Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam

by Marilee Brothers

  I hand Nick my tote bag and coffee and then unlock the door. He sets my things on the desk. “See the paper this morning?”

  I reach for my coffee and shake my head. “No time.”

  He slides the section labeled “Local News” onto my desk. The bold print jumps out at me. “Local Woman Found Dead.” I set the cup down and scan the article.

  “The body of Peggy Mooney, a twenty-year employee of the Department of Social and Health Services, was discovered by police late Wednesday morning after concerned co-workers reported her missing.”

  The word suicide is conspicuously absent. But the words “car running” and “closed garage” leave no doubt as to the cause of death. The article has quotes from shocked colleagues, including her secretary, who said, “It doesn’t make sense. She’d just received a promotion and was looking forward to serving in a supervisory position.”

  I set the paper down and stare at Nick. “Didn’t seem like a candidate for suicide. She acted like the queen of the universe.”

  “Sara,” he says. “She has a connection to Sara. Somebody wanted to shut her up.”

  “No. Gotta be a coincidence. Why would somebody go to that much trouble to off a mid-management civil servant? Maybe her boyfriend dumped her. Maybe her girlfriend dumped her. Maybe she didn’t get to sing the solo at church. Maybe …”

  “Maybe I’m right.” Nick lifts his chin in defiance. “Call that cop you know, and see what you can find out.”

  As an afterthought, he adds, “Please.”

  Marty didn’t call me after our chat at the river. Since he promised to check on Sara’s disappearance, I have a perfectly legit reason to call him.

  “Yeah, okay,” I agree. “After we get these grades done.”

  Satisfied, Nick buckles down to work, and I tear into the last of the essays. I glance at the clock. “Remember we’ve got an appointment this afternoon with Reverend Hunt, or whoever he is.”

  “For sure, he’s not Robinson Hunt,” Nick says, without taking his eyes off the computer screen.

  “I’d keep quiet about that if I were you.”

  Nick rolls his eyes but nods.

  At 8:55, I send Nick to the office to pick up my mail.

  At precisely 9:00, Dorothy and R.D. will meet to decide my professional future. I hate the feeling of helplessness Donny’s actions set into motion, and I want to make sure the meeting goes off as planned. I would check out the meeting myself but don’t feel up to eye-to-eye combat with the formidable Sally.

  Nick’s childlike stature and innocent demeanor make him the perfect spy.

  I stare at the wall clock as the minute hand edges closer to the twelve. The peripatetic second hand orbits in measured fits and starts like my discombobulated life.

  Suddenly the door burst open and Sloan steps through looking smokin’ hot and slightly dangerous in faded jeans, black polo shirt, suede boots, and a day’s growth of whiskers. Did he even go home last night?

  A little shriek of surprise bursts from my lips. “Why are you here? I’m trying to work,” I huff, as if I don’t want to yank him into my room, sweep the papers off my desk, and climb aboard for another thrill-packed ride.

  He leans against the door frame, regarding me with a look of faint amusement. His eyes say, I know what you’re thinking, babe, and it ain’t about work. But all he says is “I came by to talk to your nephew.”

  “Oh.” I feel my cheeks grow hot. “Why?”

  “The missing kid, Sara, seems like he knows a lot about her.”

  I mumble an affirmative while I search my memory banks for the salient details I’ve neglected to share with Sloan. Nick wears his heart on his sleeve and would blab to the devil himself if he thought it will help find Sara. If Nick shares information about Hunt’s stolen identity, he’ll get himself in trouble for hacking into a secure site. I have to warn Nick before Sloan grills him.

  I grab the newspaper and edge toward the door, uncomfortable that Sloan is blocking my escape route. “Listen, Sloan. Nick’s not well. I don’t want you upsetting him.”

  With a snort of disgust, he says, “Do I look like the type who scares little kids?”

  Frankly, he does, but I hand him the paper and say, “Peggy Mooney’s dead. Sara’s caseworker.”

  He scans the article, his expression carefully neutral. “Suicide, huh?”

  “Seems odd that two people with a connection to Sara are dead within a week of each other.”

  He hands me back the paper. “You know this woman?”

  “I met her once. She couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.”

  Sloan grins. “Big surprise”

  “One of my students saw Sara with Peggy on the Friday she disappeared. When I asked her about it, she all but called me a liar.”

  Sloan stares at me for a long moment, his eyes cool and appraising. “Precisely how many hornets’ nests have you been poking around in?”

  “Not that many.” I try to dart through the door.

  He catches my arm. “I came to see you for another reason. Marta Stepanek, Joe’s wife, somehow scraped up enough money to have him buried. The services are tomorrow at one, graveside at Mountain View. They’re bringing Marta over from Pine Lodge.”

  My mind quickly sorts through Sloan’s reasons for sharing this information. I can come to only one conclusion. “You think Sara will show up?”

  He shrugs. “It’s possible. You said she and Joe were tight.”

  “And if she doesn’t, maybe her mom knows where she is?”

  “The DEA has other interests. When we arrested her, Marta clammed up to protect Joe. Now that he’s dead, she’s got no reason to hold out.”

  Okay, so I’m wrong. Of course it isn’t about a missing girl.

  “Joe was smart, didn’t live high on the hog,” Sloan says. “Other people were involved. You don’t have an operation that size without keeping records. Marta knows something.”

  I’m tempted to tell him about the key but decide not to. Missing girls are not a priority for the DEA. Sloan is all about drug busts and only too willing to believe Sara ran off with a boyfriend. No, I won’t allow last night’s intimacy to cloud my judgment.

  As if testing my resolve, Sloan leans over and blows a lock of hair out of my face.

  “Whatcha thinking, Al? About last night?”

  “Hardly,” I say with a sneer. Damn! The man can read my mind. I pull away. “I’ll get Nick for you.”

  I hear Nick’s raspy breathing before I spot him, motionless, halfway up the stairs, holding onto the railing.

  “You’ve got an elevator key. Why don’t you use it?”

  I know why, of course. He wants to be like the other kids.

  “Nah, I need the exercise,” he gasps and begins to climb the stairs slowly.

  I wait until his breathing stabilizes before I ask, “What’s up in the office?”

  “That librarian lady—you know, Ms. Simonson—she walked past Dr. Langley’s secretary like she wasn’t there. Then she went in his office and shut the door.”

  “Way to go, Dorothy,” I say, pumping a fist in the air.

  As we walk back to my room, I fill him in on Sloan and warn him not to mention the key or his cyberspace adventures.

  We find Sloan sprawled in a student desk, munching the apple I planned to eat for a mid-morning snack. I make the introductions. Nick squares his diminutive shoulders and thrusts out a hand to be shaken. He grins up at Sloan, his look of hero worship unmistakable. “Pleased to meet you.” His voice is a good octave lower than normal.

  I hadn’t given much thought to the void in Nick’s life. With his father AWOL, Nick lives in world of women, surely a trial for a boy of sixteen. Sloan mentions breakfast, and the two of them are off like a shot.

  I return to my essays only to be interrupted by Dorothy. Small in stature and soft-spoken, Dorothy is resolved to right wrongs. Anyone who underestimates her lives to regret it. A tiny dynamo, she has stylishly cut gray hair. She loves kids, books, an
d wine-tasting tours, not necessarily in that order. When she’s amused, she belts out a hearty “ho-ho-HO,” a laugh so infectious it seems to emanate from the soles of her feet. Many a staff meeting has been broken up when something has tickled Dorothy’s funny bone.

  Wearing a sly smile and without preamble, Dorothy says, “R.D.’s having some second thoughts about your evaluation.”

  I feel my stomach unclench for the first time in days. “How did you manage that?”

  “Let’s just say I’m privy to certain information he’d rather keep on the Q.T.”

  “So you blackmailed him.”

  “Ho-ho-HO!” Dorothy shouts, slapping my desk in glee. “Allegra, please. Doctor Langley and I are engaged in ongoing negotiations.”

  She wipes her eyes and rearranges her face until it looks properly sober. “You’re not out of the woods yet. I’ll be in touch.”

  She cautions me once again to sign nothing and slips out of my room to return to her precise world of books and periodicals. I wonder idly where she’s hidden her cape.

  Nick returns bearing foodstuffs in a grease-soaked bag. In spite of my probing questions, I learn nothing of their conversation other than the fact that he was allowed to see Sloan’s gun. Furthermore, Sloan promised to teach him how to shoot. I cringe, graphic images of Mama Bear, Susan, on a rampage careening through my mind.

  Greasy food and guns. What better way to ensure male bonding?

  Nick and I arrive for our audience with Reverend Hunt twenty minutes early to allow plenty of snooping time. While Nick studies the brochures stacked neatly on a table in the foyer, I slip into the cavernous sanctuary. Without the sun glinting off the massive stained glass window, the room feels heavy and airless, as if it contains a malevolent presence. Not like a church at all.

  Though I hate to admit my mother was right, enforced attendance at Sunday school smoothed away my rough edges and filled me with a sense of tranquility that lingered at least until Monday morning. Even as an adult, walking through the doors of a church always whisks me back to that time and space. I feel a lightness of spirit that otherwise eludes me.

  But not here. Not in the Church of the Unholy Light.

  Nick and I go in search of Hunt’s office, wandering through a maze of corridors. We peek into Sunday school rooms filled with tiny chairs and felt boards. I have a sudden longing for cherry Kool-Aid.

  The pastor’s study, actually a suite of offices, is at the end of a long wing, far removed from the public areas. As I reach for the door, a woman bursts through, red-faced and breathing hard. I catch the sound of voices raised in anger as I stumble backward and land on Nick’s foot. The woman’s squeak of surprise, Nick’s yelp of pain, and my muttered apology burst out simultaneously, adding to the confusion.

  “If you’re Allegra Thome, you’re early,” the woman blurts, firmly closing the door behind her.

  “I am,” I acknowledge and can’t resist adding, “Is arriving early a sin in the eyes of God?”

  Nick squirms in embarrassment, but my words have the desired effect. The woman winces. “I’m sorry. That was rude. It’s just that today’s been crazy. We need to reschedule your appointment.”

  “Sure,” I say, starting for the door. She slides sideways and blocks me.

  “Don’t you want to check the calendar?” I ask.

  She doesn’t budge. “I’m in a bit of a hurry. I’ll call you.”

  She stands at her post until we turn and start back down the corridor. When we round the corner, I hear her hurried footsteps behind us.

  “Walk slower.” I tell Nick.

  “We’re not leaving, huh?”

  “No way.”

  When the woman, presumably Hunt’s secretary, catches up with us, I say, “My nephew needs to use the bathroom.”

  Nick flushes but performs a convincing pee-pee dance. Without slowing down, the woman says, “In the Narthex, to the left of the doors.”

  We dawdle until the woman’s out of sight, after which we reverse course and trot back to Hunt’s office. We slip through the door into a reception area. A large desk sits between us and the inner office. The voices inside are muffled and seem to lack the heat marking the earlier conversation.

  Nick flops down on a leather settee, and I wander over to the desk. The woman didn’t take the time to shut down her computer. The cursor blinks patiently, awaiting her next keystroke. Assorted papers and memos lay in jumbled disarray across the surface of the desk. I spot the appointment calendar. As I reach for it, the door behind me opens.

  Startled, I whirl to face the door and backpedal toward the sitting area. Robinson Hunt’s wife, her face the color of parchment, hurries through the outer office looking neither left nor right. One hand clutches her purse; the other covers her cheek. She pauses when she reaches the door, her shoulders heaving with emotion. She takes a quick peek over her shoulder, and recognition blooms in her eyes. She lowers the hand that covers her cheek revealing the scarlet imprint of a recent blow, already purpling into an ugly bruise. Gone is the icy demeanor of last Sunday. Her gaze darts around the room like a cornered rabbit’s. When finally she meets my eyes, she draws a deep, shuddering breath. After a long moment, she’s gone.

  Chapter 18

  Later, Nick would tell me I all but pawed the ground and snorted after Mrs. Hunt slipped through the door.

  “Aunt Al,” he says with that solemn look he gets when he’s pulling my leg. “You spoke in tongues. Smoke shot out of your nostrils.”

  Yes, the sight of a recently beaten woman pushes all my buttons, transporting me back in time to an army base in Germany.

  Filled with shame and self-loathing, I study my bloody face in the mirror and hate the fear in my eyes.

  When Harley heads for the officers’ club, satisfied he’s corrected my errant ways, I launch into a series of actions that seems outside my consciousness. My trembling hands apply super glue to each and every fly of Harley’s army issue skivvies. Moving in a robotic fashion, I go to the closet and stuff clothes and family photos into Harley’s favorite backpack. I rummage through a pile of camouflage gear in Harley’s, footlocker and find the credit card he thinks I don’t know about.

  At the stroke of midnight, I slam the door on the past, trudge to the gate, and hitch a ride to the airport. Goodbye, Harley. May you rot in hell.

  When I come back into real time, I’m in a half crouch, my hands in tight fists. Nick looks at me as if I might explode into a million tiny Allegra particles.

  “I’m okay,” I mutter, taking deep breaths.

  I stand and stride to Hunt’s door. I lift my hand to knock, and the door flies open revealing a tall, spare man with hunched shoulders and a bad comb-over. He stands in the open doorway and looks down at me through heavy, dark-rimmed glasses perched on his beak of a nose.

  “And you are?” His voice sounds rusty, like he’s suffered trauma to his vocal cords. The skin on his scalp is speckled from sun damage, giving him a reptilian look.

  “Reverend Hunt’s next appointment.” I meet his unblinking stare with one of my own, still seething from my trip down memory lane.

  He glances over his shoulder. I peek around him to see Hunt standing with his back to the door, gazing out the window.

  “Just a minute,” the geek says and tries to shut the door. I block it with my foot. Nick creeps up behind me.

  “Maybe we better come back another time,” he says.

  “You can go wait in the car if you want. I’m not leaving,” I say, a bit louder than necessary. Nick sighs but doesn’t retreat.

  After a hushed exchange, the pastor and his sidekick invite us in. Their resigned expressions clearly say, “Please, God, not another hysterical female.”

  I vow to be calm and focused. Now is not the time to right domestic wrongs. We need to know about Sara, and accusing Robinson Hunt of spousal abuse will get us nowhere.

  “Ms. Thome!” Reverend Hunt pulls himself together and walks toward me with both hands outstretched. “Ho
w wonderful to see you again.”

  After the laying on of hands, Nick and I are ushered to our chairs as Hunt braces himself on the corner of his desk and leans toward us, his face a picture of pastoral concern. His buddy plops down on a hard-back chair and drops his gangly arms between splayed knees. Behind the desk, a broken floor lamp tilts crazily toward the wall.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, my dear,” Hunt says, staring intently into my eyes. “Did you meet my wife on her way out?”

  When I nod, he continues with a condescending chuckle. “Poor Heather—a bit of a family crisis, I’m afraid—she slipped in the shower and struck her face on the fixture. With the women’s luncheon tomorrow, she wants to look her best. Oh well, these things happen …”

  Someone should tell Hunt the shower story’s been done to death. I ignore his explanation and look at the geek. “We haven’t met. I’m Allegra Thome. This is my nephew, Nick Dorsey.”

  Hunt springs off the desk. “Sorry. I assumed you’d met my colleague, Gordon Venable. Gordy’s my business manager.”

  Venable stands, unfolding his gaunt frame in a series of awkward jerks, as if his movements are controlled by a puppeteer still learning his craft. “Ms. Thome,” he says in his creepy voice, thankfully not offering to shake my hand.

  “Mr. Venable,” I reply.

  I turn my attention to Hunt. “I didn’t know ministers needed business managers.”

  He flushes and parks his butt on the corner of the desk again. “The church is involved in several business ventures that require his expertise.”

  “Ah, yes. The winery, What Would Jesus Drink.”

  “Yes, that,” Hunt says as Venable snatches what looks like a computerized spreadsheet from the desk and begins poring over it.

  Though it makes me uncomfortable, I let the silence build. Hunt glances at his watch and squirms. I smile pleasantly.

  He gives me a grimace of a smile. “How may I be of spiritual assistance today?”

  “Oh, my spirit’s in fine fettle.” I try to disguise my hostility with a hearty chuckle. “It’s Sara Stepanek I’m concerned about. She’s been missing almost two weeks. I know you were counseling her. Do you have any thoughts on her whereabouts?”