Page 28 of Playing With Fire

Ricky’s newly acquired sense of wellbeing evaporated in an instant.

Lasagna. A large lasagna. A homemade large lasagna with real mozzarella.

“You bet,” he said heartily. A fresh urgency to tackle Bonnie Browning (not literally, of course) and the recidivist smoker, and then hightail it to the supermarket for supplies roared through him like a fire station alert.

Jodi turned towards a dark blue two-door Miata that looked fresh off the car lot. “Good to hear,” she purred. “And I’ll have Alma with me. I’m picking her up from the family counselor.”

Ricky’s mind went momentarily blank. Of course, the Beechams’ middle child. An image of delicate features and golden skin popped into his mind. Dark eyes and an anxious-to-please smile.

He nodded, then watched as she drove away. Of course, that was exactly what Jodi Ruskin would do—step up to look after the strays.

A cool arm threaded through his elbow. Ricky inhaled the sultry mix of perfume and hair products. Bonnie Browning.

“Well hi,” she said. “I expect that you won’t remember little old me from your school days. But I sure remember you.” She steered him gently but firmly towards the front door. “I had a crush on you all through high school in fact.”

It was on the tip of Ricky’s tongue to agree that no, he didn’t remember Bonnie, but he wisely settled for a cheesy grin.

“That Jodi Ruskin,” she rolled her eyes. “You want to watch her Ricky. I mean it’s sad and all about her dad and then her mom, but you simply can’t trust her.” Her tone grew confidential. “According to my father, it’s beyond embarrassing that she’s still Acting Editor, with her lack of experience. Apparently, the owners are desperate to find a proper editor, but it’s not everyone who wants to settle down in our sweet little town.”

Feeling like he was being marched to some unknown doom which involved Bonnie Browning and more insider gossip (and body contact) than he was comfortable with, Ricky was whisked past the mulched gardens and into the overly warm reception area, all the time aware of the soft weight of her generous breast against his arm.

The front counter, festooned with official-looking health brochures about Covid, influenza, vaccinations, strange rashes, tinea and the like, was unattended, save for a large push-button bell. An elderly woman who was busy pinning a flyer to the cork noticeboard gave Bonnie a defiant look before scurrying away.

Bonnie pursed her carmine lips.

“That’s Babs. I’ve told her she can’t advertise her class in anti-terrorist self-defense anymore. Apart from encouraging residents to be hypervigilant about terrorists, which is why the Swiss bakery on Main Street refuses to deliver any more—even after we apologized—last time we had complaints from several gentlemen about overenthusiastic physical restraint techniques on the part of the ladies. We don’t want a lawsuit on our hands.”

Her manicured hand scooped up the offending page, along with notes advertising a massage service and a psychic promising to pass on messages to deceased loved ones.

“Honestly, you’d think the old dears would settle down and watch daytime television but no.”

“My grandparents used to enjoy bridge,” offered Ricky, fascinated by this glimpse into the lives of the elderly. He breathed in warm air tinged with the scent of disinfectant, cooked cabbage, and talcum powder.

Bonnie huffed in disgust. “Banned. Way too competitive.” She crumpled up the notices and threw them in the bin. “Shall we say there were some unfortunate disagreements? Ditto Monopoly, and don’t even mention Uno. We had to get the recreation room completely repainted last year.”

“Wow.” Ricky began to wonder if he needed to spread his net wider in the search for the arsonist.

Instead of heading down one of the wide corridors, bright with cheerful quotes about positive thinking, and pictures of puppies, Bonnie steered him into her private office. A tray of cake and coffee were already set up.

She closed the door, shutting out the squeaking of rubber on linoleum and the soft buzz of conversation as a group of seniors on walkers made their way laboriously through reception to the front door.

“I feel like we are already friends. Daddy talks about you all the time.” Like a seasoned television host, Bonnie’s voice combined thrillingly intimate with firmness and confidence.

She leaned back in her armchair, which was situated kitty-corner from his, separated by a small round coffee table, and crossed her black-stockinged legs. One black patent leather toe waved in his direction, drawing attention to the curve of knee and thigh.

“He’s pretty impressed, “she continued. “Nabbing a local boy turned hero New York fireman is a real coup for the town.”

Ricky considered pointing out that Leroy had certainly kept his appreciation of his new employee to himself, and that he was on a short-term contract, and that it was “firefighter” these days...but decided not to bother.

“Before you go and inspect the scene of the crime, I want to tell you how the Temple Mountain Fire Department can help keep these dear old duffers from burning the place down.” Bonnie’s voice turned playful.

She leaned forward to pour the coffee, providing a glimpse of décolletage that seemed unwise in a place with so many elderly gents with pacemakers.

“I put this together. Only a suggestion, of course.” Bonnie slipped a sheet of paper across the desk. It was a schedule of events with headings such as Virtual Fire Drill, and Safety Tips for the Elderly, the Incapacitated, and the Incontinent.

She pushed a plate of choc chip cookies in his direction. “There will be other stuff of course. Personally, I would ban cooktops, stoves, electric gadgets, appliances, that sort of thing, in any of the residents’ rooms, but the residents’ committee is pushing back, unfortunately. Anyway, it’s all very fluid. I’m looking forward to your expert input.”

Ricky sipped his lukewarm coffee. Thought about a life where the coffee was never hot and the toast was always cold.

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