“It could be worse,” I said. “She could be wearing flowered dresses with lace trim like Celia. Nothing could be less character-appropriate.”
Ida Belle and Gertie’s archenemy was a particularly loathsome woman who had taken an instant disliking to me and was constantly trying to get me arrested for whatever crime had just transpired in Sinful. Any minute, I expected a knock on my door and Carter to be standing there accusing me of being the catfish. Unfortunately, as Celia was currently the mayor—although contested—she had the ability to wreak more havoc than before. We were praying the election audit overturned the results and she would be ousted soon, replaced by the other candidate, Ida Belle and Gertie’s friend, Marie. Until then, however, Celia would continue her campaign to make life difficult for all three of us.
“There are no clothes that are character-appropriate for Celia,” Ida Belle said, “unless you count those demon costumes at Halloween.”
“We could get her some T-shirts made. They could say something like ‘Butthole’ and have an arrow pointing up.”
Ida Belle stared at me for a couple seconds. “That’s not a bad idea.”
“We’d have to drug her to wear it, but it might be worth sacrificing an Ambien for.”
Ida Belle glanced back at the stairs. “Not so loud. If you-know-who overhears, she’ll be plotting a way to make it happen. Celia is enough trouble when we’re not poking at her. I’d prefer to keep her at arm’s length, at least until the election recount is over.”
“If that recount doesn’t come out in Marie’s favor, you’re in for four years of hell.”
“If that happens, I predict an exodus bigger than the one Katrina caused,” Ida Belle said. “People are very unhappy, including people who voted for her.”
“Serves them right, but then as you always say, ‘you can’t fix stupid.’”
Ida Belle nodded. “If I could, I’d be the richest woman in the world.”
“Ta-da!” Gertie sounded off behind us, and we both turned to look.
As Gertie’s costumes went, it wasn’t the worst I’d seen, but then I’d seen a lot. Her pants were fake black leather, fitted tight on the legs and low-slung on the hips. The hot-pink tank with gold-glittered skull and crossbones on it cut off just below her rib cage, leaving a strip of soft, undesirable white flesh in between. Her hair was teased out like an eighties stripper and her makeup was more suited to a heavy metal music video or Goth party than a senior lady supposedly lounging around her house. Red cowboy boots completed the look…because nothing says relaxing at home like footwear you need help taking off.
Ida Belle stared silently at her, and I wasn’t sure if she didn’t know what to say or was afraid that if she started, she wouldn’t run out of things to say.
“What happened to the rest of your shirt?” she finally asked, apparently deciding to tackle one problem at a time.
“Nothing. This is how it’s supposed to fit,” Gertie said.
“Maybe if you’re eighteen and built like an athlete,” Ida Belle said.
“If I put on a longer shirt, then I won’t be able to show off my tattoo,” Gertie explained.
“Oh God,” I mumbled. I had been locked up in my house for several days. Gertie could have gotten up to most anything in that amount of time.
Gertie spun around and pointed to a crooked set of swirling disk things on her lower back. “It’s one of those temporary jobs—like Fortune and I used that time at the Swamp Bar.”
Ida Belle stared in dismay. “Lord help. A tramp stamp.”
“Don’t worry,” Gertie said. “It will wash off.”
I grimaced. The tattoo that Gertie had provided me for our Swamp Bar excursion hadn’t been nearly as temporary as she’d claimed it would be. At least this one wasn’t on my body, and under normal circumstances, it would be covered up on Gertie’s. That was, of course, assuming that the lovely town of Sinful got back around to normal any time soon.
“Let’s get this over with,” Ida Belle said. “I’ve got some work on my motorcycle to do. And some drinking. Definitely some drinking.”
“Okay,” Gertie said. “For the first shots, I want to be lounging in the living room. I’ll put on some mood music.”
She headed out of the kitchen, the tramp stamp tilting and swaying on her backside. A couple seconds later, the stereo fired up Metallica. Ida Belle shook her head and grabbed the camera then we both trailed into the living room. Ida Belle drew up short at the entry and I almost ran into her. I started to ask what was wrong, but then I peered around her and saw what had caused the quick stop. Gertie was in the recliner, but she wasn’t sitting normally. She was cocked to one side, with one leg slung over the armrest and one arm thrown back over her head.
It was Gone with the Wind—the inappropriate senior version. I was just waiting for the “woe is me.”
“I’m not taking a picture with you sitting like that,” Ida Belle said, practically yelling to be heard over the music. “You look ridiculous.”