Double Trouble

by Gretchen Archer

  “And I don’t know for sure the money’s in Lost and Found, Fantasy. I said there’s a possibility it could be there.” I had a lap full of butterfly sandal possibilities. “Like a fifty-fifty chance.”

  “If it’s not there, where is it?”

  “Long gone with the Casino Credit cashier.”

  “Do we have a lead on her?”

  “Not so much,” I said.

  “So we’re nowhere.”

  I was nowhere. With the butterfly sandals. Between talking to Fantasy and trying to switch the girls’ shoes in the backseat of a moving car, I wound up with Bex wearing two right sandals and Quinn wearing two left. Which they thought was hilarious. “Not exactly nowhere.” It wasn’t the time or place to explain Megan Shaw’s impossible life, or what I’d painstakingly dragged out of Birdy before pork chops. Then I painstakingly got the correct sandals on the correct feet of the correct child. “The truth is, Fantasy, the money could be anywhere. Reading between the Birdylines, it sounds like the money chain of custody was broken at some point. I feel certain Birdy knows something useful, but I can’t get it out of her. We have one last chance with the Birdynote she scribbled on her Incident Report, and if we can’t get her to decipher it this morning, we’ll have no choice but to bust into Lost and Found.”

  “This is the worst,” Fantasy said. “The absolute worst. If we could slow down enough to break into her Zest apartment, which would surely be easier than breaking into Lost and Found, we could get her glasses. Then she could read her Birdynote and stop running into the walls. If we could find her hearing aid, we could stick it in her ear. Then we could stop screaming at her. We have to find an easier way to communicate with Bird Woman. When I tried to talk to her yesterday, I didn’t get the feeling it was registering with her that we’d lost five million dollars. Or that she’d mishandled five million dollars. For some reason, she kept talking about cake. Every question I asked, I got a wedding cake answer. Bottom line, Davis, Bird Woman isn’t worried about the five million dollars. She’s worried about cake, her cat, and her glasses.”

  “We have glasses,” I said.

  “You just said you didn’t go to Lost and Found.”

  “But I did go to Walmart.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’d you get there?”

  “Bellissimo limo.”

  “What’d you buy?”

  “Five-hundred-dollar hearing aids and reading glasses in every strength I could find.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Now we’re getting somewhere. What’d the note say?”

  “I have no idea. I couldn’t wake her up. I fed her ginger tea earlier to wake her up and when the caffeine from it wore off, she crashed. Or maybe she was tired from all the excitement. I tried again fifteen minutes ago and got nowhere. She can’t hear me calling her name because the five-hundred-dollar hearing aids are still charging, and I’ve shaken her to the point of rattling her bones. She sleeps like Rip Van Winkle.”

  “So we’re nowhere.”

  “Not nowhere,” I said. “I found her cat.”

  “Does the cat happen to know where the money is?”

  “Pick it up on your way into work and we’ll ask it.”

  “Pick it up? Where is it?”

  “At PawPaw’s.”

  “Who’s?”

  “It’s a cat hospital on Iberville Drive. Swing by and pick it up on your way in.”

  “You want me to pick up a cat?” she asked. “We have no money, no leads, no Elvis suits, and I have to pick up a cat?”

  By then, we were pulling into a parking space at Pediatric Speech-Language Pathology on Courthouse Boulevard. “We have leads,” I said. “I’ll tell you all about them after Quinn’s appointment.”

  “Give me the headlines,” she said.

  “I will,” I said. “After you pick up the cat.”

  “And do what with it? Take it to your house?”

  “What am I supposed to do with a cat?” I asked. “I already have a dog.”

  “So do what with the cat?”

  “First, make sure it looks like a cat.”

  “As opposed to a what?”

  I had no idea what the hungover cat with a broken nose might look like. “I’ll tell you what,” I said, “take him to our office. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Our office-office?”

  “Would you rather try to work at my house?”

  “Oh, hell, no.”

  I didn’t think so. “I’ll drop off the girls to stay with Mother until July picks them up and check on Birdy while I’m there. Hopefully I can catch her awake so she can decipher her scribbling and/or give me the keypad combination to Lost and Found, then I’ll meet you in the office-office.”

  “What time?” she asked.

  “Ten. Ish.”

  “Sounds good,” she said. “One last question. What’s going on with the tomatoes?”

  “I’m about to kill one of the tomato farmers with my bare hands.”

  I said it just as I stepped up to the receptionist’s desk.

  The receptionist stopped typing, her fingers frozen over her keyboard.

  I told Fantasy I’d see her soon and hung up.

  I smiled at the receptionist.

  Who tried to smile back.

  Fifty minutes later, Bexley on my lap, only-child snuggling the entire time, and after Dr. Tyler’s apologetic smile—always the same, conveying sympathy, frustration, and a sliver of let’s-not-give-up hope, which was his way of letting me know my daughter hadn’t spoken a single word aloud during her session—it was nine o’clock in the morning Central, seven o’clock in the morning Pacific, and I was only certain about one thing: I should have listened to No Hair. I remembered his Lost and Found words of warning very clearly: “Something’s going to happen Old Bird can’t handle, and it will be on you.”

  I felt it on me.

  I felt it.

  Then I gathered my quiet Quinny in my arms and all I felt was her.

  * * *

  The temperature had climbed to ninety-six degrees by the time we returned to the Bellissimo. Opening the car door was like opening the oven. The sun, barely up in the sky, was boiling. The glare from it, bouncing indiscriminately from one object to the next, then back again, was blinding, and the heat was nothing compared to what I found when I checked the messages that had parked on my phone in one short hour.

  From Bradley: Give me a call after Quinn’s appointment.

  From Bradley’s Personal Assistant, Colleen: Housekeeping needs in Lost and Found. And Need casino verification on a Dragon Links jackpot in High Stakes. And Vault requesting permission to dispose of molding cake. And VIP needs in Lost and Found. And Elvis Tribute Concert scheduled for tomorrow night (Blue Suede Shoes) oversold by 280 seats. And Casino Services needs in Lost and Found. And All parking garages at maximum capacity. What to do with incoming guest vehicles? And Smoke alarm malfunction on fifteenth floor of the hotel tower. Guests evacuated for systems check. Need authorization to credit all rooms. And Casino Operations needs in Lost and Found. And Rumors of kitchen walkout at Chops tonight if Wagyu beef not replaced after chocolate mint contamination of yesterday’s shipment mistakenly delivered and temporarily stored in the chocolate mint ice cream freezer at Scoops. And Guest Services needs in Lost and Found. And Trouble reported with the ovens at Danish.

  Just what I needed. More trouble.

  From Baylor: Where are you? And Where are you? And a third Where are you?

  The elevator doors parted, and my home, such as it was, was in sight. “Who wants to watch Frozen with Nana?”

  Everyone wanted to watch Frozen with Nana. Including me.

  We stepped into a foyer full of living room furniture.

  The mud carpet.

  In all
the pandemonium, I’d forgotten.

  I struck out with Birdy, who was still asleep, and decided I’d wasted enough time waiting on her to wake up. I asked Bex and Quinn to be good girls for Nana, telling all three I’d see them in a few hours. I called out goodbye one last time, then opened and closed the front door as if I’d left. I slipped off my shoes, hugged walls, ducked behind doors, and sneaked all the way past Bex and Quinn’s playroom, where Frozen was already on, past carpet people in the living room, through the kitchen and to my office without anyone knowing I was still there. My first real victory of the day. I opened my office door quietly, slipped in, then closed it even more quietly. I sat on the edge of my chair, my purse still on my arm, and logged on to my laptop. After checking the security alerts I’d set up on Casino Credit Cashier Megan Shaw—nothing, no hits—I opened the Bellissimo personnel database to quickly pull every bit of information about Birdy James and Lost and Found I could find. I’d make it the first stop on my way to the office to meet Fantasy.

  For one, according to Colleen, everyone in the building needed in.

  For two, if the five million dollars was still there, it wouldn’t be there long.

  I scanned the Birdy info on the screen for common password criteria: her birthday, her Zest for Life apartment unit number, the first four digits of her Social Security Number, the last four digits of her Social Security Number, the year she was born. (Not that it would be right on our records, since Birdy probably had no idea.) If nothing worked, I’d do it Fantasy’s way; I’d shoot my way in. I was jotting the last numerical note, about to make my escape, when my phone rang. I’d made every move so stealthily, and all for naught, because my phone sounded like a fire drill. After all the trouble I’d gone to, I’d forgotten to mute my phone. My heart sank to the floor when I saw who it was. I took a deep breath. I answered. “Why didn’t you tell me Bianca was coming home, Bradley?”

  EIGHT

  Because he didn’t think I’d want to know.

  And he was right.

  I didn’t want to know.

  He asked about Quinn’s speech therapy. I answered truthfully. He asked about the Double Trouble convention. Again, I told the truth, adding I had no idea the convention was so large. He pointed out we knew months ago we’d be at full capacity. I told him the convention had spilled out of the Bellissimo and through the streets of Biloxi. It wasn’t just us on an Elvis bender. It was all of Biloxi. Then I asked if he thought the plural of Elvis was Elvises or Elvii. He said he didn’t know. I asked if he thought Elvii sounded stupid. He said he’d get back to me on that. Then he said he’d received a text message weather alert predicting record-breaking heat in Biloxi for the entire week. We marveled at the fact that it was cooler in Vegas than it was in Biloxi. By then, he needed to go. He was meeting No Hair and Mr. Sanders for breakfast at The Venetian’s Bouchon Bistro. Then before we said our I-love-yous and goodbyes, he asked if anything else was going on. That was when I lied through my teeth. “Nothing.”

  When the truth was everything.

  After assuring my husband all was well—no mention of wedding cake, millions of missing dollars, or new carpet in our living room—I had to talk myself down from the ledge our conversation left me on. I hadn’t lied to him so much as I’d withheld information. (Wedding cake, millions of missing dollars, new carpet.) Much like he’d withheld information from me. (Bianca Sanders was back in town.) If it got right down to it, I’d say to him what he’d just said to me: I didn’t think he’d want to know.

  By the time I’d finished not telling him what I didn’t think he’d want to know, it was ten o’clock. Eastern. I paused for just a second before I made my escape to do a little math. Ten in the morning Central was eight in the morning Pacific. Seattle was barely awake. At two that afternoon, Megan Shaw, single mother of one-year-old Oliver and guardian of ailing mother Louise, probably wouldn’t clock in.

  That gave me four hours.

  Megan’s supervisor, Gray Donaldson, wouldn’t notice until two fifteen.

  She’d stop what she was doing and try to locate Megan, who I had a feeling she wouldn’t find. In fact, I had a feeling we’d seen the very last of Megan Shaw we’d ever see.

  At two thirty, Gray Donaldson would take the five-million-dollar wheel.

  That gave me four and a half hours.

  Gray’s first order of business would be to requisition the cash Megan sent to the vault Friday night so she could prepare the wire for transfer to the title company in Seattle at three Pacific. She’d call Vault and ask for the money. They’d say they didn’t have it. She’d assure them they did. It would take Vault an hour to pore over their paperwork, then turn the vault upside down, before breaking the news to Gray they still didn’t have the money.

  That gave me five and a half hours.

  Next, Gray Donaldson would scramble. She’d dodge Philly bank calls, because by then, Philly would have realized their five-million-dollar wire had misfired. Surely dodging phone calls would take an additional hour. I could dodge phone calls for days. Case in point, while I’d been hiding in my office, I’d dodged two from Baylor and three from July. Then I dodged Baylor’s text messages. ANSWER YOUR PHONE. And I need help with Clone and I need it right now. And Who just used my Bellissimo debit card to pay a $1400 bill at a cat hospital?

  The nerve of him. Clone was not my responsibility, not my employee, and not my problem. In fact, she was persona non grata to me, and I’d help with her exactly never.

  What was I up to? Six hours? Six and a half hours?

  I might have an additional half hour, which would give me seven, during which Gray Donaldson processed the cold hard truth—the money was gone—and worked up the nerve to tell me. I stared at my phone, knowing it wouldn’t be long enough, but hopefully at least seven hours, before she called with, “Davis, we have a problem.”

  All I had to do was find the money in the next seven hours.

  Piece of cake.

  And I wasn’t talking about moldy wedding cake.

  I checked the time. Just after ten. I had just enough time to bust into Lost and Found before I hightailed it to the office to meet Fantasy. I stuffed the piece of paper I’d jotted Birdy numbers on in my pocket, stood to leave again, then sat back down hard. It was the moment I realized I’d never find the money in time. I’d spent so much time figuring out how much time I did and didn’t have that I ran out of time altogether, because just then I heard the banging of pots and pans, and it wasn’t my daughters playing kitchen. It was my mother on the other side of my office door. And she wasn’t playing. She was dead serious. I was trapped in my office, unless I wanted to run into my mother and explain why I was still there, and running into Mother would mean food, because my mother was no doubt preparing lunch. At ten in the morning. She’d insist I eat. Food was her Love Language. To not eat what she lovingly prepared was the same as saying, “Sorry, Mother, I don’t love you.” The problem was, she insisted on showing her love all day every day. Mother’s life was a never-ending buffet, meals piling on top of each other, the cleanup from one ending ten minutes before the prep for the next began, which was part of the lifelong bond between Mother and Bea, because food was Bea Crawford’s Love Language too. (But from a different perspective.) Bea loved nothing better than a buffet, and to be with my mother was to have a seat at her never-ending buffet.

  I eyed my office window. I could raise it, climb out to the kitchen porch, which led to the balcony patio, then sneak through the front of the house and hopefully escape undetected.

  It would work.

  I’d had lots of practice as a teenager.

  I gathered my things, turned for the window, then, like a nightmare, Bea Crawford appeared. The minute I devised an alternate escape route, it was blocked too, by, of all people, Bea, who shouldn’t have even been there. That woman had been in my way my entire life. Mother was blocking one of my exits banging pots a
nd pans and Bea was blocking the other tending tomatoes, wearing an ill-fitting pea-green sports bra over what she called farmer shorts and what I called an atrocity. A sin against nature. A tragedy. Bea wasn’t a small woman. I only knew one person larger than Bea, and that was my boss, No Hair. So not only was Bea not a small woman, she wasn’t a small human. She came that way. She was probably a twenty-five-pound newborn. I clearly remember the first time I saw my mother’s second grade class picture when I was a little girl, flipping through old photo albums, landing on the black-and-white photo with somber children’s faces near the top and a line of scuffed saddle shoes near the bottom, then asking Mother why there was a man in her second grade class. I could see the teacher, her cat-eye glasses covering half her face, holding a terrifying wooden paddle brandishing the words “Mrs. Hitt’s 2nd Grade Class, Pine Apple Primary School,” and standing next to her, shoulder to shoulder, what looked like an angry man child. “That’s Bea, Davis. You know Bea.” Bea Crawford kept growing even after second grade. And growing. And growing. A few years earlier, she’d cleaned her act up and lost a ton of weight. More than a hundred pounds. (And discovered sports bras, bicycle shorts, and athletic tights, which eventually led to her discovery of leggings.) It was right around the time her four-decade-long marriage ended (to the relief of everyone, especially her husband), but after her initial burst of divorcée energy, Bea realized being single and skinny wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. She turned to her lifelong friend Caroline Way (my mother) for comfort. Meatloaf, mac and cheese, and Mississippi Mud Pie comfort. Bea gained every ounce and more back in a tenth of the time it took to take it off. And that was when she fell in love with leggings. They grew with her. She declared herself done with men and done with zippers. At almost sixty years old, Bea was a perfect specimen of poor health and questionable hygiene, and she was on my kitchen porch, wearing what she called her farmer shorts, which were nothing more than sawed-off leggings. Cutoff denim jeans had the structure and stamina to do the job of shorts. The flimsy synthetic fabric of Bea’s leggings did not. They had nothing to hold them down. They wouldn’t stay in place. The thin hacked nylon rolled and climbed the girth of Bea’s snow-white thunder thighs. I flattened myself against the wall beside the window, peeking, catching glimpses of her roaming past the patio widow in her pale pink chopped-off leggings with the rolling problems. When Bea wasn’t dragging the tomato buckets, talking to the tomatoes, singing to the tomatoes, watering the tomatoes, watering herself, or marking miniscule tomato stalk growth on wooden paint sticks, she was desperately trying to manipulate her shorts, I suppose out of fear they’d roll all the way to her throat and strangle her. How my mother could even think about food with Bea on the other side of the French doors, wide-legged, stooped over, and digging for rolled-farmer-shorts gold, was beyond me. And if I intended to find five million dollars before three o’clock Pacific, I needed to find a way to sneak past them both.