The Immaculate Deception

by Sherry Silver

  Well, that was a dirty rotten trick, opening my door, uninvited and siccing a dog on me. “Oww!” I glanced down. I had a paper cut on my foot, from a cardstock hangtag. I picked it up. Jorge’s Cleaning Service was the advertisement.

  I locked the door and threw on the deadbolt. I couldn’t believe I forgot to lock up. Oh my God, hopefully Jorge hadn’t tried the knob and opened it. Was he in here? I fumbled with the locks. I yanked the door open and lurched outside. Scooby Doo-ette barked at me.

  I asked the girls, “Did you see a man go into my house?”

  They shrugged their shoulders and continued petting the barking dog.

  “How long has my door been open? All night?”

  Scooby Doo-ette took off after a motorcycle. The oldest girl, about six or so, said, “I dunno.” She and her younger companion chased after the dog.

  I’m not going back in there until I know where Jorge is. I paced the sidewalk and looked around. A Fairfax County Police cruiser was parked in the driveway across the street. Good, the cop is home. I tugged my silk belt tight and scurried over. I glanced over my shoulder as I climbed the red brick stairs to his stoop. I pressed the button for the doorbell.

  I started to run my hands through my hair but they got stuck in a soapy tangle. My pulse quickened. Oh God, I must look like…

  A sleepy bald man, dressed only in red silk boxer shorts, yanked the door open.

  He didn’t say anything. Neither did I. I was staring at his fly. It gaped partway open.

  Finally he said, “Can I help you?”

  “Um…I was in the shower, a dog came in, I chased her out and discovered my front door was open. There was a hangtag on the floor, Jorge’s Cleaning Service. I’m so afraid he’s in my house.” I turned and pointed to it.

  He pivoted back into his house and grabbed a handy firearm. “Wait here. Get in my house. I’ll check it out.” He scrambled past me, down his red brick stairs, across the black-blue asphalt street and then up my brown brick stairs.

  I stepped inside his house and shut the door. A white candle flickered on the table in the hallway. A photograph of an elderly woman, a pair of pink plastic ladies eyeglasses and a set of false teeth were positioned on little gold pedestals surrounding the candle. This was some sort of shrine. Perhaps to his mother? Okay, this was freaky. I stepped back outside, made sure his door was unlocked, pulled it shut and roosted on his stoop, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. I waited and waited. The letter carrier buzzed by in her Jeep. Two cars came, three went. Oh no, Jorge has the cop…

  My neighborly cop came out of my house and marched over to me. “He’s not in there. No one is. I checked every room, the basement and the attic. Did you lock your door last night?”

  “I dunno. Maybe not.”

  “Well, mine blows open once or twice a month, always when I have the kids for the weekend. The girls don’t shut it all the way. You have to push on it after you shut it to make sure it clasps the lock.” He smiled. “It’s safe to go and finish your shower. Be careful of the big puddle on the floor. I slipped in it.”

  “Oh I’m so sorry.”

  He tucked his gun in the back waistband of his boxers. “It’s all right. I needed to wake up anyhow. My name’s Dick Fiddler.” He stuck his…hand out.

  I tried not to giggle as I limply shook it. “Donna. Donna Payne. Thanks so much, Officer. If ever I can repay you I will.”

  “I’d like to take you out to a concert sometime… But I guess your boyfriend wouldn’t like that too much.”

  What boyfriend? “Huh?” I pulled my robe tighter. This guy was nice and brave and a cop and all but, eww, he wasn’t my type.

  “Well, if you guys break up and if I’m not seeing anyone at the time and then maybe we can get together? Since you like clean-cut guys and all…”

  “Um…I need to wash the shampoo outa my hair before it sets like cement.” I hurried down Officer Dick’s steps, across Spyglass Street, up my steps and into my house. I slammed the door and shoved hard until it clicked. After locking it, I hurried upstairs. My boyfriend? Since I like clean-cut guys and all? What was this cop talking about? Oh…it must be Ashley. She must have a boyfriend and the cop had seen him a time or two, coming and going. So she liked clean-cut guys. I grinned, finally learning something about her.

  I wiped up the puddle in the bathroom with a purple towel and wrung it in the separate soaking tub. I shook it out and hung it horizontally over the side to dry. I picked up the shower curtain. Full of brown dog fur. Plus the ring holes were ripped. I wadded it up and shoved it in the raspberry-colored wastebasket. I grabbed the bottle of conditioner, my turquoise washcloth and a bar of soap. I headed into the hall bathroom.

  I turned the knob all the way toward me. The water was hot instantly. It figured, why couldn’t the master bathroom be closer to the water heater? I stepped into the tub and shower combo and guided the beach-motif curtain shut. It felt good to stand under the hot spray again.

  I tried to picture dating the cop. Eww, no I couldn’t. Okay, so I could get past that he was wrinkled, bald and had a woolly back. But I’d gotten a big glimpse at his hairy Harrys and eww! They were pink with purple polka dots. Honest. Eww!

  I decided to focus on today. I’d call Arlington and find out when the service was scheduled for. Gosh, hopefully I wouldn’t miss the funeral if it was first thing this morning. This Washington rush hour traffic was exasperating.

  After applying hair conditioner and washing my body and then rinsing the conditioner out, I toweled off as I stepped inside my walk-in closet. I quickly dressed in a dark blue pinstriped skirt suit, with a white blouse. I shoved my feet into navy pumps and then hurried into the bathroom. I combed through my hair, applied lipstick and mascara. I clasped on a strand of pearls and matching earrings. I grabbed my big tortoiseshell barrette, a matching blue purse to complete the outfit and trotted downstairs.

  I tiptoed and stretched up to the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet over the phone. Grasping the Virginia phone book, I yanked it down. I let the cabinet door bang shut and then thumbed through the pages. I found the listing for Arlington National Cemetery and called them.

  They hadn’t heard of my Nathan Lucifer Payne, born in 1914, served in the Army Air Corps during World War Two. Honorably discharged. Nope. Well, they didn’t doubt there once was such a man, it was just they didn’t have him scheduled for burial.

  So I flipped back through the book and found the listing for Acme Funeral Home. The discount, no-frills alternative, so their ads said. Sure this was where Tammy had his body sent. Frugal as she was with her dwindling inheritance. I called.

  A bubbly lady answered, “Acme, this is Penny, how may I help you?”

  “Hi, this is Donna Payne. My father is being…is with you…um, he’s to be buried and I called Arlington and they didn’t have him scheduled this week. I was wondering if you—”

  Penny interrupted. “Dr. Nathan Payne?”

  I sighed in relief. Good, she was on top of things. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “He’s done.”

  “Okay good… Whaddaya mean he’s done?”

  “He was a turn and burn.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m sorry, hon, I mean he was brought to us and cremated within a few hours of his arrival. Just like his other daughter instructed. She is stunning and when I found out she was a personal trainer, she gave me a card for a free trial—”

  I dropped the phone onto the counter and threw my hands up on my cheeks. Oh my God! I couldn’t believe that witch did this! I picked the phone back up. Penny was still talking.

  “She didn’t leave an address to send the ashes. Do you want them, hon?”

  Do I want the ashes? Oh my God! No. Eww! Too creepy. But they’re Daddy’s ashes. And Daddy wanted a proper Christian burial, with the military honors he deserved, at Arlington National Cemetery. Oh my God!

  I hung up on her. I had to. I didn’t have an answer. Not one I could speak out loud
and not be ashamed of.

  The phone rang to the tune of “We Wish You A Merry Christmas”. I cringed. Then I realized I might as well pick it up. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if it were Daddy calling to torment me from the hereafter. So I timidly answered. “Hello?”

  “Oh-Donna, Perry here. I’m at Dad’s house with the estate tax assessor. He is putting wildly inflated values on their flea market junk. You’ve gotta get over here and do something—”

  “Perry, do you know that Tammy had Daddy cremated?”

  “What?”

  “I just called Arlington and they didn’t have him scheduled for burial. So I called the funeral home. You know, the one they used for Pap-paw. Acme. The lady said Tammy had him burned up the same day he passed on.” Tears of anger trekked down my cheeks.

  I heard Perry’s voice cracking.

  He said, “But…but Dad always talked about having a proper Christian burial with full military honors. I was gonna be a pallbearer…” He sobbed.

  “Perry, see if you can get that tax guy or lady to take a coffee break or something. I’ll be over in about an hour, traffic permitting. Hold on, honey.”

  He sobbed. “Okay.”

  I hung up.

  As I drove down Route Seven, past the scene of my accident, I braced myself. I was so worried that the power of suggestion would cause me to steer into the ravine. But I didn’t wreck again. No, that wasn’t my fate today. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  I wondered what would’ve happened had I not wrecked. Would I have gone to Dulles Airport, gotten on the plane to the writers’ conference in New York, said to hell with my nutty ball-breaking family and lived happily ever after?

  Or would I have gotten to my parents’ house in time to stop whatever kind of domestic violence incident was transpiring between my parents? It didn’t really matter because he didn’t die that day. I did arrive before he passed away. From cardiac arrest. It was his time to go.

  But I would’ve definitely stopped Perry from having Momma hauled off to the insane asylum. I’m gonna have to deal with that. I’m so ashamed I haven’t busted her out yet. I’ll handle the tax assessor, then I’ll go over to the hospital and see what I can arrange for Momma. Tears trickled down both of my cheeks.

  I thought about Perry. The mighty giant of a man crying on the phone at the news of what Tammy had done. We united in our grief for our daddy. We were one, for a moment in time. Maybe this could bring us together?

  This time, I crossed the Roosevelt Bridge into Washington. No problems whatsoever. I made it safely through all the intersections where the red light cameras were installed. Tammy and Perry would be glad that there wouldn’t be any tickets with Momma’s car pictured. The greedy so and so’s.

  Wonder how many Momma had racked up.

  Perry’s black Cadillac CTS was gleaming in the driveway, so I parked on the street behind a brown BMW. I turned the wheels to the curb like Momma had taught me. I scooted out and plodded up the steep overgrown grass to the front porch. The dangling gutter glumly saluted me. I turned the doorknob. It opened. As I stepped in, Perry shoved me back out. I asked him, “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re here, I’m gone. The real estate agent is coming at one. List the house as it is. Unless you want to foot the bill for repairs. Don’t disclose any defects, keep your mouth shut, Oh-Donna. And don’t forget to advertise for the estate sale. And make sure you rent a cop so the ghouls don’t clean the place out during it. It shouldn’t cost you too much, a hundred or so for the day, just your pocket money. And mow the lawn, this yard is full of Japanese beetles. Do something about the standing water out back in the wheelbarrow. Don’t want mosquitoes breeding and giving someone West Nile virus. They’d sue. Remember, as soon as you get the creditors paid off and the assets liquidated, I’ll get it pushed through probate and Tammy and I’ll get our fifty-fifty shares.”

  My mouth hung open as I watched my so-called brother climb into his car and ride out of my life. That’s right, Perry. So much for us having a bonding moment, coming together over losing our daddy. You’ll never see my little face again.

  Tammy and Perry get a fifty-fifty split of the estate. Doesn’t that just drop the final turd on my place in the family toilet? Momma would get nothing, the house was never in her name and they didn’t recognize women as creditworthy back in the sixties when they bought the house high on the hill. Little Mount Vernon was what we fondly called it. Not that Momma didn’t pull in most of the income after Daddy lost his livelihood in the seventies. And she was in no legal position to fight it now. But at least she did have a good pension, plus Social Security, so I should be able to get her into a nice retirement community. A lot of the credit cards they used for the house expenses were in Daddy’s name, so they were mostly his debts. I’d see they were paid in full. Shoot, I’d probably have to send change of address forms out, so the bills would come to my house. No, wait. I’d just have them forwarded. I’d rent a PO box. I didn’t want any of his creditors knowing my address.

  I scrambled back into the house and shut the door. I saw neon blue. Everywhere. I wandered around upstairs. Neon blue sticky notes were affixed to the couch, tub chair, mantel clock, dining room table, chairs, buffet, china hutch, every piece of china. In the kitchen they were on the mixing bowls and toaster. I opened the broom closet. There were stickies on the box of trash bags and cleaning supplies. They all had Property of Tammy Payne stamped on them.

  She’d swooped in and selected things. The balls of that beast. I heard a clicking noise. I followed it into Momma’s lavender bedroom.

  A fancy-looking suit was bent over the back of her wide-screened television.

  Loudly, I said, “Hello?”

  The suit stood up and turned to me. His pretty dark black face smiled with bright white teeth. Done up by the dentist, no doubt. “You must be Oprah.”

  I must be Oh-prah. What a way to get on my bad side. “I am Ms. Payne, executrix of Dr. Nathan Payne’s estate. You are the tax assessor?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m Jonathan Jomomma. I’m just finishing up. I’ll have to print everything out for you but you can ballpark expect the estate tax bill based on the personal effects to be in the range of a hunert and twelve thousant dollars.” He tapped on some sort of electronic hand-held inventory device.

  “Are you blind?”

  “Ma’am? That’s not nice. I know my glasses are thick but I can see just fine.”

  “I’m not talking about your corrected vision. There’s not a hundred and twelve dollars worth of junk in this hovel. You can’t possibly be serious about taxing us on that amount.”

  He straightened his designer spectacles and buttoned his pricey suit coat. With righteous indignation, he strolled past me and said, “One hunert and twelve thousant dollars is not the value I place on the estate furnishings. That is the amount of tax I am assessing.”

  I opened my mouth but nothing suitable came to mind to retort. I followed him outside. He opened the door on his new-looking brown German motorcar.

  I said, “I’m sorry. You’re just doing your job. And I’ll do mine…Jomomma.”

  He slammed his door and drove away. I went back into the house and closed and locked the door. An evil smile on my lips, I felt a sense of revenge. No, I guess it’d be more like a little old-fashioned karma coming round. A hundred and twelve thousand dollar estate tax bill, just on their belongings alone, which would take a huge chunk out of the siblings’ loot. I laughed. And laughed until a big teardrop erupted from my left eye.

  Ding dong. Ding dong. I hummed the tones. Ding dong. Ding dong, the bitch is dead. Which old bitch? The wicked bitch. Ding dong, the wicked Tammy is dead. And Perry too, Perry too, he fell into her witch’s brew.

  A rapping noise on the door broke my evil spell. I squatted down and peeked through the hole. I saw a giant nose. I stepped back and then peered again. Now a huge spider. No, eyelashes. I opened the door.

  A woman popped up. “Hi ya. I’m Carla Calamari. Judge Payne s
aid that I should come by and list the house. You must be the executor, his half-sister, the one with the mother that murdered the deceased?” She shoved a business card in my hand.

  Determined to compose myself before exploding, I stared at the card. Most professionals had their name, company name, address, phone, fax and email info on their horizontal business cards. Maybe the company logo. This one was printed vertically, on pink cardstock. Carla Calamari, Acme Real Estate. One phone number. And a full-length color photo of herself? The photo was of a woman with a Coke-bottle figure. The lady standing in front of the dangling gutter was a three-liter jug. I giggled.

  “Well, honey, let me in to have a look around.” Carla shoved past me and waddled around the house. Opening cupboard doors, flushing commodes. She was done in less than two minutes, I’d say.

  I kicked off my navy pumps and curled up in the leather tub chair. Tammy’s sticky note stuck to my hair. I yanked it off and tried making an origami bird with it.

  Ms. Squiddy the real estate agent said, “Okay, this run-down pigsty is a big challenge. My cousin-in-law Marty can paint, rip out the carpets, refinish the hardwood, remodel the kitchen, update the bathrooms, rewire and replumb the place to code, insulate the attic, replace the porch columns, gutters and concrete stairs for ya. It’ll probably be in the range of two-fifty.”

  I sprung up. “Two hundred and fifty dollars? He’s hired. Can you arrange to let him in, I live and work in Virginia—”

  Carla made a tutt noise and said, “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. This crap house needs major renovations. It will implode if I so much as blow on it.”

  “Hey, rude lady, you’re talking about Little Mount Vernon, my happy childhood home. However, since every minute that ticks by makes me face up to the realization that my happy childhood was only make-believe, we might as well be like the big bad wolf and huff and puff. Yes, Carla, let’s blow on it. Yo ho, blow the wretched house down.”