Queen of the Trailer Park (Rosie Maldonne's World Book 1)

by Alice Quinn

  I asked them where they were in the investigation. Borelli hesitated for a long time before speaking.

  “I shouldn’t tell you anything, Maldonne,” he replied. “You haven’t exactly been straightforward with us. But I understand your anxiety, so I’ll let you in on a few things. We’ve found some new evidence. No, please calm down. There’s no sign of violence. We’ve maybe found traces of another suspect. We’re looking into it. We’ve found some hair. The DNA doesn’t match the young boy—or our main suspect. Another witness has also come forward. We’re following up on that.”

  Following up on what? I didn’t understand what he was getting at, but my heart was pounding.

  An image flashed in my mind: Pierre in the arms of his smiling mother, he’d been found, safe and sound. Then a second image took its place: a body, the lifeless body of Pierre.

  I didn’t know which image was true. Borelli had said, “I understand your anxiety.” Surely that meant good news, or in any case not a complete lack of hope.

  They questioned me for a while longer, then finally let me out at three o’clock. Just in time for me to do what I needed to do and pick up the tots.

  63

  I had just enough time to run back to the hotel and pick up my stuff. With the cash I’d been keeping in my purse, I decided to take a cab back home.

  I dropped my luggage and other bags outside the front door of the hotel; it took several trips to the cab to load everything. The bags of kitty litter were the last things to go in. I put Pastis on my knee and sat in the front, next to the driver, who wouldn’t stop moaning that he wasn’t a moving van. He wasn’t actually speaking to me directly, so I pretended not to hear him.

  When we got to the railway station, my flashy new Ambassador was there, very close to the location of the old one—which had miraculously disappeared. The sales guy had kept his word.

  The key to my new home had been hidden under a broken flowerpot behind the station.

  I opened the door. It was beautiful inside. Brand-new and sparkling clean. There was that new smell of plastic packaging that I just love. It looked like Pastis felt the same way. He was walking around carefully, sniffing every nook and cranny with intense concentration.

  The delivery guy had taken the trouble to gather up some of my stuff from the Caravelair. He’d packed it all up into three cardboard boxes and left it for me in my new home. Bed linens, sleeping bags, duvets, towels, and dishcloths. Good old Gaston must have given him something extra. There was no way that sales guy would have done that out of the goodness of his heart.

  I dumped all my bags. There was no order to it. I just threw everything inside. I left Pastis to fend for himself a while and headed off to pick up the munchkins at daycare and school.

  I heard an older woman speaking to a kid outside the school gate. She sounded agitated. “Can you believe it? At her age.”

  The little one ignored her, concentrating on a candy bar.

  I didn’t take much notice, but I thought, She sure is a loudmouth. I wasn’t interested enough to find out what she was talking about. I couldn’t have cared less.

  When Simon and Sabrina came out, I announced, “We’re sleeping at home tonight. Our new trailer’s here!”

  “Gwwweeeeaaaaatttt! Hoooowwwwaaaay!”

  “We’ll go there now, have a quick bite to eat, then head down to Sélect to watch the news. Mommy’s on TV tonight!”

  “You mean we don’t have a TV at home?”

  “Our old TV got broken, and I didn’t buy a new one. Plus, we don’t have the money to get one just yet.”

  “Did you thpend all our lottewy winningth, Mom?”

  “Yeah. You know what? There wasn’t as much as you’d think.”

  “Tho, are we poor again?”

  “Yeah. But it’s not a disease, you know.”

  Well, that’s what they say, anyway. I didn’t tell the kiddos what I really thought: that it was much worse than any disease I could think of.

  When we arrived at the trailer, the children were so excited.

  “It lookth like a cathle, Mom! This ith thoooo cooool!” Sabrina said over and over again.

  They set off jumping everywhere, trying out all the beds, playing at dinner parties around the table. Basically, they were as high as kites.

  There was a bunch of stuff to do to make the new trailer habitable. It still needed to be connected to the electrical and sewage systems.

  I cobbled together some clean bed linens and made up the beds.

  We all had juice with bread and jam and then walked to Sélect.

  It was about six o’clock by the time we got there. Usually, at this time, the bar was lined with folk downing glass after glass of pastis and having heated discussions. But that day they were all staring at the corner, their eyes fixed on the TV. I thought it was great. The TV was blaring, and I’d be able to see if I was on the news. That must have been why they were all watching it.

  But nobody even looked at me as I walked in. I could hear shouting.

  “The poor thing. Nobody’s immune, are they?”

  “You said it, bud.”

  “God save the Queen. That’s what I say! Think about how she must be feeling.”

  “Forget about feelings. At her age, she should know how to tone things down. Put some water in her wine, if you know what I mean.”

  “Or in her scotch!”

  Sabrina said, “Look at the old lady, Mommy! Look how she thparkelth! Ith she in heaven?”

  I turned my gaze toward the TV screen bolted to the wall.

  We saw the entire life of the Queen of England scrolling before our eyes. Most of the clips showed her with her husband by her side. Her engagement, marriage, silver wedding anniversary, and all the rest. An energetic commentator was cooing, “. . . has asked for divorce due to irreconcilable differences. Apparently, the dogs came first—they were always his main concern. His dogs had the top spot in his life, and she just couldn’t take any more of it. Now over to our correspondent in England.”

  The next reporter launched into a vivid description of events. “The Queen of England is talking about her husband’s relationship with his dogs. He didn’t prioritize her in their marriage. She can no longer accept the situation. The Queen, in tears, has spoken to millions of her subjects on the BBC.”

  A huge picture of the Queen of England, wiping away tears with a diamond-bejeweled hand, filled the screen. “I just can’t take it any longer,” she whimpered between sobs.

  Great. What about my story? I approached the bar, ordered a vodka, and swallowed it down in a single gulp.

  64

  I couldn’t believe my heroic actions that morning had been trumped by yet another stroke of bad luck.

  “Have you seen?” said Mimi. “It’s been on every single channel for the last couple of hours.”

  “Yeah. It’s crazy. It must be hard for her,” I whispered, my voice as faint as a small child’s.

  “What’s up with you? I didn’t know you loved her all that much.”

  “That’s not it. I thought I was going to be on the news tonight.”

  “Really?”

  “I struck down the mayor this morning.”

  “In a car? You don’t even drive!”

  “No. I mean I caused a scandal down at the city hall. I exposed him for taking bribes. There was a TV crew there. It was all filmed and I was interviewed and everything. That’s why I’m here. I don’t have a TV set at my place.”

  “That’s such raw luck,” she sighed as she watched the glittering images on the TV. “She’s stolen all the screen time today. It’s just been in a loop since the news broke. Like it’s the end of the world.”

  I didn’t know what to say. The shock of it all had knocked the wind out of me. “OK. I’m heading home. Tell me if I make the news at some point, OK? Though it looks
like a done deal, for tonight at least.”

  “Wait. Look at the kids. They seem to be enjoying watching a queen cry.”

  “OK, I’ll stay a little while. I don’t think they really understand that it’s the Queen, though. They just think it’s an old woman. She’s not wearing a crown.”

  I went to sit at the back, exhausted. I’d been fully sapped of all my energy. If there was no media impact from my actions that morning, then it was all for nothing. A total flop. I’d be back to square one, and without the money. And d’Escobar could just renege on my contract. He could deny it all.

  There it was, the destiny of the song. Yes, the winner takes it all.

  I vaguely stared at the images on constant replay without really seeing them. After staring like that for a while, I began to find it hypnotic. But I realized it couldn’t be good for the little ones to keep watching an old woman crying like that for hours on end, so we went home.

  On the way home, we stopped at the corner store and bought baguettes, butter, a can of tuna, and a few tomatoes. The guy who ran the store was chatting to a customer about the Queen of England’s divorce. Obviously. It was the story of the century.

  “I don’t have anything against her, but it’s like she’s from another planet, isn’t it?”

  To which the grocer answered, “As long as they don’t start saying it’s all the fault of the Muslims. That’s all I’m worried about.”

  I couldn’t understand his logic. Was that how things were in Britain these days? Too paranoid for me! I left before finding out any more.

  We got back and started to settle into our new home. We had to take water from the fire hydrant because we weren’t connected up to the mains yet. When we needed the bathroom, we had to go behind the station. The kids thought it was a hoot.

  At dinner, Simon began to say that bread and tuna did not make a real dinner, not even with tomatoes. He wanted fries. I tried the angry approach and then some begging, but nothing would appease him. As soon as Sabrina joined in, insisting that she wanted a hamburger, there was a knock on the door.

  I was wary and in no rush to answer. But it was hard to pretend there was nobody home with the hullabaloo the kiddies were making.

  I put my finger to my lips to get them to hush up. That did the job: the two older kids put their fingers to their lips too. They must have been taught this at school. It’s darned effective. Of course, it didn’t work with the twins, who continued to chatter. Sabrina and Simon looked both scared and excited, as usual.

  I walked toward one of the small windows. There’s a lamppost not far from the railway building, and I could see outside as if it were broad daylight. So I was expecting to have a good view. I was hoping I’d recognize my visitor before opening the door.

  Just as I pressed my nose against the plexiglass, I got the biggest scare of my life. I found myself face to face with Dumbo’s big, ugly head. Yes, it was him. Dopey and Dumbo had both shown up.

  I gasped and let out a cry, noticing that he did exactly the same thing. He seemed chicken—and I liked that.

  I jumped back from the window. The knocks on the door grew twice as loud. “Come on! Open up, honey bun! We just want to talk with you.”

  The tone in his voice was soft. I wanted to avoid these guys like the plague, but what choice did I have?

  “OK! I’m coming.” I groaned halfheartedly.

  I looked toward the kids. “You don’t come out, you don’t move, you do not make a noise. I’ll be right back.”

  “Who ith it?” asked Sabrina.

  “It’s the witch’s broomsticks. If you see them trying to get in here, you need to escape out of this window, OK?”

  I opened the window overlooking the back of our little palace.

  I’d go and talk to the guys outside. Not much of a plan, but it’s all I could think of. I had to make sure the babas were safe.

  I approached the door. “Get out of here or I’m taking you down. I still have your guns.”

  “Come on, sweetheart! Chill out! You know you don’t have it in you to shoot! Besides, we didn’t come looking for a fight. We’re here for something else. We want to make you an offer.”

  “I told you already. Get out of here.” I looked through the window to see what they were doing.

  They moved away from the door, stepping backward cautiously. A pretty sight indeed.

  I wrapped up one of the kids’ water pistols in a dishcloth and stepped out of the door, closing it behind me. They’d give me a little more respect when they saw this.

  With my other hand, I signaled for them to move farther back. They looked angry but didn’t argue. I heard the door gently opening behind me. I didn’t want to take my eyes off the two schmucks, so I didn’t turn around. I already knew what was happening.

  Sabrina and Simon stepped out of the trailer and stood beside me. My two bodyguards had come to my rescue.

  We heard a strange growling sound. It was Pastis. He placed himself in front of the three of us, his fur on end, and bravely hissed at our enemies.

  65

  “So, you’ve brought out the heavy artillery?” snickered Dopey.

  “That’s enough! Out with it. What do you want?”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be quick about it. You have something of ours. And we’re here to pick it up.”

  “It seems you’ve missed an episode in this little saga. I gave it all to the mayor. Every penny of it.”

  “You know perfectly well we’re not talking about the money.”

  “What, then?”

  They looked around, checking that nobody was nearby, and Dumbo whispered, “You know what we’re talking about. The ice.”

  “Ice? Like . . . for a drink? Why would I have ice?”

  “Don’t make out like you don’t know what we’re talking about. Stop fucking around and give us the rocks. Now! Because the boss isn’t too happy about all this. Do you get me? He wants them back. But he also wants you to know that you’ve impressed him. He wants to hire you for a small job—all expenses paid, of course. You’re lucky. Looks like you’re his new pet.”

  “Listen up, guys. I know what’s going on. And here’s the top and bottom of it. You can tell him I have no idea about this bling . . . There’s no point looking through my home. You did it once before and you didn’t find anything. Besides, you should know by now that I always tell the truth. Lying is too confusing—I can’t stand it. As for the job, you can tell him I need cash, just like everyone else. I’ve never worked for the Mam—I mean the Mafia. It’s definitely not something my mother would’ve approved of. But it won’t cost me anything to hear him out, I guess. Only, he has to come and see me. He knows where I live. You tell him I won’t negotiate with his underlings. OK? Now this conversation is over. I have better things to be doing with my time. Off you go! Beat it!”

  I put the twins in the stroller, and with the two older kids walking at either side of me, we marched off in the direction of McDonald’s. It was seven o’clock exactly, and we all deserved a treat. Dumbo and Dopey just watched us leave. They clearly didn’t know what else to say.

  I should have been proud of myself. I’d managed to flummox them.

  But despite my small victory, my heart wasn’t in it.

  There were tons of people at Mickey D’s. Queen Elizabeth’s tears were on a loop in this place too. She was on every screen.

  After waiting in line for what felt like three days, we sat down in a corner booth with our spoils. After a couple of minutes of munching, Simon put his head into his hands and began weeping silently.

  “Simon! We’re not starting with this again, are we? No more tantrums, OK? You wanted fries, so eat your fries.”

  He lifted his head, his eyes filled with terror, and he mumbled something I couldn’t quite catch.

  My sweet Sabrina rushed to his side, and he whispered in
her ear so she could pass the message on.

  “Mommy. I have to tell you Thimon’th thecret.”

  I leaned in toward her and she said, as quietly as she could, “The man in the yellow thirt, over there, that’th the ogre.”

  “What ogre?” I asked loudly.

  “Thhh. Quiet! He’ll heaw you! It’th the one who dithappeared with Thimon’th mommy.”

  OK. So maybe this had started to get interesting. I looked around discreetly and spotted him, waiting in line. He had a five-o’clock shadow and looked exhausted and agitated. He was searching though his pockets and looking nervously from side to side.

  I moved closer to Simon.

  “Simon, keep your hands over your face. Just nod or shake your head, understand? Is the ogre’s name Alexandre? Alex?”

  He shook his head, then managed to mumble, “Alesk is his nice name. His ogre name is Luc.”

  Luc Berger. Alexandre’s real name. It was him. Véro’s prince charming. The one who’d gone off the radar. The one she thought she’d killed in her kitchen.

  The man with two faces and two names. The one everybody was looking for. One thing was certain: I couldn’t let him slip away.

  He was sure to have plenty to say about what had happened last Monday.

  “OK, I understand. It’s definitely him. So, munchkins . . . do you want to catch him and the police can come and put him in jail?”

  Sabrina clapped her hands. So that was a yes. Simon hid his face. So that was a no. I leaned in to whisper in Sabrina’s ear.

  “Sabrina, sweetie, have you got any string?”

  “Yeth. I always have thome!”

  “Awesome. You need to go over to that guy and attach a piece of string to his ankle. But you have to be real sneaky about it, OK? He can’t see you or feel you, right? We don’t want him running away.”

  “Thure thing, Mom!”

  66

  Sabrina pulled out a long piece of white nylon string. Simon watched through his fingers, ready to intervene if anything happened to Sabrina. I took the other end of the string and tied it to a metal pillar.