Cooking the Books: A Sloane Templeton Novel (2012)

by Bonnie S. Calhoun

  "Oh yeah. Carrying concealed in New York is legal if you have 'carry business' permits. We all have them. I know that's what your ma registered you for. Didn't you pay attention to what you were signing?"

  I stared at her. How did I get to this point? My life seems to have an agenda of its own. Lord, is this you? "Mom just kept harping at me like a fishwife. I really wasn't interested at the time. They explained a ton of stuff. Made me sign all kinds of stuff, and then there was that ink from the fingerprints. Ugh!"

  "Don't you worry your little head about details. I'll get you right as rain on the shooting part." She winked. "We go to the range once a week. Tonight's the night. Would you like to come with us? I'm a certified instructor, you know." Her chest puffed up in pride.

  I stared again. This was becoming my signature position as my brain melted. Actually, the tic in the muscle below my right eye was becoming more predominant too. "Uhm, yeah, okay." This I had to see, if only for the surreal visual of a bunch of geriatric gunslingers.

  I glanced at Fifi's gun. "Hey . . . where's the hammer pullback thingy?"

  Fifi grinned. "This is a hammerless model. It won't get caught on my pocket and flip out of my hand." She snorted with laughter.

  I leaned back in the chair and held up both hands. "All right. I give up. . . . But I still could have shot myself."

  Fifi leaned forward. "No. Actually you couldn't have. Your mom's is a model 64. It's double action. That means the hammer has to be pulled back and the trigger squeezed for it to fire, or the trigger has to be squeezed and held . . . ergo, no misfires."

  I rubbed my forehead with my fingertips. "This is way more than I wanted to know about any gun." And way more than I wanted to know about a bunch of old people running around with lethal weapons. Just the thought gave me shivers.

  At exactly fifteen minutes to five, the first couple of the Granny Oakleys filed in the bookstore. I watched with amusement and a slight amount of fear. The group name had a whole new meaning now that I knew that each of these seniors was packin' heat. And I didn't mean Bengay. It was probably too much information but I was dying to know where they were concealing the weapons.

  Fifi had told me to put on closed-toe shoes and a long-sleeved, tight-necked shirt. I sat at my desk feeling all bundled up from head to toe. It felt like I was going to suffocate in the heat, or maybe it was my angst at being around so many guns at one time. I rolled up my sleeves and opened the neck of my linen blouse so I could breathe.

  "By the time we close they should all be here." Fifi and her noisy bangles breezed by the counter on her way to greet her comrades in firearms.

  Angelica Scarpetti, the longtime family owner of the Italian bakery next door, strutted to the group's table with her fanny pack slapping against her broad backside. Now her I could picture shooting somebody. When I was a kid, I watched her chase her husband, Guido, down Fulton Street, brandishing a long-barreled gun. That was one memorable, hot summer night. She screamed at the top of her lungs that she was going to geld him. It took a lot of youthful years for me to understand that this was not a glowing testament of his moral aptitude. I waved. She waved back.

  Next came Kyoko Takahashi. She owned the sushi restaurant down by South Oxford. Her family didn't have kids my age so I never really knew them. Since eating raw fish was low on my priority list, we kids never patronized her place as an after-school haunt.

  I turned back toward my desk as the bell tinkled, and made eye contact with Augustyn Grabowski. He was "Gus" to all his friends including us kids when we were young. Gus was my favorite person in the whole neighborhood. We thought it was just the coolest thing that an adult would let us call him by his first name, and it didn't hurt his currency none that his son Marc, by his first wife, Sophia, was my first crush. Ha cha. Marc was the captain of our high school football team and every girl's dream date. I even had a shot at him a couple of times before he married the same night we graduated, and then again, after he divorced. I gave up after his marriage-divorce sequence repeated too many times for my comfort. Either the women had figured out something about him that I hadn't or he had lousy taste in women. Neither choice appealed to me.

  I pushed the invoices strewn on my desk into a pile of organized chaos and shoved them into one of the file trays stacked against the back wall. I smelled food. It had to be Mrs. Feinstein. The woman never met a stick of pepperoni she didn't like. She always carried that, a couple bagels, and who knows what else. I once saw her pull out a butter knife and dinner roll. She could probably create a four-course dinner out of that huge quilted bag. But it was always food. Sheesh, who cared about food? When I was hungry, I wanted chocolate, or at least a slice of Red Velvet.

  And Stavros Andropolis. Hmm, what could I say about that geezer? A strange feeling tickled in my chest about him. He was out to lunch about Andreas. I mean really, look at how inept he was at staying out of traffic. I probably should just ask Andreas. But I didn't want him to think the rants of an old man, suffering from a case of mistaken identity, meant anything to me. Still . . . there was a niggling in my mind that I couldn't put my finger on.

  I watched Fifi bend over the table and all heads went into a huddle. As they leaned back up, all those same heads turned toward me. What? At least I knew they weren't all looking at my hair. My do was stylin' now. But they still looked at me. Was I supposed to go over there, or join witness protection because I now knew they were packin' heat? On second thought, all the guns among the group should have made me head for the hills. But did I have the good sense the Lord gave me? No. Sigh.

  Fifi motioned me over. "Sloane, sugah, come over here and meet our club."

  I wrinkled my forehead and squinted. No escaping now. I pushed off from my comfortable perch and dragged myself toward the table as I pasted on a smile.

  "Bring your gun, sugah."

  I raised my hand to shush her. Who was I hiding it from? This was the geriatric cast of Annie Get Your Gun. I cringed when I thought about the firepower in this room right now and how one false move could wreak havoc. I mean, really. Most of these people weren't capable of driving a car, let alone shooting a gun. How do I get myself into these things? I turned back and slid the gun and nylon pocket holster Fifi had given me from the drawer and into my slacks pocket. The added weight pulled on the tied waist of my linen slacks. The padded metal slapped at my leg as I approached the table. It felt like it was trying to remind me that it was my friend.

  I stood there. "Hi" sounded stupid, but I couldn't think of anything else to say other than "Ready, Aim, Fire," and I didn't want them taking out the recently installed globular lights.

  Fifi threw her arm around my shoulder, hugging me to her with several short jerks. "Well, folks, you all know our sweet Camille's child. She's going to join our merry little band."

  Great! Now I'm part of the whistling gnomes or whatever they were, following behind Snow White, er . . . Snow Red.

  "Can she shoot? You know her ma was the marksman of the group," Gus said.

  "You're meshugga, old man," Greta said as she peeled an apple. She pointed the paring knife to her left. "Angelica hits the bull's-eye more."

  "Angelica only hits things that she pastes Guido's face on," said Stavros.

  Everyone snickered in agreement. Angelica crossed her arms across her ample chest. A smile played at the right corner of her lips.

  Fifi raised her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. No, Sloane can't shoot. Well, not well anyhow." She smiled at me as though I was the odd man out, which I was at this point.

  "I'm a quick learner," I beamed. Ugh. What was I so eager to learn? How to make holes in people? Great.

  Several nodded in agreement.

  "That's a girl," said Fifi . "We need to get going."

  The phone rang. I scooted around Fifi and grabbed the handset. "Beckham's Books and Brew. How can I help you?"

  "Sloane, honey," said the soft voice, "I think I'm in trouble."

  I pushed the receiver tighter to my ear. "Who
is this?" The honey clicked. "Verlene, is that you?"

  "Yes," she hissed. "I have a problem."

  My heart felt the fear in her voice. "What's the matter?" I gripped the receiver tighter.

  "I think someone's in the . . ." Scuffling sounds. "Get out of here!"

  "Verlene! Talk to me." No answer. "Verlene!"

  Fifi rushed to my side. "What's the matter?"

  "I don't know. It's Verlene."

  "What are you doing in here?" Verlene screamed.

  Fifi jumped. She heard it too. "Let's go!" She charged for the front door. "You guys watch the store!" She yelled over her shoulder to the startled group at the table.

  15

  I TORE OUT OF THE STORE BEHIND FIFI, AND AROUND THE BUILDING. SHE slowed to dig her keys out of her handbag and I ran past her. It occurred to me that I had never been in her car. I didn't know which one was hers. I stopped at the large sedan next to the Dumpster.

  "What are you doing over there?" Fifi stood beside a hot red sports car with a hood scoop.

  "I-I thought . . . ," I pointed.

  "Let's go!" She hopped into the black leather bucket seat and I scrambled into the passenger side.

  "Did you call 9-1-1?" Fifi turned the key and the engine growled to life. She pumped the gas several times as needles spiked on several meters. The dashboard looked the cockpit of a fighter jet.

  "I am." I wrenched my cell from my pants pocket and attempted to dial as Fifi slammed the car into reverse. We peeled out of the parking lot in a hail of scattered gravel. I was grateful there were no cars behind us or she'd have been paying for damages. I dialed 9-1-1. The car's acceleration drove me back into the seat. I pulled the phone to my face and reported the incident, then shoved the cell back into my pants. Fifi shifted gears. The car seemed to crouch down and growl as Fifi pulled off a slick maneuver between two cars that left my heart back at the curb. We turned onto Fulton Street.

  "Watch out!" I flinched as Fifi nearly sideswiped a woman opening her driver's-side door.

  "People need to watch where I'm going."

  Fifi zigzagged between cars that were going in both directions down Fulton. Horns blared. She swerved around another slow-moving car.

  I grabbed at the dash and glared at her. "We're going to get killed going this fast. You're breaking about a dozen laws."

  "Verlene needs us, sugah. No time to spare the horses." She jammed her palm down on the horn, dodged around an idling car, and shot through the red light.

  "That was a red light!" I squeaked. "We're going to jail." I hung onto the armrest. My heart pounded in my throat, for both Verlene's and my own safety.

  "Good, maybe it will pick up another RMP. We could use a Radio Motor Patrol to plow us a path to her house."

  The car careened left onto Greene Avenue, throwing up a plume of tire smoke in our wake.

  A blue car pulled out of a driveway in front of us. I squealed again. "We're going to get killed!"

  "Stop front-seat driving." Fifi slammed on the brakes, whipped the wheel to the left, and did a skidding swerve around the back of the blue car.

  I shut my eyes. This was the end. That "life flashing before your eyes" thing was gaining merit.

  I clung to the center console as Fifi side- slid onto Carlton Avenue and floored it, throwing me back against the seat again. We rocketed through the Lafayette intersection and then DeKalb intersection amid blaring horns and burning rubber as other cars maneuvered heroically to avoid collisions with us.

  Fifi skidded to a stop in front of Verlene's house. We bounced from the car and vaulted the stairs two at a time. The front door was open. Fifi drew her gun and looked down at my hand. "Where's your weapon?"

  I threw up my hands. "Excuse me. I'm new at all of this." I fished the gun out of the holster in my pocket.

  Fifi shook her head and motioned me behind her as we entered the doorway.

  My hands quivered, relieved that she grabbed the lead.

  The silver phone from Verlene's kitchen lay at the base of the stairs.

  "Verlene!" I screamed, overcome with dread and panting for air. "Verlene, answer me! We're here!" Please, Lord, let her be safe. I couldn't bear to lose her too. Not so soon after Mom.

  "I'm here." A small voice answered.

  I glanced around, scouring several directions looking for the source of the voice. I heard the deadbolt on the bedroom door upstairs disengage. I looked up. I'd forgotten about that safety feature Burt had created for Verlene for when he was traveling out of town. Their bedroom had a steel safety door. God bless Burt for being so smart.

  Verlene, clinging hand over hand to the banister, scrambled down the stairs in her stocking feet. I pulled her into my arms and burst into tears. "I was so scared for you. Are you all right? We called the police." I checked her over for damage and rubbed the tears off my cheek with the back of the hand holding the gun.

  Verlene pulled her head back and held me at arm's length. "What are you doing with a gun?"

  I stuck the gun back in its holster in my pocket. What's wrong with me? This is twice in two days that I've pulled a gun. Did I really have enough nerve to pull the trigger? "It was Mom's. I decided I needed to learn to use it. We were on the way to the shooting range when you called."

  "Your ma sure did love her gun." Verlene shook her head. "She said it made her feel secure. Ugh! That's what I have locks for."

  My face flushed at the stupidity of brandishing a weapon that I probably had no intention of firing. The sad point was that I'd probably do it again.

  Fifi walked through the first-floor rooms but quickly returned. "It's all clear." She hitched a thumb over her shoulder. "The French doors in the kitchen are open. They must have gone out that way as we were coming up the front. What happened?"

  "I was in the kitchen when I heard the front door open." A pained expression crossed Verlene's face.

  Fifi walked to the front door. "How did they get in?" She ran her hand along the outside edge of the door.

  Verlene lowered her eyes. "I didn't lock it. I just ran in from Tracie's and I was going back next door after I grabbed the cheese grater."

  "How many were there?" This neighborhood is not safe. Could I convince her to move?

  "Three. One of them had a gun. He was waving it around real nervous-like and they knew right where they wanted to go. They opened the doors to the library first thing."

  I glanced at the intricate mahogany wainscoting running the length of the hall, only interrupted by the two doorways. The first led to the library, while the second, closer to the kitchen, opened to the living room and dining room area.

  "Do you think it was just coincidence? They were the first set of doors inside the house?" I wrapped my arm around her shoulder.

  "No. They knew. When the first guy looked in the library, he motioned the other two inside and basically ignored me."

  "How did you get upstairs?" Again, I was blessing Burt's dearly departed soul for thinking of that panic door on the bedroom.

  "I ran upstairs when they went inside the library. One of them tried to grab me by the leg as I was going up the stairs, but I kicked him in the face and kept going."

  "So that's why the phone is on the floor." Fifi holstered her weapon and bent over to pick up the phone. She handed it to Verlene.

  At that moment, I could hear the police siren as the car turned onto Carlton from DeKalb.

  Verlene pulled back from hugging me again. "How did you beat the police here?"

  I grimaced and did a glance at Fifi . "I came by jet with Mrs. Andretti."

  Fifi beamed at her obvious driving skills, and closed her jacket over her weapon.

  I looked around. Nothing looked disturbed. "What did they look like?"

  Verlene sat down on the steps and put her head in her hands. "It was three guys in black clothes and stupid ski masks. Can you imagine that in all this heat? Ski masks, of all things."

  "What did they want? Money? Drugs?" I rubbed her shoulder again.

&
nbsp; Verlene looked up and slapped her hands onto her knees.

  "The only drugs I have in this house are the Tylenol in the medicine chest. And I'm smart enough to keep my money in the bank. Your guess is as good as mine."

  The three of us crowded into the doorway of the library. The disturbance around the desk was obvious.

  Verlene ran toward the desk, searching around the jumble of papers, folders, and trays. "They took the book."

  This had to be connected to her opening her mouth in the beauty salon this morning. I wanted to strangle and hug her all at the same time.

  Two police officers—one tall and lanky like a basketball player, and the other average height with a barrel chest—hurried up the front stairs and entered the open doorway.

  The officers stared at us congregating in the hallway. "Someone called about a break-in? Were there any injuries?"

  I stepped forward. "This is my aunt, Verlene Buford. She's been robbed of a book that she recently purchased." I wrapped my arm around her shoulder for like the third time. "I think the only thing hurt at the moment is her pride."

  The tall officer examined the door frame. "It doesn't look like there was a forced entry. Are there any other ways they could have gotten in?"

  "No. They came in the front door. I saw them. It's my own fault," said Verlene. "I was going back next door to Tracie's. The door was unlocked. How stupid can I get?"

  "It's all right, Verlene. We all make mistakes." I patted her arm and pulled her back close to me. "Just please don't do it again. My heart can't take it." Verlene nodded.

  "You said they stole a book. What book and how did they know where it was? Show us where it was located," said the tall, lanky officer, as the barrel-chested one used his shoulder unit to call detectives to the scene.

  "Unfortunately, Verlene has told numerous people about her recent purchase. It was a valuable cookbook." I raised my eyes to the ceiling. I was beginning to use mannerisms just like my mom. She used to do that eye roll every time she felt exasperated with me. Sigh. Another revelation. I have become my mom. I took Verlene by the hand and motioned toward the library.