‘Why the heck didn’t you tell me all this before, Ed?’ Mr Huffaker burst out good-naturedly.
Ruby felt a surge of hope. Paris! Dare she believe it could happen?
Now, as she listened to Dwight and Edward laughing and chatting, she could indulge - without envy - in picturing Claire’s gala dinner: the magnificent interior of the Musées Royaux des Beaux-Arts, and the elegant guests discussing sixteenth-century Flemish art.
Dwight and Edward discussed hair balls and Skippy Strips in Gravy. With the food served, she sat and picked up her napkin. Thank goodness there was no more noise from their canine guests. In fact, where were they? It didn’t matter, the dogs had achieved their objective.
She made a show of eating heartily while listening to Dwight with rapt fascination. After an hour of “Canine Obesity and its Treatments”, she felt her eyes glaze over. Nervous tension had left her exhausted. She propped her head in her hands to keep it from falling into her blueberry pie. Suddenly, Dwight’s twinkling eyes were staring straight at her.
‘Say, Ruby, what church do you belong to?’
Warning sirens went off in her head. Like many heartland inhabitants, Dwight would be deeply religious. Although her body sprang to attention, her brain took longer. ‘Church?’ she echoed. She knew she must look like someone mentally translating Yiddish into Creole. Her brain raced. ‘The Church of Mary the Espicopal.’ No, that doesn’t sound right. ‘The Church of the Immaculate Misconception … I mean … the Church of the Maculate Conception.’ She suppressed a belch. ‘Great place.’
They talked of Jesus. Well, he talked of Jesus; she just agreed with him.
Then he glanced about: ‘You ain’t got no kids?’
She gazed at him. I’ve given you dogs, NOW you want children?
*
At midnight, Dwight got up to leave. Still chatting, they moved along the hall to the front door. The dogs had found their way into the sitting room. Perhaps she had over-fed them. They lay on the shag-pile carpet as if they’d been shot with tranquilizer darts. Rowdy, taking advantage of the situation, was stretched out on the sofa. He lifted his head to give her a bleary-eyed look of indifference; which made her want to drag him out of the house; but she, too, could take advantage of the situation.
‘There you go!’ she cried. ‘A bunch of happy puppy dogs! Don’t they just love Purdy’s?’
‘You betchya.’ Grinning, Dwight pumped Edward’s hand. ‘I know what you’ve been telling me tonight, son. Got to say I like everything I’ve heard.’ He turned to Ruby and winked. ‘That hot duck juice you poured over the Beef Crunchies? It’s given me an idea.’ He rested his hands on her shoulders as if giving her his blessing. ‘You know, Ruby, you remind me of my Grandma Hobson out in Slaughterville - God rest her soul. A woman of upstanding morals. Always reading the Good Book. Never allowed a drop of liquor to pass her lips.’
Ruby, who was always eager for compliments - since she never got them - smiled to acknowledge this one, although she would have preferred not to be compared to a bible-bashing crone.
Arm in arm, she and Edward stood on the porch waving as the car drove away. ‘We might have done it,’ Edward murmured. ‘What do you think?’
In answer, she broke into a jig, her heels hammering the porch, her fists punching the air. Then, with a sudden thought, she stopped rigid.
‘What’s wrong?’ Edward demanded.
‘Rowdy!’ She kicked open the door. ‘I’m going to shift that mangy flea-bitten mutt off my goddam sofa!’
Edward laughed. ‘You’re still in character, I see.’
She clamped a hand across her mouth. But she hadn’t been acting!
‘Oh my God, Edward,’ she wailed. ‘You’ve got to get me out of here. I think … I think … I’m turning native!’
Chapter Thirteen
Mission Hills Police Precinct, Kansas City
12.35 am, Jan 1, 2000
The first wave of hostages had seen a gun but when questioned, Cindy Prudhomme denied having a weapon. The area had been searched. No weapon.
In the silence, the Police Chief heard a patrol car head south on the Kansas turnpike, siren wailing out into that empty blackness beyond the city limits. He was thinking of Hank Gephart’s last words: “Don’t do it, Ruby. Don’t do it.”
Don’t do … what?
Downstairs, Ruby’s friends and family were getting familiar. Ruby’s aunt was drinking out of a brown bag, courtesy of a Hell’s Angel. One of the pearls-and-tartan-brigade was offering round a tin of shortbread biscuits. The friends of the stepmom couldn’t keep their eyes off the Native American. And the stepsister was still wearing out the floor.
The Police Chief turned back to Molly. ‘Ruby’s a popular lady.’
‘Yeah. She went to two Thanksgiving’s ’cos she didn’t want to hurt no-one’s feelings.’
‘So, she’s the sociable type?’
‘Not at first she wasn’t. She was kinda shy. Then she began to change. It was her neighbours; they treated her real special, her being English and all. She was always an honoured guest at Tupperware parties, baby showers, and stuff like that. It must’ve given her confidence, being wanted so bad. And she was respected, too. Her house was always, like, immaculate. And she had perfect manners.’
The Police Chief scratched his eyebrow. The image of a vicious desperado with a smoking gun was replaced by a 1950s ad for Electrolux; white pinafore and apple-pie smile. But how did a shy English girl meet someone like Molly?
‘Where did you two meet?’ he asked.
‘The Asian store in Raytown.’
‘What was your first impression of her?’
‘She was like, I don’t know … nervous. She wanted to be friends, I could sorta sense it, but she didn’t like to be touched or have you come too close. She wasn’t stuck-up. But she didn’t swear, didn’t drink, didn’t smoke. Miss Prissy, I called her.’
‘Was she familiar with a Sheriff Hank Gephart?’
‘We both were, why?’
The Police Chief felt his pulse racing. Ruby had known Gephart. ‘How did they meet?’
‘I wasn’t there the first time, but the second time she was helping me perform a book-reading. The school-’ she stopped, interrupted by the door banging open.
The stepsister, Madame van de Ghellinck marched in, followed closely by Waltz.
‘Sorry, Chief,’ Walz apologised. ‘I said you were not to be disturbed.’
Madame van de Ghellinck took up position in the centre of the room. ‘I am Ruby’s sister. And I demand to know why you haven’t found her!’
The Chief didn’t care to be talked to like he was her butler. ‘There is no cause for alarm-’
‘I’m not completely solid between the ears.’ Madame van de Ghellinck pointed to the window. ‘Look at that snow! And she’s out there!’
‘We are doing everything-‘
‘And what I find unacceptable is that you have the other hostages safe, but not Ruby. And if I have to listen - again! - to some troll telling me she just vanished I shall positively scream.’ The woman lifted her chin. ‘May I inform you that I am eligible to make an official complaint? I can, you know. My husband is a European Government Minister.’
The Police Chief guessed this woman would’ve had her food spat in in every restaurant she’d been in. ‘Waltz, get her out of here.’
The woman stood her ground. ‘I refuse to move until you tell me what’s happening.’
‘You wanna know what’s happening?’ The Police Chief smiled politely. ‘Well, I’ll tell you. One hour ago, your stepsister walked out of a bank and disappeared. A gun also disappeared. Plus three million dollars. Twenty minutes later, a county sheriff was found shot. And the last thing he said was: “Don’t do it, Ruby. Don’t do it.”’
Madame van de Ghellinck stared at him. Now that he’d stated the facts, the truth stared him in the face. He rested an elbow on the desk and pinched the bridge of his nose.
This was gonna be a long, long n
ight.
Nine weeks earlier…
Chapter Fourteen
Sitting in bed, Ruby wrote her diary entry for the day:
6.30 A metallic roar fills the air. It’s old Mr Schoettler next door working with his garden machinery. This morning, he can’t spoil my mood (the dinner for Dwight Huffaker last night went wonderfully). Edward jams in his ear-plugs and goes back to sleep.
6.40 Kitchen smells faintly of livestock. Pans soak in the sink. The bowls on the floor sparkle. Having been licked clean by 4 starving dogs, they will still have to be sterilised. (The bowls, not the dogs).
8.00 Noise stops. I ask Edward to complain. We peep between curtains. Mr Schoettler has such a twisted hostile face – not the sort of person one would care to approach. We have earplugs, Edward says helplessly. (Yes, but mine keep falling out).
8.30 Edward leaves for work promising to let me know if Dwight Huffaker phones. I scrub pans while humming, “I love Paris in the springtime.”
9.00 Edward phones, says Dwight called to say he’d a great time last night. They’re meeting for drinks later. Paris here I come! But what if the Y2K bug hits? I hate not knowing. Check TV news channels. Advice ranges from: “Do as much as you’d prepare for a six-day blizzard” to “Head for the hills!” I remind myself that America is the most technologically advanced country on the planet, which means if the bug does hit, it will all be sorted out quite promptly. With this thought, I feel an overwhelming relief.
10.30 Hy-Vee. Knowing I’m going to Paris, I smile at everyone (just like a real Kansas person). I ask a shelf-stacker in the dried meats section for cacciatore. (Catchetoray, I pronounce in my best Italian). She escorts me to the other side of the store and gives me a can of bug spray. The butcher admits he always thought osso buco was a Latin American tango. I go to fish counter to ask for dressed crab, think better of it and walk away. At the check-out, Clementine asks what the Queen eats besides cucumber sandwiches and I say, Grilled swan.
12.20 Home. As part of my “prepping” for Y2K, I stack Petal-Soft loo paper in the garage (Edward is not the type to use a dock leaf).
1.00 Watch afternoon Western on TV. “Cheyenne Moon” ends with Chikki-How-How dying in the arms of her Indian brave. Nothing like a good weepy. Sit up, feel a tingling in my arm and phone the surgery to make an appointment.
2.32 Tingling sensation gone. Cancel appointment. Grandad calls + explains his Y2K preparations. He’s bought two goats; one for himself and one for Mrs Symmonds-Elliott. When I tell him about Idabel, he sounds relieved: ‘You stick with her, sweetheart, and you’ll be fine.’ I refrain from saying that I do not wish to go into the Millennium shooting squirrels with gun-toting lesbians in the Ozark bad-lands.
3.00 That mongrel, Rowdy, is sitting between me + my mailbox. Try not to show fear. (I thought Echo’s cousin was taking him to the animal shelter?) He whines and paws the air. I think he’s saying he wants to be friends! Go into the house for a bowl of Beef Crunchies. When he tries to follow I order him to “STAY”. He does! What a clever animal! I put the bowl on the lawn. (Fascinating how fast a dog can eat).
3.30 Darlene and co. arrive for afternoon tea. (Echo drags Rowdy back to her house, saying he’ll be gone tomorrow). Everyone comes bearing pastries. They view my plate of crudités with curiosity. Since Mary-Jo is accustomed to eating double-fudge-double-chocolate-chip-cookies with chocolate, she probably assumes it’s a table decoration. I pick up a radish rosette and crunch it invitingly; but she doesn’t look convinced.
4.10 Their children run in from school, screaming. Since they’re hyperactive + have to be regularly topped up with Ritalin, I have Play-Doh ready to engage their attention. They ignore me and storm around the house like they’re insane. The mothers sculpt with the Play-Doh, instead. Echo makes a v. crude remark about Karis’s man. Everyone giggles, except Karis.
4.30 In the kitchen, Truman offers me a sweet. I’m surprised because normally he’s rather a hostile child. I pop it in my mouth. Big mistake. I spit it across the room, my tongue on fire as he screeches, ‘It’s a Warhead!’ The phone rings. It’s Payat. He says my dinner for Mr Huffaker was v. imaginative + he has a proposition for me. I see a child with his arm in the garbage disposal and another child reaching for the switch. I slam down the phone and hurl myself across the room. (Dear Diary, I am never going to have children).
4.40 Return to mothers to see all pastries are gone but my crudités are untouched. I know it’s silly; but you reject my crudités, you reject me. Screaming kids make conversation impossible. The mothers coax their manic offspring towards the front door with promises of candy and The Mummy’s Revenge (that’s a video, not a threat - or maybe it is a threat).
5.50 Edwards phones to say Payat has located an Asian store for us in Raytown. ‘But that’s over in Missouri,’ I protest. (Edward is always warning me to stay close to home but evidently when it comes to a chicken tikka masala, he’d happily send me to the ends of the earth).
*
The next morning, Ruby stood in the gloom and clutter of the Taj Mahal, its floor stacked with Hessian sacks of rice and lentils, the shelves loaded with dusty tins of obscure Asian vegetables.
‘Excuse me,’ she said to the turbaned man at the cash register. ‘Do you sell poppadums?’
Before he could reply, a female voice yelled: ‘You’re English!’ A tall brunette in colourful patchwork dungarees popped out from behind a shelving unit. She had lively attractive eyes; her prominent front teeth giving her a crazy-rabbit look. ‘This is unbelievable! I’m Molly.’ She shook Ruby’s hand, her long beaded ear-rings dancing. ‘Are you free this moment?’ She glanced at Ruby’s basket. ‘After you’ve done your shopping? Because I really need you.’
‘Um …’ Ruby wanted her hand back, but good manners dictated that she couldn’t yank it away. Although she’d become accustomed to the friendliness of the locals, this was rather extreme.
The girl released her. ‘Heck, I’m acting like some nut job. But I’m not, am I, Mr Patel?’
The Asian man at the cash register shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, his comical expression saying, “I think maybe you are.”
The girl laughed and turned back to Ruby. ‘Let me explain. I’m a story teller and I’ve got my next gig in forty minutes and I’ve found this great book but it’s British then I heard your voice and thought wow! You see the kids I perform for have learning problems or they’re just plain bored. They need inspiring so I use stuff to make the stories come alive then when everyone’s fired up, I stop and say, hey, you wanna know the end? Then go read it yourself. So?’
The words, coming at Ruby like machine-gun fire, left her stunned. She looked to the old man at the register who nodded gently, his soft brown eyes seeming to say: “Go ahead, she’s safe”. Ruby turned back to the girl, took a deep breath and said: ‘How may I help you?’
*
‘My friend, Mackenzie was meant to be helping me, but she was playing jack-knife in The Brown Bag last night and had to have stitches in her pinkie.’
Ruby had no idea what Molly was talking about but couldn’t get a word in edge-ways to ask. As she climbed in to Molly’s dented white van, she noticed the side mirror was a star-burst of glass. Now in bright sunshine, she saw Molly more clearly: the blue jewel in her eyebrow and the tiny bluebird tattoo on her neck.
Still talking, Molly accelerated with a clash of gears and by the time they drove under a sign, Broken Arrow Elementary School, Ruby discovered that Molly had been born in Junction City, was voted “Most Likely to Fail” at college, danced in a cage in Memphis, was divorced and now lived alone in Lenexa while taking a course in computers. ‘I’m planning on going to New York next year,’ Molly added. ‘Get a job where I can wear snazzy suits.’
Ruby, caught up in the girl’s exuberance, blurted: ‘And I’m going to live in Paris!’
‘Paris? France?’ Molly pulled into a parking bay, braked hard and swung to Ruby. ‘You’re shitting me!’
Startled by such
language, Ruby hesitated. ‘Um … actually, no, I’m not.’
‘Wow! We’ll go for coffee after, and then you can tell me about it.’
Twenty minutes later, Ruby stood in an assembly hall wearing a cloak, a wizard’s hat, a rubber nose and a beard.
‘I would never have believed when I woke up this morning that I would be doing something like this,’ she chuckled, straightening the row of jam jars labelled, BAT SPLEEN, WIGGENTREE BARK, LEBAULUG VENOM.
Molly switched off the overhead lights. Candlelight flickered in the blackness. ‘You will love the story.’ She shrugged into a professor’s gown. ‘You won’t have heard of it ’cos it’s for kids.’ She stuck two warts on Ruby’s cheek. ‘You’re Voldermort the Wizard. I’m Professor Quirrell. I teach defences against the Dark Arts.’
Ruby’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom. ‘So what do I have to do?’
‘Just make out you’re an evil wizard.’ Molly’s head momentarily disappeared in the cloud of dry ice above the plastic cauldron. ‘You’ll get inspiration once I start reading.’ She straightened up, put a mortarboard hat on her head and waited.
‘I’m glad I’m in disguise,’ Ruby murmured. ‘I’m rather shy in front of an audience.’
‘What’s there to be shy about? Have fun! No-one’s going to jump up and bite you.’
The door opened. The children filed in, watching how the candlelight threw monstrous shadows about the room, how the cauldron bubbled as if with all things vile and malodorous. The older children looked eager and expectant. The younger ones seemed uncertain. Even the lady teacher seemed uncertain.
‘Danger lurks!’ Molly rumbled as the children settled, cross-legged, on the floor. ‘Only Harry Potter can save us.’ She pointed a finger, sweeping it over the audience. ‘But which one of you will be Harry Potter? The hero who will fight the forces of…’ the finger pointed at Ruby. ‘… EVIL!’
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