Deception on All Accounts

by Sara Sue Hoklotubbe

  Tom waited on the sidewalk while Blackton and the rest of the crowd began to emerge from the church.

  Sadie sat in her car and watched as Tom and others swarmed around Blackton as if trying to make sure he knew they were there, perhaps win points for attending. As she started her car, she caught a whiff of Jaycee's cologne on her hand. She held the tips of her fingers to her nostrils and inhaled. The musky smell stirred something deep inside. What an intoxicating fragrance, she thought.

  The crowd dispersed among the vehicles and Tom waved at her, indicating he was riding with someone else. She acknowledged him and waited her turn to pull out of the parking lot. Three cars down, she watched as Jaycee got in the car with Adam. She couldn't help but wonder about the handsome stranger.

  Finally, it was her turn to go. The sky moaned in the distance and she drove away into the evening.

  Chapter 7

  To the steady stream of customers, frantic over the impending tax deadline of April 15, the new blue carpet in the bank seemed to be invisible. One of the regulars stumbled into the newly placed chairs and complained about the unfamiliar display in the middle of the lobby. Sadie buried herself in her work, trying to ignore the trauma of the robbery, hoping it would quietly seep to the back of her mind.

  She watched as customers parked their cars and hurried into the bank. From time to time, she would find herself distracted from her work, gazing through the huge plate-glass windows and critiquing the physique of each man, comparing it to her memory of the robber.

  She saw Charlie McCord get out of his squad car and lumber toward the bank. The sight of the officer set off a flash of panic. The big man entered the branch and walked directly to the teller line and pulled out a check. Sadie relaxed and reminded herself that he, too, was a customer and needed to carry on business like everyone else. Then he turned and walked straight toward Sadie's desk.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?” he asked.

  “Sure, is there something wrong, Sergeant?”

  “No, no.” Charlie shook his head. “Actually, I'd just like to visit.”

  He smiled and Sadie stood.

  “In that case, you can join me for lunch,” she said. “I was just getting ready to walk over to the Blue Dumpling Café.”

  “I've never been known,” said Charlie, “to turn down an invitation to a meal.”

  The two left the bank and walked across the street to a row of small shops. The morning chill had disappeared, replaced with the radiant warmth of full spring sunshine. A strip of Bermuda grass next to the sidewalk sported a hearty crop of bright yellow dandelion blooms with an occasional fuzzy head waving in the breeze. Purple blossoms covered the ground below a large redbud tree that had begun to surrender its dainty blooms near a freshly painted white park bench.

  As they walked toward the café, Sadie realized she was beginning to like the sergeant. He gave her a sense of security, a feeling she had missed since her dad died. And although she thought many people might find Charlie's size intimidating, she liked to think of him as a giant teddy bear in a police uniform.

  “It's nice to get out of the bank for lunch,” she said. “I like to get some fresh air during the day, if I can. I mean, we have a lunchroom and all, but if I stay there, well, I never get to finish without someone interrupting me. And then I end up scarfing it down, or just leaving it and returning to work before I'm finished.”

  “You shouldn't let them bother you like that.”

  “Yeah, well, they know if I'm within earshot of a ringing phone, they've got me,” Sadie laughed. “This way, they can't get to me and I can enjoy my lunch. I guess what I'm trying to say is—thanks for coming by at lunchtime.”

  “Glad I could help out,” said Charlie, rubbing his round belly. “Especially since I love to eat.”

  Charlie and Sadie picked a corner booth for privacy and studied the menu. Charlie placed his portable radio on the edge of the table, adjusting the volume as low as possible without completely shutting out the drone of the dispatcher. They both decided on the special of the day—chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes, and gravy. Each plate lunch included a small serving of the house specialty—blue dumplings.

  “Just one thing,” began Charlie. “What exactly are these blue dumplings? Lance Smith is always carrying on about them.”

  “Unitelvladi digalvnv,” Sadie said.

  “Do what?”

  Sadie laughed. “Cherokee words for grape dumplings. Blue dumplings are the same thing as grape dumplings, a traditional Cherokee dish made out of grapes—possum grapes. You boil the juice and then drop in the dumplings. I love them. You never see them in restaurants, just Indian gatherings. That's why I like to come here. The owners of the café are Cherokee.”

  “Possum grapes, you say?” Charlie raised his eyebrows. “I'm going to have to ask Smith about that.”

  “Speaking of Lance Smith, how is that good-looking Indian cop?” Sadie embarrassed herself before she could stop the words from leaving her mouth.

  “Lance? He's a good man. Eats here all the time. Should have known he'd be eating something like possum grapes. I'll have to tell him I know his secret for staying so slim.”

  “Don't worry.” Sadie could hardly hide her amusement. “You can rest assured these are probably made from canned grape juice and I doubt they contribute to anyone being slim. But, I don't think you came here to get the recipe for blue dumplings.”

  “No, not really. I just thought you might want to know they arraigned John Doe this morning.”

  “John Doe? I don't understand.”

  “The homeless man. The one you call Happy.”

  “Oh, Happy? They arraigned Happy? Does that mean they really think he's the robber? How could they do that? I told them it wasn't him.”

  “Sadie, do you remember the hole in the hood of his sweatsuit?”

  “Yes.”

  “The lab matched slivers of glass from it to the broken window-pane at the bank where the robber made his point of entry.”

  Sadie looked perplexed. “Well, I'm sorry, Sergeant McCord. If he was the person who held a gun on me…on us…and killed Gordy…well then, I'm just crazy.”

  “Sadie, you're not crazy. And I'd feel better if you would call me Charlie.”

  “Okay, Charlie. But, I still don't believe it could have been him.”

  The two ate in silence for a while. Then Charlie continued, “That's not all.” He hesitated for a minute while the waitress refilled his coffee. “They also found the unexploded dye pack. It was with the rest of the disguise in the box where he lives.”

  “The dye pack?”

  “The battery had been pulled out of it. Somebody from your corporate office identified it. They matched the serial number to some list they had. Said it was the one you put in the money bag.”

  Sadie put her fork down, placed both hands in her lap, and looked blankly at Charlie. She felt uneasy—alone in a sea of madness. Why hadn't somebody from the main office told her they found the dye pack?

  “No one told me,” she said softly.

  “And guess whose fingerprints were all over it?” Charlie continued. Then before Sadie had a chance to say anything, he answered himself. “The wordless wonder boy, that's who. And those federal boys ran those fingerprints everywhere but loose, and this old boy is not in the system anywhere.”

  Sadie continued to eat in silence for a few minutes, questions swirling in her head.

  “Mine,” she said as she sipped from her glass of water.

  “Pardon me?” Charlie continued to eat.

  “My fingerprints. I guess my fingerprints were on the dye pack, too.”

  “I'm sure they were,” said Charlie, “if you're the one that handled it. I'm surprised those federal boys haven't been out to get your fingerprints so they could identify them.”

  “I haven't heard from anyone. But you know I think the bank has my fingerprints on file from a long time ago…for the insurance company or something.” Sad
ie resumed eating. “And speaking of fingerprints…can't somebody run some kind of DNA test or something on those clothes they found to prove they belonged to somebody else?”

  “Wouldn't do any good. Looked like your friend had been sleeping in them. A test would just match back to him.”

  “What if they found DNA that didn't match him?”

  “But, we don't have any other suspects to match, Sadie. It's not like the DNA is going to have somebody's name on it so we can just show up on their doorstep and charge them with robbery—or murder, I guess it is.”

  “I see,” she said. “What about the money? Did they find the money?”

  “Nope. No sign of the money so far. And your guy still doesn't want to talk.”

  “I don't think he can, Charlie.”

  Charlie pushed his half-empty plate to the side, moved his heavy coffee mug to the center of his attention, and took a long sip.

  “You want to tell me just how much you know about this guy?”

  “What do you mean?” Sadie became defensive. “I told you the other day…he's homeless…he helped me one time and…”

  “You see him on a regular basis just because he helped you change a flat tire?”

  “I felt sorry for him.” Sadie avoided Charlie's eyes.

  “And you're sure he can't talk?”

  “Well, I've never heard him say anything…except laugh.”

  “Okay, okay,” soothed Charlie. He waited a moment and then changed the subject. “You ever heard of a woman named Christine Wiley?”

  “Christine Wiley? No, doesn't ring a bell. Why?”

  “Well, I talked to Maddox, the sergeant who was helping out that day with the lineup. He said he and John Doe had a run-in with this Wiley woman and her little girl. I'm not exactly sure what happened, but the little girl was crying about something. Maddox says John Doe got really upset and tried to talk to her.”

  Sadie paused, dumpling in midair. “Happy tried to talk to this Christine Wiley woman?”

  “No, the little girl.”

  “Wait a minute. Christine? The woman in the lobby with the little girl?”

  “Yeah, that's the one.”

  “I thought she was waiting for someone named Leroy.” Sadie took a bite of dumpling. “What did he say? Did the woman know him?”

  “He never really said anything, I guess. More like a whimper. The woman swears she never saw him before in her life.”

  Sadie put her fork down and dabbed at her mouth with her paper napkin. “Charlie, the man who robbed me isn't capable of whimpering. This is absurd. They've got the wrong man. And I'd bet my life on it.” Sadie rifled through her purse, placed some money under her water glass, and slid to the corner of her seat. Then she looked straight into Charlie's eyes. “I'll admit I was scared, Sergeant, but I'm not stupid.” She flipped her hair behind her shoulder and headed toward the door.

  “Whoa, lady. Slow down. I'm on your side.” Charlie threw some money on the table and rushed to follow her out of the café.

  Sadie waited outside on the sidewalk for Charlie to catch up.

  “You need to know, Sadie, the FBI's going to show up. They have to follow every lead and they don't have much more to go on. And an inside job theory…”

  Sadie stared at Charlie in disbelief. “You can't think I had something to do with all this. How could you?” She fought the lump rising in her throat.

  “No, I don't think so. But, it doesn't matter what I think right now. This is a federal case. And if you didn't do anything, well then, you don't have anything to worry about, do you?”

  “What's going to happen to Happy?”

  “The judge sent him to Eastern State Hospital in Vinita for evaluation. They'll clean him up and decide if he can talk or not. If he can't talk and isn't capable of defending himself, the court-appointed attorney will probably ask for a dismissal. Or they'll just leave him there. That is, unless they can get him to talk and you can identify his voice.”

  “Thanks for having lunch with me…and for the information.” Sadie grimaced. “At least I know I'm a suspect now.”

  “Don't look at it like that right now, Sadie. You're the only one who can identify the robber's voice. The other two girls are not reliable enough.”

  Sadie frowned, feeling the uncomfortable weight of this new responsibility.

  “And we'll be able to clear Happy,” said Charlie, “when the real robber is caught.”

  “Thanks, Charlie.” Sadie looked at her watch. “I gotta go. Duty calls.”

  The static hum of the sergeant's radio escalated into a high-pitched voice of alarm. Charlie turned up the volume and listened for a moment.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Duty calls.”

  Warm breezes and billowy blue sky suddenly turned into a blinding, white light and Happy wondered if he had somehow passed from this life into another. Maybe this was heaven, he thought. But when he tried to reach out and touch the stark surroundings he realized his hands were still restrained by steel handcuffs.

  A loud buzzing noise startled him as a set of double doors automatically swung open revealing the bustling world of Eastern Oklahoma State Hospital. The doors closed with a heavy thud and the days that followed turned into a blur for the unhappy homeless man Sadie called Happy.

  Chapter 8

  Memorial Day weekend was only three days away, and, as usual, the Oklahoma weather promised to add its own fireworks to the holiday, signaling the unofficial start of summer. A thunderstorm, poised directly over Sycamore Springs for most of the day, continued to soak the city, sending most people scurrying for cover.

  Sadie placed her trench coat on a crowded coatrack just inside the front door of the salon and then sat on a hard vinyl chair close by. She thought if she changed her mind at the last minute she could make a run for it without making too big a scene. The chrome, mirrors, and black enamel fixtures reflected the chill of her sweaty palms and numb fingertips. A stoic pink flamingo stood watch over the buzzing tube in the window that formed the letters for “Roberto's, A Hair Extravaganza.”

  Sadie mused to herself. How could this establishment have ever evolved from a small-town beauty shop? She touched the back of her hand to the tip of her nose in an attempt to filter her breathing. The unpleasing stench of permanent-wave solution and acrylic nail glue permeated the air.

  She pulled her long black hair in front of her shoulder and fingered the ends nervously. Then she pushed it back and snatched a magazine from the glass coffee table. The glossy, oversized pages boasted pale, thin models sporting outrageous hairdos, darkened eyelids, and unnatural pouty lips. A knot began to form in the pit of Sadie's stomach. Just as she contemplated a plan of escape, a young girl with orange-sherbet hair rounded the corner and fingered the appointment book.

  “Sadie Wa…how do you say your last name?” she asked.

  “Wa-le-la, just the way it's spelled,” answered Sadie.

  “What kind of name's that?”

  “It's Cherokee. Means hummingbird.”

  Sadie had spent most of her life spelling and explaining her name, amazed at how rude some people could be about a non-Anglo name.

  “Cool,” said the young girl. “I'm Crystal. Come on back and I'll get you shampooed for Bo.”

  “For who?” Sadie wrinkled her forehead.

  “I mean, for Roberto,” Crystal laughed. “His friends all call him Bo.”

  “Oh?”

  This was getting scarier by the minute, thought Sadie. The name Bo created the image of a clown holding a giant pair of scissors. She followed the young girl into the bowels of the salon, silently surrendering to the unfamiliar world. After an herbal shampoo and mint conditioner, Sadie sat with a towel wrapped around her head waiting for Roberto, hair designer extraordinaire. Or should she call him Bo, she wondered.

  The decision to cut her hair had not been made lightly. Sadie had been appalled after listening to Thelma's comments one day in the personnel department.

  “We would like to look
at you for a middle-management position, Sadie,” Thelma had said. “But you have to look the part. The hair has got to go. Get a nice haircut and get some new suits,” she added. “Your performance rating is good on everything else. We can move you into an assistant vice-president position and get you into the corporate office where you belong. But you've got to cooperate a little. You need to look like a banker, not an Indian.”

  Sadie's first reaction to Thelma was defiance. Who did this white woman think she was to make such absurd remarks? She vowed right then and there to never cut her hair, not for Thelma or for anyone else. That is, until Soda Pop came along.

  Soda Pop Andover had introduced herself to Sadie one day in the lobby of the branch. Sadie remembered thinking that the little girl possessed the biggest brown eyes she had ever seen for a six-year-old child. And she always wore her straight, black hair pulled back in a ponytail, barrettes tightly applied to each side of her head and her bangs slicked neatly onto her forehead. Nicknamed for her love of the sugary drink, Soda Pop had explained to Sadie that it was far better than her real name, Agatha Gertrude, or any variation thereof for that matter. Although small for her age, Soda Pop's personality made up for every inch of stature she lacked.

  Soda Pop and her mother came into the bank again a few weeks after the robbery. Unusually quiet, Soda Pop climbed into the chair her mother designated, next to the tall schefflera plant. She sat on her hands with a serious look on her face, gazing around the busy office as if absorbing every detail while her mother visited with one of the customer service employees. Soda Pop's feet and legs, too short to touch the floor, bobbed a pair of white patent shoes in unison. A colorful scarf neatly covered her head. Not a fleck of hair could be seen.

  Sadie walked over to the young girl, bent over, and whispered something in her ear. She looked first at Sadie, then at her mother just a few feet away. Sensing the child's apprehension, Sadie caught the mother's watchful eye and said, “Is it okay if Soda Pop waits for you at my desk?” The mother smiled weakly, then gave her permission with a nod of her head.