A Steal of a Deal

by Ginny Aiken

  “Trust me,” I tell her. “Whoever took your bag didn’t want the war paint.”

  She seems fascinated by something just over my brow line. “Uh . . . Andie? Have you looked in a mirror yet? You really have to do something about that . . . hair.”

  Ouch! I’d done everything possible not to look in the mirror after my shower. “It must be bad, if you noticed it after all”—I wave—“this.”

  “It’s bad.”

  I clutch my head, pat around, and realize I have fewer clumps than I did this morning when I got up. “It didn’t look too bad after my shower.”

  Allison turns me around. “It’s really bad in the back. It must have been plastered to your head while it was still wet.” She bends over to pick something up off the floor. “Look.”

  A Brillo-pad look-alike sits in the palm of her hand, the color somewhere between aged copper and scorched mac’n’cheese. I’ve scorched a batch or two in my day, so I know.

  Swallow me earth! “Oh. My. Goodness. I gotta get to a salon. How much longer are we going to have to stay here?”

  Chief Clark—you knew I’d have to face him again here, didn’t you?—steps out of the call-in center down the hall. “You can go get yourself fixed, Miss Andie. You need all the help you can get.”

  I look from side to side, waiting for Max’s snort of laughter, but he’s nowhere to be found. And even though I’d rather not, I have to ask. “Anybody seen Max?”

  “He was here when we opened up this morning,” Miss Mona says. “I’ll have Ruth Marie page him. Hang on a second.”

  Even though he’s said I could leave, I hang around to listen to everybody give the chief a rundown of where they were overnight. Nothing sounds too interesting, since everyone says they were in bed. But that’s what you’d expect, right?

  Still, can you imagine Allison ripping off her own makeup bag, then tearing the place apart?

  Neither can I.

  By the time everyone’s done, Mr. Magnificent is still conspicuously absent. “No Max yet,” I point out.

  The chief glances down the hall both ways and then pulls out his cell. “I’ll be needing to check his dressing room, then. But let me ask one of my officers out there by them studio gates. He’ll know if Mr. Matthews went off somewhere.”

  From Chief Clark’s end of the conversation, I figure out it’s a no. No one’s seen my cohost. And I’m beginning to worry. Could he be the one who trashed this place? Is he the one who stole the Kashmir film? Allison’s bag? My backpack?

  Do I go back as far as the dead Kashmiri men?

  He’s conveniently been everywhere that matters.

  I’m glad I’m not a cat—curiosity’s got a chokehold on me. And worry too. I don’t like to think I might’ve fallen for a creep. While the chief thanks his officer, I start walking. “I’ll check his dressing room.”

  Before the chief can stop me, I’m down the hall. Max’s door is open, and I walk right in, then stop. Oh yeah. He’s there, all right. I scream and scream and scream.

  Sprawled on the floor, Max lays flat on his back, his forehead split open by a two-inch gash. Blood muddies his blond hair, and his blue eyes are closed.

  My stomach turns. My temples pound. My eyes well up. “He can’t be dead,” I yell at God. “He can’t be. You can’t do this—”

  “You’re giving me a headache, Andi-ana Jones,” Max mumbles. “Why’re you screaming?”

  “Because you’re dead—Whoa! You’re not dead.” I fly to his side. “What happened? How’d you split your head?”

  He blinks. “I split my head? You mean, it’s not your screaming that’s making it hurt like nobody’s business?” When he goes to sit, he moans and falls back again.

  “Don’t do that!” I hold him down. “Somebody call an ambulance!”

  Allison runs in and to my side. “They’re on their way. I dialed when I heard your first scream. I know I screamed like that when I found the houseboy in my room.”

  “God’s been good this time,” I say. “Max is going to be fine.”

  “There you go, folks. Dr. Instant-Diagnosis-Adams has it all figured out.” He winces, but goes on. “Like you said, I’m still among the living. How about you let me speak for myself?”

  The chief joins us. “So why don’t you speak awhile, son? Tell me what happened.”

  Max rubs his forehead, his fingers gentle over the wide cut, then grimaces. “I’m not sure. I came to check my dressing room, and while I was going through my desk, someone walked in. I turned, but before I could see who it was, I went down, man. All I know is, it hurts.”

  Chief Clark takes notes. “You don’t remember anything else after that?”

  “How could he?” I ask. “He was still out when I walked in. Why don’t you quit badgering him?”

  An ambulance gurney follows a sharp rap at the door. While a pair of EMTs secure Max for his trip to the hospital, the rest of us stand back to give the professionals room to work.

  On their way out, one of the medics gestures for the chief.

  Okay. So it isn’t the smoothest move on my part, but I have to know what’s going on. I slink over, inch by silent inch, and perk up my ears.

  “His pockets are ripped almost all the way out,” the middle-aged woman says. “There’s nothing in them.”

  “Aw, no!” Max moans. “They took my wallet?”

  The chief gives the torn-apart room another good look. “I don’t see a wallet anywhere in this mess, but I suppose it could be buried. Not likely, you understand. And Debra’s right about them pants of yours. The pockets are shot.”

  I’m ready to go out on a pretty big, sturdy limb here. I’m willing to bet whoever’s been attacking us is after a sapphire or two. From Kashmir.

  No joke.

  But am I ready to take prisoners out on my limb? Am I ready to embarrass myself? I’m sure I’m on the right track. Too much has happened, and it all points to those new mine sites and the smuggling that’s been rumored about for years.

  It’s a long way from what I know to what I’m willing to share. For once, I don’t blurt out my every thought. I follow the gurney down the hall, a prayer of thanksgiving in my heart. I may have my suspicions about Max, but I also have other feelings for him. I don’t wish him any harm. I’m glad he’s going to be fine. The sight of him makes my stupid heart go pitter-patter. And that response only grows as time goes by.

  When I get to the front door, Miss Mona comes up from behind and puts an arm around my waist. “You’re worried about him, aren’t you?”

  “Depends on what you mean by worried.”

  She looks confused—just a tad. “Worry is worry, Andie, dear. Max’s injury looks bad, but I’m sure they’ll stitch him up good. I’m more concerned about a concussion than that gash.”

  And I’m more worried about a snake in the grass . . . one that’s wriggled his way into my heart.

  My worry—and feelings for Max—is not something I’m ready to share with our boss, either. “A concussion’s no fun.”

  Miss Mona makes me face her. She stares long enough that I’m sure she can see my feelings for Max. I blush. But I have nothing to say, not around the lump in my throat.

  “Neither’s that dreadful hair, dear.” She pats my cheek. “You really have to do something about it.”

  “I had other things on my mind today.”

  “I understand.” She reaches into her pocket. “Here’s the studio card. Please go treat yourself. Get your hair done, buy yourself an outfit or two, shoes, a purse, some nice lotion, and makeup. You’ve had more than enough stress in the last few weeks than any ten women should have. And I don’t want you going on-screen looking like that.”

  I’m tempted, really tempted. “But I drove Aunt Weeby—”

  “Don’t worry about her. Davina will drive us home.”

  Had this offer of the seemingly bottomless credit card come about a year ago, Miss Mona wouldn’t have had to tell me twice. But too many things have happened since I
came home. I’ve changed. My focus has broadened, and fashion and my looks don’t take such a big chunk of my attention. The realization stuns me. Wow!

  “I suppose . . . if I’m going to work anytime soon, I do have to do something about my head.”

  “Didn’t I just say that, child?” my boss asks. “Now don’t waste another minute. Go take care of yourself.”

  I give her a quick hug and kiss, and then head outside. The sun’s high in the sky, blazing hot, like any good Kentucky summer day. My sleek silver Honda Accord sparkles like a gleaming silver pendant.

  “Like my new wheels?” I ask the off-duty police officer Miss Mona’s hired to do security, as he checks out my car.

  He shrugs. “Nice car. But I’m checking them all. The chief asked me to make sure nothing was taken from any of them. I noticed your door wasn’t closed all the way.” He reaches out. “See?”

  “Strange. I know I slammed it shut”—I was pretty mad about the break-ins, both at the studio and Aunt Weeby’s house—“and clicked the key chain lock. Maybe there’s something wrong with this gizmo.” I press the button.

  BOOM!

  Pieces of silver and tongues of fire fill the sky.

  The earth shakes.

  I stumble, scream.

  Everything goes black.

  1400

  White. Everything is blinding white. A strange buzz shimmies through my head. As if from a great distance, I hear muffled voices.

  “She’s waking up.”

  “Let’s pray.”

  I blink, but all I see is more of the same white.

  “Andie! Can you hear me?”

  “Ye—” The gurgle dies in my sore throat. It hurts too much to try and push it out, so I shake my head. Moan.

  Bad, bad idea. I know exactly how Max felt— “Max!” The word scratches out of my dry lips. “Is he okay?”

  “Isn’t that sweet, Mona?” Aunt Weeby says. “She’s asking about Max. I told you and told you there’s more than snarling going on. Why, I’d bet you we’ll be hearing wedding bells soon.”

  Someone chokes.

  In spite of the pain, and while exiled to this weird, white never-never land I’m in, I know when trouble strikes. Aunt Weeby’s nothing if not trouble. And then some.

  “No,” I whisper. “No bells. Alarms don’t chime.”

  “Aw, look.” Miss Mona’s voice rings with sympathy. “Poor thing’s still knocked silly. She’s not making any sense.”

  “What’s so strange about that?” Max says. “Andie never makes sense.”

  My eyes pop open wide. “Max! You’re s’posed to be hurt.” Even though my ears are ringing, and even though my head’s pounding, and, yes, even though my throat and lips sting like bad sunburns, I fight for a toehold on consciousness. My struggle brings results, and I prop myself on my elbows.

  “Hi,” I say. “Why’s everyone here?”

  Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona rush my bed—yes, I’m in bed, and all the whiteness comes from staring straight at the ceiling above. I’m not so loopy I can’t figure out I’m in the hospital.

  “Don’t fight so hard,” Miss Mona says. “The doctors say you’re going to be fine, but the explosion didn’t do you any favors.”

  “Oh no!” I groan. “Did I lose the rest of my hair?”

  “Yes, ladies and gentlemen,” Max says. “She’s going to be fine.”

  “My new car’s gone, isn’t it?”

  “’Fraid so, Miss Andie,” Chief Clark says from the foot of the bed. “It looks like my men found them an explosive rigged to go off when you used that there electronic lock.”

  A memory of the last thing I saw before my world blew up flies through my head. The cop next to my car . . . his hand reaching for my door . . .

  “Is your officer . . .” I can’t make myself put my fear into words.

  Chief Clark winces in obvious pain. “He’s alive. Barely.”

  I collapse back onto the bed. The impact pulses through every inch of my body, but I know my pain is nothing compared to what that poor man’s going through. “And all because I unlocked my car . . .”

  “Oh no, Andie!” Aunt Weeby places a cool hand against my hot cheek. “None of this is your fault, so don’t go picking up any burdens that aren’t yours to haul around.”

  “But—”

  “She’s right, Miss Andie,” the chief says. “Fault lies with the animal who rigged up your new car. I know I’ve had to come down hard on you a time or two myself, but this time, you’re all the way out in the clear. I don’t think you’d blow yourself up.”

  His vote of conditional confidence doesn’t make me feel any better. “It was still my car. He said the door wasn’t closed right and went to show me . . . I clicked the lock, thinking it wasn’t working right.”

  “That electronic lock is the most common trick to blast a car with,” Chief Clark says. “And it doesn’t take long to wire the thing. Where’d you park it overnight?”

  I give him a crooked smile. “Out on Miss Mona’s driveway. Max insisted on driving Aunt Weeby. I don’t know why. By the time we left, I wasn’t shaking anymore. I could have driven us over. But whoever did it had plenty of time to set it up.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Max run a finger over the fat, white bandage on his head. “There’s too much going on for my liking.” He turns to the chief. “What have you found out?”

  “Not a whole lot, I’m afraid.” Chief Clark sends me a look. “But there’s plenty I’m thinking right about now.”

  I raise my head again. “My backpack . . . ?”

  He nods. “Seems to me, all this violent stuff is all about you.”

  “Hey! That’s not fair—”

  “Lissen me out here, Miss Andie.” When I reluctantly nod, he goes on. “Nothing much happens normal-like, and then you take off to traipse through some other weird land, and bam!”—he slams a fist into his other palm—“we have us a truckload of destruction following you around.”

  “But you just said it wasn’t my fault.”

  The chief rubs his stubby nose. “I’m not so sure it rightly is. But sure as I’m standing here, looking at you and Mr. Matthews all banged up, this is all about that there trip of yours. While you were out there, did you go messing with foreign folks’ jewelry again?”

  I shake my head. “No—”

  Max nods. “Yes!”

  “Now, Max, dear,” Miss Mona says. “Andie didn’t have any contact with any gemstones on this last trip. All she did was go film some empty ol’ mines. I don’t think that’s messing with much of anything, do you?”

  “I just thought of something,” my cohost says. “What if she had Glory film something she shouldn’t have filmed? The chief said the film’s about all that’s missing from the studio.”

  With a wriggle, I ease up again. “Allison’s makeup bag’s gone too.”

  Chief Clark reaches for the nape of his neck, looks down at the floor, and “uh-huhs.” Then he pins me with another of his looks. “What else happened out in that there Kashmir?”

  Max crosses his arms. “Yes, Andie. What else did happen while we were out in Kashmir? Are you going to tell the chief about Farooq and Xheng Xhi? Or do I have to do it all?”

  The chief’s expression turns suspicious—a familiar turn I’ve seen before. “What’s a Far—ook or a Shen . . . Cheng . . . whatever you’re talking about?”

  “Why, Donald, dear,” Aunt Weeby offers. “They’re the saddest thing. I’m afraid they’re a couple Kashmir boys gone bad. Seems they got theirselves all caught up in crime. Smuggling, I really think. Then something must’ve gone all catawampus between them and the rest of the thieves—you know how that goes.”

  She’s at my side, nodding, an all-knowing expression on her face. Oooh-oh-oh-oh! I don’t know about this. Do I cheer or do I cry?

  On the one hand, the leashed, fifty-pound gorilla of suspicion is about to be sprung. On the other, Chief Clark is about to come after me again like he did before.


  When Aunt Weeby doesn’t say another word, the chief loses his patience. “Livvy! Get on with it, woman. What? Are you wanting me to play twenty questions on this? Or do you expect me to read that there wacky mind of yours? Tell me what you’re trying to say, and tell it to me straight. And I don’t want no more of them little word games of yours, either, you hear?”

  She sniffs. “I’ve never known you to playact so dense before, Donald Clark. I’m sure you’ve figured it all out by now. You know perfectly well those two wayward boys got theirselves killed.”

  “Aha!” he cries. “I knew it. I knew there was more to this than a firebug and a coupla thieves. So which one of you’s the one what smuggled out the goods?”

  Not a word.

  No one speaks.

  No one has to say a word.

  Now it all makes sense.

  We didn’t smuggle anything out. We didn’t have to.

  One of us was an involuntary mule.

  Who?

  “. . . And Father? We really need a good shaken measure of your strength down here,” Aunt Weeby says. “We’re none of us a part of this here mess, but it’s all come to roost on us like some sick chicken. Give Donald wisdom—goodness knows, he’s got a mighty need right now—and heal Max’s and Andie’s hurts . . .”

  “Lord Jesus,” I murmur, “we thank you for your protection in all that’s happened, but please bring your healing touch to that poor cop too. He had even less to do with . . . all this, and he’s the one hurt the worst . . .”

  “It wouldn’t hurt if you provided us with some really good gemstone vendors, Lord,” Max adds. “That way Andie won’t have to get any more ideas for field trips.”

  I’m outraged. “What kind of mean-spirited prayer is that?”

  “One you really need,” he counters. “All your trips have done is get us a handful of good gems and a truckful of bad grief. Stay home, okay?”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’m stuck in a hospital bed. How about you? How many midnight dinner parties are you going to go to?”