Tag Archives: chapter twelve part two

Duck, Duck, Dead Duck; chapter twelve, part two

“Bea?  This is Brian.  I just wanted to let you know that the service will be on Sunday.”  He gave me the details, and I assured him I’d be there.  It was difficult for me to talk to him knowing what I knew, but I managed to hide my disdain. In the corner of my eye, I could see Owen and Sidney leaving, so I waved to them before refocusing my attention on Brian.

“I’ll see you there,” I said, eager to get off the phone.  Apparently, Brian didn’t share my sentiments because he held on, saying nothing.  Finally, he broke the silence.

“Hey, you never told me what was in the other envelope,” he said casually. “Did you happen to look?” I was immediately suspicious at his innocence.  I had given the photos to the cops, and I would bet my life savings that they would have interviewed Brian by now.  Was he trying to pump me to find out what I knew?  I decided to turn the tables on him.

“Why are you asking me?  Didn’t the cops talk to you about it?”  I asked bluntly, too tired to be more tactful.

“I’m seeing them in the morning,” Brian said glumly.  “How about that?  Just what I need—more time with the cops.”  My mind raced.  So he didn’t know what was in the envelope.  Did Mrs. Rodriguez?  I had to guess no since I would think she’d tell Brian if she knew.  Unless she was planning on hanging him out to dry.

“It was personal,” I said, hedging my bets.  Lydia had marked it not for his eyes, which made it personal in my book.  “It’s not something I can talk about with you,” I added, trying not to be too rude.  I guess it didn’t work because he got snippy with me.

“Fine.  It’s not like I was her boyfriend or anything like that.  It’s not like she was the most important person in my life—oh no.  I’m just some Joe Schmo down the street.  Why bother telling me anything?”  No, asshole.  You were the Joe Schmo who was fucking his girlfriend’s mother.  That’s pretty abominable in my book.

“Look, Brian, I’m just honoring Lydia’s wishes.  You want me to do that, don’t you?”  Oh, how mean of me to play the ‘respect your dead girlfriend’ card, but how satisfying.  There was no way he could say disagree without sounding like a total jerk.  I waited with bated breath to hear his response.  He mumbled something less that complimentary under his breath before saying in a forced jocular tone, “No, of course you’re doing what you think is right.”  He didn’t sound like he meant it, though.  Telling me that he’ll see me on Sunday—and not sounding too happy about that, either, he hung up the phone.  Rafe and I said our goodnights and went up to my room for some after party fun.

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Plaster of Paris; chapter twelve, part two

I dress with extra care the next morning and even apply a little makeup since my face looks wan from lack of sleep.  I don’t wear any of the five outfits I had in mind last night.  Instead, I pull on a silvery-gray skirt, black tights, a black blouse and whatever accoutrements I think will match.  I brush my hair until it shines, then peer at myself anxiously in the mirror.  I’m not usually self-conscious about my looks, knowing that I’m put together in a way that is pleasing to most eyes.  Short—five-two—curvy, with glossy black hair, dark brown eyes and full lips.  I turn heads when I walk down the street, unless I’m with Paris, of course, who is truly stunning.  Thinking about him brings me down to earth and away from my romantic aspirations.  My mother nods approvingly at my outfit as I gobble down my breakfast.  I am late for work, my sleep pattern being so erratic as of late.  I arrive just in time to be pointedly ignored by my colleagues.  I plunge into my work in order to not feel the shunning so deeply.  I have an email from Libby that is so unlike her normal self, I read it twice.

Rayne,

I don’t know why I’m writing this to you except that I have no one else to talk to about this.  If any of my friends knew, they would say I’m crazy.  Any girl would be lucky to have a fiancé as wonderful as Wallace.  He is gainfully-employed, remembers important dates, treats me as an equal, and has the same ambitions as do I.  He is also sinfully handsome.  In other words, everything I’ve ever dreamed of in a man.  I know, I can hear you saying, so what’s your problem, Lib, in that snotty tone of yours you use when you think you’re so superior. 

The problem is, I’m not sure I want to get married.  Certainly not now, and maybe not ever.  I look at Wallace and think, is this it?  I mean, I’m very happy with him—don’t get me wrong.  I just wonder if I’m too young.  He’s only my first serious boyfriend.  Rayne, I don’t know what to do.  The wedding is in three months.  The reason I’m e-mailing you is because you’ve always been so damn nontraditional—like Mom and Dad.  Everyone will hate me if I stop the wedding.  Help me.  Libby.

I stop reading and look around me.  The world is still spinning on its axis.  I am still persona non grata at work making shitty money for a shitty job.  Nothing has changed except my sister is asking for my help.  I think back, trying to remember the last time she asked me for anything.  I can’t recall it ever happening, though it must have at some time.  I tap my keyboard idly, thinking of what to say to her.  Wouldn’t she be surprised if she knew that my immediate reaction was, ‘Hold on to him and never let go.’  I want to tell her that when love comes, you have to make the most of it because you don’t know when it will come your way again.  I realize, however, that the rate at which I’ve lost people from my life in the last few months has skewed my perspective, and I don’t write any of what I’m thinking.  I think more carefully before coming up with a response.

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Rainbow Connection; chapter twelve, part two

My coworkers talk of Mariah’s death for the rest of the day.  Obsessively.  They are so consumed with it, they don’t realize that I’m not contributing anything to the conversations.  I have several reasons for this.  One, I still don’t want people to know my connection with the murders.  Two, I’m disgusted with the avarice in their eyes as they babble about it.  Three, I want to find out as much as I can which is better accomplished by listening than by talking.  Four, it’s depressing.  I also harbor a faint hope that by me not talking about it, others will follow my example.  Fat chance.  It’s all I hear about when I pass people huddled in conversation.  Some of my coworkers are uncomfortable talking about it around me because of my past experiences with murder, but most pay me scant mind as they dish the dirt.  Nothing will do but for them to dissect the latest murder from every angle until I’m ready to smack them all in the mouths.

Even the kids are talking about it and how whack it is to kill a shorty like that.  They keep saying how someone that young couldn’t have dissed anybody bad enough to warrant death.  It disturbs me that many of them believe death is a perfectly logical retaliation for disrespect, but it’s not my place to preach at them.  They like me because I joke with them and give them a jovial hard time, but I don’t discipline them.  I’m like the crazy aunt who brings cool presents from exotic places, but who disappears before the family can get too sick of her.  The kids also like to try to wheedle treats out of me on the days I bring candy to the office.  I usually let them; it’s why I bring the candy in the first place.  No, the kids won’t be the reason I leave this job when I finally go.

“She was shot whereas her mother was strangled.  I think that’s significant.”  Alicia is talking in her solemn, counselor voice to Derek, one of the other counselors, in the hallway by her office.  Alicia is one of those grandmotherly-looking woman, comfortably plump with gray hair worn up in a bun.  The kids love being mothered by her so much, they keep returning even after they graduate.  Not my idea of successful counseling, but nobody is paying me to have an opinion.  Her office is down the hall approximately ten feet behind my desk, and she doesn’t bother to lower her voice.  I’m an inanimate object to her; she sees no reason to dissimulate.  “It denotes a great amount of rage towards the mother, thus the hands-on killing, whereas the daughter was more of a clinical kill.”  I roll my eyes, hoping she doesn’t catch me.  “He enjoyed killing the mother; he had to kill the daughter.”  I pause.  As much as I want to dismiss what she’s saying, she has a point.  The contrast between the mother’s death and the daughter’s indicates differing motives for each.  Rosie, strangled and dump in a dumpster like trash.  Mariah, laid out respectfully with a rosary in her hand.  Night and day.

“What about the first murder?”  Derek asks skeptically.  “How does that fit in your theory?”  Derek has pushed for a significant raise every year he’s worked at the agency, legend has it.  He’s been turned down every time, leaving him slightly bitter.  Who can blame him?  He’s been faithful to the agency for ten years and has had to watch the director pad his bank account while Derek’s has been depleted.

“I think it’s something completely different,” Alicia says pompously.  “The police want the two deaths to be connected because it makes it easier for them.  The latest death proves they’re not.”  I don’t agree that it would be easier for the cops if the first two deaths are connected, but it’s possible there is no link between Ashley’s death and Rosie’s.  Just because they’re in the same therapy group doesn’t mean the same person killed them both.  It’s hard to believe, though, that this isn’t the case.  The links between Rosie and Ashley run deeper than just group, and given Rosie’s emerging reputation, it makes perfect sense that she knew something about Ashley’s murder and instead of going to the police like she should have, she tried to blackmail the person in question.

“I wonder who’ll be next?”  Alicia muses out loud.  I can’t see Derek, but I assume he’s bored out of his mind.  I am, and I’m only half-listening to Alicia.

“Can’t tell you.  It better not be me, though.”

“Why would it be you?”

“I dated Rosie for a bit,” Derek confesses, lowering his voice.  Fortunately, I have excellent hearing so I am able to catch every word.  “What if it’s some maniac killing people who knew her?”

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Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter twelve, part two

I focus on the conversation at hand.  Lyle is a laidback kind of man with a knack for putting people at ease.  After talking with him for half an hour, I feel as if I’ve known him for years.  I can tell by the look on Paris’s face that he’s feeling the same way.  I’ve never seen Paris so relaxed with a partner before.  Usually, he’s ‘on’, performing to a one-person audience.  It feeds his ego to have someone adoring him, though it doesn’t always bode well for the relationship.  I am pleased to not see stardust in Lyle’s eyes when he looks at Paris.  I have a feeling that Lyle can more than hold his own with Paris, that he can give as good as he gets.  I certainly hope so, for his sake.  Paris is a difficult person to date, but I think Lyle is up to the task.

I learn that Lyle grew up in a single-mother household with two older sisters.  They lived in the Tenderloin, but Lyle never knew he was poor until some bratty kids in his fifth grade class hassled him for wearing one of three shirts to school day after day.  His teachers looked at him with pity, which wasn’t what he wanted, either.  He just wanted to learn.  The kids also teased him about being a bastard and would ask where his father was.  He quickly learned to use his fists to silence his critics as he was bigger than most of the boys, even then.  While he was beating them up, however, a strange thing began happening.  He’d get a boner every time he fought a boy, but not a girl.  He started fantasizing about Sheldon, a brainy boy in school.  Lyle would dream of scenarios where Sheldon was being picked on by the bullies and Lyle would save him.  Even as a young boy, Lyle was the prince on the white steed.  His mother was now dead, and his sisters live in Washington and Houston, respectively.

I tell him about growing up as Taiwanese American in Oakland with two hippie parents and one conservative sister.  How my parents taught me and my sister Taiwanese and Chinese, but preferred that we speak English.  They wanted us to have the language of our ancestors, but thought it best if English was our primary language.  We were only allowed to speak Taiwanese in the house and Chinese with our relatives in Chinatown and in Taiwan.  I tell Lyle how it was difficult growing up in Oakland because there were more black kids than Asian kids, and the black kids didn’t like us.  They thought we were taking their small piece of the pie and were bitter that we were flooding their neighborhoods.  I used to get harassed on a regular basis by a group of black girls that had a chip on their collective shoulders and something to prove.  I became adept at avoiding them.

By the time Lyle and I have finished swapping our life stories with Paris frequently chiming in, I am at ease with Lyle.  Paris and I have always checked out each other’s potentials as we are best friends and that’s what best friends do for each other.  When Paris glances at me, a questioning look on his face, I nod slightly, a smile spreading over my face.  I normally do not warm up to people right away, but Lyle is different.  There is something about him that invites friendship.  I think my comfort level also has something to do with Paris’s comfort level.  When he’s tense around a potential, he conveys that tenseness to me.  When he’s at ease, I’m at ease.  Plus, Lyle is certainly easy on the eyes.  Briefly, I regret that he doesn’t play for my team, but then I scold myself for thinking that way.  It’s infinitely better that he’s completely off-limits so I won’t even be tempted.

“Shall we get some dinner?”  Lyle asks Paris as if they have been together for a long time.  “I’m starved.”

“Sounds great.”  Paris stands up and holds his hand to Lyle who accepts it.

“Wanna come?”  Lyle asks me, a smile on his face.

“No, thanks,” I smile back.  I know Paris doesn’t want me there, as much as he loves me, and I think Lyle asked me to be polite, anyway.  Still, it was nice of him to ask—major bonus points.  “I’ll catch you later.”

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Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter twelve, part one

“That was incredible,” I sigh after we have thoroughly explored each other’s bodies.  She is by far the best lover I’ve had in a long time.  We are lying on my bed, both satiated, our sweaty bodies pressing lightly against each other.  She has her arm casually draped under my neck, and it feels right to be lying by her side.  We lie in compatible silence for a few minutes until Vashti reluctantly sits up.

“I should be going.  Work and all.”  She quickly dresses.

I am secretly relieved that she is leaving.  I have difficulty sleeping next to someone I don’t know well, and despite the activities we just engaged in, I definitely don’t know her well enough yet. Vashti pecks me on the lips and pushes me back into bed when I make a move to get up.  I elude her hands, grab my robe and get up.  I note that Paris hasn’t come home yet, which means he most likely slept with Jenna.  I walk to Vashti to the front door where we kiss deeply before she leaves.  There is a smile on my face as I lean on the door.  To my surprise, the door starts rattling.

“Hello?”

“Rayne?  It’s me.”  Paris’s voice is muffled, but recognizable.  I let him in.

“How was your date?”  I smile at him knowingly, hoping to get a rise out of him.

“It wasn’t a date,” Paris sighs, staggering into the living room.  I follow, eager for the details.  He plops down onto the couch, exhaling loudly as he does.

“Well?”  I have a feeling this is going to be juicier than a soap opera.

It started nicely with dinner, though Paris was wary because Jenna had gotten all dolled up which is unlike her.  She even curled her hair which was definitely a first.  They ate at a Middle Eastern restaurant on Valencia, but things started to unravel after they returned to Jenna’s apartment.  She put on an Ella Fitzgerald CD and started swaying to the music.  Before Paris could react, she reached up and unzipped her dress.  That’s when Paris knew he couldn’t put it off any longer and gently told her that he didn’t want to see her any more.  Instantly, she flipped.  Started bawling and begging him not to leave her.  When that had no impression on him, she started throwing things at him and ended up threatening to throw herself out the window.

“It would have been more impressive if she didn’t live on the ground floor.”  Paris says with a straight face.  We look at each other then simultaneously burst into laughter.

“So what did you do tonight?”  Paris asks once he can talk again, his eyelids fluttering.

“Vashti,” I say casually, watching his face closely for his response.  I don’t have long to wait.

“What?”  His eyes fly open, and he pops up from the couch.  His whole body screams disbelief.  “You didn’t!”

“I did!”  I shoot out my hand, and he high-fives me.

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Blogging My Murder; chapter thirteen, part two

Chapter Thirteen; Part Two

We talk about other things for a few more minutes, but I’m eager to get home so I can think about Lydia’s revelation. Once I’m there, I feed my cats some treats before retiring to the living room. I pull up a Google tab, but then stop short. What am I supposed to Google? In order for a search to be effective, I need good parameters. I can Google tongues being cut out and eyes being gouged out all I want, but it’s not helpful if I don’t already have some connection between the two. Something hits me. I was so excited by Lydia’s suggestion, I overlooked one thing—if she’s right, the only thing that connects the two is me. Yes, Julianna and Rembrandt saw each other at the club when Rembrandt and I first met, but they didn’t even say ‘hey’ to each other. So, if the two attacks are connected, then it has to be because of me.

I slump back in the couch, stunned by my realization. I’d been so focused on who would want to kill Julianna, I developed tunnel vision. If Julianna’s murder has to do with me, then I have to recalibrate everything I thought I’d already known about this case. Wait a minute. If I’m the connection, then who the hell would want to hurt me by attacking my loved ones/friends? I don’t have any enemies that I know of, and more than that, even if I did, none of them would know I was dating Rembrandt. I only told a few people, and one of them is dead. The others are beyond reproach, so what does that leave? As I’m thinking about it, I decide to check my blog. As it’s loading, I realize that’s the answer. My blog. I wrote about Julianna the night before her death, and I wrote something about her voice being the first thing I was drawn to. Then, after my last date with Rembrandt, I wrote about his eyes. Whoever did this is reading my blog. The bile rises in my throat, and I race to the toilet just in time. I vomit until I only have dry heaves left. It’s my fault Julianna is dead and Rembrandt lost an eye. I dry heave some more until my stomach hurts. Once I’m done, I slump down, too exhausted to move. The tears well up in my eyes, but they refuse to fall. I know I have to look over those posts and see what I can find, but not just yet. If I’m lucky, I’ll find something in the comments. If I’m not, it’ll be a lurker who doesn’t comment who has been doing these terrible things.

I stand up, my knees weak, and wobble my way to the sink. My cats are on top of the counter, staring at me in concern. I try to smile reassuringly at them, but I can’t seem to get my facial muscles to work. I pour myself a glass of water and drink it quickly. I splash water on my face, but nothing seems to help. Someone is killing people I love or like because of me. I stagger to the kitchen and boil some water for tea. Once it’s boiling, I make myself a cup of peppermint tea. I need energy if I’m going to do something about this. I give my babies some treats and then go to the living room. I sit on the couch and wake up my laptop. I take a deep breath and go through my post about Rembrandt. I read the comments, but nothing really stands out. Except…I open another tab and pull up my post about Julianna, the one I wrote right before her death. I scan both the comments, and then I notice it. QueenBee’s comments. On the one I wrote on Julianna’s birthday, she said, “All bark and no bite. You can tell she’s got no substance, and her voice is ugly, too. I don’t know what you see in her.” After my post on Rembrandt, she wrote, “You couldn’t wait to move on, could you? Was what you wrote about Julianna a lie? Now you’re just taken in by a pair of pretty eyes.” There it is. QueenBee is the killer, and she has to be local.

I hear a noise outside. I stand up and grab my metal sword and phone before going down the hall. I punch in 9-1 before turning on the front porch lights and peering out the peephole. Nothing. I heft the sword in the air as I open the door and poke my head out. I don’t see anyone, but there’s a box on my doorstep. It’s wrapped, tied up with a pretty pink bow, and has a gift tag attached. This is not good. I hesitate, go back inside, lock the doors, grab a pair of latex gloves, then go back outside. I pick up the box and bring it inside, locking the door behind me. I take the box into the living room and set it on the coffee table. I stare at it in trepidation. Should I open it or should I call the police right away? I  probably should call the cops, but I’m curious. I pluck the tag from the box and I read it. “I will be your eyes and your voice.” Not good. It’s the killer. Do I even want to know what’s in the box? I suspect I know what it is, and I most definitely do not want to see. However, I also have to know, so I gingerly untie the bow and open the box. In it are a tongue and a brown eye, both covered in congealed blood. Even though it’s what I expected. I gag and drop the lid of the box before rushing to the kitchen sink. I retch, although I have nothing in my stomach. I call Detective Quentin, and when his weary voice answers, I blurt out what I’d found and what I think.

“Don’t touch anything.” Detective Quentin’s voice is energized, which means he’s probably been hitting his head against a wall up until now. “We’ll be right there.” I hang up and sit on the couch, numb. Onyx and Jet snuggle against me, and I pet their fur to soothe the agitation in my brain. Someone hates me enough to do this to me, and I have to figure out who it is. Soon, my doorbell rings. I go to the hallway with my sword in hand and peek out the peephole. It’s the cops. I relax my grip on my sword and lean it against the wall in its hilt before opening the door.

“Come in, detectives.” I open my door and gesture to the detectives. Even though it’s ten p.m., Detective Quentin looks as fresh as a daisy in a charcoal gray pinstripe suit. Detective Lorrimore, on the other hand, looks haggard and worn in her lime green pantsuit. After the case is over, maybe I’ll drop a discreet hint that she would look much better in solid and dark colors, but now is not the time.

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Dogged Ma; chapter twelve, part two

 Chapter Twelve; Part Two

“Margaret, I’m glad you found my place all right.”  Ted’s voice trailed off as he opened the door to his Kenwood home.  His eyes widened when he caught sight of what I was wearing.

“Are you going to invite me in?”  I asked demurely, slipping my wrap off my shoulders and handing it to him.  He took it silently and stepped aside.  I took a second to check him out as well.  He was wearing black khakis, a silver shirt, and a black sports coat.  Black socks and no shoes, of course.  He looked hot as hell, and I had an impulse to skip dinner and go straight to his bedroom.  I reined myself in as I stepped out of my shoes, however.  I didn’t want to appear that forward.

“Margaret, you look indescribable,” Ted said, finding his voice at last.  He ushered me into the living room which was painted a warm marigold.  There were Ansel Adam reprints on his wall—at least, I thought they were reprints—as well as a few Chinese scrolls.  Even though the furniture was clearly expensive, the room was homey due to the color.  He had photos of his family on his bookshelves, and I noticed how uncommonly good-looking both his siblings were.  “Please, sit.  May I get you something to drink?”

“Rum and Diet Coke, if you have it.  A Rolling Rock if you don’t.”  I smiled up at Ted who nodded his head as he left the room.  I watched his ass, noticing how firm it appeared.  As soon as he was out of sight, I went over to the bookshelves to see what he had.  Toni Morrison, David Mura, Asian writers’ anthologies, a few Laurie Kings.  A wide variety, all of it good.  My estimation of him shot up a notch as I realized he hadn’t been bullshitting me at the party.  He did, indeed, have similar tastes to mine.  He also had a bunch of poetry which I didn’t recognize.  I didn’t do poetry, much to the chagrin of Wind who was always foisting this poet and that upon me.  Of course, she loved the Beats, whom I loathed.

“Here we go,” Ted said, returning with two Rolling Rocks.  He handed one to me before clinking the top of his bottle against mine.  “Here’s to a great dinner.  I hope I didn’t burn it.”

“Oh!  That reminds me.  Here.”  I thrust a bottle of port out to him.  I didn’t normally drink wine, but port was an exception.  “For dinner.”  I had no idea what he was making—though it smelled like Italian—but we could have it with dessert if nothing else.

“Great.  I love a good port.”  Ted set it on the coffee table, shifting from one foot to the next.  It occurred to me that he was waiting for me to sit down on the black suede couch, so I did.  I sank into it was more like it as it was impossibly buttery.

“This is one nice couch,” I said, patting the seat besides me.

“A little gift from my parents,” Ted said dryly, sitting besides me.  I could feel the heat even though he wasn’t touching me, and I hastily gulped at my beer to cool down.

“Something smells delicious,” I said brightly.  “You must be a great cook.”

“I’m all right,” Ted said, shrugging his shoulders.  “I had to cook for my brother and sister when we were little.  I learned to be creative pretty quickly in order to please those two.  Edgar would only eat meat and potatoes whereas Tina had a taste for haute cuisine.  Imagine trying to cook for those two at the same time!  As a result, I’ll eat anything.”  He didn’t say why he had to cook for his siblings, but I guessed it had something to do with his alcoholic mother.  “It’s chicken parmigiana, the Italian way.  A Caesar salad on the side and garlic bread, of course.  I made tiramisu for dessert.”  My mouth watered as he ran down the menu.

“You’re hired,” I said jokingly, patting him on the arm.  “We need a good cook at the alternative school where I teach.  The food is off and on right now, depending on our cook’s mood.  Given that she is bipolar and doesn’t always take her meds, it’s more off than on.”  I shook my head.  I looked at Ted who was gazing down at me.  Without seeming to, we moved towards each other, meeting in the middle.  When his lips touched mine, I knew without a doubt that we’d be having sex tonight.  Before or after dinner was an open question, but we were going to have it.  Ted leaned into the kiss, gently pushing me down onto the couch.  I was about to give in when I smelled a whiff of something acrid.

“Ted, your food.”  I pushed him off me, alarmed at missing a home-cooked meal.  Hell, I could have sex any time.  How often did I get a guy to cook for me?

“Shit.”  Ted jumped up from the couch and rushed to the kitchen.  I whipped out my lipstick carrier which had a mirror in it and reapplied my lipstick.  Ted must have wiped his mouth as well before returning because he was lipstick-free.  “Dinner is served.  Would you like to adjourn to the dining room?”  He motioned for me to follow, and I did.

“Good Lord,” I murmured, looking around me in awe.  This room was forest-green with abstract art on the walls.  I was beginning to think that the paintings were real and not prints, but that would be astronomical.  Then again, his family was filthy rich, so perhaps dropping a few million on a painting wasn’t such a big deal to them.  The table seemed to be made of mahogany, and I bet it’d been in the family for quite some time.  The china looked ancient, and the silverware was real silver.  Antiques Road Show would have a field day with this house.  Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind meeting the twins.

“Sit, sit,” Ted said, coming out of the kitchen with a steaming-hot dish in his hand.  It smelled heavenly, and I assumed it was the sauce.  “I slaved all day making you this.”

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