by Lucy Carol
Perhaps Grandpa, like many men, had sown some wild oats in his youth? He didn’t want the police involved. And come on, no one would want controlling, know-it-all Ann involved.
Obviously, he’d been hiding something in the box from the tool shed. A box that for many years he’d felt no need to get into and no need to get rid of. And she had to face it; it was never a good sign to see someone duct taping an unconscious man, although she had to admit she didn’t have any kind thoughts for the man with the salt and pepper unibrow. Seeing him hit her grandfather had brought out a side of her that was new. It scared her. But uncomfortable or not, she would hit him with a drill again if he tried to hurt her grandfather.
What haunted her was that Grandpa had gestured to the unibrow man saying that he’d been used, too, indicating that they’d both been blackmailed. By whom and for what?
Her only knowledge of Grandpa was her ordinary life with him. He was always willing to listen to her hare-brained ideas, her mad schemes. At the age of thirteen, when Madison had discovered the joy of the performing arts, she had thrown her schooling to the wind. Ann, working for the FBI, was stationed in Philadelphia at the time and was furious over the news of Madison’s plummeting GPA, but Grandpa was there to promise Ann it was temporary, and he then made it clear to Madison that taking school seriously was like a voucher she could cash in for his support. He kept tabs on her homework and drove her to auditions and rehearsals. He paid for dance lessons, costumes, acting classes, and most importantly he attended every ridiculous show she had been in.
When she’d gotten older she’d discovered camera work in a few commercials and bit parts, and some real money started to come in. But it wasn’t steady work, and Madison hadn’t found a way yet where she could relax and enjoy life. Life was a series of small paychecks and the occasional big one. She hadn’t been able to admit it to herself until this morning. But turning her life around would have to wait. Grandpa needed her and she wanted to be there for him the way he had always been there for her.
Right now, she needed to keep an iron grip on her composure. She finally started making turns in traffic on purpose and drove home. She swung into the parking lot of her new apartment complex and wondered when she would stop thinking of it as new. She parked, grabbed the metal box and her purse, and ran into her apartment building. She rushed down the hallway toward the stairwell with images of the fist fight returning to her as she bounded up the stairs to the second floor. She had no idea that old men could get so fierce with each other. The desperation and passion with which they had fought was truly frightening. She had been shocked to see that her grandfather could fight like that. He had a mean right. Who knew? Must be all the landscaping work keeping him strong. But what had made the stakes so high for them both? The mystery of it all drove her nuts, and was really starting to piss her off.
She reached her floor and hurried towards her door. She just might make it inside without having a breakdown out here in the hallway. She dug out her key and jammed it in her doorknob.
That’s when Toonie’s door opened up and Toonie stepped out and said, “Hey, I saw you pull up outside and I just wanted to say—”
Slam! Madison made it inside. She hurried into the living room, sat down on the floor with the box, and stared at it.
Now what?
It was covered in a lot of dust and gave off a mottled rusty mud color, except for the top. The top was a clean dark grey since that was where the shelf had sat for so long and had kept years of dust off of it.
I totally trust Grandpa. Totally. He’ll call and explain everything. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and looked at the time on it. She waited an eternal thirty seconds. Then she set about trying to figure out how to break into the box. She grabbed the latch and tried to force it open. She wiggled it hard and hit it with her fist a few times. Damned thing is probably rusted shut.
Just then Toonie pounded on the door and her muffled voice yelled, “I realize that you’ve returned to being rude again, so it’s hard to do you any favors. But you might want to know that someone is breaking into your car right now.”
What? Disbelieving, Madison got up and went to her window. Down in the sunny parking lot she saw long slender legs attached to a shapely bottom in a black pencil skirt bent over and sticking out from the open door of Madison’s car. A woman was rummaging around in the glove compartment.
Madison muttered, “What the hell?”
Chapter Eight
After everything that had happened in the last few hours, Madison flew into a rage at this final indignity, went tearing out of her apartment door, and slammed headlong into ExBoy.
“Uuff!” she yelled into his chest, as he stumbled back in surprise, just managing to catch her before she could fall. “Whoa there, what’s going—” he started to ask. She regained her balance and broke loose. “Not now!” she cried as she ran down the hall.
She hiked her skirt up, her anger propelling her into the stairwell and down each step. The last thing she needed right now was complications. And ExBoy was a complicated part of her life.
She jumped the last few steps to the bottom, then flew out of the building into the parking lot. But by the time she got out there the woman was gone. Madison looked left and right, trying to understand what had just happened. How did the woman disappear so fast?
Her anger had made her willing to face anything. But now that she stood here, alone, her mind filled in the holes that her haste had ignored. The memory came rushing back to her that she had clipped a car in front of Grandpa’s house and a woman had been behind the wheel. Her indignation melted as fear took its place. The whole time Madison was driving around, trying to figure out what to do, that woman had been following her. She had this one lousy task of hiding the box and already she was screwing it up.
She checked inside her car to see if anything looked missing. Nope. All the trash was still there. At the very least, the would-be thief could have taken some, just to be polite. She checked in her glove compartment. Everything looked fine. She slammed it shut and saw her tote bag on the floor, with the balloon pump sticking out. Realization sank in on her. The birthday gig! Oh my God, I no-showed!
Standing there, a filthy fairy godmother with a supreme case of paranoia, she was at a loss as to how she would explain this to Phil her agent. Some angry mother was probably on the phone chewing him out right now. Jobs were scarce enough without pissing off her agent. And Phil found ways of making you pay for it.
Someone, please just shoot me now.
At the very least, Phil needed a chance to call the client with an apology that things had not worked out in time. Maybe try to save the job with an offer like “The fairy godmother just died, but I have a clown who can be there in an hour.” Clients could be pretty understanding if given a little explanation.
She needed to call Phil immediately.
Her cell phone was back in her living room, so she snatched her tote bag and the sad little paper bag with the smashed whole grain raisin roll out of the car and ran across the parking lot back up to her apartment.
She just needed to think of an explanation as she ran. In her mind she offered varying explanations but none of them sounded right.
“Phil, I’ve been vomiting nonstop since dawn!”
No. I’ve used that one before.
She reached the stairs and took them two at a time.
“Phil, there were vicious foaming dogs in their driveway, trying to attack me through the car window!”
No. Phil loves dogs.
Reaching the top of the stairs, she ran down the hallway to her door.
“Phil, dude, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Of course I did the gig. What? They told you I never showed? Why those awful people.”
She ran into her apartment and found ExBoy standing in her living room holding the box, shaking it and… smelling it?
“What are you doing?” she screamed.
He was so startled he dropped the box w
ith a loud clang and the lid popped open. In a panic, Madison ran and dove on top of it protecting it with her arms, her body splayed out flat on the floor. She yelled, “Would you please just go?” She was terrified of what might have fallen out. Body parts? Counterfeit money? Vintage girly magazines? She made sure the lid was closed but not enough to lock.
“After I get my lucky t-shirt back. I need it for the convention. And then we need to talk.” He walked off into the bedroom.
Incredulous, she called, “What lucky t-shirt?”
From the bedroom she heard, “The one I left here the day I helped you move?”
Oh. She remembered. She thought of it as the almost-lucky t-shirt. The shirt had a picture of a baby zombie with a little fistful of brains and a caption that said Ready For Solid Food.
“What convention?” she demanded. She needed to wrap this up and make him leave fast.
“Zombie Prom. It’s a zombie convention.”
“Zombies don’t have conventions!”
“In this town they do.”
She called, “Damn it, ExBoy, I can return it to you later! You shouldn’t have left it here.”
Still in her bedroom, he said, “You’re in danger, Madison.”
“What?” Adrenaline hit her.
“Seriously. This room is going to get fed up with your neglect and attack you in your sleep.”
“Get out!”
He appeared at the doorway placing his forearm up on the doorframe. “I can’t find it.” Leaning there he studied her. “You’re dressed like a princess but all messed up. Did you get in a princess fight?”
“I’m not a princess,” she growled. “I’m a fairy godmother.”
“Oh. Magical throwdown. Did you utter incantations then drop your wand like a rap artist?”
Her teeth gritted, she said, “We’re about to have a throwdown right now.”
He tilted his head with a sly smile on his face. “Very seductive. But it’s not going to work. I’m leaving.”
“Good.”
“What are you hiding? What’s in that thing?”
“Go!”
“Fine. But we have to talk later.” His posture tightened up a bit. “I can’t put it off any more.” Heading for the door he added, “Oh, your grandpa called. I saw his name on your cell screen. I like that old guy.” ExBoy walked out and she heard the door close.
Damn it, I missed his call. She rose to her hands and knees and scrambled over to the spot on the floor where she had left the phone. It said Missed Call on its screen. But it also said Voicemail. Yes! She punched in the numbers to retrieve her voicemail and listened as Grandpa’s soft mumble mixed with the key tones.
“Damned thing… (deet, doot) few days (deeeeeeeet) but don’t (doot, doot)…” There were sporadic words in the background that sounded like overhead announcements, the word “departure” grabbing her attention. He’s leaving town? Then one long part got through, “… he’ll handle our little friend till we can turn him over. You can trust him, sweetheart. He’s known about this (deeeet) him your number in case anything… (dooot)…” and the voicemail cut off.
She clutched the phone tight in her hand as she shut her eyes in frustration. She knew her grandfather was a pretty sharp cookie. So how the hell could an intelligent person screw that up so bad? She pictured him holding the phone out in front of his face while he talked, as if it were a walkie-talkie, his thumb accidentally pressing buttons. She tried calling him right back. He didn’t answer, and apparently he hadn’t set it up to receive voicemail, so she had no way to leave a message.
Next she called Phil.
She couldn’t tell Phil about her grandfather, and she was too exhausted to come up with a convincing story. She was ready to fall on her sword and get it over with. His outgoing message came on and her stomach twisted as she heard the beep. “Phil? It’s Madison. Look, I don’t know how to begin.” She hesitated. “You’ve probably been wondering what happened. It’s hard to explain, Phil, but you’ve got to believe me when I say how sorry I am for not showing up for the princess birthday party today, and if you…” (beeep) “Argh!”
She was about to call him back and finish her message, when her phone rang with Ethel Merman singing “There’s No Business Like Show Business,” meaning Phil had called her right back.
She hit the answer button. “Phil?”
In his signature street tough Boston accent, he said, “Chocolate Mint! How’s my gorgeous girl?”
This was a good sign. Phil was calling her by his pet name for her. Chocolate mint referred to her long black lashes surrounding her pale green eyes.
“Phil, you’re… you’re not mad?”
“Mad about what?”
“The gig. The princess birthday party that I no-showed. I’m so sorry, Phil. It’s been a hell of a day and—”
“Minty, you didn’t no-show. I put that message out to a bunch of you. Jen called back first, so I gave her the gig. Actually, you never called back at all.” Madison was confused. He gave a children’s party to Jen? From the stripper unit? Then she realized that she hadn’t completed the phone call to Phil last night because her grandfather had shown up at the door. But still. Jen? Ew.
He continued, “But I heard about your wrestling debut last night. I’m dying to meet that Atomic guy. And seriously, girl, you should have let me negotiate that for you. I could have got you more money, even after my cut. And you know that’s a fact.”
He would have demanded more, all right. He would have priced me right out of the gig.
“Oh, my God, Phil, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I almost showed up at the birthday party, in my costume and everything. If I hadn’t gone to visit my grand—” Shut up, Madison!
“Don’t worry about it. I made Jen promise no cleavage. I only put that message out because I needed someone fast. You, I prefer to save for the bigger gigs, you know?”
Don’t argue. Pretend you believe him.
He continued, “You know I like to keep you busy, girl.”
“Thanks, Phil. Have you heard back about the radio spot yet? They loved me at the audition.”
“Sorry, kid. They went with someone else.”
“Damn. I miss doing voiceover gigs. You used to get me so many.”
“I keep telling you, Minty, you’ve got to get yourself some audio gear. In-studio auditions, like that one, are hard to find now. Most of the auditions are done in the artist’s home, and sent as an audio attachment in an email.”
“That gear isn’t cheap, Phil. I can barely pay my rent. Maybe if you got me more work?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m looking out for you. You’re booked to do the Bumbling Waitress tomorrow at one o’clock, right?”
“Yeah. You already sent the gig sheet. It’s at Giovanni’s Restaurant.”
“Good. So, hey, I have… something… on my desk right now. Big pay. It’ll probably be tomorrow. A little unusual. The victim is a whole group of people this time. You’ll have to adapt to whatever the reaction is but you’re good at improv. If anyone could pull this off…”
She didn’t like the sound of this. He was stalling.
“What is it?”
“A singing telegram.”
“And?”
“You show up big and pregnant in front of this group. You look low class, dance for the client, shimmy…” she could hear him swallow, “… at him. And sing, ‘You Made Me Love You.’”
“Okay, it’s a comedy gig.”
He was silent for a moment. “It’s in front of the client’s family.” He was still stalling.
“Phil, you know I don’t do stripping. Call Jen if that’s what—”
“No, no, Minty, I know that. It’s just a little unusual, is all.”
“Spit it out.”
“The client is dead.”
“What?”
“Yeah… uh… he arranged this, just before he croaked.”
“Dead?!”
“He had a reputation for playing gags. Family
always loved it. So he wanted to play a little joke to lighten things up at his funeral.”
“You want me to do a comic shimmy to a dead guy?!”
“He pre-paid!”
She yelled, “Are you out of your mind?!”
“Ten minutes and you’re out of there, collect five hundred bucks! That’s three times the usual cut!”
“You’re the king of taste, you know that?”
“C’mon, Minty, you kind of owe me one.”
“For what? I’ve been loyal and—”
“You no-showed—”
“I did not!”
“Technically, no. But in spirit?”
“Phil!”
“You no-showed and you need a chance to make it up to me. You know, feel good about yourself again.”
“You know I hate you, right? You do know that?”
His Boston street voice softened. “Think of his poor family. He arranged this for them. To give them one last laugh. Help them get through a tough time.”
“Damn it, Phil!” she wailed. She felt herself caving in. And she knew that Phil knew. Watch out.
“Minty, have a heart.”
“One thousand dollars.”
“What?!” he screamed.
“Think of his family, Phil.”
She heard something slamming down on his desk three times as he sputtered unintelligible words, and then went silent. She added, “The body is not getting any fresher.”
After a moment, he snarled, “You won’t back out?”
I need the money. “I’ll be there.”
He grumbled. “Fine. His name was Eddie Willet. I’ll send the details as soon as I have them.” He hung up on her.
She knew it. She figured the client must have offered to pay a hell of a lot for such an uncomfortable job. Otherwise, Phil never would have agreed to her demand of one thousand dollars. He would have growled and hung onto his cut like it was the last dog bone on earth. She let her phone drop into her lap and rubbed her temples.