Alpaca My Bags

by Violet Patton

  She’d laugh too and kept on sewing. Which I suspect was better than wringing Daddy’s neck. Freddy was a rough and tumble guy, tough as a cheap round steak but as sweet as Thanksgiving pumpkin pie topped with a dollop of hand-whipped cream. Hand whipping cream was hard work, like hand-stitching scraps of fabric into pretty things. Mama loved hard work and Freddy Warren was a hard piece of work. He kept his woman on her toes.

  Philly reminds me of him. Sometimes girls do marry their daddies.

  Alice chuckled. “We teach quilting. Don’t worry. It’s fun.” Guess she read my expression.

  I doubt I want to volunteer to sew, but I’ll probably find myself back here soon... sewing ninety-nine stitches. I bet not one of these sewing ladies would appreciate my Daddy’s joke about Mama’s sewing.

  “Later,” Alice said. The two women looked up from their projects and smiled goodbyes.

  Outside the sewing room door, Alice said, “C’mon. I’m excited to teach you to Google. The library is right here.”

  Ten steps later, she opened the library door. Cold air blasted out. The air smelled funky like rotten paper, but felt like a blast off the Bay and I shivered gleefully. They must keep the room cold so the books won’t ignite in the Arizona heat. I don’t read much, but suddenly I was interested in exploring whatever the library offered.

  “Over here,” she said, heading for a row of computer monitors. “Let’s sit here. We can both have our own computer.” She pulled out a rolling office chair and nodded at it.

  “Okay.” I sat and stared at the ugly computer screen. How someone can be entertained sitting in front of that thing was beyond me.

  Alice wiggled into her rolling chair. “Turn yours on.”

  She punched a button on the corner of her keyboard, and I copied her action. Our monitors flickered to life and Google presented itself on the monitor screen.

  I know plenty about Google. Menlo Park was only a short jaunt from San Fran. It provided us with a fortune when we sold our house to a Google dot-comer. That’s the reason I’m living in the asphalt jungle, and I should despise Google for doing that to me.

  “Okay. Do you know how to type?”

  “Yes. I learned to type.” Alice didn’t need to know I learned to type on an Underwood portable typewriter in English class. Neither English class nor typing had gone well but I do, do a good hunt and peck.

  “Type in Wanda in the space right there. Make sure the cursor is in that bar.” She pointed to the lined space underneath the banner.

  On the keyboard, I pecked W A N D A.

  “There’s nothing there.”

  “Use the mouse.” Alice nodded at the mouse at my right.

  “Oh, right?” Philly used his mouse with his old laptop. He switched to a tablet to play games and Words with Friends who aren’t friends. I don’t spell well enough to play fake scrabble with strangers.

  “What was her last name?”

  “Morrison. I associate people’s names. It helps me remember things. Reminds me of Jim Morrison.”

  I blinked, and she grimaced. “The Doors? Drug overdose?”

  “Oh, that Jim Morrison.” I reached for the mouse, trying twice to get the cursor to stick but it disappeared.

  “Point and click. Like this.” She pointed and clicked. I gave it another try.

  The blinking cursor stuck, and I typed Wanda Morrison.

  On her computer she did the same thing. “Hmm. Looks like a lot of Morrisons are online. Try typing Wanda Morrison murder.”

  We both typed.

  “Bingo.” Alice said. “Now click on one of those articles.”

  Computers weren’t all that hard, but the print looked too small. “I can’t see a thing. I need my readers.”

  “Oh, you. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I shrugged. “Guess I didn’t think of it.” I had my cataracts done. The only time I needed my glasses was for working crossword puzzles.

  Her cell phone pinged, and she fumbled in her fanny pack for it. “They’re headed back. Fifteen minutes. Got the permit. We can do this later.” She clicked off the web page.

  “Maybe I can use Philly’s tablet. Search at home.” If I ever had a home to live in again.

  We could take our patio chairs to the PODS and park my Sleep Number under a blue trap stretched between poles, like the ones at the vegetable stand, it’d be just like home.

  But then, there was Mack Riggs and his staging area rules. I should avoid him as much as possible... he’s got me on his list of bad eggs.

  “That’s a good idea. Let’s go.” I’ve had enough Google to last me a lifetime.

  Golf carts top out at about twenty miles per hour, which felt too fast, but with Alice driving, it didn’t take long to arrive back on Mississippi Road.

  Things looked normal before I noticed an ominous black sedan nosed into our carport.

  Alice eased to a stop. We sat staring at the man dressed in all black... in this heat... standing beside his car.

  She whispered, “Dang, who’s that?”

  “I don’t know.” Nothing that happens here should surprise me. But this guy’s demeanor made my hackles flutter as I climbed from the golf cart.

  Alice chuckled. “Looks like Men in Black.”

  “I’ll say.” I walked toward him, offering my hand. “I’m Bunny Winters. Can I help you?”

  He looked at Alice and she said, “Alice Smythe.” I nodded because I didn’t know her last name until that moment. I must remember things I forget to ask.

  He pulled a white card from his breast pocket. “Arnold Masters. FBI.”

  I took the card and passed it to Alice. I still didn’t have my reading glasses.

  “What can I do for you?” I glanced past him and noticed the missing mirrored closet doors. “Looks like somebody stole my personal property.”

  He cocked his chin, looking in the direction I looked, but he didn’t have a clue about what I was referring to. “I’m here to ask questions.”

  “You seen Philly or Wayne?” Alice grinned, stepping in close. “They got all the answers. We don’t know a thing.”

  “You got identification other than an ordinary business card.” FBI. Yeah right.

  Once and for only a short while, I worked at Postal Express, one of my many odd jobs. At Postal Express a person could order business cards of every color, size and font to their heart’s desire. Nobody questioned who they were or what they wanted. I saw cards printed in black ink on white card stock that looked like Arnold Master’s card. I can honestly say the persons ordering those cards were not, with a capital N, FBI agents.

  He flipped out a badge. Alice and I peered at it. It looked worthless. You could also order fake badges from Postal Express’s many mail order catalogues. Of course, that was before the internet happened. Now, I bet you can order Men in Black suits exactly like the one the kid wore.

  “What do you want?”

  “What do you know about Wanda Morrison?”

  “Nothin’,” I quipped. “I bought this house last week. I don’t know Shinola about Wanda or the horse she rode in on.”

  My patience spread thin. I wanted Wanda to go away. In fact, I wanted the whole experience, the Oasis, the rules and regulations, everything to go away. Alice could stay, but only if she didn’t bring me into this century’s technology.

  “Leave us be,” Alice said. “Contact the Oasis’ attorney. His name is Allen Parks. We don’t have nothing to do with Wanda.”

  “Allen Parks,” Arnold repeated. “I will contact him.” He relaxed. “Sorry to upset you. I’m new. Just assigned to unsolved cases... it’s all too much... hot... the heat.” He ran a hand along his coat’s fabric. “This black suit is killing me. I transferred from the Bay Area. I thought I would look at old files... not making house calls.”

  Hearing he came from the Bay softened my hardcore staunch and I felt sorry for him. Guess I acted like a cantankerous old woman. “You’ll get used to the heat.”

  “In about a week?”
he asked.

  “No, not in a week, maybe in a million years.” Alice chuckled, shaking her shoulders.

  “I’ve been here a week. I ain’t used to it yet. If you don’t mind, my iced tea is whispering sweet nothin’s in my ear.” I nodded toward our not-so-humble abode.

  “Sure,” Arnold said. “I understand. I won’t keep you. Really there’s nothing to see here.” He stepped toward his black sedan. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I hope not.” I took the steps up to the veranda and Arnold drove off.

  “I’m heading to the house. The heat. You staying here?” Alice asked.

  “Yep. See you later.” I didn’t beg her to stay. There’s nothing better than alone time to save you from a screaming meltdown. I broke through the yellow tape and went inside. Philly shut the AC off, and I was sweating buckets. I drank two glasses of old sweet iced tea. It had gotten thick in the fridge, but it was cold.

  They pulled the fridge out from the wall. I peeked behind it.

  They had sawed a three-by-two-foot rectangle out showing orangey pink insulation. Magically, the exit door had been rehung and closed. Too bad they... the crime scene people... hadn’t ripped out the cabinets and appliances. It would’ve made my kitchen remodel quicker. Alice admitted she bought her mini appliances at Ikea, and that she’d help me remodel. I agreed as long we hired professionals. We might send Philly and Wayne on a long road trip to nowhere to keep them out of our hair.

  I turned on the AC; it sputtered tepid air. I changed into my new blue swimming suit. Stifling heat blasted from the vents. I planned to head to the pool and pretend I was swimming in the shallow end. It would be much cooler there than here.

  I released the blowup bed’s valve and got onto my knees squeezing the remaining air from Madonna’s leaky mattress. I sat on it to compress it, and I fumed aloud over everything that had happened since we moved to the Oasis. Stating my frustrations aloud sometimes cleared my willies better than keeping quiet.

  The door popped open and Philly hollered. “Hunny Bunny? Who are you talking to?”

  “Oh, my goodness. You’re home?” Boy, I was glad to see him.

  “Yeah, we’ve been out here for ten minutes. You better stop talking to yourself or I’ll haul you to the loony bin.”

  I hopped off the flattening mattress and hurried outside to the veranda. “Ah... sorry. I was talking to myself. It’s just that... I’m planning the new kitchen.”

  “Here,” Philly said, setting the ice chest on the veranda. “Scoot this over into the shade. My beer needs to stay cool longer.”

  Wayne watched our tête-à-tête and said, “The contractor will be here soon. We better keep this butcher knife thing quiet.” That was his delicate way of saying shut-up.

  “The crime scene people released us. The Oasis approved the building permit. They want this whole shittery to go away,” Philly said. “Get me my work boots, would’ya?”

  “Sure. You want lunch?”

  “Yeah.” He was always in a calorie deficit. “Make me a sandwich.”

  He sounded growling grumpy despite eating breakfast at Elmer’s. Ten minutes later, I set a platter of peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches on the patio table.

  “Y’all share them,” I hollered. Beer and peanut butter don’t go together. In his grumpy hangry mood, food pairing wasn't important.

  He and Wayne nodded at the plate, but the contractor had already arrived. David Bell was there too. We exchanged glares even though last evening I thought our relationship had improved.

  I stomped down the veranda steps so Philly would know I left the premises. At the asphalt, I glanced back, and he caught my look, acknowledging my departure.

  First stop: Wanda’s house.

  Curiosity had gotten the better of me. I must scope out the so-called kitty-cornered from here house where Wanda thought she had moved. Next to Ann’s house going north, sat another summer-proofed park model. Instead of winterizing, folks put heavy-duty summer protection on their windows to protect their furnishings from the hostile outside environment. Minette and Hugo’s place sits across the street two doors away from Ann’s place. Our next-door neighbors on each side weren’t home either.

  I walked further away in the furrow, planted my hands on my hips and stopped, gawking like a tourist. Wanda’s new place looked forgotten. Actual shriveled weeds grew between the gravel in its rock garden. This might be the last original park model circa 1997, the side paneling needed a good pressure wash, and the porch was littered with sand.

  This house set kitty-cornered as possible from our house. Philly stood at the corner of our trailer, watching me and I shrugged but went on; it wasn’t his business what I was doing.

  Someone tacked a dusty for sale sign on the house’s wall. From the looks of the old sign, it has been hanging for a long time.

  Does she know her new home is for sale?

  I climbed the house’s veranda steps and knocked. “Wanda? You home?”

  You never know, right?

  Much to my surprise from inside a woman called back, and a willie crawled my spine, warning me of impending danger.

  What had I done? Awakened the spirit world? No telling what haint would answer my call. Daddy called a ghost or spirit a haint. Often, his Southern showed at the most inopportune time, especially at the wrong place like when Mama forced him to go to church.

  The door cracked open. A nose poked into the crack. “May I help you?” An ancient tried looking woman opened the door another inch. “Who are you?”

  “Hey you.” I used the standard Oasis greeting unable to translate hey y’all quickly. She pushed out her screen door, forcing me back.

  “I’m new and looking for Wanda.”

  “Do you want to buy the house? Talk to my son. He’s on Georgia.”

  “Huh? Oh no, I bought that way.” I nodded up Mississippi. “Is Wanda your daughter?”

  “Don’t have no daughter. Ask Dan. On Georgia.” She clicked the screen closed. “He knows about the house.” The solid inside door shut with a thud.

  Dan? Like in dead Dan? If she was talking about Dan, Amelia’s assistant, and she was his mother, did she know he was dead? Surely, the Oasis has several residents named Dan.

  I stepped off her porch. Wanda didn’t live there. She wasn’t alive. She lived nowhere.

  Stop number two was Alice’s place. I walked in the furrow and Philly stepped into the street and glared grumpily at me as I marched toward her veranda steps.

  I knocked on her door. “Hey, you home?”

  She cracked opened the door looking tousled and sleepy.

  “Did I wake you up? I wanted to get the photo album.”

  “Sure thing, sugar. Let me get it.” She didn’t ask me in and I didn’t overreach her hospitality by barging in uninvited.

  “Here you go.” She put it out the door. “Y’all got supper tonight?”

  I took the album. “Yeah, I got it. We’re getting a room at the Four Seasons.”

  Alice grinned. She knew there wasn’t a Four Seasons resort anywhere near Tucson.

  “Y’all enjoy yourselves.” She clicked her door shut and their AC unit cycled on.

  I can’t wait to see our electric bill.

  “Thanks,” I hollered, so she’d hear me.

  I had what I wanted. There must be a clue inside this old wedding album about what happened to Wanda. Weren’t most murders committed by someone the victim knew?

  I put the album under my arm and hiked along the furrow, heading home. I marched past the men, climbed the steps, went inside and poured the last dregs of iced tea into a glass and…. wait, there’s no chair.

  Opening the door, I grabbed a patio chair and put it inside. Our AC cycled on because of the open door, but I cranked down the thermostat another notch. Who cares about the electric bill?

  That’s when I realized I was traipsing around in my swimming suit. I look scary in it. I blushed even though nobody would see me. I sat in the patio chair, opening the alb
um cover.

  Philly opened the door, bumping it into the chair.

  “What?” Please don’t disturb me.

  “I got you a present.” He squeezed in behind the chair. “Get out of the way.” He turned and struggled to drag in a heavy box as tall as me and twenty inches square.

  “What the?” I put the album down. “What is it?”

  “C’mere. I ordered it from Amazon. Same day delivery. They got a warehouse down the road.” He turned around, dragging the box toward the bedroom.

  “This better be good.”

  “Oh, believe me, it’s fantastic. You’re gonna love it.”

  I hate surprises and he knew it. It wasn’t open yet, but I felt slightly disappointed. The mysterious box looked too small to be a stack washer and dryer.

  He stopped by the bathroom door. “Hand me that box cutter.” We left it handy to open the shipping boxes, and I grabbed it off the kitchen counter.

  Philly cut along the side of the box. “Step back. I read the instructions on how to unbox this thing. It’s liable to break your neck.”

  I grabbed my throat. “Sweetie Bastard. I can’t imagine what you’ve done.”

  My man knew how to titillate a gal. With all the whispers about murder, I hoped he hadn’t gone to all this trouble to kill me in our new home. As many arguments as we’ve had over the years, he sure surprised me with death. We should’ve stayed in the big city where people would ignore my passing.

  He glanced back, wielding the box cutter too close for comfort. I spread my feet to steady myself; I wasn’t going down without a fight. He grinned and pulled the box away; the thing swayed and near about toppled over.

  “What is it?”

  From inside the toppled box, he pulled two folded metal thingies that resembled legs.

  “It’s your new nest. It’s a pop up.” He joked about my bed being a nest before because of the mixture of pillows and sheets I gathered around us. He joked, but secretly loved the nest, snuggling into it like a grumpy old bear for hibernation.

  “Not another pop up.” I backed away. My experiences with anything pop up, like our former camping tent, weren’t good ones.

  “Don’t worry. It’s all good.” He cut the strapping which held together the metal thingys. “These are legs. That is the bed.” He pointed at a highly compressed tube of foam, but how those three pieces would turn into a bed was beyond me.