On Turpentine Lane(64)

When that appeared to give her pause, I said, “I’m calling her right now. She’ll tell you.” It took a bit of scrolling to find the Maui daughter’s number on my phone while at the same time keeping my eye on my intruder. Reaching only Theresa Tindle’s cheery outgoing message, I rattled off, none too calmly, “This is Faith Frankel. Your mother is in my kitchen on Turpentine Lane. She thinks she still owns it. She let herself in with a key, which you apparently failed to collect. Call me immediately. This is no joke.”

Mrs. Lavoie was listening, her disapproval visible. “Frankel?” she asked. “Are you Jewish?”

I said yes I was Jewish; what does that have to do—

“That proves it,” she said.

“Proves what?”

“That you don’t own this house. I wouldn’t have sold it to Jewish people.”

I said, “It’s bad enough that you trespassed, but you have the nerve to stand here in my own kitchen and insult me?”

A back-and-forth ensued over the words trespassed and my kitchen. Luckily, the phone rang. It wasn’t the daughter calling me in record time, but Nick from his car. Did I need anything, because he’d be passing the market— “Nick! Mrs. Lavoie is here. I’m home. I found her in the house! She thinks she still owns it!”

“Call 911,” he said, “and I’m not kidding.”

I told him to come straight home, to forget the market, and please stay on the line in case she tried anything.

“Who was that?” Mrs. Lavoie asked.

“My boyfriend. He’ll be here in a minute. And he’s big.”

“Is he Jewish, too?”

I said, “Do you know how ignorant you sound?”

“Is he?”

“He happens to be Catholic.”

“I used to be Catholic. I gave it up after I confessed some things the priest didn’t like.” She shook her head. “Didn’t like one bit.”

Because she was standing in front of our butcher-block knife holder, I asked her to move away from the counter.

“I will if you get me the paperwork.”

I said, “First of all, you’re in no position to be negotiating with me. And second, I’m not leaving you alone.”

I heard Nick’s car screech into the driveway. I said, “That’s my boyfriend, and he’s not happy about your being here.”

“I hate men,” she said. “I never saw the point.”

Was this my fact-finding opportunity? “What about Joseph?” I asked. “Did you hate him?”

“Joseph? Who told you about him?”

“You did. You told me he looked like Harry Belafonte.”

“I want you to leave,” she said.

“And you had babies with him, didn’t you?”

“I was too old to have babies! I’d already gone through the change. How could I have babies?”

“Twin girls,” I said. “Jeannette and her sister. You saw the photos! In fact, you snatched them.”

Nick flung open the back door, briefcase in one hand, hockey stick in the other.

“This is Nick,” I said. “He’s here to make sure you don’t try anything foolish.”

“Why, hello, Nick,” she said. “Your girlfriend didn’t tell me what a nice-looking fella she had.”

“We’re calling ManorCare,” he said. “They probably have a search party out looking for you.”

“I’m through with that place. They won’t miss me.”

He said, “You have no right to be here. You sold this house and you have to leave.”

“No, you do.”

I said, “I think you’re bluffing. I think you know perfectly well that you’re trespassing, but you still had the key and thought what’s the harm in trying.”

“I have no place to go. You’re no better than my daughter.”

I pointed out that breaking into someone’s home wouldn’t look good on her rap sheet, which was already a disgrace. And to further indict, I told Nick, “Before you got here, she said she’d never have sold the house to me if she’d known I was a Jew!”

“I was kidding!” said Mrs. Lavoie. “Besides, Jews don’t live in this part of town. They live by the temple and the golf course.”

I said to Nick, “We’re not driving her back to ManorCare. Let the police deal with her.” I turned to Mrs. Lavoie. “You can’t stay here. Do you remember Detective Dolan? He visited you in the nursing home.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a rattlebrain.”

“Watch her,” I told Nick. “I’m going to get the title and show her who owns this house.”

“Did I sign those papers?” she demanded.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, though not one bit sure if that was true.

By this time, I had Brian Dolan on the phone. “Don’t let her go,” he was saying. “Keep her there. We’re on our way. Be careful!”

When I returned to the kitchen, Nick appeared to be guarding the cellar door.

“Did she try something?” I asked.

“Only that she wanted to show me the cellar.”

“Well, that settles it, doesn’t it?”