Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam

by Marilee Brothers

  Michael murmurs in my ear, “I’ve missed you.”

  Instead of answering, I pat his cheek and pull away.

  A waiter hovering nearby leads us to a table covered with crisp, white linen, the sight of which fills me with trepidation. I have a tendency to spatter colorful food stuffs. The table cloth looms like an empty artist’s canvas waiting for the first brush stroke. I pray I can get through the salad without embarrassing myself. Order Roquefort, hold the tomatoes.

  The waiter removes a bottle of champagne from a silver ice bucket and looks quizzically at Michael. “Now, sir?”

  Michael nods. Four champagne flutes are filled with bubbly. The waiter steps back, discreetly out of conversational range.

  “Are we celebrating something?” I narrow my eyes at Michael.

  “I hope so,” he says.

  His teeth are bared in a frozen grin, an expression similar to that of a trapped wolverine I once saw on a nature show. His left eyelid begins to twitch. Not exactly the demeanor of a man reunited with his beloved. More like a man facing a firing squad.

  “Here’s to us.” He raises his glass.

  “Us?” I repeat, blinking rapidly to hide my surprise.

  Grandma kicks me under the table. Hard. She stares pointedly at my champagne glass.

  “Here’s to the possibility of us,” I amend with an insincere smile of my own.

  Michael looks relieved as we clink glasses. He tosses back his champagne and signals the waiter, who trots after the requested bourbon on the rocks. When he delivers the drink to Michael, Dodie beckons the waiter. He scurries to her side, and she murmurs behind an uplifted hand. The waiter says, “Certainly, Madame. Red?”

  Michael looks at her curiously. “Something special from the bar?”

  “Possibly,” Dodie says.

  The waiter returns and thrusts a bottle of wine in front of Dodie for her inspection.

  “Will this do, madame?”

  Dodie fishes her glasses out of her purse and examines the label. “Yes, thank you. Could you open it, please?”

  I finally get a look at the label. WWJD. What Would Jesus Drink?

  The waiter enthuses, “The owner is a member here. Robinson Hunt.”

  “I thought he might be.” Dodie says. She takes a sip, makes a face, and sets the glass down.

  Michael’s expression has changed from mild disinterest to befuddlement. Two furrowed lines appear in his forehead, and his twitch increases in intensity. I’m looking at a man whose evening has spun out of control.

  “Oh, really,” I chirp. “Is he a golfer?”

  “Indeed, he is,” the waiter says, making a move toward Michael’s wineglass. Michael snatches it away.

  I let out a snicker, the first and last laugh of the evening. I take a sip of the wine and shudder. “I hope he’s a better golfer than winemaker. Do you know him, Michael?”

  Grandma Sybil and Aunt Dodie lean forward in their chairs.

  “I’ve seen him around,” Michael says. He grabs his menu. “Ready to order, ladies?”

  Clearly, the subject of Robinson Hunt is off limits.

  Dinner passes slowly as we churn out dutiful conversation on neutral topics, i.e. the weather and how it will affect the cherry crop, the Seattle Mariners and whether they will suck as bad as last year … Safe, boring topics unlikely to arouse passion of any sort, which accounts for my place at the table remaining pristine. No gravy stains propelled by a fit of spontaneous laughter. No shriek of dismay at some outrageous comment resulting in a chicken leg skittering across the table after an errant stab of the fork. No spillage. No broken crockery. Nothing at all, until the blueberry cobbler. Fortunately, I’m able to conceal the hideous blue blot with my napkin.

  The interminable evening draws to a close with the requisite round of decaf coffee. Dodie spots the Myers clan and slips away for a quick word. Grandma excuses herself to go to the restroom, leaving me alone with Michael, who squirms in his chair.

  “What’s going on, Michael?”

  “I, uh, well…”

  A heavy hand falls on his shoulder, and his voice trails off. I look up to see George Samuelson, the McDonald’s mogul, looming over Michael.

  “Hey, buddy, I’d like to meet your pretty lady.”

  Though he holds a drink in one hand, his words are clearly enunciated, his eyes watchful, his expression serious.

  Michael reddens and jumps to his feet to make the necessary introductions. Mr. Samuelson looks me over carefully. Can he tell I’d rather have a BK Broiler than a Quarter Pounder?

  After he and Michael swap golf stories, Samuelson wanders off to rejoin his cronies. Grandma returns, giving me no further opportunity to question Michael. We collect Dodie and split, our night of mingling with Vista Valley’s rich and famous mercifully at an end.

  Michael walks us to the Olds. Grandma Sybil strolls slowly while throwing out numerous conversational gambits much like a biblical fisherman casting a net in the Sea of Tiberias. She’s after the big one. Michael. I suppress a grin as she comes up with a list of creative reasons why I should invite Michael back to the house. I say nothing to encourage her.

  A few steps away from the car, subtlety forgotten, she says, “Michael, dear, I wonder if you’d mind following us home. I need a hand with something.”

  Who can refuse Grandma Sybil without looking like an asshole? Certainly not Michael. “Sure, Mrs. Thome, what do you need?”

  Under the cover of darkness, I reach over and pinch her, but she shakes it off. “We have a window that’s stuck. Upstairs, in Allegra’s apartment. None of us girls are strong enough to open it.”

  I say, “No, really, Michael. It’s not necessary. Isn’t Sunday your poker night?”

  “Maybe he can kill that spider you’ve been bitching about for days,” Dodie adds.

  Yeah, I have a little thing about spiders. Actually, I have a big thing about spiders, and Dodie, who’s fearless, loves to point it out.

  “I’ll get Noe to do it,” I say.

  “You know Noe won’t come past the front door,” Dodie says.

  “I’ll follow you home,” Michael says.

  Even in the dark, I can see Grandma’s smile of triumph.

  Grandma ignores my bitching and moaning on the journey home. As it turns out, I could have saved my breath.

  When we turn right off Vista Valley Avenue, I spot the patrol cars, light bars flashing in brilliant syncopation.

  “Oh my,” Grandma says. “Is that our house?” One bejeweled hand leaves the steering wheel and flutters in alarm. Her eyes look big and frightened behind her glasses, her complexion a ghastly shade of gray as the flashing blue lights bounce crazily off the windshield of the Olds.

  “Maybe not,” I say. But I know it is. My stomach lurches in alarm even while I murmur a prayer of thanks that my family is safe.

  One police car sits in our driveway; another is parked at the curb. Noe, his wife, Lorena, and at least eight members of their extended family mill around the front yard. Noe is speaking Spanish to a Hispanic policeman, gesticulating wildly. Spotting Grandma, he breaks off the conversation and hurries over to us. “Guy break in your house. I chase away but no catch. Lorena call policeman.”

  He shakes his head in regret. “I catch, I shoot his ass.”

  Grandma has pulled herself together. She pats Noe’s arm. “I appreciate the thought, sweetie, but we have a house full of things. Things can be replaced. A neighbor like you is priceless. You did the right thing.”

  Noe flashes his gap-toothed grin and returns to the policeman to finish his story. Dodie wanders toward the front porch. Another policeman hurries up to Michael, apparently assuming he’s the man of the house. I see him shake his head and point at Grandma. I hurry after Dodie, who’s reached the front door.

  “Make sure it’s okay to go in.” I caution her.

  “The cops have been all through the house. Whoever it was is gone now.”

  The place was hastily tossed, the intruders interru
pted before they could cart away our valuables. Other than books pulled out of the bookcase and the contents of Grandma’s desk drawers dumped on the floor, the damage is minimal.

  My apartment is a different story. The tiny kitchen is a mess. Silverware is strewn across the floor, flour sits in snowy drifts on the countertop, and coffee beans litter the sink. Desk drawers hang askew, their contents scrambled and spilling out on the floor.

  After the initial shock, I manage to rein in my emotions, at least until I see my bedroom. Every dresser drawer has been emptied, the bed torn apart, the mattress heaved to one side, my jewelry box upended. My lingerie has been flung with reckless abandon, seemingly over the thief’s shoulder while he pawed through dresser drawers, looking for … what?

  A black lace bra dangles from the ceiling light fixture. Pink panties grace a bedpost. The remainder has been dumped on the mattress, lacy underthings mingling unnaturally with flannel pajamas and a jogging bra. It’s simply too much. I stamp my foot and screech, “Son of a bitch!”

  I pick up an overturned chair and sit down amidst the panty storm bawling like a two-year-old whose older brother has trashed her Barbie collection.

  When I stop howling, I hear male voices and heavy footsteps on the stairs. I leave the bedroom as one of the cops and Michael step through my broken door.

  The cop dodges a toaster lying on its side in the middle of the living room. He shakes his head and studies the devastation in my kitchen. “Looks like he took his time up here. Lucky your neighbor chased him off before he could do much damage down below.”

  “Is anything missing?” Michael asks.

  Still fighting tears, I shake my head.

  “Probably looking for cash and small valuables to fence. Most likely a junkie needing a fix,” the cop says.

  Michael slips an arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “I’ll help you clean up.”

  Michael being nice. It’s more than I can take. I feel my lower lip quiver again. Damn, Allegra, don’t start. I pull away from Michael. “Thanks for offering, but I know Grandma and Dodie will help.”

  Michael looks relieved. “Okay, then, if you don’t need me, I’ll take off.”

  He leans over and pecks me on the cheek. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Belatedly I remember my manners. “Thanks a lot for dinner. Grandma really enjoyed it.”

  He waves a hand in acknowledgement and heads for the open doorway. A doorway suddenly filled by Sloan.

  Michael throws on the brakes and spins around to face me. “I thought you said you weren’t seeing …” he begins, casting nervous glances at Sloan.

  After a cursory glance around, Sloan crosses his arms and leans against the wall like an extra kitchen appliance. “Back with the boyfriend, huh?”

  My angst stemming from panty drawer violation disappears, vanquished by mind-blowing rage.

  “Shut up, both of you!” I shout. “I don’t have time for this shit. Just get the hell out of here, and leave me alone!”

  Neither man moves. I retreat to the bedroom and slam the door. Is it was too late to become a lesbian or, in Grandma’s vernacular, Lebanese?

  Chapter 14

  I turn the radio on, crank up the volume, and begin setting the room to rights. I’ll need Dodie’s help putting the bed back together, but my undies are back where they belong, sorted by color and function. This small accomplishment quells my seething emotions. I open the door twenty minutes later to find my living quarters thankfully man-free. I go to the window and see that the police have split. Michael as well. Sloan’s car is in the driveway.

  I cross to the desk and begin replacing the drawers. Is the cop right? Was the thief looking for something to fence? Why, then, did he spend so much time in my apartment when clearly the valuables are downstairs? Michael’s bizarre behavior throughout the evening adds another layer of confusion.

  What about Donny Thorndyke and his creepy friends? Is this another warning? But why? R.D. dismissed my accusations as spiteful, albeit harmless, ranting.

  If I eliminate Donny Thorndyke and the junkie-looking-for-valuables theory, one option remains: Sara. Her Bible. Her notebook. Her key. All of which have been in my possession until recently. But who would want or need the teenager’s meager possessions, and for what possible reason? While poking around looking for Sara, have I stirred up something nasty?

  In search of answers, I pick up the jumble of papers on the floor, looking for the hot pink sticky notes I stuck together and placed under a coffee mug on top of my desk. I go through my papers three times, examine each drawer, and crawl around on my hands and knees to search under the desk.

  My notes are gone. What kind of a thief ignores an opportunity to steal my identity, my checkbook, my few decent pieces of jewelry, and makes off with scribbled sticky notes?

  I stretch out on my back to stare at the ceiling while I ponder these questions. Michael has to be involved. I tick off the reasons in my head.

  His phone call saying he wants to see me again and his not-so-subtle reference to my missing student.

  His duplicity in avoiding me and making arrangements with Grandma Sybil to get us out of the house tonight.

  The odd disconnect between his actions and demeanor. To wit, toasting the renewal of our relationship while looking like a man with a gun to his head.

  His obvious discomfort at the mention of Robinson Hunt’s name, as well as the fortuitous arrival of one of Hunt’s parishioners when Michael and I were alone.

  Damn, but I hate thinking such evil thoughts about Michael! This is a man I almost slept with, even thought about marrying.

  If the break-in has something to do with Sara’s disappearance, how did the thief know I had her things? I sneaked them out of the Hewitts’ house, and Sara had taken great pains to hide them.

  I sit up and reach for the bag of chips the thief conveniently tossed on the floor. I munch and muse. The rhythmic crunching works its magic, calming my fevered brain, which is reeling from data overload. I suddenly remember why I’m looking for the sticky notes. I need a visual, the reassuring sight of pencil on paper.

  I sit down at my desk with a blank piece of paper. In the center of the page, I print SARA in block letters and draw a circle around it. From the circle, I draw a series of straight lines pointing outwards like bristles on a cactus. Each line leads to someone or something connected to Sara. Each person or event gets its own circle with more lines shooting outward.

  The Hewitts occupy one small circle; Peggy Mooney, another. Beginning with Peggy’s circle, I draw a line and print “RH” to indicate Peggy’s connection to Robinson Hunt. On two other spokes, I write, “Last person to see Sara” and “lied about Sara.”

  The Hewitts are next. Nick said Peggy Mooney told the Hewitts to take Sara to church. Does that mean they’re part of the congregation? Their circle fairly bristles with information: “Access to Sara’s personal belongings.” “Recipients of farewell note nobody has seen.” “New car purchased with cash.” “Expensive television set.” “Hostility when questioned about Sara.”

  I start Nick’s circle, carefully printing my own name on one of his extensions. If not for Nick, I’d have written Sara off as another runaway, certainly a common trait among my students.

  I stare at my handiwork and, on a whim, draw a circle around Robinson Hunt. An errant thought lurking in my gray matter bobs to the surface. I print “DT?” next to Hunt’s circle. Donny Thorndyke. His ex-wife, kids, and bosom buddy, R.D. Langley, are among Hunt’s flock. Presumably, so is Donny. And if Donny and Hunt have a connection…

  I think about Donny and Kelvin warning me off. And then about the words “nosy bitch” spray painted on my truck. Then the break-in. My missing sticky notes. Whether Donny knows something about Sara’s disappearance. Whether the implied threats are about more than our recent spat. If I am so spooked by recent happenings that I’m seeing a conspiracy theory where none exists.

  I reluctantly pull my mind away from Donny Thorndyke and fin
ish filling in Nick’s circle. Suddenly I’m struck with a stab of nausea-inducing fear. If this break-in is triggered by our not-so-subtle inquiries, then, thanks to my sticky notes, the perpetrators now know about the notebook, the Bible. And suddenly I realize Nick could very well be in danger. As a precaution, I tear up the paper and flush the pieces down the toilet.

  I pick up the phone just as Dodie pops in armed with a broom and dustpan.

  “Came to see if you need any help.”

  She crosses the kitchen and looks through the bedroom door. “Maybe we need to get Sloan up here to put the bed back together.”

  “No!” I set the phone down. “I’m sure we can manage.”

  Dodie smirks. “You sure? He looks like he’d be a big help in the bedroom.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Speaking of helpful, when’s Buddy bringing my truck back?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  She scoops flour from the counter into a garbage can.

  We tackle the mess together, and I pour out my suspicions about Michael. Dodie’s a good listener. She looks thoughtful and occasionally murmurs an affirmative. More importantly, she accepts my conspiracy theory with nary a lifted eyebrow or gasp of disapproval.

  When I wind down, she says, “That’s why I ordered the WWJD wine. I wanted to see Michael’s reaction.”

  I feel giddy with relief. My practical aunt is a staunch ally. Nick’s too emotionally involved, and Sloan … well, Sloan would probably blow off the sticky note incident, take the Michael incident seriously, and offer to kill him.

  “I need to call Susan. She’ll think I put Nick in danger,” I say.

  “I’ll take care of it. You’d better get downstairs. Your grandmother has the picture album out.”

  Few things frighten me more than Grandma Sybil entertaining gentleman callers with the picture album. Not that Sloan is my gentleman caller. More like a giant irritating moth attracted by the flashing blue lights, bashing into things until somebody whaps him with an enormous rolled-up newspaper. Even though I feel guilty about leaving the dirty work to Dodie, I dash out of my apartment.