Bad Day in a Banana Hammock

by Stuart R. West

  “You set me up. Made me dance for Mom and Dad.”

  “Me? Mom’s the one who asked you to do it.”

  “Yeah, but you egged her on.”

  “Like you ended up with egg on your face. You still came out smelling like a friggin’ rose.”

  He flashed his teeth, gave his dimples a work-out. “I killed it, didn’t I? Like I always do.”

  “You know, today you gotta quit saying you ‘killed’ things.”

  “Oh, yeah, right.”

  She shook her head, mumbled, “Can’t believe you twerked in front of Mom.”

  “Alright, I think we need to drop it now.” In retrospect, it did seem kinda hard to believe. But he’d been in the moment, feeling the rush of dancing. When things like that grab you, you gotta grab back. He wondered if he should put his epiphany on a bumper-sticker. Maybe write a self-help book.

  “Drop it like it’s hot, you mean?”

  “Okay, okay… You know, I almost told them I’m a male entertainment dancer and—”

  “A stripper.”

  “Male entertainment dancer. I mean, it would’ve been the perfect time to tell them. Finally get it off my chest.”

  “Like your tear-away shirt?”

  “I’m not gonna get anywhere with you, today, am I?”

  “Probably not.”

  Still sitting in their parents’ driveway, Zora finagled her seat belt around her eight month package. Took her forever.

  “Now be quiet while I call Phillip.”

  Phillip. Kinda an okay guy, Zach supposed. A little pudgy, though, and as uptight as a popsicle on a stick. It didn’t help that Phillip made it known he didn’t care for Zach. Couldn’t really figure out why, either. Sure, there was the mishap with his car that one time. Water under the bridge. Guy could hold a grudge. Honestly, Zach sometimes wondered what his sister saw in him.

  “Hi honey, it’s me.”

  Squawking came out the other end, sounding like Charlie Brown’s teacher. Just higher-pitched, whiny in that grating Phillip fashion.

  “I know you’re busy… Hey, watching your kids isn’t a cakewalk… I know, I know…”

  She used her pacifying tone, one she didn’t even use on her kids.

  “The reason I’m calling… No, I know I don’t need to have a reason to call… Love you, too…”

  When Zach fluttered his eyes, Zora punched him.

  “Ow!”

  “Huh?… Oh, nobody, just my brother…Yes, Phillip, I know, I know… He says he’ll pay to get the car fixed…”

  Zach smiled, feigned playing a violin.

  “Anyway…I just dropped the kids off at my parents…”

  Phillip’s squawk grew into a rooster’s crow.

  “Phillip LeFevre!”

  Uh-oh. Her mad mom voice.

  “How ‘bout you come home and watch them for a change?… I know you’re working! And speaking of work, we’re gonna have a long talk about that when I get home!… No, I’m not going to talk about it now! I’ve got something important I have to take care of… Yes, with Zach and my parents were the only ones I could get on short notice! I told them no drugs, no hot tubs—”

  “No pulling the finger jokes,” added Zach.

  “Yes, they understand!” Zora held the phone up to God. Drummed her fingers over the steering wheel. Took a few deep breaths, probably something she learned in Lamaze class. Returned with her indoor voice. “It’s just something important I have to do… No, he hasn’t gotten me into trouble…” Although the look she gave Zach told a different story.

  “Let me talk to him, sis. I’ll clear things up.” Zach nodded, a firm believer in his own dignitary abilities. Zora gave him an eye-roll, her eye muscles really getting a work-out today.

  “I can’t get into that now. I’ll explain everything when I see you…When?… I have no idea. But you’re probably gonna be on your own for dinner… You’ve got to be kidding me! There’re plenty of leftovers in the frig. Figure it out! You’re not a helpless little baby bird!… Meatloaf, there’s meatloaf! You know how to work the microwave, never stopped you from making your God-awful nachos on Sundays!.. Tough it out!… Look, I gotta go. Love you, too, dammit!”

  Zora slapped the phone off, a standin for Phillip, and tossed it to Zach. She strangled the air with trembling hands. Best to let her ride her mood out and stay quiet. Either that or have those strangling hands wrapped around his neck.

  “What is it with you men? Can’t do a damn thing on your own!” Zach figured she really didn’t want an answer. “And now that my kids are gone, I’m gonna cuss! Goddam, son of a…”

  It went on for a while. Zach tried to put on an understanding face, one he’d learned from Dad. When the smoke finally cleared, Zora fired up the minivan.

  “Alright…look up Senator Hal Turlington on my phone.”

  Zach’s finger flew over the keyboard. Lots of hits. “What’re we looking for?”

  “Does it say if he was married?”

  “No… Wait, here’s a story…he and his wife, Ingrid, went to some fundraising deal. Something about schools or something…”

  “Is there a picture of her?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Hasn’t it crossed your mind she might be ‘Cat?’”

  “Oh, right! The wife always does it.”

  “That your expert opinion, Zach?”

  “Well, yeah, I’ve read a lotta books and—”

  “Ahem!”

  “Fine. I’ve watched a lotta TV.”

  “Any photos, Sherlock?”

  “No…nope…nothing. Just pictures of Turlington. He looks a lot different when he’s alive.”

  “Very astute observation.”

  “Now what?”

  “Find an address for the late Senator.”

  “Got it! They live in Mission Hills.”

  “Figures. Where all the rich live in Kansas City.”

  “So…what’re we gonna do?”

  “We’re going to pay Mrs. Turlington a visit.”

  Usually, Zora had great ideas. The reason Zach turned to her. But this one sounded…not so great. “Um…she’s gonna be, like, grieving and everything. Do we really have to—”

  “You wanna clear your name? Get you back in your golden sack?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “Then that’s where we’re going.”

  “Why don’t we just go to the hotel and ask the clerk if—”

  “If he recognizes you? And calls the cops! Think, Zach! The cops are probably still crawling all over that place!”

  “Gotcha.”

  “We’ll be lucky enough if the cops aren’t still visiting the widow Turlington.”

  Zach sank into his seat. Swallowed a dry lump, thinking about bumping into the cops. Again, not one of his sister’s best ideas.

  EZ Brite, people will notice, EZ Brite puts you in focus…

  *

  “Okay, again, the only reason you’re going with me is because detectives always travel in pairs. Keep your mouth shut, let me do the talking.”

  Zach locked his lips, pitched the imaginary key. Zora gave him a long, hard stare-down.

  “Sis, I’m not a kid. You don’t have to keep telling me things over and over and—”

  “Yeah, not sure about that. Look, Zach, at the Hot Beef Injection Club, you’re—”

  “Bone-in Beef Club.”

  “Like it matters! At your sleazy joint—”

  “Not sleazy.”

  “…you might be king, but we’re playing on my turf now. Just follow my lead.” And, again, it felt good to be king again. If the stakes weren’t so high, Zora would be enjoying herself. Immensely.

  Flipping through her cards in the wallet, she found what she needed. A phony detective I.D. along with a toy badge. If you studied it, it looked clearly fake. But it’d been her experience that people rarely gave police identification more than a cursory glance, particularly when flashed for a second. Generally, people are so freaked out by c
ops visiting, they take police identification for granted. The badge had come in handy during her days in the field which seemed like a lifetime ago. She didn’t know why she’d kept it but was glad she did. For easy access, she tucked it into her jacket pocket.

  “Do I get a badge?”

  “No. Shut up.”

  Foreign sports cars filled the driveways of the Mission Hills mansions, candy of the rich. The Turlington mansion was no exception, a Ferrari, newly waxed and washed, parked at the top of the hill. Three other cars were lined up behind it on the street-worthy length of a driveway. As they walked by the cars, Zora peeked through the windows. None of them appeared to be police cars. No police radios, caged backseats, other dead giveaways. Dodged that bullet and Zora was more than happy to keep dodging them.

  For once, Zach had been right about one thing, though. It bothered her to call on a grieving widow under false pretenses. As pissed as she got at Phillip at times, it’d piss her off even more if someone pulled a stunt like that on her. Then again, she meant to bring the senator’s killer to justice. A worthy con.

  The English Tudor home seemed out of place, stuck in Kansas. But when compared to the neighboring homes, it fit in nicely enough, nestled between houses of different styles and European touches. A residential Epcot Center.

  Zora rang the doorbell set next to the lavish French doors.

  The door opened. A man dressed in a gray three-piece suit, not typical servant wear, looked at them with passive eyes behind trendy square-rimmed glasses. “May I help you?”

  “Hope so. I’m Detective Laura Jones with the KCMO police…” Quick flash and back to her pocket. “This is my partner—”

  “Detective David Hassle…berg.”

  Dammit. Can’t take him anywhere.

  She would’ve jabbed Zach, but the man watched them with the fervor of a scientist. Unblinking eyes. Stolid face. A wax dummy.

  Zora reclaimed the train of her investigation before it derailed. “I know it’s a bad time for Mrs. Turlington, but we’d like to ask her a few questions.”

  “The police have already been here. Mrs. Turlington is resting. Heavily medicated, as you may imagine.”

  “I’m sure, Mr…” Zora waited. The man was slow in complying.

  “I’m Senator Turlington’s political advisor, Samuel Tufts.”

  He stared at her extended hand, then went back to checking out their admittedly odd detective’s wardrobe. For a political advisor, Zora thought, he totally lacked in people skills.

  “Mr. Tufts, I know it’s an imposition, but we really need to speak to Mrs. Turlington.”

  Finally, a blink! Slow to raise his eyelids, he looked first at Zora, then at Zach. Nothing, expression of the dead.

  “Please wait here while I look in on Mrs. Turlington to see if she’s in any condition to receive callers.”

  The door closed. Zora heard him latch the lock. Not a very trusting man. Then again his boss was just murdered. Probably not too happy to be out of a job.

  “What did I tell you about keeping your mouth shut, Zach?” Zora whispered.

  “Hey, sorry, just seemed right to introduce myself.”

  “Yeah, idiot, this isn’t the time to play out your Baywatch fantasies!” For a moment, his gaze wandered, a melancholy smile spreading across his lips. Literally fantasizing now, judging by the goofy look on his face. “For the final time, I’ll do the talking. Just…nod on occasion or something. Think you can do that?”

  He nodded. Fast learner.

  Clack-rrrrch. The door pulled back. Mr. Personality stepped aside. Silently, he waved them in. Gave a small bow, all of his expression in his body, not his face.

  “Follow me if you will, detectives.”

  Up they went around a winding staircase. Mouth-breathing in awe, Zach marveled at the sumptuous decorations, the impeccable craftsmanship of the architecture. Zora didn’t blame him. The beautiful moldings and hardwood and tile floors were something she’d dreamed of. Someday, maybe.

  On the second floor, Tufts tapped politely on double-doors. The sounds of an excited television news reporter drifted out. Tufts knocked louder.

  “Mrs. Turlington, I have the detectives here,” he called out, more animated than Zora’d seen him before.

  “Come in.” A strong voice, metal in her chords. Seemed to Zora like they breed politician’s wives that way.

  Like a butler, Tufts grabbed both door knobs, swung the doors inside. “These are detectives Jones and Hassleberg.”

  Zora expected a bed-ridden, doped out of her mind, winsome widow of a woman. Sometimes expectations should be kept in check. Standing in front of open balcony windows, Mrs. Turlington whirled, a movie star’s entrance. The color of her silver hair, perfectly coiffed, usually denoted age. But on her, it fortified her with strength, a sturdy dignity. Handsome and becoming. Suddenly self-conscious, Zora patted down her hair, thinking she needed a do-over.

  “Come in, detectives.”

  “Would you like me to stay, Mrs. Turlington?” asked Tufts.

  She dismissed him with a cavalier toss of an elegant hand. “That’s not necessary, Tufty.”

  If she’d been medicated, she hid it well. Except, of course, for the wine glass in her hand. Self-medicating. Celebrating? She crossed the room, snatched up a remote and muted the wall-covering television. Reporting the latest on her husband’s murder. Always a politician’s wife, thought Zora, keeping up on her media coverage.

  “I thought I’d answered all of your questions earlier, detectives.” Just like her husband’s advisor, she thoroughly checked them out, eyes blatantly dropping and lowering over their clothes. Zora suddenly felt naked, ill-prepared. It’d been too long since she’d been in the field. “Why are you back to bother me in my moment of grief?”

  Weird-ass way to show grief.

  Zora looked for the tell-tale signs of grief: the puffy eyes, redness surrounding them. A hiccup in her voice. Weakness. Instead, Mrs. Turlington may as well’ve just left a day spa.

  “I’m sorry to impose on you again, Mrs. Turlington. Especially at a time like this. But we have some follow-up questions.”

  Although there were plentiful loveseats and French chairs throughout the vast bedroom, she didn’t offer them a seat. She didn’t sit either, restlessly prowling in front of the balcony doors. “Follow-up then.” A regal hand went up. She whipped aside one half of her nearly floor length sweater and cocked a hip. “Detective Jones, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shouldn’t you be on maternity leave?”

  Zora smiled. She had a distinct feeling it was more of a smirk, though. Even women were sexist these days. “It’s not my first rodeo, Mrs. Turlington. I plan on working ‘til the little one drops.”

  “Admirable.” Slurrp. A long drink of red wine. “And, you…the other one.” She pointed a finger at Zach. Zach snapped to attention, shoulders back, chest out. Apparently he had no age limit when trying to impress women.

  “Ma’am?”

  “They’re not paying you enough.”

  “Uh…I don’t know what—”

  “Your suit. Pocket’s torn. And it doesn’t fit you at all.”

  “Oh…ah…I’ve been on a diet.”

  Before Mrs. Turlington’s interrogation continued, Zora charged in. “Mrs. Turlington…where were you last night between the hours of…eleven and two in the morning?” She whipped out a notebook, one she’d confiscated earlier from her glove box. Beneath her grocery and “to do” list, she scribbled notes.

  Get diapers, Nikki’s play-date, murdered senator, callous widow…

  “How is this a follow-up question, Detective?” For the first time, ire rose in her tone. At least Zora knew she was human. Better than apathy. Maybe she was medicated after all, perhaps used to living with it. Another perk of being a politician’s wife. “I answered that earlier, more times than I cared to.”

  “Just one more time, Mrs. Turlington. Please.”

  She sighed. “Fine. I was hom
e, of course. Sleeping. Where I’m supposed to be. Not like…not like…” Tears welled up. Her voice faltered. The iron woman rusted a bit. She flagged her hand at the on-going news report, let that finish her thought.

  “Hey, now, ma’am.” Zach started to go to her. Zora gripped his arm, held him back. Not the time for knight in shining armor crap.

  The senator’s widow recovered quickly and nicely. And very, very elegantly, damn her! A dainty fingertip to both eyes, a graceful quick swipe of her nose. She straightened again, composed, everything about her a glowing Grace Kelley moment. Zora looked down at her feet. Couldn’t see them because of kid number four. She sighed.

  “Again, I apologize for our intrusion, Mrs. Turlington. We’re trying to find the person who did this to your husband. I know it’s painful, but—”

  “How many children do you have, Detective Jones?”

  The question caught Zora off-guard. She lied, not sure why. “Two.”

  “We…I…have two, as well. One off to college, thank God. The other…” Another sniff, but she plugged it up. “…the other…still a child. In grade school. How do you think he’ll react when I tell him…about his father?”

  “Ah…I imagine it’ll be very hard, Mrs. Turlington.”

  “Yes…yes, it will. And now…now, I’m left to raise him by myself.”

  Zora’s thoughts scattered, playing out scenarios where she’d die, leaving Phillip to raise her kids. But she wouldn’t let it happen, not in a million years. Not if she had anything to say about it. Even though not Catholic, Zora nearly crossed herself right there.

  But she had to reclaim the room.

  “Speaking as a mother, Mrs. Turlington, I can’t imagine how hard it would be. My condolences. But, back to my question…and again, I apologize…”

  What is it about her that makes me want to apologize? Friggin’ woman should’ve been the senator, not her husband.

  “Can anyone corroborate your being home asleep last night?”

  “Oh, for Heaven’s…well…” She chortled, one note, dry as a martini. “My husband could’ve…if he hadn’t been…out sticking it into some whore. Or some man!”

  “Um…I don’t think your husband was gay, ma’am—”

  Zora didn’t care if Mrs. Turlington saw it or not. She stabbed an elbow into Zach’s side. “I know this is a sensitive subject, but do you have any idea…who your husband was seeing?”