Petty Crimes & Head Cases

by Lola Beatlebrox

  She got the problem right away. “So you want me to do some moonlight accounting—organize Shelley’s medical bills and EOB statements and find out who owes what?”

  “EOB statements?”

  “‘Explanation of Benefits. That’s the name of the statements Shelley gets from the insurance companies and Medicare.”

  “Can you give her a good deal?”

  “No charge. Shelley’s my friend too; I’m happy to help her.”

  “Good.” I expected no less. We all went to high school together.

  “When’s she coming to have her massage with Annabelle Davina?” Margaret asked.

  “Tomorrow at eleven. I figure you can drop by on your lunch hour after her massage is over.”

  “Will do.” She reclined deeper into the sofa and scratched her thigh. It was a totally absent-minded gesture that looked languid, lazy and incredibly sensuous—just the kind of thing that drove men crazy. I hoped this guy Barry would last longer than the last one. Margaret tended to fold ’em not hold ’em.

  The next morning Annabelle Davina arrived around ten o’clock for organic tea and pumpkin bran muffins which Jamie and I had baked the night before. Annabelle is tall—about five foot eleven. She folded her long, flat-chested body into an upholstered chair and sipped her mug of tea with a dreamy look.

  “I have been channeling energy for my patients,” she said. “Energy is all around us. It is intelligent and conscious.”

  I looked around. I saw my hair products, my computer, my area rug, and my masseuse folded up into a soft chair much too small for her tall body. Maybe she had a point. This was all intelligent and conscious stuff produced with a lot of energy. But why was Annabelle talking to me like this? She knew I didn’t believe in energy work.

  I recalled the afternoon I spent at the Psychic Fair, held at the local Best Western, where women came from miles around to have their Tarot cards read, their hands hennaed, and their tummies stuffed with organic, gluten free, GMO-prohibited goodies. I paid twenty dollars for “energy work” which consisted of some fairly onion-laden breathing transmitted from a lady who hovered her hands over my body for fifteen minutes. I had felt nothing and told Annabelle so.

  But today Annabelle assumed an innocent, sincere aura enhanced by her doe-like eyes whose lash extensions appeared to have been purchased at Lash My World. “I make the energy flow,” she said. “My own intellect is not involved. I see without knowing. The intention of the Universe is to make whoever I touch better, complete, and whole.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Annabelle, come off it. This is me you’re talking to. Shelley doesn’t need energy work.”

  “It is the most beneficent thing.”

  “You sound like a commercial from a New Age shyster,” I said, getting up and going to my computer. “Shelley is hurting; she needs a full-body massage, not some flimflam stuff.”

  Annabelle detached herself from the upholstered chair. “A massage was the first thing on my mind.”

  That wasn’t obvious to me. “Shiatsu or Swedish?”

  “Whatever she wishes.”

  “Swedish, then. Let’s get the massage room ready.”

  As we tucked in the sheets, warmed the massage lotion, ensured the heating pad was the perfect temperature, and chose the most relaxing music, I wondered why my blood was boiling. This was Annabelle Davina, the loveliest, most selfless, most soulful post-hippy hippy ever. Why was she promoting energy work?

  I excused myself from the massage room and went to the front door where Shelley was coming up the path. Her shoulders were slumped as if she were carrying the weight of the world. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I told her, hugging her, then holding her out in front of me. The creases in her forehead looked like a river delta; I wanted her forehead to resemble a smooth sand dune.

  “Kayla told me what you did for her,” she said. “Aren’t kids a treasure?”

  “Teenagers,” I said. “We got her fixed up, and Jamie is looking forward to an evening of fun with his favorite babysitter.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t discount the price,” she said. “Kids need to know how much things cost.”

  “So true.”

  “And I want to pay for my massage.”

  “Not an option.” I commandeered her arm and led her to the massage room.

  “Annabelle!” Shelley said. “I haven’t seen you for so long.”

  “Too long,” said Annabelle. I could see the sincerity in her eyes came from within. I wondered what I’d been worried about and felt a pang of guilt.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” I murmured, and shut the massage room door with a gentle click.

  Shelley emerged an hour later. The Mississippi River Delta on her forehead was less noticeable. I gave her a glass of ice water. She sank into one of my upholstered chairs.

  “Yoo hoo!” Margaret swooped into the salon looking like a cockatoo, in her clinging pink sweater and lime green skirt. Her heels clacked on the bamboo floor before she hit my pretty patterned area rug. Descending on Shelley, she gave her a big smack and left a lipstick print on her shiny massage-oiled cheek.

  “I can see you’ve had a nice time,” Margaret said. “Not as good as sex though. Does that man of yours service you at all?”

  From anyone else this question would be invasive but Shelley and I have known Margaret forever, and we expect no less.

  “It’s too much trouble,” Shelley mumbled into her ice water.

  “Get yourself a vibrator, girl,” said Margaret. “The little bullet kind—takes all the work out of it for Jack and he will make you smile.”

  Shelley cringed and I laughed.

  “Margaret is here to do you a favor, Shelley,” I said, “but not of the sex therapist kind.” I shot Margaret a warning look, which was lost on her because she was inspecting her perfectly sculpted acrylic nails. “Margaret is going to do some forensic accounting on your parents’ medical bills.”

  Margaret grinned as if the prospect of all that paperwork was as enticing to her as chocolate mousse. “I’m going to organize them and figure out what’s what.”

  “But there are hundreds of papers,” Shelley said. “Stacks and stacks.” The furrows over Shelley’s brow returned, making her forehead look like a cornfield before sowing.

  “I’m sure they’ve made you see double,” Margaret said, “but I have my methods. Shelley, you have to understand that more than half of Medicare bills have mistakes in them. Unreasonable medical costs can be appealed and you can win. Hospitals have been overcharging to compensate for the uninsured and you can negotiate with them. We’ll get a handle on your family’s medical costs and everything will be under control.”

  “I thought we were going to go bankrupt,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes.

  “Not if I can help it, Shelley,” said Margaret. “I’ll need the policies of all your insurance carriers that were in effect before Medicare kicked in, information about any supplemental insurance, and all the paperwork. I understand there are three boxes?”

  “Yes, but that’s only from Jack’s parents’ stuff,” Shelley said. “I have files from my parents, too.”

  “All right, bring it all to the hardware store this afternoon.”

  Shelley looked at Margaret with a relieved expression.

  “And bring me any appointment books or calendars too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Anything that documents when your parents and Jack’s parents went to the doctor.”

  “I drove them to all their appointments.”

  “Do you keep a calendar?”

  “Yes. I have a little black date book for every year.”

  “I’ll need those.” Margaret rose to go. “Give me a week or two. Then we’ll meet again.”

  Shelley hugged Margaret. “Thanks.”

  “Wait a minute.” I wiped Margaret’s lipstick from Shelley’s cheek, pleased to see her looking so happy.

  After Margaret and Shelley left, I collected
the water glass and tea mug before I realized Annabelle was still in the massage room. From the door, I could see her seated on the table in the Lotus position. The lights were dim and the spa music was off. Her back was straight, her hair was straight, her nose was straight. Everything about Annabelle seemed straight.

  “Annabelle?”

  “Tracy.” She uncoiled her body and slipped off the massage table. “I have an idea for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m working for a chiropractor giving massages and doing energy work. He wants to be full service and offer his patients manicures and pedicures. He’ll give you referrals if you tell your clients about his chiropractic services.”

  “A bit of reciprocal marketing?” I said.

  “It’s a nice idea.” Her lash extensions fluttered. “Your spirits will complement each other and it will cost you nothing.”

  “Who is this chiropractor?” I asked.

  “His name is Whiteside.”

  “That’s the second time I’ve heard his name this week. Mrs. Beale mentioned him yesterday.”

  “He’s young and hip and very popular. My appointments have tripled since I joined his practice.”

  I wondered how Annabelle’s usual tie-dyed style fit in with a chiropractor’s clinical white, but then this guy Whiteside sounded far more modern than the chiropractor I visited.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said, giving her cash for Shelley’s massage. “Thanks for coming, Annabelle.”

  “You’re welcome. I think Shelley feels a lot better.”

  “I know she does.”

  I saw Annabelle out the door. Then I turned the “Back in 30 minutes” sign over, locked the front door, and went out to lunch.

  After lunch Heather Desmond arrived at one o’clock. My Client Notebook said: Age-52. Retired from California real estate market. Raises chickens, goats, llamas. Hair color: Ash blonde. Cut: Neck length, feathered ends, no bangs.

  Heather reached into her bag and pulled out a plastic tub that I knew was filled with the most delicious, creamy hors d’oeuvre spread I’d ever tasted.

  “Goat cheese,” I said. “My favorite.”

  “I almost brought you some wool—it’s shearing time for the llamas—but I didn’t think you wanted to wash and card and spin all that stuff.”

  I shook my head.

  “You could take it to Spinderella and Spinderfella in the big valley,” she said. “Wouldn’t you like to knit a pair of mittens for winter?”

  “Even if you gave me a skein of wool from your beautiful llamas, I wouldn’t have time to knit. In fact, I don’t know how.”

  We talked about the decline and resurgence of women’s traditional handicrafts—knitting, embroidery, tapestries, and tatting. When Heather Desmond left the salon, she looked eager to do all those things.

  A few minutes later Sarah Binford breezed in smelling like the out-of-doors. This was a darned sight better than the last time she came in, when she smelled like a short order cook. I had to wash her hair twice to get the deep fryer grease out of it.

  “Sarah, you look fantastic.”

  She’d transformed from a barrel-chested square on legs to a trim size six in Reeboks. “I have a new career,” she said.

  I swathed her in a rose cape which matched the color in her cheeks. “Doing what?”

  “Live Signage Marketing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m one of those people who jump up and down and wave signs to get customers to patronize a business.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  I always wondered who would be desperate enough to do a job like that.

  “Today I wore a clown costume and got several families to choose ABC Pizza over Jocko’s. Yesterday, I wore a Statue of Liberty outfit and you should have seen the cars peel off and go into Sam Acorn’s Tax Prep instead of that national chain.”

  “Isn’t all that jumping around exhausting?”

  “Not anymore.” She poked her arm out from under the cape and held up her bicep for me to feel.

  “Impressive,” I said.

  “I canceled Pilates and I’m saving hundreds of dollars. I’ve never felt so good.”

  “You look terrific.”

  “I’ve got several more customers. Woodie’s Car Wash, Blain’s Farm and Fleet Mechanics, and Amando’s Mercado. I’m going to hire people to help me soon. Live Signage Marketing is hot. It’s a growth industry.”

  I turned the salon chair to the right and gazed at her with a practiced eye. Sarah had naturally curly hair that she wore in a short bob. She used to look like a kewpie doll with a fuzzy beanie on top of her head, but fifty pounds lighter, she now looked more like a bubble head Barbie.

  “Sarah, I would recommend a slight adjustment in your hairstyle. Let’s allow the back and sides to grow a little more so the shape is more elongated. Your curls will wrap around your neck rather than float above your ears. I think it will be very flattering.”

  “How much longer?” she asked.

  “Almost shoulder length.” I produced my iPad from under the counter. “Let me show you some pictures.”

  We browsed curly hair styles for a few minutes. “Okay, let’s do it!” she said.

  “You’ll look sensational.”

  I shaped the hair as agreed and we were silent for a while until she piped up. “I saw a weird thing happen yesterday.”

  “Mmm?” I had a hair clip in my mouth so that’s all I could say.

  “I was waving my sign outside of Sam Acorn’s and there was a fender bender—happened right in front of me. Two cars collided at the turn signal. It was clearly an accident. They pulled over to the side, but the weird thing was, another car stopped and a guy ran out to give each of the drivers a business card. Then he drove away.”

  “How weird is that?” I said, thinking it was weird indeed.

  “Very weird,” she said, “until I found out what the card said. One of the drivers threw his in the gutter.”

  “Litter bug.”

  “It was from Whiteside Chiropractic.”

  I absorbed this information with interest.

  “You know those accident lawyers?” she said.

  “Ambulance chasers?”

  “I think he was like them.”

  Jamie sat at the kitchen counter painting me a picture. “Mom, can we have Tater Tots for dinner?”

  “I’m not buying Tater Tots any more. We don’t know what’s in them. I’m only buying real potatoes.”

  “There’s potatoes in Tater Tots.”

  “And sugar and salt and fat, too.”

  Jamie had used up his allotted hour of video games so I let him paint with my new watercolors. I want him to be creative. Computer games have their place, but they’re somebody else’s idea of fun—a game designer somewhere who dictates what children do and see.

  When the back door opened, I greeted my husband.

  “Stop kissing!” said Jamie.

  “I’ll kiss you too!” I puckered my lips and leaned toward him.

  “Mom!”

  I roughed up his hair instead.

  Carl bumped Jamie’s shoulder with his fist. This was a guy thing. No touching without it looking like a knockout in the eighth round or a quarterback going for the first down. Fists, elbow bumps, head butts, arm wrestles. A real kiss? Never.

  “Dad! Let’s throw the football.”

  “Okay, I’ll get changed.”

  Carl disappeared upstairs and I pulled out ingredients for dinner. Spaghetti, garlic, onion, yellow peppers, fresh tomatoes, sweet Italian sausage, Italian bread.

  Carl re-appeared only to escape out the back door with Jamie and the football. I prepared the meal alone. It was a traditional arrangement—men playing, women working.

  Over dinner, I sought the answer to the question stewing in my mind all day—was it legal to solicit business at the scene of an accident? I told Carl what Sarah had witnessed.

  “There’s no law in this state against
that kind of marketing,” Carl said, “but there have been some big cases against it recently. One was in Minnesota.”

  “What happened?”

  “Two car insurance companies sued a big chiropractor in the Twin Cities. Apparently, the clinic used accident reports to find people and call them to solicit appointments. They even sent cars to pick them up.”

  “Sounds helpful.”

  “It was so helpful that the Minnesota legislature made ‘runners and cappers’ illegal.” Carl twirled spaghetti on his fork and stuffed it in his mouth. “Good dinner.”

  “Yummy,” Jamie said, tomato sauce all over his face.

  “The suit accused the chiropractors of submitting more than one million dollars in bogus insurance bills over two years,” Carl said.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Mom, what does bogus mean?”

  “It means false or fake,” I said.

  Carl turned to his son. Being a policeman, he was always careful to explain morality. “When a bad guy says something untrue or does something wrong, that’s bogus, Jamie. It hurts people. It touches everyone’s lives in a bad way.”

  “We all pay for insurance fraud,” I said. “Our rates go up.”

  “What’s insurance?” Jamie asked.

  “Insurance is a way for everybody be protected against the cost of an accident or an illness,” I said. “Everyone pays a little bit so people who need to pay a lot are taken care of.”

  “It’s a way for a lot of people to help out a few people who are unlucky, Jamie,” Carl said. “And you never know who’s going to be unlucky. It could be us, or it could be one of our friends.”

  I thought of Shelley who was terrified that her family would go bankrupt when insurance didn’t cover all the bills.

  “Time for bath and a story,” I said.

  Jamie took his plate to the sink. Carl took his. Then they rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher. I have the most helpful men in the world.

  My first appointment the next morning was Harriet Carpenter, a friend of Mrs. Beale’s—the lady with the neck brace.