Dial M for Mascara

by Bevill, C. L.

  “Oh, hey,” Mr. Cording said protestingly. “I can walk.”

  The paramedic grinned. “Not according to our procedures. Insurance liabilities, you know.”

  Mr. Cording went affably, obviously not wanting to argue about liabilities.

  A police officer came to stand next to Mary Grace. She was a tall black woman in a crisp uniform with a little notepad in her hand. The other hand held a ball point pen ready to jot down whatever she heard. “So, Ms. Castilla,” she said, and Mary Grace looked up disinterestedly. Mary Grace saw the name tag said, ‘Staton.’

  Mary Grace said, “Yes?”

  “Do you happen to know who it was that knocked Mr. Cording out and smashed your car to a pancake?” Officer Staton asked politely.

  Mary Grace frowned. “No, I don’t. I wish I did. But I don’t.” The red wig and trench coat that the woman had worn looked like the one who had hit her with the heavy purse in the mall the previous day. Mary Grace hadn’t gotten a good look at the woman but even Mr. Cording, who had, couldn’t say more than it was probably a woman in disguise. She had so many people following her around on a regular basis that perhaps they should all get together and rent a bus.

  Officer Staton looked sympathetic. “Do you think this event has anything to do with your recent…” the officer trailed off as she seemed uncertain of how to describe what she was trying to say.

  “My recent attacks?” Mary Grace provided helpfully.

  Officer Staton nodded. “I read the paper this morning. And I work with Vic Bloodsaw sometimes.”

  “Oh,” Mary Grace said. “I’ve lately come to the conclusion that the man they arrested in Duncanville isn’t responsible for all of the attacks.”

  The officer nodded. Her eyes flickered up toward the flattened vehicle. “That isn’t unreasonable, I suppose.”

  Mary Grace nodded wearily at the Miata’s mortal remains. “I think this person might still be interested in doing me, oh, bodily harm, shall we say?”

  “Yes, well, I’ve called Detective Bloodsaw,” Officer Staton said.

  “Peachy,” Mary Grace said. “You don’t suppose they let patients from the hospital come out the back when they’re released, do you?”

  Officer Staton appeared confused. “Patients from the hospital? No, I would think they’d roll them out the front entrance in a wheel chair and let whoever pick them up with their cars.”

  “In the front?” Mary Grace was relieved. Callie wouldn’t have to see her car pounded to mush. Not unless she managed to ferret it out and had her parents drive her back to see what was happening. “Good.”

  “Okay,” Officer Staton said. “You need something? A little water, maybe? Normally I wouldn’t offer but you’re looking pretty pale, even for a white girl.”

  “No, thank you,” Mary Grace replied. I feel pretty pale, even for a white girl. And my friend’s car has just been completely annihilated. I feel safe in thinking that the Miata is pretty much totaled. I don’t think that car’s coming back from the dead, even as a zombie car with Marie Laveau at the helm. Nope. It’s gone. It’s scrap metal. It’s a pile of debris in the hospital parking lot and there’s only a few bits of plastic left to remind anyone of what it was. It’s poopie doobles. It’s not really a sin to kill a car, right?

  The contractors were having a conference on how best to get the wrecking ball into the construction area where it belonged. “It’s not like it’s going to damage the car anymore,” one said. Another one said, “But we have to get it back on site without damaging anything else.” A third one said, “Oh, the hell with this. I’m getting coffee from Starbucks. The union can call me on my cell phone and I’m getting overtime for this crap.”

  Mary Grace stood up and took out her cell phone. She took several pictures of what was left of the car and sent them to her own email. That’s going in the scrap book. When Callie gets over being mad at me she’s going to want to see that. And man, what will the cousins say when they see that in the Christmas letter?

  That was when Detective Frederick Brogan of the Dallas Police Department drove up in his car. He got out in a hurry and hastily stopped in front of the smashed Miata as if the sight of it startled him into freezing. He stared at it stupidly, trying to comprehend that it was, in fact, the same car.

  Mary Grace was standing behind the contractors wondering if she could disappear before Brogan saw her. This last occurrence on top of what she already needed to tell him didn’t bode well for the remainder of her day. He snapped something to Officer Staton, who cheerfully pointed in Mary Grace’s direction. Before Mary Grace could move Brogan was standing in front of her, his hands grasping her shoulders, and his eyes moved over her figure. He noted the scrapes on her legs and the bruises on her arms before he said, “You’re all right?”

  “Yes,” Mary Grace said, because she couldn’t think of what else she should say at the moment. Then he pulled her into his arms and tucked his head into her hair, muttering, “Thank you, God.”

  A split moment later he was standing six feet away from her with several Arlington officers and a group of construction contractors all watching interestedly. “What the hell is this, Mary Grace?” he demanded angrily.

  “An accident?” Talk about running hot and cold, she thought almost amusedly. But the fierce ‘Thank you, God,’ he’d muttered warmed her heart and gave her a little morsel to chew on. “You know, stuff happens. It could have been a meteor instead. Or lightning.”

  Officer Staton choked. Brogan shot the officer a grim look and his eyes went back to Mary Grace.

  Suddenly, Mary Grace lost the poor-pitiful me attitude she had been soaking in. Instead she was very angry. Brogan was here and he was getting mad at her because while she visited her friend at a hospital in broad daylight someone had tried to kill her…again. How can that be my fault? How could I have known he/she/it would come after me here?

  Even while she felt that surge of fury, the errant protestations were tinged by guilt. What if you had told Brogan about the mall incident? What if you had told him about Morgan being a mad little bomber and budding psychopath? Sensibility sank into her like concrete shoes on a man the mafia wanted to disappear. The truth is, Brogan wouldn’t have believed me. He’s intent on Trey Kennebrew. The rest sounds like something someone makes up for a soap opera.

  Crossing her hands over her chest, a determined look settled on Mary Grace’s face. I’ve taken too much crap. No more. The buck stops here. There’s a line that ain’t being crossed. Enough is enough. Tough titty committee. I’ve said it before. Well, I’ve thought it before, but this time I mean it.

  “You know the meeting I went to this morning?” Brogan asked silkily.

  Mary Grace nodded warily, having no idea where he was going.

  “My boss and my boss’s boss got word that on Monday someone is going to confess to the rental car explosion.” Brogan watched Mary Grace carefully. The construction workers and Officer Staton’s eyes went from one to the other as if they were watching a tennis game from the sidelines.

  “Someone other than Trey Kennebrew,” Brogan added purposely.

  Mary Grace’s eyes shifted first to the left and then to the right. She had practiced for that moment, she had planned for it, but it was coming swifter than she had anticipated. After all, Jack and his ex-wife weren’t coming to the County DA until Monday. She shouldn’t be denying anything quite so quickly, therefore she wasn’t ready. “Someone other than Trey,” she repeated weakly, despite her anger.

  “And a street patrol guy who knows my boss does some moonlighting at a mall as a security guard,” Brogan went on blithely. “He comes in this morning talking about this…thing…that happened at the mall yesterday. A really, weird thing. Apparently, they’re showing the video feeds to all the security guards at the mall. Something about a lady with a baby yelling that another lady was trying to kidnap her baby, so a third lady with a bad disguise pounds the second one with a purse. But when it was all said and done two of the women al
ong with the baby simply vanished. No charges pressed. The second one, the one who got pounded, got evicted from the mall. Since nothing was stolen and no one was hurt, no police were summoned to the scene.”

  “I did say I wouldn’t be going back to that mall, right?” Mary Grace said feebly. It wasn’t Ralph, was it? Surely not. He would have said he was a cop on his other hours. And besides I saved him at least a hundred bucks.

  “I think you left out a few details,” Brogan accused darkly.

  “Well, the security video from the mall might be something you want to show to Mr. Cording,” Mary Grace said to Officer Staton.

  “Oh?” she replied calmly. Brogan simmered in the background.

  “I think the woman who hit me at the mall yesterday and the woman who was in the crane booth is probably one and the same,” Mary Grace completed. “If that red wig and overcoat are covering up a woman, that is.”

  Brogan said a vicious curse word. Then he repeated it twice for emphasis and threw in some creative variations. Even the construction workers seemed impressed. He twisted around and stared at the sky for a long moment before he stalked back to Mary Grace, coming so close to her that she could feel the heat of him. “You knew about the kid, right?” he demanded irately.

  Mary Grace bit her lip. “I promised his father I wouldn’t-”

  Brogan’s hand slashed vertically and she stopped talking. “So if Trey did the first thing, and the kid did the second thing, and so the kid didn’t have the height you described for the shooting episode, who was the third person? Who was the one who hit Callie in the car? Who was in the mall?”

  Oh, he’s quick, Mary Grace thought admiringly. It took me almost a half hour to come to that conclusion.

  “You weren’t going to tell me,” he charged.

  “No, I wasn’t,” Mary Grace answered sincerely.

  “Why in hell not?” he roared in response.

  “I promised Jack to wait until Monday,” she said.

  “Okay, I get that, but what about yesterday? Why not tell me about that? You don’t think I want to know that someone attacked you in the mall? That someone is systematically chasing you around town from a mall…oh, say, to a hospital parking lot? Trying to drop a very heavy piece of metal on top of your head?”

  “You already think I’m one ounce of cream away from being a Twinkie,” she shot back. Then she intentionally poked his chest.

  “When did I ever say that?” he growled.

  “You didn’t have to,” she snapped. “I told you Trey didn’t do the other attacks. I told you he wouldn’t have said what the person said when they tried to shoot me. You didn’t believe me. You were just mad with me because I did your job for you. You patted me on the back and said not to worry my pretty, little head over it. So what was I going to tell you, that Deep Throat Mommy came back again to warn me and a woman I didn’t even see socked me with a purse filled with rocks?”

  Officer Staton said to no one in particular, “Is it too late to turn on my tape recorder?”

  One of the construction workers said, “I can’t wait to tell my wife this story. Do you think they’d tell me about who tried to shoot the cute brunette?”

  “Is this about the article in the paper?” Brogan said suddenly.

  Mary Grace tried to digest that. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean is this some kind of twisted-ass hoax that you’ve constructed in order to get some more attention? You’re going to start your own reality show, maybe?” He threw his hands into the air. “This much stuff couldn’t happen to just one person. It’s not possible. It just isn’t. It would be like you winning the bad-things-happen-to-me lottery a dozen times in a row.”

  Her mouth opened. After a moment, she said slowly and precisely, “You really think that?”

  A construction worker said, “Are they talking about the boobies in the papers this morning?”

  “I read that article,” said another one. “Nice boobies. Stupid black band, though.”

  Brogan started to turn away, rage evident in every rigid part of his body.

  Mary Grace’s hand shot out and stopped him. “No, really, Brogan. I want to know.” Her voice was cold and getting colder. She didn’t like his implication. He had slept with her and he thought she was no better than a criminal. That was her perception of his statement. He had said previously that he had disregarded her because of a tendency to paint everyone with the same black brush. So what she wanted to know was whether Brogan was swiping her down with black paint again. “Do you really think that I’ve done all this myself, or with the help of someone else? Do you think I’m capable of that?”

  His lips tightened into a severe line, all white against the tanned warmth of his flesh. His eyes clashed with hers, staring intently into her face, attempting to get what he could from her. Finally, he carefully swept her hand away from his shoulder and walked away, not saying another word.

  Mary Grace stared at his broad back before she said to Officer Staton, “I’ve got to wait for Detective Bloodsaw, right?”

  The officer nodded.

  “I’ll be inside the hospital,” she said grimly. “Where there’s air conditioning and fewer idiots.”

  •

  Two hours later Mary Grace was picking up a cousin’s car. It was well used, slightly battered 1979 Chevy Monza. The color had originally been bronze but most of it had become gray primer. It ran. Its air conditioning worked. The interior was clean and well maintained. It had an AM/FM radio with a cassette player for which she did not have any cassettes and she hadn’t seen an actual cassette for years. Furthermore, the cousin who owned it was trying to give it away. “Take it,” he said to her. “See if you don’t like it. It doesn’t look so great, but it runs like a champ. Over three hundred thousand miles on that car. But it’s a work horse. I bet you can get at least a couple years of good use out of it.”

  Mary Grace took the keys and started the car up with distrustful alacrity, thanking her cousin for the loan of the vehicle. Her cousin, a man in his fifties with a used car salesman mentality, watched as she drove off. She couldn’t figure out why he wanted to get rid of the car so badly. After she got used to the car’s controls she pulled over to call her mother.

  Ghita answered her cell phone immediately and without a hello courtesy of caller I.D. “You have got lots of explaining to do, young lady.”

  “Did Dad see? And do you have to sound like Ricky Ricardo?”

  “I don’t think so, and you’re not too old for me to whip soundly,” Ghita said tartly. “Do I sound Cuban to you? What were you thinking?”

  “I didn’t paint it. I didn’t pose for it. I didn’t have anything to do with it. I would have burned it if I had known the police were going to take it for evidence. I would have dropped a nuclear device on the police station if I’d had access to one and knew how to use it.” Mary Grace explained as rapidly as she could, knowing that she could weasel her way around Ghita’s combined embarrassment and anger. Oh, wait. Morgan knows about bombs, but what the heck am I thinking? “I swear on Nonna’s grave.”

  “You didn’t? And you know perfectly well Nonna isn’t dead,” Ghita said suspiciously. She added, “This man, your boss, he painted this…thing…without your knowledge?” She groaned over the phone and Mary Grace had a mental image of her mother putting her hand to her forehead in a highly melodramatic manner that soap opera stars would cheer.

  “Yes.” Take that, Jack. Ma’s going to be praying for something interesting to happen to you now. She might even call her cousin Gino from NY to come visit you with his tire iron. Heck, I better get her off that subject quick before she does exactly that. “You’re taking your medication, right, Ma? I mean, I don’t want you too upset over this.”

  “Well, hmm. I guess I can’t be angry with you, then. Just at this man, Jack. Did you have to go to work for such a pervert, Mary Grace?”

  “I didn’t know he was a pervert, Ma,” Mary Grace rolled her eyes. “Unfortunately.”<
br />
  “You weren’t at home all this morning,” Ghita said accusingly.

  “I went to visit Callie,” Mary Grace replied instantly. And someone tried to kill me again.

  “And yesterday, I didn’t hear from you, so I called,” Ghita went on.

  “Something else happened yesterday,” Mary Grace admitted painfully.

  “What?”

  “I got banned from the mall.”

  “Which mall?”

  Mary Grace told her mother.

  “Oh, Lord Almighty, have pity on my poor, rejected child,” Ghita prayed fervently. “Was it for life?”

  “Six months,” she replied.

  “Six whole months? Oh, horrors! What happened?”

  Mary Grace was tired of secrets. So she told her mother everything. Almost everything, anyway. She left out the multiple hot sex part with Brogan and how they had made it in almost every room of her little house. Ghita didn’t need to know every last little dirty detail.

  Chapter Twenty – Friday, June 24th – Saturday, June 25th

  A darling reader writes to me about an interesting facial masque and a clever way to remove those annoying blackheads that endlessly plague any adult. A light coating of white glue spread over the afflicted area should be allowed to dry and then peeled off in one fell swoop. This worked with wonderful results I have to admit and is it cost effective or what?

  – Aunt Piadora’s Beauty Hints

  “So you see what I need to do next,” Mary Grace said to her mother over the cell phone.

  Ghita contemplated her answer. “I think you should get a facial. They have this one at Antonio’s with lemon and sea salt that makes your skin squeal for mercy. It would make you feel much better. Plus Antonio is simply divine to look at. Too bad about his wife. You know what I mean.”

  Mary Grace played with the controls of the AM/FM radio/cassette player. She glanced over her shoulder at the hatch back area and wondered why her cousin wanted to give it away. The car didn’t seem that bad. “I need some direction, Ma, not a skin peel and eye candy.”