Alice in Jeopardy: A Novel (10 page)

“Where is she, Maria?”

“How the hell do I know where she is?”

“Has your husband got her someplace?”

“I don’t have a husband.”

“Your boyfriend then?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend, either.”

“Whoever knocked you up then. Is he in this with you?”

“Santa María, me estás poniendo furioso con todo esto!”

“English, Maria.”

“My baby’s father is in Tampa. He found a better job and a blonde girlfriend there.”

“A blonde, huh?” Saltzman says, and glances at Andrews. Both men are suddenly alert.

“That’s what he told me on the phone.”

“Nice that gallantry’s still alive here in Florida,” Andrews says.

“What?” Maria says.

“What’s his name, this hero of yours?”

“Ernesto de Diego. And he’s no hero of mine.”

“Would you happen to know his address in Tampa?”

“No.”

“When did you see him last?”

“February twelfth,” Maria says.

But who’s counting? Saltzman thinks.

The phone rings again
at a little past eight o’clock. Alice picks up the receiver. Sloate and Marcia are ready to do their useless thing, he with the earphones on, she behind her worthless tracing equipment.

“Hello?” Alice says.

“Alice, it’s me, Charlie.”

“If that’s Carol,” Rafe says, “tell her hello for me,” and goes off into the kitchen.

“Who’s that?” Charlie asks.

“My brother-in-law.”

“Have you heard from them yet?”

Alice hesitates. This is her best friend in the entire universe. Sloate is already shaking his head. No. Tell him nothing. Rafe comes out of the kitchen with a coffee cup in his hand. He begins wandering the room, idly observing. Sloate is shaking his finger at her now. No, he is telling her. No.

“Yes,” Alice says. “I’ve heard from them.”

Sloate grabs for the phone. She pulls it away, out of his reach.

“The police and the FBI are here with me, Charlie.”

“Oh Jesus!” he says.

“They’ve been trying to trace her calls…”

“The blonde’s?” Charlie says.

“What blonde?”

“I went over to Pratt a little while ago, talked to the guard who saw the kids get into that Impala.”

“Tell him to keep out of this!” Sloate warns.

“Who’s that?” Charlie asks.

“Detective Sloate.”

“Same one who called you at my house?”

“Yes.”

Rafe is at the living room drapes now. He parts them, looks out into the street.

“Did he tell you to lie to me?” Charlie asks.

“Yes. What blonde?”

“The guard told me a blonde woman was driving the Impala. Is that who you’ve been talking to?”

“I don’t know.”

“She still sound black to you?”

“She could be black. Or simply Southern. I don’t know.”

“What does she want?”

“Quarter of a million dollars.”

“Jesus!”

“By ten tomorrow morning. I’m supposed to leave the money—”

Sloate is out of his chair. He starts to say, “You’re jeopardizing your own—” but just then Rafe turns away from the drapes.

“Red convertible pulling into the driveway,” he says. “Blonde at the wheel.”

“Who…?” Alice starts, but
she hears a car door slamming outside. “I have to go,” she tells Charlie. “I’ll call you back,” and hangs up and goes instantly to the front door. Looking through the peephole, she sees Jennifer Redding loping from the driveway to the walk, still wearing the white bell-bottom pants she had on yesterday, still showing her belly button and a good three inches of flesh, but with a blue cotton sweater top this time.

“Who is it?” Sloate asks.

“The woman who ran me over yesterday.”

“Get rid of her.”

Alice opens the door, and steps outside. Bugs are flitting around the light to the left of the entrance steps. Jennifer stops on the walk, looks up at her in surprise.

“Hi,” she says. “How’s your foot?”

“Fine,” Alice says.

“I brought you a little get-well present. I hope you like chocolate.”

“Yes, I do. Thanks.”

“Everybody likes chocolate,” Jennifer says, and hands her a little white box imprinted with the name of a fudge maker on The Ring. “In fact, I wouldn’t mind a piece right now,” she says, smiling. “If you’re offering, that is.”

“Sure, help yourself,” Alice says, and breaks the white string holding the box closed. The aroma of fresh chocolate wafts up past the open lid of the box. Jennifer delicately grasps a piece of fudge between thumb and forefinger, lifts it from the box.

“Wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee, either,” she says. “If you’ve got some brewing.”

“Gee, I’m sorry,” Alice says. “I’d ask you in, but I have company.”

Jennifer looks at the truck parked at the curb and gives Alice a knowing look. She pops the square of fudge into her mouth, chews silently for a moment, and then swallows and says, “That’s too bad. I was hoping we could talk awhile. Get to know each other a little better.”

She is looking directly into Alice’s eyes. Searching her eyes. Alice remembers what Charlie just told her on the phone.
A blonde woman was driving the Impala.

“Some other time maybe,” she says.

“Anyway, I wanted to thank you for not calling the police,” Jennifer says.

She is still studying Alice’s face intently.

“Or did you?” she asks.

“No,” Alice says. “I never got around to it.”

“I think it would look much better if I reported the accident, don’t you?”

“Probably.”

“Since I was driving the car and all.”

“I guess so. But I think there’s no-fault insurance down here, isn’t there?”

“I don’t know,” Jennifer says. “I’m a recent import myself.”

“Jennifer,” Alice says, “you have to forgive me…”

“I’ll call my insurance people when I get home, ask their advice.”

“I think that’s a good idea.”

“I’ll let you know what I find out,” she says, and hesitates. “Alice,” she says, her voice lowering, “I’m sorry for what happened, truly.” She offers her hand. Alice takes it. “Later,” Jennifer says, and smiles, and swivels off toward her red Thunderbird convertible.

Alice watches as she pulls out of the driveway.

Jennifer waves good-bye.

“Sweet chassis,” Rafe says.
“The car,” he adds, and grins.

Alice says nothing.

“Who is she?” he asks.

“Woman named Jennifer Redding. She’s responsible for the foot.”

He takes her elbow, leads her away from the door. Across the room, the law enforcement people are gathered in a tight little knot, conferring.

“You think these people know what they’re doing?” he whispers.

“No, I don’t.”

“I gather they’re planning to pay the ransom with counterfeit money, is that right?”

“That’s the plan, yes.”

“You gonna let them do that?”

“I want my kids back.”

“Seems like a sure way
not
to get them back.”

“What else can I do, Rafe?”

“Give them what they want. Go to the bank and—”

“And
what
? Where am I supposed to get a quarter of a million dollars?”

Rafe looks at her.

“You told Carol there was insurance,” he says.

“They haven’t paid yet.”

“It’s been eight months, Alice.”

“Don’t you think I know how long it’s been? They haven’t paid yet.”

“Well… when will they pay?”

“Rafe, do me a favor, okay? Get in your truck and go wherever you have to go. You’re not doing any good here.”

“I’m just trying to help,” he says, almost plaintively, but she has already moved away from him to where a wall phone hangs over the kitchen counter. She picks up the receiver.

“Who are you calling?” Sloate asks at once.

“Charlie.”

“He’s done enough damage already. Asking questions…”

“He found out she’s a blonde!” Alice snaps. “You sit here with your earphones on, and your expensive equipment, twiddling dials, while a fifty-six-year-old artist—”

“We already
know
she’s a blonde,” Sloate says.

“What?”

“We already—”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” she says, slamming the phone onto the hook. “These are my children! Why isn’t anyone
telling
me anything?”

She realizes she is screaming at him. She clenches her fists, turns away. She wants to punch Sloate. She wants to punch anyone.

“I’m calling Charlie,” she says, and picks up the phone again.

“This is a mistake,” Sloate says.

But she is already dialing.

“Hello?”

“Charlie? It’s me.”

“What does the blonde want you to do?”

“Bring her the money.”

“Have you got it?”

“Phony bills, yes.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“I know, but…”

“They’re not locals,” Charlie says. “The blonde was driving a rental car.”

Sloate’s eyes open wide.

“How do you know?” Alice asks.

“Guard saw an Avis bumper sticker. I went to the airport, checked on it—”

“Jesus!” Sloate says.

“—they wouldn’t tell me anything. But now that the cops are all over you, maybe
they
can find out who rented that Impala.”

“Maybe.”

“Where’d that woman ask you to leave the money?”

“Don’t tell him!” Sloate warns.

“The Shell station on Lewiston and the Trail.”

“What time?”

“Don’t…”

“Ten tomorrow morning.”

“Good luck, Alice.”

“Thanks, Charlie.”

She hangs up, looks Sloate dead in the eye.

“Think you can find that car now?” she asks.

Sloate turns to Sally Ballew.

“Make yourself useful, Sal,” he says. “We’re looking for a blue Impala, maybe rented from Avis by a blonde in her thirties.”

“Piece of cake,” Sally says dryly.

As she and her partner leave the house, the grandfather clock in the hallway reads 8:30
P
.
M
.

When they first moved
down here, the kids thought they’d died and gone to heaven. Before they bought the boat, Eddie and Alice used to take them to the beach on every sunny weekend. After they owned the
Jamash,
it was day trips up and down the Intercoastal or out onto the Gulf when the seas weren’t too rough. At the beach one day…

She remembers this now with sharp poignancy.

Remembers it with an immediacy that is painfully relevant.

Jamie is three years old, and fancies himself to be an interviewer on one of his favorite kiddie TV shows. One hand in his sister’s, the other wrapped around a toy shovel he pretends is a microphone, he wanders up the beach, stopping at every blanket, thrusting the shovel-mike at each surprised sunbather, asking in his piping little voice, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Tirelessly, he parades the beach with his sister, a relentless, pint-sized investigative journalist.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

One day…

Oh God, that frantic day…

They know they are not to go anywhere near the water. The waves that roll in here are usually benign, even at high tide, but the children know that they are not to approach the water unless Eddie or Alice is with them. They know this. And usually, they wander up the beach for… oh, ten minutes or so… Ashley inordinately proud of her little brother’s interviewing technique, Jamie grinning in anticipation as he holds out his microphone to ask even sixty-year-olds, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

The beaches here on the Cape are not too terribly crowded, even in high season, so Alice or Eddie can keep the children in sight as Jamie conducts his “interviews.” But on this day…

They are discussing something important. Beaches tend to encourage deep discussions about important matters.

She doesn’t remember now what they were discussing. Perhaps buying a boat. Perhaps deliberating whether they can afford to buy even a used boat; they always seem to be discussing money, or the lack of money, when suddenly…