Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam

by Marilee Brothers

  “Here’s where it gets weird,” I say. “I lift my hand to stroke his hair to, you know, encourage him?”

  Marcy nods eagerly.

  “But he’s wearing a baseball cap, and his hair feels greasy. I’m so shocked I pull my hand away and plop!”

  Marcy blinks. “Plop?”

  “Yeah. The cap, the greasy hair, the whole thing lands on my bare belly like a dead raccoon. Michael turns his face to the light and morphs into him. Sloan! The guy I told you about. He smirks and says, ‘Surprise!’ I wake up screaming, and that’s why I’m late.”

  Marcy looks disappointed. “But he’s hot, right?”

  I shake my head in mock despair. “You’re sick.”

  As I walk away, she says softly, “I may be sick, but I’m not the one having sex dreams about him.”

  I hold up one finger. “Dream, not dreams. Just one.”

  As I approach the cluster of students leaning against the wall outside my classroom, I’m greeted by Jimmy Felthouse (grand theft auto). “Hey, Ms. Thome, your cast is gone.”

  I dig through my tote bag for keys. “Yep, cast-free and ready to kick down the walls of ignorance.”

  My lame humor evokes a chorus of groans. I glance down at my newly freed ankle. Thank God for Dodie, who persuaded Dr. Myers, the elder, to meet us at the clinic on Saturday.

  My students settle into their seats, and Nick checks attendance. Because his coughing is disruptive, he spends most of his day with me. I pitch him assignments; he bats them over the fence. In exchange, he acts as my teacher’s aide and keeps my records in order.

  He points silently at Sara’s empty chair, a worry line creasing his pale forehead.

  “We’ll check it out after school,” I say, distracted by an escalation of hostilities between Jimmy and Roger (breaking and entering).

  Crystal makes her entrance ten minutes late, her eyes bright with secret knowledge. She tosses her pass on my desk and in a voice loud enough to be heard atop Mount Rainier, declares, “Jeez, I hope the cops let you go in time for your hot date, Ms. Thome. Hate to see them smokin’ new panty hose go to waste.”

  “Those panty hose,” I correct automatically.

  All noise ceases, and twenty-four pairs of eyes sparkle with interest. I hadn’t seen that look since I bent over to pick up the chalk, split my trousers, and mooned the class with my faux leopard skin panties. Finally, a teachable moment.

  Later, Nick returns with the contents of my mailbox, including a note that reads, “See me at precisely 12:14,” signed, R.D. Langley.

  Momentary panic sets in. Had R.D. been silently stalking Marcy and me as we sprinted down the hall? Would he write me up for something as trivial as late arrival?

  At the appointed hour, I present myself to R.D.’s watchdog and personal secretary, Sally. She checks me out with a disapproving sniff but waves me in.

  R.D., looking GQ in a charcoal three-piece suit, cowers behind his desk taking care not to make eye contact with the other two people in the room, Sara’s foster parents, Patsy and Dwight Hewitt. R.D. looks happy to see me. Something’s definitely wrong.

  “Ms. Thome,” he says in a juicy baritone. “I presume you’ve met Mr. and Mrs. Hewitt.”

  I nod and perch on a chair under an enormous Boston fern. Lantern-jawed and greyhound thin, Dwight Hewitt sits across from me clutching the wooden arms of his chair with white-knuckled hands. His gaze darts around the room as if mapping out an escape route. By contrast, Patsy, plump and freckled, is as still as a statue, fat little fingers folded across her belly.

  R.D. shifts in his chair and clears his throat. “Parents are always welcome at Vista Valley High School. How may I be of assistance?”

  “The girl run off,” Dwight says.

  “Oh, what a shame,” R.D. gushes, clearly relieved.

  I bat at a frond tickling the back of my neck and stifle a grin. At last, I know why I’m missing my lunch. R.D. thought the Hewitts were coming in for a bitch session and wanted reinforcements.

  “We brought her stuff back.” Patsy points to a stack of books on the floor next to her chair.

  “Thank you so much for dropping by. We’re truly sorry about Sara. I’m sure Miss Thome is happy to get her books back.”

  Dr. Langley stands. Dwight catapults to his feet, poised for flight. I forget about the fern and rise, bonking my head on the pot. R.D. inhales sharply and examines his fern for trauma. I rub my head and say, “I hear she left a note. Did you call the police?”

  Dwight twitches and gazes imploringly at his wife.

  Patsy rises. “We called her case worker.”

  “Did Sara say where she was going?”

  “I’m sure the Hewitts didn’t come here to be interrogated,” R.D. says, herding us toward the door. A look of triumph flashes in Patsy’s slightly bulging eyes.

  I persist. “I’m surprised she’d run away now, so close to the end of school. What did the note say?”

  R.D. shoots me a warning glance.

  Patsy glares. “She said not to worry about her.”

  I wonder what I’ve done to deserve such hostility, but soldier on. “Handwritten?” I ignore R.D.’s little huff of disapproval.

  “Yes, it was handwritten,” Patsy snaps and glances at Dwight, who yanks the door open and shoots through. Patsy waddles behind. I pick up Sara’s books and sidle away quickly before R.D. can ream me out.

  After school I jot down scathing messages I plan to hurl at Sloan and fire up my cell phone. He isn’t in. “Would you like to leave a message,” he growls, “on my voice mail?”

  “Hey, Sloan. Remember the stuff you took when you abducted me and bashed me in the nose? I want it back!”

  Not at all satisfying. I call back and listen for more options, press zero, and get a real live person. When I ask to speak to the top dog, the head honcho, the big cheese, I’m told Sloan is in the field. Damn! I’ll have to improvise.

  “Is this Chuck?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s Ernie.”

  “I want to leave a message for Sloan.”

  “Your name?”

  “He’ll know. Write this down. I want my underwear back.”

  Ernie makes a strangling sound.

  Much better. I click off and tear into a pile of essays that need correcting. A few minutes later, my cell phone chirps.

  Before I open my mouth to answer, Nick blurts, “I got a letter from Sara. Postmarked Friday. It says, ‘Tell your aunt to come over and get her book.’ What book is she talking about?”

  “The Hewitts brought my books back today.”

  “No, no, not those books.” He sounds peevish and impatient. “This is different. You must have lent her one of your own books.”

  Since this is so important to him—I know not why—I rack my brain trying to remember if I’ve lent Sara a book from my personal collection. “Read the rest of the letter,” I order.

  He mumbles through the first part. I barely catch “that thing we talked about.”

  “Hold it! What thing?”

  “There’s stuff you don’t know.”

  “So tell me.”

  He pauses, and I hear him breathing. “I can’t right now. Later. But I know one thing for sure. Sara didn’t run away. Something’s not right.”

  “You’re watching too much TV. I’ll stop by later.”

  As I tidy up my classroom, I pause by Sara’s desk. I can see her in my mind’s eye, sitting with one foot tucked beneath her, twisting a strand of long, dark hair around one finger as she labors over an assignment. Clutching her favorite purple pen, she begins to write. As her hand moves across the page, her silver charm bracelet tinkles softly.

  Sara the bright and beautiful. Sara the damaged. With her luminous blue eyes and sweet smile, she slipped into my classroom and stole Nick’s heart. Now he’s convinced Sara’s missing and is ready to saddle up and ride to her rescue. I have a couple of hours to figure out how to stop him.

  Nick is still in my thoughts as I pull into my dri
veway. A black Lincoln Navigator is parked at the curb, probably one of Grandma or Aunt Dodie’s admirers. I’ll pop in, mumble a few pleasantries, and head upstairs. Unless … do I smell meatloaf?

  Vlad the Impaler, Grandma’s XXL tomcat is parked in front of the door. As I approach, his malevolent gaze zeros in on my ankles. Vlad’s the reason my panty hose drawer is empty. I reach over him and open the screen door a crack. “Meatloaf, Vlad. Check it out!”

  I follow him through the door to find Sloan in the middle of the living room, my Wonderbra dangling from his outstretched finger. Grandma sits, giggling, in her extra-small, made-to-order recliner. Aunt Dodie is perched on the couch sipping a glass of red wine.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Grandma Sybil says. “This nice man brought back your things. He said you called and left him a message.”

  “I aim to please.” Sloan has a nasty grin and a don’t mess with me look in his pale blue eyes.

  Oh, shit. Be careful what you ask for, Allegra.

  “Grandma, you shouldn’t let strange men into the house,” I say.

  Grandma’s tiny hands flutter like rising birds. “He showed me his ID. You could at least thank the man.”

  “Thank him? He’s the guy who broke my nose!”

  “Not broken,” Dodie offers. “Dr. Myers said so.”

  My feet feel stuck to the carpet as Sloan crosses the room. He grasps my chin with one big hand and tilts my head this way and that. “Definitely not broken.”

  He glances at my leg. “And the cast is gone. You’ll live, Blondie.”

  Before I can regain my senses and pull away, he touches the tiny circular scar directly under my right cheekbone. “Looks like somebody with a ring knocked you around.”

  “Harley the Horrible, her late husband,” Grandma says.

  “West Point ring,” Aunt Dodie adds.

  “He’s dead?” Sloan asks.

  “He is to us,” Dodie says.

  “He’s very much alive, and we’re divorced,” I say, reaching for my bra.

  But Sloan isn’t listening. He’s gazing over my right shoulder. I turn to see Michael LeClaire standing on the porch, his lanky frame frozen in place, one hand lifted to knock. I mutter vile curses while Dodie drains her glass and leans forward in anticipation.

  “Oh, hi, Michael!” I dash to the door and fling it open so violently it bangs against the wall. Michael says nothing but steps through, his eyes fixed on Sloan.

  “Uh oh, here comes trouble,’“ Grandma says.

  I then attempt to explain to Michael why Sloan is standing in the living room fondling my underwear. By the time I finish, my face is hot with embarrassment and Michael and Sloan are staring at each other like two mongrels protecting their turf. I decide to throw in a little offense.

  “Why didn’t you return my calls, Michael?”

  He ignores the question. “My parents were waiting to meet you. We had a special table reserved overlooking the eighteenth green.”

  “I didn’t know your parents were having dinner with us.”

  “Would that have made a difference?” Michael glances at Sloan. “Is that your bra, Allegra?”

  With a hiss of frustration, I say, “Haven’t you been listening?”

  The bemused expression on Sloan’s face puts me over the edge, and I screech, “Tell him what happened!”

  Snap! Snap! Grandma Sybil’s recliner pops into full upright position, and she shoots out. “Time to eat, folks. Meatloaf and garlic mashed potatoes, Allegra’s favorite. Lemon pie for dessert. Come and get it!”

  My jaw drops in amazement. Surely she doesn’t think sharing a meatloaf will sort out this mess.

  Michael mumbles an excuse, and I say, “I’m not hungry. You guys go ahead.”

  Sloan turns to trot happily after my grandmother, who, upon hearing my words, stops so suddenly Sloan almost runs her down. It’s then I notice my black lace panties tucked in the back pocket of his jeans. I glance at Michael. Oh yeah, he sees them too.

  Grandma glares at me. “Allegra, when you’re done talking to Michael, join us in the dining room.”

  Michael, lips compressed into a pale, narrow line, makes for the door. I’m right on his heels. “Michael, wait. We need to talk.”

  “I don’t need this crap.”

  Exit Michael LeClair, Vista Valley’s most eligible bachelor. Probably its only eligible bachelor, I think bitterly, as his baby blue Mazda Miata peels away from the curb. I sidle toward the staircase leading to my private quarters. Moping and cursing require solitude.

  “Allegra!” Grandma says sharply.

  Sloan drops my panties and bra onto the couch and follows Grandma into the dining room. On leaden feet, I cross the room and tuck my undies behind a cushion. Dodie rolls her eyes and stands. “This should be fun.”

  She picks up the open bottle of wine and heads for the table. I trail behind, thinking, Things can’t possibly get worse. Once again, I’m wrong.

  Chapter 3

  We’re well into our third bottle of wine, and the tip of my nose is numb. Sloan eats heartily, sliding away from questions like a true Teflon man.

  “Have you been a DEA agent long?” Dodie asks.

  “Long enough. These mashed potatoes are great.”

  “Is Sloan your last name?” says Grandma.

  “You can call me Sloan.”

  “Ha!” I cry. “I knew it. He has a hideous first name, like Chauncey or Aloysius, maybe even Harold.”

  Grandma perks up. “I have a client named Harold.”

  Sloan takes a sip of wine. “Client?”

  I spring to my feet, knocking my chair over in the process. “Pie, anyone? I’ll get it.”

  “We’re in the middle of dinner, Allegra. Sit down,” Grandma says. She turns to Sloan. “My granddaughter doesn’t like hearing about my job.”

  “Ah.” Sloan rakes me with a curious glance as he sets my chair upright. I sit down and hunch over my plate.

  Grandma sets her fork down. “You’ve heard of the little blue pill? The one men take when …” She lets Sloan fill in the blanks.

  “My daughter,” her hand flutters toward Dodie, “works for a gerontologist. Long story short: old guy takes the pill and wants to see if the hydraulics still work. That’s where I come in.”

  Sloan’s eyebrows shoot up. I squirm. Grandma smiles. “I’m what they call a sexual surrogate. It’s like therapy. Dr. Myers refers them to me. I give them a test run and get paid for it!”

  “More like the Indy 500,” I mutter.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Sloan’s teeth flash in a wolfish grin.

  Grandma giggles. “Ain’t life grand?”

  “Win-win situation,” Sloan agrees then turns his laser beam eyes on me. “So what’s your problem with Grandma earning an honest living?”

  I draw an outraged breath. He gives me a knowing grin. “Oh, I get it. Grandma’s getting more action than you. And now, with your boyfriend seriously pissed off—”

  “Exactly right!” Grandma says. “It’s why she’s so grumpy all the time. We had such high hopes for Michael.”

  “You mean she needs therapy?” Sloan says.

  Dodie and Grandma burst into laughter.

  “What a load of crap! I don’t need a man to make me happy.” My tongue feels too big for my mouth.

  “She can’t hold her liquor,” Dodie says.

  “Which is odd,” Grandma adds. “Since Thome women can usually drink a man under the table.”

  Desperate to change the subject, I search my memory banks and blurt, “A student of mine has disappeared. Sara Stepanek.”

  “Are you talking about Joe Stepanek’s kid?”

  Sloan’s all business now. “Stepanek fell off the face of the earth. We wanted him bad. Still do. You check with the local PD?”

  “She left a note, so they’ll assume she’s a runaway.”

  “Any reason to think she’s not?”

  “Sara’s a good friend of my nephew, Nick. He claims she’d never run awa
y so close to the end of school.”

  “I remember her when we hit the place. She in a foster home?”

  “Yeah, and they don’t seem worried.” I push my plate away.

  “Gut reaction?” Sloan leans forward to stare into my eyes.

  “It’s hard to say. She sent Nick a letter. He’s convinced something’s not right.”

  Aunt Dodie clears the table, and Grandma disappears into the kitchen to make coffee.

  “The bust was a disaster,” Sloan says. “Somebody—we never found out who—gave Stepanek a heads-up. He split and let his wife take the fall.”

  “Meth lab?”

  He nods. “In the shed out back, along with a few kilos of marijuana. We’d been told Joe had a big operation and was supplying half of Vista Valley. We tore the place apart. If he kept records, he stashed them someplace else.”

  “Sara adores her dad. She talks about him all the time.” I sigh. “Go figure. She hates her mom, but she’s still daddy’s little girl.”

  “Has she heard from him?”

  “She’s never said anything to me. Nick might know.”

  “Huh.” He falls silent. I can almost see the wheels turning in his head. Finally, he says, “Maybe I’ll do some poking around.”

  “Will you let me know what you find out? My nephew’s not well, and I don’t like to see him upset.”

  He ignores me and digs into his pie. “Probably not.” “What?” I can’t believe this guy. “You wouldn’t know about this if I hadn’t told you.”

  “You’re a civilian.”

  “Look, I just want to find out what happened to Sara.” I’m dying to add “you arrogant ass,” but it remains unspoken.

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Okay, fine,” I mutter. “I’ll do some poking around on my own. I’m not without resources.”

  He frowns. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

  Sloan and I eat our pie in stony silence. Dodie skips dessert and pours another glass of wine. Grandma chatters about our upcoming gig. “The three of us entertain at retirement homes. We sing the oldies—not too old—tunes from the 60s, 70s and 80s. Yep, Serenity Bay Assisted Living is the place to be Saturday night.”

  I scrunch down in my chair.

  Sloan points his fork at me. “Blondie here sings, too?”