Coming Unclued

by Judith Jackson

  I cut through a backyard and limped toward Diane’s house, along the edge of the ravine, my left foot numb with cold, each step on the frozen ground reverberating up my leg. I reached the gate to the backyard and slowly opened it, praying that it wouldn’t squeak. No squeak. I opened the gate wide enough to stick my head through. Everything looked safe though it was impossible to tell what the neighbors were doing. Hopefully they were gathered slack jawed around their TVs.

  I hobbled across the yard and up the back steps as quickly as I could, given that my leg was throbbing and I could no longer feel my foot. After fumbling with the key I lurched through the back door into the kitchen and slid down on the floor. The Pad Thai was calling to me but I knew I had to do something about my frozen foot. There was every possibility I was in the first stages of frostbite. It needed a good soak in hot water. It would hurt but the circulation would get moving again. A hot bath. At this point nothing would feel better than a hot bath. A hot bath and a plate of Thai food and my brain would start functioning again.

  I limped upstairs and into Diane’s bathroom, put the container of food on top of the toilet and started filling the huge soaker tub. I peeled my sock off and stuck my foot under the hot running water. Oh the pain. My foot was hard and swollen and an odd shade of grey with streaks of light purple, not dissimilar to a leg of lamb that had been forgotten in the freezer for too long.

  Once my foot had thawed enough that I could, with some effort, wiggle my toes, I stripped off my clothes — Rose’s clothes — and hung them on the hook behind the door. Unfortunately, that pale blue pantsuit was going back on once I finished the bath. Maybe I could borrow something of Diane’s to wear, though she was very tiny and fit and liked to wear tight clothes that showed off her firm body. Perhaps she had some old maternity clothes in the back of her closet. And what was that under her bathroom counter? Oh my God. A bar fridge in the bathroom. Diane really knew how to live. I grabbed a screw top bottle of Merlot, opened it and poured myself a big glass. Ooops I forgot. I wasn’t going to drink again. Just one glass. One glass to thaw me out and take the edge off my troubles.

  The tub filled in no time and I climbed in. The hot water felt glorious. I leaned back against the bath pillow, and ate a couple big bites of Pad Thai. There was a TV on the wall across from the tub. I stood up, grabbed the remote and powered it up. An old rerun of Mary Tyler Moore was on. How could you not love Mary? What would Mary do? Well she wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. Mary would never get so drunk she ended up in bed with Lou Grant. A dead Lou Grant. And if she did get in trouble, somehow she and Rhoda would work everything out, have a few laughs and soon Mary would be back striding down the street tossing her hat around. Good ol’ Rhoda. She was such a great friend to Mary. Oh this wine was so good. Julie was a lot like Rhoda. I needed to call Julie and make sure the police hadn’t arrested her for consorting with a felon.

  I reached over and grabbed my new cell phone from the top of toilet where I’d left it and checked my contacts list. Only Julie. I pressed her name and settled back in the tub. My foot was feeling pretty good, almost normal, though I still didn’t have full mobility in my toes.

  “Jesus,” said Julie, picking up after one ring. “Where the hell are you?”

  “Where the hell are you?” I asked. “Were you arrested? I shouldn’t have left you like that.”

  “No. No. It was a false alarm. They were looking for Boo. There’d been a sighting in the neighborhood. They were yelling at some guy behind us walking a puppy. I’m at home.”

  “Oh.” I thought about that for a moment. I stole a car and a purse and lost my boot for nothing. For a fake Boo sighting.

  “How did you explain me running away?”

  “They didn’t even notice you.” She lowered her voice and spoke very slowly. “Where are you? The police have been here. They had a search warrant. It was terrifying. They made me sit on the couch while they searched the whole house. So where are you?”

  “I’m at Diane’s,” I said. “I needed a bath.”

  Julie said nothing. I may have knocked the speech out of her.

  “I haven’t turned on any extra lights,” I said, “and I’m staying away from the windows, but I had to get warm. Long story.”

  “Oh I can’t wait to hear it,” said Julie. “Listen, I think you have to turn yourself in. This isn’t going well, and by not going well I mean it’s disastrous. The police are getting very antsy and we’re no closer to figuring this out.”

  I took a sip of wine. The water was getting cool, as was my food. “Julie, I know we have to talk but my dinner is getting cold. Can I call you back?”

  “Oh absolutely,” said Julie. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

  Julie hung up without saying goodbye. She was right. I had initially run from the police because I was terrified and I somehow thought I could clear my name. If anything, however, I was even further from that than I had been before I first shimmied out of her basement window. Impersonation, grand theft auto, break and enter. The money out of the wallet. I had put Julie in danger, my son was beside himself with worry, my bad karma is probably what did Hilda in and to top it off my foot looked very odd. No, by no stretch of the imagination was this going well. And then I heard the front door open, the stomping of feet and muffled voices and things started to get a whole lot worse.

  CHAPTER 22

  Voices. Who the hell could that be? Not Diane. People don’t decide to return home early from New Zealand. The police? How did they get in? I jumped up and grabbed a towel. How to hide? I pulled the shower curtain across and quickly placed the wine glass and bottle in the cabinet under the sink. The Pad Thai. They would be able to smell it. I dumped the rest of the carton in the toilet, shut the lid and tossed the empty carton under the sink. Naked and damp, I gave my feet a cursory wipe on the bathmat and dashed into Diane’s bedroom. They were coming up the stairs. Whoever it was was coming for me. I looked around desperately. The walk-in closet. It didn’t have a door. And why didn’t it? She had a wine fridge by the toilet and she couldn’t put a door on her closet? The bed. I could hide under the bed. I lunged across the room and lying flat on my back managed to squirm under the bed. And, at that moment, I had an epiphany; or in Oprah speak, I had an Ah Ha moment. Lying naked under Diane’s bed on her surprisingly filthy carpet, shivering from cold and fright and waiting for the police to drag me out by my heels I had the Ah Ha moment of all Ah Ha moments. My life was shit. Complete and total shit and it was entirely my fault. I hadn’t followed my glee or bliss or whatever the hell you’re supposed to follow; I’d taken the path of least resistance and that path had led me to this.

  “Oh my,” said a girlish voice. “Your old bedroom.” The voice came closer and then sat on the bed. I could see black, spike heeled boots from my excellent vantage point. “Your old bed.”

  Your old bed?

  “Come over here Nate,” a sultry voice said.

  “You’re naughty,” said a male voice. “I like that in a woman.”

  Oh Jeez. He likes naughty. Please. It was the ex. The ex with the chunk out of his ass —what was his name — Nathan. The ex sat down on the bed, and the only sound was a symphony of slurping as the lovebirds feasted on each other’s mouths.

  “Those jeans don’t look very comfortable,” the ex said. “Why don’t I help you take them off?”

  No. No. Please don’t. He did, which just goes to show, that however bad things are going, there’s always room for it to get worse. So I lay on my back, my nose an inch from the bottom of the bed and reflected on my situation. Not good, was my first thought. My second thought, and admittedly it was a fleeting one given the circumstances, was that my breasts were definitely not getting perkier with age. Flat on my back I now looked like a ten year old boy. Eeeew — they were starting. And they were noisy. What could I do? I closed my eyes and thought of England.

  “Ummm. That was nice,” I heard over the marching palace guards in my mind.

&nb
sp; And fast. At this juncture I had to count every blessing.

  “Why don’t you go grab whatever it is you want,” said the woman. “It kind of gives me the creeps being here.”

  The doorbell rang and was quickly followed by an insistent pounding. “What the hell?” said half-assed Nathan.

  “Don’t answer it,” said the woman, sounding a little panicked. “We’re not allowed to be here.”

  “This is my goddamned house. Paid for by me!”

  “I know, I know,” the woman placated, “but I don’t think we’re allowed to be here. It’s really Diane’s house now. You shouldn’t have used that key.”

  There was another pounding at the door and the muffled sound of someone yelling. “Open up. Police.”

  “Get up!” said the woman, jumping off the bed.

  “For crying out — one of the goddamned nosy neighbors with their pathetic little nothing lives must have called the police,” said Nathan. “Jesus H Christ.”

  No question, he was a charmer. I could see the woman’s feet as she hustled around the room, jumping back into her clothes.

  “Get down there,” she shrieked. “It sounds like they’re going to break the door down.”

  “Let them,” said Nathan. “I’m not paying for it. Not my problem. Like you said, it’s not my house anymore.”

  “That’s right, it isn’t,” she screeched. “Maybe that’s why the police are here.” The woman ran to the hallway and yelled, “We’re coming! Go, go,” said the woman, her voice pitching higher with every word. “They have guns.”

  “Then you go,” said Nathan.

  Jeez. How could Diane bear to be separated from this guy? I had the distinct feeling that the new girlfriend wasn’t going to require any further assistance from Nathan in removing her jeans. Maybe this was a nosy neighbor call. Surely the police weren’t searching every house on the street. The woman must have stared down Nathan because I heard him leave the room and call down the stairs. “I’m coming. I’m the homeowner, Nathan Moffat. I’m coming toward the door.”

  “Tell them you’re opening the door,” yelled the woman. “Tell them you don’t have a gun.”

  “Jesus. Shut up Tiffany,” yelled back Nathan. “You sound like Diane.”

  Nate sure had a short fuse. Clearly not a man you’d want by your side in the trenches. A few cops at the door and he completely fell apart. “Tell them you have your hands up!” screeched Tiffany. “Tell them your kids live here.” I could hear Nathan open the door and if Tiffany would shut up and stop sounding like Diane I’d have been able to hear what the police wanted. I felt remarkably calm as I lay naked under the bed, Tiffany perched above me, nervously tapping her foot while the sound of muffled voices wafted up the stairs. How much worse could things get? The police could drag me out and I would be a naked, humiliated, fugitive from justice who would be handcuffed and eventually locked away for fifteen to twenty years for a crime I didn’t commit, but other than that, nothing. I was calm and ready to face the worst.

  I could hear the police talking to Nathan and then the sound of the door shutting. Tiffany hopped off the bed and hustled over to the door. “Did they leave?” she yelled.

  Nathan was limping back up the stairs. “The jerk next door reported a break-in,” he said. “Saw people walking around and he knew Diane was away. I explained who I was and showed him the key and they were cool with it.”

  “You told me to shut up,” said Tiffany. “What kind of man talks like that?”

  The kind of man who has sex on the coffee table with the cleaning lady while his wife is schlepping the kids to soccer. “Sorry honey. You know how I get when I’m stressed,” cajoled Nathan. “Don’t be mad.”

  Don’t be mad. What was he, thirteen?

  “The police thought it might be that woman who killed Harry Potter. She’s good friends with that shrew up the street and they think she might be lurking around.”

  Julie a shrew? This guy was unbelievable. Under very different circumstances I would have jumped to Julie’s defense.

  “Jeez,” said Tiffany. “Do they think she’s breaking into empty houses? What if she is here?” She sounded very nervous, like I could be hiding in a closet, wielding a knife, ready to pounce.

  “If she has any brains she’ll be long gone,” said Nathan. “I don’t know why the hell she’d still be hanging around. I’d of been on the first plane to somewhere hot with no extradition treaty.”

  I’ll bet he would.

  “Well I hope they catch her,” said Tiffany. “Did you see those pictures? Kicking the cat? And that poor man dressing like Santa to cheer up sick kids and she kills him.”

  What the hell? One time the man throws on a red suit two sizes too big for him and naturally the media has to latch on to that. And, oh yes, I didn’t kill him.

  Nathan was opening and shutting drawers, clearly looking for something. “Found it,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Just need to use the washroom,” said Tiffany.

  Ahhhh! My pantsuit and wig were hanging on the back of the bathroom door. She’d see it when she shut the door.

  “Anyway,” said Nathan. “Harry wasn’t the guy you see in the paper. He was actually kind of an asshole. Screwed around a lot of people. Never saw that in the news. Just him flitting around pretending to give a shit. I’m surprised it took so long for someone to have a go at him.”

  Tiffany let out a squeal from the ensuite. “Holy crap. What kind of pig is your ex?”

  “She’s a slob. I told you. Why?”

  “It looks like she puked up noodles into the toilet and just left it there.”

  My Pad Thai. How I missed it.

  “For fuck’s sake,” said Nathan. “Guess who’ll be paying the plumbing bill? What a pig.”

  Okay, so there’s a few noodles in the toilet. Get back to how Mr. Potter screwed over so many people. I could hear Tiffany peeing. She didn’t shut the door? How long had these two been dating?

  “I didn’t flush,” said Tiffany, coming back into the bedroom.

  Or wash her hands.

  “Let’s go,” said Nathan.

  “Yeah,” said Tiffany. “It creeps me out being here if that murderer is around.”

  “I’ll protect you. And like I said, he probably had it coming.”

  They tromped down the stairs and I heard the door open and then slam shut, and there I was, alone again in an empty house. I shimmied out from under the bed, and even in the dark I could tell I was covered in dust bunnies. Nate was right about one thing; Diane was kind of a slob. There were huge clumps of dust clinging to my back. I had to get dressed and out of the house. Carefully out, since evidently the neighbor was keeping an eye on the place. Nice for Diane, but it put a definite crimp in my ability to maneuver. I closed the bathroom door and eyed the pantsuit hanging there. There was a rip in the knee from grappling with the slippery, snow-covered ravine. What could I do? It was as good a disguise as any. Looking old and poor seemed to be a recipe for blending into the scenery.

  CHAPTER 23

  I needed to talk to Angie but if the police were banging on doors looking for me, clearly I had to be more careful. I could grab a cab up on Kingston Rd. but that would take most of what was left of my cash. Actually the purse lady’s cash. Heather. Heather would help me. I mulled this over for a moment. Was it fair to involve yet another person in my predicament? And could Heather be trusted? I believed she could. I was usually a good judge of character, and I knew that at heart, under the perfect hair and makeup and well-toned body and excessive interest in all things shallow, Heather was a good person who wanted the best for me. I pulled out the phone and punched in her number.

  After a few rings she picked up, her voice a little hesitant.

  “Heather, it’s me,” I said.

  “Val? Where are you?”

  I decided to skip over that one. “I need your help. And I want you to say no if you’re not comfortable doing it. I’ll understand.” I’d hate h
er forever but I’d understand.

  “Of course I’ll help Val. I’ve been so worried.”

  She did sound worried. “I’ve made a lot of headway trying to figure this all out,” I told her. Why did I keep telling people that? “I need to go see someone from work. I think she might have some dirt on Mr. Potter. Apparently he wasn’t quite the man he pretended to be.”

  “Is that safe Val?” she asked. “The police are looking for you. They came to see me today to ask more questions. They’re pretty sure that you’re the killer. I tried to convince them you’re a good person, but they’re determined to find you.”

  I put Heather on speaker and started climbing into my pantsuit. Unfortunately I got my bad foot caught in the little rip in the knee and expanded it two-fold. “Heather, I’m going to head out in a minute. I’ll call you when I get close and tell you where to pick me up. Does that work for you? I’ll be less than ten minutes.” I thought about this for a minute. “Are the police hanging around the building? Is there any chance you’ll be followed?”

  “I’ve been in and out all day,” said Heather. “I had a date. We just had coffee but it looks promising — I’m seeing him again tomorrow. And I haven’t seen any police.”

  “Good,” I said, as I squinted at myself in the mirror, using the dim light from the phone. Orange hair or grey wig? I plunked the wig back on my head and made a cursory stab at tucking in the loose hairs. “I’ll call in a few minutes. And thanks.”

  “I’m here for you Val. You don’t need to thank me.”

  We hung up and I made the final adjustments to my ensemble. Heather had met someone. While my life is in the balance she’s out with a new man. Boots. I needed boots. I dug around in Diane’s closet and found a beautiful pair of suede boots with a plush lining. They felt so cozy when I put them on my toes curled in happiness. Diane had a tight and tiny body, but our feet were the same size. Might as well add stealing boots to my list of crimes. Or misdemeanors. A lot of this stuff was more of a misdemeanor.