When Dal went off to school, Dad and I went to the park. I skated and mulled things over. Music Man told the little kids lame jokes. Then, while I wasn't looking, he took off walking, and I had to comb the area on my wheels before catching up with him three blocks away. Back at home, I called James and Yvette. No response. I called Shiny Zone, but they hadn't rehired Maria Elena. I called a lot of other cleaning services and finally located one that had recently hired a Maria Elena. She had an opening the next day, so I made an appointment for her to come and clean Mom's house.
Music Man and I visited Mom. She stoically would not admit he was ill in any way. I asked her about how they were going to deal with his care on their limited income, and she chanted a God-will-provide mantra at me with her Vanna Mom smile.
In mid-afternoon, I started writing a short, hot romance. Not my favorite genre to write since it embarrassed the hell out of me just to read one. I preferred action and humor mixed in with my love scenes, but I figured a steamy book would be a quick way to get a quick sale. Under a pen name, of course. Rhonda Rhapsody, or maybe Boudicca Jones. It would take a month or two to write it and another month to revise. Then, God willing and the stars aligned perfectly into dollar signs, I'd sell it at the next big conference, the Hawaiian Yearly Meeting of Erotic Novelists, (HYMEN) in February. I really needed to clear my publishing name before then. But until Mom got home and relieved me of Dad, this seemed about as likely as finding world peace.
I missed my trusty laptop. At 4:20, Mom's aged computer shuddered to life just long enough to let me check my email and blog. The venom in the vast majority of comments and flaming email was staggering. I was skewered everywhere as a horrid plagiarist, Salem's latest witch. Just when tears threatened, the computer went all white screen.
So when Dal came in, I was huddled on the plaid couch amid a sea of crumpled yellow paper balls and shredded erasers, mindlessly doodling the words vampire and mermaid and sex appeal in many crayon colors on the legal pad in front of me.
"Tough day at the salt mines? Coloring like a six-year-old?" Warm hands rubbed my shoulders.
I rolled my head forward in surrender to the marvelous hands. "Mom's computer crapped out. I'm reduced to paper.”
"Poor baby. And crayons.”
On the second sheet of the pad, I'd drawn Reynard Jackson all in the correct colors with spiky black and red flames underneath, and daggers, pikes and snakes sticking out of it. And drips of blue, green, and gold blood. Synaesthesia voodoo.
I closed my eyes and felt the tension go as Dal kneaded my shoulders. "My problem is getting the poor governess with the heaving bosom, Jane Luvyll, together with the good guy with the bulging manhood, John Sandwych, Viscount of Onionham, Marquis of Chezwhyz. See, the bad guy, the nasty Earl of Rainwynde, turns out to be a sexy vampire, and I think she likes him better."
Dal leaned in and nibbled my neck, a promising start to the evening. "Vampire, huh? In a romance?"
"Well, not usually in a Regency novel. But while I was trying to come up with something really trashy, this character just popped up and took over. I'm so used to writing Gothic horror books that paranormal characters creep into every story before I know it. Next, I may find out that Jane is really a very rare bastard daughter of a werewolf and a mermaid. Hey, maybe that'll work." I started scribbling furiously in green ink.
Magic hands massaged my neck. "She can't tame the vampire? Or marry him off to her nemesis?"
"No way. He's hot. I'm half in love with him myself. Gotta love those slick bat types."
"Like me?" He slid a hand down my shirt.
I turned to him, assessing batliness.
"What?" He checked his fly.
"Sorry. I just don't see you as a bat. You're definitely an animal, but more of a—"
"When's dinner?" Music Man wandered out.
"Later, Dad. It's only 4:45."
Dal said to me, "Am I a shark?"
Music Man said, "We could play poker. Sharks like that." He wandered toward the kitchen.
I shook my head.
"Okay, we're not talking a banana slug or something disgusting, are we?" Dal said.
Big Ears Dad said from the kitchen, "We got garden slugs again?"
"Only when I first met you." I folded a newspaper. On top was a big article by Paul Reynolds, the first in a series, titled The Underside of California Indian Gaming about serious threats to California Native American tribes' casinos from big Nevada casinos. The big casinos wanted to horn in on the smaller casinos to retrieve what Las Vegas considered its lost profits when many California gamblers started gambling closer to home. Why did this topic suddenly jump out at me?
Dal sighed. "Every damned Indian's a stupid eagle, I guess."
I laughed. "No. Not an eagle." A gambler? "Do you—are you—do you like to—"
"Hey, what's that?" Dal pointed at Mom's computer, which had come back on.
I hopped up to stand in front of my Laura Ashley-themed blog.
Rattle, rattle, clang came from the kitchen.
Dal peered around me. "Whoa. Cool. You have your own website? To sell your books?"
"No, this is my blog. My website's—hey!"
Dal bumped me aside with his hip to read the screen. "Cripes. This is harsh. They really roast you on your own blog? What's with this plagiarism stuff?"
Clink. Bang.
I ran to check on Dad, who had a cookbook open and the sugar bag on the counter.
Dal followed me. "Rhonda. What's going on?"
We both dove to catch the flour bag and four eggs as they rolled off the counter. One egg hit the floor. Lucky Bing.
The phone rang, and I got it. "You rang, darling?" James's boyish charm had gone tinny.
"James! Where the hell is my laptop?" I shrieked.
"Hey, babe! Don't get all mean about it! The guys are almost done with it, really. And there is evidence of hacking. Big time!"
"Really?"
"Oh, yeah. Good thing I caught it."
Dad was juggling butter sticks, and Bing was ready to dispose of any that fell.
"So this means you'll provide extra evidence for my lawyer appointment tomorrow? Great. So when can I come and get it? And where? I need it by tomorrow, because whoever took all my hard copies and disks didn't return them like you promised, so the laptop's my only evidence."
"Well," James started. "When you do get those hard copies of your manuscript back, I have a safe to put them in."
"Damn it, James! Yvette told me your little secret, so stop trying to hide from me and either bring me the laptop or tell me where to get it. Now." Even after two delicious nights with Dal, the whole James-and-Yvette caper stung.
"What secret?" James asked.
I stepped into the hall and hissed, "Your marriage? Do you have Alzheimer's? You forgot your wedding already?"
"Hey, baby. I forgot for a minute just because your voice reminded me of Jackie's house, and how you were so hot in that closet."
"James."
"It was a last minute quickie thing. All business. The marriage, I mean, not the closet thing, which just rocked my socks off. Just thinking about it … Whoa, momma. I get all turned on.”
"Then how come the Avon lady was there?"
"In the closet?"
"At your wedding."
He laughed. "Hah! Bring it, Rhonda. I loved all those pissed off messages you left me. You're so sexy when you're angry. And you know I love you."
My stomach flipped like a half-raw pancake to the floor. "Go to hell, James! You're married."
"Rhonda, she's not really my wife. I don't love her. I'm just helping her get a green card. She’s South African, but lived a lot in London. South Africans hit their immigration quota, but she wants to stay. So I married her. It's reversible. But the broad's a harpy. I can't stand her. So you want to go out Friday night? See a movie? Get another tattoo?"
Do you know how much I would have given for you to say this
last month? My mind was reeling. Here I'd just found Dal, and James was finally interested in me. My dreams had finally come true. Not. The call waiting line beeped.
I said, "Bring me my laptop."
"It needs more time.”
"I need my laptop. Now. What's the address? I'll come and get it."
"Rhonda …"
The call waiting line beeped again. "Wait." I switched lines.
"Miss Hamilton? This is Dr. Lu, substituting for Dr. Madden, who had to leave town. In reviewing your father's case, I noticed something. Please, did your father start to shuffle before or after he got confused?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe before. Yeah. I'm pretty sure it was like April or May before he did all this other weird stuff.”
Dr. Lu said, "Well, he's not a typical Alzheimer's patient, so I want to check him for a condition that mimics Alzheimer's. Normal pressure hydrocephalus, or NPH, comes from extra water pressure on the brain.”
"What?" I peeked into the kitchen with its giant floury mess.
"Now don't get your hopes up.”
"Oh, my God! Not Alzheimer's?"
Dal looked up from stirring batter in a bowl when he heard my voice from the doorway.
"Listen, treatment requires surgery to implant a shunt. But the new shunts are much better than the old ones. They regulate brain pressure from the outside. Some people fully recover function and lead normal lives."
"Without all this craziness?" I yelled. "Wahoo!" I leaped into the kitchen, pumping my fist in the air. Dad grinned at me. Bing was gobbling up chocolate chips from the floor.
"One step at a time,” said Dr. Lu. “Let's get a CT scan, MRI and CSF pressure reading via spinal tap. We can get those done in the next few days."
"Thank you!!" I made an appointment, then hung up and pounded Music Man on the back. But the phone rang again.
James was still on the other line. "Rhonda? Rhonda?"
"James? I want my laptop. Bring it. Today.”
"No. Saturday after I finish installing the firewall and we can go have a cozy lunch."
"Grow up, James. I'm not going out with a married man." Wow. Where James was a wheedling baby, Dal was such an adult. "And, by the way, Dad's new doctor says Dad may not have Alzheimer's after all." I danced around the kitchen and patted Music Man's shoulder. "It could be normal pressure hydrocephalus, which is reversible. Reversible! Isn't that great?" I twinkled at Music Man. "He could recover his function and be completely normal again." And I'd be free.
Music Man twirled me around with a buttery hand, singing, “Conjunction junction, that’s my function!”
James said, "Rhonda, that's a pretty rare condition and those shunts can get infected and nasty. Get a second opinion.”
"Don't be a drag." I twirled again. "Just give me my laptop."
"I will, Saturday."
"No. Today!"
The line went dead.
Watching Dal's gorgeous bronze arm spooning cake batter into a pan, I went over and hugged Music Man. "Dad! You may get better!"
"Who stole your book?" Dal said, spoon in the air. "Which one?"
"Dad's gonna get better!" I reached over and tugged the rubber band out of Dal's ponytail. Covered in flour, he set the bowl down and chased me around the room, hopping on his good foot and wagging the cast. I let him catch me in front of the fridge.
"The book?" he said.
"Hey, Dad, come and help me!" I said, laughing. But Music Man was now pouring the batter, and the cake pan was teetering on the counter's edge.
I ducked out and caught it just in time. "Reynard Jackson. Memory Wars is my work.”
"Come on. Pull the other one." Dal scraped the bowl.
"I knew you wouldn't believe it. The real title is Memory Serves. Ask my writing group.”
"Oh. The one that was under my bed? What are you saying about Reynard Jackson? I’m confused." He shoved the cake into the oven.
"Under your bed?" I raced toward his room.
He followed. "Probably a first draft. There are corrections on it.”
I reached the room and plunged under the bed. "I need that copy tomorrow for my lawyer appointment. To start a copyright infringement suit. Where is it?"
"A suit?"
"Yes! Reynard Jackson stole my book.”
But there were nothing but spiders and boxes of old photos under the bed. As we tore through the rest of the bedrooms, I explained the whole thing.
"So James has your laptop?" Dal found a desiccated banana peel behind the bookcase.
I rummaged through Mom's gift drawer. "He's our group's computer guru. He taught me to zip my files. Now he's adding a firewall and he says there's been hacking. Maybe he can trace how the document got taken.”
He stopped. "Honey, between the people in your writing group, your friends, agents and editors who've had their paws on it, and the copy lying around in my room under the bed available to anyone—”
“’Scuse me. Not everyone gets under my brother’s old bed. What were you doing under there? Hmm?”
He grabbed my hand. “Rhonda. Don't you think it's more likely somebody got hold of a copy than actually hacking into your computer?"
I pulled my hand away to rummage. "Well, Hippo and I lost books around the same time, and we both had maids from Shiny Zone. They could have made away with copies or zip drives and given them to a third party. Maria Elena's coming to clean tomorrow. I'm going to interrogate her about it.”
Dal said, "Why do you need the copy I read? It was written on, maybe a second draft. And there was a part about the memory serum I didn't understand, but …"
I turned, stock still. "You read it?"
He looked sheepish. "Needed something to put me to sleep."
"Great!" I wailed. "It’s a sedative!"
"Actually I stayed up until 3:00 am reading it the first night. Then you came along and kept me awake some more nights." He tickled me.
My stomach clenched. "Okay. What did you think of it?" What if he hated it? I watched his face move from dark to light.
"It's good. I told you it kept me up. I just had this one question—"
I threw myself at Dal, forcing him against the wall for a big, wet kiss. "Even if that's a lie, don't ever admit it." Then I ran off to pillage the whole house in my quest.
"Why are you so frantic?" Dal said as I reached deep into a closet corner. "You have a backup disk, right? And the laptop. When's James bringing it back?"
I tossed out a moldy pile of 1999 National Geographics. "He keeps stalling. I lost the backup flash drive. Agents I sent it to won't speak to me because they think I'm a plagiarist. I'm sure they've trashed it. Marian lost a CD of the final copy, and every other copy went poof from my condo last Thursday, right before I got sick. James said it must be a prank, but …"
"Not likely." Dal looked tired. "You're sure there aren't any more copies lying around?"
"Hundred-million-dollar question." I pushed a mattress back in place and went back to Music Man. "Dad, did you move my manuscript copies? There were at least two in this house."
He shrugged. "Ethel says not to keep old stuff."
I punched the sofa. "Shit! It's gone in the trash." I slumped. "If I only had James’s address. I have Yvette's, but she's probably not there." Pause. "Wait. I know who has it. Nadja."
I spent three minutes packing up my purse, picked up the car keys and raced out the door. Dal followed and piled Music Man in the back seat.
Dal drove. "Why didn't you tell me all this before? You and Harley were really playing Lucy and Ethel with the roller league?" The endless freeway mall flew by under tall, waving eucalyptus trees and a pink evening sky. "And here I thought you were such a natural roller queen."
"Well … You and I are just—still—" What were we, exactly?
"What?" Dal looked wounded.
"What’s a seven-letter word for night-time lord?" Dad asked, pencil and newspaper in hand.
Dal and I both said, "Vampire."
I whispered, "Look, we're just so new. I didn't want to tell you all my problems, be a sad sack. Music Man's enough of a problem for any new acquaintance to deal with.”
Dal nodded.
I mumbled, "Besides, James is a newbie. He stopped coming to our writers' group meetings months ago. A few months back, I met him a couple times at roller hockey games and read his work while he played. But he kept having to leave right afterwards. Never had time to read mine. So how could he—"
"Where are we going?" Music Man asked from the back seat. That Paul Reynolds article was sticking out above his puzzle.
"That way," I said, pointing Dal toward Nadja’s house.
Dal's mouth was twitching. "And you like this James guy?"
I blushed. "Not … Well … My book wasn't his thing anyway. He's into Tom Clancy." Boy did that sound pitiful. "Hey, he wants me to succeed. He told me to submit my entire manuscript to every agent and editor to maximize my chances of getting published. There's no way James is Jackson. It makes more sense that Manuela and Maria Elena took Hippo's and my books for Jackson. Like he’s the Fagin of the book world."
Then I had a brilliant idea and called Cathy on my cell.
"Whassup?" she asked.
"You don’t happen to know how to get in touch with any Irvine Iridescence players, do you? I need Yvette’s new address."
"Uh, no. But maybe Largot does." She gave me Largot’s number, who gave me Queen E. Lizard Butt’s number, who gave me Bra-Coli’s number.
Bra-Coli asked, "Why do you need this? You pranking her again?"
"Noooo. I want to make up with Gold Diggeressa, send her a wedding gift. I need her new address."
"Oh, that’s easy. I drove her home last week after the fundraiser."
Roll with the Punches Page 27
