The Mystery Megapack

Stephen’s mouth twitched upward.
    “Or,” I continued, warming to my invention. “You could punch in a waypoint for your mother. Then every time you by-passed her house it’s ‘So, Mr. Bigshot. How come you never visit your mother? Make a U-turn. Now!’”
    Stephen joined in, dredging up a Beavis and Butthead voice from somewhere in his reckless youth. “Whoa, Dude, Like there’s a fork in the road. Huh huh huh. Fork. Get it?” He chuckled, a rare event, and turned to study me over the rims of his sunglasses. “You patent that, Marjorie Ann, and we can both retire to the south of France.”
    Truth is, Stephen made excellent money as the head of his own firm. We could retire to the south of France like, any minute, if he wanted, but Stephen preferred to spend his money and his spare time on boating or golfing or off-roading in the Arizona desert. The previous weekend he’d dragged me to the GM dealership to check out a Humvee. As if.
    I squirmed in my seat. MM had selected a route home that didn’t involve a freeway. If she didn’t hurry up, the milk would spoil. “I think you should just go straight up 32,” I said, feeling testy.
    Stephen ignored me.
    “I’ll bet this route is ten minutes longer.”
    “Than?”
    “Than going straight up 32.”
    “Where’s your sense of adventure, Marjorie Ann?”
    “I don’t know, Stephen. I think I lost it back in 1998.”
    MM was feeling testy, too . Off route. Recalculating .
    Stephen slapped his palm against the steering wheel. “Damn!”
    I flinched. “Why’d she say that?”
    “I missed the exit. I was listening to you, Marjorie Anne. Can’t you keep quiet even for a minute?”
    I turned my head and glared out the passenger-side window, my eyes shooting darts into the trees, my mouth clamped shut, feeling glad that Stephen was leaving town the next day for the annual AICPA tech conference in Las Vegas. He was giving a talk on the paperless office. Paperless, ha! Good thing nobody at the AICPA had to empty Stephen’s wastepaper basket or they’d ask for their money back.
    I would have gone along—the Venetian Hotel has lagoons with gondolas floating through it, et mind-blowing cetera—but Mama was having an eyelift and I felt obliged to stay home and hold her hand. So while Stephen spent his days holed up in frigid conference rooms and his nights playing blackjack on The Strip, I spent mine fetching and toting for Mama. I bundled up her newspapers for recycling, cleaned out her refrigerator and scoured the shelves at Blockbuster for Russell Crowe DVDs. She invited me to the film fest, but I think it was because she wanted me to make the popcorn.
    Mid-week, I was taking a break from Mama and getting a pedicure when she rang through on my cell phone. “Can you pick up Elroy in Shady Side?”
    Elroy was Mama’s handyman. His truck had “broke down” and Mama was too hopped up on pain killers to drive down there herself.
    I didn’t feel like going anywhere and told her so.
    “Do you want to pick dead leaves out of my swimming pool, Marjorie Ann? Or mow the lawn?” Without waiting for an answer, Mama started rattling off directions to Elroy’s, but I tuned out about halfway through. I had Elroy’s address. I had Stephen’s MapMaster. Piece of cake.
    Stephen had left the MapMaster locked up in his truck, so when I got home from the beauty parlor, I moved it into the BMW. When I plugged it in, MM politely informed me she was acquiring her satellites, then waited for me to press Find, then Addresses. I used the rocker key to spell out, number by number and letter by letter, Elroy’s address, then pressed Go To.
    MM, bless her little batteries and computer chip heart, got me to Elroy’s and back to Mama’s without a hitch.
    I was backing down her driveway, mere seconds from a clean getaway, when Mama popped out her front door, waving her arms. “Trash bags, Marjorie Ann! I need heavy-duty trash bags. And bug spray!” I waggled my fingers so she’d know I’d heard her, then punched Home Depot into the MapMasterIV.
    I hardly ever go to Home Depot, especially from Mama’s house, so it didn’t particularly surprise me when MM directed me off the freeway and onto a quiet street in Morningside Heights. I was surprised when she advised me to turn right into a cul-de-sac and absolutely astonished when MM announced that I was arriving at destination , smack dab in front of a cute little Dutch colonial.
    I recognized the house. It belonged to