Tea, Anyone

by S. R. Mallery

  “Shouldn’t we send the cops out looking?” Abby asked, wringing her hands.

  Larry nodded. “I’ve already put in a call to Chief Bruner. He––” As soon as Larry’s phone rang, he answered. “Yes, chief. She’s been missing a good six–seven hours. Yes, as I mentioned in my call, Helen Lawson isn’t at her apartment. Do you have any record of another domicile for her?” Then Larry shook his head. “I know, I know. Please phone me the second you get anything. Thanks, chief.”

  Turning around, he faced everyone. “God help her.”

  * *

  Helen clapped her hands twice. “So, you want to hear my sad tale? Well, here goes.” She drew a deep breath and started in. But for some reason, she took her time, rambling philosophically here and there. For dramatic effect? Brooke didn’t care. In fact, she was grateful. It gave her a chance to plan any possible escape routes. Several seconds of perusing the room, she figured there were only two ways out. First was the door she had come through, but Wallie had dragged a chair over in front of it and was stationed there. Yet soon, she could see Wallie was beginning to show signs of fatigue. Too much eating. That could definitely work in her favor. Second, a moldy, low-lying paint-peeled window on the southeast wall sat closed. Was it locked? Who knows?

  On the other hand, although Helen was Looney Tunes, Brooke knew she was also in excellent shape. Bodybuilding, yoga endurance, aerobics shape––you name it––she was toned. That could definitely be a problem.

  “Brooke, are you listening?” Helen’s voice suddenly cut through the room.

  Glancing over at Roberta, Brooke noticed the woman’s shoulders had sagged even further and her eyes looked dull. Poor thing. She’s probably in shock.

  “Bottom line?” Helen continued. “My father was basically a washout and my mother, a control freak. Yes, Madam Nasty constantly told me how naughty I was and, in the tradition of our family, anyone who was bad or stupid, punishment was the only way to drum it out of them. Not just any kind of punishment, mind you. Locked up in a closet or made to sit at the kitchen table with my hands tied and a cloth bag over my head kind of punishment.”

  Ouch. Maybe Grandpa wasn’t so bad…

  “But why––”

  Helen held up a teacher’s index finger warning. “Let me finish. You’re not in control here, Brooke.”

  She smiled. “Anyhoo,” she continued, “by ten years old I was taken away by Child Protective Services. Protective? Yeah, right. My foster care home was interesting, but definitely not protective.”

  Without warning, her eyes glazed over as if seeing something vivid in her distant past.

  Brooke glanced over at Wallie, whose head was drooping. Good. One down…

  “My foster family was dirt poor and needed every cent my being there brought. Highly neglectful, they let me play in the park by myself. At first, that was fine. Great even. But then it turned into a bad dream.”

  She leaned in toward Brooke. “A Whitman family bad dream.”

  “What do you mean? Wynnie and Cathy weren’t even born yet.”

  “Of course, they weren’t born yet. I’m not talking about those two idiots. Their father Joseph Whitman was definitely alive and well back then, and at twelve years old, busy torturing me every chance he got.”

  “Oh. That’s not good.”

  “No, Brooke. It wasn’t.” Helen inhaled-exhaled loudly. “It started one time at the park. He called me names and shoved me. So, I never went back. But that didn’t stop him. Oh, no, not him. He basically stalked me––showing up whenever I was alone somewhere. He even brought a rope one time and threatened to ‘get me’ when I was least expecting it.”

  Brooke shrugged. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you just tell your foster parents?”

  Her voice pitched higher, her words now shrill, Helen snapped at the hostage. “Brooke, you sure ask a lot of questions for someone who isn’t a real detective. Don’t give me that look. Of course, I asked around about you and Henry way back when I first started teaching the class.”

  Abruptly, she started to pace the room.

  On hyper-alert, Brooke saw how her captor’s eyes were now flashing, her mouth twisted with rage as she spat out her words.

  “Don’t you get it?” Helen said, “How could I let those Whitman girls live and carry on their father’s traditions? If I let them do that, they would just wait and get me when I wasn’t looking. Just like Joseph.”

  Wallie, wide awake now, was on his feet trying to calm his cousin down. “Cuz, cuz, let’s do it now. Let’s do them both.”

  Oh boy, here it comes.

  Behind the mouth gag, Roberta’s cries sounded like a wounded animal.

  “Get the shovel and cloth bag,” Helen cried, her eyes bulging so far out, they looked like they were about to pop out of their sockets.

  When Roberta began to gag, Brooke tried a last-ditch stand. “Helen, just deal with me. Don’t hurt Roberta. She––”

  “No, no, no!” Helen screamed. “She’ll tell, just like Ruth Novak told me she was going to do. That’s why I had to get rid of her. Turned out she was definitely Madam Nasty, just like Mama. It was our heritage. I had to get her to save all the children. To save––”

  She stopped mid rant and motioned Wallie to start the shovel swinging. He tossed the cloth bag over to her and headed straight for Brooke.

  Maniacally, Helen laughed. “Too late, you naughty girl. You’re nothing but a––”

  Shattered glass from the splintering window blasted out into the room, raining down a film of shards everywhere as Helen shrieked and Wallie ducked for cover. Suddenly, Tony stood in the middle of the room, coated in minute bits of glass, with his gun drawn.

  He wasted no time. Blind-siding Wallie, he knocked the shovel out of the man’s hands and headed straight for Helen. Grabbing her, he tried to jerk her hands behind her back for a tight handcuffing, but she was too strong. She swiveled out of his grip and came at him, grazing his jaw using a powerhouse punch. He fell back onto the floor with a loud groan, his momentum lost and for a nanosecond, his mouth opened in shock.

  Howling like a banshee, Helen tried to use her body as a battering ram and headed for him again. She never made it. Brooke thrust out of one of her legs to trip her, but it didn’t completely work. The gym teacher would have surely gone flying onto the floor but for her balance-at-all-costs class training. She steadied herself, and with a mighty half-laugh, half-snarl, stood back to gloat.

  “You’ll never get us!” she cried as Wallie ran over to Brooke, snagged a handful of her hair and basically dragged her across the floor.

  Growling, Tony was up, and charging over to Helen, he threw such a full throttle jab, he knocked her against the wall then watched her slide down toward the ground. There, she lay still, her eyes rolling closed.

  But not for long. As Tony leapt over to hijack Wallie, Brooke saw Helen coming to.

  “She’s awake!” Brooke yelled as Tony pummeled Wallie into submission then tied up his hands.

  Helen was already up and squaring off with Tony.

  Really? She taking on a young, strong police detective?

  Helen hurled herself at Tony, fighting him with everything she had––teeth, nails, feet, you name it.

  “Take her down, Tony!” Brooke cried.

  He did just that. Forget his normal male-female niceties, Tony had turned primal. Leaping onto Helen, he used his gun handle to try and cold cock her, but she was too fast. She Tai Chi kicked it out of his hand, then together they watched it go skidding across the floor. Both lunging for the gun, Tony grabbed it first and turned back to attack her again. But her gymnastic training instantly came into play. She performed a perfect back somersault avoiding his grip. Then, rushing across the room, she reached for the shovel and headed straight toward Brooke. As soon as she reached Brooke, with the shovel raised high, she started a downward swing.

  “No!” Tony roared, and squeezed the trigger. Bang! Helen flew backward onto the floor and lay stil
l––completely still.

  Is Helen dead? Despite her shaking body, Brooke wriggled over to Roberta, who was no longer crying. Her eyes were dull, as if in a trance. Shock. No doubt about it.

  Straddling a living but unconscious Helen, Tony turned her over and handcuffed her. As he called 911, he turned to Brooke. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded but couldn’t stop her lips from quivering, her arms from tingling. Soon, far-away police sirens could be heard as Tony untied Brooke and released Roberta. He patted the librarian gently, assuring her all would be all right, then stepped back a pace to let Brooke go over to hug the crying, lip-biting Roberta. Moments later, when he smiled at her, Brooke thought she caught something different in his eyes, but she was too shaken to analyze––anything.

  Within minutes, the room was choking with police and forensic people. Wallie and Helen were taken away, him stumbling outside like the oaf he was, she, stretched out on a carrier, wearing a neck brace, barely moving, and garbling one nonsensical word after another.

  Brooke was confused. Why wouldn’t her body stop quivering? What was she, a novice? A rookie? Willing herself to be strong, she remembered her grandfather’s nastiness, and imaged karate chop inner thoughts. Nothing worked.

  After talking to the police, Tony came over to her. “Brooke, it’s okay to be shaken up by this, you know. I’m sure not feeling great, myself. How about a hug?”

  How weak he must think I am. It was humiliating. Still, that hug offer was mighty tempting.

  “All right, I guess I could use a hug, but don’t think––”

  Strong, warm arms encircled her so fully, she almost sobbed aloud. Instant tears trickled down her cheeks, and in spite of herself, she kept repeating his name. The man sure knows how to hold a gal.

  “Brooke,” he murmured into her ear. “So sorry you went through this. The woman’s totally insane. I’ll make sure she gets put away forever.”

  “Brooke!” Larry’s voice rang out as he charged over.

  Instantly, Tony stepped back to make way for the two childhood friends.

  Larry’s hug was pretty good, too, of course. Yet she couldn’t help missing Tony’s arms around her.

  “Henry, Abby, Martha, and Haley are all here,” Larry told her, and together with Tony, the detectives led her and Roberta outside.

  “Could I see Henry?” Roberta asked softly.

  “Of course,” Brooke said, thrusting a comforting hand out toward her new, hostage companion.

  Outside, the cries and hugs were direct and overwhelmingly loud. Grandma Martha and Haley did not let Brooke go for one second. After comforting Roberta, Henry came over and held Brooke for what seemed like forever.

  But while Helen was hospitalized in ICU and Wallie was deep into interrogation city, something kept popping up in Brooke’s mind. How did Tony know where she was? She had made sure her phone’s GPS was non-hackable.

  When he dropped by the next day to check in on her, that was her first question. Well, her first question secretly was, when was he going to hug her again?

  Nah. Don’t go there, Brooke. He was just being kind.

  “Tony, I was wondering something,” she started. “No one knew where Roberta and I were. Larry told me Helen’s landlady didn’t have a clue where she was.”

  His shrug was matter of fact. “I put a GPS car tracker under your car. You never know. I thought it might come in handy. Just in case.”

  She paused. “I hear you, thanks. So, you did that for Abby, Henry, and Larry, too, right?”

  A flush came over his handsome face. “Well, no. I just thought of it for you.”

  She gulped. “You know, the gang’s all coming over tonight. Can you come?”

  His grin was slow––and mighty infectious.

  “Of course, I can,” he said.

  Sure enough, by seven o’clock, Tony had joined Larry, Abby, Henry, Haley, and Martha in Brooke’s apartment. Celebrations were in order, Larry insisted, no matter what the drink, and even Henry laughed heartily as he held up his ice-cold soda, nicely filling up a champagne flute.

  But as the night wore on, Brooke found herself sinking lower and lower onto the couch, with Junie sprawled across her stomach. Exhausted, unable to listen to anyone anymore, she was about to excuse herself to collapse under the covers when her eyes caught Tony’s.

  They too looked dog-tired, yet there was something else there. A tenderness? Protectiveness? She wasn’t sure, but when she saw his half-smile and slow mini wink, she couldn’t help it. She melted.

  EPILOGUE

  After the hubbub of going through two murder trials, folks in Hillside breathed a collective sigh of relief. Wallie Lansbury was incarcerated forever at a faraway, maximum-security prison, and Helen Lawson, after angling for an insanity plea but failing miserably, was sent away to a penitentiary for life on a multiple murder rap.

  Roberta not only still worked at the library, she was promoted to Lead Librarian, one step down from Head Librarian Margaret Steward’s status. After all, Margaret told her, if she had risked her life in the line of duty, Roberta deserved at least that much.

  Henry decided to do more and more of his research at home, but he did, on occasion, invite Roberta out to dinner. He realized she was a pretty decent person, after all––and not bad to look at. She couldn’t compare with his late wife, of course, but hey, he admitted to Brooke and Abby, maybe it was time to slowly move on.

  Meanwhile, there was a new Fun & Fit instructor at the gym. A young man named Glen. Immediate gossip swirled around town about him, but Salsa Suzette said it best. As soon as his first class was over, she happily announced in the locker room, “Let’s face it, gals––he’s gorgeous!”

  Yet the biggest thing to hit the Brooke and Abby airways was Chief Bruner’s formal invitation for Henry and them to be honored at a police event, to be held at a local bar and grill. That brought on squeals of delight from Abby, from Henry, a “Well, I’ll be darned,” and a couple of hardy “Congrats!” from Larry and Tony.

  Instantly, Brooke was suspicious. Something’s up.

  The timing for the police event couldn’t have been worse. It was scheduled for the same Saturday that Abby’s family had planned a major formal affair at their mansion, celebrating the engagement of one of Abby’s cousins—someone Abby claimed she could do without, but that didn’t matter. Her father’s invite came with a terse, “Don’t even think about not coming, young lady,” followed by a polite P.S. “Please bring your friend, Brooke.”

  Of course, there was a long discussion about their upcoming tight schedule. Abby insisted they start their plan right away. After all, the police thing was at five o’clock sharp. Abby’s cousin’s gala, seven. And with Chief Bruner’s congratulatory speeches, Abby kept saying it might not work out.

  “Chill,” Brooke finally said. “We can easily make it to both.”

  But Abby wasn’t listening. “We’ll have to take a taxi to both events,” she said, her eyes rapid fire blinking.

  “No problem. Let’s take an Uber,” Brooke offered.

  Abby shook her head. “No, no, no. There’s a great taxi service that I use. Uber drivers are not so available here. This isn’t Manhattan, you know.”

  “But what if your taxis are all tied up? Let’s have another option, for goodness sake. Besides, I thought you were the Mellow Yellow one.”

  Suddenly, Abby pursed her lips. “Aaah, we’re fighting again.” She paused. “Does that mean we’re besties, after all?”

  In spite of herself, Brooke chuckled. “I guess it does.”

  According to Abby––and Haley and Martha––because it was going to be such a la-di-dah fancy affair at the Bennett mansion, Brooke had to wear her sexy black cocktail dress. And those contact lenses she had bought but was usually too lazy to wear? They were going to be in that night––or else. Her homework assignment? She had to practice putting them in every night for three days straight before the events.

  Easier said than done. On Saturda
y evening, a half hour before the taxi was due, Henry popped his head into Brooke’s bedroom. Three seconds of the frantic female cluster, and he popped it out again––fast.

  “Oh, boy,” he muttered almost tripping over a curious Junebug. He picked her up with a warning. “Don’t go in there, girl,” he told her. Stroke-stroke. “It’s only for crazy human ladies.” Stroke-stroke-stroke.

  Looking at herself in the mirror all dressed to kill in dangly earrings and a slinky, above-the-knee number, Brooke’s heartbeats were trotting. “I don’t remember this thing being so tight. And talk about revealing. My boobs are falling out all over the place,” she kept saying as her wardrobe aficionadas tried their best to calm her down enough to put in those pesky contacts.

  Martha urged her not to do it over the sink. “They might slide down the tiny crack of the closed drain,” she said.

  Abby worried about putting them in anywhere else in the apartment. It might be impossible to see them if dropped.

  Haley just opted for muttering, “Whatever,” every few seconds.

  After numerous tries, Brooke managed to get them both in. Just in time to receive an avalanche of advice on how much eye shadow, liner, and mascara to apply.

  “Taxi’s here,” Henry announced, and after a panicked search for Brooke’s cell, Haley found it and dropped it into her aunt’s borrowed, trendy purse.

  After Henry herded Brooke and Abby into the cab, they were off, with Haley and Martha gleefully waving them goodbye.

  The Jonesy Bar & Grill might not look so grand on the outside, but inside it could be fixed up just fine. Particularly for whenever Chief Bruner wanted to put on a celebratory gathering.

  The usual, wiped-off-at-the-last minute wooden tables were now covered by red checkerboard tablecloths and were home to little candles inside red glassware. The general lighting had been dimmed for the occasion, and by the time Abby, Henry, and Brooke entered the place at five-fifteen, the din of raucous, drink-infused policemen shook the walls.