Pushing Up Daisies

'I'm still trying to get you to come to Cannes with me for the next festival. Eat fatty foods, drink to wretched excess, ward off the advances of swarthy foreigners? Sound good? There'll be exercise, too. . . . You can climb up that damn hill to the old part of town two or three times a day.'

'I can do all that in Connecticut and not have to deal with the cheese and the chain-smokers. Not this year,' I said. 'Halcyon is a make-or-break opportunity for me. And it's gotten off to a rocky start.'

'To say the least. And I'm here for you, pumpkin.' She patted my hand.

'I'm glad to hear you say that, because I desperately need you this weekend.' At this point, I thought it wise not to mention it was for manual labor. I poured her some wine and gave her all the gory details of my find.

She voted for Dorothy Peacock as the mother. 'I took care of a sick relative once. When I wasn't feeling like a martyr, I wanted to strangle her. Believe me, it's draining. The old girl probably just needed to kick back a bit, got caught unprepared, and had an unfortunate accident. Then the baby didn't make it. Muy tragico, but I think it happened a lot in the old days. High infant mortality rates back then.'

'I don't know. From what I've read about her, a rebel, sure, but not crazy enough to bury a baby in the backyard with the pachysandra.'

'All right, what do you think's going on in Cabot Cove, Jessica?'

'There's something going on, but I'm not sure what.' I sipped my wine. 'I bet that woman I met could tell some tales. The mystery lady with the shawl.'

'Yeah, yeah. What about the cops? Spill.'

'Well, one of them is kind of cute. My type. Smart, funny. The tubby one.'

'And?'

'And nothing. We've exchanged—' I paused, searching for the right word.

'What? The secret handshake? Precious bodily fluids?'

'No, you idiot. Meaningful glances,' I said carefully. 'Badinage,' I said, dragging out the word for effect.

We were laughing by then and were more than a little toasted. Lucy polished off the rest of the wine while I went in the house for another bottle.

Inside, I realized I had the munchies, so I threw together a quick meal—cheese and crackers, tofu, and olives, and balanced them on a large painted tray.

'Want to give me a hand in here?' I yelled.

'Sure,' she said, opening the slider. 'How's the wacky neighbor? Seems quiet.'

'I'm almost afraid to say it, but he's not so bad this year. I think someone is showing him some love.'

I put the tray down, and we started to pick.

'That's all he needed, a little nooky?' She poked through the olives for a juicy Sicilian.

I shrugged. 'Who knows? There are still loud bursts of music, but less often and for shorter periods of time.'

'So he's either making the naked pretzel or just dispatching his victims more quickly.'

My ex had said only twelve-year-old girls needed to squeal every time they jumped in a pool. Chris thought the neighbor was a perv. I simply assumed he was a jerk.

'Let's get back to your body,' Lucy said.

'One hundred and sixteen pounds, body fat twelve percent. Higher than it used to be.'

'Has anyone suggested that you might be getting just the tiniest bit obsessive about this fitness regimen? I meant the dead body, not the annoyingly lean and toned one I'm looking at.'

I reached daintily for an olive.

'What about sex in the big city? Don't I get to hear about that?'

'I don't kiss and tell.'

The wine nearly came out of my nose. 'Since when?'

'I don't know—more meaningless, bouncing-off-the-walls sex? Who needs it?'

'Didn't you just say a little nooky works for most people?'

'Did I? Well, you know I'm not most people.'

Now we were giggling like twelve-year-old girls, and it barely registered when an engine started, a car sputtered and quietly crept away.

CHAPTER 10

Lucy's face was inches from my own.

'There's a strange woman downstairs,' she whispered, leaning over me, eyes wide.

'Some would say there are two strange women upstairs,' I said, raising myself onto my elbows.

'This one has two black eyes.'

That got my attention. I sat up.

'Anna? zEsta aqui?'

Anna responded in the slow, third-grade-level Spanish she knew I could understand.

'That's Anna Pena,' I told Lucy.

'Annapurna?'

'Pena, you idiot. Let me get up.'

Lucy had been up for hours, plowing through a month's worth of Hollywood Reporters that she'd brought with her, while I slept off a hangover. She looked crisp and polished in a New Yorker's idea of country gear—corduroys, turtleneck tucked in, with a belt. By way of contrast, I looked and felt rumpled, like I'd been on a bender.

'Why does she have two black eyes?'

'She's had her eyelids tattooed.'

'Ouch.'

'Make some coffee, I'll meet you in the kitchen.'

I dressed quickly, avoiding the mirror as much as possible.

'You've turned into a lightweight,' Lucy said, pouring coffee as I stumbled into the kitchen.

'I just don't put away three bottles of wine on a regular basis anymore.'

'My condolences. Here, drink up.' She handed me a mug. 'I know,' she said nostalgically, 'our ranks are dwindling. Everyone's so healthy these days, it's depressing.'

'Anything else depressing you?'

She shook her head. 'I'm fine,' she said, but her face had darkened.

'Bull. I know how I feel when I say I'm fine, and it's rarely fine.'

'Work. All the same people, hawking all the same stuff. I did an enormous amount of work on that kids' show and then it fell through. Kaput. So then you end up pitching another remake of some classic you hated in school or, worse, reality shows. Sometimes it all seems so stupid. Plus . . . I'm not the cutest little girl in the room anymore.'

'Sure you are,' I said in true sisterly fashion. 'And you definitely are this morning,' I whispered, 'compared to me and Anna. It's just preshow anxiety. You're worried you won't find the next big thing, but you always do.' That cheered her up.

'We'll go to the Paradise,' I said. 'I guarantee you'll feel better after you meet Babe. She's my new role model.'

Just then Anna walked in. She did, indeed, look strange. A large woman, she was partial to stretchy, pastel leggings and tiny jeweled slippers, what ever the weather. Her denim jacket was bedazzled in elaborate patterns.

But what had startled Lucy were Anna's eyes. They were tattooed with two stripes of permanent eyeliner, one black and one green. And her eyebrows were filled in in solid chocolate brown, giving her a look of perpetual surprise. Then came the lips—bee-stung is a word that's often used—these looked more like rattlesnake bites. Until all the swelling went down, she'd look like a Maori who'd been in a fight and lost big.

I told Lucy I needed five minutes more to regroup before we left for the diner, then took my coffee and left the pair of them to what would undoubtedly be an unusual conversation.