Tracy Kiely - Murder Most Persuasive

To be fair, if my kid wolfed down Play-Doh with the enthusiasm Pauly did, I might think about expanding his taste buds, too. Nevertheless, when my landlord called to tell me that it looked as if repairs would be at least another week, I felt a sudden weight on my neck that threatened to pull me to the ground.

The weight actually turned out to be little Pauly; he likes to launch sneak attacks on me (and just for the record, “little” Pauly is a misnomer; I’m beginning to suspect that Play-Doh is high in calories). Anyway, the realization that Kit wanted me to reprise my role of Mary Poppins this fall—with Pauly and a newborn—made me want to sit down with my head between my knees.

Happily, Aunt Winnie came to my rescue. “Oh, Kit, I would love to have you and the baby to the new place, but I couldn’t in good conscience let you come before the repairs are completed. We’re going to be gutting a large portion of the house. It’ll be a dusty mess and God only knows what kind of toxic particles we might be unearthing. I wouldn’t feel comfortable having a baby around all that dirt and grime. As soon as it’s done, though, I want you to come.”

Kit’s lips pulled down into a pout, but she did not argue. “Well, I guess I’ll stay here alone while you all go off to Nantucket.”

My self-restraint gave way and I laughed, saying, “Upon my word, I shall be pretty well off, when you are all gone away to be happy at Bath!”

Aunt Winnie smothered a smile. I think my mother did, too. Kit, however, glared at me. “Oh yeah?” she snapped. “You want to trade pithy quotes? Well, how about this? ‘C is for cookie, that’s good enough for me!’ And I guess it’ll have to be because no one seems to want to help me!”

My mother attempted to appease Kit with an indulgent pat on the back. “Now, Kit,” she said soothingly, “that’s not true. I told you that I would be happy to stay with you and help.”

“And Kit, if you think gutting a house is fun, then you really do need a vacation!” added Aunt Winnie. “You come up once everything’s ready. That way I can give you a proper vacation, pamper you, and show off my latest great-niece or great-nephew. Wait, is that right?” Aunt Winnie paused thoughtfully. “Would it be my great-great-niece or great-great-nephew? Would that make me a great-great-aunt? I don’t know, it sounds weird.”

“How about we just call you Extraordinary Aunt?” I said, laughing.

“Done,” Aunt Winnie agreed. Turning back to Kit, she asked, “Do you have any idea what the sex of the baby is?”

“No,” Kit replied. “We want to be surprised, but I keep having dreams that it’s a girl.”

Aunt Winnie smiled. “Oh, a little girl! How fun that would be!”

Mollified, Kit chatted happily about possible names for the baby if it was a girl until Aunt Winnie finally left to catch her flight. Giving me a final hug, she whispered in my ear, “Patience is a virtue.”

“So’s vodka,” I whispered back.

With a laugh and a final wave good-bye, Aunt Winnie headed for her terminal. We watched her until she was swallowed up by the bustling crowd of fellow travelers before piling back into my mom’s car.

“So, I was thinking that maybe sometime next week we all could meet for dinner somewhere,” my mom said as she pulled out into the traffic, ignoring three separate cabbies’ horns of warning. “I know that George would love to see you.”

George is my mother’s boyfriend. When our father died five years ago, our mom took it pretty hard. She left the house only for classes at the college where she taught English literature. In fact, if it weren’t for her job, I don’t think she would have left the house at all. To help, Kit and I had chipped in and signed her up for some spin classes at a local gym, thinking that the interaction might help ease her out of her loneliness. As fate would have it, George was the instructor. At first we thought it was cute when he’d asked her out, and we’d good-naturedly teased her about being a cougar. That was four years ago and it was no longer cute or funny. It isn’t that George is a bad guy, mind you. He’s nice enough. He is good-looking and in good shape. He is just dumb as an ox. The last time we all went out to eat at one of his favorite restaurants, I asked him if the turkey burger was any good. He answered that he didn’t know because, and I’m quoting here, “I’m not one of those pansy vegetarians.” He then flexed his biceps, kissed it, and added, “My guns need protein.”

Really, not even Jane Austen would have a snappy comeback to that.

At my mom’s mention of George, Kit and I exchanged glances of derision. It was funny, but after a lifetime of butting heads, we’d finally found one thing in common. We both found a night with George to be a damned tedious waste of an evening. But we love our mother, so we put up with him. The only reason we hadn’t had to deal with him today was that he was at some cycling convention in Seattle, learning how to channel Lance Armstrong or something.

“Yeah, Mom, that would be great,” said Kit. “Just let me know when it’s a good time.”

“I’m free all next week,” I added.

“Except Tuesday,” said Kit. “Don’t forget, you’re watching little Pauly for us next Tuesday night.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I’ll be there,” I mumbled. My social life had taken a hit lately, and Kit saw no reason not to take full advantage of this temporary lull. My best friend, Bridget, was newly married. She and her husband, Colin, had purchased a “fixer-upper” and now spent most of their time trolling Home Depot and poring over paint samples. As much as I love them both, I couldn’t endure another conversation about whether “hushed hue” or “inner balance” would be a better color for the living room. (Seriously, do either of those colors suggest taupe to you? Why can’t they just call colors what they are? In this case, “really light taupe” and “even lighter taupe.”)

As for Peter, he was putting together a new business deal in California, and we hadn’t had much of a chance to get together. The result was that in addition to my other “Kit duties,” I had now become her very own free babysitting service.

From the front seat, Kit suddenly gave a loud laugh. “Well, you’ll be there unless they suddenly discover that Uncle Marty was murdered and you have to fly off to solve the case!”

I looked out the window and sighed, wondering for maybe the hundredth time just how bad exposure to mold was anyway.

It was around three when we arrived at Kit’s house, a two-story, whitewashed colonial dating from the 1940s. Like many of the houses in Silver Spring, it retains a vintage charm in spite of being expanded and modernized over the years. Kit, of course, is hoping to move into one of those McMansions that line the Beltway.

As soon as Kit stepped inside, Pauly launched himself at her with an enthusiasm that bordered on violence. Pauly is a miniature of his father. He has curly brown hair, a round freckled face, and a sweet, lopsided smile. He has some of his mother in him, too. He doesn’t like it when things don’t go his way and isn’t shy about letting people know it. I should know, I have bruises on my shins to prove it.

“Will you play Candy Land with me? Please? I’m so bored,” he wailed, climbing up Kit’s leg. Wiping his nose, he repeated, “Please?”

“Don’t wipe your nose on your sleeve,” Kit said automatically. “Are you feeling better, baby? Where’s Daddy?”

A head cold had kept Pauly home from preschool today. Kit’s husband, Paul, had stayed home from his job as a hot-tub salesman to watch him. Hearing our voices in the foyer, Paul wandered out from the living room, his cell phone pressed to his ear. Gesturing to Kit to wait a minute, he continued his conversation. “Yeah, Tom? Hey, listen, my wife just got in so I can get to the store after all. Tell them I’ll be there within the half hour. Okay, thanks. Bye.”