Getting Sassy

by D. C. Brod

  Novels by D.C. Brod

  Murder in Store

  Error in Judgment

  Masquerade in Blue

  Brothers in Blood

  Paid in Full

  Heartstone

  GETTING

  SASSY

  D. C. Brod

  Published by

  TYRUS BOOKS

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  4700 East Galbraith Road

  Cincinnati, Ohio 45236

  www.tyrusbooks.com

  Copyright © 2010 by D. C. Brod

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Any similarities to people or places, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-3098-X

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3098-2

  This work has been previously published in print format under the following ISBNs:

  978-1-935562-22-1 (hardcover)

  978-1-935562-21-4 (paperback)

  In memory of my mother,

  Ruth Elizabeth Ditzel Cobban

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks go to writer and reader friends, and those who have supplied much-needed support and encouragement: Maria Alderson, Susan Anderson, Miriam Baily, Don Berk, Kathy Boller, Ann Brack Johnson, Mary Brown, Brian Davis, Ceclia Downs, Susan DeLay, Gail Eckl, Carol Haggas, Bob Keegan, Beth Mottashed, Patrick Parks, Laura Pepin, Joan O’Leary, Rachael Tecza and Laura Vasilion.

  My husband, Don.

  Ben LeRoy and Alison Janssen of Tyrus Books.

  All the folks at Town House Books and Cafe in St. Charles, Illinois.

  And, finally, thanks to Susan O’Neill for introducing me to Spud, Sassy’s inspiration.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  FWCRIME.com

  CHAPTER 1

  The idea of stealing the money first came to me as I stood in line at Lundergren’s Liquors, my fist wrapped around a six-dollar liter of Chablis. It hit without warning and bored into my brain like a tiny meteorite, forever changing the landscape.

  I quickly assured myself this was an intellectual exercise and not an actual idea. My mind tends to wander in bizarre places, but it usually comes home when called. I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and focused on the squat little woman in front of me who was grabbing items from the counter displays and tossing them onto her pile. To her two six packs of Miller Lite, she added four Slim Jims, a bag of beer nuts and a lemon. Behind me, a man seemed to be carrying on an animated conversation with himself. But when I turned, I saw that the young, bald guy sported one of those ear phones. He looked like he was being assimilated into the Borg collective.

  “I gotta stop at the deli for Carlisle’s liver scraps,” he was saying. I hoped Carlisle was their dog and not their two-year-old.

  Robbing a store—how hard could it be? What would I use as a weapon? Not a gun. Those things can go off. Then what? Did anyone ever get away with the old stiff-finger-in-the-pocket ploy? The clerk calls your bluff with a Louisville Slugger and then what do you do with your finger? Nothing dignified, that’s for sure.

  I watched as Marv Lundergren keyed in the woman’s purchases. Deep lines creasing his rough, reddened skin weighed down his features, rendering his expression immobile. When he’d rung up a total, the woman began rummaging through her purse, finally emerging with a checkbook. “Can I write this for twenty over?”

  “Sure.” Marv caught my eye and winked.

  I tightened my grip on the Chablis, digging my nails into my palm. Of course I’d never rob a store in Fowler. Not only could I be recognized, but I’d never take money from someone I knew. Not that the folks up by the Wisconsin border or wherever I decided to pillage were any less deserving of their money. That was the problem: who did deserve to be robbed?

  Having recovered a pen from her purse, the woman asked, “What’s the date?”

  “August third,” I told her and added the year.

  “Where does the time go?” she muttered as she began to fill out the check.

  Indeed.

  The cell phone talker behind me had moved on to another call. Maybe someone who bought dog food at the deli and couldn’t wait to get home to consult his stock broker deserved to be robbed.

  As I watched Marv glance at the woman’s driver’s license and then pull two tens out of the till, it occurred to me that a liquor store heist would be pointless anyway. Even on a good day, the till probably didn’t contain more than a few hundred dollars. Most people used credit cards or wrote checks. In order to get the kind of money I needed, I’d have to rob a bank. And that was way too daunting. I sighed, more from relief than disappointment. That was when I realized I actually had been considering it. My scalp tightened.

  “Robyn?”

  I jerked out of my reverie and set the Chablis on the counter. “How’s it going, Marv?” I dug a five and two ones out of the canvas laptop satchel slung from my shoulder.

  “Can’t complain. How’s your mom doing?”

  Marv’s long, knobby finger punched open the drawer and plucked out my change.

  “About the same.” I pocketed the coins and collected the bottle, now concealed in a paper bag.

  “That’s a pretty nice place, isn’t it?”

  “It is. She likes it real well.”

  “Marcy Spender’s mother moved in there, didn’t she?”

  I nodded. “I see her sometimes.” What I didn’t add was that my mother had pronounced Cloris Spender “duller than dirt.”

  “Well, you give Lizzie my best.”

  “Thanks, Marv. I’ll do that.”

  As I stepped outside and into the damp heat, a wave of shame nearly flattened me. Whether I robbed Marv or a total stranger, I’d be turning someone into a crime statistic. The world was a scary enough place already.

  Believing that ended my flirtation with crime, I filled my lungs with the muggy air and welcomed the return of my sanity.

  A light rain began to fall. I tilted my chin up towards the solid gray sky and enjoyed the soft punches of cold against my face.

  Rainy days accentuated Fowler’s blandness, which had to work some to get to pleasant on a crisp spring morning. Except for an occasional splash of color—a turquoise scarf, a basket of purple flowers in the florist’s window and a neon bar sign—the town looked like a film noir set. Along the wide, mostly empty sidewalks, a disturbing number of storefronts had a “to rent” or a “space available” sign propped or taped in their windows. I lived above a picture framing store that, in the two years I’d lived in Fowler, had also been a clothing boutique and a shop selling religious artifacts. Liquor stores and bars did well, and the coffee shop was always busy. A psychic had rented a retail space a half block from my apartment, so maybe that was a good sign. She ought to know.

  Now that I’d determined that robbery was impractical, not to mention just plain wrong, I felt almost giddy. I didn’t want to steal anything. Aside from a souvenir ash tray and maybe a bar glass, I’d ne
ver stolen anything in my life. Even when the girls I’d aspired to hang with in middle school dared me to steal—or “lift” as they’d eu-phemized—a tube of Yardley lip gloss, I’d declined. They’d called me “chicken” and shunned me at the lunch table. I suppose I was scared, but I also believed it was wrong. So why had it even occurred to me to knock off a liquor store? Maybe it was easy to claim the higher ground when you didn’t need the money. Or the lip gloss.

  I considered walking to my destination, Dryden Manor, but decided I didn’t have the time. Not only did I have a three o’clock appointment with my accountant/financial advisor, but I was hoping to avoid April Clarke, Dryden’s director. I had a pretty good idea of her schedule—it paid to be attentive—and knew she usually took a late lunch. So if I got in and out of there by two thirty, I shouldn’t run into her.

  I cut down the alley between the florist’s and the Depot to the small lot where I park my eleven-year-old Civic. The little green machine has got only thirty-five thousand miles on it, and I don’t think my mechanic believes me when I tell him the speedometer has never turned over. It hasn’t. The low mileage attests to the fact that I love to walk, don’t care to drive, and on most days I don’t stray far from home. The exception was taking my mother for a drive. There were times she got so antsy she couldn’t stand being indoors and around people. On those days we’d go for a long ride, usually out in the country, and the miles worked on her like a mild sedative.

  I listened to a Vivaldi guitar concerto as I drove. He usually lightened my mood. As opposed to Beethoven, who made me want to conquer something. Or someone. I pulled into the lot at Dryden and let the strings crescendo and fade before turning off the car.

  One of the things I liked about Dryden Manor was that I could honestly say I wouldn’t mind living there myself when my body and mind couldn’t make it on their own anymore. Not that I was planning for that to happen. I’ve never been able to imagine myself old, and I think there’s some timer in my head that keeps me from becoming too enamored with the idea of a long dotage.

  From the outside, the building resembled an English Tudor estate surrounded by a thick, manicured lawn, mature oaks, pines and ashes, and seasonal gardens, now vibrant with purples, golds and pinks. Walking paths wound through the grounds and bordered the Crystal River, which ran the gamut from a meandering stream to a rushing torrent, depending on the amount of rain and the snow runoff. Today it flowed at a good rate, attesting to the wet spring and summer we’d had, and I took a moment to watch the current carry a narrow, twisted log downriver before I turned and headed up the walk.

  I signed my name in the visitor’s register and rounded the time up to 2:15. The receptionist wasn’t the usual woman, but she seemed to know who I was and, with a wry smile, directed me toward the first floor lounge. “I think Lizzie’s holding court.”

  That’s the thing about being Lizzie Guthrie’s daughter. People know me.

  Two years ago when she moved to Dryden, I thought my mother was on her way out. She has chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, brought on by years of smoking, and was wasting away, both physically and mentally. I believed that my mother had chosen her time, and while I wanted to respect that decision, I also wanted to see that she got some of the luxury and pampering she’d missed out on in her retirement. Dryden Manor was the place.

  But then, instead of continuing her downward spiral, she’d thrived at Dryden. After a rocky start, that is. Smoking was not allowed on the premises, and my mother was an unapologetic smoker. She had to go cold turkey. For a month she called me daily, alternately begging, cajoling and commanding me to buy her a pack. Many a day I wanted nothing more than to march down there, jam a Virginia Slim between her lips and light it for her. But then the calls became less and less frequent and eventually they stopped. And once her doctor sorted out her medications, her mental state improved some. Her short term memory was still diminished and evenings, when her confusion was most profound, could be surreal, but her memory of events in the distant past was still good, albeit selective. For example, she frequently spoke of the luxuries she enjoyed as the wife of a banker, but had forgotten that Wyman considered many luxuries to be Satan’s temptations. (I’ll never forget the battle over the bidet. Wyman won.) Then, after he died, she’d worked for a couple of tight-fisted dermatologists until she was in her seventies, starting as a clerk, a secretary and finally retiring as an office manager. And now she ruled Dryden as lady of the house. This didn’t win her a lot of friends among the residents, but she had her fans among the staff members who liked the feisty ones with delusions of grandeur.

  I would have loved watching her occupy this role if it weren’t for the sad, stark fact that her worst fear had come to be: she had outlived her money. She wasn’t aware of this—a small gift the dementia offered—and I’d only begun to realize the lengths to which I might go in order to keep her from knowing.

  Last month I’d been a week late with her rent. I’d used up the last of her funds and emptied most of my checking account as well. I knew all I was buying was time and that the days until August rent was due would creep up on me like hyenas smelling a kill. Now it was here—three days ago—and I’d squandered the time, visiting a few nursing and assisted living homes that accepted public aid residents and, at the same time, wondering how large an apartment it would take to contain the two of us. I’d even resorted to purchasing lottery tickets, a practice I’d always scorned. And speaking of practices I tend to scorn—robbery would be near the top of that list.

  “Robyn.”

  I froze, hearing the soft thud of footsteps coming up behind me on the plush carpeting. Drawing in a deep breath, I turned to face April Clarke, who approached with a handbag slung over her shoulder and a set of car keys dangling from her right hand. Timing was everything.

  Her smile didn’t seem forced, which was more than I could say for my own. She gestured with a nod in the direction of her office. “We need to talk,” she said. “It won’t take a minute.”

  When I hesitated, she added, “I’ve been leaving messages on both your home and your cell phones.”

  I nodded—I know when I’ve been busted—and followed her into the small office next to the reception area.

  April closed the door behind us and moved into the middle of the room, pushed aside a coleus plant on her desk to make room for her purse. But she held on to her keys as she leaned her butt against the desk’s edge.

  I swallowed. “I just need a few more days to find a place.”

  “Are you looking?”

  When I’d made the decision to move my mother into Dryden, April had been one of its assets. I’d watched her chatting with residents, and she’d never given me the impression that she wanted to be somewhere other than with her old people. Fully involved and focused, she could not have not been faking. And now, as she waited for my answer, I didn’t see any anger or sign that she viewed me as a deadbeat who had let it all come to this.

  “I, um, yes. I’ve got an appointment this afternoon with Willoway Care Center.”

  “They have a bed available?”

  “Yes.” I paused. “Middle of the month.”

  She nodded. “They’re good. I’ve heard good things.”

  “That’s good.” I blinked and looked out the window, past a vase of black-eyed Susans.

  “She’ll do okay, Robyn.”

  “She doesn’t like change.”

  “People of her age usually don’t. But give her a little time. She will adjust. Lizzie’s tough.”

  My shoulders bobbed once in a half-assed attempt at a chuckle. “Yeah.” The elm outside blurred and I looked down at the floor. “I know.”

  And then, because I figured April shouldn’t have to ask all the tough questions, I said, “I’ve got some money coming in next week. Can I pay you then for the days she’s still here?”

  “Robyn, don’t do this to yourself. Your mother doesn’t want you to go into debt over this.”

  I shook my
head. “I won’t.” I wondered what April would have thought about my criminal inclinations. I could hear her: Robyn, your mother doesn’t want you doing hard time over this.

  After studying me for a few moments—I didn’t blink—she sighed and said, “Okay. I’ll tell Connie.”

  “Thank you, April.” Connie—Dryden’s financial manager—was the one who did make me feel like a deadbeat. But I had to be grateful for any time they gave me and, if necessary, I knew how to grovel.

  On my way to the lounge, I stopped in the women’s room to pull myself together. While my mother has never been good at reading my moods, this afternoon I was sure I wore defeat like a cast-iron choker. Here I was—forty-five years old with no one in the world depending on me except for my mother and my dog. And I’d been a disappointment to at least one of them. Some days I hated what I saw in the mirror. I blew a puff of air up toward my bangs. Maybe there was still a chance. An outside chance that was as stupid as robbing a bank, but at least it was marginally legal. I swiped my lips with a stick of gloss and went to see my mother.

  I found her sitting with three women in the lounge. As usual, she wasn’t behaving. The fact that she is far from the most popular resident at Dryden Manor doesn’t faze my mother one iota. I think she sees herself as a firm but benevolent monarch who doesn’t expect to be adored by all.

  She’s a small woman, made smaller by bones that were collapsing into themselves. But she held herself as straight as her C-shaped spine would allow. Today she wore the powder blue terry pants and hoodie that I’d gotten her. She sat with her legs crossed and her fingers laced around one knee. Her chin was lifted so she could look down her petite nose at the women sitting in a semi-circle around her.

  If I could have chosen the physical traits I would inherit from my mother it would be her near immunity to wrinkles—at eighty-two, her face was almost without lines—and her hands. They were slim, with fine, blue veins and were seldom still, punctuating her sentences and grasping the air for forgotten words.