-I hadn’t done any of that for ages, and it showed. Thank God for Stila. I concealed, blushed, curled, and was back in the kitchen in fifteen minutes.
“Loaded for bear?” Lucy asked, after eyeing the paint job. “Do we happen to be stopping by the police station, or is all this for Felix, the handsome, brooding groundskeeper?”
“Too much?”
“No, I like it. And it beats the hell out of that American Gothic look you were sporting yesterday.”
Lucy seemed to be her old self again.
We watched Anna waddle back downstairs to the office, comfortable in her skin, her light, sweet coffee in one hand and a bag of buttered Portuguese rolls in the other. “She may be my new role model,” Lucy said. “The mythical woman who doesn’t think she needs to lose ten pounds I’ve heard tell of. And why don’t I have someone who wants to help me and not get paid for it?”
“C’mon, let the games begin,” I said. “I want you to meet the cast of characters.”
“Sure, we can figure out who the baby is this weekend. Last night, I decided the mother was Dorothy Peacock. Now I’m leaning toward the next- door neighbor, this Congressman Fifield as the daddy.”
“And why do we think that?”
“He’s a congressman. Need I say more?” Close to perfect, Lucy fluffed her hair, blotted her lipstick, and was ready to go. “Lead on.”
The Paradise Diner’s new thought for the week was IT’S DIFFICULT TO LOSE A SPOUSE-BUT NOT IMPOSSIBLE. Catchy. The place was half- empty.
“Health department been here again?” I asked, sliding onto a counter stool in front of Babe.
“Bite your tongue, Ms. Green Jeans. You look good. What happened?”
“Ms. Green Jeans? Where’d that come from? Oh, let me guess-Mom?“
“You should be flattered. Not everyone gets a cop nickname. Someone must like you.”
“Someone must like me? I must be having flashbacks to junior high school. This is Lucy. She’s an old friend, helping me with the garden; the valuable fashion and makeup tips are a bonus.”
“You do nice work. I can see an improvement already,” Babe said, looking me up and down.
“Just how bad do I usually look?” I asked, not really wanting an answer.
“I’m helping with the garden? I thought I was here for a Ralph Lauren weekend. Read the paper, sit in a hammock, maybe get to wear all these tweedy duds I buy and never take the tags off.”
“What’ll you two have?” Babe asked.
“Turkey on rye, no mayo, and an iced coffee for me.”
“You’re having a turkey sandwich for breakfast?” Lucy asked.
“It’s not breakfast, it’s brunch. And it’s never too early for turkey. It’s one of God’s perfect foods.”
“To each his own.” Lucy was more adventurous and went for the blueberry pancakes with ham and Pete’s special potatoes.
“I like to see a girl with a healthy appetite,” Babe said approvingly. “You’re not going to throw it up after, are you?”
“Of course not. I’ve cleansed, but I’ve never barfed intentionally,” Lucy said, offended at the suggestion and making sure we saw the distinction. Lucy leaned over the counter and grabbed a copy of that morning’s Bulletin, skimming the latest articles for mentions of me.
“Look at this.” She laughed. “There was a candy wrapper stuck in with all the paper in the box you found. Have you been sneaking junk food on the side?”
“Let me see that.” I took the paper. It was true. Crumpled in with the rest of the packing material was a Cadbury’s chocolate wrapper.
“So it was murder?” Lucy said. “Death by chocolate?”
“You’re cracking yourself up, aren’t you? A stray, crumpled piece of paper that probably has nothing to do with this matter.” Still, it was odd. And maybe a tiny clue. Other than that, there was little new information on the case, just a packaged statement from Win Fi-field’s office.
As we ate, Lucy launched into her theories from the night before. Convinced she’d found the father, she peppered Babe with questions about Congressman Fifield. Did she know him? How old was he? What kind of kid had he been?
“Easy, tiger. Babe may not even know him.”
“Oh, I know the little pisher, all right. He’s in his forties now. Terrible brownnoser as a kid. Even worse as a teenager. The Young Prince,” she added for emphasis. “Thought all the girls should be tickled pink to jump into the backseat of his convertible. I hear more than a few did, and they were sorry afterward.
“When he first ran for office, he tried to park himself here, to glad- hand and kiss babies. Tried to use my boys as campaign props since he didn’t have his own kids. I changed the marquee outside to read IF CON IS THE OPPOSITE OF PRO, IS CONGRESS THE OPPOSITE OF PROGRESS? That kept him away.”
“Your boys?” Lucy asked.
“I’ve got twins. Dylan’s in Colorado, studying to become a meteorologist. Daltry’s in LA, trying to make it in the movies.” She grabbed a few menus and left to seat some new arrivals.
“Dylan and Daltry?” Lucy whispered, making a face and playing air guitar with her fork.
“I saw that, honey,” Babe said over her shoulder, smiling. “It could have been a lot worse; we were gonna call them Rainbow and Democracy.”
“They did luck out,” Lucy said, digging into her carbfest. “Your congressman sounds like a slug, but I may be wrong about him. If one of the sisters was the mother, we might have to eliminate young Mr. Fifield. He may be a sleazoid, but I don’t see a stud like him going after sixty- or seventy- year- old booty.”
“I’m not convinced it was one of the sisters,” I said. “If that baby was mummified, the mother could be anyone. The list of suspects can go back five years or fifty. Unless the body was tested, it would look pretty much the same. And if it had been moved it might not even have anything to do with the Peacocks.”
“That’s right. Your cop friend didn’t know, did he?”
“Nope.”
Babe came back with more coffee.
“Did they make Cadbury’s fifty years ago?” Lucy asked.
“I was starting to like you,” Babe said. “Am I supposed to have firsthand knowledge of that?”
I explained about the candy wrapper found with the baby. “Just another thing the cops don’t know-to go with the mother, the father.” I counted off the question marks that remained. “They don’t know much. But someone must. Someone always knows.”
“Like who?” Lucy asked, sopping up the last puddles of maple syrup on her plate.
I sipped my coffee and looked around, frustrated with all these idle theories. A woman with a stroller struggled with the door; I almost got up to help her. When she finally cleared it, she held it open for the person behind her.
“Like, like-her,” I said, stunned.