I held out my wrists. “Are you going to cuff me?”
“No,” Mia said with a slight smirk. “I have a hunch if I made an arrest, you wouldn’t resist.”
Her police car was double-parked out front, its lights flashing, and soon she deposited me in the backseat, behind the grill. We made the short trip to the station, where I was taken in through the back, led down the tan-tiled corridor, and dumped in a small, stark interview room containing only a table and two chairs.
Mia left, and I heard the door lock behind her.
I sat for a good five minutes, wondering why I hadn’t been booked, when finally the door opened and Tony bulled his way in. He was not wearing his usual office attire, but rather a casual ensemble of green sweater, jeans, and tennis shoes.
Surprised to see him, I burbled, “Why, Chiefie dear, I thought you’d left town!”
But I quickly realized he looked to be in no mood to be called “Chiefie.”
He pulled the other chair roughly away from the table and sat, his eyes hard as bullets, his mouth a thin line, his chin set. “I was on my way, Vivian . . . but then got a call about you.”
I shifted in the hard plastic chair. “Sorry, Chief Cassato. I really didn’t mean to involve you.”
“Well, now I am involved,” he snapped. “Look, I know you’re concerned about Brandy being inside with a felon who she helped put away—so am I—but I talked to the sheriff, who assured me your daughter’s not in any danger.”
“Oh, really? In season one of Prisoner: Cell Block H, Bella was attacked in the shower room by Martha. And in season six of Bad Girls, Frances was given poisoned coffee by Tanya. Not to mention that in Orange Is the New Black, season two, Red was knocked unconscious in the greenhouse by Vee when she hit her with a lock in a sock. Does that sound like Brandy isn’t in any danger?”
“Vivian, those are TV shows. There’s no greenhouse at the county jail, and there’s always a guard in the showers with the women, and as far as the coffee goes, well . . .” He smiled just a little. “It does taste a little like poison. It just won’t kill you.”
Tony’s weak attempt at humor did not placate me.
His eyes softened. “Vivian, you’re not going to help Brandy by getting yourself arrested.”
“So, you refuse to book me for any of the things I’ve done?”
“That’s right. I refuse to let you manipulate the system in such an obvious way. And if you try anything else foolish, I’ve left instructions that you’re to be held here, in a holding cell at the station, not in the county jail.”
So much for the Partial Vivian.
He stood. Sighed. “If you really want to help Brandy, Viv . . . find out who killed Camilla.”
Had I heard him correctly?
I goggled at him. “You’re giving me . . . permission to investigate?”
“Yes. I can hardly believe it myself, but . . . yes.”
“Do I have carte blanche to pursue my methods?”
Another sigh. “Within the confines of the law.”
That didn’t sound like any fun.
I asked, “Is this a direct admission of the efficacy of my extraordinary sleuthing abilities, as exhibited in the past?”
“Don’t push it, Viv.”
“An implied admission, then?”
“Go,” Tony said, pointing to the door like a father banishing a soiled daughter. “Before I change my damn mind.”
I went.
No one can say Vivian Borne doesn’t know when to keep her mouth shut.
Mother’s Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip
Protect your antiques by installing a home security system. Our system is called Sushi.
Chapter Six
Alma Matters
As Three-Fingered Frieda advanced toward me, I backed up in the cell, looking over either shoulder and everywhere and anywhere for something to use to defend myself.
But I saw nothing.
In a fight, Frieda and I would be pretty well matched. Maybe I even had an edge, with my survival instinct kicking in. Of course, she had crazy on her side.
About three feet from me, TFF stopped, frowning a little. “Hey, dummy. I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Mind if I decide that for myself?”
She held out her palms. “Nothing in my hands.” She pushed up her sleeves. “Nothing up here, either.” Then she turned the pockets of her slacks inside out.
“Nothing in there.”
I still wasn’t buying it. “So, then, what do you want?”
“Just to come to an understanding between us. Two reasonable women coming to terms.”
I recalled the reasonable moment when she’d pointed an antique weapon at Mother and me.
Working to keep the tremor out of my voice, I said, “What kind of terms?”
Her smile curdled my blood only a little. “Oh, I think you’ll be satisfied. Very.”
“I’m . . . I’m listening.”
TFF tilted her head. “You’re going to have to testify at my trial, right?”
“Most likely.”
“Well, when you take the stand, I want you to say you thought I was behaving, you know, crazily when I . . .” She stopped. “When those people died.”
I squinted at her, trying to bring her into focus. “You want me to say you seemed crazy?”
“Haven’t you heard, Brandy girl? I’m making a temporary insanity plea. I want you to back that up.”
Telling a judge and jury that when Mother and I faced her down, TFF had seemed as nutty as a Baby Ruth wouldn’t exactly be a challenge.
But I said, “Why would I help you?”
She stepped closer. Her eyes were wild, but her voice was calm. “Because I have information that might get you out of here. Or do you like facing a murder charge? I know I don’t.”
My eyes narrowed as my fear dissipated. “What do you know?”
“First, swear you’ll help me.”
I looked at those flaring eyes and had no problem with her request. You bet I would say she’d seemed crazy to me. Not that my testimony would carry any great weight. Last time I looked I wasn’t a psychiatrist. Of course, I did live with Mother.
I said, “I swear.”
“All right. First, tell me what you’ll say on the stand.”
“Following your attorney’s lead, I’ll say that in my humble opinion, you were completely and utterly out of your mind when you pointed that gun at Mother and me.”
TFF smiled, as pleased as if I’d just given her a ringing endorsement. “Brandy, you’re okay. Even if you are innocent of murder.”
“Thanks. Now, what’s the information?”
Three-Fingered Frieda glanced around, as if this small cell might have eavesdroppers lurking.
Then in a hushed, secretive voice, she said, “You know about those antiques I, uh, borrowed?”
That she, uh, stole.
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, I used a local Serenity businessman to handle them for me.”
Meaning she used a middleman to fence them.
“Be more specific,” I said.
“Rodney Evans. Ever hear of him?”
“No.”
“Well, he used to be small time, working out of a downtown pawnshop. But the last time I did business with him, he was driving a BMW and his wristwatch was a Rolex.”
My eyebrows were high. “Sounds like he’s moving up in the world.”
“Yeah, by hanging onto somebody’s coattails. He’s got a big connection to unload that stuff now.”
“Did he ever mention who that was?”
She shook her head. “No. These guys always play their cards close to the vest. But he specializes in antiques, so I gathered he came up in the world by making a fresh connection, probably an antiques dealer in Serenity . . . maybe somebody new to the game.”
Which could have been Camilla.
Our conversation was abruptly cut short when the cell door seemed to fling itself open and Patty rushed in
. The guard grabbed TFF from behind, twisted the woman’s arms around her, then cuffed her.
As Three-Fingered Frieda shouted obscenities, I told Patty, “Hey, she wasn’t bothering me or anything.”
“Doesn’t matter,” the guard snapped. “This isn’t your call.”
“Where are you taking her?”
“Solitary. Sheriff’s orders.”
TFF said to me, wild-eyed again, “We got a deal, remember! I’m crazy, right?”
“Right,” I said.
Then Patty hauled my new friend through the door, and I was alone again.
Had Frieda been on the level? Or had she just been playing me?
Flummoxed, I left the cell for the common area, where Jennifer, Carol, Tamicka, and Lupe were at the picnic table, playing cards. As I approached, their collective gaze rose to me, their faces unreadable.
Would they think I grassed on TFF? Was I now in danger from my fellow inmates? And by using a UK term like “grassed,” had I been exposed by Mother to too many British crime shows?
Lupe spoke first. “Hey. Big props. Thanks for getting rid of that bitch. She made one mean top dog.”
I was pretty sure, by the way, that Mother had introduced the “top dog” term into the local jailhouse vocabulary on her first stay here. (Not a UK show’s fault, rather the Australian Prisoner: Cell Block H and its remake, Wentworth.)
“Yeah, nice goin’, Brandy,” Carol said. “And we’re sorry we had to”—she gestured with her head toward Jennifer’s cell, where they’d handed me over to their “mean top dog”—“you know.”
“Yeah, our bad, Brandy,” Jennifer chimed in sheepishly. “If we didn’t do what Frieda said, she’d make our lives suck even worse. She’d come in, in the middle of the night, and threaten you with a shiv!”
“No kidding,” I said. “A shiv?”
“Well, a spoon. That girl is crazy!”
Tamicka grunted. “You got that right, Jen. When Frieda don’t get her way, she’d pick a fight just so we’d all go on lockdown.”
Lupe asked me, “Did she try anything on you?”
Since they didn’t know what had happened, I might as well boost my reputation. “Well, she pulled a spoon on me, but I knocked it out of her hand and told her who was boss. I could’ve handled her myself, without Patty sticking her nose in.”
Jennifer gazed at me with newfound admiration. “You know, we could use a new top dog about now. Somebody smart and fair.”
“Yeah,” Carol said. “I nominate Brandy. She’s her mother’s daughter!”
That wasn’t the best compliment I had ever got, and, anyway, I didn’t want to be top dog, middle dog, bottom dog, or any kind of dog (Sushi, forgive me), and I was about to say as much when Tamicka objected.
“Wait just one minute!” the muscular thirtysomething said. “She’s a newbie, and I been here way longer. What can she do that I can’t?”
Suddenly the top dog position appealed to me.
“For one,” I said, “I can land people who aren’t nice to me in solitary. That’s where Frieda is headed.”
“Oh,” Tamicka said, slumping a little. “Okay, good point.”
“What else can you do?” demanded Lupe.
Jeez. Wasn’t getting somebody stuck in solitary enough?
“Well,” I said, “I can organize a play.”
I was my mother’s daughter, wasn’t I?
Carol’s eyes lit up. “As good as The Vagina Monologues?”
Mother had already had Monologues in rehearsal when her theatrical program got shut down due to escape attempts.
“Better than that,” I told them. “It’s called The Penis Papers.” I figured Mother would work with me on this.
That sent the women howling with laughter.
When they’d settled down, I went on, “This play has three main characters, but they’re all male.”
“I always wanted to play in drag,” Carol cackled.
More laughter, and one yelling at her, “You sure did!”
“All right,” I said, shaking a supportive fist. “Carol’s in. Who else?”
Jennifer’s hand shot up. “Me, me!”
“We need one more volunteer.” I turned to Lupe and Tamicka.
Tamicka flexed a bicep. “I’m more man than most of these excuses for the male species.”
To Lupe, I said, “Still need a stage manager.”
“Cool,” Lupe said. “What are you gonna do?”
“I’ll direct, of course.” With Mother’s guidance. My biggest theatrical job to date had been wrangling hats for Mother’s one-woman version of Macbeth.
Jennifer asked, “Do you think we could perform this penis play for the prison circuit, like we did before?”
That was unlikely ever to happen again, after she and Carol had so nearly escaped; but rather than throw cold water on the notion, I said, “Possibly. But we could certainly put it on for the men’s cell blocks.”
Every prisoner needs hope.
Eyes looked past me, and I turned to see Patty ambling up to me, exuding equal parts boredom and contempt.
She stopped to face me, eyes half-lidded. “Sheriff wants to see you.”
If he thought I’d thank him for removing Frieda, Sheriff Rudder was in for a surprise. Who could say what further info I could have gotten out of her if he hadn’t pulled the plug?
As Patty escorted me out, Tamicka called, “Tell that badge we want better food! That’s job number one for a top dog!”
“Do my best,” I growled.
Patty took me through several locked doors and then to a room I’d never been in before. A step up from an interview room, it had a nice conference table that sat six, with padded chairs.
Three other people were in the room: Sheriff Rudder, county attorney Jason Nesbit, and . . . Mother! No one was seated, which I took to mean this was going to be a short meeting.
Rudder’s mouth started to work, but Mother beat him to the punch.
“You’re free as a bird, dear!” she cried.
My eyes went from her to the sheriff. “I am? Is that true?”
“Yes,” Rudder said.
“Bail?”
“No. Vivian is correct. You’re free to go.”
I looked to our hotshot county attorney, my eyebrows raised. When you’re wearing an orange jumpsuit, you can use a second opinion.
Nesbit was nodding. “The murder charge against you has been dropped, Ms. Borne.”
As I slumped into the nearest chair, Rudder came over and rather gently said, “Some of your prints on the murder weapon were found underneath the other prints. That indicates that, as you said, you had picked up the tool earlier at the auction, and others had handled it subsequently.”
Swallowing thickly, I said, “Thank you, Sheriff, for clearing me.”
“Oh, he had nothing to do with it,” Mother chirped. “Before he left town, Tony sent the tool to the CDC in Des Moines for further forensic evaluation.”
My guy had come through for me!
Mother touched my shoulder. “There, there, dear,” she soothed. “No need for tears.”
I said, “You know what, Mother? The girls just made me top dog.”
Mother said, “Ah! No wonder you’re teary eyed! As a former top dog myself, I can well understand your disappointment in leaving such an honor behind.”
As Rudder and the DA exchanged wide-eyed looks, I asked, “Can I go?”
The sheriff nodded.
Shortly—having traded my orange jumpsuit for a change of fresh clothes Mother had brought me (not a little black dress this time), and with my cell phone and Fitbit watch back in my possession—I was behind the wheel of the C-Max in the police lot.
I didn’t ask Mother how the car had gotten here, or what the blond wig and an extra coat of mine were doing in the backseat, as the answers would no doubt disturb me.
I just wanted to get home, see Sushi, and crawl into my own bed.
When we entered the foyer, the little darlin
g was so happy to see me that she piddled on the wooden floor, then leaped into my arms and licked my face ferociously.
Rocky, who I had forgotten was a houseguest, was more subdued, giving me a few welcoming barks, keeping clear of the puddle on the floor, making it clear that wasn’t his doing.
“Are you hungry, dear?” Mother asked.
“Just tired,” was all I could manage.
I put Sushi down and trod up the stairs. In the bathroom, I took a long hot shower to wash all the jailhouse smell off, then put on some comfy pajamas and tumbled into bed. Sushi and Rocky joined me. I pulled Soosh to me, while Rocky settled at my feet. Sleep beckoned, and I was ready to submit.
But first, I reached for my cell phone, which I’d put on the nightstand, and sent Tony a text. Thank you.
* * *
Mid-morning, I was awakened by Sushi licking my face with such determination that I knew Mother had sent her to get me up for breakfast—another clue to her mission: the tantalizing aromas of coffee and bacon—and the little creature understood she wouldn’t get any of it until I came downstairs.
But such prodding was unnecessary: Brandy was starving.
Before I got out of bed, however, I made it first. (You read me correctly.)
HOW TO MAKE YOUR BED WHILE YOU’RE STILL IN IT
1. Lie flat in the middle.
2. Spread your arms and legs as if you’re about to make a snow angel, and straighten the sheet and bedcover.
3. Fold back the top of the sheet and cover.
4. Plump up the pillows behind you.
5. Then slip out of the bed. Voilà!
WARNING: May not be acceptable for soldiers in a barracks.
Mother always said that going to sleep in a made bed made for pleasant dreams. I’ll get back to you on that one.
I slipped on a robe, then—with an impatient Sushi leading the way—hurried down the stairs in my bare feet. After a night in jail, this felt like sheer heaven.
As I entered the fifties-style kitchen, Rocky greeted me, and I scratched his head.
Mother, at the stove, turned. “And how did we sleep last night?”
“I don’t know about you, but I slept just fine,” I said. I gave her my best Bugs Bunny impression: “Uh . . . what’s cookin’, Doc?”
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