Ripped To Shreds

by Jeanne Glidewell

  And my response would be, "Have I told you lately how incredible you're looking since you've lost ten pounds? Another fifteen or so and you'll look twenty years younger. Svelte enough to grace the cover of GQ Magazine, I'd bet."

  He'd chew on my compliment for a few moments and then grudgingly begin to eat his breakfast. Where Rip is concerned, flattery will get you everywhere.

  As soon as the breakfast dishes were washed and put away, I planned to head into town. I had no reason to doubt anything Rick had told us, and I really couldn't imagine him hurting a flea. But something seemed amiss to me, and I wanted to check out his ex-wife's shop and engage her in a conversation if given the opportunity.

  In hindsight, I might have been better prepared for this visit had I known that the shop was called "Naughty Pine Playhouse" instead of "Knotty Pine Playhouse," which is what I'd assumed when Rick mentioned it. I was right in thinking the shop sold toys. Unfortunately, they weren't the sort of toys you'd buy your ten-year old nephew for his birthday.

  Chapter 12

  "Welcome to the playhouse," the sultry voice said as I entered the shop five minutes after its posted opening time. By the reddish-blond color of her hair and the absurd "Soiled Rotten" tattoo on her neck, I knew immediately it was the owner, Desireé. I was pleased I'd gotten lucky on my first attempt to locate her.

  "Thank you," I said. I didn't want to get off on the wrong foot with Ranger Rick's ex-wife, but I felt obliged to offer advice so she wouldn't make the same sort of mistakes in the future. "I hate to bring it up, dear, but I noticed the sign on the front of your little shop and feel you might benefit from investing in a dictionary. Then you could double-check your spelling before you make important decisions, like naming your business or having a tattoo inked on your neck. And here's another piece of advice from someone with much more life experience and wisdom than you. I'm sure you think that tattoo is cute now, but you might not be as enamored with it when you're my age. For starters, with the wrinkles your neck will have acquired by then, your tattoo won't even be legible. Although, in your case that might be a good thing since 'spoiled' is misspelled. You'll be trying to cover your silly tattoo up with foundation or wearing turtlenecks year round, and regret your hasty decision from decades past. Mark my words, dear! You might want to keep that in mind the next time you're tempted to step inside a tattoo parlor. Turtlenecks can get mighty sticky and icky when it's ninety in the shade on the outside patio of the assisted living facility you'll likely be residing in."

  Desireé flushed. "You may be right, ma'am. But enough about me. What are you in here looking for today?"

  "A toy."

  "Then you've most definitely come to the right place. Are you planning a partie à deux, or perhaps a ménage à trois?"

  I was at a loss for words. I had no idea what language this woman was speaking or what she'd just said, and was afraid communicating with her might prove quite difficult. It could be extraordinarily challenging when it came to her helping me pick out a present for little Tommy.

  I waited a few moments for her to translate what she'd just asked me. When she just silently stared at me, I asked, "You speaka da English?"

  Desireè laughed, as if I'd been joking. "On the other hand, you may have flying solo in mind, in which case, we need to look around in an entirely different department."

  Flying solo? What is this woman talking about? I asked myself. Surely she doesn't own a flight school, too.

  "I have no desire to learn how to operate a plane, my dear. I'm only interested in finding a gift for my nephew."

  "Sounds a little kinky, but I like it!" Desireé gave me a knowing wink. In return, I threw my hands up in the air. Literally.

  "I think we have a failure to communicate, dear. My ten-year-old nephew, Tommy, has a birthday coming up, and I'd like to find an appropriate present for a boy of that age."

  "Then I'm afraid you're in the wrong store, lady. The Naughty Pine offers erotica-type merchandise; from sex toys and pornographic literature, to barely-there lingerie. Sorry, but we don't offer a single item that'd be appropriate for a child."

  I glanced around, taking in the merchandise on display in the Naughty Pine Playhouse. Some of its contents looked more like weapons than toys. My scanning stopped at a rack of men's magazines, including Hustler and Penthouse. Ernest Hemingway would have turned over in his grave if he'd heard this woman referring to that smut as literature. Mouth agape, I listened as Desireé continued. "Thank you for stopping by, however. Come back when you're in the market for a toy of your own."

  I didn't even have a response for a remark like that, or for the knowing smile she'd flashed me. But I realized she was dismissing me before I'd had a chance to ask her one question about her ex-husband, Richard Myer. I wanted to find out if she, her ex, and her late sister had shared a tenuous relationship with one another. Had Bea encouraged her sister to leave Rick? And if so, why? Was Desireé determined to be the sole heir when her ailing mama died? Was the size of the treasure trove she was set to inherit worth killing her only sibling? I couldn't imagine any amount of money being worth killing for, but there were all kinds of money-mongers, misfits, and mental cases in the world who may feel differently. There are even those who would throw their own mama under a bus for a mere fistful of dollars; just enough for a snort or two of heroin, for instance.

  I could only think of one option to keep her engaged in conversation. So, trying not to gag on my own words, I said, "Well, now that you mention it, there is something I've been meaning to purchase. I have all of the sex toys I need already, but I would like some new lingerie. Kind of want to spice up the old love life, you see."

  Just having sex twice in the same month would be all it'd take to put our libidos in overdrive at this stage of our lives. Not having the get-up-and-go I once had, I needed to save what little energy I did have for tasks like mopping the kitchen floor and dusting off venetian blinds. But, for now, I needed to pretend I was interested in acquiring something more alluring than my high-waisted bloomers that I could practically tuck my boobs in to.

  "I have the perfect teddy for you!" Desireé exclaimed in delight.

  "Teddy? I thought you said you didn't carry any toys appropriate for children."

  "Not a teddy bear, ma'am. A teddy is a one-piece type of sleepwear. Very sexy and a real turn-on for your man. Do you have any preferences on style or material? Lace? Satin? Silk? Or are you the S & M type that likes to kick it up a notch with leather lingerie?"

  "Leather lingerie? I'm not one of the Hell's Angels, dear. And I'm not certain what S & M stands for, either. Is it 'sweaty' and 'manhandled' perhaps? I know I'd sweat like a cold-water tank in the summer if I wore leather to bed, especially if I were being manhandled by my husband at the same time. After about seventeen seconds of that kind of nonsense, there wouldn't be a dry thread left in one of those ludicrous leather 'teddies', as you like to call them. So, whatever S & M is, my dear, I'm guessing by the saucy way you asked me, it's a relatively safe bet I'm not that type."

  "It stands for sadism and masochism, ma'am." I didn't appreciate the way the shop owner rolled her eyes and shook her head as she spoke, or the mocking tone in her voice.

  "That's nice," I said. "Although it doesn't help me much. So let's just assume I'm not the S & M type. Just show me something appropriate for my age bracket. I have almost no experience at all with frilly, uncomfortable pajamas that I wouldn't be able to sleep in if I had to."

  "Sleep?" The redhead asked in puzzlement. "Who said anything about sleeping in them?"

  "Excuse me?" Now I was even more puzzled. But according to Desireé's description, a teddy, made out of something other than cowhide, sounded fairly tame to me. After all, my cotton night shirt with a sleeping Calico kitten appliquéd on the front was a one-piece style of nightwear.

  "I have an idea you might like." She motioned for me to follow her to the far corner of the store. I seized the moment to make a casual comment that I hoped would lead
into a more enlightening exchange. "Wasn't that just awful about that poor woman who got eaten by a bear, mountain lion, or something of that nature?"

  Desireé stopped mid-step and turned to face me. "More awful than you think. For me, anyway. Bea was my sister. I can't get the image of her final moments out of my head. I've hardly slept a wink since I heard the news."

  No surprise there, I thought, especially if you've been wearing some of the leather sleepwear you're selling in this store. The leather lingerie brought a whole new meaning to the phrase "back in the saddle again".

  I studied the woman's expression and noticed she looked genuinely distraught. I felt I should offer my condolences. "Oh, my! I am so very sorry for your loss, dear. I hope she died doing what she loved. I don't mean to imply she loved trying to fend off a wild animal that was intent on devouring her, of course. I mean something she enjoyed doing, such as hiking through the forest, even though that pastime sounds absolutely dreadful to me, considering all the animals that are champing at the bit to wolf down an intruder. Oh, goodness, I certainly didn't mean to use 'wolf down' as a pun. I suppose 'gobble up' would be a better—"

  I stopped abruptly when I saw the horrified look on Desireé's face. It was clear I wasn't doing a good job at consoling her with my babbling. Finally, I said what she'd no doubt heard a couple of dozen times already. "At least Bea's in a better place now."

  Her soul is in a better place anyway, I thought. The rest of Bea is probably distributed among various piles of bear and cougar poop, and possibly a little raccoon scat, as well. And that's because someone, perhaps even you, Desireé, left her dead body in the forest, at the mercy of the wildlife populating it.

  Desireé remained motionless. I wasn't going to learn anything from her if she didn't speak. So I decided to inquire about something a little more pleasant. I asked, "How is your mother doing, dear? I've heard she was a remarkably-skilled pediatrician in her day. Unfortunately, I've also heard she's not doing well at the moment."

  With a hand over each ear, the redhead finally responded. "What? How do you know my mother? I'm sorry, ma'am, but I just can't stand to talk about my family anymore. Bea's death is still too fresh in my mind. That horrific tragedy and my mother's declining health are too painful for me to even think about. Let me show you the teddy so I can get my mind off my sister and my terminally ill mother."

  Darn it! The window of opportunity to gain a little insight into the matter of Bea's death had slammed shut on my fingers before I could even squeeze my way through it. I'd made no headway whatsoever into the possibilities of sibling rivalry when it came to their dying mother's estate.

  "Here you go! What do you think?" Desireé asked in a disheartened voice. She then flashed a seemingly forced smile as she proudly held up a lacy, see-through pink "onesie" that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. And when it comes to my nearly seven-decade-old body, you wouldn't want to even attempt to imagine me wearing it. As if the sex shop proprietor thought it'd seal the deal, she turned the teddy around so I could see the back of it, and added, "It's even got a thong. A little extra enticement for your man."

  Without even looking into a mirror, I knew my expression was that of a woman who'd just been handed a twelve-foot python and told to drape the harmless reptile around her neck. "Enticement? The only thing that teddy's liable to entice my husband to do is go into cardiac arrest. Particularly if I came to bed wearing it."

  "Oh, come on! You still have a killer bod! He'd rip this sexy teddy off you so fast it'd make your head spin. Try it on before you decide whether or not to buy it. It's on sale for eighty-nine dollars, today only."

  "Eighty-nine dollars?" I was astounded at the price and didn't mind telling Desireé what I thought about it. "Why there ain't eighty-nine cents worth of material in that thing, even if they hadn't chopped most of the backside off. And, believe me, if I paid eighty-nine bucks for it, I'd be stashing that teddy in our safety deposit box at the bank where no one, including my husband, would be doing any ripping on it."

  "What if I let you have it at my break-even price of sixty-five dollars?"

  "Lady, I wouldn't give you a nickel for that thing."

  "But, but, ma'am. It has a thong on–"

  "Having that tiny strip of tickly lace creeping up my crack would have me battier than Carlsbad Caverns in about three seconds."

  "You'd get used to it after a while."

  "Not in this lifetime, I won't! Maybe I should look elsewhere. This is not exactly what I had in mind." Not even the lure of possibly finding out additional useful tidbits of information from Desireé could keep me in her store another minute. I wanted to get out of there before she asked me to try out some of her toys before deciding whether or not to buy any. The vast majority of them resembled something I wouldn't feel comfortable using or even mentioning in my story, and I assume you get the picture without me doing so. The remaining products available in the shop would absolutely scare the pants off me. And, just so you don't get the wrong idea, I meant that last comment figuratively.

  "You know, there's a Wal-Mart about thirty-five miles away in Sheridan. You could get both a toy for your nephew and some flannel jammies for yourself," Desireé said in an effort to insult me.

  "Now you're talking. And I wouldn't even have to rob the First Northern Bank to pay for them," I replied as I walked toward the front entrance. Desireé probably didn't hear my snide remark because her cell phone was ringing. As I opened the door to leave, her response to the caller stopped me in my tracks. She was clearly upset as she said, "You promised me you'd keep your end of the deal. We had an agreement, Ricky, and you'd better stick to it. After all, because of you I have a lot of debt to pay off. But even then, you have more on the line than I do, you know. Why don't you stop by the shop this afternoon so we can discuss the matter?"

  Not only did I think the likelihood of the caller being Ranger Rick was good, the way Desireé pleaded with him not to break their agreement made my skin crawl.

  I stepped back into the store and walked toward Desireé. She quickly whispered into the phone, and afterward, angrily jammed it down into her ample-sized brassiere. I winced in reaction to her forcefulness. Then, in a sickening sweet voice, she asked, "Did you change your mind about the teddy?"

  "Do earthworms have elbows? Not hardly."

  If not for it being totally intrusive, I'd have asked where she was on the day of Bea's death and if her whereabouts could be corroborated. While I was at it, I'd have also asked if killing Bea was a plan she and her ex cooked up together for a mutually beneficial reason. Like, for instance, her sister's half of their momma's estate.

  I knew that was over-reaching, even for me. Instead I asked something less threatening. "No. Actually, I was wondering if you've spoken to law enforcement since your sister's death."

  "No. Why would I have spoken with them?"

  "I was just thinking that due to the close relationship you clearly had with your sister, you might be able to share something that helps them determine for certain if it was an animal that killed her or something else. You know, just in case it wasn't an animal attack. As I'm sure you've heard, they couldn't pin down the exact cause of her death because of the deplorable condition of her body. My husband was in law enforcement his entire career. To be perfectly honest with you, we are helping investigate Bea's death. So if you have something to share, and would feel more comfortable sharing it with me than a couple of intimidating interrogators, by all means, go ahead. I'm ready to listen."

  I ceased talking when tears starting forming in Desireé's eyes. It was hard to judge whether her sorrow was sincere, or she was merely shedding crocodile tears to appear grief-stricken about her loss. Either way, I didn't have time to wait for her to compose herself, so I continued. "And if by off-chance she was murdered by someone, I know you'd want to see the perpetrator of such an atrocity captured and punished. Am I right?"

  Desireé sniffed, wiped her eyes, blew her nose loudly, took in
a long, deep breath, and then repeated the entire sequence twice before speaking again. I almost got the feeling she'd been using the time as a stall tactic to give her a few moments to compose her next remark, in the event I didn't tire of the whole process and go away. I was even more convinced this was the case when, following the third long sigh, she reached into the other side of her brassiere to extract lip gloss and ran it back and forth across her lips a half-dozen times, before checking her cell phone for any new messages. All the while hoping I'd give up and leave. I wondered if before the woman responded, she'd pull a cotton ball and bottle of make-up remover out of her bra to dab at the smeared mascara under her eyes.

  To force a reply, I stared silently at her until she finally said, "Yes, of course I'd want the killer punished if Bea was murdered. She was the only sibling I have and we were very close. And, with my mother in grave condition now, I feel helpless and alone. I could sure use my sister's shoulder to lean on. But it doesn't sound as if the authorities believe murder was the cause of Bea's death, and for that I'm very thankful."

  Desireé dug around—in her bra, of course—until she found a compact with a mirror to inspect her face for smeared makeup. I was beginning to think this gal must actually be flat-chested. Otherwise, I couldn't see how there'd be enough room in what appeared to be a 38D cup-sized brassiere to not only secure her breasts, but also to serve as her well-stocked toiletry bag. I've heard of "fanny" packs, but "booby" packs? Not so much!

  After finally returning the compact to its former place, she spoke again. "As for speaking with the detectives, I answered their questions on the day she went missing and again after her body was discovered by that miserable son-of-a-buck I was married to. I have absolutely nothing more to relate to them that'd be of any benefit in putting the cause of Bea's death to rest. I think they've already determined it wasn't murder, anyway. Besides, like them, I too have no doubt it was an animal attack. I don't know how anyone could want to hurt Bea. She meant the world to me. Everybody, and I mean everybody, loved her."