by Norma Huss
She didn’t expect to see me. Nor did she expect a red wig, and I had different clothing. Still, she might come back and look again.
A coincidence? One of the do-gooders? Fat chance. She wandered among the tables watching for dirty plates to remove. Except, she removed only two. I waited till she was half a room away before I got up.
Dessert was a choice of pie squares of undeterminable origin. As I searched for one with a familiar filling, I heard, “Hi, fairy godmother!”
It was Keisha, the weeping toilet cleaner, holding a tray filled with more servings of pie.
“New job already?” I asked. Was she one of the volunteers? I didn’t ask. Soon enough she’d realize I was another derelict bumming a meal.
“No, this is extra,” she answered. “But, you were right. I don’t mean I’m a supervisor. But my boss said my whole attitude had changed and she knew she could rely on me to help in a pinch. I mean, she even recommended me for this job. Thanks a whole big million.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but I didn’t have the chance. She turned and left with her empty tray. She was taking the work ethic seriously. She did no more than say a few words, and those only while she transferred pie to the table before she scurried back to the kitchen.
The square I chose turned out to be filled with gelatinous apple. The super-efficient help had cleared my dishes, so I settled at another table. Didn’t matter. Those three newbies couldn’t tell me anything. I faced the entrance, which was why, as I sipped my second cup of coffee, I noticed the well-dressed men arrive. They couldn’t be any of the hungry clientele. Cops? Had to be.
Mentally I checked my appearance. Pale blue and tan, where I’d worn black, grey, and yellow before. Red wig. Would the police notice me? Did I look homeless? Of course. I was eating a free meal, wasn’t I? What else could I be?
The men wandered through the tables, exactly like the nosy neighbor. Not to be paranoid, but was I the target?
No, I certainly wasn’t that important. Still, I kept my head down and my face half-way obscured with my hand.
The men gathered at the kitchen door, then pushed through. Okay, they were looking for one of the dogooders, or maybe even the paid crew. There had to be more of them than just Keisha. The ladies needed help to do the dirty jobs they didn’t want to do, perhaps even to cook.
I turned away and sipped more coffee. Then over the clatter of dishes, I heard a voice that sounded like Sylvie. I turned back toward the kitchen door. It was Sylvie, with the men surrounding her.
One of the men waved his arm to include the room full of eaters. Sylvie shook her head. Quite clearly, I heard her say, “Why would my sister come eat here?”
Okay, so I wasn’t paranoid.
I should have figured that Sylvie was one of the dogooders, but she wouldn’t betray me. I stirred my coffee, then sipped the last of it. Deliberately, I didn’t watch Sylvie and the cops. People can sense when someone is watching them. I can. Gives me the creeps.
Still, I kept an eye out and sighed in relief when Sylvie returned to the kitchen.
The police had stationed themselves near the entrance. I pretended to drink from my empty cup. Someone took my plate away, but I clung to that cup.
I could chance leaving by the entrance. But there was a sudden commotion at the door. More police piled in and several went back into the kitchen. What was going on?
Somehow, I had to get out. Wait until a group left and join them. Yes, that would do. They hadn’t recognized me yet and they were looking at those who entered. I was home free.
But Sylvie wasn’t. The cops dragged her out of the kitchen. She was handcuffed with her arms pulled behind her back! Had they arrested her because she was my sister?
I wanted to sink into a hole. What could I do? I couldn’t jump up and scream, “Stop!” I had to think. Escape. That was the only way to save her. Walk out the door with a group. I’d passed the cops once. I could again.
Except... trouble walked in. The street gang. Ears, Robin Hood, Chick, the whole crew, even the new guy, Zip. They’d see through my disguise. Even if they only nodded to me, the police would be on me like dogs on a snake. I’d never make it out that door.
“Clyde,” I muttered, “this is disaster.”
Chapter 23
I covered my face with my hands like I was thinking, and I was thinking fast. Ears and the rest of the guys wouldn’t recognize my red hair. They wouldn’t even look my way until they fed their faces. Maybe, not even then. No, I couldn’t depend on anything with that crew. Unpredictable to the max.
The guys charged the serving table, followed by a couple of cops. There was only one thing to do. I watched between my fingers for Keisha, then signaled her to come.
She did.
“This is a madhouse and my headache is killing me,” I said. “Could I slip out the back way for some fresh air?”
“Gee, we can’t use the kitchen door. So, I guess not. Hey, there is another door. It goes to the parking lot. They didn’t say anything about that. I’ll show you.”
I followed. She led me through the kitchen, avoiding the closest door with a woman standing suspiciously nearby. We went down a dark hall and out to an alley.
“Do you need a doctor?” she asked.
“No.” With sudden inspiration, I added, “It’s only the paint fumes. They painted my room at the hotel, but I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”
“That’s terrible. Wait right here.”
She darted off, back into the building.
She wanted me to wait? What for? So she could bring the cops?
I stood outside the pale circle of light that shone from a window and worried. Should I disappear, or wait for Keisha? She was an innocent, and appreciative. But could I trust her? She had to know I wasn’t going to any hotel, that only the poor and homeless were eating the meal.
The door opened and she stepped outside. “Where are you?” she asked.
No one followed her. “Right here,” I said, like I didn’t realize she couldn’t see me. I stepped forward.
“I had to get my keys,” she explained in a rush. “You have to stay with me tonight. Sit in my car till I’m off work.”
She unlocked an old car, spotless inside, but definitely a junker. “Half hour or maybe an hour,” she said. Then, incredibly, she gave me her keys. “If you get cold, run the engine and turn up the heater. I just bought gas, so there’s enough.”
Should I trust the delightful Keisha? I wanted to. She certainly trusted me, even though she shouldn’t have. And, use up some of her expensive gasoline? Never. I’d rest for a few minutes before I ran. One should really digest one’s meal. I’d stay for a few minutes, no more. I closed my eyes.
And opened them when she knocked on the window two hours later. I should have been long gone, but I wasn’t. I let her in.
Keisha was ecstatic, and alone. “They gave me my pay right away, in cash, and even thanked me. I never worked for a place like that before.”
“Strange,” I said, rubbing my eyes. Could it be? She hadn’t figured it out?
“They had an awful lot of people working there, and some of them didn’t do a thing. It really burnt me, but I pretended not to mind. Course, a lot of them were volunteers, they said. But why were they there? I mean, those guys at the door, like they were counting people? Do you think they were hunting for someone?”
“Anything’s possible.” I wanted to tell her the truth, but I couldn’t. She still trusted me. But I wasn’t lying.
“And you won’t believe what happened. The police arrested some woman for breaking and entering. One of the ladies heard the police tell her that. It means breaking into a house and going inside. And she was a volunteer, you know, one of the people cooking and stuff like that.”
Sylvie. Ye gods and little fishes! Mrs. Talbit turned us in and they got Sylvie. How? Had that fuzzy-slippered woman run to her window and watched Sylvie get into her car? Got her license number? Her description?
I h
ad to save Sylvie. She was my little sister. How could I do it? I didn’t know, but if the police captured me, I had no chance.
~ ~
Keisha took me home and insisted I sleep in her bed while she took the couch. Lovely child, but she did wake me the next morning at an ungodly hour.
“I’m leaving,” she whispered. “Make yourself at home. If you like kiwi, I’ve got a whole bunch. Eat ’em all if you want. But, lock up if you leave.” She hesitated, then added, “Like, I won’t tell anybody you’re here.” And she was gone before I could respond.
She knew. I hadn’t fooled her one bit. I relaxed. Until then, I hadn’t realized how uptight I was. Keisha was, by far, the most considerate hostess I’d ever had. Perhaps I should have enlisted her aid, told her that the arrested woman was my sister Sylvie.
No. She’d have to turn me in. And I had to keep away from the police.
Why did I ever borrow Francine’s home? And even then, it hadn’t been too late to just take off before anything else happened. No, I had to get excited, just as excited as Sylvie about capturing a killer, about the story I could write and not only reclaim my published status, but boost a manuscript into the “best seller” category. Too late now. I had to see it through. Somehow I had to find the killer and rescue my little sister.
I needed this respite. I stretched, like Clyde, then dozed a few more minutes. Pure luxury. The police would never find me. I showered and washed my hair. Ate some cereal with the only milk available—skim. Young people don’t know what good is. Then, while my hair dried, I cleaned Keisha’s home from one end to the other. The apartment wasn’t large, nor really dirty, but it took half the day. I ate a kiwi for lunch. She’d never get through the bunch left. She had the makings, so I mixed up a batch of kiwi salsa and put it in the fridge to chill before I left a note.
“My headache is completely cured, thanks to your kindness. The kiwi salsa does wonders for almost anything. Enjoy.”
I signed my note, “Your fairy godmother.” Surprisingly, she’d never asked my name. I preferred it that way.
I’d been putting it off, but I had to face it. My sister was in jail for helping me. Of course, it was her own fault. I never told Sylvie to break into Mr. Talbit’s house. But that didn’t matter. I needed her out to help solve the murder mystery. That was her forte. But, how could I rescue her?
Would Mel have any ideas? Any ideas that he’d be willing to share?
Before I left Keisha’s, I called him. It was a local call, so I used her phone. I didn’t want to sully Mel’s reputation with a call from the number of a known...
“Okay, Clyde, what am I?” I said as I dialed. “A known criminal? Not until there’s a trial. A fugitive from justice? Maybe. A material witness? That I might accept.”
Clyde, as usual, had no comment.
Mel, however, was listening. He said, “What are you yakking about?”
“Hi, Mel,” I said. “This is your unnamed friend at an unnamed location asking about the latest news.”
He knew what I meant. “Obviously, someone didn’t turn herself in yesterday. They’re playing it cool for the public. But the police radio has another story. They are distributing your... that is, the suspect’s description to all outlets. They expect results when the photo is in the paper.”
“Great,” I said. It was anything but.
“And the suspect’s name. Did I mention they have that?”
Unfortunately, he confirmed what I’d assumed. “Um, no.”
“I didn’t realize the suspect had two former husbands.”
What did he want, my life history? I didn’t answer.
He continued. “Definitely not for public consumption is some chit-chat I overheard. They had a sure trap last night that didn’t catch their perp. What?”
The “what” was in response to my sudden snort. I asked, “Who did they catch? And why?”
“Nobody that I know of. What do you mean?”
Evidently, Sylvie’s arrest was of no importance. “Go on,” I said.
“Why do I get the feeling you know all about the event?”
“If it was a dinner for street people, I was there. It got too crowded though, so I left.”
“You lead a charmed life,” Mel said, chuckling. “But you’re courting disaster. You’ve got to turn yourself in. Then they can get busy tracking the real killer.”
“You didn’t hear anything about an arrest last night at the dinner?”
“What’s going on, Jo?”
I couldn’t tell him, not over the phone. “Did you hear the name Sylvie Wagner?”
“Is she a suspect?”
“No.”
“I’m only telling you anything at all to convince you. You must turn yourself in.”
Mel meant well, but he was no help. How could I free Sylvie and prove I was innocent if I were locked up? On the other hand, had I found any proof that someone else was the killer? “I may consider it,” I said, although that certainly wasn’t my top priority.
He knew it. “You’ll get caught. Woman, you know it goes better to turn yourself in.”
“So I’ve heard,” I admitted.
I didn’t call Sylvie. She was either in jail or the police were sitting on her doorstep with a direct connection to her telephone line. Or both.
With my red wig perched on my head, I carefully locked Keisha’s door and closed it behind me.
Was a wig enough disguise?
Lord love a duck. Keisha hadn’t said a word about my red wig. Did she have it all figured out—that I was a fugitive in disguise?
What was my first step? Keep out of the cops’ way, of course. Go where they wouldn’t expect me. And that would be the Hemingway house to collect my laundry, hole up, and plan my next move. Keisha’s house wasn’t in the best section of town, but it was on a bus line. Not the same bus line as Francine’s house, but I transferred in town. I even stopped at High’s Dairy for the soft ice cream cone I’d foregone the first night I visited Francine’s house.
I walked the last five blocks and approached the Hemingway house from the rear.
Paranoia usually pays off. I hesitated. No extra cars around. No neighbors, not even a stray dog. I let myself in. I didn’t want any surprises. I’d search the house, but later.
I went to the basement door. Followed my flashlight beam down the stairs. Opened the drier. My clothes were still there.
Yes.
The police hadn’t seen them, taken them, or boobytrapped the drier. I was home free. I opened the drier and pulled out my skirt. Shook it, but the wrinkles remained. Reached for my blouse, and I heard a noise.
Upstairs. A door opening? A tree branch brushing against a window? Was it Mr. Hemingway again? No. Too quiet. Hardly a noise at all. Perhaps Clyde? No, there was definitely a noise. Where?
On the stairs. I looked up.
It was a cop. A policewoman. With a gun, pointed at my face.
She said, “Jo Durbin, you are under arrest for breaking and entering.”
Chapter 24
With her gun in my face, the cop had the upper hand. Not to mention, she was above me, and, blocking the only exit.
“Wha-a-t?” I stammered.
She repeated, “Jo Durbin, you are under arrest for breaking and entering.”
Not murder? Not even for destroying evidence? She’d lurked upstairs, or sneaked in, then crept down to arrest me for breaking and entering? Where had she been? Where had the patrol car been? Why hadn’t Clyde yowled a warning?
In a clear voice, I said, “I beg your pardon, but I’m a law-abiding citizen, merely retrieving my belongings. Since I have the key, I did not break into this house.” My heart pounded, my blood throbbed, but I said, as firmly as I could, “I’m getting my laundry. This is a free country. Those are my clothes in that drier.”
The gun was steady, trained on my eyes without a twitch. “You will not move a muscle,” she said.
That’s when I heard more noise overhead. “Basement, she yelled
. “I’ve got her covered.”
There was no way I could escape. The rest of them barreled down the steps and were on me like flies on a sticky bun. One of the cops jerked me around to face him. The third patrolman read from a plastic-coated card. “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you do not have an attorney...”
I’d never been Mirandized before.
They didn’t give a fig about my laundry. I kept quiet and respectfully waited until the cop finished his recital. Only then did I say, “Now may I get my clothes?”
For an answer, he snapped handcuffs on my wrist. Instinctively I held my other arm away and, raising my voice a tad, said, “I want to get my laundry. Do you want me to smell up your jail?”
He grabbed my other arm and twisted it behind my back. I shrieked, “You’re hurting me.” Good manners be damned! I stamped my foot. “You better find my cat. You can’t leave him locked up in the house to starve.”
“Lady, we don’t starve cats,” one cop said.
The female cop said, “I’ll get her laundry.”
Their self-control was amazing. Why didn’t they react? “Fold it nicely, please. I don’t have an iron. And find my cat.”
A fourth police person entered in time to say, “She didn’t come in with a cat.”
“It’s a very small cat,” I insisted, then, peering into each dark corner, I bellowed, “Clyde, where are you?”
I couldn’t let them take me. I struggled to get away, but the cop held tight. The policewoman gathered my clothes in one hand. Hysteria set in, and what did I roar? “You didn’t fold my clothes. Are you prepared to iron that skirt? It wrinkles like crazy.”
One mumbled something that could have been, “Speaking of crazy.”
I pounced on it. “Are you accusing me of being crazy? That’s defamation of character. And you better think twice about the disabilities act. ‘Crazy’ is not allowed.”
They pulled me upstairs, and none too gently, so I complained. “Do you know I’m an old woman? My bones are fragile. Any broken bones and I’ll have your neck. Police brutality.”