Ripped Apart

by Jeanne Glidewell

  “With the assistance of your siblings, I hope. You surely won’t have that responsibility heaped solely on your shoulders, will you?”

  “I’m the youngest of three children. If it were up to Claire and Daniel, they’d have the hospital staff pull the plug at the first sign of trouble. They are more concerned about what they stand to gain from her death than whether she can get past this unexpected setback.”

  “That’s too bad. I’m so sorry your mama has taken ill and pray she pulls through this health crisis with no permanent damage.” I didn’t want to say anything negative about her siblings, because when it came right down to it, blood truly was thicker than water. I knew I might call my four brothers every name in the book, but heaven help anyone else who spoke poorly of them. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Would you mind keeping an eye on my place while I’m gone?”

  “I don’t mind at all. For as long as you need me to. I can water your plants too, if necessary, and anything else you need me to take care of while you’re away.” Wrong answer, I realized too late.

  “Oh, thank goodness!” Suzanna exclaimed. “I was worried about what to do with Rascal. You only need to feed him a tablespoon of pellets every day, along with a small handful of hay, which I keep in the garage. He likes an occasional raisin or two for a treat. And, since he’ll be upset that I’m gone, it’d be nice if you stopped by with a treat a few times each day. You’ll need to make sure his gravity-fed water bottle has fresh water in it. Rascal’s very prickly when it comes to stale water. He uses a litter box, which will need to be cleaned out every day because he’s also quite fussy about having a clean place to do his business if you know what I mean. You’ll need to make sure his cardboard box maintains about two inches of fresh dust. As I explained yesterday, it’s used for bathing. Also, he tends to―”

  “Hold up a minute,” I cut in. I suddenly felt like I was going to be pet-sitting a champion racehorse, and wasn’t sure I wanted to be responsible for the animal’s well-being. I’d once killed my brother, Rusty’s, pet guinea pig, while taking care of it for two weeks one summer as he attended church camp. He’d never let me forget it either. As badly as I wanted to, however, I didn’t have the heart to tell Suzanna I couldn’t take care of the chinchilla. It wasn’t her fault she’d found herself in such a tight spot. I set aside my reluctance, and said, “Maybe I should be writing these instructions down. You know what I said earlier about a person’s memory as they get older. I wouldn’t want to feed Rascal two inches of pellets and only have a tablespoon of dust in his bathing box. Let me grab a pen and something to write on.”

  “Yes. That’s probably a good idea,” she replied.

  Out from underneath a seven-year-old Atlas we kept in a drawer in the coffee table, I pulled the notebook I’d been using to keep track of any useful information I gathered concerning the woman Suzanna was convinced her husband had cheated on her with. I quickly flipped it open to a blank page before she could read anything I’d scribbled down. She might not have approved of my desire to uncover the truth behind the unusual state of affairs. It was reasonable to assume Suzanna was not praying nightly for the safe return of the suspected home-wrecker. In fact, to her, I’d imagine it really was a “good riddance” kind of situation, as Suzanna had actually stated the previous day. To be perfectly honest, I hadn’t determined yet that it wasn't she who was behind Reilly’s disappearance or death.

  I wrote down the instructions she’d given me about Rascal and the security code for her alarm system, while Suzanna dug around in her large satchel. Before long she handed me a key on a key chain that depicted a whooping crane with a crab in its beak. The highly endangered species wintered in the nearby Aransas Wildlife Refuge, which to my dismay had also sustained a lot of damage during the hurricane.

  “What a pretty keyring,” I said. “Did you buy it here in town?”

  “Percival bought it for me at the Oysterfest in Fulton last year.” She looked sad at the memory. “Said the whooping cranes’ beauty reminded him of me.”

  “That was sweet.” I felt bad I’d brought her down even further. She was already gloomy about the news of her mother’s sudden illness. I changed the subject immediately. “Are you planning to head out right away?”

  “Yes. I hope to be in Austin by three. The hospital there is only minutes from Mama’s house, so I’ll drop off my stuff at her place on the way.”

  In Austin? Didn’t you tell me you stayed with your mother in Horizon City while you waited for power to be restored to the island after the hurricane? I wanted to ask. I knew Horizon City to be as far west as you could get in Texas, save for El Paso. The small, but rapidly growing, border town was a long way from Austin’s location in central Texas. I realized you might tell people you were from Austin because it was the closest city they’d recognize to your actual hometown of Ding Dong, Texas, one of many strangely-named towns in the state. Then again, if that was your actual hometown, you might just not want to admit you were a Ding Dongian.

  My point is, you’d hardly say your mother was from a city nearly four hundred miles away because whoever asked wouldn’t know where Horizon City was. You’d have told them you were from the El Paso area, which was just minutes west of Horizon City. In any event, Suzanna had either lied to me about where she’d stayed after the hurricane or where she was headed today. I thought it best not to question her about it. Instead, I asked, “Where do you keep Rascal’s cage?”

  “Oh, no!” Suzanna exclaimed, shaking her head as if I’d just asked her how many times a day I was expected to thump her beloved pet on the head with a rolling pin. “He has complete run of the place. I could never keep Rascal pinned up in a cage. He is one of God’s creations, after all.”

  Even the creator of the universe should be allowed one mistake, I wanted to say, but managed to resist the urge. “I see.”

  What I saw more than anything was that I shouldn’t have been so quick to offer to do anything Suzanna needed done while she was away. Not only was I hesitant to enter the house with the suspicious black trash bag in a chest freezer in its basement, but I also didn’t like bugs, snakes, or creepy crawlers of any sort, let alone furry rodents. I hoped I could slip in each day, put a tablespoon of chinchilla pellets and a small handful of hay in the bowl, water in the bottle, dust in the box, and remove from the litter box all the chinchilla poop Rascal found so offensive before slipping back out without ever laying eyes on the critter.

  I should have known that was too much to hope for.

  Eighteen

  “Anybody home?” I shouted as I eased Suzanna’s front door open the following morning. Rip was right behind me. I hadn’t been able to get the key Suzanna gave me to open the lock, so I’d asked Rip to break into the house for me. He could unlock nearly any lock, as long as it wasn’t a deadbolt. He’d brought along his “breaking and entering kit,” which consisted of an expired credit card, a paperclip, and a tiny screwdriver used for repairing eyeglass frames. He had the lock open within seconds. I thanked him, and asked, “What good is a locking door knob anyway?”

  “Not much. It’s rarely a deterrent if someone really wants to get into a home.” Rip turned to exit Suzanna’s house and return to the trailer. “You need to suggest she get a deadbolt installed, particularly if she lives alone.”

  “She told me she recently had a state-of-the-art security system installed.”

  “Even so. A deadbolt will help prevent the intruder from getting inside to set off the alarm in the first place. There’s no such thing as being too safe.”

  “That’s true. I’ll make the suggestion to her. Honey, if you aren’t in a big rush, I’d like you to stay with me. I’ve never had to take care of a chinchilla before.”

  “And I have?” He laughed at the fearful expression on my face. “Don’t worry. I’ll stick around to protect you from the big bad―Agghh!”

  Rip’s outcry startled me, and when he followed it up with a violent shake of his left
leg, I was even more alarmed. He shook his leg a few more times before a ball of fur slid out of his pant leg. He proceeded to boot the trespasser over the coffee table onto the couch.

  “Oh, my!” I stood frozen in time. I was torn between two reactions: grabbing Rip, racing out the front door and slamming it shut behind us, or rushing to check to see if the chinchilla I’d been placed in charge of was still alive. At that moment it looked harmless as it lay motionless, sprawled out on top of a sofa cushion. “I think Rascal just wanted to play. I noticed there are a number of small balls scattered across the floor that must be his toys.”

  “That may be,” Rip said, “but he ain’t gonna play in my pants. He can play with his own balls all he wants, but he damn well better leave mine alone.”

  I couldn’t restrain a snicker because Rip was still shaking his leg, as if afraid an army of varmints had invaded his private space along with the chinchilla.

  Just as I was wondering if I was going to have to give Suzanna’s pet mouth-to-nasty mouth resuscitation, Rascal began to squirm, which was a great relief and terrifying at the same time. I wasn’t sure how an animal that’d just been drop-kicked across the room would react. Would it run and hide or be more prone to retaliate? Either way, I had to make sure it didn’t need medical attention. Didn’t I? I surely didn’t want to have to explain to Suzanna how Rascal had suffered an unfortunate incident that had rendered him dead the very first time I’d checked in on him.

  Naturally, I’d have been vague about how the tragic accident occurred, mentioning neither my husband nor the unplanned flight across the living room her pet had taken. I’d have recalled Rascal appearing desperately lonely the first time I came in to feed him. Sadly, the second time I’d found him deceased on the dining room floor. Who’d have ever thought the poor little guy would miss his owner so badly, he’d take a suicidal leap off the top of the china hutch? Or, sadder yet, die of a broken heart? Okay, maybe the word “vague” was a gross understatement. To be perfectly honest, I would have out-and-out lied through my false teeth if I’d had to.

  Fortunately, Rascal came around, and after shaking it off, barked at us several times before scurrying under the couch, where he remained until we’d departed. He appeared to be none the worse for wear. I put pellets and hay in his bowl, then verified there was still plenty of water in his bottle and more than enough dust in his bathing container. Finally, I scooped what seemed like thousands of small pellets out of his litter box.

  The evening before, I’d Googled "chinchillas" and read up on keeping them as pets. Among other things, I learned they could poop up to 250 times a day. I couldn’t imagine how the chinchilla could get more than a few yards from its litter box before he needed to use it again. I could certainly see the wisdom in litter-box training one you intended to keep as a house pet. Otherwise, walking through your home would be akin to navigating a minefield.

  I was relieved it seemed as though Rascal would survive his traumatic experience that afternoon. Had he died, I’d have been tempted to buy a replacement. Regina had owned four identical goldfish named Gus as a child. She never once questioned Gus’s record-breaking lifespan. However, goldfish could be replaced for two bucks and I’d read chinchillas cost around $150 at the pet store.

  Before we left, Rip showed me how to pick the lock on the front door, in case he wasn’t available when I returned to take care of Rascal. Something told me he’d never be available. I could foresee nightmares in his future featuring a mad chinchilla trying to gather up nuts―in Rip’s nether regions.

  That afternoon I decided to traipse next door to the Reynolds’s house to have a look around. It was Sunday and there was no sign of anyone in the house. No vehicles sat in the driveway. Perhaps Walker was out and about, visiting his neighbor, J.J. Wallinski. Did Walker know Percival was making a play for her in the same way he had Reilly? It seemed to me Flamingo Road would’ve been more aptly called Peyton Place.

  As I stood on the Reynolds’s front porch with a glass of lemonade in one hand, I rapped loudly on the door with the other, yelling out, “Anyone home?” I waited for a response for at least thirty seconds before repeating the process. Convinced no one was home, I decided to go inside and take a quick look around. The home was under reconstruction, and most of the furniture and personal items that survived the hurricane had been locked up in a construction trailer in the driveway to avoid being pilfered by looters. I didn’t really feel as though I was trespassing. After all, who, out of pure curiosity, doesn’t walk through new homes being constructed in their neighborhood? Instead of using the lock-picking kit Rip had lent me on the Reynolds’s front door—which could be construed as “breaking and entering”—I stepped through a floor-to-ceiling window that’d had the glass broken out by flying debris during the storm. The way I saw it, this was basically just “entering”. And I’d never heard of anyone who’d ever been arrested for merely entering a structure.

  Before continuing on into the house, I hollered out again. “Hello? Anybody home? Walker? Jessie? Hello?”

  When no one responded, I took a few tentative steps inside, scanning the living room as I entered it. I saw nothing that raised any red flags. I had to laugh when I walked through the kitchen and saw a couple of rinsed-out storage bags on the kitchen counter with a post-it note stuck to the top one that read, “Return to cookie lady.”

  Next to the cookie bags was a stack of receipts and photos. A post-it note on top of that pile read, “Give to JJ” The photos were of furniture and household items, and the receipts pertained to the same items. I mused as I skipped through the pile. Is Walker’s neighbor helping him with his insurance claim? It seems as though she might be helping him compile proof of damaged personal property, which would explain why she’d left a note on his kitchen table for him to meet up with her. I recall Percival telling me she worked as an accountant. I take care of all the bills, taxes, and miscellaneous paperwork in our household. Perhaps Reilly had been in charge of those tasks in the Reynolds’s home. With his wife missing, it made sense he’d hire someone to perform the daunting task for him. Perhaps JJ isn’t a romantic interest of Walker’s, after all, and he truly is grieving the loss of his wife. The change in his appearance indicates that’s the case.

  Most of the photos were of water-stained tables, soggy beds and recliners, a severely damaged leather sofa and items of that nature. The only picture that really drew my attention was a family photo of Walker, Reilly, and Scrappy. They were sitting around a teal-and-white patio table in matching Adirondack-styled chairs. I recognized the set to be one of the nearly indestructible, outdoor furniture made from old plastic milk cartons that wouldn’t rust, fade, mildew, or blow away easily. Regina and Milo had a nearly identical set in orange. I was appalled to think that, according to the Reynolds’s receipt, Regina and Milo had blown over twenty-two hundred bucks on their nearly indestructible patio set. And here I’d thought Rip and I had thrown caution to the wind when we’d paid five-hundred bucks for an outdoor patio set from Lowe’s. We’d given the set to Regina and Milo when we retired, but I’d noticed the patio furniture had been relegated to the trash pile on their curb.

  This particular photo caught my attention for two reasons. One: the pure sweetness of it. The couple looked totally in love, gazing at each other with adoring expressions, while the cute little dog stood between them with a rag doll clenched between his jaws. And second: I’d noticed when I spoke to Walker and Jessie in the back yard a couple of days earlier, the furniture was still there, looking as if it had just been delivered by the store where it’d been purchased. If the set hadn’t been destroyed or blown away by the storm or stolen by a looter, why does he have a photo and receipt for the furniture in the pile? I had to wonder. Not that everyone was totally honest when it came to insurance claims, I knew. It just seemed like an awfully big and noticeable item to claim as a loss, when it clearly was not even damaged.

  I knew I couldn’t waste time standing around musing about such trivial
things. I hastily went from room to room, finding nothing of any significance. I noticed Bruno had finished drywalling the new library, which Suzanna had surmised was for her collection of music CD’s. I had originally thought the thicker-than-normal wall dividing the library from the living room was odd-looking, but now I saw the reason for it. A two-sided electric fireplace had been installed. The thickness of the wall had allowed it to be inset, with glass doors on both sides, which would make for a cozy library and a warm ambiance in the living room, as well.

  The library niche now had a wall of shelving, where anything from a full set of the Encyclopedia Britannica to all sixty, or so, of George Strait’s number-one hits could be stored. Very nice, I thought. I could see myself curled up on a chaise lounge with a good book while a flickering fire kept me toasty warm on one of those rare cold winter evenings in south Texas.

  “Oh, crap!” I whispered, coming out of my reverie in a snap when I heard someone entering the house from the front porch. The last thing I wanted was to be caught snooping around in the neighbor’s house. My eyes darted around the living room, looking for a place to hide since I knew I didn’t have time to escape out the kitchen door to the back yard. I noticed a closet in the hallway. It was probably designed for brooms and mops. There were no shelves or clothes rods, and thankfully, it was currently empty except for a red-stained crowbar and a large metal toolbox with “Torres” written on the top with a black permanent marker. I was able to get inside just in the nick of time. There wasn’t a lock on the door, so I could only pray whoever had entered the home wouldn’t need to place anything in the small closet.

  “I just need to grab my toolbox,” I heard as I eased the closet door shut. I recognized Tony, the demolition contractor’s, voice and should have been trying to come up with a believable excuse for being inside the closet of a home I didn’t own. However, because the words, “Oh, $@#&!” were echoing in my head, I couldn’t hear myself think.