Double Trouble

by Gretchen Archer

  I gave up.

  I sent a text message to Fantasy. I’m going to need a minute.

  “Scoot over, Candy.” I climbed into bed with my daughters and my muddy dog, at noon, on a Sunday, a Sunday I was in charge of the Bellissimo Resort and Casino and a Sunday five million dollars were missing, a Sunday thousands of Elvii were invading the twenty-eight floors below me, leaving a half-deaf half-blind centenarian wearing a nightgown who might or might not know something about the missing money, an irritated and sleep-deprived best friend and partner, my mother, who I had nothing to say about just then, and my loud-mouth, plus-sized, orange-haired ex-ex-mother-in-law, who shouldn’t have even been there at all, much less wearing nude leggings, to fend for themselves.

  I reached for the phone.

  “What do we want for lunch, girls?”

  I ordered a large cheese pizza and four banana splits.

  And that was after breakfast donuts.

  And those were after pancakes the day before when it all started.

  I said, “Let’s not tell Daddy. We don’t want his feelings hurt because he’s missing all the fun.”

  I tried to close my eyes, but couldn’t stop staring at the ceiling, trying to stare through it to the Penthouse. I wondered if Bianca Sanders could feel me below her with the same intensity I could feel her above me.

  * * *

  The girls and I didn’t leave my bedroom until they’d watched Frozen for a record-breaking third time, I’d bathed Candy twice, changed the linens on my bed, and Housekeeping, along with Maintenance, had cleared most of the mud from my home. There were still traces, and the carpet in my living room was scheduled to be replaced the next morning—living above a resort had its perks—but for the most part, I was mud-free by late afternoon. I wasn’t Mother free, or Bea Crawford free, or Birdy James free, but mostly mud-free.

  When I finally braved the world outside my bedroom, because Bex and Quinn were bored and Candy was tired of being bathed, Fantasy had gone home to salvage a few hours of her day off with her husband and three sons. She’d left me a note: I couldn’t get a thing out of Bird Woman. For one, she can’t stay awake. She fell asleep mid-sentence several times. When she was awake, she couldn’t hear me over the cleanup equipment and Bea. What is Bea doing here? Does she ever shut up? Back to Bird Woman, because I’ve had about enough of Bea, I showed her the Birdyhand business she drew on her Incident Report and she couldn’t decipher it because she couldn’t see it. She thinks she has a spare pair of glasses in her Lost and Found desk. Think you could sneak down there for them tonight when things settle down? Sorry about your carpet. And Bea. And I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you Bianca was back in town. In my defense, I didn’t know about it until Baylor texted last night, and I fully intended to tell you first thing this morning, but between the money and your mother and the mud, and good grief, all the Elvises, I couldn’t find the right time. It’ll be okay, Davis, I’ve got your back. Good luck tonight. Talk tomorrow.

  Elvii, Fantasy. The correct word for more than one Elvis was Elvii. And she could have found the right time. How long would it have taken to say, “By the way, Davis, gird your loins, Bianca is back.”

  I turned the corner to my living room slowly.

  My carpet was the color of wastewater.

  I found my mother trying to incinerate herself frying pork chops in a cast-iron skillet over a roaring fire in the RumbleStone firepit on the veranda—by then the mercury had climbed just past the one-hundred-degree mark—and the only thing Mother had to say about it, shouting at me through the veranda door, the tomato buckets pushed back into a semi-circle behind her, far from the inferno, was, “Your stove isn’t worth taking out back and shooting, Davis.”

  My mother and I were so, so different. If I were going to shoot the stove, I’d shoot it where it stood.

  Bea Crawford, who shouldn’t have even been there, at all, was on my kitchen porch watering tomato plants, the porch, the porch furniture, the sky, the glass doors, and every thirty seconds, herself. She turned the garden hose on herself. She yelled at me through glass. “I hope you know it’s hotter than hell out here, Davis.”

  As if I could do something about the heat.

  Birdy James was mouth-wide-open snoring in one of my dining room wingback chairs that had been relocated to the living room. She was still wearing her flannel nightgown under the heaviest winter blanket I owned, her gray wig askew, and her frail hands on top of the blanket were clasped in open-casket mode.

  It ran through my mind that I could quickly pack a bag for myself, Bex, Quinn, and Candy (who travels light), call Transportation, tell them it was an emergency, because it sure felt like an emergency, then fly to Vegas for the comfort, the sheer comfort, of my husband. He’d know what to do. But I stopped myself. I stayed put. I needed to figure out what to do. My husband trusted me to know what to do. He was counting on me to know what to do. I was counting on myself to know what to do. He could have very easily done what everyone expected him to do and left Baylor in charge while he was away, but he hadn’t. And I didn’t want to let myself, or him, down. So I woke Birdy as gently as I could. I made her a cup of the strongest ginger tea I thought she could swallow. I turned on Frozen for the unheard of fourth time in a single day, and after parking Bex, Quinn, and Candy in front of the television, I led Birdy to Bradley’s home office, settled her in, then, through two more cups of ginger tea, dragged the following information out of her:

  She had no idea who left the blue bag full of money at the Lost and Found door during the wee hours of Saturday. She couldn’t lift it, so she solved the problem in 516.035. (Who? What? Where?) Class 500, she explained, was the Birdy Decimal System denotation for Lost and Found suitcases. Division 10, she explained, was Lost and Found black suitcases. Section 6 meant Lost and Found black spinner suitcases. The subclass decimal designation of .035 meant that there were thirty-five black spinner suitcases in Lost and Found inventory, and the one she chose to transfer the blue bag to had been there the longest. I asked how long. She said she’d have to check her log, but at least since Roosevelt was in office. (Why did I ask?) She rolled 516.035 to the hall just outside the open door of Lost and Found to the blue bag of money. She emptied it. (Seven articles of ladies clothing, two pairs of ladies’ shoes, size nine, a large makeup bag, and a set of Clairol hot rollers.) (Maybe the suitcase had been there since Roosevelt was in office.) Then she rigged a pulley by knotting one leg of a pair of men’s trousers from 340.988 to the straps of the blue bag and knotting the other leg to the base of her rolling desk chair, then sitting in the chair and inching forward, she managed to lob the blue bag into the black spinner suitcase. She zipped the spinner closed, extended the handle, then rolled both black spinner suitcases to 516.035. (Both?) “Both, Birdy?” I asked. “What do you mean by both?” Then she asked me what I meant by both. So I asked, “Did it take two suitcases to hold the money?” Then she asked what I meant by two suitcases. On a very heavy sigh, I said, “Keep going.” All I’d really learned was that at some point the money was in a blue bag and the blue bag was in a black suitcase somewhere in Lost and Found. “What’d you do next?” Next, she said she rehomed the former contents of 516.035, including the Clairol hot rollers, to a Bellissimo shopping bag and recategorized it to 842.116. (I didn’t ask.) (But I did wonder how in the world she remembered Dewey Decimal details when she had no idea who was President.)

  When we spoke Saturday morning, Birdy clearly heard me say, “Call Room Service.” And she was right; I said it. But it was meant for Bradley about pancakes for Bex and Quinn, not for Birdy about five million dollars. She called Room Service, then sent 516.035 with a girl Elvis. Room Service Girl Elvis had spiky gold hair and was wearing a skin-tight gold lamé jumpsuit under a gold lamé cape. Birdy told Gold Lamé Elvis the whole story, all five million details. She asked Gold Lamé Elvis to deliver the suitcase straight to the boss’s wife. (It would have b
een a good time to mention to Birdy that Gold Lamé Elvis, in fact, did not deliver the suitcase straight to the boss’s wife, but I didn’t want to confuse her lest she go off on a wedding cake tangent.) (I wasn’t about to bring up the subject of the wedding cake, because Birdy was confused enough already.)

  Fifteen minutes after she sent the spinner suitcase with Gold Lamé Elvis, when the vault guards showed up, both dressed as Elvis in black slacks and white jackets over black silk shirts, Birdy told them the whole story, the whole five-million-dollar story, including the blue bag part, the 516.035 black spinner suitcase part, and the Gold Lamé Elvis part, then sent them on their merry way with three tiers of wedding cake—there it was—to be, as she misunderstood it, locked in the vault.

  Minutes later, her shift over, and as Birdy was preparing to leave for the day, another Elvis walked in Birdy’s Lost and Found door asking if anyone had turned in his black spinner suitcase containing only one item: his award-winning Elvis belt. His most beloved possession. His wife, Mrs. Elvis, described the belt: made of shirt-weight leather, visible tailor’s chalk marks (hers) on the flip side, wide strips of Velcro on both ends, embellished, in an original pattern designed by hers truly, with silver studs and blue rhinestones attached with shoe glue. She showed Birdy pictures. Birdy admired the photographs, then told them she’d had five million dollars turned in (adding five million dollars’ worth of blue-bag, black-spinner-suitcase 516.035, Gold-Lamé-and-Black-Suit-Elvii fun facts), three baby stingrays, and the cake! The wedding cake! But no Elvis belt.

  Birdy clocked out, gathered her lunchbox and red plaid Aladdin thermos, rode the elevator to the lobby, then made her way to Valet East, where the Zest for Life minibus was waiting. After passing him a generous slab of wedding cake, Birdy told her sweet minibus driver, Robbie, who was like a great grandson to her, the story of her odd day. The blue bag waiting on her that morning. The five million dollars in the blue bag. The 516.035 black spinner suitcase she moved hot rollers out of and money into. Gold Lamé Elvis. Black Suited Elvii. The baby stingrays. Mr. and Mrs. Elvis and the missing silver-studded belt. And the cake! The wedding cake!

  At seven that evening, she changed into her nightgown, ordered two glasses of warm milk from the Zest for Life cafeteria—one for herself and one for her cat Mortimer—then waited for the warm milk to be delivered to her Senior Living door. It was, a little later than usual—and by guess who? Elvis! Beautiful Elvis! That one a deep brunette wearing skimpy red silk undergarments, maybe swimwear, beneath the most beautiful red silk Elvis cape Birdy had ever seen. And red high heels. Beautiful red high heels. She would have invited Bikini Elvis in and told her the story of her Elvis-wedding-cake-five-million-dollar day, but she wasn’t dressed. And it was time for her show. Which was just before her bedtime. So she tipped Bikini Elvis twenty cents, a dime for her warm milk and another dime for Mortimer’s, then at seven thirty, she sat down in her easy chair to watch Wheel of Fortune, sipping her good-to-the-last-drop milk. The very next thing she knew, it was morning, and she woke up in Lost and Found at the Bellissimo. She was very concerned about the state Lost and Found was in. Everything upturned. Everything out of place. As if a tornado had run through. Cages were open, bags and suitcases had been emptied, their contents strewn, and the slices of wedding cake she’d hidden in her desk for her coffee breaks were gone. She wasn’t wearing her bathrobe, or her slippers, so she borrowed from items that had made their way to Lost and Found since her last shift: an Elvis cape and Elvis slippers. Birdy was overly concerned about returning the items as soon as possible.

  She straightened Lost and Found as best she could (probably destroying any evidence left behind), coded herself out, locked the door behind her, then ran straight into a Bellissimo Safety Officer, another gorgeous girl Elvis. That particular gorgeous girl Elvis was a dusty blonde, hair cut in a long bob, wearing a white silk Elvis miniskirt beneath a white silk fringed jacket. The fringe went almost to her knees. Birdy, not knowing where to go or who to ask for help, thought of me and my vested interest in the wedding cake (I wasn’t the least bit, much less vestedly, interested in the wedding cake), and asked Fringe Elvis if she’d mind allowing her access to my elevator. Fringe Elvis complied. No, Birdy didn’t catch Safety Officer Fringe Elvis’s name. Yes, she told Fringe Elvis everything. Every detail. The blue bag, the five million dollars, the black spinner 516.035 suitcase, Gold Lamé Elvis, vault guard suited Elvii, the stingrays, Mr. and Mrs. Elvis and their missing silver-studded belt, Red Bikini Elvis delivering warm Zest for Life cafeteria milk, Pat Sajak, Mortimer, waking in upended Lost and Found, and the cake! The wedding cake!

  I showed her the magazine letter note delivered to my door that morning. I gently explained it indicated she’d been abducted from Zest for Life. I asked if she remembered anything. Anything at all. She remembered bits and pieces—riding in a black car, riding in a Bellissimo freight elevator, lying down on a bed of Lost and Found articles of clothing she made for herself from 827.168. And that was all she could remember. Then she asked how it happened. I explained her warm milk had most likely been spiked. She asked why someone would do that. I gave her the obvious answer she should have reached on her own: the person behind the note, her abduction, and the spiked milk needed Birdy to enter Lost and Found. She asked why. I told her because the person, who was obviously looking for something, couldn’t get in the door without her. She asked what they were looking for. I told her they were probably looking for the five million dollars. She asked how anyone could have possibly known about the five million dollars. I didn’t even halfway bother answering. She asked if that person had made the big Lost and Found mess. I said probably. She studied the note at length, then asked if that person had seen her in her nightgown. “I assume so, Birdy.” She asked about Mortimer. Had anyone checked on Mortimer? Did that person also sedate and abduct Mortimer? I told her I felt certain Mortimer was safe and sound at Zest for Life, then promised her I’d call.

  I passed her a magnifying glass and a copy of the Incident Report she’d filed Saturday morning. I asked her to translate the shorthand for me. She couldn’t. The magnifying glass made her Birdynotes too big. She needed her glasses.

  I took a deep breath and asked if she thought it was possible that Gold Lamé, Red Bikini, and Fringe Elvis were all the same woman. Birdy said no, because one had gold hair, one had dark hair, and one had dusty blonde hair. I asked if, hair color aside, the three women had any other similar physical characteristics: age, height, weight, eye color, scars, tattoos, voice, mannerisms. She said no, not that she noticed, and besides, she said, the three Elvii couldn’t be the same woman because she didn’t think it was possible for one woman to work for Room Service and Security at the Bellissimo, and at the same time, work for Cafeteria Delivery at Zest for Life.

  I, on the other hand, thought it was entirely possible. All the way to probable. And I thought her name was Megan Shaw. Miss Casino Credit Cashier Harrah’s-Vegas-Does-It-All-The-Time Megan Shaw. Who knew about the money first. It seemed obvious to me Megan had stolen, then lost or misplaced the five million, and spent the rest of the night trying to find it.

  I was hoarse from raising my voice for so long, because not only could Birdy not see without her glasses, she couldn’t hear without her hearing aid, but before I let her go, I managed to choke out, “Is that all, Birdy? Is there anything else? Do you want to tell me anything else at all?”

  “Well, one more thing.”

  I leaned in.

  “I need to ask you something, Davis.”

  I nodded. Go ahead.

  And that was when, in all seriousness, she asked if Elvis was performing at the Bellissimo. She, her sister, Constance, and her nephew, Malcolm, had seen him two years earlier in 1975 at the Hilton Hotel in Las Vegas. If Elvis was at the Bellissimo, did I have tickets? He was, like her, a Capricorn. Did I, by any chance, have an extra ticket? Was there the slightest chance I had two tickets? Because she knew for a
fact her nephew would love to see The King again too. If I didn’t have two tickets, could she buy two tickets?

  I told her I’d check.

  By the time I’d finished with Birdy, it was far too late in the day to make a mad dash for my husband—clearly, I should have left the minute it crossed my mind—but I wasn’t opposed to Plan B, in which I gathered my daughters and my dog and locked myself in my bedroom again until he came home at the end of the week. It was too much. I’d been the acting Director of the Bellissimo for a day. One little day. It had nothing to do with believing in myself or my ability to do my job. It had everything to do with the fact that Birdy James had told everyone who’d listen about the money, almost all of them Elvii, plus Mrs. Elvii, and even Robbie, her Zest for Life minibus driver. All said, I had a small village of people who knew about the money, and if even one or two of those people told anyone else, the number of people who knew five million dollars was rolling around the property in a black spinner suitcase was the size of a small city. I was on the verge of a sudden onset panic attack when a tap on the office door brought me back around.

  It could be a break in my five-million-dollar case.

  Someone with news of the money.

  It wasn’t.

  The door cracked open and my mother peeked in, without money news, but with dinner news. “Davis, I have some nice, thick, fried pork chops, potatoes and gravy, sliced cantaloupe, fried okra, a pan of biscuits, and a chocolate cobbler with vanilla ice cream. Come on and eat.”

  Bea Crawford, who shouldn’t have even been there, squeezed her head in above Mother’s. All I could really see was her bulbous red nose and her thin white lips. “Say, Davis. Can you call somebody at your beauty parlor downstairs and have them come up here after dinner and give me a good feet rub? With Mentholatum?”

  To my mother, I said, “That sounds wonderful. Thank you.”