One Fool At Least (The Madeline Mann Mysteries)

  One Fool At Least

  The Third Madeline Mann Mystery

  by Julia Buckley

  One Fool At Least

  Copyright © 2012 Julia Buckley

  All rights reserved.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover designer: Kelly Banos

  eBook editions by eBooks by Barb for booknook.biz

  “One fool at least in every married couple.”

  —Henry Fielding,

  Amelia

  “Marriage is one long conversation, checkered with disputes.”

  —Robert Louis Stevenson

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  I’m reluctant to speak of my honeymoon, even when people ask. They want to hear tales of island cruises and balmy, breezy nights; they want to imagine Jack and me as young lovers rubbing suntan oil on one another as we breathe in the tropical air and sip from drinks adorned with umbrellas and wedges of bright, exotic fruit. When I say we went to Montana, they lose interest just a bit; if I dare to mention the kidnapping or the murder, they back away slightly, probably concluding that I am either lying or somehow peculiar for finding myself in peril at this traditionally happiest time of life. How much more odd would they think me if I said, despite everything, it did provide me with a great deal of happiness?

  But after all, I am a Madman. At least that’s what my brothers, Gerhard and Fritz, have called me since I was a kid. My name, you see, is Madeline Mann, and my brothers quickly turned it into something they could tease me about, insisting all the while that my behavior had merited the nickname. Maybe my brothers were right.

  None of it makes any sense unless I take you back to the wedding, the plane, the craziness of my fear of flying, and then the honeymoon in that strange and wonderful place called Montana. The main reason I still smile, when I think of my wedding and my honeymoon, is Jack Shea, my handsome Irishman with the wavy brown hair and a wholesome, clean shaven face that holds the surprise of one dimple in the left cheek, a dimple which appears only when he is amused or very happy.

  One other thing I should say here before I get to the crazy stuff: my relationship with Jack is based on a lie. Long ago, more than two years ago, when I’d moved into the three-flat Victorian home of my mother’s German acquaintance Mr. Altschul, I’d developed a serious crush on my new neighbor Jack when I’d heard him singing and strumming the guitar a floor above me. We’d introduced ourselves politely on the day I moved in, and after that we said hello if we passed each other on the stairs or met in the yard. After two months I’d spied on him enough, and used my reporter’s interviewing techniques on our landlord enough, to determine that he didn’t have a girlfriend, at least not that I could see, and I was disappointed that he hadn’t asked me out, at least for coffee. Instead, he seemed content to wave in passing as he went to and from work (he taught at the high school) with his guitar slung over his shoulder. Mr. Altschul had informed me, as I plied him with Kaffee Wien and Marzipan, that Jack sang to his students sometimes.

  So one day I approached Jack and lied. He was in Mr. Altschul’s little garden, stretching his legs on a black wrought iron bench. Pumpkin vines twirled aggressively around the metal, and Jack paused to examine one with his Jack-like interest in everything. He had resumed jogging in place when I reached him, obviously about to go for a run.

  “Jack,” I said. “I wondered if I could ask you for a favor.”

  He politely stopped jogging and blew out a breath which caused a cloud of condensation on the air, his eyebrows raised. There was a slight stubble on his cheeks and his wavy hair was mussy. His eyes, a mysterious blue-gray, met mine with what I hoped was interest.

  I tried to sound apologetic. “You see, my mom talked me into singing in this variety show at our church. It’s a fundraiser. I have to do it or be kicked out of the family, is what it comes down to. I’ve heard you playing the guitar so beautifully, and I don’t really know this song so well—” I held up the sheet music I’d bought for the occasion.

  Jack took the music, glanced at it, and smiled, giving me my first look at the dimple. “So you want me to help you practice?”

  “If you’d be willing,” I said, trying to look beautiful.

  “Sure,” he said. “I’ll come to your place after my run.”

  He did, and we practiced the song. I had to lean close to him, breathing in whatever manly soap he’d washed with, so that we could both read the music. My hair was long and brown then, and sometimes I let it brush “accidentally” against his cheek. My shampoo smelled nice, I knew. I warbled determinedly into Jack’s ear. The song was “I Will,” by the Beatles. Jack even picked up the harmony, and after a few tries, we did a creditable version of the piece.

  “Our voices blend pretty well, don’t you think?” Jack asked when we were finished, setting down his guitar.

  “I do,” I said. “Listen, can I offer you some dinner, since you helped me out like this?”

  “That would be nice, sure.”

  I stood up and went into my little pantry. This was another charade, since I rarely eat anything more elaborate than a sandwich when alone. Jack says that I blushed very prettily when I saw my bare larder and turned to face him. He had followed me to the kitchen and witnessed the truth. “I think I’ll have to order something,” I said. “It’s kind of embarrassing—”

  That’s when Jack first kissed me, with his hands on my arms and his lips lightly touching mine. I was shocked into silence, and even Jack looked a bit surprised at what he’d done.

  “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time, Madeline,” he confessed as I stared at him, lips parted, stupefied that my plan had worked. “I’ve watched you when you go to work, clutching your briefcase and combing a hand through your wet hair. You always look sort of late, and you always look pretty. And I read everything you write in the paper. It’s very good.”

  “Uh,” I said, pulling him back to my mouth.

  Jack took me out for dinner that night, and we kept getting together in the days after that to practice the song and to kiss, and after a while we just got together to kiss, and if we found the time we’d practice “I Will.”

  One night a few weeks later my brothers came over to have dinner with Jack and me. My brothers. Need I even say that this was where things went wrong? They hung around all evening, and my younger brother Fritz explained my nic
kname to Jack. “She’s Madeline Mann, see? Mad-man. So that’s what we call her. And she’s been a Madman all her life.”

  “Just since you were born,” I said darkly. My brothers were not really considered company, so I left to take a small load of laundry to the basement.

  When I returned, the siblings said hasty goodbyes, not meeting my eyes. My older brother Gerhard vaulted the coffee table to avoid me and was practically running by the time they reached the door. “That’s strange. They never usually leave until I boot them out,” I said.

  Jack took me in his arms. “I happened to ask them if they were in the church show, too.”

  The embarrassment came, quick and almost painful, and I wiggled out of his embrace. My face must have been dark red, because it felt so hot I thought I might actually be feverish.

  Jack was grinning. “They said there was no church variety show, never had been. But they say Resurrection does sell Christmas and Advent wreaths this time of year.”

  I stared at him. “I wanted to meet you, and you never talked to me. I’m sorry.”

  I was angry, probably at myself, maybe because I feared he’d think less of me. I could hear my mother’s voice, aka my conscience, in my mind’s ear: Not only did you lie, Madeline, but you lied about the church! I wiped furtively at my eyes and then pointed at the door with a shaking finger, indicating that he should leave. Jack pulled me back to him in a crushing hug.

  “Maddy, it’s okay.” He kissed my ear with his warm lips, and gently stroked my hair. “I’m in love with you now, so it’s too late to care that you’re a liar,” he joked.

  “What?” I asked, sniffling.

  “I love you,” he said. “Just like it says in our song. With all my heart.” He kissed me harder, with intent, until I felt that my body had dissolved. We collapsed on the couch, limbs entwined.

  “It’s getting late,” Jack finally told me, pulling away from me with an obvious effort. “I should go.” His eyes told me it was my decision.

  “No,” I said, my fingers in his hair. “Stay with me.”

  That night I slept with Jack for the first time, the first time with anyone. I was almost twenty-five years old, but I’d never wanted anyone in my life the way I wanted Jack Shea. Jack was surprised, and gratified, and very tender.

  When we chose our wedding vows two years later, we made sure the response was not “I Do,” but “I Will.”

  Chapter Two

  Who came up with the idea of weddings? They’re ridiculous, when you think about it. A woman holding a bunch of flowers is forced to parade in front of a church full of people just so that she can get permission from them and God to be married to the man at the front of the church. In fact, I thought, as I did that very thing, my face pink with humiliation, it was like running the gauntlet. I kept my eyes on the people processing in front of me. My almost-niece Veronica had made it to the altar in her little flower girl ensemble, having finished strewing my path with blossoms, which embarrassed me further. Between us five bridesmaids dressed in lavender did that fake-looking step, stop, step. I refused to walk that way, and tried to maintain forward momentum, suddenly offended by the staring faces gazing at me from endless pews. I couldn’t muster up a smile, just what my mother later called “a horrified expression,” until I saw Jack.

  He looked happy, so happy to see me, that I felt a lot better, especially because I’d never seen him in a tuxedo, and the sight of him, his normally mussy brown hair tamed into a very sophisticated brushed-back style, his one-dimple smile half bashful and half longing, his blue-gray eyes glittering with intensity as they met mine, made me feel that the whole flower and marching ritual had been worth it.

  My father and mother joined me at the altar briefly, just to give the priest “permission” to “give” me to Jack. I’d argued with my mother about this, but I’d submitted when I’d seen in her eyes how much it meant to her to be a part of the wedding in this very traditional, albeit sexist, way. I’d left most of the planning to her, and she’d done a lovely job. What it came down to was I really didn’t care about all the falderal and she did, so I’d given her carte blanche. Now was the part I’d wanted: when Jack took my hand and told me I looked “enchanting.”

  He said it almost formally, as though we were meeting for the first time instead of having been together, morning and night, for more than a year.

  It made me feel the sudden solemnity of the occasion, involving God and all. My body addressed that reality by fainting on the altar, right there in front of the hundred-some assembled. I’d fainted only once before: when I’d been shot by someone who considered me a nosy reporter. Even then I’d lasted much longer before I succumbed. One minute in front of the priest and I went down like a bag of rocks.

  I remember hearing a collective “oh!” from those congregated, like the chorus in a musical. The next thing I knew I was staring at the stained-glass window toward the ceiling of Resurrection Church, Father Riley was saying “Should I go on?” and Jack, for some reason, got the hiccups. Maybe he was nervous, too.

  They helped me to my feet. My face would have been flaming with embarrassment if it hadn’t, Jack told me, been so pale. My older brother Gerhard looked concerned and dapper in his tuxedo; my younger brother Fritz was smirking as though he’d planned it all for his own entertainment. I smoothed down my dress and tried to reclaim that beautiful feeling. I caught the expression of Mike Shea, Jack’s nephew, who was seated near the altar in his wheelchair. His face was exceptionally compassionate for a boy of sixteen, and I sent him a shaky smile.

  “Did you eat breakfast?” asked my husband-to-be under his breath.

  “Sort of,” I murmured, meaning no.

  Just as Father Riley got revved up again we heard the unlikely strains of ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’ chirping through the echo chamber that was our church. Someone’s cell phone was ringing. I looked in disbelief at Arcelia Perez, who had the grace to look mortified as she dug her tiny phone out of her dress, turning it off with an apologetic smile. I made a mental note never to invite a cop to stand up at future weddings, and turned tremulously back to the priest.

  “These things happen in threes,” I whispered to Jack, and for once I was proven right.

  “We are gathered here,” intoned Father Riley, as a child’s voice, piping louder than anyone could believe, cried, “Mommy, I thought they were already married! Don’t they live in the same house?”

  It was Veronica, my traitorous flower girl, looking cute as could be in pink taffeta. She had just turned four. I stole a glance at my mother, whose face seemed to have turned to ice.

  I grinned and gave her a thumbs up, and she flashed a beautiful smile back at me, and after that things were all right. Of course my mother could never hold a grudge against Veronica, her first beloved almost-grandchild, (Veronica’s mother was engaged to my brother) but I noticed some cool glances at Arcelia, the poor cell-phone totin’ cop bridesmaid.

  When the priest told Jack he could kiss me, Jack did, and then he hugged me, sighing with relief into my ear. “I didn’t think I’d ever get you to marry me, Maddy,” he said. I’d had some commitment issues, a while back. His words humbled me; I pulled him into another kiss, and the people clapped. They’d enjoyed the show from start to finish, and ours would be the wedding they compared to all others for sheer entertainment value.

  In the limo Jack told me I was gorgeous. “So are you,” I said. “I’ve been able to see your dimple all day. Usually I have to work to make it appear.”

  He grinned. “Nothing can get me down today. I married my Madeline, and all’s right with the world.”

  I brushed some rice out of his hair. “I love you,” I said. “Let’s skip the reception and go straight to the hotel.”

  He laughed, squeezing me hard. I’d never seen Jack so happy. “We have to meet and greet. There’s plenty of time for making love,” he said. “All our lives, in fact.” We grinned like fools, which we were, for thinking that nothing could go wrong from
there.

  * * *

  We ate a delicious dinner. We danced our first dance to a medley: It began with “I Will,” for reasons only Jack and I understood, and then segued into “Sister Golden Hair Surprise,” which had become “our song” ever since Jack had sung it to me at a concert he gave in town. We went from slow dancing to jitterbugging through the doo-wops of the America song. The crowd was loving it.

  Later, after the three-layer cake, which Jack did NOT try to smear on my face, as I’d sternly stipulated beforehand, Jack took a garter off of my leg while the D.J. played striptease music. My husband looked at me so suggestively I got hot all over. He flung the garter, and my brother Fritz caught it automatically, then promptly gave Jack the finger.

  I threw the bouquet, which was caught by Arcelia Perez. I laughed and waved at her. Arcelia was a Michigan cop who had saved my life once, and I felt a special bond with her. It was nice to see her here, her hair down and her gun safely put away for the evening, just enjoying herself.

  She and Fritz, as the lucky recipients, had to pose for the photographer, and now Fritz wasn’t feeling so bad about catching the garter. He ogled Arcelia and looked pointedly at the neckline of her gown until the photographer yelled at him. Arcelia laughed and mussed Fritz’s red hair. He blushed like a girl.

  I danced with my father to “Daddy’s Little Girl,” while my mother waltzed tipsily past with Gerhard, giggling and looking relieved to have delivered me from a life of sin. My father looked into my eyes and told me that he loved me. We didn’t cry, but we came close. We were almost in danger of crossing the Mann emotional barrier, with which we’d lived for all of my twenty-seven years. My family was loving, but reserved. It was the German in us, my brothers insisted, although my parents took that as an insult. I hugged Dad extra tight before I went back to my husband and danced to Die Ententans–the chicken dance.

  Jack and I flapped our arms and wiggled our hips, and he said, “You even look sexy when you’re pretending to be a chicken.”