know about the dead guest,” Mrs. Wentworth said, interrupting. “I haven’t had the TV on today, and I haven’t been online either.”
All eyes were on me. I took a deep breath. “He was one of our dinner guests at the White House last night. Carl Minkus.”
Mrs. Wentworth slammed her hand on the table. Biscotti crumbs went flying. “I don’t have the TV on for one day and I miss all the good stuff. What happened? Somebody shoot him on the way home?”
Since the news of Carl Minkus’s death had brought thousands of reporters to swarm the White House, I had no reservations discussing what I knew. I’d just started explaining how we all had to undergo questioning, when the doorbell rang.
“That’ll be Stan,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “I told him to come around when he was done working.”
I went to the door. “Hi Stan,” I said, letting him in and wondering exactly when I’d lost control of my apartment. Probably just about the time Tom brought my family in and put Mrs. Wentworth in charge.
I followed the elderly electrician into my kitchen, where I offered him my seat. “No, no,” he said, backing up to lean against the counter. “Ladies, sit. I’ve been on my back all day fixing a problem in the basement and I could use a chance to stretch.”
As he passed behind Mrs. Wentworth, he grabbed her shoulders and gave them an affectionate squeeze. The two of them had been an item for a while now, and seeing them together never failed to make me smile. He greeted my mom and nana in a way that let me know they were not strangers either.
“We had lunch together,” Mom told me. “Tom stayed long enough to grab a bite to eat.”
Nana added, “He said he could see where you got your cooking talent.”
“We had a wonderful time,” Mom said. “He really cares about you.”
Were we talking about the same Tom? While I never doubted his affection for me, he’d been Mr. Let’s-keep-our-relationship-low-key from the outset. I was speechless.
Mrs. Wentworth didn’t want to let go of the day’s scoop. “He told us you were tied up today and that you’d be late. Why were they questioning you, Ollie? Did you know Minkus?”
Before I could answer, she boosted herself from the table and grabbed for her cane. Stan was at her side immediately. “What do you need, honey?” he asked.
She pointed a gnarled finger toward my living room. “Turn on the TV. We’ll get the story there and Ollie can fill us in during the commercials.”
Within moments we were tuned into the all-news station and sure enough, beautiful anchor people were providing updates. The White House served as backdrop for their solemn expressions and somber tones.
I settled myself cross-legged on the floor, allowing the elderly folks to take the couch and chairs.
“As we’ve been reporting, Special Agent Carl Minkus died earlier today, of undetermined causes. We are keeping a close watch on the White House, where he was a dinner guest last night and where the investigation into his unexpected and untimely death is being conducted.”
The screen changed to a photo of Minkus and his wife, Ruth. Minkus had been a ruddy-faced, overweight man, fifty-three years old. The picture showed the couple at a recent government sponsored event—Minkus in a tux, with his petite, strawberry-blonde wife next to him. Minkus had his arm around her waist and she smiled up at her husband, apparently unaware of the camera, into which Minkus beamed.
The news anchor continued. “The couple has one child, Maryland State Representative Joel Minkus.”
Stan gave a low whistle. “Look at them. That there’s what’s known as a trophy wife.”
Next to him on the couch, Mrs. Wentworth arched an eyebrow. “They’ve been married for years. She doesn’t count. Anyway, trophy wives are tall. She’s tiny.”
“Trophy is trophy,” Stan said with a shrug. He waggled his eyebrows. “But I’d rather have you on my shelf than her, any day.”
Mrs. Wentworth
All eyes were on me. I took a deep breath. “He was one of our dinner guests at the White House last night. Carl Minkus.”
Mrs. Wentworth slammed her hand on the table. Biscotti crumbs went flying. “I don’t have the TV on for one day and I miss all the good stuff. What happened? Somebody shoot him on the way home?”
Since the news of Carl Minkus’s death had brought thousands of reporters to swarm the White House, I had no reservations discussing what I knew. I’d just started explaining how we all had to undergo questioning, when the doorbell rang.
“That’ll be Stan,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “I told him to come around when he was done working.”
I went to the door. “Hi Stan,” I said, letting him in and wondering exactly when I’d lost control of my apartment. Probably just about the time Tom brought my family in and put Mrs. Wentworth in charge.
I followed the elderly electrician into my kitchen, where I offered him my seat. “No, no,” he said, backing up to lean against the counter. “Ladies, sit. I’ve been on my back all day fixing a problem in the basement and I could use a chance to stretch.”
As he passed behind Mrs. Wentworth, he grabbed her shoulders and gave them an affectionate squeeze. The two of them had been an item for a while now, and seeing them together never failed to make me smile. He greeted my mom and nana in a way that let me know they were not strangers either.
“We had lunch together,” Mom told me. “Tom stayed long enough to grab a bite to eat.”
Nana added, “He said he could see where you got your cooking talent.”
“We had a wonderful time,” Mom said. “He really cares about you.”
Were we talking about the same Tom? While I never doubted his affection for me, he’d been Mr. Let’s-keep-our-relationship-low-key from the outset. I was speechless.
Mrs. Wentworth didn’t want to let go of the day’s scoop. “He told us you were tied up today and that you’d be late. Why were they questioning you, Ollie? Did you know Minkus?”
Before I could answer, she boosted herself from the table and grabbed for her cane. Stan was at her side immediately. “What do you need, honey?” he asked.
She pointed a gnarled finger toward my living room. “Turn on the TV. We’ll get the story there and Ollie can fill us in during the commercials.”
Within moments we were tuned into the all-news station and sure enough, beautiful anchor people were providing updates. The White House served as backdrop for their solemn expressions and somber tones.
I settled myself cross-legged on the floor, allowing the elderly folks to take the couch and chairs.
“As we’ve been reporting, Special Agent Carl Minkus died earlier today, of undetermined causes. We are keeping a close watch on the White House, where he was a dinner guest last night and where the investigation into his unexpected and untimely death is being conducted.”
The screen changed to a photo of Minkus and his wife, Ruth. Minkus had been a ruddy-faced, overweight man, fifty-three years old. The picture showed the couple at a recent government sponsored event—Minkus in a tux, with his petite, strawberry-blonde wife next to him. Minkus had his arm around her waist and she smiled up at her husband, apparently unaware of the camera, into which Minkus beamed.
The news anchor continued. “The couple has one child, Maryland State Representative Joel Minkus.”
Stan gave a low whistle. “Look at them. That there’s what’s known as a trophy wife.”
Next to him on the couch, Mrs. Wentworth arched an eyebrow. “They’ve been married for years. She doesn’t count. Anyway, trophy wives are tall. She’s tiny.”
“Trophy is trophy,” Stan said with a shrug. He waggled his eyebrows. “But I’d rather have you on my shelf than her, any day.”
Mrs. Wentworth
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