3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse Read online

  Alex and Nick were worth all the other grief, though. I couldn’t imagine a life without them.

  “Sunnyside needs someone an additional eight to twelve hours on the weekends,” Kara continued. “Think about it.”

  “I don’t know. I play catch-up on weekends. Laundry. Shopping. Bill paying.” When I have money to pay bills.

  “The pay’s damn good,” she said, continuing to sell me on the idea. “And who can’t use a few extra shop-till-you-drop bucks?”

  Bull’s eye. She’d found my Achilles’ heel with her first arrow. Only my shopping till I dropped centered around the supermarket sales circular these days. “Define good.”

  “Thirty-five dollars an hour.”

  I strained my math-challenged brain to multiply thirty-five times eight. Two hundred eighty dollars. Then thirty-five times twelve. Four hundred twenty dollars. “How long will you be out on maternity leave?”

  “My insurance gives me twelve weeks, but I may decide to take a few additional weeks without pay.”

  More straining of left-sided brain cells. I’d make somewhere between thirty-three hundred sixty dollars and five thousand forty dollars. Even after taxes, that was serious change that would make a serious dent in at least one of my maxed-out credit cards.

  She had me at thirty-five dollars an hour, but I didn’t want to admit my financial desperation. Not to a woman who considered over seventy grand a year plus benefits shop-till-you-drop bucks. “I might be able to help out for twelve weeks or so.”

  Kara beamed. “You always were the best, Anastasia! I’ll talk to Shirley. I’m sure she’ll love to have you, and the residents will be thrilled. They weren’t happy over the prospect of losing some of their class time. Hell, some of them won’t even be alive when I return.”

  “Kara!” At least she spoke in a low enough voice that none of the women in the room heard her. They all continued with their handwork and their own chatter, oblivious to us.

  “We’re talking nursing home here, sweetie. It’s a revolving door. On any given week, two or three leave by ambulance and never return. Others arrive to take their beds. Circle of life.”

  “You sound so callous.”

  “You have to develop calluses—no pun intended—in the geriatrics business. The key to survival is not getting too attached to any of the residents. If you do, it’s like losing a member of your own family. Who needs that grief on a weekly basis?”

  “I suppose that makes sense.”

  “Trust me, if you do take the job, don’t get attached to anyone. I speak from years of experience.”

  “Lyndella Wegner, you’re full of shit!”

  We both turned to the back of the room. A woman with a tight gray perm and thick, rhinestone-studded, black-framed glasses glared across the table at Lucille’s new roommate.

  Kara glanced up at the wall-mounted clock. “Ten minutes without a fight breaking out between those two. I think that’s a new record.”

  “Well, bless that ugly disbelieving Yankee heart of yours, Mabel! Why in heaven would I lie about such a thing?” Lyndella stood up and pointed toward me. “Ask her yourself, why don’t you? She’s standing right over there.”

  “Wait. I’m confused,” said Kara. “Lyndella’s your mother-in-law?”

  “My mother-in-law’s roommate.”

  “Of course. That makes more sense. Lyndella goes through roommates the way I go through pantyhose.”

  “What? She crafts them to death?”

  Kara laughed. “Lyndella is one of our more challenging residents. She’s an extremely bossy, in-your-face know-it-all, disliked by all the other women, not to mention the entire staff.”

  “I’ll admit, she has a very high opinion of herself, judging from our brief conversation.”

  “Yes, no one does anything as well as Lyndella. According to Lyndella.”

  “From what I saw, though, her bragging rights are justified.”

  “True. Especially for a woman of her age, but her personality, not to mention her less-than-mainstream tastes, leave much to be desired. Shirley found it best to bunk the temp rehabs with her.”

  “She sounds just like my mother-in-law. Minus the X-rated art.”

  Kara laughed. “If that’s the case, they might wind up talking each other to death.”

  The woman Lyndella had shouted at hoisted herself out of her chair, grabbed hold of a walker, and shuffled her way toward me. As she drew closer, I noticed both the legs and the wheels of her walker were decorated with pink rhinestones. A small wire basket, with satin ribbons and silk flowers woven through the mesh, hung from the front of the walker.

  Unless there was more than one Mabel at Sunnyside, I assumed this woman was Mabel “can’t satisfy a man” Shapiro.

  “Is it true?” she demanded, planting her bedazzled walker inches from my toes. “You gonna make that pain-in-everyone’s-patootie famous?”

  Kara turned to me. “What’s this all about?”

  “Seeing Lyndella’s work gave me an idea for a feature article on Sunnyside’s crafting residents.”

  “You think her stuff is good?” asked Mabel. “Hon, you don’t know good. Take a look at my work. Or Berniece’s work. Or Estelle’s work. Or anyone else for that matter. The last thing we need around here is for that bitch Lyndella Wegner’s head to swell any fatter than it already is. We’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “I plan to feature several crafters,” I said in my defense, “not just Mrs. Wegner.”

  “See that you do,” said Mabel. “And think about editing Lyndella out. You’d be doing the rest of us a huge favor.” With that she rolled around to return to the table.

  “Wow!” I said under my breath.

  Kara laughed. “Welcome to Sunnyside’s version of Jersey Shore. I should write a book about this bunch while I’m out on maternity leave.”

  “Are you trying to talk me out of taking the job?”

  “Just preparing you for an interesting experience.”

  “Was that Mabel Shapiro?”

  “The one and only. No one likes Lyndella, but the rivalry between her and Mabel makes the New York Giants and Dallas Cowboys look like bosom buddies. When Lyndella and Mabel collide, dull moments take off for parts unknown.”

  Given my life the past five months, I craved any dull moments I could snare. However, the thought of all those Benjamins nixed the idea of turning down the Sunnyside gig before Shirley even offered it. I needed the money far more than I needed a few dull moments. Besides, if I could deal with Lucille and Mama, I could deal with any geriatric antics Sunnyside threw my way. Bring ’em on.

  By this point Mabel had made her way back to the table, and began bickering again with Lyndella. I decided now was a perfect time to cut out. “I’ve got to get to work,” I told Kara.

  “We should keep in touch,” she said. “Maybe get together for dinner at some point and catch up.”

  “Absolutely!” As soon as that leprechaun with the pot of gold arrives on my doorstep. The way I calculated my current finances, I might just be able to swing dinner at the Golden Arches around the time I reached Lyndella’s age.

  _____

  A perk to arriving nearly three hours late for work is not having to put up with bumper-to-bumper rush-hour traffic on Routes 24, 78, and 287, especially in an eight-year-old rattletrap of a car with temperamental air conditioning. However, by the time I arrived at work, even zipping along at this hour of the morning, I was thoroughly baked. To a crisp.

  Not yet noon and less than two weeks into summer, and the mercury had already climbed into triple digits for the third day in a row and the seventh time so far this year. If this wasn’t a sign of global warming, I didn’t know what was.

  American Woman used to be headquartered in Lower Manhattan, a short train commute for me. After Trimedia forced a hostile takeover of R
eynolds-Alsopp Publishing, we moved to the middle of a corn field in Morris County, New Jersey. Other companies were supposed to follow. Then the bottom fell out of the real estate market. We remain the single building in the planned business park. Our only neighbor besides the corn fields is the train station built specifically to handle the influx of commuters that never materialized.

  I entered the building and made my way up to the third floor. No one seemed to have noticed my absence. I found the usually bustling halls eerily quiet. That sent a shiver coursing from my toes up to my scalp, reminding me of the last time I found myself alone in the building. Alone with a dead body hot glued to my desk chair.

  I stopped and strained to hear some sounds of activity. Today was the last day of work before the Fourth of July three-day weekend, and it appeared many of my coworkers had taken a vacation day.

  I was concentrating so hard on trying to hear something, that I didn’t hear Cloris come up behind me. I nearly jumped out of my skin when she placed her hand on my shoulder. “Jeez! You scared the shit out of me!”

  “Sorry. You looked like you were in a trance. What’s going on?”

  “It’s so quiet here. I was having a Marlys flashback.” Marlys, AKA our former fashion editor Marlys Vandenburg, AKA the aforementioned dead body.

  “That would creep anyone out. Lucky for you, I’ve got just the cure.” She wrapped her arm around my shoulders and led me into the break room.

  Cloris is the food editor at American Woman, but more importantly, she’s played Watson to my Sherlock twice now, helping me solve three murders among the ranks of Trimedia employees. I could always count on Cloris to have my back. And something chocolate.

  She didn’t disappoint. As soon as we entered the break room, I spied today’s bounty sitting on the counter next to the coffee maker: brownies. “What kind?” I asked, helping myself to one. Cloris never featured plain old brownies in our magazine. Our food editor was the Michelangelo of baked goods, crafting decadent masterpieces, her raw materials of choice: flour, sugar, and eggs.

  “Caramel Marshmallow.” She poured us coffee while I savored my first bite. “What do you think?”

  I let the flavors send my taste buds into gastronomic heaven before answering. “I think you’re going to be responsible for me having to buy a new wardrobe. How many gazillion calories are in one of these suckers?”

  “Let’s just say this is definitely not for one of our diet spreads.” She picked up the plate and held it under my nose. “Have another. You look like you need it.”

  I didn’t argue with her, rationalizing to myself that I’d make up for all the calories by eating celery and carrot sticks all weekend. Right.

  However, before I polished off the first brownie, my cell phone rang. “Sunnyside,” I said, frowning at the display.

  “You think Lucille has whipped the proletariat masses into rebellion already?”

  “With Lucille anything is possible.” I flipped open my phone, expecting the worst. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Pollack, this is Shirley Hallstead. I understand you’re interested in the temporary part-time position we have open for an art therapist. When can you start?”

  “When can I start? Don’t you want to interview me first? See a résumé?”

  “No need. Kara vouches for you, and after all, it’s arts and crafts, not rocket science. You’re more than qualified from what Kara told me. How’s tomorrow sound? Nine-thirty? That will give us half an hour for paperwork before your first class begins.”

  “Uhm, sure. Nine-thirty sounds great.”

  “I’ll see you then.” And with that she hung up.

  I pocketed my phone and looked up to find Cloris staring at me. “Are you quitting?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Could have fooled me. That certainly sounded like a job offer.”

  “It was.” I proceeded to tell her what had transpired at Sunnyside. “That was the director. She wants me to start tomorrow morning.”

  Cloris placed her hand on my forearm. “I know you’re desperate for money, sweetie, but are you sure about this? You’re going to burn yourself out.”

  I sank down into one of the molded plastic chairs surrounding the break room table and stuffed the remainder of the brownie into my mouth. “The money’s too good to pass up,” I said, talking around chocolate, caramel, and marshmallow. “It’s only for a few months. I’ll manage.” Somehow.

  “Famous last words. I’ll start researching asylums for loony craft editors.”

  “Make sure you pick one that allows care packages from sarcastic food editors.”

  _____

  Since God saw fit to make women the multi-taskers of the species (really, have you ever met a man who could do more than one thing at a time?), why didn’t He see fit to endow us with the ability to thrive on a mere three or four hours of sleep a night? Or create longer days for us? Or more than seven days in a week?

  When you come right down to it, it would have been nice if the Big Guy had thought things through a little more before going on a creation tear. Sort of a Biblical spin on measure twice, cut once. After all, no one forced Him to get it all done in six days. He certainly wasn’t in competition with anyone else at the time. Think of all the kinks He could have worked out beforehand had He simply taken eight or ten days. Or a couple of weeks.

  For example, let there be light, but hold off on the ones that cause melanoma. And we really could have done quite nicely minus the bed bugs and cockroaches. Not to mention the head lice.

  I pondered this and more as I inched my way home from work. How do I juggle a second job on top of my already more-than-forty-hours-a-week primary job without going totally bonkers from sleep deprivation?

  Or sacrificing my multiple responsibilities as a single parent?

  Yet something else I could blame on my selfish Dead Louse of a Spouse. Thanks to Karl, one kid now never had a parent standing on the sidelines or sitting in the bleachers, cheering him on when both boys had games at the same time. And given their sports fanaticism, rare was there a Saturday or Sunday that Alex and Nick weren’t both playing in separate games on opposite ends of town. Or in some other town.

  While I continued to ponder and cast blame, my stomach grumbled, reminding me that I’d skipped both breakfast and lunch in my mad dash to move Lucille from the hospital to Sunnyside and squeeze a day’s worth of work into half a day at the office. Woman cannot live by coffee and Cloris confections alone, as much as I try.

  As I sat in bumper-to-bumper evening rush-hour traffic, tepid air blowing on me, I took a mental inventory of my refrigerator and pantry, hoping I’d discover enough leftovers to serve for dinner since I’d forgotten to defrost something that morning. The last thing I felt like doing at six o’clock on a Friday night was making a run to ShopRite before heading home.

  Hell, if all else failed, I made a mean mac and cheese. I’m sure if I looked hard enough, I’d find a bag of frozen peas hiding in the deep recesses of the freezer. Cheese, pasta, veggies. Major food groups covered. But could I sell mac and cheese to the starving masses in the middle of a blistering heat wave?

  However, when I finally arrived home, the moment I opened the front door, all thoughts of mac and cheese—with or without peas—flew from my thoughts.

  three

  I may have suffered a lollapalooza of a triple whammy when Karl permanently cashed in his chips in Las Vegas, but there is one bright spot in the chaos that has become my life—photojournalist and to-die-for stud, Zachary Barnes.

  The apartment over our garage used to house my studio. It now houses Zachary Barnes, my tenant. Zack entered my life within days of Karl’s funeral, after I ran an ad to rent out the apartment.

  Even though attraction sparked from the beginning, fanned in no small part by the none-too-subtle maneuverings of Mama, Alex, and Nick, protocol dictated a plat
onic relationship. Karl’s deceit not withstanding, I was still newly widowed. For all I knew, those sparks shooting through my body could have been a reaction to the anger stage of my grief—anger directed toward Dead Louse of a Spouse.

  However, two near-death experiences in less than five months made me realize I’d mourned Dead Louse of a Spouse long enough. Zack and I went on our first and only date so far three weeks ago. Where this blossoming relationship eventually leads is anyone’s guess, but right now I’ve given myself permission to enjoy the journey.

  Who would have thought that a guy who looks like Pierce Brosnan, George Clooney, Patrick Dempsey, and Antonio Banderas all contributed to his gene pool would be interested in a pear-shaped, cellulite-riddled, slightly overweight, more than slightly in debt, middle-aged widow? Certainly not me. But there Zack was in my life. And if that weren’t enough, the guy can out-cook Jamie Oliver, Bobby Flay, and Emeril Lagasse. All together. With one hand tied behind his back.

  Yeah, he’s that good. And his cooking doesn’t hold a candle to his kissing. I can only imagine his other talents at this point. We haven’t taken our relationship to that level yet.

  Zack had spent the last two and a half weeks on assignment in Madagascar. I didn’t even know he’d returned until I saw his Porsche Boxster parked in the driveway, and the aroma of something taste bud-seducing hit me the moment I walked into the house.

  Mama’s never met a recipe she didn’t mutilate, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are about the extent of Nick’s and Alex’s culinary skills. So unless the food gods had sent me my own personal chef, those tantalizing aromas wafting toward me meant Zack was creating gastronomic magic in my kitchen.