Gypped

by Carol Higgins Clark

  Zelda rushed to the back door of the house, her mind a blur, her hands full of shopping bags. I can’t believe that Dad and Bobby Jo are coming here! They could have given me a little time to absorb the fact that they’re united in holy wedlock before I lay eyes on them again. In another day they’ll be showing up on my doorstep, except it isn’t my doorstep. I have clients coming to the house. Once they get a load of Bobby Jo, they’ll never want to take advice from me again.

  Placing the bags on the ground, Zelda ran back to the car to collect the rest of her purchases. After gathering the packages Regan had carried for her, she slammed the trunk shut. Wait ’til Regan hears this! I just know she’ll understand. I’m quite sure she hasn’t gone through anything similar, but I remember we talked about being only children. You get all the attention but it also means you don’t have anyone who’s in the same boat. If it sinks, you’re all alone. And I feel like I’m sinking.

  Zelda hurried to the back door, pushed it open, and stepped inside the big, long kitchen. The pink appliances from the 1950s that had seemed like a kick before she left for the mall, now appeared to be just what they were—old and decrepit.

  Nothing like a crisis to force cold broad daylight into your brain.

  Suddenly an impatient Zelda had a lot of questions. Who are the owners of this place anyway? Who are the Scrumps? If they don’t live here, and they’re not taking care of the place, why don’t they sell it? It’s a nice piece of property not far from a hiking trail. At the right price I’m sure someone would take it off their hands. New owners would most likely tear the house down and build a home with running water that you didn’t have to let flow forever before getting rid of the rust. Which reminds me. I should go upstairs and turn on the faucet to the tub. I really need to soak and calm down before my guests arrive.

  Another question—where are the caterers? Trays of hors d’oeuvres were lined up on the table. Even the sight of pigs in a blanket didn’t cheer her. Cartons of food and cases of wine covered most of the yellowed linoleum, which was a good thing. Where is everybody? she wondered. But she had an inkling.

  She walked across the creaky kitchen floor, tiptoed down the hallway, and took a quick peek around the corner. At the other end of the vast living room, standing in front of a grand fireplace, and below a portrait of a flapper doing the jitterbug, her assistant Norman was lecturing four people seated in folding chairs. Oh Norman, Zelda thought, lighten up. Lately it seemed that whenever he was dealing with people on her behalf, he became overbearing and did more harm than good. What’s with that? Here I am, a personal coach, trying to help people feel better about themselves, which in turn is supposed to make the world a better place, and I’ve got an aggravating assistant!

  Them’s the breaks, Zelda told herself, as she turned away and took a back staircase up to her bedroom. At the moment I’ve got more important things to worry about.

  “We have to make sure everything is perfect,” Norman repeated for the fourth time as he adjusted his bow tie and pushed back his horn-rimmed glasses. “Perfect perfect perfect.” He patted the back of his receding blond hair, as if to make sure it was still there.

  Since Zelda had received her unexpected windfall, the slim, slight, thirty-three-year old Norman had helped manage her life. He’d lived down the hall from Zelda in her old apartment building, and now often lay awake at night pondering his bad luck. There was no way he’d ever have offered to walk their elderly neighbor’s dog. The mutt had come bounding down the hall the day Norman moved in, and lifted his leg over a bag of Norman’s groceries. From that moment on, Norman ran away when he saw the dog, or his master, heading in his direction. Ran away from a fortune. Now Norman could often be seen in his neighborhood walking three or four dogs at once. Free of charge. Their owners were all senior citizens.

  Norman liked working for Zelda. But he wanted to find his own career. He had secretly started taking singing lessons after someone complimented his performance at a karaoke bar. His instructor told him he had a good voice, real potential, but he wondered if she said that to keep him coming back week in and week out. He cleared his throat unconsciously. “Don’t forget, always be polite to the guests, no matter how annoying they might seem. Polite but detached. Don’t engage in much chitchat. Remain unobtrusive while you do your job. After the hors d’oeuvres are passed, we’ll start the buffet, then coffee and dessert will be served. It will be a lovely party. Just what Miss Zelda wants.”

  His captive audience consisted of two young men and two young women, all aspiring actors. They were relying on their training to act interested. The boss was telling them what they already knew.

  Maggie, a character actress who had worked at numerous parties all over Los Angeles, could barely keep from groaning. Miss Zelda? she thought with disgust. Give me a break. It’s going to be a long night. I’ve only been here ten minutes and this nerd in his tweed jacket and dorky shoes is already getting on my nerves. And what’s with this place? The bright red living room was probably grand in its day but needs a lift. Like what everyone in Hollywood over the age of twelve gives their face. No wonder the owners of this house donated it to charity for a week. They’ll take a writeoff for their generousity, claiming the rental would have been worth a good twenty grand. What a racket.

  “Any questions?” Norman asked. “Any anything?”

  Maggie raised her hand. “The sorbet must be melting by now,” she said in a stage whisper, pointing to the kitchen.

  Norman flinched. “We wouldn’t want to have that happen now, would we?”

  “No,” Maggie answered solemnly as her fellow waiters looked at her with amusement. “We want everything to be perfect.”

  “Shall we, then?” Norman sniffed. “But first I’d like you all to sign confidentiality forms.”

  Maggie almost burst out laughing. Now I’ve heard everything, she mused. I don’t get the feeling we’ll be serving the crowd you see at the Oscars. This guy is delusional! I can’t wait to talk to the others about this. A sudden thought gave Maggie pause.

  But if he’s not delusional, what is he hiding?

  5

  Regan awoke with a start, breathing hard. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. Then she realized—the hotel in Beverly Hills. Thank God, she thought. That dream was crazy.

  The clock next to the bed read 6:15.

  Regan got up and headed for the shower, feeling oddly unsettled. She always appreciated Jack, but at times like this she appreciated him even more. If he were here I’d be fine. I can’t wait to see him later.

  There were four different light switches for the spacious bathroom. Regan played with the dimmers until she found the right setting. This bathroom is unbelievable, she thought, admiring the marble flecked with tones of apricot, white, and beige. There were two sinks and lots of counter space, a large bathtub, a separate shower stall, and a toilet behind a closed door.

  It’s so civilized, Regan thought. And it sure beats the outhouse at camp. What made me think of that? Suddenly Regan turned and went to the door of the room, pressed the DO NOT DISTURB button next to it, and secured the chain. That should keep the bogeyman away, Regan said to herself, remembering the scary stories she and her fellow campers told each other late at night, tucked in their sleeping bags, freezing to death. After three days of roughing it, ten-year-old Regan couldn’t wait to get home. She’d had enough of campfire stew, watered down fruit drink, and bug bomb spray.

  Even though Regan had already used the shower, she still had trouble figuring out which faucet was connected to which spray. There were nozzles everywhere. After a few minutes of trial and error, the water felt great. By 7:30 Regan was dressed and ready to leave. She’d chosen a pair of black dressy pants, a silk top, and high-heeled sandals.

  She’d called for the car. When she got downstairs, the valet was pulling it into the driveway. He opened the driver’s door, and wished her a good night as she handed him a tip. Here we go, Regan thought, as she buckled her seat belt, t
hen programmed the address into the GPS. Twenty-five minutes later she was turning into the driveway of the Scrumps mansion.

  She didn’t know that she’d been followed.

  6

  In a small house set back from a rural road forty miles north of Los Angeles, Clarence and Petunia Hedges sat down to dinner. Both in their mid-fifties, they’d been married for thirty years. The first night they laid eyes on each other at a singles bar in San Diego, they knew they were made for each other. It takes one to know one. People with no moral compass, that is.

  Petunia, a statuesque woman with blond highlighted hair, and a voice that on occasion tended toward grating, favored black stretch pants and boots and colorful tops. She wore big earrings and lots of jewelry.

  “Pass the fries,” Clarence grunted, his eyes glued to the large television screen on the wall.

  “They’re closer to your plate than mine,” Petunia remarked as she pushed the dish sideways until it grazed his hefty forearm. She picked up a bottle of ketchup, and started to do battle with it. “You didn’t want a vegetable, did you?”

  Clarence knew better than to say yes. He shook his head, taking a bite of meat loaf. A big burly guy, his reddish hair was parted in a perfectly straight line, and combed into a style befitting an altar boy. “Fries are enough of a vegetable for me. What’s for dessert?” His eyes never left the TV screen.

  “Cake from a box.”

  Clarence started clapping wildly. “Yes!” he cried, raising his arms in the air. “Way to go!” One of the San Francisco Giants had hit a home run.

  Petunia rolled her eyes. The last time they had a romantic dinner was before cell phones were invented. But she was happy. Happy but restless to make more money.

  Out in public this twosome gave the impression of being your average middle-aged couple. Clarence drove a truck, Petunia was a manicurist. They had raised their children in a San Diego suburb, and had moved north after their youngest graduated from college. With the kids gone, the time was ripe for Petunia to put her schemes in motion, far away from her nosy old neighbors. She had rented a PO box in a large post office half an hour away from their new home, and hoped that all the packages she received would not raise suspicions.

  Working in the nail salon as a manicurist, Pet loved to listen to her clients’ problems, all the while honing her vast knowledge of the weaknesses of the human condition. Weaknesses she could seize upon. Tsk tsking, she applied polish with the precise skills of a surgeon, peppering the conversation with her standard remarks. “Such a shame.” “It’s just not right.” “Who needs a friend like that?” “I can tell you’re special.” “Someone like you deserves much better.”

  She always got a good tip.

  The best customers were the men and women from out of town. They didn’t worry about what they told Petunia because they figured they’d never see her again. Hint to those customers—the world keeps getting smaller.

  “You should be a shrink,” a New Yorker said admiringly just this afternoon. “I’ve never told a stranger so much personal information.”

  Petunia sighed contentedly. “I’d never make it through medical school. I was born to do people’s nails and listen to their problems at the same time. I’m so grateful I found my calling.”

  Cha ching!

  Finally a commercial came on. Clarence turned his attention to his plate. “So how was your day?”

  “Good. I went to the post office after work.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And I got a lot of great stuff from celebrities for the ‘fundraiser.’” She laughed. “If they only knew the fruits of their labor were going up on the Internet for sale. I’m telling you, I worked hard on that letter! And it looked so official.”

  Clarence sipped his beer. “What kind of stuff did you get?”

  “CDs, signed photos, books. Some of the celebrities wrote little notes wishing me luck and saying how wonderful I am for taking the time to raise money for needy children.”

  “Oh, brother,” Clarence said. “Not that I care, but I look at it this way. It makes them feel good to think they’re donating for a worthy cause. Let’s leave it at that. Because it is a worthy cause!”

  They both laughed and clinked their drinks. “To a worthy cause,” they said at the same time.

  Petunia sipped her wine. “One thing I might keep for myself is a signed book from the author Nora Regan Reilly. No matter what, I definitely want to read it first.”

  Clarence wasn’t listening. The commercial was over and the game was back on. “LET’S GO SAN FRANCISCO!” he bellowed. “LET’S GOOOO!”

  7

  Approaching the top of Zelda’s driveway, Regan could see that it looped into a wide circle on the side of the house. A valet signaled her to pull forward. When she reached him, she rolled down the window. “Not much room for parking, huh?”

  “That’s why I’m here. We’re parking the cars on the street.”

  “Oh. I didn’t see any out there.”

  “We’re taking the first cars all the way down to the dead end while we have the time. In twenty minutes people will all be arriving all at once. We save the spaces nearer the house for those cars so we don’t keep people waiting as long.”

  “Makes sense,” Regan said, putting the car into drive and securing the emergency brake. “How far down does the road go?”

  “Maybe a quarter of a mile.”

  “It looks like nothing but woods ahead. Are there are any other houses?”

  “No, ma’am, no houses. You’re right about the woods. There’s a hiking trail just past the dead end. It’s a nice one. But people don’t really start their hikes there because the town has strict rules about parking on this street. We’ve got a permit for tonight.”

  “I see,” Regan said, accepting the claim check. “Thanks.”

  “You bet.”

  As Regan followed the path that led to the front door, the valet drove her car down the driveway and turned left, then seemed to disappear. The woods beyond the lawn were thick and dark, blocking any view of the road.

  Bright outside lights on the house illuminated the wild lawn and bushes. This place is certainly interesting, Regan thought. It’s obviously been here for years. And looks like it hasn’t changed much. I wonder what the parties in this house were like when it was first built. Was it a Hollywood scene? Now it looks as if it’s inhabited by ghosts.

  She rang the bell.

  A moment later Zelda opened a large, creaky front door. “Regan!”

  “Zelda, great to see you.”

  “Come on in!”

  “Well, don’t you look like quite the hostess,” Regan noted as she stepped inside and pointed to Zelda’s floor-length black skirt, and low-cut red top. Zelda’s hair was pulled up, decorated with rhinestone hairpins. “You’re so festive.”

  “Thanks. And you look fantastic. I’m so glad you’re here. Take off your coat. I want you to meet a couple from my old building before it gets too crowded.”

  A young woman appeared and took Regan’s jacket. Regan smiled, then followed Zelda into the living room. The lights were low; candles were glowing. Soft music was playing on a stereo. Two men were sipping drinks, staring up at a portrait of a flapper.

  “Curtis, Blair, say hello to my friend Regan Reilly.”

  The men turned and greeted her. Curtis was tall with a short light brown beard and an earring in his left ear. Bald, and a bit rounder, Blair was of average height. They were both wearing jackets and well pressed designer jeans.

  “Nice to meet you,” Regan said.

  “Regan and I were on a game show together, years ago,” Zelda said excitedly. “I can’t believe I ran into her today after all these years!”

  “A game show?” Curtis asked incredulously. “Stop it!”

  “Yes!” Zelda answered. “Can you believe it? Regan and I bonded during a very stressful situation.”

  “Stressful?” Curtis gathered peanuts from a bowl on a side table and started to laugh
.

  “Of course it was stressful!” Zelda protested. “Who wants to make an idiot out of herself on national television?”

  “Honey, that’s why I’d never go on Jeopardy. Never!” Curtis insisted. “With my luck all the categories would be about football.”

  Blair affectionately put his hand on Curtis’s shoulder. He shook his head and guffawed. “Can you imagine?”

  Regan laughed. “Well Zelda and I didn’t do so well on Puzzling Words.”

  “Zelda’s payday was in her own backyard,” Blair remarked playfully, rolling his eyes. “We have an apartment on the floor above where Zelda lived when she struck it rich.” He turned to Curtis. “I knew we should have gotten the apartment downstairs. But would I have done something nice for that cranky old lady? Probably not.”

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Zelda said with a smile. “She was misunderstood.”

  “Join the club,” Blair retorted.

  Zelda turned to Regan. “These guys moved into my building a couple years after we were on that show.”

  “Here comes another neighbor,” Curtis pronounced.

  “Norman, come over and meet my friend Regan.”

  They were introduced, and Zelda filled Regan in on Norman’s background. “We’re friends and now he’s working for me. He’s staying here with me this week. It’s fun to share this crazy place.”

  “If you think we’re kicking ourselves about the money,” Blair said wickedly, “Norman is never going to get over it. He lived two doors down from Mrs. Moneybags.”

  They were all amused, including Norman, although he didn’t seem to find it as funny as the others.

  “I couldn’t stand her dog,” he said.

  “Whatever happened to the dog?” Regan asked.

  “He was very old and died a few weeks after the woman did,” Zelda said. “It was sad, but I think the dog’s heart was broken.”

  “No more than Norman’s,” Curtis chuckled.