Return to Fender

by Virginia Brown

  Okay. It had to be about something else. She was pretty sure she knew what. “Is this about my traffic ticket?”

  “Sometimes you are so wise.”

  She sighed, turned off her MP3 player, and headed toward the elevator. “I can’t get another ticket, or my insurance rates will go up too high, and I’ll have to live in my car,” she explained.

  “Stop using my name to get out of tickets.”

  “But it worked.”

  He stopped, turned her around, and put both hands on her shoulders to look deep into her eyes. “Look, it’s bad enough that my girlfriend goes around tripping over dead bodies all the time. Using my name to get out of speeding tickets does not make my life any easier. Capice?”

  “I love it when you speak Italian to me. Yes. I understand. I won’t keep tripping over dead bodies.”

  Mike frowned slightly. Then he released her shoulders, took a step back, and sighed. “I wish I could believe that. Right now I’ll settle for you paying for your speeding tickets. The elevator doors are open. Step inside, Harley.”

  She smiled. “Wanna frisk me for contraband? I’ve never had that done in an elevator.”

  “Which leads me to wonder about the locations where you have been frisked. No, I just want you to stop finding dead people and using my name to get out of speeding tickets.”

  “Sure. No problem. Piece of cake.”

  Chapter 2

  THE RAIN HAD stopped, and the air had a clean smell. Wet pavement glistened. Morgan’s car sat just outside the back door in a No Parking zone. It was a sleek new Caddy with all the bells, whistles, and bling-bling any decent pimp would need.

  “I see you have a stealth car,” she remarked as he opened the passenger door for her. “Are you practicing to be a pimp?”

  “Maybe. Interested in working for me?”

  “No, thank you. I rather like the pimp I have.”

  He went around, slid into the driver’s seat, and leaned close to her. Dragging one finger along her bare arm, he murmured, “But I have excellent perks.”

  There went that stomach thing again. “Really? Name some.”

  “Not the time or the place,” he said, but it sounded like he wished it was. She understood completely.

  “You’re probably right. Let’s go check on my parents. I’ll call Nana.”

  She called Nana first. Before she could ask how she was, Nana crowed, “Did you see it? The tornado came right by here and took out our flag pole and a few rocking chairs on the porch. What a rush! Rico fainted. He’s such a wuss.”

  “I take it you’re all right.”

  “All right? I’m ready for another one.”

  “Just remember to click your heels three times when you’re ready to come home.”

  “Dorothy was a whiny little brat. I’ll use the wicked witch’s broom. And maybe a few flying monkeys.” She clicked her tongue a couple times and hung up.

  Harley looked over at Morgan. He was grinning. She couldn’t help a laugh. “She weathered it pretty well, all things considered.”

  “I had no doubt.”

  There was no answer at her parents’. That was worrisome. Morgan turned onto Highland. The broad avenue was wet and littered with tree branches, most of them small. Here and there a house wore fallen trees and exposed roofs. Other than a few telephone poles and looping wires, there didn’t seem to be much damage. Traffic lights were out, and most of the drivers had sense enough to treat the intersections like stop signs. There were some that took advantage, of course, and raced through intersections with no regard to traffic or squealing tires.

  “Hey, I got stopped for speeding. Why aren’t you going after them?” she asked, and Mike shrugged.

  “There’s a PST on the corner to handle it. And I can’t blow my cover.”

  “Oh, please. Do you really think a white guy in a pimp-mobile is a cover? You’d need a white Panama hat, gold rings, maybe a few gold teeth, and a silk shirt open to your waist to qualify. And even then only a kid or two might buy your disguise.”

  “That’s only if I’m really trying to pass as a pimp.”

  “Ah. You boys and your games. I think you enjoy it too much.”

  “Most of the time.”

  Her parents’ house on Douglass Street looked undamaged. As close as she could tell, anyway, since the tall weeds Diva considered appropriate for a front yard would hide anything smaller than a garbage truck. Yogi’s windmills shaped like various animals had toppled over, and heavy branches lay in the yard and street. Houses across the street hadn’t been so fortunate. A big tree lay square in the middle of Sadie Shipley’s house.

  “Oh no . . . I’m going to check on Mrs. Shipley,” Harley said and got out before Mike had the car completely stopped.

  Part of the roof resembled a peeled orange, shingles hanging off and exposing the wooden beams. The front door stuck out at an odd angle, crunched by one of the big branches. One of Yogi’s windmills perched in the tree like a whimsical metal bird.

  “Mrs. Shipley,” Harley called as she climbed over the tree. “Mrs. Shipley, are you in there?”

  Shattered glass lay on what used to be the front porch. A rock and string picture that had been considered art in the sixties lay flat atop a bush that looked unscathed. Harley picked her way carefully over debris and called for Mrs. Shipley again.

  After a moment, a faint voice came from inside the house. Harley’s heart began to pound. Mrs. Shipley had been around ever since Harley had first come to Memphis at the age of fourteen. It wouldn’t be the same if something happened to her. She was a fixture, like Graceland, Beale Street, Jerry Lee Lewis, and giant mosquitoes.

  Timbers creaked and groaned as the house settled. Harley took a deep breath and stepped to the door opening. A hand grabbed her arm. She jumped and nearly fell into the debris.

  “Don’t go in there,” Mike said as he caught her.

  “You shouldn’t sneak up on a person!”

  “I didn’t sneak. You just weren’t listening. Stay out here, and I’ll go in for her.”

  She moved aside. “Okay. Should I call for an emergency vehicle?”

  “I already did.”

  Efficient as always. She expected no less.

  It seemed to take forever, but it probably wasn’t more than five minutes before Mike came out holding Mrs. Shipley in his arms. She had a smug expression on her face.

  “I’ve always wanted to be rescued by a hot fireman.”

  “He’s a policeman,” Harley pointed out, but Mrs. Shipley was beyond absorbing any corrections. She had her skinny arms wrapped around Mike’s neck as he carried her carefully over debris, one arm bent under her knees. Mrs. Shipley wore bright yellow ski pants and an orange tee shirt left over from the eighties. Her hair was orange with a tint of yellow, and the one shoe she wore was orange and yellow. Mrs. Shipley liked to make a fashion statement.

  “Sadie,” one of the neighbors called anxiously from the safety of the sidewalk, “are you all right?”

  Mrs. Shipley showed a flair for the dramatic. She went a little limp, and her eyes fluttered shut. “I think . . . I might survive,” she said in a pitiful whisper just loud enough to be heard across the street. Clutching at Morgan’s tee shirt as he stepped over a clock shaped like a teapot, she looked up at him through heavily mascaraed lashes and said more strongly, “This brave young man saved my life!”

  Harley melodramatically clasped her hands together as they passed where she stood among the debris and cooed loudly, “My hero!”

  To his credit, Morgan said nothing tacky in return.

  It turned out Mrs. Shipley had a sprained wrist, broken ankle, and probably a mild concussion. The EMTs tucked her safely inside the ambulance, where she waved bravely to the crowd of neighbors standing on the sidewalk and in the street.

  “Don’t forget me,” she called faintly just before the back doors closed.

  “She should be on stage,” Harley said thoughtfully. “The Playhouse would love to have her in
their cast.”

  “She was on stage once,” Diva said right behind her, and Harley turned to look at her mother. Despite the tiny bells always sewn into Diva’s skirts, she hadn’t heard her arrival.

  “Mrs. Shipley? On the stage? Why am I not surprised.”

  Diva smiled. She always looked serene. Rarely did she get flustered or out of sorts. Harley envied that ability. Diva nodded.

  “As a girl, Sadie was part of her parents’ acting team. She had the role of Little Liza in the play Uncle Tom’s Cabin, I think.”

  “Her parents were actors? I guess that explains a lot.”

  Diva’s long blonde hair was damp but unruffled. She looked thirty instead of fifty-ish. It was a gift Harley hoped she would have. She’d inherited Diva’s blonde hair and Yogi’s green eyes, but, thankfully, none of her parents’ penchant for staging sit-ins.

  Eric loped across the street to join them on the sidewalk. Her brother’s hair was orange. He looked like he should belong to Mrs. Shipley. Tall, lanky, and affable, Eric hitched his baggy black pants up closer to his waist and looked at Harley.

  “Hey, cool chick. Is Mrs. Shipley going to be okay?”

  “Are you kidding? She could play the part of Ophelia and be believable. Dude. What did you do to your hair this time?”

  Eric smiled. He had blue eyes and eyelashes any woman would envy. Long lashes were so wasted on a man, she thought with a sigh.

  “It’s for a special gig.”

  “As Ronald McDonald? Is the clown convention in town?”

  He just grinned. It wasn’t often he took exception to her jabs. Maybe that was because he indulged in funny-smelling cigarettes from time to time. It was a habit her father shared and her mother didn’t. Neither did Harley. Nor did she eat the tomatoes Yogi grew in the backyard. He also grew a few illegal plants for his own use right next to them, and that made eating the tomatoes risky. King loved the tomatoes, so a sturdy fence had been built around that part of the yard. A high-energy border collie, the dog could be entertaining enough without adding any exotic substances to his diet.

  “Where’s Yogi?” she asked.

  “He was suiting up the dog to help find Mrs. Shipley. Then Morgan found her. I think he’s disappointed that he and King didn’t get to rescue her. So now he’s put him to work sniffing out his windmills,” Eric replied.

  Diva laughed softly. “Your father has decided King should be a rescue dog, and he made him a bright orange vest. It’s come in handy for him today.”

  Harley had a vision of her father being dragged behind King as the dog sniffed out a hamburger. Yogi would be thrilled. In a vegetarian household, he was a closet carnivore. Harley kept his secret. Diva probably already knew anyway. She always knew things. It had made for an unnerving childhood.

  The ambulance siren blasted the air, and it pulled away, bearing its patient toward the nearest hospital.

  “Everyone is safe,” Diva said as they walked across the street toward their house. “Darcy and the girls are fine. Mother lost a few trees but nothing else. Daddy was on the golf course, but got only wind and rain. You already know Nana is safe.”

  There it was: Diva’s ability to know even little things without asking. Sometimes it was helpful. Most of the time it was eerie.

  Nothing on the wide front porch of the bungalow style house had been damaged. Diva’s table and chairs were blown over, a few potted marigolds lay on their sides, but other than that the Davidson household had escaped fairly unscathed.

  Candles were lit in the house. The faint fragrance of lavender drifted in the living room. Pale light illuminated the familiar chintz-covered couch and chair. It had probably been there since Yogi was growing up. He’d inherited the house from his parents when Harley was fourteen, and they’d given up their nomadic life drifting from California commune to commune and come home to Memphis. Harley had been grateful. She still considered indoor plumbing a necessity instead of an occasional luxury.

  Eric flopped down in the over-stuffed chair and picked up his guitar. Surprisingly, he played a melody by Pachelbel.

  She eyed him. “Well, that’s different from your usual music.”

  “There are many layers to my talents. I am an enigma.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  Eric’s smile was slow and sleepy. “Like my new guitar, chick?”

  “It’s cool. What is it?”

  His eyes got wide. “What is it? Can’t you tell? Chick, it’s a Fender.”

  “Uh huh. That’s nice. What’s the difference between a Fender and any other guitar?”

  He rolled his eyes. “To start with, a solid spruce top, rosewood sides, back and fingerboard, and a Fishman Aero pick up system.”

  “Dude, I’m impressed. Honest.”

  “You don’t know what any of that is, do you,” he said, and she shook her head.

  “No, but it sounds fly.”

  Eric rolled his eyes at her use of slang, and Harley figured she wasn’t keeping up with current usage. Tiny bells tinkled lightly, and she followed Diva to the kitchen. “We were going to lunch but got sidetracked. Anything for Mike and me to eat?”

  “There is fresh squash and okra, and I think your father picked the last of the tomatoes.”

  “Mike can’t eat Yogi’s tomatoes. He’s a cop, and they do random drug tests.”

  Diva just laughed. Harley rummaged in the pantry and refrigerator and came up with three different kinds of organic cheese, fresh lettuce, bean sprouts, and a loaf of homemade bread. She made sandwiches.

  Morgan walked into the kitchen just as she was slicing them in half. He crossed to the sink to wash his hands. “There aren’t any more injuries, mostly just tree damage and a few roofs collapsed or gone. Insurance companies will be busy for a while.” He looked at the plate she handed him. Then he looked up at her.

  She knew that look. It said plainly, “What the hell are you trying to feed me?” He’d eaten at the Davidson household before. She smiled encouragement.

  “Swiss, Cheddar and Colby cheese, lettuce, mayonnaise, and dill pickles. Feel free to modify it as you wish.”

  “Cheese? I thought vegetarians don’t eat cheese, butter, or eggs.”

  “That’s vegans, not vegetarians. Dairy products are acceptable. Eating eggs is optional.”

  He looked a bit wary as he lifted up a corner of the bread. Harley handed him a bottle of mango flavored water since he didn’t appreciate Diva’s cleansing teas.

  “It’s cooler on the front porch,” she suggested.

  After brushing leaf debris from the porch swing, they sat on it and ate their sandwiches. Diva had shared her organic rice chips. They weren’t bad. MLG&W trucks were already on the street repairing downed lines. It was pretty quick, but Harley figured that was because they were only three blocks from the University of Memphis, and keeping lights on there was high priority. Sometimes it was good to be so near an institute of higher learning. Not that it was doing Eric much good. A degree in fine arts would hardly prepare him for real life.

  “I don’t see the pimp-mobile,” she observed as she and Mike swung gently and listened to the growing melody of chainsaws. “Where did you park it?”

  “Near the corner. Don’t worry. I brought your backpack. I didn’t want to leave it in the car.”

  “Cops are so untrusting.”

  “Some of us are funny that way.”

  They swung comfortably for a few minutes, the motion of the swing and relief from the morning’s trauma relaxing Harley at last. She must have dozed off with her head resting on Mike’s shoulder. The next thing she knew Diva came out onto the porch with a plate of brownies. She offered the plate to Morgan. He hesitated.

  Harley yawned as she sat up. “He can’t eat any if those are Yogi’s brownies. Are they yours or his?”

  Diva smiled. “I know better than to offer him anything that Yogi has baked. My only special ingredient is walnuts.”

  Mike took three and Harley took four. She shrugged when he looked at her. �
�So I’m greedy. It’s one of my more endearing traits.”

  He grinned and popped a brownie into his mouth. Just as Harley followed suit, the musical notes of California by Phantom Planet emanated from her backpack. Her mouth was still full of delicious brownie when she dug out her cell phone and swiped it on. “Huwwo?”

  Tootsie sounded glum. “Harley? Speak up. Your voice is fuzzy. My cell phone is still not working right. Must be some towers down.”

  Harley swallowed chocolaty deliciousness and said, “No, it’s the brownies.”

  “What? Never mind. Everyone okay at your parents’ house?”

  “Fine. Except for Mrs. Shipley and her house. She got a whack on the head, and her house is ruined, but I think she’s enjoying the attention too much to care. What’s up?”

  “I’m calling you about this only because he gave me no other option. Which is crazy, since I begged and begged him to reconsider, but he says no one else will do.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  She expected Tootsie to launch into a tale of woe about a tree landing on his new BMW or something equally tragic, but he asked, “Is Morgan close by?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Because he carries a gun, and I don’t want him to shoot me. He’s liable to if he finds out what I want with you.”

  “This sounds most intriguing. Hold on while I walk into the yard to get a better signal.”

  “On top of everything else,” Tootsie said before she could get off the porch, “I had to listen to a madman today. It’s crazy, but I can’t convince him otherwise. Really, if I thought it’d help I’d tell him you’re in Bermuda. Or prison.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Jordan Cleveland. My friend.”

  “The one who wants you to talk to Bobby?”

  “Bobby was my idea. That’s when I thought Jordan was still sane enough to listen to reason.”

  “Could we cut to the chase here? There’s another brownie with my name on it waiting for me.” She leaned against the huge oak in the front yard and plucked idly at the weeds Diva insisted were wildflowers. One of the slats in the front picket fence had fallen over, leaving a gap like a broken tooth.