Brake Failure

by Alison Brodie

  Always just … what? Ruby kept wondering.

  At first, Ruby rebelled; but with Vanessa’s love and patience, she settled down, doing whatever she could to win a loving smile from her new mother. She attended after-school classes in piano, ballet and elocution. She no longer hung around with boys on street corners smoking cigarette stubs while malevolently eyeing passing girls. Instead, her every spare minute became “structured” giving her no time to become a juvenile delinquent.

  Ruby broke from her reverie. Edward was walking towards her with the concentrated frown he always wore when shooting down enemy spaceships on his Nintendo 64.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ruby, so very sorry.’ His kind eyes were clouded with disappointment. ‘I have something to tell you.’

  *

  Fighting back tears, Ruby guided Vanessa to a quiet corner and told her the news.

  Vanessa was visibly stunned. ‘What a dreadful disappointment for you, darling. But it doesn’t matter where you are in the world, you will still make me proud, won’t you?’

  Ruby hugged herself. ‘I wish Claire didn’t have to know,’ she muttered.

  ‘Don’t be silly. She’s your family.’ Vanessa sighed. ‘Do you want me to go and tell her?’

  ‘I suppose…’

  Ruby went to the French windows and stared out, her back to the room. How could this have happened? Edward had just been given the Louis Treize brandy account, which meant he would have to be based in Paris. But, it seemed, he’d done too good a job in pet products because, now, he was being transferred to the American agency in order to win a multi-million-dollar pet food account.

  Ruby heard a shout of laughter and turned. It was Claire. She had lost that pinched-mouth look and was talking to an Audrey/Brenda with vivacious charm. Ruby moved away but it wasn’t far enough because Claire, with the Salvatore Ferragamo outfits and the seventeenth century apartment in Grand-Place and the A-list friends, ambushed her with a glittering smile.

  ‘Howdie partner!’

  Chapter Five

  Mission Hills Police Precinct, Kansas City

  12.10 am January 1, 2000

  The only light came from the tensor lamp on the desk. The hot, airless office smelled of scorched wool and fresh paint. The Chief of Police, Joe Begg, toasted his socks on the radiator. After standing ankle-deep in snow for five hours he wanted to defrost his feet and go home.

  ‘Christ, what a way to start the Millennium,’ he muttered, massaging his toes.

  He’d charged Cindy Prudhomme with kidnapping and put her in a holding cell. Tomorrow he’d throw the book at her. Two of the three hostages were down there, too. Usually, released hostages were treated with kid gloves, but not when they were drunk, aggressive, and refused to answer questions.

  For now the Police Chief had three priorities:

  Locate the gun.

  Learn how much cash was missing.

  Find the third hostage, the English girl, Ruby.

  He studied the wedding photo, seeing a pretty brown-haired girl with a shy smile. Why had she disappeared? Had she been so terrified she’d bolted? He took a mouthful of coffee. It was strong and sweet. Revived, he carried it to the internal window and stared down at the lobby.

  Besides family, there were Ruby’s friends: smart women in tartan and pearls to one side of the room, Hells Angels to the other. Both groups were trading puzzled looks like they were saying: How the heck do you know Ruby?

  Another time he would have smiled at this mixed bag but not right now, not with the ice building up on his car and Zelda at home feeding the neighbours on his speciality pork ribs in barbeque sauce. He went to the desk, picked up the internal phone and spoke to his desk sergeant.

  ‘Waltz. Send everyone home. Tell them we’ll make contact as soon as we find her.’

  ‘You might want to hold up on that, sir. I have a Deputy Sheriff Boyd on line two. He’s asking if we have a record on someone named Ruby.’

  ‘Ruby?’ The Police Chief tensed. ‘Put him through.’

  Boyd came on the line and spoke fast. When Boyd had finished, the Police Chief pondered what he’d heard then repeated slowly: ‘So … just before midnight, a sheriff was found shot outside Shady Acres Retirement Home. And the last thing he said was: “Don’t do it, Ruby. Don’t do it.”’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’

  ‘Don’t do … what?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Deputy Sheriff Boyd, you’re no doubt aware we had a robbery in Overland Park this evening. The bank employees were released immediately but three female customers remained hostage: two of them were American, the other one was English. Five hours later, at 11.35 p.m. the English girl was released. Her name is Ruby.’

  Fourteen weeks earlier …

  Chapter Six

  Feline Diabetes

  Allergic Dermatitis

  Healthy Digestion for Happy Tummies

  Ruby looked up from the pet brochure and gazed over a city of half-built office blocks baking under a raw sun. Ten floors below, an emaciated tree stood by the hotel swimming pool and across the road a machine disgorged cement into a hole. What did she know about her new home? Waterstones had books on Turkmenistan but nothing on Kansas City.

  Edward sat at the table scribbling notes. He had been at the hotel for ten days settling into his new job at the agency; Ruby had arrived in the early hours of that morning. Again, she remembered Claire’s gloating triumph.

  ‘Oh, Ruby, you poor thing.’

  ‘It’s what I wanted,’ Ruby had mumbled.

  ‘Are you telling me you had a choice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, you had a choice between Paris and Kansas City? Between the cultural and cholesterol capitals of the world? Between the City of Lovers and the City of Leftovers?’

  Ruby heaved a sigh. Edward must have heard her because he stood up and pulled her into his arms. ‘I know you wanted Paris but give this place a chance. For one thing, the people are a million times friendlier than the Parisians.’

  Ruby rested her cheek on his shoulder. ‘Sorry to be so dreary, darling. I’m just exhausted from the journey. I feel as if I’ve walked here.’

  Well, in a way she had because, fearing deep-vein thrombosis, she had strolled around the Virgin Atlantic aeroplane for the entire flight.

  Edward went back to his writing. ‘Just give me a minute and we’ll go down for lunch.’

  Ruby continued to gaze beyond the window but she didn’t see the crane swinging its load of steel girders; instead, she saw Notre Dame at twilight. She glanced down at the brochure in her hand: Purdy’s Pet Nutrition. This was the account Edward had to win. She leafed through pages of healthy-looking dogs with their equally healthy-looking owners.

  Diet for Fur Balls

  Fresh Breath: Right Under Their Noses.

  Feline Incontinence.

  Is this what’s brought me here? she thought miserably. Fluffy’s bladder?

  *

  They ate lunch on the hotel terrace. The other diners sat behind tinted windows staring out at them in curiosity. It was the tenth of September yet even in the shade of a parasol the heat was intense. Cars drove by, bumper stickers declaring: FEAR THE GOVERNMENT THAT FEARS YOUR GUN. Grandad Jack would have been delighted with this. Ruby found it unnerving.

  ‘Everyone has guns,’ Edward explained. ‘It’s part of the American heritage. Some of the men at work have crossbows. And the creative director – Payat - keeps a hunting knife in his desk drawer.’

  ‘As a letter opener?’

  ‘Oh, no, he’s a Red Indian Chief.’

  Ruby frowned in bewilderment. ‘And he works in an office?’

  ‘Payat is the real deal. Honestly.’

  She remained silent. She wasn’t an anarchist like Grandad Jack but she did know it was morally wrong for a white man to masquerade as a Native American Indian. Hadn’t the imperialists done enough to destroy the indigenous population without stealing their identity as well?

>   After lunch, Edward picked up his briefcase, ready to leave. ‘If Payat phones, tell him I’ll be in the office in twenty minutes.’ He pecked her on the lips. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  She returned to the room, her thoughts full of the pathetic pen-pusher with his fake hunting knife, when the telephone rang.

  ‘Ruby?’ The voice was deep and husky. Hi, I’m Payat. I work with your husband.’

  Ah, yes, Big Chief Sitting Bollocks.

  ‘Hello,’ she said politely. Even his voice was fake. ‘Edward has just left for the office.’

  ‘Great! So, Ruby, how about I fix for all of us to meet up?’

  Send me a smoke signal.

  ‘Why not.’

  ‘We could go bowling,’ he continued. ‘Maybe grab a couple of beers and a burger?’

  What happened to boiled bison and fire water?

  Since she didn’t drink beer, didn’t eat meat, and had no wish to dislocate her index finger wielding a two-ton ball, she feigned enthusiasm. ‘That’s certainly an invitation.’

  After the call, she went down to the pool and ordered a coffee. The terrace was deserted. She sat on the edge of a sun lounger and picked up a tourist brochure. What would Claire be doing right now? she wondered. It would be evening in Brussels. Ruby imagined her stepsister in a black taffeta gown watching Aïda; or perhaps backstage toasting the diva.

  Ruby opened the tourist brochure hoping to find an opera or literary festival that would lift her out of the “cultural abyss” that Claire had prophesied.

  September 15

  Dog Day Frolics

  Annual Lying Contest for those Big Fat Liars!

  Abilene

  October 3

  Kansas State Cornhusking Contest

  Old-fashioned corn-husking fun!

  Osawatomie

  October 10

  Old Settlers’ Day and State Cow Chip Throw Contest

  Carbondale Scranton

  The waiter approached with her coffee. ‘Can you tell me?’ she asked. ‘What is a “cow chip”?’

  ‘Manure.’

  Ruby blinked. How can I possibly compete, she thought wildly, when Claire has opera divas sipping champagne and I have manure-throwing in Carbondale Scranton?

  Dispirited, she gazed about. The pool was so over-chlorinated it looked like Vichyssoise. Across the road the cement mixer had ceased rumbling. For a moment there was silence then an old truck rattled into view, its red paint sun-bleached to pink, the driver a huge shadow in a Stetson hat, his forearm resting on the window sill like a brick. Gazing at the old greyhound panting over the tailgate, she remembered her wedding-day vision of Parisian poodles in gem-encrusted collars.

  ‘By golly-gee, Ruby,’ she muttered. ‘You sure done got that one wrong.’

  *

  Their realtor, Murt Woebbecke, was driving them to Shawnee Mission to show them a house for rent. Ruby watched him from the back seat. The man was horrendously overweight, his every breath sounding like his last.

  ‘That there’s Mulberry,’ he said, pointing.

  All thoughts of resuscitating their realtor went out of her head. It was lovely! An Edwardian doll’s house in pastel blue with a turret and wrap-around porch.

  The neighbourhood was split in two - rich and poor - with Mulberry marking the divide. To the right stood elegant mansions in empty, pristine lawns; down to the left, a forest of mature trees shaded small clapboard houses with picket fences enclosing barbeque drums and lawn chairs.

  Mulberry seemed undecided as to which side it belonged. Although it had evidently once been grand, it was now old; and with its sagging porch and peeling paint, it seemed to be sliding down to the poor side.

  ‘The rent’s good for five bedrooms.’ Murt unlocked the door into a vast hallway. Ruby circled the dining room, visualising the sumptuous dinner parties she would organise for Edward’s clients. She gasped when she saw the four-man Jacuzzi in the turret. Down in the basement, Murt showed them the furnace room then opened a door to a small bathroom. ‘’Cos this is in the south-west, this’ll be yer tornado shelter,’ he said.

  ‘Tornado shelter?’ Ruby echoed.

  ‘Sure.’ Murt seemed surprised at her surprise. ‘This here’s Tornado Alley.’ He sounded proud of it. He opened the cupboard under the sink. This is where you’ll keep yer emergency supplies: flashlights, fire extinguisher, shoes.’ He lifted his eyebrows judiciously. ‘Most folk forget shoes, but just think what you’ll be walking over to get outta here.’

  She shot Edward a frantic why-didn’t-you-tell-me look, and he shrugged. ‘I forgot to mention it,’ he mumbled.

  Ruby stared up at the ceiling imagining a vortex thundering overhead, whipping off the roof and turning the house to rubble. She always had the need to be in control but now she had a growing fear of helplessness.

  ‘Oh, and don’t forget to stock up on canned food,’ Murt added. He chuckled. ‘Nothing like a disaster to bring out the squirrel in a woman.’

  Ruby took a calming breath. ‘How … how does one know when a tornado is coming?’

  Murt was studying his profile in the mirror, and seeming satisfied by what he saw, turned back. ‘Police sirens, TV flashes. First of March get yourself a weather radio.’ He seemed to sense her anxiety. ‘Tornados are nuthin’ to worry about.’

  Worries streaked towards her like enemy spaceships in one of Edward’s video games: what if she couldn’t get down to the shelter in time? Should they sleep down here permanently? What if the rescue workers couldn’t dig them out in time?

  She folded her arms tight against her ribcage and moved away.

  ‘Oh God,’ she whispered. ‘Get me out of here.’

  Chapter Seven

  Mission Hills Police Precinct, Kansas City

  12.15 am, Jan 1, 2000

  ‘And where is Ruby now?’ Deputy Sheriff Boy asked.

  ‘She came out of the bank and just vanished. A trauma victim can sometimes flip.’ The Police Chief shifted the phone to his left ear and took a slug of coffee. ‘Don’t forget, she was in the bank five hours. That’s a long time to be held at gun-point. But we’ll find her. Her face has been sent out to all units, and in this snow and with no vehicle, she can’t get far.’

  ‘The TV news said Cindy Prudhomme took over the bank to force the feds into finding her boyfriend?’

  ‘That’s her story, but when we gained access, we found the cash boxes empty. Prudhomme didn’t have a cent on her so she must have gotten the money out to a contact.’

  ‘Maybe Ruby was the contact?’

  ‘No way. The bank employees all said the same thing: Ruby was so terrified, she couldn’t even speak.’ The Police Chief gazed down at the photo of the shy-smiling, brown-haired girl. ‘She looks like a librarian. And her family’s respectable, too. Her stepsister acts like royalty.’

  ‘Sheriff Gephart is a friend, sir. I want to get the person who shot him.’

  ‘Best thing you can do, Boyd, is stay at the hospital and question him when he regains consciousness. My end, I’ll make a point to point.’

  After the call, the Police Chief went to the internal window and stared down at the lobby. The stepmom gazed at the wall, red-eyed from weeping. Her three friends sat comforting her. They’d been in New York for the Millennium celebrations when they’d seen the newsflash and had flown down. Strange how the old woman with the purple coat and walking cane seemed pleasantly interested in what was going on around her.

  Ruby’s stepsister, Madame Claire van de Ghellinck, had been at an opera in Chicago. Watching her now, you’d think she’d brought the show with her. She walked the floor, waving and declaring: ‘This is so utterly American!’ She had on a fur coat and white gloves. Long nose, thin lips, more meat on a chicken carcass. In the corner, Ruby’s husband was soaking up the sympathy from a cute pony-tailed blonde.

  The Police Chief caught a movement. A tall figure strode across the lobby to the desk sergeant. It was the Native American Indian. He’d been out tracking Ruby, and by
the expression on his face, he’d had no luck. Not surprising; the snow was coming down heavy, covering all footprints. What connection did he have with Ruby? Handsome fella. He was too tall to be Shawnee. Maybe Cheyenne? The way he was frowning, he could even be Crow. The friends of the stepmom were staring at him as if he was the answer to all their prayers.

  Hearing a knock at the door, the Police Chief turned as Sergeant Waltz poked his head into the room. ‘Sir. Ruby’s showing up on the MVA data-base - eighteen days ago - when she tested for her driver’s permit.’

  ‘I’ll take a look. While I’m doing that, I want you to find someone who was close to her. Someone who might know where she’s gone.’

  ‘The husband?’

  The Police Chief glanced down at the lobby. The husband, Edward, seemed mighty comfortable with the pretty blonde stroking his hair. ‘Not him. A friend.’

  As the door closed, the Chief went to his computer and brought up the MVA database. He frowned. The name matched. But the face? This wasn’t Ruby.

  Or was it?

  Jesus!

  He put the wedding photo alongside the screen to compare faces. On the right was the brown-haired librarian-type smiling shyly at the camera. On the left, was a beautiful blonde with scarlet lips and cat-like eyes. And the look she was giving the camera wasn’t shy. It was a challenge.

  Who was Ruby?

  And what had happened to make her change like this?

  Twelve weeks earlier…

  Chapter Eight

  Echinacea

  Ginkgo Biloba

  Jojoba.

  Gotu Kola

  Ruby imagined that anyone looking into her first-aid cabinet would think a family of Filipinos had moved in. She and Edward had spent the last two days settling into the Victorian house on the hill: Mulberry – otherwise known as 23649 West 53rd Street. Even though it was a palatial, sunny house, she would rather be living in a tiny garret room in Paris.