Murder on Old Main Street (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) (24 page)

“I swear to you, if he had sprouted horns and begun to speak in tongues, I could not have been more astonished. This man, who prides himself on his exquisite courtesy, turned into an arrogant jackass right before my eyes. I was standing there holding the rake with my mouth hanging open, and he was practically snapping his fingers at an exhausted guy who had been doing heavy labor all day, telling him to move this and rake behind that as if this was his personal servant. ‘That’s what he gets paid for,’ was all he had to offer by way of a rationale. I just wanted to scream at him.”

Strutter opened her eyes, which were a startling turquoise color, and took a thoughtful sip of her coffee. “Ooohh, that’s good. I surely have missed this.” She closed her eyes again.

I stared at her, all curls and curves and glowing with honeymoon contentment. With difficulty, I managed not to dump my coffee on her head. “So what do you think,” I prompted finally from between gritted teeth, “or perhaps you’d rather I ran along so you can nap in peace?”

Strutter opened her eyes once more and gazed at me with gentle humor.

“Don’t get pissy with me, girl, just because your man has fallen off that pedestal you’ve had him up on. Seems to me that all that’s happened here is you’ve found out you’re in love with a real, honest-to-goodness, human-type fella and not God’s gift to the human race. And what do I think about that? I think it’s about time.” Another sip.

“So what should I do?”

“Get over it.”

“Get over it? That’s your sage advice?”

“You told him how you felt about it. He heard you. Now, move on.”

I sat and looked at my good friend for a moment. Strutter had saved my life once. She was maybe the wisest, most centered woman I had ever known, and I loved her like a sister. Maybe more than a sister. At the moment, I wanted to strangle her.

“What superior knowledge gives you the right to tell me to ‘get over it’?”

Strutter grinned. “Ba-dum-bum. It took a little while, but I surely knew it was coming.”

I waited some more.

“Okay, here’s a little story for you. The week before John and I were married, we planned a sort of a last date. You know, he came over, and I had cooked a romantic little dinner, and he brought flowers and a bottle of wine. Charlie stayed over at a friend’s house, so we had the place to ourselves. John built a fire in the fireplace. The whole nine yards.

“Sounds nice. What’s your point?”

She chuckled at the memory. “Oh, it was nice. I was on cloud nine, about to be married to the most wonderful man in the world, a whole luxurious evening ahead of us. And then he threw a shoe at my cat.”

I was shocked. “John threw a shoe at Farley? He’s such a big teddy bear of a cat. I can’t imagine it.”

“Neither could I, believe me. There I was, putting out my shrimp puffs on the coffee table, ready to snuggle up on the sofa next to my big, sexy man. I was so into the whole thing that I’d forgotten to feed Farley. That’s usually Charlie’s job. So the poor cat was starving for his dinner, and I plopped a plate of shrimp puffs on the coffee table. He just couldn’t help himself. He grabbed one off the plate and ran to the other side of the room to gobble it down, and John took off one of his loafers and threw it at him.”

“That’s awful! Did he hit him?”

“No, he didn’t. He swore he had no intention of hitting him, just wanted to scare him and so on and so forth. I lit into him good anyway, of course. But after I stopped yelling and fed the cat, it dawned on me that John had no idea why I was upset. He’s not an unkind person, you know that, but he wasn’t raised with pets, never had a cat or a dog or even a hamster. He was raised on the island, and they have a whole different relationship with critters there. They aren’t members of the family like Farley and Jasmine and Simon are. The idea of an animal stealing people’s food and being allowed to get away with it was just wrong to him. He has a different perspective, do you see?”

I did see, but I still didn’t like it.

“I love John, and I always will. Doesn’t mean I don’t see him clearly. The good news is, I know he loves me the same way, even my less-than-lovable qualities.”

“I didn’t know you admitted to having any.”

Strutter ignored me. “I realize that you’re operating under a handicap here.”

“Which is?”

“You’re a middle-aged white woman who was raised in New England.”

“Excuse me?”

She patted my arm apologetically. “I didn’t mean that as an ethnic slur or anything.”

“Yes, you did.”

We were quiet for a moment as Strutter weighed what she still had to say against my ability to hear it. It was a thing I’d seen her do dozens of times. Then she shrugged, and I knew she had decided to say her piece and hope I could take it.

“House pets are not in John’s cultural frame of reference. It’s the same with Armando and servants.”

“I don’t have any servants.”

“Nooo, but in Colombia, I’m sure he did. He was probably brought up with them, and where he comes from, that’s how you talk to servants, how his mother and his
tias
talked to them. It’s not unkind, really, just authoritarian. It’s the way it’s done in Latin America.”

I had to hand it to her. She had my attention.

“In New England, on a hot day in July, I’ll bet your mama brought the buy who mowed your lawn a glass of lemonade or maybe some iced tea, am I right?”

I nodded.

“And you do the same, don’t you?”

I nodded again. “Of course I do. It’s only civil.”

“But you don’t have one with him, stand around and chat.”

“No. He’d think that was weird.”

“Uh huh. He’s grateful for the cold drink, but anything more than that would be uncomfortable for both of you. Well, in Jamaica, where I was raised, and probably in Colombia, too, the gardener cools off with a drink from the hose. He’s glad to have access to it, but beyond that, he’d just as soon be left alone. That’s what he expects, and that’s what he’s comfortable with. It’s his cultural frame of reference.”

“But this isn’t Colombia.”

“So you need to talk to Armando about how things are done here. He looks fairly trainable to me.”

I chewed on that for a while. “So you’re saying I overreacted.”

She twinkled at me kindly. I had a feeling that Strutter was a very good mom, although I am fully ten years her senior.

“How’s married life?” I asked her, changing the subject.

“Married life is just fine, thank you. I think I’ll get back to it and let you get back to work.”

We stood and hugged briefly.

“Tell Margo I said hey. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

I watched her walk that walk of hers, the one that had earned Strutter her nickname, across the street to where her little gray sedan waited patiently in the shade. John Putnam was a lucky fellow, I thought, not for the first time.

Then I pulled my cell phone out of my handbag and called Armando.

Meet Judith K. Ivie

A lifelong Connecticut resident, Judith Ivie has worked in public relations, advertising, sales promotion, and the international tradeshow industry. She has also served as administrative assistant to several top executives.

Early in her writing career Judi produced three nonfiction books, as well as numerous articles and essays, focusing on work issues such as two-career marriages, workaholism, and midlife career changes.

A few years back, Judi broadened her repertoire to include fiction, and the Kate Lawrence mystery series was launched. All of the titles in this series are available in trade paperback and e-book formats for the Kindle and Nook readers.

Whatever the genre, she strives to provide lively, entertaining reading that takes her readers away from their work and worries for a few hours, stimulates thought on a variety of contemporary issues-and gives them a laugh along the way.

Please visit
www.MainlyMurderPress.com
to learn more about all of her books, or order her other titles.
 
Judi loves to hear from readers at [email protected].