“Actually I’m not all that worried,” I said and told her that Carol and Jennifer were looking out for me.
“Splendid, dear,” she said. “Those two can be trusted. Except not to try to escape.”
“I think I can count on them. Mother? Who’s watching the store? Joe?”
“Yes, dear. I’ve told him we need his services until I can get you cleared.”
I wondered if that was going to take a while. “Have you heard from Jake?”
Jake was my fourteen year-old son, living with my ex in Chicago.
“Yes, dear. He wants to come and support you in this, but I told him that this felonious charge against you would soon be dropped.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Whether I believe it is not as important as Jake believing it.”
“Do you think he does?”
Mother’s eyebrows went up. “Of course. Do you know a more accomplished actress?”
I let that pass, then asked, “What about Peggy Sue? What does she know about this?”
Peggy Sue was my birth mother, who I’d long thought was my much-older sister; Peggy Sue was in D.C. with her husband, Senator Edward Clark, the father I never knew about . . . until a few years ago.
Mother shifted in her chair. “Naturally, Peg’s very concerned.”
I grunted something like a laugh. “About how my arrest may affect the senator’s reelection, you mean?”
“Well . . .”
“Never mind.”
She frowned. “Dear, I need to cut our visit a little short so I can see Sheriff Rudder about getting you protected.” She pushed back her chair and stood. “Give my love to Carol and Jennifer.”
And then she was gone.
Back in the common area, lunch was over. I hadn’t had a chance for one bite of mine before Mother’s visit. Tamicka, Lupe, and TFF were watching television; Carol and Jennifer were playing cards at the picnic table, and I went over to join my bodyguards.
“Was that your lawyer?” Carol asked, taking her eyes off her cards.
“No,” I said. “Mother. She says hello.”
“She have anything else to say?” Jennifer asked eagerly, as if craving more news.
I certainly wasn’t going to mention The Penis Papers, so I said, “Only that she’s concerned about Three-Fingered Frieda maybe wanting to get even.”
Carol put her cards on the table, facedown. “You told her we’d look out for you, right?”
I nodded.
She shrugged. “Well, then, no worries. Hey, want to join us in a game of poker?”
“Texas Hold ’Em, Seven-Card Stud, Omaha Hi-Lo, or Crazy Pineapple?” I asked. At community college, it’s just possible I spent more time in the student lounge, playing cards, than attending class.
Jennifer’s eyes widened, and she looked at her partner. “Maybe Brandy shouldn’t join us. She may be a ringer.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, sitting down next to Carol. “I’m lousy at all of them.”
Tamicka and Lupe also wanted in—TFF remained in front of the TV—and the next hour passed quickly. True to my word, I was the worst player and was glad we weren’t playing for money.
After Tamicka came out on top, the game broke up, and Tamicka and Lupe rejoined TFF in front of a soap opera, which left Carol and Jennifer and me at the table.
After a moment, the younger woman asked, “Brandy, would you do something for Carol and me?”
“What?”
The two exchanged looks, and then Jennifer said, “Well, we done a story about our almost escape, and since you wrote some books, would you maybe take a look at it?”
“Sure. Where is it?”
“In my room.”
We left the table and went to Jennifer’s cell, which was two doors down from mine.
While Carol stood in the doorway, I followed Jennifer to the bed, where she lifted the mattress, then pulled out some sheets of paper. She handed me the pages, and I leafed through them.
They were blank.
Puzzled, I look up from the pages to find that Jennifer had moved next to Carol by the door; then Three-Fingered Frieda strode in, and they stepped aside.
Carol shrugged. “Sorry, Brandy, but Frieda’s top dog, and we gotta do what she says.”
“Yeah, sorry, kid,” Jennifer said, clearly ashamed, gazing down at her orange tennies.
Then my so-called bodyguards left, closing the door.
“Well, Brandy,” TFF said, smirking, coming toward me. “I thought it was time we had a little chat. . . .”
A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip
The inventory record of your antiques should be updated as new items are added or others are sold. Keep a copy in a different place than the original, like in a bank safe-deposit box. Mother, in honor of the Great Depression, has her copy buried in the backyard, in a plastic Baggie. Maybe she remembers where she buried it.
Chapter Five
Unlucky Streak
Dearest ones! This is Vivian, aka Mother, seizing the narrative baton from my darling jailbird daughter, Brandy.
But before I continue with our exciting story, I’d like to give a shout-out to Ms. Blanca Contreras of Cape Coral, Florida, for sending a letter to our editor at Kensington, requesting that more chapters be written by yo. As a result, our esteemed editor has promised to bring the notion up in her next staff meeting. While said editor’s response was not everything I had hoped for—nothing quite beats a resounding affirmation!—it does represent a tentative first step, a bold editorial toe in the water. So keep up the campaign, boys and girls and ladies and men!
Plus, I’m happy to report that my five-thousand-word limit per chapter has once again been lifted (after having been lifted, then reinstated, and lifted, then reinstated). Bless all of you who have contributed to that latest effort via snail mail, e-mail, tweets, and blogs. Protest demonstrations outside Kensington’s office have not yet been necessary. But we keep our options open!
I’d also like to take the time—now that the unfairly restrictive word-count limit has been lifted—to respond to Mrs. Agatha Bertwistle, who wrote to me from Middleton-in-Teesdale, Durham, England, asking if I have ever had a face-lift. While I consider this an impertinent question, I appreciate the interest, nonetheless, and will answer: No, I have not. I have been blessed with resilient Danish genes—except for those that gave me a bipolar disorder, depression being a recurring problem for a populace forced to sit staring at fjords—and the paltry wrinkles that I do have, I wear with pride, as each one tells a story (granted, some of the stories are not worth telling). Lines of character on a mature face are well earned and to be expected!
Moles, on the other hand, are not, and when I find one of those, I beat a path to my dermatologist’s door so he can get rid of the offensive thing by freezing it with liquid nitrogen. (He also killed the spider veins on my legs by injecting them with a saline solution through a tiny needle. FYI: After about fifteen minutes of the procedure, you’ll want to scream—but hang in there. It’s worth the pain to once again wear shorts in summer with confidence!)
Returning to Mrs. Bertwistle’s question, I will admit to borrowing a trick used by the aging Bette Davis, which is to pull sagging facial skin back behind the hairline using tape and rubber bands (kits available on the Internet). The process is quite uncomfortable, so I resort to it only for special occasions, like class reunions or having my driver’s license photo taken.
Which in the latter instance, incidentally, was a disaster due to the tape on one side coming unglued and rubber bands going flying just as the picture was snapped, and now I’m stuck with a photo of a half-young-looking, half-older-looking face, as well as some blurred unidentified objects by way of those rubber bands. I believe the disaster occurred when I was instructed to remove my glasses for the picture, a ridiculous dictum considering my license, back when I had one, was restricted to use of eyeglasses. And I’d forgotten that some of the rubber bands were secured to my frames. Shouldn’t a
taxpayer be granted a take two in the case of catastrophe? Anyway, since most people hate their driver’s license photos, the state could get some extra income out of charging for such retakes. Fortunately, I don’t have to show my license too often, particularly now that it’s been marked invalid.
(Note to Vivian from Editor: You are dangerously close to having your word count reinstated and your artistic license revoked, photo or no photo. Now please get back to the story at hand.)
(Note to Editor from Vivian: Yes, ma’am.)
During my jailhouse visitation with Brandy, I tried not to show the child how very concerned I was about her being incarcerated with Three-Fingered Frieda. By the way, I could have come up with a better pseudonym for that vile woman, but out of respect to Brandy, I will go along to get along. (Digit-Challenged Dotty, perhaps? Seven-Fingered Sally?)
Where was I?
Oh yes. I’m sure Brandy, due to my thespian abilities, wasn’t aware of my unease. And I was comforted somewhat by the fact that she was in a state-of-the art facility, which, by the way, I played a substantial role in getting erected after my first stint in the old crumbling, bug-infested jail. After all, a woman’s first time is special, no matter how disappointing!
Anyway, I left Brandy, determined to do something about the dangerous situation she found herself in.
After being escorted out of the visitation area by a young male deputy, I collected my purse from the locker in the main lobby before making a beeline over to a Plexiglas window behind which sat a middle-aged female dispatcher with permed brown hair and a bank of computer screens.
“Vivian Borne to see Sheriff Rudder,” I said, “and do shake a tail feather, if you would, my dear.”
She took her eyes off the monitors, stared at me as if I might be an apparition, then spoke joylessly through a microphone embedded in the window. “I’m afraid he’s busy right now, Mrs. Borne.”
“Is that what he told you to tell me?”
The dispatcher said nothing.
“He does know my daughter is a guest of his facility, does he not?”
The dispatcher shrugged.
So I said, “Remind the sheriff, if you would, of the time he lost his gun and I happened to find it and returned it to him, with no one the wiser—except, of course, you now.”
She swiveled to a multiline phone, spoke low into the receiver, then swiveled back.
“The sheriff will be out in a minute.”
“Thank you, dear.”
You just have to know how to handle people.
I walked over to a row of plastic chairs hooked together next to a couple of vending machines and sat, the sole soul in the waiting area.
Knowing Rudder would most likely keep me waiting—a “minute” being a relative term to a ranking civil servant—and never one to sit twiddling my thumbs, I retrieved my cell from my purse to pass the time by playing Candy Crush.
The object of the game is to match different candies to earn points and advance to another level. The only problem I had with it was that afterward I always got a terrific hankering for something sweet. Imagine how the easily impressionable might react! I wondered if the candy cartel was behind it all.
I had been playing the game for about five minutes, craving Life Savers, when the locked steel door to the sheriff’s inner sanctum opened and the big man strode out. He was tall and carried his weight with confidence. If I squinted, I could see in Rudder something of the older John Wayne; he even walked a little sideways like the Duke. Was that on purpose? Of course, corns or hemorrhoids might be responsible.
I stood as the sheriff approached.
“What is it, Vivian?” he asked, not bothering to hide his irritation. How very ungracious.
“Were you aware that Brandy is inside with Three-Fingered Frieda?” I demanded, knowing full well he had to be.
Rudder, rather blandly, asked, “Why? Has Brandy complained about being threatened?”
“Not directly,” I admitted, then added quickly, “But her position is obviously perilous. And I must insist that you do something about it!”
The sheriff rocked back on his heels. “And what would you suggest?” His tone seemed unnecessarily patronizing.
“Oh, I don’t know.... How about moving Three-Fingered Frieda to another facility!”
He shook his head. “Not possible. She’s been remanded to the county jail by judge’s orders. But I could put Brandy into solitary confinement, if that would make you—and her—feel better.”
“It would not!” I snapped. “Why should Brandy suffer? Isn’t this a little ungracious of you, considering that my daughter and I handed you that murderous woman on a silver platter? Why don’t you put her into solitary?”
“I could, and will, should she threaten Brandy. Until then”—he shrugged—“things stay as they are.”
I whipped up a few tears. The actress calls upon sense memory for such things. “That could be closing the barn door after the cow escapes!”
“You mean horse.” The sheriff’s expression softened, and he placed a hand on my shoulder. “Vivian, nothing is going to happen. I have full confidence in our guards.”
I certainly didn’t, particularly that lackadaisical louse Patty.
Rudder was saying, “Now, you go on home, Vivian, and stop worrying, and leave this to us.”
“All right,” I sniffled. “Perhaps I am overreacting.”
Apparently satisfied with my reaction, the sheriff turned and sideways walked back to the locked steel door, Pilgrim. True Grit, my bunions! It was clear I would get no satisfaction here.
There seemed to be only one way to protect Brandy, only one way I could make sure she was safe inside....
And that was if I was inside, too.
Which could mean only one thing: I had to get myself arrested.
But first, I needed a sugar boost. I walked over to a vending machine. Outside, I stood on the sidewalk, snarfing Skittles, considering options. Whatever I came up with couldn’t be too drastic—like robbing a bank or setting a building on fire—because I wanted to be incarcerated only long enough to make sure Brandy would be all right. And, anyway, setting a building on fire would be wrong.
By the time I finished the Skittles, I had my plan.
Since Brandy’s arrest late Tuesday night, I had been surreptitiously driving the C-Max around town, rather than utilizing forms of legal, but inconvenient, transportation.
So far, I’d gotten away with my deception by disguising myself to look like Brandy while in transit. I would snug on a blond wig that was similar to the dear girl’s hairstyle and don one of her youthful-looking coats. The only snag in my resemblance is that I wear glasses and she doesn’t. But I’ve solved that little problem by not putting on the specs till I’ve gotten where I’m going.
(Granted, I’d made a few minor flubs. This morning, on my way to see Brandy, I mistook someone’s driveway for a street, plowed into their yard, hit a plastic garden gnome, launching it into outer space. A few blocks later, I found myself on the wrong side of the road, with a Toyota coming toward me. What was that reckless driver’s idea, going so fast? I managed to swerve back into my own lane in the nick of time, but as our cars passed, the other driver, male, shouted something that wasn’t fit for mixed company, so I yelled back, “Cheerio!” in my finest British accent, which would provide an implied explanation of my blunder.)
Right now the C-Max was parked in a residential area not far from the center of justice, and soon I was behind the wheel . . . but this time as myself. Then I drove the short distance to the police station and parked across the street, just a little ways down so that I could watch the comings and goings of the boys (and girls) in blue.
After a few minutes, Officer Munson—what luck!—came ambling out a side door and headed to a row of police cars in the adjacent lot. He was well aware that my license had been suspended! As he got behind the wheel, I turned on the C-Max and gunned the motor, or at least as much as a hybrid motor can be gunned
. When he eased his vehicle to the mouth of the lot and paused to check for traffic, I shot away from the curb, tires squealing.
Zooming past him like Mr. Toad on his wild ride, I yelled out my open window, “Lovely day for a drive, isn’t it, Officer?”
I picked up speed—going well over the twenty-five-mile-an-hour limit—and, after two blocks, eased over to the curb and shut off the motor to await my imminent arrest.
A check in my rearview mirror corroborated that Munson was in pursuit, squad car lights flashing, siren screaming. Goodie!
I rehearsed my lines: “Sorry, Officer, but I can’t show you my driver’s license.... Seems I don’t have one! In fact, it’s been suspended five times. So book me, Danno!” (This would make a nice little nod to Hawaii Five-O—the original seventies series, not the remake!)
So you can imagine my astonishment when Officer Munson did not pull in behind me but sped on by, obviously responding to something more urgent than arresting little ole me! Maybe someone had robbed a bank or burned down a building.
That meant I had to concoct another scheme to gain entry to the hoosegow, and one came to me when my stomach—apparently not satisfied with mere Skittles—growled.
A few blocks away on Main Street was George’s Bakery, a speciality doughnut shop, where those who serve and protect liked to stop for a mid-afternoon coffee break. With any luck, I’d find a few officers there. Clichés become clichés for a reason, you know.
So I was elated when I walked in and spotted two patrolmen seated at a table, their backs mostly to me, cups of java before them. They were a Mutt and Jeff team, known to me from past encounters on the Amateur Sleuth Trail. The tall, thin one was Officer Kelly; the short, stocky sort, Officer Schultz.
Schultz was saying sotto voce to his partner, “Chief’s not gonna be happy till he finds out how those drugs are comin’ in.”
“Why, hello, Officer Kelly . . . Officer Schultz,” I said, greeting the pair cheerfully.
Antiques Frame Page 7