Fanatically in Trouble

by Jenny B. Jones

  “She’s right,” said a voice behind me.

  I turned to find my grandmother. As usual, she looked radiant and hip in a hot pink cotton dress, wedges, and sassy straw fedora. “How much of that did you hear?”

  “Enough.” She lifted her large sunglasses and looked me in the eye. “Killing America doesn’t fix a thing for Trina, and she knew that.”

  “What if it was in the heat of the moment? A desperate decision borne of rage and futility?”

  “Statistically not likely,” Sylvie said. “Those murders aren’t planned out with drug-laced coffee pods. Besides, how would Trina know every room had a coffee service?”

  “She did say she took a tour of the house.”

  “It would’ve been a speedy one. I can’t imagine her having time to tamper with anything. A poison job that fast would’ve required a seasoned pro.”

  True. “We’re getting nowhere.”

  “That’s what Columbus said before the fog cleared and the Statue of Liberty came into sight.”

  Sylvie liked to fly fast and loose with historical details. There was no use bringing up wild ideas like facts.

  “Can you break away from this picnic?” Sylvie eyeballed the crowd and waved at a few familiar faces.

  “I’d hoped to stay and listen to the panel.”

  “A little birdie told me the police have cleared the mansion. Don’t you need to get in there and get all your equipment and supplies? Frannie’s van is nearby, ready to assist.”

  The event was completely under control. Henry was here somewhere, and Alice and Layla were pros. The caterers had already set up and started distributing food, so I was merely in observation mode.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go to the scene of the crime.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I hopped in Frannie’s minivan, and she made quick work of the drive to the Sugar Creek Golf Course. The rolling hills of the neighborhood curved and dipped until we arrived at the mansion where the trouble had all begun.

  Frannie pulled the van into the elongated driveway. “Bill and Hillary are still here.”

  Two guards stood on either side of the front door. “Those are different guys,” I said. “Jaz’s boys are with her.”

  “What we need is a distraction,” Sylvie suggested from the passenger seat.

  “I’ve got my stun gun.” Frannie dug into her massive purse. “What setting should I pick? Dazed and confused or significant brain fry?”

  “No weapons today,” I warned.

  Frannie looked at Sylvie. “Paisley really knows how to rain on our slightly torturous parade.”

  “I think her mother being here stresses her out. Brings out the fuddy-dud.”

  “Right. That and the fact that I don’t want anyone to end this day in a coma.” What a killjoy I was. “We’ll tell them we’re here to inventory our stuff and make arrangements for its removal.”

  Frannie flapped down her visor mirror and applied fresh lipstick. “Myra Meadows tried to get in this morning to get her chafing dishes for another catering event and was turned away. She said the police have released the place, but Johnny Pikes has moved back in and isn’t letting anyone in without his presence or prior approval.”

  “So I call him and get his approval.” I pulled my phone out of my purse.

  “Or we search the place without his knowledge.” Sylvie turned in her seat to spear me with a pointed look. “No need to warn a potential suspect we’re digging around.”

  “Yeah, back to my original question.” Frannie popped her visor up. “Stun gun or tranq dart?”

  “Surely you have something tried, true, and relatively painless you’ve used,” I said. “You two can pull something out of the archives and distract, while I go around back and slip into the house through the kitchen.” I still had the door code unless the owner had changed it.

  “No way you get all the snooping fun,” Sylvie said. “I’m going with you.”

  “Fine,” Frannie said. “But next time, it’s my turn.”

  We gave Frannie two minutes to approach the door and completely distract the security detail. I had no idea what she did to hold their undivided attention, but when Sylvie hollered “Go!” in my ear, I tore out of the van and led the way to the back of the house. There was no way the guards couldn’t see us, but I’d clearly underestimated my aunt and her bag of tricks. Sylvie arrived at the kitchen entrance without incident, almost as if wearing an invisibility cloak and beholding a miracle.

  “Don’t ever doubt Frannie.” Sylvie bent at the waist and pulled air into her lungs as I punched in the door code. “Also, don’t question her. For the sake of legalities, it’s best we don’t know.”

  The lock clicked, and I eased open the door.

  The kitchen looked as though time had stopped. There were still dishes in the sink and drinks on the counter. It was an interrupted scene and a remnant of a terrible night. One in which America Valdez didn’t survive.

  “Let’s go.” I motioned toward the back staircase, and Sylvie followed. While her practiced footfalls were undetectable to the ear, I had to slip off my heels for fear of alerting the brute squad.

  “How about we start on the second floor,” my grandmother whispered.

  I nodded and tiptoed toward the first bedroom. “Jaz and Tee Pee were on this floor, while Johnny and America stayed upstairs.”

  “Let’s divide and conquer,” Sylvie said. “You search this room, and I’ll take the other. Meet me on the third floor in two minutes.” She held up her watch. “Synchronize your timepiece.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “Just meet me upstairs as soon as you can get there.”

  I entered Jaz’s room and nearly stumbled over a piece of luggage the size of a refrigerator. For all her suitcases, there was hardly room to walk. I had no clue what I was looking for in these rooms. Maybe a thin needle to administer the fentanyl? The actual fentanyl which, to my limited knowledge, had yet to be found? A fortuitous hidden diary in which the occupant admits the dastardly deed and confesses to murder?

  All of that seemed unlikely.

  Still, I searched under the bed, beneath the mattress, behind the curtains, plus every drawer and cabinet in the en suite bathroom. I found thirty-five cents, two buttons, and a gum wrapper, but nothing that pointed to Jaz as a murderer. And no sign of America’s missing necklace.

  After one more sweep of the room, I mounted the stairs and quietly ascended to the third floor. As I neared America’s room, my skin cooled and my heartbeat pounded in staccatos. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but that didn’t make it any less eerie to return to the very spot a woman had breathed her last breath and been ripped from this life.

  The door groaned as I pushed it open, and my grandmother slowly turned from her spot at a chest of drawers.

  “I thought you’d never get here,” Sylvie said. “You can start with the bedside table.”

  I checked my phone. “I’m one minute late.”

  “Do you know how many times one minute has been the difference between me and a bomb that could evaporate the entire planet?”

  My fingers fumbled with the drawer knob. “I don’t want to know these things. Let me believe I live in a safe world that’s not constantly on the point of a violent, fiery extinction.”

  “Suit yourself, sugar.” Sylvie turned a half-circle in the room. “Not much here, so keep your expectations low. Most of the personal effects were probably confiscated by the police. It’s the stuff they deemed inconsequential that might give us some insight.”

  I found nothing in the bedside table except a Bible, a notebook, and a flashlight. I flipped through the pages of the Bible just in case America had stuck something there or Jesus wanted to send me a message by way of the King James.

  “Should we talk about your relationship with Beau?” came Sylvie’s non-sequitur question.

  My hand stalled on the book of Leviticus. “Is this how you conducted searches in the CIA? By rifling through important thi
ngs while discussing your inner feelings?”

  My grandmother studied me as she lifted the edge of the room-sized rug. “Very snippy. Shall we explore that?”

  “No, what I’d like to explore is this room, then get the heck out. By now Frannie’s probably down there topless and singing selections from Cabaret.”

  I’d updated Sylvie on Beau’s award invitation. “We said we weren’t going to get serious, and he’s acting accordingly. I need to respect that.” Like it or not.

  “Maybe he didn’t invite you because you stupidly said you wanted to drop it to 35 mph on the expressway. What if he fears an invitation would be too much for you? Maybe you’re both nutso-over-the-moon for each other, but don’t want to be the first to admit it?”

  “Unlikely. Can we get back to work here?” This carpet needed a good vacuuming.

  “Fine. New topic.” Sylvie sighed and ran her hand over a baseboard. “Did Ellen ever talk about her battle-ax of a mother?”

  I jerked my head toward my crazy grandmother. “Will you focus?”

  “Well, did she?”

  “Very little.” I moved on to the bed, peeking beneath it. “She said Grandma Constance was stern, strict, and liked coffee. That’s all I know.” My other grandmother had passed away when I was two, so I had no memory of the woman.

  “The first time I met Constance was at your mother’s bridal shower.” Sylvie lifted an air vent and peered inside. “Her hair was pulled back into a taut bun, and her personality was even tighter. She criticized every move Ellen made and ran her down at every opportunity. Constance clearly wasn’t happy with your mother’s choice in fiancées, and she didn’t bother hiding that opinion from me. My son was a Harvard grad and headed to Oxford, but that wasn’t good enough for Constance. I don’t think anything ever was.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “I’m not saying this excuses your mom’s behavior. But I am saying it’s all she’s known. When you know better, you do better, but her motherly example was a woman with little compassion and the maternal instinct of a cactus.”

  “Mom doesn’t seem to have any trouble being maternal with Jaz.”

  Sylvie shrugged as she approached a second chest of drawers beneath a gilded gold mirror. “Sometimes it’s easier when it’s not your kid. And they do have a few things in common. They’re both self-absorbed and very type A.”

  All my life, people had called my parents type A with the implication that I wasn’t anywhere close on the alphabet. Did type A make my mom a more accomplished person? A better success story? More intelligent? I liked to think of myself as type C, with C being creative. So maybe I couldn’t work a spreadsheet and inspire millions of people to follow me, but I could organize a party on a minute’s notice and write a song with nothing more than a pencil and eight notes.

  “Paisley, I think it’s time you talked to your mother. Add her to the list of people who need to know how you really feel.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she loves you. And sometimes we mothers need some hard truths handed to us. Let her know that she’s hurt your feelings.”

  “I didn’t say she’d hurt—”

  “Yes, you did. In a hundred ways. Ellen hurts everyone’s feelings. It’s part of her charm. But I also think she’s afraid of you.”

  “Me?” I sputtered. “How? Why?”

  “I think you intimidate her. You always have.”

  “That’s ridiculous. If anyone intimidates her, it should be Jaz, and Mom sure doesn’t seem overwhelmed by her.”

  “Jaz is safe territory for Ellen. She goes home in a week, and the two probably won’t see each other again. And right now Jaz is needy and clinging to your mom. I’m sure Ellen likes that. We mothers like to feel useful.”

  I pulled myself from my knees and brushed the lint from my pants. “What about all the times I needed her? Like when my band broke up. When I was about to be evicted from my apartment and had lost everything? When I found my first dead body and was accused of murder? Could’ve used a little motherly hand-holding then.”

  “Definitely some strikeout moments. But I also seem to recall her driving you two hours to your favorite pizza joint when your high school boyfriend broke your heart. And who spotted your singing talent first and signed you up for vocal lessons when you were barely in kindergarten?”

  Warm memories flooded my mind. “My mom.”

  “Who threw a giant party for the release of your first album and invited the entire town?”

  We both know the answer, so I didn’t bother responding.

  “Maybe Ellen realizes she messed up. Look, shug, Jaz is easy stuff. What you see is what you get. I think you’re a puzzle to your parents—one your mother’s never figured out. As much as it pains me to say this, why don’t you go easy on her? Cut her some slack?”

  “Maybe.” But I felt like all the slack I’d allotted for Mom had been wound up and stored away sometime before she thumbed her nose at the Electric Femmes and after I realized her assistant always bought my birthday presents.

  “What do we have here?” Sylvie pulled something from a drawer and held it up for inspection. “A stack of pamphlets?”

  I crossed the room and took one of the tri-fold brochures. “Little Tee Pee’s Big Camp for Kids.” I scanned the inside. “It’s a charitable camp for disadvantaged children.”

  “Says it’s in Utah,” Sylvie read.

  “Ida Ellis said America accused Tee Pee of cheating people out of money.” And that she had proof.

  “And that his camping days were over.”

  “We need to get Frannie to dig up any dirt on Tee Pee and this charity of his. What if this is some sort of racket and America caught on?”

  Sylvie finished my thought. “Then Little Tee Vee killed her to shut her up?” She shoved one brochure into her shirt then returned the rest, closing the drawer without a sound. “This should be easy enough to look into.”

  Voices from downstairs had us both freezing like statues.

  “You get out of here,” Sylvie whispered. “I’m gonna recheck Little Chee Chee’s room, then I’ll meet you at the van.”

  “But—”

  “Just go. I won’t be more than a minute behind you.”

  Between the two of us, only one was a professional. And it wasn’t me.

  Still barefoot, I slipped out of the room and to the staircase. I’d walked five steps when I heard a noise behind me.

  Turning, I found nothing but a dark, empty stairwell.

  The marble stairs felt cold beneath my feet, and I worried each move amplified throughout the house. Moving faster, I made it to the second-floor landing.

  Footsteps fell behind me.

  A shadow appeared.

  Just as I tripped on a step, someone gave my body a shove.

  My feet flew out from under me.

  My knee hit the marble, followed by an elbow, and soon I didn’t know which end was up. My head struck a banister and stars exploded all around. “Help!” I heard myself yell.

  I flailed my arms, desperate to gain a hold.

  But a pop star in motion stays in motion unless acted on upon an unbalanced force.

  I flew down the stairs like a tumbleweed, until I landed at the bottom.

  My temple smacked into the hard, final step.

  Pain rippled through my body.

  A human pretzel knot of arms and legs, I opened one eye to see a familiar man waiting for me at the landing. “Oh.” I swallowed hard against a wave of nausea. “Hello, Detective Ballantine.”

  My last thought before I passed out was that Detective Ballantine never smiled.

  All three of him.

  My eyelids grew heavy.

  And my world went black.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  Sitting in an ER exam room, I squinted my eyes and focused on my grandmother’s tenth question in the last half-hour. “Two.”

  Frannie got in on the quiz.
“Who rode a jet ski out of Uruguay in 1985 wearing nothing but a bikini top and a squid?”

  “I’m guessing you.” That visual certainly wasn’t helping my head.

  Sylvie was ready to pull out the big guns. “Which rock-n-roll star worked undercover for the NSA for ten years, using his piano chords to send coded messages to an underground network of lady spies?”

  The ice pack I held against my temple dripped cold water on my knee. “I don’t know.”

  “Elton John.”

  “You’re making that up,” I said.

  She put one finger to her lips. “Am I?”

  The doctor thankfully chose that moment to saunter back into the room, causing Frannie to perk up and stand straighter. “Well, Miss Sutton, it looks like you’re going to live.” His scrubs swishing, Dr. Zion sat on a rolling stool and checked my pupils again. “No strenuous exercise for a few days. No running, jumping, or acrobatics.”

  Frannie coughed loudly into her arm. “Maybe you could listen to my heart while we’re here.” The African-American doctor looked to be about 15 years younger than my aunt, but a few lightyears ahead of her schemes.

  “Miss Frannie, do you feel like you’re having heart problems?”

  “I was so concerned for my niece, I might’ve become overwrought.” She fanned herself. “Should I disrobe?”

  “No!” Sylvie and I said in unison.

  The good doctor returned his attention to me. “Basically you have a concussion, but with the fall you had, you’re lucky that’s all that’s ailing you.” He held up my arm for the second time and bent it back and forth. “You’ll have some pretty good bruises to show for this.”

  “Bruises are nothing,” Frannie said. “I once worked a mission and had all my hair blown off, then broke my leg and had to walk ten miles hopping on one foot.”

  Dr. Zion looked to me for a translation.

  “My aunt and grandmother are former CIA”

  “Ah.”