Page 122 of Sharp Force
We park next to Marino’s truck and Dorothy’s red Jaguar SUV. My spirits lift as I look out at a home I couldn’t love more. Electric candles are bright in every window, the holly wreath welcoming. Smoke drifts up from one of four chimneys, promising a cheery fire on the hearth in the kitchen.
“Silent Night” is playing as the front door opens, Dorothy all smiles in a Santa onesie. She’s red from head to toe with puffs of white fluff around the cuffs and plunging neckline, a cottony ball on the tip of her cap.
“I never knew Santa had so much cleavage.” I give her a hug.
My sister may be in a better mood. But I know when she harbors one of her grudges. I hang up coats while she pulls Benton close like a long-lost lover as Marino appears with a drink in each hand.
Let the games begin, I can’t help but think.
“Pappy Van Winkle, which is only impossible to find. Two double shots on the rocks.” Marino presents us with the cut glass tumblers, a large round ice cube in each. “The best bourbon on the planet. That’s my Christmas present to Benton.”
Since I saw Marino last, he’s showered and shaved. He’s in a pair of red sleep pants embroidered with tiny elves and a matching sweater that I know he didn’t pick out. From Dorothy. Who else? I can feel the tension behind their tipsy smiles. I suspect they’ve been squabbling while alone in the house.
“I’ve got a wonderful taco meat sauce that I concocted after raiding your freezer,” Dorothy explains as we leave the foyer. “Some of your Bolognese mixed with a jar of Mateo’s Gourmet Salsa, and it’s out of this world.”
“That’s one way to describe it,” Marino snipes.
“Ha. Ha.” She gives him a look. “Poor Pete’s just never satisfied.”
The Christmas tree in the living room is bright enough to be seen from space, and I’m startled all over again when the talking Santa starts in.
“HO! HO! HO…! MERRY CHRISTMAS…!” His eyes seem to follow us.
“Isn’t he fun?” Dorothy laughs too loudly. “Unlike some people,” she adds wickedly with a smile boding trouble.
Benton gulps Marino’s rare and expensive bourbon as wewalk through the dining room. The table is covered with a papery Christmas scene from Charlie Brown, matching folded napkins by red plastic plates.
“I thought it would be nice if we don’t have to do a lot of dishes tonight,” Dorothy confides. “Although Benton’s a wonderful assistant.” She gives him another wink with her camel-like fake lashes. “I wash. He dries. I yin. He yangs. We’ve got a real rhythm. Always have.”
Dorothy’s comments are having the desired effect, Marino getting angrier. Inside the kitchen, Benton heads straight to the bottle of bourbon on the butcher block. He refills his glass with a heavy pour.
“Hey, go easy!” Marino barks. “The shit cost me an arm and a leg.”
“Much appreciated.” Benton raises his glass to him.
A skillet of my bastardized Bolognese simmers in a large copper pan. Crispy taco shells are on a baking sheet, and my sister has filled plastic cups with sour cream, shredded cheese, salsa.
It appears that she started making a salad in a big wooden bowl, and there’s nothing in it. Just chopped lettuce.
“This isn’t finished, I assume?” I ask her as Benton gulps down his second drink.
“Of course not, silly. I thought you and I would pay a little visit to your greenhouse,” Dorothy says to me. “I need to check on my cannabis plants anyway. I’ve not watered them in several days.”
“I’m assuming everything’s been quiet in the garden?” I ask her. “You haven’t heard any bizarre animal sounds while you’ve been here?”
“Loooorrrrrrd, that’s an unpleasant thought,” she says bombastically. “But everything’s been quiet as church.”
“It was when we were on the driveway,” I reply. “And I’m relieved that Fabian got the raccoon to wildlife rehab.”
“You mean Bandit. Fabian’s already named him. I watched the entire ordeal through the window,” she says. “No way I was getting close.”
“Did he think it might be rabid?” I worry.
“No. But the poor thing tangled with something. Fabian thinks it has a broken leg. So does Janet. She was watching through the cameras, of course.”
“Janet this, Janet that,” Marino snarks.
“Let’s visit the greenhouse now,” I suggest.
