Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam

by Marilee Brothers

  “Neutered, huh?” Sloan straightens up and looks at me. “Your idea?”

  “Nope,” I say. “Even though he blames me.”

  “It had to be done,” Grandma says. “The other tomcats were beating him up.”

  “That happens.” Sloan winks at me.

  Grandma opens the front door. “Time for pie.”

  “Top shelf?” I ask.

  “Allegra,” Grandma scolds. “You know I wouldn’t serve a guest anything but top shelf.”

  Sloan and I exchange a look. Maybe she won’t notice the bottom shelf has been cleared.

  Grandma wanders off for her nightly soak in the tub while Sloan downs his pie. I eat a few bites before setting down my fork, unable to shake the image of poor dead Joe Stepanek.

  “You’ll let me know about the postmortem?” I ask.

  “I’m heading over there now. Sherm said it was a slow night and he’d get right on it. Unless, of course …” He points at the ceiling, my private quarters, his meaning unmistakable.

  “Dream on, Sloan.”

  He flashes his who do you think you’re shittin’? grin and says, “Yeah, damn shame you’re so frigid.”

  “Oh, that.” I make a dismissive gesture. “You caught me at a weak moment. It wasn’t you, per se,” I lie.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  Chapter 12

  Saturday morning, I sit at Grandma’s dining room table drinking coffee and filling out insurance forms, bummed to learn I have a $500 deductible. Lefty, looking dazed after an early morning round of window bashing, perches on the sill, a look of sympathy in his one good eye.

  When Dodie returns home at 11 a.m. with Buddy in tow, I discover how things work in my aunt’s world. Clad in a light brown leisure suit, Buddy has a gold hoop in his left ear and a satisfied grin on his face. Dodie’s personal polyester pirate.

  Dodie tells me to give Buddy a check for $500 as a down payment. Buddy will hold my check until the insurance company pays him and then give me a five hundred-dollar “rebate.” Convoluted? Yes, but who am I to question Buddy’s largesse? Or, for that matter, who or what sparked this burst of generosity?

  A phone call from Nick’s mom, Susan, allows me to escape the billing and cooing.

  “Guess how I get to spend my Saturday?” Susan begins.

  I try to read her tone. Resentful? Cheerful? Anticipatory? I need more information. “Give me a clue.”

  “Key,” she snaps.

  Oops.

  “And,” she says, “We are in the process of visiting every storage facility in Vista Valley, where Nick attempts to open number forty-two. You know how he is.”

  “Want me to spell you off for a while?”

  Susan sighs. “No, that’s okay. We’re bonding. He’s talking about Sara, something he’s never done before.”

  She chuckles. “Besides, don’t you have to get ready for the big show tonight?”

  “Grandma’s getting our outfits ready as we speak. Tell Nick I’ll see him in the morning. Wanna come along? Check out Reverend Hunt?”

  “I’ll pass.”

  Karaoke night at Serenity Bay Assisted Living passes as peacefully as its name implies. Our Pointer Sisters set brings down the house with canes thumping like boom boxes. Other than Mr. Rosenblatt grabbing my ass during “Slow Hand,” the evening is a rip-roaring success.

  Sunday, 11:10 a.m.

  Once again the victim of panty hose, I’m late picking up Nick. Sloan didn’t return the new ones I purchased that fateful day, forcing me to borrow a spanking new pair from Grandma, whose legs are a good six inches shorter than mine.

  An usher, her face frozen in disapproval at our late arrival, leads us to the front of the church as the choir sings the opening anthem. Shuffling along with my knees bound together by the crotch of Grandma’s heavy duty, steel-belted panty hose, I feel the curious gaze of those already seated as they follow my odd perambulation down the center aisle.

  We slip into the second pew, empty except for an elderly man with double hearing aides who passes us a hymnal. Directly in front of us sits a woman with perfectly coiffed blond hair. A barely pubescent girl sits motionless to her right, a small boy to her left. Reverend Hunt’s nearest and dearest?

  As we settle into our seats, the boy whips around and scrambles to his knees, peering over the back of the pew to give us his undivided attention. I wink at him. He grins and waves.

  The woman turns her head a few inches and checks us out with one eyeball before grabbing the kid and plopping his little butt back down on the bench. I feel bad when I see his lower lip tremble. The woman ignores the lad and keeps her eyes fixed on a pulpit placed to the front and center of a massive stained-glass wall backlit by brilliant morning sun.

  The music swells to a crescendo and stops. I feel a stirring behind me and glance over my shoulder. The entire congregation is standing and looking back at the closed double doors that separate the sanctuary from the vestibule. The air is charged with the kind of tension that springs from anticipation, excitement, or dread; I can’t tell which. I find it disconcerting. Nick catches my eye and raises a quizzical eyebrow.

  When the silence grows unbearable, the doors swing open and the choir bursts into song. A tall man clad in a dazzling white clerical robe strides down the center aisle, one hand raised heavenward, the other clutching a Bible. His head turns to and fro, and he scans the crowd as if probing for secret sinners masquerading as the godly. I feel a flash of primal fear as his gaze flicks over me once before returning for a longer look.

  But wait! Doesn’t the reader board say “sinners welcome”?

  With a palpable sense of relief, people settle into their pews and look toward the pulpit. I break the silence by noisily sucking in air, having lapsed into oxygen deprivation by unwittingly holding my breath. This act of vulgarity earns me another eyeball flick from the blond woman.

  The deep sonorous tones of Reverend Hunt wash over us like rich dark chocolate as we bow our heads for the invocation. All except for me. I peek.

  Robinson Hunt stands with his arms and face lifted toward heaven, imploring God to shower us, we who have sinned, with mercy. As he prays, the choir joins hands and sways silently. And who is front and center gazing adoringly at Pastor Hunt, her sallow cheeks aglow with religious fervor? None other than Sara’s no-nonsense caseworker, Peggy Mooney. I scan the rest of the choir, but Peggy’s is the only familiar face.

  I extend my scrutiny—it’s a long prayer—to the reverend himself. Not a bad-looking man. Longish blond hair swept back and ending in a cluster of curls at the nape of his neck. Teeth looking as white as Chiclets against a tan face. A hawkish nose. His eyes are a clear hazel green with piercingly dark pupils. And they’re staring directly into mine! I slam my eyes shut and bow my head, my face uncomfortably hot.

  After my faux pas, I attempt to draw no more attention to myself as the service follows its prescribed format. Hymn, announcements, another hymn, and Reverend Hunt’s sermon.

  I begin to sense the power of the man. Choosing words carefully, he delivers his sermon with style and grace, his tone alternately seductive and challenging. He uses his voice like an instrument, starting out sweetly pianissimo, lulling the listener into a cozy cocoon of happiness and well-being. I relax and snuggle back in the pew.

  “Sinners!” He roars, scaring the shit out of me. “We’re all sinners!”

  I start so violently Nick nudges me with his elbow and whispers, “Close your mouth. You’re drooling.”

  Reverend Hunt switches once again to sotto voce and soothes, “Redemption. It’s so easy. Trust me. I’ll show you the way.”

  I think about Sara, who said she had to “get right with God.” The state of grace Sara was seeking sounds remarkably similar to Robinson Hunt’s promise of redemption. Chillingly similar.

  Finally, the closing hymn—and one I can get into. Good ol’ Amazing Grace. Caught up in the familiar melody, I let my voice soar. Nick looks embarrassed, but the little guy in
the front pew loves it. He turns around once again and claps his hands in approval when the hymn is over.

  After the recessional, Hunt strolls back up the center aisle scattering his personal blessings. The blond, presumably Mrs. Hunt, grabs the kids, slides out of the pew, and scurries behind him. As Nick and I wait for the people behind us to exit, I begin to see the advantage of our ring-side seats. I can check out the crowd for familiar faces.

  In biblical terms, they are legion, beginning with none other than my fearless leader, R.D. Langley, and his perfect family. Not only is R.D. meticulous in a navy blue suit and snowy white shirt—probably to indicate the condition of his soul—but his two sons are outfitted in suits identical to his. His wife completes the picture. A willowy brunette, she wears a powder blue tailored dress with matching bolero jacket. Though he must have seen my late arrival, he doesn’t look my way. Thank you, God. Prayers answered. Perks of the churchgoer.

  I continue my perusal and spot Gwen Thorndyke, Donny’s ex, and her three teenage children, who smile and wave. Two city councilmen chat in the foyer with George Samuelson, a prominent businessman who owns three, yes three, McDonald’s. We aim high in Vista Valley.

  Other than the elderly man in my pew, I see few seniors, normally the backbone of any church. Maybe, like Grandma, they resent Robinson Hunt for spending Ruth Willard’s money. I’ve seen nothing that bears Ruth’s name, not even a plaque.

  Nick and I wait our turn to press the flesh of the man who speaks so eloquently of sin and redemption. Flanked by the wife and kiddies, he stands in the open doorway.

  As we inch forward, I watch him in action. Right hand down low to shake the hand of the next person in line, left hand reaching out to grasp the shoulder or arm of the one behind, pulling him or her forward and ending with a pat or hug. Shake, grasp, pull, pat. A well-practiced technique that keeps people moving.

  When we inch to the front of the line, I stick my hand out, but he pulls a switcheroo. He places his right hand on my shoulder and turns me with a powerful grip to face him while reaching for Nick with the other.

  “Welcome.” His hypnotic eyes stare into mine. “Ah, the young lady who sings like an angel. We need you in our choir.”

  I have a sudden visual: Peggy Mooney and I are locked arm in arm, swaying in silent sisterhood as Reverend Hunt makes his approach to the pulpit.

  “Th-thanks,” I stammer. “I’ll think about it. What I’d really like to do is—”

  My voice trails off as his fingers tighten on my shoulder. “Miss Thome, I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Whoa. How does he know my name? Acting cool isn’t my strong suit, but I give it a try. We trade phony smiles.

  “I’m Sara Stepanek’s teacher. Do you know she’s missing?”

  His gaze flicks to the left then back to mine. His hand on my shoulder feels like twenty pounds of trouble. With great difficulty, I stand motionless.

  The cheesy smile is gone now, replaced by a brow-knitting frown of concern. “A troubled girl, Sara. She was very fond of you.”

  His use of the past tense gives me a chill, but now is not the time. I can feel the crowd behind me growing restive.

  “I’d like to talk to you about her. I’ll call first,” I say as he releases me.

  He nods and does some complicated teenagey high-five, low-five thing with Nick.

  When he reaches for the person behind Nick, the sleeve of his clerical robe slides back to reveal his hand and wrist. Under the pretense of waving at someone further down the line, I take a gander at his exposed flesh. The webbing between his thumb and forefinger is etched with a series of faint hash marks, pearly white against the tan of his hands. Before his sleeve slides back down, I catch a quick glimpse of similar scarring on his inner wrist.

  Admittedly, the memory of Joe Stepanek’s prison art looms large. Also true, Robinson Hunt may have come to the ministry as a full-blown adult, scared straight after experiencing the seamy side of life. Not the usual path for a man of the cloth but possible, hence his fascination with sinners and redemption. Perhaps he thought it unseemly for a man in his position to sport tattoos and had them removed. A logical explanation.

  Why, then, does it bother me so much that I’ve clearly seen the outline of a spider web on his left hand and the number 5 on his wrist? Why did he have tattoos identical to those of Joe Stepanek?

  Questions Nick and I ponder while I drive him home. Intrigued, Nick plans to fire up his computer, poke around in Robinson Hunt’s past, and see what he can find. I hand him Sara’s Bible and notebook when he climbs out.

  Later, released from my panty hose prison, I flop on the bed and listen to my phone messages. Marcy, wanting the details from Friday night. My future soul mate, Trent, the car salesman, suggesting in a voice ripe with innuendo that we go for a ride in his new car. Michael, yes, that Michael, telling me he’ll call back. Finally, Sloan rattling off a number and the terse message “Call me.”

  I stare at the phone. Why am I suddenly so alluring to the opposite sex? I think about Buddy’s obvious fascination with Dodie. I think about Sloan. Michael. Harley wanting to see me again.

  Of course! It has to be Grandma Sybil and her diligent efforts on the behalf of faulty male plumbing. Our household is tossing on a sea of powerful pheromones, attracting men like heat-seeking missiles.

  I prioritize my callbacks and decide to start with Sloan, especially since I don’t have to go through voice mail hell to reach him.

  He answers on the first ring. I wait. He waits.

  Finally, he says, “Yeah?”

  “Damn it, Sloan, you called me! Are you aware of your limited social skills?”

  “Uh huh.”

  He lapses once again into silence.

  “Well?”

  “Stepanek had a note in his pocket from the kid. Sara. Said not to worry about her, that she ran off with her boyfriend.”

  “No way,” I say. “Sara doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

  “That you know about.”

  “No. She doesn’t have one.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “Was the note handwritten?”

  “Word processor.”

  “Did she sign it in longhand?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then she probably didn’t write it. Don’t you see? Somebody wants us to believe she’s run away. Hence, the note planted in her dad’s pocket. Whoever killed Joe put it there.”

  “That’s a reach.”

  “But he was murdered, right?”

  “He had enough heroin in him to kill him. A few things don’t add up. Sherm said he’d been dead at least forty-eight hours. Looks like he shot up, died, and somebody dumped him there,” Sloan says.

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “Local guys are looking into it. Smells like a drug deal gone bad. They won’t waste a lot of manpower on it.”

  “I said what are you going to do about it?”

  “Give me a break. Joe was a wanted felon. Now he’s not.”

  “But if Sara was with him, she could be in danger.”

  “Or, like the note said, she could be off screwing her boyfriend.”

  I bite back an angry response and take a deep breath. “Guess I’ll have to prove you’re wrong. What did you find out about the phone Sara used?”

  “Dead end. Woman had her cell phone stolen at the mall.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Sloan gives an exasperated sigh. “Al. You’ve been reading too many mysteries.”

  “Just tell me her name.”

  I hear papers rustling. “Geneva Decker.”

  “Okay, thanks. Gotta go.”

  I click off before he can give me grief.

  The phone rings immediately. Before I can speak, Sloan says, “I find out you’re bugging Ms. Decker, you and I’ll be having a serious talk.”

  “You? Talking? I’ll look forward to it. Anything else?”

  He growls, “That’s it.”

 
“I’ll let you hang up first. Male ego and all that.”

  “Jesus Christ, woman, you’re impossible!”

  Chapter 13

  Sunday night

  Michael has been a busy boy. Unable to reach me, he’s conned Grandma Sybil, most unfairly, I think.

  “But, sweetie,” she says as we cruise down Maple Street in the Olds. “He’s Vista Valley’s—”

  “Most eligible bachelor,” Dodie and I say together.

  We wave at Noe, who sits on his front step watching a half dozen grandchildren ride their bikes up and down the sidewalk.

  Yes, that’s right. The three of us are heading for a late supper at Michael’s club.

  “But why now? Why so late? What does he want from me?” I wail from the back seat.

  “Allegra, you ask far too many questions.” Grandma’s voice is calm and reasonable. “Obviously, he’s had time to think it over and realizes he’s acted hastily. We’re eating late because he couldn’t tee off until three.”

  She turns and frowns at me. “Personally, I think it’s very sweet of him to include Dodie and me. I haven’t been to the club since Morty died.”

  I swallow my protest because, obviously, I’m a selfish bitch. A suspicious, selfish bitch. Yes, I’ll keep my selfish, suspicious, bitchy thoughts to myself. Like, Why the sudden interest in Grandma and Dodie when, in the past, Michael wouldn’t give them the time of day?

  He meets us at the door. I’m relieved to see he’s still dressed in his golf duds. Against Grandma’s wishes, I refused to stuff myself back into her teensy panty hose. Instead, I’m bare legged and dressed simply in a sage green sundress with spaghetti straps and a pair of open-toed backless heels that match the dress perfectly.

  After greeting Grandma and Dodie, Michael pulls me in for a hug. He smells of fresh air and expensive booze. Snuggled against him in full body contact, I feel a little surge of heat. Recalling my up close and personal interaction with Sloan Friday night, I’m chagrined. Am I so desperate for a man that any man will do? To test my theory, I conjure up an image of Robinson Hunt complete with shiny white teeth and X-ray vision. To my great relief, the incipient spark dies aborning.