by Sharon Short
Suddenly, I felt an urge to start hollering: “It’s not my fault! The tornado’s not my fault! All that’s been happened . . . it’s not my fault!”
And at the same time, I felt like whispering . . . “I’m sorry.”
But I didn’t. I went back to my apartment. I showered for a long time (washing Jell-O from one’s hair takes awhile), then got into my most comfortable pajamas—the Tweety Bird ones—then tried my phone again. Finally, thankfully, a dial tone.
I called Owen—no answer.
I called Winnie—no answer.
I called my insurance company’s 24-hour hotline. I had to press 1 (file a claim), then 3 (act of God), then 4 (tornado), then 2 (business policy). . . and I finally got a recorded voice, asking me to leave a message, and assuring me someone would call me back soon. So I left my message.
It was good to know someone was still willing to talk to me.
By 7 A.M. the next morning, I wished no one would ever want to talk with me again.
The first phone call came at five that morning.
It seemed awfully early for the insurance company to call me back, but I picked up the receiver with my eyes still shut and, still lying down, mumbled hello.
“Is this Josie Toadfern?”
“Uh huh.”
“This is Trudi Hackman from the Star Reporter.”
That got me to sitting up, eyes wide open. I’d been seeing the Star Reporter right by the checkout stand of the A&P all my life. I’d even read a few copies—although I want to make it clear I much prefer really good books from the bookmobile.
“Is it true you found Tyra Grimes murdered in your apartment?” Trudi asked. She sounded extra-caffeinated—no cream.
“Uh, in my spare apartment.” I felt awkward answering that question. After all, Tyra’s murder was being investigated. And I wasn’t sure how much to answer. Chief Worthy hadn’t given me any instructions on that.
“Is it true she was staying there because she was having financial problems?”
“Uh—I don’t think so—”
“Is it true she was eviscerated?”
“What?”
“That her stomach was sliced open and her guts were—”
“I know what the word means,” I snapped. “Who told you that?”
“So it’s true, but the authorities want to keep it hidden—”
“Now wait a minute . . . I didn’t say . . .”
“Did you find any evidence of satanic cult rituals? They can include sacrifices, you know . . .”
I hung up.
I lay back down.
The phone rang again.
I put my pillow over my head.
The phone kept ringing.
So I answered it. “Look, Ms. Hackman, I’m not answering any of your crazy questions—”
“Oh, man, did she get to you already?” A man’s voice.
I sighed. “Who is this?”
“Trent Riteway. From the news show Vision.”
At least that was a respectable mainstream show.
“What did you tell Hackman?” Riteway wanted to know.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Great! I was hoping for an exclusive! Now, I have it on good authority that Ms. Grimes was consorting with Prince Rakashan Abudi, who’s an expatriate from . . .”
I hung up.
After three more such calls, all from different reporters, all with equally nutty ideas, I unplugged my telephone. The insurance company would just have to deal with me having a busy signal.
But I couldn’t get back to sleep. I kept seeing Tyra, murdered, on my spare apartment’s floor. Her death added more questions to the ones already unanswered. Like who would kill her . . . and then I remembered Hazel Rothchild, threatening to kill Tyra. I shook my head—no, no, Hazel had just been speaking under great emotional strain. She’d have no real reason to kill Tyra. Would she?
Or what about Paige? After all, I already suspected her of killing Lewis. Maybe she and Tyra had met, had a fight over the content of the letter I’d delivered to Tyra on Paige’s behalf. After all, I knew from having found a previous ripped-up letter in Paige’s motel room trash can that Paige had long held misgivings about her boss. Yes, maybe they’d had a fight, and it had gotten out of hand . . .
Then there was Aguila and Ramon. Maybe the plan they’d cooked up to get Paige to make Tyra help them and the little girl Selena had backfired . . . maybe they tried a second time to kill her, but this time succeeded . . .
I worried about Billy. Was he okay? Or had he been an innocent bystander, too, just like Lewis . . . ?
I shook my head. Trying to sort through all these possibilities was giving me a headache. I needed aspirin.
I got out of bed, went into my bathroom, turned on the light, started to reach to open the medicine chest, but then stopped as I saw my image in the mirror. I stared in shock.
Lime Jell-O had worked well to relieve my itchy scalp.
But apparently lime Jell-O, hair perm and coloring chemicals, stress, and my personal hair chemistry don’t work well together.
Because my hair had gone frizzy . . . and orange.
I’m not talking a few waves and an auburn glow.
I’m talking tight frizzy curls and bright orange. As in detour-sign orange. Road-construction-barrel orange. Prison jump suit orange. Bozo the Clown orange. The orange thread in my great-grandmother’s quilt that Tyra had hated, orange.
I stood before my mirror, my jaw hanging open as I stared at my hair. Even Tweety Bird, on my pajama top, looked shocked, about to chirp—I think I saw a big orange-haired oaf . . . I did, I did, I really, really did . . .
Then the pounding at my door started.
I went to the front door and looked through the peephole. There were at least six people outside my door. I didn’t know any of them. But I could guess who they were. More reporters.
So I went back to my bedroom. Put on my jeans, aqua T-shirt, socks, tennis shoes, and cap—this one white, with a big pink ice cream cone and the words “Dairy Dreeme.” I tucked all my orange hair up under my ball cap, stopped back into my bathroom, took two aspirin, and went back to my front door, on which the people outside were still pounding.
I took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped out.
“Ms. Toadfern—could you—”
“Is it true that—”
I had learned a few things from Tyra. I held up my hand for silence, using the same gesture Tyra had used in the laundromat. When the crowd of reporters quieted down, I said—in my best fake French accent (which I could do thanks to Pépé Le Pew cartoons on cable’s Cartoon Network)—“I am not Josie Toadfern!”
Henry Romar from the Paradise Advertiser Gazette hollered, “She is too Josie Toadfern! Josie, what are you trying to pull?”
I glared at him—indignantly, of course. “I repeat, I am not Josie Toadfern. I am her distant cousin—” I pronounced that word “coo-zeen”—“Jezebel Toadfern, visiting on a break from my American tour with the Great Circus de France-ay.”
With that, I pulled off my Dairy Dreeme hat with a flourish, letting my frizzy orange hair spring loose.
The crowd fell silent, staring at me. Tyra would have been proud. I’d never have figured out how to work a crowd like this without her example.
“If you are looking for Josie,” I went on, pronouncing my own name “Jo-say,” “she left early this morning to go to the Woodlawn Cemetery for the burial of Mr. Rothchild.” I hated to send a bunch of reporters to interrupt Lewis’s burial, but I figured there were probably already other reporters there. “However, if you would like to interview me about my chief clown role in the Great Circus de France-ay . . .”
“Woodlawn Cemetery? Where’s that?” someone hollered.
Henry said, “I know, I know where it is!” He was so eager to be a hero that he’d fallen for my ruse, too.
I was tempted to follow after the stream of reporters, shouting, “Wait, wait,” in my best Pépé style, but I thought I’d bette
r not push my luck, since my trick was working.
I waited until they were all gone. Then I made sure my apartment was locked up, and I tucked my hair back up under my ball cap. I went out to my car and took off in the opposite direction from the Woodlawn Cemetery. It was another hour before I was to meet Winnie at the bookmobile, but I didn’t want to be here when the reporters figured out Josie wasn’t at Woodlawn . . . and that Jezebel was really Josie.
So I took off to the place I like to go when I need to be alone and think—the old orphanage.
I sat at the top of the rise overlooking the orphanage, stared past it out into a sky that even in this early hour was already startlingly blue, a perfect backdrop to a few fluffy clouds that lazily drifted along. Hard to believe, staring into this sky, that a violent storm had blown through in this area the night before. On my drive over, I’d only seen a few signs of it—stray tree limbs, a cracked tree, the door blown off the barn over at the Crowley farm. Of course the tree limb was still sticking through my spare apartment’s window, awaiting my insurance company’s inspection. And my behind was getting damp, sitting on the grass, but I didn’t care.
As I gazed into the sky, my thoughts started off being about how we’d gotten off lucky in that storm. Then my thoughts started drifting off like the clouds, to things much less pleasant than the sky . . . like Tyra’s murder. What Tyra had been up to with Stillwater. What her connection had been to Lewis. How it all fit together—or if any of it fit together at all.
And Guy . . . I wondered how he, and the others, were doing at Stillwater. Of course I knew Don Richmond had done his best to keep the reporters off the grounds, but Guy would have noticed all those new people outside the gates. And he’d have noticed the gates being locked. At the very least, I realized with a pang, this change would be unsettling to Guy.
Somehow, even with Tyra’s revelation that she’d have come to Paradise even without my letter, I felt responsible for what was happening at Stillwater. To make it up to at least Guy, I decided that as soon as things got back to semi-normal, I’d make a picnic lunch and bring him here. For some reason, Guy always loved to come here with me, sit up on this hill, stare down at the old building. I didn’t think he understood I’d lived here for a bit, but maybe at some level he did.
Or maybe there was some other reason—maybe something as simple as the shape of the building, or the view of looking down at a building, that appealed to him. Whatever the reason, the two places he did best on visits away from Stillwater were here, overlooking the old orphanage, and at ball games, where he counted all the pitches, tallying them on a little notepad.
So I sat there awhile and thought about Guy, and felt all tender and protective and mushy about him, the way I might about a little brother, although Guy, of course, was my much older cousin. Funny how, bloodline-wise, he was the same relationship to me as Billy, but how, heartwise, our relationship was a lot different. Guy was, in a lot of ways, like the brother I’d always wanted. Billy was like the nutty older uncle you never want, but are stuck with, and like anyway.
But Billy—ever since those T-shirts arrived in town and he hooked up with Aguila and Ramon—had been changing. He was almost respectable. Admirable. Good changes. I just wasn’t sure how to come to grips with the new Billy.
And that brought my thoughts full circle.
I glanced at my watch. It was 9:30 already. I needed to get a move on if I was to meet Winnie on time. What in the world did she have to reveal to me that she had to treat it so top-secret, hush-hush? I walked slowly down the hill, back to my car parked by the berry bushes, more reluctant than curious to find out. It had been nice, sitting all quiet and peaceful. But I had a feeling that—with whatever Winnie had to tell me—my quiet moments alone had just been the calm in the eye of the storm.
15
Ten minutes later, as I drove to my appointment with Winnie, I heard this thucka-thucka-thucka sound. It sounded just like a tire going flat.
But, no, I told myself, it was probably just moisture from last night’s storm in my carburetor, making that funny sound, making my car suddenly drive all jerky.
Denial is a powerful mental force, causing us to do all kinds of things, like keep driving at 35 miles per hour. On just a rim.
But the odor of burning rubber broke through even my fervent denial. So I eased my car off to the edge of the road, turned off my car, then got out to have a look.
My right front tire was shredded. It’d been losing air for a month now, and I kept taking it to Elroy’s station and adding air, meaning to get a new tire, but time and money were tight.
I ran around to the back of my Chevy, popped open the hatchback, pulled up the cover to the well that holds the spare tire. I had a spare and a wrench, but no functioning jack.
I got my purse and keys, shut up the car, and started trotting down the road. I figured I was about a mile from where I was supposed to meet Winnie. I hoped—I prayed—she’d wait for me.
By the time Winnie’s bookmobile came into view, I was panting for breath. The door to the bookmobile was open—which surprised me. I went up the steps—and stopped at what I saw.
No Winnie. Keys still in the ignition. Winnie’s “So Many Books, So Little Time” go cup (which I’d gotten her last Christmas) sat in the cup holder, by the dash, still holding coffee. Several books were knocked to the floor, and the magazine rack had been pulled out of the wall, so magazines were scattered around too.
I swallowed, hard. I was worried about Winnie. She’d never leave her bookmobile—not unless she was forced to.
I heard a car pulling up outside. Banging doors. Then voices—at first too distant to hear, then clear.
“. . . Hurry up, will you? What if someone sees us?”
“In this godforsaken place?”
My stomach lurched. I knew those voices. They belonged to Steve and Linda Crooks. And they didn’t sound so friendly anymore.
I looked around desperately. There aren’t too many hiding spots in a bookmobile, but Winnie had a little desk and chair—both bolted down—in the back corner. I trotted back there, crouched behind the desk, and forced my breathing to slow.
There was the sound of the Crookses’ struggling into the bookmobile, dragging something that was thumping up the steps.
“Where should we put her?” That was Steve.
“How about we just dump her on the floor. Why’d you have to use so much ether on her, anyway?”
“Because she was hollering and struggling too much. What if someone drove by, noticed, called the cops?”
“In this godforsaken place?”
“You said that already—and didn’t we pass a car a mile back?”
Linda gave a snorting laugh. “That broken down old heap? It’s probably been there for years.”
That was my car she was talking about. I almost came out from under the desk to defend my Chevy’s virtue. But I made myself stay put.
“Here, let’s prop her in the passenger seat,” Steve said.
There was the sound of them struggling with Winnie—then a thwacking sound that made me wince, just hearing it. I hoped it wasn’t Winnie’s head. Winnie’s prone to headaches.
“God, this woman weighs a ton.” Linda was panting.
Now that was downright unfair. Winnie had been struggling for 20 years to lose about that many pounds—hardly a ton, and a struggle I could surely relate to.
“There,” Steve said. “The information we got out of her was hardly worth the trouble.”
Linda gave another laugh. “Yeah, but at least we got out of her where we have to go next to—”
I didn’t hear the rest of what she had to say. They’d left the bookmobile.
I started breathing again. Well, I’d been breathing all along, but barely. Then I got up on my knees, peeked over the top of the desk. The top of Winnie’s head was just visible above the passenger seat. I crawled from behind the desk, down the aisle, up to Winnie. She was breathing, raggedly, but breathing.
Then I peeked out the windshield. Steve and Linda had just gotten into their car—a little red sports coupe—started it up, and were pulling out onto the road.
I swallowed hard.
Here I was again, in another fix. I couldn’t let them go. I wanted to know who Steve and Linda Crooks really were—what they were really up to—where they were going that Winnie had told them about. Billy had said they were FBI agents. I wasn’t sure if I believed that. But they sure weren’t writers out to do a biography of Tyra Grimes.
Still, the notion of driving something big enough to need miniblinds in the side windows made my stomach turn inside out.
I gave Winnie a little shake. She moaned. She wasn’t going to wake up any time soon.
I looked back out the windshield. Steve and Linda Crooks were driving down the road.
So I did the only thing I could think of to do.
I quickly pulled the seat belt over Winnie.
Then I sat down in the driver’s seat. Turned the ignition key. And pulled out after the Crookses’ car.
I grinned.
It was, after all, my first car chase—even even if it was with a bookmobile.
The bookmobile was easier to navigate than I thought it would be, although it did make my stomach careen a little, every time the rear of the bus fishtailed.
Steve and Linda quickly figured out that they were being followed. It’s hard not to notice a bookmobile on your tail. I stayed right on them, right up until they sped up past 60 miles per hour.
Then I heard sirens. I glanced—very quickly—in the bookmobile’s side view mirror. A police car was following me. Somehow I just knew it was Chief Worthy. I didn’t want to think about the fine for hijacking a bookmobile, even with cause.
So I did my best to ignore him while I kept up in Winnie’s bookmobile with Steve and Linda in their sporty red coupe.
Suddenly, then, Steve and Linda slowed enough to turn off on another country road—and then they floored it. I slowed the bookmobile, made the turn with the rear of the vehicle swaying wildly, and by the time I got more or less back in my lane, they were out of sight.
I kept driving, my heart sinking. Now what? I glanced around the countryside, as if the trees flashing by held an answer.
