Confessions of a Red Herring

by Dana Dratch

  The moaning had stopped. It was eerily quiet.

  “Ten percent?” I asked, when my brain kicked in again. Five hundred bucks?

  “Yup.”

  “Uh, hang on a sec. Gabby?” My partner in crime had disappeared into the smog. But I found her at the jewelry case, studying bright, sparkly things.

  “Gabby,” I said under my breath, “he wants five hundred dollars to cash this. That’s a lot of money just to cash a check I could cash at the bank for nothing. Peter will kill me if he finds out I spent that much of his money just to cash his check.”

  “It’s a buyer’s market,” she said. “When you can’t use a bank, you don’t have a lot of options.”

  “So I’ve got to pay through the nose?”

  “That’s the point, sugar. You might be able to cash it at your brother’s bank. Do they have any branches around here?”

  “Nothing south of Manhattan.”

  “Can you drive to New York for less than five hundred dollars?” she asked. “We could make it a road trip. You’re allowed to leave the state, right?”

  “Yes, I’m allowed to leave the state! I’m not a suspect. At least, not anymore. But I can’t go to New York now. I’m working two jobs.”

  And trying to catch a murderer. And trying to help the authorities nail C&W for the illegal crap they’ve been pulling. And trying to keep my future sister-in-law from turning my house into a fencing operation. And trying to keep my brother from firebombing the neighbors. And trying to help Lucy learn to poop outside.

  “Look sugar, either you make up with your bank or you pay Mr. Merman ten percent, and we walk out of here with forty-four hundred in cash.”

  “Uh, wouldn’t that be forty-five hundred?”

  “Yes, but you haven’t seen this sweet little sapphire and platinum bracelet. Art Deco, by the looks of it. Sugar, it was made for you.”

  My Aunt Martha always said that Satan wears many forms. At that moment, I was convinced one of them was my soon-to-be sister-in-law.

  I’d walked into this place with five thousand dollars of my business-savvy brother’s money. And the most I was walking out with was forty-five hundred. Not counting what I was going to have to give up in the parking lot. Or at the jewelry counter. And I was reasonably certain that most of the five-hundred-dollar check-cashing fee was going to Big Tobacco. Something in me snapped.

  “No deal,” I said finally.

  “You sure, sugar?”

  “Yeah. Let’s bounce.” I waved to the booth, just as the screaming started again. The guy had a set of lungs, I’ll give him that.

  “We’re gonna take a pass!” I yelled over the din. “Thanks anyway!”

  Our friend behind the glass gave us a full-armed wave, still puffing away. We dashed from the shop to the car. The thug trio was nowhere in sight. The homeless guy was sitting on the curb next to the trash can, eating a sandwich.

  “Hang on a sec,” I said, fishing through my wallet and pulling out a tenner. “It’s been a good day. Might as well share the wealth.”

  “Damn straight,” Gabby said, handing me another Hamilton. She threw the car into reverse and did a wide J turn, bringing us parallel with the liquor store.

  I hopped out and handed off the money to the man on the curb. “Just a little something for a snack later,” I explained.

  He stopped eating, looked into my eyes, and took the bills. “Thanks,” he said, smiling.

  As we pulled away, I could still hear screaming coming from inside the tattoo parlor. It wasn’t as loud, but it had gone up half an octave. I couldn’t help but wonder which part of his body was getting inked.

  Chapter 36

  Nick’s brioche rolls were heaven. Even with a layer of Baba’s molten stew poured over the top.

  After lunch I called Trip. “You rat!”

  “You rang?” he said.

  “You didn’t tell me Billy Bob’s story was going to run this morning,” I said.

  “I was planning to show up at your door with donuts and the paper. But then I had to be back in here at eight.”

  “Ugh, forget that. I actually slept in this morning.”

  “So how’s the life of leisure coming?” Trip asked. “Add any new relatives to your menagerie?”

  “Don’t ask. And no. Although, the way Annie was going on about Mom yesterday, I wouldn’t be surprised if she showed up requesting sanctuary.”

  “Nah, she’d go to one of those high-priced spas with luxury amenities, like real food and individual beds.”

  “Maybe she’d take me with her,” I said. “Hey, I’ve got a news tip for you.”

  “We newshounds don’t take tips from just anybody,” he said. “You got cred?”

  “I’ve got crud. But it’s in my kitchen.”

  “That’s no way to talk about your grandmother’s cooking. What’s up?”

  “C&W’s now facing a probe by the commonwealth’s unemployment office,” I told him. “Possible ongoing, pernicious abuse of the system. It was referred for investigation this morning.”

  “Oh my God, that’s wonderful,” Trip said. “What did you do?”

  “I’d love to take credit, but this was all the hearing supervisor. She’d really done her homework. Plus Walters was a total ass.”

  “Walters came to your hearing?”

  “Sporting a matching pair of attorneys,” I said. “For all the good it did him. The supervisor had pulled up old records and noticed a pattern of habitually fighting claims. Do you know that bunch hasn’t paid unemployment in at least ten years?”

  “Until now, he said hopefully?”

  “Until now. Not only will I get benefits, but I’m going to get my health insurance back. Along with reimbursement for the money I spent at the dentist.”

  “Yeee-haaa!”

  “You said it, cowboy.”

  “This calls for a celebration,” Trip said.

  “You wanna come for dinner?”

  “Only if I can bring my own dinner.”

  “Tom has spoiled you,” I said.

  “Edible food has spoiled me. I can’t believe it. You’re bringing C&W to its knees.”

  “If Billy Bob can get his support group to go on the record, he’ll have a hell of a story,” I said.

  We both went silent.

  “I want you on this story, too,” Trip said, finally. “None of this would have even been possible if you hadn’t been working it from your end. This whole thing is gonna be over soon. Come back to the paper.”

  “I don’t know. My goal was to find out who killed Coleman. That’s the story I’m working. And I still haven’t cracked it.”

  “Yeah, but you put Walters in hot water,” he said. “Political juice or no, he’ll have a hell of a time wriggling out of this.”

  “Your mouth to God’s ear. Now if I could just figure out who killed the other weasel.”

  “Speaking of weasels, have you heard the latest on Mira?” Trip asked.

  “She’s moving? She’s in jail? She’s moving to jail?”

  “No such luck,” he said. “She’s getting hitched.”

  “Someone wants to marry that?”

  “Apparently.”

  I remembered her batting her eyes at Chaz. Nah, couldn’t be. Could it?

  “Who’s the schmuck?” I asked.

  “Her publisher’s son. Lenny? Denny? Donny? It’s a family newspaper group, so the kid stands to inherit the whole shebang some day.”

  “Figures,” I said. “Marriage as a career move sounds like Mira.”

  “Yeah, it’s almost enough to make me feel sorry for a billionaire’s son.”

  “I think Margaret has a new hobby,” I said.

  “Torturing small animals? Setting fires?”

  “Impersonating me.”

  “Good lord,” Trip said. “Why would anyone want to be you?”

  “My very thought every time I look in the mirror. Someone claiming to be me, with my Social Security number, called the phone company and
the power company and had them disconnect service last night.”

  “You think this is health insurance scam, part two?” he asked.

  “Sounds like. She’s got all the information. And she definitely hates me, although I don’t know why.”

  “Mira’s column did imply you might have been sleeping with her husband.”

  “Yeah, but like everything else in her story, that was a total fabrication,” I said. “And since C&W did the fabricating, they know it’s not true. Besides, I’ve seen her around Coleman’s real mistress, and Margaret was always totally placid.”

  “I don’t know, Red. Struck me as a little tightly wound.”

  “Struck me across the face, so I’d have to agree with you. Here’s the weird part: more of the mail’s gone AWOL. I nearly missed my hearing this morning because I never got the notice. And when I realized my latest mortgage statement hadn’t arrived, I phoned the mortgage company this afternoon. You know what they told me? Someone had already called them to make arrangements to surrender the house. Told them she was me, and that I was out of work and couldn’t make the payments.

  “Oh, jeez . . .”

  “I straightened it out,” I said. “And I’d already put my mail on hold indefinitely.”

  “Red, if she’s taking your mail, that means she’s been coming by the house. Recently.”

  “Yeah, I know. Scares the crap out of me. Nick says she’s escalating.”

  “He studied crime in Arizona?”

  “With an intensive course of Law & Order reruns,” I said.

  “Problem is, he’s right.”

  “Problem is, Nick and I are going to be out of the house tonight at a bridal registry seminar.”

  “I’m only working until six or so,” Trip said. “I could swing by and protect the womenfolk.”

  “Who’d protect you?”

  “Hey, your Baba loves me.”

  “She does. Which means she’ll want to feed you.”

  “Are you trying to scare me off?” he asked.

  “Gotta run. I gotta pick up my engagement ring.”

  “From a cereal box?”

  “From the post office.”

  “Next time,” Trip said, “get a mail-order groom to go with it.”

  Chapter 37

  I decided not to tell Nick where we were going until we were already en route. Less chance of him jumping ship.

  “You gotta be kidding,” he said, when I finally informed him of our plans for the evening.

  “Hey, if I can finish this story inside of ten days, I get three thousand dollars.”

  “How much do I get?”

  “How about a roof over your head and a working kitchen?”

  “With power and heat?” he asked.

  “That was not my fault,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s what they all say. So I’m pretty much being kidnapped and forced to go to this thing?”

  “Unless you want to jump out of a moving car.”

  “Right now that does seem like my best option,” Nick said.

  “Oh, relax. You’ll drink some punch and eat a few sandwiches, while I get a handle on what it’s like to create a bridal registry. Then we’re outta there. Besides, it’ll be good practice for you.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “You’re engaged. You guys might want to do a registry yourselves.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think Gabby’s the wedding registry type. I know I’m not. Besides, at this point, I’m not exactly sure we’re even getting married.”

  “Really?” I asked. “What happened?”

  He sighed. “Nothing happened. I just don’t know if she’s over her last boyfriend. They were together for years. I think he’s been calling, and I think he wants her back. Hell, I know he wants her back. Why wouldn’t he?”

  Mr. Photo Strip. I wish I’d been wrong.

  Nick turned and looked out the window. We rode in silence for a couple of miles.

  “Hey,” I said suddenly, “we need names.”

  “You mean like secret identities?”

  “We have our secret identities. I’m Reporter Girl, and you’re Baker Boy.”

  “Baker Man.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “What we need are alter egos.”

  “Or Baker Dude. Or Super Baker.”

  “Names,” I said. “We need names. We’re spies, and we’re being dropped behind enemy lines into Bride-zillaland. It’s a police state where fascist fiancées rule with iron fists. Perfectly manicured, of course.”

  “Sounds grim.”

  “You have no idea,” I said. “Try listening to a week of nonstop bridal bitching.”

  “Nick and Nora?” he asked.

  “Big stretch for you.”

  “Peter and Mary Jane?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry, Spidey.”

  “Clark and Lois?”

  “Why don’t we just call ourselves Woodward and Bernstein?”

  “Works for me,” Nick said. “I wanna be Bernstein.”

  “Names!”

  “George and Martha?” he offered.

  “No.”

  “Fred and Wilma?”

  “No.”

  “Fred and Daphne?”

  “No!”

  “Fred and Ginger?”

  “OK, that one I kinda like,” I said. “But no.”

  “There’s just no pleasing you brides,” he said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Boris and Natasha?” he suggested.

  “No!”

  “Darren and Samantha?”

  “No!” I said. “No Brad and Angelina. No Brad and Jennifer.”

  “How about Brad and Gwyneth?”

  “We’re supposed to be typical,” I said. “Forgettable. You ever meet a Gwyneth?”

  “Tom and Jerry?” Nick asked. “We could spell Gerry with a ‘G,’ like it’s short for Geraldine.”

  “Again, think invisible,” I said. “Like, ‘blends into the background.’ You know, normal. How about Kay and Bill?”

  “I don’t feel like a Bill,” Nick said. “I’m feeling more like a Jim this evening.”

  “Fine. Kay and Jim, then,” I said.” Now what about last names? And don’t say ‘Stabler and Benson.’”

  “Brandon.”

  “OK, you’re Jim Brandon. How about Kay Woodville?”

  “Man,” Nick said, “when we go white bread, we really go bleached white bread.”

  “Hey, not everyone is blessed with a last name no one can pronounce,” I said.

  “Or spell.”

  “We’re spies,” I said. “Remember, bland. Forgettable.”

  “So no food fights?”

  “If you’re going to throw food, start with that road tar Baba made for lunch,” I said. “She’s got plenty of leftovers.”

  “No thanks,” he said. “The only thing worse than that stew would be a weaponized version of that stew.”

  The store hosting the registry seminar had closed to the public for tonight’s “special event.” As we walked in, couples were milling around a table of sandwiches and a big crystal punch bowl set up in the middle of the store.

  I glanced down at the ring Annie’s assistant had overnighted me. It was one of the smaller ones. From her second engagement. “Only two carats,” Annie promised.

  I felt like I had a paperweight tied to my finger.

  I didn’t want to be too obvious with a reporter’s notebook, so I’d brought a small, red spiral to take notes. With my lousy handwriting, no one would know the difference. They’d just assume I was doing research for “my special day.”

  Nick made a beeline for the food table. When I caught up with him, he had a mini-napoleon in one hand and some kind of puff pastry in the other.

  “You can use a plate,” I said.

  “Hey, you’re lucky I’m using napkins. Man, these really suck. The crust is tough, and the filling tastes like snot.”

  “You oughta know. Where’s your name tag?” I ha
d “Kay” dutifully written on a pink, heart-shaped sticker pasted under my left clavicle.

  “I don’ need no stinkin’ name tag,” he said.

  “I hear that, man,” said a burly guy next to Nick. “I’m Mike.”

  “Jim.”

  “So how’d she get you here?” Mike asked.

  “I was kidnapped,” Nick-Jim said. “You?”

  “Told me we were going to the auto show,” Mike said.

  “That’s cold.”

  “Tell me about it,” Mike said. “I didn’t even have a chance to pack supplies.”

  “Hey, I’m Kay,” I said. “Supplies?”

  “The strongest stuff in that punch is ginger ale,” Mike said. “And this gig is supposed to go at least two hours.”

  “Gotcha,” Nick said. “So which one is yours?”

  Mike pointed to a tall, slim brunette chatting animatedly with two other brides over a display of formal place settings. “Sophie,” he said.

  “Very nice,” Nick observed. “Wanna trade?”

  “Right now, I’d swap her for a bus pass and a ticket to the auto show.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Nick said. “Have an éclair, my man.”

  Fifteen minutes later, it was like a junior high dance: all the girls on one side of the room, all the guys clustered around the food.

  Unfortunately, no one had spiked the punch.

  Nick-Jim was in the center of a knot of men. Knowing Nick, if they didn’t start this thing soon, there were going to be a few less grooms to work with.

  “So what do you want to get out of this?” I asked a bubbly blonde whose tag read “Christy.”

  “Loot,” she said with a giggle.

  “Really?”

  “Look, we’re spending sixty thousand dollars. And we’ve got three hundred people coming. If we don’t clear gifts worth at least two hundred dollars each, we’re losing money.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” said a pretty Asian bride, whose name tag read “Molly.” “My sister spent fifty thousand on her wedding last year. And some of the guests sent cheap stuff that wasn’t even on the registry. The other half picked the least expensive thing on the list. She ended up with thirty salad forks. Can you imagine? Salad forks!”

  “That’s not going to happen to me,” Sophie said. “I’m not putting anything on my registry that’s less than two hundred and fifty bucks.”