A Diet to Die For Read online

  I bounced off the young adult fiction and careened into the reference section. “Surely she can borrow against all those millions she’ll receive next year?”

  “I’m afraid Great-grandfather Farber was a miserly old coot who would have preferred to take it with him, were there an FDIC institution at his final destination. There’re several clauses in the trust agreement forbidding early withdrawal, loans, or even using it for collateral. Besides, the lack of money’s not the real problem; it’s her attitude.” Joanie gently untangled me from the metal arm of the rack, brushed a smudge off my nose, and gave me a bright smile. “Well, I’m glad we’ve got this settled, Claire. I’ll be expecting you and the girls at three o’clock.”

  I was too astounded by the revelation of Maribeth’s ancestry to argue, or to wonder how I’d been so helpful when all I’d done was run into a book rack and bruise my fanny. Thurber Farber was quite the local legend. In the thirties, while everyone else was leaping out windows or selling apples on the corner, he’d amassed a fortune dealing in commodities such as sowbellies and soybean futures. After he had finally made so much money even he was ashamed, he donated enough of it to the tiny town where he’d been born that the town fathers felt obliged to rename most of it after him. He lived the remainder of his life in a grotesquely gothic mansion on the hill overlooking the town, being chauffeured about in a Rolls-Royce and disdaining any contact with the peons.

  Thurber Farber’s great-granddaughter was going to be rolling in the green stuff. Wallowing in it like a hog in a mudhole. Using it to wallpaper the dining room and carpet the den. Perhaps, I thought as I picked up the dust rag, she was too intimidated by the idea of all that money coming to her in the future. In any case, I had dust and mouse droppings in my future. Such a glamorous life.

  When I dragged home many hours later, I found three banana peels on the kitchen table and a note informing me that Caron and Inez were at Rhonda Maguire’s for a bunking party. I put the peels and the note in the trash, took a long bath, and was nearing a civilized mood when Peter arrived.

  We greeted each other with a reasonably tempered display of affection, then sat down for a drink before the movie. I told him the maiden name of my soon-to-be-acquaintance, earning a low whistle and a raised eyebrow.

  “I hope she becomes your dearest friend,” he said.

  “She’s twenty-nine years old and, apparently, some kind of social misfit who irons shirts and watches soap operas,” I said, sighing. “Joanie has decided that she and I are going to save the girl from Days of Our Lives and As the World Turns, not to mention spray starch and permanent-press settings, but she failed to offer further details. It makes me as nervous as a substitute teacher facing a roomful of high-school sophomores.”

  “Speaking of such beasts, how’s the diet going today? Those two ate enough pizza last night to hold them for the duration, and a month or two afterward.”

  “I haven’t seen either of them today. The whole thing’s ridiculous. If Rhonda hadn’t blurted out the nonsense to Inez, and if Inez hadn’t felt some moral imperative to offer an instant replay to her best friend, Caron never would have looked twice at a banana, much less allowed it in her mouth—unless it was adorned with three scoops of ice cream and a quart of hot fudge sauce. I suspect they’ll tire of a pizza-free life within a day or two and return to their normal diet of junk food.”

  I found my jacket and purse, and we opted to walk to the theater, which managed a foreign film every now and then, along with politically correct amateur theatrics, the annual local beauty pageant, and other equally desirable productions. As we strolled down Thurber Street, I idly inquired about what had occurred earlier that had torn him away from the turkey on rye.

  “A case.”

  “Anything interesting?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Goodness, I’m not going to let you teach conversational skills to Maribeth Farber Whatever. You’re positively terse.”

  “It’s official police business,” he said in a positively snooty tone. “If the CID flounders so badly we need your astoundingly brilliant mind to save us from disgrace, I’ll call. Besides, it really isn’t interesting.”

  “Then I’m not the least bit interested,” I said, matching his tone.

  I thought I heard a “Ha!” from somewhere, but I was hardly in the mood to pursue its origin.

  TWO

  Caron and Inez staggered in the next morning looking as though they’d had less than an hour of sleep, which was most likely true. A gossipy gaggle of teenage girls is not conducive to a good night’s sleep.

  I glanced up from the Sunday paper. “Did you have a good time?”

  Caron let her sleeping bag fall to the floor. “Yeah, everything was peachy-keen, up until Rhonda felt obliged to tell everybody what those bozos had the nerve to say about me. If that bitch thinks she’s ever going to copy my American history notes again, she’s got ingrown hairs in her head.”

  “Nobody laughed,” Inez said timidly. “I mean, everybody looked shocked.”

  “I heard Leslie and Rhonda giggling in the bathroom,” Caron continued, glowering at me as if I’d been convulsed over the commode, too.

  I opted to change the subject. “So how did the diet go yesterday? Did you eat lots of yummy bananas to elevate your potassium?”

  Caron folded her arms. “Bananas are gross and disgusting. I never want to look at another banana as long as I live. Inez and I discussed it, and we’ve decided to try a diet that’s not utterly nauseating.”

  “Yes?” I said encouragingly.

  “We’re going on the Zen macrobiotic diet. You eat soybeans and seaweed extract and oat bran bread and stuff like that. Ten pounds in ten days. It’s terribly healthy.”

  I repressed a shudder. “You have an interesting definition of the phrase ‘utterly nauseating.’ Where do you intend to find soybeans and seaweed extract and oat bran?”

  “At the health food store. It may be expensive, but we’ll only need a ten-day supply.”

  “The health food store is closed on Sundays,” I pointed out. “Since you can’t start until tomorrow, you can eat cake with a clear conscience. We’re all invited to a party this afternoon.”

  Inez sadly shook her head. “We really shouldn’t. The book says to fast and meditate for a full day before we start the diet. It’s supposed to cleanse our systems and align our brain waves for the diet.”

  “You think I’m going to drink nothing but water and make funny noises through my nose all day?” Caron said, curling her lip at the absurdity of such a suggestion. “I happen to have a very delicate metabolism. If my blood sugar drops below a certain level, I get totally dizzy. I have no intention of being dizzy all day today when I have to study for an algebra test second period tomorrow.” Having dealt with that, she turned on me. “Whose party and what kind of cake?”

  “Mrs. Powell in the downstairs apartment, and I don’t know what kind of cake. She looks like the sort who’ll serve several kinds, though, and all made from scratch.”

  Caron nodded, then poked Inez into motion. “Come on, let’s make waffles. Those petrified doughnuts Rhonda produced this morning were at least a week old. I seriously considered suggesting to Rhonda that we use them to play a variation of horseshoes—using her sweet little button nose for a stake.”

  The two devoted dieters left me in peace.

  By three o’clock I’d read every word of the newspaper except for the sports section and the classifieds, being less than fascinated by neckless hulks and hot deals on used cars. I had not come across anything that might relate to Peter’s newest case, but I decided it would be in the following day’s edition. The girls came out of Caron’s room and we dutifully trooped downstairs.

  Joanie seemed edgy as she invited us in. “Maribeth’s not here yet,” she said to me in a low voice. “I’m worried that she panicked and decided not to come, or that her husband refused to allow it. Do you think I should telephone her?”

  “She’s
only a minute or two late, Joanie. It’s too early to call the CID and report her missing.”

  “You’re right, but I’m still concerned. She’s terribly shy. However, all we can do is hope she arrives shortly. In the interim, let’s all have some tea and cake.”

  Caron and Inez were already admiring the silver tea service and the platters of goodies on the coffee table. Joanie served us, then poured herself a cup and sat down, managing to check her watch every thirty seconds without spilling a drop or a crumb. Caron and Inez made a mockery of the proposed fast by taking several slices of all three cakes, along with discreet handfuls of cookies and a sprinkling of salted nuts.

  I admitted to myself that I was curious about the mysterious Maribeth Whatever née Farber. I was in the midst of imagining a wide-eyed fawn poised on the front porch, her hand flirting with the doorbell, when the doorbell jangled.

  Joanie hurried to the door and opened it. “Why, Maribeth, I’m delighted that you could come this afternoon. I invited a few friends to join us, and they’re looking forward to meeting you. Now come right in; I insist.”

  The fawn had wide eyes. She also had a body with an excess of at least a hundred pounds. I tried not to stare as Joanie took Maribeth’s wrist and pulled her across the room to introduce us, saying, “Maribeth, this my upstairs neighbor, Claire Malloy, who owns that wonderful bookstore in the old train depot. Claire, this is Maribeth Galleston.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Maribeth,” I managed to say in what I prayed was a normal voice. She had a heart-shaped face that would have been quite pretty had it not been as misshapen and pasty as leavened bread dough. Her dull brown hair was pulled back in an uncompromisingly tight ponytail. Her eyes were the palest blue I’d ever seen, and ringed with thick curly lashes. Her faded, shapeless dress had seen too many seasons, or perhaps too many sessions in the washing machine, and it was very snug, accentuating her bulging stomach and broad rear end.

  She gave me a weak smile, and, after a gulp that sounded painful, said, “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Joanie kept her hand around Maribeth’s wrist as she shot Caron and Inez a level look and said, “This is Claire’s daughter Caron and this is Inez Thornton. You girls are in tenth grade, right?”

  Caron took in a deep breath as if preparing to make funny noises through her nose. To my relief, she let it out silently and said, “Pleased to meet you, Maribeth. Yeah, we’re in tenth grade. Farberville High School.” Beside her, Inez made a weak sound meant to second the sentiment.

  Maribeth looked a little brighter. “I went to school in Farberville, but then I went away to college on the East Coast. I always wondered if I might have enjoyed the local college more.”

  Joanie suggested she sit down next to me. After more tea had been poured and the platters passed, she said, “I’m so glad you came, Maribeth. When you were late, I was worried that your husband might have had other plans for the afternoon.”

  Maribeth’s teacup rattled in her saucer, and her laugh was unconvincing. “Oh, Gerald had plans for the afternoon. He’s playing racquetball with one of his friends from the department. I used to go along to watch, but the sight of all those svelte bodies got to me after a time or two. Besides, there’s usually an old movie on the television on Sunday afternoons. I’d rather stay home than be the object of whispers and giggles.”

  The silence was such we could have heard a cockroach sneeze. Caron and Inez began to stuff cookies in their mouths, while I discovered the necessity of stirring my tea. At last, when the bottom of my porcelain cup was in danger of being scratched for all eternity, Joanie cleared her throat and said, “And what did you take your degree in, Maribeth? Did you continue your interest in art history?”

  “I had to drop out my senior year.”

  “How unfortunate,” Joanie murmured. “Perhaps you could finish your degree here at Farber College. The art department has a degree program in art history, and you might even look into the possibility of a graduate degree.”

  Maribeth gazed at the wall above Joanie’s head. “There’s not much point in finishing my degree. Gerald expects to be offered tenure when he publishes his book on international business law, and he’ll want me to stay home in order to manage the house and entertain. He thinks it’s important for professors to maintain a certain life-style, because of the competitiveness within the department. Besides, there’s not much I can do with a degree in art history. Outside of teaching, the only option is a job in a museum or a gallery, and Farberville has neither of those.”

  We once again found ourselves straining to hear a wee nasal eruption from the kitchen cabinets. This time Caron rescued us. “This cake is swell, Mrs. Powell. It’s kind of our last chance to eat anything sweet for ten days, because Inez and I are going on a diet first thing in the morning. It’s this wonderful macrobiotic thing where … you …” Her voice dribbled into nothingness as she realized what she’d said, and her face flushed until it might have been mistaken for a cherry tomato. “I didn’t mean that—that—well, I didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry if anyone thought I meant anything.”

  “She never means anything,” Inez contributed helpfully.

  Maribeth continued to gaze serenely at the wall, but her cup again began to rattle against her saucer, and her eyes seemed overly bright.

  Joanie said, “I was reading about a new diet place in town, called the Ultima Center. It’s on the other side of the campus in that open mall just off the bypass, and they claim to have a foolproof plan with a money-back guarantee. Those programs can be expensive, but they do work for some people, so they may be worth it.”

  “Really?” Maribeth said with only a flicker of inflection.

  I glanced at my watch. “My goodness. It’s getting late, and I promised myself I’d go down to the store and spend several hours unpacking the latest shipments. There’s no way I can get to them during the week, and Sundays are my only opportunity to work without constant interruptions. Caron, you and Inez can come help me for an hour or two. It’ll help cleanse your systems and align your brain waves for the upcoming ordeal.”

  “What you need is a part-time clerk,” Joanie inserted before the girls could rally an argument. “Think how much you could get done if you had someone to mind the front of the store, if only for a few hours every afternoon. Without all those interruptions you’d be able to stay in the office and balance the books or unpack shipments, that sort of thing.”

  I realized why the fox had insisted on serving tea in the henhouse. “It would be extremely helpful, Joanie, but the unpleasant truth is that I can’t afford to hire someone for thirty minutes, much less on a regular part-time basis. If you don’t believe me, I’ll bring you a note from my accountant—and I can assure you it’ll be written in red ink. But thanks for the suggestion; I’ll keep it in mind in the event that the general populace takes up literacy as a hobby some day in the distant future.”

  “Part-time help shouldn’t be all that expensive,” she continued, as determined as a compulsive gambler on a roll. “Even as little as two hours a day would allow you to get all sorts of things accomplished. I’m sure it would be worth the minor expense.”

  “Maybe at a later time,” I said with all the vagueness I could produce. “For the moment, I’ll have to settle for indentured labor from my darling daughter and Inez, who need to earn enough money to keep themselves in seaweed extract for ten days. Thanks for the tea and cakes; they were quite delicious. Nice to have met you, Maribeth. Perhaps the Guggenheim will open a branch one of these days.”

  Motivated by my beady stare, Caron and Inez mumbled thank-yous and nice-to-have-met-yous, and we fled to the Book Depot before Joanie could propose the name of the perfect candidate to rescue me from myself, even if I preferred otherwise.

  When we’d done all we could bear to do, I told the girls I would treat them to a final meal and we went up the hill to a charmingly inexpensive Mexican restaurant that served killer fajitas. Caron perused the menu with a morose frown,
then looked at Inez, who had a similar (although somewhat tepid) expression. “You know, we’re not going to be able to start this macro thing tomorrow morning, because we can’t stock up until after school. We’ll have to wait until Tuesday morning, which means I’ll be Miss Thunder Thighs an extra day.”

  I sensed a pattern in the making, but being both weary from physical labor and leery of the possibility of being coerced into paying a part-time employee with that which I normally used to pay the rent, I opted not to say as much and took refuge in a frozen margarita. The girls ordered cheese dip and extra chips.

  The following morning Caron, fully caught up in the role of a convict on death row, ingested several thousand calories for breakfast and dragged herself off to school, muttering all the while about impending humiliation and the possibility of dropping out to become a clerk at a discount clothing store. It was almost moving. I tidied up and dragged myself off to the Book Depot, muttering all the while about impending bankruptcy. It was incredibly moving.

  The day was less than frantic, and I was rearranging the romance novels when Joanie came into the store, put her fists on her hips, and said, “Well? Have you spoken to Maribeth yet?”

  “I can’t afford to hire her.”

  “Nonsense, Claire. It’s obvious that the poor girl will do nothing if we don’t give her some help. I thought I could rely on you, and I must say I’m disappointed.”

  “If you won’t read my lips, at least read my bank statement. I don’t have anything remotely resembling minimum wage with which to hire a part-time clerk. I’d like to help Maribeth, but I simply can’t do anything until business picks up. I usually have a rush before Christmas; I’ll certainly keep her in mind if I find that I can hire someone.”