by Amy Vansant
Jamie smiled, pleased to talk about her work. It wasn’t as if she could share serial killer stories with strangers at bars. “You wouldn’t believe what rich men are willing to pay to have their wives killed. And really, that sum pales in comparison to what they’re willing to wire you once you tell them they’re next for being such a crappy husband.”
“Damn. And they don’t rat you out ‘cause you whacked their wife.”
“Right. At that point they just want to get back to life with their pregnant girlfriend.”
Deja pulled her lips together into a tight knot. “I hate men.”
“They are the pits.”
“Alright. I’ll getchu your lawyer. Follow me.”
Jamie followed Deja into a hall leading to the phone banks.
“You got five,” said Deja, holding up her hand, fingers splayed like the legs of a starfish. She stepped away for plausible deniability.
Jamie chose the cleanest-looking phone of the bunch and dialed, stretching her neck as she waited for the person on the other end of the line to approve the charges.
“Hello, Jamie,” said a man’s voice, smooth and buttery like an old-timey radio announcer.
“Hello, Sidney. I’m ready. We have to speed this up. I have things to do.”
“I thought I had another week? We’re still working on the accent.”
“No. I want to be out before this hurricane hits Northwest Florida.”
“You want out early for a hurricane?”
“Yes.”
“Can I ask why?”
“It’s a long story. Oh, if I don’t get a glass of wine soon, I’m going to kill someone.”
“That I understand. I’ll have one waiting for you in the car. Cab?”
“Pinot.”
“Done. I’ll bump up the transfer date.”
“Thank you. Oh, and I need you to transfer five thousand dollars to the guard, Deja whatsherface.” Jamie lowered her voice. “Do you know her daughter’s name?”
“Who? The guard’s?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Jamie turned her head. “Deja, what’s your daughter’s name?”
Deja poked her head in the doorway, eyes wide. “I ain’t tellin’ you that. You think I’m crazy?”
“You told me you have a daughter. At this point, finding her name wouldn’t be that hard. Save me the time.”
“You gonna hurt her?”
“Why would I hurt your daughter?”
“Why do you people do any of the things you do?”
Jamie put her hand on her heart. “I swear I won’t hurt your daughter.”
Deja released a loud sigh. “It’s Jada.”
“Great.” Jamie returned to her call. “Sidney? You still there?”
“Yes.”
“Start a fresh account with five thousand in it for her daughter, Jada. College fund. College transfer only.”
“Will do. I’ll see you in a couple days.”
“Great. Thanks.”
She hung up the phone, feeling Deja’s presence behind her before she spoke.
“Did I hear you put my money in some kinda college fund?”
“Yes. Sidney will get you the details on how to access.”
Deja’s eyes rimmed with tears. “You’re somethin’ else. I can’t figure you out at all.”
Jamie smiled. “No one can. That’s why I’m still alive.”
** *
Sidney Cantor took a town car directly to the Lowell Correctional Institution in Marion County Florida, weaving his way through the rural roads of Ocala. Beside the car, a black stallion galloped across a green field, tossing his shimmering mane as the sun glistened on his ebony back.
“Isn’t he beautiful?” asked the woman beside him in the back seat.
Sydney grunted. “No.”
He didn’t understand why anyone would want to live in horse country. The place was infested with horses. Who wants to be around horses all day? Big dirty beasts. He sniffed, the thought of hay and dust making his nose tickle.
The driver pulled into the prison lot and parked.
Sydney tapped the woman’s leg. “Ready?”
She nodded, a tight smile on her lips.
They exited the vehicle and headed into the prison. After suffering the usual amount of security screening, he and his associate were allowed into the warden’s office and ushered to take a seat across the desk from the man himself.
“Shut the door, will you, Tracy?”
The warden’s personal assistant nodded and closed the large oak door behind her as she left.
“Warden Billet,” said Sydney, stretching out a hand to shake.
The warden eyed his offer and chose not to extend his own. Unfazed, Sydney smiled and sat.
Billet moved his attention to the woman, who sat beside Sydney, her attention locked on her lap.
Sydney tapped her thigh with his knuckle. “Chin up.”
She lifted her head. “Sorry.”
“No apologizing.”
“Right. Sorry—I mean, got it.”
“How can I help you?” The warden spoke to Sydney, but Sidney could see the man couldn’t pull his eyes off his companion.
Sydney smiled. “I have a proposition for you.”
Billet waved him silent and motioned to the woman. “Hold on. I’m sorry. Why does she look so familiar? Are you an actress? Are you planning to film a movie here?”
“No,” said Sydney, answering for her.
Billet’s eyes widened and he pointed at the woman. “Ooh, I got it. The Puzzle Killer. Is that what the movie is about? Is it a Dateline?”
Sidney raised a hand to place it on the woman’s shoulder.
“This is Jamie Moriarty, The Puzzle Killer,” he said.
Billet laughed. “I can see. You picked a great actress to play her. Looks just like her, but for the dark hair.”
“You don’t understand. I mean this is Jamie Moriarty. Starting today in about,” Sydney looked at his watch. “half an hour, give or take.”
The warden’s back straightened, though not enough to give him the illusion of true height. “What are you saying? Are you suggesting I swap this woman with Jamie Moriarty?”
“More than suggesting.” Sydney turned to the woman. “Take off the wig.”
His companion removed her dark bob and Billet sucked in a breath as she fluffed the blonde hair underneath.
“Dead ringer.”
“That’s the idea,” said Sydney.
Billet’s eyes flashed with anger. “If you think you’re gonna—”
Sidney lifted his briefcase from the floor and placed it on his lap as the warden raged. The locks snapped open and he retrieved a phone. After fiddling with the buttons, he placed it on the desk and pushed it toward the warden.
Billet fell silent, seemingly mesmerized, as if Sidney were a magician, laying out a card for choosing.
With a flourish, Sydney motioned to the phone. “If you could just hit play.”
Billet snapped out of his trance. “What? Are you out of your—”
Sidney leaned forward and hit the live feed’s play arrow. A young girl appeared on the screen.
“Daddy? They told me to talk to you. I don’t know what to say...”
Sidney watched Warden Billet’s cheeks wash alabaster. The man lifted a shaking hand to pick up the phone as his daughter prattled on about the ice cream the nice man had given her to eat.
“Right now she’s eating ice cream, but things could get much worse,” said Sydney.
Billet looked up. “Where is she?”
“Where she is, is perfectly safe, for now.”
Billet’s forehead shone with sweat. “You can’t do this. It won’t work.”
Sidney motioned to the woman. “Hundreds of hours of prep and ten hours of plastic surgery disagree.”
Billet turned his attention to the woman, as if he could plead his case to her.
“Why would you do this? Why would you agre
e to serve that monster’s term?”
Sydney didn’t allow her to answer. “She won’t serve for long. She has cancer. She’d like to use your free hospital services and then die, quietly. After that, no one will ever be able to question you about this.”
Billet remained locked on the woman. “You’re doing this for free hospital care?”
Sydney sighed. “Don’t be stupid. Her family will be paid. She’s doing this for her family, the same way you’ll be doing this for your family.”
Billet looked at the phone, his eyes watering.
“You’re awfully quiet. I thought wardens were all tough and blustery,” said Sidney, before looking away. He regretted the statement. It wasn’t polite to mock the man.
“I can’t do this,” he mumbled.
Sydney pulled a second phone from his case and dialed. He murmured into the phone and almost simultaneously, a man in black clothing, a balaclava covering his face, appeared on the screen, standing behind the girl.
“No!” said Billet too loudly.
His personal assistant knocked on the door. “Warden? Are you alright?”
Billet looked at Sidney, who arched a single eyebrow. “Are you? Will she be?”
“Everything’s fine, Tracy,” called Billet.
Sidney sniffed. “Just to review, it’s all very easy. You call Jamie to a private room. The women swap. No one is the wiser. In a few days...” Sidney paused to make air quotes around his next two words, “‘Jamie Moriarty’ falls ill, receives care, but ultimately dies of cancer. You get to watch your daughter grow up.”
Billet looked at the screen again. The man in black placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder.
“Fine. Fine.” He set his jaw. “But don’t think I can’t find you, you son of a bitch.”
Sidney nodded to the phone. “Don’t think we can’t find her.”
He stood and smoothed his suit.
“Next time, we’ll skip the ice cream.”
Chapter Five
“If you have to go to the bathroom, take it outside,” said Bob, popping a Ritz cracker slathered in canned cheese into his mouth.
Charlotte stopped. She’d just walked through Mariska’s door and people were telling her she couldn’t use the toilet. She wasn’t aware she had a reputation requiring that sort of panic.
“Ignore him. Of course you can use the toilet.” Mariska bumped Charlotte out of the way to snatch the can of cheese from Bob’s hand, her voice dropping into an angry scold. “You’ve eaten half our snacks already. I told you to take it easy. I don’t know when you’ll be able to have canned cheese again.”
Charlotte sniggered. “That would be a shame. What’s going on? I’m not seeing the connection between bathroom breaks and spray cheese. I must not be half the detective I think I am.”
Bob twisted in his chair to better see her. “I’ve got a mystery for you. Where’s all the toilet paper?”
“What?”
Mariska’s expression fell grim as an executioner’s. “That stupid storm took one tiny stumble in our direction and the whole world lost their minds. Especially those snowbirds. You should have seen Publix. It looked like a bomb hit it.”
“The hurricane? They’re panic-buying already?”
“Yes. You’d think Godzilla is coming.”
Charlotte laughed. “This is Florida. Godzilla is always a possibility.”
“I know. It’s true,” said Mariska, sounding very serious. She often agreed to things she didn’t actually hear, often in an empathic tone, so friends never realized she hadn’t registered their comment. Having grown up with Mariska serving as her adoptive mother, Charlotte had spotted the pattern early and had fun with it over the years. Agreeing Godzilla might appear on the horizon wasn’t unusual. In the past, she’d commiserated with Mariska over the existence of the Death Star and an increase in jackalope attacks in the area.
Mariska continued with the thought Charlotte suspected had actually been on her mind. “Darla and I had to run around like lunatics to get potatoes.”
Charlotte thought about what might be missing from her refrigerator. “What about almond milk?”
“How do you milk an almond?” asked Bob. He never tired of that joke.
“They probably have that,” murmured Mariska. She didn’t trust milk from a nut.
“So that explains your bathroom comment. All the toilet paper’s gone.”
Mariska sighed. “Always the first to go.”
“No pun intended,” said Bob, clearly pleased with himself.
He tried to slide the spray cheese can out of Mariska’s hand, but she noticed and jerked it away. “No more today, piggy.” Storming back to her kitchen, she pulled six cans of baked beans from her shopping bag.
“Are you going to eat those or are you building a tin can shield around the house?” asked Charlotte.
“They were on sale.” Mariska opened a cabinet to find herself faced by a wall of canned goods. Thwarted, she put the beans aside to be dispersed around the house later. Charlotte knew she could open any cabinet, drawer or closet in the house and have a seventy-percent chance of finding food. Mariska’s food-hoarding could be disconcerting during regular times, but with an impending natural disaster, Charlotte secretly liked knowing they’d be the last people on the planet to starve to death if things went really bad.
Seeing an opportunity, she leaned toward Bob. “You sure you two want to be trapped in the house together with that many beans?”
He laughed and held up both thumbs to show his approval.
Charlotte took a seat on the stool tucked beside Mariska’s kitchen island. She liked hurricanes. Not when they destroyed lives and property, but the little ones that came and went with nothing worse than a shortage of toilet paper. The air crackled with excitement, businesses closed...
Hurricanes were a little like windy Christmases.
She supposed she harbored a fondness for storms because a small hurricane had hit days after her grandmother died. She’d already lost her parents and was about to be passed to yet another guardian. Hunkering down with her grandmother’s best friends, Mariska and Bob, had helped them grow closer, faster. She knew then that Sheriff Frank and the other residents of Pineapple Port would protect her from the mean social worker lady who wanted her sent to an orphanage.
It had been strange, growing up in a fifty-five-plus community, but corny jokes and golf carts beat orphanages every time.
“Frank found a body,” she said, remembering the reason for her visit.
“That’s nice.” Mariska tried to shove a block of meat into her packed freezer, and Charlotte knew dead bodies could never interest her more than The Horror at Publix.
“Should I bother to go to the store?” she asked. “Is everything gone?”
Mariska stood straight to catch her breath. “All of it. Paper towels, milk, eggs, meat—”
“Isn’t that meat?” asked Charlotte, nodding at the square peg refusing to enter a tiny round hole of space in the freezer drawer.
Mariska glanced down and spoke with a heavy heart. “It’s corned beef.”
“Oh. Yikes. Things are desperate.” Charlotte leaned to the side to survey Mariska’s chances of getting the corned beef in the freezer. “You might want to put that stuff in the regular refrigerator,” she suggested.
Mariska kicked closed her drawer freezer and opened the refrigerator. A solid wall of food stuffs stared back.
“Or not,” murmured Charlotte. “Well, I think I have a new twelve-pack of paper towels if you need to borrow any. That could last me the rest of the year.”
Bob held a Christmas-themed cloth napkin to his lips and dabbed. “We’ll be fine. Mariska has enough linens to last us until twenty-sixty-eight.”
Charlotte huffed. “This is crazy. Why do people over-shop?”
“They’re afraid,” said Mariska.
“But if everyone shopped normally it wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Kids,” suggested Bob.
> Mariska slid a bag of shredded cheddar cheese into her refrigerator’s lunchmeat drawer as if she were threading a needle. “You think it’s kids buying everything?”
Bob shook his head. “No, using everything. The last time Darla brought her granddaughter over, that little terror slapped the toilet paper roll until it looked like a miniature Kilimanjaro piling up underneath it. Parents need to buy forty-eight rolls of toilet paper a day.”
As if invoked by her mention, Mariska’s front door flung open and Darla appeared, looking flush and triumphant.
“Wow, that was an entrance,” said Charlotte.
Darla closed the door behind her with another flourish. “Guess who’s coming to sit out the hurricane at my house?”
Charlotte scowled. “Who comes to a modular home development for a hurricane? That’s like hearing a tornado is coming and running for the nearest trailer park.”
“Who?” asked Mariska, who’d given up trying to find a spot for the corned beef and instead threw it into the sink.
Charlotte leaned down to elbow Bob in the shoulder. “I think you’re having corned beef tonight.”
“Yummy,” said Bob, deadpan.
Darla moved into the kitchen. “I’ll give you a hint. What was the first thing you thought when you saw all those snowbirds buying all our food?”
“That they should go back home where they belong,” said Mariska.
Darla pointed at her. “Right. And what could make them go back home?”
“An early hurricane, you’d think,” said Charlotte.
“No.” Darla tilted her head, reconsidering. “I mean yes, if there’s an evacuation order I guess, but no, that’s not where I’m going with this.”
“End of season?” said Mariska.
Darla shook her head. “No, I mean what would make them go home early.”
Mariska blinked at her friend. “If they blew all their money on toilet paper and didn’t have any left for vacation?”
“Nooo...”
“Broken beach chair?” Charlotte sensed Mariska and Darla might play their guessing game all night and decided to jump in with stupid ideas to move things along.
Clearly exasperated, Darla waved her hands in the air to silence the room. “Okay, okay, okay. One last hint. The answer is bat-crap crazy.”