Confessions of a Red Herring

by Dana Dratch

  “Come on! We’re going to be late!”

  Trip.

  I threw open the door, and my best friend gave me the once-over. “Love the hair. You trade the blow-dryer for an eggbeater? Oh my God, what the hell happened in here? It looks like a frat house exploded.”

  I looked around the living room. He was right. Pizza boxes littered the floor, with two congealed slices on the coffee table. Sofa cushions and crumpled soda cans were scattered around the room. There was an empty cake box, on its side, in front of one chair. The stack of mailing cartons in the corner had morphed into a small mountain. And the place reeked of cigarettes.

  Somehow, I didn’t think I could blame this one on Lucy. Not unless she’d learned how to dial Dominos and started chain-smoking Salems.

  “Someone throw a party?” Trip asked, eyeing the wreckage.

  “Nick and Gabrielle were burning the midnight oil when I got back last night. Apparently, she runs some kind of online business, and she’s a night owl. So they were up late working.”

  Retrieving a gold pen from the inside jacket pocket of his pristine light gray, chalk-stripe suit, Trip gingerly picked up a purple lace thong from the back of a chair. “Hate to break it to you, Red, but that’s not all they were doing.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What are you doing here? What are we going to be late for?”

  “Your dental appointment, remember?”

  I smacked myself on the forehead. “With everything else going on, I totally blanked.”

  “Big surprise,” he said skeptically. “You’re still not getting out of it.”

  When it comes to visiting the dentist, I am a total wuss. So Trip and I have an agreement. He comes to the dentist with me. And I help run interference every year when his Great-Aunt Camille comes to town. Not a perfect system, but it works for us.

  “What did you mean ‘when I got back,’” he said. “Where were you last night? Hot date? New job?”

  “Long story.”

  “That’s OK, we can still make this work,” Trip said, shooing me toward my bathroom. “You go get ready. I’ll tidy up a little, and we’ll get you to Dr. Drill-and-Fill fashionably late.”

  “Did you get a dog?” he called after me.

  I looked over my shoulder and saw Lucy sitting in front of him, staring up.

  “She belongs to Nick and Gabrielle. She loves shoes, and she pees on things.”

  “Gabrielle or the dog?”

  When I glanced in the bathroom mirror, I understood Trip’s crack about my hair. I’d been so tired when I got home, all I could think about was a shower and sleep. I fell into bed without even combing my wet hair. Now I looked like The Bride of Frankenstein.

  All of us kids have Dad’s brown eyes. But when it comes to hair color, we’re a box of Crayolas. Peter’s hair is dark, like Dad’s. Annie and Nick—thanks to some trick of recessive genes—are blond. And I’m what’s politely referred to as “strawberry blond.” Heavy on the strawberry.

  No time for vanity. I smoothed my fright wig back with a little water and a lot of mousse and pulled it into a ponytail. Then I gave my teeth a thorough brushing and followed up with mouthwash and floss.

  Hey, I don’t want Dr. Braddock to think I’m a total heathen.

  I threw on a sweater and jeans, grabbed my mascara and lipstick from the bathroom counter, and jammed them into my purse.

  When I skidded to a stop in the living room, Trip was closing a trash bag and chatting with Lucy, who was looking up at him lovingly. The pillows were all back in place. And the cans, pizza, and food boxes were gone. I was hoping the purple thong had gone with them, but I didn’t want to ask.

  “I gave the beast a potty break, so we’re all set,” he said.

  “If you drive, I can put on my makeup in the car.”

  “Works for me.” Turning to Lucy, he added, “Now, you be a good girl and remember what I said.”

  “What did you say?”

  He narrowed his blue eyes. “Never you mind. That’s between me and the little beast.”

  Lucy gazed at him, besotted. I gave her a quick pat, and we bolted for the door.

  “So, it looks like you’re getting new neighbors,” Trip said, as he angled his shiny red Corvette convertible out of my narrow driveway, maneuvering it around the huge moving truck parked on the other side of the street.

  “Huh. That’s weird. The only house up for sale is that old Victorian place across the street. And it’s been on the market for years. I don’t think they’re ever going to unload it.”

  “Why not? It looks OK from here.”

  “Yeah, and this is as close as you’d ever want to get,” I said without looking up. “The inside’s a hot mess. A bad seventies remodel with lots of hideous shag carpet and dark paneling. And it hasn’t been cleaned in decades. I don’t know how structurally sound it is, either, because they’ve had crews out here working on it off and on for the last couple of months. Plus, for reasons that make absolutely zero sense, the owner wants a pile of money for it.”

  “Well, then give the local real estate industry a gold star, because some poor schmuck bought it.”

  With that, he gunned the engine, then hit the brakes and rolled lightly over an all-but-hidden speed bump at the end of my street. I turned to him with mascara smeared across my forehead.

  “Interesting look for you. Very Frida Kahlo.”

  I stuck out my tongue.

  Chapter 13

  With two new fillings and one less wisdom tooth, I bounded from the dentist’s chair. I hit the cashier’s desk feeling what I always did at the end of an appointment: like I’d cheated death.

  Unfortunately, my mouth was full of more drugs than a rock star.

  “Hiiiuh!” I greeted Sherrie, the dental assistant.

  “Hi yourself,” she said with a giggle. “Here, sign this.”

  “Okuuh!”

  “Now, that’ll be $758,” she said, checking the chart.

  “Whuuuah! I haa inthurah. Inthurah!”

  “No, I checked with the company an hour ago. They said you don’t have coverage. So we need to get payment from you this morning.”

  “Whuh? No coothath? Hoooww?” At this point, Curious George would have been easier to understand. But Sherrie was used to people talking under the influence. She didn’t miss a word.

  “They didn’t say. Just that you didn’t have a policy with them anymore. Maybe there’s been a mistake. You can call them later. In the meantime, we can take cash, check, or a credit card—whatever’s easiest.”

  I did some quick math. I didn’t even have thirty dollars in my checking account. But I did have two credit cards. It would be the most I’d ever charged in my life. But hopefully it was only temporary. Just until I straightened things out with the insurance company.

  I handed her my Mastercard. A minute later, Sherrie handed it back, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but this one was declined. Do you want to try another one?”

  “Dekiin! Theah muth be thum mithaa. Hoow caah I be dekiin?” I waved the card, motioning for her to try it again.

  But she just shook her head. “I already tried it twice,” she whispered. “The code indicated I should confiscate it, but that’s just mean.”

  I fished my Visa out of my purse and handed it to her. It had a $450 balance and a $4,000 limit. But I was getting a funny feeling about this, and it had nothing to do with the Novocain.

  A minute later, she was back again with the card. “A no-go on this one, too,” she said softly. “You want to write a check? We take checks.”

  With two declined cards and no insurance, even I wouldn’t have taken my check.

  “Thaa wooh be fii. Hoow muth?”

  “Seven hundred and fifty-eight dollars. You don’t have to make it out. Just fill in the amount and sign it. We have a stamp.”

  I handed her the check, realizing that the payment would put a sizable dent in the savings I was planning to use for frivolous impulse purchases, like food and mortgage paym
ents.

  “Remember, if you start having any pain, just give us a call. Your next appointment is on July sixth at 8 A.M. for a cleaning.” She handed me an appointment card.

  “Thaaann-ooou.”

  “Sooo, how’d it go?” Trip asked when I walked into the waiting room.

  “I’b bruuukh.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’b brokh. I haa no inthurah, and I’b brokh.”

  He fumbled in the jacket pocket of his suit and produced a small pad, a pen, and a handkerchief. He handed me the handkerchief first.

  “Whaaauh?”

  “You’re drooling.”

  “Oh.” I mopped my chin and held the linen square out to him.

  “You keep that, Rainman. Something tells me you’re going to need it for a while.”

  After he handed me the pad and pen, I scribbled furiously for two minutes and handed back the pad.

  “Drool!” he barked.

  I blotted my mouth again. “Thannnth!”

  “Don’t mention it. Really. To anyone. Damn, your handwriting is awful. You really should have gone to medical school.”

  “Twibbb!”

  “All right, all right. OK, something’s definitely screwed up. In the meantime, I’ll loan you the money. Then you straighten things out with the insurance company and the credit cards, and everything’s back to normal.”

  “Noooh!”

  “I said loan. You can pay me back.”

  “Noooh!”

  “Oh, all right. Don’t bite my head off. Oh gross, drool again.”

  “Kwabb!” I said, resolving to keep my mouth covered with the limp rag that had been Trip’s starched linen handkerchief. For the rest of the day, if necessary.

  “Can I interpret that to mean you want to go home now? Bark once for yes, twice for no. Better yet, stamp your hoof.”

  I pulled the rag away from my chin just long enough to stick out my tongue.

  * * *

  When Trip pulled into my driveway, there was definitely something going on across the street. The moving van was parked at the end of the block. Trucks from the phone company and the cable company were in the driveway of the Victorian, along with a few expensive cars I didn’t recognize. And one I did: Lydia Stewart’s little white Mercedes.

  She was backing out as we climbed out of the car. I turned to wave, and she hit the gas.

  “Wow, she really is warming up to you.”

  “Bii me!”

  “Drool. And I’m going to assume you’re trying to tell me that Timmy fell down a well.”

  “Wuh!”

  The minute I opened the front door, Lucy bounded out, tripped, rolled down the steps, leapt up and ran around my light pole like a drunken, demented squirrel. Then she squatted and peed at the base of the pole and ran back to us.

  Trip reached down and scratched her behind one fuzzy ear. “Looks like somebody’s getting housebroken,” he said to her.

  Exhausted from her labors, Lucy threw herself on the ground and rolled onto her back, wiggling her legs in the air.

  “What a lovely little dog—what breed is she?” inquired a clipped British accent behind us. I turned to see a tall, dark-haired man in jeans and a navy blue Windbreaker at the foot of my driveway, holding what looked like a stack of envelopes.

  “Mixed-breed,” Trip said quickly. “A rescue.” To me, he hissed, “Drool!”

  “I’m Ian Sterling,” the stranger said, walking toward us. “I’m afraid I just bought the monstrosity across the street. We’re going to be neighbors.”

  I’d have put Sterling’s age somewhere between thirty-five and forty. He was taller than me—over six feet—with wide shoulders, a tanned face, and high cheekbones. Handsome, but not in a Hollywood pretty-boy kind of way.

  When he looked directly at me, I noticed blue-gray eyes rimmed with dark lashes. I swear I felt my heart flutter. But it could have been the dental meds.

  I attempted my best neighborly smile and realized that, with no control of my lips, I couldn’t smile without drooling. I also couldn’t form recognizable words. So that just left me staring at the guy without smiling. Which would probably ensure he was never coming back to borrow a cup of sugar.

  “I’m Trip Cabot. This is Alex Vlodnachek. Alex lives here; I’m just visiting. So, you must have plans for the old place.”

  “A B&B, actually,” Ian said. He stepped forward and held out the stack of envelopes. No wedding ring. Why did I notice that?

  “I think I received some of your mail in error,” he said.

  Five bills and a postcard with a Monet on the front. Reflexively, I flipped it over. Annie.

  “Uh,” I started. Trip shook his head almost imperceptibly.

  “You’ll have to forgive Alex. She’s just back from the dentist. And the anesthetic hasn’t quite worn off.” Between clenched teeth, he hissed, “Drool!”

  “Oh, well, I should go and let you recuperate. Nice meeting you both,” he said, shaking Trip’s hand and then mine. “Feel free to pop over any time.”

  “Oo, too!” I called after him, as he headed down the driveway.

  “I’m sorry?” Ian said, turning.

  “She says, ‘You, too,’” Trip hollered after him. To me he whispered, “Drool!”

  Chapter 14

  The next morning, I stumbled out to my kitchen with one thought: caffeine.

  I had just poured my first cup when Nick walked into the room yawning. Sporting a gray Arizona State T-shirt, jeans, and a serious case of bed-head, he looked all of sixteen.

  “Hey,” he nodded, eyes barely open as he poured himself a mug.

  “Hey,” I returned, raising my cup.

  We Vlodnacheks have never been mistaken for “morning people.”

  After a few minutes of silent contemplation, he set his cup on the table. “Soooo, what’s new with you?”

  “Oh, the usual. Giant dental bill. No credit. Found out some weasel canceled my health coverage. I’m broke. And I’ve got a night job cleaning toilets.”

  “That explains the smell,” he said.

  “Really? Oh my God, I wasn’t imagining it. Do I reek?”

  “Only when you first get home. After you wash up, not at all.”

  “You’re probably getting used to it,” I said.

  “Yeah, no. Trust me, that’s not gonna happen.”

  To my shock and horror, I started to cry. I dropped my head on the table, put my hands over my eyes, and tried to rein it in. But the more I tried to smother it, the harder my body shook.

  I never cried. What was wrong with me, lately?

  “Hey, come on, it’s not that bad,” Nick said, patting the top of my head. “Besides, you really don’t smell now. If you did, I’d tell you.”

  He would, too.

  “It’s not that,” I squeaked through my hands. “It’s everything. I really am broke. I’ve got a college degree and more than a decade of experience, and I’m cleaning public toilets for a living. I’ve lost my job. And I’m going to lose my house. Oh yeah, and I’m probably going to jail.”

  “Well, if you go to jail, that takes care of the housing situation.”

  I looked up. He was smiling.

  I took a deep breath, wiped my face on my sleeve and hiccuped. “Not funny.”

  “Oh, come on, it’s a little funny,” Nick said. “Of all of us kids, I never thought you’d be the one facing prison time.”

  “So who did you think it would be?” I asked.

  “Peter. Hands down.”

  “Peter? Mr. Straight Arrow? He of the starched collars and cuffs?”

  “Sure, that’s what he wants you to think,” Nick said. “That’s his cover. But in reality, it’s a little embezzling here. A little insider trading there. An offshore bank account for his casino winnings . . .”

  The idea of our straitlaced, order-obsessed older brother doing anything even remotely questionable made me giggle.

  “Seriously, what’s with the toilets?” Nick asked. “I mean, aren�
��t there other jobs you’re qualified for? Flipping burgers? Greeter at Walmart? What made you wake up one morning and say, ‘Hey, there’s something I’ve never tried. Toilets!’”

  I wiped my nose with my sleeve. “I didn’t really take the job for the job.”

  “Good benefits? Sex with the boss?”

  Unbidden, a picture of hairy-knuckled Mr. Gravois popped into my head. “God, no.”

  I took another deep breath and was relieved when my voice sounded almost normal. “I needed a way to get back into my old office building. Right before I left work the last time, I planted a listening device—a sound-activated digital recorder. Now I need to retrieve it.”

  “OK, so this isn’t about an addiction to lime cleaner?” Nick said. “We don’t need to stage an intervention?”

  “Is it really that bad? Can you smell it now?” I had been in the shower last night for over an hour. At this rate, $180 a week wasn’t going to cover my hot-water bills.

  “No, only when you first get home. I was just ragging you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “As for the broke part, I wasn’t kidding about Gabby and me paying rent. I already have some of the money from my share of the farm. And Gabby’s doing great with the online boutique.”

  Dear God, I forgot about “the boutique.”

  “It’s not that,” I started. “It’s just that I always knew who I was. Alex Vlodnachek, reporter. And I was kind of good at it. Now I’ve been fired. I’m being framed for murder. Half the people I run into think I did it, and the other half seem to want to make my life miserable for no reason at all.”

  “Well, to be fair, you didn’t get fired from being a reporter,” he said. “You quit. Did you like being a flack?”

  “I hated it.”

  He smiled.

  “OK, not cleaning-bathroom-stalls hated,” I said. “But almost. It just seemed dishonest. Manipulative. With reporting, you lay out all the facts, everything you can find at that moment, and let the reader sort it out. With P.R., you decide in advance what you want the other person to think. Then you give out only the information that leads in that direction. It’s like a sleight-of-hand trick: look over here, don’t look over there. I ended up despising it. Oh, and my boss tried to pimp me out to a client.”