by Teri Woods
“I am just so excited to see you! I always wanted you to come and visit. I did, I truly did.”
“Well, here I am. Even though I’m really not quite sure where here is. There’s no lights nowhere,” she said, as if Kimmie Sue could turn some on.
“This the back of the woods, girl. Murfreesboro is out there. But you got Nashville, well, at least the town of Nashville, and there’s lights there,” she said convincingly.
“Well, how do we get there?” asked Daisy jokingly.
“Oh, it’s easy, Murfreesboro Road leads you right into Nashville. I’ll take you into the city, don’t you worry. Come on, let’s get out the dark and get on in the house,” said Kimmie Sue.
Get out the dark, that’s an understatement. Daisy peered out at the vast darkness behind the one and only, lonely gas station with no real name. It was desolate. How did Momma grow up down here? Part of the reason she chose to come to Murfreesboro was her mother’s being born there, living there half her life, and having the only family in the world there. I don’t know, though, I don’t even see no buses or trains or nothing. Coming from Philadelphia, a thriving metropolis with mass transit, buses, trolleys, and lights at night, one could move around. But Murfreesboro, it was a tad slower… seemingly still. The sound of distant crickets, which heightened while driving with the window down, could be heard in the near distance. Even with the window up, she could still hear the crickets. And not one car, no people, no traffic, no red lights, no nothing; it was scary in the wide open dark country, to say the least. What if something happened? And the roads had no sides, just a yard of dirt, some grass that led into a never-ending ditch and then, simply put, farmland… miles and miles and miles of farmland. Getting stuck out there, broken down, or god forbid anything else, was something she didn’t even want to imagine.
“Shh, I don’t want to wake Momma up,” said Kimmie Sue. “Come on, follow me,” she said, leading Daisy into the house, past the living room, down a hall to a doorway and staircase that led downstairs into the basement.
Kimmie Sue was twenty-two years old. She was five feet seven inches tall and weighed only 135. She was a very pretty girl, just as striking as Daisy was to the eye. The girls, side by side, could pass for sisters, in fact. Kimmie Sue and Daisy Mae both had the same length and grade of hair, but Kimmie Sue had small brown eyes, and bushier, fuller eyebrows than Daisy Mae. Kimmie Sue’s hair was sandy brown, and the hot Tennessee sun was beginning to turn it sandy blond.
“You hungry, Daisy Mae? You want something to eat?” asked Kimmie Sue, ready to sneak her a sandwich or some chips from the kitchen.
“No, I’m okay. I’m just tired a little, ready to lay back.”
Kimmie Sue got a pillow and a blanket out of a closet for Daisy. She turned on the television, made sure that Daisy Mae was comfortable, then curled up on a love seat next to the sofa. The two girls talked and talked until the wee hours of the morning, falling asleep only hours before it was time to wake up.
“Hey there, Daisy Mae,” said Aunt Tildie, as she stood above Daisy, waking her out of her sleep. “Girl, look at you. Ain’t this something?” she asked, as Daisy opened her eyes. “How was your drive down?”
“Good,” said Daisy, smiling at her aunt.
“Well, get on up, we best be heading out to church. Sunday services, Kimmie Sue, so let’s get moving. I got some biscuits, sausage, eggs, rice, and gravy upstairs if you want some.” She walked over to the love seat. “Hey, do you hear me, Kimmie Sue? I’m talking to you, come on, we got to get a move on, I’m fixing to get on out of here. Let’s go!” She smacked Kimmie Sue across her bottom.
“Ma, come on, it’s too early,” said Kimmie Sue.
“Kimmie Sue, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you twice, the Lord is always on time, so we must be too. Besides, the early bird catches the worm, right, Daisy Mae?”
I’m not trying to catch no worms. I’m trying to catch up on my sleep. But she opened her eyes and sat up as she watched her aunt moving around the basement room picking up from the night before.
“You hungry, come on and eat, before services.”
Services, what services is she talking about? “What services, Aunt Tildie?”
“Church, we go to church every Sunday and every Wednesday night for Bible study. I’m sure you will enjoy yourself praising the Lord with us at the Trinity Spirit Worship House of God.”
Daisy almost choked.
“Goodness, you okay, honey?” she asked as Daisy absorbed her twang and the hold she had on words, stretching them out as she talked. She shook her head that she was fine as the word “church” rang through her ears, dissected itself, and punched her brain as if Sonny Liston himself had delivered the blow.
“Oh, and you want me to go?” she said, already knowing that she wasn’t doing nobody’s church, not today, not tomorrow, not happening.
“Of course,” Tildie demanded. “Of course, I do. Besides, it just wouldn’t be right to leave you and not make sure you were included in the glorious praising of our Lord,” said Tildie as she ascended the stairs.
“Yes, it would be,” mumbled Daisy to herself. I ain’t never been inside a church, outside a church, or nowhere near a church. Oh, damn, damn, damn. Let me get up. Did she say something about Wednesday nights? She’ll probably take us to church Thursday too, while she’s at it. Thursday night is ladies’ night at the clubs, or at least it is in Philly, how am I gonna be up in somebody’s church and at the club.
“It’ll be okay. I met my boyfriend, Dusty Mitchell, at the Trinity Spirit Worship House of God. Trust me, you’ll like it. Maybe you’ll meet some people there. Dusty will be there, he’s in the church choir. He’s real smart too,” said Kimmie Sue, nodding with every word she spoke. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. I can’t wait to show you off to everyone at the church. This is going to be so great, right,” asked Kimmie Sue, filled with confidence.
“Yeah, I guess it will be,” she said, smiling at her cousin. “I guess it will be,” she said in a lower tone to herself. Oh, no, she wants to show me off. What am I going to do?
She followed Aunt Tildie upstairs to the kitchen. Aunt Tildie had it all laid out on the counter. Some sausage, biscuits and gravy, rice, and some scrambled eggs.
“Go on, help yourself and hurry on and get dressed.” Aunt Tildie didn’t really remind her much of her mother; they were two completely different types of women. Aunt Tildie was the country mouse and her mother was the city mouse. Aunt Tildie was very, very neat. Abigail cleaned up after a mess, maybe the next day or the next. Aunt Tildie made the beds, old school with the hospital corners, made all the meals, did the cleaning, and stayed on top of Kimmie Sue like a hawk. Even though she was only a couple of years younger than her sister, she was better preserved and much healthier, getting around on her own with ease, still capable of driving, whereas Abigail needed help just standing. The two sisters had lived completely separate and different lives, and Abigail’s life had been a little harder, less fortunate, and less financially secure than Tildie’s.
Tildie had eaten and bathed, then made breakfast. She went to her room to get dressed.
“So, where’s there to go.”
“Oh, nowhere much, where do you want to go?”
“They got clubs down here?”
“Yeah, they do. They got night clubs and party spots. But Momma would probably die. Oh, my, Daisy Mae, you go out in the big city and all?”
“Yeah, don’t you?” said Daisy. The club, shit, my ass is the damn party. The club, hell yeah!
“Shhh, don’t talk so loud. Momma says them kinds of places is filled with whoremongers and heathens and the Lord did not intend for our bodies to gyrate against one another unless a union amongst souls has been blessed, so I don’t know how to dance. Shhh, don’t tell nobody,” said Kimmie Sue matter-of-factly.
She’s serious, is she… either that or she’s crazy. What have I got myself into now? If it ain’t one thing, dammit, it’s another.
“Wow, you’
ve never been to a club, and I’ve never been to church. Isn’t that something?”
“No, it’s not something, it’s pretty bad if you really think about it. How have you never been to church? Aren’t you saved?”
“I don’t know,” said Daisy Mae, shaking her head, not having a clue and not even sure what “being saved” entailed.
“Shhh, don’t let Momma hear you saying that,” warned Kimmie Sue as Tildie came around the corner.
“What you was saying, don’t let me hear you saying what?” she asked, seeming stern and tall even though she was only five-four. “And why ain’t you dressed, Kimmie Sue? Come on, girls, I don’t want to be late.”
“Okay, Momma, I’m getting dressed now,” said Kimmie Sue.
“I’m not sure what to wear,” said Daisy as she thought of how she spent most of her Sundays resting up. That night life of dancing, stripping, and rubbing on men sure did tire her out by the week’s end. She didn’t have a formal dress, just a few hooker-looking shoes for dancing up and down on her pole and some jeans and T-shirts. Not one pair of dress pants. Maybe she had a few dresses in her bags and boxes, but they were party dresses, short, revealing, way too sexy, nothing she could possibly wear after looking at her Aunt Tildie’s Amish motif, very plain, simple, nonrevealing, and gray. Damn, what in the world is going on down here? What is Aunt Tildie fucking wearing?
Sad but true, Daisy Mae had jumped right out the pan and into the fire. She had realized Aunt Tildie was religious when they came up for her mother’s services, but so much was going on that Daisy didn’t really pay attention. Her mind had been elsewhere.
“I, um, didn’t realize I would be needing my church clothes. I wasn’t thinking.”
Aunt Tildie dressed Daisy Mae as best she could, fitting her in one of Kimmie Sue’s church dresses and giving her a pair of flip-flops for her feet. “God ain’t looking at your feet. He’s looking at your heart. Come on, now, let’s mosey on, we’re running late. Kimmie Sue, let’s go.”
Daisy realized that her aunt and cousin were faith fanatics, and she had driven herself into the middle of nothing but farmland. She wasn’t sure if she had made the right choice or a horrible mistake coming there. So far, the odds were leaning toward “horrible mistake.”
CATCH ME IF YOU CAN
Three Weeks Later
Vivian Lang cut through the parking lot of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and entered the downstairs lobby. As she stepped into the elevator and pressed the number ten, Nathan Chambers suddenly appeared and smoothly held up his hand, opening the elevator doors.
“Good morning, Agent Lang.”
“Good morning, Agent Chambers.” She smiled, holding her hands tightly behind her back, dress suit perfectly starched, legs perfectly straight, and pumps holding up her frame like a Barbie doll.
“I have a surprise for you today,” he said, smiling.
“Really?” she said, smiling at him with her baby blue eyes as she tossed her blond hair around. “You, Agent Chambers, having time for surprises? Please hold back no more and do tell.”
“Ah ha, you are right,” he said as the elevator stopped at the tenth floor and the doors opened. “I do not have time for surprises.” He spoke sternly, cleared his throat, and as if in another world, completely changed his demeanor as he stepped off the elevator.
“I received a call on your case, another tape sent over last night. It should be on your desk. Take a look. Hey, Bob.”
“Hey, Mackenrow,” added Lang, walking through the hallway while considering every word her partner said.
“Okay, so back to where I was, it’s a real person this time, and she withdrew fifty thousand off a bad check put in the account months ago.”
“You’re sure she’s real, no phony ID,” asked Agent Lang, unable to believe they finally had a break.
“It’s the biggest break in this case. This is the thing though, listen to this, the bank claims this girl, and I can’t remember her name, oh fuck… some flower, anyway, she was cashing the Social Security checks of her dead mother.”
“Who deposited the check?” asked Agent Lang.
“That’s just it. The bank claims the mother made the deposit, go figure, and she’s dead already, according to the government. Geez, who fucking knows, these people are really sickos,” said Chambers, wondering what type of person would use her dead mother to cash in on. He couldn’t help but comment. “Then again, it’s probably the dead mother’s ghost making the deposit.”
“You’re probably right; it wouldn’t be the worst case I’ve seen,” said Lang.
Agent Vivian Lang couldn’t wait to get to her desk. She immediately grabbed the package, opened it, and looked at the tape. It had three segments listed by date. She put the tape in, sat on the corner of her desk, with the remote control in her hand, and pressed play. It was a little old woman, walking into the bank with a male escort—a black woman, elderly, gray hair, hunched, old-looking dress and sweater, glasses, walking with a younger man, wearing jeans, sneaks, and a long-sleeved, button-down shirt. They walked over to the teller and handed her the deposit slip and the check, a few seconds passed, the deposit slip record was returned, and the two were walking away and out of the bank.
Next scene was the same little old lady walking into the bank alone, walking over to the teller line, waiting in line, giving the teller a check to cash, conversation. Teller left the window. Agent Lang pressed pause on the remote and picked up the file folder on her desk and looked at it. The folder and outline from the bank showed that the account had been frozen. The bank stated the teller did not have information about why the account was frozen, and after relaying information to the old lady, who presented herself as Abigail Fothergill, according to the records, the teller claims that the customer left the bank immediately and did not return. She pressed play, watched the teller return and the old lady leave the bank. Agent Lang looked closely, as the old lady seemingly was walking faster as she left. She pressed rewind and watched how slowly the woman was moving as she walked in. She pressed forward and watched how fast she was walking out. Vivian Lang continued to read the bank statements as she peered up and looked at Daisy Mae Fothergill, “receiver of funds,” as the bank had titled her.
“Oh, my God, what in the world? Look at what this girl is wearing,” said Agent Vivian Lang to herself as she watched a scantily clad, high-heel wearing Daisy Mae with mile-long legs and short shorts enter the bank and make her way over to the teller window.
Agent Vivian Lang watched as it appeared that Daisy and the teller began to argue and the teller pointed her over to customer service. There she signed in, a woman approached her, took her to a desk, spoke with her, left, came back, left, came back and escorted Daisy over to a private booth. Daisy counted her money, put it in her pocketbook, and walked out of the bank.
What was wrong with this picture? Why did the bank give her the money?
Agent Lang began to read the folder: looked like a bank error. The freeze was dropped by this woman who had no record anywhere of why the freeze was there, so the bank technically had no reason to freeze the account anymore. The phony check cleared, they were repaid for the Social Security checks they had cashed, so everyone was happy. The bank customer service representative had no reason not to unblock the account.
Who is Daisy Mae Fothergill, the “receiver of funds”? What’s her angle on all this? Way too many pieces to this puzzle and still no arrests.
Agent Lang popped the tape out of the player. She needed to enhance everything on the tapes so she could see more about the suspects. She needed head shots and she needed to do a major background profile on Daisy Mae Fothergill. If she conducted a proper investigation, by the time she had Ms. Fothergill indicted, she’d have all the pieces of the puzzle fitting in their places. That’s how the Federal Bureau of Investigation operated. You weren’t indicted if they weren’t sure or were trying to build a case or if the bureau had nothing better to do with you. Oh, no, if you were indicte
d by the FBI it was because you were going to prison and the case had already been built and all pieces of the puzzle were already present. That’s just how it goes, federally speaking.
Sticks was sick, so sick he could vomit. His stomach ached and twisted from anxiety. He hadn’t slept or eaten in days. The stress was building, and day after day he tried to reach Daisy. He went to her apartment, night after night, pounding at the door and waiting outside for a sign someone was home. No lights. He called and called, no answer. For the past four weeks, he had been chasing Daisy like a mad stalker. But to those around him, he remained cool, calm, and collected, well balanced and in control. He was only pretending—deep down, he was sweating bullets. He played it off, though, to Nard, convincing him he had nothing to worry about.
“Naw, you good. I got this, let me handle it. Once this broad testifies, you outta there. You hear me, outta there. Don’t worry, baby boy, you’ll be home in a hot flash,” he said with feigned confidence. Nard believed him too. He had put all his trust and faith in Sticks. That trust and faith was what got him through the days and nights of utter confinement. It wasn’t until he walked into the courtroom the day his trial was set to begin that he began to worry. He surveyed the rows of benches filled with scattered faces until his eyes met Sticks’s. Maybe it was the look of “I’m sorry” or maybe it was the way he shook his head to the left and bent his gaze to the floor, but at that moment, Nard knew the witness with his alibi wasn’t coming through, and for the first time he was scared. He knew deep down in his heart that there was no way he could give the system life, not his life, maybe somebody else’s but, Lord, please, not his.
Nard took a seat next to his counsel. The room had a soft chatter as Bobby DeSimone took time to brief his client.
“Listen, the witness isn’t here, and honestly, I’m nervous. She’s our entire case, you understand, Bernard. We need her testimony.”
“Sticks said she’d be here.”
“Yeah, well, looks like Sticks is wrong. She’s not here. My office has been calling her, Sticks told me he went to her house every day, morning, noon, and night, looking for her and called her a hundred times. She never answered the door, never answered the phone, and honestly, I think she’s gone. I could be wrong, but I think she’s gone.”