The Divas of Doom: Doom Divas Book # 2

By Sherry M. Siska

"Damn that slimy worm. I really should have squashed it when I had the chance."

If Marty Sheffield had just gone ahead and killed the worm when she first saw it, maybe those Divas of Doom, Destiny, Chance, and Lady Luck, would have left her alone. But, she didn't, and now it seems that the Architects of Anarchy really have it in for poor Marty. Not only has she just lost her job as a part-time DJ, but after a knock-down, drag-out, mulch-flinging fight with one of her sister's neighbors, Marty becomes the chief suspect when the man ends up dead. The only way to save herself means finding the real culprit before she is thrown in jail, or worse, becomes the next victim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sherry M. Siska
• Release date: Jan 13, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301608249

Sherry M. Siska

Mild-mannered high school teacher by day; plotter of mischief and murder by night. I wrote my first "book" in third grade. Sadly, the sole copy has been lost to the ages. I love hearing from readers and I hope you'll give me a shout!

Book preview

1

Damn that slimy worm. I really should have squashed it when I had the chance. Without the worm, maybe, just maybe, my sister, Charli, wouldn’t have flipped out and started that big old mess she managed to drag me into. The mess, by the way, that led to my being accused of murder. Which, of course, almost cost me my life as I tried to find the real culprit. If I had gone ahead and killed that nasty night crawler as soon as I saw it, it’s entirely possible that Lady Luck and the other Divas of Doom, Destiny and Chance, would have left me alone instead of trying to drop kick me through the goal posts of life .

But, of course, I didn’t. Instead of smashing it to smithereens, I actually laughed when I saw it. And, as seems to be the running theme with my life, that one bad decision compounded into a serious run of not just bad, but hideous luck.

I can’t understand it, either. I’m not a bad person. I go to church sometimes. I make an attempt to be polite. I’m unfailingly kind to animals, always pay my bills, usually mind my own business, and I always floss twice a day. So why is it that when the chips start falling, they generally land with a resounding thud right on top of my curly brown head?

Charli says it’s bad karma. My best friend, Tim, thinks I’m overly dramatic. He says that drama queens run in my family. My mom, on the other hand, says I should just ‘look on the bright side’. That I should ‘consider myself lucky’, because ‘things could have been a lot worse.’ Pollyanna hasn’t got a thing on Mom.

Mom, of course, has never had a bad day in her whole, pinch-me-I-must-be-dreaming, Cinderella-should-be-so-lucky, life. But me? Boy, is that ever another story. Since Ricky Ray Riley - and yes, I’m talking about the Ricky Ray Riley, the new kid on the block of country music with his multi-platinum, chart-topping debut album – since he dumped me three days before our wedding (on my twenty-first birthday no less) my life has been on a downhill plunge. Last summer, I even found a dead guy in a trashcan. But, that’s another story for another day.

Lately, it’s been sort of like I’m the star of one of those dorky, not particularly scary, horror flicks where there’s an axe-wielding maniac skulking around behind every other door. Only in my case, it’s not a maniac lurking, but those three Floozies of Fate, and, instead of an axe, they’re armed with a whole quiver full of cosmic wedgies. Quite frankly, it’s all starting to make me feel more than a little paranoid.

2

Here’s what happened: last month, Charli’s husband, John Carsky, winged off to Japan on business for a couple of weeks, leaving her alone with their three rug rats. Mom phoned in a Mayday to me a few days after he left, begging me to watch the yard apes for a couple of hours on Friday so Charli could have a little time to decompress .

Poor Charlene. Mom sighed her ‘I know just how she feels’ sigh. She hasn’t had a minute to herself since John left. Can you imagine? She must be nearly ready to lose her mind by now.

Okay, so maybe Tim is right about us Sheffields being gifted in the dramatic arts. Since John had only been gone for five days, it appeared that maybe Mom was trying to beat out Meryl Streep for the best actress Oscar.

I sucked up my courage. I’m really sorry, Mom, but I’m busy all day Friday.

There was complete and utter silence from Mom’s end of the line. Yikes. This was not going to be as easy as I’d conned myself into believing. Evidently not having learned my lesson yet, despite all those years of living with the woman, I yammered away, desperate to fill the conversational void.

Really, Mom, I can’t possibly keep them. I have tons of stuff to do. I hoped she didn’t ask what. I’m not very good at lying under pressure. Why can’t you keep them?

Because I have to write my column and give a speech to the Rotary. Mom’s a reporter for the local weekly, the Glenvar News-Record, and she’s real big on ‘community involvement’. Some of us still have jobs, you know.

She said it calmly and sweetly, not a bit sarcastic, but ouch. She certainly knows how to hit a nerve. I’d just been canned from my job a couple of weeks before. I used to be a weekend DJ at hot country radio station WRRR. I was callously given the boot along with all of the other DJs when the station was sold to a big conglomerate. The new owners converted to a syndicated program format, so they fired all of us because, as the memo said, we were ‘obsolete’.

Geez, Mom. You think I like being laid off? Believe me, I’d much rather be working. Those people at the unemployment office treated me like I was a complete bozo when I went down there. My case manager kept me hostage for four hours, making me take a bunch of dopey tests, then, when I told her that I’d never worked at Tootie’s Go-Go-A-Rama like her papers said, she told me to ‘think about it dear, sometimes we forget these things’. Can you believe that? Like I’m so dense I wouldn’t have remembered working at a strip joint.

I’m sure it wasn’t that bad, dear. You really shouldn’t be so theatrical. Pot. Kettle. Black. See what I have to put up with?

Yes it was, Mom. It was exactly that bad. And I’m not being theatrical. That woman made me feel like it was my fault that I lost my job.

Well, you know, Martina, if you’d have finished college instead of coming up with that ridiculous DJ idea…

I cut her off in mid-sentence. The last thing I wanted to do was listen to yet another lecture on how I’d screwed up my life. You’ll just have to tell Charli sorry. Maybe she can hire a sitter or something.

This time Mom’s sigh was the ‘how could I have raised such a selfish child’ one. Martina Gayle Sheffield, I am extremely disappointed in you. Your sister desperately needs some time off. She has a hard enough time when John’s at home to help out. The strain of taking care of those three children without him around is tremendous. We’re her family. That obligates us to do all that we can to ensure that Charlene’s mental health doesn’t suffer.

Charli’s mental health be damned; what about mine? To put it delicately, Charli’s kids are holy terrors. Just the thought of keeping them made me want to crawl under my bed. Of course, I’d have to get rid of all the junk under there first.

In spite of Mom’s attempt at provoking me into an attack of the guilts, I was determined to hold my ground and not give in. I gritted my teeth and stood up straight so I could feel my backbone. I’m very sorry, Mom, but I just can’t do it.

Mom’s no yokel. She deep-sixed the ‘make her feel guilty’ strategy and zeroed in on my Achilles’ heel. I’ll pay you, she said. Fifty bucks.

That certainly grabbed my attention. I wasn’t in any position to turn down the chance to earn money, no matter how distasteful the job. Deal, I said, silently cursing the fact that I wasn’t independently wealthy.

Fabulous! Mom said. Your sister will be so grateful. I’ll tell her to bring them over to your place around nine.

Delbert, my big black and white tomcat, (named for the awesome Delbert McClinton) shot me the evil eye. There was no mistaking his opinion of that particular plan. Okay, I whispered to him, I’ll take care of it.

Mom, I said, that is simply out of the question. Last time they were here Jaelyn frisbeed six brand new Blue Ray discs off the balcony, and the boys attempted to give Delbert a bubble bath with that twelve dollar bottle of shampoo you bought me for my birthday.

I could almost hear Mom shudder over the phone. Alas, I knew the shudder was directed at Delbert, not at my sister’s kid’s hi-jinks. Mom is absolutely terrified of cats. It’s nothing personal, just that when she was a kid, her pet kitten went mad and attacked her.

Then you can keep them at their house, she said, That’s preferable anyway. Don’t forget, now, nine o’clock Friday morning. Don’t oversleep.

Like that was going to happen. Knowing Mom she’d call at seven-thirty Friday morning to make sure I was awake and that I remembered my promise. Wrong: she called at seven fifteen.

Morning, darling, Mom said when I finally pulled the pillow off my head and answered the phone. Rise and shine, dear. It’s a gloriously beautiful day. I’d love to join you and the children this morning, but, alas, I have an important interview with Mayor Mongan. I’m so envious because I know that you’ll have an absolutely wonderful time with the little angels.

Angels? Charli’s kids? If I hadn’t still been half-asleep I would have laughed myself into a stupor. Instead, I mumbled to her that I was awake, clunked down the receiver, and promptly dozed back off until eight-thirty. That time it was Charli who called to roust me out of my cozy little nest. I stumbled to the shower, scalded myself clean, tossed on cutoffs and a vintage Dixie Chicks tee, then, still groggy and completely oblivious to what was in store for me, I practically flung myself to the wolves of the universe.

John and Charli live in Glenvar’s most hoity-toity, snob-infested neighborhood, which, for God only knows what reason, is called The Oaks of Stableford Manor. Believe me, it sounds better than it is. Basically, it’s just your typical subdivision, more than slightly upscale, but we’re not talking mansions or anything. That doesn’t stop some of the people who live in ‘The Oaks’ from considering themselves to be above everybody else in town.

(Town: Glenvar, Virginia, population twenty thousand, give or take a few hundred. Plenty of fresh air, good schools, lots of parks, gorgeous mountain scenery, too many people who know your business… Think of a citified Hooterville, but without the pig. Pigs are against the law in Glenvar. Llamas and chickens, however, are allowed.)

Oaks Neighborhood Alliance Group (ONAG, for short) is the name of the homeowner’s association and the people who run it are so militant in their beliefs that we call them the ‘Lawn Nazis’. They like to say that they have to set the standard for the rest of us, so they’re always trying to persuade the city council to pass a bunch of stupid laws. Just last month they lobbied for a statute outlawing the parking of pickup trucks more than ten years old inside the city limits, and another one banning yard ornaments, in particular those plastic pink flamingos.

The way I figure it, they have every right to decide how they want to run their neighborhood, but to tell me that I can’t have a pink flamingo or two standing in my yard (not that I have a yard) is going about six peas past a pod. Thank goodness cooler heads prevailed, and both ordinances were voted down by City Council, three to two.

I parked my not-as-bad-as-it-looks, used-to-be-candy-apple-red, sixty-nine Mustang on the street in front of Charli’s house and trudged up the sidewalk. Charli greeted me at the front door with a cup of gourmet French vanilla coffee and a cheese danish, my favorite. It was bribe food, but who am I to complain?

Come on in, she said, the kids are in the family room watching an educational video.

As usual, Charli was immaculate. Ash blonde hair perfectly coifed, her make-up perfectly understated and elegant, playing up her best features. Grey and black linen dress perfectly pressed and looking like it had been specially tailored just for her. She looked like, well, like a perfect almost thirty-year old clone of our always-elegant mom. And people wonder why I have an inferiority complex.

I took a gulp of the coffee and scalded the bejeebers out of my tongue. Tears welled up in my eyes and my nose immediately turned into a faucet. I thought of begging off the babysitting duty, wondering if I could file for workman’s comp, but bravely carried on, in spite of the agonizing pain.

Where are you off to? I asked Charli.

She gathered up her purse and keys and kissed the kids goodbye. Here and there. I’m just going to get a haircut and have my nails done, maybe browse in the bookstore. I’m supposed to meet Dicey Ward at Albertino’s for lunch at twelve-thirty. She just returned from a ten-day cruise and I imagine she wants to brag about it. If I’m not home by two, you’ll know I crawled under the table and died of boredom.

I chuckled, despite of my still stinging tongue. I doubt you’ll die of boredom over Dicey’s trip tales. Embarrassment, perhaps, but definitely not boredom.

Dicey Ward was Charli’s two-doors-down neighbor and a Glenvar legend. A few years back she was one of those mousy, lost-looking southern belles whose only goals in life were a spotless house, a winning bridge hand, and cooking up the perfect mushroom soup-based casserole. But when her husband died of a massive and unexpected heart attack, Dicey shocked the heck out of everybody.

She went back to school and graduated first in her law school class. Next, she started what was to become a thriving legal practice specializing in criminal defense, and became a major force in the local legal community. As if all that wasn’t enough, she bleached her hair platinum blonde, spent a chunk of her inheritance on a face-lift, (and judging from her body, invested in a few other assorted operations as well) took to wearing designed-for-shock-value clothes, and found an unending series of pretty young men to escort her around town and provide other, um, services.

Charli rolled her eyes and grinned. You’re probably right about that. I know way more about Dicey’s sex life than anyone ought to.

Well, tell her I said ‘hey’. And don’t worry about a thing. We’ll be just fine. Actually, I wasn’t totally convinced about that, but no one ever said I wasn’t a cock-eyed optimist.

Charli left but a few seconds later she was back inside. I almost forgot. Come out front with me. I need to show you something before I leave.

We stepped outside to her beautifully manicured front yard. Charli pulled me over to the flowerbed that straddled her property and that of her neighbor, Frank Billingham.

See that light white line in the mulch? she said. Whatever you do, don’t let anyone cross it.

There was a faint smudge of white spray paint squiggled across the oak bark mulch. I edged my sneaker forward and scuffed at the line.

Don’t do that! Charli grabbed my arm and jerked me away from the flowers.

Geez, Charli, don’t freak out over it. All I did was touch it. You act like it’s poisonous or something. What’s it there for anyway?

Charli closed her eyes and massaged her temples. It’s supposed to mark the property line. Frank drew it yesterday and told me that if anyone goes across it he’s going to call the police and have me arrested for trespassing.

You’ve gotta be kidding.

I wish, Charli said. The man’s gone completely off his rocker over this.

Why? What did you do to him?

"Nothing! Well, it was something, but I just don’t see why he had to turn it into such a big deal. The boys were playing basketball and their ball accidentally mashed one of Frank’s precious begonias. They’re some sort of fancy-schmantzy variety and I guess he paid big bucks for them. Anyway, I told him I’d replace it, give him the money, whatever he wanted, but he wouldn’t listen to a word I said. He just stood there in his yard screeching horrible things at me. Jaelyn was petrified, so I yanked her up, stuck her in the car and, without saying another word to him, drove off. He was still standing there screaming when I turned the corner.

About an hour after we got back from the grocery store, a messenger delivered a letter from Frank’s lawyer saying that if anyone stepped across the line in the mulch they’d be guilty of trespassing, and that Frank would call the police and swear out a warrant. So, whatever you do, don’t you or the kids go near it.

That’s outrageous! I said. You ought to get a restraining order of your own or something. Teach him a lesson. If you get him mad enough, maybe he’ll move.

No, Marty. Like it or not, Frank and I both live here. I’m not going anywhere and neither is he. The best thing to do is to just lay low until he calms down, then I’ll try to talk to him. Charli glanced at her watch. I better scoot or I’ll be late for my hair appointment.

She slipped into her car and turned over the engine. As she backed out of the driveway she rolled down her window and pointed at Frank’s line. Remember, don’t let anyone go near it.

I won’t, I said. Don’t you worry about a thing.

What’s that saying about famous last words?

3

It didn’t take long for the kids to get to me. It’s not that they were bad or anything, it’s just that they’ve got so much energy. Being the fun-loving, extremely nice person that I am, I tolerated it long enough to be on the brink of sainthood, but with Charli’s kids even Mother Teresa’s Canonization would be in jeopardy. Since it was only ten I knew something had to give, and fast .

I corralled Kevin and Adam as they scooted past me, brandishing wooden spoons at each other. I don’t know why Charli bans plastic swords and guns; her boys still manage to play endless games of cops and robbers.

Hey, guys, I said, let’s go outside.

Kevin, the oldest, who is the spitting image of his dad, and is already a total babe-magnet, smiled up at me. I wanna go for a walk, he said.

A walk. I rolled it over in my mind, scanning for the pitfalls. It had definite possibilities. We’d be outside, no weapons - imaginary or real - were involved, and the kids would be getting exercise instead of parked in front of the tube, one of Charli’s pet causes. Sounded like a winner to me. After that, I’d feed them lunch, put Jaelyn down for her nap, and let the boys play outside.

Heck, this baby-sitting stuff was getting easier all the time. I entertained a brief fantasy of starting up a child-care center and raking in buckets of money. Then Adam took away Jaelyn’s stuffed rat, she screamed in that especially irritating way only a tiny girl can manage, and I snapped out of it.

Okay, I said, steering them toward the door. Let’s take a walk. But not before I said a couple of industrial strength prayers for good measure.

It was a beautiful late June day, one of those low-humidity, pleasant-temperature wonders that make people forget what summer in the south is really like. The ‘Oaks’ was alive with the sounds of kids playing, minor carpentry, and lawn mowing.

The neighborhood swimming pool was packed. We loitered outside the fence and watched enviously as teenager after teenager tried to out-do each other off the high dive. I almost wished that I had the guts to take the kids inside for a quick dip, but Charli didn’t quite trust me to watch them closely enough, and I can’t say that I blamed her. After a few more minutes of pool envy, we moved along, spending about forty minutes wandering up and down the cul-de-sacs, collecting rocks, feathers, and, in Jaelyn’s case, cigarette butts.

As we rounded the corner, headed back to Charli’s house and the backyard swing set, I saw what was making the incredibly annoying noise we’d heard for the last minute: a tow-truck hauling my beloved Mustang down the road, the front end dipping so low that the license plate scraped the ground, sending sparks flying everywhere.

I screamed and dashed off in hot pursuit, the three kids trotting along behind me as fast as their little legs could go. It was no use. The tow-truck made a left and my car disappeared from view.

I bent over and hung my head between my knees gasping for air, thinking that I really needed to get myself in shape, and trying to remember what color the tow-truck had been so I could track down my car. When I finally sucked in enough air so I could speak, I screamed and, maybe, I might even have cussed a little. Then I remembered the kids. Bad language is not only a big no-no in the family babysitting list of rules and regulations, but it also goes against Mom’s standards of proper behavior for a well brought up southern woman. The kidlets were sitting on the curb, staring wide-eyed at me.

Are you all right, Aunt Marty? Kevin asked.

No, honey, I shrieked. I stopped myself and attempted to gain a little control so I wasn’t breaking the city law against excessive noise pollution. No use in getting myself arrested or in scaring the poor kids to death. No, I’m not all right. Someone took my car. Why would they do that? Why?

Kevin’s skinny shoulders bobbled up and down. Maybe they’re going to give you a new one.

I plopped down on the curb next to him and patted him on top of the head. His snow-white