Death on Planet Pizza Read online

  "Do you know what spackling is?" asked Belle.

  "Uh, yes."

  "Well, we don't. That makes you a professional."

  "Belle, I need to get back to my office." Dr Saunders began back pedaling toward the exit. "Can you introduce Spenser to the gang?"

  "Sure."

  "Thanks, Belle. And thank you, Spenser. You're a life saver."

  Spenser wondered just exactly what flavor Lifesaver she was as she watched Brianne hurry away.

  "C'mon," called Belle.

  She and Spenser mounted the stage (Belle a bit more gracefully than Spenser) and headed for the mélange of other volunteers. Spenser recognized a few faces but, as usual, couldn't summon up the names to match them.

  "Hi, Spenser," called a plump woman, early fifties, laboring to rise from her knees but losing the struggle.

  "Hi," answered Spenser, recognition factor low, aiding the woman's ascent with a steadying arm.

  "Haven't seen you since the Fourth of July picnic," puffed the woman.

  "Been a while," stalled Spenser, nodding her head, hoping the movement would dislodge a name.

  "Tucker and my Anne Marie were so cute in that watermelon eating contest." Spenser bobbed out of the way of a paint brush in the woman's hand as she began using the implement to punctuate her conversation. "Black seeds all over their faces." The woman's laugh was booming and infectious. "Red pulp on their noses." Her animated speech bounced off the proscenium and rose like helium balloons into the fly loft.

  "Spenser's here to help us with the set, Mrs Asher," interrupted Belle.

  Asher. Of course. Lois Asher.

  "Oh, goodie." Lois Asher clapped her hands, spraying paint across the stage. "We need help." She lowered her voice a decibel. "Mr Overoye is a fine carpenter...," she checked to see if the coast was clear, "for a maintenance supervisor." She winked at Spenser and placed her finger to her nose conspiratorially.

  Belle grabbed Spenser's arm and guided her center stage. "People..." The deconstructionists stopped their demolition and listened. "This is Spenser. She knows how to build sets."

  A whoop went up from all and sundry punctuated by enthusiastic applause. It was just what Spenser wanted. A bunch of strangers relying on her to save their day. You're dead meat, CC.

  Belle proceeded to introduce the would-be stage hands. Spenser recognized Regina Hungerford, the Sunflower's nurse, and her assistant, Celine Nieves. She also, eventually, remembered the five parents who had taken time out to help with the play. At first, she was concerned with her nonexistent recall of three attendants (Alzheimer’s again?), until she realized she'd never met them before.

  After forty-five minutes of explaining the correct way to lay out frames, fasten them with brads, tack on the canvas, and brush it with a special paste, it was time to get back to her real job.

  "You're coming back, right?" asked a frantic Lois Asher.

  "I'll try," answered Spenser as she jumped into the orchestra pit and headed for the exit.

  "If you need a ride...," added the rotund woman.

  "Thanks, Spenser," called Belle. "You were a big help." Many "yeahs" trailed after her as she neared the audience door. She was so close...

  "Spenser..."

  Damn. Spenser turned toward the sound of Kay Pastor's voice. "Kay?"

  "Up here."

  Spenser tilted her head back and caught the silhouette of the Sunflower's gregarious psychiatrist waving at her from the light booth. "I'll be right down," said the dark outline.

  Spenser walked through the auditorium doors and listened to Kay's heels beat a steady tattoo on the metal stairs. The light booth doors burst open and out sprang the liveliest live wire Spenser had ever met. Kay Pastor was in her mid-forties, a sturdily built Melbourne expatriate with an open face that always appeared in search of answers. The energy Kay expended in one five-minute conversation could light the entire city of Anaheim (Disneyland included) for a week. She was in such perpetual motion that Spenser often wondered how she ever managed to stay seated long enough for her patients' sessions.

  "Spenser," sprayed the sibilant doctor. She hugged with such force that an involuntary groan escaped Spenser's lips. "Saw you on stage, mate. Crackin' work. Good on ya," exalted the incomprehensible Kay in her best Australian locution. Spenser assumed it was a compliment.

  "I doubt Mr Overoye would agree." Spenser's attempt to check her dislike for the man proved ineffective.

  "Ival Overoye," countered Kay, "has an overinflated opinion of his limited abilities. And talk about contrary. You say wombat, he says koala." Kay's laugh started in her toes and erupted through her mouth like a geyser on a tear. "Listen to me! You'd think someone in my profession would've learned a bit more tact, eh?"

  Spenser half grinned in reply. There was something about Overoye that made her nervous and not in the least bit anxious to work with him.

  "You okay, Ducks?"

  Spenser was always "Comedy Central" to everyone except Kay. The empathetic therapist could see beyond the glib exterior and was usually bang on when it came to recognizing Spenser's dark moments. "I'm fine."

  "Spense...," Kay cupped Spenser's face gently in her hands, serious for the moment. "When are you going to treat that depression?"

  "When it becomes noticeable," retorted Spenser.

  Kay brought her hands down to Spenser's shoulders and spoke quietly, concerned. "It's been almost a year, love."

  Please, don't go there.

  "You need to grieve and move on."

  Spenser shifted her position and then the subject. "So, you're lighting tech for the play?"

  Kay gave up, reluctantly. "Last minute replacement." The psychiatrist's face clouded over. She was hesitant to go on. "Pam Vacarro was supposed to help with the lights, but...she died last month."

  "What?" Spenser can't have heard that correctly. Not Pam.

  Pam was the most beautiful young woman Spenser had ever seen with the most horribly twisted body. Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. ALS. Lou Gehrig's disease. Stephen Hawking's disease. Pam Vacarro's disease. It had robbed her of her youth, her future, all physical functions that everyone took for granted. She was tiny, with straight black hair caressing a peaches and cream complexion.

  But what defined Pam in Spenser's mind were her eyes. They were Titanic and almost ebony, though that was hardly possible. They filled the room with wonder and danced with such joy that sometimes you forgot she could not move the rest of her body. They were like headlights on high beam coming straight at you from out of total darkness.

  Pam, unlike most of the other residents of the Sunflower, was not burdened with any diminished mental capacity. Another cruel joke perpetrated by the apathetic gods. Her mind was constantly active, but with the disease came aphasia and a profound struggle to communicate verbally. She lived in a bubble world of sorts. Aware but non-participatory. She could have been bitter, but she wasn't. She found joy in what she could do and not anger in what she could not.

  She was a voracious reader and shared a love of books with Spenser that transcended speech. At every opportunity, Spenser would bring Pam used hard covers and tattered paperbacks with subjects that ranged from quantum physics to Danielle Steel. Spenser remembered the last time she saw Pam totally engrossed as an attendant read an Abigail Padgett novel to her, her eyes wide with excitement and anticipation. Those gorgeous, vital eyes would be forever closed. Empty of life.

  "It was quick, Spenser," whispered Kay, trying to console. "In her sleep."

  "Was it the ALS?"

  "A complication of the ALS. Her heart just stopped."

  "Her heart?" Spenser found that hard to believe. "But she didn't have a heart problem. Did she? I mean, she looked fine the last time I saw her."

  "The disease, Spenser. It just took its toll."

  But Pam's heart was too full of life to just stop, thought Spenser. "I have to go, Kay."

  "It's a part of life, love."

  Spenser half nodded, turned and walked out of the
Sunflower. She stopped on the front stairs as the sun slapped her full in the face. Life's a bitch and then you die.

  Pam was what twenty-two, twenty-three? And in those few years she had endured more suffering than most people could ever even imagine. If there was a god, Spenser wasn't sure she wanted to meet him. She just might have to give him a piece of her mind about his callousness, risking his wrath in the process. And according to her Mom-Mom, his anger was fearsome. Spenser's head jerked upward. "Bring it.”

  Ival Overoye slunk into a cool corner near the maintenance tool shed. He watched as Spenser strode forcefully to her car, got in and sped away. He didn’t like her. She was one of them bossy bitches who thought she knew everything about everything. He needed to keep an eye on her, especially if she was going to insinuate herself into his domain. He’d finally gotten a routine going that suited him real good. He wasn’t going to let some dyke get in his way. He checked the door to the shed. Nice and secure. He rubbed his one good eye and smiled. Yep, things were finally going real good.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Monday - evening

  The rest of the day was depressing in its conformity to routine. Constance Clementine dispatched. Spenser delivered. The tempus was definitely not fugit-ing. Four excruciatingly long hours stretched into a millennium. When she was finally pointing the Shadow toward her mother's house, her entire body ached from the exertion of trying to rein in her emotions.

  She relaxed slightly as she made the turn onto her mother's cul-de-sac and saw her best friend leaning on the bonnet of her 1968, fire engine red, VW bug. Beatrice was wearing her usual raiment of calf length prairie dress (whipped into a frenzy by the desert winds), thick white ankle socks, Red Wing construction boots and a broad-brimmed straw hat forcibly held in place by her multi-braceleted arm.

  Bea was an imposing 5foot 9inches with luxuriously thick black hair, a perfect nose, full lips, a model's body and unusually translucent blue eyes that always sparkled as if she'd just gotten the punch line to the funniest joke she'd ever heard.

  Spenser drifted on the memory of the first time the two soon-to-be-inseparable friends had met. Spenser, her mother, her brother, Asa, and her uncle, Bruno, had migrated to San Oaks from Newark, Delaware (pronounced Delawarean new ark and not Jerseyite newerk), so that Bruno could accept a position as lead foreman for an up and coming aircraft systems factory in Monrovia.

  Being excruciatingly shy to begin with, she found the move almost unbearable. She had no friends, everyone made fun of her mid-Atlantic dialect, and the only thing that salved her aching psyche was total immersion in her studies. Until Beatrice, that is. Spenser had become very fond of her Drama/Speech class. She found herself in the company of unique individuals who applauded Spenser's nonconformities and cultivated their own singularities enthusiastically. And none was more singular than Bea.

  Beatrice was a jubilant juvenile, dancing on the stratosphere and determined to pull Spenser along for the ride. Calling Bea a little hyper was like calling the Beatles a little influential.

  Bea was wild and exciting and firmly plugged into life and about as opposite from Spenser as Gene Simmons from Jean Simmons. It amazed and flattered her that someone as uninhibited as Bea would actually invite the friendship of such a milquetoast. Nevertheless, from that tentative pairing in Drama/Speech grew a relationship based on mutual attraction as well as respect.

  Bea saw in Spenser an artist hiding shyly within the self-deprecation. She marveled as Spenser, almost phobically uncomfortable around people, lost all inhibitions on stage. And Spenser admired and envied Bea's vivacity, intelligence and the ferocity with which she faced her futurity. They were the ultimate odd couple, comfortable with their differences, surprised by their similarities.

  I'm damn lucky. As Bea so often reminds me.

  Spenser pulled in behind the Vdub, climbed out of the Shadow, pasted a grin on her face, and loped over to Bea. Usually, just the sight of her soul mate lifted her spirits. It seemed more of an effort tonight.

  "Did you know," began Bea in her sensuously lyrical voice, "that the word maudlin comes from the Biblical Mary Magdalene who was always depicted in paintings as sad and crying?" Bea's knowledge of such things was of course the direct result of her being a researcher for those wonderful documentarians who sold their weighty treatises to schools and public television both here and abroad.

  "This," Spenser pointed to her mouth, "is a smile."

  "Oh. I thought it was gas. Thank you for correcting me." Majoring in sarcasm, Bea had earned her PhD many years ago. "Tough day, Spense?"

  "Let's just say I had trouble maintaining my usual sanguinity."

  "Oh dear."

  "Exactly."

  Bea inhaled lustily. “Yum.” The aroma emanating from the house had been tempting them well before their entrance. "Je mange donc je suis." Bea was already salivating.

  Little Mary's Monday night dinners were legend. Tonight would be no exception if Spenser's nose was any judge. She caught the scent of fried calamari, chicken al forno simmering in a thick Potenzese meat sauce, stuffed cabbage, and anise flavored biscotti.

  Bea, of course, opened the screen door first then grabbed Spenser's sleeve and sent her airborne into the front room.

  "We're here," called Bea. "Body and soul."

  "Ave," called Mary from the kitchen. Little Mary, as she was called, being the youngest of five cousins also named Mary, had two passions in her life. Latin and cooking. Okay, three. Latin, cooking and Spenser. Okay, four. Latin, cooking, Spenser and volleyball, Mary being the spiker for the San Oaks Seniors Volleyball team.

  "Hi, Mom," answered Spenser addressing the open kitchen door. She and Bea walked over to her Uncle Bruno, his "no-she-is-not-my-girl-friend" girlfriend, Ruthie La Beck, and Mary's best friend, Dee Walker.

  Hellos rose and mingled with the steam from the boiling potatoes. Ruthie was...well, to be honest, Ruthie was a sixty-year-old Betty Boop. She had curly brunette hair, enormous hazel eyes, small red lips, a high, tinny voice and the body of a twenty-year-old. How she got away with wearing those skin-tight leotards and high heels was beyond Spenser. But she did. And she looked great in them!

  Dee couldn't have been more different from Ruthie than Dr Dre from Dr Spock. Where Ruthie was diminutive, Dee was long and lanky. Where Ruthie was flighty and flippant, Dee was mature and thoughtful. Dee's only nod to eccentricity was her fingernails. They were exceptionally long and painted with designs that often rivaled the Louvre masters. One nail even sported an earring! But, not even this caprice was enough to endear Beatrice to Delores.

  "Dee," said Bea, affectation oozing like syrup.

  "Bea," returned Dee, her mouth pinched with the effort.

  These two best friends of daughter and mother respectively often managed such stimulating conversation. The discord between them had arisen from the almost fatal mistake of talking politics upon their first meeting. Since then the two have maintained a wary relationship - condescendingly tolerant and quite certain that the other was most definitely not in her right mind.

  Bea walked into the kitchen as Spenser availed herself of the facilities. After performing her ablutions, Spenser stared into the mirror.

  Her hair, Miss Clairol Dark Auburn, was short. Too short, according to her mother. Kinda butch, according to Bea. She didn't care. She liked it short. She washed it, combed it, and forgot about it for the rest of the day. Her eyes were chameleon-like. Almost green when she wore a complimentary color. Bluest when she donned indigo tones. Her eyes were definitely her finest feature.

  "But not the nose," she said to her mirror image. Spenser wrinkled up her less than dainty proboscis and thanked her mother, Maria DeCampli Isaacs, a 100% Italian with a stately Roman schnoz to prove it.

  "And forget the mouth." Spenser pursed her lips in disapproval. Her mouth was small and thin. Her least favorite feature. It was supposedly inherited from her father, but since she knew him only from photographs, it was hard to tell.

  Mary an
d Nathan Isaacs had married (much to the chagrin of their Italian Catholic and German Jewish parents) far too young. Well before either had become acquainted with their true selves. Neither had much schooling and Nathan's sole talent lie in convincing people to do what common sense dictated they should not. Which is exactly what the DeCamplis had done. Brought up in Old World traditions, Mary had catered to her husband's every whim. And, boy, did he have some doozies.

  When he decided that Elkton, Maryland, needed another luncheonette, guess where he got the backing. Yep. Mary's mother and her brothers, Rocco, Mateo, and Bruno. And when the luncheonette went belly up and Nathan had the brainstorm of opening up a used car lot in Perryville, Maryland, who helped him buy the inventory? You guessed it.