by Mary Simses
“No, it’s fine,” I said, although she was right—lots of people asked. “She’s pretty much the same as any other mother. She made my sister and me do our homework, do chores, keep our rooms clean.”
Except that she wasn’t like any other mother. Living with Mom could sometimes be like living with a tornado. She could suck all the air right out of a room with her energy and her theatrics. And she didn’t always understand how to treat children. She thought nothing of asking one of my friends where she saw herself in ten years. When the girl was seven. She took Mariel and me to see Cabaret when we were in grammar school. All those musicians and dancers in their bawdy costumes, Mom trying to explain what cross-dressers were. I used to tell my friends I was adopted.
“I guess my mother’s been coming to you for a while,” I said.
Danielle dipped her paintbrush into one of the bowls. “Four or five years. She’s a lot of fun. I could listen to her stories all day.”
Her stories were all the same to me. Or maybe they’d just blended together over the years. The writers and directors, the actors and composers. The places she’d been. I’d tuned the tales out ages ago. Or maybe she’d stopped telling them to me. I picked up a copy of Travel and Leisure and began to page through it, stopping to glance at an article about young, up-and-coming architects.
“I love to hear about all the stuff she’s done,” Danielle said, dabbing at my hair. “Being in all those plays. Meeting so many cool people. And when she talks about who she hung out with…wow. Bernadette Peters, Diane Keaton, Jeff Bridges. She told me your dad even knew Frank Sinatra.”
“Well, he met him a few times,” I said as I flipped ahead to a piece about a newly refurbished hotel in St. Barts. “They weren’t really friends.”
“Yeah, but Frank Sinatra. I mean, you know…”
She seemed young to be so familiar with that generation of entertainers. But maybe her parents got her interested in them, like mine had.
“Danny?” A woman walked toward us, her dark hair in a twist. “Can I see you for a minute?”
The owner, Danielle mouthed. She disappeared for a few minutes, and when she returned, she brought another bowl of dye. I read the article about the hotel and studied the before-and-after photos as Danielle continued to cover my hair with white paste. I was well into an article about luxury barge trips when her assistant told me it was time for a shampoo.
I closed my eyes and relaxed at the sink while she washed away the bitter-smelling dye and massaged my head. With my hair clean and in a towel, she escorted me into the next room, where stylists were snipping away with scissors and hoisting blow-dryers to new cuts.
“This is Jen,” she said, introducing me to a girl with bright red lipstick.
“I hear you want a different look,” Jen said in a hushed voice as I took a seat.
Was this supposed to be a secret? “Yes, I need a new image.” I showed her the photo of Mariel. “I want this style, but I don’t want it this short. I’d like it a couple of inches below my chin.”
Jen looked at the photo and back at me. “I think it’s a good place to start. With your situation, though, I’d suggest going a little shorter.”
“My situation?”
Her eyes swept the room. “I just thought, because you said you needed to look different…”
That was true. I did need to reinvent myself. T minus four days and counting until the wedding. I was wasting time debating this. “Okay, I guess I could go a little bit shorter. If you think it would look good.”
“Oh, I do.” When she took the towel off my head, I was disappointed. My hair was wet, but I should have been able to see some difference in the color. It didn’t look much lighter than before. Maybe Danielle had been too conservative. I hoped not. I needed Carter to really notice me.
I flipped ahead in Travel and Leisure to an article on the Greek isles. Brilliant white buildings with white roofs and blue domes were pressed into hillsides, the ocean swirling in the background. I was mesmerized by a story about the five hundred and eighty-eight steps people climbed to reach the village of Fira on Santorini when I heard the blow-dryer go on and felt a blast of heat against my scalp. I looked up.
Inches of my hair were gone, lying in tufted puddles on the floor. What remained was much shorter than what I’d expected and layered like the steps on Santorini. And now I saw that Danielle had been anything but conservative with the color. I’d gone from light brown with faded highlights to three shades of blond: light, lighter, and platinum. It was Mariel’s exact hairstyle. I’d turned into my sister.
“Oh my God.” I stood up, barely recognizing the image in the mirror.
Jen was biting her nail. “What’s wrong? You don’t like it?”
For a moment I couldn’t form the words. “I didn’t want it this blond or this short. I told you.”
“I think it looks great,” Jen gushed, but what could she say? She had to defend herself—and Danielle, who was quickly walking toward us. They exchanged nervous glances.
“You told me you needed a new identity,” Danielle said. “And you showed us the picture.”
“But that was a picture of my—” I kept touching my hair, still not believing what I was seeing. “I told you what I wanted. I didn’t want this.”
“We, uh, we thought you needed more.”
“More what?” A few of the other clients had turned to look at us.
“Well,” Danielle said, “when Alena, the owner, showed me the picture of you, I put two and two together and realized—”
“What picture of me?”
“In the Review.”
There was a picture of me in the Review? I felt a prickling sensation at the back of my neck.
“You haven’t seen it?” Danielle walked to a table of magazines and returned with the Hampstead Review. In the top right corner of the front page, the place reserved for the most important story of the day, the headline read: “Suspected Baked-Goods Bandits Freed—for Now.” Underneath were the photos from the Eastville Police Station, the mug shots of David and me. My mouth went dry.
Suspected Baked-Goods Bandits Questioned at Eastville PD;
Hampstead Connection Confirmed
By Trey Simson, Staff Reporter
Two people suspected of being the Baked-Goods Bandits were seen leaving the Eastville Police Station late Sunday night after being questioned by detectives, according to an anonymous source. At least one of the suspects has ties to Hampstead. David Cole, of New York City, and Sara Harrington, originally from Hampstead and now living in Chicago, were interrogated by Eastville detectives about the rash of baked-goods thefts affecting Eastville that has recently spread to several other towns in the county, including Hampstead.
The source confirmed, however, that no arrests had been made. “They were questioned but released. We didn’t have enough evidence to hold them.” The source noted that the Eastville Police Department is committed to protecting the safety and property of all residents within its borders and that these criminals will be caught and brought to justice.
So now I had my sister’s hairstyle, and my mug shot was in the paper. I squeezed my eyes shut and moaned.
“Uh, are you okay?” Jen said. “You look a little—”
“I could use a drink.”
“We have coffee.”
“Something stronger.”
“Espresso?”
“Forget it.”
“I’m so sorry,” Danielle said. “I thought you wanted a disguise because you were arrested. And you said you needed a new identity. I just assumed…”
What would Mom say? And, oh Lord, Carter. All that nonsense about stealing food. I couldn’t imagine what his reaction would be. At least David was in Manhattan. He’d be furious if he saw this.
I pulled off the cape. “I’ve got to go.”
“Wait,” Danielle said, wringing her hands. “I’ll fix it.”
“She’ll fix it,” Jen said. “Don’t go.”
Ever
yone was staring. “No, no. I need to leave. I have to get out of here.” I dropped the newspaper and dashed toward the lobby, my mind disintegrating. How could this have happened? How did the Review get those photos and our names? The cloying sounds of a flute and a waterfall emanated from speakers in the lobby. I slapped my credit card on the counter and scrawled a signature on the receipt.
I had to get a hold of myself. This was a crisis, but I could handle it. I’d figure out a way through. I just had to stay calm and come up with a plan. Maybe hire an attorney. Or maybe not. It might be better to let the thing die a natural death. Once tomorrow’s news came out, today’s news would be old. Nobody would care anymore. That’s what I’d remind Mom. And Carter. Oh, Carter. He had to know I wasn’t a thief. That I could afford to buy my own cookies. Four days to the wedding and I’d become the joke of the town. It couldn’t get any worse.
Except it did.
I ran outside and saw that almost every store on Main Street had the same poster in the window, white with blue lettering and a graphic underneath. They might have been for an upcoming event, like the high-school summer-theater production of Into the Woods or the Lyme Disease Symposium or the Garden Club’s plant sale. But when I looked at the poster in the window of Harmony Day Spa, I saw it wasn’t for any of those things. The words printed in blue said FREE THE BAKED-GOODS BANDITS! LET THEM EAT CAKE! And beneath that were blowups of the mug shots of David and me.
Chapter 19
The Exit in the Back
Someone was squeezing the air from my lungs. That’s how it felt. The posters seemed to multiply before my eyes. On the windows of the First Trust Bank and Stryker and O’Toole, Accountants. On the bike rack in front of Déjà Vu, the vintage clothing store. Everywhere, people were looking at the photos. Wasn’t there a constitutional right to a decent mug shot?
I put on my sunglasses. Maybe Danielle and Jen were correct. Good or bad, my hair looked different. I had a disguise. Racing up the street, I kept my head down as I passed poster after poster. When my phone rang, I grabbed it out of my handbag and saw Mom on the screen. She must have seen the newspaper. Of course she had. I sent her to voice mail, knowing I’d have to deal with her later, and I continued up the street. When the phone rang again, David’s name showed up. I pressed DECLINE once more, so grateful he wasn’t in town.
I turned off the ringer and stopped to catch my breath by a telephone pole plastered with leaflets: GARAGE SALE, 127 ORCHARD LANE, EVERYTHING MUST GO! REWARD FOR MISSING LLAMA, ANSWERS TO “RICKY.” ERIC DUBOWSKI, ELECTRICIAN, LICENSED AND BONDED. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PIE? Wait, what was that? I stepped closer. There was a color photo of a pie with a crumbly topping and below it the owner’s phone number and e-mail address.
I looked to the right. REWARD FOR SAFE RETURN OF OUR OLIVE BREAD—TWO LOAVES! announced another leaflet. Several phone numbers followed a photo of two crusty loaves of bread on a cooling rack. LOOKING FOR OUR MISSING SIX-LAYER CHOCOLATE CAKE another leaflet said; below that was one photo showing a lofty cake drenched in swirls of dark chocolate icing and another depicting a faded, deflated-looking version, generated, according to a footnote, with age-progression software.
I turned away, unable to read any more of them. I’d become the center of a maelstrom, the butt of a town-wide—rather, county-wide—joke. Carter would never speak to me again. And what would Mom say? And the most innocent victim of all—David. How could he avoid seeing these when he returned?
Either my head was spinning or the rest of the world was whizzing around me. Maybe both. I wrapped my arm around the pole but couldn’t shake that dizzy feeling. I lowered myself to the sidewalk and sat with my head down, the sun beating against my back.
“Are you okay?”
I looked up and saw a teenage girl staring at me, FIREFLY MUSIC FESTIVAL printed on her black crop top. “Thanks. I think I will be in a second.” At least I hoped so.
“Maybe you should go inside somewhere, like in the air-conditioning,” Firefly said, pushing a lock of wavy hair from her face. “Maybe the Rolling Pin.” She pointed to the bakery.
“Good idea,” I said. A minute or two of air-conditioning and I’d be fine. I got up; my legs were shaky, but as soon as I stepped inside the shop I felt a rejuvenating rush of cool air. A middle-aged man and woman sat at one of the tables drinking coffee, part of a muffin on a plate between them. Behind the counter, Alice, the owner, was putting cookies in a display cabinet, her red hair back in a barrette.
Alice. She knew Mom. And even though I hadn’t been in there in a few years, she knew me. What was I thinking? Then I remembered my disguise.
“Sit anywhere you want, miss,” she said, then went back to singing along to the Eagles’ “Hotel California.”
I took a seat at a table, closed my eyes, and tilted back my head to let the air from the ceiling vent cascade over me.
A moment later, Alice asked, “You all right there? You look a little peaked.”
I opened my eyes and saw her standing over me in her yellow apron. “I think I’m okay, thanks. I just need a minute to cool off.” I leaned back again, luxuriating in the cool breeze, and heard the muffin man say, “Well, it’s better than stealing cars. That’s what they used to do in Jersey when I was growing up. Nobody there would bother with a cake.”
There it was. People talking about it. I couldn’t escape.
“But who put up all the posters?” the woman asked.
“I don’t know,” Alice said from behind the counter. “But I bet you whoever did it had a connection at the newspaper. That would explain how they got a copy of the photos and made the posters so fast.” She picked up an empty coffee carafe and put it in the sink. “Anyway, I don’t see the harm in having a few posters up around here. People seem to think the whole baked-goods-bandit thing is fun. Whoever’s doing it isn’t causing any trouble. I mean, it’s just food. And I figure it can only help my business.” She glanced my way. “You want some water?”
I think I might have jumped. “Me? No, no. I’m fine.” People thought the food thefts were a good thing? That was crazy. I just wanted all of it to go away.
The muffin woman put down her mug. “Everybody’s trying to figure out what they’re doing with the food. Are they giving it away, like Robin Hood? Or are they eating it themselves? And where are they going next?”
“Nobody knows,” Alice said as she took some cookies from the display case and put them in a box. “Although some folks are placing bets. Steve Francisconi, over at the firehouse, has a pool going. Point spreads and the whole thing.”
Point spreads? I’d heard enough. I got up to leave.
“Hold on there. Take these with you,” Alice said, setting the open box on the counter. I walked over and saw a half a dozen cookies in it. “Orange chocolate chunk,” she said. “Three kinds of chocolate in that recipe. Good for a little energy boost.”
I took out my wallet.
“No, no. This is on the house.”
“But I—”
“Don’t worry about it. I know your mom.” She closed the little box and handed it to me. “And besides, you’re a celebrity.”
“Excuse me?” I said, putting the box in my handbag.
“Oh, honey,” she said, her voice hushed. “I knew it was you. From the minute you walked in. Even with the new hair…” She wiggled a hand above her head. Then she picked up a copy of the Hampstead Review from behind the counter. “I’ve been looking at your face all morning.”
I froze. I’d been busted by the bakery lady. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. For once I didn’t know what to say. I stepped outside, nearly colliding with a man walking a dachshund, and hurried down Main Street, my mug shot following me again. I’d become my own Mona Lisa. Everyone was staring at me as if they knew I was the one on the poster. At least, that’s how I felt.
I walked faster, passing a man carrying a potted fern, a woman pushing a stroller. I swear they were giving me the eye. Picking up the pace, I decided I’d cut throug
h one of the stores and use their back exit to get to the parking lot where I’d left my car. When I came to Then Again Antiques and saw that they didn’t have a poster in the window, I figured it might be a safe place. Opening the door, I ducked inside.
A bell jingled as the door closed, and my eyes adjusted to the dim light. I stared at a mountain of furniture before me, the pieces piled so high on top of one another I couldn’t see the back of the shop. The place smelled of old wood and stale, dry air. I walked to the left, down a narrow aisle like a footpath, past huge armoires and hutches, Hepplewhite chests and Chippendale sofas, tables piled with brass lamps, wineglasses, clocks, and candelabra.
“I’ll be right with you.” A man’s voice came from somewhere in the back. Deep, with an accent that had me imagining Christopher Plummer.
“Oh, I’m okay,” I said, moving past a carved headboard, a steamer trunk, a large wooden bucket.
“Ah, there you are.”
The man with the accent, about two hundred fifty pounds of him, blocked my way in the aisle. His large face sagged beneath a head of jet-black hair that didn’t look real. A gold crest adorned the pocket of his blazer. “Albert Cuttleworth, proprietor,” he said, his chin raised slightly, as if he needed to fit something underneath. “Are you hunting for anything in particular?”
I should have admitted I was hunting for the back door, but I told him I was browsing. Hoping he’d let me squeeze by, I feigned interest in a copper weather vane with a trotting horse on it.
“That’s a rather lovely one, don’t you think? Circa 1919. British.”
I looked up. “Oh, yes. Very nice.”
“It’s in wonderful condition. Are you looking for a weather vane?”
“Not exactly.” I pictured my apartment in Chicago. The thirteenth floor. I didn’t exactly have a roof.