Voodoo Ridge by David Freed Read Free Book Online Page B

cuts forced her to take early retirement.
    “We’re just so pleased you chose to share your special occasion with us,” she said. “It’s just so awesome.”
    Gwen said “awesome” a lot, a habit that I found less than awesome.
    Johnny was even more pallid than his wife. Garbed in Mexican sandals, faded corduroys and a gray “Old Guys Rule” T-shirt, he rocked a wispy goatee and a shaved head that reminded me more than a little of a hardboiled egg.
    Savannah complimented them on their selection of paint color for the parlor’s nine-foot walls.
    “It’s called ‘fallen oak leaf,’ ” Johnny Kavitch said. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
    “Looks pretty much like tan to me,” I said.
    Savannah gave me a look. There was a lull in the conversation. Being a whiz at small talk, I took note of the harp leaning in the corner.
    “Musical instruments lend ambiance to a room,” I said, like I knew anything about home decor.
    I should’ve said nothing.
    Johnny dove into a ten-minute monologue on the ethereal qualities of the harp, its long history, and how he’d always wanted to take lessons, but waited until retiring from the IRS field office in San Jose and moving up to Lake Tahoe, for fear that his fellow auditors might tease him.
    “I’d love to play you something,” he said.
    “Johnny’s an awesome musician,” Gwen said, beaming at him.
    My ex-wife embedded her burgundy fingernails in my forearm before I could say not just no, but hell no.
    “That would be lovely,” Savannah said.
    We sat through Johnny Kavitch’s rendition of Barbra Streisand’s “Evergreen,” which was followed by Barry Manilow’s “Can’t Smile Without You,” replete with Gwen singing along. I was ready to start drinking after that. The only problem was, I stopped drinking years ago. I could tell by her thin smile that Savannah was in agony, too, but there’d be no alcoholic respite for her, either. She was pregnant.
    Mercifully, the harp concert was cut short when a surly bean-pole in his mid-twenties garbed in saggy jeans, black combat boots, and a Def Leppard sweatshirt barged into the room.
    “Who ate my pizza?” he demanded. “It was sitting in the refrigerator last night. Now it’s fucking gone.”
    He was around twenty-seven, six foot three, and all of about 155 pounds. Dark, greasy hair fell to his bony shoulders like strands on a wet mop. Gwen ignored the beanpole’s outburst and introduced him pleasantly as their son and resident maintenance supervisor, Preston.
    “Preston, these are our guests, Mr. Logan and Ms. Echevarria. They’ve come all the way from Rancho Bonita to get married— re married, I should say. Mr. Logan’s a pilot. He flew them up here in his own airplane. Isn’t that awesome?”
    Preston gave me a sidelong glance that was anything but friendly.
    “Did you eat my pizza?” he demanded.
    “Wasn’t me, dude.”
    “Me, either,” Savannah said.
    “I cannot tell a lie,” Johnny said, carefully leaning the harp back against the wall. “I ate your pizza, Preston, and, boy, was it tasty. But fear not. I’ll get you another one.” He tried to pat him on the back. Preston pulled away.
    “That was my pizza—mine, OK? I paid for it with my own money.”
    “It’s no big deal,” Johnny said. “I’ll get you another one.”
    Preston fixed his father with a daggers-of-death glare. “Why don’t you do the world a favor and just die. I hate you. Both of you.” He swept a pair of brass candlesticks off the parlor’s ornately carved mantle and onto the oak floor, stomping out of the parlor. I heard the front door open and slam behind him.
    Gwen smiled as she picked up the candlesticks. “He’s only like this when he forgets to take his meds. We never take it personally.”
    “He’s really a total sweetheart otherwise,” Johnny said.
    “I’m sure he is,” Savannah said sympathetically.
    I was hardly sure. You don’t openly speak ill of your parents without having given the idea at least