Banana Muffins & Mayhem

by Janel Gradowski

  "Maybe this will help make your day a little brighter," she said, pulling an envelope from her purse. "It's a half day at the spa. I went by there on my way to the bakery, and they agreed to work you in at noon."

  "You're the best, Veronica," I exclaimed as I jumped up from my sofa sickbed and wrapped my arms around her—bending my 5' 10" frame at the waist. "That's almost better than a pastry."

  She laughed and shook her head. "Only you would prefer a pastry to pampering. Now, I have plans tonight, but I want to hear all the details in the morning—about the spa and the dinner."

  "You got it." For the first time today, I was starting to think that I might have something good to recount.

  * * *

  "What kind of moron would leave their car running in the middle of the street?" I exclaimed to myself. I'd been standing outside Private Chicks for ten minutes, waiting for the owner of the neon orange Nissan Cube that was blocking my 1965 Mustang convertible. Because the firm was located on Decatur Street in the French Quarter, traffic was always an issue. And it didn't help that an Italian restaurant occupied the first two floors of the three-story brick building we were located in. I liked their pizza and pasta but not their patrons, who were prone to parking their cars in the street while picking up to-go orders.

  I looked at the time on my phone as I paced the sidewalk. It was twenty till noon. If I didn't leave soon, I could kiss my spa appointment arrivederci.

  A thirty-something guy holding a green beer and wearing a matching T-shirt that read, "The leprechauns made me do it," approached from the other side of the street. "Hey, uh, is this the parade route?"

  "Parade?" I repeated.

  "Yeah." He wiped his nose with his wrist. "The parades for St. Patrick's Day and St. Joseph's Day start today at one o'clock."

  I blinked. "They do?"

  He took a swig of his beer. "They're always the Saturday before so everyone can get in on the action."

  "You don't say," I said, narrowing my eyes at the Nissan. If a bunch of floats came down Decatur, I'd miss my massage for sure.

  "Sorry to have bothered you," he said.

  "No problem," I replied as I zeroed in on the real bother.

  Without further ado, I marched to the driver's side of the Nissan and yanked open the door. As I settled into the seat and released the parking brake, I noticed an open box marked "Erzulie's Authentic Voodoo." Curious, not to mention a little concerned, I peered inside and saw around twenty see-through fabric bags containing incense sticks, candles, packets of white crystals, and little vials of liquid. The bags were marked "3-day ritual spell kits," and they were for everything from gaining wealth to garnering protection.

  "What a wack job," I whispered as I pressed the gas pedal and pulled the car forward.

  "That's my car," a gruff female voice cried.

  I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the Nissan's middle-aged owner. How did I know it was her? My first clue was the teased, tangerine hair that was strikingly reminiscent of Endora from Bewitched.

  "Help! Police!" She waved her purple-caftaned arms. "Stop that thief!"

  I pulled up the parking brake and got out of the car just in time to see a thirty-something cop rounding the corner—and buttoning his shirt?

  "Officer," she huffed, grasping his forearm, "this young woman was trying to steal my car."

  His ice blue eyes looked through me as he fastened his top button. "Is this true, ma'am?"

  I hesitated for a moment, not because I was guilty as accused but because a) I was annoyed by that "ma'am," and b) there was something weird about this cop. No officer I knew got dressed on duty, and he seemed uneasy in the uniform, maybe because it didn't fit him. His biceps were straining against the sleeves, and his pecs looked like they were going to pop out of his shirt.

  Then it hit me. This was no street cop—this was the stripper cop.

  Instantly annoyed, I shifted my weight to one leg and turned to the witchy woman. "Look, I'm late for an appointment, and your car was blocking mine. So I moved it, okay?"

  The counterfeit cop cleared his throat. "Actually, it's not okay."

  I gave a surly sigh. "I know, I know. I've been a very bad girl, and I need to be punished. But that's not gonna happen, because I'm going to the spa."

  I opened the door of my Mustang and flopped into the seat.

  "Ma'am," he began in a terse tone, "I need you to exit the vehicle."

  I arched a brow. "Or what? You'll cuff me and teach me a lesson?"

  He reached into his back pocket and flipped open his wallet.

  My stomach tried to take off running as I stared at the New Orleans PD badge, which was as real as the regulation baton on his hip.

  "You're under arrest for unauthorized use of a motor vehicle."

  As he proceeded to read me my rights, my brain began to process the situation. To celebrate my thirtieth birthday, I wasn't going to the spa or to the Sazerac. I was going to the slammer.

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