Death of a Domestic Diva Read online

  Now it was my turn to be confused, because Verbenia is always quiet. So I jumped up, and over Guy’s hollering of “No, no, no,” I said, “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s this shirt,” Vivian said. “I want to get it from her.” Usually Vivian was really quiet too, almost too docile, and now she looked really mad. I couldn’t see why she’d want to take a simple shirt away from her sister, especially if it was all that important to Verbenia. That’s one thing families learned at Stillwater—don’t fight battles just because you can’t understand why it’s important to the person with autism to do something, as long as whatever that something is won’t hurt the person with autism or anyone else. If, say, the person with autism wants to take a toy bunny everywhere, let him. Taking a live bunny everywhere might be a problem—but there are other ways to deal with that. Vivian knew this as well as anyone.

  By now, Guy was slapping his own ears, a sign he was truly distressed, and so I started to turn to him, to try to get him back inside the house, but then Vivian angrily pulled Verbenia around so she faced me.

  And I saw the front of Verbenia’s red shirt.

  It was a Tyra Grimes T-shirt, just like the ones Billy’d gotten for him and me. And now Verbenia had one on and apparently was partial to it, because she was clinging to the hem of it, grabbing it with both hands, pulling it down tight over her hips, as if this would guarantee it wasn’t taken off her.

  Vivian’s pale, chubby face quivered and she wailed, over Guy’s screaming, “Where did she get this? Where?”

  “I—I don’t know,” I said, feeling suddenly guilty. Somehow, these T-shirts kept popping up—which couldn’t have anything to do with my failed plan to bring Tyra Grimes to Paradise—but still, I felt guilty. Looking back, I think it was just plain old-fashioned intuition that soon things were going to go wrong—very, very wrong.

  Vivian went on, “I don’t know where Verbenia got it, or why she wants it, but I’m getting it from her and burning it! It’s evil, a sign, a terrible, terrible sign!”

  She sounded, I thought, just like Lewis Rothchild had when he’d gotten upset about me trying to get Tyra Grimes to come to Paradise. Which was pretty strange. Vivian and Lewis didn’t know each other. And I didn’t think word would have spread all the way on up to Columbus—which is where Vivian lived—about my plan. Even if it had, why should Vivian care?

  Then Vivian did something I’d never seen her do. She started crying. That startled Verbenia so much that she stopped whimpering, and turned back to her sister, and hugged her and started patting her on the back as if somehow, deep inside—although all the experts would say it wasn’t possible for someone so deeply affected by autism—she understood Vivian’s pain. As if, for a moment, their roles had been swapped.

  We had dinner with Guy, stayed awhile longer, and left late. We had a good time, but Owen and I didn’t talk much on our way home. I tried to tell myself it was because it was late and we were tired—but I knew it was because of the scene with Guy, Verbenia, and Vivian. Owen does not like scenes.

  And once Owen got me to my laundromat and walked me up the metal stairs to my door, he just gave me a brief brush of a kiss—not even trying to wheedle his way in for some heavier necking, like he usually does. Truth be told, I usually let him in—but tonight, even if he’d tried to wheedle, I would have sent him on home.

  I could understand that the whole scene with Guy and the Denlinger sisters had shaken up Owen. It had shaken me up, too. But the fact was that Guy was a permanent part of my life, and such scenes can’t always be avoided. Guy couldn’t discuss his feelings, or even identify them, like Owen could. And Owen would have to come to terms with that if he wanted to be part of my life, too.

  I went on in—I always leave the exterior door unlocked—and stood in the tiny hallway that fronts the two apartments. Maybe, I thought, I could talk with Billy. I went to his door and knocked. No answer. Billy was out somewhere—probably wouldn’t be back until the wee hours of the morning.

  I went to my own apartment door and started to put my key in, but the door gave way. As I stepped into my apartment, I shook my head at myself—I have a bad habit of forgetting to lock my door. In a town like Paradise, it usually doesn’t matter.

  As it turned out, this time it did.

  For there, perched on the edge of my couch, with my quilt spread over her knees, was Tyra Grimes herself.

  3

  For just a minute, I thought this was someone’s idea of a joke . . . maybe Cherry, or Lewis, or even Billy . . . maybe one of them had found a life-sized cardboard cutout of Tyra and stuck it in my apartment. You see those cutouts every now and then, of Presidents and stars that folks like to get their pictures taken with. That’s how still Tyra was.

  Suddenly, she gave a start, followed by a snort/snore combo, and I realized that Tyra had just fallen asleep. My entrance had probably awakened her. But she didn’t seem to notice me, because next she peered down at my quilt and began doing something to it with her hands. It took me a second to realize that she was picking it apart.

  Now, my quilt is the one and only heirloom from my great-grandmother Maybelline Toadfern. (Actually, it’s my one and only heirloom of any sort.) She made one for each of her grandchildren (18) and great-grandchildren (52)—for a grand total of 70. Mine’s got flowers with yellow centers and purple petals and a green background, all made out of hexagons.

  And now, Tyra Grimes was picking it apart.

  So the first thing I said to Tyra Grimes—this very famous woman that I had so hoped would come to Paradise, that I had given up on ever coming to Paradise, that seconds before I would have begged to come to Paradise—the first thing I said—well, shouted—was, “What the hell do you think you are you doing? Stop!”

  Tyra looked up at me. She seemed smaller in real life. She had beautiful aqua eyes, which didn’t show to advantage on TV, and now she gave me a patient smile as if I were simply a child who needed instruction to understand her wiser ways. She kept working while she looked at me, expertly using a needle to unpick the orange thread that my great-grandmother Toadfern had used to sew my quilt. Tyra had undone almost an entire flower, so there was a long curly strand of orange thread. I had the feeling Tyra was one of these people who end up with one long, even strand of thin skin when they peel a potato.

  “What,” I said again, a little calmer, “are you doing to my great-grandmother’s quilt?”

  “I’m picking it apart,” she said. Her voice, in person, was warmer than on TV. “You see, dear, how the orange thread clashes most unfortunately with the lovely fabrics used in the quilt? White thread would be much better. It would enhance the value of the quilt. There’s no tradition for orange thread in quilting. Although, in some regions, blue thread was used when . . .”

  She was off on a lecture about appropriate thread colors for quilts while her fingers still worked over my quilt. The purple petal hung forlornly on, by just a few stitches. If I didn’t do something fast, it would meet the same fate as its friends, and other little petals would soon fall too.

  So I did the only thing I could. I grabbed the quilt right out of Tyra’s hands. While hugging my maimed quilt with my left arm, I reached out with my right hand and snagged the three dequilted purple petals from the end table.

  Tyra looked stunned for a moment, then shrugged. “I suppose you’re right, dear. It is getting on in the evening. I can finish resewing your quilt in the morning.” She said this as if I was worried that she might not continue deflowering my quilt.

  “I didn’t say that I wanted . . .” I started. “I just . . .” I started again. Then, finally, I got out a complete question. “What—what are you doing here?”

  “Well, your door was unlocked, and given the rather desperate tone of your letter—and I did just so love the marbleized stationery, by the way—you’ll just have to tell me how you went about creating it—it was homemade, wasn’t it?”

  I just stared at her.

  “Anyway,” she went
on, “I guessed from your letter that you wouldn’t mind me staying here, and of course your doors were unlocked. A charming custom that just isn’t done in the big city, I must say.” Tyra laughed merrily.

  I gulped and took a step back.

  “We stopped at the Red Horse Motel on the edge of town, but the place was, I’m sorry to say, just overwhelming with the smell of mold, and if I stayed there with my allergies, the consequences would just be, well . . .” She stopped, shuddered, and fanned herself with her hands, as if the consequences were just too horrible to think about. “Anyway, unless there’s a Hyatt in the environs that we somehow missed, we decided it was best that Paige Morrissey—she’s my assistant . . . you’ll meet her tomorrow . . . would stay at the Red Horse and make arrangements for our film crew, and that I would stay . . .” she paused, looked around, taking in my tiny living room and kitchenette with a single glance, and I could practically see her judgment imprinted in block letters in the air: CLEAN AND NEAT BUT DULL, DULL, DULL.

  “Well,” she finished, “here.” She smiled, gesturing to a tiny, tiny black suitcase by the end of the couch. I hadn’t noticed it before. It looked big enough to hold just a hanky, undies, and a toothbrush, at least, if I was packing. “Of course, we were hoping you’d be here, and Paige waited with me until I sent her on her way—she tires easily—so here I’d like to stay. Unless there is a Hyatt?” she added hopefully.

  “N-no Hyatt,” I said, taking another step back.

  “A deli?”

  “Uh, no. The A&P over in Masonville sells salami, but it’s closed now. I have some garlic bologna, though and—” I stopped, shook my head again. This person couldn’t really be Tyra Grimes, could she? Maybe this was a severely deranged Tyra Grimes wanna-be, escaped from some institution, who’d somehow heard about the letter I’d sent and managed to find her way here . . .

  Tyra laughed. “Oh, don’t be so nervous, dear! I’m just a regular person, really. Although,” she added thoughtfully, “I have been given an incredible gift for design, far beyond the reach of most people . . . anyway.” Her voice snapped back to what seemed to be its default tone—merriment. “Just relax and we’ll get along fine. The crew for my show will be here in a few days and will be staying at the Red Horse. We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other over the next few days—I always like to really get to know my guests before I interview them, and I think your stain expertise will be just perfect for my show.”

  She stood up and flicked her delicate fingers through her short auburn curls. I took another step back. “You don’t mind,” she said, “if I make myself at home, do you?”

  “Uh, no, not at all, feel free,” I blithered as I walked backward to the door to my bedroom, still clutching the quilt.

  Tyra Grimes gave me one of her famous, dazzling smiles—and said, “Simply wonderful!”

  I shut my bedroom door and—never mind my usual habit of leaving doors unlocked—locked it. Then I put my quilt down on my bed, and the petals on my dresser. And finally, I took the spare kitchen chair I keep in a corner in my bedroom and rammed the back of it up under the doorknob.

  Sound extreme?

  Well, here I was, in my apartment, with a woman who claimed to be Tyra Grimes . . . who was now in my living room/kitchenette singing with gusto and only a little off-key, “The hills are alive with the sound of music,” while making lots of other loud noises. Banging sounds. Cabinets opening and shutting.

  What to do, what to do? I could call the police—but if that really was Tyra Grimes, I’d be forever embarrassed. Of course, if it wasn’t, I might be forever dead if this woman—who seemed a lot perkier and older and smaller than the Tyra on TV—turned out to be a deranged Tyra wanna-be and slipped into some dark side of her personality . . . maybe she was a Tyra devotee who’d tried unsuccessfully one too many times to whip up faux chiffon window toppers using just tissue paper and string, and she’d slipped over the edge, and any minute she’d break into my bedroom armed with a sharpened spatula . . .

  There was a loud thump.

  Something was being dragged across my floor, with a scraping sound. Tyra had launched into a throaty rendition of, “O-O-O-Oklahoma where the wind . . .” I guess Tyra was a domestic diva in more ways than one.

  I ran into my closet, flipped on the light, and shut the door. One more shut door between me and Tyra/the Tyra wanna-be couldn’t hurt. I pulled off my shoes, then peeled off my socks and tossed them down the laundry chute, which I have in my closet and which goes down to a basket in my office/storage area below (one of the perks of living above your own laundromat). I wiggled my toes—letting them enjoy a few seconds of airy freedom—then pulled on my Tweety Bird slippers. Somehow, putting them on made me feel calmer. I’d just go out, talk to this woman, maybe ask for some identification . . .

  Thump. Bang. Tyra crooning, “Don’t cry for me, Ar-gen- ti-i-i-n-aaaa . . .” I could hear it even inside my closet.

  I opened the closet door, dashed out, grabbed the handset to my phone, and ran back into my closet, planning to call the Red Horse Motel and see if Tyra’s assistant had really checked in. It wasn’t as though so many guests deluged the motel that the owners—Luke and Greta Rhinegold—wouldn’t remember her.

  As I dialed the number from memory—I do the motel’s linens once a week—I toed open the shiny metal door to my oversized laundry chute. I’d installed the super-deluxe model, big enough to let my bed’s queen-sized comforter sluice down easily.

  Greta answered on the third ring.

  “What? We already have an ad in the Yellow Pages,” she crowed, when I asked her if a Paige had checked in tonight. “Not that it does us any good, being out here in the boonies . . .”

  Greta’s a little hard of hearing.

  I repeated my question, raising my voice, partly for Greta’s sake and partly because Tyra’s singing had gotten louder.

  This time, Greta realized who was calling and what I was asking. “Oh, yes—Paige Morrissey. Yes, she checked in tonight. She said to tell you when you called not to worry and she’ll meet you in the morning. This some long-lost friend?”

  Greta kept her voice casual, doing her best to keep her curiosity in check, but I knew she was dying for an explanation. Everyone knows I grew up my whole life in Paradise. And everyone knows everyone I know, because they all know each other. Another fact of small town life. A stranger claiming to know me would definitely raise curiosity.

  “Something like that,” I said to Greta, then thanked her, disconnected, and slid down to the floor.

  Oh, God.

  Apparently, I really did have Tyra Grimes in my living room.

  Now, there’s a funny thing about having what you want to happen actually happen, after so many times of having what you want mostly just rinse on down the drain like dirty wash water.

  See, I’d waited and waited to hear from Tyra Grimes. And now here she was—in person. So it sure seemed like I was getting my wish to come true . . . like I might really be able to pull off getting some free, and positive, publicity for Paradise.

  So on the one hand, my heart was aflutter with hope.

  On the other hand, I didn’t trust what was happening. It seemed just a little odd that Tyra would show up unannounced. It seemed even more odd that she would want to come two days before her crew arrived. At most, I’d be on for five minutes. I couldn’t believe someone as famous and important and busy as Tyra Grimes would want to talk with me for two whole days about how to take care of mustard versus beer stains. This was wholly unlike what I’d imagined.

  So, when Tyra knocked on my bedroom door and called, “Josie? Can we talk for a moment?” I followed my first instinct—escape.

  I opened the laundry chute door, stuck my head in. Nope, that way wouldn’t work. I lay down on my back, hooked my leg over the rim of the chute, and butt-scooted forward.

  Nope, that way wasn’t going to work, either.

  For a minute, I just stayed there like that, trying to think. No b
rilliant escape plans, after all. I was going to have to stay and deal with Tyra. I’d wanted her here, and now she was here and I didn’t know what to do with her. She’d apparently moved away from my bedroom door because now I could only faintly hear her plaintive warbling of, “Send in the clowns . . .”

  I punched in Winnie’s number. No answer. The answering machine kicked in. I hung up, suddenly remembering that Sunday nights, Winnie and her husband go out square dancing up in Masonville. They’d probably be sashaying left and right till all hours of the night. How do you explain to an answering machine that a major media star has responded to your letter by showing up and basically moving in with you for a few days? You don’t. So I hung up without leaving a message.

  For a few minutes, I just lay on my closet floor. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to figure out what to do. And then I realized that my apartment had gotten very, very quiet.

  I tried to pull my feet out of the laundry chute so I could sit up properly. My right foot came out okay. My left foot was stuck, though, at an odd angle in the chute. I’d stuck my leg in too far.

  I bucked my butt up and down in a frenzied effort to loosen my left foot. I’d never look at the little mousetraps I have back in the storeroom of my laundromat in quite the same way. In fact, maybe I’d replace them with something more humane—or more mouse-mane. Like little silk beds and pillows and little silver plates of cheese.

  I rested for a second—then did a combo half-twist-and-lunge. And my woman-eating super-deluxe laundry chute finally spat me half way out of my closet.

  A few minutes later, I had my ear to my bedroom door. Still just silence. I gulped, moved the chair away from the door, and slowly opened it.

  I limped out—the woman-eating laundry chute had done a number on my ankle—then stared in shock at what was supposed to be my apartment.