Temporarily out of Luck

by Vicki Batman

  “Anything else you need, Detective Wellborn?” Miss A. looked from him to me as a small cagy smile rippled her mouth.

  “No, ma’am,” he said, shoving his notebook in his jacket pocket. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

  “Absolutely.” She held out her hand. “Please let me know if I can do anything for you and the Sommerville Police Department. Anything. Anytime.”

  He shook hers. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for your help.”

  She peeled away, pausing to tidy the leaves on the artificial flower arrangement by the dais. She returned to the office, where she shut the door.

  Allan shifted his focus. “She seems like a nice lady.”

  “She’s a pro. I’m fortunate to be learning from her,” I said. “I remembered something you’ll be interested in…about Jonson.”

  He lifted his right brow. “Tell me.”

  “Well, my sister said something long ago in passing—”

  “Which is—”

  “He liked to play poker.”

  Allan snorted. “Most guys play some.”

  “Ha. More than some. He played a lot. High stakes. Which would explain why he had money issues.”

  “Okay.” Allan removed his pad and scribbled. “And this is relevant to his murder…how?”

  I shrugged and dragged a finger in a phantom line across the desktop. “I don’t know for sure. Maybe Jonson lost a lot of money or borrowed a lot of money from some kind of mafia guy—”

  “You’ve been reading mystery-thriller books again.” He snapped shut his notebook.

  I stomped my foot. “Be serious.”

  “Fine. I’ll check. Poker-playing mafia guys. It’s worth a shot.”

  While stowing his pen and pad, he glanced my way. “Good to see you.”

  Good to see you? Could he have used better words for more than a friend? I’m thinking stupid. I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. “Bye.”

  When he reached the door, he stopped long enough to rock his hand in the “I’ll phone you” signal.

  Seemed destined to talk. I trailed Allan and glared at his truck as he drove away. When I couldn’t see him anymore, I turned my attention to Miss A. She had looked distraught over the news about Jonson’s departure from the earthly realm to the underworld. I should feel some remorse as well. I mean, murder was gruesome and all. But I didn’t. I couldn’t say or think enough of what an asshole Jonson was. The big wide world should be greatly rejoicing because he couldn’t dupe any more young women to the altar.

  As I made my way to the back office, I plucked blue puffballs of lint off the carpet. I knocked on her office door. “Miss A.? May I come in?”

  “Of course, dearie,” she called.

  I opened the office door and stepped inside, depositing the balls of carpet lint in the trash can. I brushed my hands. “You seemed distraught about, er, what happened to Jonson. Maybe you might want to talk about it?”

  “Oh, Hattie,” Miss A. rubbed the space between her eyes. “I feel so sad for Barbie.”

  She mopped her tears with an old-fashioned hankie trimmed with yellow and purple crocheted pansies, the kind my grandmother had crafted.

  “I’m incredibly disappointed. I hoped Barbie and Jonson’s nuptials would be a good launch for the shop and give us publicity,” she said. “I hoped Sommerville’s poshest clientele would follow their lead.”

  “I know. It’s just awful.” I circled her desk and patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Miss A. We'll think of some other plan for Wedding Wonderland. It’ll be good, I promise. For certain, I’ll hook my mom and her mahjong buds into telling everyone they know about the store.”

  “I appreciate anything anyone can do, Hattie. I feel so low right now. I left everything behind.” She looked in my direction through water-filled eyes. “Can you imagine?”

  “No, I can’t.” Although I nearly could. When my life didn’t work out like I wanted, I considered relocating to New York for a coveted buyer’s position with a prominent department store. But final decision time came, and I said no. In my heart, leaving my family and friends was not an option I could bear. Ultimately, leaving Allan and the unknown gray void between us—I just couldn’t. I had to know if “he and I” would become “we.”

  I gave her another comforting shoulder massage. “I admire how it takes a lot of chutzpah to make a new start in a new town.”

  Miss A. didn’t say anything except to press the cotton square to the drops trickling down her cheeks. Once under control, she squeaked, “Yes, it does. But I had to make a life change. Nothing—”

  “Change can be good. Change means a new life adventure, doesn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “Now, don’t you worry.” I sounded just like my mom. A section from her pep talk on “Consolation” sprang forth. “We can do it. Everything’ll be just fine. You’ll see.”

  Miss A. glanced my way. “Are you a special friend of Detective Wellborn? I felt something like”—she shook her head—“vibes, maybe more than vibes. Maybe electricity. The unmistakable chemistry kind linking a man and woman. Whatever I sensed, it danced in the air.”

  My body still vibrated just from being near him. I tilted my head from side to side. Something popped in my neck. “Sorta.”

  “Sorta?”

  “Allan Wellborn and I have tried to date. We ate dinner together the other night.”

  “I see.” Miss A. dipped her head. “Tried to date? I would try harder. He’s extremely handsome.”

  “Yep. Migh-tee fine.” I sketched an outline of his physique in the air, which I followed with a thumbs up. “Our mothers have planned our wedding for years, like since the Wellborn family moved to Sommerville when their kids were toddlers, but lately, it’s…he’s… Everything’s hopeless.” I lifted then dropped my hands.

  “Surely not hopeless, dearie.”

  Miss A. looked clueless. Telling all would take a freakin’ eternity. Time to find out what Allan had discussed with her. Nonchalantly, I rubbed my finger over my pursed mouth. “Did he say anything important?”

  She sighed. “Detective Wellborn asked about Barbie and Jonson’s appointment. I explained how you visited with him more than I did—sorry if I threw you under the bus—and how I helped Barbie try on gowns. How we’ve been emailing and phoning Barbie about the planning after Jonson’s squabble here. That’s all.”

  With nothing else to occupy my hands, I selected a yellow sticky note pad and ripped off a sheet. I creased it into a perfect square. “I didn’t kill Jonson, Miss A.”

  “No, dearie, you didn’t. I bet my life on it.” Miss A. stood, stuffing her fists in her jacket pockets. She sniffed. “Barbie’s account should be on hold. I’ll phone her. Maybe a family member will answer and can help.”

  “I’ll get her cell number.” Returning to the reception desk, I ripped off a new sheet from the sticky pad. I typed Barbie’s name in the database and retrieved the information. I ferried what Miss A. needed to her. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks, dearie.” Setting her hand on the handset, she studied the paper.

  Her pause worried me. “Miss A.?”

  “Hmm, dearie?”

  “Anything else you need?”

  “No.” She tweaked her mouth to one side. “I hate to disturb Barbie in her time of grief. Maybe I should leave a message, asking her to call when convenient.”

  “Your plan is very considerate.” After I backed out of her office, I quietly closed the door.

  Returning to the reception desk, I plopped in the chair, setting it to swivel from side to side. I propped my chin on my tented fingers and reflected on what transpired this morning. Not every day a cop visited and informed one about the murder of someone you hated. I had no idea Miss A. put a lot of promo eggs in the Jonson and Barbie basket. Her plan not working out? Devastating.

  I stilled the chair, selected a pen, and rat-a-tat-tatted a silly beat on the desk. I would have to rely on the adage Mom shared: time will pass, and all will be b
etter. One day. Not today, nor tomorrow. But eventually.

  Miss A. and I could think of something new. I resumed swiveling and tapping, fixing a drawn-out look on her closed door. What Miss A. did in her office—I hadn’t a clue.

  Did I want to know everything?

  Chapter Twelve

  True to his hand signal, Allan called me later in the evening. “I need to locate Tracey.”

  This did not sound good. I didn’t get to answer with a “howdy” before being blasted with his demand. “Tracey? As in my sister Tracey?”

  “You’re not a dimwit, Hattie. Your sister.”

  “Why?” As if he would tell.

  “Stop playing games, sweetheart. Give me her number. It’s important.”

  Hmm. Definitely not liking the sounds of his “important.” “Like police important?”

  “You have to be the most frustrating woman on earth.”

  Deal with this, moron. I hung up. My phone rang right away. I looked at the screen. Allan again. Not surprising. “Yes?”

  “I apologize.”

  “Hard to say?”

  Nothing but grumbles.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you through your complaining. I’m guessing we have a bad connection.” I stabbed the “off” button again.

  The phone rang. “Please, Hattie. Will you please give me Tracey’s phone number? Please.”

  Lots of “pleases” in his ask. Yanking his chain? Tons of fun. I grinned. “I’m thinking.”

  “Can you think faster?”

  “Maybe you could try the white pages.” Again, nothing. “So, why do you want her number?”

  Allan let out a long sigh. “Jonson Leggett’s murder—remember?”

  I froze like an icicle. The importance of why Detective Wellborn wanted to speak with Tracey dawned on me with crystal clear clarity—my sissie became numero uno at the top of his suspect list, especially after the near argument with Jonson at the store.

  Before I would dish any info, I required confirmation. “We discussed the sister topic this morning when you came by Wonderland. Let me reiterate, Tracey didn’t do anything.”

  “Hattie.”

  Allan paused a long time, which he seemed to do a lot when he talked to me, like I frustrated him. Right now, he frustrated me.

  “You know how it works,” he said. “The police interview any and every person relevant to a case. Every piece of information. Everything.”

  The sternness in his voice annoyed me. “Allan, Tracey didn’t do it. She didn’t kill Jonson Leggett the Third. I would kill him for what he did to my sister.”

  “Don’t say stuff like that to a policeman, Hattie. You could get into serious trouble.”

  Fine. Be a butthead. I hung up a third time and went straight to the computer. Allan might be right, but he could get Tracey’s phone number elsewhere, like the phone directory, or from his mother, or the police database. I don’t care where, but not from me. I would never be a traitor, especially to my sister.

  I teethed my lower lip. And if Allan thinks badgering me for my sister’s number so he can interrogate her is how to get a girlfriend—he's dumb.

  Settling my fingers on the keyboard, I typed. I would email my family and the other Funsisters to let them know about Detective Wellborn’s game plan. No way in hell would he get any information from us. We would form a corral around Tracey, making a fortress so impenetrable, broken bones from trying to break through would be his hugest problem.

  Funsisters protected each other. Our code.

  ****

  During my prime sleepy time, Jenny stumbled in my room and laid my cell phone on the side of my face.

  Instantly, I sat straighter, my phone dropping to my lap, letting out an earth-shattering “intruder alert, intruder alert” screech.

  I set my hand to my heaving chest when Jenny came into focus. “What is it? Are you okay?”

  She pointed to my cellphone buried in my comforter. “Your phone…has been ringing…a lot.”

  I hadn’t heard a thing; however, I left mine recharging on the credenza in the living room. “Didn’t hear it.”

  “Someone wants you badly.” She yawned. “You might adjust the ringer.”

  “Sorry.” I groped amongst the covers to locate my cell and placed it against my ear. My eyes closed. “Hello?”

  “Hattie. Hattie. Answer me.”

  An exceedingly familiar sharpness in the voice penetrated my sleepy state. I forced open one eyelid. “Mom?”

  “Wake up.”

  “Sorta…am…now.” I stared at my alarm clock—two A.M.—and my phone—still two A.M. “It’s two freakin’ early in the morning, Mom. What do you want?”

  “I wouldn’t call you unless important,” she said. “Very important. An emergency. A family emergency.”

  I brushed the hair from my eyes. “This better be good.”

  “You’re not sounding one bit respectful, young lady. I know I taught you better.”

  She had, but phoning at two A.M. didn’t seem respectful either. “I apologize. What’s the emergency?”

  “The police questioned your sister.”

  “Tracey?” I threw off my bedcoverings. “Questioned? Police? Really? When?”

  “Really. Allan hauled her to the station. I bet everyone in Sommerville knows.”

  And warranted a two A.M. call. I ruffled my hair. “Allan told me he needed to talk to Tracey and asked for her phone number. I declined to give it. Didn’t you see my email?”

  “The one discouraging him?” Mom asked. “I did. I'm guessing his mother gave him Tracey’s number. I'll be having a huge talk with Shirley tomorrow at Super Saver. Radishes are on special.”

  Radishes? I shook my head. Mom? Unstoppable.

  “Tracey said Allan pressed her to come to the police station to conduct an interview. He just about accused her of murdering Jonson,” Mom said.

  Every pore in my core seethed with red-hot anger over what Allan did. I gripped my cellphone tighter. “The rat. Allan tossed his regulation policeman crap spiel my way. I told him not to bother Tracey, but did he listen? Nooo. Everyone knows she wouldn’t hurt a fly. She wouldn’t murder anybody. I’ll give him a piece of my mind right now. Bye—”

  “Wait. Hattie.”

  My mom didn’t sound like her usual unflappable self. I said, “I'm guessing something did happen.”

  “Well, your darling sister might…have done…something.”

  “Like what constitutes something?”

  “Like maybe she left…fingerprints on Jonson’s car something.”

  “Fingerprints? On Jonson's car?” Lord, help us. I shut my eyes to blot out what Mom disclosed and pressed my palm to my forehead. A few seconds passed before I squeezed my eyes open. “I don't get it. Are you saying Tracey bumped into Jonson at Super Saver?”

  “She said so when Dad and I picked her up at that-that horrid place,” Mom said. “Honestly, I don't know what to think, Hattie. Things are…are scaring me. Scaring all of us. I’m so worried.”

  Now, the desperation in Mom’s voice really-really-really shocked me. Never, ever frantic, Mom epitomized the kind of woman with every curl in place. And all lacquered with super freeze-y hairspray in case of a possible tornado. Furthermore, all I’s were dotted. All T’s crossed.

  I covered my lips with my fingers. “Oh. My. God.”

  “Tracey wouldn’t tell me when and why she talked to Jonson. I expect pig-headedness from you. Not her.”

  I set my lips and slung my legs over the side of the bed, then stood. I crossed to the chair where I’d tossed a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. I pulled on the pants. I stuck my arms in the shirt sleeves and wriggled my head through the opening while juggling the phone. “Your darling daughter is a brat.”

  “God. Tracey has to tell somebody the truth,” Mom said. “Come now. We can’t do anything until she does. Hurry. Please.”

  “Tracey will be talking plenty when I’m through with her.”

 
****

  I broke land speed records to get to Mom and Dad’s house, but then, not a whole lot of cars were on the road—or cops. Usually, they seemed to home in on me like bees on pollen. Upon entering my parents' house, the atmosphere of a funeral parlor—dead quiet—enveloped everything, everyone, everywhere.

  I’d never seen my mother’s house look so messy. Used tissues and coffee cups lay on top of the kitchen counters in piles. Trash spilled from the overflowing receptacle and littered the floor. Ordinarily, Mom would be plucking the tissues with tongs and tossing them away.

  A small sob came from the dining room. I cut through the kitchen to the formal dining room, where I found Tracey sitting in a Duncan-Phyfe styled chair at the head of great-grandmother's table. Black mascara streaked her cheeks. Her regular stuck-out hairdo climbed to Empire State Building height.

  On each side of the table, Mom and Dad paced, not uttering a word, and worry painting their faces. The only difference between them—Mom twisted her hands over and over and over.

  I crouched at Tracey’s left side, set one hand on her arm, and put the other on her knee. I took her hand, and her fingers curled with mine as she blankly focused on me. I said, “Hey, Trace.”

  My younger sister peeked at me through her wet lashes.

  “Mom phoned. She explained what she could.”

  “I-I know.”

  “She said the police interrogated you.”

  Tracey pursed her lips and gave a half shrug. “Yes.”

  I reset my crouch. “You have to tell us what happened.”

  With angry swipes, she yanked her hand from mine and dried her eyes. “Isn't anyone listening? I. Didn’t. Do. Anything.”

  Her hysterics rivaled a prime-time soap opera.

  “Okay?”

  “Calm down. Yelling won’t help. I’m on your side, Sissie, we all are. But something happened, and you need our help.”

  Rising, I shifted a chair to face her and sat, resting my forearms on my thighs. “Allan bugged me for your number, and when I wouldn’t give him the time of day, he asked his mom or went to the police databases. I think he thinks you spoke to Jonson—which must be true because the police found your fingerprints on his car. Why, sister dear?”