In Daddy’s old gold Chrysler, I catapulted myself over the river, around the beltway and exited into College Park, Maryland. I knew my sister was living in the new Svenson Luxury Apartments. I didn’t know which one exactly but I had no other choice. I had no one else to run to.
~*~
My dash radio glowed an amber twelve seventeen a.m. Well, no sense in checking in at the management office in the middle of the night. Man, I needed to pee. Great, now what? Wonder what time the fast food restaurants closed. Not that I recollected seeing any recently. Shoot.
I circled around in the complex. Thank goodness it wasn’t a gated property. Hey, there it was. Tammy’s cute little pink Mazda Miata. It had a Rocky’s Gym magnetic cling logo in the rear window. I backed into the space next to it. Oops, I thought I was over the line, so I had to pull out and try again. Make that four tries.
There wasn’t a planet visible. So dark. And deserted. I cracked my windows and turned the car off. It wheezed and clunked and spewed. Grasshoppers and tree frogs were infringing on what should have been a quiet after midnight.
Okay, so I’d just go on in and check the mailboxes to see which unit Tammy was in. I bet she was in the penthouse, so she could keep her tiny tush tight by running the stairs.
What was her last surname du jour? I slapped the seat. The vinyl split. Great. Let’s see, she was married to Gannon and Gates, Richards and Menendez, Kim and oh shoot—the drummer. What was Abdul’s last name? My car door flew open. I screamed. So did Tammy.
She said, “Oh-Donna, you scared the shit outa me. Shush. Why didn’t you call?”
“I need to pee.”
“Come on.”
I closed the door and followed my adopted sister as she used her key to open the glass doors to the foyer. Hmm…so I couldn’t have gotten in to look at the mailboxes anyhow. As we passed them, I asked, “What was Abdul’s last name?”
“Smith.”
“Smith?”
“Yes, Smith. So what?”
“I couldn’t remember your last name, so I didn’t know which apartment you were in.”
“Payne.”
“Payne?”
“Yes, Payne. You have a problem with that?”
I didn’t. I was right about her and the stairs and the penthouse thing. Oh I hoped my bladder held out. It did.
I made use of Tammy’s plumbing and wandered around her apartment. I closed the coat closet door. Pet peeve of mine, couldn’t stand to see the insides of closets. Hers was stacked full of round wig boxes with handles and latches. During her makeup artist days, Tammy had acquired many high-quality Hollywood wigs. I joined my adopted sister in her functional galley kitchen. She had a teakettle whistling. Even in the middle of the night, my sister was show stopping.
Tammy poured orange and spice tea. “Take the mugs into the living room.”
I did. The dark royal blue walls of her living room nearly matched the mural on the long windowless wall. A bridge into Manhattan at twilight. I didn’t know which bridge. It had a scalloped pattern of wire supports and a chain of lights photographed as star bursts. The buildings reminded me of a stereographic equalizer, the way the lighted units within patterned themselves. I stared at the wall. Wow, Tammy had rope lights. A string of white lights around the ceiling line added class to the motif. She did have good taste.
My sister sashayed in, with a package of tea cookies from Giant. The kind made of shortening, sugar and sprinkles. I smiled. “You remembered.”
Tammy said, “Yeah.”
We both smiled. I said, “You and me and Momma. And a big old fire in the living room fireplace. Orange and spice tea and Giant tea cookies.”
“Oh-Donna, I’m glad you came. I’ve been uneasy about some things with Perry for quite a while now and I don’t know, my sixth sense or ninth life or somethin’ has really begun to haunt me.” She blew on her tea and tasted a dainty little sip.
I eyed the cookies. I wanted to devour the whole pack. But no, no, Donna. Carbs.
“To heck with Dr. Atkins and his controlled carbohydrate diet.”
Tammy said, “What?”
“Sorry, didn’t realize I said that out loud.”
Tammy studied me like she took pity, what with Farts telling her I was brain damaged.
I picked up a cookie, the one with a chunk missing. Might as well just taste a little smackerel. And it wasn’t a whole cookie. I bit into it.
Tammy said, “Perry’s been acting peculiar…” She let the word hang for emphasis as she picked imaginary lint of her white silk lounging pants.
I licked fluffy crumbs off my lips. Oh was that partial cookie heavenly. I washed it down with the tea. I didn’t put any sugar in it. “Peculiar how?”
Tammy cleared her throat. She stood up and sashayed over to the sliding glass door and peered out through the vertical blinds. She turned the Oriental jelly jar lamp off and meandered back over to the door. She opened the blinds. Just enough to let the darkness in. She paced around. “He’s been bossing me.”
“So.” I yawned. “He’s tried to boss me my whole life.”
“Oh-Donna, that’s different. I mean he is like ordering me to do things.”
I rubbed the outside corner of my right upper eyelashes. “What kind of things?”
“He told me to open up a bank account.”
“Go on.”
“He wants me to open up a bank account in one of my old names.”
“Which one?”
“Gannon.”
I played around with the idea in my head. Why would Perry need a bank account? Of course! He was going to cut the sheets of hundreds and use sweet little Tammy to deposit them for him. Let me guess, he’d instruct her to go to a male teller and the poor guy would be so hypnotized by her breasts, he wouldn’t check the bills for authenticity. Did Perry steal the money I swiped from him back from me? He’d known that I’d taken the will, so he might have found out about the money as well. But I couldn’t tell Tammy about the hundreds. As soon as she smelled money, she’d harass me like a vulture. On top of that, she was already greedy enough.
“He probably is looking out for your future. When you two divvy up Daddy’s estate, you’ll need a safe place to stow your loot. The FDIC only insures individual accounts up to one hundred thousand dollars, you know. No telling how many banks you’ll need to spread out your inheritance in.” I suppressed a big giggle. She couldn’t make out my expression in the dark—well, I couldn’t see her face anyhow.
“Really?” She sounded happily surprised.
“Yep.” I stretched out on her leopard print chaise longue. Oh yeah, babe. This felt comfy. My mouth salivated for the rest of the cookies. I shut it off by draining my tea mug. My mind was still busy. What was Perry up to? Did he want the money because of his mother? She had been found dead in her bathtub with a sheet of uncut hundred-dollar bills stuck to her back.
“Tammy, what do you know about Vera Blandings?”
“Perry’s mom.”
“What else?”
“She’s dead.”
“What else?”
She shrugged.
“How much money do you think I’ll inherit, Oh-Donna? Have you been through their stocks and bonds and real estate holdings yet? Make sure you find all of them. How much insurance did the old boy have?”
My stomach wasn’t feeling so well. I was being punished for the carbs. “Can I have a slice of cheese?”
“No. Come on. Give me a ballpark estimate. And low-ball it. I want to be surprised at how much I actually get. How many digits? Seven, eight?”
“Please, my tummy’s upset. Can you spare a slice of cheese?” I walked into her kitchen.
Tammy followed me and slammed my arm in the refrigerator door as I was trying to remove a pack of American cheese.
“Hey!”
“Oh-Donna. I’m getting an accountant to go over every cent. Now don’t you try to embezzle. And in light of your finally diagnosed mental deficiency, Perry will get you remo
ved as executor anyhow.”
“Executrix.” I forced the door open, yanking a new twenty-four-slice package out with me.
“I don’t have a mental deficiency.”
“Yes, you do. Doc Goldfarb said you had narcotic leprosy.”
I laughed. “You’re a Dalmatian calling me Spot.”
“What?”
“You ain’t so highly functioning yourself, sissy.”
“Don’t you call me a sissy, Sissy-girl.”
I snatched the cheese and shoved past her. As I left the apartment, she said, “I bit off that cookie you ate. And licked it too.”
~*~
I didn’t fancy going back to my place yet, so I drove over to Little Mount Vernon. Perhaps Momma had returned. I parked under the carport. I ducked under the gutter, still dangling over the two-story-high porch roof. I pressed on the yellowed doorbell. Come on, Momma, fling open the door and hug me. Nothing. Old Bully’s barking next door caused a light to switch on across the street at the Meddlesteins. I turned the doorknob. It didn’t.
I fished Momma’s keys out of her purse. I let myself in. As soon as I shut the red colonial door, I threw the deadbolt. Then I switched on a light. A low wattage bulb in the chandelier above me yawned on. The fixture was designed for three but two had long ago burnt out. Interesting comparison to us kids.
Well, I couldn’t sleep on the couch that Tammy and her boy toys commandeered. The only furniture left was Daddy’s tub chair, the curio cabinet, Momma’s bed and lingerie chest and the old trunk and freezer downstairs. The bed it was then.
I dropped my blue bag with Momma’s purse at the foot of her bed and looked at the lingerie chest. It was five feet tall, walnut, with seven drawers, all straight up in a column. I gave it to Momma for Christmas a few years back. That’s what she’d wanted. Might as well rifle through it, maybe there would be some receipt or scribbled note that might lead me to where in the world Momma could be. I began with the top drawer. It was stuck, a brassiere strap in the back was caught. I yanked and tugged and pulled the whole drawer out. The bra was caught under the edge. I dumped the rest of them on the bed and turned the drawer over. The bra was caught on a brown interagency government envelope that had been duct-taped to the bottom.
My pulse quickened. Oh boy. I’d bet there was something really good in here. I pried the bra loose first. Both little wire hooks pulled out. I sighed. I’d ruined one of Momma’s brassieres. I’d buy her a new one. The duct tape was kind of brittle, it must have been on there for a long, long time. I removed the envelope and sat at the foot of the bed. I grasped the end of the red thread that was wrapped between two hooks on the envelope and unfastened it. I pulled the flap open and emptied the papers into my lap.
The one on top had a red Top Secret stamp across the heading. My adrenaline flowed. I felt like I was in an old spy movie. I looked around the room, making sure I was alone. I read the slick gray photocopy.
Top Secret
United States Secret Service
Case Number A–1945–201793
Report from Agent Lambert
02-01-45
One thousand sheets of uncut $100 notes have been removed from the Washington Bureau of Engraving and Printing. They are defective, with a portrait on both sides. Strongly suspect Bureau of Engraving and Printing Police Sergeant Bill Blandings of stealing such.
BEP Personnel Director Myron Wimpledink offered to let me in on a sure thing, a zinc mine which he had inside information on. I went along and gave him ten dollars to invest for me. He is giving me cash returns on my dividends and they are defective US currency printed here but not destroyed as they should have been. I have gone along with his scheme.
Instead of having an ah ha! moment, I was very paranoid and suspicious. This was just too neat and tidy. Why should I find this top-secret report about stolen hundred-dollar bills right after I discovered them in Perry’s office and after they were stolen from me? Someone was setting me up. Manipulating me. Guiding me? No. It must be a prank although admittedly a very convincing one. If Daddy weren’t dead, I’d accuse him. Or was it for real? I looked the document over. It looked real enough. It even had that old musty paper smell. I yawned. I was definitely too sleepy to weigh up and analyze the facts. I shoved the papers back into the envelope and stuffed them in my purse.
I slept in Momma’s bed. I rested in the mattress depression on her side. Snuggled right in. Womb-like. The scent of her Chanel No. 5 on the lavender pillowcase lulled me into a beautiful, dreamless slumber.
~*~
I woke up to the garbage truck backup beeping. Between the twice-weekly garbage pick-up and the once-a-week recycling pick-up, things always seemed to be beeping. The sun was up on Wednesday morning. I yawned and stretched and wondered what to do. Well, I was out of work for at least a week. But I needed to find out who stole my stolen money. I now knew it was counterfeit money from the forties that Momma had investigated. I shuddered and wrapped my arms around myself, thinking about someone invading my home. Well, I deduced that my dear half-brother, or should I say brother and a half, the ornery Judge Perry Payne, procured the contraband from his mother Vera. That made sense considering she was Bill Blandings’ first wife and he was the one Momma had suspected of stealing the bogus bucks in her report. Or else whoever murdered Vera left it as a calling card? Okay, two theories to work on. That was good. And according to the tabloid site, Daddy had passed a lie detector test, so it wasn’t him. He was a lot of things but I couldn’t fathom him as an ice-blooded killer. No, Dr. Nathan Payne had helped hundreds, perhaps thousands of new souls take their first breath. His calling was to create life, not snuff it out.
Okay, so either Vera owned the counterfeit bills, which she got from her first husband Bill Blandings, or else the killer printed them up. Or maybe the killer was trying to frame a guy that had counterfeit money? Hundred-dollar bills. Oh my goodness. That was the name of my story. How que-winky-dinky was that? Old Hundred Dollar Bill was my villain, not the hero. Yeah, that was probably why no one wanted to publish it. Whoever heard of a romance novel named after the villain? I had gotten my inspiration from stories Momma used to tell me about her glory days in the Secret Service. But I had never thought that my book was based so closely on a real-life case. So Hundred Dollar Bill was Bill Blandings. Maybe I should pitch that when trying to sell my book. Would give it another edge.
I made Momma’s bed and fussed around, displaying her eleven assorted throw pillows just so. I wanted it pretty for when she came home. I found myself humming. Hmm…I was still wearing my pajamas. I’d borrow something of Momma’s so I didn’t have to drive straight home.
I opened the dark walnut closet door. “Tammy! Darn your greedy little perky butt!” The closet was empty. I stomped over to the lingerie chest. I opened the drawers one after another. They were filled with unmentionables except for the bottom one, which was full of old junky papers. Yellowed newspaper clippings. I glanced through them. A recipe for corn pudding. An article announcing Perry’s appointment to the court. An article on lens replacement surgery for cataracts. I remembered her trying to talk Daddy into this. He’d have been able to see if he went through with it. Next was a recipe for lemon meringue pie. Oh yeah. This was delicious, she used to make it in the summers. I unfolded a big sheaf and folded it back up. JFK’s obituary. Momma had been one of his bodyguards. She must’ve been devastated.
I emptied the drawer and neatened the pile on my lap. I tried to shove them back in. But they caught on something. I tugged the drawer out until it locked in place. There was a crumpled-up piece in the back. I wrestled it out, it ripped a little bit.
Chapter Thirteen
I stuck it on top of the others and smoothed it out. I resituated and sat on my feet. The headline caught my attention.
Betrayed By Bogus Bucks
Myron Wimpledink, former director of personnel at the United States Bureau of Engraving and Printing in Washington, DC, was sentenced to life in prison for the murder of Secret
Service agent As—
Dag nabbit, there was a chunk missing.
—ricin and corn cockle poisoning.
Another chunk missing.
His girlfriend, Shirley F—
There was a big smudge over her last name.
—is serving ten years for her part in the counterfeiting scheme.
British Secret Service agents Ebonezer Cox and Donald Drake are awaiting sentencing. William Blandings, thought to be the principal ringleader, was a former police officer at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. He is the husband of Alfred Hitchcock’s ingénue, Vera Blandings. William Blandings is still at large.
Secret Service agents credited with cracking the case are Michael Taurus and Chloe Lambert as well as Robin Blair, of His Majesty’s Secret Service.
I swelled up with pride. Wow, my momma did crack the counterfeit case. I guess that meant that the report I found earlier was real. Momma must have used the lingerie chest to store some of her Secret Service memorabilia. Even though keeping a top-secret document probably wasn’t all legal. Right. I tried adding up the facts in my head. So Bill Blandings, Hundred Dollar Bill, hadn’t been alone stealing the money. He’d been in league with that guy Myron Wimpledink and his girlfriend. Even two Secret Service agents had been dirty. And Momma had busted all of them. Sweet. I slipped the articles back in the drawer and shoved it closed.
I stepped across the hallway to Daddy’s room. Nothing left in there but his dresser. And two old plastic milk jugs that he used for urinals. Maybe his dresser would also be a treasure chest like Momma’s. After all, he had told me that the veterans’ insurance policy in which he allegedly named me as beneficiary was in there. I probably had missed it the first time around when I searched his dresser. I rifled through his belongings. Nope. Again. Not in here. Well, I guess I should have known. Nothing but black socks with the sides slit and half unraveled. I pictured him doing that with toenail scissors to give him some relief from his swollen feet and ankles. Tammy had taken everything else.
The Immaculate Deception Page 21