by D. A. Bale
The obvious double-entendre deserved a scathing comeback – maybe something about a third leg – until my mind about gave me whiplash as it skirted back to last night’s elevator lip lock. And the wall press. Though the resultant events put a screeching halt to the tangled two-step with Zeke, I was definitely way overdue for some legwork. When did Nick say he’d be home? Oh Nick, Nick. Wherefore art thou, Nick?
Then again, Radioman was in town, available and obviously willing.
Focus, Vicki!
“Zeke took me along because he can’t be tied to Amy’s case, even though we both have a strong personal interest in Bobby’s innocence.”
“And that right there is why both of you need to stay out of it and leave this case to me.”
“W-What?” I stuttered. “Why?”
“You’re both personally vested in and committed to Vernet’s innocence,” Duncan returned.
“But he is innocent.”
“Personal feelings cloud the facts, sweetheart.”
And I thought we’d made real progress after the events of the other night. Forget it. Duncan just landed right back on my bad vibe list.
“Then I’ll just have to find Amy’s killer on my own.”
“Go home, Nancy Drew, and leave the investigating to the professionals.”
The detective opened a desk drawer and made to file away Amy’s birth records. The records I’d suffered so much humiliation to get. Records that cost me more of my hard-earned money. Documents that left me with little sleep the past three days and had left my apartment all shattered and tattered.
Oh hell-to-the-no with a capital H.
In one fluid movement, I snatched the envelope from Duncan’s hand, leapt from the desk, and sauntered across the precinct as fast as my legs would carry me.
“Hey, bring that back here, sweetheart.”
“Make me.”
“I can have you arrested for absconding with information in an official police investigation.”
“I never said I’d give it to you,” I said, pressing the elevator button. “Besides, I paid for this and have a receipt to prove it.”
“I’ll get a court order!” Duncan yelled.
“Go ahead. Take it down to Austin like I did. I’ll even give you the name of the lady to see in vital statistics.”
I chuckled as the elevator door closed. Lady was a definite stretch for Madam Bitchy.
Chapter Seventeen
“Where do you want these?”
Janine held up a couple of books that appeared to have escaped my apartment’s bombing. I stopped sweeping glass long enough to wipe the sweat from my eyes and focus attention away from the mess – the never-ending mess.
I sighed. “Put ‘em in the bedroom closet with what’s left of my clothes.”
As Janine scuttled away to do my bidding, I sank into the window seat and took stock. After two hours of sorting, shoveling, sweeping, and stowing we’d still only made a miniscule dent in the debris field.
Between the two of us, we’d spent the first thirty minutes simply trying to decide where to begin and the next thirty minutes picking through my strewn-about wardrobe and hanging what we could in the closet for later inspection. Since the damage in there was minimal, we’d dubbed it the ‘safe zone’ a place to put anything deemed worthy of keeping. What it contained was achingly miniscule compared to what it had held BB – Before Bombing. If it wasn’t shredded it was embedded with glass particles and debris no amount of washing or dry cleaning would ever make wearable again.
By the ninety minute mark, we’d succeeded in carving out pathways connecting the rooms so walking wasn’t so hazardous, discovering a package of precious Oreos ground like dust into the carpet. That made me hotter than a menopausal middle-aged woman, until Janine offered to donate a package to the Victuals for Vicki fund. Then we moved the destroyed mattress against the wall near the apartment entry, discovered the box springs untouched – hallelujah – and returned a few unbroken dresser drawers to their rightful home. With some nails, industrial-strength hot glue, and a lot of prayer, a few additional drawers might be restored to useful status again.
Or not.
The bottom of the second hour had us in the bathroom desperately sweeping up glass from the shattered mirror, vanity light globes, and the old sliding glass shower doors. Hey, a girl can only hold it so long before nature stops calling and pounds on the bladder, screaming at the top of her lungs.
And yes, nature is always referred to in the feminine. Ever hear of Mother Nature? I rest my case.
After going over and over the tiled floor with a broom and dustpan and getting little but the larger chunks, Janine stepped in with the super-sized shop vac and sucked up those microscopic shards faster than a tornado on a Tuesday. With the glassed-in shower doors gone, maybe Jimmy-the-Super would remove the tacky brass framing so I could install a tension rod and curtain.
Jimmy. Humph. I wasn’t sure I wanted that man in my apartment, considering he was suspect one on my list of destructors. No sign of forced entry meant someone was either a really good lock picker or they entered with a key. Maybe that someone was also responsible for accessing the rooftop door and throwing Amy into the parking lot below? The red blinking neon signs pointed to my super.
Guess what I would be buying and installing on my door as an early birthday present?
The only thing that didn’t make sense was what Jimmy gained by killing Amy. With the tattoos covering an assortment of muscle big enough to pulverize a tank – or an apartment – the how wasn’t even an issue. Maybe he was simply the muscle in a drug gang war and ordered to kill her. Made sense. But then who was pulling Jimmy’s strings?
A muffled knock at my front door. No way! Please don’t let it be Jimmy. Please don’t let it be Jimmy.
A peek through the peep hole sent my fear into overdrive. I unlocked the door then inched it open, hoping to avoid the worst.
“Uh…hi, Mom.”
The scent of nail polish hovered in the air around her. Fresh hair color and blunt ends swung from a new cut. Yep, Mom had been at the salon, which meant she’d probably just dropped off her best friend after a day of beauty. Which meant only one thing.
“Hello, dear. I was just talking with Mrs. De’Laruse and…good heavens!” Mom pressed the door open and pushed past me. “What in God’s good name have you done to your apartment, Victoria?”
Janine came racing into the living room all bug-eyed and looking like she’d just been bushwhacked. At some point, my best friend had broken our cardinal rule and told her mother where she was headed. Her mother had then talked to my mother. Word between our families spreads like a wildfire during a West Texas drought. I offered Janine my best stare down before readdressing my mother.
“Just doing a little spring cleaning, Mom. Care to join us?”
“It’s summer,” Mom deadpanned, staring at the mounds of stuffing that had once padded my couch and chairs.
“Way to state the obvious,” I muttered.
“Was this why you left in such a rush?” Mom directed to Janine.
Janine blanched. “Well I…um…didn’t want…”
Since the time our mothers did diaper duty, my best friend never could handle being put on the spot, especially when cornered by either her mother or mine. When we were teens and had stayed out late or snuck into a party where we weren’t allowed – for which I take full blame – all my mom had to do was give Janine the look. Poor girl would practically pee her pants and spill faster than water down a waterslide. For years I’d tried to teach her a good poker face – alas, to no avail. Instead she just seemed constipated.
“Relax, Mom,” I intervened. “My apartment was broken into last night, is all.”
“How can you say relax and break-in all in the same sentence?” Her eyes widened when she took in the wreak that used to be the dining table she’d bought. “Your lovely dinette. The chairs.”
Yo
u know that saying about never coming between a momma bear and her cub? When my mom’s green eyes glinted and flashed like lightning before a hailstorm, I understood it right quick. You ever see a momma bear in action when her cub has been threatened? Made me about pee my pants – and I’m the cub in this particular drama.
Mom whipped out her cell phone faster than the credit card on a shopping spree.
***
Next to Mrs De’Laruse, Reginald von Braun was probably my mother’s dearest friend. ‘Course, that might have more to do with the fact my mother provides ample support of his interior decorating business. For as long as I can remember, every three years he completely overhauled my parents’ home, not to mention the annual rounds of Easter, Independence Day, fall – we didn’t dare call it Halloween – and Christmas décor with accompanying soirees. The only thing he was never allowed to touch was the Christmas tree, as Mom liked to save that bit of decorating as a family tradition.
She may as well have let him participate there too. With Reginald on speed dial and at the house for one reason or another, it was safe to say he was as close to family as I’d ever known. Hell, I liked him better than my own father.
So it was perfectly reasonable to tear up a bit when Reginald’s dark, round face peeked around my door before throwing it wide open with his usual panache.
“Victoria, mein liebchen!” Reginald cried as he wrapped his gangly arms around my waist and buried my face in his hairy chest, before kissing both cheeks then holding me at arm’s length. “Naughty, naughty, naughty to leave Reginald for so long.”
“It’s good to see you, Reggie,” I replied, taking in the peach and hot pink flamenco shirt ruffles fluttering with his boundless energy. Only Reggie could make the combination work.
I’m also the only person in the Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex capable of getting away with shortening his name. It might have a little to do with the fact it was easier for a two-year-old to say. But as I got older and wiser, it grew clear the German accent was fake. Which meant the name was likely fake. It might also have something to do with Zeke’s discovery that Reginald’s real name was Reggie Brown – and he had a juvie record – all of which I kept mum.
Still, Reggie was living proof that with enough hard work, dedication, and talent – not to mention the right connections – anyone could rehab their image from bad boy to the area’s leading interior designer. Texas mojo and the American entrepreneurial spirit at its finest. Just don’t judge him by the personal fashion sense.
Reggie looked wide-eyed around my living room, pursed his lips then chucked my chin. “So zis is where leettle Victoria has been hiding herself, no?”
Mom interjected, “Some thief had the audacity to break into my daughter’s apartment. Just look at the place.”
After a quick peck in greeting to both Mom and Janine, Reggie took my mother’s advice. No one spoke as Reggie followed the cat trails we’d created through the heap that had become my apartment. A hmm vibrated from the bedroom. Tsk-tsk echoed in the bathroom before he made his return to the living room. With one hand on his black leather-clad hip and the other with a finger at the corner of his lips, Reggie completed a series of three-hundred-and-sixty degree turns encompassing the living, dining, and kitchen before passing sentence.
“Zis place is a mess.”
I laughed out loud at the obvious.
“But not beyond saving, mein liebchen,” Reggie continued with a flourish of his hands. “Zis is why mothers call, no?”
“Where do you think we should start?” Mom asked.
“Don’t you think we should finish cleaning first?” Janine put in.
I simply stood by and watched the show, knowing I’d lost complete control of my apartment the moment Mom hit speed dial. But even in the loud outfit, I trusted Reginald. I think. Maybe.
“Not to worry,” Reggie said, “tis all part of zee plan.” A sharp clap of his hands made all of us jump. “Han!”
Reggie’s diminutive Asian assistant came scurrying in pushing a small, metal cart loaded with decorator books, fabric swatches, carpet swatches, paint and tile samples, you name it. I immediately felt a headache coming on and wanted to hug the medicine cabinet like an accountant during tax season. Only the medicine cabinet was no longer there.
“Um, Mom?” I called, joining her overlooking the kitchen island. “Not that I don’t appreciate seeing Reggie, but I can no longer afford to piddle in your park. How much is this gonna cost me?”
“That reminds me,” Mom said. “Reginald, this place needs a full and total remodel. Design, furniture, electronics, everything. Include a full security system as well.”
Reggie’s ebony eyes shined with dollar signs, and Han sped up laying out sample books across the counter. I felt like I’d just been bucked from a bronco into next week.
“I can’t afford this, Mom.”
“Really, Victoria. Who do you think is paying for it all?”
The black AmEx came to mind. I considered my word carefully. “Dad?”
“Exactly,” she replied without missing a beat. “Since it’s obvious you won’t be returning to the family home anytime soon, I need the assurance that my daughter is comfortable and safe. What’s a few hundred thousand to a mother’s peace of mind?”
I gulped. It’s not a piddle in the park, that’s for sure.
Chapter Eighteen
With a need to wash my tainted clothes, not to mention desperation to escape the madness overtaking my apartment, I snatched up a load or two in a basket and crept downstairs to the communal laundry. I had to have something to wear to work tonight.
Normally on Saturdays I wore something awesome and sexy. Made me feel all flirty, which helped me connect with patrons of the male persuasion, which garnered better tips. However, most of those little numbers were dry clean only types. Even though my mother would offer to pay for the one-hour dry cleaning service, the remodel of my apartment was more than enough to set her back for the next few months – more like hours on the sperm donor’s dime. I just didn’t want to milk it any more than necessary.
After all, I was a proud independent woman now. Well, sorta.
Tonight it would be simple – jean shorts and a colorful, scoop neck t-shirt. After dumping denim in one washer and colors in another, I sat down in a corner and fought the urge to fall asleep. Forty minutes later, the buzz woke me enough to stumble across the room to fill a dryer before reentering dreamland and all it entailed.
Made me miss Nick even more. Maybe he’d returned from parts unknown and we could meet up at the bar tonight for a session of extreme stress release. It’d save me having to face Zeke again – until I had to pick up Slinky in the morning.
I couldn’t keep treating my poor, traumatized kitty to a life of vagrancy, staying at Zeke’s one night and somewhere else the next. If I could just get my apartment cleaned up and buy a new mattress, I could stay here. Honest I could. ‘Cause even though he’d probably say yes, asking Nick to let us shack up with him for a few days was too intimate. Out of the question. No way, no how, and a great big hell no.
The snort and drool trickle woke me from my musings right before the dryer buzzed like an alarm clock. A few other tenants had arrived for laundry duty, so I shoved mine into the basket and lugged my exhausted and stiff carcass up to the fourth floor.
It’s amazing what a team of big strong men can do in less than two hours. In my absence, Reggie had called in the cavalry – and then some. About ten sweaty guys swarmed my one-bedroom apartment, tugging up carpet from a virtually blank slate, ripping cabinets from my kitchen, and carrying out the final remnants of the trash heap. My jaw almost hit the floor.
“What in the…heck?”
I quickly modified my preferred wording when Mom turned around from where she stood by the window seat, ear to the phone and jaw determined. Thankfully Slinky’s favorite window seat haunt hadn’t been destroyed – yet. Jimmy-the-Super stoo
d in the center of my living room, alternately yelling at the workers to stop tearing up carpet and targeting Reggie and Han, who pretty much ignored him and continued comparing swatches and paint samples.
Janine was nowhere to be found. Then the bedroom door crept open a fraction of an inch and a recognizable blue eye shown through the crack. I scuttled past everyone and joined her before dropping the laundry basket on the vacant floor of my bedroom.
“What’s going on, Janine?” I asked.
“Your mom’s gone a little, shall we say, nuts.”
“I can see that.”
“She and Reginald got it in their heads to do a complete overhaul of your apartment,” Janine replied, “including structural.”
So much for buying a new mattress and staying here during a quick reno. “But she can’t do that. I don’t own, I rent.”
“Which is why your super is here raising cain. He’s threatened to call the cops.”
“Oh great, just what I need right now. More vice visitors.”
Janine’s cell phone rang. While she spoke to her mom, I contemplated what it would be like to watch the police haul my bound and determined mother off to jail. I doubted if I could convince them to trade her out for my dad instead. After all, his AmEx card was the culprit behind this current chaos.
When Janine hung up her phone, my brain shifted gears with her words faster than my Vette on the freeway.
“Bobby’s been bailed from jail.”
***
The yellow crime scene barrier was gone when we pulled up to Bobby’s house. Freshly showered, shaved, and dressed, he answered the door with a surprising sparkle in his blue eyes.
“I have a new mission,” Bobby said before Janine or I could ask.
We followed him into the living room in stunned silence and sat together on the beige couch while he continued the stunning reveal.
“I’m going to start a prison ministry.”
Janine was the first to find her tongue. “But what about the children’s pastorate at the church?”
“Dad’s already begun the search for someone else to fill that position.”
“Wait a minute,” I said with just a touch of heat. “Your father fired you?”