The Immaculate Deception (7 page)

Seventy-ish Roddy Meddlestein, Esquire, ever tall and dapper in his three-piece linen summer suit, led the way, followed by his missus.

Retired District of Columbia Metropolitan Police Chief Bubba Wrigley removed his football cap before stepping onto the landing. He ran his fingers through his thick white mane. He looked great. I wasn’t sure how old he was because as Daddy always said, “Black don’t crack”. I couldn’t get used to Daddy being gone.

A Jack Nicholson look-alike, Doctor “Farts” Goldfarb, took up the rear. Disheveled thinning salt-and-pepper hair, wild eyebrows and thick-framed eyeglasses. He was a semi-retired proctologist, back in the days when specialists actually called themselves such. The new politically correct term would probably be
gastroenterologist
.

Dr. Goldfarb worked on Tuesday mornings as the medical consultant at Heavenly HMO. Yep, that’s how I acquired my job there.

These three gentlemen were Daddy’s buddies from the
Sportsman’s Club
, a group of old geezers that went deer and wild turkey hunting every year on property they jointly owned in Virginia, up on Mount Storm.

As soon as Farts cleared the top basement step, I shut the door behind him and locked it. Felt great. I sighed and unlocked it. Stumbling out the front door, I stopped by the first azalea bush. Its new green growth hadn’t shed the brown remnants of the big spring blossoming.

I realized that I didn’t have my Suburban with me. A flashback from the accident quickened my pulse. Well, I imagined I’d not be driving
that
vehicle again. I wondered what they did with it after sweeping the debris into a dustpan. Great. Now I’d have to haggle with the auto insurance company. Fun.

Okay, so how was I getting home? I went back inside my parents’ house and grabbed the fluorescent orange goody bag. Well, let’s see here, I had three dollars, one dime, six pennies and another dime left. I didn’t think a cab would take my Hilton Honors American Express Card. But I did wanna go home. Oh did I wanna go home.
What to do, what to do when your foot is stuck in the glue?
Boy that was a stupid old rhyme. One of Perry’s probably.

I heard the herd climbing the stairs. I moved out of the way and sank into the leather tub chair. It had been Daddy’s favorite. He’d slung his old arthritic knees over it and curled up into many a nap there. One by one, they each shook my hand and offered deepest sympathies. I noticed Farts—um, Doctor Goldfarb—wandering through the kitchen. I asked Mr. Meddlestein, “What’s he looking for?”

“
The booze and grub. Where’s the buffet set up?”

All eyes eagerly anticipated my response. I felt my face go flush. “I’m very sorry. This is all so sudden…and horrific. My sister Tammy had ordered KFC and I thought that Daddy would have wanted something home-cooked with love for his special send-off so I shooed the guy away.”

Doctor Goldfarb hollered from the kitchen, “Nathan loved KFC. That would have been very appropriate. What got into you, girl?”

It always amazed me how the hard-of-hearing could detect a whisper in another room but never answered when you asked them to do something. One of Momma’s sore spots with Daddy.

Roddy Meddlestein chimed in, “Damn, an extra crispy fried chicken leg would hit the spot now.”

Chief Bubba Wrigley said, “Would you believe it’s not fried? Yessiree, I know the secret. It’s pressure cooked. Saw that on the cable television one night. Hey, Meddlestein, did you see the fly-fishing tournament last Sunday?”

Farts Goldfarb rummaged through the kitchen, slamming cabinets. I bolted up and went to see what he was doing. He’d found a partially used bottle of vodka and was pouring some into a tea-stained tumbler. Two saltine crackers were disappearing into his mouth. I shook my head and went back to face the butt holes, um…mourners. Farts followed me.

As we returned to the living room, Mrs. Meddlestein said, “I’ve got a brisket in the crock pot and a lemon cake. You all are welcome to come over to our house.”

A tall, elegantly dressed African American woman had come in the front door. The three caballeros leered as they sized her up and guffawed to each other.

Mrs. Meddlestein greeted the lady. “The body is downstairs, dear. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Gloria Meddlestein. I’ve lived across the street from Nathan for thirty-six years. And what is your name? How did you know Nathan?”

As the new arrival proceeded downstairs with the interrogator, Chief Bubba Wrigley called out, “Ain’t no food or cocktails here, cheap-assed party.”

My stomach knotted up. Teardrops singed my cheeks. I escaped into Momma’s bedroom and shut the door. I lay down in her mattress dip and rubbed my hands back and forth on her lavender chambray bedspread. I rubbed and rubbed until my hands felt fiery. I really needed to blow my nose. I glanced at the bedside stand and noticed Momma’s big beige leather pocketbook. Momma always had tissues. I stretched across the bed and reached out. I lay still for a moment and then rose up and scooted over and picked it up.

I plucked a folded sandwich of tissues out of her purse and blew and blew. I wiped my eyes with a fresh one. I picked up the pocketbook and lifted it back onto the nightstand. It was heavy. Momma always had a heavy purse. Lots of loose coins, a paperback novel, scarf, letter opener for protection, keys…
That’s it! I’ll borrow Momma’s car.
I eased the purse straps on my shoulder, threw the snotty tissues in the black and gold metal wastebasket and headed down the hall.

I marched right by the geezers and out the door. Down the steps and into the driveway, I trekked past a vintage hospital scrubs-colored green pickup truck, no doubt belonging to Doc Goldfarb. Blocking the driveway on the street was Chief Bubba Wrigley’s shiny blue Ford Crown Victoria, duly equipped with the police package. And under the carport, there she was, Momma’s fiftieth anniversary edition Corvette. I pressed the automatic key and heard the locks disengage. I opened the big wide door.

Putting Momma’s purse in first, I then slid my body into the low seat. I shut the door and locked it.

I slipped the key into the ignition and turned on the accessory power. The sound system kicked in, picking up the CD track that Momma had last listened to. The Bee Gees hit song from the sixties, “I’ve Gotta Get a Message to You”. For a fleeting moment, I listened hard, trying to hear if she was trying to send me a message through the song. Then I realized how foolish that was. I remembered hearing about the teenagers who used to think if they played the Beatles’ pop songs backward there were secret messages.

It was hot. Really hot. I cracked the windows and lowered the volume. Since I couldn’t go anywhere, blocked in by the other cars, I reclined the driver’s seat and closed my eyes.

My arid mouth annoyed me. I licked my lips. Gum, yeah, gum. I dug around in Momma’s purse and extracted a pack of cinnamon gum. One piece remaining. I unwrapped it and sucked on the powdery cinnamon. I chewed. Momma always popped her gum. She was great at it. It was a trait that I hadn’t inherited. She was also a great cruncher. She nibbled in fives. Bite, crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch…bite, crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch. Great molars, my momma had.
Oh Momma. How did it come to this? I can’t believe they really locked you away. So what if Mrs. Meddlestein saw you waving Daddy’s cane and yelling at him. She didn’t see you hit him. And neither did Perry. I didn’t notice a bump on his head before he died. I don’t know why Daddy would tell me that you killed him. None of this makes sense. If Perry locked you up in a mental hospital, then you could not possibly have murdered Daddy. I wouldn’t be one bit surprised if he staged the whole thing to set you up. Why?
I shrugged my shoulders. Ouch. Daddy had always manipulated people and situations for his own amusement. To think that I believed every word out of his mouth until I was thirty-six years old.

He had told me Tammy had uterine cancer. I cried and cried and regretted all of the stupid sibling rivalry. We had squandered our time together. I was terrified to lose my sister. I tried to call her, she wouldn’t pick up the phone and talk to me. I made a mix tape CD for her, all of the songs I loved that were upbeat and happy. I mailed it to her with a
Get Well
card. I prayed for her three times a day.

Two weeks later, I bumped into her at Bella Hair. She was having her hair straightened. I asked her if that was a good idea, worried it might make it fall out quicker when she underwent chemotherapy. She laughed in my face and told me she most certainly did not have any type of cancer. When I confronted Daddy, he had told me to wise up.

Why did Daddy lie to me about such a horrific thing? The only reason I could come up with was for his own amusement. Or maybe he wanted me and Tammy to get along better and assumed it was my fault we didn’t. I loved my sister. And I always believed that deep down she loved me too.

I should go see Momma. They did allow visitors at the mental hospital, didn’t they? I checked the time on the little clock on the dashboard. Eight fifty. They probably wouldn’t let me see her, let alone check her out at this hour. Or? Maybe I was just trying to chicken out. I couldn’t deal with another family crisis just now.
I’ll go tomorrow.

I always heard the general prison population was rough on cops. Surely they hadn’t put Momma with criminals. They also wouldn’t think a sweet old lady used to be a Secret Service agent. After all, she’d been a registered nurse for the last thirty years. I was so glad when she changed careers. I couldn’t have survived the pain of losing Momma if she had to take a bullet for the President. And look at poor Jim Brady. He was just a press secretary and now he was paralyzed because he was with President Ronald Reagan when a nut tried to assassinate him. Jim took a bullet for the Commander-in-Chief.

Wonder what it would be like to be a presidential press secretary. I could do that. Well, had I an education, I could do it. But I didn’t. So a good union job in the file room at Heavenly HMO was where I toiled.
Daytime, nighttime, Saturdays too, we open our doors
— No, that was the old “Citizen’s Bank of Maryland conveniently yours” jingle. I only had to work weekdays and sometimes on Saturday mornings. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Old Bully next door was barking up a thunderstorm. He instigated a chain reaction. The call of the wild commenced doing the stadium wave around the cul-de-sac. I opened one eye and then squinted the next one open. I watched in the rearview mirror. The mourners were shaking hands, slapping backs and—yes!—they were leaving.

I ducked back down and peeped in the sideview mirror. As soon as Bubba’s navy blue Crown Victoria squealed out of the oil-stained concrete driveway, I popped the seat upright. As I buckled the safety belt, I watched Roddy and Gloria Meddlestein’s front door close.

I moved the seat forward. Momma was six inches taller than me. Didn’t inherit her height either. I didn’t mind being five foot two. It was fun being little and cute. Sometimes anyway. But not when I needed a baking dish from the top kitchen shelf or when I was reaching for the latest
How To Find A Literary Agent and Get Published
book from the top shelf at the bookstore. Did those people even realize that some of us had short arms to go with our short legs and coupled together, we couldn’t reach the top shelves?

The last time I had been in there, I had tiptoed and stretched and had been able to yank one down, scraping my wrist on one of their little shelf signs. When I had turned around to walk to a comfy chair, I had noticed the stepstool. After kicking it, I had plopped down and opened the book.

I remembered moaning dramatically as soon as I’d realized it was written by hoity-toity Fifth Avenue New York literary agent extraordinaire, Miz Tiffany Crigler-Hufnagle. She’d sent me a form rejection on my one-page query letter, seeking representation for my first completed romantic suspense novel,
Hundred Dollar Bill
. It was no different from the other eighty-odd rejections I’d received. A poor-quality photocopied
Dear Author
letter.
I have personally considered your proposal and I am afraid it does not sufficiently excite me. I am much too busy with all of my celebrity authors to be bothered with a nobody. The writing is not strong enough to be commercially marketable. The characters didn’t come to life. Lots of luck finding representation elsewhere
.

The writing isn’t strong. The characters didn’t come to life.
How the hell could she tell that from a one-page query letter? She hadn’t even seen the manuscript. That’s okay. It was business. I just needed to find the right agent to match-make me with the acquisitions editor at a publishing house who would adore my characters.

If I would have been able to attend the writers’ conference last week, I could’ve pitched my book live and in person to both an agent and an editor. And since my submission finaled in the writing contest, all the agents and editors there would have been chasing me down the red carpet, begging at my Cinderella-slippered feet. Well, if I won they would have. All I knew was I made it into the top ten in the suspense category. I’d probably get the scores in the mail.

But I’d never get the mail if I didn’t get across the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and home. I started the engine, turned up the music, shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway, halfway into the Meddlesteins’. I shifted into overdrive and let the horses run down the block, to a rolling stop at the corner.
Oh yeah Momma, you do know how to select an automobile.