For Crying Out Loud

by Cathie Wayland

  “You know what I mean, Bernadette. Stop belittling everything I do and say. Besides, you’re changing the subject. I can’t believe you did that. Don’t you have any fear in you at all? I mean, I almost died when you said that to him. I thought I was going to wet my pants. I was ready to burst out into nervous giggles at any moment. I was—”

  “Mike.”

  “Sorry…I’m still reacting…”

  “Well, stop reacting. Your inane prattling is getting on my nerves.”

  “Well. Excuse me.”

  I unlocked the door and walked in ahead of Bernie, still a little miffed by her tone, and went straight to the refrigerator for something cold to drink. I wanted something alcoholic, but decided against it since we’d soon be headed for the clubhouse restaurant and maybe getting a cocktail there. Finding a can of diet soda, I stomped over to the couch and sat down.

  Bernie, meanwhile, fetched her soda, kicked off her shoes, and sat in her favorite chair, feet up on the ottoman. She gave me one of her most ingratiating smiles. I tried to hang onto my peeve but found my resolve slipping. When she smiled like that I had to give in.

  “Something’s not right,” I muttered, as a way of reopening the conversation.

  “They’ve got pills for that, nowadays.”

  I refused to bite. “Bernie…Bobby and Brenda just don’t mesh.”

  “Don’t mesh? Now that’s insight for you.”

  This time I glared at her. “Bernie. I’m serious. There’s something wrong with Bobby and Brenda. I can’t put my finger on it, but something’s not right. Not to mention that damned mole.”

  “Sheesh. This is like a Ping-Pong match…or tennis. You bounce from one culprit to another. Can’t you make up your mind?”

  “You were suspicious of Jorge, too. And Bobby and Brenda…”

  Bernie nodded. “You’re right. I was. I am.”

  “So, back to what I was saying. Something’s not right upstairs with our young couple and their darling little girl with the dancing birth mark.”

  “Well, it’s what I’ve been saying all along.”

  “I know, I know…and now I think it, too.”

  Bernie chuckled. “So Vicki and Lionel are off the hook, are they?”

  “Please, Bernie…don’t patronize me. Yes, Vicki and Lionel are now on the back burner of my suspicions.” Bernie snorted, coughed, choked, then snorted again. I gave her my best ‘look’, left over from my teaching days. “Are you all right, dear?” She nodded, one hand hiding her mouth. “Good. Now, let’s discuss this in a calm and rational manner, shall we?” More snorts, guffaws, and gurgles.

  I set my soda on the coffee table, stood up and stretched. “I’m going to the bathroom. Maybe by the time I return you will have gotten a hold of yourself and have managed to regain some semblance of self-discipline. We still have a mystery to solve.” I left the room, conscious of her smothered laughter trailing behind me.

  Four minutes later I was back on the couch, still chewing on our bone of contention. Bernie had picked up her spiral notebook, and was furiously writing. I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of asking what about. I knew already. Her muffled snorts and choked giggles were like a neon sign. Refusing to give her any satisfaction, I picked up the closest magazine. It was a traveler’s guide to Charleston, which I’d seen a zillion times, but I wanted to appear blasé and not in the least emotional. Bernie fed on that and used it against me again and again. Then, like a gut-punch, it hit me.

  “That’s it. I know the answer. I do.” I couldn’t be more pleased with myself.

  “Of course…Professor Plum in the dining room with the candlestick,” Bernie said, with just a smidgen of sarcasm.

  “You’re being insufferable. Don’t you want to see justice done?”

  Bernie grinned. “Of course.”

  “Then put down that pen and focus.”

  “I will.”

  “Good. Okay. Now, listen to what I’ve come up with.”

  “I hope it’s not contagious.”

  “Bernie…”

  “Okay, I’ll be good. Just can’t wait to see what amazing theory you’ve come up with now.”

  “Okay. Let’s start with the Teals.”

  Bernie glanced at me, then looked down at the magazine in my lap, then back to my, oh, so earnest face. She sighed, put her notebook and pen on the floor beside her chair and picked up a bag of potato chips. “I now realize that all the innuendoes and flip remarks and sleuth-type observations have piled up, and you are bound and determined to land us knee-deep in some sort of conspiracy or other whether I like it or not.” I was about to protest but she put up a hand and I bit my lip. “I confess, there are a few undeniable, immovable, carved-in-stone Mike-isms, such as love your family, even if they make you nuts, laugh until it hurts, if it tastes good, eat a lot of it, and never, ever, under any circumstances, walk away from a challenge. I accept all this. This, in fact, is what endears you to me.”

  I allowed ten seconds to pass before I huffed, “Are you through, Mrs. North?”

  Bernie had the grace to lower her eyes, nod her fluffy head, and smile. “Yes. Thank you. I think I’ve gotten it out of my system.”

  Now that I had Bernie’s undivided attention, and even her interest, I settled myself into the pillows on the couch, wrestled with the girls until they rested comfortably, and summoned my very best authoritative look-what-I’ve-figured-out voice.

  “Okay. Now listen. What if…what if Bobby and Brenda are ‘Bonnie and Clyde’? What would you say to that? Hmmm?”

  Certainly not the reaction I’d desired. My keen observation produced a sudden bark of laughter. I glowered at my incorrigible friend. “Oh, for crying out loud. Bernie, you make me so mad sometimes. Can’t you ever be serious? Oh, you’re serious enough when it pertains to your insights and all, but, when it comes to anything I think is important, well, you jus—”

  A crash overhead startled both of us. Bernie squeezed the potato chip bag she was holding, thus causing a volcanic eruption of greasy chips to rain all over her. I, on the other hand, sat up so suddenly that I kicked my soda off the table, spilling its contents in a wide arc of stickiness on the laminate floor.

  “Lord, what was that?” I exclaimed, jumping up to get some paper towels.

  “I don’t know,” Bernie muttered picking chips off her chest, lap, chair and surrounding floor. “But it came from directly above us.”

  On my hands and knees, I craned my neck to look up at her. “I thought so, too, but, Bernie…nobody’s home upstairs. They went out for ice cream, remember?”

  Bernie paused, stared out the picture window, and sucked in a deep breath. “Yes…they…did…didn’t they…”

  I mopped up the spill then ran to my room to get my shoes. “C’mon, Bernie,” I panted, “we’ve got to go upstairs and check it out.”

  “Now wait a minute, Mike. What is it you think we can do? If no one’s home then the door is locked, and I certainly don’t want to be seen standing by their sliding glass door with my nose pressed to the window, looking in like some low-life felon.”

  “But we have to see what made that loud noise.”

  “Maybe they have a cat.”

  “Oh, no, they better not. I know the couple who owns that unit, and they don’t allow pets. The real-estate agency that handles the renting of that apartment would’ve made that clear to the Teals. Besides, have we seen or heard a cat around?”

  “One doesn’t hear a cat walking around, sweetie.”

  “Oh, fine. Whatever. I know it’s not a cat. Let’s go.”

  I led the way. My heart was tripping like it used to do when I was ten and playing hide-and-go-seek with the neighborhood kids. It was a delicious feeling, being so keyed-up that your hands sweat, little chills ran up and down your spine, and the hairs at the base of your neck tingled. I hadn’t felt this way in decades. I glanced over my shoulder at a still-scowling Bernie and had to giggle. Her scowl deepened and she groaned.

 
; “Oh, for goodness sake, Michaela. You’re acting like a fourth grader.”

  “I feel like a fourth grader.” I giggled again.

  We climbed the second series of steps to the upstairs units, senses on high alert. We didn’t want to be caught upstairs when Bobby and Brenda returned from the ice cream shop. My giggles erupted for the third time. “I know this is insane, but I really feel we need to do this,” I whispered.

  “For crying out loud, Mike, why are you whispering?”

  “I just feel like it.”

  “Quit behaving like a moronic school girl.”

  “You quit harassing me.”

  “You quit—”

  A sound sliced through that sentence like a guillotine. We stopped, held our breaths, stared at one another for what seemed an eon, then Bernie stepped up to the Teals’ closed door and put her ear against it. I scooted over to the large sliding glass door and peered through the partially open blinds. “I can’t see a thing,” I muttered.

  “Interesting,” Bernie grumbled, “but we’re wasting our time. Let’s go back to the condo before someone sees us being so ridiculous.”

  “That sound we just heard definitely came from inside this unit.”

  “I know that, Mike, but we can’t see inside, can’t break in, so standing here bemoaning the fact is rather silly, not to mention the insignificant little detail that Bobby and Brenda could be returning at any moment and then where would we be, hmmm?”

  Disappointed, I turned around and hurried down the stairs. A fresh wave of nervousness washed over me as I anticipated our neighbors’ return. Plus there was always the possibility that sweet, vacant Melba would appear, and that would be an annoyance in itself.

  Once back inside our unit, we both let out whistling sighs through gritted teeth. I flopped down on the couch and moaned, while Bernie settled in her favorite chair. “Oh, Bernie, this is killing me…really killing me. I just know something isn’t right here, but I can’t decide exactly what the problem is. You know?”

  “Yes, I know…and I also know that you’re predisposed to letting your imagination run away with you—by-product of being an English major and drama teacher, I suppose—and when you get worked up, I, too, have a tendency to get worked up, and therein lies the problem.”

  “Huh?”

  “By that I mean, I don’t use common sense and discretion. I let you tease me into predicaments of one kind or another and, well, there you are. You’d think I’d have acquired some sort of immunity by now…but, no…I’m just as ditzy as I was back in the seventies, where you’re concerned.”

  “Thanks a lot,” I muttered, although I was secretly kind of pleased with this power she credited to me. “So.” I sat up. “What I want to know is, do you or do you not agree that something here isn’t legit?”

  Bernie chewed on that for a moment then nodded. “Yes…I guess I’ll have to admit that there is something not quite kosher in this quaint little beachside resort. What, I really don’t know. Right now—and perhaps it’s due to being hot and tired—I suspect just about everybody. Vicki and Lionel are a bit too much—almost caricatures of themselves—and sweet Melba and her less-than-scrupulous-seeming nephew are subject. Then, of course, there’s my first choice, the Teals…don’t know what to think about them…just know they both give me a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach…of course, that could be just the onion dip protesting, but…” she shrugged, “I just don’t know.”

  “Don’t forget Jorge.”

  “Ah, yes…dear, innocuous Jorge…”

  I clenched and unclenched my hands then stood. “Okay. I say we go to the clubhouse now and volley our dilemma back and forth over a nice dinner…maybe have a drink to celebrate.”

  “Celebrate what?”

  “Uh, well…we can celebrate the fact that we’re having fun and are hell-bent and determined to solve a mystery before our vacation is up…how’s that?”

  Bernie smirked. “Sounds like as good a reason as any I can think of. Okay, then. Let me go to the bathroom, change into capris, and we can go.”

  I glanced down at my wrinkled shorts. “I guess I should change, too. You never know whom you’ll meet, and I want to be prepared for anything.”

  “Planning on being discovered by a vacationing talent scout?”

  I made a face. “You never know. Stranger things have happened, my dear.”

  “Oh, I agree. I’m just wondering which of your many talents could get you noticed without being arrested.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Fifteen minutes later we were in the car and driving the short distance to the clubhouse and its newly upgraded restaurant. We could’ve walked it, but after a big meal and a cocktail, being able to ride home seemed the way to go. We weren’t as young as we used to be. Actually, we weren’t as young as we were fifteen minutes ago. And, besides, the mosquitoes were awful after sunset.

  We were shown to a corner table by the window, sat down at a ninety degree angle in order to talk without being overheard, ordered our drinks—another margarita for Bernie and a Singapore Sling for me—and then stared at one another, waiting for the other to speak first. After an epoch of silent thought, I cracked the silence. “Okay, Bernadette…now what do you think about this entire situation?”

  She rolled her eyes and gave me the ‘look’. “For crying out loud, Michaela…give me a break. I’ve hardly had time to delve any further into our ‘situation’, as you call it, since the last time we discussed it, which was all of fifteen minutes ago. Therefore, I haven’t the foggiest what to say next. I only agreed that we had a mystery, never once indicated that I knew what that mystery is. How about you? You’re the one with the conspiracy theory. You tell me what the mystery is.”

  “Darn you, Bernie,” I hissed. “Don’t throw all this in my lap. You think the Teals are suspicious—have since day one. Right? Right?”

  Bernie closed her eyes and sighed. “Y-ee-sss, you’re right. But that’s all I have. Suspicions and feelings. Nothing tangible.”

  I took a sip of my drink, smacked my lips, then folded my hands on the table and leaned forward. “Okay. Then listen to this. What if Bobby and Brenda aren’t who they say they are?”

  Bernie sniffed. “We’ve already gone over that. For the last time, they are not ‘Bonnie and Clyde’.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Oh, Bernadette, really. I’m not talking about ‘Bonnie and Clyde’. Now don’t interrupt me again.”

  “Again? You asked me a question.”

  “Fine.” I waved my hand in dismissal. “Now, listen. What if Bobby and Brenda aren’t really mommy and daddy—er, ‘dada’—after all? What if—and I hesitate to bring this up because you will swear I’m hallucinating or getting emotional or something, but. What if there are really two little girls upstairs, even though we think we’ve only seen one?”

  Sensing only the tiniest smidgen of resistance in the form of a smirk from Bernie, I lunged ahead. “And…what if…what if Jorge-the-diminutive-groundskeeper isn’t really Jorge-the-diminutive-groundskeeper but is really Jorge-the-private-detective who is keeping an eye on the family because they are suspicious as hell and odd and out-of-place and are possibly holding two little girls in that apartment, maybe for an enormous ransom? What do you think of that?” I sucked in a shaky breath and tightened my already-clenched hands.

  Bernie didn’t speak, only stared at me like I’d just said that there was a huge undergarment sale at Macy’s and I was determined to stock up on support brassieres. Empowered and encouraged by the fact that she had yet to fall off her chair in spasms of ridiculing and demeaning mirth, I continued.

  “And…what if those two little girls look so amazingly alike, that hardly anyone can ever tell one from the other except for the mole? The mole that appears to hop from one side of her face to the other.”

  “The…mole…?” Bernie repeated, as if trying to fathom the type of mind that was capable of conjuring up lurid stories, yet marveling at my amazing yet misguided imaginat
ion. Oh, I knew her so well. Her look spoke volumes—epics, in fact. She picked up her glass, took a long swallow, set it down, and gave her head a slight shake. “Mike…are you…telling…me…that you’re basing this amazing deduction on…on a…mole?”

  I could tell that Bernie was grappling with the real possibility that one too many lemonades—or, my Singapore Sling—had effected terminal damage on poor, addle-pated Mikey. My blood pressure jumped a notch.

  “No, please, Bernie. Think about it. Where is little Amanda’s mole?” I challenged. “Which side of her chin? Left or right?”

  “Left,” guessed Bernie.

  “Right.”

  “So, it’s on the right?” Bernie ventured, playing with the salt shaker.

  “No. You’re being an ass. I said it’s right that it’s on her left, except for the last time when we saw her, and it was most definitely on her right,” I said, hoping that finally cleared everything up. “Now what do you think?”

  “I think that’s our waitress heading this way. I think it’s time to order. I think, Michaela, you are getting to be a true eccentric…harmless…but certifiably nuts.”

  The congenial argument cut short by the appearance of our pert little waitress, I held my tongue, bided my time, and placed my order without the least bit of scatter-brained nervousness, of which—according to Bernie—I’m famous. I chatted with Nancy, our waitress, and chuckled over the pros and cons of shrimp versus scallops. I finally decided on salmon stuffed with crab and waited while Bernie chose crab cakes with asparagus and rice pilaf.

  Then, as soon as Nancy was out of earshot, I attacked with both guns. “Okay. Now, listen to me without any cute comebacks or pithy remarks. Are you ready?”

  “I’ve enjoyed most of my drink so I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Go ahead,” Bernie sighed with resignation.

  “Okay. Do you remember the Amber Alert that kept replaying all last week?”

  “Yes…”

  “So—and don’t jump down my throat—I think Amanda and whoever else is hidden upstairs are those missing twins.” I know my face conveyed a smug expression, even though Bernie’s was just plain annoyed.