“I didn’t realize you were friends.”
“Oh sure. Pearl and me stop over there every couple of days. She’s always good to us, even if we’ve had a nip. Yesterday she give us each a bowl of this new recipe she found for Veseporkolt. Pork kidney stew over dumplings.”
“Delish,” Pearl said enthusiastically. “Lot of chewy bits.”
I looked at Lucky. “What’d you make?”
“It’s kind of a secret.”
“Well, I can hardly wait. What about Killer? Is he going?”
Lucky shook his head. “Health Department don’t allow it. I took him over a couple of times, but Rosie said she’d get in big trouble if she let him stay. He’ll be fine where he is. We’ll put him to bed early; zip him in the tent with his dolly and one of Henry’s soup bones.”
I waited until Lucky herded Killer into the tent, which took some pushing from behind, and then the three of us covered the half block to Rosie’s, a small mismatched processional, bearing our gifts.
When we arrived, the preliminaries were already underway. William was back on his feet after his bout of what he swore was bacterial dysentery. “Not the tropical sort,” he was quick to point out.
For the celebration, he’d suggested posting a sign on the door saying “Closed for a private party,” but Rosie wouldn’t hear of it. Opinion was divided on whether she was intent on encouraging business or eager to have an enthusiastic assembly on hand to generate good cheer on her behalf. Since the party didn’t start until after dinner, she’d been relieved of the need to cook for the celebrants, which gave us all cause to rejoice.
Henry’s Michigan siblings had decided not to make the trip, as it would have been both arduous and expensive. His sister, Nell, was still convalescing from her hip replacement surgery, and her brothers, Charlie and Lewis, wouldn’t travel without her. Everyone else was there: Anna Dace and Cheney Phillips, Moza Lowenstein, Jonah Robb and his two teenaged daughters, Courtney and Ashley. Camilla wasn’t in evidence, which I thought was cause for celebration in itself. Neighbors and day-drinkers had mobbed the place on the assumption the champagne would flow freely, which it did. A number of police department personnel were also on hand, some in uniform and some in civilian clothes. Rosie was wearing a new muumuu, a solid lavender shade that for some reason softened her face.
Henry had made two gallons of vanilla ice cream, along with a sheet cake large enough to feed the multitudes. Everyone had piled their wrapped gifts on the bar, and after the cake and ice cream disappeared, William had Rosie perch on her usual stool so she could open them. In addition to the Hungarian cookbook I gave her, she received a dark red cashmere shawl, a paperweight with a daffodil embedded in its center, and a lily-of-the-valley cologne and talcum powder set. William bought her a pale blue nightgown and matching robe, which elicited whistles and applause. He’d also purchased a gift certificate for a dinner for two at the Edgewater Hotel, complete with limousine transportation to and from. In a show of optimism, Henry gave her a rain gauge, a rain hat, and a matching umbrella. Ed, the cat, contributed a pair of oversize plush slippers shaped like calico cats. We were seldom treated to Rosie’s playful side, but she basked in the attention, blushing like a maiden, which undermined her usual drill sergeant air. She opened Lucky’s gift last, and I found myself on tiptoe trying to see what he’d done. She held up a necklace of cloth strands, beautiful soft shades of rust, navy, and lavender intermixed with white.
She turned to him with surprise. “You make?”
Pearl interceded, saying, “He’s a regular artist. Harbor House has this bin where they collect old T-shirts for anybody that needs a little wardrobe pick-me-up.”
“I warsh ’em first,” Lucky hastened to add. “Then I work my special magic. Every necklace is one of a kind. What I do is cut acrost the T-shirt bottoms and stretch the loops until the sides curl up like that. Those are colors I seen you wear and I thought they’d go good with your hair.”
He settled the necklace over her head with such pride that Rosie was forced to fling a napkin over her face and use the edges to mop her eyes.
This, then, was the tender scene into which Camilla Robb appeared like the evil fairy at Sleeping Beauty’s christening. I was vaguely aware that the outside door had opened and closed behind me, letting in a gust of chilly air. I assumed it was a late guest, so I didn’t even turn to look. Henry was facing me and it was his quizzical reaction that suggested something was amiss. Anger is like a sneeze. If you sense someone’s on the verge of letting loose and you’re standing within a six-foot radius, you better make a move to protect yourself. I was blissfully unaware, not realizing a threat was imminent.
When Camilla materialized on my right, I was surprised, but not alarmed. I remember noting how much shorter she was than I’d realized. Also noted was the fact that her shapeless peach wool coat added a good twenty pounds to her frame. She had her three-year-old son affixed to one hip. She’d hooked her purse over the shoulder opposite, but the strap was too short and the bag slid off when she least expected it. Banner was too big to be carried and his legs dangled almost to her knees. Between supporting his weight and hitching up the errant pocketbook, she was distracted, but not sufficiently so to mitigate her wrath.
Here’s how dumb I was on this occasion. Even when she planted herself directly in front of me, it didn’t occur to me a confrontation was in the wind. At first, it didn’t seem to occur to anyone else, either. Henry was alert—I could see his brow furrowing—but with Rosie at stage center, the good-natured banter among party guests continued without pause. When Camilla finally launched her shriek-fest, her voice was so laden with fury her speech was barely audible. As the volume and timbre rose, the general hubbub diminished to a hush. The effect was the same as the house lights in a theater dimming before the curtains open for act one.
She wielded a crumpled piece of paper that she shook in my face. “You did this on purpose, you bitch! Don’t think you’re going to get away with it . . .”
I shot a glance over my shoulder, wondering who she was screeching at. Everyone else was looking right at me.
Her voice dropped. “I know your type. Pretending to be so innocent. Well, guess again, sweetheart, because you don’t fool me. I knew you were still screwing him. I KNEW it.”