For Crying Out Loud

by Cathie Wayland

What, for crying out loud, was taking place just outside our door? As we looked around in total bewilderment, uniformed men swarmed. Tucked in among the palmettos, under the deck, at the foot of the steps, up in the trees, peeking through the foliage. From either side of the condo, more uniforms appeared, weapons in hand. The two stupefied golfers turned on their heels and waddled toward their cart at break-neck speed, almost toppling the cart as they leapt into the seat.

  Sensory overload ruled the moment. Bernie and I, turned to stone, gaped as men shouted directions, exchanged terse remarks via walkie-talkies, and raced up the steps to our deck, two at a time.

  “Ladies.” One of the men barked with undeniable authority. “Please go inside.”

  Terrified, yet still dazed, I grabbed Bernie’s arm, and attempted to hide behind her imposing frame. Peering through her bent elbows, I tried to make sense of all the commotion. Finally regaining the power of speech, I whispered “Bernie…good Lord, did we do something illegal?”

  Bernie looked at me with wide eyes. “Probably. We’ve been accusing everybody and everything for days. I’ll bet we were reported for trespassing or frightening old ladies.”

  “That was not my fault,” I muttered. “Melba’s the one who pulled a gun on me. Whose side are you on, anyway? You’ve been—” My sentence was sliced in half by the thud-thud-thud of heavy boots below our deck. We stepped closer to the railing and peered over.

  From around the corner of the next building, Jorge stepped into view, familiar blower firmly in hand. Several of the soldier-types ran toward him.

  “I knew it all along,” Bernie said. “He’s an illegal alien.”

  I gasped. “Just like on NCIS.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  What a circus. A veritable menagerie of performers, all shapes and sizes. Most in uniform, looking extraordinarily official, or, extraordinarily fictional. Whatever the case, an impressive amount of time, energy, and manpower had been directed to this quiet little alcove on the sixteenth green. As the drama unfolded, we soon began to realize that we were not the subjects of this enormous sting operation, or whatever it was. Yet, the powerful forces and important looking individuals continued to focus their attention on our condo. And even more amazing, Jorge was not under scrutiny after all. Rather, he seemed to be giving directions, talking with military types in uniform, and running the show.

  Jabbing Bernie with my elbow, I exclaimed, “Look. Jorge’s in charge. I knew he was somehow involved in all of this. I suspected all along that he was absolutely integral to the entire plot. And I know it’s a plot. Now. How will they go about closing in on Bobby and Brenda without putting those two babies in harm’s way?”

  “Jeez Louise,” Bernie puffed out her cheeks, released air like a teakettle, and crossed her arms. “I cannot believe this is happening.”

  “Look. Look.” I shouted in her ear “This is it. Here come the big guns.”

  Jorge, no longer encumbered with the leaf blower, was leading a small battalion of somber soldier-types up our stairs. He paused on our level and frowned. “You were told to go inside.” We opened our mouths to object but he snapped, “Stay put.” We nodded like a pair of bobble-head dolls. Jorge’s mouth twitched and he added in a softer tone, “This will all be over in a few minutes. We are sorry to be causing such a disruption in your day.” Then he nodded again and, instead of proceeding on up the steps to rescue the little Amandas—both of them—from the clutches of a diabolical Bobby and Brenda, he and his men turned their attention towards Melba’s place. Our bewildered and obsequious Clark Kent-of-a-Jorge had morphed before our very eyes into a veritable Superman.

  Stunned by this incredible turn of events, Bernie stared in acute disbelief at me, while I, in turn, just stared back.

  “Bernie…they’re going for Melba…they’re going for Melba,” I murmured in bewilderment. “Melba’s in on this, too. I knew she was into it up to her chins. I’ll bet she works for the two of them—that nasty Bobby and Brenda. She probably even baby-sat for them, once in a while. And those stupid housecoats she wears. Anyone could see she was a bit off-center.”

  “Mike,” Bernie’s voice cracked. “Shhh, for a darned minute.”

  While we stood and watched in stupefaction, a sharp rap on her front door brought a dazed and confused Melba to the living room window. Her face fell and grew ashen as she determined that this big crowd swarming all over the grounds was here for her. Her.

  “Mrs. Clinton,” Jorge barked. “Please don’t make this difficult. Open up.”

  As Bernie and I held our breaths, the door to the neighboring unit opened and Melba stepped onto the deck, her head high and her lips curled in an ugly sneer. With an exaggerated motion, she offered her pudgy wrists for shackling. She had the demeanor of a veteran criminal—one who’d been down this road before.

  “Wow…who would’ve thought… Poor old thing,” I sighed. “How did those two ever rope Melba into helping them? The very idea of manipulating that harmless old lady…”

  “Doesn’t look so old and harmless right now,” Bernie said.

  “Yeah…she’s a different woman now, isn’t she?”

  “I’ll say.”

  “This is crazy…” My voice trailed off as this already impossible scenario got even more complicated. Bobby and Brenda suddenly emerged from their apartment, transformed into normal-looking, fashionably dressed human beings. Two small, round-faced little girls, identical in almost every detail—except for the little moles on opposite sides of two little chins—were clinging to them like spider monkeys. I tugged at Bernie’s sleeve.

  “Would you look at that,” my voice squeaked. “And two little girls just like I said. They look okay, none the worse for wear, but someone needs to grab them away from those awful characters. Poor little things…kidnapped from their home and family…”

  Jorge waited while Bobby and Brenda descended the stairs then strode up to them, and extended a hand. He wasn’t arresting them—he was greeting them. What in the world was going on? They seemed more like colleagues than enemies.

  As we watched, dumbfounded, Melba was ushered down the stairs, an armed soldier-type at each elbow. She paused, two steps down to gaze at us—her usually dim and distracted eyes now sharp and focused.

  “You two,” Melba began sweetly, “were a real pain in the ass. A real pain. Just want you to know that, truthfully, I don’t care much for either one of you, and I’d like to wring your necks,” she finished. She took another step, glared at us one more time, and then submitted to being hauled off to an awaiting police car.

  Bernie and I stared at each other in acute shock. We’d been nothing but friendly and sweet and charming to that woman. Well, maybe just a little nosy, but we’d been good neighbors, nevertheless. Whatever did the poor thing mean by that?

  As soon as Melba and her entourage had left, a swarm of official types rushed into her place, cameras, and notebooks, and even a weapon or two ready. Bobby and Brenda strolled over to us two bewildered vacationers, who still stood there staring, and had the grace to roll their eyes and shrug their shoulders.

  Bobby extended his hand and smiled. “Detective Robert Barstow, Miss Bernadette.” He bowed slightly. “And Miss Michaela. Time we were formally introduced.”

  Bernie and I stared at the detective, loose-lipped grins on our faces, shaking our heads in confusion. The cherub on his hip, Amanda-Number-One, flung a half-eaten vanilla wafer toward us, and even though startled out of our loose skins, we both ducked the projectile. Years of lunchroom duty had sharpened our reflexes to the razor-sharp reaction time of a rabbit in flight. You needed to be quick to dodge grapes, cheetos, and French fries on lunch supervision duty, and we were pros.

  Bobby shook the tot gently. “Stop that, kiddo. These ladies have had enough assaults for the time being.”

  Brenda stepped forward. “Hi. Sorry about all this.” Her smile was ingratiating as she gripped Bernie’s and my hands in turn with a firm handshake. “Detective Brenda Morganstern. Please
d to finally meet you two for real. I’m sure you thought we were incorrigible parents, right?” Brenda’s chuckle was low and throaty. Amanda-Number-Two, clinging tightly to her neck, reacted to Bernie’s and my weak and decidedly strained smiles by sticking her tongue out then burying her head in Brenda’s shoulder.

  Brenda smiled and gave the child a quick hug. “I know you two must be bursting with questions. Although I’m not at liberty to tell you much, just know that our Melba has been the subject of an investigation for quite some time.” She pushed strands of hair away from Amanda’s eyes and planted a kiss on the little one’s forehead.

  Bobby grunted. “Actually, Melba and her nephew have kept us busy for almost nine months. Young Bill has a quaint little antique shop in Charleston and takes great delight in dabbling in the import/export business.” He chuckled. “And I use the term business very loosely here. Melba’s place is jam-packed with valuable imports from all over the world—even a Monet and a couple Picasos that were borrowed from their owners without their consent.”

  Brenda made a face. “Oh, yeah. They’ve got quite a few illegal items stored in that tiny apartment, if you can believe it.

  “And, believe it or not,” Bobby continued, “that old gal is the mastermind behind an organization that excels in siphoning funds from various companies—from here and abroad—and has managed to wreck sweet havoc on their bookkeeping.” He laughed. “Their accountants have been pulling their hair out. There are a lot of CEOs ready to call it quits.”

  “Yes,” Brenda added, “and the dear old gal is quite adept at using her computer for other fun and games as well. I can’t tell you how many identities she’s ‘borrowed’ to feed what must be a voracious gambling addiction. Oh, we could go on and on. The story would curl your hair.” Brenda rolled her eyes and chuckled.

  “I’ll say.” Bobby exhaled. “You’d have to be sitting down with a stiff drink to hear this whale of a story. Unbelievable.”

  I smacked my lips. “I knew there was something wrong here but couldn’t put my finger on it. Bernie and I have stewed over this conundrum practically our whole vacation. We were especially concerned with our Melba.”

  “Yes, and my oh-so-astute-friend here absolutely knew for a fact that you and Agent Bobby were kidnappers holding these babies for ransom,” Bernie added. “And she knew that somehow Lionel and Vicki were—wait a minute. What about Lionel and Vicki?”

  All eyes swerved to focus on Lionel and Vicki, who’d been standing in the next yard, hands on hips, waiting expectantly to be noticed for I don’t know how long. Bobby grunted. “Who are they, again?”

  “Vicki and Lionel,” Bernie and I said in unison. Bobby only shrugged.

  “That gal cracks me up,” Brenda snickered. “Always tried to chat me up whenever our paths crossed. Nosy as all get out. Oomph, kiddo. Loosen the hold on aunty’s neck, will ya?” Brenda made a vain attempt to smooth her crumpled blouse, then rearranged the position of the child clinging to her neck. “My sister has been using the unit next to ours—helping me with this little party—and is about ready to blow a gasket over having to keep such a low profile. It was imperative that she not be seen yet we needed help with the girls. Talk about juggling. Several times we were sure she’d been discovered and nearly went out of our minds with worry that we’d botched the whole sting. It hasn’t been easy, let me tell you.” Brenda laughed outright at this.

  I happened to glance up and was surprised to see a pretty, dark-haired woman suddenly materialize. She leaned over the upstairs railing and smiled down at us. Brenda saw her, grinned, motioned for her to come down, then looked at us, her smile widening. “That’s Joyce. Poor thing thinks it’s about time she got some freedom to go to the beach and play with her kids out in the open. Don’t you, Joyce?”

  The young woman skipped down the steps, tossing her short hair and grimacing. “Well, gee, Brenda…almost two weeks of keeping quiet, watching TV, and reading and re-reading magazines is enough to make anyone go crazy. I felt like Anne Frank in hiding. This is the beach. I’m dying to see some sand. And I want both my babies with me instead of one at a time while you play detective.” She laughed. “Tim’s arriving today and he wants to play golf and swim and relax, so please don’t get any more ideas about us helping you out with—how did you put it? Oh, ‘just a little inconvenience’ for a few days. No thanks. I’m through playing detective. And so are my babies.”

  Brenda laughed, squeezed the ‘Amanda’ in her arms, and gave her another loud kiss. “My little nieces sure have been wonderful, though. Just three and already seasoned agents. I’ll bet they join the Agency in another twenty years or so. Don’t you?” She threw her sister a saucy look.

  Bobby laughed and lifted his ‘Amanda’ over his head, making her squeal in delight. “I think they’d make excellent agents. Right, Tammy? Is dada right?” The little mite bobbed her head up and down, still shrieking with laughter. He glanced at us and winked. “And for the record. Their names are Tammy and Tonia. Not Amanda and Amanda.” He seemed to enjoy his own joke.

  Meanwhile, poor Bernie and I just stood there, mouths gaping, feeling like utter fools, taking it all in as though we comprehended the whole, damn thing. After an eternity, Bernie gave her fluffy head a shake, licked her lips, and said in a very principal-ish tone, “This conundrum—if I may use Mike’s favorite word—is making me dizzy beyond description, and I’m about ready to explode. Just what was the purpose of this charade, Bobby, er, Robert? I mean, I understand the bit about unscrupulous Melba, but what was the point of posing as a sweet little, dysfunctional family of three? And aren’t there really some missing twins—little girls exactly Tammy and Tonia’s age, making the news?” Bernie was on a roll.

  Tammy and Tonia, A.K.A. Amanda One and Amanda Two, reached out chubby arms, each to the other, attempting to exchange partially devoured, soggy vanilla wafers.

  “Well, the reason is,” Brenda sighed, handing her twin over to the little girl’s mother, “we were all set for our surveillance of Erma—Melba, to you—when our supervisor told us that the two of you had arrived on the scene.” She paused as Bobby released his twin to her mother and jerked his thumb toward the parking lot as a signal he was leaving, tossed us a grin, then sprinted down the steps and out of sight. Joyce smiled our way then directed her daughters up the stairs to their unit, calling over her shoulder, “Nice meeting you. See you later.”

  Brenda tossed her head and grinned. “Thanks, hon. Bye-bye, girls. Aunty Brenda loves you to pieces.” She turned back to us, exhaled loudly and blew out her cheeks. “So, where was I? Oh, yes, your arrival. Anyway, we’d hoped your unit would remain empty for the time being. We’d done our homework and knew the owners—a couple from Atlanta—had just been down for a week, so we weren’t expecting them to return any time soon, and we knew they didn’t rent the place out. Your arrival sort of threw us for a loop, but our boss told us you’d be no problem if we kept you diverted. You’ve probably seen our supervisor, from time to time, working as a gardener—”

  “Ah-ha.” I interrupted. “Now who is imagining things, Bernadette? Didn’t I tell you all along that Jorge was a poser of some sort? Didn’t I? Hmmmm? Go ahead. Just shout it out. I was right, wasn’t I? I was right.”

  Bernie cast me a withering look, hunched her shoulders, and rolled her eyes at Brenda. “You were saying, before you were so rudely interrupted…”

  Brenda had the audacity to wink at Bernie. “I was saying, your arrival really muddied the waters more than we’d expected. We didn’t want your focus on dear Melba—whose real name is Erma Rae Clinton, by the way—thereby risking our little sting operation. We were finishing up our investigation and were ready to close in on her and her darling nephew. I confess I wasn’t really aware of the Amber Alert for missing twins. Hadn’t even considered you’d think we had two girls. Thought we were so damned clever about hiding our secret. No, we just hoped you’d focus on the strange couple upstairs, thinking they were nothing but a dysfunctional family
of three. We were also hoping it’d distract Erma.” She made a face. “At least, that’s what we hoped, anyway. Sounds pretty lame now, I’m embarrassed to say, and pretending we only had one child was really getting old. Don’t know why we thought we had to have only one kid. Doesn’t matter now. Thank goodness it worked…fairly well, that is…I guess.”

  I bounced up and down at this point—then remembered the spectacle I might be providing, unencumbered by the loathsome brassiere and stood still. “See?” I chortled. “I had this whole thing figured out ages ago, except for maybe the part about you and detective Bobby, and maybe the part about the girls, and perhaps about the kidnapping…that was a little confusing. And I really had no idea your sister was hiding in the vacant unit upstairs this whole time. She’s good, really good, at being quiet, I mean. Although a couple times we heard noises coming from up there when you weren’t supposed to be there. But. Please tell us what the scoop is on Lionel and Vicki. I know they’re guilty as sin but haven’t figured out exactly how they fit in,” I finished on a breathy note.

  “Lionel and Vicki?” Brenda repeated.

  “Yes. What’s the deal with them?”

  “To the best of my knowledge,” Detective Brenda Morganstern muttered, “Vicki and Lionel have absolutely nothing at all to do with any of this.”

  “You’re kidding.” I made a face then stole a glance at Bernie, who looked like someone overdosing on Rocky Road ice cream.

  * * * *

  A glorious evening. The setting sun stained the western sky a delicate shade of mauve as it melted on the horizon. The entire area was empty of detectives and babies and brassy neighbors and vacant, doddering old ladies—present company excluded—and we had the place to ourselves. The quiet was like a balm after our much-too-frazzled afternoon. We two old friends were finally able to slump into deck chairs, too drained by the day’s drama to even venture out for food. Considering the excitement of the reunion itself, not to mention the emotional impact of a crime scene unfolding beneath our noses, plus the exhilaration of being involved in a drama that dripped with truth and consequences—well, it had been quite an ending to this whole bizarre, unbelievable and unexpected interlude in our lives.