Larceny and Old Lace by Tamar Myers Page A

died.
    â€œGood, Mama, then I’ll be right over after work.”
    â€œReally dear, I’d rather be alone tonight.”
    â€œNo you wouldn’t, Mama. You’ve never liked living alone. Listen, I’ll stop in at the Bojangles on Cherry Road, and then the video store—”
    â€œShow up at the door and I’ll break both your legs with a rolling pin,” Mama cooed. She sounded half serious.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œAbby dear, I have a date.”
    I nearly dropped the phone. “With a man?”
    Some of the giggles turned into guffaws. They were definitely manly.
    â€œMama! What’s going on there?”
    â€œOh, nothing dear. Nothing that concerns you.”
    â€œIf it concerns you, Mama, it concerns me.” There is nothing wrong in recycling someone’s words right back at them if you get the chance. I’m sure it must irritate the heck out of them. I know it does when it happens to me.
    â€œThis doesn’t concern you, dear. Bye.”
    I called her right back, but the phone just rang and rang. I was stunned. Mama—to whom I had spent nine of the best months of my life hooked up by an umbilical cord—had just unplugged that other most important cord, cutting me loose for the second time. Against my will I had been born again.
    Even worse, Mama— my Mama—was having, or about to have, sex!

10
    M ama could have her disgusting roll in the hay. Aunt Marilyn could keep her precious Fifi and Mimi right where they were. It didn’t matter one whit to me what they did, because I had friends. The kind of friends who invite you to dinner on the spur of the moment.
    â€œThis is Bob Steuben,” Rob said, as I was locking up my shop.
    I introduced myself to a pale, spindly man, possibly in his late thirties. He had mousy brown hair and a very small, narrow face. His eyes were set suspiciously close. His mouth was a thin gray line. Frankly, it looked like the good Lord had made him out of leftovers and run out of material when he came to the face.
    â€œPleased to meet you,” Bob said, his secret revealed. He had a voice that could calm the Bosphorus Straits. “Rob told me all about you. You two set the date yet?”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    â€œHe’s kidding.” Rob read the question in my eyes. “Yes, Abby, I made the call. You were right. This Washburn guy sounds okay. He said I did the right thing by calling. I feel a lot better now. Thanks.”
    â€œGood enough for me to invite you two out for some dinner? Maybe smoke a tobaccoless peace pipe and call a truce.”
    Rob and Bob exchanged glances.
    â€œI had a great day at the shop,” I hurried to say. “This is my treat.”
    â€œWell, uh—”
    â€œPlease. I need the company. Auntie Dearest kicked me out.”
    â€œShe didn’t!” Rob said with just the right amount of sympathy. “The camellias? Or was it the pink flamingos?”
    â€œI’ll tell you all about it at dinner,” I said for Bob’s benefit.
    They exchanged glances again. They must have been meaningful glances because they’d made a decision.
    â€œBob’s a hell of a cook,” Rob said. “You’re invited to our place for supper.”
    Of course I said yes. My Mama didn’t raise any fools. Never mind the money I would save on dinner. I’d known Rob for seven or eight years, been friends with him for half of that, and had yet to be invited to his inner sanctum. From what I heard through the grapevine, Rob Goldburg’s decor made Versailles seem shabby.
    â€œI have to pick up my cat, Dmitri, first,” I explained. “Auntie Dearest said she would turn him into a hand muff if I didn’t pick him up by eight, and she means that literally. The only reason she let me keep him there was because she had a cat named DeMaggio when she first bought that damn house, and Dmitri looks just like him.”
    The shared glances