Suspicious Mimes

by Virginia Brown

  “I didn’t. I saw the orange cones and figured there’d be no line in there, and then I saw you and that bird thrashing around. Damn good thing.”

  Oh yeah, Harley thought.

  After they told the security guards what had happened and filled out a report, a chaperone from Whispering Pines arrived to escort them to the van. Those tracking devices apparently did the job. Just as they were leaving the stadium office, a police officer arrived.

  “Hey, we just found the mascot tied up in a broom closet. He said someone knocked him out and stole the Redbird costume. We found the costume in the men’s bathroom on level two.”

  Nana and Harley exchanged glances. That explained the assault. And also how vulnerable she was anywhere she went. Damn.

  “Come on, Nana. We need to go.”

  Outside the stadium, kids shrieked, people laughed, and teenagers with big boom boxes on their shoulders strolled slowly by. A carnival atmosphere. Two blocks over lay Beale Street, with nightclubs that played everything from blues to the heavy metal at the New Daisy Theater. Peabody Place, the fairly new three story mall with upscale shops, a movie theater, and the requisite Starbucks was only a block away, behind The Peabody Hotel, billed as the South’s Grand Hotel. Everyone from Hollywood movie stars to presidents stayed in the hotel that dated back to 1866, even though it had moved its location in the early twentieth century. The seniors waited near the corner of Union and Third.

  The driver had gone to the garage to bring the van and would park in the handicapped spot right in front. Traffic must have delayed him. Some of the seniors sat down on benches, but Harley, Nana and a few other Whispering Pines residents stood on the sidewalk in front of the stadium. It could be just any late summer afternoon in downtown Memphis. Having been almost choked to death, Harley had a new appreciation of the mundane.

  Cars inched forward on Union Avenue as the traffic light at Third Street changed. Harley watched a kid of about ten break into a routine in front of the stadium, dancing to the beat of a big boom box, doing gymnastic tricks that looked too impossible for the human body to perform. His friend held out a hat for donations, moving quickly before the cops could show to break it up. He managed to collect quite a few bills and some change before his radar picked up an approaching officer, and he, the dancer, the boom box, and the hat full of money melted into the crowd.

  Smiling, Harley leaned forward to speak to Nana when something hard hit her between the shoulder blades. She lurched toward the street. Brakes screeched and a hot wind that stank of diesel fumes blew dust and grit in her face. Someone screamed. Harley grabbed at a thin shadow, barely managing to catch hold of a light pole before she ended up under a MATA bus. For a moment she just hung there, unable to move, blinking grit out of her eyes. If she flicked out her tongue like a frog, she could have licked a bug off the front of the bus.

  It took a moment to recover, but she swung back to the sidewalk and pried her hands free of the light pole. The bus driver yelled at her to watch what she was doing. As the diesel engine kicked into gear and the bus moved down Union, Harley took a deep breath of fumes and turned around. Nana stood frozen to the spot, her eyes big and mouth open wide. Only one other person seemed to have noticed her near death experience.

  Nana still stood with her mouth open, one hand lifted as if to drag her back from the curb. Right behind Nana, a man made strange motions with his hands. He had a white-painted face, heavily black-lined eyes with two painted teardrops under his left eye, and a dark red mouth.

  Harley blinked.

  A mime? He wore tight black pants and ballet slippers, a pair of black suspenders over a white shirt, white gloves, and a black bowler hat. The dark red mouth curved into a smile, and he put his palms out like he was trapped in an invisible box. A strong, sickly-sweet scent replaced the lingering bus fumes in her lungs. It held a hint of Mace. She glared at him.

  “Did you just push . . . wait. It was you!”

  The mime gave a quick bow, a tip of his hat, and then he skipped across Third Street in the direction of the river. Damn! Harley grabbed her grandmother’s arm and pointed.

  “It’s the redbird, the guy in the costume! I recognize his heavy aftershave and Mace.”

  “Let’s get him,” Nana said immediately, and sprinted toward the corner.

  “Wait!” Harley looked around for one of the chaperones, but they were busy gathering the seniors from the stadium entrance and herding them toward the van that had finally arrived. Damn it! Nana had already crossed Third in hot pursuit.

  The light caught Harley and she had to stand on the curb and wait or be flattened like a pancake. She jogged impatiently from one foot to another. Just when she was ready to risk it anyway, the light changed and she bolted across the street, narrowly missing being hit by a car turning left on a red light. Idiot.

  By the time she got across Third, Nana and her prey had jaywalked across Union, cutting between the horse-drawn carriages lined up at the curb and disappearing from sight.

  Afraid for her grandmother, Harley did the same, again narrowly missing being hit. Obviously, she took after Nana’s side of the family. Insanity had probably landed more than a few of her ancestors in straitjackets. Or early graves.

  Out of breath by the time she got across Union without being run down, she took a chance and pushed into the door leading to the lobby of The Peabody. The gift shop lay to the left, the stairs leading to restaurants and another main door to the right. Unless the guy who’d tried to choke her had a room here, he’d probably just try for one of the exit doors.

  Nana was just going out the door onto Second Street when Harley made it up the short flight of stairs. How the hell could that old woman move so fast? Harley was fifty-odd years younger but had a stitch in her side already.

  “Nana! Wait a damn minute,” she got out when she saw her great-grandmother pause at the corner on Union.

  “He’s circling around, Harley. Get the lead out and come on!”

  “Why don’t we just get a cop?”

  “Do you see one?” Nana asked over her shoulder, scurrying down the sidewalk with her white wicker purse held to her chest and her tennis shoes a blur on concrete.

  Harley finally caught up with her in front of the line of waiting horse carriages, and grabbed her arm, panting for breath. “Forget it. Let him . . . go. I can’t . . . keep going.”

  Nana gave her a disgusted look. “The younger generation couldn’t hoe a row of beans. Get up in this thing. We’ll catch him.”

  Bent over with her hands on her knees and trying to catch her breath, Harley didn’t look up quickly enough. She immediately realized her mistake when she heard a horse snort.

  Alarmed, she was a little too late to stop disaster. There was nothing left to do but hop on when Nana clucked her tongue at the horse and started pulling the carriage out into traffic. Harley took a flying leap and landed on the running board. She clung desperately to the metal handles on each side to avoid the big wheels rapidly going faster.

  “Have you lost your mind?” she yelled, clinging to the side of the carriage as Nana gave the reins an expert slap across the gleaming brown rump of the horse. “We’ll be hung for horse-stealing!”

  “They repealed that law. Shut up and get off the running board and in here with me. Look for him. He’s headed down Union.”

  Harley managed to pull herself up into the driver’s seat beside Nana. She clutched at what would be a dashboard in a car and held tight with both hands as the horse broke into a brisk trot. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Little girl, I was driving a team of horses when I was ten.”

  “While you were shooting squirrels out of trees, no doubt,” Harley muttered, and closed her eyes when they nearly clipped a red Honda at the corner.

  “Don’t be smart. Isn’t that him walking down the street?”
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  Harley opened her eyes. Tight black pants and soft slippers, suspenders, hat, white face, no feathers—yep, looked like the guy who still wore the interesting blend of Old Spice and Mace. “Yes,” she got out, holding tightly to the edge of the carriage. “Slow down! What are you going to do, run over a mime?”

  “If it’ll help.”

  The horse and carriage increased speed. The mime glanced over his shoulder and gave one of those fake, open-mouthed looks of astonishment, but Harley didn’t recognize him. He had on too much white face paint, and eyes defined with black lines helped disguise him. And he acted like it was all a damn game. He was enjoying it just a little too much.

  “Faster,” she urged when he broke into a run, and Nana obliged. Rubber horseshoes made a heavy muffled clack against asphalt, and carriage wheels whined. Then the man cut through the overhang of the Radisson and down the street by the Greyhound bus station. Nana had no problem making the turn, and thankfully, neither did the horse or carriage. Now the mime was running, his feet slapping against concrete as they gained on him.

  “Stop, you asshole!” Harley yelled, and grabbed the whip stuck in some kind of holder on the front. Apparently, it was easier in theory to work one of those than it was in reality. It popped in the air, snaked back to wrap sharply around her arm, startled the horse, and sent them racing headlong toward a parking lot fence straight ahead. It was like watching a car crash, knowing it was going to happen but unable to stop it. Harley flung an arm in front of Nana and braced for the impact.

  Just before they became one with the metal mesh, Nana managed to turn the horse. How she managed it, Harley had no idea. Those thin little arms had to be all steel. Tangled in the whip and holding onto the edge of the carriage for dear life, she was no help to her grandmother at all. Damn, did they really hit horses with these things? It hurt.

  “There he goes,” Nana hollered like a woman possessed, and Harley caught a glimpse of the mime turning the corner onto Fourth Street. Dear God. He was headed for Beale Street. He’d get lost in the crowd.

  “If he gets past Gayoso we’ve lost him,” Harley yelled back.

  Nana sawed on the reins and the horse made the corner without clipping the curb. Much. A carriage wheel bumped over it and jolted Harley so that she nearly lost her grip on the metal rail along the front, and slammed her teeth down on the tip of her tongue.

  “Thit!” she yelped, but couldn’t let go of anything to see if she had any tongue left. It’d just have to wait.

  By the time she got the whip untangled from her arm, they’d crossed Gayoso and Nana turned onto Beale Street. The killer mime was just ahead. Music throbbed, coming from open doors, a mix of rhythm and blues, rock, and heavy metal. The W.C. Handy House, a small structure moved there some years back by the tourist industry to honor the late blues legend, had a line out front. The street was blocked off to vehicles, and Nana barely missed one of the posts. A little farther down, the crowd got a lot heavier with tourists, street dancers, and drunks. Disaster loomed.

  “Never mind, Nana. Let him go,” Harley said, lisping, “Juth let him go. He’th gone anyway.”

  “Damn,” Nana said, and slowed the horse to a walk, then a halt. “Probably a good thing. I think I’ve got blisters on my palms. Uh oh. Looks like we’re nabbed.”

  Sirens blasted the air, and blue lights reflected off building windows. The whoop-whoop of police cruisers came from all directions. Nana’s wrist bracelet beeped like a flock of roadrunners. Harley wondered if they’d let her wear a red or purple jumpsuit in jail instead of that awful orange color. It’d be so much more attractive at her trial and hanging.

  Nana was right. Horse theft was no longer a hanging offense. However, that didn’t mean they weren’t in trouble.

  Fortunately, Tootsie arranged bail and Nana’s lawyer said he’d work it all out. Tootsie pulled up in front of the jail in his Acura as they came out.

  Waving a hand like getting arrested and held at 201 Poplar was an everyday affair, Nana said to her lawyer, “Harley didn’t have anything to do with it. Like I told those hardheaded cops, she was just trying to keep me from getting hurt. I forgot to take my medicine and thought I was back on the farm as a young girl again, driving my mama to church on Sunday morning.”

  Her attorney, a tall, thin man with shrewd eyes, looked at her and nodded. “An excellent defense, Mrs. McMullen. I’m sure the DA and I can come to some sort of agreement.”

  “Good. That’s what I pay you for.” Nana turned to Harley and Tootsie. “It’s late and I’m missing my poker game. Let’s go.”

  On the way to Whispering Pines, Harley turned to look at Nana, who was stretched out on the back seat with her eyes closed, and said, “You’re a complete fraud. I’m amazed you haven’t led a life of crime.”

  Unperturbed, Nana said, “What makes you think I haven’t?”

  Harley rolled her eyes and turned back around. Tootsie was making funny noises in the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Harley was not amused.

  “It’s been a horrible day. I’ve been attacked by a mime disguised as a giant bird—which the police were not interested in hearing, I might add—involved in a horse race against my will, had a whip wrap very painfully around my arm, then sat in a smelly cell with prostitutes and drunks. And no toilet. Believe me, after a day like that, a girl needs a toilet.”

  “Quit complaining,” came the voice from the back. “You’re out now, aren’t you? Kids today have no stamina. In my day, we plowed twenty rows at sunup, then dug potatoes, picked beans, and cooked lunch for a dozen people, all before noon.”

  Harley refrained from pointing out the inaccuracy of Nana’s claims. She just didn’t have the energy.

  “Mr. Fraser promised he’d unlock the doors for us,” Tootsie said after a few moments in which he managed to stop making those irritating noises. “He said he’s rather concerned about the recent activities.”

  “He’s not alone.” Harley drummed her fingers against the wood and leather of the dash. “I should find another place to go. Apparently, the killer knows where I am anyway. Bobby thought it’d be safe for me there since they lock the doors at night, but now I just don’t know.”

  “You can come stay with me and Steve. We have a guest room. Since he’s a cop, it ought to be safe enough for you.”

  “I’d have to bring Sam. Don’t you have birds?”

  “Yeah. Steve got them last year. They’re Red Lorries, sometimes known as Scarlet Lorries. Beautiful, loud, obnoxious, and entertaining. Believe me, they can handle Sam.”

  “I’m not sure Sam could handle them. He’s sensitive, you know.”

  Tootsie laughed out loud. “I’ve met your cat, Harley. He’s as sensitive as a brick.”

  “He doesn’t like loud noises. Seriously. He’s been known to attack me for singing. It’s not a good quality in an overnight guest.”

  “We’d live through it. Think about it. The offer is good as long as you want it to be.”

  That was the thing about good friends. No matter what the problem, they were there to help. “Thanks,” she said, and he smiled.

  Once back at Whispering Pines, Mr. Fraser had one of the on-site nurses check out Nana to be sure she hadn’t damaged anything with her adventure, then suggested she go to bed and rest.

  “Rest, hell. I’m missing my poker game. Besides, I rested on the way home.”

  With that, Nana was off to the recreation hall. Harley looked at a bemused Mr. Fraser. “I think Nana’s reliving her teen years. Or the ones she never had. She’s trying to make up for all she missed.”

  “Well,” he said wryly, “she’s doing an excellent job of catching up.”

  Harley promised Tootsie he’d get back his bail money as soon as she got to her checkbook and he waved her off, kissed her cheek, then left. Before his taillights wer
e out of the gated driveway, Harley was in Nana’s apartment and running bath water. The jailhouse stench had to go.

  Still out on the screened porch, Sam looked pretty irritated that his dinner was late and it was too dark to see birds at the feeder.

  “They’re asleep anyway,” she told him as she gave him more dry food with a scoop of wet tuna flakes in some kind of kitty sauce on top. “We’re about to do the same.”

  After her bath, she remembered she hadn’t turned her cell phone back on, and dug it out of her backpack. How nice that it was still working. Keeping it chained to her waist or safe in her backpack helped prevent the monthly expense of replacing them.

  As expected, there were two messages from Bobby, one from Cami, and none from Morgan. The last message had Blocked Call on the Caller ID. She hesitated. A twinge in her belly told her to delete it without listening, but that wouldn’t solve anything.

  She took a deep breath and punched the buttons. It wasn’t a big surprise to hear a strange voice that sounded disguised say, “My time, my place, my choice. Expect it. You’re dead.”

  Despite being exhausted, she lay awake a long time that night, with Sam curled up beside her and sleeping soundly.

  There were times it had to be good to be a cat.

  Thirteen

  “Why me?” Harley looked at Bobby. They sat in Nana’s living room. “I mean, this guy is after me as if I did something to him, when all I’ve done is drive the damn tour bus.”

  “We’ve been through all that. I’ll have the phone company do a trace. Here, take your phone. You’ll probably need it.” He looked up at her. “In spite of yesterday’s stupidity, you’re still safer here than anywhere else in Memphis unless we put you in a motel or hotel room, with a guard posted. Somewhere you can’t involve an eighty-five year old woman in idiot schemes like stealing a horse.”

  Harley opened her mouth to defend herself, then shut it. He would never believe that Nana had been the one to steal the horse and carriage. No point in even trying.