Live in Person

by Lynda Fitzgerald

  “Like what? A new stomach?” She waved her hand. “No, I—oh, shit!” She bolted off the bed and made a dash for the hallway.

  Seconds later, Allie heard the sound of retching and then a toilet flush. These post-World War II houses weren’t built for privacy. After a minute, Sheryl came back into the room, wiping her face with a wet rag. “Sorry. I told you. Virus.”

  “I’m so sorry. Are you sure I can’t get you anything? Some ginger ale or something?”

  “You want to make me barf again? I haven’t drunk that shit since I was five years old. I don’t imagine it’s gotten any better.”

  Allie laughed. She reached over and squeezed Sheryl’s arm. “If you’re sure, I’ll leave you alone to suffer in peace. But don’t be a stranger, OK? I’ve missed you.”

  Sheryl stared at her for a long time without speaking. Allie could swear she saw fear in her normally fearless friend’s eyes.

  “Did you hear that Sidney escaped?” Allie asked.

  Sheryl made a rude sound. “That little fucker. That’s another reason I want to get over this shit, whatever it is. I gotta be back on the streets. You and I know him. We know better than anyone else the kinds of stunts he’d pull.” Her brow creased. “You be careful, will you? I don’t like that you’re unprotected. Why don’t you go visit your parents for a while until we catch him?”

  Allie couldn’t understand it, but when Sheryl said it, it didn’t sound patronizing. Marc had said pretty much the same thing, and she’d nearly taken off his head. “I think I’d rather have Sidney get me. No, not really,” she said when Sheryl started to speak, “but I can’t think of much worse.” But she could. “Did you know Len showed up at my house this morning demanding half my inheritance?”

  “Your brother Len? Jesus, Allie, what did you tell him?”

  “I—” She broke off as Sheryl made another dash from the bed. Again, there was the sound of vomiting, a toilet flush, and Sheryl staggered back into the room. Clearly, Allie had overstayed her welcome.

  She took the washcloth from the bedside table and wiped Sheryl’s forehead. “I’ll tell you all about it when you’re feeling better.” She stood. “You get well, and have Libby call me if you need anything.”

  “Why would Libby call you? I have my cell right here.” She raised her head and looked around. “Oh, shit. I left it in the car.”

  “You don’t need it. You’re off duty, and you’re sick. Libby can call me if you need me.” Sheryl closed her eyes and nodded.

  Allie pulled the bedroom door closed and stepped into the hall to see Libby, her face creased with worry, watching. “She said it’s a virus.”

  Libby nodded, her eyes on the closed door. “That’s what she told me.”

  When Allie reached her, she squeezed her thin shoulder. “Don’t worry, Libby. Sheryl’s tough. Just don’t offer her any ginger ale.”

  Her eyes searched the shadows as she walked back home, and she breathed a deep sigh of relief as she stepped inside her front door and flipped the deadbolt.

  She retrieved a diet soda from the refrigerator and settled on the couch with Spook close beside her. Sheryl really did look bad, worse than Allie had ever seen her. She’d never known Sheryl to be sick, even when they were growing up. Of course, Allie wasn’t here year-round back then. But it still worried her. What if it wasn’t a stomach virus? What if it was something more serious?

  “Sheryl’s going to be fine, Allie.”

  “How do you know? I thought you couldn’t see into the future.”

  “Who says I’m looking into the future?”

  “What’s wrong with her, then? Is it just a stomach virus?”

  “Oh, so now, I’m supposed to be your personal Ouija board?”

  Allie buried her face in Spook’s fur. “God, I miss you, Aunt Lou.”

  ■ ■ ■

  Sidney looked at his bare wrist and then at the dashboard clock. Shit, he needed a watch. No sweat. There were bound to be several lying around the house.

  Ten-thirty. The airport took longer than he expected because he wanted to find just the right vehicle, but in the end, it was worth it—a nice, nondescript, beige Lexus with the hood still warm. You didn’t park in long-term for an overnight trip unless you were the world’s biggest cheapskate, and a cheapskate didn’t buy a Lexus. He figured he had three or four days, at least. Maybe more, because he’d switched plates with a beige Taurus. The coins he stole from Raymond made a nifty screwdriver. Odds were the Taurus owner wouldn’t notice the plate change or report it missing for a while.

  He was parked a few doors down from his folks’ house, a boxy two-story clapboard in a quiet neighborhood. The living room light was still on. Sidney wasn’t surprised. His dad usually didn’t wake and head up the stairs until two a.m. or so, but he was a heavy sleeper. No problem there. It was dark upstairs, which meant his mom was dead to the world. Even better. He’d wait another hour or so, even though the old farts who lived in this neighborhood usually hit the rack by nine o’clock. He’d slipped out of Raymond’s jacket at the airport and reversed it so the fluorescent lettering was inside. He’d be virtually invisible to any busybody or restless insomniac who happened to glance out the window.

  The key was under the fake rock at the back door. His parents had never installed an alarm system even though he’d nagged them to do it. Now he was glad.

  The back door opened directly into the kitchen. He could hear the drone of the television from the living room. Good. That would mask any noise he made. His mother kept her cash in a canister marked “Flour” in the walk-in pantry. He pulled out a wad of bills. Jesus! There must be almost a thousand bucks here. Why the hell wasn’t this in the bank? Then, he smiled as he stuffed it into his pocket.

  Now, the tricky part. He crept down the hallway toward the front of the house. As he neared the stairs, he saw his dad stretched out in the recliner, head resting against its back and snoring softly. Sidney couldn’t count the number of times he’d sneaked out and in when he was a boy. Never once in all those years did they catch him, and he knew they wouldn’t now. He knew exactly which steps squeaked and where. He didn’t need a light. These people were dark phobic; there was a nightlight in what seemed like every other wall outlet.

  He froze when he heard a creak from his parents’ bedroom. If his mother got up now, there was nowhere to hide. He remained still until he heard her sigh, then go silent.

  He tiptoed into his room, leaving the door open so he had the hall light. Christ, the place looked exactly as it did when he was arrested. Except cleaner. He smiled. His mom was a stickler for cleanliness and order, which was why she’d always cleaned his room. Back when he was a kid, he sometimes left little surprises for her, like a pair of girl’s panties under his mattress or porno magazines in his closet, just to get her reaction, but she never called him on it. It was a disappointment, so after a while, he quit doing it.

  He listened for a minute to make sure no noise other than the TV came from downstairs. Then, he crossed to the closet. When he opened the bi-fold, he almost gave a cheer. Pay dirt. His clothes. Old uniforms. He’d been afraid the sheriff would confiscate those after he was arrested, but they hung in a neat row. Even his personal weapon—a Glock 36 he’d taken off a drug head during a bust, untraceable to him if he had to use it—and four boxes of ammo on the closet shelf.

  He grabbed the backpack off the closet floor and flipped it open. He wrapped his weapon and two boxes of ammo in an undershirt and stuffed it in the bottom of the backpack. As an afterthought, he pulled Raymond’s firearm out of his jacket pocket and left it on the shelf with the other two boxes of ammunition in his stash. No one would notice he’d switched guns, which might be important if the sheriff decided to search his room.

  Then, he eased a couple of uniforms off hangers and folded them carefully before putting them in the backpack. He didn’t see any ironing days in his immediate future, and a wrinkled uniform would draw attention. Shirts, jeans, shoes, and socks. Underwear. Any
thing that wasn’t a blue prison jumpsuit looked good to him.

  He changed into black slacks with a real belt and a dark green turtleneck. Very respectable looking. He shoved Raymond’s uniform under the bed. It didn’t matter if his mother found it. She’d never turn him in. Civilian socks and shoes. God, it felt good to be dressed again. He looked around the room. What else?

  He flattened himself against the wall at a sound on the stairs. Shit! He was early. He reached over and eased the backpack toward him until it was out of sight. Nothing could be seen from the door. The bathroom door opened. The sound of a urine stream, then water running. Slow shuffling footsteps down the hall.

  The door was mostly open, but Sidney could see through the doorjamb crack. His father stopped outside the door and stared inside. After a minute, he shook his head and moved off toward the master bedroom.

  Something in the hopelessness of the gesture grabbed Sidney’s gut, but he shook it off. What the hell difference did it make? His father gave up on him years ago, and vice versa. What could it matter now? Still, he didn’t want to shoot him. He waited without moving until he heard his father snoring.

  His last stop was the extra bedroom where his mother stored her memories. Back in her youth, Teresa Finch acted regularly in the Surfside Players productions in Cocoa Beach. She’d made many of her costumes, and she hung on to them. The closet and dresser were full of them. Costumes. Makeup. Wigs. Best of all, he and his mother were close to the same size. First time he’d ever been glad he was small.

  He picked out a few things that might prove useful right away. Space in the backpack was limited, and he could always come back for more. Before he left the room, he slipped a short red wig and some costume jewelry in his pocket. A little makeup and a few other enhancements, and he could be Mary Lou Childers out for a late-night drive. Hell, dark as it was on this moonless night, he didn’t even need the makeup.

  As he slipped out of the house, he patted his pocket. He was flush, and he had most of the tools he’d need to begin waging his campaign. Now, he needed a place to stay, but that would have to wait until morning. There’d be a BOLO on him tonight. His height and limp he couldn’t conceal. He knew a guy in Titusville who owed him a few favors. Tomorrow, he’d collect.

  Nine

  Allie’s spirits plummeted as she drove into the parking lot at the Brevard Sun. She had hoped to find Rand here. He still worked for the law firm in Orlando, fifty miles to the east, and only gave the newspaper a few days a month, but she hoped this was one of those days. She’d called and left a message on his cell phone telling him she wanted to talk to him, but she hadn’t heard back. She knew his silence was intentional. Usually, he called back within five minutes.

  Myrna was in the reception area with the telephone pressed to her ear when Allie entered. Fiftyish and comfortably overweight, Myrna ran the newspaper these days. Although technically the receptionist, she worked as the original owner’s secretary for more than twenty years and knew the business stem to stern. After Cornelius Senior died and his son took over, Myrna stayed, although she detested Cornelius Junior, and with good reason—the man was insane.

  Then, after Junior’s death, a board of directors, who knew less about the business than Allie’s dog did, ran the newspaper. It floundered until Myrna stepped in as unofficial acting editor and hired Rand part-time to schmooze the advertisers threatening to bail. She maintained he had all the assets she needed—he was a lawyer with tons of charisma, and he had a penis. Apparently, she was right. Rand charmed their advertisers into staying, and the paper was stable again.

  Myrna could also be persuasive. She talked Allie into coming to work for the paper and then bribed her into serving as its only investigative reporter later when Allie wanted to quit. The promotion meant Allie could work out of her house and write what she wanted. Hard proposition to turn down. Overall, Myrna was a force to be reckoned with.

  She wiggled her fingers at Allie as she made her polite goodbyes to whoever was on the other end of the line. “Jesus,” she breathed, hanging up the receiver, “that woman can talk!”

  “Who was it?”

  “You don’t know her. Gloria Jameson. She used to work here when Rupert was alive. She’s sure the paper would benefit from a scandal column. Over my dead body.” She pushed back from the desk. “Speaking of columns, how’s your story coming?”

  “Slowly. I’ve done a lot of research, but I haven’t begun putting it together yet. I—” She broke off as Myrna stood.

  “Let’s go outside,” Myrna said. “I’m dying for a cigarette.”

  Myrna was always dying for a cigarette. She was probably dying for a cigarette while she was smoking one. It was her trademark. Goodyear had the blimp; Myrna had her cigarettes.

  Allie followed her outside to the four-by-four foot stretch of grass that was Myrna’s smoking area. When Cornelius number two died and Myrna took the reins, she’d had a crew jackhammer the concrete and put in sod. It was the only thing aesthetically pleasing about the low-slung, white building that more closely resembled a self-storage facility than a newspaper office.

  Myrna already had a cigarette lit when she sat and motioned Allie to sit beside her. “So, what’s the scoop on the construction industry?”

  “Has Rand been here today?”

  “Wasn’t there some old philosopher who used to always answer a question with a question?”

  “Socrates, and I don’t think it’s the same thing.”

  “Why are you looking for Rand?”

  Allie considered concocting some fiction dealing with the newspaper, but Myrna would find out the truth eventually. She always did. “There was a misunderstanding at my house yesterday. Rand was visiting…” She looked over at Myrna.

  “About damn time.”

  Allie felt the heat in her cheeks. “We were talking in the living room when my brother showed up unannounced. With his suitcase.”

  “He still pressuring you to sell the house?”

  “And split the proceeds with him. Anyway, he told Rand I’d never mentioned him but forgot to add that he’s my brother, and we don’t speak. Rand took one look at the suitcase and left without another word.”

  “So, where is he now?”

  “That’s what I asked you.”

  “Not Rand. He isn’t due back in town until Friday. I meant your brother.”

  Allie’s shoulders sagged. “I sent him packing I could just kill him, Myrna. He threatened to take me to court. He says he’s entitled to half what Aunt Lou left. It’s not as if I need it all, but after the way he treated her, he doesn’t deserve a dime.”

  Myrna took a drag off her cigarette and blew the smoke in the other direction. “He doesn’t stand a prayer of breaking the will.”

  “Are you sure?” She shook herself. “That’s not the point. Well, it is, but the main thing is that I don’t need the grief.”

  “Not with Sidney Finch on the loose.”

  “You know about that?”

  Myrna sat back. “Honey, I run the newspaper. Of course, I know about it. Sheriff asked me to keep it quiet, so I will. For now. But the sooner they catch him the better. You know he’ll come gunning for you for turning his hero against him. I’d bet—”

  Allie jumped to her feet as a car turned into the lot. It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t dare. Not here. She stood with her hands on her hips as he climbed out of the car and approached them.

  Myrna was on her feet now. “Who is that hunk?” she whispered.

  “That hunk is my brother, who has a hell of a lot of nerve showing up here.”

  Len stopped in front of them. “Good morning, Allie. I hope you don’t mind my dropping by. I came by the house, but you’d left, so I thought I’d try here. I thought you said you worked from home.”

  “I do. Most of the time. Not that it’s any business of yours where I work.”

  Len looked at Myrna and smiled. “Since my sister obviously isn’t going to introduce us, I’m Len Grainger, Allie’s br
other.”

  Myrna appeared mesmerized. Len had that effect on some women, with his you’re-the-only-woman-in-the-world look. He practiced it on female jurors and probably his divorce clients—the women, at least.

  “Allie’s mentioned you,” Myrna said, offering her hand.

  Allie almost laughed. She’d mentioned Len all right. “I asked what you’re doing here.”

  Len pulled his gaze from Myrna—an act, Allie knew—and looked at her. “I brought some papers for you.”

  Allie saw red. “What, a subpoena?”

  Len smiled. “Of course not. Oh, Allie, you didn’t take my teasing yesterday seriously, did you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Can we go inside?” He addressed the last to Myrna.

  Myrna seemed to come out of her stupor. “What? Sure. Yes.”

  Len took Myrna’s arm, and Allie followed. She wouldn’t have believed that even someone as crass as Len would have the effrontery to show up where she worked, but she’d underestimated him—and he was about to discover he’d underestimated her.

  Once inside, she led him directly back to the newsroom. No way was she going to have a private tête-à-tête with him. Whatever he had to say to her, he could say in front of a room full of witnesses. Teasing. Right.

  A couple of people nodded at Allie and looked at Len curiously. She stopped at the desk she used when she was in the office and spun on him. “Give me the papers.”

  Len looked at her outstretched hand, then back at her with amusement. He reached for an empty desk chair and pulled it over, sitting and resting his briefcase on his lap.

  “I gathered some information I thought you might find helpful,” he said, reaching into the case and pulling out a sheaf of handwritten pages. “I’d like to explain these calculations to you. They’re pretty complicated.”

  Allie snatched them from his hand. “I’m fully capable of deciphering calculations.” She spread the papers out on her desk. The squiggles that covered the sheets looked like hieroglyphics. “What are they?” She heard a titter of laughter from another desk and did a slow burn.

  Len chuckled. He scooted forward on his chair and gestured to the first page. “These are computations of the value of Aunt Lou’s house—”