Confessions of a Red Herring

by Dana Dratch

  “What am I going to do? This is my life. She just shredded my life. Publicly. With photos. I can’t even show my face around town. And I’ve got no food in the house. I’m gonna have to eat Domino’s for the rest of my life.”

  “You can come stay with me.”

  “Tom would hate seeing me at the breakfast table.”

  “Tom’s never here. Tom works ’til after midnight, and he’s up just after dawn. Hell, I never see Tom at the breakfast table.”

  “No. Thanks. Besides, I can’t just abandon Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “You could all stay at the Farm.”

  “That doesn’t keep everybody from reading Mira’s little nasty-gram. My friends. My family. People I’d hoped to work for someday. And some of them will actually believe her load of crap. I want my life back. My life. In my house.”

  I felt my eyes well up. Again.

  “Are you going to blubber like a big, ol’ girl?”

  “No,” I said sniffing. “Maybe.”

  “Look, do nothing for the time being. See what happens. Hell, they say nobody reads newspapers anymore, anyway. Worse comes to worst, we parcel you and the Fresh Air Fund kids out to my place or the Farm. We’ll even bring your Baba and make it a party to remember.”

  Chapter 25

  By 4:30 that afternoon, the sidewalk in front of my house looked like a movie set, with klieg lights, camera guys, and cables running God-knows-where. Satellite trucks lined the street, one from as far away as Manhattan. I blamed Annie for that one.

  If one crack dealer stabs another fighting over a street corner, nobody cares except their mothers and the cops. Move it to the ’burbs and make the victim a CEO, and it gets a few more inches in the papers. Link one of the suspects to someone even remotely famous, and you have every anchor wanna-be for 250 miles trampling my lawn.

  That’s also when I realized I had to do some damage control. I decided to give Annie a heads-up first. Even though she was a continent away, it was possible some enterprising reporter would call her New York office for a comment.

  I’d have shown up in person, but that’s just me.

  Hand it to my protective big sister, she was more worried about me than her own rep.

  “Alex, that’s awful,” she said softly. “Are you OK? Do you want us to fly home?” I could hear a strange echo as she spoke.

  “I’m not on speaker, am I?”

  “I’m in the bathroom. It’s the only place I could get a break from you-know-who.”

  “Wanna trade places? Right now I’ve got an entire press corps just outside my door.”

  “Believe me, if I could snap my fingers and switch, I would. And I wouldn’t be doing you any favors. Seriously, do you want us to come home? Present a united front?”

  “No, it’s actually a good thing you guys aren’t here. Fewer targets for them to go after.”

  We sat silently, both of us thinking hard. I could practically smell the smoke.

  “But there is one thing,” I said tentatively.

  “Yes?”

  “Any chance you could keep Mom from finding out?”

  * * *

  Next, I called Baba. She lived ninety minutes away in Baltimore—and was more likely to watch Family Feud or the Weather Channel than local news. But I didn’t want to take any chances.

  It rang ten times. No answer. Baba didn’t have voice mail or even an answering machine. Despite our many attempts to change her mind.

  “But what happens if I call and you’re not home?” Peter asked her last Thanksgiving.

  Her dark eyes went wide with disbelief and hurt. “You will not call me again?”

  Baba: one. Technology: zip.

  * * *

  None of the neighbors would have anything to do with the reporters. Well, almost none.

  Mr. Rasmussen, who lives behind me, went on for a full minute about how “my” gopher was destroying his yard and lowering property values.

  The reporter asked him straight out if he believed I’d stabbed my boss.

  “Well, if she did, I don’t see why she couldn’t do the same thing to that gopher. My home’s a custom job. Hardwood, granite—all the upgrades. And it’s priced to move. But it’s just sitting there. You know why? Curb appeal. My agent says it all comes down to curb appeal.”

  At which point, the strained-looking reporter stepped in smoothly. “And that’s the latest on the woman some are calling ‘Vlod the Impaler.’ Back to you, Frank.”

  Behind her, I could see Rasmussen, still angling for the camera. “Hey, if anyone’s interested, it’s listed at $499,900. That’s $50,000 below appraisal value. And I’m having an open house next Saturday!” he shouted, cupping his hands.

  * * *

  With the constant media calls, I’d turned off my cell and even unplugged the landline. If anybody wanted me, they could leave a message. Or just turn on their TV.

  I swiped Nick’s cell and tried Baba two more times. Still no luck.

  “She’s probably at the grocery store,” Nick reasoned. “Or visiting friends.”

  “I just hope they don’t have a TV,” I said.

  A little before five, I flipped my cell on to check voicemail. That’s when my heart stopped. There was a message. From Holloman.

  “This is Richard Holloman. Call me as soon as you get this: (703) 555-0100, extension 111.”

  I played it again, listening for details I might have missed. Like instructions on what to pack for prison. Or how many hours until my imminent arrest. Nada. I played it a third time, trying to read the tone of his voice. Totally businesslike. Of course, he wasn’t the one going off to the Big House.

  My hands were shaking as I dialed his number. Would they maybe allow me house arrest? If they did, I could finish my freelance story and keep the bills paid. Or was it straight to the slammer? If that happened, I was going to lose my home and everything I owned.

  “Glad you called,” he said matter-of-factly. “Quick question: when did you start using a glaze on your hair? And do you do it yourself or get it done professionally?”

  “Huh?” Of all the things I’d expected, trading hair tips with my lawyer was definitely not on the list.

  “Glaze. The lab tests on the fresh hair sample the police took from you at the station show some kind of residue. A hair product used fairly recently. My paralegal informs me it’s called ‘a glaze.’ She says it’s supposed to make the hair thick and shiny. Got to say, that’s a new one on me. So do you do it yourself or get it done professionally?”

  I was struggling to turn my brain back on. “Uh, professionally. I got my hair cut two days before the client dinner. The stylist recommended it.”

  “Ever had it done before?”

  “Um, no. Why?”

  “Can you get me the name and phone number of your stylist?”

  I couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Am I going to jail?” I blurted.

  “No, but next time you get your hair cut, you might want to leave a very large tip.”

  * * *

  Since I’d never made it to the farmers’ market, we ordered a stack of pizzas and spent the evening flipping from channel to channel, catching various versions of the story—complete with live feeds of my house.

  My favorite: the one from the local Spanish-language station. Apparently “Vlod the Impaler” is pronounced virtually the same way in Spanish.

  Nick liked that one, too. But I think it was more because the reporter’s dress fit like Saran wrap.

  Gabby preferred the guy from the Reston affiliate, who was decked out in a suit she pegged as Hugo Boss. “Totally dishy,” she proclaimed.

  Later, when the news was over and Gabby was on a bathroom break, I dashed to the kitchen to help myself to a piece of the cake we’d ordered with the pies. What we lacked in food quality, we were making up for in quantity. And carbs.

  Nick wandered in carrying an empty plate. “Which one is the old guy who’s worried about the gopher?”

  “Rasmussen. He lives b
ehind me.”

  “Great! Just want to know which way to lob the flaming poo.”

  “No! No flaming! No lobbing! Look, I know he’s acting like an idiot. But I live here. And I want to keep living here. That means I get along. I trim my trees. I mow my lawn. I rake my leaves. And I buy Girl Scout cookies from three different families. In equal amounts. Because, believe me, those little fascists compare notes.”

  “Well, you probably won’t have to fight off the cookie pushers this year. If the gory crime stories don’t scare them away, the news crews on the sidewalk will. Too bad it’s not Halloween. Gather ’round children, while I tell you the tale of Vlod the Impaler and her ferocious, man-eating gopher.”

  “And her brother, Nick the Smart Ass, and his flaming bag of crap.”

  “Speaking of crap bags, we really ought to move your car.”

  * * *

  At 11:35, I checked my cell. I’d just missed Trip, so I dialed him back.

  “Your house looks smaller on TV,” he said.

  “Try it from the inside with three people and a dog. Poor Lucy doesn’t know what to make of it. Nick let her out into the backyard, and three cameras tried to film her taking a poop.”

  “Offer still stands for you guys to come to my place. Or the Farm.”

  “If they’re still here Monday, I might take you up on it. Has Billy Bob heard anything?”

  “That’s the good news,” Trip said. “According to his police sources, you’re no longer a person of interest.”

  “Tell that to the army camped out on my lawn.”

  “It’ll be in our follow-up tomorrow morning.”

  “Can’t be too soon for me. It looks like they’re filming an episode of Cops out there. All I need is some dude in a wifebeater hanging off my porch yelling, ‘Don’t take her away—I looove her!’”

  “Speaking of which, how are Bonnie and Clyde holding up?” he asked.

  “Gabby wanted to send out a pizza laced with laxatives.”

  “Poison’s not a great way to beat a murder rap. At least you’ve got Nick on your side.”

  “Yeah, he wanted to start lobbing flaming bags of dog poop at my neighbors.”

  “Dog poop is flammable?”

  “So he claims.”

  “Anybody suggested the banana-in-the-tailpipe routine?” Trip asked, lightly.

  “Yes, until I pointed out that we actually want the news crews to leave.”

  “On the bright side, this should put a dent in your sister-in-law’s side business.”

  “Don’t remind me. I’m afraid to let either of them out of my sight. I feel like I’m running a sleepaway camp for juvenile delinquents.”

  I told him about my earlier conversation with Holloman.

  “Love to ask you more about that one, but given where I am . . .”

  “I know, I know, red hair for the red herring, right?”

  “You took the pun right out of my mouth. So what did he say about the reporters?”

  “Quote, ‘don’t talk to ’em, don’t feed ’em. Either one just encourages ’em.’”

  “Sounds about right. What about suing you-know-who?”

  “We can, but he doesn’t like the odds. Basically, as long as Mira can show she wrote what people told her, absent malice, she’s bulletproof. And we all know where the story really came from. But Holloman said that if the TV crews were still here Monday, he could work some legal mumbo jumbo to at least get them off my sidewalk.”

  “See if he can get the police to issue a formal statement that you’re no longer a suspect,” Trip suggested.

  “Did the cops say who they’re looking at?”

  “Not so far. Billy Bob’s playing this one close to the vest. But my read is he suspects the cops were just using you as a decoy. And he thinks the killer is someone with a big-time grudge.”

  “Piper?”

  “He wouldn’t say. Only that Mira and the news crews are way off track. And it turns out you were right: Piper has a lot of company. Coleman pulled that build-em-up-and-cut-’em-down routine at least half a dozen times in the past few years alone.”

  “Will that be in tomorrow’s story?” I asked.

  “No such luck. Later this week, if we really push. And we are. A lot of these guys want to talk. But no one wants to have his name attached.”

  And unlike Mira’s column full of innuendo, half-truths, and no-truths, the nameless sources weren’t going to cut it in a real news story. Especially if Trip was editing.

  “Did Billy Bob get them talking?”

  “He can’t get them to shut up. These people are calling him at all hours, blathering on like they’re in some kind of support group. But when he says he needs to go on the record, they clam up.”

  Typical. When a reporter shows up, everyone wants to be Deep Throat. They’ll share stories you don’t want to hear, with details you wish you could forget. Like how it took twenty-five hours for Aunt Millie to deliver Cousin Clem because the kid wrapped his hands around her colon on the way out. Or how PawPaw had his grapefruit-sized goiter bronzed and turned into a Christmas tree ornament.

  But ask someone something useful—like how to spell his name—and he suddenly gets amnesia.

  “OK, so despite the fact that I’m the D.C. poster child for homicidal maniacs, and my lawn looks like a Hollywood back lot, my life is actually getting better?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Chapter 26

  Since the “early morning rise and shine” routine netted me nothing but grief on Saturday, I adopted a more Gabby-like approach on Sunday: I slept ’til noon.

  And it paid off.

  The news crews had vanished. Except for dead grass, candy wrappers, and a couple of Styrofoam cups, it was as if they’d never existed.

  As promised, the story proclaiming my innocence—or at least the fact that the police had dropped me in favor of more promising suspects—made the metro front of my paper. OK, my former paper.

  No photo this time. Fine by me. I still felt like having the article framed. Or printed on T-shirts.

  While the cops leaked to Billy Bob that I was not a suspect, they didn’t tell him why: Preliminary tests had revealed that red hairs found on Coleman were mine. But they weren’t coated with the chemicals my stylist had applied three days before the murder. Chemicals that were still on my hair when I went to the police station after the murder. Which meant those “incriminating” strands had been taken earlier and planted on Coleman’s body.

  Holloman told me, and I told Trip. But the three of us—and the cops—weren’t sharing those styling secrets with anyone.

  As late as it was, I was still the first one up. I found a large puddle on the vinyl by the kitchen door. And a small pile on the parquet by the front door.

  The puppy pads were, as usual, spotless.

  My theory: Lucy had noticed that when she used one, we threw it out. And she didn’t want to ruin them.

  I let Lucy out, cleaned up after her, and scrubbed like I was prepping for surgery. Then I made coffee. As I filled the pot, I glanced at the newest postcards on my fridge. And, from the absence of frantic phone calls from Mom, I was pretty sure Annie had been successful in her secret mission.

  So far.

  I pictured them sitting at that same little outdoor café with the Eiffel Tower backdrop, dashing off notes home after indulging in plates of crepes stuffed with coq au vin and coquilles St. Jacques.

  My sister may be an ex-model, but she’s never believed in starving herself. I swear it’s one of the reasons why she’s still jaw-droppingly beautiful.

  That and the fact that she won the genetic lottery.

  The front of Mom’s card was a watercolor of a Paris street scene. The back was a window into my mother’s mind:

  Alex,

  You really should have come. You’d have picked up a few skills for that new job—particularly how to dress. The Parisians—so chic! And the art! Three galleries just this morning. Exquisite. Of course, costs are terrib
ly inflated. I suspect when they hear an American accent, the price doubles. Still, would have been nice to have “the girls” together one last time. Who knows if we’ll ever have the chance again?

  Love,

  Mom

  She hit the guilt button, praised the French, insulted the French, and took a shot at my wardrobe. All in less than seventy-five perfectly formed, perfectly aligned words. No blops, smears, or cross-throughs. My mother would have made a great reporter. Or hit man.

  From the postmark, I could tell she’d sent it before her phone call earlier this week. Before I had a chance to apologize for blowing off the trip. So, hopefully, we had reached some sort of détente.

  Annie’s missive, on the back of a replica of “Starry Night,” was a little more succinct.

  Alex,

  Paris is great. Even with Mom.

  Really wish you were here.

  Love,

  Annie

  I’m guessing they didn’t compare notes before hitting the mailbox.

  I’d hung all the postcards on the fridge with magnets. It might not be a Paris art gallery, but it was as close as I was going to get for a while.

  I’d just settled in with the papers when I heard a knock at the front door. I knew it wasn’t good news. Lately, it was never good news.

  I looked out the peephole. Rasmussen.

  What did it mean when your day started with a steaming pile and went downhill from there? For me, it meant I wasn’t opening the door.

  Five minutes of intermittent bell-ringing and hard-knuckled rapping later, I switched tactics.

  “Hello, Mr. Rasmussen.”

  “You need to do something about your gopher. He’s vicious, and he’s ruining my lawn. I have an open house next Saturday. And I need him gone by then.”

  “It’s not exactly my gopher. I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

  “You can kill it, can’t you? The TV and the newspapers say you’re Jack the Ripper.”

  “That was a mistake. And it was Vlod the Impaler.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “My former boss’s body was pierced once, with a letter opener that was left in him. Technically, impaled. If he’d been stabbed multiple times, cut up, slashed, or eviscerated, that would be a ripper.”