Premeditated.
“When did Gully get the Winnebago, Vree?”
“Like, maybe, last week?”
Recently. Gully had planned his hostage-taking road trip recently.
“Did he offer you a ride too, Vree? Why didn’t you ride with them?” I asked.
“I was going to. But then, Gooch? He—”
Stop sign.
“Package.”
Maybe I needed more than one or two-word answers. Less than a thousand, but more than one. I rolled a hand.
“My FedEx didn’t get there in time. And Gooch—”
Stop sign.
“I’ve known Gooch my whole life, Vree. You’ve been married to him since high school. This story isn’t about Gooch and we can talk about him another time.”
She pouted, then let it go. Then she squeezed her eyes closed, searching, I think, for an answer that wouldn’t get her a stop sign. “Bubblegum has a cocktail dress for the evening-wear competition on Thursday. Maybe Wednesday. I’d have to look at the schedule of events. Pink taffeta, with a little line of pearls—”
Guess what I did.
Vree rolled her eyes. “The matching booties didn’t fit. They were open-toe, to show her glitter polish—”
I did it again.
Vree drooped in frustration. “I was waiting for the booties. They made her outfit—” Vree actually stop-signed herself. “At the last minute, I didn’t ride with the Gullys and Meredith and Bubbles because I had to stay home and wait on the booties.”
Saved from abduction by open-toe dog booties.
FOUR
Room service restored order to the terrace. I followed the busboy to the front door, hoping to get a visual on Bootsy Howard without having to actually hunt her down in the guest wing, where she was and Meredith wasn’t. Where she was supposed to be, anyway. For all I knew, she could be witching her way through my walls.
I glanced down the hall—everything was quiet—then returned my attention to the front door, where the busboy’s silver bus cart couldn’t get out because Fantasy’s canvas laundry cart was coming in. It was a traffic jam of carts.
“What is that?” I asked around the busboy.
She answered over him. “Transportation.”
Right. We had to get Bootsy out, and dragging her by her witch hair might draw unwanted attention.
They went in opposite directions, both backing away from the door.
“Come on,” Fantasy said.
“After you, ma’am,” the busboy said.
This dance went on until I nudged the busboy aside, pushed his cart out, then pulled the laundry cart in. I dusted my hands. I said thank you to the busboy, then closed the door behind Fantasy.
“Let’s go,” I whispered. “She’s this way.” I took off for the guest wing.
“Hold on.” Fantasy caught my sleeve. “We need to talk first.”
Well, we couldn’t.
I turned around to tell her as much, but she was bent over, halfway in the laundry cart. She reappeared with an insulated lunchbox. Then Vree, probably tired of no one to talk to on the terrace, showed up.
“Oh, hey.” She craned for Bootsy. No Bootsy. “I didn’t know if I was supposed to wait, or help kill Bootsy, or what I was supposed to do. I mean—”
Double stop signs.
Vree clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Fantasy, Vree. Vree, Fantasy. You can exchange pleasantries later.”
Fantasy, holding her lunchbox, said to Vree, “We’re not killing anyone.” Then to me, “Where can we talk?”
Back to the terrace. We dragged chairs to the shade under the cherry tree and arranged them facing the French doors. Fantasy sat in the middle, her lunchbox on her lap. She leaned up, reached behind, and pulled a pink gun from the waistband of her jeans. Vree let out a little scream. “You said we weren’t killing anyone!”
“We’re not, Vree,” I said.
“Who is this woman?” Fantasy unlatched the lunchbox. Inside were three darts and two vials. Of something.
“Me?” Vree poked her chest.
“No,” Fantasy said. “I know who you are. Who is the woman we’re not killing?”
“The woman who raised Vree’s husband,” I said.
Fantasy picked up a dart. “How much does she weigh?” She unscrewed the gold tip.
“I don’t know,” Vree said. “I’ve never asked. I mean, I don’t like it when people ask how much I weigh, so I never ask anyone how much—”
Stop sign.
Vree clamped her mouth closed.
“I need to know,” Fantasy said. “Too much of this stuff and we will kill her.”
“It’s hard to tell what she weighs,” I said. “She wears thick canvas dresses with mandarin collars, no waist, and they button all the way down to her ankles. It’s hard to say what’s under there.”
“Just guess.”
I shrugged. “One-fifty? Two-fifty?”
“Canvas?” Fantasy asked. “Who wears canvas?”
“Sometimes burlap,” Vree said.
“Burlap?” Fantasy said. “Burlap clothes? Well, canvas or burlap, we’re going to have to get her naked first.”
“Oh, hell, no,” Vree said. “We just ate.”
“Why naked?” I asked.
“Because the tip is sharp.” Fantasy showed us. “But not canvas or burlap sharp.”
“How in the world are we supposed to get her naked?” Vree asked.
“That’s for you two to figure out. I have to figure out how much to zap her with.” Fantasy bit her lower lip and closed her eyes, which meant leave her alone, she was doing math.
“What is she doing?” Vree whispered.
“She’s dividing. Or subtracting,” I said. “Be quiet.”
“I’m trying to calculate the right dosage,” Fantasy said. “Because the effective dose is very close to the lethal dose, and again, we don’t want to kill anyone today.”
“What kind of gun is that?” Vree was staring. “I’ve never seen a pink gun. It’s cute. One time—”
“It’s a tranquilizer gun,” I interrupted before Vree could start telling gun stories. “She got it in her stocking for Christmas.”
“Cool,” Vree said. “I love Christmas stockings. Last year—”
“Open this,” Fantasy interrupted, passing us drugs. Small glass vials. “Here, Free.”
“It’s Vree,” she said. “My name is Vreeland. Everyone calls me Vree. I’m named after Diana Vreeland, who was the editor of Harper’s Bazaar. My mother was going to name me Harper Vreeland, but at the last minute, went with Vreeland Harper—”
“Got it,” Fantasy stopped her. “You’re Meredith’s best friend, you’re staying with Davis this week, and your dog is in the show.”
Like a light switch, Vree sobbed.
Fantasy turned to me. “Davis?”
I studied my lap.
We sat in almost perfect silence, a few sniffs from Vree, while Fantasy weighed her options. She knew something was wrong, very wrong, I wasn’t talking, and she was being blindly dragged into it. Now was the time for her to get up and go or stay and help. After what felt like an hour of her trying to decide, she broke the spell, asking, “Is this burlap woman allergic to anything?”
I let out the breath I’d been holding.
“Free.” Fantasy snapped her fingers.
“It’s Vree. And no. Not that I know of.”
One of the cardinals chirped.
Vree’s neck looked like it was about to snap as she tipped her head all the way back to find the cardinal. “How can birds live this high? I mean, I know they fly, and flying means up in the air, but what about their babies? I mean, kicking them out of a high-rise nest seems like, I don’t know, harsh parenting. And how can they have enough oxygen up her
e? Well, wait.” Her head came down. “We have enough oxygen, so I guess they do too. And do they think they’re in a tree on a mountain? Do they know they’re in a tree at the top of a building? And for that matter, how did the tree know to grow up here?”
I leaned past Fantasy and said, “Vree. A landscaper brought the tree. The birds came with it.”
To not answer a Vree question was to invite her to ask four hundred more.
It was easier to answer.
“What? Like the landscaper planted the tree, then passed you a cage and said, ‘Here are your birds, lady.’ Was it like buy one tree, get two birds?”
Sometimes answering Vree’s questions was just as bad.
“The birds showed up a few days after the tree. And they come back every spring to nest.”
Fantasy said, “Would you two mind talking about the birds and the trees later? Like after I leave? Bust into those bottles. I don’t have all day.”
“It’s expired.” Vree had the vial up to her nose. “Azaperone. What’s Azaperone? Whatever it is, it expired last month.”
“It’ll be okay,” Fantasy said. “It’s been in the refrigerator.”
I took a closer look at my vial. Fentanyl. “Mine’s expired too. Fantasy, you said yourself we’re not going to kill her. These drugs are old.”
The dart she’d been holding landed in the lunchbox with a crack. “Who called who here? Who said, ‘Bring your pink gun’?” She picked up the pink gun and used it as a pointer. She waved it around, mostly back and forth at us. Vree and I plastered ourselves against the chair backs. “There’s a reason everyone with a badge isn’t issued one of these. And that’s because they’re not anesthesiologists. Hello? Neither am I. I’m doing my best here. You think this is easy?” Still waving the gun. Vree and I were about to hit the deck. “I’m trying to override this woman’s central nervous system long enough to get her in my car and you two are sitting here talking to me about expiration dates. We’re not injecting her with cottage cheese,” she said. “This is Big Pharma trying to make me buy Schedule One drugs every three months, and I’m not playing their game. Now, last time,” she said. “Is this woman fat?”
I said, “We don’t know.”
“Does she have a fat face?” Fantasy asked.
“No,” Vree said. “But she has a fat mouth.”
“Then we’re going with skinny.” Fantasy held her hand out for my vial, then carefully measured several drops into the tubular body of the dart. She did the same with Vree’s vial. Then she screwed the tip on and loaded the dart into her pink gun.
Vree and I shot out of our chairs, ready to get it over with.
Fantasy said, “Wait a minute, you two.”
We sat back down.
“I’m going to shoot her in the thigh,” Fantasy said. “So, you two have to hike up the burlap high enough for me to get to her thigh.”
“Ewww,” Vree said.
I was rethinking everything. My whole life. “Why her thigh? Just shoot her in the neck.”
“If I shoot her in the neck, it could kill her.”
“Then shoot her in the arm.”
“We’re trying to get the drug into her bloodstream,” Fantasy said. “Her neck would be too fast and her arm not fast enough. Arms aren’t very vascular.”
Vree held her arms out. She examined them.
“Thigh it is,” I said.
“And it’s not going to work right away,” Fantasy said. “It’s going to take a minute to get into her bloodstream. Like, five minutes, at least. So be ready to subdue her until she conks out.”
“We’ll sit on her,” I said.
Vree’s face dropped into her hands. “Gooch is going to kill me.”
Fantasy raised her eyebrows at me.
I said, “Gooch is Vree’s husband.”
Fantasy checked her pink gun again. “Are you girls ready?”
(No.)
* * *
Easy enough, Bootsy was asleep. Laid out on her back like a cadaver, arms crossed over her middle, hands cupping opposite elbows, mouth wide open, on top of the duvet in Meredith’s room. Which went a long way in restoring my shaky faith in what we were doing. Bootsy had no business being in Meredith’s room.
We gathered at the foot of the bed.
Bootsy snored. A repetitive sucking noise on the intake, a whistle coming out.
“Lord, help,” Fantasy whispered. “Who is this woman?”
Vree geared up to tell Bootsy’s life story when I stop-signed her.
“You know who she looks like?” Fantasy whispered. “The Wicked Witch of the West.”
Vree and I shared a quick glance.
Fantasy whispered, “Put a black hat on her, paint her face green, and she’d be a dead ringer.”
“She needs an ambush makeover, that’s for sure,” Vree whispered.
“She’s looked like this since the day I was born,” I whispered.
“So, do we undress her now?” Vree asked.
“She’s really asleep,” Fantasy whispered. “Like in-a-coma asleep. We may not need to.”
Fantasy’s words had no sooner left her lips when Bootsy’s arms and legs shot out, her head raised up, she stared straight at us, let out a yelp, then as quickly as she’d startled, she collapsed back into the prone position she’d been in not two seconds earlier.
I think we had three mini heart attacks.
Vree’s head bobbed in time with the pants escaping her.
We were life-boat huddled at the foot of the bed.
“Hypnic jerk.” I barely got the words out. “She jumped in her sleep. Everyone settle down.”
Fantasy’s eyes were closed, and she had the heel of a palm pressed to her forehead. “Davis,” she whispered. “I swear—”
I said, “Let’s just get it over with.”
“Are those bloomers?” Vree whispered. “What the hell is she wearing? Does she have panties on under them? Is it old lady Spanx? What the hell?”
Luckily, or unluckily, considering three sets of eyeballs needed Clorox, Bootsy’s black dress had settled above her knees after her in-sleep fit, which exposed her boney legs, and she was wearing dingy cotton…something under her dress that hit her mid-calf.
“You two stand back.” Fantasy pushed up her sleeves.
Gladly.
She tiptoed to Bootsy’s left, used her fingertips to lift the edge of the black dress, and with her pink gun pressed against the dingy cotton, popped Bootsy one with the tranquilizer gun.
I had another mini heart attack.
Vree went down. I didn’t see it, but I heard it.
Bootsy kicked once, but otherwise slept right through it.
After the longest five minutes of my entire life, Fantasy carefully lifted one of Bootsy’s arms, then let it fall.
Bootsy was out of it.
She shook her. “Hey, you, Bloomers. Wake up.”
Bootsy sucked in a snore.
Glancing over her shoulder at Vree, Fantasy leaned over passed-out Bootsy and whispered to me, “What’s this woman done to you?”
I didn’t answer.
“You realize we’re kidnapping her, right?”
I realized that.
“Davis?”
I studied the stitching on the duvet comatose Bootsy Howard was stretched out on.
“Go get the laundry cart.” Fantasy looked at her watch. “I have to be at work at noon.”
“Why are you working today? The dog show doesn’t start until tomorrow.”
Vree was still on the floor, head between her knees.
“I’m not working the show,” she said. “I’m working the slot tournament that goes with the show. Today, tomorrow, and all next week. You took the week off because Meredith was coming. I’m on dog-show slot-tournament duty.”
> It had been a long, confusing, taxing morning, to say the very least. I’d been hit with so much, so fast, and all I wanted was my sister. The dog show had temporarily slipped my overloaded mind, including the slot tournament that went with it. I’d clicked through the stack of dog-show emails not paying a bit of attention to the details, because at the time, I hadn’t needed them. I needed them now. “Who’s in the slot tournament?”
Vree, still on the floor, raised her hand.
“The dog owners, trainers, and groomers. Part of the dog-show package.”
“What’s the payout?”
“What?” Fantasy asked.
“What are the stakes? How much can the dog people win?”
“The jackpot is five-hundred thousand a night.”
“For how long?” I asked.
“Every night they’re here,” she said. “Sunday through Thursday. It’s a cute game. Double Dog Dare. It barks.”
We wouldn’t have to steal the money to get Meredith back.
Vree could win it.
If we found her a dog.
No dog, no slot tournament.
Vree needed a dog.
FIVE
“Is Meredith here yet? Send her down with her camera. And the girls might need flea baths. There’s no way we’ll get through next week without a dog, Davis. Put puppy chow on our grocery list.”
“Are they having fun?” I knew the answer.
“They’re having so far past fun.”
Pitter-patter, my heart.
After Project Evict Bootsy, of the twenty things I needed to do immediately, I returned my husband’s calls first. I’d missed two while Fantasy, Vree, and I rode the freight elevator down with the laundry cart full of snoring Bootsy, strapped her upright in the backseat of Fantasy’s Volvo, then threw her tapestry bag in the back. I’d gone through her bag, purse, and pockets, keeping her phone, a twine-bound crossed-twigs contraption, and three equally suspicious amber bottles with black rubber drop-stoppers. I sent her with her prison warden clothes, her blood-pressure pills, and a dog-eared witch book by Anne Rice.
I slapped the back of the car. “Clear.”
Fantasy peeled off.
Vree looked around. “Where are we?”
Double Dog Dare Page 4
