McMonigle Flynn put a fifty-dollar bill on the table, glared at her husband, Joe, and said, “I’ll take that bet.”
“Sucker,” said Joe, the gold flecks dancing in his green eyes. “Since when has your mother ever called me by name? It’ll be ‘Knucklehead’ or ‘Lunkhead’ or ‘Dumbbell’ before she ever refers to me as Joe. We’ve been married almost fourteen years. If you can remember when she ever used my real name, I’ll give you fifty bucks right now.”
“I can’t. But,” Judith went on, crossing her arms and looking mulish, “Mother’s mellowing. Last night she said your barbecued spareribs were delicious.”
Joe chuckled. “They came from Nicky Napoli’s rib joint.”
“Mother didn’t realize that,” Judith countered.
Joe pocketed his fifty-dollar bill. “Why bet against each other with our own money? Change the stakes. Who gets to choose our next vacation?”
Judith was still glaring at Joe. “Vacation? What’s a vacation?”
Joe pulled out a kitchen chair. “Sit. Look,” he said earnestly as Judith reluctantly eased herself into the chair, “I realize you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. Except for St. Valentine’s Day, February’s always a slow month at the B&B. March won’t be much better, with Easter not until mid-April. Why not take some time off to go somewhere wonderful?”
Judith grimaced. “My state B&B board review is next week.”
Joe had sat down at the kitchen table opposite his wife. “It’s Tuesday, right? We’ll have the rest of the month for a getaway.”
Judith looked glum. “If I feel like it. For all I know, they’ll yank my innkeeper’s license.”
“Don’t think negative,” Joe admonished. “It’s not your fault you’ve found a few dead bodies in your career. It’s happened to me, too.”
“You were a cop,” Judith pointed out.
“True.” Joe looked down at the green-and-white-striped tablecloth. He seemed to be having trouble finding the right words.
“I’ve never gone out of my way searching for victims,” Judith asserted. “They usually come to me. Furthermore,” she continued, gathering steam, “not that many people have been killed on the premises in the sixteen years since I turned the family home into Hillside Manor. I’d guess that any inn, motel, or hotel would have a similar fatality ratio.”
“You’ve had your share of bad luck.” Joe didn’t sound convinced.
“I could use some good luck.” Judith reached across the table. “I’ll take that bet. I want to go somewhere with sun and a beach and rooms fit for royalty. What about you?”
Joe’s high forehead creased in concentration. “Somewhere I can fish. Fresh-or saltwater. I’ll research possibilities.”
Judith nodded. “Done.”
The Flynns shook hands.
“Done” was probably not a good choice of words for Judith.
I figured,” Cousin Renie said late Tuesday morning, “you needed cheering up before you get the verdict from the B&B board later this afternoon. I’ve made lunch reservations at Queen Bess’s Tea Shop.”
“That sounds nice,” Judith said in a small voice.
“I’m paying.”
“That’s nice, too.”
Renie, formally known as Serena Jones, glanced at Judith. “How’s the bet coming?”
“It’s not,” Judith replied as they crossed the bridge that spanned the city’s ship canal. “Mother hasn’t called Joe anything since we made the bet. She’s so quiet lately. It worries me.”
Renie turned right off the bridge. “Face it,” she said, “our mothers are
“They may outlast us,” Judith responded with a wan smile. “When my artificial hip bothers me, I get so worn out going back and forth to the toolshed with Mother’s meals and medications and whatever else, not to mention my job at the B&B and keeping track of Mike and his family and going up and down, down and up all those stairs in a four-story house—”
“Tell me about it,” Renie broke in. “At least your mother is on the premises. Mine’s almost a mile away and you know how she phones me six times during my waking hours and expects me to jump whenever she needs a spool of thread or has a twinge in her neck. I average one trip a day to her apartment—and still work as a graphic designer.”
“You sound as if you need a vacation, too,” Judith noted.
Heading east, Renie steered the Joneses’ Toyota Camry—affectionately known to its owners as “Cammy”— above the city’s main freeway. “I probably do. January and February are always hectic with annual reports. But once my concepts are ready to be filled with useless, boring copy, things slow down. Did you choose your spot yet?”
Judith nodded. “Dana Point. Why don’t you two come with us?”
Renie made a face as she headed past the tree-lined streets north of the University. “I may not be a sun-and- sand person, but Bill, as a native Midwesterner, gets glum when the days are still gloomy. I’ll think on it.”
“It’d be fun,” Judith asserted as Renie started down a narrow street on a steep hill. “Dana Point has a whale watch during March. The beaches are wonderful and we could go over to Catalina.”
“It’s still California,” Renie said, and yawned. “I prefer a swanky mountain resort at Bugler in British
