“Fine. But I’m getting the china, the dining room furniture, the leather—”
I interrupted her, “Fine. But I want ten things. Here, I’ll make a list.” I shoved the wet soapy skillet into her hands. “You scrub.”
She wrinkled her pert little nose and grabbed the scouring pad.
Trying to speak in a low calm tone, I confronted her. “Why did you have Daddy cremated?”
“It was cheaper.”
I opened my mouth but there was no point in furthering this discussion with little Miss Greedy. I didn’t want to make myself sick again thinking about it. We couldn’t have Daddy’s ashes put back together again. Better focus on saving some things from Tammy’s paws. I removed the magnetic grocery tablet from the fridge and sat at the kitchen table, in Daddy’s chair. I had to straighten the blue towel on it first. Swiping some buttery crumbs aside, I plucked a ballpoint pen from the banana basket and started writing.
1. Daddy’s favorite leather tub chair
2. Momma’s bed, including frame, box springs and mattress
3. Daddy’s white chest of drawers
4. Momma’s lingerie chest (that I gave her for Christmas)
5. Living room curio cabinet and all trinkets inside
6. Contents of basement walk-in closet
7. Daddy’s deep freezer and all contents
8. The aluminum and copper cake cover
9. The big Thanksgiving turkey platter
10. All of Daddy and Momma’s papers, memorabilia and photos
I ripped the page from the pad, extracted a clean yellow dishtowel from the drawer and handed the towel to Tammy. “Dry your hands. Here’s my list. Take it or leave it.” I snatched the skillet from her.
She dried her hands and took the list from my hand. I grabbed the towel back and dried the skillet. Remarkably, she had it looking nearly new.
“I want the tub chair, it matches the set,” said sister dearest.
“I’m holding a skillet and I know how to use it.”
“Oh fine,” she whined, “you have it.”
“I shall. Now one last little tiny thing.”
“What is it, Oh-Donna?” she snapped.
“Give me a ride over to Perry’s house.”
“What for?”
“’Cause I miss him. We both lost part of ourselves when Daddy died. You don’t feel the same connection and sense of loss that we do.”
“Save it. Blubber later. Come on.” She turned and headed to the living room.
I followed, smiling in my victory. If only she knew how victorious I was. The insurance policy was supposedly in Daddy’s dresser. And Momma was such a pack rat, who knew what treasures I might discover under her mattress or inside her lingerie chest?
She handed the list to Ziad. “Pack everything that doesn’t crawl into the truck, except these things—”
I interjected, “Come on and follow me, boys. I’ll point out the items that stay.”
“Yes, Miss Donna,” Arnold said. They attentively followed me around the house.
When we’d finished, I grabbed my purse and the orange hospital bag from behind the railing and said, “Lock up before you leave.”
They stood at the door and waved goodbye. Such nice friends Tammy had.
The ride across town in Tammy’s pink Mazda Miata convertible was very pleasant. Because there was no conversation. She slowed to a rolling stop in front of Perry’s house. I unbuckled and leaped out, with my purse, orange bag and the will. She screeched off into the sunset. Daddy’s old gold 1967 Chrysler was parked on the street. I was impressed that it was remarkably clean, outside and in. I unlocked the door with the key my brother had given me. I slipped in and rolled the driver’s window down with the crank handle. I stretched across the front seat and rolled the passenger’s window down, just an inch. I would be driving through DC, murder capital of the country—in odd years.
Chapter Seven
Shoot. I needed to pull the seat forward. I shoved my hand underneath it. The lever wouldn’t budge. This was going to be a miserable drive. I perched on the edge of the seat, bolt upright, wiggled the key into the ignition and cranked it. Nothing happened. I tried again. Oh right. Carburetor. No fuel injection. I pumped the gas pedal three times with my foot. She turned right over on the very next try. I listened to the engine scream and kicked it down. Oh she purred now. I shifted into drive. Wait a minute. I shifted back into park and fished around in the seat crevice until I retrieved the twisted lap belt. I twirled, adjusted and fastened it. Then carefully pulled it tight.
Signaling left, I shifted back into drive and pulled into the street. I glanced down at the gas gauge. A quarter tank. So as soon as I crossed into Virginia, I chose the first exit off Route Sixty-Six. I got out money from the ATM machine and filled up at a gas station. I drove through the fast food restaurant sharing the parking lot. Two roast beef sandwiches and a diet soda.
Gobbling at red lights, I took the long way home. My tongue was adept at emptying the contents between the buns, without getting any of the bread. I wadded the sesame-seeded carbohydrates up and tossed them back in the paper sack. I drained the drink before Vienna.
Finally reaching my Reston home, I shuddered. A keen feeling something was very, very wrong. There was a roadblock at the beginning of Spyglass Street. I waited for my turn. As I drove up to the police officer, my breathing quickened.
“What’s wrong? What’s going on?”
“Do you live here, ma’am?” the young female officer asked.
“Yes, I live at number one–three–one–two–seven. The end unit.” I pointed up ahead, in the darkness.
“May I see your driver’s license and registration please?”
I fumbled inside my purse and removed my license from my wallet. I handed it to her. She examined it with her flashlight.
“This is my daddy’s car. He passed away last week.”
“Oh I’m very sorry to hear that, Ms. Payne.”
I fumbled around in the ashtray and then the glove compartment, looking for the registration card.
“How old was he?”
“Ninety-two.”
She handed me my license back. “I’m really sorry.”
“Honestly, I’m not sure if he even kept the registration in the car. Might be in his wallet for all I know.”
“Not a problem. You can go on through.”
That was a relief. With my luck, the registration expired ten years ago and Perry never renewed it. Or worse yet, he’d reported it stolen. That’d be about like him.
“Officer, what’s the big police presence for?”
“One of our own, Officer Dick Fiddler, is missing. We’re processing his home for clues. A detective will be by to interview you.”
“That’s horrible. I hope he’s okay?”
A horn honked behind me. I drove down the block and into my driveway. I shifted into park and cut the engine. I heaved the car door open, grabbed my purse, Daddy’s will and the orange goody bag, climbed out and let the door slam. It didn’t quite shut all the way. I threw my weight against it and slammed it shut with my butt.
As I moved a few paces from my driveway, to the community mailbox, I stared at the activity across the street. Poor guy. I hoped everything was all right. Somehow I knew it wasn’t. Well, just my luck again. Another interested potential date candidate down the drain. Shoot. I unlocked my cubbyhole, grabbed the contents, immediately dropping a piece of mail. The wind was picking up. I chased it down along the concrete curb. I captured it before it fell down into the sewer. I trotted back over and shut my metal mailbox door.
Leaving Daddy’s old gold Chrysler in the driveway, I ascended the brown brick steps to my front door. I opened it, stepped inside, shut and locked it. I pushed on it until it clicked, just like Dick Fiddler had taught me. Officer Dick. And now he was gone walkabout. Hmm…wonder what all of that was about.
I turned the outside light on, for when the detective came. Maybe he’d be cute. Or maybe no
t. I turned the foyer light on. I kicked my blue pumps into the closet and straightened them with my feet. I stashed my navy handbag on the shelf and then trekked down the hallway to the kitchen. I flipped the switch and the nine recessed task lights illuminated my world. My home. It felt so good to be home.
I heated a glass measuring cup full of tap water in the microwave for two minutes. In my favorite porcelain cup with hand-painted palm trees, I placed a tea bag and some sugar inside. I felt a twinge of guilt about the sugar. That was a big no-no on the Atkins diet, or any diet for that matter. But it was a comfort thing to me. I had to have my strong, sweet tea. Life wasn’t worth facing without it. I made sure to tally the sugar into my total carbohydrate allowance, forgoing some vegetables. Yeah, probably not a nutritionally sound choice, nor a digestively sound one but sound for my spirit.
When the microwave beeped, I poured the water into my cup and carried it and the mail into the living room. I set them on the end table and then trotted to the corner and stretched my right leg under the desk. I flipped the switch on the surge protector with my big toe. The printer wheezed and groaned. I opened the lid on my laptop computer and pressed the start-up button.
I proceeded over to the white chenille couch and plopped down. I switched the Oriental jelly-jar lamp on and tasted a sip of tea. Oh it was still hot but not hot enough to burn. I tried another small slurp. The hot sweet liquid always meant comfort. I used to drink tea with Daddy, he’d wake me up before dawn and we’d have quiet times together. He always told fabulous stories. He had packed a lot of living into his ninety-two years.
Some of his favorite recollections were when he was the cook boy on an Alaskan hunting expedition with the writer Zane Gray. A tribe of Indians made him an honorary member. He was an extra in a Gary Cooper movie, The Plainsman. Daddy was a wagon driver. They glued a fake beard on him. He joined the CCC—the Civilian Conservation Corps. That was one of Roosevelt’s big “put the young men to work” programs. They really helped out the country, building interstate highways and National Parks. Then Daddy joined the Army Air Corps, finished medical school, sometime during World War Two. He earned a field promotion in the next war. Korea. Ended up in Hollywood and married a starlet. Moved to Washington, dabbled in research while bringing hundreds of new beings into the world. Married Momma, raised up a family.
And he never even had his obituary published in the newspaper. That Tammy. I couldn’t believe she had him turned and burned as the funeral lady had said. At least his friends got to pay their last respects. Even though the wake had been a sham.
I heard the doorbell chime. Mine reverberated a few notes from the American Civil War song about the maiden “Aura Lee”. My watch did too. Well, when I used to wear a watch. Once the cell phones shrunk to clip-on-your-pocket size, I decided it redundant to wear a wristwatch, when all I had to do was swivel the phone face around so I could look down and see what time it was. Cell phone. Shoot, I really did need to get a new one. I guess I should call the phone company and let them know that I lost mine in the accident, so they would cancel it. I knew they’d make me pay out my contract. I hoped nobody found it and was calling Tahiti. Hmm…Tahiti…palm trees, sand and sun. Wouldn’t that be nice right about now. Perhaps I’d journey there in one of my dreams…
I heard pounding on the door. I reluctantly sidled off the couch and plodded over to the front door. I peeked and observed a uniform in the porch light. I opened it. It was the woman cop from the roadblock.
I said, “Hi.”
She said, “Hello, Ms. Payne. I need to interview you regarding anything you might have knowledge of pertaining to the whereabouts of Officer Dick Fiddler.”
“Come in.”
She did. I motioned for her to sit. She chose an old gold recliner but she perched stiffly upright, with a clipboard. “Thank you.”
I eyeballed my teacup. “Would you like a cup of tea, Officer?”
“Thanks, no. Now how well did you know Officer Fiddler?”
“Well, I’ve lived here for six years now, bought the place as new construction. I think he moved in as the third owner, last year… Is that right?”
“Yes, he’s lived there about a year,” the officer said.
“Well, I actually don’t know if he owns or rents. Doesn’t matter, I guess?”
“He owns it. Now how well do you know him?”
I settled on the couch and picked up my teacup. “Mind if I drink?”
The officer made a dismissive gesture.
“Well, I’ve seen him coming and going and we throw up our hands and wave, a quick ‘Hello. Think we’ll ever get any rain? When does the pool open?’ That sort of thing.” I took a big swig of my now lukewarm tea. Tasted sweet.
The officer said, “Have you ever been in one another’s homes?”
I remembered the foot-licking incident with Scooby Doo-ette. “Only a time or two. Just really a neighborly-from-a-distance relationship. He seems like a nice enough fellow.”
“Have you ever noticed any suspicious activity at Officer Fiddler’s house?”
“No, why?”
“Routine question. Have you ever seen him inebriated or under the influence of drugs?”
“No.”
“Does he have regular visitors?”
“His two little girls.”
“Any adult female companion, overnight?”
Boy, was I tired. I yawned. “No, not that I’ve noticed. He didn’t seem like the womanizing type.”
“I understand. Any overnight male visitors?”
“No. He likes women… Well, I mean he says he’s divorced and he’s got two children and he’s asked me out.”
“Did you go?”
“Excuse me, but I don’t see how this has anything to do with your investigation.”
“Just trying to get a good profile, that’s all. Now when is the last time you saw Officer Fiddler?”
“Today, at about seven a.m.”
The cop made a notation on the form. “Did you speak?”
“Yes.” I sighed. “I went and knocked on his door. I was worried someone was in my house, the door had blown open. He checked it out and reassured me and made sure I understood to push the door until it made a click noise.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Boxer shorts.”
She glanced up at me. “What else?”
“Nothing. Red silk boxer shorts. And he looked sleepy.”
A garbled voice on the police officer’s radio prompted her to stand up. She flipped a business card out of her pocket and handed it to me. “Thank you so much, Ms. Payne. If you think of anything else, any little out-of-the-ordinary occurrence, please call me. No matter how small it seems. We never know what clue might help.”
I accompanied her to the door and watched her go down the steps. She scanned the license plate on the old gold Chrysler and wrote something down.
Oh that’s just great. She’s gonna run the tags and find out…find out they’re expired or it’s been reported stolen, or it’s been involved in some heinous crime. And Perry will let me rot in the slammer while he and Tammy divvy up the sum of my net worth and laugh all the way to the bank. I shut the front door and pressed it until it clicked. I threw on the deadbolt and headed upstairs.
I stopped on the fourth oak tread. Wait a minute. I hadn’t checked my email. I about-faced and marched to my little computer alcove in the living room. The screensaver was working and working well. Carlos the Cowboy was out of his uniform. Just black boots with spurs and his ten-gallon hat placed on his alternate head. I really needed to see if I could download an add-on pack for this. Maybe tomorrow. I glanced at the cop’s business card. Officer Fawn Fiddler. Hmm…maybe she was his sister or something. No wonder she sounded so concerned. I tossed the card up into a pigeonhole over the desk. I clicked on the email icon. No new mail. Shoot.
I clicked compose and addressed it to Ashley.
Dear Ashley,
The cop that lives across the street f
rom us, Dick Fiddler, is missing. I don’t know if they are suspecting foul play, or if they suspect him of doing something sinister. Anyhow, the road is blocked off and they seem to be winding up processing his house for evidence. I got interviewed. Did you by any chance talk to him or see him while you were here the last time?
Hope you’re well on your way across the country. Hey, do you know the way to San Jose?
Have a safe, fun trip. Let me know if you get any writing done.
Donna
I clicked on send. As soon as it soared off to the planet Zoom…no, Mercury like the dream man talked about…I shut the computer down and went up to bed. I stopped on the fourth tread again. Shoot, couldn’t leave the teacup out. I carried it into the kitchen, rinsed it and stuffed it in the top rack of the dishwasher. I dried out the sink, polishing until the stainless steel glimmered. I hung the towel to dry and then shut the light off and started back toward the stairs. I stopped in my track. All right, I never even looked at the snail mail.
With only the light on in the hallway, I plucked my mail off the living room table and squinted as I flipped through. A coupon bundle, two open-immediately’s, which were credit card offers, I knew. I groaned at a self-addressed stamped envelope. From a publishing house this time. The editor that I had the appointment scheduled with in New York. The appointment I never made it to because of the wreck, because of Daddy. Yeah, I blamed him for the wreck. He was the one who called and scared the beejeevers out of me. And he was why I hit the deer. And guess what? We both lost. Dr. Nathan Lucifer Payne lost his life. I lost my dream.
Surely this editor didn’t like my story. Surely she was pissed that I stood her up for my eight-minute appointment. So therefore I deduce, your honor, that this is a form rejection letter.
I sighed. It had been one thing to be rejected by the literary agents. So they didn’t like my story, big deal. It was all subjective. But the editor-cum-publisher’s rejection was the end of the line. I don’t wanna open it tonight. I toted all the mail over to my desk and slipped it into the inbox slot, built into the cherry cabinet hanging over the computer.
The Immaculate Deception Page 12
