Gone in a Flash

by Susan Rogers Cooper

  When she said ‘hello,’ I said, ‘Well, it’s about time you answered your phone!’

  ‘Hello to you too, Vera. Hope you’re having a lovely—’

  ‘Not so much, no,’ I said. ‘I think my roommate’s been murdered.’

  Mr Jones sat outside in the stolen vehicle, waiting for Mr Brown. It was a great big house in River Oaks, where most of the Houston millionaires lived. Mr Jones, of course, was not aware that the house was an architectural mishmash of Greek revival, Georgian, and Federalist, with a touch of Beaux Arts. He only knew it was big and what he thought of as pretty.

  Mr Brown had been inside for close to half an hour, and Mr Jones wasn’t sure at what point he should move to the driver’s side and take off. He thought it might take Mr Big (whoever he was) more than half an hour to kill Mr Brown, but he wasn’t sure. On the other hand, he didn’t want to be a sitting duck out here in the driveway if Mr Big’s henchmen came looking for him. And, on the third hand, if he had one, he was sitting in a stolen car. Stolen out of Hicksville. He wondered how long it would take for the Houston cops to find out a car was stolen from the sticks. Then the front door of the mansion opened and Mr Brown stuck his head out. He motioned for Mr Jones to come to him.

  Mr Jones wondered if it was a trap. But if he didn’t go in, he wouldn’t get his twenty-five gees, and God knew he needed that money. His kids needed braces. His ex-wife was gonna sue if she didn’t get back child support, and he saw this sweet ride he could get for less than ten grand, and God also knew he needed a new ride.

  So Mr Jones got out of the stolen vehicle parked in Mr Big’s driveway and headed to the front door of the house. Those front doors were the first of many affluent impressions Mr Jones received on his way to meet Mr Big. The doors were ornately carved and half a foot thick. The entry where Mr Brown received him was black-and-white-checked marble with an ornately carved archway leading into a two-story-high rotunda with a stained-glass ceiling.

  ‘Close your mouth, Mr Jones,’ Mr Brown said. ‘You’re gawking.’

  ‘Jeez,’ Mr Jones said, ‘this place is awesome!’

  Mr Brown led Mr Jones to yet another ornately carved door to the right of the rotunda, and knocked. Not waiting for a reply, he opened the door and ushered Mr Jones in.

  Mr Jones tried not to look at the room, but at the people in it. He thought that would be the polite thing to do, but his eyes seemed to go straight to the room itself – creamy marble floors with old but cool rugs, silky-looking fabric walls, brocade-covered sedans and love seats. He willed himself to look at the people. There were three in the room: a woman sitting on a love seat, hands in her lap clutching a wad of tissues, her eyes red and swollen; a big man, even bigger than Mr Jones himself, by the French doors leading outside, standing stiffly, legs parted, hands clasped in front of him, and a third man. He immediately identified Mr Big. He was the short guy by the fireplace, wearing blue jeans from the nineties with lots of strategic holes in them, a white Polo shirt and leather sandals. He was bald as an egg with dark brown eyes and bushy black eyebrows. Mr Jones knew he was Mr Big because he was the only one who spoke.

  ‘So, Mr Jones,’ he said in a heavy foreign accent, ‘we meet at last. Thank you for your part in completing this mission.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Mr Jones said, suppressing a giggle. The guy sounded just like the villain in the last James Bond movie he’d seen.

  ‘Now I suppose you expect me to pay you,’ Mr Big said.

  ‘Ah, well, yeah, I guess,’ Mr Jones said, hoping that was the right answer.

  Mr Big laughed and moved away from the fireplace, coming up to Mr Jones and hugging him. Since his head only reached Mr Jones’s breastbone, it was a bit awkward.

  ‘Of course you are!’ Mr Big said, slapping him on the back.

  Mr Jones smiled widely, glancing at Mr Brown, who smirked back at him.

  ‘But that will have to wait,’ Mr Big said, giving Mr Jones a sad look. ‘Your work is not yet completed, I am sorry to say.’

  ‘Do what?’ I said.

  ‘Murdered,’ Vera repeated. ‘At least, that’s what me and Gerald think.’

  ‘Gerald?’ I said.

  ‘Never mind that. Do you want me to tell you what’s been going on?’ Vera asked.

  I wanted to say no. I really did. Wasn’t it enough that my daughter had been stalked, our house broken into, and said daughter kidnapped? And I was beginning to wonder if it really was over. I felt I had a vested interested in helping to catch these assholes who kidnapped my daughter and put the entire family at risk. And besides, Willis had given me his permission. Don’t tell him I said that. I didn’t need my mother-in-law making up fairy-tale murders because she was secretly bored with the Southern Baptists. But on the other hand, Vera has been there for me so many times in the past, I couldn’t blow her off.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said instead.

  So then she told me all about her roommate Rachael Donley, how she came to be her roommate, what she thought she might be doing with Brother Joe, and how she – Vera – felt about Brother Joe, about the trip to the Wal-Mart, and finally to Rachael’s disappearance.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll show up, Vera,’ I said. ‘If she’s as loose as you say she is, maybe she found some hot guy in the lobby—’

  ‘I never did say she was loose!’ Vera shot back. ‘I said I thought she might be making time with Brother Joe, and her not even separated yet. I didn’t say nothing about her picking up strange men in the lobby! Besides, that’s not the end of it, if you’ll stop interrupting me!’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, and sat down in an easy chair. I had a feeling it was going to be a long call.

  So then I heard about Rachael coming back without being seen and taking all her belongings and leaving a note about a friend being sick.

  ‘So, then she’s OK,’ I said, trying to stop the flow.

  ‘If you’d ever close your mouth for more than two seconds you’d have heard that no she’s not OK!’ Vera fairly shouted at me. Vera at times – and those times were usually around me – had a surly disposition, but this was over the top even for her.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said. And she did. By the time she was through I was itching all over.

  It’s a disease, this puzzle-solving business of mine. I get physical symptoms when something’s up that I need to solve. I’ve been this way since I was a child. When my sister Cheryl – the one closest to me in age – would lie to me, which was whenever she opened her mouth, I had to find out the truth or I’d start itching, which would move into hyperactivity, followed by sweating, low blood sugar, and, I suppose – if I ever let it go that far – eventual death.

  I was fairly certain something had happened to Vera’s roommate – if everything Vera told me was the truth. Vera didn’t lie, but she was getting up in years and there could be some senility-based confusion going on here. Not that she’d shown any signs, but this trip could have upset her mental balance. And besides, I had my own case to worry about – I had my own bad guys.

  ‘So you need to go to the authorities,’ I finally told Vera.

  ‘What authorities? Brother Joe as head of our delegation? Or the hotel security? Or straight to the police?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d start with Brother Joe,’ I suggested. ‘Let him notify the police.’

  There was such a long silence on Vera’s end of the line that I finally said, ‘Ah, you still there?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, her voice clearly agitated. ‘Here’s the thing,’ she said, then said nothing.

  ‘Vera?’

  She sighed. ‘I just don’t trust Brother Joe.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know!’ she all but yelled at me. ‘He’s just – I don’t know. Untrustworthy-ish.’

  ‘Untrustworthy-ish? Is there such a word?’ I said, almost laughing.

  ‘Don’t you start with that “I have a degree in English so therefore I’m better than you” stuff you like to pull!’ she said. ‘I’
m trying to convey my feelings to you, Eloise,’ she said, pulling out the dreaded name card and actually emphasizing it. ‘And my feeling is that I’m not sure I can trust Brother Joe. Like I said, he’d been making googly eyes at Rachael for several weeks now. So if he was, well, you know—’

  ‘Doing the horizontal mambo with her?’ I suggested.

  ‘I was gonna say “involved,” but you will take the low road whenever possible, won’t you, Eloise?’

  Again with the name calling. ‘So what you’re saying,’ I suggested as lewdly as possible, yet staying within reason, ‘is that if Brother Joe was banging Sister Rachael, then maybe he’s not the one to go to with your suspicions because maybe they had a lover’s quarrel and he offed her.’

  Vera sighed heavily over the phone line. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘So who’s Gerald?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s in the choir,’ she said.

  ‘And you’ve taken him into your confidence?’ I asked, trying to keep any signs of my inner thoughts to myself. My inner thoughts being: Vera and Gerald, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g …

  ‘I needed to talk to somebody, and my only real friend in the choir is Gladys – Mrs Cook – who was supposed to be my roommate, but she came down with that flu that’s going around. Anyway, he had some good ideas, like going to the beauty shop to compare handwriting. That’s all.’

  The ‘that’s all’ was said rather tentatively. I couldn’t help adding to myself, ‘First comes love, then comes marriage—’ But then there was that whole ‘baby carriage’ business and that was just so wrong in so many ways.

  ‘Now what do I do?’ Vera asked.

  That was a good question. I wondered how quickly I could fly to D.C.? Or was that just sublimation?

  It was Bess’s day to drive so she hoisted herself up into the driver’s side of the minivan and buckled up, ready to head home. Megan had shotgun, and Alicia sat in the middle seat in the second row so she could participate in any discussion that might occur. It didn’t take long for Megan to start up.

  ‘Alicia, I want you to know that Azalea is grief-stricken over you and Graham professing your love for one another,’ she said.

  Alicia’s entire body turned crimson. ‘Oh my God! You didn’t tell her, did you?’ she screeched.

  ‘How else would she know?’ Megan asked in all innocence.

  ‘God, Megan,’ Bess said, turning to look at her sister, thus taking her eyes off the road. ‘That’s family business! You had no right to tell anybody!’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Alicia wailed yet again. ‘Do you think she’ll tell anybody?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Megan said.

  Alicia let out a sigh and said, ‘Thank God!’

  ‘But D’Wanda was there and she’s the biggest gossip in school, so it’s probably all over the place by now,’ Megan said.

  Alicia burst into tears. ‘I have to quit school now!’ she wailed. ‘Everybody’s going to think I’m dating my brother!’

  ‘Well, duh,’ Megan said. ‘You are!’

  FRIDAY

  VERA’S STORY

  I met up with Gerald in the lobby at lunchtime. We sat at a table by the window, away from everybody else and I said, ‘I talked to my daughter-in-law this morning.’

  ‘Oh, right, she’s the one who gets involved in all the murders, right?’ he asked.

  ‘How did you know that?’ I said, surprised. It wasn’t a secret, but it wasn’t broadcast news either.

  Gerald touched my hand where it lay on the table. ‘People talk, Vera,’ he said.

  Not wanting to, I slowly removed my hand. ‘Even more now, if they see that,’ I said, and could feel myself blushing.

  ‘Just you and me sitting here alone together’s gonna have tongues wagging,’ Gerald said with a smile. ‘Might as well enjoy it.’

  I’m not sure where it came from, but a giggle escaped my lips. I got myself together and said, ‘Well, anyway, E.J. – that’s my daughter-in-law,’ I said, and he nodded. ‘She thinks we need to notify the authorities but I’m not sure who to notify. I suppose we should tell Brother Joe—’

  ‘Uh uh,’ Gerald said. ‘I don’t trust him.’

  I coulda kissed him I felt so good he agreed. I mean that figuratively. ‘So the hotel or straight to the police?’ I asked.

  ‘Straight to the police,’ he said. ‘And I think we should go down there instead of calling them to come to the hotel. We don’t want to make a scene at the convention.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘And we can take the two notes, and her contact stuff.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ Gerald said.

  I called Willis at work. It took me much less time to tell him about his mother’s adventure than it had taken her to tell me. She does like to talk.

  ‘So I thought I’d fly to Washington—’

  Willis actually laughed. ‘You’re out of your mind,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ I shot back, hands on hip.

  ‘Because the girls need you right now. Because we have Romeo and Juliet under our roof at the moment and I need you right now. Because Graham needs you right now.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘And your mom really deserves some alone time with Gerald. I’m sure there’s no way he can get his hands on Viagra away from home like he is.’

  There was dead air for about half a minute, then my husband said, ‘Was she on her cell phone or do I need to call the hotel?’

  ‘Willis, your mother’s a grown woman—’

  ‘Uh uh!’ he said, his voice rising. ‘She’s my mother! She’s the grandmother of almost grown kids! She is not this Gerald person’s plaything!’

  I couldn’t help it. I started laughing. The fact that he didn’t understand my laughter made me laugh that much harder.

  Clarissa Mayfair knocked on the motel-room door. Davis DeWitt opened it. Mayfair pushed past him and sat on a straight-back chair at the small table by the window.

  ‘What do you want?’ DeWitt asked her, sitting down at the end of his bed.

  ‘Got a call from Lewis,’ she said, naming another detective in Austin. ‘He called Mrs Unger’s house and left a message, but no response.’

  ‘So why did you need to come in here to tell me that?’ DeWitt asked.

  ‘Because I wanted to jump your bones,’ Mayfair said sarcastically. But not sarcastically enough. For a split second DeWitt seemed to be contemplating the offer. Jeez, men! Mayfair thought. ‘In your dreams,’ she said, to which he replied, ‘You mean my worst nightmare,’ to which she replied, ‘Bite me,’ to which he replied, ‘It would probably make me sick.’

  Mayfair got up from the table and moved to the door. ‘I was going to ask if you wanted to go to Houston to talk to Mrs Unger directly, but I really don’t want to be alone with you for that long. I might die of exposure to that much stupidity.’

  DeWitt stood up, nodding his head. ‘That’s an idea. Did you run it by the Houston loo?’

  ‘No! I’m not rude enough to do that without talking to you first, asshole!’

  ‘Sure you are,’ DeWitt said.

  Mayfair opened the motel-room door. ‘You call him. I’m gonna go find some lunch,’ she said, and left the room.

  VERA’S STORY

  FRIDAY

  ‘You think we can ditch the luncheon here?’ I whispered to Gerald as we got up from our table in the lobby.

  ‘You wanna grab something on the way to the police department?’ Gerald asked me.

  ‘You bet!’ I said, more than ready to leave the hotel. I was getting cabin fever big time.

  Outside it was a nice fall day, with some leaves on the trees beginning to change. We don’t exactly have seasons back home. What we have is hotter than blazes, even hotter, a little less hot, then hey, it’s freezing out there, and damn, here comes the heat again. And what’s freezing to us and what’s freezing to a Yankee can be really different. Although I’ve had enough schooling to know that freezing is anything under thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, ‘freezing
’ back home is anything under fifty degrees, and ‘hot’ is above ninety, and ‘damn hot’ is over one hundred. When we’ve had more than a month straight of over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit, it’s called ‘hotter than blazes.’ Now think about that when you call us sissies for being cold at fifty degrees. Just saying. And then y’all have to put up with winter for months on end, while we just get a little dab of it every now and then. Now that I’m older, the heat doesn’t bother me nearly as much as the cold. I like to know that it may actually say thirty-two degrees on the register by my bird feeder, but that it’ll probably be in the sixties by mid-afternoon. So anyway, sorry, but I get sorta P.O.’d with my Facebook friends and their weather chauvinism.

  I brought a light jacket with me, along with the notes and the contact stuff in a bag, and we got directions from the desk about how to get to the police station and, lo and behold! Those directions took us to the subway! It’s called something else in D.C., but to me it’s just a subway, which is what they got in New York and I’ve never been on one because, truth be told, this was only my third trip out of Texas and I’ve never been further east than New Orleans. So I was excited about going to the subway, until we got to the opening and there was this escalator going down so deep I couldn’t even see the bottom! I couldn’t help myself – I grabbed Gerald’s arm.

  ‘I’m not going down there! It looks like the bowels of Hell!’ I said.

  He laughed and patted my hand where it rested on his arm. ‘I’ve been to this exact location before, Vera, and that’s not the bowels of Hell. It’s just where we buy our ticket cards for the metro. Then we’ll go a little further down to the platforms.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ I said under my breath.

  ‘Just hold my arm and we’ll step off together, OK?’ he said.

  So we tried that and I didn’t fall and he was right, it wasn’t the bowels of Hell. It was clean with tall ceilings so I didn’t feel claustrophobic, and you bought the ticket cards through this machine and then used the cards to go through turnstiles to get to the stairs going down to the platform. That was a little scarier. Trains going this way and that really fast and, I gotta say, I just held on to Gerald like he was my lifeline.