Chapter Twenty-Three. The Body with The Big News
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE BODY WITH THE BIG NEWS
Some people have grandparents who are always available, as if the only item on their calendar is Sit on couch in case one of our grandbabies wants to FaceTime.
My grandmother is not like that. She has friends and activities and intrigues, a full life.
Which is great, except when I need to tell her something earth-shattering like, “They’re going to tear down your beloved home and turn it into a basic vanilla nightmare” and she’s nowhere to be found.
I finally track down Mrs. A by the pool, talking to Mr. Namura about a new variety of basil he’s cultivating. They are deep into a discussion of what to pair it with as a cocktail garnish when I can’t take it anymore.
“Have you seen Grandma Lainey?”
“Oh yes.” Mrs. A pauses to pat me on one cheek while kissing the other. “She’s having lunch with Mervyn. She said to text her if you want a piece of key lime pie.”
“Bayfront Grille?” I guess, before shaking my head. I can’t let the thought of tangy citrus creaminess on a perfect graham cracker crust derail me. “Is she coming right back after?”
“That’s a good question.” Mrs. A does an eyebrow dance. “I’d say those two have a lot to discuss. If you know what I mean.”
Behind her, Mr. Namura nods encouragingly. I doubt they’re thinking about tax bills or spangled EpiPens. Maybe this crew needs to start acting out romance plots instead of murder mysteries. I tighten my ponytail, debating my next move.
“Is something wrong?” Mrs. A asks.
“I just need to talk to her,” I hedge, not wanting to get into the whole thing until my grandmother is there to listen.
“Is it about Felix?” She lowers her voice like she’s being discreet.
“Should I make us some fresh mint tea?” Mr. Namura whispers too, not even pretending he didn’t hear every word.
“It’s not about Felix,” I assure them. At least, not like they are heavy-handedly implying. I’m tempted to blow their minds with the revelation that I’m more worried about commercial real estate than cute boys, thank you very much, but you have to pick your battles.
“We’re here if you need us,” Mrs. A says hopefully.
I briefly consider hitting them with a hypothetical: say someone sort of kissed your neck but then acted like it never happened. Does that mean they regret it? Or did I miss a cue, and now it’s too late?
Nope, not ready to open that can of worms.
“It’s fine,” I assure them, hoping I sound more confident than I feel. “I’ll talk to her when she gets home.”
Grandma Lainey waltzes into the apartment a little before five, humming under her breath.
I swallow the urge to say, Where do you think you’ve been, young lady? I’m aware that it’s late afternoon, not the middle of the night, but my brief foray into crime took a couple of years off my life.
“Did you have a nice day, darling?” She breezes past me, already unfastening her earrings. In Grandma Lainey’s universe, there’s going-out jewelry, and then there’s at-home jewelry, which tends to weigh a lot less.
“Not really.” This is what is known as baiting the hook.
Sure enough, my grandmother executes a slow spin, regarding me with a curious expression. “Oh?”
I’ve had time to think this through, and while Grandma Lainey is less likely to play the law-and-order card than most adults, she’ll definitely have follow-up questions if I provide too many details about the circumstances leading to our discovery.
“I overheard the Queen B talking to someone.”
“Her cat?”
I blink fast. That’s a little too good of a guess. Rather than attempting a fake laugh—which Grandma Lainey would see through in an instant—I go for light sarcasm. “Not unless the cat dabbles in architecture.”
My grandmother joins me on the couch, half turned so we’re facing each other. The inquisitive slant of her head encourages me to go on.
“I understand,” my grandmother says when I finish blathering about buildings and plans and property developers. “You have every right to be disturbed. She’s a disturbing person.”
“Yeah, but this is more than that. She has plans.”
“People like that are always plotting something.” Grandma Lainey stifles a yawn.
“Architectural plans. She wants to tear down the whole building. Shouldn’t you do something? All of you, I mean.” I point at the ceiling and then the floor. “The whole gang.”
“That’s just it. We’re a team. The Castle Claude family operates as a unified whole—which is how I know she’ll never get her way.
” She scoffs lightly, playing with the tassel on one of her throw pillows.
“As if we’d ever sell this place to a developer.
Any changes that impact the community at large require a six-sevenths majority vote to move forward.
She can’t even sell her unit without our say-so, much less the whole castle. ”
That almost sounds … organized. “I thought you didn’t have a bunch of rules and regulations?”
“We have bylaws. It’s just not the sort of thing we spend a lot of time talking about. Life is too short to dwell on the mundane.”
“So … you only act like it’s a freewheeling anarchist’s paradise?”
Her smile is devilish. “The more Bernie asks about committees and boards, the looser and goosier we pretend to be.”
Talk about a long con. Not for the first time, I’m relieved my grandmother is on my side.
“You should probably mention it to Mervyn, though. Don’t you think?”
If I thought I could slip that one past her, no dice. “Are you managing me, Virginia?”
“Moi?” I put a hand to my chest in mock affront. “I mean, yes. I’m trying.”
“Don’t fret. Be young and free.” It’s part admonishment, but maybe also my grandmother’s attempt to not repeat the mistakes she made with my mom. She shoots me a sly look. “Fraternize with your handsome young friend.”
Is that one of those old-fashioned words for hooking up, like “heavy petting” (bleck) or “necking” …
which of course makes me think of Felix, as if this conversational turn weren’t embarrassing enough.
I try not to look like I’m running away as I hurry to the kitchen to get a glass of water, and maybe put my face under the tap to cool it off.
“I’m going to take a bath,” Grandma Lainey says, blowing me a kiss.
It’s clear that for her, the subject is closed. But I’m not convinced this is anywhere near over.
Are Felix and I a couple of meddling kids, sticking our noses in where they don’t necessarily belong? Maybe. But the bad guys would have gotten away with a lot if it wasn’t for people like us.
At least according to Scooby-Doo.
The first thing I see when I reach for my phone the next morning is a string of missed messages from Felix.
The first text arrived at 7:01 A.M., a time stamp that tells me he must have decided seven was a reasonable time to text, and then waited another minute to look casual.
It’s possible I’m wrong, and I don’t know him as well as I think—like him assuming I’d be awake that early. But I don’t think I am.
Can we talk?
I have thoughts.
Easier to explain in person.
And I don’t want to put it in writing.
*He said, innocently.
Hello?
And then a few minutes ago:
I bought pastelitos.
The promise of guava pastries is enough to make me sit up. I rub a hand over my eyes before replying.
You have my attention.
If I were Felix, I’d be tempted to leave me hanging, but the dancing dots appear immediately.
I’ll be right over.
Crap.
Five minutes later, I answer the door wearing a clean tank top and yesterday’s shorts, plus a quick swipe of deodorant. There was no time to work the snarls out of my hair, so it’s up in a clip. Here’s hoping the two-second splash of tepid water cleaned any telltale gunk off my face.
It would help if I knew whether he was coming over to woo me or solve crimes, but such is the strange dance of our relationship.
“You have a crease,” Felix says, pointing at my cheek. “Like from your pillowcase. Unless you tried to make a paper airplane with your face.”
Okay, then. Not here to flirt.
“I was hoping you’d notice,” I grumble, taking the plate out of his hands.
“Somebody wakes up cheerful.” He follows me into the kitchen, watching as I take down two mugs. If he doesn’t want coffee, he doesn’t have to drink it.
We sit at the breakfast bar, the plate between us. I gesture at him with a pastelito before shoving it in my mouth. It’s all the encouragement he needs.
“I talked to my grandfather last night.”
“Mm mph,” I mumble through a mouthful of pastry, pointing at myself. “Me too,” I try again, after swallowing.
“What did your grandmother say?”
Since I’ve just taken another bite, I wave at him to go first.
“He was worried.”
I guess I’ve finally found the thing Felix isn’t good at: paraphrasing. “And?” I prompt.
“He was going to talk to your grandma.”
“Good luck with that,” I say, taking another swig of coffee.
Felix points at his chin, and I brush a disturbingly large crumb off mine. “What do you mean?”
“She doesn’t take Claude’s sister seriously, as a threat. Like she doesn’t want to give her that much credit, and I think it’s impairing her vision. Of the situation,” I add, when Felix flinches. “What? You think I should have pushed harder?” The thought has definitely crossed my mind.
He shakes his head. “It’s not that.”
I sit back with my arms crossed, waiting him out. It doesn’t take long.
“My grandpa might be losing his sight.” Felix shoots me a pleading look, but he doesn’t have to ask me to keep this between the two of us. “That’s what the appointment was about, the other day.”
“And he’s an artist.” It’s not the most tactful response, but Felix nods like that was his first thought too.
“We don’t know how much longer he’ll be able to paint. At some point, the work he’s already done—that’s going to be it. I guess that’s why I lost it when I saw his painting at the thrift store. Like it was a worthless piece of junk.”
“Your grandfather’s art is amazing. If somebody did that to my grandmother, it would be my villain origin story.”
Felix smiles a little, like he’s relieved to know we’re both ready to throw down for our grandparents. “He can’t lose this place, on top of everything else,” he says quietly, tracing the rim of the plate with his thumb.
I nudge it toward him, silently encouraging him to have the last pastelito. “Then we need to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“I guess we could chain ourselves to the front doors.”
That suggestion immediately gets filed under Felix is in his feelings. “Or,” I counter, “we could find out what’s really going on.”
“How?”
“It all comes back to the building, right?”
He nods.
“So maybe we should talk to someone in the business. The building business,” I add, when he doesn’t respond.
“Please don’t judge me, but all I can hear right now is the Bob the Builder song.”
I grit my teeth to keep from humming along. “I’m talking about Bradley’s dad.”