Petty Crimes & Head Cases

by Lola Beatlebrox

  I could hear a siren approaching. Then the room swarmed with EMTs taking over, checking vitals, running an IV, strapping Orchid on their high-tech wheeled bed, evacuating her to the hospital.

  Carl arrived and I showed him the note. He bagged it along with three empty pill bottles. The rest of the forensic team scoured the house. Carl and I drifted out to the front lawn where Sassy stood looking stunned.

  “You two did good,” Carl said. “That girl would be dead now if it hadn’t been for you.”

  “Is she going to be all right?” Sassy said.

  “I heard the EMTs talking—her chances are good.”

  Sassy’s shoulders didn’t straighten. “Are we going to be arrested?” she asked in a small voice.

  Carl laughed. “For breaking and entering? No. But you’ll both need to come downtown and give a statement.”

  “You okay, Sassy?” I asked.

  “I feel a little shaky.”

  “Let me take Sassy home for a minute,” I said to Carl. “Can we see you later?”

  “Sure.”

  I put Sassy in the passenger seat of my car. We didn’t talk much on the way to her condo. By now it was way past ten and I could tell Sassy was dead tired.

  “Why don’t you rest? Then we’ll go to police station.”

  As soon as we unlocked the condo, Sassy went into her bedroom and shut the door while I searched the fridge. I poured myself a healthy dollop of white wine and sat down on the sofa.

  What was going to happen to Orchid now? Did she have any family who should be called? Probably the school principal had her emergency contacts. Suddenly I remembered Jamie.

  I called my neighbor and we agreed Jamie should stay overnight. I closed my eyes. The next thing I knew my cell phone was ringing. Carl wanted to know where we were.

  The police department was a busy place. It was a Friday night, and the normal activity of drunk and disorderlies, accidental shootings, and security alarms made Orchid’s medical emergency seem routine.

  Carl met us in the lobby. “This is Detective Romero,” Carl said. “He’s going to take your statements.”

  “Sassy first, so she can go home right away,” I said.

  “Thanks, Tracy.” She and the detective disappeared down a hallway to the interview rooms.

  I followed Carl to the snack room. “Want something from the vending machine?” Carl asked.

  I shook my head. “I just want to go home.”

  Carl put his arms around me as a patrolman came in and poured himself a cup of coffee. We didn’t speak until the cop left.

  “What’s going to happen to Orchid?” I asked.

  “It doesn’t look good.”

  “You mean she’s—“

  “No, no. She’ll pull through. They pumped her stomach and she’s sleeping now.”

  “Then what’s the bad news?”

  “The pill bottles we found beside Orchid’s bed belonged to owners of the burgled homes. All three are teachers at Jamie’s school.”

  “So there is no doubt—Orchid is the pill thief.”

  “Her car contained a pry-bar and papers with the names and addresses of the entire staff at Sunshine Elementary. There was another address list too. Sassy’s name was on it, Shelley Prothero’s and ours.”

  “The book club.”

  “Looks like it.” Carl’s face looked grim.

  “What else?” I asked.

  “There were clippings from the newspaper for realtor open houses.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Orchid may have stolen pills from the medicine cabinets of those homes too.”

  I let out my breath. “Orchid was in a really bad way. Did you read her suicide note?”

  Carl nodded. “She needs professional help. But she’s going to be charged. You’ve got to steel yourself for that.”

  “Charged with what?”

  “Felonies. Burglary, possession of a controlled substances, possession of drug paraphernalia. She’s going to jail. When she gets out of the hospital, Tracy, she’s going to jail.”

  Case 6

  Officer Down

  The funeral procession wound its way up a narrow dirt road surrounded by sagebrush hills. Carl and I followed the police cars; a parade of personal vehicles followed us. The hearse stopped next to a newly dug grave. We parked wherever we could find a spot and got out. The sun beat down; there was no shade. Sagebrush quivered all around.

  Carl grasped my hand. Officers in uniform, the chief, the mayor, city councilors, city staffers, their wives and husbands, all crowded around the grave. Four pall bearers brought the casket, an American flag draped over it. The half-sized casket squeezed my heart.

  There was a drumbeat. Men removed their hats. The police chaplain spoke.

  “From the beginning of time after Cain killed his brother Abel there has been a need for law enforcement officers to protect the weak and bring evildoers to justice.” The chaplain clutched his Bible, but didn’t refer to notes. “This work is necessary in a sinful world and it is dangerous.”

  I squeezed Carl’s hand. There are desperate people out there. I’m reminded of that every time Carl puts on his Kevlar vest.

  “Today, we honor the sacrifice of a beloved member of our police force, who succumbed to gunshot wounds sustained in the line of duty. Lord God, we are grateful for the life of K9 Barney who died protecting Officer Joseph Torgesen.”

  All eyes swiveled to Officer Torgesen. There was a bandage on his forehead.

  “Help us never forget him,” continued the chaplain. “Help us celebrate the life of K9 Barney and honor his sacrifice. Comfort the friends and colleagues of this fallen hero and give them your strength.”

  I glanced over at the array of city councilors. Martha Farquhar was wiping her eyes. Could the town’s most vocal pet cemetery opponent be weeping over a dog?

  “In commemorating the death of this hero, help us remember that death is not the end. Death is simply the transition to the glorious life to come. Dogs do go to heaven! We should look forward to the life to come with joy and thanksgiving. Amen.”

  We all said amen.

  “And now,” said the chaplain, “any officer who wishes to speak may step forward.”

  Officer Martinez moved up and saluted the coffin. “K9 Barney. You did a great job. Our condolences to your partner for his loss. Run free at the Rainbow Bridge and Godspeed. Not gone, just gone ahead. You pave the way for all of us.”

  Officer Young laid a wreath beside the casket. “It was a pleasure to train with you, K9 Barney,” she said. “I remember watching you search for narcotics, doing what you did best.”

  Officer Witte moved forward. “Barney, you protected your two-legged partner and many of our officers during your time. Now it’s your turn to run free and play with all the other dogs over the Rainbow Bridge. One day you and your partner will be reunited.” He turned toward Officer Torgesen. “Stay strong.”

  Tears glistened on Officer Torgesen’s face.

  Carl released my hand and stepped forward. He took a paper out of his uniform pocket and unfolded it in the wind. “You are all familiar with the Rainbow Bridge poem,” he said, “but I’ll take this occasion to remind you of the poem’s vision.” He cleared his throat. “Just this side of heaven is a place called the Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies who has been especially close to a human, that pet crosses the Rainbow Bridge. On the other side, there is plenty of food, water, and sunshine. All the animals who were ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again. All the animals run and play together over meadows and green hills. They are happy and content except for one thing: they each miss someone very special to them who was left behind.”

  As a bugler played taps, Officer Torgesen placed his hat over his heart and lifted his chin to the sky as if his tears would defy gravity and roll back into his eyes. The casket was lowered and flowers were tossed on top. Officer Torgesen tipped the first shovelfu
l of dry, gritty earth over the coffin.

  We headed toward our cars. After passing through the entrance gate, I looked back and saw the inscription on the arch. Rainbow Gate, the name of our community’s new pet cemetery.

  “I’m here!” The front door slammed. Cholly Chockworth swept into my salon. “Now Life can Begin!”

  “There’s nobody here but me,” I said from the chair behind my computer.

  “Now your life can begin.” Cholly leaned over the desk and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Where shall we sit, my dear? Have you got coffee? I’m just dying for caffeine. Don’t serve me, I can serve myself. Where is it? No, no, don’t get up. I see it. I see it.”

  Cholly charged over to the coffee pot and poured himself a mug, draped himself on the sofa, and opened a notebook. He took a gulp.

  “Delicious. You don’t fool around do you? Only the best coffee beans at The Citrus Salon.”

  “I’m glad you approve.” I sat in an upholstered chair opposite Cholly with my Notebook.

  “I have an idea for something new this year,” Cholly said. “A fashion show! I’ve already talked to the Blue Boutique and lined up Ms. Cowgirl and her First Attendant as models. What do you think?”

  What could I think? It had all been arranged. “Brilliant!” I said.

  “We need a new caterer. Last year the food was dull. Eileen at Done to Your Taste Catering is just the person we want. Did you know she catered the fundraising breakfast for Michelle Obama? You will love her!”

  I ticked catering off my list of things to worry about. Cholly had this well in hand.

  “Roxy Rafael is coming, but she will do facials instead of makeup, and Annabelle will do massages, of course.”

  Of course.

  Cholly looked up as the front door opened. “Oh, ho! Who’s this?”

  A tall male figure in an Izod shirt and jeans stood in the entrance. The sun’s rays outlined his powerful biceps and long legs.

  “Delicious,” Cholly muttered under his breath.

  “Officer Torgesen,” I rose from my chair and met him at the door. “What brings you here?”

  “A gift certificate for Pamper Night,” he said. “It’s what every woman wants, isn’t it?”

  He had to have seen my display ad in the paper with the headline “What Every Woman Wants.”

  “Massages, facials, pedicures and Tarot card readings,” I said.

  “And a fashion show!” said Cholly. He stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Cholly Chockworth.”

  Officer Torgesen put his large, strong hand around Cholly’s manicured palm. “Joe.”

  “Cholly heads up my event every year,” I said. “He knows what every woman wants.”

  “I’ll bet he does,” said Officer Torgesen, his eyes twinkling.

  “I think they want you,” Cholly said.

  “Me?”

  “Women want to buy clothes for their men. You’d be a great model for our fashion show.”

  “We’re showing men’s fashions this year?” I asked Cholly.

  “Absolutely,” he said.

  I’ll bet you just thought of that.

  “Would you do it?” Cholly asked Torgesen.

  “Sure.”

  I was surprised at the answer, so soon after the tragic death of K9 Barney.

  “Officer Torgesen doesn’t have time to do this sort of thing,” I said, thinking to let him off the hook.

  “April wants me to get back into the swing of things.” He touched his forehead where his bandage used to be. I was glad to see it had been replaced with a Band-Aid. “It’s a form of grief management.”

  “Who’s April?” asked Cholly.

  “My sister. The gift certificate is for her.”

  “That wouldn’t be the April who spent the night in the beer cooler at the Maverik gas station, would it?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I helped her through that awful time and now she’s helping me through mine.”

  I saw the question in Cholly’s eyes. “Officer Torgesen’s K9 partner was buried last month,” I said to Cholly.

  Cholly’s face fell. Everyone in town had heard about K9 Barney. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Cholly said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Look,” I said, going to my desk. “The gift certificate is on the house. You can pay for any extras like a massage or a pedicure.”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  “Yes, she does,” said Cholly. “You’re going to be a model, remember?”

  Joe laughed. “Okay. I’d like April to have a massage and a pedicure.”

  “No Tarot card reading?” asked Cholly.

  “And a Tarot card reading.” Joe pulled out his wallet. “You’re a very persuasive guy.”

  Cholly beamed.

  I ran Joe’s credit card while the two men talked about the fashion show. I heard them laughing. Cholly is such a charmer.

  I handed Joe his gift certificate and emailed his receipt. Joe took his leave.

  “Just my luck,” said Cholly, when Joe closed the door.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “He’s straight.”

  My calendar said Mrs. Betsy Goodrich was due at three for a color and style. Today the hostess of the recent book club session looked long and lanky in a tailored blouse and slacks. Her face with its swept-back hair, patrician nose, and arched eyebrows reminded me of Katherine Graham, the heroic publisher of the Washington Post.

  In my salon living room I offered her the array of goodies that usually put a new client at ease. But she selected ice water. Everything about her seemed sucked-in as if she were waiting for something distasteful to happen.

  I suspected she was worried I would ruin her hair, so I tackled the problem right away. “What brings you to see me instead of your usual hairdresser?”

  “My husband and I are going out to dinner tonight with the Chairman of the Board and his wife. They’re flying in unexpectedly from Aspen and I don’t have time to go to the big valley.”

  I nodded as if executives in Lear jets landed at our tiny municipal airport and visited me every day. “So you must look your best.”

  Her bones relaxed a nanosecond, then resumed their original position. “My hair needs work.”

  I evaluated the sculptured helmet curving around her face; frosted highlights glinting in the afternoon sun; not one hair out of place. “What would you like done?”

  “My roots are showing,” she said with a sharpness that informed me the problem was obvious.

  “Yes, I see that.” I let my voice became authoritative, hoping to inspire confidence. “I’ll contact your hairdresser in the city for the formula so we have a match. You’ll look perfect for the evening.” I left her browsing my new box of Godiva chocolate-topped cookies while I telephoned.

  We repaired to the workroom where I painted her roots. There was only a quarter inch of gray so I had to be precise. When I was done she rested on a recliner, although resting could hardly be the name for it. I got the feeling she believed vigilance would ward off any botched job.

  When her hairstyle re-emerged, coiffed and true-to-color, she bestowed me with a radiant smile. “I meant to thank you for saving Orchid’s life.”

  “I was just in the right place at the right time.”

  “Not to hear Sassy Morgan tell the story.”

  I pictured all the women at book club gathered round to learn the details from someone intimately involved in the day we burgled Orchid’s cottage and found she’d overdosed.

  “How did you know she was suicidal?” Mrs. Goodrich asked.

  “I didn’t. It was a feeling and I acted on it.”

  “Even I didn’t recognize the symptoms,” she said. “And I’ve seen a lot of it. Orchid is the fourth person I’ve helped.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I posted bail for her and she’s living with me, waiting for her trial date.”

  “That’s wonderful.” I said, a little awestruck. Bail had been set at $94,000 and
I had envisioned Orchid incarcerated for the millennium.

  “I’ve engaged an excellent defense attorney to take her case. We’re gathering character references who will testify on her behalf. Teachers from her school; in fact, the very teachers whose houses she robbed. They have forgiven her and so should the judge. Opioid addiction is an epidemic, not a crime. She will beat it.”

  “But how?”

  “The Resort. They have an excellent success rate. She’ll get the best of care.”

  “But how can she afford—” I stopped. Clearly Mrs. Goodrich was going to foot all the bills. “Mrs. Goodrich, you’re a saint.”

  “No, Tracy, I’m a sinner. A redemptive sinner. I’m paying for my past. My children lost their childhood and I was a nightmare for my husband. But he stood by me and we won through. Now I pay it forward with young women like Orchid who deserve another chance.”

  A few days later I waited with Jamie at the bus stop. When I came through the back door, I was grabbed by familiar hands, carried to the living room sofa, and ravished. Being swept off my feet felt like the sexiest thing in the world.

  Afterwards, we went upstairs and I watched Carl get dressed. He has the most gorgeous pecs I’ve seen on any male, even the models in Gentleman’s Quarterly. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and shrugged on his bullet proof vest.

  I have a love-hate relationship with that vest. It reminds me he’s in danger every day, but Kevlar is the only thing that separates a cop from a fatal gunshot wound and I’m grateful for its existence. A woman chemist at DuPont invented the stuff.

  “What are you doing today?” I asked.

  “Parking tickets and traffic stops.”

  He often says that to ease the endless worrying of a cop’s wife. The answer sounds harmless, but I once watched a YouTube video of a routine traffic stop. As soon as the officer reached the car window, the driver pumped four rounds into him. Three bullets hit the Kevlar, but one entered the cop’s abdomen just below the vest. The officer writhed and groaned on the asphalt. I had to turn it off.

  “That’s all you’re doing today?”

  “That, and helping little old ladies cross the street.” Carl’s teeth flashed white as he laughed at me. “Stop worrying. I’m only going up to Wolf Lake. Someone stole a log cabin up there.”