Honestly.
“Say something, David.”
“Mrs. Sanders, it’s freezing in here.” I hugged myself, rubbing my arms, the bottom half of me bouncing, trying to get the blood flowing. “Could I have a blanket?”
“You may have this, David.” She tossed something in my lap.
It was multicolored, Valentino, about the size of a wallet. I opened it, then zoomed it in and out, trying to focus.
“Is this a calendar?” I flipped through. Month after month of clustered red hearts and single black Xs, this month noticeably missing a black X. I’ve been a girl long enough, all my life, to know exactly what I was looking at.
“Take it to the Brazilian doctor,” Bianca said. “Find out what’s wrong with you.”
“What’s wrong with me?” Which is when a terrible moonshine truth came into play: You can sleep it off, give it an ice shower, throw Super Excedrins at it, and it’s still going to take two days to sober up from it. The moonshine spoke up and said, “Mrs. Sanders.” The moonshine shook the Valentino calendar. “I can save myself a trip to your doctor. This is called menopause.”
We were in Bianca’s day room—full ocean view, all mirrors, glass, white fur rugs and white leather furniture, and someone standing on the other side of the door dropped a china cabinet. The noise of the crash bounced off the mirrors, walls, and marble floors, and Bianca, stunned, didn’t react to the blast, because she was too busy being shocked by what (the moonshine) I’d said. And so was I. But (the moonshine) I kept going. “I can drop everything, Mrs. Sanders, have Dr. Caden drop everything to get here, and let her look over this,” I shook Valentino, “only for her to tell me you’re in your forties and life as you know it is about to change.”
The room grew still.
I’m not sure I heard myself right.
The headline would read: It was Mrs. Sanders in the White Day Room with her Bare Hands.
My head fell as I watched a lonely tear cut a path straight down Bianca’s cheek. I squeezed my eyes closed and wanted very much to turn back time. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Sanders.” Her large (large) chest rose and fell steadily. “I shouldn’t have said that.” I didn’t know she owned a tear. Had I known, I’d have never guessed I’d be the one to drag it out of her. Waving a white flag, I whispered, “I could be wrong.”
Nothing from her.
“It could be, Mrs. Sanders, it looks like…” I wasn’t about to say the word again, “…one thing, but it’s really another.”
I might be onto something.
“Maybe I really should talk to Dr. Caden.”
Nothing.
“I will, Mrs. Sanders. I’ll call her right now.”
Nothing.
“Because,” I was fighting for my life, “sometimes it looks like one thing when it’s another.”
Something was tickling the back of my brain. The front of my brain was full of moonshine and run for your life, Davis.
“We need to look at the big picture, Mrs. Sanders.”
Nothing.
I collapsed against the cold leather at my back. Passing through my brain were the words big picture, big picture, big picture.
The room was so eerily quiet, I swear I heard her open her mouth. I grabbed the sides of the chair, bracing myself. She took a deep breath and met my eyes dead on. She finally spoke, a calm whisper. “I’ve gained two more pounds.”
Choosing my words so very carefully, I said, “Big picture, Mrs. Sanders. Look at the big picture. Muscle weighs more than fat.” (Hail Mary Moonshine Hail Mary Moonshine Hail Mary Moonshine.)
“Are you saying that, David, or do you believe it?” No venom from her. Something was so wrong.
“I truly believe, Mrs. Sanders, there’s more to this. I think I should have taken all the evidence into account before I jumped to a conclusion.”
She was absentmindedly twirling a lazy pattern on one of the dogs’ heads with a finger. Gianna, I think. She didn’t look up when she said, “You may go now, David, and close the door behind you.”
It’s Davis. And Davis needs a nap, so she’ll be rested when Bianca has decided how to kill her.
* * *
Davis didn’t wake up from her nap until eight o’clock that night when a cat with four wet paws jumped on her. Cue Davis screaming.
What really woke me up, though, were the white water rapids. Lugging the cat under my arm, I tracked the raging river to the kitchen, where water was gushing from the bottom of the refrigerator in a flood. I sloshed through, cat in tow, and gathered my phone, my laptop, and a note from my husband. Dinner with the Mayor and City Council. Get some rest. No more moonshine for you.
First, I hacked into the maintenance department’s operational site and turned off the water main for the 29th floor. Next, I pulled all three magnolia bedspreads off all three magnolia guest beds, and used them as mop rugs in the kitchen, the cat trailing behind me the whole time. Cat and I settled on a magnolia sofa in Who Dat Hooters, ordered room service pizza—pepperoni for me, anchovy for it—and it was then I remembered the thing I’d been trying to forget: The conversation I’d had with Bianca. I checked my phone and email, nothing from her. She must still be putting my end-of-life plan together. Nothing from Mr. Sanders, Bradley, or No Hair on the subject, so she obviously intended to act alone; no witnesses. I figured I’d better hurry and get a little work done before she kills me.
If I found the platinum, I could redeem myself in four million ways, and Bradley’s last memory of me wouldn’t be humiliating him with my failed attempt to get in the Bellissimo vault. Or the moonshine. Or what I’d done to Bianca. I didn’t know which of the three was the worst. I did know this week needed to be over.
Logging into the Bellissimo facial-recognition software, I loaded these pictures: Holder Darby, Christopher Hall, Conner Hughes, and Magnolia Thibodeaux. Because I needed to look at the big picture. One of these people stole the platinum.
“Stop playing with your food, Cat.” It was standing in its pizza box, batting at the anchovies, tossing them through the air, then pouncing on them. It finished its pizza first, stared at me while it licked its paws, and not only did I not have a drop of water, I didn’t have enough computer screen to hold Holder Darby and Christopher Hall. Not one hit on Conner Hughes or Magnolia Thibodeaux with each other or the other two, but major paydirt on the couple. Holder Darby and Christopher Hall weren’t casual acquaintances. Back in the day, according to the photos, they were inseparable. And there was no doubt in my mind they were together now.
“Cat.” It was still working its paws. “Let’s go downstairs.”
For one thing, I had no water, and wanted to hot shower away the last traces of Pine Apple moonshine. For another, I might finally be on the right track and needed more computer; I couldn’t always be the keyboard cowgirl I needed to be on a laptop. I packed a quick bag—pajamas, fuzzy slippers, cat—stuffed my hair into a big floppy hat, out the Creole front doors, and caught the elevator.
We made it to 3B without incident. There, in my pajamas, with the cat asleep on the sofa, I placed the first piece of the puzzle. Holder Darby and Christopher Hall. They’re together. I didn’t know if they’d been abducted, and if so, by whom, or for what reason, but there wasn’t a doubt in my mind they were together. I didn’t know if they ran, where they would’ve run to, or why, but all the evidence says they ran together. And I don’t know what got into me to talk to Bianca that way, but I know she’s going to get me back.
I sat at the computer desk rolling my chair between four screens for the next two hours. Searching every Bellissimo database within my reach—surveillance, accounting, photo archives—I found nothing even halfway connecting Holder and Christopher to Magnolia and/or Conner Hughes. If evidence existed that these people interacted, it was not to be found in the Bellissimo system.
I did learn a few interesting things. Holder Darby, never married, originally from Horn Hill, Alabama, was from a banking family on her mother’s side. It was when Holder’s career Air Force father was transferred to Keesler Air Force Base in Gulfport that the family moved to Mississippi. Holder was thirteen. She’s four years older than Christopher Hall, who had a record before he was convicted of involuntary manslaughter and counterfeiting: two driving under the influence charges.
Magnolia Thibodeaux, back in the day, had a Bellissimo boyfriend. A leathery-skinned pool boy who wore his messy brown hair cut in a mullet. The grainy surveillance video and old pictures caught him and his guitar case running in and out the Big Easy Haunted Flea Market more than her husband Ty had.
Conner Hughes? Next to nothing, which I found in and of itself interesting. No wife or kids, no girlfriend, no golf or tennis. He lived in a modest split-level ’70s home in a boring neighborhood. He paid off the house twenty years ago, had no credit card debt, and drove a dull four-door sedan. Conner Hughes might be the most uninteresting man on Earth. The only thing I found remotely resembling a life outside the vault business was a board seat at an organization called Greater Oakridge Animal Shelter and another board seat at Crestview Animal Control.
I was on my way to see what manner of animal Conner Hughes was interested in controlling—termites?—when my phone beeped with a text from my husband: Davis. I just took a call from someone on Dionne Warwick’s team. There’s no water next door in the Leno Suite. Do we have water?
Fifteen
The saints came marching in at 7:01 on Thursday morning. My eyes popped open and I bolted up. In the bed: one cat, zero husbands. Neither I nor Bradley had left this building in days, and yet we hadn’t had an actual conversation since I can’t remember when. The moonshine, I guess, was the last time we were face to face, and that was a blur. I fell back on my pillow, but then there were the saints again. I may be the only person in the world with a doorbell that plays a bagpipe rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” And we couldn’t find a way to adjust the volume, which was set at ear-splitting. I had a big note over the doorbell (NO!), but everyone could see the flashing fleur-de-lis under my warning and rang it anyway. My feet hit the floor jogging to make the saints stop.
I looked through the leaded glass and copper bars to see the distorted image of the all too familiar Sears repairman uniform. I cracked the door. “Can I help you?” I tugged at my t-shirt, hoping I was wearing something underneath.
“I’m here to replace the defrost timers on the refrigerator.”
Of course he was.
I opened the door and hid behind it. “Help yourself.”
Sadly, he knew the way. All the Sears guys knew their way around Bayou Bungalow, except for when Sears hires a new repairman, which I hate, because I have to go through the new guy’s shock and awe. “Cool! Awesome! There’s Jesus! Damn, lady!” On the other hand, one day Sears might hire an appliance repairman who actually knows what he’s doing, so there’s that.
“I came on Monday,” Sears said over his shoulder, “but the lady who was here wouldn’t let me in.”
“What?” I used the magnolia tree for cover. “A lady was here?”
“Yes, and I told her if I didn’t replace the timers in the freezer, that big slab of ice in the ice bin was going to thaw and the drain wouldn’t be able to handle it, which would back that ice into the input line and freeze it, then it would thaw and the whole thing would blow. And what happened? Exactly that.”
“What’d she look like?” Erika Cleaning Woman would have let Sears in. Erika Cleaning Woman was very well versed in all things Sears, because she was the one who had to clean out the refrigerator when everything turned green and grew fuzz.
“Who?” Sears asked.
“The woman who wouldn’t let you in.”
“Mean,” Sears said. “She looked mean. And she had a mean little friend.”
Magnolia. I knew it. I knew she’d been here Monday. Did I not tell everyone she was here and no one believed me? “Hold that thought, Sears.” I got in another half mile jogging back to the bedroom to pull on a pair of shorts. I got all the way to the kitchen door when I decided a bra might be in order. As far as being productive today, I was well ahead of my own game. I’d already worked out, and so had the cat, racing back and forth with me.
“So you came Monday?” Sears had kicked the wet bedspreads out of his way and was on the floor with a flashlight. I looked at the coffee pot. I had no coffee because I had no water.
“The lady said come back later.”
“What was she doing when you got here?”
He looked up from the floor. “I have no idea,” he said, “but she was holding a welding torch.”
Of course she was.
I ran to the alligator gumbo bedroom, grabbed my phone, and ran back to the kitchen, stopping along the way at my Igloo refrigerator and grabbing three bottles of water so I could make six cups of coffee, all of which I needed. (Two miles in. Before coffee.) I hopped up on the counter and poked my phone to video. “Sears. If you would. Tell me the whole story again. I’m going to record you. For the insurance people.”
Sears fluffed his hair, smoothed his moustache, sucked his teeth, then tipped his head back and sang, “La la la la la!” He looked at me. “Warming up.”
“Let me know when you’re ready.” I’d been filming the whole time.
He cleared his throat, then held up three fingers, starting the silent countdown. When he got to one: “Good morning!” And I still hadn’t had a single sip of coffee.
Sears told the whole story again while I recorded his testimony. I prompted him a little. “A welder, you say?”
The cat was on the counter beside me, eating a crunchy fish-shaped breakfast Bradley had left for it, ignoring the interview.
“All I saw was the torch,” he angled for my phone, “but I recognized it. Craftsman. One of ours.”
“Would you recognize her again if you saw her?”
“Well,” Sears said, “maybe if you put a welding helmet on her.”
I stopped the video, thanked him, and hopped down to try to make coffee around him. He said if I needed any additional footage to give him a call. Whatever he could do to help.
“Now, let’s see what we got here.” Sears opened the big red freezer door and an unexpected gush of ice water, gallon upon gallons, poured out. He danced around. “Shit! It’s cold! Shit!” He used his wet boots to scoot one of the bedspreads back to the fridge, while I pulled open a drawer and tossed magnolia kitchen towels at the new tidal wave.
While we were mopping up, the cat, who’d been eyeing the open freezer door, propelled itself past us in a big yellow blur, through the air, between me and Sears, and into the freezer. It landed in a cavernous freezer bin somewhere near the middle and let out a yelp. Dammit.
“What the hell?”
“It’s the cat,” I told Sears. “It’s so nosy. Gets stuck everywhere. You’d better stand back. It has a bad habit of going for your head when it’s scared.”
I don’t know where or how the “meow” business started, because I had yet to hear anything close to “meow” come out of this cat. This cat could be where the Emergency Broadcast System got its siren.
Sears scooted backwards, pushing the dam of wet blankets and dishtowels behind him. The cat was screaming and running circles inside a freezer pull-out bin the size of a grocery buggy. Here I go, rescuing the cat again. “You got yourself in there, Cat. Why can’t you get yourself out?” I pulled on magnolia oven mitts so it wouldn’t scratch me to death, then reached in for it. The cat let me know it didn’t like the oven mitts by having one of its loud and obnoxious cat fits and attacking them. Not one sip of coffee yet this morning, not one sip.
“You want me to help?”
“No, Sears,�
� I sighed over my shoulder. “I got this.”
I pulled the freezer bin out an inch and wedged my head in. “Cat. Come on. It’s me.”
It was plastered against the back wall, letting out tornado warnings and trying to murder the magnolia oven mitts. I couldn’t reach it, and that’s how deep this damn refrigerator was, so I pulled the drawer out as far as I could, then another inch, and climbed in farther. Now I was half in and half out of the freezer. I could barely hear Sears over the cat. “Are you sure you don’t need help?”
“I’m good.” What I needed were ear plugs. Between my voice and the cat’s car-alarm distress, bouncing around a plastic box, I’d go deaf before I got the cat out. “Just stand back, Sears.”
Four seconds later, I heard Sears let out a war cry as a Boeing 747 landed in my kitchen. It shook the whole red refrigerator.
Cat and I froze. We stared at each other. Its eyes were big green marbles, its mouth gaping open. I could see all its dagger teeth and its white sandpaper tongue.
“Sears?” I tried to pull out, but now I was stuck. “Sears? Are you okay?” I could hear the Bellissimo crumpling and Sears crying out for help behind me, and somehow I found the adrenaline to escape the freezer, scraping the hell out of my shoulders and slamming my head into the ice bin above. I slid across the wet floor to rescue Sears, who was under the statue rubble of Saint Somebody. “What happened?”
“I have no idea! The damn thing fell over on me!”
He must have backed into Saint Somebody and sent it toppling off the concrete base. Saint Somebody had crashed down, all over Sears. He was covered in Saint Dust. He would have been covered in Saint Dead had Saint Somebody not been caught through the middle by the granite island, cutting itself in half and splitting the island straight through the middle.
I pulled Sears up from the wreckage, my phone began ringing, and we both turned to the cat, who’d decided it wanted out of the freezer, but was now trapped between the bin it flew into and the ice bin above, which I’d knocked loose with my head, and the cat didn’t have enough room to squeeze through.
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