Cat in a Bag

by Angela M. Sanders

  The woman broke into a smile at Adele’s shock. “Oh, come on. Don’t you think I would have fought back a little harder if I hadn’t known? Deborah Granzer.” She shook Adele’s hand. “I’m sorry I won’t be able to stick around to see the Booster Club through the job. I’m leaving town tonight.”

  “Oh.” After three years of incarceration—the same routine day in, day out—she’d practically lived another three years since morning.

  “I’m afraid I’ll be out of touch for the next week or so, too,” Ruby, right behind Deborah, said.

  Deborah clapped her hands together. “So. Have you met the others?”

  2

  In the Villa’s cafeteria, Gilda stuck the last brown rosebud into the floral arrangement and stood back, one hand on her hip, and the other on her walker. She squinted at the bouquet. Could be worse. She crammed a dead fern on the arrangement’s edge.

  “Not bad,” Bobby said. He’d come in from outside and continued to shuffle cards while Gilda worked. “Who’s that one for?”

  “Some cheating yahoo,” Gilda said. “Why don’t these roses come with thorns? It would be so much better that way.” She hummed a few bars of “Frankie and Johnny” as she put the finishing touches on the arrangement.

  Ever since Gilda had come up with the idea to make a little cash with Bad Seed, a business delivering dead floral arrangements, she’d loved imported South American roses. They died on the stem without even opening, their brown heads bent as if in shame. Lilies were a waste of money. When they were over the hill, they simply dropped their petals. She had better luck with hydrangeas.

  Voices from the hall drew nearer. “This is our cafeteria. The Villa’s residents hang out here a lot. Never play cards with Bobby, by the way.” It was Ruby, leading a frail-looking girl by the elbow.

  “What?” Bobby said once they entered the room. “What did I ever do to you?”

  “Card shark,” Ruby said in a stage whisper. “We’ll meet in here because of the television. Keep an eye out for news of your escape. Grady tends to monopolize the television room.”

  Warren leaned in the doorway. Deborah followed Ruby and closed the cafeteria’s blinds enough that some light came through, but no one would be able to see in. The sounds of bouncing balls and children’s laughter came from the school next door. Ruby clicked on the television, and a Perry Mason rerun filled the screen.

  “Everyone, this is Adele Waterson.” Ruby turned to Gilda and lowered her voice. “Deborah’s dropping me off at home. Are you sure you can handle it?”

  “We talked this over earlier, remember? We’ll be fine.” Just because it had been a few years—okay, decades—since most of the Villa’s residents had been in the business didn’t mean they couldn’t help a girl out before she died. Now that she was out of the joint, it would be easy. Wasn’t that what the Booster Club was for? At least, that’s what Larry had argued when he’d made his case last week. His niece wanted to take care of a few items before she died. Why shouldn’t she have that chance? In exchange, he’d fix things with the licensing board.

  Warren had led the camp against helping the girl. “You think relicensing is a problem,” he had said, “what about getting caught harboring a fugitive?”

  Gilda smiled at the girl. She was a delicate thing, the niece. Maybe prison had done that to her. As a rule, members of the bent community had a survivor’s look about them. They were the hearty shrubs at the back of the flowerbed, not the blooms that held the place of glory in a vase on the sideboard. Maybe they weren’t showpieces, but they grew with minimal water and no fertilizer.

  Of course, art forgers were different than your run of the mill criminal. Gilda had only known one, a specialist in Post Impressionism, and he’d died of cirrhosis of the liver when she was a teenager and only just beginning to trawl the nightclubs. She’d heard the stories of mistresses and artistic snits and empty bottles of Scotch whisky. This one was a different sort of artist. She was an observer, not the drama-spewing center of attention. You could see it in her wide eyes and how she shifted her gaze from person to person.

  Gilda set down a fistful of babies’ breath and pushed her walker to the new girl. “Hi, honey. Ruby, you and Deborah go on home. No problem.”

  Ruby and Deborah left to a round of goodbyes and kisses on the cheek. “You’re sure it’s all right?” Ruby said, hand on the doorknob.

  “We’ve got it, no problem. You girls drive safely,” Gilda said. She steered Adele toward a chair along the cafeteria’s far wall, where she’d be out of sight of the street.

  Most of the Villa’s other dozen residents had eventually sided with Larry the Fence. It was great to pass retirement with other people who knew the life, but, face it, you spend a long time being old. And this was a “creative” bunch. They got bored. Talking about the old days, the old heists, the old crowd didn’t excite. Finally, just after dinner, they’d voted to take on the Booster Club’s mantle and help Larry’s niece make her peace before she died.

  “How do you like your room?” Gilda asked.

  Adele’s gaze took her in as if she were appraising a fine sculpture. “It’s nice. Thank you for having me.”

  “Then I’ll introduce you around,” Gilda said. “This is Adele. We just sprang her from Carsonville Women’s Prison.” She nodded toward the television. “They’ll have an APB on her soon—”

  “Yes,” Adele said, her voice small.

  “Speak up, hon,” Bobby said.

  “I said, yes, thank you.”

  “Adele, these are your new housemates until we get things straightened out for you. Don’t worry about remembering everyone all at once.” She touched the priest’s shoulder. “You’ve already met Father Vincent. Besides living here, he drives us around town, takes us to appointments.”

  The priest nodded. “Pleased to be helping you.”

  “I heard Ruby mention Bobby to you. He’s the one shuffling cards,” Gilda said.

  “Got to keep my hands busy.”

  “And speaking of keeping his hands busy, the man whittling next to Bobby is Mort.”

  “What’s his specialty?” Adele asked Gilda.

  “Ruby told you about the Villa, did she?”

  “Confidence man,” Mort said. “The whittling’s just a hobby.”

  “He’s good,” Gilda said. “He did the bust above the fireplace.” After her longtime partner and Villa founder Hank had died, Mort carved his likeness, down to the horn-rimmed glasses and slight underbite. It brought them both comfort.

  “Thank you.” Mort continued cleaning his pocketknife, keeping an eye on the girl all the while.

  “Then we have Red” —she pointed toward the white-haired woman— “Mary Rose, and Grady. I assume you’ve already met Warren, the manager, on your way in. The others are napping or out, but you’ll get to know them soon enough.”

  Adele seemed to be taking it all in. “What is the Booster Club, anyway? I asked for Larry’s help, and the next thing I know, I’m here. Not that I’m not grateful,” she added quickly.

  Gilda had always thought Deborah was fine-boned, but this girl would look like a 12-year-old from a distance. Tiny chin, tiny wrists. Lovely cheekbones, though. Maybe later she’d lend the girl some blush and a lipstick. “The Booster Club is a do-gooders group.”

  “Sort of a fraternal organizational for the underclass,” Father Vincent said. “We have particular skills, and we use them for society’s good.”

  “Yes. The Booster Club’s membership is fluid. It started with a few of the younger folk—you met Deborah and Ruby—and we helped when we could. This job’s all ours.”

  Adele’s eyes were wide as a kindergartner’s on the first day of school. “And everyone here is bent? This is an old folks home for criminals?”

  Gilda waved a dead rose at her. “Don’t tell me you’re too good for us.”

  Adele let out a long breath, then smiled. Then laughed. The girl looked as if she hadn’t laughed in a long time. She leaned back. “
No, I’m….” All at once, she was serious again. “What kinds of projects have you taken on?”

  “You know the old firehouse, the one that’s now a family shelter? That was the Booster Club,” Gilda said.

  “I read about that in the paper,” Adele said. “We all wondered if the woman who lost it at the end—”

  “Ellie Whiteby,” Gilda said and shook her head.

  “—would end up at Carsonville Women’s with us,” Adele finished.

  “She went to a psychiatric ward. She fought the firehouse tooth and nail, and it left her unbalanced,” Gilda said. “After the firehouse, the Booster Club started an adoption program for inmates’ companion animals. Ruby’s idea. She fosters Chihuahuas.”

  Gilda watched as Adele’s gaze traveled the room, pausing a moment on Warren before returning to Gilda. The girl swallowed. “I’m here because last week I learned that I have a brain aneurysm. If it bursts—”

  “Kaput,” Bobby said. “Larry told us.”

  “The doctor at the infirmary gave me a few months at most to live, but I could die anytime.”

  “Infirmary doctor, pshaw,” Father Vincent said. “We’ll have Doc Parisot look you over.”

  Due to helping patients get cheap medication from Canada and the bad luck of stumbling over a few FBI agents, Dr. Parisot no longer had a medical license. He kept up his training through attending conferences under a variety of aliases, and he treated everyone at the Villa in the ground floor doctor’s office. Grady had dubbed it the “sick bay” when he was into Star Trek, before soap operas took over his TV schedule, and the name had stuck.

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ve come to grips with it. Sort of.” Her voice softened at the last few words.

  “Look. The television,” Warren said. “Turn it up.”

  “We interrupt programming to bring you breaking news. A woman has escaped from Carsonville Women’s Correctional Facility. She is not known to be armed, but she could be dangerous. She may have been assisted in her escape.” Adele’s mugshot appeared on the screen. Her delicate skin showed purple under her eyes. “If you see Adele Waterson or know her whereabouts, contact the number at the bottom of the screen.” After a moment, the screen switched again to black and white, with Perry Mason gesturing toward the judge.

  Warren turned down the volume. “Well, that’s it, then. ‘Assisted in her escape.’” He shook his head. “If she’s caught, it will be the end of the Villa.”

  “Don’t get so dramatic,” Gilda said. All those years reading potboilers must have messed with the boy’s mind. She’d been in a lot tighter situations and made a clean go of it, no problem. Nevertheless, she glanced toward the parking lot in front. Father Vincent was careful about “borrowing” and returning cars without leaving anything incriminating behind. Surely he hadn’t been followed. She couldn’t help but notice Father Vincent stealing a glance out front, too.

  “Maybe we could start tonight, even,” Adele said, perhaps emboldened by the television report.

  “Speak up, girl,” Grady repeated.

  “She said we might get started tonight,” Gilda said. Then, to Adele, “That’s Grady. He’s a little hard of hearing but great with computers.”

  “Oh.” The poor girl looked overwhelmed.

  “Like I said, don’t worry too much about names for now.” She pulled out a chair and sat. “I’m free once I’ve finished this floral arrangement. What do you have in mind? Larry said you had a few things to settle.”

  “Perhaps a difficult family relationship?” Father Vincent said. “I’ve helped many families reconcile over the years.”

  “A few debts to pay off?” Mary Rose said. “We don’t have a lot of money, but with your uncle’s help I bet we could work it out.”

  “Maybe she has something fun she wants to do,” Red offered. “You know, go bungee jumping or something.”

  “No. I want to get back my forgeries and destroy them.”

  The Villa’s residents were silent a moment. Even Bobby stopped shuffling his cards. Only Mort continued carving. He was making a boat for Mary Rose’s grandson and had whittled a captain’s wheel at its prow.

  Finally, Father Vincent spoke. “What?”

  “Huh?” Grady said after adjusting his hearing aid.

  “That’s what you wanted, for the Booster Club to steal back your paintings?” Warren shook his head. “This was not part of the deal.”

  “Darling,” Gilda said. “We’re not equipped for fine art heists. Larry said nothing about this.”

  Adele’s voice grew stronger. “I need those paintings destroyed.”

  “Oh, no.” Warren shook his head. “Absolutely not. We can’t take the risk.”

  “You don’t understand,” Adele said. “People see these paintings. They think they’re looking at masterpieces, but it’s all a lie. It’s wrong.”

  “Those paintings aren’t hurting anyone. Folks are probably enjoying them,” Gilda said. Something about Adele’s insistence struck a false note. After years of playing people for money, Gilda’s B.S. detector was finely calibrated. The girl didn’t have a con’s slick demeanor, but she was hiding something.

  “Not as much as they would if they were real. Plus, it’s disrespectful to the artists. Their paintings are their legacy. People shouldn’t know them by forgeries.”

  “Aren’t they dead? The artists, I mean?” Gilda said.

  “Not as long as their work survives.” Adele clenched her jaw. Gilda knew this look. Cook did the exact same thing when they were trying to get her to get the cheaper store-bought eggs instead of shell out for the pastured eggs at the farmers market. There was no arguing.

  “How many paintings are we talking about?” Bobby asked.

  “Only eight,” she said. “That’s all.”

  “Only eight,” Gilda said. “You want us to steal eight paintings, probably all in high-security areas, for you?”

  Adele didn’t even blink. “And destroy them.”

  Gilda shook her head. “Hon, look around. There’s a lot of experience in this room, but not quite as much agility as, say, fifty years ago. Stealing a valuable painting takes planning, skills, money….” She looked up. “Does your uncle know about this?”

  Adele stayed silent.

  “So, you didn’t tell him. Honey,” Gilda said.

  “We need Deanie,” Bobby said.

  “She could do it,” Father Vincent said. “Didn’t she lift two Boulangers from the Frick?”

  “She’s not in the business anymore, and you know it,” Gilda said. He was right, though. Claudine—Hank’s daughter—would have been the perfect cat burglar for them. She was young, fit, and had nerves of steel. There wasn’t a safe made nor security system designed that she couldn’t crack. But she wasn’t available.

  “I have an easy one to try first,” Adele said.

  “Doubtful,” Mort said, still whittling.

  “No, really. It’s a small painting, an Italian landscape, at the Oak Hills golf club here in town. It was my first forgery, sort of a test run. It’s not very valuable. It should be easy to lift.”

  “Easy for you, you mean,” Grady said.

  “Please,” Adele said. The girl’s hands moved to the base of her skull. Whatever it was she was hiding, Gilda noted, these paintings really did weigh on her mind. “Just listen.”

  “I’m sorry, but—” Warren started.

  Gilda held up her hand. “Stop. Let the girl talk.”

  Warren’s expression turned stone cold. He left the cafeteria. A few seconds later, his office door slammed shut.

  “I’m not saying we’ll do it,” Gilda said. “But we’ll listen.”

  3

  “Ms. Millhouse,” the orderly said, “you’ll take care of yourself, right?”

  Ellie bristled. “Whiteby. Ms. Whiteby.” She wound a scarf around her neck and picked up her gloves. Before long, she wouldn’t have to put up with John’s sniveling concern and repeatedly calling her by her soon-to-be ex-husband’s name.
Just because she made a mistake and ended up in a lock-down psychiatric ward was no reason to serve her divorce papers. If it weren’t for that damned Booster Club, she’d still be the toast of Carsonville.

  Sure, from its white columns and Georgian gables, the Bedlamton Arms looked like a country club from the outside. The inside wasn’t bad, either. The Gothic revival chairs in the hall were clearly fakes, not even real cherry, and the landscapes were second-rate, but at least they made a show of being the “relaxing home-away-from-home every busy executive needs.” She’d paid her lawyer a king’s ransom to get her sentenced here instead of a state-run institution. But it was its own form of prison. Without the right code for the security system, she couldn’t leave its grounds. Heck, she couldn’t leave her own room at night.

  “Sorry, Ms. Whiteby. It’s just—it’s just that I’d lose my job, or worse, if they knew I was helping you.”

  She smiled sweetly. “You’re the only one I can trust, John.”

  He tugged at the collar of his white jacket. “And someone escaped from the Carsonville Women’s Correctional Facility this afternoon. It’s all over the television. You’ve been so good to me. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “Like I said, I’ll be back soon.” She softened her voice and even patted his arm. “I simply need to wish my darling daughter well on her birthday. Then I’ll rush back to you and the comfort of the Bedlamton Arms. You’ll see.”

  He shifted feet. “Are you sure? Couldn’t you just send her a card?”

  “A card is not the same as a mother’s kiss.”

  “Why the large bag, then?”

  “Oh, John. I see you doubt me.” She sat on the bed and patted the brocade bedspread next to her. “Sit. Think about your own experience growing up. Your parents were never there for you, were they?”