Larceny and Old Lace by Tamar Myers Read Free Book Online

dancing again, when his beeper went off.
    â€œMay I use your phone, ma’am?”
    â€œPlease, be my guest.” As soon as he left I was going to disconnect that phone. In a very dilute form Investigator Greg Washburn was going to spend the night with me.
    He talked just a few seconds on my phone. His lips never touched the receiver. His hands barely held it. It was hardly going to be worth unplugging.
    â€œMa’am, that’ll be all for today. It’s been a pleasure.”
    â€œThere’s still five more minutes on All My Children ,” I said. Trot out the big guns when you have to.
    â€œI’m taping it at home. Thanks, anyway.”
    And then he was gone. I would have kicked myself, had I not been wearing pointed shoes. I’d forgotten to look for a ring.
    Â 
    I am not a masochist, even though Mama thinks I am. I honestly didn’t know Buford was the scum of the earth until he took up with Tweetie. The only reason I decided to drive by the homestead that evening was because I wanted to talk to our son Charlie. In person. Charlie and his great-aunt had been close. And it was more than the twenty bucks, and then fifty, Aunt Eulonia used to slip into his birthday cards. Thetwo of them, although seventy years apart in age, were cut from the same cloth. You couldn’t find fabric that wide at the Piece Goods Shop in Rock Hill.
    Bob and No-Bob opened the door. Those are my names for Tweetie’s breasts, although I’m sure she has her own. One of her breasts—the left, I think—bobs up and down when she walks, while the other is rigid. Her surgeon should have been more careful.
    â€œWell, lookie what the cat drug home,” Tweetie said.
    I smiled pleasantly, ever the southern lady. “Is Buford here?”
    At the sound of my voice, Scruffles came running. It wasn’t his fault he nearly knocked Tweetie over. Good plastic surgeons should consider their patient’s balance before agreeing to operate.
    â€œHey, boy!” I said.
    â€œMy husband is at his office,” Tweetie said. She started closing the door before Scruffles could get in a single lick.
    I took a cue from the Major and stuck a shoe in the door. My foot is a lot smaller than his, but then again, Tweetie is no Wiggins.
    â€œOpen that door or I’m telling Buford everything,” I said.
    The line works with Tweetie every time. One of these days I’m going to find out what it is she’s trying to hide. At any rate, the door opened wide, leaving me face to point with Bob. Or maybe No-Bob. You get the point.
    â€œI’m here to see my son. Is he here?”
    â€œMaybe, maybe not. Buford said I don’t have to let you in but once a week. You were already here this week.”
    â€œI was here Friday, and today is Tuesday. Anyway, I was awarded unlimited visiting privileges. Besides, Charlie is seventeen now. He can see me whenever he wants.”
    â€œI was talking about how many times I have to let you in the house. I don’t care how many times you see your son. He’s in the kitchen, still eating. That’s all he ever does.”
    â€œThat’s what seventeen-year-old boys are supposed to do,” I said calmly.
    â€œAnd this damn dog sheds over everything. Have you ever tried getting dog hair off of white suede?”
    â€œNot since my divorce, dear.”
    She lost interest in me and wandered off, the door still open. She turned around a corner, and I could see Bob bobbing and No-Bob not.
    I am better behaved than most things the cat drags home, and closed the door. It was strange to be alone in my own house again—well, you know what I mean. Tweetie either had no interest in decorating or else was forbidden to do so by Buford (the man must have a little taste: he married me, didn’t he?), because the only change I could see was the velvet Elvis painting above the grand piano. Even it was of better quality than most.
    I gave Scruffles a big