2 Double Dip

by Gretchen Archer

  “I’ve never been to Beehive!”

  I’d never seen Bea giddy, and I never wanted to see it again.

  “You’re going to love Beehive, Leona. It’s this side of heaven!” McKinley Weeks and Matthew Thatcher showed no signs of knowing each other. “We have the best burger in the south. Have you ever heard of Our Daily Burger? It was in Southern Living. Do you like cheeseburgers?”

  “I like everything!”

  (Obviously.)

  “And Leona, when you get back Friday night,” Mr. Microphone said, “I’m going to take you girls to dinner at Violettes to celebrate.”

  Rut Ro.

  * * *

  “I swear, Davis.” Bea had her cash spread out on the backseat leather of a Bellissimo limo as I accompanied her back to the condo after she had her photo taken with a big check and two of everything at the big buffet. It was bad enough she was staying at my place another night, no way was I going to stuff her into my car to get her there. “I never thought these words could come out of my mouth,” she said, “but if you keep this up, one day I might forgive you for all you did to my son.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “I HAVE A REPUTATION TO UPHOLD!”

  Dr. Malibu Ken nodded along with the tirade. He agreed on every point.

  “EVERYONE LOOKS UP TO ME!”

  Not everyone.

  “THIS IS A TRAVESTY! A TRAVESTY!”

  The dogs were barking their little heads off, angry with me, too.

  “This” was the Page Six photo album—four mortifying shots—of me, cut through the middle by blurred ovals framed in electric-blue ruffles.

  “I can’t wait to tell Richard what you’ve done!” She hissed the words and threw the newspaper. The dogs ran for cover.

  “Now, Mrs. Sanders.” No Hair didn’t want Bianca to kill me, so he accompanied me to the Elvis floor. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” No Hair’s tie had penguins dressed up as hockey players on it. “It was an honest mistake on David’s part.”

  “Whose side are you on?” I asked No Hair. “It’s Davis.”

  “You shut up,” Bianca said.

  Dr. Doolittle rolled his eyes, tisk, tisk, tisked, and openly coveted No Hair’s huge frame. “Do you take anabolics?”

  We all turned on him. He tapped his loose lips.

  “You’re going to make this up to me, David.”

  “It’s Davis.”

  “I want you dressed to kill kissing smelly babies and smellier homeless people. I want you in the restaurants, the bars, all over the casino and everywhere else spreading my goodwill and charm until you make this right.” Her hands and good foot were flying in all the directions she wanted me in. “You turn this media nightmare around this minute.” She huffed, reached for her cigarettes and martini, then shooed us away. No Hair led me by the elbow. We almost made it out. “And you’re getting fat, David. Lose five pounds before the weekend. I don’t care how you do it.” We each had a foot out the door. “And find me a damned assistant!”

  * * *

  We were watching for Bianca’s former damned assistant at all choke points, running facial-recognition round the clock, plus screening all vendor traffic and employment applications. We didn’t have time to chase her down, but we did want to know if she dropped in on us. History repeats itself, so it was safe to assume that Peyton hadn’t left my place for a change of scenery. She’d left with a task at hand.

  Who was her task?

  The smart money would be on Matthew Thatcher/ Mr. Microphone/LeeRoy Maffini; she had to be all kinds of new pissed at him. But she could have just as easily given up that quest and set new sights on Bianca, or one of us. For all we knew, she may have redirected her anger at its origins—her parents.

  The only thing we knew for certain was that Peyton was resourceful, resilient, and deceptive. And while the underlying objective behind her vendettas might have merit—saving moldy beetles wasn’t an unworthy cause—she went about righting wrongs in an increasingly destructive manner. She was a ticking time bomb.

  “Let’s say she’s back in Beehive,” No Hair suggested. Fantasy and I were on the new gold sofa and he was giving our old gold sofa a run for its money on Friday morning, just after Breakfast at Bianca’s. “She’s going to see you coming for a mile, Davis.”

  Yep.

  “It’s a tour through an old folk’s home, right?” Fantasy asked. “How much time are we talking about?”

  “Leave here in an hour.” I looked at my watch. “Thirty minute flight, two-hour tour, and thirty minutes back. Four hours max?”

  “I could go as Bea’s assistant,” Fantasy offered.

  No Hair looked lukewarm on the idea. He turned to me. “You think Samuel would be up for it?”

  Just the thought of my father put my world back into perspective.

  “He knows Bea well enough to be an interested brother-in-law, or cousin,” No Hair said, “and he’d be as good as any of us at peeking behind the curtains.”

  “I’ll call him,” I said.

  * * *

  Text number one: I need to cancel dinner. Response (one second later): No.

  Text number two: Are we still on for dinner? Response (an hour later): Yes.

  * * *

  Tilda Reyes Bunker was barren. To pass the time, since there were no wee ones, she quilted. Tilda and her husband Cyril lived in Oak Hill, Alabama, population thirty-seven, seven miles east of Pine Apple proper. Cyril bred and trained beagles for rabbit hunting, so the Bunkers didn’t have a blade of grass in their acre of yard. They had dog pens, dog runs, dog houses, dog feeders, hundreds of scattered, limp, rabbit retriever dummies, but no grass. Month after month passed, and still no babies, and no grass, so month after month, Tilda made quilts. When the quilts piled up and threatened to overrun the house, Cyril began building quilt racks, then he built a covered front porch that had almost as much square footage as the house and moved the quilts out there. Every morning, he dragged them out. Every evening, he dragged them back in. In between dragging them in and out, passersby pulled into their dirt drive and purchased the quilts. The Bunkers filled the cookie jar with quilt money, until they had to buy another cookie jar. And then another, and then more.

  Every once in a while, it looked like it had snowed at the Bunkers and only at the Bunkers, because one of the beagles would sneak up to the porch, steal a quilt, then invite his beagle friends to help him rip it to shreds. Batting everywhere.

  To offset the dogs, Tilda quilted cats. Cats sleeping, cats playing, cats chasing mice, cats eating cheese. When all of Wilcox County had all the cats on their beds and across their sofa backs they could possibly want, Tilda branched out. Northern Star, Double Wedding Ring, Pink Lemonade, Oak Leaf, Grape Basket, and Dutch Doll. But she snuck a small cat in there somewhere on every quilt; it was her trademark.

  The toaster had to be put away to make more room for cookie jars. Then the bright yellow Tupperware Servalier canisters. Cyril put his foot down when Tilda unplugged his coffee percolator to make room for another cookie jar, which is when the Bunkers opened a checking account at Pine Apple Savings & Loan. The cookie jars, one by one, were relocated to the dog shed, where the dogs, one by one, broke them, until there were no more cookie jars. But there was a ton of money in the bank.

  Cyril had the dog business down pat, or he got tired of cleaning dog pens, or tired of having no grass. Whichever, he became more invested in the quilting. He tinkered with her machines, kept her scissors sharp, fetched fabric, and learned to cut on the bias, thread a machine, and sew a straight seam, because Tilda was really making a name for herself and bringing in more money with the quilts than he ever brought in with the dogs. He cut back to one stud and two brood bitches, and took to the dining room to sew with his wife.

  It was from the dining room window
, on a sunny November morning, that Cyril watched Tilda, age fifty-one, drop the Christmas Cactus quilt she was hanging over a rack on the porch, then race across the two lanes of Pine Apple Highway chasing after a litter of nine that had dug out and made a run for it. She was hit by a Little Debbie truck barreling around the curve. None of the pups were hurt.

  Cyril had no kids, no siblings, and both his and Tilda’s parents had passed on one after another, every two years for the past eight years, until they were all four buried behind Friendship Baptist Church in Pine Apple. And now Tilda. At the time of the parents’ deaths, the Bunkers inherited land: forty-two acres from Tilda’s side and a connecting sixteen from his. When he buried Tilda, he got a dining room full of sewing machines and quilting frames, a living room full of fabric, thread, and batting, and three bedrooms of floor-to-ceiling finished quilts. By then, there were so few pups that there would surely be grass in the spring. And Tilda not there to enjoy it.

  It was time for Cyril to do some housecleaning, and he started with the pups. The ones that escaped and caused Tilda’s untimely demise would be his last litter. It was January 1980, and one of the coldest on record. So on the morning he was supposed to deliver the last two pups to Bo Cordell, a rabbit-hunter in Furman, Alabama, ten miles on the other side of Pine Apple, he wrapped the pups up in a Texas Star quilt before he left the house, so they wouldn’t freeze in his Dodge Ram truck, because the heater hadn’t worked in the truck since Tilda had passed and he just didn’t have the energy to fix it. He didn’t go anywhere anyway, and surely one day it would warm up.

  The pups protested being held captive in the quilt, and Cyril wasn’t anxious to get out in the cold just yet either, so he made another cup of coffee and let the pups run around the house. He grabbed a pair of scissors. He cut four thirteen-by-nineteen squares into a Patchwork quilt, then sewed five-eighth-inch seams on three sides, to make two deep quilt pockets. One for each pup. Not wanting them running around loose in the truck cab, Cyril whipped out the zipper foot and sewed in twelve-inch nylon zippers along the tops. Thinking there had to be a better way to haul them out to the truck than holding them under his arms like potato sacks, he seamed the borders of the cut-up quilt to fashion, then attach, shoulder straps.

  And that was the day Tilda Reyes quilted cotton luggage was born.

  Five years later, Tilda Reyes was a household name, with 1,200 distributors nationwide. Cyril’s business was Pine Apple’s largest employer and he was Wilcox County’s Most Eligible Bachelor. Five years after that, with no warning whatsoever, he sold out—lock, stock, and barrel—slinking out of town in the middle of the night, never to be seen or heard from again.

  Until fifteen years later, when Pine Apple Police Chief Samuel Way found Cyril Bunker in a topiary garden, at two o’clock on a Friday afternoon, at the So Help Me God Senior Residence Center in Beehive, Alabama.

  * * *

  I looked at my watch. It was five o’clock on the same Friday afternoon. Fantasy was on the phone.

  “What? Is he a prisoner?”

  I couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation.

  “I’ll be there in two hours to get him, and I’m bringing my lawyer.” She hung up and turned to me. “Those people don’t believe I’m Cyril’s long-lost niece.”

  “Wait till they see you.”

  “Can you throw me some paperwork together?” she asked. “A photo of me on his knee?”

  I turned Fantasy into Betty Bunker, with a driver’s license, Social Security card, Sam’s Club card, and a notarized letter of Power of Attorney. I back-dated, then spit out a last will and testament. I folded the thick document into thirds and rolled it under the wheels of my chair a few times. I passed it all to Fantasy.

  “Change my name, Davis.”

  It was the first time I’d laughed all day.

  We’d been at the computers non-stop since the call came in from my father. I could have stretched out on the floor and slept, but instead, I pushed back from the desk and said, “Showtime.”

  Fantasy said, “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

  I came out of the Closet fifteen minutes later Bianca blonde, in a Peter Pilotto halter dress, the Hope Diamond around my neck, and four-inch Tibi shoes that had translucent heels. I was a small fortune.

  “Betty. Does this make me look fat?”

  Fantasy didn’t turn around to look. “Yes.”

  I picked up Baylor on the mezzanine level.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve been through worse,” he said. “What is it I’m supposed to do tonight?”

  “Look official.” He looked like an official linebacker. “You’re my escort.” Everything he had on was black except for a starched white shirt. “This will be easy,” I said. “Fantasy’s making you go to Beehive, Alabama, and be a lawyer after this.”

  I marched into Violettes and got that done first. “I need three private dining rooms tonight.”

  All the sparkling silver everyone had been placing froze mid-air. One of the wait people actually dove under a table. I guess I did have some Bianca Image work to do.

  “Mrs. Sanders,” the Maître D’ rushed forward. “We’re—” he was going to say booked, but I guess he thought better of it “—delighted.” And then there was a little bow. I spun on my translucent heels and Baylor huffed out with me.

  “Where to?” He pulled at his shirt cuffs.

  “Casino.”

  “How do I act like a lawyer?” he asked.

  I was winking, waving, and blowing kisses to the world at large. “On this job, Baylor, you just wing it.”

  “This is so much more fun than guarding the vault,” he said, “except for the duct tape.”

  It took thirty minutes to work my way to the really, really rich people gambling room, because I stopped every two feet. Chatted it up with a bridal party, tried on the bride’s party veil to the delight of the crowd, posed for twenty pictures (one of which, surely, would make it to Page Six), put the lucky mojo on a $10 Triple Gold slot machine for a man who was, seriously, drooling, and even nosed in on a packed crap table and finished a guy’s roll. I heard him begging for the dice I’d touched as I pranced away, Baylor on my translucent heels. In the Ridiculously High Stakes private gaming room behind a huge waterfall, I schmoozed a little more, ordered a dirty martini with a sidecar, and fake-smoked one of Bianca’s skinny cigarettes. “Oh, Mr. Hasigawa!” He smelled like a garlic factory. “You are too much!” Then to Baylor through clenched teeth, “Get me out of here.” It was time to get ready for my three dinner dates.

  * * *

  The Eddie dinner was at seven, Bradley Cole (OMG) at eight, and Matthew Thatcher later. I’m sure he’d let me know.

  The challenges were numerous. Eating three meals is a challenge in and of itself. My hair color was a challenge, too. The restaurant was expecting Bianca, which Eddie Crawford, that ass, ass, ass, would love, love, love, and Bradley Cole wouldn’t mind, I hope, hope, hope, but Mr. Microphone might look past his own nose job and notice a different hair color. My plan was to carry a large enough bag to fit a can of medium-spice brown in it and give my hair a good squirt before the Last Supper.

  Eddie would be a piece of cake. The trick would be to liquor him up, then give him the slip. As soon as he sniffed around and didn’t turn up his lost love Bianca, he’d hit the road. If I had any trouble with him, I’d call Security. He wasn’t supposed to be there anyway.

  The thing to do with Bradley Cole was propose.

  Then for my last dinner act, I’ll slap cuffs on Matthew Thatcher. “You’re going to jail, you jerk, for using the Bellissimo to recruit the elderly for a crooked church, then robbing them blind and locking them up. And for treating that nutjob Peyton the way you have.”

  Piece o’ cake.

  I had the underground office to myself, beca
use Fantasy and Baylor, Esq. were on their way to the airport to meet the plane that would touch down, spill out Bea Crawford, then head right back to Beehive to break out Cyril Bunker.

  The way to go, when one outfit has to get you through multiple events, is black. I fingered through the racks in the Closet and went Armani. I squeezed myself into a shiny black off-the-shoulder silk drape dress and six-inch silver heels. (Louboutin.) During this process, I rehearsed parts of my pitch to Bradley Cole. I grabbed a purse, a black Valentino patent leather bow bag, then stuffed it with my Smith & Wesson 380 Bodyguard (in case I needed to shoot Eddie Crawford), a can of medium-spice brown, and a Chanel lipstick. I slapped on makeup, went simple with the jewelry (under twenty carats), and grabbed a pair of Fendi sunglasses that covered the top half of my head.

  I had ten minutes to spare. I spent five of them on the phone with my father, and I spent eight at the computer, scanning the newswires for a ruling in Bradley’s pre-cancerous case so I could congratulate him on his amazing lawyerly skills, then I watched a two-minute press conference on the courthouse steps held by the mass-tort attorney, Jerry McAllen, who promised that, in spite of Bonita Jakes’ setback, he would seek and find justice for the almost two hundred poor souls he represented. At least half of the poor souls were crowded around him, nodding along, damn straight. Something familiar in the back of the crowd was making a beeline across the screen, trying to push and shove her way out of the camera’s lens. I zoomed in, froze on her, and sent her to another computer screen. It was Mary Ha Ha!