Rip Your Heart Out Read online

  "What do you mean by that?" Rip asked.

  "Nothing, dear. Now get up so you can make your way down before the Millers arrive."

  "All right. I'll have to remember to thank Dale," Rip said. I just shook my head as I watched Rip reach for his shoes, but couldn't help groaning at his next remark. "That was really thoughtful of the Muehlers to help out and tow the trailer here for us."

  "Oh, my! You know, it might be best if you just avoid using either one of their names tonight. Dave's about forty, I'd say. Call him 'son' like you do every other fellow at least a year younger than yourself. And you can call Cindy 'dear', 'sweetheart', or any of the other terms of endearment you use when you can't remember a lady's name."

  "Will do, darling," he agreed.

  Sometimes when Rip used one of his go-to terms of endearment on me, I wasn't sure if it was because he loved me, or because he couldn't remember my name without thinking about it for a few seconds. I was certain this habit had less to do with memory impairment, and more to do with inattentive listening. He never forgot the names of the Three Stooges, or the Dallas Cowboys team members, or every single actor in the cast of The Godfather. It was selective hearing; he only heard what he wanted to hear.

  "As tired and wrung out as I am right now, Rapella, I'd be just as happy to avoid talking at all tonight. You can do most of the conversing at supper. Okay? You usually talk enough for both of us anyway."

  I smacked him on the shoulder. "Get a move on, Buster! I think I just heard a noise downstairs."

  I hurried to greet our guests. I'd heard the sound of steps above us during my exchange with Rip. I'd assumed Tasman and Adelaide were in the attic, searching high and low for anything they might be able to get a buck out of in a local pawn shop. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I could hear activity still in the basement. It seemed as if they'd split up in order to cover more ground. I'd never seen such a pair of self-absorbed, bad-mannered weasels in my life.

  I nearly bit my tongue off when I ran into Sydney as I turned to go into the drawing room. The noise had come from her rather than the Millers. When I'd called Sydney earlier in the afternoon to schedule Rip's follow-up appointment with Dr. Murillo, I'd been told she was out on sick leave again. I was beginning to worry her illness might be serious.

  She'd told me she'd be stopping by tomorrow, which was Thursday, to check on Rip, as she had the previous Thursday. However, today was Wednesday. I hadn't heard her come in and didn't expect to see her until the next day. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and the knees of her old faded blue jeans were smudged with dirt. She had a bulging Wal-Mart bag dangling from her right hand. Where was that plastic bag of yours when I wanted to put something over your brother's head? I wanted to ask.

  "Sydney! It's good to see you. We were concerned when Dr. Murillo told us you'd taken sick leave again. I hope everything is okay and you're feeling better."

  "No worries. Don't tell anyone at the center, but I was fibbing about being ill. I hate to waste vacation time on something like having the flu. It'd be better spent on lounging on the beach of some Caribbean island."

  I laughed and said, "I hear you! Are your siblings still here?"

  "Yeah, unfortunately. They're still seething about Aunt Mabel's decision to leave her home to the cardiac center. They're accusing me of forcing her hand in the decision, which is pure bull-crap. It's bad enough I have to go before the medical board. They both deny making the anonymous call to the police department about doing an autopsy, but I'm not buying it. I'd say Addie did it, if I had to place a bet on it. Taz usually just follows her lead."

  "Yes, I met your charming brother earlier. We didn't exactly hit it off. I thought I heard you say your aunt also had a day nurse. Are they planning to question her, as well?"

  "I think so. The day nurse, Patricia Lankston, is as sweet as they come. She's a retired hospice nurse and as far as I'm concerned, there's a special place in heaven for people who take on that heart-rending job. Patricia was hired to make sure Aunt Mabel didn't fall going to the bathroom, choke on a grape, forget to take her medications, or anything like that when I couldn't be here. But Patricia was informed of all of the basic discharge orders before she started. My auntie was beginning to struggle with memory issues, you know. It was getting to the stage she needed 'round-the-clock care. In fact, we were looking into assisted living facilities for her to move in to as soon as she had, at least moderately, recovered from her bypass surgery."

  I wondered who she'd meant by "we" but decided it wasn't my place to inquire. Before I could respond to her comments, there was a loud thumping sound echoing up the staircase from the basement. It seemed clear now that all three of the Combs siblings were scouring the house. "Are you and your siblings trying to remove all of the personal items from the house before the cardiac center takes legal possession of it?"

  "Yes."

  "Uh. Okay." Sydney's response did not reveal anything I hadn't already figured out for myself. While I had the girl's attention, I thought it was a good time to ask about Mabel's next door neighbor. "Sydney, are you familiar with the lady who lives next door?"

  "Itsy Warman?"

  "Yes, that's the one."

  "Itsy's a hot mess, if you ask me. She and my aunt had a love/hate type of relationship from the day Itsy moved in next door. And it stayed that way until Aunt Mabel took her last breath."

  "What was their issue? Itsy appears to be a touch on the eccentric side, but seems to be basically harmless."

  "Most likely just a jealousy thing. I think Aunt Mabel kind of lorded it over Itsy because she had a bigger house than Itsy, a personal caretaker, and was a merry widow rather than—egad!—a lowly spinster." Sydney chuckled after her facetious remark and the dramatic look of horror that had accompanied it. "They might as well have been roommates so they could squabble with each other without having to walk next door. But it was one of those deals where they couldn't live with each other, yet they couldn't seem to live without each other either. I always felt a sense of relief, knowing Itsy was right next door if Aunt Mabel needed help with anything, or just someone to keep her company. It was Itsy, in fact, who first discovered her body after she passed unexpectedly. The two ladies might deny it, but they cared more for each other than either of them would let on."

  I knew Sydney was correct. I'd noticed Itsy's eyes cloud up when she spoke about Mabel. It was that love/hate relationship between the two that I thought might make Itsy the perfect ally in helping me determine the truth behind the woman's death.

  How would Itsy feel about attending Wednesday mass with me this evening? I asked myself after Sydney had ended our conversation to resume her plundering. I was sure dinner would be over and our guests would have departed by six-thirty, so I gave the neighbor a quick call and made arrangements to meet up with her at our truck at six forty-five.

  Chapter 21

  "Why are you dressed like you're going to an inaugural ball? Didn't you tell me we were just going to a church service?" Itsy asked as she climbed into the truck that evening and eyed my black and gold dress I'd purchased prior to our Alaskan cruise.

  "Yes, I did tell you we were going to a Wednesday evening worship service. So why are you dressed like you're about to compete in the pumpkin-seed spitting contest at the King County Fair?"

  "I'll have you know I'm wearing a brand new outfit." Itsy said in defense of her denim dungarees and Miller Lite t-shirt.

  "You call that an outfit?" I asked. I could suddenly picture the type of banter between Itsy and her recently deceased neighbor. Like the conversation we were currently engaged in, it was probably a tit-for-tat exchange that was not intended to be mean-spirited, but rather entertaining in nature.

  "I have a shirt that says, 'The Devil Made Me Do It'. Would you have preferred I wear that instead?"

  I laughed at Itsy's remark. "You know, it might've been fun to watch all the parishioners' reactions to it. We have a few extra minutes if you'd like to go back in and change.
"

  "No, thank you. Now, what was the purpose of all this again? Neither one of us is Catholic, so what's the point?"

  "I just want to speak with Ridley Wickets if he's at the service tonight," I explained.

  "Oh?"

  I turned to look at my companion, wondering how well she knew Mabel's caretaker. But I didn't want to sound too inquisitive. I could sense she was already curious about my intentions. "I appreciate you going with me. I'd have felt conspicuous going alone. And, like misery, discomfort loves company."

  "No problem." Itsy's expression and demeanor made it clear she was having an intense debate with herself, as if uncertain how much to say about the man who helped her neighbor out on occasion. After an involuntary and nearly imperceptible shrug, she said, "I never knew Ridley to be a church-going fellow. He rarely left the confines of Mabel's house. It was like he was a vampire, or an albino whose eyes were sensitive to the sun. Haven't seen him since Mabel died, though. Until you told me you encountered him in the drawing room, I'd assumed he'd moved on. I'm not certain how safe that'd be for him, though."

  I was mystified by Itsy's comments, but we were about to enter the church and I didn't want to discuss it right then. I glanced over and was relieved to see she didn't have any tobacco in her mouth. Her choice of clothing was bad enough without her walking into the cathedral with a Bible in one hand and a spittoon in the other.

  When we walked into the main chamber, I could hear the beautiful tones of the Quimby pipe organ resonating throughout the cathedral. As Ridley had stated, the acoustics in the massive room were incredible. I leaned over and whispered to Itsy, "Did you know Mabel won the Steinway piano that the organ replaced in a fund-raising raffle?"

  "Won? Yeah, right."

  Again, I wasn't sure what to make of Itsy's response, which was reminiscent of Ridley's, but I didn't have time to inquire about it. I noticed that everyone knelt at the end of their chosen row before they took a seat. They bent their heads and made the sign of the cross, moving their hand vertically and then horizontally across their chests with their right thumb touching the first two fingers of that hand. I didn't know if that was expected of everyone in attendance, or only those of Catholic persuasion. Either way, the straight skirt of my dress was so form-fitting, it wouldn't allow me to kneel down without giving a free peep show to the young usher standing a few yards in front of me.

  I grabbed Itsy's wrist and pulled her behind me into the pew the usher indicated. We'd been seated just three or four rows from the back of the cathedral, which was ideal. It'd allow for a better chance of spotting Ridley Wickets if he happened to be in attendance that evening. As it turned out, there wasn't a viewpoint in the entire room that wouldn't have worked just as well.

  * * *

  We listened to a few more hymns while the choir accompanied the organist in perfect harmony. The pews steadily filled until there didn't appear to be an empty seat in the sanctuary. Suddenly, bells rang out. The humming sound of many people talking ceased instantly.

  A voice filled the chamber from the lectern and reverberated around the cathedral. "Let us begin in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with all of you. Welcome, my friends. Let us pray."

  I froze. My mouth gaped open like a blow-up doll. I caught Itsy's eye and whispered, "What in tarnation?"

  Itsy glanced around, and then leaned over and asked, "What's your problem? Did you think they'd start the service by passing out garlic sticks and goblets full of Chardonnay?"

  I didn't appreciate Itsy's sarcasm and couldn't understand why she wasn't as astonished as I was. "Why didn't you tell me Ridley was a priest?"

  "Ridley? What are you talking about? "

  "If the priest standing up there at the pulpit is not Ridley Wickets, who is he?"

  "Beats the holy hell out of me," she replied.

  "Shush!" I glanced around and noticed glares from a number of worshipers sitting around us. I guess they didn't appreciate Itsy's charming way with words as much as I did.

  Itsy glanced around too and then leaned toward me and, in a much softer voice, said, "I've seen that man going in or out of Mabel's house on a few occasions. When I asked her about him, Mabel just said she knew him from church. She didn't mention his name, and I didn't care to know it, anyway!"

  "You never attended church with Mabel?" For some reason, I was surprised they didn't attend services together.

  "Hell no," Itsy whispered. After I shushed her once more, she continued. "On the rare occasions I attend church, it's usually not a Catholic one, and one of the people attending the service is carried out the back door in a pine box."

  As Itsy made the inappropriate reference to a funeral, I saw her reach into a bag of fresh chew tobacco. I slapped her hand, and whispered harshly, "Put that back in your pocket! You can't chew that in church!" Itsy grimaced, shook her head in disgust, and returned the half-full package to her rear pocket.

  I was afraid to ask Itsy another question because a lot of her responses seemed to have the word "hell" in them. I felt this was very inappropriate for conversations taking place during a mass. I shook my head at Itsy's behavior and prayed she'd sit quietly throughout the rest of the service without causing a scene. I felt her fidgeting for quite a while and was relieved when she finally stopped moving.

  Having no former experience with Catholic services, I marveled at how many times the crowd repeated the words, "Thanks be to God." I was trying to pay attention to the Biblical readings, but my mind was too occupied with other things. In particular, I was curious as to why the Catholic priest had lied to me, trying to pass himself off as a caretaker named Ridley Wickets. At one point, I leaned over and whispered to the woman on the other side of me.

  "Do you happen to know the priest's name? He's quite impressive."

  Although the elderly Hispanic woman didn't act as though she wanted to engage in chit-chat in the middle of the mass, she reluctantly replied, "Father Cumberland. He's been the cleric here for almost twelve years. Now please be quiet."

  "Yes, of course. Thank you."

  I turned the opposite way to pass the information on to Itsy, only to discover she was sound asleep, her head listing to one side, nearly touching the shoulder of the man seated next to her. I shook her arm gently, and whispered, "Itsy, wake up!"

  "Huh?" She jerked her head up, trying to orient herself. After a few moments, she asked, "Waddaya want?"

  "The priest's name is Father Cumberland."

  "Good for him. You woke me up to tell me his name after I made it clear I didn't care?" The volume of Itsy's voice had increased and people were beginning to stare.

  "Keep your voice down, Itsy. We need to lag behind after this service is over. I want to speak to the priest."

  "Okay, fine. Wake me up when it's over."

  I was content to let her snooze throughout the remainder of the mass, and told her to rest her head on my shoulder rather than that of the obese man next to her. In my defense, I didn't know she was going to begin snoring loud enough to wake the dead. She snorted so thunderously during a pause in the reading of scriptures, Father Cumberland stopped speaking and everyone in the crowd turned to fixate on the two of us in the back of the sanctuary. A few of the worshipers couldn't refrain from snickering.

  Before long, everyone, including the priest, were chuckling in amusement. I'm sure my face was as red as the carpet runner dividing the two long rows of pews. And to think I'd been concerned I might look conspicuous if I were to attend church alone that night.

  The laughter continued until I elbowed Itsy hard enough to rouse her, and she sat up in the pew, and shouted, "What the (bleep)?"

  The resounding, perfectly enunciated f-bomb was not well received by the crowd, to put it mildly. For several long moments after Itsy's outburst, it was so quiet in the cathedral, you could have heard a termite choking on a sliver of wood inside a wall of the hallowed bu
ilding.

  * * *

  "Good evening, Mr. Cumberland. Would you like me to call you Father, or Ridley?" I asked the priest after the service had concluded. Itsy had gone outside for a chew as I'd waited in a lengthy line for my chance to converse with the priest. He was obviously a popular spiritual leader of the Sacred Heart Church.

  "Hello, Mrs. Ripple. It was nice of you to join us in prayer this evening." The sentiment would have felt genuine if not for the expression of annoyance on the priest's face. "I got the impression you and your, um, interesting friend, are not Catholic. So I'm curious why you attended our service this evening."

  "Didn't see any sign banning Protestants from the building. I'm curious about something too. Why did you lie to me, claiming to be Mabel Trumbo's caretaker, Ridley Wickets?"

  "I'm sorry if you mistook me for Ridley Wickets. I was Ms. Trumbo's caretaker, of sorts. But I never actually said I was Ridley Wickets."

  I couldn't recall our conversation verbatim, but suspected he was being honest about never having actually verbalized the falsehood. "You never told me otherwise, either, when it was clear I thought you were Mr. Wickets. That's what's referred to as a lie by omission."

  "Yes, I know. I'm sorry. My name's Chase Cumberland, but you can call me Chase. Ridley was Mabel's actual caretaker for the last eight or nine years, not that he was able to handle much of the work because of his age."

  Before I could question Chase further, he looked up and saw another parishioner walking up the aisle to greet him.

  "I can't really talk to you about it right now," he said softly. "Would it be okay if I stopped by the Heart Shack tomorrow morning so I can better explain my duplicity?"

  "Yes, I suppose that'd be all right. Better yet, why don't you plan on joining my husband and me for supper tomorrow night? Can you be there around six, Chase?" I'd added his name just to see how it tasted on the tip of my tongue. It tasted bitter. Sort of like a heaping dose of chicory, or chicanery, in the priest's case. But I did have to admit, the handsome fellow looked more like a "Chase" than a "Ridley" to me. Chase was a strong name—the name of a handsome, strapping gentleman. Ridley sounded more like the name of an accountant, a shoe salesman, or perhaps a typewriter repairman, if there even was such a thing these days.