Granny Bares It All Read online

  She shifted in her seat, looking uncomfortable. It took her some time to speak.

  “I joined a few years ago, just after I got out of the Army. I loved my time in the service, but I desperately needed a change. All those regulations and the uniforms and even worse, the uniformity. I wanted to be free. So I turned to nudism. I’d always been interested in it. It seemed a good way to express myself.”

  “You talk like Angie.”

  Liz chuckled. “A true believer, to be sure. Nudism really is liberating, but she takes it too far. Almost makes a religion out of it.”

  “So tell me more about this tension.”

  Liz made a face like she’d tasted something sour. “Adrian.”

  “He had eyes for Clarissa?”

  Liz looked confused. “What? No, he had eyes for Angie.”

  Well, that explained Zoe’s anger at Adrian naming Angie volunteer coordinator. Angie had been angry at it too, so I guessed the attraction wasn’t mutual. She hadn’t declined the offer, though.

  “So Adrian has been harassing her?”

  “Nothing overt. No one would stand for that. But he’s always coming around to talk with her, always getting her on the same projects he’s working on. She’s almost as big a volunteer as Clarissa was, so she was the obvious choice to take over as volunteer coordinator, except that she didn’t ask for the job. It would mean Adrian would have more excuses to be near her.”

  “But she didn’t refuse the job.”

  “At Clarissa’s memorial service? She wouldn’t do that. She respected Clarissa. I’m sure she’ll tell Adrian where to go, just not in front of a whole group of people.”

  “When we were down by the lake, I sensed some tension between Angie and Clarissa. Some of the other women seemed to have disapproved of Clarissa too.”

  “More disapproval over Adrian and Clarissa’s relationship.”

  “I thought Adrian wasn’t interested in her.”

  “Not in that way. But he leaned on her like a crutch. She was so capable, so willing to help, that he foisted way too much work on her. He took advantage of her. Zoe said words to that effect on more than one occasion.”

  “Did she try to stop it?”

  Liz gave a wry smile. “No. Like I said, she was invaluable. And it’s hard to say no to Adrian. He’s done so much for the movement that everyone respects him despite his flaws.”

  I remembered the doctor prescribing her sleeping pills. “Was Clarissa under any stress?”

  “She always pushed herself hard. That was just her nature. She kept up a sunny disposition, though. If she was under any stress, her first instinct was to hide it. She was a ‘life of the party’ type. She was happiest when everyone was happy around her. Showing she was stressed would spoil the mood. So if she was, or if she felt threatened, she wouldn’t have shown it.”

  I nodded. The life of the party was often the loneliest person in the room.

  “So who would kill Clarissa?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Darned if I know. I was hoping to find out when I came here.”

  “How did you know where I live?”

  “I followed you this afternoon.”

  My brow furrowed. “No you didn’t. I kept checking my rearview mirror on those country roads. No one was behind me.”

  Liz smiled. “I was in front of you. When you said you were going to leave, I hurried out of there before you did. There’s only one main road into town, the one that goes by that gas station by the old farmhouse. I parked there, waiting for you to pass. Then I followed you.”

  I groaned. By the time I’d made it that far, I’d felt confident I wasn’t being tailed and had stopped paying attention. I’d been outmaneuvered.

  “All right, but how did you know the murderer would come after me in my home?”

  “A hunch. New members have to give their home address. That means Adrian and Zoe both know where you live. Plus there’s no security at the office. They don’t lock it during the day. If they’re out and about, anyone could walk in there and read your membership form. I’m sure the murderer must have wondered about you the same as I did.”

  “Wonderful. For a second there I thought we had it narrowed down to Adrian or Zoe.”

  “I’m afraid not. My gut tells me it’s neither of them. To be honest, while there’s plenty of tension at Sunnydale, I can’t think of any reason why it would lead to murder.”

  So the murderer hadn’t needed to see my DMV file. He or she could have simply gotten my address off the membership form. And people didn’t need to sign in when they came to Sunnydale. There was no record of who had been there at the same time I was.

  This was getting more and more confusing.

  “On my first day, I noticed some tension between Adrian and Naomi down at the lake. Know anything about that?”

  Liz shrugged. “Not that I know of. Maybe she isn’t doing the taxes as well as Clarissa did?”

  I bit my lip. Liz wasn’t being as helpful as I’d hoped.

  So let’s see. We had Adrian and Zoe exploiting Clarissa’s generosity, with everyone disapproving but no one doing anything to stop it. Someone killed her, and Adrian got Naomi and Angie to fill her shoes. For some reason he got angry at Naomi.

  Oh, and Adrian was interested in the most beautiful woman in the resort. Typical. A middle-aged man hitting on Angie looked worse in the nudist context. That culture tried to make being nude something that wasn’t sexual, and Adrian was showing that up to be a lie. Or at least a lie in his case.

  I still didn’t have a cause for murder, however. I needed to speak with Angie and Zoe and Naomi. Just how I would go about that would require some thinking.

  That would all have to wait. Family had intervened, and I had to babysit Martin from right after he got out of school until late in the evening. I wouldn’t have time to go to Sunnydale. It was frustrating to be so close and lose a whole day, but I couldn’t see a way out of it. Pulling back might be a good thing, though. If I went three days in a row as a new member, that would raise some eyebrows.

  With the attempted break-in, I had to come up with an excuse not to have Martin sleep over, claiming that I had to pick up Pearl first thing in the morning. That kept Martin from complaining. Usually he liked staying at my place because he got to play with Dandelion, but the mention of Pearl kept him away. He always claimed she smelled funny.

  To be honest, I was glad to have a break from all this naked insanity.

  “So now what?” Liz asked.

  I had been silent for a time.

  “I can’t come to Sunnydale tomorrow. Family commitments. Can you go tomorrow?”

  “Yes. I’m between jobs at the moment. What would you like me to do?”

  “Keep an eye on everyone. Listen in on any conversation you can about Angie and Naomi and their new jobs. Also try and find out what the others think of me.”

  “I can do that.”

  I stood up. “Glad to have you aboard.”

  She extended her hand. I crossed the room and shook it. When I pulled my hand away, she kept hers extended.

  “May I have my gun back?” she asked.

  I handed it to her and turned away. As I did so, I put my own gun in my waistband.

  “Glad to have you aboard,” I repeated to mask the sound of my flicking off the safety.

  I kept my back to her and took a couple of steps away as if I was going to sit back in my chair. On the mantelpiece behind the chair was a framed photo of myself and my late husband. It had been taken at a beach at night. Only ourselves and a bit of sand at our feet was illuminated, the background black in contrast to the flash of the camera. The combination of the dark background and glass covering made the photo a good mirror. I watched Liz’s every move.

  She checked her gun like a good soldier, making sure the safety was on and the gun was clean.

  Liz glanced up at me, and I tensed. Had I been wrong to put my faith in her?

  I got ready to draw, spin, and crouch at the same t
ime. I’d mastered that move in my youth, but I hadn’t used it in years.

  Turned out I didn’t have to. A moment later, Liz put the gun in the pocket of her sweatshirt.

  All that had taken less than four seconds. I turned, smiled at her, and bid her goodnight.

  I had an ally. Now all I needed was some solid leads.

  Twelve

  Fatberger’s decor lived up to its name. In addition to the smiling Fatberger character, there were large photographs of actual fatbergs taken in the United Kingdom’s sewer system.

  They were horrible to look upon. These massive chunks of slime, glistening a sickly white in the headlamps of Her Majesty’s sewer workers, looked strangely like the pot bellies I’d seen on some of the men at the nudist colony. One poster was adorned with a gold banner saying “Fatberg of the Month.” A caption informed me that this recently discovered fatberg in Birmingham measured five meters by five meters by twelve meters and weighed an estimated three tons.

  These images were all set on tile walls colored an off-white to match the real-life fatbergs. The floor and even the ceiling were white tile as well. This, a cautionary note on our menus told us, was so that if anyone felt the urge to vomit, they did not have to worry about ruining any paint or carpet. Added to this was a little historical note stating that Fatberger wanted to “revive the legacy of the proud ancient Romans, who would stuff themselves and ease their stomach pain by emptying their stomachs in the vomitorium, a special room specifically for throwing up.”

  There was even a drawing of a Roman vomitorium, showing a bunch of rotund Romans eating at an ancient Fatberger and running off to a little side room to spew out their Farty Fries and Atomic Onion Rings. The Fatberger cartoon mascot sat at the head of the table, wearing a toga and stuffing his face with food.

  The thing about the vomitorium wasn’t historically accurate. Yes, I looked it up. Vomitorium was, indeed, a real Latin word, but it meant the exits in a stadium that allowed large numbers of people to enter or leave quickly. So it was the stadium vomiting Romans rather than Romans vomiting dormice or starlings’ tongues or whatever other strange food they ate.

  Convincing Martin of this was another matter.

  “No, seriously, look it up,” I told him. It was amazing how much kids were on their phones or computers but never got around to actually researching anything.

  “I heard that during big feasts, sometimes they’d go to the vomitorium four or five times just so they could eat more,” he said, all wide-eyed and eager.

  Well, at least it got him interested in ancient history.

  We sat in a plus-sized booth with extra-wide seats and looked at our menus, decorated with cartoon fatbergs and drawings of grossly stuffed customers chowing down on greasy meals.

  “Hello, young man,” Octavian said as he came up to our booth. He was a dapper gentleman about my age. He gave us a big smile to show off his excellent teeth, teeth that, surprisingly enough, were real.

  “Hey,” Martin mumbled without looking up from his menu.

  “And hello to you, pretty lady,” he said, giving me a peck on the cheek.

  I could just see the top of Martin’s forehead over the menu. It turned a deep shade of scarlet.

  Octavian cocked his head.

  “You’ve got a tan.”

  Now it was my turn to blush. “I, um, have been enjoying the sun a bit lately. It’s such a lovely spring.”

  “I feel jealous. The sun is seeing more of you than I am,” he said.

  Oh, if you only knew.

  He sat down beside me and pulled out an iPad. Martin’s eye peeked out from behind the menu. How he could have seen the iPad through the menu was a mystery.

  “I’ve been playing a good game with my grandkids lately,” Octavian told him. “Ever tried any of the Road Rage series?”

  Martin finally showed interest. “Yeah, they’re cool.”

  Octavian fired up his iPad and turned on something called Road Rage III: Pedestrian Purgatory. He shifted closer to Martin.

  “Okay, so in this game you have to get to work on time through a big traffic jam. You only have five minutes. You lose if you take longer and get bonus points for every second early you are. Let me show you how it’s done.”

  Octavian started the game, and we got a driver’s-eye view of a traffic jam. Cars were backed up as far as the eye could see. Octavian immediately pulled onto the sidewalk and hit the gas.

  And proceeded to hit a series of pedestrians.

  “Cool!” Martin said.

  “Now you get points for hitting pedestrians, but you’ve got to be careful,” Octavian explained. “Go for the skinny ones. They don’t slow you down as much. Whoa! Almost hit that hot dog stand. Extra points, but I’d have lost five seconds easy. This game is all about balancing out the points you get for hitting people with the points you lose by them slowing you down.”

  I stared in utter shock. My boyfriend looked like he was actually enjoying this.

  Martin sure was. They cheered together as Octavian knocked down a little old lady. I felt left out.

  “Why didn’t you hit that one?” Martin asked as Octavian swerved around another little old lady, this one hobbling along with the aid of a cane.

  “Oh, you have to watch out for those canes. They’re a trap. They get stuck on your axle and slow you down for the next twenty seconds. Running over one of them is an easy way to lose the game.”

  Octavian maneuvered the car among the sidewalk crowd like a pro, avoiding families and old people with canes and sideswiping the skinnier pedestrians when it didn’t take him too far out of his way. Sideswiping slowed him down less than actually running people over, and he showed a natural talent for sideswiping.

  He made it to the office with fifteen seconds to spare and thirty-eight kills to his tally.

  Octavian handed the iPad over to Martin. “Let’s see if you can do better.”

  The waiter came to our booth. He looked about nineteen and was in terrible physical shape. Martin would lose at least a couple of seconds running over him.

  “Everybody ready to order?” the waiter asked.

  “I’ll take the Heart Attack Special with a chocolate milkshake, huge size, and a double order of deep-fried lard chips,” Martin said without looking up from his game.

  The waiter turned to me.

  “I’ll take the chicken salad and a soda,” I said, bracing for what I knew would come next.

  The waiter pulled out a remote from his pocket and pressed the button.

  “Wimp menu! Wimp menu!” a speaker at our table blared. A television screen hanging from above our booth turned on, and the cartoon fatberg that was the restaurant chain’s mascot appeared. He looked sad and deflated a little.

  “Somebody’s parents don’t know how to get in the spirit of Fatberger,” the cartoon blob of fat said in a little squeaky voice. Why would a fatberg have a little squeaky voice? Wouldn’t it have a deep voice? Why was I even thinking about this when I had a murder to solve and a restaurant full of people snickering at me for my healthy food choices?

  The waiter turned to Octavian.

  “And what will you have, sir?”

  Octavian stared at the screen, utterly baffled. Obviously he had never been to Fatberger before.

  “Sir?” the waiter repeated.

  Octavian snapped out of his reverie. “Oh, right. I’ll have a cheesesteak and fries.”

  “Wimp menu! Wimp menu!” the speaker blared again.

  Martin rolled his eyes, still playing the game. “You two are so lame.”

  “I’m lame? You still haven’t beat my high score,” Octavian said. “Don’t run over families. They slow you down too much.”

  Just as I was about to complain about the boys (not man and boy, but boys) ignoring me, I spotted a pair of familiar faces coming through the door. When I’m in a restaurant or bar, I always get a table with my back to the wall so I can face the door. I’ve done that all my adult life, and it has only saved me once
, in a run-down little cantina in Sonora, Mexico. Only once in all those years, but once is enough when you consider the alternative.

  Now it was paying off again. Perhaps it wasn’t saving my life, but seeing who came through that door certainly helped me take several steps forward in the case.

  Adrian and Naomi. They came in together and took a booth at the far end.

  Fatberger seemed an odd dining choice for a pair of nudists, and I didn’t care what they said about body positivity. I suspected they were here because they figured they wouldn’t be seen.

  I hunched over a little so I wouldn’t be visible over the top of our booth, which had fairly high-backed seats. I peeked over and saw they were in an animated conversation. Adrian kept gesturing to her, and Naomi sat slumped, shaking her head. Neither looked around, figuring no other nudist would come to such a place.

  I wouldn’t have been here either except for Martin.

  The waiter approached their table, and I ducked before they looked up. I could hear them talking, but they were too far away for me to hear what they said.

  “Wimp menu! Wimp menu!” their speaker blared a moment later.

  All right, so maybe they were trying to cut down the calories after all.

  Good thing I had made myself scarce. I was sure they were looking around nervously at that very moment. Nothing like becoming the center of attention when one was trying to be sneaky.

  But sneaky about what?

  Luckily Martin wanted to stay for dessert—a Super Sludge Sundae with deep-fried whipped cream—and took his time eating because of those pesky pedestrians he had to kill, so Adrian and Naomi left before we had to stand up and make ourselves visible.

  I had heard nothing of their conversation and seen nothing more than Adrian insisting on something and Naomi looking dubious. Just before they left, Adrian slipped an envelope over to her. She paused, nodded, and put it in her purse.

  They left separately.

  Now my curiosity was piqued. Whatever was going on over at Sunnydale, it had to do with taxes. It baffled me that the IRS specialists hadn’t spotted anything. Those bloodhounds have eagle eyes when they catch the scent of financial wrongdoing, and not even a mixed metaphor will stop them.