Crazy Lady

by James Hawkins

  “I’ll do your hair if you take off your scarf,” she tries warmly, but Janet’s frightened eyes back her off, so she attempts bribery. “I could ask my hair girl to stop by and give you a snazzy style…” she starts, but Janet tightens the scarf and quickly butts in.

  “Our Lord Saviour wouldn’t approve.”

  “God wants you to have lovely long hair, but he doesn’t want anyone to admire it?” Trina questions disbelievingly.

  “He sees everything,” explains Janet in a reverent whisper. “And he scorns vanity.”

  “Would you like some breakfast?” inquires Trina as she dances around the basement, keeping Janet at arm’s length. But Janet is doing her own dancing.

  “I can’t pay you.”

  “I don’t want —”

  “Our Lord Saviour says…” begins Janet, then she spots her crucifix in Trina’s hand, roughly snatches it, and grips it to her chest as if trying to force it into her heart. “Where did you get it?” she demands.

  “I just want to help you get home,” tries Trina, but Janet drops to her knees and raises her crucifix and eyes to the ceiling.

  “I shall dwell in the house of Our Lord Saviour for eternity.”

  “With any luck we all will. But where do you live now?”

  “255 Arundel Crescent, Dewminster, Hampshire, England,” intones Janet by rote.

  “That’s a long walk.”

  “255 Arundel Crescent, Dewminster, Hampshire, England,” she repeats as if stuck in a loop.

  “But how did you get here?”

  “255 Arundel Crescent, Dewminster, Hampshire, England,” she reiterates, pacing with agitation, and Trina takes refuge behind the guinea pig’s cage. “Time for his morning walk,” she says, grabbing the cage, and she quickly slips out and closes the suite door firmly behind her with the growing feeling that she has a very restless cat loose in the basement — but is it a Blue Persian or a white tiger?

  With the television off, Janet seeks comfort from her God as she caresses and kisses the smooth face of Jesus, while above her in the marble-floored kitchen Trina telephones Margaret, her dispatcher, to say that she will be unable to visit her regular clients today.

  “Mr. Hammett needs a new colostomy bag,” she explains as she whips through her daily to-do list. “And I told Mrs. Williams that I’d pick up a bouquet of white carnations at the florist’s. It’s her friend’s ninetieth…”

  “Will do,” says the dispatcher. “Has she paid?”

  Trina hesitates. “Ah… actually the old dear hasn’t any money, so give me the tab. And make sure she gets the best, OK, no gas station grunge.”

  “Hey, I could use flowers,” jokes Margaret. “How come there’s no one in my life like you?”

  “You just wait until the most exciting thing in your life is a soft-boiled egg and a clean diaper and you may get lucky.”

  “I know, I know. So, is that it?”

  Trina takes a deep breath. “Actually, it’s Wednesday.”

  “And?”

  “I usually give old Mr. Sampson an enema on Wednesdays.”

  “OK. If it’s essential?”

  “It’s not really,” admits Trina reluctantly. “But it gives the poor old guy a bit of a thrill.”

  “Shit, Trina, you’re supposed to be a homecare nurse not a freakin’ sex worker.”

  “I know, I know. But sometimes I think it’s the only thing he lives for.”

  “Well, I know what I live for, and no one ever gives me that,” sighs the dispatcher pointedly, and Trina is considering suggesting the other woman might have more success if she were to lose a couple hundred pounds when Margaret asks concernedly, “You’re not sick or anything?”

  “No, I’m fine,” explains Trina before detailing Janet and her symptoms.

  “Sounds like me when I’m pissed,” suggests Margaret, “although it could be that she’s subconsciously blocking out some traumatic experience by returning to a time before it happened. You should get her to a shrink.”

  “Yeah. I know,” replies Trina. “But she’s so scared she’ll probably run if I take her out of the house. Anyway, I have some ideas.”

  Trina’s first idea involves Daphne Lovelace, a long-time resident of Westchester, England, with a propensity for getting involved in situations that should properly be left to the authorities. But in a way, Daphne still considers herself to be a part of the authorities, and despite more than thirty years on the pensioner’s list at Whitehall’s Ministry of Defence, she has never fully retired. A twenty-five-year stint as the cleaning lady at Westchester police station before her compulsory departure from the workforce merely reinforces her belief that she is still a servant of Her Majesty. The Order of the British Empire, awarded to her for unspecified acts of national importance during and after the Second World War, proves conclusively, in her mind at least, that despite her advancing years she has the full backing of the British government.

  “Janet Thurgood from Dewminster,” Daphne muses aloud once she’s digested the information from her Canadian friend. “Doesn’t ring a bell, but it’s only about ten miles. I could get a bus over there tomorrow afternoon and make some inquiries. What was the address again?”

  “Yes! Lovelace and Button are back in business,” shrills Trina in delight as she punches the air, and Daphne laughs at the younger woman’s exuberance.

  “Just don’t tell David what we’re doing or he’ll have me arrested by Interpol for interfering in international investigations.”

  “Roger, wilco,” says Trina in a passable English accent, knowing that Daphne’s friend Detective Chief Inspector David Bliss of Scotland Yard has good reason to complain about civilians meddling in police affairs. He still walks with a limp from a flesh wound inflicted on him the last time that Daphne and Trina decided to do a little sleuthing on their own and wound up uncovering a CIA operation in the mountains of Washington State.

  Bliss is not in a position to complain about any extra-judicial inquiries this time. Despite several attempts to resign from London’s Metropolitan Police Service to begin his writing career, and to avoid further confrontations with a slippery senior officer named Edwards, Bliss is still firmly listed as a serving officer. However, a full year’s sabbatical on half pay — a reward for services above and beyond the call of duty — has provided him with both the time and the means to complete his great historical work, and it’s no coincidence that he has chosen the faded Mediterranean resort of St-Juan-sur-Mer as his pied-à-terre.

  From his Provençal apartment’s balcony, David Bliss looks across the beautiful azure bay to the fortress on the island of Ste. Marguerite, the one-time residence of Louis XIV’s legendary prisoner l’homme au masque de fer — the Man in the Iron Mask — and wraps himself in the ambience of the Mediterranean as he attempts to recreate the intriguing world of the French aristocracy at the end of the seventeenth century.

  Three months, and Bliss’s first draft of the true account of the legendary masked man, The Truth Behind the Mask, is already half complete. However, he is growing concerned that his schedule is slipping, and bubbly real estate agent Daisy Leblanc isn’t helping, though he doesn’t complain as he hears her key in the apartment’s door.

  “I ’ave brought you zhe dinner, Daavid,” Daisy calls in her Gallicized English as the door closes behind her, and Bliss is drawn from the balcony to a sight more pleasing than the vermillion sun setting over the aquamarine bay and verdant islands.

  “What would I do without you?” he says as he takes the tray, wraps Daisy in his arms, and kisses her.

  “You would starve to death, I zhink.” She laughs, putting a picnic basket and a bottle of local wine on the table, then she pulls back to give him a serious look. “Zhat is why I zhink I should come and live here with you.”

  “Daisy,” starts Bliss without knowing where he is going, “I don’t think… I mean… I’m not sure…”

  “It is all right, Daavid,” she says, picking up the laughter again and playfully
slipping a hand down his shorts. “You zhink zhat perhaps you would not be able to write if I was here all zhe time.”

  “I know I wouldn’t be able to write,” he says forcefully as he removes her hand.

  The day has started to wear thin for Trina in Vancouver by mid-afternoon. Every visit to the basement suite has left her more frustrated. Rick is anticipating a guest-free dinner in a couple of hours, and Trina is beginning to panic as she sits at her computer compiling a profile of Janet Thurgood, if that is her name, attempting to follow the investigative procedures laid out in a manual for private investigators she bought when she first dreamed of becoming a detective. However, the relevant chapter assumes the reader wishes to trace someone reported as missing and not the opposite. Trina has already tried all the hospitals and hostels without success. Mike Phillips phoned back at midday to say that no one matching Janet’s description seems to be missing or on the run, though he again warned Trina to be wary.

  “Motive for disappearance,” she types once she has listed Janet’s physical features, and she finds herself immediately stumped.

  “Motive,” she begins again, pauses blankly, then seeks guidance from the manual. “There are numerous possible motives for voluntary disappearance,” it reads, “but most fall into just three categories: indebtedness, criminal conduct of some type, and domestic relationships.”

  “Useless,” she mutters, realizing that she has no knowledge of Janet’s past, then she perks up with an idea and types.

  “Motive for disappearance… In search of salvation.”

  “There,” says Trina, satisfied that she is on the right track, and she is headed back to the basement for another try when Raven calls.

  “Sorry. I would have called earlier but I only just got your message,” says the professed seer and channel, and Trina can’t help taking a shot.

  “You’re supposed to be psychic. I thought you would have known I needed you,” she complains, then goes on to explain her predicament before Raven has a chance to protest.

  “We all live in boxes — spheres, really,” suggests Raven once she’s had a moment’s consideration. “We’re surrounded by people and things that are familiar to us. Sometimes we’re forced to move into a new box but we don’t want to leave the security of the old one. Maybe she’s just slipped back into her old box, the last time she really felt secure, and she’s sort of trapped in the past.”

  “Could you bring her back to the present?”

  Raven laughs. “When I say the past, Trina, I mean… like… a past life. With all this religious stuff she could be a fifteenth-century monk or a —”

  “Or an angel?” cuts in Trina, remembering Janet insisting that she be called Daena.

  “Daena!” exclaims Raven at the name. “Is that what she calls herself?”

  “Daena XV to be precise.”

  “Wow!”

  “What?”

  “Trina. Don’t do anything, OK? I’ve got to do some research. Talk to people. Wow! This is exciting.”

  “What is it?”

  “Call you later. Wow! Daena.”

  “Hey, Mum,” calls Rob as he flings open the kitchen door, “is the stick insect still in the basement? I wanna watch The Simpsons.”

  “Raven!” calls Trina into the phone, but she’s gone, so she turns to her son and puts on a worried look.

  “Actually. I think the stick insect, as you call her, has barfed all over the carpet, so you might not…”

  “Oh, Christ!” spits Rob as he spins. “I’m goin’ to Merv’s.”

  “Good idea. Be home by ten —” she starts, but is cut off by the slammed door.

  OK, says Trina to herself, and she returns to the computer in search of Daena.

  By 4:00 p.m., Pacific Standard Time, Trina Button is no nearer discovering the true identity of her houseguest and is starting to worry about Rick’s reaction when he returns. He’s called several times during the day, but she let the answering machine take the brunt of his testiness. “Just let me know when she’s gone,” he said, firmly and finally, and Trina quickly wiped off the recording with the intention of swearing, “Blasted teenagers!” if he should demand to know why she didn’t reply.

  One more try, she says to herself as she heads to the basement suite with a pot of tea and a packet of Oreos.

  “Can I go home now?” Janet demands as Trina opens the door.

  “Of course,” says the homecare nurse. “You’re not a prisoner. But where is your home?”

  “255 Arundel Crescent…” begins Janet robotically, but Trina puts up a hand.

  “No. Start again. Your name is Janet Thurgood…”

  Janet immediately jumps to her feet and holds her crucifix high, incanting, “I am Daena XV, queen of the angels… I am Daena XV, queen —”

  “All right,” soothes Trina, and she takes the agitated woman’s hand, saying, “How long have you been Daena?”

  Janet gives Trina a quizzical look, but she calms, as if sensing that she is being taken seriously, and says, “This is my fifteenth incarnation. I told you. I’m Daena XV. I’m Daena XV.”

  Trina grips the bony hand tightly, fearing that the woman is readying to run again. “All right,” she says, “but what else do you know?”

  There is a vagueness in her tone, as if she is mentally searching for more but isn’t sure where to look for it as she replies, “Everything. I know everything.”

  “What about children, Daena. Did you have any?”

  “We are all God’s children.”

  “I know. But did you have any of your own?”

  A smack on the head with a baseball bat might have caused a similar effect as Janet Thurgood’s eyes pop and she stares rigidly into the past for a few seconds before slumping in a flood of tears.

  That’s interesting, Trina is thinking, with the sobbing woman bundled against her chest, when a loud knocking on the window stops the woman in mid-cry, and Trina, already startled by the outburst, leaps.

  “Trina. Are you there?” calls a familiar voice, and Trina breathes a sigh of relief as she opens the curtains to find Inspector Mike Phillips and Sergeant Dave Brougham.

  “I tried the front doorbell,” explains the senior officer as she lets both of them in.

  “I was just talking to Janet…” she begins.

  “It’s Daena,” yells an agitated voice from behind her. “I keep telling you. It’s Daena… Daena… Daena XV.”

  “I know,” says Trina softly and she reaches out in an attempt to placate the woman.

  “Don’t touch me… don’t touch me,” yells Janet, and Trina backs off.

  Mike Phillips steps in and guides Trina to the door leading to the main floor. “A word please, Trina,” he starts. “She just fits the description of a woman the dead constable was inquiring about before he died, that’s all,” says Phillips once the basement door is closed on Janet.

  “And you think she had something to do with it?” asks Trina worriedly.

  Sergeant Brougham steps in officiously. “Someone or something scratched his hand. The guys at the morgue reckon it could have been long fingernails. Does she have long fingernails, Mrs. Button?”

  “Yes. And so do I,” spits Trina, waving hers in his face. “But that doesn’t make me a killer.”

  “We’re not saying she’s a killer, Trina,” tries Phillips with a friendly hand on her shoulder. “It’s just routine inquiries. That’s all.”

  “So. You could ask her now. She’ll be scared if you take her to the police station.”

  “Trina. You’re out of your depth as usual,” suggests Phillips. “We’ll just take her in for a few questions and then we’ll get her some proper help.”

  “OK,” agrees Trina after a momentary pause, then she spins on Sergeant Brougham and stabs him with a finger, saying, “No barbecues, all right?”

  “What?”

  “You know what I mean,” she is saying as she opens the basement door, then she stops as she takes in the sight of an open win
dow. “Oh. Damn. She’s gone again.”

  A kind of peace has settled over the Button household by the time that Rick arrives and peers through the basement window on his way from the garage.

  “It’s all right. The crazy lady’s gone,” calls Trina as she spots her husband’s shadow, and he enters to find her sitting in front of a blank television, toying with Janet’s spiritual figurine.

  “I told you she was a nut,” says Rick in relief, but Trina’s expression suggests that she has a different view.

  “She’s scared of something, Rick. Really scared.”

  chapter three

  It’s barely a twenty-minute run from Westchester to Dewminster on the bypass, but the aging bus driver steers with his knees and casually combs his hair with both hands as he takes the scenic route, meandering the wooded lanes and village roads like a Sunday excursionist, pausing to help passengers with loaded shopping carts and stopping for a “quick bite” at Moulton-Didsley’s village store. “Best sausage rolls in Wessex,” he loudly announces as he switches off the engine, and a couple other passengers take him at his word. Then it’s on to Lower Mansfield, where he gives his face a once-over in the mirror and detours for Molly Jenkins. “It won’t take a sec,” he calls as he trundles the thirty-seater up a rugged cart track to a thatched cottage. “Only the poor old soul’s going to the doc’s in Dewminster.”

  Daphne eyes Mrs. Jenkins cynically as the elderly, though apparently agile, woman boards without assistance, whispering to the driver, “Thanks ever so, Bert,” as she lays a friendly hand on his arm.

  That’s interesting, thinks Daphne, noticing that neither fare nor ticket changes hands, and her skepticism deepens as the new passenger makes a space for herself in the front seat by squeezing a toddler onto her mother’s lap.