DOUBLE MINT (13 page)

It didn’t seem like a good time to tell him I actually
was
thrown in the back of a patrol car and hauled off to jail, or to tell him the bankers’
game was rigged. It was clear that the only way out of this mess for me was Cooter
Platt.

* * *

Cooter, tall, willowy thin, with a mop of white curls and bright black eyes, had ears
that bloomed out and wrapped around like soup ladles stuck on either side of his head.
If ever a case could be made for cosmetic plastic surgery, it was Cooter Platt, who
needed an ear job in the worst way. With those mighty ears, though, Cooter could hear
the sun come up, he could hear hair growing, he could hear ants clap and cheer when
they found a picnic. For his best trick, he could hear money. If you filled your palm
with coins, then dropped them on a flat surface behind his back two at a time until
they were gone, Cooter could give you a total.

“That’s four dollars and sixteen cents, little missy.”

And every time, he was right.

We didn’t have birthday clowns or giant waterslide parties when I was growing up in
Pine Apple, Alabama; we had Cooter. He could turn a sheet of white paper into money,
he could change a Dixie cup of red party punch into a silver dollar, he could whip
his long spindly fingers around a one-dollar bill for thirty seconds, then hand you
a five-dollar frog.

Cooter’s grandfather established Pine Apple’s one and only bank, Pine Apple Savings
and Loan. Cooter had worked there since he could count and, now in his sixties, owned
and managed the bank. He was attending the Alabama Independent Bankers Convention
at the Bellissimo Resort and Casino. As it turns out, Cooter’s real name was Henry.
I’d totally missed him on the list of conference attendees. I’m one of three people
from Pine Apple who doesn’t have a nickname, and no one believes me. Davis is my mother’s
maiden name. And the name on my birth certificate. There are two cashiers at the Piggly
Wiggly, Pine Apple’s only grocery store. Their names are Cranberry and Trampoline.
I’ve known them all my life. The names on their birth certificates are Cindy and Susan.
Right now, I needed Henry. Known by one and all as Cooter. Call him what you will,
he could get me into the conference, and once in, I could call on my special slot
machine talents and win a roll of platinum coins. Because the coins were all I had
left. If I couldn’t catch Paragon lying about something, I was up a creek.

“We have to find Cooter and get his badge.”

Fantasy and I were in 3B. She wasn’t saying she told me so, but she was keeping me
company while I licked my wounds. She’s a good friend.

“And then what?”

“Play Mint Condition and win the platinum coins.”

“Are you trying to push Bradley all the way over the edge, Davis? How much do you
think that man can take? And haven’t we had enough excitement for one day?”

“Bradley and Mr. Sanders may trust Paragon with their lives, but I don’t trust them
at all,” I said. “The platinum coins in the game have to be ours.” I had Holder Darby’s
paperwork spread out on the table. “And that’s Paragon’s endgame. To sneak out of
here with our platinum.”

She shook her head. That’s all, just shook her head.

“This is my last resort, Fantasy.” If Paragon didn’t steal the platinum from our vault,
then everyone’s right and I’m as wrong as I’ve ever been in my life.”

Of course, there’s still Magnolia. I hadn’t given up on her.

For now, though, I thought it best to take a different approach at nabbing Paragon,
one that might not end in divorce. The Cooter Platt approach. Track down Cooter, borrow
his banker badge, and get into Event Hall B while Bradley is at dinner with Conner
Hughes, and get my hands on some platinum. It would be real, ours, and I’d be off
the hook.

This was my only shot at redemption.

How hard could it be?

* * *

“Are you sure, Davis? Are you sure you want to do this?”

I wasn’t sure of anything this week. “It can’t hurt,” I said. “I know Cooter. Cooter
knows me. If this doesn’t pan out, at least I’ll know I turned over every rock.”

“If this doesn’t pan out, Davis, the people from Paragon are going to be throwing
rocks at your head.” She patted my leg. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.” No.

“You’re making me miss my family,” she said.

I washed the blonde out of my hair while Fantasy scanned Cooter’s face into our facial
recognition software. It took her way less time to find him entering room 1940 than
it did for me to get back to red hair. I found her studying Cooter’s picture.

“What is wrong with his ears? Is it a birth defect thing?”

“No, and that’s so mean. He just has big ears.”

“Dumbo.”

“Let’s go.”

We rode a few elevators, because that’s what we do, then knocked on the door of 1940.

“Cooter? Are you in there?”

We waited a decent amount of time (two seconds), then Fantasy jimmied us into Cooter
Platt’s empty ocean-view room.

“How do you do that?”

“My BP card.” She flashed it, then slipped it into her back pocket.

It’s her superpower.

“What’s this?” Fantasy held up a mason jar full of clear liquid.

I unscrewed the lid, sniffed, then went blind for three minutes. “It’s Pine Apple
moonshine.”

“Put the lid back on it,” Fantasy said. “The fumes are making me dizzy.”

I nabbed the two glasses on a tray beside an empty ice bucket. “It’s good.” I knew
I could use a sip of something about now. I hate going to jail.

“I’m not drinking out of that glass, Davis. Those things are filthy. Don’t you watch
‘Dateline’?”

I held up the mason jar. “This will kill anything those glasses can throw at us.”

Cooter Platt keyed himself in three hours later. Fantasy and I were passed out in
his bed.

* * *

Something was going on with my foot and wouldn’t stop. I slung an arm out and lobbed
it across Fantasy’s head. “Shtopth kicking meeth.”

“Whaaaaa?” Somehow, she managed to get up on her drunk elbows. Then screamed.

“Hold on there, little lady!” (Cooter. Who had been shaking my foot.) “This is my
hotel room.”

I peeled one eye open, to see Fantasy lunging for Cooter, but she wound up spread
eagle face down on the floor.

“Cooter?”

Cooter Platt’s ears spun my way. “Davis? Davis Way?”

“Coleth.”

“What?”

“Cooter.” I flopped back on the bed. “I got marrieth.”

“You and Eddie again?”

“Nooooooo. Hell, noooo.” I pulled a pillow over my face, then slung it right off,
because someone had filled it with bricks.

“You girls have been dippin’ in the sauce.” He held up his almost empty jar of moonshine.
“Oh, boy, there’s a headache comin’ your way, Davis Coleth.”

I tried to pronounce my married name again for him. No luck. From the floor, Fantasy
said, “Oh my God shomeone hepp me up.”

Cooter’s room, like all the conference attendees’ rooms, was a mini suite. He led
us to chairs at a round dining table that seated four, closed the drapes for us, hit
the mini bar up for all the bottled water it held, and got Fantasy a cold wet hand
towel to drape over her face. Her whole face. She was splayed out in the chair, long
legs sprawled, head tipped all the way back, wet towel across her face, ready to be
waterboarded.

“What’s up with that rotten moonshine, Cooter?”

“It’s pure grain alcohol, Davis. You should have learned the Pine Apple Moonshine
lesson in high school.”

Fantasy peeled back half of her wet towel. “What the hell ish up with your ears?”

“Fantasize!” I tried to kick her. I wound up on the floor. Cooter rushed to help me,
but I waved him off and crawled up on my own. “I got thish.” I stopped to rest halfway
to the chair. Maybe I didn’t got thish.

We stayed in Cooter’s room until we sobered up. For the next two hours, Fantasy and
I both took cat naps mid-sentence several times, inhaled two pots of room service
coffee, and shared a triple order of room service fries (to soak up the moonshine),
and finally, around six o’clock, we sobered up enough to walk.

We didn’t want to walk, ever again, but if someone held a gun to our heads, we could’ve.
A few of the exchanges during those lost hours:

“Why do we do this to ourselves?”

“So your ear deal is about your grandmother marrying her first cousin? She did that?
Really?”

“I can’t get this licorice out of my throat.”

“Your daddy knows exactly how to get in the vault. He’s my backup.”

“Is there a cricket in here?”

“Davis, your grandmother took Cyril somewhere and got him Botox. Now the poor old
thing can’t close his eyes all the way and his mouth is just plain ole crooked.”

“It was a very private wedding. Just us, Mother, Daddy, Meredith, and a few others.”

“I might be hallucinating.”

“My legs hurt so bad, I can’t see ever shaving them again. Ever.” (Cooter.) (Kidding.)

“This is one beautiful place, but I had some red chicken on a salad earlier that tasted
like fish.”

“My husband is a black man. Black men just don’t have the ear hair problems white
men do.”

“The vault people invited me here. Then my name got picked to play that money game.
I won five hundred dollars last night.”

“You’re going to have to come get me, Bradley, or call me a cab. I can’t drive.”

“Seventeen.” (Fantasy said that for no good reason whatsoever. Several times.)

“I’m not sure I’d want to put firecracker chili on top of those fries on top of that
moonshine, little lady.”

Never again, and I mean it this time, I will never drink again. Ever. I’m giving up
everything: carbs, alcohol, gambling, Pop Tarts, Tuesdays, all forms of laundry, and
Molly Ringwald movies. I saw the light and I don’t ever want to see it again. I hit
rock bottom and it hit me back. I was three hundred sheets to the wind.

Fourteen

“Davis.”

I was in my own bed, post brain surgery. Or maybe I’d been shot between the eyes.
I might have walked into a swinging wrecking ball. Something.

Bradley gently placed an ice cold washcloth on my forehead.

“I’m leaving for work. You’d better sleep awhile.”

I peeled one eye open, saw my husband’s elbow and a lion. Someone had smashed the
lion’s nose in. Bradley kissed the top of my head, which did two things: One, it told
me he wasn’t still angry with me, and two, it broke my brain. I didn’t remember anything
else until much later. It was daylight, and someone was biting my hair. The bedside
clock said it was nine o’clock on Wednesday morning and the cat was trying to pull
my hair out of my enormous head with its gigantic teeth.

After twenty minutes of an ice cold shower, I thought I might—might—live. I stumbled
back to the bed, reached for the house phone, and speed-dialed housekeeping, valet,
and the front desk before my finger found the room service button.

“This is Calinda Wilson, Mr. Cole’s assistant. He needs four big blue Powerades and
a bottle of Excedrin Super delivered to his residence on twenty-nine. And he wants
the Excedrin Super without the lid. Keep the lid.” I didn’t have the energy to track
down any painkillers and even if I did, I sure didn’t have the wherewithal to line
up arrows. “And bring a large bucket of ice. Leave it at the door and do not ring
the doorbell.”

The room service person wanted to argue with me.

“Mr. Cole, for your information, does
not
have an ice maker, and even if he had fourteen, he still wants a large bucket of
ice. Okay?”

Mr. Cole—who, by the way, does have an ice maker, an ice maker that is exactly one-fourth
of the big red monster refrigerator, but it doesn’t work, because the ice bin, which
is the size of a bathtub, is nothing but a solid slab of cloudy gray ice perfect for
hosting individual women’s figure skating events—left a note by the coffee pot.

What in the world did you get into last night? You fell off the bed twice (remember?)
and talked in your sleep all night. On and on about crickets. Baylor called and left
you this message: He’s stolen Eddie’s car. I suppose, Davis, when you feel up to it,
you can explain why Baylor seems so pleased with himself for stealing Eddie’s car.
I smoothed everything over with Conner Hughes last night, so all is well and I’m not
upset. Call me and let me know you’re okay. I love you, even drunk you. Super drunk
you. Ridiculously drunk you.

I called Baylor before I called Bradley.

“Baylor.” I couldn’t see out of my left eye, and I couldn’t feel anything below my
knees. My head weighed four hundred pounds and I could taste Windex. “Where is your
truck?”

“My Ford?”

“How many trucks do you have, Baylor?”

“One?”

“That’s what I thought. Where is it?”

“In the parking lot.”

Like talking to a wall.

“I have a very important question for you, Baylor. Listen up.”

“Okay.”

“How did you get to Tunica yesterday?”

“I drove your car.”

“
What
?”

“Mine didn’t have any gas.”

The days of banging phones against things were over, because cell phones couldn’t
handle the abuse. And if I tried banging my head against the wall, it would explode.
So I kept going.

“I told you to hide his car, like in a cornfield. Not steal it.”

“I mixed that up.”

“Did it not occur to you, Baylor, that when he sees his car gone and my car there,
he’s going to figure out who has his car? And what am I supposed to drive?”

“Do you need to go somewhere?”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

This could have been worse. I didn’t know how, but things could always be worse. Just
then, it popped into my brain
how
they could be worse. “Where’s the counterfeit money, Baylor?”

“Oh, right.”

It will be the end of the world as I know it if Eddie Crawford finds a million counterfeit
dollars in my car. The very end. Curtains. It’s been real. Sayonara.

“I brought it back.”

And with his words, I collapsed in a hungover heap. “Where are you, Baylor?”

“In the office,” he said. “I’m taking a nap till you and Fantasy get here.”

“Go back to Tunica. Do it right this time. Hide Eddie’s car, somewhere he can’t find
it, and bring my car back.”

I texted my husband:
Sorry about last night. I’m good. I’ll NEVER drink moonshine again.

He texted back:
I’m covered up. We’ll talk later.

Then the phone rang. “David. Get up here right this minute.”

* * *

I thought I might freeze to death.

For one, I’d taken an ice shower, dressed quickly, and made my way to Bianca after
drying only three of the red hairs on my head. I still felt, four Super Excedrins
in, moonshiney, and the noise of the hair dryer proved too much. For another, Bianca
had it like a meat locker. And it wasn’t just me. Her manservant of the day (she went
through butlers like I went through phones) had a wool scarf around his neck and fingerless
white gloves on his hands. It wasn’t one degree above fifty, and Bianca was flushed,
drinking a tall glass of ice water, and half naked. Muscles everywhere.

“David.” She pointed to the most uncomfortable chair in the room. Cold white leather
with no arms. I could feel her jungle green eyes on my back as I took my assigned
seat.

“What is
wrong
with you?” She was lounging on a white leather sofa with her Yorkshire terriers,
waiting for someone to feed her grapes and fan her with banana leaves. Her dogs good-morning
growled at me and I, under my breath, growled back. “I called you to talk about
me
,” Bianca said, “how
I
feel, and somehow you’ve managed to make this about yourself.”

Honestly.

“Say something, David.”

“Mrs. Sanders, it’s freezing in here.” I hugged myself, rubbing my arms, the bottom
half of me bouncing, trying to get the blood flowing. “Could I have a blanket?”

“You may have this, David.” She tossed something in my lap.

It was multicolored, Valentino, about the size of a wallet. I opened it, then zoomed
it in and out, trying to focus.

“Is this a calendar?” I flipped through. Month after month of clustered red hearts
and single black Xs, this month noticeably missing a black X. I’ve been a girl long
enough, all my life, to know exactly what I was looking at.

“Take it to the Brazilian doctor,” Bianca said. “Find out what’s wrong with you.”

“What’s wrong with
me
?” Which is when a terrible moonshine truth came into play: You can sleep it off,
give it an ice shower, throw Super Excedrins at it, and it’s still going to take two
days to sober up from it. The moonshine spoke up and said, “Mrs. Sanders.” The moonshine
shook the Valentino calendar. “I can save myself a trip to your doctor. This is called
menopause.”

We were in Bianca’s day room—full ocean view, all mirrors, glass, white fur rugs and
white leather furniture, and someone standing on the other side of the door dropped
a china cabinet. The noise of the crash bounced off the mirrors, walls, and marble
floors, and Bianca, stunned, didn’t react to the blast, because she was too busy being
shocked by what (the moonshine) I’d said. And so was I. But (the moonshine) I kept
going. “I can drop everything, Mrs. Sanders, have Dr. Caden drop everything to get
here, and let her look over this,” I shook Valentino, “only for her to tell me you’re
in your forties and life as you know it is about to change.”

The room grew still.

I’m not sure I heard myself right.

The headline would read:
It was Mrs. Sanders in the White Day Room with her Bare Hands
.

My head fell as I watched a lonely tear cut a path straight down Bianca’s cheek. I
squeezed my eyes closed and wanted very much to turn back time. “I am so sorry, Mrs.
Sanders.” Her large (large) chest rose and fell steadily. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
I didn’t know she owned a tear. Had I known, I’d have never guessed I’d be the one
to drag it out of her. Waving a white flag, I whispered, “I could be wrong.”

Nothing from her.

“It could be, Mrs. Sanders, it looks like…” I wasn’t about to say the word again,
“…one thing, but it’s really another.”

I might be onto something.

“Maybe I really should
talk to Dr. Caden.”

Nothing.

“I will, Mrs. Sanders. I’ll call her right now.”

Nothing.

“Because,” I was fighting for my life, “sometimes it looks like one thing when it’s
another.”

Something was tickling the back of my brain. The front of my brain was full of moonshine
and
run for your life, Davis
.

“We need to look at the big picture, Mrs. Sanders.”

Nothing.

I collapsed against the cold leather at my back. Passing through my brain were the
words
big picture, big picture, big picture
.

The room was so eerily quiet, I swear I heard her open her mouth. I grabbed the sides
of the chair, bracing myself. She took a deep breath and met my eyes dead on. She
finally spoke, a calm whisper. “I’ve gained two more pounds.”

Choosing my words so very carefully, I said, “Big picture, Mrs. Sanders. Look at the
big picture. Muscle weighs more than fat.” (Hail Mary Moonshine Hail Mary Moonshine
Hail Mary Moonshine.)

“Are you saying that, David, or do you believe it?” No venom from her. Something was
so wrong.

“I truly believe, Mrs. Sanders, there’s more to this. I think I should have taken
all the evidence into account before I jumped to a conclusion.”

She was absentmindedly twirling a lazy pattern on one of the dogs’ heads with a finger.
Gianna, I think. She didn’t look up when she said, “You may go now, David, and close
the door behind you.”

It’s Davis. And Davis needs a nap, so she’ll be rested when Bianca has decided how
to kill her.

* * *

Davis didn’t wake up from her nap until eight o’clock that night when a cat with four
wet paws jumped on her. Cue Davis screaming.

What really woke me up, though, were the white water rapids. Lugging the cat under
my arm, I tracked the raging river to the kitchen, where water was gushing from the
bottom of the refrigerator in a flood. I sloshed through, cat in tow, and gathered
my phone, my laptop, and a note from my husband.
Dinner with the Mayor and City Council. Get some rest. No more moonshine for you.

First, I hacked into the maintenance department’s operational site and turned off
the water main for the 29
th
floor. Next, I pulled all three magnolia bedspreads off all three magnolia guest
beds, and used them as mop rugs in the kitchen, the cat trailing behind me the whole
time. Cat and I settled on a magnolia sofa in Who Dat Hooters, ordered room service
pizza—pepperoni for me, anchovy for it—and it was then I remembered the thing I’d
been trying to forget: The conversation I’d had with Bianca. I checked my phone and
email, nothing from her. She must still be putting my end-of-life plan together. Nothing
from Mr. Sanders, Bradley, or No Hair on the subject, so she obviously intended to
act alone; no witnesses. I figured I’d better hurry and get a little work done before
she kills me.

If I found the platinum, I could redeem myself in four million ways, and Bradley’s
last memory of me wouldn’t be humiliating him with my failed attempt to get in the
Bellissimo vault. Or the moonshine. Or what I’d done to Bianca. I didn’t know which
of the three was the worst. I did know this week needed to be over.

Logging into the Bellissimo facial-recognition software, I loaded these pictures:
Holder Darby, Christopher Hall, Conner Hughes, and Magnolia Thibodeaux. Because I
needed to look at the big picture. One of these people stole the platinum.

“Stop playing with your food, Cat.” It was standing in its pizza box, batting at the
anchovies, tossing them through the air, then pouncing on them. It finished its pizza
first, stared at me while it licked its paws, and not only did I not have a drop of
water, I didn’t have enough computer screen to hold Holder Darby and Christopher Hall.
Not one hit on Conner Hughes or Magnolia Thibodeaux with each other or the other two,
but major paydirt on the couple. Holder Darby and Christopher Hall weren’t casual
acquaintances. Back in the day, according to the photos, they were inseparable. And
there was no doubt in my mind they were together now.

“Cat.” It was still working its paws. “Let’s go downstairs.”

For one thing, I had no water, and wanted to hot shower away the last traces of Pine
Apple moonshine. For another, I might finally be on the right track and needed more
computer; I couldn’t always be the keyboard cowgirl I needed to be on a laptop. I
packed a quick bag—pajamas, fuzzy slippers, cat—stuffed my hair into a big floppy
hat, out the Creole front doors, and caught the elevator.

We made it to 3B without incident. There, in my pajamas, with the cat asleep on the
sofa, I placed the first piece of the puzzle. Holder Darby and Christopher Hall. They’re
together. I didn’t know if they’d been abducted, and if so, by whom, or for what reason,
but there wasn’t a doubt in my mind they were together. I didn’t know if they ran,
where they would’ve run to, or why, but all the evidence says they ran together. And
I don’t know what got into me to talk to Bianca that way, but I know she’s going to
get me back.