Sherry Morris's Blog, page 20
July 6, 2013
Sample Chapter: THE MASTER MANIPULATOR
A Stand-Alone Book in The Good Girls of Washington Series 
The Master Manipulator(Dying to Love Him) By Sherry Silver
U.S. eBook: iTunes ARe Diesel Kindle Kobo Nook Smashwords U.S. Paperback: Amazon Barnes and Noble CreateSpace Books A Million
U.K. eBook: Nook Kindle iTunes
U.K. Paperback: Amazon
Canadian eBook: Sony Kindle iTunes
Canadian Paperback: Amazon
Book Summary:After her father's death, socialite Tammy Payne returns to her suburban Washington, DC apartment to find she's been evicted. Realizing her black sheep sister Donna had control over the finances and must have cut her off, Tammy storms Donna's Virginia townhouse. Something is not right. The dog is emaciated. Donna is sprawled out in a coma.
What Tammy doesn't realize is that Donna is in a special dreamland far from her miserable life, peon job and selfish siblings. A debonair dream weaver is romancing Donna through her family's sordid pasts, where mystery, romance and karma collide.
Their pompous brother, Judge Perry Payne, knows a family secret. He is playing both sisters against themselves in a dirty diabolical scheme which will net him billions--if it works out in the end.
Chapter OneSo Much for My Happy Ending
Tammy climbed three flights of stairs. Her breath hitched as soon as she spied her apartment door.
Wide open.
In snakeskin stilettos, she tippy-toed down the stained blue carpeted hallway. The place reeked of industrial disinfectant. As she stepped into the vast emptiness of her home for the last seven months, she screamed. “Help! Fire! Fire!” There wasn’t a fire, but that always elicited quicker responses than Help! Police!
Nobody came. She blazed a trail through the apartment, checking every room and closet. Her possessions were all gone. Nothing remained but pink shower curtain rings dangling in the bathroom and a few shards of her Manhattan skyline mural clinging to the living room wall.
She sprinted down the stairs two at a time while groping the cold metal railing. She had a flashback of running down Beverly Boulevard in pumps and a thong tankini, but this was no publicity shoot for the gym.
Like the Bionic Woman, Tammy ran across the parking lot and stormed into the rental office. A couple sitting at the manager’s desk twisted around to look at her. The husband smiled, ogling her sculpted mocha thighs exposed up to there in a short white skirt. The wife glared at him.
“Where are my belongings?” Tammy demanded.
The manager said, “Excuse me one moment,” to the couple.
He slipped his fingers through his greasy gray hair as he scurried around the desk and motioned for Tammy to join him near the restroom. In a hushed tone he said, “Ms. Payne, you were evicted.”
“When? Why? How dare you!” She threw her arms up in the mildewy office air and then sliced through it with fists dropping at her sides.
The manager stepped back.
“My brother is Judge Perry Payne and you’ll be sorry—”
“You were given the required notice. You know there is no grace period here at Arundel Forrest.” He shot an eye over his shoulder and spoke up. “We are the most sought after luxury apartment community in the Washington, D.C. metropolitan region. You knew that when you signed your lease. There is no grace period. You failed to pay your rent. Our collections department set the wheels in motion.”
“What? My rent gets paid automatically by my—my money manager. Check your banking records. You lying little insignificant power tripping nobody.”
Tammy placed her hand on her cleavage, trying to keep her runaway heartbeat under her skin. She remembered an official looking letter from the Sheriff’s office that she chose not to open, thinking it contained a summons for parking tickets. Her rent was automatically deducted from her father’s checking account... Oh-Donna! When Daddy died, she became executrix of his estate. She must have cut me off! I’m gonna kill that sissy-girl!
Tammy clenched her fists and stamped her feet. Her blistered right pinky toe rubbed sorely inside the shoe. “There has been a terrible mistake. I’ll write you a check.” She sifted through her Kate Spade bag.
The manager said, “We have no vacancies.”
“Nobody is in my apartment. It’s empty. And I want reimbursement for my Manhattan mural. No. I want you to find another one and have it hung at your expense. And I expect my personal property—”
“Your apartment has been rented to another tenant. We have no vacancies. Ms. Payne, you no longer live here.”
“Well I’ve never been so insulted in my life. Just wait until my brother the judge hears about this!” Tammy flipped open her cell phone. The battery was dead. “And I want my belongings right now!”
“The sheriff’s department hauled everything to the curb. What the other tenants didn’t want was slam dunked into the dumpster.”
Tammy huffed out of the office and was smacked in the face with the Maryland August humidity.
Scanning the parking lot, she drew in a deep breath. Good. At least my car is still here. She dug her keys out of her purse and clicked the door open on her teal Thunderbird. Grabbing the top frame of the door, Tammy stared at the dumpster across the lot.
She swallowed the wad of humiliation in her throat, threw her head back and marched up the wooden ramp. Her nose wiggled at the ode de diapers. She clapped one hand across her mouth and nose. Tammy swatted at a yellow jacket as she peeked over the top of the green metal Mecca of waste. Broken terra cotta pots, burst open plastic trash bags oozing out coffee filters and apple cores and somebody’s old webbed aluminum chaise lay scattered on the bottom.
Tammy fought back tears at the realization the dumpster had recently been emptied. She raced back to her car, climbed inside and slammed the door on her ebony pony tail. “Ouch!” She opened it up, pulled her hair in and shut it. After engaging the locks, Tammy shoved the key in the ignition and cranked it. Good. It started.
~*~
Tammy pounded on the front door of her sister Donna’s Virginia townhouse. Her pink manicure reflected back from the clean etched glass. A hulking monster of a dog placed two paws on the other side of the door. Tammy stumbled backwards and grabbed the wrought iron railing. The canine emitted only a pitiful whimper.
Maybe Oh-Donna’s in the shower. The sky began to spit on Tammy. She descended the twelve brown brick steps and marched around the matching path to the rear of her sister’s end unit townhouse. She opened the gate on the six foot tall privacy fence. The first five feet of it was board on board, the top foot was lattice. After latching the gate, she dashed under the deck.
Tammy tried the French doors in the basement. They were unlocked. She stomped in and slammed the door behind her. Immediately turning her nose up at the overdone red walls and carpet, she hurried across a room filled with guitars, a piano, harmonicas, violins and recording equipment. Tammy took the stairs two at a time. Reaching the top, she flung open a white steel door and was greeted by Scooby Doo-ette. “Hi girl, remember me? How are you, Sugar?”
Something wasn’t right.
The dog was nearly emaciated. Her ribs were showing and she wasn’t her boisterous self.
“Eew! What’s that smell?” The kitchen reeked of urine and there were three piles of poop on the hardwood floor.
“You poor thing! Oh-Donna went away and forgot about you.” Tammy unlocked the French Doors in the kitchen. The dog bolted out onto the deck. She filled her water bowl and then scooped three cups of kibbles into the chrome food dish. The whimpering dog slumped on the pressure treated wood deck, surrounded by terra cotta pots of wilted flowers. Tammy let her back in. The Great Dane immediately chomped down the food and lapped up the water.
The stench in the kitchen gagged her. Tammy opened the cabinet under the kitchen sink and dug out a trash bag, disinfectant and yellow rubber gloves. Yanking seven paper towels off the roll on the pistol-gray granite counter, Tammy went to work cleaning the mess, all the while mumbling, “Oh-Donna you good for nothing bitch. How could you do this to a poor defenseless doggie?” Tammy breathed through her mouth, trying desperately not to inhale. “And how could you be so cruel as to cut me off from Daddy’s money?” A tear rolled down her cheek. “How could you? You’ll pay for this little sister of mine.”
Tammy placed the smelly bag out on the deck and then shoved the cleaning supplies back under the sink.
The air conditioning kicked on. A cold shiver raced up her spine. “Where is the thermostat Scooby Doo-ette? Hunh girl?” The dog brushed up against her silk-stockinged leg and licked her throat. She petted the Great Dane. The pair headed down the hallway, in search of the thermostat.
Tammy stopped in front of the living room, where she glimpsed her sister lying on the sofa.
Lifeless.
Tammy screamed.
The dog cried and licked Tammy’s hand.
“Ohmagod, she’s dead!” Hey, wait a minute, if Oh-Donna is dead, then that means she can’t be executrix of Daddy’s will and so I can get put back on the dole and hey, wait a minute. She’s an old spinster, so I logically will inherit her estate as well...
Tammy sighed. Oh, I’ll probably have to split it with Perry. But at least I’ll get a nice chunk of change.
She looked the corpse over. Her sister lay in the fetal position, with a smile curling the corner of her pale lips. What an angelic porcelain face. Even now, a twinge of jealousy swirled. Oh-Donna was blessed with naturally wavy blonde hair and flawless Caucasian skin. Tammy never did feel like they were real sisters. Even though the Payne’s adopted Tammy as a baby, she never warmed up to their natural daughter, Oh-Donna. But Tammy did feel an allegiance to their son Perry. They were more alike.
Tammy stepped closer, stumbling over the clumsy dog. Oh for the love of Prada, her tummy is moving up and down with her breathing. There goes my plan. “Wake up Oh-Donna.”
She didn’t move. Tammy shook her arm. “Wake up! Now! Get up Oh-Donna.”
No reaction.
Tammy remembered Farts (their late father’s proctologist friend) telling her and Perry that Oh-Donna had a brain disorder which caused her to fall asleep at weird times. She recollected discovering her sleeping in the walk-in closet under the stairs at their parents’ house and then she’d fainted in front of her moments later.
Tammy hugged her chilled arms, wishing the damned air conditioner would shut off. “Wake up Oh-Donna. Wake the frick up, you brain damaged witch. Wake up sissy-girl.”
Her sister didn’t respond. It was as though she was in a coma...
“Ohmagod. Oh-Donna is in a coma! I’m so sorry sweetie! You poor thing. That’s why the dog was starved and crapped in the house. How long have you been like this?”
Tammy snatched the cordless phone from the end table and punched in her brother’s cell phone number.
“Judge Payne here.”
“Perry! Oh-Donna’s in a coma! And the dog pooped all over the house and she’s gonna die and that bitch cut me off, I’ve been evicted—”
“What? Slow down. Oh-Donna’s in a coma? Where are you?”
“I’m at her house. I can’t wake her up.”
“Hang up and call nine-one-one.”
Tammy breathlessly squealed, “I don’t have time to look up the number for nine-one-one. What if she dies?” Sweet Jesus forgive me for my earlier thoughts. I didn’t mean them. Honest I didn’t. Her stomach churned. I’m gonna go to Hell for my thoughts. Tears deposited mascara in her eyes. She closed them tightly.
Perry barked, “Call an ambulance. The number for nine-one-one is nine-one-one Goddamit! I’ll be over as soon as I can. Call me and tell me what hospital they’re taking her to.” He hung up.
Tammy conjured up the last time her sister fainted, she’d thrown a glass of water in her face and she woke up. “Water!” She sprinted to the kitchen and picked up the dog’s water bowl. She filled it and jogged down the hallway, sloshing a trail behind her. The Great Dane lapped it off the hardwood floor. In the foyer, Tammy tripped on the edge of a sisal area rug and emptied the bowl onto her designer suit. “Darn you Oh-Donna!” Her scream pierced so loudly the dog skedaddled upstairs.
“Oh...” Her sister groaned.
Tammy dropped the chrome bowl and scrambled to her side. She picked up her arm, pumping it up and down, slapping her hand. “Oh-Donna, wake up Oh-Donna!”
Her sister murmured, “No...! No...! Not the Donna song...” Her smile morphed into a scowl.
Tammy slapped her sister’s face with both hands. “Wake up Oh-Donna. Now!”
“No. No. Go back. Ash...ley...”~*~
The damned Donna song. Why did Ritchie Valens have to write a song with my name in it? Oh-Donna. That’s my miserable nickname. They always use it to pull me outta my happily ever after. I hate belonging to the Payne family. Ashley, promise you’ll be waiting for me when I come back? Don’t forget to send some music to pull me back to you. Keep Make Believe Island just for us, will ya lover boy?
My stomach burned with sourness rising up into indigestion. When I breathed in Bellissimo, Tammy’s perfume, I quoted a famous bear, “Oh bother!” and opened my eyes. There she was.
Tammy screeched, “Good! You’re back with us. Don’t do that to me again Oh-Donna. You scared me to death.”
I focused on my stereo system across the room. The amber clock blinked and winked. My song wasn’t playing. I’d set Dobie Gray’s “Drift Away” on repeat and was pulled into the best dream ever. Ashley and I had been consummating our love. That secret agent man freed my soul and beckoned me to the passageway of erotic delight.
Darn it. What had happened to the music that transported me to him this time? I groaned, “Did the power go out?”
The pitter-patter of four enormous paws announced the dog’s eminent return.
Tammy replied, “What? No. Well, I dunno, maybe. How long have you been sleeping? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I shoveled out wall to wall poop in the kitchen. And scrubbed the nasty dried pee residue. Look at your poor dog. She’s starving.”
I felt her thick tongue licking my bare feet. Plenty of slobber. “Norma Jean” I said, weakly. I swung my legs off the sofa and thumped onto the floor, hitting my head on the glass topped coffee table. “Oww!” I pushed myself up, shaky on my hands and knees. I tried to stand again.
Tammy gently helped me to my feet. “I’m sorry, Sis. You really are sick. I’ll make you some food. Sit back down.”
“No. Bathroom. Quick.”
Tammy got me there, just in time. She even helped me onto the seat and then she closed the door. That was scary. Tammy helping me.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me, Sis.”
I did what needed to be done and washed my hands. Oh did I look horrible in the oval mirror. I ran a brush through my tangled hair and washed my face with some liquid hand soap. When I flung open the door, my sister helped me stumble to the kitchen. I plopped down in a chair.
The grinder moaned as she dispensed crushed ice and then some water into a glass. She handed it to me.
I gulped it down and wiped my cracked lips with the back of my trembling hand. She refilled the cup. I shivered.
Tammy asked, “Where’s the thermostat?”
“Hunh?”
“The thermostat. I feel like Lucy Ricardo in the meat locker. It’s cold and raining outside. The air conditioner shouldn’t be set so low.”
“By the front door. Push the warmer button. Until you hit seventy-two.”
Tammy wiggled off on her mission.
Norma Jean laid on my feet. Her warm bony body felt comforting. I stroked her head with the tips of my fingers. “Oh poor girl. I’m so sorry you didn’t get to eat for...Tammy what’s today?”
My sister returned. “Monday.”
“Wait a minute. I paid the bills this morning. She couldn’t have pooped that much and lost weight in a few hours.” My head hurt. “Hey, you and Perry were leaving to go look for Momma today. I saw you.”
“You did not. And that was last Monday.”
We both gasped.
Tammy flipped a grilled cheese sandwich she was melting in a small skillet. She served it on one of my palm tree motif plates, with a dill pickle.
“I’m on a low carb diet. I can’t eat the bread.”
“Oh-Donna, you haven’t eaten in a week. And you’re not fat. Eat!”
“Cut it in half for me. Diagonally?” I gazed up at her pitifully.
She grabbed a steak knife from the block near the stove and slit the gooey sandwich.
I took a bite, huffing on the hotness, rolling it around on my tongue.
Norma Jean hurtled to the door, barking. The door bell chimed “Aura Lee”. I didn’t want any more company. Tammy sashayed down the hallway. I could see her open the door.
I chewed and swallowed. It tasted so good and creamy. It’d been so long since I’d eaten bread. Even this old stuff she’d found in the freezer tasted so buttery and comforting. And the gooey Swiss cheese was so yummy.
My stomach reeled taking in the residual doggy potty scent. The citrus disinfectant didn’t quite kill the odor. It stunk as if there was still a fresh pile. I leaned down and looked under the table. No wonder.I overheard hushed whispers.
“We’ve got to do something about her. Have her institutionalized or something, Perry. You can sign a court order, like you did with Mom.”
“How bad is she? Crazy? Dying? Sick?”
“Yeah, yeah yeah. I feel sorry for her though. I mean, what a way to go, losing her mind and all. She was mumbling when I woke her up. It was as if she didn’t want to come back, she wanted to die.”
I sat up. The third bite of the sandwich did it. I was full. And angry. I light-headedly rushed down the hall, smack into my seven feet tall and seemingly seven feet wide fifty year old half-brother, with a shaved head. Perry was wearing his usual emergency visitation garb: his black judge’s robe. He was always such a show off, running around in it. Couldn’t he see how silly he looked out of the court room?
Perry steadied me. “How are you feeling Oh-Donna?”
“Like throwing the two of you out. How dare you come to my home, uninvited and unannounced and then talk about me like I’m retarded and can’t understand your evil hurtful words?” I cried.
Perry escorted me to my living room sofa. I didn’t have much of a choice but to comply, because of his size and my shaky state.
I said, “No! In the recliner.”
He obliged.
At least I’d be able to get myself up easier from the chair.
My half-brother squatted at my side. He brushed a stray curl from my eyes. “Oh-Donna. You have a brain injury. Remember when you collapsed at work and they rushed you to the hospital? The neurologist said it likely happened when you totaled your Suburban, after hitting the deer. Remember?”
Oh yeah, I remembered. I was moments from leaving home, to catch a flight to New York for the writers’ conference. I was up for an award and I had been assigned an eight minute appointment with the acquisitions editor of Charlatan Press. But Daddy telephoned me and said Momma was trying to kill him. He was a pathological liar. I’d only figured this out two years ago. My whole life had been smoke and mirrors, all orchestrated by the great puppeteer, Dr. Nathan Payne.
But my conscience made me check it out. I was driving to my parents’ house when Daddy called again, on my cell phone. I knew it was him because the distinctive ring tone I’d set for him was “We Wish You A Merry Christmas.” I couldn’t unhook it from my belt. I remember the deer smashing through the windshield and pinning my shoulder with his antler. Then I woke up in the hospital.
I shuddered. “Yeah, I remember.”
“They wanted to run more tests and keep you under observation. You ran off against medical advice.”
“So.”
“So your little narcoleptic-like incidents are getting worse. You need to get some medical help. Maybe a nice long rest away from all the stress you’ve been under, I know it was tough on you—” He cleared his throat, “When Dad died. You were his favorite and all.”
I was his favorite. Oh yeah, right. That’s why he named me executrix, but willed everything to you and Tammy. Greedy needy children that you are. That was in the will Perry produced. Roderick Meddlestein, Esquire, my parent’s across-the-street neighbor for thirty years, later revealed daddy had retained him to draw up a more recent will, leaving everything to Momma.
Perry stood up and said, “I’ll call Saint Christopher’s. They have a nice unit—”
I flipped him the bird. Poked him in his big floppy belly. “You sonofabitch, Perry Lucifer Payne! You’re trying to have me committed like you did Momma, so you can sell my house and things and split the money with Tammy and laugh all the way to Hell. That’s where you are both going. Go now! Get outta my house! You go to Hell! You couldn’t keep Momma in the nut house and you won’t stash me there either! I’ll go to Momma. You’ll never find us.”
Tammy said, “So you do know where Mom is. You sent us on that wild goose chase to Palm Springs on purpose, didn’t you?”
The phone rang. Tammy answered. She handed it to me. I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I sniffled and said, “Hello.”
“Donna? This is Mike Taurus...your mother’s friend...”
Something in his voice didn’t sound right.
“Yes Mike. How are you?”
I cleared my throat as I listened to him exhale.
“You’re mother died in her sleep this morning.”
I threw my head back onto the firm gold recliner. “No.” I choked out. “Are you sure?” What a stupid question. If he weren’t sure, he wouldn’t have called me.
“Yes sweetheart. She’s in a better place now.”
I swallowed hard. “I’ll fly down right away. Give me directions to the island.”
“Just go to the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach. Call me when you arrive and I’ll come and get you. Tell the concierge you’re my— You’re Chloe’s daughter. They’ll take care of you.”
The historic Fontainebleau. Where old Mike works as a bell hop. Love the place.
Mike coughed. “She wanted to be buried next to her babies. Is that all right with you?”
I closed my eyes. Remembering talking to Momma on the island, by the graves of her stillborn twins. “Of course. Yes. Yes.”
“I’ll see you some time tonight or tomorrow then?”
“Yes.” I clicked the off button.
Tammy asked, “Just where do you think you’re going? Have a date with a Starbucks barista? Can he hop you up on caffeine long enough to stay awake during dinner and dancing?”
I closed my eyes tight and then broke into a breathless round of tears. Oh it hurt. My whole body hurt. My soul hurt. The little girl in me was dying.
I finally blurted out “Momma died. Momma is dead. I’m an orphan.”
Tammy and Perry shot looks at one another.
The Master Manipulator:U.S. eBook: iTunes ARe Diesel Kindle Kobo Nook Smashwords U.S. Paperback: Amazon Barnes and Noble CreateSpace Books A Million
U.K. eBook: Nook Kindle iTunes
U.K. Paperback: Amazon
Canadian eBook: Sony Kindle iTunes
Canadian Paperback: Amazon
The Master Manipulator(Dying to Love Him) By Sherry Silver
U.S. eBook: iTunes ARe Diesel Kindle Kobo Nook Smashwords U.S. Paperback: Amazon Barnes and Noble CreateSpace Books A MillionU.K. eBook: Nook Kindle iTunes
U.K. Paperback: Amazon
Canadian eBook: Sony Kindle iTunes
Canadian Paperback: Amazon
Book Summary:After her father's death, socialite Tammy Payne returns to her suburban Washington, DC apartment to find she's been evicted. Realizing her black sheep sister Donna had control over the finances and must have cut her off, Tammy storms Donna's Virginia townhouse. Something is not right. The dog is emaciated. Donna is sprawled out in a coma.
What Tammy doesn't realize is that Donna is in a special dreamland far from her miserable life, peon job and selfish siblings. A debonair dream weaver is romancing Donna through her family's sordid pasts, where mystery, romance and karma collide.
Their pompous brother, Judge Perry Payne, knows a family secret. He is playing both sisters against themselves in a dirty diabolical scheme which will net him billions--if it works out in the end.
Chapter OneSo Much for My Happy Ending
Tammy climbed three flights of stairs. Her breath hitched as soon as she spied her apartment door.
Wide open.
In snakeskin stilettos, she tippy-toed down the stained blue carpeted hallway. The place reeked of industrial disinfectant. As she stepped into the vast emptiness of her home for the last seven months, she screamed. “Help! Fire! Fire!” There wasn’t a fire, but that always elicited quicker responses than Help! Police!
Nobody came. She blazed a trail through the apartment, checking every room and closet. Her possessions were all gone. Nothing remained but pink shower curtain rings dangling in the bathroom and a few shards of her Manhattan skyline mural clinging to the living room wall.
She sprinted down the stairs two at a time while groping the cold metal railing. She had a flashback of running down Beverly Boulevard in pumps and a thong tankini, but this was no publicity shoot for the gym.
Like the Bionic Woman, Tammy ran across the parking lot and stormed into the rental office. A couple sitting at the manager’s desk twisted around to look at her. The husband smiled, ogling her sculpted mocha thighs exposed up to there in a short white skirt. The wife glared at him.
“Where are my belongings?” Tammy demanded.
The manager said, “Excuse me one moment,” to the couple.
He slipped his fingers through his greasy gray hair as he scurried around the desk and motioned for Tammy to join him near the restroom. In a hushed tone he said, “Ms. Payne, you were evicted.”
“When? Why? How dare you!” She threw her arms up in the mildewy office air and then sliced through it with fists dropping at her sides.
The manager stepped back.
“My brother is Judge Perry Payne and you’ll be sorry—”
“You were given the required notice. You know there is no grace period here at Arundel Forrest.” He shot an eye over his shoulder and spoke up. “We are the most sought after luxury apartment community in the Washington, D.C. metropolitan region. You knew that when you signed your lease. There is no grace period. You failed to pay your rent. Our collections department set the wheels in motion.”
“What? My rent gets paid automatically by my—my money manager. Check your banking records. You lying little insignificant power tripping nobody.”
Tammy placed her hand on her cleavage, trying to keep her runaway heartbeat under her skin. She remembered an official looking letter from the Sheriff’s office that she chose not to open, thinking it contained a summons for parking tickets. Her rent was automatically deducted from her father’s checking account... Oh-Donna! When Daddy died, she became executrix of his estate. She must have cut me off! I’m gonna kill that sissy-girl!
Tammy clenched her fists and stamped her feet. Her blistered right pinky toe rubbed sorely inside the shoe. “There has been a terrible mistake. I’ll write you a check.” She sifted through her Kate Spade bag.
The manager said, “We have no vacancies.”
“Nobody is in my apartment. It’s empty. And I want reimbursement for my Manhattan mural. No. I want you to find another one and have it hung at your expense. And I expect my personal property—”
“Your apartment has been rented to another tenant. We have no vacancies. Ms. Payne, you no longer live here.”
“Well I’ve never been so insulted in my life. Just wait until my brother the judge hears about this!” Tammy flipped open her cell phone. The battery was dead. “And I want my belongings right now!”
“The sheriff’s department hauled everything to the curb. What the other tenants didn’t want was slam dunked into the dumpster.”
Tammy huffed out of the office and was smacked in the face with the Maryland August humidity.
Scanning the parking lot, she drew in a deep breath. Good. At least my car is still here. She dug her keys out of her purse and clicked the door open on her teal Thunderbird. Grabbing the top frame of the door, Tammy stared at the dumpster across the lot.
She swallowed the wad of humiliation in her throat, threw her head back and marched up the wooden ramp. Her nose wiggled at the ode de diapers. She clapped one hand across her mouth and nose. Tammy swatted at a yellow jacket as she peeked over the top of the green metal Mecca of waste. Broken terra cotta pots, burst open plastic trash bags oozing out coffee filters and apple cores and somebody’s old webbed aluminum chaise lay scattered on the bottom.
Tammy fought back tears at the realization the dumpster had recently been emptied. She raced back to her car, climbed inside and slammed the door on her ebony pony tail. “Ouch!” She opened it up, pulled her hair in and shut it. After engaging the locks, Tammy shoved the key in the ignition and cranked it. Good. It started.
~*~
Tammy pounded on the front door of her sister Donna’s Virginia townhouse. Her pink manicure reflected back from the clean etched glass. A hulking monster of a dog placed two paws on the other side of the door. Tammy stumbled backwards and grabbed the wrought iron railing. The canine emitted only a pitiful whimper.
Maybe Oh-Donna’s in the shower. The sky began to spit on Tammy. She descended the twelve brown brick steps and marched around the matching path to the rear of her sister’s end unit townhouse. She opened the gate on the six foot tall privacy fence. The first five feet of it was board on board, the top foot was lattice. After latching the gate, she dashed under the deck.
Tammy tried the French doors in the basement. They were unlocked. She stomped in and slammed the door behind her. Immediately turning her nose up at the overdone red walls and carpet, she hurried across a room filled with guitars, a piano, harmonicas, violins and recording equipment. Tammy took the stairs two at a time. Reaching the top, she flung open a white steel door and was greeted by Scooby Doo-ette. “Hi girl, remember me? How are you, Sugar?”
Something wasn’t right.
The dog was nearly emaciated. Her ribs were showing and she wasn’t her boisterous self.
“Eew! What’s that smell?” The kitchen reeked of urine and there were three piles of poop on the hardwood floor.
“You poor thing! Oh-Donna went away and forgot about you.” Tammy unlocked the French Doors in the kitchen. The dog bolted out onto the deck. She filled her water bowl and then scooped three cups of kibbles into the chrome food dish. The whimpering dog slumped on the pressure treated wood deck, surrounded by terra cotta pots of wilted flowers. Tammy let her back in. The Great Dane immediately chomped down the food and lapped up the water.
The stench in the kitchen gagged her. Tammy opened the cabinet under the kitchen sink and dug out a trash bag, disinfectant and yellow rubber gloves. Yanking seven paper towels off the roll on the pistol-gray granite counter, Tammy went to work cleaning the mess, all the while mumbling, “Oh-Donna you good for nothing bitch. How could you do this to a poor defenseless doggie?” Tammy breathed through her mouth, trying desperately not to inhale. “And how could you be so cruel as to cut me off from Daddy’s money?” A tear rolled down her cheek. “How could you? You’ll pay for this little sister of mine.”
Tammy placed the smelly bag out on the deck and then shoved the cleaning supplies back under the sink.
The air conditioning kicked on. A cold shiver raced up her spine. “Where is the thermostat Scooby Doo-ette? Hunh girl?” The dog brushed up against her silk-stockinged leg and licked her throat. She petted the Great Dane. The pair headed down the hallway, in search of the thermostat.
Tammy stopped in front of the living room, where she glimpsed her sister lying on the sofa.
Lifeless.
Tammy screamed.
The dog cried and licked Tammy’s hand.
“Ohmagod, she’s dead!” Hey, wait a minute, if Oh-Donna is dead, then that means she can’t be executrix of Daddy’s will and so I can get put back on the dole and hey, wait a minute. She’s an old spinster, so I logically will inherit her estate as well...
Tammy sighed. Oh, I’ll probably have to split it with Perry. But at least I’ll get a nice chunk of change.
She looked the corpse over. Her sister lay in the fetal position, with a smile curling the corner of her pale lips. What an angelic porcelain face. Even now, a twinge of jealousy swirled. Oh-Donna was blessed with naturally wavy blonde hair and flawless Caucasian skin. Tammy never did feel like they were real sisters. Even though the Payne’s adopted Tammy as a baby, she never warmed up to their natural daughter, Oh-Donna. But Tammy did feel an allegiance to their son Perry. They were more alike.
Tammy stepped closer, stumbling over the clumsy dog. Oh for the love of Prada, her tummy is moving up and down with her breathing. There goes my plan. “Wake up Oh-Donna.”
She didn’t move. Tammy shook her arm. “Wake up! Now! Get up Oh-Donna.”
No reaction.
Tammy remembered Farts (their late father’s proctologist friend) telling her and Perry that Oh-Donna had a brain disorder which caused her to fall asleep at weird times. She recollected discovering her sleeping in the walk-in closet under the stairs at their parents’ house and then she’d fainted in front of her moments later.
Tammy hugged her chilled arms, wishing the damned air conditioner would shut off. “Wake up Oh-Donna. Wake the frick up, you brain damaged witch. Wake up sissy-girl.”
Her sister didn’t respond. It was as though she was in a coma...
“Ohmagod. Oh-Donna is in a coma! I’m so sorry sweetie! You poor thing. That’s why the dog was starved and crapped in the house. How long have you been like this?”
Tammy snatched the cordless phone from the end table and punched in her brother’s cell phone number.
“Judge Payne here.”
“Perry! Oh-Donna’s in a coma! And the dog pooped all over the house and she’s gonna die and that bitch cut me off, I’ve been evicted—”
“What? Slow down. Oh-Donna’s in a coma? Where are you?”
“I’m at her house. I can’t wake her up.”
“Hang up and call nine-one-one.”
Tammy breathlessly squealed, “I don’t have time to look up the number for nine-one-one. What if she dies?” Sweet Jesus forgive me for my earlier thoughts. I didn’t mean them. Honest I didn’t. Her stomach churned. I’m gonna go to Hell for my thoughts. Tears deposited mascara in her eyes. She closed them tightly.
Perry barked, “Call an ambulance. The number for nine-one-one is nine-one-one Goddamit! I’ll be over as soon as I can. Call me and tell me what hospital they’re taking her to.” He hung up.
Tammy conjured up the last time her sister fainted, she’d thrown a glass of water in her face and she woke up. “Water!” She sprinted to the kitchen and picked up the dog’s water bowl. She filled it and jogged down the hallway, sloshing a trail behind her. The Great Dane lapped it off the hardwood floor. In the foyer, Tammy tripped on the edge of a sisal area rug and emptied the bowl onto her designer suit. “Darn you Oh-Donna!” Her scream pierced so loudly the dog skedaddled upstairs.
“Oh...” Her sister groaned.
Tammy dropped the chrome bowl and scrambled to her side. She picked up her arm, pumping it up and down, slapping her hand. “Oh-Donna, wake up Oh-Donna!”
Her sister murmured, “No...! No...! Not the Donna song...” Her smile morphed into a scowl.
Tammy slapped her sister’s face with both hands. “Wake up Oh-Donna. Now!”
“No. No. Go back. Ash...ley...”~*~
The damned Donna song. Why did Ritchie Valens have to write a song with my name in it? Oh-Donna. That’s my miserable nickname. They always use it to pull me outta my happily ever after. I hate belonging to the Payne family. Ashley, promise you’ll be waiting for me when I come back? Don’t forget to send some music to pull me back to you. Keep Make Believe Island just for us, will ya lover boy?
My stomach burned with sourness rising up into indigestion. When I breathed in Bellissimo, Tammy’s perfume, I quoted a famous bear, “Oh bother!” and opened my eyes. There she was.
Tammy screeched, “Good! You’re back with us. Don’t do that to me again Oh-Donna. You scared me to death.”
I focused on my stereo system across the room. The amber clock blinked and winked. My song wasn’t playing. I’d set Dobie Gray’s “Drift Away” on repeat and was pulled into the best dream ever. Ashley and I had been consummating our love. That secret agent man freed my soul and beckoned me to the passageway of erotic delight.
Darn it. What had happened to the music that transported me to him this time? I groaned, “Did the power go out?”
The pitter-patter of four enormous paws announced the dog’s eminent return.
Tammy replied, “What? No. Well, I dunno, maybe. How long have you been sleeping? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I shoveled out wall to wall poop in the kitchen. And scrubbed the nasty dried pee residue. Look at your poor dog. She’s starving.”
I felt her thick tongue licking my bare feet. Plenty of slobber. “Norma Jean” I said, weakly. I swung my legs off the sofa and thumped onto the floor, hitting my head on the glass topped coffee table. “Oww!” I pushed myself up, shaky on my hands and knees. I tried to stand again.
Tammy gently helped me to my feet. “I’m sorry, Sis. You really are sick. I’ll make you some food. Sit back down.”
“No. Bathroom. Quick.”
Tammy got me there, just in time. She even helped me onto the seat and then she closed the door. That was scary. Tammy helping me.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me, Sis.”
I did what needed to be done and washed my hands. Oh did I look horrible in the oval mirror. I ran a brush through my tangled hair and washed my face with some liquid hand soap. When I flung open the door, my sister helped me stumble to the kitchen. I plopped down in a chair.
The grinder moaned as she dispensed crushed ice and then some water into a glass. She handed it to me.
I gulped it down and wiped my cracked lips with the back of my trembling hand. She refilled the cup. I shivered.
Tammy asked, “Where’s the thermostat?”
“Hunh?”
“The thermostat. I feel like Lucy Ricardo in the meat locker. It’s cold and raining outside. The air conditioner shouldn’t be set so low.”
“By the front door. Push the warmer button. Until you hit seventy-two.”
Tammy wiggled off on her mission.
Norma Jean laid on my feet. Her warm bony body felt comforting. I stroked her head with the tips of my fingers. “Oh poor girl. I’m so sorry you didn’t get to eat for...Tammy what’s today?”
My sister returned. “Monday.”
“Wait a minute. I paid the bills this morning. She couldn’t have pooped that much and lost weight in a few hours.” My head hurt. “Hey, you and Perry were leaving to go look for Momma today. I saw you.”
“You did not. And that was last Monday.”
We both gasped.
Tammy flipped a grilled cheese sandwich she was melting in a small skillet. She served it on one of my palm tree motif plates, with a dill pickle.
“I’m on a low carb diet. I can’t eat the bread.”
“Oh-Donna, you haven’t eaten in a week. And you’re not fat. Eat!”
“Cut it in half for me. Diagonally?” I gazed up at her pitifully.
She grabbed a steak knife from the block near the stove and slit the gooey sandwich.
I took a bite, huffing on the hotness, rolling it around on my tongue.
Norma Jean hurtled to the door, barking. The door bell chimed “Aura Lee”. I didn’t want any more company. Tammy sashayed down the hallway. I could see her open the door.
I chewed and swallowed. It tasted so good and creamy. It’d been so long since I’d eaten bread. Even this old stuff she’d found in the freezer tasted so buttery and comforting. And the gooey Swiss cheese was so yummy.
My stomach reeled taking in the residual doggy potty scent. The citrus disinfectant didn’t quite kill the odor. It stunk as if there was still a fresh pile. I leaned down and looked under the table. No wonder.I overheard hushed whispers.
“We’ve got to do something about her. Have her institutionalized or something, Perry. You can sign a court order, like you did with Mom.”
“How bad is she? Crazy? Dying? Sick?”
“Yeah, yeah yeah. I feel sorry for her though. I mean, what a way to go, losing her mind and all. She was mumbling when I woke her up. It was as if she didn’t want to come back, she wanted to die.”
I sat up. The third bite of the sandwich did it. I was full. And angry. I light-headedly rushed down the hall, smack into my seven feet tall and seemingly seven feet wide fifty year old half-brother, with a shaved head. Perry was wearing his usual emergency visitation garb: his black judge’s robe. He was always such a show off, running around in it. Couldn’t he see how silly he looked out of the court room?
Perry steadied me. “How are you feeling Oh-Donna?”
“Like throwing the two of you out. How dare you come to my home, uninvited and unannounced and then talk about me like I’m retarded and can’t understand your evil hurtful words?” I cried.
Perry escorted me to my living room sofa. I didn’t have much of a choice but to comply, because of his size and my shaky state.
I said, “No! In the recliner.”
He obliged.
At least I’d be able to get myself up easier from the chair.
My half-brother squatted at my side. He brushed a stray curl from my eyes. “Oh-Donna. You have a brain injury. Remember when you collapsed at work and they rushed you to the hospital? The neurologist said it likely happened when you totaled your Suburban, after hitting the deer. Remember?”
Oh yeah, I remembered. I was moments from leaving home, to catch a flight to New York for the writers’ conference. I was up for an award and I had been assigned an eight minute appointment with the acquisitions editor of Charlatan Press. But Daddy telephoned me and said Momma was trying to kill him. He was a pathological liar. I’d only figured this out two years ago. My whole life had been smoke and mirrors, all orchestrated by the great puppeteer, Dr. Nathan Payne.
But my conscience made me check it out. I was driving to my parents’ house when Daddy called again, on my cell phone. I knew it was him because the distinctive ring tone I’d set for him was “We Wish You A Merry Christmas.” I couldn’t unhook it from my belt. I remember the deer smashing through the windshield and pinning my shoulder with his antler. Then I woke up in the hospital.
I shuddered. “Yeah, I remember.”
“They wanted to run more tests and keep you under observation. You ran off against medical advice.”
“So.”
“So your little narcoleptic-like incidents are getting worse. You need to get some medical help. Maybe a nice long rest away from all the stress you’ve been under, I know it was tough on you—” He cleared his throat, “When Dad died. You were his favorite and all.”
I was his favorite. Oh yeah, right. That’s why he named me executrix, but willed everything to you and Tammy. Greedy needy children that you are. That was in the will Perry produced. Roderick Meddlestein, Esquire, my parent’s across-the-street neighbor for thirty years, later revealed daddy had retained him to draw up a more recent will, leaving everything to Momma.
Perry stood up and said, “I’ll call Saint Christopher’s. They have a nice unit—”
I flipped him the bird. Poked him in his big floppy belly. “You sonofabitch, Perry Lucifer Payne! You’re trying to have me committed like you did Momma, so you can sell my house and things and split the money with Tammy and laugh all the way to Hell. That’s where you are both going. Go now! Get outta my house! You go to Hell! You couldn’t keep Momma in the nut house and you won’t stash me there either! I’ll go to Momma. You’ll never find us.”
Tammy said, “So you do know where Mom is. You sent us on that wild goose chase to Palm Springs on purpose, didn’t you?”
The phone rang. Tammy answered. She handed it to me. I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I sniffled and said, “Hello.”
“Donna? This is Mike Taurus...your mother’s friend...”
Something in his voice didn’t sound right.
“Yes Mike. How are you?”
I cleared my throat as I listened to him exhale.
“You’re mother died in her sleep this morning.”
I threw my head back onto the firm gold recliner. “No.” I choked out. “Are you sure?” What a stupid question. If he weren’t sure, he wouldn’t have called me.
“Yes sweetheart. She’s in a better place now.”
I swallowed hard. “I’ll fly down right away. Give me directions to the island.”
“Just go to the Fontainebleau Hotel in Miami Beach. Call me when you arrive and I’ll come and get you. Tell the concierge you’re my— You’re Chloe’s daughter. They’ll take care of you.”
The historic Fontainebleau. Where old Mike works as a bell hop. Love the place.
Mike coughed. “She wanted to be buried next to her babies. Is that all right with you?”
I closed my eyes. Remembering talking to Momma on the island, by the graves of her stillborn twins. “Of course. Yes. Yes.”
“I’ll see you some time tonight or tomorrow then?”
“Yes.” I clicked the off button.
Tammy asked, “Just where do you think you’re going? Have a date with a Starbucks barista? Can he hop you up on caffeine long enough to stay awake during dinner and dancing?”
I closed my eyes tight and then broke into a breathless round of tears. Oh it hurt. My whole body hurt. My soul hurt. The little girl in me was dying.
I finally blurted out “Momma died. Momma is dead. I’m an orphan.”
Tammy and Perry shot looks at one another.
The Master Manipulator:U.S. eBook: iTunes ARe Diesel Kindle Kobo Nook Smashwords U.S. Paperback: Amazon Barnes and Noble CreateSpace Books A Million
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Sample Chapter: HUNDRED DOLLAR BILL
"If you enjoy watching the Lucille Ball madcap comedies or any of the great mysteries/comedies of the Thirties/Forties, plus read a good romance, then this book is for you. Ms. Silver does a dandy fine job with the storyline and sucks you into it and you don't stop until the HEA end."--Pamela K. Kinney
Hundred Dollar BillBy Sherry Silver
A Stand-Alone Book in The Good Girls of Washington Series
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Book Sumary:
The year is 1945. Roosevelt is President. World War II is coming to a head. Thieves, spies and other wise guys are working everywhere…including in branches of the U.S. government.Chloe Lambert is a sweet little thing whom mothers love to love and sailors love to pinch. She's also a sharp-tongued Secret Service agent—a Secret Service agent who has been framed for murder by a band of counterfeiters.Mike Taurus, also an agent, is tough as nails, cool as ice and devilishly handsome. He also has a past with Chloe. As the two of them make a mad dash from Washington, D.C. to Miami Beach, they'll stop at nothing to solve this monumental caper. It's a made-for-the-movies adventure that Alfred Hitchcock could only wish he'd dreamed up himself!
Excerpt:
Washington, D.C.
February 16, 1945
Sometime before midnight, freezing rain pelted out a maddening symphony on the window. Benjamin Franklin gazed compassionately from the bloody hundred dollar bill floating near Miss Chloe Lambert’s breasts. The redhead lay soaking in a claw-footed tub at Mrs. Grogan’s boarding house on Nichols Avenue in the District of Columbia. Her skin was flushed from the steamy water, but she was sure she’d never feel warm again. With eyes dehydrated from crying, Chloe stared at her black, blue, green and yellow bruises.* * * * *Earlier that night, across town, Mrs. Anna Eleanor Roosevelt’s footsteps resonated army-like as she stormed the west wing. A black Scottish terrier rounded a corner and scrambled toward her. “No, Fala, no!” Dodging his excited leap, she caught the fluffy sash of her emerald evening gown on the edge of a marble pedestal displaying the bust of Abraham Lincoln. She twisted and caught old Abe, but the taffeta tore. Eleanor replaced the sculpture, picked up the little dog and marched to an office.
She shoved the door open. Stepping inside, Mrs. Roosevelt vigorously petted the wiry-haired pooch while closing the door with her back. It hit the jamb with an audible resolve. “Vera, I am well aware of your…your little game, and I’ve had quite enough of you.”
Mrs. Vera Blandings stopped typing. The long-legged brunette stood, removed her librarian’s glasses and snuffed her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. She blew a plume of smoke at the first lady before running manicured fingers along her starched beige shirtdress. A smirk twitched the corners of her scarlet lips. She crossed her arms and turned toward the wall.
The first lady crinkled her nose and bent down. Fala leapt from the crook of her arm. He scampered over to sniff the closed door to the Oval Office.
Eleanor rose, thrust her shoulders back and stomped to the rear of the desk, launching a rolling chair out of her way. She squeezed between her husband’s newest secretary and a portrait of George Washington.
Vera took a step back, grinning.
Mrs. Roosevelt demanded, “Just what will it take to make you disappear?” “A new job.”
“Done.”
“A role in the next Alfred Hitchcock movie.” Eleanor laughed.
Vera glared. “I’m quite serious.” She cocked her head, retrieved her chair and tucked it under the desk. Pulling out the bottom drawer, Vera removed her reptilian pocketbook and gently shut the drawer.
Eleanor silently seethed in the stale smoky air while composing a response. I will not allow this woman to slip me into unsavory territory. “Fine then. So be it. Pack your snakeskin. No more games in the interim or—”
The magnetic purse clasp clicked when Vera opened it. After removing a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches, the President’s secretary sashayed out of the office.
The first lady glanced at her diamond watch and groaned. She pulled the chair out and plopped herself down. It hissed as the cushioned seat compressed. She opened Vera’s top desk drawer and rummaged through stubby pencils, rubber bands, a loose deck of playing cards, a crumpled issue of True Romance magazine that was caught in the back, a piece of yellow police chalk and several pistachios. Eleanor briefly picked up the waxy chalk. What in the devil is she doing with this? The stuff they outline corpses with… She shrugged her shoulders and dropped it back inside with a clunk.
Digging out a paper clip, the first lady wove the coiled wire through the soft frays of her ripped sash. It popped right off. She noticed a little chalk had transferred from her fingers to her gown. What else can happen?
Yanking the middle drawer open, she found a stapler inside. After three squeezes and some creative tucking of the taffeta, she was good to go. When Eleanor replaced the stapler, a metallic glint in the back caught her attention. She opened the drawer all the way and pulled out a pearl-handled pistol. What the…
Eleanor heard giggling. Her eyes darted around the office as she shut the drawer, shoved the gun under her waistband and covered it with the sash. She jumped up, wrapped her arms around her midsection and tiptoed to the open door to peek into the corridor.
Eleanor watched Mrs. Stoneburner meandering toward the kitchen. Claude Fuji, the President’s valet, was finishing up a good bubbly laugh. “Hello Missus First Lady. You are so beautiful in jade.” She exhaled and stepped into the hall.
He reached out to shake hands with Mrs. Roosevelt, as was his nature, but she awkwardly declined. “Thank you, Claude.”
His face saddened at the slight. “Anything I do wrong to you?” “No, Claude, no…oh…come on to my study. Follow me.”
Mrs. Roosevelt’s evening gown swished as they hurried to her private room.
“Close the door, Claude.”
He obliged.
Eleanor gingerly peeled back the delicate folds of taffeta and yanked the gun out. “Look what I found in his secretary’s desk!”
“Missus First Lady, please do not go waving that thing at Claude.” The valet snatched the firearm from her.
Eleanor moved closer, hovering over him. Her stomach knotted as she whispered, “Is it loaded?”
“Please step back,” he said with a sternness she’d never before witnessed. She complied.
He proceeded to her small desk. An envelope flew to the floor as he shoved a stack of stationery away to clear a space. He emptied the chambers into his hand and then spread the contents on her desk. Yanking the chain on her desk lamp, Fuji picked up one nine-millimeter brass bullet and held it under the light. “Blanks.”
“Blanks? How can you be sure?”
“The ends of the casings are crimped down and sealed. Live ammunition is rounded and smooth. These are definitely blanks. Look.”
Mrs. Roosevelt leaned down and examined the projectile as he twirled it slowly.
Just what are you up to, Vera?
Claude Fuji replaced the projectiles. “Put back where you got from. We watch her.” “You mustn't tell the President about Vera’s gun. I don’t want to upset him unnecessarily.”
“What gun? No gun.”
* * * * *
President Roosevelt wearily stared at the excess ink dripping back into the well. He began dotting the Is on his speech just as his secretary strolled in.
“Here you go, sir, this is the last one. The courier is waiting.”
He signed six pages. Vera slipped them into an envelope and sealed it as she left the Oval Office. She gave it to the tired-looking young courier. He dashed off.
The President placed the speech in his lap then gripped the gritty wheels of his armless wooden chair. He propelled himself out to Vera’s office and deposited his soon- to-be historical prose on her desk. “Sorry I kept you so late. Just leave this for one of the girls in the typing pool in the morning.”
“Nights like these I appreciate living with my mother-in-law. She’s wonderful with the children.”
“Come on up and have a martini with me before you go. The missus is out at a charity hoop dee doo and cocktails for one are no fun… I’ll put two olives in yours.” He winked.
Stretching catlike, she placed her elbows on the desk and gazed into his eyes. “All right, F.D. You know I’m a sucker for your…olives.” Vera tenderly kissed him on his stubbled cheek.
She arched her back, thrusting her chest to attention as she stood. Vera protected her typewriter with a vinyl cover and then strolled over to the mahogany rack in the corner. She grabbed her black wool hat and coat, releasing her smoky French perfumed scent while shaking it out, then returned to her desk to retrieve her pocketbook.
They had a quiet ride on the elevator to the second floor. They heard only its low hum as they both smiled at the padded walls, mulling over the long day. The doors opened into an informal gathering area outside the family’s living quarters. The President motioned for his secretary to exit. She nodded and sauntered over to the seating area.
He rolled his wheelchair to an ornate teacart where his valet had set up the martini fixings. Franklin concentrated with pride as he measured his secret blend of gin and vermouth into the silver shaker.
Vera sat down on a comfortable red sofa and kicked off her pumps. Reaching over to the large radio, she flinched as static blasted when she switched it on. She turned down the volume and tuned in a station. Settling back into the soft couch, Vera caught his eye as she undid the three bottom buttons on her shirtdress, revealing her thighs.
Beaming, the President wheeled himself the short distance. He handed her one of the two stemmed glasses entwined in the fingers of his left hand.
Vera downed her martini.
He raised his eyebrows. “Thirsty, darling?”
She blushed and willed him to refill, but didn’t ask. Instead she smiled seductively and curled her long shapely legs underneath her. Vera nibbled on the olives.
Franklin turned up the volume on the radio and tweaked the dial for a clearer signal. It was an upbeat cinema song heavy on the clarinets. Twisting a lock of nut- brown hair around her finger, Vera sang along in an exquisite alto vibrato. Franklin joined in the harmony. As the song ended, he refilled her glass. She drank it a little slower this time.
He said, “Oh, ‘Ginger’, what fun. Wish I could’ve whirled you ‘round the dance floor.”
“We’d make a grand team…‘Fred’… I’d have gone to Hollywood you know, if I hadn’t married…”
“You’d have made it to the big-time too, Vera. But life—what will be—will be.” They both pondered in silence.
The radio host announced the time was 10:30.
The President ogled her legs as she slipped her shoes on. Swaying with feline grace, Vera walked to the teacart and deposited her lipstick-rimmed glass.
She turned to him. “Thanks for the cheer.”
“Vera darling, can you stay just a bit longer? I’ll get Mrs. Stoneburner to send up some tuna sandwiches…”
“Not tonight, F.D.”
He tried to hide a grimace as he stretched his polio-ravaged body to pick up her coat from the couch.
She smiled warmly as she leaned down and placed her arms inside the black wool he held for her.
“Well, then, have one of the Secret Service boys see you home. I’ve heard it’s quite slippery out. These blasted Washington ice storms. Why can’t it just either rain or snow?”
“No thanks boss. I’ll make my way just fine.”
He tugged on her sleeve and pulled her down to him. They shared a lingering kiss. She wiped the lipstick from his face before donning her spotless white gloves. Vera searched through her purse.
“What are you missing, darling?” “My eyeglasses.”
“They’re on your desk, Vera. Watched you put ‘em there before you pecked me.” “Thanks, F.D. I’ll pick ‘em up on the way out. Can I get you anything? Do you want me to push you to your quarters?”
He squirmed and straightened his posture. “No. I’m perfectly capable—”
She interrupted him, “Yes you are. Maybe I can find a copy of that song you like at the record shop. Would you like that?” Stupid! Why’d I have to go and say that? I’ve insulted his manhood. I hope changing the subject will cover it quick.
“Absolutely. And bill it to me personally, now.”
“I’ll do no such thing. I am a working girl you know. I have a hundred dollar bill or two lying around the house.”
“Pardon me, Miss Rockefeller.”
After a brief stop at her office, Mrs. Vera Blandings exited the White House and carefully footed her way down the icy brick driveway. Tiny snowflakes danced in the glow of gaslights. Peering around the shadowy grounds, Vera spotted the President’s valet accompanying Fala on his last outing for the night. Mr. Fuji waved to her. She called out, “Goodnight.”
At the guard kiosk, the Secret Service agent on duty signed her out. “Goodnight, Mrs. Blandings, have a nice weekend.”
“Thank you, officer. I intend to. Goodnight.”
As she turned to leave, he said, “Ma’am, if you can wait five or ten minutes, I can escort you home. It’s really slippery out tonight.”
Absolutely not! Vera twisted her head back and said, “Oh, I’ll be just fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“My relief will be here any minute. I really should see you home, ma’am.”
“No. Thank you, you’re very kind, but I enjoy the solitude. It’s my time to reflect and daydream a little. You understand?”
“Sure.”
Vera headed west on Pennsylvania Avenue then circled the block as fast as she could without slipping. She hunched behind a massive oak tree outside the northeast appointment gate, where she had just exited. She was breathing so hard that she put her hat in front of her nose and mouth so the vapor wouldn’t be noticed.
Just before eleven o’clock, Ashley Jones, the night relief, reported to the kiosk carrying his predictable sack of Tiny Tavern hamburgers.
As the Secret Service agents snacked and chuckled, Vera’s respiration returned to normal. She put her hat back on and snuck over to a gatepost. She pulled a brass letter opener from her coat pocket and ran it down a groove in the limestone, triggering the latch. A hidden door popped open. She dashed inside, closing it behind her.
Crunching paint snagged roughly on her gloves as she hurried down a ladder to the tunnel entrance. She found the first light switch and flipped it. Vera shivered though puddles andmuck. Her suction-like footsteps echoed in the cobwebby catacombs. The incessant drip-drip-dripfrom cracks in the mortar pound-pound- pounded in her head. Some of it spit in her face.
At the end of each passage, she shut the light off before entering the next chamber. Every turn and switchback in the labyrinth was familiar. After all, it was part of her job description to know how to get the President out of the White House—in a hurry.
Vera made her way to the train platform hidden below the Bureau of Engraving and Printing where FDR secretly boarded for his trips. A scream from behind sent her scrambling up the platform and into the presidential rail car. Springing through the darkened conference room, she bounced off the paneled walls of the narrow corridor and ducked inside the first lady’s bedroom.
In the moments of seemingly eternal silence, clutching her purse so tight that her fingertips pulsed, Vera summoned her inner strength. She finally attributed the scream to either her nervous imagination or a house cat. And if it was a human scream, well, she wasn’t in a position to go and save the day. Vera crept back through the train, remembering. At least I got to ride this thing once. That’s more than most girls can say.
After peeking out a window into the darkened loading zone, she inhaled deeply and sprinted out the metal door of the observation car. It clanged shut behind her.
Dashing up concrete steps, she entered the Bureau of Engraving and Printing through a stairwell door, tiptoeing to a supervisors’ catwalk. Vera ignored the four foot tall pallets of brand-new United States currency stacked near the walls. She climbed the steps to the catwalk and gripped the railing as she hastened to the printing room.
* * * * *
Miss Chloe Lambert stepped off the streetcar at the corner of Fourteenth and C Streets. Frigid air played tag with her breath and steam from underground. Strolling carefully on the slippery sidewalk, she watched as Sergeant Bill Blandings hoisted the loading dock door and stepped outside the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. He struck a match to light the cigarette dangling from his lip then ascended the ramp, locking his gaze onto hers. Heart pounding, Chloe paused to refresh her lipstick. Bill sucked the smoke deep into his lungs as he watched and waited. Finally exhaling, he blew five smoke rings. She stepped up to him and scattered the circles with her blue gloved hand.
He said, “You are one gorgeous dame tonight.”
Chloe gazed into his midnight blue eyes. Nobody has eyes like Bill. He has the devil in them. They are so darned…irresistible. She brushed him aside.
He threw down his cigarette and snuffed it out with one twist of his black steel-toed police boot. Powdery snow blew off the retaining walls as they walked down the salted ramp. Chloe and Bill entered the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. He lowered the door. It thumped against the concrete floor.
She led the way through the cavernous federal building. The scent of floor polish wafted up from the pristine terrazzo.
He confided, “We’re pretty much alone now. The bureaucrats departed hours ago. The charwomen came and went. Just the skeletal police detail is left. Me, Schwartz and Krankowski.”
Bill followed Chloe into the printing room. He balked. “Jeez, this place is a pigsty.” In her sweet southern drawl Chloe said, “Alcohol was the most popular guest at our office party today, resulting in a whole run of botched hundreds. They didn’t change the plates. The same image is printed on both sides of the notes.” She pointed to the sloppily bundled currency and a big ink stain on the floor. “They ought not to have bothered working at all. As the currency inspector, I have to file a report. I feel like a lousy snitch.”
Bill eyed her fur. “Hey, where’d ya get the coat from? It’s not from that weasel
Myron in personnel, is it?”
“Eww! No, Bill. It’s Mrs. Grogan’s. My landlady. She let me borrow it. I told her this was a special night.”
Bill grabbed her collar. They kissed hungrily.
Finally taking a much-needed breath, Chloe pulled away and smiled as she unbuttoned the full-length sable. She was wearing his favorite blue dancing shoes…and nothing else.
“Jeez, Chloe—lay off of them doughnuts.”
Before she could process the insult, Bill slipped his fingers under the fur. She shoved him away.
Her voice trembled, “I won’t be your dirty little secret anymore. Divorce Vera.”
There, I’ve said it.
Bill ran his fingers through Chloe’s soft red hair. He knew just the spot to touch. “Lovey, we’ve been all through this. You know I can’t possibly divorce her while he’s in office. How would it look if the President’s secretary all of a sudden up and got divorced? The Republicans would go wild! And it’d be rough on my little girls. Just wait a little bit longer. Lovey, I promise we’ll be together soon. He ain’t gonna be Prez for the rest of his life ya know.”
Chloe fought back tears. Whatever was I thinking? Momma was right. I should have stayed in the mountains. But eleven months ago, her country had called for good girls to fill the shoes of the boys at war. When I was still a good girl. I had no idea what I’d have to do for my country. It might as well have been eleven millennia ago. I can’t ever go back. Not now. She shoved her hands in the deep silk-lined pockets…where she felt the cold steel of a revolver.
Five shots exploded down from the supervisors’ catwalk. Chloe dove under a metal desk, pulling in an olive drab trash can for cover. Bill slumped face down into a carelessly heaped pile of hundreds.
Chloe peeked from behind the can. She watched a female silhouette blow smoke from the barrel and stroll back along the catwalk then out of sight. No! This can’t be happening. I’m in a bad movie. Bad dream. Bad world.
Shaking, Chloe crawled to Bill and rolled him over. A C-note covered his eyes. She yanked it off and screamed in horror.
Chloe ran through the building and slammed straight into the loading dock door. She struggled to hoist it high enough to crawl under. Rolling onto the ramp, she pushed herself up on hands and knees, then to full height. She put her hand on the revolver in her pocket and lit out running. As she looked back over her shoulder, she slipped on the icy sidewalks, battering her knees.
Back on her feet, she forced herself onward. A dry lump ached in the back of her mouth, forced open from heavy breathing. Frozen rain stung her face. As Chloe tumbled again she pulled her hand out of her pocket, not letting go of the pistol. The cobblestones abraded her wrists as she broke her fall.
As she scrambled up again, one blue heel snapped off in a snow-covered grate, propelling her face first into a police call box. Moaning in agony, tasting blood, Chloe looked over her shoulder. A lone car sped past. Forcing herself onward, she made it to the Fourteenth Street Bridge. Gasping for breath, Chloe leaned over the concrete railing and threw the revolver. It slid along the surface of the frozen Potomac River. “Damn it. I can’t even dispose of a gun properly. It doesn’t matter anyhow. It isn’t the murder weapon.” Murder weapon? “No!”
An icicle fell from the lamppost above her. Chloe drew back as it seemed to shatter in slow motion. She looked at the hundred dollar bill still crumpled in her hand. Benjamin Franklin’s picture adorned both sides. The drunken printers should be ashamed of themselves for such a mistake. Chloe dreaded turning them in. But right now that was the least of her worries. She shivered almost convulsively as she clutched the paper to her heart. Tears blinded her as she buttoned the fur coat.
* * * * *
Half an hour later back at the White House, Eleanor Roosevelt emerged from the Monroe Room, startled to find her husband in the hallway.
He said, “Babs! Didn’t see you come in. How was the hoop dee doo? Tell me, are the older ladies supportive of my efforts?”
“Um…yes. Yes they are.”
“So’d you get swept off your feet by some handsome Republican?” “Naturally…a baker’s dozen of ’em.”
“Say, the Secret Service boys told me counterfeit money’s been turning up in the District, Maryland, Virginia and West Virginia.”
“Oh? That’s…alarming… I’m really tired.”
“I’m on my way for a long hot soak. Care to join me?”
“Um…no, dear. I just want to get out of these shoes and get some shut-eye.”
“So be it. Goodnight… I love you.”
She leaned down. They kissed. “And I love you.”
As she turned away, he grabbed her arm. “Babs, what’s that all along the hem of your dress?”
“Hunh?”
He seized the emerald taffeta near her waist and began hoisting it up. Eleanor’s green pumps were filthy. His gaze ran up her rayon stockings. They were tight at the ankles and baggy at the knees. Franklin examined the bottom of her dress.
The first lady blushed as she looked over her shoulder. “Franklin! What if—” “Cobwebs. Well I’ll be. Rosie the Riveter must be older than I thought.” Eleanor pulled away, smoothing the taffeta down. She gave him the evil eye.
Franklin chuckled as she walked off. He followed his pup into the Monroe room. Looking around the sparse spotless room, he wondered what his wife had been up to. Fala sniffed the paneling along the fireplace wall. Mr. Roosevelt heard a voice in the corridor.
“Sir? Sir? Where you are?”
Fala jumped into his lap. The President rolled into the hallway. “Ah, I was looking for you, good fellow. Come and draw my bath now. So tell me, Fuji, how is that stunning creature you hoodwinked into matrimony?” Tired and aching, Mr. Roosevelt allowed his valet to push his wheelchair to the Presidential bedroom.
“Traveling again. But Mrs. Fuji did send special package you requested.” “Perfect timing, son.”
Fala leapt from his master's lap to the chair at the foot of the bed. He circled twice and kneaded his paws into the upholstery before curling up to sleep. As was their usual routine, the President began undressing.
The valet stepped into the adjoining bathroom and turned the spigots on. Fuji adjusted the temperature and then told his boss, “Be right back,” as he dashed out of the suite.
Fuji soon returned with a brown interagency envelope. He delivered it to the President then mumbled, “I hope no overflow!” as he ran into the bathroom.
Mr. Roosevelt unsealed the metal clasp on the envelope and emptied the contents onto his white bedspread. He grinned while inspecting the nylon stockings.
“Okay sir, your bath is drawn.”
President Franklin Delano Roosevelt replaced the contraband, wheeled over to a bookshelf and slipped the envelope behind an original edition of Poor Richard’s Almanac. “When’s the missus due back?”
“Not for month. Wish we get delivery from stork and she stay home.” He pushed the wheelchair into the bathroom. Fuji removed Mr. Roosevelt’s trousers and torturous leg braces.
The President smiled. “Careful what you wish for. Once that old stork finds your address, he might become a pest. He visited the missus and me six times in ten years. First a little girl, then five boys.”
Claude Fuji laughed with the President.
* * * * *
Still high on adrenaline, the first lady changed into blue-and-white-striped pajamas. She left her bedroom and took her dirty clothes to the hamper in the hall closet, dropping them on top. She dug down and fished out her husband’s shirt. It reeked of French perfume and the collar had a scarlet-colored smudge. Tucking it under her arm, she trotted downstairs, straight to his secretary’s office. Looking over her shoulder, Mrs. Roosevelt ducked inside. She sat in Vera Blandings’ chair, rummaging through her desk. The first lady removed a tube of lipstick from the top sidedrawer. She straightened the small stacks of papers inside, then hurried back to her bedroom. Thank goodness no one saw me.
Eleanor shut the door and locked it. She yanked the cap from the lipstick and twisted it up. Mrs. Roosevelt compared the color to the smudge on her husband’s shirt. It matched. Her stomach churned as tears welled in her eyes. Not again. All the pain from 1918 came rushing back. That Lucy Mercer had nearly ended their marriage. I will not stand for him to be involved with another secretary. Eleanor twisted the lipstick back down, replaced the cap and chucked it into a wastebasket. Then she shoved his shirt in with it. She stomped it down with her foot.
Eleanor climbed in bed and picked up the telephone receiver on her walnut nightstand.
The White House operator asked, “Yes Missus Roosevelt, how may I direct your call?”
* * * * *
Now past midnight, across town in Anacostia, the mournful winter wind harmonized horribly with the off-key singing from down the hall at the boarding house. Chloe lay shivering in cold water, unaware how much time had passed since she’d drawn the bath. It was her desperate attempt to wash the evil away. Succumbing to the incessant pounding on the door, she whimpered, “Orpha, if you and Shirley don’t stop that wretched caterwauling I’ll vacate the room.”
Chloe stumbled out of the tub onto the cold pink and black floor. Lavender-scented suds slid down her legs and pooled on the flower-patterned tile.
“It’s Mrs. Grogan dear. Did your special fella come through for ya tonight? I want all the romantic details.”
Shivering, Chloe leaned over and twisted a worn but bright white towel around her hair. She shoved her arms into an old terrycloth bathrobe, wincing as the rough fabric abraded her sensitive skin. She pulled the frayed belt tight.
Chloe jerked the chain on the tub stopper, releasing the dirty water. She stared at the hundred dollar bill. Slither away and leave me alone. It didn’t heed her will. She yanked the money out and wadded it up with all her might, then shoved it into the bottom of the wastebasket, underneath the bathroom discards.
“Chloe? Can ya hear me darlin’? Did he pop the question?” the landlady asked.
Chloe knelt on the wet tiles, dunking her hands into the dwindling water and flattening them on the bottom of the tub. Water poured from her cuffs when she pulled them back out. The cast iron drainpipe burped as the bathtub emptied.
Twisting the crystal knob, Chloe opened the door and gagged at the stench of burnt eggnog. After switching the light off, she crossed the hall to her room.
Mrs. Grogan gasped at the sight of Chloe’s legs and face. She followed Chloe in and shut the door. “Oh my God child! You were attacked! Or did…did he do this to ya? I’ll go and fetch Doc Morton. Or do ya need to go to the hospital?”
“No! Don’t call anyone. You mustn’t tell! Promise, Mrs. G?” Chloe pleaded, nearly hysterical.
“Shh… Calm down, now just calm down darlin’. Ya know I’ll do ya right.” The landlady pulled Chloe to her bosom and stroked the towel on her hair. “There there now. Everything will be all right.”
“Ouch! You’re hurting me.”
Mrs. Grogan let go. “I’m so sorry, sweetness. Forgive—” “No, I’m sorry, Mrs. G. I mean…”
“Shh-shh-shh. Hush child. “ She tenderly ran a finger along Chloe’s cheek. “I’ll be back in a moment.” The landlady waddled off with purpose.
Chloe located her big suitcase, wedged in the tiny closet. Determined to extract the luggage, she inhaled and heaved to the left. The suitcase dislodged, propelling a wire hanger with a pink cotton blouse. The hanger stung her chest. The blouse covered her face. She sneezed and dropped the suitcase as she grabbed her ribs. Dear God and Jesus in heaven. Please let me feel better. Please let me wake up in North Carolina. Forgive me of my sins. Amen.
She heard panting as Mrs. Grogan swept aside the makeup and curlers on the dresser and deposited an aluminum tray. A waffle-sized powder puff fell to the floor. Chloe held in another sneeze and picked up the suitcase. Mrs. Grogan bent down with a groan and plucked up the puff, tossing it onto the dresser. She tugged on the suitcase but was unable to release it from Chloe’s grip.
“Where do ya think you’re going on such a treacherous night? Young lady, ya just put that thing away and get under the covers. Here’s some warm eggnog and a couple of chloral hydrate capsules to help ya sleep.”
“No! I have to get out of here, now leave me alone! I’ve messed everything up. What don’t you understand? I can’t stay in Washington. I have to disappear before it’s too late!”
“Why? Just call the Metropolitan Police on the beast!”
“No, you don’t understand and…I…I can’t explain it. I have to leave! Believe me and don’t ask anything! Please?” How much time do I have before they find out? What will they do to me?
With a look of uneasy puzzlement, Mrs. Grogan questioned, “But where will ya go? Back home to your Mam in Carolina? Do ya want me to call her for ya?”
Chloe dropped the suitcase onto the tapestry area rug, grabbed Mrs. Grogan’s chubby arms and stared dead into her chocolate eyes. “I can never go back to North Carolina now. Not in this—oh, I’ve said too much! All right… You have to help me. Please, Mrs. G?”
Mrs. Grogan embraced her favorite tenant and affirmed, “I will help ya darlin’. Always. Now what is it that ya need?”
Chloe paced the room. As she passed by the wobbly-legged desk, she brushed against an old tin of pennies, knocking it over. They tinkled like a gentle metallic waterfall puddling on the hardwood floor. The two women bumped heads as they squatted to pick up the coins.
“Can you get my paycheck from the Bureau next Friday? And deposit it in my checking account? I’ll call in on Monday morning and tell them…oh, something!”
“How ‘bout that your sister’s baby has come early and ya have to go to Baltimore to help out with her older ones?”
Chloe’s stomach felt like it jumped to her throat. She knew she had to keep up the charade for Mrs. Grogan of having a sister. “No! Not that! I’ll tell them my Momma took ill and I have to go and look after her.” Chloe reached the last two pennies and plunked them into the can.
Mrs. Grogan put a stubby finger on her fleshy cheek and began tapping. “But where will ya go? To make a new beginning. Hollywood? New York? Iowa? No, not Iowa…” Mrs. Grogan clambered to her feet. “I know! Miami Beach!”
“Miami Beach?”
“Yes darlin’, of course Miami Beach. It’s eighty degrees down there now don’t ya know. I’ll call Paddy and let him know to expect ya. He’s my late husband’s cousin. He owns a bakery, finest in southern Florida. He rents rooms out over top of the place. I’ll make sure he has a vacancy and if he doesn’t, then he’ll just have to make one.”
Chloe sat cross-legged on the floor, adjusting her robe. “Don’t you read the newspaper, Mrs. G? The beach has been commandeered by the Army Air Corps for their boot camp. The hotels are being used as barracks, for heaven’s sake.” She rattled the pennies, staring into the can.
Faint rays of sunshine broke through the vicious storm clouds in Chloe’s mind. Miami Beach. Warmth, yes, oh to be warm again. Bakery, yum. But soldiers everywhere? How depressing. Wait…soldiers everywhere, about to be sent off to war…scared and lonely men.
Chloe stretched to reach the desk and shoved the tin can on top. She pulled herself up. “Yes! Mrs. Grogan, Miami Beach sounds…perfect. “
The landlady plopped Chloe’s suitcase up onto the bed. She grabbed an armload of clothes from the closet and tossed them on the quilt. Removing the first dress from its hanger, she shook it out and rolled it into a tight cylinder. “Ya get less wrinkles this way darlin’. I read it in a magazine don’t ya know. “
As Chloe touched up her bruised face with pancake and rouge, the Andrews Sisters’ snappy song, “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy”, drifted in from down the hall. She coughed while smacking a powder puff all over her forehead. None of this happened. I don’t exist. I’ll just disappear into paradise and everything will be all right again. She turned to Mrs. Grogan. “How do I look?”
“I shoulda married Max Factor. The man is a genius don’t ya know. Ya’d never guess what happened tonight. Don’t forget your lipstick darlin’, and you’re good enough to dance at the White House.” She hung the empty hangers on the wooden closet rod. “I’ll leave ya to dress, dear, and I’ll go call ol’ Paddy. And then, when he says yes, I’ll order ya a cab.”
“The trains do run all night, don’t they?”
“Yes darlin’. Now you get ready quick and be on your way. “
When Mrs. Grogan stepped into the hallway, she hollered, “Girls, ya turn that racket off. I don’t care if ya don’t have your nursing classes tomorrow. We have rules in this house.”
Chloe winced as she painted her scabbed lips a deep wine color. Her fingers got caught in a snarl as she combed through the carrot-colored strands of her hair. Satisfied, she packed her round makeup trunk.
Chloe emptied out her desk drawer, packing her birth and baptismal certificates, high school and college diplomas, pencils and a ruler. Hmm, the Mickeys might come in handy… Chloe scooped up the chloral hydrate capsules, dropped them in an envelope, licked it shut and placed it on top of her rolled blue gingham dress. She stretched a sock over the can of pennies and sunk it into the bottom of her suitcase. Her hand trembled as she tossed in two pink envelopes, recent letters from her “sister”.
As Chloe lay across the patchwork quilt on her twin bed, she was grateful the landlady had left and wouldn’t see the tears of pain as she struggled into her girdle. She finished dressing and then slipped her coat and gloves on. Chloe draped a beige cowl over her head and wrapped it around her neck.
She looked all over the space that had been her home for the last eleven months. The furnished room for let seemed emptier than when she had first moved in. Chloe placed her key on the desk then turned off the light.
She tiptoed down the dark narrow hall to the kitchen. Big band music blared from the radio in the back room. The taxi driver announced his arrival by leaning on the horn.
Mrs. Grogan pressed an envelope into her hand.
“Here’s Paddy’s address. He’ll be a-waitin’ for ya darlin’. He’s good stock don’t ya know. He’ll see that nobody harms ya there in paradise. Don’t ya worry none, I’ll take care of your paycheck. If Paddy fusses ’bout the telephone then ya call me person-to- person every week. And drop me some postcards. And if I ever get my hands on the beast who did this to you…so help me…”
Teardrops spilled down Chloe’s face as she hugged and kissed her landlady. Her friend. She hurried to the cab, not allowing herself to look back. She was grateful she had slipped out without having to explain her departure to the other girls.
* * * * *
At Washington’s Union Station, the driver pulled the brim of his hat low, covering his eyes before he helped her out onto the shoveled and salted sidewalk. He retrieved her luggage from the trunk.
With her hand still trembling, she held out a dollar. “Keep the change.”
He hesitated before taking it. “Thanks. Would you want for me to carry the bags in, miss?”
“No thank you.” She entered the grand domed building by way of a revolving door and zigzagged through the bustling crowd. At the Richmond, Fredericksburg and Potomac Railway counter, she joined the end of the queue. Chloe set her luggage down on the polished marble floor and ran her hands along the soft burgundy velvet ropes. Velvet. Like the choir robe I used to wear at The Church of the Good Shepherd. Back in North Carolina. Where I should’ve stayed.
* * * * *
Still outside, the cabby removed his hat and ran his fingers through his greasy white hair. He paced in front of the train station, peering in the brightly lit windows. Shoving through the revolving door, he made a beeline to a phone booth. He dropped a nickel and spun the dial. “She’s at Union Station at the RF&P desk. Shall I see where she’s headed?”
Hundred Dollar Bill:
U.S. eBook: Apple ARe Diesel Kindle Nook Sony Smashwords U.S. Paperback: Amazon Barnes and Noble
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Canadian Paperback: Amazon
Hundred Dollar BillBy Sherry Silver
A Stand-Alone Book in The Good Girls of Washington Series
U.S. eBook: Apple ARe Diesel Kindle Nook Sony Smashwords U.S. Paperback: Amazon Barnes and Noble
U.K. eBook: Nook Kindle Apple
U.K. Paperback: Amazon
Canadian eBook: Sony Kindle Apple
Canadian Paperback: Amazon
Book Sumary:
The year is 1945. Roosevelt is President. World War II is coming to a head. Thieves, spies and other wise guys are working everywhere…including in branches of the U.S. government.Chloe Lambert is a sweet little thing whom mothers love to love and sailors love to pinch. She's also a sharp-tongued Secret Service agent—a Secret Service agent who has been framed for murder by a band of counterfeiters.Mike Taurus, also an agent, is tough as nails, cool as ice and devilishly handsome. He also has a past with Chloe. As the two of them make a mad dash from Washington, D.C. to Miami Beach, they'll stop at nothing to solve this monumental caper. It's a made-for-the-movies adventure that Alfred Hitchcock could only wish he'd dreamed up himself!
Excerpt:
Washington, D.C.
February 16, 1945
Sometime before midnight, freezing rain pelted out a maddening symphony on the window. Benjamin Franklin gazed compassionately from the bloody hundred dollar bill floating near Miss Chloe Lambert’s breasts. The redhead lay soaking in a claw-footed tub at Mrs. Grogan’s boarding house on Nichols Avenue in the District of Columbia. Her skin was flushed from the steamy water, but she was sure she’d never feel warm again. With eyes dehydrated from crying, Chloe stared at her black, blue, green and yellow bruises.* * * * *Earlier that night, across town, Mrs. Anna Eleanor Roosevelt’s footsteps resonated army-like as she stormed the west wing. A black Scottish terrier rounded a corner and scrambled toward her. “No, Fala, no!” Dodging his excited leap, she caught the fluffy sash of her emerald evening gown on the edge of a marble pedestal displaying the bust of Abraham Lincoln. She twisted and caught old Abe, but the taffeta tore. Eleanor replaced the sculpture, picked up the little dog and marched to an office.
She shoved the door open. Stepping inside, Mrs. Roosevelt vigorously petted the wiry-haired pooch while closing the door with her back. It hit the jamb with an audible resolve. “Vera, I am well aware of your…your little game, and I’ve had quite enough of you.”
Mrs. Vera Blandings stopped typing. The long-legged brunette stood, removed her librarian’s glasses and snuffed her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. She blew a plume of smoke at the first lady before running manicured fingers along her starched beige shirtdress. A smirk twitched the corners of her scarlet lips. She crossed her arms and turned toward the wall.
The first lady crinkled her nose and bent down. Fala leapt from the crook of her arm. He scampered over to sniff the closed door to the Oval Office.
Eleanor rose, thrust her shoulders back and stomped to the rear of the desk, launching a rolling chair out of her way. She squeezed between her husband’s newest secretary and a portrait of George Washington.
Vera took a step back, grinning.
Mrs. Roosevelt demanded, “Just what will it take to make you disappear?” “A new job.”
“Done.”
“A role in the next Alfred Hitchcock movie.” Eleanor laughed.
Vera glared. “I’m quite serious.” She cocked her head, retrieved her chair and tucked it under the desk. Pulling out the bottom drawer, Vera removed her reptilian pocketbook and gently shut the drawer.
Eleanor silently seethed in the stale smoky air while composing a response. I will not allow this woman to slip me into unsavory territory. “Fine then. So be it. Pack your snakeskin. No more games in the interim or—”
The magnetic purse clasp clicked when Vera opened it. After removing a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches, the President’s secretary sashayed out of the office.
The first lady glanced at her diamond watch and groaned. She pulled the chair out and plopped herself down. It hissed as the cushioned seat compressed. She opened Vera’s top desk drawer and rummaged through stubby pencils, rubber bands, a loose deck of playing cards, a crumpled issue of True Romance magazine that was caught in the back, a piece of yellow police chalk and several pistachios. Eleanor briefly picked up the waxy chalk. What in the devil is she doing with this? The stuff they outline corpses with… She shrugged her shoulders and dropped it back inside with a clunk.
Digging out a paper clip, the first lady wove the coiled wire through the soft frays of her ripped sash. It popped right off. She noticed a little chalk had transferred from her fingers to her gown. What else can happen?
Yanking the middle drawer open, she found a stapler inside. After three squeezes and some creative tucking of the taffeta, she was good to go. When Eleanor replaced the stapler, a metallic glint in the back caught her attention. She opened the drawer all the way and pulled out a pearl-handled pistol. What the…
Eleanor heard giggling. Her eyes darted around the office as she shut the drawer, shoved the gun under her waistband and covered it with the sash. She jumped up, wrapped her arms around her midsection and tiptoed to the open door to peek into the corridor.
Eleanor watched Mrs. Stoneburner meandering toward the kitchen. Claude Fuji, the President’s valet, was finishing up a good bubbly laugh. “Hello Missus First Lady. You are so beautiful in jade.” She exhaled and stepped into the hall.
He reached out to shake hands with Mrs. Roosevelt, as was his nature, but she awkwardly declined. “Thank you, Claude.”
His face saddened at the slight. “Anything I do wrong to you?” “No, Claude, no…oh…come on to my study. Follow me.”
Mrs. Roosevelt’s evening gown swished as they hurried to her private room.
“Close the door, Claude.”
He obliged.
Eleanor gingerly peeled back the delicate folds of taffeta and yanked the gun out. “Look what I found in his secretary’s desk!”
“Missus First Lady, please do not go waving that thing at Claude.” The valet snatched the firearm from her.
Eleanor moved closer, hovering over him. Her stomach knotted as she whispered, “Is it loaded?”
“Please step back,” he said with a sternness she’d never before witnessed. She complied.
He proceeded to her small desk. An envelope flew to the floor as he shoved a stack of stationery away to clear a space. He emptied the chambers into his hand and then spread the contents on her desk. Yanking the chain on her desk lamp, Fuji picked up one nine-millimeter brass bullet and held it under the light. “Blanks.”
“Blanks? How can you be sure?”
“The ends of the casings are crimped down and sealed. Live ammunition is rounded and smooth. These are definitely blanks. Look.”
Mrs. Roosevelt leaned down and examined the projectile as he twirled it slowly.
Just what are you up to, Vera?
Claude Fuji replaced the projectiles. “Put back where you got from. We watch her.” “You mustn't tell the President about Vera’s gun. I don’t want to upset him unnecessarily.”
“What gun? No gun.”
* * * * *
President Roosevelt wearily stared at the excess ink dripping back into the well. He began dotting the Is on his speech just as his secretary strolled in.
“Here you go, sir, this is the last one. The courier is waiting.”
He signed six pages. Vera slipped them into an envelope and sealed it as she left the Oval Office. She gave it to the tired-looking young courier. He dashed off.
The President placed the speech in his lap then gripped the gritty wheels of his armless wooden chair. He propelled himself out to Vera’s office and deposited his soon- to-be historical prose on her desk. “Sorry I kept you so late. Just leave this for one of the girls in the typing pool in the morning.”
“Nights like these I appreciate living with my mother-in-law. She’s wonderful with the children.”
“Come on up and have a martini with me before you go. The missus is out at a charity hoop dee doo and cocktails for one are no fun… I’ll put two olives in yours.” He winked.
Stretching catlike, she placed her elbows on the desk and gazed into his eyes. “All right, F.D. You know I’m a sucker for your…olives.” Vera tenderly kissed him on his stubbled cheek.
She arched her back, thrusting her chest to attention as she stood. Vera protected her typewriter with a vinyl cover and then strolled over to the mahogany rack in the corner. She grabbed her black wool hat and coat, releasing her smoky French perfumed scent while shaking it out, then returned to her desk to retrieve her pocketbook.
They had a quiet ride on the elevator to the second floor. They heard only its low hum as they both smiled at the padded walls, mulling over the long day. The doors opened into an informal gathering area outside the family’s living quarters. The President motioned for his secretary to exit. She nodded and sauntered over to the seating area.
He rolled his wheelchair to an ornate teacart where his valet had set up the martini fixings. Franklin concentrated with pride as he measured his secret blend of gin and vermouth into the silver shaker.
Vera sat down on a comfortable red sofa and kicked off her pumps. Reaching over to the large radio, she flinched as static blasted when she switched it on. She turned down the volume and tuned in a station. Settling back into the soft couch, Vera caught his eye as she undid the three bottom buttons on her shirtdress, revealing her thighs.
Beaming, the President wheeled himself the short distance. He handed her one of the two stemmed glasses entwined in the fingers of his left hand.
Vera downed her martini.
He raised his eyebrows. “Thirsty, darling?”
She blushed and willed him to refill, but didn’t ask. Instead she smiled seductively and curled her long shapely legs underneath her. Vera nibbled on the olives.
Franklin turned up the volume on the radio and tweaked the dial for a clearer signal. It was an upbeat cinema song heavy on the clarinets. Twisting a lock of nut- brown hair around her finger, Vera sang along in an exquisite alto vibrato. Franklin joined in the harmony. As the song ended, he refilled her glass. She drank it a little slower this time.
He said, “Oh, ‘Ginger’, what fun. Wish I could’ve whirled you ‘round the dance floor.”
“We’d make a grand team…‘Fred’… I’d have gone to Hollywood you know, if I hadn’t married…”
“You’d have made it to the big-time too, Vera. But life—what will be—will be.” They both pondered in silence.
The radio host announced the time was 10:30.
The President ogled her legs as she slipped her shoes on. Swaying with feline grace, Vera walked to the teacart and deposited her lipstick-rimmed glass.
She turned to him. “Thanks for the cheer.”
“Vera darling, can you stay just a bit longer? I’ll get Mrs. Stoneburner to send up some tuna sandwiches…”
“Not tonight, F.D.”
He tried to hide a grimace as he stretched his polio-ravaged body to pick up her coat from the couch.
She smiled warmly as she leaned down and placed her arms inside the black wool he held for her.
“Well, then, have one of the Secret Service boys see you home. I’ve heard it’s quite slippery out. These blasted Washington ice storms. Why can’t it just either rain or snow?”
“No thanks boss. I’ll make my way just fine.”
He tugged on her sleeve and pulled her down to him. They shared a lingering kiss. She wiped the lipstick from his face before donning her spotless white gloves. Vera searched through her purse.
“What are you missing, darling?” “My eyeglasses.”
“They’re on your desk, Vera. Watched you put ‘em there before you pecked me.” “Thanks, F.D. I’ll pick ‘em up on the way out. Can I get you anything? Do you want me to push you to your quarters?”
He squirmed and straightened his posture. “No. I’m perfectly capable—”
She interrupted him, “Yes you are. Maybe I can find a copy of that song you like at the record shop. Would you like that?” Stupid! Why’d I have to go and say that? I’ve insulted his manhood. I hope changing the subject will cover it quick.
“Absolutely. And bill it to me personally, now.”
“I’ll do no such thing. I am a working girl you know. I have a hundred dollar bill or two lying around the house.”
“Pardon me, Miss Rockefeller.”
After a brief stop at her office, Mrs. Vera Blandings exited the White House and carefully footed her way down the icy brick driveway. Tiny snowflakes danced in the glow of gaslights. Peering around the shadowy grounds, Vera spotted the President’s valet accompanying Fala on his last outing for the night. Mr. Fuji waved to her. She called out, “Goodnight.”
At the guard kiosk, the Secret Service agent on duty signed her out. “Goodnight, Mrs. Blandings, have a nice weekend.”
“Thank you, officer. I intend to. Goodnight.”
As she turned to leave, he said, “Ma’am, if you can wait five or ten minutes, I can escort you home. It’s really slippery out tonight.”
Absolutely not! Vera twisted her head back and said, “Oh, I’ll be just fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“My relief will be here any minute. I really should see you home, ma’am.”
“No. Thank you, you’re very kind, but I enjoy the solitude. It’s my time to reflect and daydream a little. You understand?”
“Sure.”
Vera headed west on Pennsylvania Avenue then circled the block as fast as she could without slipping. She hunched behind a massive oak tree outside the northeast appointment gate, where she had just exited. She was breathing so hard that she put her hat in front of her nose and mouth so the vapor wouldn’t be noticed.
Just before eleven o’clock, Ashley Jones, the night relief, reported to the kiosk carrying his predictable sack of Tiny Tavern hamburgers.
As the Secret Service agents snacked and chuckled, Vera’s respiration returned to normal. She put her hat back on and snuck over to a gatepost. She pulled a brass letter opener from her coat pocket and ran it down a groove in the limestone, triggering the latch. A hidden door popped open. She dashed inside, closing it behind her.
Crunching paint snagged roughly on her gloves as she hurried down a ladder to the tunnel entrance. She found the first light switch and flipped it. Vera shivered though puddles andmuck. Her suction-like footsteps echoed in the cobwebby catacombs. The incessant drip-drip-dripfrom cracks in the mortar pound-pound- pounded in her head. Some of it spit in her face.
At the end of each passage, she shut the light off before entering the next chamber. Every turn and switchback in the labyrinth was familiar. After all, it was part of her job description to know how to get the President out of the White House—in a hurry.
Vera made her way to the train platform hidden below the Bureau of Engraving and Printing where FDR secretly boarded for his trips. A scream from behind sent her scrambling up the platform and into the presidential rail car. Springing through the darkened conference room, she bounced off the paneled walls of the narrow corridor and ducked inside the first lady’s bedroom.
In the moments of seemingly eternal silence, clutching her purse so tight that her fingertips pulsed, Vera summoned her inner strength. She finally attributed the scream to either her nervous imagination or a house cat. And if it was a human scream, well, she wasn’t in a position to go and save the day. Vera crept back through the train, remembering. At least I got to ride this thing once. That’s more than most girls can say.
After peeking out a window into the darkened loading zone, she inhaled deeply and sprinted out the metal door of the observation car. It clanged shut behind her.
Dashing up concrete steps, she entered the Bureau of Engraving and Printing through a stairwell door, tiptoeing to a supervisors’ catwalk. Vera ignored the four foot tall pallets of brand-new United States currency stacked near the walls. She climbed the steps to the catwalk and gripped the railing as she hastened to the printing room.
* * * * *
Miss Chloe Lambert stepped off the streetcar at the corner of Fourteenth and C Streets. Frigid air played tag with her breath and steam from underground. Strolling carefully on the slippery sidewalk, she watched as Sergeant Bill Blandings hoisted the loading dock door and stepped outside the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. He struck a match to light the cigarette dangling from his lip then ascended the ramp, locking his gaze onto hers. Heart pounding, Chloe paused to refresh her lipstick. Bill sucked the smoke deep into his lungs as he watched and waited. Finally exhaling, he blew five smoke rings. She stepped up to him and scattered the circles with her blue gloved hand.
He said, “You are one gorgeous dame tonight.”
Chloe gazed into his midnight blue eyes. Nobody has eyes like Bill. He has the devil in them. They are so darned…irresistible. She brushed him aside.
He threw down his cigarette and snuffed it out with one twist of his black steel-toed police boot. Powdery snow blew off the retaining walls as they walked down the salted ramp. Chloe and Bill entered the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. He lowered the door. It thumped against the concrete floor.
She led the way through the cavernous federal building. The scent of floor polish wafted up from the pristine terrazzo.
He confided, “We’re pretty much alone now. The bureaucrats departed hours ago. The charwomen came and went. Just the skeletal police detail is left. Me, Schwartz and Krankowski.”
Bill followed Chloe into the printing room. He balked. “Jeez, this place is a pigsty.” In her sweet southern drawl Chloe said, “Alcohol was the most popular guest at our office party today, resulting in a whole run of botched hundreds. They didn’t change the plates. The same image is printed on both sides of the notes.” She pointed to the sloppily bundled currency and a big ink stain on the floor. “They ought not to have bothered working at all. As the currency inspector, I have to file a report. I feel like a lousy snitch.”
Bill eyed her fur. “Hey, where’d ya get the coat from? It’s not from that weasel
Myron in personnel, is it?”
“Eww! No, Bill. It’s Mrs. Grogan’s. My landlady. She let me borrow it. I told her this was a special night.”
Bill grabbed her collar. They kissed hungrily.
Finally taking a much-needed breath, Chloe pulled away and smiled as she unbuttoned the full-length sable. She was wearing his favorite blue dancing shoes…and nothing else.
“Jeez, Chloe—lay off of them doughnuts.”
Before she could process the insult, Bill slipped his fingers under the fur. She shoved him away.
Her voice trembled, “I won’t be your dirty little secret anymore. Divorce Vera.”
There, I’ve said it.
Bill ran his fingers through Chloe’s soft red hair. He knew just the spot to touch. “Lovey, we’ve been all through this. You know I can’t possibly divorce her while he’s in office. How would it look if the President’s secretary all of a sudden up and got divorced? The Republicans would go wild! And it’d be rough on my little girls. Just wait a little bit longer. Lovey, I promise we’ll be together soon. He ain’t gonna be Prez for the rest of his life ya know.”
Chloe fought back tears. Whatever was I thinking? Momma was right. I should have stayed in the mountains. But eleven months ago, her country had called for good girls to fill the shoes of the boys at war. When I was still a good girl. I had no idea what I’d have to do for my country. It might as well have been eleven millennia ago. I can’t ever go back. Not now. She shoved her hands in the deep silk-lined pockets…where she felt the cold steel of a revolver.
Five shots exploded down from the supervisors’ catwalk. Chloe dove under a metal desk, pulling in an olive drab trash can for cover. Bill slumped face down into a carelessly heaped pile of hundreds.
Chloe peeked from behind the can. She watched a female silhouette blow smoke from the barrel and stroll back along the catwalk then out of sight. No! This can’t be happening. I’m in a bad movie. Bad dream. Bad world.
Shaking, Chloe crawled to Bill and rolled him over. A C-note covered his eyes. She yanked it off and screamed in horror.
Chloe ran through the building and slammed straight into the loading dock door. She struggled to hoist it high enough to crawl under. Rolling onto the ramp, she pushed herself up on hands and knees, then to full height. She put her hand on the revolver in her pocket and lit out running. As she looked back over her shoulder, she slipped on the icy sidewalks, battering her knees.
Back on her feet, she forced herself onward. A dry lump ached in the back of her mouth, forced open from heavy breathing. Frozen rain stung her face. As Chloe tumbled again she pulled her hand out of her pocket, not letting go of the pistol. The cobblestones abraded her wrists as she broke her fall.
As she scrambled up again, one blue heel snapped off in a snow-covered grate, propelling her face first into a police call box. Moaning in agony, tasting blood, Chloe looked over her shoulder. A lone car sped past. Forcing herself onward, she made it to the Fourteenth Street Bridge. Gasping for breath, Chloe leaned over the concrete railing and threw the revolver. It slid along the surface of the frozen Potomac River. “Damn it. I can’t even dispose of a gun properly. It doesn’t matter anyhow. It isn’t the murder weapon.” Murder weapon? “No!”
An icicle fell from the lamppost above her. Chloe drew back as it seemed to shatter in slow motion. She looked at the hundred dollar bill still crumpled in her hand. Benjamin Franklin’s picture adorned both sides. The drunken printers should be ashamed of themselves for such a mistake. Chloe dreaded turning them in. But right now that was the least of her worries. She shivered almost convulsively as she clutched the paper to her heart. Tears blinded her as she buttoned the fur coat.
* * * * *
Half an hour later back at the White House, Eleanor Roosevelt emerged from the Monroe Room, startled to find her husband in the hallway.
He said, “Babs! Didn’t see you come in. How was the hoop dee doo? Tell me, are the older ladies supportive of my efforts?”
“Um…yes. Yes they are.”
“So’d you get swept off your feet by some handsome Republican?” “Naturally…a baker’s dozen of ’em.”
“Say, the Secret Service boys told me counterfeit money’s been turning up in the District, Maryland, Virginia and West Virginia.”
“Oh? That’s…alarming… I’m really tired.”
“I’m on my way for a long hot soak. Care to join me?”
“Um…no, dear. I just want to get out of these shoes and get some shut-eye.”
“So be it. Goodnight… I love you.”
She leaned down. They kissed. “And I love you.”
As she turned away, he grabbed her arm. “Babs, what’s that all along the hem of your dress?”
“Hunh?”
He seized the emerald taffeta near her waist and began hoisting it up. Eleanor’s green pumps were filthy. His gaze ran up her rayon stockings. They were tight at the ankles and baggy at the knees. Franklin examined the bottom of her dress.
The first lady blushed as she looked over her shoulder. “Franklin! What if—” “Cobwebs. Well I’ll be. Rosie the Riveter must be older than I thought.” Eleanor pulled away, smoothing the taffeta down. She gave him the evil eye.
Franklin chuckled as she walked off. He followed his pup into the Monroe room. Looking around the sparse spotless room, he wondered what his wife had been up to. Fala sniffed the paneling along the fireplace wall. Mr. Roosevelt heard a voice in the corridor.
“Sir? Sir? Where you are?”
Fala jumped into his lap. The President rolled into the hallway. “Ah, I was looking for you, good fellow. Come and draw my bath now. So tell me, Fuji, how is that stunning creature you hoodwinked into matrimony?” Tired and aching, Mr. Roosevelt allowed his valet to push his wheelchair to the Presidential bedroom.
“Traveling again. But Mrs. Fuji did send special package you requested.” “Perfect timing, son.”
Fala leapt from his master's lap to the chair at the foot of the bed. He circled twice and kneaded his paws into the upholstery before curling up to sleep. As was their usual routine, the President began undressing.
The valet stepped into the adjoining bathroom and turned the spigots on. Fuji adjusted the temperature and then told his boss, “Be right back,” as he dashed out of the suite.
Fuji soon returned with a brown interagency envelope. He delivered it to the President then mumbled, “I hope no overflow!” as he ran into the bathroom.
Mr. Roosevelt unsealed the metal clasp on the envelope and emptied the contents onto his white bedspread. He grinned while inspecting the nylon stockings.
“Okay sir, your bath is drawn.”
President Franklin Delano Roosevelt replaced the contraband, wheeled over to a bookshelf and slipped the envelope behind an original edition of Poor Richard’s Almanac. “When’s the missus due back?”
“Not for month. Wish we get delivery from stork and she stay home.” He pushed the wheelchair into the bathroom. Fuji removed Mr. Roosevelt’s trousers and torturous leg braces.
The President smiled. “Careful what you wish for. Once that old stork finds your address, he might become a pest. He visited the missus and me six times in ten years. First a little girl, then five boys.”
Claude Fuji laughed with the President.
* * * * *
Still high on adrenaline, the first lady changed into blue-and-white-striped pajamas. She left her bedroom and took her dirty clothes to the hamper in the hall closet, dropping them on top. She dug down and fished out her husband’s shirt. It reeked of French perfume and the collar had a scarlet-colored smudge. Tucking it under her arm, she trotted downstairs, straight to his secretary’s office. Looking over her shoulder, Mrs. Roosevelt ducked inside. She sat in Vera Blandings’ chair, rummaging through her desk. The first lady removed a tube of lipstick from the top sidedrawer. She straightened the small stacks of papers inside, then hurried back to her bedroom. Thank goodness no one saw me.
Eleanor shut the door and locked it. She yanked the cap from the lipstick and twisted it up. Mrs. Roosevelt compared the color to the smudge on her husband’s shirt. It matched. Her stomach churned as tears welled in her eyes. Not again. All the pain from 1918 came rushing back. That Lucy Mercer had nearly ended their marriage. I will not stand for him to be involved with another secretary. Eleanor twisted the lipstick back down, replaced the cap and chucked it into a wastebasket. Then she shoved his shirt in with it. She stomped it down with her foot.
Eleanor climbed in bed and picked up the telephone receiver on her walnut nightstand.
The White House operator asked, “Yes Missus Roosevelt, how may I direct your call?”
* * * * *
Now past midnight, across town in Anacostia, the mournful winter wind harmonized horribly with the off-key singing from down the hall at the boarding house. Chloe lay shivering in cold water, unaware how much time had passed since she’d drawn the bath. It was her desperate attempt to wash the evil away. Succumbing to the incessant pounding on the door, she whimpered, “Orpha, if you and Shirley don’t stop that wretched caterwauling I’ll vacate the room.”
Chloe stumbled out of the tub onto the cold pink and black floor. Lavender-scented suds slid down her legs and pooled on the flower-patterned tile.
“It’s Mrs. Grogan dear. Did your special fella come through for ya tonight? I want all the romantic details.”
Shivering, Chloe leaned over and twisted a worn but bright white towel around her hair. She shoved her arms into an old terrycloth bathrobe, wincing as the rough fabric abraded her sensitive skin. She pulled the frayed belt tight.
Chloe jerked the chain on the tub stopper, releasing the dirty water. She stared at the hundred dollar bill. Slither away and leave me alone. It didn’t heed her will. She yanked the money out and wadded it up with all her might, then shoved it into the bottom of the wastebasket, underneath the bathroom discards.
“Chloe? Can ya hear me darlin’? Did he pop the question?” the landlady asked.
Chloe knelt on the wet tiles, dunking her hands into the dwindling water and flattening them on the bottom of the tub. Water poured from her cuffs when she pulled them back out. The cast iron drainpipe burped as the bathtub emptied.
Twisting the crystal knob, Chloe opened the door and gagged at the stench of burnt eggnog. After switching the light off, she crossed the hall to her room.
Mrs. Grogan gasped at the sight of Chloe’s legs and face. She followed Chloe in and shut the door. “Oh my God child! You were attacked! Or did…did he do this to ya? I’ll go and fetch Doc Morton. Or do ya need to go to the hospital?”
“No! Don’t call anyone. You mustn’t tell! Promise, Mrs. G?” Chloe pleaded, nearly hysterical.
“Shh… Calm down, now just calm down darlin’. Ya know I’ll do ya right.” The landlady pulled Chloe to her bosom and stroked the towel on her hair. “There there now. Everything will be all right.”
“Ouch! You’re hurting me.”
Mrs. Grogan let go. “I’m so sorry, sweetness. Forgive—” “No, I’m sorry, Mrs. G. I mean…”
“Shh-shh-shh. Hush child. “ She tenderly ran a finger along Chloe’s cheek. “I’ll be back in a moment.” The landlady waddled off with purpose.
Chloe located her big suitcase, wedged in the tiny closet. Determined to extract the luggage, she inhaled and heaved to the left. The suitcase dislodged, propelling a wire hanger with a pink cotton blouse. The hanger stung her chest. The blouse covered her face. She sneezed and dropped the suitcase as she grabbed her ribs. Dear God and Jesus in heaven. Please let me feel better. Please let me wake up in North Carolina. Forgive me of my sins. Amen.
She heard panting as Mrs. Grogan swept aside the makeup and curlers on the dresser and deposited an aluminum tray. A waffle-sized powder puff fell to the floor. Chloe held in another sneeze and picked up the suitcase. Mrs. Grogan bent down with a groan and plucked up the puff, tossing it onto the dresser. She tugged on the suitcase but was unable to release it from Chloe’s grip.
“Where do ya think you’re going on such a treacherous night? Young lady, ya just put that thing away and get under the covers. Here’s some warm eggnog and a couple of chloral hydrate capsules to help ya sleep.”
“No! I have to get out of here, now leave me alone! I’ve messed everything up. What don’t you understand? I can’t stay in Washington. I have to disappear before it’s too late!”
“Why? Just call the Metropolitan Police on the beast!”
“No, you don’t understand and…I…I can’t explain it. I have to leave! Believe me and don’t ask anything! Please?” How much time do I have before they find out? What will they do to me?
With a look of uneasy puzzlement, Mrs. Grogan questioned, “But where will ya go? Back home to your Mam in Carolina? Do ya want me to call her for ya?”
Chloe dropped the suitcase onto the tapestry area rug, grabbed Mrs. Grogan’s chubby arms and stared dead into her chocolate eyes. “I can never go back to North Carolina now. Not in this—oh, I’ve said too much! All right… You have to help me. Please, Mrs. G?”
Mrs. Grogan embraced her favorite tenant and affirmed, “I will help ya darlin’. Always. Now what is it that ya need?”
Chloe paced the room. As she passed by the wobbly-legged desk, she brushed against an old tin of pennies, knocking it over. They tinkled like a gentle metallic waterfall puddling on the hardwood floor. The two women bumped heads as they squatted to pick up the coins.
“Can you get my paycheck from the Bureau next Friday? And deposit it in my checking account? I’ll call in on Monday morning and tell them…oh, something!”
“How ‘bout that your sister’s baby has come early and ya have to go to Baltimore to help out with her older ones?”
Chloe’s stomach felt like it jumped to her throat. She knew she had to keep up the charade for Mrs. Grogan of having a sister. “No! Not that! I’ll tell them my Momma took ill and I have to go and look after her.” Chloe reached the last two pennies and plunked them into the can.
Mrs. Grogan put a stubby finger on her fleshy cheek and began tapping. “But where will ya go? To make a new beginning. Hollywood? New York? Iowa? No, not Iowa…” Mrs. Grogan clambered to her feet. “I know! Miami Beach!”
“Miami Beach?”
“Yes darlin’, of course Miami Beach. It’s eighty degrees down there now don’t ya know. I’ll call Paddy and let him know to expect ya. He’s my late husband’s cousin. He owns a bakery, finest in southern Florida. He rents rooms out over top of the place. I’ll make sure he has a vacancy and if he doesn’t, then he’ll just have to make one.”
Chloe sat cross-legged on the floor, adjusting her robe. “Don’t you read the newspaper, Mrs. G? The beach has been commandeered by the Army Air Corps for their boot camp. The hotels are being used as barracks, for heaven’s sake.” She rattled the pennies, staring into the can.
Faint rays of sunshine broke through the vicious storm clouds in Chloe’s mind. Miami Beach. Warmth, yes, oh to be warm again. Bakery, yum. But soldiers everywhere? How depressing. Wait…soldiers everywhere, about to be sent off to war…scared and lonely men.
Chloe stretched to reach the desk and shoved the tin can on top. She pulled herself up. “Yes! Mrs. Grogan, Miami Beach sounds…perfect. “
The landlady plopped Chloe’s suitcase up onto the bed. She grabbed an armload of clothes from the closet and tossed them on the quilt. Removing the first dress from its hanger, she shook it out and rolled it into a tight cylinder. “Ya get less wrinkles this way darlin’. I read it in a magazine don’t ya know. “
As Chloe touched up her bruised face with pancake and rouge, the Andrews Sisters’ snappy song, “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy”, drifted in from down the hall. She coughed while smacking a powder puff all over her forehead. None of this happened. I don’t exist. I’ll just disappear into paradise and everything will be all right again. She turned to Mrs. Grogan. “How do I look?”
“I shoulda married Max Factor. The man is a genius don’t ya know. Ya’d never guess what happened tonight. Don’t forget your lipstick darlin’, and you’re good enough to dance at the White House.” She hung the empty hangers on the wooden closet rod. “I’ll leave ya to dress, dear, and I’ll go call ol’ Paddy. And then, when he says yes, I’ll order ya a cab.”
“The trains do run all night, don’t they?”
“Yes darlin’. Now you get ready quick and be on your way. “
When Mrs. Grogan stepped into the hallway, she hollered, “Girls, ya turn that racket off. I don’t care if ya don’t have your nursing classes tomorrow. We have rules in this house.”
Chloe winced as she painted her scabbed lips a deep wine color. Her fingers got caught in a snarl as she combed through the carrot-colored strands of her hair. Satisfied, she packed her round makeup trunk.
Chloe emptied out her desk drawer, packing her birth and baptismal certificates, high school and college diplomas, pencils and a ruler. Hmm, the Mickeys might come in handy… Chloe scooped up the chloral hydrate capsules, dropped them in an envelope, licked it shut and placed it on top of her rolled blue gingham dress. She stretched a sock over the can of pennies and sunk it into the bottom of her suitcase. Her hand trembled as she tossed in two pink envelopes, recent letters from her “sister”.
As Chloe lay across the patchwork quilt on her twin bed, she was grateful the landlady had left and wouldn’t see the tears of pain as she struggled into her girdle. She finished dressing and then slipped her coat and gloves on. Chloe draped a beige cowl over her head and wrapped it around her neck.
She looked all over the space that had been her home for the last eleven months. The furnished room for let seemed emptier than when she had first moved in. Chloe placed her key on the desk then turned off the light.
She tiptoed down the dark narrow hall to the kitchen. Big band music blared from the radio in the back room. The taxi driver announced his arrival by leaning on the horn.
Mrs. Grogan pressed an envelope into her hand.
“Here’s Paddy’s address. He’ll be a-waitin’ for ya darlin’. He’s good stock don’t ya know. He’ll see that nobody harms ya there in paradise. Don’t ya worry none, I’ll take care of your paycheck. If Paddy fusses ’bout the telephone then ya call me person-to- person every week. And drop me some postcards. And if I ever get my hands on the beast who did this to you…so help me…”
Teardrops spilled down Chloe’s face as she hugged and kissed her landlady. Her friend. She hurried to the cab, not allowing herself to look back. She was grateful she had slipped out without having to explain her departure to the other girls.
* * * * *
At Washington’s Union Station, the driver pulled the brim of his hat low, covering his eyes before he helped her out onto the shoveled and salted sidewalk. He retrieved her luggage from the trunk.
With her hand still trembling, she held out a dollar. “Keep the change.”
He hesitated before taking it. “Thanks. Would you want for me to carry the bags in, miss?”
“No thank you.” She entered the grand domed building by way of a revolving door and zigzagged through the bustling crowd. At the Richmond, Fredericksburg and Potomac Railway counter, she joined the end of the queue. Chloe set her luggage down on the polished marble floor and ran her hands along the soft burgundy velvet ropes. Velvet. Like the choir robe I used to wear at The Church of the Good Shepherd. Back in North Carolina. Where I should’ve stayed.
* * * * *
Still outside, the cabby removed his hat and ran his fingers through his greasy white hair. He paced in front of the train station, peering in the brightly lit windows. Shoving through the revolving door, he made a beeline to a phone booth. He dropped a nickel and spun the dial. “She’s at Union Station at the RF&P desk. Shall I see where she’s headed?”
Hundred Dollar Bill:
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July 4, 2013
Sample Chapter of FULLY INVOLVED FIRE
"Excellent! Thank you! I am looking forward to checking out more of Sherry Silver's work!"--Brenda Cothern 
Fully Involved FireBy Sherry Silver
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Story Summary:Have a tall drink of water handy to put out the fire when you read Fully Involved Fire, a poignant story of the after effects of September 11th.
Johnny Newman is one of New York City’s finest; the Fire Department's most eligible bachelor. He’s been in love with his best friend’s widow for years. Johnny feels he has given her enough time to get over Brandon, but will his playboy reputation ruin his chances?
Susan Cervini is caught up in trying to locate a missing cousin through a website for an aging pop star. When Susan begins to have irrational feelings for her best friend, Johnny, she is afraid she will ruin their friendship, but she can’t seem to stop feeling an overpowering need for his touch. Can they have a torrid affair and go back to being friends, or will the feelings they have for each other change Susan’s mind about love and marriage again?
Johnny Newman is a real American hero; strong in his beliefs, dedicated to helping others, and loyal to the woman he loves above all others. He is sexy but unaware of his appeal, chivalrous without being conscious of it, and a wonderful friend; the way he unselfishly dedicates himself to Susan’s needs. She is a very caring woman who is afraid of losing again. Her restoration of faith was a long and hard journey but was well worth the wait. Her love for Johnny is a beautiful thing to behold, culminating in a climactic coming together.
Excerpt:Brooklyn, New York"I brought you a turkey with Swiss on white. From Vinnie’s.” Johnny Newman placed the sandwich and a half pint of skim milk on the rough granite tombstone. Squatting, he ran his soot-stained hand over the lettering.His eyes halted on the Maltese cross. He bowed his head and crossed himself.“Two years ago today, Brandon. We found you…your hand.” He cleared his throat as he fought the saline escaping from both eyes. “Susan’s okay now. Man, it was bad on her. She wanted to join you. We had to do an intervention. She spent a couple weeks in the hospital. Your mom and I, we took turns staying with her when she got back home.“Anyhow, I just wanted to bring you the sandwich. I haven’t eaten at Vinnie’s anymore since…” He exhaled.“And I wanted to let you know not to worry about Susan. She’s gonna make it all right. And, um, I’m gonna keep lookin’ out for her. What I’m tryin’ to say is, I love Susan. Well, of course you already knew that. But I mean…I’m in love with her. It’s not the September Eleventh widow syndrome thing either. I didn’t move in on her a couple weeks after…”An ambulance wailed by. Johnny sat back on his heels. He picked a thick blade of grass and entwined it in his fingers, pulling it so tight the tips turned red. “Did ya know eight guys left their wives and kids for the widows? Jesus. Shunned one family in favor of another. The psychologists they sent around tried to explain the phenomenon. They warned us there would be affairs. I swear I haven’t touched her. And I’ve kept the wolves away. Johnson and Caruthers. Friggin’ bastards. Can you believe it?” Johnny yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “She’s a beautiful woman and all, but they should’ve had more respect for you…and Susan, than that.” He stood up and unwrapped the sandwich, straightening it on top of the headstone. The white paper flapped under it.“Anyhow, I just wanted to have a talk with you first. I wanted to let you know my intentions. I’ve got no idea how Susan feels toward me. But I’ll tell you one thing, buddy. I plan on standing in Times Square, watching the ball drop and kissing my fiancée to ring in the New Year.” Johnny opened the milk container and placed it next to the sandwich. He crossed himself and walked down the path.A nun called out, “You can’t leave trash here. Remove it.”Johnny smiled and closed the gate behind him.~♥♥~“Here you go, a package from your dead cousin.” The bespectacled letter carrier leered at Susan as he talked to her breasts.Her stomach knotted. This better not be a trick. The wind whooshed in as Susan reached outside the glass storm door and snatched the battered brown box. “I’ve never believed she’s dead, Oliver, and here’s proof.” Please let Melody be alive and happy.“Well, you see, the thing is, the postmark and return address are smudged, so this one’s probably been around quite awhile, at the dead letter office.”She glared at him. “Are those letters for me, too?”He handed his former schoolmate her junk mail. “So, what are your plans for Christmas? You know, it really is time you started dating again.”She couldn’t believe he would suggest such a thing. She would never date again. No way.He launched into his baritone version of “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?”Susan let go of the storm door. It slammed in Oliver’s pock-marked face. After dropping the letters onto the foyer bench, Susan attempted to peel the clear tape off of the box as she carried the package down the hallway and into the kitchen.Her pulse raced as she rifled through her junk drawer, settling on a pen to pry the tape loose. She inhaled deeply while plopping down in a chair at the table. Staring at the box, Susan remembered…In July, she mailed her cousin Melody a birthday card. It came back at the end of August. Someone had scribbled on the envelope Deceased: Return To Sender. She called Melody’s home in Nevada, right away.Melody’s husband Zander answered, “Yellow.”“Zander, it’s Susan Cervini. I just got Melody’s birthday card returned to me. Someone wrote on the envelope that Melody was deceased!”“Yep.”“What? She’s not dead!”“Ah jeeze, I’m sorry, hon. I thought the police contacted you. They said they would. I gave them your address. Jeeze, it was terrible, they made me take a lie detector test, two of ‘em. Always suspect the poor grieving husband. I should sue ‘em. Um…uh…I didn’t have a memorial service ‘cause there’s no body yet. I can’t even collect on her insurance policy. I tried calling you, but I just got your answering machine, for about four days in a row.”“When?” Susan demanded.“Let’s see now…Melody disappeared on the fourth of July, so it must have been on the eighth that I started calling you. She went out to pick up some Chinese food and never came back. Vanished without a trace.”“What do you mean by Melody ‘vanished without a trace’?”“I called the police and reported her missing. They found nothing. I went down to the daycare center and they said she hadn’t come in to work. Her car was in the parking lot at the strip mall where the Chinese restaurant is. I’m a young widower, Susan—hey, I have another call. Good to hear from ya.” Zander had hung up on her.After quite a bit of work with the pen, the box popped open. Susan scooped and brushed a layer of peanut shaped foam packing material out, dropping it into the chrome trashcan. She gingerly removed an asymmetric object. Peeling back the bubble wrap encircling it, she smiled, marveling at the charming penguins made from black seashells and delicate white eggs, perched on a granite rock. Susan gently ran her finger along the diminutive work of art. Strolling into the living room, she walked over to the curio cabinet and added the exquisite piece to the center of her collection.Her cousin Melody had always spoiled Susan with her beloved feathered creatures, penguins. She still had the stuffed penguin pillow that Melody had sewn for her in seventh grade home economics class. She slept with it every night.Tucking her hair behind her ears, Susan walked back into the kitchen and removed the remaining bubble wrap from the box. Nestled in the bottom was a compact disc. Susan peeled the shrink wrap off the CD, huffing as she picked at the stubborn tape sealing the top edge. Returning to the living room, she pulled her lite jazz CD out of the stereo system and inserted the one from Melody. She glanced over the track listing. It was the latest release from Mister Wright.God, this brings back memories, Susan thought. Melody had posters of him all over the bedroom they shared as teenagers. He was so cute…well, if you like the tall, muscular type with better hair than most women and a killer grin. She wondered what ever happened to good old Mister Wright? But more importantly, what had happened to Melody?Susan had prayed every night, that wherever Melody was and whomever she was with, that she was at peace and happy. And now, this package was proof, Melody was alive and reaching out to her.Unsettled but comforted, Susan commenced tidying her kitchen. Her yellow Labrador retriever, Bob, whimpered. Wiping her fresh teardrops away, she let the seventy-pound puppy out through the sliding glass door in the kitchen that led to the fenced back yard. The fence that she and Brandon had built. It was a four foot tall, Mount Vernon style picket fence. Susan had loved watching him drape a chain between the posts and mark it with a pencil. Then he cut off the top of the boards, making a scalloped pattern. He could do anything.Broom in hand, sweeping the crumbs and golden-white fur from the black and white checkerboard vinyl floor, Susan found herself swaying to the infectious melodies. She’d always loved listening to someone who could really play guitar—someone who could make love with it. Mister Wright’s voice was so sexy. Her whole mood was lifted. So Melody never did get over her teenaged infatuation with good old Mister Wright. His new songs are excellent, right on par with the finest of today’s pop.She let Bob in, then sat at her desk in the kitchen and checked her e-mail. There were only two posts. The first one was an offer for mortgage refinancing. It made her think about the local charity for fallen police officers and firefighters. Those benevolent folks had insisted on paying off Susan’s mortgage and car loan. They also gave her carte blanche for tuition, if she wanted to go back to college for her Master’s degree. They were so generous, offering anything money could buy. For a while, they telephoned or stopped by every week asking, “Just tell us what we can do for you, Missus Cervini. What do you need?”The worst was the day before Thanksgiving last year, when two uniformed police officers showed up with a turkey and all the trimmings. As if she had anyone to cook it for, let alone eat with.With a knot in her stomach, Susan deleted the spam.The second post was an advertisement for penile enlargement. Well, the virtual meanies just had to rub it in today. As if she’d ever see another one of those. She deleted the e-mail and emptied her e-garbage. The last song on the CD ended.Susan clicked on the search box and typed in Mister Wright. Surfing through some fan webpages, she was surprised to learn that he was still writing and recording. Wow, he actually wrote all of his own songs. She was impressed. And the gorgeous photos, the guy didn’t have a bad side. She ogled one picture in particular: he was screaming into a microphone, red guitar in the air, moisture on his tanned, shirtless skin. Oh, look at those arms. Perfectly developed. His chest was covered in dark hair, just the right amount. And those leather pants.Holding her face in her hands, feeling the heat, she shook her head and scrolled down the page. His wife was the most gorgeously glamorous woman she’d ever seen. A living, breathing, thinking Malibu Barbie doll. The kids all took after her. She focused on the lovely doctor, Missus Wright. Susan lamented she wasn’t even half as pretty. She laughed at herself for feeling jealous pangs at the wife of a fallen superstar she didn’t even know.She surfed through a few more sites, hoping to find a concert schedule. No such luck, so she subscribed to his fan e-mailing list at Gobbledygroups.com. Maybe she’d find Melody at a concert. It was certainly worth trying.The doorbell rang. Her eyes grew large as she jumped up and yanked the belt tight on her pink and powder blue chenille robe. She finger combed her hair as she passed by the foyer mirror. She peeked through the peephole. Johnny Newman. Good old Johnny. Susan opened the front door and the storm door.“Hi Johnny. Excuse my appearance, I was reading my e-mail and the morning got away from me.”The tall and buff auburn haired hunk handed her a bouquet of white lilies. “Not a problem. How’d it go at the soup kitchen yesterday?”Susan smiled. “These are for me?”He nodded.“Thank you. What’s the occasion?” As soon as she’d asked the question, she realized it was two years ago today that they’d found Brandon’s remains in the smoldering rubble of Tower One. “Oh—that’s right.” She swallowed hard and pushed the bouquet to her nose, inhaling the sweet scent.He hugged her. She noticed the smoke. A familiar sensory memory of her late husband.As Johnny wiped orange pollen off her nose with his finger, he stared into her eyes, trying to make a connection.Susan looked down and said, “Last Thanksgiving was much easier. It was good being around the other volunteers. But I never want to see another yam ever again.”“What happened?”“I was carrying one of those big aluminum trays and I tripped. I looked like one of the bag ladies myself, with marshmallow matted hair for the rest of the day.”He touched her shoulder. “Sorry.”“It’s okay. It’s kind of funny now. How was work?”“Thanksgiving is always an interesting watch. A couple fire calls for food on the stove. And you get there and everyone is drunk. Grandma and all.” Johnny leaned down to scratch Bob. “So, who’s this guy you’re sending dirty messages to?”“What?” Susan tugged her robe closed at the neck.“Why so much Internet lately?”Embarrassed but enthusiastic about her new found addiction, Susan confessed, “Well, I was hooked on the auction sites, but my credit card statement snapped me out of that nonsense. Then I found Gobbledy Groups and I love chatting with people from all over the world. I’m on a romance readers e-mailing loop, but I just joined a music fan group.”Johnny hung his brown leather bomber jacket on a wall hook built into the mirror over the foyer bench. “What’s the topic?”“Oh, it’s a fan website for Mister Wright.”“I thought he OD’ed.”“No! He’s not a druggie. He’s a good family man. His wife’s a doctor. He takes the kids on tour with him. They’ve got three children.”Johnny did an Elvis smile, out of one side of his mouth. “What happened to the classy Susan who only listened to jazz?”“Would you like some coffee?” she asked, “I don’t make it just for myself, but I can brew a fresh pot for us.”“No, thanks, I’ve had too much. I want to try to get the framing done today.” He turned on the basement light.“Okay, thanks, Johnny. You really don’t have to do this—”He placed a finger on her lips. “Shh…stop it. Brandon was my best buddy. I’m finishing what he started…”Susan wiped a tear from her eye and smiled, looking away. “Let me take a shower, then I’ll come down and give you a hand.”~♥♥~In the basement, Johnny measured and cut the studs for the final wall. He laid them out on the concrete floor, spacing the two-by-fours eighteen inches on center. His mind wandered to how attractive Susan looked this morning, standing in front of him in that robe with her long black hair all tousled. He’d never known anyone else with crayon blue eyes like Susan’s. He’d fallen hard for her the first time their eyes met, at the awards ceremony where Brandon received his medal. Brandon was the one who pulled her out of the apartment fire. Johnny couldn’t compete with her hero. The Lieutenant had Johnny up on the roof, ventilating. Damn it. It should have been him rescuing the goddess from the fire.She had occupied his mind for much of the last six years. The one woman he couldn’t have. In Johnny’s fantasies, he’d steal Susan away from his best friend—the man with whom fate had erroneously paired her. But now all of that had changed.Johnny put his finger on his lips, the one he shushed her with. He softly stroked his mouth. Water clunked through the pipes. Johnny Newman envisioned the chenille robe falling to the floor and Susan stepping into the hot spray. Oh, to be her pump bottle of foaming body wash…~♥♥~Susan inhaled fresh sawdust as she trotted down the unfinished pine stairs. Bob stumbled along in front. Johnny was lifting the last section of framing off the floor. He’d pre-assembled the studs in between the top and bottom boards. That way he didn’t have to toenail them in. Susan helped heave the framing upright. Johnny employed a sledgehammer to gently persuade the tight fitting wall section into place. He adjusted it level, plumb and square.Johnny put on ear protectors. “Cover your ears, sweetheart.”She did as he said and ran to the other side of the basement with Bob at her heels. Johnny used a concrete hammer and little loads of gunpowder to fasten it to the floor. Four loud pops and the wall wasn’t going anywhere.Susan and her puppy trotted back over to him. She took the ear protectors off of Johnny. He smiled.She shook his hand. “You did it!”“Tomorrow I’ll start on the wiring.”“Do you want to bring Jenna over tonight, I’ll cook a nice meal for us?”Johnny shook his head. “Jenna’s outta the picture.”Susan grinned. “The perpetual bachelor. Let me guess. She gave you the old ultimatum, ‘Marry me or we’re through.’ and you said, ‘It’s been fun.’““Somethin’ like that.”“Why don’t you ever settle down, Johnny?”He wanted so badly to blurt it out, but it was too soon. Or was it? He couldn’t blow this one. He shrugged his shoulders.“Well, the invite still stands. I’ll make Mediterranean garlic shrimp. Bring someone else if you’d like. Eight thirty-ish.”“I’ll be here, alone, and I’ll bring dessert.”“It’s a date.”Johnny couldn’t believe she’d said that. She had to mean it, didn’t she?Susan said, “Bob! No! No eating sawdust! Spit it out, now.” She leaned down and swept the yellow pine fluff out of his mouth. “You go get in your playpen, right now. Get in your playpen.” She chased him up the stairs.Johnny said, “Sorry, it’s my fault.” He wondered if she really had said the word date. He had to be reading into things. He shop-vacuumed up the sawdust before joining Susan and Bob upstairs. His pulse raced.Susan followed him to the door. “Thanks, Johnny.”He grabbed his coat and kissed her cheek, something he’d never done before. “Bye.” Johnny hurried to his fire engine red pick-up truck.Susan locked the door and trotted to the kitchen, where she sprawled on the floor, petting Bob. He nuzzled her face, sniffing. For the first time, she felt uncomfortable around Johnny. There was something different in that kiss. Could he be flirting with her? No way. FDNY’s most eligible bachelor wouldn’t be wasting his talents on her. He dated models and lawyers.Susan sucked a breath in all the way down to her stomach. Nobody would ever be interested in her again. Not romantically. She remembered the mailman and a couple jerk firemen hitting on her. They figured she was a horny widow. Well, they were right, but she wasn’t yearning for just a release. She’d been in love. True love. She couldn’t ever just have sex. Susan needed a man to make love to her. To be one with her. Fully Involved Fire:
United States US eBook: Apple ARe Diesel Kindle Kobo Nook Smashwords SonyUnited States US Paperback: Amazon Barnes and Noble CreateSpace Books A Million
Australia AU eBook: AppleBrazil BR eBook: Kindle Apple
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Canada CA Paperback: Amazon
German DE eBook: Kindle Apple
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France FR eBook: Kindle Apple
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Fully Involved FireBy Sherry SilverUnited States US eBook: Apple ARe Diesel Kindle Kobo Nook Smashwords SonyUnited States US Paperback: Amazon Barnes and Noble CreateSpace Books A Million
Australia AU eBook: AppleBrazil BR eBook: Kindle Apple
Canada CA eBook: Sony Kindle Apple
Canada CA Paperback: Amazon
German DE eBook: Kindle Apple
Denmark DK eBook: Apple
Spain ES eBook: Kindle Apple
France FR eBook: Kindle Apple
Italy IT eBook: Kindle Apple
Japan JP eBook: Kindle
New Zealand eBook: Apple
Sweden SE eBook: Apple
United Kingdom UK eBook: Nook Kindle Apple
United Kingdom UK Paperback: Amazon
Story Summary:Have a tall drink of water handy to put out the fire when you read Fully Involved Fire, a poignant story of the after effects of September 11th.
Johnny Newman is one of New York City’s finest; the Fire Department's most eligible bachelor. He’s been in love with his best friend’s widow for years. Johnny feels he has given her enough time to get over Brandon, but will his playboy reputation ruin his chances?
Susan Cervini is caught up in trying to locate a missing cousin through a website for an aging pop star. When Susan begins to have irrational feelings for her best friend, Johnny, she is afraid she will ruin their friendship, but she can’t seem to stop feeling an overpowering need for his touch. Can they have a torrid affair and go back to being friends, or will the feelings they have for each other change Susan’s mind about love and marriage again?
Johnny Newman is a real American hero; strong in his beliefs, dedicated to helping others, and loyal to the woman he loves above all others. He is sexy but unaware of his appeal, chivalrous without being conscious of it, and a wonderful friend; the way he unselfishly dedicates himself to Susan’s needs. She is a very caring woman who is afraid of losing again. Her restoration of faith was a long and hard journey but was well worth the wait. Her love for Johnny is a beautiful thing to behold, culminating in a climactic coming together.
Excerpt:Brooklyn, New York"I brought you a turkey with Swiss on white. From Vinnie’s.” Johnny Newman placed the sandwich and a half pint of skim milk on the rough granite tombstone. Squatting, he ran his soot-stained hand over the lettering.His eyes halted on the Maltese cross. He bowed his head and crossed himself.“Two years ago today, Brandon. We found you…your hand.” He cleared his throat as he fought the saline escaping from both eyes. “Susan’s okay now. Man, it was bad on her. She wanted to join you. We had to do an intervention. She spent a couple weeks in the hospital. Your mom and I, we took turns staying with her when she got back home.“Anyhow, I just wanted to bring you the sandwich. I haven’t eaten at Vinnie’s anymore since…” He exhaled.“And I wanted to let you know not to worry about Susan. She’s gonna make it all right. And, um, I’m gonna keep lookin’ out for her. What I’m tryin’ to say is, I love Susan. Well, of course you already knew that. But I mean…I’m in love with her. It’s not the September Eleventh widow syndrome thing either. I didn’t move in on her a couple weeks after…”An ambulance wailed by. Johnny sat back on his heels. He picked a thick blade of grass and entwined it in his fingers, pulling it so tight the tips turned red. “Did ya know eight guys left their wives and kids for the widows? Jesus. Shunned one family in favor of another. The psychologists they sent around tried to explain the phenomenon. They warned us there would be affairs. I swear I haven’t touched her. And I’ve kept the wolves away. Johnson and Caruthers. Friggin’ bastards. Can you believe it?” Johnny yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “She’s a beautiful woman and all, but they should’ve had more respect for you…and Susan, than that.” He stood up and unwrapped the sandwich, straightening it on top of the headstone. The white paper flapped under it.“Anyhow, I just wanted to have a talk with you first. I wanted to let you know my intentions. I’ve got no idea how Susan feels toward me. But I’ll tell you one thing, buddy. I plan on standing in Times Square, watching the ball drop and kissing my fiancée to ring in the New Year.” Johnny opened the milk container and placed it next to the sandwich. He crossed himself and walked down the path.A nun called out, “You can’t leave trash here. Remove it.”Johnny smiled and closed the gate behind him.~♥♥~“Here you go, a package from your dead cousin.” The bespectacled letter carrier leered at Susan as he talked to her breasts.Her stomach knotted. This better not be a trick. The wind whooshed in as Susan reached outside the glass storm door and snatched the battered brown box. “I’ve never believed she’s dead, Oliver, and here’s proof.” Please let Melody be alive and happy.“Well, you see, the thing is, the postmark and return address are smudged, so this one’s probably been around quite awhile, at the dead letter office.”She glared at him. “Are those letters for me, too?”He handed his former schoolmate her junk mail. “So, what are your plans for Christmas? You know, it really is time you started dating again.”She couldn’t believe he would suggest such a thing. She would never date again. No way.He launched into his baritone version of “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?”Susan let go of the storm door. It slammed in Oliver’s pock-marked face. After dropping the letters onto the foyer bench, Susan attempted to peel the clear tape off of the box as she carried the package down the hallway and into the kitchen.Her pulse raced as she rifled through her junk drawer, settling on a pen to pry the tape loose. She inhaled deeply while plopping down in a chair at the table. Staring at the box, Susan remembered…In July, she mailed her cousin Melody a birthday card. It came back at the end of August. Someone had scribbled on the envelope Deceased: Return To Sender. She called Melody’s home in Nevada, right away.Melody’s husband Zander answered, “Yellow.”“Zander, it’s Susan Cervini. I just got Melody’s birthday card returned to me. Someone wrote on the envelope that Melody was deceased!”“Yep.”“What? She’s not dead!”“Ah jeeze, I’m sorry, hon. I thought the police contacted you. They said they would. I gave them your address. Jeeze, it was terrible, they made me take a lie detector test, two of ‘em. Always suspect the poor grieving husband. I should sue ‘em. Um…uh…I didn’t have a memorial service ‘cause there’s no body yet. I can’t even collect on her insurance policy. I tried calling you, but I just got your answering machine, for about four days in a row.”“When?” Susan demanded.“Let’s see now…Melody disappeared on the fourth of July, so it must have been on the eighth that I started calling you. She went out to pick up some Chinese food and never came back. Vanished without a trace.”“What do you mean by Melody ‘vanished without a trace’?”“I called the police and reported her missing. They found nothing. I went down to the daycare center and they said she hadn’t come in to work. Her car was in the parking lot at the strip mall where the Chinese restaurant is. I’m a young widower, Susan—hey, I have another call. Good to hear from ya.” Zander had hung up on her.After quite a bit of work with the pen, the box popped open. Susan scooped and brushed a layer of peanut shaped foam packing material out, dropping it into the chrome trashcan. She gingerly removed an asymmetric object. Peeling back the bubble wrap encircling it, she smiled, marveling at the charming penguins made from black seashells and delicate white eggs, perched on a granite rock. Susan gently ran her finger along the diminutive work of art. Strolling into the living room, she walked over to the curio cabinet and added the exquisite piece to the center of her collection.Her cousin Melody had always spoiled Susan with her beloved feathered creatures, penguins. She still had the stuffed penguin pillow that Melody had sewn for her in seventh grade home economics class. She slept with it every night.Tucking her hair behind her ears, Susan walked back into the kitchen and removed the remaining bubble wrap from the box. Nestled in the bottom was a compact disc. Susan peeled the shrink wrap off the CD, huffing as she picked at the stubborn tape sealing the top edge. Returning to the living room, she pulled her lite jazz CD out of the stereo system and inserted the one from Melody. She glanced over the track listing. It was the latest release from Mister Wright.God, this brings back memories, Susan thought. Melody had posters of him all over the bedroom they shared as teenagers. He was so cute…well, if you like the tall, muscular type with better hair than most women and a killer grin. She wondered what ever happened to good old Mister Wright? But more importantly, what had happened to Melody?Susan had prayed every night, that wherever Melody was and whomever she was with, that she was at peace and happy. And now, this package was proof, Melody was alive and reaching out to her.Unsettled but comforted, Susan commenced tidying her kitchen. Her yellow Labrador retriever, Bob, whimpered. Wiping her fresh teardrops away, she let the seventy-pound puppy out through the sliding glass door in the kitchen that led to the fenced back yard. The fence that she and Brandon had built. It was a four foot tall, Mount Vernon style picket fence. Susan had loved watching him drape a chain between the posts and mark it with a pencil. Then he cut off the top of the boards, making a scalloped pattern. He could do anything.Broom in hand, sweeping the crumbs and golden-white fur from the black and white checkerboard vinyl floor, Susan found herself swaying to the infectious melodies. She’d always loved listening to someone who could really play guitar—someone who could make love with it. Mister Wright’s voice was so sexy. Her whole mood was lifted. So Melody never did get over her teenaged infatuation with good old Mister Wright. His new songs are excellent, right on par with the finest of today’s pop.She let Bob in, then sat at her desk in the kitchen and checked her e-mail. There were only two posts. The first one was an offer for mortgage refinancing. It made her think about the local charity for fallen police officers and firefighters. Those benevolent folks had insisted on paying off Susan’s mortgage and car loan. They also gave her carte blanche for tuition, if she wanted to go back to college for her Master’s degree. They were so generous, offering anything money could buy. For a while, they telephoned or stopped by every week asking, “Just tell us what we can do for you, Missus Cervini. What do you need?”The worst was the day before Thanksgiving last year, when two uniformed police officers showed up with a turkey and all the trimmings. As if she had anyone to cook it for, let alone eat with.With a knot in her stomach, Susan deleted the spam.The second post was an advertisement for penile enlargement. Well, the virtual meanies just had to rub it in today. As if she’d ever see another one of those. She deleted the e-mail and emptied her e-garbage. The last song on the CD ended.Susan clicked on the search box and typed in Mister Wright. Surfing through some fan webpages, she was surprised to learn that he was still writing and recording. Wow, he actually wrote all of his own songs. She was impressed. And the gorgeous photos, the guy didn’t have a bad side. She ogled one picture in particular: he was screaming into a microphone, red guitar in the air, moisture on his tanned, shirtless skin. Oh, look at those arms. Perfectly developed. His chest was covered in dark hair, just the right amount. And those leather pants.Holding her face in her hands, feeling the heat, she shook her head and scrolled down the page. His wife was the most gorgeously glamorous woman she’d ever seen. A living, breathing, thinking Malibu Barbie doll. The kids all took after her. She focused on the lovely doctor, Missus Wright. Susan lamented she wasn’t even half as pretty. She laughed at herself for feeling jealous pangs at the wife of a fallen superstar she didn’t even know.She surfed through a few more sites, hoping to find a concert schedule. No such luck, so she subscribed to his fan e-mailing list at Gobbledygroups.com. Maybe she’d find Melody at a concert. It was certainly worth trying.The doorbell rang. Her eyes grew large as she jumped up and yanked the belt tight on her pink and powder blue chenille robe. She finger combed her hair as she passed by the foyer mirror. She peeked through the peephole. Johnny Newman. Good old Johnny. Susan opened the front door and the storm door.“Hi Johnny. Excuse my appearance, I was reading my e-mail and the morning got away from me.”The tall and buff auburn haired hunk handed her a bouquet of white lilies. “Not a problem. How’d it go at the soup kitchen yesterday?”Susan smiled. “These are for me?”He nodded.“Thank you. What’s the occasion?” As soon as she’d asked the question, she realized it was two years ago today that they’d found Brandon’s remains in the smoldering rubble of Tower One. “Oh—that’s right.” She swallowed hard and pushed the bouquet to her nose, inhaling the sweet scent.He hugged her. She noticed the smoke. A familiar sensory memory of her late husband.As Johnny wiped orange pollen off her nose with his finger, he stared into her eyes, trying to make a connection.Susan looked down and said, “Last Thanksgiving was much easier. It was good being around the other volunteers. But I never want to see another yam ever again.”“What happened?”“I was carrying one of those big aluminum trays and I tripped. I looked like one of the bag ladies myself, with marshmallow matted hair for the rest of the day.”He touched her shoulder. “Sorry.”“It’s okay. It’s kind of funny now. How was work?”“Thanksgiving is always an interesting watch. A couple fire calls for food on the stove. And you get there and everyone is drunk. Grandma and all.” Johnny leaned down to scratch Bob. “So, who’s this guy you’re sending dirty messages to?”“What?” Susan tugged her robe closed at the neck.“Why so much Internet lately?”Embarrassed but enthusiastic about her new found addiction, Susan confessed, “Well, I was hooked on the auction sites, but my credit card statement snapped me out of that nonsense. Then I found Gobbledy Groups and I love chatting with people from all over the world. I’m on a romance readers e-mailing loop, but I just joined a music fan group.”Johnny hung his brown leather bomber jacket on a wall hook built into the mirror over the foyer bench. “What’s the topic?”“Oh, it’s a fan website for Mister Wright.”“I thought he OD’ed.”“No! He’s not a druggie. He’s a good family man. His wife’s a doctor. He takes the kids on tour with him. They’ve got three children.”Johnny did an Elvis smile, out of one side of his mouth. “What happened to the classy Susan who only listened to jazz?”“Would you like some coffee?” she asked, “I don’t make it just for myself, but I can brew a fresh pot for us.”“No, thanks, I’ve had too much. I want to try to get the framing done today.” He turned on the basement light.“Okay, thanks, Johnny. You really don’t have to do this—”He placed a finger on her lips. “Shh…stop it. Brandon was my best buddy. I’m finishing what he started…”Susan wiped a tear from her eye and smiled, looking away. “Let me take a shower, then I’ll come down and give you a hand.”~♥♥~In the basement, Johnny measured and cut the studs for the final wall. He laid them out on the concrete floor, spacing the two-by-fours eighteen inches on center. His mind wandered to how attractive Susan looked this morning, standing in front of him in that robe with her long black hair all tousled. He’d never known anyone else with crayon blue eyes like Susan’s. He’d fallen hard for her the first time their eyes met, at the awards ceremony where Brandon received his medal. Brandon was the one who pulled her out of the apartment fire. Johnny couldn’t compete with her hero. The Lieutenant had Johnny up on the roof, ventilating. Damn it. It should have been him rescuing the goddess from the fire.She had occupied his mind for much of the last six years. The one woman he couldn’t have. In Johnny’s fantasies, he’d steal Susan away from his best friend—the man with whom fate had erroneously paired her. But now all of that had changed.Johnny put his finger on his lips, the one he shushed her with. He softly stroked his mouth. Water clunked through the pipes. Johnny Newman envisioned the chenille robe falling to the floor and Susan stepping into the hot spray. Oh, to be her pump bottle of foaming body wash…~♥♥~Susan inhaled fresh sawdust as she trotted down the unfinished pine stairs. Bob stumbled along in front. Johnny was lifting the last section of framing off the floor. He’d pre-assembled the studs in between the top and bottom boards. That way he didn’t have to toenail them in. Susan helped heave the framing upright. Johnny employed a sledgehammer to gently persuade the tight fitting wall section into place. He adjusted it level, plumb and square.Johnny put on ear protectors. “Cover your ears, sweetheart.”She did as he said and ran to the other side of the basement with Bob at her heels. Johnny used a concrete hammer and little loads of gunpowder to fasten it to the floor. Four loud pops and the wall wasn’t going anywhere.Susan and her puppy trotted back over to him. She took the ear protectors off of Johnny. He smiled.She shook his hand. “You did it!”“Tomorrow I’ll start on the wiring.”“Do you want to bring Jenna over tonight, I’ll cook a nice meal for us?”Johnny shook his head. “Jenna’s outta the picture.”Susan grinned. “The perpetual bachelor. Let me guess. She gave you the old ultimatum, ‘Marry me or we’re through.’ and you said, ‘It’s been fun.’““Somethin’ like that.”“Why don’t you ever settle down, Johnny?”He wanted so badly to blurt it out, but it was too soon. Or was it? He couldn’t blow this one. He shrugged his shoulders.“Well, the invite still stands. I’ll make Mediterranean garlic shrimp. Bring someone else if you’d like. Eight thirty-ish.”“I’ll be here, alone, and I’ll bring dessert.”“It’s a date.”Johnny couldn’t believe she’d said that. She had to mean it, didn’t she?Susan said, “Bob! No! No eating sawdust! Spit it out, now.” She leaned down and swept the yellow pine fluff out of his mouth. “You go get in your playpen, right now. Get in your playpen.” She chased him up the stairs.Johnny said, “Sorry, it’s my fault.” He wondered if she really had said the word date. He had to be reading into things. He shop-vacuumed up the sawdust before joining Susan and Bob upstairs. His pulse raced.Susan followed him to the door. “Thanks, Johnny.”He grabbed his coat and kissed her cheek, something he’d never done before. “Bye.” Johnny hurried to his fire engine red pick-up truck.Susan locked the door and trotted to the kitchen, where she sprawled on the floor, petting Bob. He nuzzled her face, sniffing. For the first time, she felt uncomfortable around Johnny. There was something different in that kiss. Could he be flirting with her? No way. FDNY’s most eligible bachelor wouldn’t be wasting his talents on her. He dated models and lawyers.Susan sucked a breath in all the way down to her stomach. Nobody would ever be interested in her again. Not romantically. She remembered the mailman and a couple jerk firemen hitting on her. They figured she was a horny widow. Well, they were right, but she wasn’t yearning for just a release. She’d been in love. True love. She couldn’t ever just have sex. Susan needed a man to make love to her. To be one with her. Fully Involved Fire:
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Sample Chapter: The Immaculate Deception
"This one made me giggle. So well written :/" --@JensenCarter Twitter
"I've never been a real super natural, other worldly type kind of reader...Loved this book. Couldn't put it down. So creative and enjoyable!"--Nook Review Romantic Times Magazine Reviewers' Choice Award Best Small Press Paranormal Romance
The Immaculate DeceptionBy Sherry Silver
A Stand-Alone Book in The Good Girls of Washington Series
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Book Summary:After her SUV meets the business end of a deer, Oh-Donna is pulled into an exciting dreamland far away from her peon job and selfish siblings--where mystery, murder and romance take over. Her debonair angel takes her time traveling through the sordid pasts of her Secret Service Agent mother and her genius medical researcher father--who was obsessed with Marilyn Monroe. Oh-Donna discovers she is the first baby born from an ovarian transplant. She must sleuth out the dark secrets of her D.N.A. and close an unsolved murder.
Chapter One
Reston, Virginia
On a gusty July Thursday, my telephone reverberated to the tune of “We Wish You A Merry Christmas”. I shuddered because I knew who was calling. I had set that distinctive ring tone to my father’s number. I was screening his calls because he always had something vile to say about my mother and I had listened to too many of his outrageous lies. My stomach churned while I waited for him to hang up after the fourth ring like he always did when the automatic answering machine kicked on. I held my breath, hearing with relief the click of the machine. The robotic voice said, “Hello, no one is able to come to the phone. Please leave your message after the tone.” When I heard the beep, I swallowed the big wad that clogged my throat. “Oh-Donna, she’s trying to kill me!” I ran to the portable handset and punched the talk button. “Dad! Daddy! Who’s trying to kill you?” In a strained breathless whisper, he said, “Your mother.” “What? When?” “Right now!” he whimpered. I overheard Momma’s voice in the background. “Nobody’s going to care about you. You damned old fool!” After a dull thud, the line went dead. Oh my God. I detected my breath echoing out in audible pants. I couldn’t believe this. What was I supposed to do? Call the police on my own mother? Not an option. No way! I shook my head. This was just too bizarre to wrap my mind around. Momma was a good girl through and through. She might get furious with Daddy once in a while but she’d never ever hurt him. But what if she was really trying to kill him? Lord knows, he’d manipulated, stifled and belittled her for decades. Had he finally done something so dastardly to drive her across the line of sanity? Or perhaps he’d just pulled another one of his everyday mind games and Momma just reached her breaking point? What if she really was trying to kill him? Think, Donna, think! The Meddlesteins! Yes! I would call the Meddlesteins. Pressing the end button on my phone, I automatically plucked the number of Gloria and Roderick Meddlestein from the cobwebs of my childhood. They’d been my parents’ across-the-street neighbors for more than thirty years. When I was little, I could always count on them to help me when I was home alone and needed an adult to relight the furnace or check out a strange noise that had me frightened. They were such good people. I prayed they hadn’t changed their number. I felt a flush of heat rise up and envelop my body as I dialed with trembling fingers, agonizing in the seemingly slow motion. Gloria Meddlestein answered on the second ring. “Hello?” “Mrs. Meddlestein?” My voice sounded unnaturally shrill. “Yes.” “This is Donna Payne. You know, I used to live across the street from you?” She cheerfully said, “Yes, of course. Hello, Donna, how are you, dear?” “Listen, I just received a phone call from my father. He said my mother was trying to kill him.” I faked a laugh. “Will you please go over and check on him?” Without much of a pause, she said, “I’ll send Roddy over. You want to give me your number so I can call you back?” “Thank you so much, Mrs. Meddlestein.” I gave my phone number and ended the call. My mind was racing. Tammy works close by, she can zip over and talk some sense into those two. She is their favorite kid and has them wrapped around her pretty little finger. What is the name of that gym where she works? I frantically punched in the numbers of the telephone directory. A prerecorded voice told me to state the party’s name and city. “Rocky’s Gym, Washington, DC.” I waited and waited. Finally a live person came on the line. “Ma’am, we only retrieve Virginia numbers. You have to hang up and dial one, two–oh–two, five–five–five, one–two–one–two.” Shoot! I ended the call and tried again. Tears streamed down my face. Big almond-sized drops. This time a computer-generated voice revealed the phone number for the gym. The surly employee who had answered the phone at Rocky’s Gym had deserted me in the purgatory of hold. Five minutes passed as I waited on the telephone line for my forty-three-year-old adopted sister Tammy, personal trainer to the Capitol Hill pork barrels, all those congressmen, senators, lawyers and lobbyists who thought they ruled the universe. Come on, come on already. Tammy, you’re three minutes from their house. It might be a matter of life or— I wouldn’t let myself think the last word. My stomach churned and I tasted a burning sourness in my throat. This was taking too long. I punched the button to end the call and then pushed redial. Wedging the house phone in between my right ear and shoulder, I picked up my cell phone and dialed the Meddlesteins. The tiny blue phone on my left ear just rang and rang. I couldn’t stand this inactivity. I had to do something. I furiously wiped imaginary crumbs off my pistol gray granite countertops. Stomping into the utility room, I threw the damp rag in the empty laundry basket on top of the dryer. As I grabbed the broom and glanced around, I realized there wasn’t anything to clean. I had sterilized the place last evening in preparation for my trip to the writers’ conference in New York today. I didn’t want to get killed in a plane crash and then be embarrassed at the mess I’d left. What impression would that leave behind? No, I was a good, clean girl. I shoved the broom back up into its holder and shut the door. My neck and shoulder ached from squeezing the portable handset to my ear. Never realized how heavy my head was. I grabbed the house phone and erectly speed-walked into the hardwood foyer. I stumbled over my yellow backpack. Next to it, my pink overstuffed duffel bag leaned lopsidedly against the etched glass front door. A defiant beep pounded in my right ear. I ended the call to Tammy and slapped the phone down on the teacart, beside my purse and plane ticket to New York. I closed the never-ending ringing of the Meddlesteins’ call on my cell phone. Thunder cracked outside. The rain commenced its devilish needle pricking on the cedar shake roof of my end-unit townhouse. I folded the cell phone and clipped it onto the canvas belt on my sleeveless khaki shirtdress. I shuffled into the powder room and yanked tissues out of the box to blow my nose on. Looking in the mirror, I tried touching up the black rings around my powder blue eyes but the mascara kept running through the tears. Blue eyes. How come I was the only one in my family with blue eyes? Momma’s eyes were green. Daddy had brown eyes. Oh God, Daddy! What’s going on between you two? I knelt on the floor, grabbed my curly blond hair back and lost my breakfast. Momma used to hold my hair back when I threw up. I remember when Tammy had her tonsils removed and was so sick afterward. Momma made me hold my sister’s ebony black hair back. I thought it was so gross and mean at the time but now I knew she was teaching me compassion and nurturing. Eventually calming down, I cleaned myself up. After strapping on the backpack, I slung my crocheted purse strap over my right shoulder, maneuvered the overstuffed duffel away from the front door and opened it. The wind gushed in. I flinched as I watched lightning strike the field behind the townhouses across from me on Spyglass Street. Heaving the bag over the threshold and onto my brown brick stoop, I propped it against my foot, shut the door and locked up. I pressed the automatic key twice and listened to the doors unlock on my black Chevy Suburban. As soon as I stepped out from under the portico, I was drenched. Running to the vehicle, I opened the rear cargo door and heaved in the duffel. Struggling to free myself from the backpack, I pulled one of those unthought-of muscles in my side. Grimacing and wincing, I stowed the luggage, slammed the cargo door and raced to the driver’s side, climbing in as another bolt split the Bradford pear tree in my front yard. The little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I really loved that pear tree. I started the engine, shifted into overdrive and accelerated through the narrow winding, private streets of my planned community. After switching the front and rear wipers on, I fumbled in my purse to make sure that I’d remembered my ticket. A paper cut cinched that mystery. I sucked on the index finger of my right hand as I stopped at the red light. I spun the dial to defrost while trying to see through the fogged-up windshield. Soaked and shivering, I slid the temperature lever to high. I switched on the seat warmer as I floored it through the intersection on Route Seven. Darn it, Daddy. Why do you always have to pull one of your stunts just when my life is going so well? Am I not constitutionally entitled to “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness”? And if Momma is trying to kill you, I can’t say she wasn’t provoked by all your years of manipulation. I don’t have time to run over and referee. I’m going to miss my flight. As furious as I was at him, I knew there were shuttles leaving for New York every hour. I’d just have to pay a fee and stand by for a later flight. Damn it, Daddy, you’re costing me extra money and I’ll miss early registration. I hated attending conferences without a name badge identifying me as one of the group. If I was late today, I wouldn’t be able to get mine until tomorrow morning. I tensed up even more as I approached the exit for the Dulles Toll Road. If I turned here, I might be able to make the next shuttle flight to New York. Or a few more miles down the road, I could squeeze onto the conveyer belt they called Route Sixty-Six, the road to the Nation’s Capital, Washington, and the misery of my parents’ house. Before I had made up my mind, my cell phone rang out. I fumbled, unable to unhook it from my belt. I unlatched my seat belt and wrestled to get the phone loose. Simultaneously, I heard a thud and then glass shattering. I shielded my face with my hands as a deer hurtled toward me. I felt the air bag inflating against me and the sharp stab of the antler piercing my right shoulder. I slammed on the brakes with both feet. The vehicle skidded to a lurching stop as the air bag deflated. Impaled on the deer, I was ejected out of the Chevy. The buck and I bowled down a prickly embankment. The searing pain in my shoulder was alternately overwhelmed by the weight of the beast when he reigned on top. I felt the antler breaking loose from my shoulder just before my world somersaulted into darkness. Hearing a thumping whir, I blinked my eyes open. I struggled, unable to move. Someone was holding me down. I focused on his thickly haired brown arms and then down to his blue latex-gloved hands. “She’s coming to.” I screamed. Screams of fright, frustration and burning agony. Screams that I couldn’t hear. “Calm down, Miss. You’re gonna be all right. We’re flying you to Fairfax Hospital. We should be landing momentarily. What’s your name?” The man removed the oxygen mask from my face. “Ohhh…” “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. You’re really beat up. Can you tell me your name?” “Ohhh…Donna.” “Donna? Good. Do you know what today is?” Teardrops spilled. I didn’t know. The rhythmic whoop of the helicopter distracted me. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’ll be just fine. The trauma team will take good care of you.” He replaced the oxygen mask and wiped my tears with gauze. ~*~Four days later, when my HMO deemed me no longer in need of hospitalization, through their healing by statistical curve, I was discharged on a sunny Monday morning. My bloody muddy clothes had been cut off me and destroyed. So I left the hospital dressed in scrubs and slippers, duly charged to my inpatient bill. I had to sign a form promising to pay for non-covered items such as the television, phone and scrubs. I never even used the phone. Who could I call? Who would care about me? Not my family. They always had their own urgent crises. Clan emergencies. And I didn’t want to call. I didn’t want to hear any more bloated lies and bizarre accusations from Daddy. As if Momma would have killed Daddy. It would’ve been all over the news. I could hear the sound bites in my head. Retired Secret Service agent Chloe Lambert Payne suspected in the murder of her blind helpless husband, the saintly doctor Nathan Payne. An octogenarian volunteer helped me into a wheelchair and placed a plastic belongings bag and a fruit basket in my lap. The girls I worked with in the file room of the health insurance company had sent apples, oranges and bananas. That’s right. I worked for my own HMO and they still booted me out too soon. Fruit. They knew I was on the Atkins diet. No fruit allowed during the induction phase. The wizened portly volunteer groaned and wheezed as he shoved my torture chair down the corridor. Why couldn’t the hospital invest in an ergonomic chair instead of this folding low-end ouch-maker? We went down the elevator and he propelled me through the lobby to the curb. He waited until a taxi arrived and opened the back door for me. I stood, sore and stitched, on shaky legs. I eased into the backseat. The driver asked, “Where to, lady?” Where to? To the writers’ conference at the Hilton Hotel in New York, four days ago. To the red carpet, where I’ll stroll in my strapless champagne silk evening gown, with matching opera gloves, to accept my trophy and cash prize. To the appointment with the acquisitions editor of the romance publisher… “Lady, the meter’s running. Where to?” I sighed New York goodbye, “One–two–four–oh–six Nixon Court, Southwest.” Arriving at the Harrison Heights section of the District of Columbia, in front of a scaled-down imitation of George Washington’s colonial mansion at Mount Vernon, I dug my wallet out of the orange plastic bag of belongings retrieved from the wreckage. I paid the cabby and stumbled up onto the cracked sidewalk. Marijuana and charcoal lighter fluid steeped in the air. A pit bull barked ferociously from the chain-linked fortress next door. “Hi there.” I turned around too quickly and gasped. My whole body pulsed in pain. Gloria Meddlestein stood across the street holding open the metal bars on her front door. “Hello, Mrs. Meddlestein. How are you?” “Where on earth have you been, Donna? I tried and tried to get you on the phone. Are you having problems with your line because of the storm the other day? Did the roads wash out? What happened to your face? Got another one of those boyfriends? You really should—” “I need to go in and see my parents now. I’ll chat with you later. Um…we’ll have tea.” I climbed up the Zoysia grass hill, staggering on the crumbling concrete steps winding the way to my childhood home. A mildewy white gutter had torn loose from the two-story-high porch roof. It dangled over the front door. I winced as I ducked under it. I never knew that every muscle in my body was attached to my shoulder. I pressed the yellowed doorbell button. And waited. I knocked. And waited. I tried to turn the knob and it did. I shoved the colonial red door open and stepped onto the slate landing. “Hello? Momma, Daddy?” I shut the door behind me and agonized up the three cherry red carpeted steps to the living room. It hadn’t been vacuumed since I had done it on Christmas Eve. That was seven months ago. There was white furry dust on every stationary object. I dropped the fruit basket and orange bag on the floor between the white wrought iron railing and the comfortable oxblood leather tub chair in the living room. I searched the house. My hospital slippers made a suction noise as I trudged through the sticky kitchen. A skillet with potatoes congealed in grease occupied the front burner of the electric range. The table was cluttered with grocery receipts, two aromatic black bananas, a nitroglycerine pill, toast crusts and grape jelly goo. I moved into the adjacent formal dining room. The carpet was littered with crumbs, spills and dust. The French doors to the balcony were locked. The blinds hung shut. As were all the blinds and drapes in the entire house. Daddy had cataracts cut out of his eyes in 1972, before lens replacements were invented. He had no lenses to filter out the bright light, so he had to wear a wide-brimmed hat outdoors and dark bottle-thick cataract eyeglasses indoors. This had abruptly ended his career as an obstetrician/gynecologist at the age of fifty-eight. Some days his eyes went out completely and he couldn’t see at all. I veered down the hallway. Daddy’s blue bathroom was empty. His bedroom was empty too, nothing but disheveled bedding and the plastic milk jugs he used for urinals. Momma’s bedroom was vacant as was her lavender bathroom. Her mattress sported a deep depression on the side closest to the door, where she always curled up. The bed was made and loaded with throw pillows. The third bedroom was empty. Postage stamps, pictures of their great-nieces and nephews, old bills and linens were strewn about the white and gold French provincial bedroom suite that my adopted sister Tammy left behind when she last departed the nest. She flew back during her divorces. Was it five now? No wait. Six. I forgot Abdul, the drummer in the President’s own Air Force band who seemed to be wealthy without a visible legal source of extra income. Perry and Daddy had always whispered Abdul was involved in a smuggling ring. Passing back through the living room and down the three steps to the landing where I had arrived through the front door, I pivoted and opened the dark wood door to the basement. I listened to the grandfather clock down there, chiming twelve times. I switched on the light, not that it illuminated much with a twenty-five-watt bulb. I gripped the loose handrails on both sides as I maneuvered down the rust-colored sculptured carpeted stairs to the dark walnut-paneled basement. I looked around. Still no sign of either Momma or Daddy. I squinted at the clock, next to the rectangular stone fireplace. The face only had one hand on it. The small hand. Everything was neat. Daddy usually vacuumed down here and always kept the place tidy. He refused to clean upstairs or do laundry. Probably due to her clinical depression, Momma wasn’t much of a housekeeper the past few years. I checked the sliding glass door behind the heavy cream-colored leaf motif drapery. It was locked, the stick was wedged in the track and the white steel grate was bolted into the white bricks of the house. Momma’s red Corvette convertible was parked in the carport. The hatch to the outside attic was open. The exposed light bulb on the ceiling was lit. I switched it off and fixed the drapes open. I checked the downstairs bathroom. It was empty. As I peered down the hallway, I spotted Daddy, on the floor, pinned under the deep freezer. I rushed to him. “Daddy! Daddy!” He turned his head and groaned. “Oh…Donna…” I tried to heave the small freezer upright and screamed in agony. It fell back on me. I shoved it in place. Squatting down, I kissed Daddy’s forehead. “I’ll go call an ambulance. Where does it hurt?” “She…killed…me…” “You’re not dead.” “Your momma…killed me. She just didn’t…understand. I tried so hard to keep my promise to her. I gave you a good home.” “Daddy, you’re not making any sense.” I dashed to the phone in my old underground bedroom. I picked up the receiver on the blue rotary telephone and spun the emergency number, nine-one-one. “DC Fire and EMS, what is your emergency?” “I need an ambulance. A ninety-two-year-old male has fallen and was pinned under a freezer.” The cranky female dispatcher demanded, “Your name?” “Donna Payne. The address is—” The dispatcher cut me off. “We know the address. Is the patient conscious? Is there any bleeding?” “Yes, he’s talking. No blood.” “Is he breathing?” the dispatcher demanded. Of course he’s breathing if he’s talking, imbecile. “Yes.” I hung up and hurried back to Daddy. “Donna, make sure you find my veterans’ life insurance policy, it’s in the bottom drawer of my dresser. It’s forty thousand dollars and all for you. And up over the carport,” he gasped for breath, “there’s a few boxes. Unmarked. My memorabilia of your momma is in there. Your real momma. It’s worth a lot…to the right buyer. I don’t want the others to have any of it. They’ve gotten too much for too long.” “I don’t want your money, Daddy. Don’t talk like that.” I squeezed his arthritis-ravaged hand and rubbed his brown-spotted wrist. What was he talking about? My real momma? I knew he had two big boxes of Marilyn Monroe memorabilia in the attic. Did he think she was my mother? She died before I was born. The poor man was losing his mind. “What happened? What made the freezer turn over on you?” “She did it.” “Who?” “Your momma. She hates me.” Would that be Marilyn or Chloe then? He really made no sense. Perhaps he was hallucinating. He must be. I couldn’t wrap my mind around Momma doing such a horrific thing to Daddy. There had to be a rational explanation. I noticed he wasn’t wearing his cataract eyeglasses. He was legally blind without them. “No, Momma would never hurt you.” “Oh yes, she did. And she is as strong as a man too,” his voice cracked high. My mother was eighty-three years old. Granted, she had been trained by the Secret Service to subdue men but no way was she in that physical shape at her age. “Daddy, I don’t understand. Why would she attack you?” “She demanded the money and I will never give it up.” “What money?” He had a coughing fit. I knelt down to help him sit up, bracing his shoulders on my knees as I cradled his head against my chest. When he’d cleared his throat, he launched into a stream of tasks for me to attend to and he kept saying that after his death, I would get all the riches that he’d preserved for me. He kept going on and on about his coffin stowed under the stairs. That always gave me the creeps. And I’d heard this all before. So many times he’d promised me money but the others always needed it and I never received a penny. I never asked for any either. Not since that day when I was sixteen and all excited about college. I had wanted to attend George Washington University and major in journalism or political science. I’d get a newspaper job at The Washington Post and run all over Capitol Hill. Maybe even get on the White House press staff some day. Momma had told me then, “Oh no. Just forget about it. I can’t do that again.” Momma had to train for a second career after retiring from the Secret Service. She worked sixteen-hour days, seven days a week as a private duty-registered nurse putting my father’s son Perry through law school. And then she had to pay tuition for some fancy makeup artist academy in Beverly Hills, California, for Tammy who’d dropped out of high school. I understood. I really did. I was the one at home eating tasteless leftover homemade vegetable soup, two meals a day. I watched the toll it took on Momma to work so hard and sacrifice so much for the others. It broke my heart to see her so exhausted. She’d come home from work, fix a tall glass of vodka on the rocks with a bent straw to sip while she lay on her side on the couch with her varicose-veined legs and bunioned feet propped up on pillows. I wouldn’t add to her misery. I never asked for anything again. Nor was it offered. I interrupted Daddy’s rambling. “Daddy. Daddy. Where is Momma?” I heard the ambulance siren. “I’ll let them in.” I gently laid him down then bolted up the basement stairs and threw the front door open. A fire engine had stopped out front. The imbecile had dispatched a fire engine. I angrily waved at them to leave. Four men slowly emerged from the vehicle and made their way up the steps. I yelled, “There isn’t a fire! I need medical help!” A guy in a sooty white helmet that had Lieutenant written on it spoke. “Listen, lady, do you want help or not? There are no ambulances available. You District residents abuse the system, using them for taxicabs. We just ran an ingrown toenail. Where’s the patient?” “Down the stairs and make a left.” I followed the white helmet. Three yellow helmets trailed me. One was carrying a first-aid kit. Another fireman toted an oxygen bottle. The lieutenant started examining Daddy. “Joe-Joe, get the paddles, he’s in full arrest.” Joe-Joe ran. “Get a bag on him!” The lieutenant began chest compressions on Daddy. A fireman placed an oxygen bag over my father’s face and began squeezing rhythmically. The lieutenant said, “Enrique, switch on three… One and two and three.” Firefighter Enrique took over doing the chest compressions. The lieutenant rose to his feet and squeezed the microphone on his lapel. “Communications, this is thirteen engine. Be advised our patient is in full arrest. Request the nearest medic unit.” Joe-Joe returned with the defibrillator. They cut Daddy’s blue plaid cotton shirt open and his white V-necked undershirt. The lieutenant shoved me back into the rec room. “How old is he?” “Ninety-two.” “Any history of heart problems? How long ago did he fall?” “No, but he has high blood pressure and a history of TIA’s…mini strokes, you know? I found him on the floor with the freezer on top of him about ten minutes ago. I couldn’t get a straight story out of him about what happened. He wasn’t making much sense. He told me that—” Mrs. Meddlestein appeared at the top of the stairs. “What’s going on?” The lieutenant glowered at her and said to me, “Ma’am, take her and go outside. Flag down the medic unit when it arrives.” It arrived. Forty-five minutes later. The paramedics found Dr. Nathan Lucifer Payne dead. They called for the coroner. ~*~I slumped in a chrome and yellow vinyl dinette chair in Mrs. Meddlestein’s perky kitchen, numbly sipping mango ice tea. She talked and yammered about Daddy running out into the street on Thursday and Momma standing at the door waving his cane and screaming obscenities. I had no reason to accuse Mrs. Meddlestein of lying but it was really out of character for Momma to have argued in public with Daddy. I tuned her out. A booming parade of dusty sunlight filtered in through the pink Swiss-dotted curtains in the bay window. My bleary eyes ached. I didn’t for one minute believe that Momma turned the freezer over on Daddy. Mrs. Meddlestein fussed around, tidying this and that. With her old-fashioned bottled-platinum hairdo, red lips, drawn-on mole and white halter dress, she was every bit a plump sexagenarian Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn Monroe. Had Daddy really said that she was my real momma? Just before he… Oh my God! “They’re gone now, dear,” Mrs. Meddlestein finally said, in her own nasal Jewish mother voice. Definitely not Marilyn-ish. I left her. I shuffled across the street and into the house. I dreaded telling Momma when she got home. Crying in a curled-up ball on the brown leather couch in the living room, choking on my own mucus, I had to get some toilet paper from the bathroom to blow my nose on. I’d used up many plies when the telephone rang. Oh Momma. What will I say to you? I stumbled into the living room and picked up the princess rotary dial phone. “Payne residence.” “Who’s this?” my half-brother Perry gruffly demanded. “Perry, it’s Donna.” “Where the frick have you been? I’ve been trying to call you since Thursday.” I had to swallow the wad in my throat. “Perry, Daddy died today.” “What?” “He’d fallen, the freezer toppled over on him. I don’t know how long before I got here. He had a heart attack. They tried to revive him but the paramedics arrived too late. He’s dead. Our daddy is dead, Perry.” “She escaped and killed him.” “What?” “Your mother murdered him.” “How dare you? She’s not even here!” Escaped? What was he talking about? Escaped from where? “You have no idea what’s been going on these past few months.” “Momma is not a murderess!” “I’ll be over in a little while. We need to go over some things. Have you notified Tammy?” “No. We’re not on speaking terms,” I growled. “I’ll call her on the way. Stay put.” He hung up on me. I dropped the heavy ivory receiver onto the gaudy faux-gold filigree phone. I felt wetness oozing through my bandaged shoulder onto the teal scrub shirt. I wandered down the hallway and found some bandages and hydrogen peroxide under the blue bathroom sink. I peeled off the shirt and yanked the tape off the dressing. Raw, hairless skin screamed from the cruel adhesive the hospital had used. It hurt so bad. I poured hydrogen peroxide on the sutured puncture wound. It bubbled into a cold white and pink fizz. I dabbed it dry with toilet paper and squeezed treatment solution on. I patched it up with a large Band-Aid. Topless and braless, I left the shirt and bloody dressing on the floor and trudged to Momma’s bedroom. I removed one of her lavender floral blouses from the closet and gingerly slipped it on. “Oh-Donna? Where are you?” I heard Perry’s voice summoning me. Oh-Donna. I hated my nickname. My full name was Orpha Donna Payne. Momma named me after her lifelong friend, Secret Service agent and registered nurse Orpha Livingston Blair. My family nicknamed me “Oh-Donna” after the late Ritchie Valens song “Donna” from the fifties. To me, it had always been a faux term of endearment, more like a snide little inside joke to all of them. Even Momma. They all knew it bothered me. So that’s why it stuck. It wouldn’t be fun to tease me if I wouldn’t get my feathers poked sideways. Of course, the “Donna” song, about searching for the girl that got away, was beautiful. But it embarrassed me when they called me Oh-Donna in front of outsiders. And it also made me feel like the outsider. Like I didn’t really belong to this family but by some ridiculous blunder of nature, my spirit plopped down in their sticky glue. I plodded back into the living room where my over seven-foot-tall and seemingly seven-foot-wide half-brother Perry stood, dressed in his black judge’s robe. He was holding a briefcase. “You okay? Jeeze, it must have been horrific finding the body.” “He wasn’t dead when I got here.” “Why didn’t you do CPR then?” “I…I called for an ambulance.” Perry opened his black briefcase and removed a legal type document. “Well, here’s the old boy’s will. Everything is in order. He named you as executrix. You need to put the house on the market, get the tax assessor in, arrange an estate sale and close out their bank accounts. Insert just a tiny ad in the legal notices section of the Post to notify his creditors. When the year is up, whatever is left gets split evenly. Between me and Tammy.” Of course it would be. I was nobody. I snatched the will from him. He grabbed it back before I could read it. “Don’t goof it up, Oh-Donna.” “Goof it up?” Hot tears streamed down my face. “Why are you always humiliating me? How could I goof it up by just holding it to read? Why do you treat me like a retard?” He didn’t love me at all. I had only fooled myself all of my life thinking my brother really did love me deep down. I wiped my nose on the hem of the blouse I was wearing. “Daddy didn’t leave everything to you and Tammy. What about Momma?” “Don’t worry about her. I had her admitted to Saint Christopher’s for a psych evaluation on Thursday. They’ll take her on as a charity case if she doesn’t go to jail.” “You did what?” “I received a message from Dad that she was trying to kill him. When I arrived here, she had chased him outside. He was shaking. She was inside with his aluminum cane in her hand and it was bent where she’d beat him upside the head with it.” I remembered Mrs. Meddlestein claiming she saw Daddy run outside and Momma cussing at him and waving his cane. “Did you actually see her hit him with it?” “That’s irrelevant.” “If you really thought she’d hit him, then why did you have Momma locked up and leave Daddy home alone with a head injury?” “I had to get back to court. I gave him a couple of aspirins and made an ice pack for him to put on the goose egg bump on his head.” “So in other words, you didn’t think he was seriously injured.” I didn’t buy the ice pack bit for one minute. Perry wouldn’t even know how to make one. Daddy didn’t have a head injury. “Not at that time. I made sure to lock up Chloe before she had a chance to do him in. A fat lot of good that did. She escaped and finished the job.” “Escaped? A little old lady escaped from the mental ward? You’re being ridiculous, Perry. Come up with a better fairy tale.” “Keep living in never-never land, Oh-Donna. Just watch your back before she kills you too.” Perry stashed the papers in his briefcase. “I’ve called the Metropolitan Police. They’ll send technicians over to process the crime scene. Let ’em in, will ya?” “Crime scene? It was an accident! The freezer toppled over on him and he had a heart attack.” Perry looked incredulously at me. “Oh-Donna, open your eyes and see the truth. Dad was murdered.” I panted, trying to catch my breath. I would not accept that Daddy had been murdered. Especially not by his own wife. And there was absolutely no evidence or witnesses to make me believe otherwise. I couldn’t believe Perry had talked the cops into accepting there was a crime. Surely the autopsy would clear everything up. I had never been so angry in my entire life. Perry grumbled, “Tammy said she’d do the funeral arrangements. You wanna give me one of your credit cards so she can charge it to?” “What?” “Where’s your purse?” “Get out!” “Don’t you talk to me that way, Oh-Donna.” “Why do you and Tammy always assume I am rich? You are the ones with the college educations and high-paying jobs. Get out!” I shoved him down the three stairs. He clunked his shaved bald head on the white wrought iron railing. “What the devil got into you?” He took off. I locked the door tight and rushed down the basement stairs. I flung open the big wide door to the walk-in closet under the stairs. I reached in the dark for the shoestring and yanked the light on. I shut the door. It wasn’t quiet like I needed. A melody faintly emanated from around the switchback corner underneath the stairs. It sounded like Perry Como’s “Some Enchanted Evening”, a beautiful love song from the forties. The walk-in closet was immense as far as closets go. Since the house was a split foyer, the stairs were turned in an L-shape. Three down from the living room, a wide landing at the front door and then a turn and nine stairs down to the basement. Daddy extended the width of the closet so it made a U-shape with a switchback under the basement stairs. There was an overhead storage area with a hatch underneath the foyer landing and the stairs that led up to the living room. Daddy’s eight-sided Dracula coffin was in there. Not that he was a vampire but his family had weird burial rituals. He came from a poor Irish-American family that was among the first settlers in Sacramento, California, during the gold rush. They were known to pack a pistol while standing guard with their loved one to prevent an autopsy, the body was never to be left alone, someone had to stay inside the open grave all night, an Irish wake thrown at the house…things like that. The back of the closet was stuffed with boxes full of Daddy’s old medical files and research papers. Neatly lining the walnut-paneled closet walls were two dozen plastic grocery bags filled with used novels. Momma read when she couldn’t sleep. She’d told me she liked books with a little mystery, a little danger and a little sex. So here was the New York Times bestseller list for the past few years. She preferred the thick ones. Daddy always whispered it was an obsessive-compulsive disorder, Momma reading so much. There was one bag stuffed with photo albums. I rooted out the white one. Beautiful sepia prints were displayed in little gold corner mounts on heavy black paper. Momma in a bathing suit, on the beach, with palm trees. Must’ve been in the forties sometime. In one, she was cuddled up to a very handsome bearded man. Definitely not Daddy. In another, she wore a full-length fur. I remembered that fur. She always kept it in the big black steamer trunk that I was leaning on. I eased off it, undid the latches and opened the lid. There it was, along with the aroma of mothballs. I slipped the full-length sable on and drew it tight. The melody became louder. I crept back and peeked around the corner under the basement stairs. I moved some boxes. Blackness swirled. Wind whipped. The music had laughter. I felt an irresistible forward force propelling me deeper. ~♥~I blinked. Sparkles. Rainbow-colored sparkles dazzled my eyes. People danced cheek to cheek. Lots of soldiers in old-fashioned uniform. The women were wearing white gloves and fancy hats. I found the exit and escaped outside into the night. A chilling wind stung my cheeks. Something was very not right. The cars were all jalopies. Really old ones, older than the ones at the classic car nights at the fast food restaurant I always went to. The kind of cars you had to turn a big crank on the front to start. I proceeded along. Passing a newsstand, I picked up a paper. The headline read President Roosevelt’s New Strategy For the Philippines. The date was February 16, 1945. I dropped it and ran. All right, this was spooky. Where the hell was I? Freezing rain pummeled my face. I stumbled in a grate, breaking a heel off my blue stiletto shoe. Blue stiletto shoe? What happened to my hospital slippers? I must be dreaming. Midway across the Fourteenth Street Bridge, gateway back to Virginia, I stopped. I leaned over the concrete railing and gasped for breath. I stuck my right hand into the deep silk-lined coat pocket and extracted a pearl-handled pistol. I screamed and dropped it over the rail. I watched it slide on the surface of the frozen Potomac River. Frozen river? This was July! I stuck my hand into the left pocket and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. An icicle fell from the lamppost above me. I examined the note in my hand. Benjamin Franklin’s portrait adorned both sides. It was bloody. I felt a tap on my right shoulder. It didn’t hurt. I turned…and saw a man.
The Immaculate Deception:U.S. eBook: iTunes ARe Diesel Kindle Kobo Nook Smashwords Sony
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"I've never been a real super natural, other worldly type kind of reader...Loved this book. Couldn't put it down. So creative and enjoyable!"--Nook Review Romantic Times Magazine Reviewers' Choice Award Best Small Press Paranormal Romance
The Immaculate DeceptionBy Sherry Silver A Stand-Alone Book in The Good Girls of Washington Series
U.S. eBook: iTunes ARe Diesel Kindle Kobo Nook Smashwords Sony
U.S. Paperback: Amazon Barnes and Noble CreateSpace Books A Million
U.K. eBook: Nook Kindle iTunes
U.K. Paperback: Amazon
Canadian eBook: Sony Kindle iTunes
Canadian Paperback: Amazon
Book Summary:After her SUV meets the business end of a deer, Oh-Donna is pulled into an exciting dreamland far away from her peon job and selfish siblings--where mystery, murder and romance take over. Her debonair angel takes her time traveling through the sordid pasts of her Secret Service Agent mother and her genius medical researcher father--who was obsessed with Marilyn Monroe. Oh-Donna discovers she is the first baby born from an ovarian transplant. She must sleuth out the dark secrets of her D.N.A. and close an unsolved murder.
Chapter One
Reston, Virginia
On a gusty July Thursday, my telephone reverberated to the tune of “We Wish You A Merry Christmas”. I shuddered because I knew who was calling. I had set that distinctive ring tone to my father’s number. I was screening his calls because he always had something vile to say about my mother and I had listened to too many of his outrageous lies. My stomach churned while I waited for him to hang up after the fourth ring like he always did when the automatic answering machine kicked on. I held my breath, hearing with relief the click of the machine. The robotic voice said, “Hello, no one is able to come to the phone. Please leave your message after the tone.” When I heard the beep, I swallowed the big wad that clogged my throat. “Oh-Donna, she’s trying to kill me!” I ran to the portable handset and punched the talk button. “Dad! Daddy! Who’s trying to kill you?” In a strained breathless whisper, he said, “Your mother.” “What? When?” “Right now!” he whimpered. I overheard Momma’s voice in the background. “Nobody’s going to care about you. You damned old fool!” After a dull thud, the line went dead. Oh my God. I detected my breath echoing out in audible pants. I couldn’t believe this. What was I supposed to do? Call the police on my own mother? Not an option. No way! I shook my head. This was just too bizarre to wrap my mind around. Momma was a good girl through and through. She might get furious with Daddy once in a while but she’d never ever hurt him. But what if she was really trying to kill him? Lord knows, he’d manipulated, stifled and belittled her for decades. Had he finally done something so dastardly to drive her across the line of sanity? Or perhaps he’d just pulled another one of his everyday mind games and Momma just reached her breaking point? What if she really was trying to kill him? Think, Donna, think! The Meddlesteins! Yes! I would call the Meddlesteins. Pressing the end button on my phone, I automatically plucked the number of Gloria and Roderick Meddlestein from the cobwebs of my childhood. They’d been my parents’ across-the-street neighbors for more than thirty years. When I was little, I could always count on them to help me when I was home alone and needed an adult to relight the furnace or check out a strange noise that had me frightened. They were such good people. I prayed they hadn’t changed their number. I felt a flush of heat rise up and envelop my body as I dialed with trembling fingers, agonizing in the seemingly slow motion. Gloria Meddlestein answered on the second ring. “Hello?” “Mrs. Meddlestein?” My voice sounded unnaturally shrill. “Yes.” “This is Donna Payne. You know, I used to live across the street from you?” She cheerfully said, “Yes, of course. Hello, Donna, how are you, dear?” “Listen, I just received a phone call from my father. He said my mother was trying to kill him.” I faked a laugh. “Will you please go over and check on him?” Without much of a pause, she said, “I’ll send Roddy over. You want to give me your number so I can call you back?” “Thank you so much, Mrs. Meddlestein.” I gave my phone number and ended the call. My mind was racing. Tammy works close by, she can zip over and talk some sense into those two. She is their favorite kid and has them wrapped around her pretty little finger. What is the name of that gym where she works? I frantically punched in the numbers of the telephone directory. A prerecorded voice told me to state the party’s name and city. “Rocky’s Gym, Washington, DC.” I waited and waited. Finally a live person came on the line. “Ma’am, we only retrieve Virginia numbers. You have to hang up and dial one, two–oh–two, five–five–five, one–two–one–two.” Shoot! I ended the call and tried again. Tears streamed down my face. Big almond-sized drops. This time a computer-generated voice revealed the phone number for the gym. The surly employee who had answered the phone at Rocky’s Gym had deserted me in the purgatory of hold. Five minutes passed as I waited on the telephone line for my forty-three-year-old adopted sister Tammy, personal trainer to the Capitol Hill pork barrels, all those congressmen, senators, lawyers and lobbyists who thought they ruled the universe. Come on, come on already. Tammy, you’re three minutes from their house. It might be a matter of life or— I wouldn’t let myself think the last word. My stomach churned and I tasted a burning sourness in my throat. This was taking too long. I punched the button to end the call and then pushed redial. Wedging the house phone in between my right ear and shoulder, I picked up my cell phone and dialed the Meddlesteins. The tiny blue phone on my left ear just rang and rang. I couldn’t stand this inactivity. I had to do something. I furiously wiped imaginary crumbs off my pistol gray granite countertops. Stomping into the utility room, I threw the damp rag in the empty laundry basket on top of the dryer. As I grabbed the broom and glanced around, I realized there wasn’t anything to clean. I had sterilized the place last evening in preparation for my trip to the writers’ conference in New York today. I didn’t want to get killed in a plane crash and then be embarrassed at the mess I’d left. What impression would that leave behind? No, I was a good, clean girl. I shoved the broom back up into its holder and shut the door. My neck and shoulder ached from squeezing the portable handset to my ear. Never realized how heavy my head was. I grabbed the house phone and erectly speed-walked into the hardwood foyer. I stumbled over my yellow backpack. Next to it, my pink overstuffed duffel bag leaned lopsidedly against the etched glass front door. A defiant beep pounded in my right ear. I ended the call to Tammy and slapped the phone down on the teacart, beside my purse and plane ticket to New York. I closed the never-ending ringing of the Meddlesteins’ call on my cell phone. Thunder cracked outside. The rain commenced its devilish needle pricking on the cedar shake roof of my end-unit townhouse. I folded the cell phone and clipped it onto the canvas belt on my sleeveless khaki shirtdress. I shuffled into the powder room and yanked tissues out of the box to blow my nose on. Looking in the mirror, I tried touching up the black rings around my powder blue eyes but the mascara kept running through the tears. Blue eyes. How come I was the only one in my family with blue eyes? Momma’s eyes were green. Daddy had brown eyes. Oh God, Daddy! What’s going on between you two? I knelt on the floor, grabbed my curly blond hair back and lost my breakfast. Momma used to hold my hair back when I threw up. I remember when Tammy had her tonsils removed and was so sick afterward. Momma made me hold my sister’s ebony black hair back. I thought it was so gross and mean at the time but now I knew she was teaching me compassion and nurturing. Eventually calming down, I cleaned myself up. After strapping on the backpack, I slung my crocheted purse strap over my right shoulder, maneuvered the overstuffed duffel away from the front door and opened it. The wind gushed in. I flinched as I watched lightning strike the field behind the townhouses across from me on Spyglass Street. Heaving the bag over the threshold and onto my brown brick stoop, I propped it against my foot, shut the door and locked up. I pressed the automatic key twice and listened to the doors unlock on my black Chevy Suburban. As soon as I stepped out from under the portico, I was drenched. Running to the vehicle, I opened the rear cargo door and heaved in the duffel. Struggling to free myself from the backpack, I pulled one of those unthought-of muscles in my side. Grimacing and wincing, I stowed the luggage, slammed the cargo door and raced to the driver’s side, climbing in as another bolt split the Bradford pear tree in my front yard. The little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I really loved that pear tree. I started the engine, shifted into overdrive and accelerated through the narrow winding, private streets of my planned community. After switching the front and rear wipers on, I fumbled in my purse to make sure that I’d remembered my ticket. A paper cut cinched that mystery. I sucked on the index finger of my right hand as I stopped at the red light. I spun the dial to defrost while trying to see through the fogged-up windshield. Soaked and shivering, I slid the temperature lever to high. I switched on the seat warmer as I floored it through the intersection on Route Seven. Darn it, Daddy. Why do you always have to pull one of your stunts just when my life is going so well? Am I not constitutionally entitled to “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness”? And if Momma is trying to kill you, I can’t say she wasn’t provoked by all your years of manipulation. I don’t have time to run over and referee. I’m going to miss my flight. As furious as I was at him, I knew there were shuttles leaving for New York every hour. I’d just have to pay a fee and stand by for a later flight. Damn it, Daddy, you’re costing me extra money and I’ll miss early registration. I hated attending conferences without a name badge identifying me as one of the group. If I was late today, I wouldn’t be able to get mine until tomorrow morning. I tensed up even more as I approached the exit for the Dulles Toll Road. If I turned here, I might be able to make the next shuttle flight to New York. Or a few more miles down the road, I could squeeze onto the conveyer belt they called Route Sixty-Six, the road to the Nation’s Capital, Washington, and the misery of my parents’ house. Before I had made up my mind, my cell phone rang out. I fumbled, unable to unhook it from my belt. I unlatched my seat belt and wrestled to get the phone loose. Simultaneously, I heard a thud and then glass shattering. I shielded my face with my hands as a deer hurtled toward me. I felt the air bag inflating against me and the sharp stab of the antler piercing my right shoulder. I slammed on the brakes with both feet. The vehicle skidded to a lurching stop as the air bag deflated. Impaled on the deer, I was ejected out of the Chevy. The buck and I bowled down a prickly embankment. The searing pain in my shoulder was alternately overwhelmed by the weight of the beast when he reigned on top. I felt the antler breaking loose from my shoulder just before my world somersaulted into darkness. Hearing a thumping whir, I blinked my eyes open. I struggled, unable to move. Someone was holding me down. I focused on his thickly haired brown arms and then down to his blue latex-gloved hands. “She’s coming to.” I screamed. Screams of fright, frustration and burning agony. Screams that I couldn’t hear. “Calm down, Miss. You’re gonna be all right. We’re flying you to Fairfax Hospital. We should be landing momentarily. What’s your name?” The man removed the oxygen mask from my face. “Ohhh…” “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. You’re really beat up. Can you tell me your name?” “Ohhh…Donna.” “Donna? Good. Do you know what today is?” Teardrops spilled. I didn’t know. The rhythmic whoop of the helicopter distracted me. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’ll be just fine. The trauma team will take good care of you.” He replaced the oxygen mask and wiped my tears with gauze. ~*~Four days later, when my HMO deemed me no longer in need of hospitalization, through their healing by statistical curve, I was discharged on a sunny Monday morning. My bloody muddy clothes had been cut off me and destroyed. So I left the hospital dressed in scrubs and slippers, duly charged to my inpatient bill. I had to sign a form promising to pay for non-covered items such as the television, phone and scrubs. I never even used the phone. Who could I call? Who would care about me? Not my family. They always had their own urgent crises. Clan emergencies. And I didn’t want to call. I didn’t want to hear any more bloated lies and bizarre accusations from Daddy. As if Momma would have killed Daddy. It would’ve been all over the news. I could hear the sound bites in my head. Retired Secret Service agent Chloe Lambert Payne suspected in the murder of her blind helpless husband, the saintly doctor Nathan Payne. An octogenarian volunteer helped me into a wheelchair and placed a plastic belongings bag and a fruit basket in my lap. The girls I worked with in the file room of the health insurance company had sent apples, oranges and bananas. That’s right. I worked for my own HMO and they still booted me out too soon. Fruit. They knew I was on the Atkins diet. No fruit allowed during the induction phase. The wizened portly volunteer groaned and wheezed as he shoved my torture chair down the corridor. Why couldn’t the hospital invest in an ergonomic chair instead of this folding low-end ouch-maker? We went down the elevator and he propelled me through the lobby to the curb. He waited until a taxi arrived and opened the back door for me. I stood, sore and stitched, on shaky legs. I eased into the backseat. The driver asked, “Where to, lady?” Where to? To the writers’ conference at the Hilton Hotel in New York, four days ago. To the red carpet, where I’ll stroll in my strapless champagne silk evening gown, with matching opera gloves, to accept my trophy and cash prize. To the appointment with the acquisitions editor of the romance publisher… “Lady, the meter’s running. Where to?” I sighed New York goodbye, “One–two–four–oh–six Nixon Court, Southwest.” Arriving at the Harrison Heights section of the District of Columbia, in front of a scaled-down imitation of George Washington’s colonial mansion at Mount Vernon, I dug my wallet out of the orange plastic bag of belongings retrieved from the wreckage. I paid the cabby and stumbled up onto the cracked sidewalk. Marijuana and charcoal lighter fluid steeped in the air. A pit bull barked ferociously from the chain-linked fortress next door. “Hi there.” I turned around too quickly and gasped. My whole body pulsed in pain. Gloria Meddlestein stood across the street holding open the metal bars on her front door. “Hello, Mrs. Meddlestein. How are you?” “Where on earth have you been, Donna? I tried and tried to get you on the phone. Are you having problems with your line because of the storm the other day? Did the roads wash out? What happened to your face? Got another one of those boyfriends? You really should—” “I need to go in and see my parents now. I’ll chat with you later. Um…we’ll have tea.” I climbed up the Zoysia grass hill, staggering on the crumbling concrete steps winding the way to my childhood home. A mildewy white gutter had torn loose from the two-story-high porch roof. It dangled over the front door. I winced as I ducked under it. I never knew that every muscle in my body was attached to my shoulder. I pressed the yellowed doorbell button. And waited. I knocked. And waited. I tried to turn the knob and it did. I shoved the colonial red door open and stepped onto the slate landing. “Hello? Momma, Daddy?” I shut the door behind me and agonized up the three cherry red carpeted steps to the living room. It hadn’t been vacuumed since I had done it on Christmas Eve. That was seven months ago. There was white furry dust on every stationary object. I dropped the fruit basket and orange bag on the floor between the white wrought iron railing and the comfortable oxblood leather tub chair in the living room. I searched the house. My hospital slippers made a suction noise as I trudged through the sticky kitchen. A skillet with potatoes congealed in grease occupied the front burner of the electric range. The table was cluttered with grocery receipts, two aromatic black bananas, a nitroglycerine pill, toast crusts and grape jelly goo. I moved into the adjacent formal dining room. The carpet was littered with crumbs, spills and dust. The French doors to the balcony were locked. The blinds hung shut. As were all the blinds and drapes in the entire house. Daddy had cataracts cut out of his eyes in 1972, before lens replacements were invented. He had no lenses to filter out the bright light, so he had to wear a wide-brimmed hat outdoors and dark bottle-thick cataract eyeglasses indoors. This had abruptly ended his career as an obstetrician/gynecologist at the age of fifty-eight. Some days his eyes went out completely and he couldn’t see at all. I veered down the hallway. Daddy’s blue bathroom was empty. His bedroom was empty too, nothing but disheveled bedding and the plastic milk jugs he used for urinals. Momma’s bedroom was vacant as was her lavender bathroom. Her mattress sported a deep depression on the side closest to the door, where she always curled up. The bed was made and loaded with throw pillows. The third bedroom was empty. Postage stamps, pictures of their great-nieces and nephews, old bills and linens were strewn about the white and gold French provincial bedroom suite that my adopted sister Tammy left behind when she last departed the nest. She flew back during her divorces. Was it five now? No wait. Six. I forgot Abdul, the drummer in the President’s own Air Force band who seemed to be wealthy without a visible legal source of extra income. Perry and Daddy had always whispered Abdul was involved in a smuggling ring. Passing back through the living room and down the three steps to the landing where I had arrived through the front door, I pivoted and opened the dark wood door to the basement. I listened to the grandfather clock down there, chiming twelve times. I switched on the light, not that it illuminated much with a twenty-five-watt bulb. I gripped the loose handrails on both sides as I maneuvered down the rust-colored sculptured carpeted stairs to the dark walnut-paneled basement. I looked around. Still no sign of either Momma or Daddy. I squinted at the clock, next to the rectangular stone fireplace. The face only had one hand on it. The small hand. Everything was neat. Daddy usually vacuumed down here and always kept the place tidy. He refused to clean upstairs or do laundry. Probably due to her clinical depression, Momma wasn’t much of a housekeeper the past few years. I checked the sliding glass door behind the heavy cream-colored leaf motif drapery. It was locked, the stick was wedged in the track and the white steel grate was bolted into the white bricks of the house. Momma’s red Corvette convertible was parked in the carport. The hatch to the outside attic was open. The exposed light bulb on the ceiling was lit. I switched it off and fixed the drapes open. I checked the downstairs bathroom. It was empty. As I peered down the hallway, I spotted Daddy, on the floor, pinned under the deep freezer. I rushed to him. “Daddy! Daddy!” He turned his head and groaned. “Oh…Donna…” I tried to heave the small freezer upright and screamed in agony. It fell back on me. I shoved it in place. Squatting down, I kissed Daddy’s forehead. “I’ll go call an ambulance. Where does it hurt?” “She…killed…me…” “You’re not dead.” “Your momma…killed me. She just didn’t…understand. I tried so hard to keep my promise to her. I gave you a good home.” “Daddy, you’re not making any sense.” I dashed to the phone in my old underground bedroom. I picked up the receiver on the blue rotary telephone and spun the emergency number, nine-one-one. “DC Fire and EMS, what is your emergency?” “I need an ambulance. A ninety-two-year-old male has fallen and was pinned under a freezer.” The cranky female dispatcher demanded, “Your name?” “Donna Payne. The address is—” The dispatcher cut me off. “We know the address. Is the patient conscious? Is there any bleeding?” “Yes, he’s talking. No blood.” “Is he breathing?” the dispatcher demanded. Of course he’s breathing if he’s talking, imbecile. “Yes.” I hung up and hurried back to Daddy. “Donna, make sure you find my veterans’ life insurance policy, it’s in the bottom drawer of my dresser. It’s forty thousand dollars and all for you. And up over the carport,” he gasped for breath, “there’s a few boxes. Unmarked. My memorabilia of your momma is in there. Your real momma. It’s worth a lot…to the right buyer. I don’t want the others to have any of it. They’ve gotten too much for too long.” “I don’t want your money, Daddy. Don’t talk like that.” I squeezed his arthritis-ravaged hand and rubbed his brown-spotted wrist. What was he talking about? My real momma? I knew he had two big boxes of Marilyn Monroe memorabilia in the attic. Did he think she was my mother? She died before I was born. The poor man was losing his mind. “What happened? What made the freezer turn over on you?” “She did it.” “Who?” “Your momma. She hates me.” Would that be Marilyn or Chloe then? He really made no sense. Perhaps he was hallucinating. He must be. I couldn’t wrap my mind around Momma doing such a horrific thing to Daddy. There had to be a rational explanation. I noticed he wasn’t wearing his cataract eyeglasses. He was legally blind without them. “No, Momma would never hurt you.” “Oh yes, she did. And she is as strong as a man too,” his voice cracked high. My mother was eighty-three years old. Granted, she had been trained by the Secret Service to subdue men but no way was she in that physical shape at her age. “Daddy, I don’t understand. Why would she attack you?” “She demanded the money and I will never give it up.” “What money?” He had a coughing fit. I knelt down to help him sit up, bracing his shoulders on my knees as I cradled his head against my chest. When he’d cleared his throat, he launched into a stream of tasks for me to attend to and he kept saying that after his death, I would get all the riches that he’d preserved for me. He kept going on and on about his coffin stowed under the stairs. That always gave me the creeps. And I’d heard this all before. So many times he’d promised me money but the others always needed it and I never received a penny. I never asked for any either. Not since that day when I was sixteen and all excited about college. I had wanted to attend George Washington University and major in journalism or political science. I’d get a newspaper job at The Washington Post and run all over Capitol Hill. Maybe even get on the White House press staff some day. Momma had told me then, “Oh no. Just forget about it. I can’t do that again.” Momma had to train for a second career after retiring from the Secret Service. She worked sixteen-hour days, seven days a week as a private duty-registered nurse putting my father’s son Perry through law school. And then she had to pay tuition for some fancy makeup artist academy in Beverly Hills, California, for Tammy who’d dropped out of high school. I understood. I really did. I was the one at home eating tasteless leftover homemade vegetable soup, two meals a day. I watched the toll it took on Momma to work so hard and sacrifice so much for the others. It broke my heart to see her so exhausted. She’d come home from work, fix a tall glass of vodka on the rocks with a bent straw to sip while she lay on her side on the couch with her varicose-veined legs and bunioned feet propped up on pillows. I wouldn’t add to her misery. I never asked for anything again. Nor was it offered. I interrupted Daddy’s rambling. “Daddy. Daddy. Where is Momma?” I heard the ambulance siren. “I’ll let them in.” I gently laid him down then bolted up the basement stairs and threw the front door open. A fire engine had stopped out front. The imbecile had dispatched a fire engine. I angrily waved at them to leave. Four men slowly emerged from the vehicle and made their way up the steps. I yelled, “There isn’t a fire! I need medical help!” A guy in a sooty white helmet that had Lieutenant written on it spoke. “Listen, lady, do you want help or not? There are no ambulances available. You District residents abuse the system, using them for taxicabs. We just ran an ingrown toenail. Where’s the patient?” “Down the stairs and make a left.” I followed the white helmet. Three yellow helmets trailed me. One was carrying a first-aid kit. Another fireman toted an oxygen bottle. The lieutenant started examining Daddy. “Joe-Joe, get the paddles, he’s in full arrest.” Joe-Joe ran. “Get a bag on him!” The lieutenant began chest compressions on Daddy. A fireman placed an oxygen bag over my father’s face and began squeezing rhythmically. The lieutenant said, “Enrique, switch on three… One and two and three.” Firefighter Enrique took over doing the chest compressions. The lieutenant rose to his feet and squeezed the microphone on his lapel. “Communications, this is thirteen engine. Be advised our patient is in full arrest. Request the nearest medic unit.” Joe-Joe returned with the defibrillator. They cut Daddy’s blue plaid cotton shirt open and his white V-necked undershirt. The lieutenant shoved me back into the rec room. “How old is he?” “Ninety-two.” “Any history of heart problems? How long ago did he fall?” “No, but he has high blood pressure and a history of TIA’s…mini strokes, you know? I found him on the floor with the freezer on top of him about ten minutes ago. I couldn’t get a straight story out of him about what happened. He wasn’t making much sense. He told me that—” Mrs. Meddlestein appeared at the top of the stairs. “What’s going on?” The lieutenant glowered at her and said to me, “Ma’am, take her and go outside. Flag down the medic unit when it arrives.” It arrived. Forty-five minutes later. The paramedics found Dr. Nathan Lucifer Payne dead. They called for the coroner. ~*~I slumped in a chrome and yellow vinyl dinette chair in Mrs. Meddlestein’s perky kitchen, numbly sipping mango ice tea. She talked and yammered about Daddy running out into the street on Thursday and Momma standing at the door waving his cane and screaming obscenities. I had no reason to accuse Mrs. Meddlestein of lying but it was really out of character for Momma to have argued in public with Daddy. I tuned her out. A booming parade of dusty sunlight filtered in through the pink Swiss-dotted curtains in the bay window. My bleary eyes ached. I didn’t for one minute believe that Momma turned the freezer over on Daddy. Mrs. Meddlestein fussed around, tidying this and that. With her old-fashioned bottled-platinum hairdo, red lips, drawn-on mole and white halter dress, she was every bit a plump sexagenarian Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn Monroe. Had Daddy really said that she was my real momma? Just before he… Oh my God! “They’re gone now, dear,” Mrs. Meddlestein finally said, in her own nasal Jewish mother voice. Definitely not Marilyn-ish. I left her. I shuffled across the street and into the house. I dreaded telling Momma when she got home. Crying in a curled-up ball on the brown leather couch in the living room, choking on my own mucus, I had to get some toilet paper from the bathroom to blow my nose on. I’d used up many plies when the telephone rang. Oh Momma. What will I say to you? I stumbled into the living room and picked up the princess rotary dial phone. “Payne residence.” “Who’s this?” my half-brother Perry gruffly demanded. “Perry, it’s Donna.” “Where the frick have you been? I’ve been trying to call you since Thursday.” I had to swallow the wad in my throat. “Perry, Daddy died today.” “What?” “He’d fallen, the freezer toppled over on him. I don’t know how long before I got here. He had a heart attack. They tried to revive him but the paramedics arrived too late. He’s dead. Our daddy is dead, Perry.” “She escaped and killed him.” “What?” “Your mother murdered him.” “How dare you? She’s not even here!” Escaped? What was he talking about? Escaped from where? “You have no idea what’s been going on these past few months.” “Momma is not a murderess!” “I’ll be over in a little while. We need to go over some things. Have you notified Tammy?” “No. We’re not on speaking terms,” I growled. “I’ll call her on the way. Stay put.” He hung up on me. I dropped the heavy ivory receiver onto the gaudy faux-gold filigree phone. I felt wetness oozing through my bandaged shoulder onto the teal scrub shirt. I wandered down the hallway and found some bandages and hydrogen peroxide under the blue bathroom sink. I peeled off the shirt and yanked the tape off the dressing. Raw, hairless skin screamed from the cruel adhesive the hospital had used. It hurt so bad. I poured hydrogen peroxide on the sutured puncture wound. It bubbled into a cold white and pink fizz. I dabbed it dry with toilet paper and squeezed treatment solution on. I patched it up with a large Band-Aid. Topless and braless, I left the shirt and bloody dressing on the floor and trudged to Momma’s bedroom. I removed one of her lavender floral blouses from the closet and gingerly slipped it on. “Oh-Donna? Where are you?” I heard Perry’s voice summoning me. Oh-Donna. I hated my nickname. My full name was Orpha Donna Payne. Momma named me after her lifelong friend, Secret Service agent and registered nurse Orpha Livingston Blair. My family nicknamed me “Oh-Donna” after the late Ritchie Valens song “Donna” from the fifties. To me, it had always been a faux term of endearment, more like a snide little inside joke to all of them. Even Momma. They all knew it bothered me. So that’s why it stuck. It wouldn’t be fun to tease me if I wouldn’t get my feathers poked sideways. Of course, the “Donna” song, about searching for the girl that got away, was beautiful. But it embarrassed me when they called me Oh-Donna in front of outsiders. And it also made me feel like the outsider. Like I didn’t really belong to this family but by some ridiculous blunder of nature, my spirit plopped down in their sticky glue. I plodded back into the living room where my over seven-foot-tall and seemingly seven-foot-wide half-brother Perry stood, dressed in his black judge’s robe. He was holding a briefcase. “You okay? Jeeze, it must have been horrific finding the body.” “He wasn’t dead when I got here.” “Why didn’t you do CPR then?” “I…I called for an ambulance.” Perry opened his black briefcase and removed a legal type document. “Well, here’s the old boy’s will. Everything is in order. He named you as executrix. You need to put the house on the market, get the tax assessor in, arrange an estate sale and close out their bank accounts. Insert just a tiny ad in the legal notices section of the Post to notify his creditors. When the year is up, whatever is left gets split evenly. Between me and Tammy.” Of course it would be. I was nobody. I snatched the will from him. He grabbed it back before I could read it. “Don’t goof it up, Oh-Donna.” “Goof it up?” Hot tears streamed down my face. “Why are you always humiliating me? How could I goof it up by just holding it to read? Why do you treat me like a retard?” He didn’t love me at all. I had only fooled myself all of my life thinking my brother really did love me deep down. I wiped my nose on the hem of the blouse I was wearing. “Daddy didn’t leave everything to you and Tammy. What about Momma?” “Don’t worry about her. I had her admitted to Saint Christopher’s for a psych evaluation on Thursday. They’ll take her on as a charity case if she doesn’t go to jail.” “You did what?” “I received a message from Dad that she was trying to kill him. When I arrived here, she had chased him outside. He was shaking. She was inside with his aluminum cane in her hand and it was bent where she’d beat him upside the head with it.” I remembered Mrs. Meddlestein claiming she saw Daddy run outside and Momma cussing at him and waving his cane. “Did you actually see her hit him with it?” “That’s irrelevant.” “If you really thought she’d hit him, then why did you have Momma locked up and leave Daddy home alone with a head injury?” “I had to get back to court. I gave him a couple of aspirins and made an ice pack for him to put on the goose egg bump on his head.” “So in other words, you didn’t think he was seriously injured.” I didn’t buy the ice pack bit for one minute. Perry wouldn’t even know how to make one. Daddy didn’t have a head injury. “Not at that time. I made sure to lock up Chloe before she had a chance to do him in. A fat lot of good that did. She escaped and finished the job.” “Escaped? A little old lady escaped from the mental ward? You’re being ridiculous, Perry. Come up with a better fairy tale.” “Keep living in never-never land, Oh-Donna. Just watch your back before she kills you too.” Perry stashed the papers in his briefcase. “I’ve called the Metropolitan Police. They’ll send technicians over to process the crime scene. Let ’em in, will ya?” “Crime scene? It was an accident! The freezer toppled over on him and he had a heart attack.” Perry looked incredulously at me. “Oh-Donna, open your eyes and see the truth. Dad was murdered.” I panted, trying to catch my breath. I would not accept that Daddy had been murdered. Especially not by his own wife. And there was absolutely no evidence or witnesses to make me believe otherwise. I couldn’t believe Perry had talked the cops into accepting there was a crime. Surely the autopsy would clear everything up. I had never been so angry in my entire life. Perry grumbled, “Tammy said she’d do the funeral arrangements. You wanna give me one of your credit cards so she can charge it to?” “What?” “Where’s your purse?” “Get out!” “Don’t you talk to me that way, Oh-Donna.” “Why do you and Tammy always assume I am rich? You are the ones with the college educations and high-paying jobs. Get out!” I shoved him down the three stairs. He clunked his shaved bald head on the white wrought iron railing. “What the devil got into you?” He took off. I locked the door tight and rushed down the basement stairs. I flung open the big wide door to the walk-in closet under the stairs. I reached in the dark for the shoestring and yanked the light on. I shut the door. It wasn’t quiet like I needed. A melody faintly emanated from around the switchback corner underneath the stairs. It sounded like Perry Como’s “Some Enchanted Evening”, a beautiful love song from the forties. The walk-in closet was immense as far as closets go. Since the house was a split foyer, the stairs were turned in an L-shape. Three down from the living room, a wide landing at the front door and then a turn and nine stairs down to the basement. Daddy extended the width of the closet so it made a U-shape with a switchback under the basement stairs. There was an overhead storage area with a hatch underneath the foyer landing and the stairs that led up to the living room. Daddy’s eight-sided Dracula coffin was in there. Not that he was a vampire but his family had weird burial rituals. He came from a poor Irish-American family that was among the first settlers in Sacramento, California, during the gold rush. They were known to pack a pistol while standing guard with their loved one to prevent an autopsy, the body was never to be left alone, someone had to stay inside the open grave all night, an Irish wake thrown at the house…things like that. The back of the closet was stuffed with boxes full of Daddy’s old medical files and research papers. Neatly lining the walnut-paneled closet walls were two dozen plastic grocery bags filled with used novels. Momma read when she couldn’t sleep. She’d told me she liked books with a little mystery, a little danger and a little sex. So here was the New York Times bestseller list for the past few years. She preferred the thick ones. Daddy always whispered it was an obsessive-compulsive disorder, Momma reading so much. There was one bag stuffed with photo albums. I rooted out the white one. Beautiful sepia prints were displayed in little gold corner mounts on heavy black paper. Momma in a bathing suit, on the beach, with palm trees. Must’ve been in the forties sometime. In one, she was cuddled up to a very handsome bearded man. Definitely not Daddy. In another, she wore a full-length fur. I remembered that fur. She always kept it in the big black steamer trunk that I was leaning on. I eased off it, undid the latches and opened the lid. There it was, along with the aroma of mothballs. I slipped the full-length sable on and drew it tight. The melody became louder. I crept back and peeked around the corner under the basement stairs. I moved some boxes. Blackness swirled. Wind whipped. The music had laughter. I felt an irresistible forward force propelling me deeper. ~♥~I blinked. Sparkles. Rainbow-colored sparkles dazzled my eyes. People danced cheek to cheek. Lots of soldiers in old-fashioned uniform. The women were wearing white gloves and fancy hats. I found the exit and escaped outside into the night. A chilling wind stung my cheeks. Something was very not right. The cars were all jalopies. Really old ones, older than the ones at the classic car nights at the fast food restaurant I always went to. The kind of cars you had to turn a big crank on the front to start. I proceeded along. Passing a newsstand, I picked up a paper. The headline read President Roosevelt’s New Strategy For the Philippines. The date was February 16, 1945. I dropped it and ran. All right, this was spooky. Where the hell was I? Freezing rain pummeled my face. I stumbled in a grate, breaking a heel off my blue stiletto shoe. Blue stiletto shoe? What happened to my hospital slippers? I must be dreaming. Midway across the Fourteenth Street Bridge, gateway back to Virginia, I stopped. I leaned over the concrete railing and gasped for breath. I stuck my right hand into the deep silk-lined coat pocket and extracted a pearl-handled pistol. I screamed and dropped it over the rail. I watched it slide on the surface of the frozen Potomac River. Frozen river? This was July! I stuck my hand into the left pocket and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. An icicle fell from the lamppost above me. I examined the note in my hand. Benjamin Franklin’s portrait adorned both sides. It was bloody. I felt a tap on my right shoulder. It didn’t hurt. I turned…and saw a man.
The Immaculate Deception:U.S. eBook: iTunes ARe Diesel Kindle Kobo Nook Smashwords Sony
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Sample Chapter: THE IMMACULATE DECEPTION
"I've never been a real super natural, other worldly type kind of reader...Loved this book. Couldn't put it down. So creative and enjoyable!"--Nook Review Romantic Times Magazine Reviewers' Choice Award Best Small Press Paranormal Romance
The Immaculate DeceptionBy Sherry Silver
A Stand-Alone Book in The Good Girls of Washington Series
U.S. eBook: iTunes ARe Diesel Kindle Kobo Nook Smashwords Sony
U.S. Paperback: Amazon Barnes and Noble CreateSpace Books A Million
U.K. eBook: Nook Kindle iTunes
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Canadian eBook: Sony Kindle iTunes
Canadian Paperback: Amazon
Book Summary:After her SUV meets the business end of a deer, Oh-Donna is pulled into an exciting dreamland far away from her peon job and selfish siblings--where mystery, murder and romance take over. Her debonair angel takes her time traveling through the sordid pasts of her Secret Service Agent mother and her genius medical researcher father--who was obsessed with Marilyn Monroe. Oh-Donna discovers she is the first baby born from an ovarian transplant. She must sleuth out the dark secrets of her D.N.A. and close an unsolved murder.
Chapter One
Reston, Virginia
On a gusty July Thursday, my telephone reverberated to the tune of “We Wish You A Merry Christmas”. I shuddered because I knew who was calling. I had set that distinctive ring tone to my father’s number. I was screening his calls because he always had something vile to say about my mother and I had listened to too many of his outrageous lies. My stomach churned while I waited for him to hang up after the fourth ring like he always did when the automatic answering machine kicked on. I held my breath, hearing with relief the click of the machine. The robotic voice said, “Hello, no one is able to come to the phone. Please leave your message after the tone.” When I heard the beep, I swallowed the big wad that clogged my throat. “Oh-Donna, she’s trying to kill me!” I ran to the portable handset and punched the talk button. “Dad! Daddy! Who’s trying to kill you?” In a strained breathless whisper, he said, “Your mother.” “What? When?” “Right now!” he whimpered. I overheard Momma’s voice in the background. “Nobody’s going to care about you. You damned old fool!” After a dull thud, the line went dead. Oh my God. I detected my breath echoing out in audible pants. I couldn’t believe this. What was I supposed to do? Call the police on my own mother? Not an option. No way! I shook my head. This was just too bizarre to wrap my mind around. Momma was a good girl through and through. She might get furious with Daddy once in a while but she’d never ever hurt him. But what if she was really trying to kill him? Lord knows, he’d manipulated, stifled and belittled her for decades. Had he finally done something so dastardly to drive her across the line of sanity? Or perhaps he’d just pulled another one of his everyday mind games and Momma just reached her breaking point? What if she really was trying to kill him? Think, Donna, think! The Meddlesteins! Yes! I would call the Meddlesteins. Pressing the end button on my phone, I automatically plucked the number of Gloria and Roderick Meddlestein from the cobwebs of my childhood. They’d been my parents’ across-the-street neighbors for more than thirty years. When I was little, I could always count on them to help me when I was home alone and needed an adult to relight the furnace or check out a strange noise that had me frightened. They were such good people. I prayed they hadn’t changed their number. I felt a flush of heat rise up and envelop my body as I dialed with trembling fingers, agonizing in the seemingly slow motion. Gloria Meddlestein answered on the second ring. “Hello?” “Mrs. Meddlestein?” My voice sounded unnaturally shrill. “Yes.” “This is Donna Payne. You know, I used to live across the street from you?” She cheerfully said, “Yes, of course. Hello, Donna, how are you, dear?” “Listen, I just received a phone call from my father. He said my mother was trying to kill him.” I faked a laugh. “Will you please go over and check on him?” Without much of a pause, she said, “I’ll send Roddy over. You want to give me your number so I can call you back?” “Thank you so much, Mrs. Meddlestein.” I gave my phone number and ended the call. My mind was racing. Tammy works close by, she can zip over and talk some sense into those two. She is their favorite kid and has them wrapped around her pretty little finger. What is the name of that gym where she works? I frantically punched in the numbers of the telephone directory. A prerecorded voice told me to state the party’s name and city. “Rocky’s Gym, Washington, DC.” I waited and waited. Finally a live person came on the line. “Ma’am, we only retrieve Virginia numbers. You have to hang up and dial one, two–oh–two, five–five–five, one–two–one–two.” Shoot! I ended the call and tried again. Tears streamed down my face. Big almond-sized drops. This time a computer-generated voice revealed the phone number for the gym. The surly employee who had answered the phone at Rocky’s Gym had deserted me in the purgatory of hold. Five minutes passed as I waited on the telephone line for my forty-three-year-old adopted sister Tammy, personal trainer to the Capitol Hill pork barrels, all those congressmen, senators, lawyers and lobbyists who thought they ruled the universe. Come on, come on already. Tammy, you’re three minutes from their house. It might be a matter of life or— I wouldn’t let myself think the last word. My stomach churned and I tasted a burning sourness in my throat. This was taking too long. I punched the button to end the call and then pushed redial. Wedging the house phone in between my right ear and shoulder, I picked up my cell phone and dialed the Meddlesteins. The tiny blue phone on my left ear just rang and rang. I couldn’t stand this inactivity. I had to do something. I furiously wiped imaginary crumbs off my pistol gray granite countertops. Stomping into the utility room, I threw the damp rag in the empty laundry basket on top of the dryer. As I grabbed the broom and glanced around, I realized there wasn’t anything to clean. I had sterilized the place last evening in preparation for my trip to the writers’ conference in New York today. I didn’t want to get killed in a plane crash and then be embarrassed at the mess I’d left. What impression would that leave behind? No, I was a good, clean girl. I shoved the broom back up into its holder and shut the door. My neck and shoulder ached from squeezing the portable handset to my ear. Never realized how heavy my head was. I grabbed the house phone and erectly speed-walked into the hardwood foyer. I stumbled over my yellow backpack. Next to it, my pink overstuffed duffel bag leaned lopsidedly against the etched glass front door. A defiant beep pounded in my right ear. I ended the call to Tammy and slapped the phone down on the teacart, beside my purse and plane ticket to New York. I closed the never-ending ringing of the Meddlesteins’ call on my cell phone. Thunder cracked outside. The rain commenced its devilish needle pricking on the cedar shake roof of my end-unit townhouse. I folded the cell phone and clipped it onto the canvas belt on my sleeveless khaki shirtdress. I shuffled into the powder room and yanked tissues out of the box to blow my nose on. Looking in the mirror, I tried touching up the black rings around my powder blue eyes but the mascara kept running through the tears. Blue eyes. How come I was the only one in my family with blue eyes? Momma’s eyes were green. Daddy had brown eyes. Oh God, Daddy! What’s going on between you two? I knelt on the floor, grabbed my curly blond hair back and lost my breakfast. Momma used to hold my hair back when I threw up. I remember when Tammy had her tonsils removed and was so sick afterward. Momma made me hold my sister’s ebony black hair back. I thought it was so gross and mean at the time but now I knew she was teaching me compassion and nurturing. Eventually calming down, I cleaned myself up. After strapping on the backpack, I slung my crocheted purse strap over my right shoulder, maneuvered the overstuffed duffel away from the front door and opened it. The wind gushed in. I flinched as I watched lightning strike the field behind the townhouses across from me on Spyglass Street. Heaving the bag over the threshold and onto my brown brick stoop, I propped it against my foot, shut the door and locked up. I pressed the automatic key twice and listened to the doors unlock on my black Chevy Suburban. As soon as I stepped out from under the portico, I was drenched. Running to the vehicle, I opened the rear cargo door and heaved in the duffel. Struggling to free myself from the backpack, I pulled one of those unthought-of muscles in my side. Grimacing and wincing, I stowed the luggage, slammed the cargo door and raced to the driver’s side, climbing in as another bolt split the Bradford pear tree in my front yard. The little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I really loved that pear tree. I started the engine, shifted into overdrive and accelerated through the narrow winding, private streets of my planned community. After switching the front and rear wipers on, I fumbled in my purse to make sure that I’d remembered my ticket. A paper cut cinched that mystery. I sucked on the index finger of my right hand as I stopped at the red light. I spun the dial to defrost while trying to see through the fogged-up windshield. Soaked and shivering, I slid the temperature lever to high. I switched on the seat warmer as I floored it through the intersection on Route Seven. Darn it, Daddy. Why do you always have to pull one of your stunts just when my life is going so well? Am I not constitutionally entitled to “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness”? And if Momma is trying to kill you, I can’t say she wasn’t provoked by all your years of manipulation. I don’t have time to run over and referee. I’m going to miss my flight. As furious as I was at him, I knew there were shuttles leaving for New York every hour. I’d just have to pay a fee and stand by for a later flight. Damn it, Daddy, you’re costing me extra money and I’ll miss early registration. I hated attending conferences without a name badge identifying me as one of the group. If I was late today, I wouldn’t be able to get mine until tomorrow morning. I tensed up even more as I approached the exit for the Dulles Toll Road. If I turned here, I might be able to make the next shuttle flight to New York. Or a few more miles down the road, I could squeeze onto the conveyer belt they called Route Sixty-Six, the road to the Nation’s Capital, Washington, and the misery of my parents’ house. Before I had made up my mind, my cell phone rang out. I fumbled, unable to unhook it from my belt. I unlatched my seat belt and wrestled to get the phone loose. Simultaneously, I heard a thud and then glass shattering. I shielded my face with my hands as a deer hurtled toward me. I felt the air bag inflating against me and the sharp stab of the antler piercing my right shoulder. I slammed on the brakes with both feet. The vehicle skidded to a lurching stop as the air bag deflated. Impaled on the deer, I was ejected out of the Chevy. The buck and I bowled down a prickly embankment. The searing pain in my shoulder was alternately overwhelmed by the weight of the beast when he reigned on top. I felt the antler breaking loose from my shoulder just before my world somersaulted into darkness. Hearing a thumping whir, I blinked my eyes open. I struggled, unable to move. Someone was holding me down. I focused on his thickly haired brown arms and then down to his blue latex-gloved hands. “She’s coming to.” I screamed. Screams of fright, frustration and burning agony. Screams that I couldn’t hear. “Calm down, Miss. You’re gonna be all right. We’re flying you to Fairfax Hospital. We should be landing momentarily. What’s your name?” The man removed the oxygen mask from my face. “Ohhh…” “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. You’re really beat up. Can you tell me your name?” “Ohhh…Donna.” “Donna? Good. Do you know what today is?” Teardrops spilled. I didn’t know. The rhythmic whoop of the helicopter distracted me. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’ll be just fine. The trauma team will take good care of you.” He replaced the oxygen mask and wiped my tears with gauze. ~*~Four days later, when my HMO deemed me no longer in need of hospitalization, through their healing by statistical curve, I was discharged on a sunny Monday morning. My bloody muddy clothes had been cut off me and destroyed. So I left the hospital dressed in scrubs and slippers, duly charged to my inpatient bill. I had to sign a form promising to pay for non-covered items such as the television, phone and scrubs. I never even used the phone. Who could I call? Who would care about me? Not my family. They always had their own urgent crises. Clan emergencies. And I didn’t want to call. I didn’t want to hear any more bloated lies and bizarre accusations from Daddy. As if Momma would have killed Daddy. It would’ve been all over the news. I could hear the sound bites in my head. Retired Secret Service agent Chloe Lambert Payne suspected in the murder of her blind helpless husband, the saintly doctor Nathan Payne. An octogenarian volunteer helped me into a wheelchair and placed a plastic belongings bag and a fruit basket in my lap. The girls I worked with in the file room of the health insurance company had sent apples, oranges and bananas. That’s right. I worked for my own HMO and they still booted me out too soon. Fruit. They knew I was on the Atkins diet. No fruit allowed during the induction phase. The wizened portly volunteer groaned and wheezed as he shoved my torture chair down the corridor. Why couldn’t the hospital invest in an ergonomic chair instead of this folding low-end ouch-maker? We went down the elevator and he propelled me through the lobby to the curb. He waited until a taxi arrived and opened the back door for me. I stood, sore and stitched, on shaky legs. I eased into the backseat. The driver asked, “Where to, lady?” Where to? To the writers’ conference at the Hilton Hotel in New York, four days ago. To the red carpet, where I’ll stroll in my strapless champagne silk evening gown, with matching opera gloves, to accept my trophy and cash prize. To the appointment with the acquisitions editor of the romance publisher… “Lady, the meter’s running. Where to?” I sighed New York goodbye, “One–two–four–oh–six Nixon Court, Southwest.” Arriving at the Harrison Heights section of the District of Columbia, in front of a scaled-down imitation of George Washington’s colonial mansion at Mount Vernon, I dug my wallet out of the orange plastic bag of belongings retrieved from the wreckage. I paid the cabby and stumbled up onto the cracked sidewalk. Marijuana and charcoal lighter fluid steeped in the air. A pit bull barked ferociously from the chain-linked fortress next door. “Hi there.” I turned around too quickly and gasped. My whole body pulsed in pain. Gloria Meddlestein stood across the street holding open the metal bars on her front door. “Hello, Mrs. Meddlestein. How are you?” “Where on earth have you been, Donna? I tried and tried to get you on the phone. Are you having problems with your line because of the storm the other day? Did the roads wash out? What happened to your face? Got another one of those boyfriends? You really should—” “I need to go in and see my parents now. I’ll chat with you later. Um…we’ll have tea.” I climbed up the Zoysia grass hill, staggering on the crumbling concrete steps winding the way to my childhood home. A mildewy white gutter had torn loose from the two-story-high porch roof. It dangled over the front door. I winced as I ducked under it. I never knew that every muscle in my body was attached to my shoulder. I pressed the yellowed doorbell button. And waited. I knocked. And waited. I tried to turn the knob and it did. I shoved the colonial red door open and stepped onto the slate landing. “Hello? Momma, Daddy?” I shut the door behind me and agonized up the three cherry red carpeted steps to the living room. It hadn’t been vacuumed since I had done it on Christmas Eve. That was seven months ago. There was white furry dust on every stationary object. I dropped the fruit basket and orange bag on the floor between the white wrought iron railing and the comfortable oxblood leather tub chair in the living room. I searched the house. My hospital slippers made a suction noise as I trudged through the sticky kitchen. A skillet with potatoes congealed in grease occupied the front burner of the electric range. The table was cluttered with grocery receipts, two aromatic black bananas, a nitroglycerine pill, toast crusts and grape jelly goo. I moved into the adjacent formal dining room. The carpet was littered with crumbs, spills and dust. The French doors to the balcony were locked. The blinds hung shut. As were all the blinds and drapes in the entire house. Daddy had cataracts cut out of his eyes in 1972, before lens replacements were invented. He had no lenses to filter out the bright light, so he had to wear a wide-brimmed hat outdoors and dark bottle-thick cataract eyeglasses indoors. This had abruptly ended his career as an obstetrician/gynecologist at the age of fifty-eight. Some days his eyes went out completely and he couldn’t see at all. I veered down the hallway. Daddy’s blue bathroom was empty. His bedroom was empty too, nothing but disheveled bedding and the plastic milk jugs he used for urinals. Momma’s bedroom was vacant as was her lavender bathroom. Her mattress sported a deep depression on the side closest to the door, where she always curled up. The bed was made and loaded with throw pillows. The third bedroom was empty. Postage stamps, pictures of their great-nieces and nephews, old bills and linens were strewn about the white and gold French provincial bedroom suite that my adopted sister Tammy left behind when she last departed the nest. She flew back during her divorces. Was it five now? No wait. Six. I forgot Abdul, the drummer in the President’s own Air Force band who seemed to be wealthy without a visible legal source of extra income. Perry and Daddy had always whispered Abdul was involved in a smuggling ring. Passing back through the living room and down the three steps to the landing where I had arrived through the front door, I pivoted and opened the dark wood door to the basement. I listened to the grandfather clock down there, chiming twelve times. I switched on the light, not that it illuminated much with a twenty-five-watt bulb. I gripped the loose handrails on both sides as I maneuvered down the rust-colored sculptured carpeted stairs to the dark walnut-paneled basement. I looked around. Still no sign of either Momma or Daddy. I squinted at the clock, next to the rectangular stone fireplace. The face only had one hand on it. The small hand. Everything was neat. Daddy usually vacuumed down here and always kept the place tidy. He refused to clean upstairs or do laundry. Probably due to her clinical depression, Momma wasn’t much of a housekeeper the past few years. I checked the sliding glass door behind the heavy cream-colored leaf motif drapery. It was locked, the stick was wedged in the track and the white steel grate was bolted into the white bricks of the house. Momma’s red Corvette convertible was parked in the carport. The hatch to the outside attic was open. The exposed light bulb on the ceiling was lit. I switched it off and fixed the drapes open. I checked the downstairs bathroom. It was empty. As I peered down the hallway, I spotted Daddy, on the floor, pinned under the deep freezer. I rushed to him. “Daddy! Daddy!” He turned his head and groaned. “Oh…Donna…” I tried to heave the small freezer upright and screamed in agony. It fell back on me. I shoved it in place. Squatting down, I kissed Daddy’s forehead. “I’ll go call an ambulance. Where does it hurt?” “She…killed…me…” “You’re not dead.” “Your momma…killed me. She just didn’t…understand. I tried so hard to keep my promise to her. I gave you a good home.” “Daddy, you’re not making any sense.” I dashed to the phone in my old underground bedroom. I picked up the receiver on the blue rotary telephone and spun the emergency number, nine-one-one. “DC Fire and EMS, what is your emergency?” “I need an ambulance. A ninety-two-year-old male has fallen and was pinned under a freezer.” The cranky female dispatcher demanded, “Your name?” “Donna Payne. The address is—” The dispatcher cut me off. “We know the address. Is the patient conscious? Is there any bleeding?” “Yes, he’s talking. No blood.” “Is he breathing?” the dispatcher demanded. Of course he’s breathing if he’s talking, imbecile. “Yes.” I hung up and hurried back to Daddy. “Donna, make sure you find my veterans’ life insurance policy, it’s in the bottom drawer of my dresser. It’s forty thousand dollars and all for you. And up over the carport,” he gasped for breath, “there’s a few boxes. Unmarked. My memorabilia of your momma is in there. Your real momma. It’s worth a lot…to the right buyer. I don’t want the others to have any of it. They’ve gotten too much for too long.” “I don’t want your money, Daddy. Don’t talk like that.” I squeezed his arthritis-ravaged hand and rubbed his brown-spotted wrist. What was he talking about? My real momma? I knew he had two big boxes of Marilyn Monroe memorabilia in the attic. Did he think she was my mother? She died before I was born. The poor man was losing his mind. “What happened? What made the freezer turn over on you?” “She did it.” “Who?” “Your momma. She hates me.” Would that be Marilyn or Chloe then? He really made no sense. Perhaps he was hallucinating. He must be. I couldn’t wrap my mind around Momma doing such a horrific thing to Daddy. There had to be a rational explanation. I noticed he wasn’t wearing his cataract eyeglasses. He was legally blind without them. “No, Momma would never hurt you.” “Oh yes, she did. And she is as strong as a man too,” his voice cracked high. My mother was eighty-three years old. Granted, she had been trained by the Secret Service to subdue men but no way was she in that physical shape at her age. “Daddy, I don’t understand. Why would she attack you?” “She demanded the money and I will never give it up.” “What money?” He had a coughing fit. I knelt down to help him sit up, bracing his shoulders on my knees as I cradled his head against my chest. When he’d cleared his throat, he launched into a stream of tasks for me to attend to and he kept saying that after his death, I would get all the riches that he’d preserved for me. He kept going on and on about his coffin stowed under the stairs. That always gave me the creeps. And I’d heard this all before. So many times he’d promised me money but the others always needed it and I never received a penny. I never asked for any either. Not since that day when I was sixteen and all excited about college. I had wanted to attend George Washington University and major in journalism or political science. I’d get a newspaper job at The Washington Post and run all over Capitol Hill. Maybe even get on the White House press staff some day. Momma had told me then, “Oh no. Just forget about it. I can’t do that again.” Momma had to train for a second career after retiring from the Secret Service. She worked sixteen-hour days, seven days a week as a private duty-registered nurse putting my father’s son Perry through law school. And then she had to pay tuition for some fancy makeup artist academy in Beverly Hills, California, for Tammy who’d dropped out of high school. I understood. I really did. I was the one at home eating tasteless leftover homemade vegetable soup, two meals a day. I watched the toll it took on Momma to work so hard and sacrifice so much for the others. It broke my heart to see her so exhausted. She’d come home from work, fix a tall glass of vodka on the rocks with a bent straw to sip while she lay on her side on the couch with her varicose-veined legs and bunioned feet propped up on pillows. I wouldn’t add to her misery. I never asked for anything again. Nor was it offered. I interrupted Daddy’s rambling. “Daddy. Daddy. Where is Momma?” I heard the ambulance siren. “I’ll let them in.” I gently laid him down then bolted up the basement stairs and threw the front door open. A fire engine had stopped out front. The imbecile had dispatched a fire engine. I angrily waved at them to leave. Four men slowly emerged from the vehicle and made their way up the steps. I yelled, “There isn’t a fire! I need medical help!” A guy in a sooty white helmet that had Lieutenant written on it spoke. “Listen, lady, do you want help or not? There are no ambulances available. You District residents abuse the system, using them for taxicabs. We just ran an ingrown toenail. Where’s the patient?” “Down the stairs and make a left.” I followed the white helmet. Three yellow helmets trailed me. One was carrying a first-aid kit. Another fireman toted an oxygen bottle. The lieutenant started examining Daddy. “Joe-Joe, get the paddles, he’s in full arrest.” Joe-Joe ran. “Get a bag on him!” The lieutenant began chest compressions on Daddy. A fireman placed an oxygen bag over my father’s face and began squeezing rhythmically. The lieutenant said, “Enrique, switch on three… One and two and three.” Firefighter Enrique took over doing the chest compressions. The lieutenant rose to his feet and squeezed the microphone on his lapel. “Communications, this is thirteen engine. Be advised our patient is in full arrest. Request the nearest medic unit.” Joe-Joe returned with the defibrillator. They cut Daddy’s blue plaid cotton shirt open and his white V-necked undershirt. The lieutenant shoved me back into the rec room. “How old is he?” “Ninety-two.” “Any history of heart problems? How long ago did he fall?” “No, but he has high blood pressure and a history of TIA’s…mini strokes, you know? I found him on the floor with the freezer on top of him about ten minutes ago. I couldn’t get a straight story out of him about what happened. He wasn’t making much sense. He told me that—” Mrs. Meddlestein appeared at the top of the stairs. “What’s going on?” The lieutenant glowered at her and said to me, “Ma’am, take her and go outside. Flag down the medic unit when it arrives.” It arrived. Forty-five minutes later. The paramedics found Dr. Nathan Lucifer Payne dead. They called for the coroner. ~*~I slumped in a chrome and yellow vinyl dinette chair in Mrs. Meddlestein’s perky kitchen, numbly sipping mango ice tea. She talked and yammered about Daddy running out into the street on Thursday and Momma standing at the door waving his cane and screaming obscenities. I had no reason to accuse Mrs. Meddlestein of lying but it was really out of character for Momma to have argued in public with Daddy. I tuned her out. A booming parade of dusty sunlight filtered in through the pink Swiss-dotted curtains in the bay window. My bleary eyes ached. I didn’t for one minute believe that Momma turned the freezer over on Daddy. Mrs. Meddlestein fussed around, tidying this and that. With her old-fashioned bottled-platinum hairdo, red lips, drawn-on mole and white halter dress, she was every bit a plump sexagenarian Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn Monroe. Had Daddy really said that she was my real momma? Just before he… Oh my God! “They’re gone now, dear,” Mrs. Meddlestein finally said, in her own nasal Jewish mother voice. Definitely not Marilyn-ish. I left her. I shuffled across the street and into the house. I dreaded telling Momma when she got home. Crying in a curled-up ball on the brown leather couch in the living room, choking on my own mucus, I had to get some toilet paper from the bathroom to blow my nose on. I’d used up many plies when the telephone rang. Oh Momma. What will I say to you? I stumbled into the living room and picked up the princess rotary dial phone. “Payne residence.” “Who’s this?” my half-brother Perry gruffly demanded. “Perry, it’s Donna.” “Where the frick have you been? I’ve been trying to call you since Thursday.” I had to swallow the wad in my throat. “Perry, Daddy died today.” “What?” “He’d fallen, the freezer toppled over on him. I don’t know how long before I got here. He had a heart attack. They tried to revive him but the paramedics arrived too late. He’s dead. Our daddy is dead, Perry.” “She escaped and killed him.” “What?” “Your mother murdered him.” “How dare you? She’s not even here!” Escaped? What was he talking about? Escaped from where? “You have no idea what’s been going on these past few months.” “Momma is not a murderess!” “I’ll be over in a little while. We need to go over some things. Have you notified Tammy?” “No. We’re not on speaking terms,” I growled. “I’ll call her on the way. Stay put.” He hung up on me. I dropped the heavy ivory receiver onto the gaudy faux-gold filigree phone. I felt wetness oozing through my bandaged shoulder onto the teal scrub shirt. I wandered down the hallway and found some bandages and hydrogen peroxide under the blue bathroom sink. I peeled off the shirt and yanked the tape off the dressing. Raw, hairless skin screamed from the cruel adhesive the hospital had used. It hurt so bad. I poured hydrogen peroxide on the sutured puncture wound. It bubbled into a cold white and pink fizz. I dabbed it dry with toilet paper and squeezed treatment solution on. I patched it up with a large Band-Aid. Topless and braless, I left the shirt and bloody dressing on the floor and trudged to Momma’s bedroom. I removed one of her lavender floral blouses from the closet and gingerly slipped it on. “Oh-Donna? Where are you?” I heard Perry’s voice summoning me. Oh-Donna. I hated my nickname. My full name was Orpha Donna Payne. Momma named me after her lifelong friend, Secret Service agent and registered nurse Orpha Livingston Blair. My family nicknamed me “Oh-Donna” after the late Ritchie Valens song “Donna” from the fifties. To me, it had always been a faux term of endearment, more like a snide little inside joke to all of them. Even Momma. They all knew it bothered me. So that’s why it stuck. It wouldn’t be fun to tease me if I wouldn’t get my feathers poked sideways. Of course, the “Donna” song, about searching for the girl that got away, was beautiful. But it embarrassed me when they called me Oh-Donna in front of outsiders. And it also made me feel like the outsider. Like I didn’t really belong to this family but by some ridiculous blunder of nature, my spirit plopped down in their sticky glue. I plodded back into the living room where my over seven-foot-tall and seemingly seven-foot-wide half-brother Perry stood, dressed in his black judge’s robe. He was holding a briefcase. “You okay? Jeeze, it must have been horrific finding the body.” “He wasn’t dead when I got here.” “Why didn’t you do CPR then?” “I…I called for an ambulance.” Perry opened his black briefcase and removed a legal type document. “Well, here’s the old boy’s will. Everything is in order. He named you as executrix. You need to put the house on the market, get the tax assessor in, arrange an estate sale and close out their bank accounts. Insert just a tiny ad in the legal notices section of the Post to notify his creditors. When the year is up, whatever is left gets split evenly. Between me and Tammy.” Of course it would be. I was nobody. I snatched the will from him. He grabbed it back before I could read it. “Don’t goof it up, Oh-Donna.” “Goof it up?” Hot tears streamed down my face. “Why are you always humiliating me? How could I goof it up by just holding it to read? Why do you treat me like a retard?” He didn’t love me at all. I had only fooled myself all of my life thinking my brother really did love me deep down. I wiped my nose on the hem of the blouse I was wearing. “Daddy didn’t leave everything to you and Tammy. What about Momma?” “Don’t worry about her. I had her admitted to Saint Christopher’s for a psych evaluation on Thursday. They’ll take her on as a charity case if she doesn’t go to jail.” “You did what?” “I received a message from Dad that she was trying to kill him. When I arrived here, she had chased him outside. He was shaking. She was inside with his aluminum cane in her hand and it was bent where she’d beat him upside the head with it.” I remembered Mrs. Meddlestein claiming she saw Daddy run outside and Momma cussing at him and waving his cane. “Did you actually see her hit him with it?” “That’s irrelevant.” “If you really thought she’d hit him, then why did you have Momma locked up and leave Daddy home alone with a head injury?” “I had to get back to court. I gave him a couple of aspirins and made an ice pack for him to put on the goose egg bump on his head.” “So in other words, you didn’t think he was seriously injured.” I didn’t buy the ice pack bit for one minute. Perry wouldn’t even know how to make one. Daddy didn’t have a head injury. “Not at that time. I made sure to lock up Chloe before she had a chance to do him in. A fat lot of good that did. She escaped and finished the job.” “Escaped? A little old lady escaped from the mental ward? You’re being ridiculous, Perry. Come up with a better fairy tale.” “Keep living in never-never land, Oh-Donna. Just watch your back before she kills you too.” Perry stashed the papers in his briefcase. “I’ve called the Metropolitan Police. They’ll send technicians over to process the crime scene. Let ’em in, will ya?” “Crime scene? It was an accident! The freezer toppled over on him and he had a heart attack.” Perry looked incredulously at me. “Oh-Donna, open your eyes and see the truth. Dad was murdered.” I panted, trying to catch my breath. I would not accept that Daddy had been murdered. Especially not by his own wife. And there was absolutely no evidence or witnesses to make me believe otherwise. I couldn’t believe Perry had talked the cops into accepting there was a crime. Surely the autopsy would clear everything up. I had never been so angry in my entire life. Perry grumbled, “Tammy said she’d do the funeral arrangements. You wanna give me one of your credit cards so she can charge it to?” “What?” “Where’s your purse?” “Get out!” “Don’t you talk to me that way, Oh-Donna.” “Why do you and Tammy always assume I am rich? You are the ones with the college educations and high-paying jobs. Get out!” I shoved him down the three stairs. He clunked his shaved bald head on the white wrought iron railing. “What the devil got into you?” He took off. I locked the door tight and rushed down the basement stairs. I flung open the big wide door to the walk-in closet under the stairs. I reached in the dark for the shoestring and yanked the light on. I shut the door. It wasn’t quiet like I needed. A melody faintly emanated from around the switchback corner underneath the stairs. It sounded like Perry Como’s “Some Enchanted Evening”, a beautiful love song from the forties. The walk-in closet was immense as far as closets go. Since the house was a split foyer, the stairs were turned in an L-shape. Three down from the living room, a wide landing at the front door and then a turn and nine stairs down to the basement. Daddy extended the width of the closet so it made a U-shape with a switchback under the basement stairs. There was an overhead storage area with a hatch underneath the foyer landing and the stairs that led up to the living room. Daddy’s eight-sided Dracula coffin was in there. Not that he was a vampire but his family had weird burial rituals. He came from a poor Irish-American family that was among the first settlers in Sacramento, California, during the gold rush. They were known to pack a pistol while standing guard with their loved one to prevent an autopsy, the body was never to be left alone, someone had to stay inside the open grave all night, an Irish wake thrown at the house…things like that. The back of the closet was stuffed with boxes full of Daddy’s old medical files and research papers. Neatly lining the walnut-paneled closet walls were two dozen plastic grocery bags filled with used novels. Momma read when she couldn’t sleep. She’d told me she liked books with a little mystery, a little danger and a little sex. So here was the New York Times bestseller list for the past few years. She preferred the thick ones. Daddy always whispered it was an obsessive-compulsive disorder, Momma reading so much. There was one bag stuffed with photo albums. I rooted out the white one. Beautiful sepia prints were displayed in little gold corner mounts on heavy black paper. Momma in a bathing suit, on the beach, with palm trees. Must’ve been in the forties sometime. In one, she was cuddled up to a very handsome bearded man. Definitely not Daddy. In another, she wore a full-length fur. I remembered that fur. She always kept it in the big black steamer trunk that I was leaning on. I eased off it, undid the latches and opened the lid. There it was, along with the aroma of mothballs. I slipped the full-length sable on and drew it tight. The melody became louder. I crept back and peeked around the corner under the basement stairs. I moved some boxes. Blackness swirled. Wind whipped. The music had laughter. I felt an irresistible forward force propelling me deeper. ~♥~I blinked. Sparkles. Rainbow-colored sparkles dazzled my eyes. People danced cheek to cheek. Lots of soldiers in old-fashioned uniform. The women were wearing white gloves and fancy hats. I found the exit and escaped outside into the night. A chilling wind stung my cheeks. Something was very not right. The cars were all jalopies. Really old ones, older than the ones at the classic car nights at the fast food restaurant I always went to. The kind of cars you had to turn a big crank on the front to start. I proceeded along. Passing a newsstand, I picked up a paper. The headline read President Roosevelt’s New Strategy For the Philippines. The date was February 16, 1945. I dropped it and ran. All right, this was spooky. Where the hell was I? Freezing rain pummeled my face. I stumbled in a grate, breaking a heel off my blue stiletto shoe. Blue stiletto shoe? What happened to my hospital slippers? I must be dreaming. Midway across the Fourteenth Street Bridge, gateway back to Virginia, I stopped. I leaned over the concrete railing and gasped for breath. I stuck my right hand into the deep silk-lined coat pocket and extracted a pearl-handled pistol. I screamed and dropped it over the rail. I watched it slide on the surface of the frozen Potomac River. Frozen river? This was July! I stuck my hand into the left pocket and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. An icicle fell from the lamppost above me. I examined the note in my hand. Benjamin Franklin’s portrait adorned both sides. It was bloody. I felt a tap on my right shoulder. It didn’t hurt. I turned…and saw a man.
The Immaculate Deception:U.S. eBook: iTunes ARe Diesel Kindle Kobo Nook Smashwords SonyU.S. Paperback: Amazon Barnes and Noble CreateSpace Books A MillionU.K. eBook: Nook Kindle iTunesU.K. Paperback: AmazonCanadian eBook: Sony Kindle iTunesCanadian Paperback: Amazon
The Immaculate DeceptionBy Sherry Silver A Stand-Alone Book in The Good Girls of Washington Series
U.S. eBook: iTunes ARe Diesel Kindle Kobo Nook Smashwords Sony
U.S. Paperback: Amazon Barnes and Noble CreateSpace Books A Million
U.K. eBook: Nook Kindle iTunes
U.K. Paperback: Amazon
Canadian eBook: Sony Kindle iTunes
Canadian Paperback: Amazon
Book Summary:After her SUV meets the business end of a deer, Oh-Donna is pulled into an exciting dreamland far away from her peon job and selfish siblings--where mystery, murder and romance take over. Her debonair angel takes her time traveling through the sordid pasts of her Secret Service Agent mother and her genius medical researcher father--who was obsessed with Marilyn Monroe. Oh-Donna discovers she is the first baby born from an ovarian transplant. She must sleuth out the dark secrets of her D.N.A. and close an unsolved murder.
Chapter One
Reston, Virginia
On a gusty July Thursday, my telephone reverberated to the tune of “We Wish You A Merry Christmas”. I shuddered because I knew who was calling. I had set that distinctive ring tone to my father’s number. I was screening his calls because he always had something vile to say about my mother and I had listened to too many of his outrageous lies. My stomach churned while I waited for him to hang up after the fourth ring like he always did when the automatic answering machine kicked on. I held my breath, hearing with relief the click of the machine. The robotic voice said, “Hello, no one is able to come to the phone. Please leave your message after the tone.” When I heard the beep, I swallowed the big wad that clogged my throat. “Oh-Donna, she’s trying to kill me!” I ran to the portable handset and punched the talk button. “Dad! Daddy! Who’s trying to kill you?” In a strained breathless whisper, he said, “Your mother.” “What? When?” “Right now!” he whimpered. I overheard Momma’s voice in the background. “Nobody’s going to care about you. You damned old fool!” After a dull thud, the line went dead. Oh my God. I detected my breath echoing out in audible pants. I couldn’t believe this. What was I supposed to do? Call the police on my own mother? Not an option. No way! I shook my head. This was just too bizarre to wrap my mind around. Momma was a good girl through and through. She might get furious with Daddy once in a while but she’d never ever hurt him. But what if she was really trying to kill him? Lord knows, he’d manipulated, stifled and belittled her for decades. Had he finally done something so dastardly to drive her across the line of sanity? Or perhaps he’d just pulled another one of his everyday mind games and Momma just reached her breaking point? What if she really was trying to kill him? Think, Donna, think! The Meddlesteins! Yes! I would call the Meddlesteins. Pressing the end button on my phone, I automatically plucked the number of Gloria and Roderick Meddlestein from the cobwebs of my childhood. They’d been my parents’ across-the-street neighbors for more than thirty years. When I was little, I could always count on them to help me when I was home alone and needed an adult to relight the furnace or check out a strange noise that had me frightened. They were such good people. I prayed they hadn’t changed their number. I felt a flush of heat rise up and envelop my body as I dialed with trembling fingers, agonizing in the seemingly slow motion. Gloria Meddlestein answered on the second ring. “Hello?” “Mrs. Meddlestein?” My voice sounded unnaturally shrill. “Yes.” “This is Donna Payne. You know, I used to live across the street from you?” She cheerfully said, “Yes, of course. Hello, Donna, how are you, dear?” “Listen, I just received a phone call from my father. He said my mother was trying to kill him.” I faked a laugh. “Will you please go over and check on him?” Without much of a pause, she said, “I’ll send Roddy over. You want to give me your number so I can call you back?” “Thank you so much, Mrs. Meddlestein.” I gave my phone number and ended the call. My mind was racing. Tammy works close by, she can zip over and talk some sense into those two. She is their favorite kid and has them wrapped around her pretty little finger. What is the name of that gym where she works? I frantically punched in the numbers of the telephone directory. A prerecorded voice told me to state the party’s name and city. “Rocky’s Gym, Washington, DC.” I waited and waited. Finally a live person came on the line. “Ma’am, we only retrieve Virginia numbers. You have to hang up and dial one, two–oh–two, five–five–five, one–two–one–two.” Shoot! I ended the call and tried again. Tears streamed down my face. Big almond-sized drops. This time a computer-generated voice revealed the phone number for the gym. The surly employee who had answered the phone at Rocky’s Gym had deserted me in the purgatory of hold. Five minutes passed as I waited on the telephone line for my forty-three-year-old adopted sister Tammy, personal trainer to the Capitol Hill pork barrels, all those congressmen, senators, lawyers and lobbyists who thought they ruled the universe. Come on, come on already. Tammy, you’re three minutes from their house. It might be a matter of life or— I wouldn’t let myself think the last word. My stomach churned and I tasted a burning sourness in my throat. This was taking too long. I punched the button to end the call and then pushed redial. Wedging the house phone in between my right ear and shoulder, I picked up my cell phone and dialed the Meddlesteins. The tiny blue phone on my left ear just rang and rang. I couldn’t stand this inactivity. I had to do something. I furiously wiped imaginary crumbs off my pistol gray granite countertops. Stomping into the utility room, I threw the damp rag in the empty laundry basket on top of the dryer. As I grabbed the broom and glanced around, I realized there wasn’t anything to clean. I had sterilized the place last evening in preparation for my trip to the writers’ conference in New York today. I didn’t want to get killed in a plane crash and then be embarrassed at the mess I’d left. What impression would that leave behind? No, I was a good, clean girl. I shoved the broom back up into its holder and shut the door. My neck and shoulder ached from squeezing the portable handset to my ear. Never realized how heavy my head was. I grabbed the house phone and erectly speed-walked into the hardwood foyer. I stumbled over my yellow backpack. Next to it, my pink overstuffed duffel bag leaned lopsidedly against the etched glass front door. A defiant beep pounded in my right ear. I ended the call to Tammy and slapped the phone down on the teacart, beside my purse and plane ticket to New York. I closed the never-ending ringing of the Meddlesteins’ call on my cell phone. Thunder cracked outside. The rain commenced its devilish needle pricking on the cedar shake roof of my end-unit townhouse. I folded the cell phone and clipped it onto the canvas belt on my sleeveless khaki shirtdress. I shuffled into the powder room and yanked tissues out of the box to blow my nose on. Looking in the mirror, I tried touching up the black rings around my powder blue eyes but the mascara kept running through the tears. Blue eyes. How come I was the only one in my family with blue eyes? Momma’s eyes were green. Daddy had brown eyes. Oh God, Daddy! What’s going on between you two? I knelt on the floor, grabbed my curly blond hair back and lost my breakfast. Momma used to hold my hair back when I threw up. I remember when Tammy had her tonsils removed and was so sick afterward. Momma made me hold my sister’s ebony black hair back. I thought it was so gross and mean at the time but now I knew she was teaching me compassion and nurturing. Eventually calming down, I cleaned myself up. After strapping on the backpack, I slung my crocheted purse strap over my right shoulder, maneuvered the overstuffed duffel away from the front door and opened it. The wind gushed in. I flinched as I watched lightning strike the field behind the townhouses across from me on Spyglass Street. Heaving the bag over the threshold and onto my brown brick stoop, I propped it against my foot, shut the door and locked up. I pressed the automatic key twice and listened to the doors unlock on my black Chevy Suburban. As soon as I stepped out from under the portico, I was drenched. Running to the vehicle, I opened the rear cargo door and heaved in the duffel. Struggling to free myself from the backpack, I pulled one of those unthought-of muscles in my side. Grimacing and wincing, I stowed the luggage, slammed the cargo door and raced to the driver’s side, climbing in as another bolt split the Bradford pear tree in my front yard. The little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I really loved that pear tree. I started the engine, shifted into overdrive and accelerated through the narrow winding, private streets of my planned community. After switching the front and rear wipers on, I fumbled in my purse to make sure that I’d remembered my ticket. A paper cut cinched that mystery. I sucked on the index finger of my right hand as I stopped at the red light. I spun the dial to defrost while trying to see through the fogged-up windshield. Soaked and shivering, I slid the temperature lever to high. I switched on the seat warmer as I floored it through the intersection on Route Seven. Darn it, Daddy. Why do you always have to pull one of your stunts just when my life is going so well? Am I not constitutionally entitled to “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness”? And if Momma is trying to kill you, I can’t say she wasn’t provoked by all your years of manipulation. I don’t have time to run over and referee. I’m going to miss my flight. As furious as I was at him, I knew there were shuttles leaving for New York every hour. I’d just have to pay a fee and stand by for a later flight. Damn it, Daddy, you’re costing me extra money and I’ll miss early registration. I hated attending conferences without a name badge identifying me as one of the group. If I was late today, I wouldn’t be able to get mine until tomorrow morning. I tensed up even more as I approached the exit for the Dulles Toll Road. If I turned here, I might be able to make the next shuttle flight to New York. Or a few more miles down the road, I could squeeze onto the conveyer belt they called Route Sixty-Six, the road to the Nation’s Capital, Washington, and the misery of my parents’ house. Before I had made up my mind, my cell phone rang out. I fumbled, unable to unhook it from my belt. I unlatched my seat belt and wrestled to get the phone loose. Simultaneously, I heard a thud and then glass shattering. I shielded my face with my hands as a deer hurtled toward me. I felt the air bag inflating against me and the sharp stab of the antler piercing my right shoulder. I slammed on the brakes with both feet. The vehicle skidded to a lurching stop as the air bag deflated. Impaled on the deer, I was ejected out of the Chevy. The buck and I bowled down a prickly embankment. The searing pain in my shoulder was alternately overwhelmed by the weight of the beast when he reigned on top. I felt the antler breaking loose from my shoulder just before my world somersaulted into darkness. Hearing a thumping whir, I blinked my eyes open. I struggled, unable to move. Someone was holding me down. I focused on his thickly haired brown arms and then down to his blue latex-gloved hands. “She’s coming to.” I screamed. Screams of fright, frustration and burning agony. Screams that I couldn’t hear. “Calm down, Miss. You’re gonna be all right. We’re flying you to Fairfax Hospital. We should be landing momentarily. What’s your name?” The man removed the oxygen mask from my face. “Ohhh…” “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. You’re really beat up. Can you tell me your name?” “Ohhh…Donna.” “Donna? Good. Do you know what today is?” Teardrops spilled. I didn’t know. The rhythmic whoop of the helicopter distracted me. “It’s okay, sweetheart. You’ll be just fine. The trauma team will take good care of you.” He replaced the oxygen mask and wiped my tears with gauze. ~*~Four days later, when my HMO deemed me no longer in need of hospitalization, through their healing by statistical curve, I was discharged on a sunny Monday morning. My bloody muddy clothes had been cut off me and destroyed. So I left the hospital dressed in scrubs and slippers, duly charged to my inpatient bill. I had to sign a form promising to pay for non-covered items such as the television, phone and scrubs. I never even used the phone. Who could I call? Who would care about me? Not my family. They always had their own urgent crises. Clan emergencies. And I didn’t want to call. I didn’t want to hear any more bloated lies and bizarre accusations from Daddy. As if Momma would have killed Daddy. It would’ve been all over the news. I could hear the sound bites in my head. Retired Secret Service agent Chloe Lambert Payne suspected in the murder of her blind helpless husband, the saintly doctor Nathan Payne. An octogenarian volunteer helped me into a wheelchair and placed a plastic belongings bag and a fruit basket in my lap. The girls I worked with in the file room of the health insurance company had sent apples, oranges and bananas. That’s right. I worked for my own HMO and they still booted me out too soon. Fruit. They knew I was on the Atkins diet. No fruit allowed during the induction phase. The wizened portly volunteer groaned and wheezed as he shoved my torture chair down the corridor. Why couldn’t the hospital invest in an ergonomic chair instead of this folding low-end ouch-maker? We went down the elevator and he propelled me through the lobby to the curb. He waited until a taxi arrived and opened the back door for me. I stood, sore and stitched, on shaky legs. I eased into the backseat. The driver asked, “Where to, lady?” Where to? To the writers’ conference at the Hilton Hotel in New York, four days ago. To the red carpet, where I’ll stroll in my strapless champagne silk evening gown, with matching opera gloves, to accept my trophy and cash prize. To the appointment with the acquisitions editor of the romance publisher… “Lady, the meter’s running. Where to?” I sighed New York goodbye, “One–two–four–oh–six Nixon Court, Southwest.” Arriving at the Harrison Heights section of the District of Columbia, in front of a scaled-down imitation of George Washington’s colonial mansion at Mount Vernon, I dug my wallet out of the orange plastic bag of belongings retrieved from the wreckage. I paid the cabby and stumbled up onto the cracked sidewalk. Marijuana and charcoal lighter fluid steeped in the air. A pit bull barked ferociously from the chain-linked fortress next door. “Hi there.” I turned around too quickly and gasped. My whole body pulsed in pain. Gloria Meddlestein stood across the street holding open the metal bars on her front door. “Hello, Mrs. Meddlestein. How are you?” “Where on earth have you been, Donna? I tried and tried to get you on the phone. Are you having problems with your line because of the storm the other day? Did the roads wash out? What happened to your face? Got another one of those boyfriends? You really should—” “I need to go in and see my parents now. I’ll chat with you later. Um…we’ll have tea.” I climbed up the Zoysia grass hill, staggering on the crumbling concrete steps winding the way to my childhood home. A mildewy white gutter had torn loose from the two-story-high porch roof. It dangled over the front door. I winced as I ducked under it. I never knew that every muscle in my body was attached to my shoulder. I pressed the yellowed doorbell button. And waited. I knocked. And waited. I tried to turn the knob and it did. I shoved the colonial red door open and stepped onto the slate landing. “Hello? Momma, Daddy?” I shut the door behind me and agonized up the three cherry red carpeted steps to the living room. It hadn’t been vacuumed since I had done it on Christmas Eve. That was seven months ago. There was white furry dust on every stationary object. I dropped the fruit basket and orange bag on the floor between the white wrought iron railing and the comfortable oxblood leather tub chair in the living room. I searched the house. My hospital slippers made a suction noise as I trudged through the sticky kitchen. A skillet with potatoes congealed in grease occupied the front burner of the electric range. The table was cluttered with grocery receipts, two aromatic black bananas, a nitroglycerine pill, toast crusts and grape jelly goo. I moved into the adjacent formal dining room. The carpet was littered with crumbs, spills and dust. The French doors to the balcony were locked. The blinds hung shut. As were all the blinds and drapes in the entire house. Daddy had cataracts cut out of his eyes in 1972, before lens replacements were invented. He had no lenses to filter out the bright light, so he had to wear a wide-brimmed hat outdoors and dark bottle-thick cataract eyeglasses indoors. This had abruptly ended his career as an obstetrician/gynecologist at the age of fifty-eight. Some days his eyes went out completely and he couldn’t see at all. I veered down the hallway. Daddy’s blue bathroom was empty. His bedroom was empty too, nothing but disheveled bedding and the plastic milk jugs he used for urinals. Momma’s bedroom was vacant as was her lavender bathroom. Her mattress sported a deep depression on the side closest to the door, where she always curled up. The bed was made and loaded with throw pillows. The third bedroom was empty. Postage stamps, pictures of their great-nieces and nephews, old bills and linens were strewn about the white and gold French provincial bedroom suite that my adopted sister Tammy left behind when she last departed the nest. She flew back during her divorces. Was it five now? No wait. Six. I forgot Abdul, the drummer in the President’s own Air Force band who seemed to be wealthy without a visible legal source of extra income. Perry and Daddy had always whispered Abdul was involved in a smuggling ring. Passing back through the living room and down the three steps to the landing where I had arrived through the front door, I pivoted and opened the dark wood door to the basement. I listened to the grandfather clock down there, chiming twelve times. I switched on the light, not that it illuminated much with a twenty-five-watt bulb. I gripped the loose handrails on both sides as I maneuvered down the rust-colored sculptured carpeted stairs to the dark walnut-paneled basement. I looked around. Still no sign of either Momma or Daddy. I squinted at the clock, next to the rectangular stone fireplace. The face only had one hand on it. The small hand. Everything was neat. Daddy usually vacuumed down here and always kept the place tidy. He refused to clean upstairs or do laundry. Probably due to her clinical depression, Momma wasn’t much of a housekeeper the past few years. I checked the sliding glass door behind the heavy cream-colored leaf motif drapery. It was locked, the stick was wedged in the track and the white steel grate was bolted into the white bricks of the house. Momma’s red Corvette convertible was parked in the carport. The hatch to the outside attic was open. The exposed light bulb on the ceiling was lit. I switched it off and fixed the drapes open. I checked the downstairs bathroom. It was empty. As I peered down the hallway, I spotted Daddy, on the floor, pinned under the deep freezer. I rushed to him. “Daddy! Daddy!” He turned his head and groaned. “Oh…Donna…” I tried to heave the small freezer upright and screamed in agony. It fell back on me. I shoved it in place. Squatting down, I kissed Daddy’s forehead. “I’ll go call an ambulance. Where does it hurt?” “She…killed…me…” “You’re not dead.” “Your momma…killed me. She just didn’t…understand. I tried so hard to keep my promise to her. I gave you a good home.” “Daddy, you’re not making any sense.” I dashed to the phone in my old underground bedroom. I picked up the receiver on the blue rotary telephone and spun the emergency number, nine-one-one. “DC Fire and EMS, what is your emergency?” “I need an ambulance. A ninety-two-year-old male has fallen and was pinned under a freezer.” The cranky female dispatcher demanded, “Your name?” “Donna Payne. The address is—” The dispatcher cut me off. “We know the address. Is the patient conscious? Is there any bleeding?” “Yes, he’s talking. No blood.” “Is he breathing?” the dispatcher demanded. Of course he’s breathing if he’s talking, imbecile. “Yes.” I hung up and hurried back to Daddy. “Donna, make sure you find my veterans’ life insurance policy, it’s in the bottom drawer of my dresser. It’s forty thousand dollars and all for you. And up over the carport,” he gasped for breath, “there’s a few boxes. Unmarked. My memorabilia of your momma is in there. Your real momma. It’s worth a lot…to the right buyer. I don’t want the others to have any of it. They’ve gotten too much for too long.” “I don’t want your money, Daddy. Don’t talk like that.” I squeezed his arthritis-ravaged hand and rubbed his brown-spotted wrist. What was he talking about? My real momma? I knew he had two big boxes of Marilyn Monroe memorabilia in the attic. Did he think she was my mother? She died before I was born. The poor man was losing his mind. “What happened? What made the freezer turn over on you?” “She did it.” “Who?” “Your momma. She hates me.” Would that be Marilyn or Chloe then? He really made no sense. Perhaps he was hallucinating. He must be. I couldn’t wrap my mind around Momma doing such a horrific thing to Daddy. There had to be a rational explanation. I noticed he wasn’t wearing his cataract eyeglasses. He was legally blind without them. “No, Momma would never hurt you.” “Oh yes, she did. And she is as strong as a man too,” his voice cracked high. My mother was eighty-three years old. Granted, she had been trained by the Secret Service to subdue men but no way was she in that physical shape at her age. “Daddy, I don’t understand. Why would she attack you?” “She demanded the money and I will never give it up.” “What money?” He had a coughing fit. I knelt down to help him sit up, bracing his shoulders on my knees as I cradled his head against my chest. When he’d cleared his throat, he launched into a stream of tasks for me to attend to and he kept saying that after his death, I would get all the riches that he’d preserved for me. He kept going on and on about his coffin stowed under the stairs. That always gave me the creeps. And I’d heard this all before. So many times he’d promised me money but the others always needed it and I never received a penny. I never asked for any either. Not since that day when I was sixteen and all excited about college. I had wanted to attend George Washington University and major in journalism or political science. I’d get a newspaper job at The Washington Post and run all over Capitol Hill. Maybe even get on the White House press staff some day. Momma had told me then, “Oh no. Just forget about it. I can’t do that again.” Momma had to train for a second career after retiring from the Secret Service. She worked sixteen-hour days, seven days a week as a private duty-registered nurse putting my father’s son Perry through law school. And then she had to pay tuition for some fancy makeup artist academy in Beverly Hills, California, for Tammy who’d dropped out of high school. I understood. I really did. I was the one at home eating tasteless leftover homemade vegetable soup, two meals a day. I watched the toll it took on Momma to work so hard and sacrifice so much for the others. It broke my heart to see her so exhausted. She’d come home from work, fix a tall glass of vodka on the rocks with a bent straw to sip while she lay on her side on the couch with her varicose-veined legs and bunioned feet propped up on pillows. I wouldn’t add to her misery. I never asked for anything again. Nor was it offered. I interrupted Daddy’s rambling. “Daddy. Daddy. Where is Momma?” I heard the ambulance siren. “I’ll let them in.” I gently laid him down then bolted up the basement stairs and threw the front door open. A fire engine had stopped out front. The imbecile had dispatched a fire engine. I angrily waved at them to leave. Four men slowly emerged from the vehicle and made their way up the steps. I yelled, “There isn’t a fire! I need medical help!” A guy in a sooty white helmet that had Lieutenant written on it spoke. “Listen, lady, do you want help or not? There are no ambulances available. You District residents abuse the system, using them for taxicabs. We just ran an ingrown toenail. Where’s the patient?” “Down the stairs and make a left.” I followed the white helmet. Three yellow helmets trailed me. One was carrying a first-aid kit. Another fireman toted an oxygen bottle. The lieutenant started examining Daddy. “Joe-Joe, get the paddles, he’s in full arrest.” Joe-Joe ran. “Get a bag on him!” The lieutenant began chest compressions on Daddy. A fireman placed an oxygen bag over my father’s face and began squeezing rhythmically. The lieutenant said, “Enrique, switch on three… One and two and three.” Firefighter Enrique took over doing the chest compressions. The lieutenant rose to his feet and squeezed the microphone on his lapel. “Communications, this is thirteen engine. Be advised our patient is in full arrest. Request the nearest medic unit.” Joe-Joe returned with the defibrillator. They cut Daddy’s blue plaid cotton shirt open and his white V-necked undershirt. The lieutenant shoved me back into the rec room. “How old is he?” “Ninety-two.” “Any history of heart problems? How long ago did he fall?” “No, but he has high blood pressure and a history of TIA’s…mini strokes, you know? I found him on the floor with the freezer on top of him about ten minutes ago. I couldn’t get a straight story out of him about what happened. He wasn’t making much sense. He told me that—” Mrs. Meddlestein appeared at the top of the stairs. “What’s going on?” The lieutenant glowered at her and said to me, “Ma’am, take her and go outside. Flag down the medic unit when it arrives.” It arrived. Forty-five minutes later. The paramedics found Dr. Nathan Lucifer Payne dead. They called for the coroner. ~*~I slumped in a chrome and yellow vinyl dinette chair in Mrs. Meddlestein’s perky kitchen, numbly sipping mango ice tea. She talked and yammered about Daddy running out into the street on Thursday and Momma standing at the door waving his cane and screaming obscenities. I had no reason to accuse Mrs. Meddlestein of lying but it was really out of character for Momma to have argued in public with Daddy. I tuned her out. A booming parade of dusty sunlight filtered in through the pink Swiss-dotted curtains in the bay window. My bleary eyes ached. I didn’t for one minute believe that Momma turned the freezer over on Daddy. Mrs. Meddlestein fussed around, tidying this and that. With her old-fashioned bottled-platinum hairdo, red lips, drawn-on mole and white halter dress, she was every bit a plump sexagenarian Marilyn Monroe. Marilyn Monroe. Had Daddy really said that she was my real momma? Just before he… Oh my God! “They’re gone now, dear,” Mrs. Meddlestein finally said, in her own nasal Jewish mother voice. Definitely not Marilyn-ish. I left her. I shuffled across the street and into the house. I dreaded telling Momma when she got home. Crying in a curled-up ball on the brown leather couch in the living room, choking on my own mucus, I had to get some toilet paper from the bathroom to blow my nose on. I’d used up many plies when the telephone rang. Oh Momma. What will I say to you? I stumbled into the living room and picked up the princess rotary dial phone. “Payne residence.” “Who’s this?” my half-brother Perry gruffly demanded. “Perry, it’s Donna.” “Where the frick have you been? I’ve been trying to call you since Thursday.” I had to swallow the wad in my throat. “Perry, Daddy died today.” “What?” “He’d fallen, the freezer toppled over on him. I don’t know how long before I got here. He had a heart attack. They tried to revive him but the paramedics arrived too late. He’s dead. Our daddy is dead, Perry.” “She escaped and killed him.” “What?” “Your mother murdered him.” “How dare you? She’s not even here!” Escaped? What was he talking about? Escaped from where? “You have no idea what’s been going on these past few months.” “Momma is not a murderess!” “I’ll be over in a little while. We need to go over some things. Have you notified Tammy?” “No. We’re not on speaking terms,” I growled. “I’ll call her on the way. Stay put.” He hung up on me. I dropped the heavy ivory receiver onto the gaudy faux-gold filigree phone. I felt wetness oozing through my bandaged shoulder onto the teal scrub shirt. I wandered down the hallway and found some bandages and hydrogen peroxide under the blue bathroom sink. I peeled off the shirt and yanked the tape off the dressing. Raw, hairless skin screamed from the cruel adhesive the hospital had used. It hurt so bad. I poured hydrogen peroxide on the sutured puncture wound. It bubbled into a cold white and pink fizz. I dabbed it dry with toilet paper and squeezed treatment solution on. I patched it up with a large Band-Aid. Topless and braless, I left the shirt and bloody dressing on the floor and trudged to Momma’s bedroom. I removed one of her lavender floral blouses from the closet and gingerly slipped it on. “Oh-Donna? Where are you?” I heard Perry’s voice summoning me. Oh-Donna. I hated my nickname. My full name was Orpha Donna Payne. Momma named me after her lifelong friend, Secret Service agent and registered nurse Orpha Livingston Blair. My family nicknamed me “Oh-Donna” after the late Ritchie Valens song “Donna” from the fifties. To me, it had always been a faux term of endearment, more like a snide little inside joke to all of them. Even Momma. They all knew it bothered me. So that’s why it stuck. It wouldn’t be fun to tease me if I wouldn’t get my feathers poked sideways. Of course, the “Donna” song, about searching for the girl that got away, was beautiful. But it embarrassed me when they called me Oh-Donna in front of outsiders. And it also made me feel like the outsider. Like I didn’t really belong to this family but by some ridiculous blunder of nature, my spirit plopped down in their sticky glue. I plodded back into the living room where my over seven-foot-tall and seemingly seven-foot-wide half-brother Perry stood, dressed in his black judge’s robe. He was holding a briefcase. “You okay? Jeeze, it must have been horrific finding the body.” “He wasn’t dead when I got here.” “Why didn’t you do CPR then?” “I…I called for an ambulance.” Perry opened his black briefcase and removed a legal type document. “Well, here’s the old boy’s will. Everything is in order. He named you as executrix. You need to put the house on the market, get the tax assessor in, arrange an estate sale and close out their bank accounts. Insert just a tiny ad in the legal notices section of the Post to notify his creditors. When the year is up, whatever is left gets split evenly. Between me and Tammy.” Of course it would be. I was nobody. I snatched the will from him. He grabbed it back before I could read it. “Don’t goof it up, Oh-Donna.” “Goof it up?” Hot tears streamed down my face. “Why are you always humiliating me? How could I goof it up by just holding it to read? Why do you treat me like a retard?” He didn’t love me at all. I had only fooled myself all of my life thinking my brother really did love me deep down. I wiped my nose on the hem of the blouse I was wearing. “Daddy didn’t leave everything to you and Tammy. What about Momma?” “Don’t worry about her. I had her admitted to Saint Christopher’s for a psych evaluation on Thursday. They’ll take her on as a charity case if she doesn’t go to jail.” “You did what?” “I received a message from Dad that she was trying to kill him. When I arrived here, she had chased him outside. He was shaking. She was inside with his aluminum cane in her hand and it was bent where she’d beat him upside the head with it.” I remembered Mrs. Meddlestein claiming she saw Daddy run outside and Momma cussing at him and waving his cane. “Did you actually see her hit him with it?” “That’s irrelevant.” “If you really thought she’d hit him, then why did you have Momma locked up and leave Daddy home alone with a head injury?” “I had to get back to court. I gave him a couple of aspirins and made an ice pack for him to put on the goose egg bump on his head.” “So in other words, you didn’t think he was seriously injured.” I didn’t buy the ice pack bit for one minute. Perry wouldn’t even know how to make one. Daddy didn’t have a head injury. “Not at that time. I made sure to lock up Chloe before she had a chance to do him in. A fat lot of good that did. She escaped and finished the job.” “Escaped? A little old lady escaped from the mental ward? You’re being ridiculous, Perry. Come up with a better fairy tale.” “Keep living in never-never land, Oh-Donna. Just watch your back before she kills you too.” Perry stashed the papers in his briefcase. “I’ve called the Metropolitan Police. They’ll send technicians over to process the crime scene. Let ’em in, will ya?” “Crime scene? It was an accident! The freezer toppled over on him and he had a heart attack.” Perry looked incredulously at me. “Oh-Donna, open your eyes and see the truth. Dad was murdered.” I panted, trying to catch my breath. I would not accept that Daddy had been murdered. Especially not by his own wife. And there was absolutely no evidence or witnesses to make me believe otherwise. I couldn’t believe Perry had talked the cops into accepting there was a crime. Surely the autopsy would clear everything up. I had never been so angry in my entire life. Perry grumbled, “Tammy said she’d do the funeral arrangements. You wanna give me one of your credit cards so she can charge it to?” “What?” “Where’s your purse?” “Get out!” “Don’t you talk to me that way, Oh-Donna.” “Why do you and Tammy always assume I am rich? You are the ones with the college educations and high-paying jobs. Get out!” I shoved him down the three stairs. He clunked his shaved bald head on the white wrought iron railing. “What the devil got into you?” He took off. I locked the door tight and rushed down the basement stairs. I flung open the big wide door to the walk-in closet under the stairs. I reached in the dark for the shoestring and yanked the light on. I shut the door. It wasn’t quiet like I needed. A melody faintly emanated from around the switchback corner underneath the stairs. It sounded like Perry Como’s “Some Enchanted Evening”, a beautiful love song from the forties. The walk-in closet was immense as far as closets go. Since the house was a split foyer, the stairs were turned in an L-shape. Three down from the living room, a wide landing at the front door and then a turn and nine stairs down to the basement. Daddy extended the width of the closet so it made a U-shape with a switchback under the basement stairs. There was an overhead storage area with a hatch underneath the foyer landing and the stairs that led up to the living room. Daddy’s eight-sided Dracula coffin was in there. Not that he was a vampire but his family had weird burial rituals. He came from a poor Irish-American family that was among the first settlers in Sacramento, California, during the gold rush. They were known to pack a pistol while standing guard with their loved one to prevent an autopsy, the body was never to be left alone, someone had to stay inside the open grave all night, an Irish wake thrown at the house…things like that. The back of the closet was stuffed with boxes full of Daddy’s old medical files and research papers. Neatly lining the walnut-paneled closet walls were two dozen plastic grocery bags filled with used novels. Momma read when she couldn’t sleep. She’d told me she liked books with a little mystery, a little danger and a little sex. So here was the New York Times bestseller list for the past few years. She preferred the thick ones. Daddy always whispered it was an obsessive-compulsive disorder, Momma reading so much. There was one bag stuffed with photo albums. I rooted out the white one. Beautiful sepia prints were displayed in little gold corner mounts on heavy black paper. Momma in a bathing suit, on the beach, with palm trees. Must’ve been in the forties sometime. In one, she was cuddled up to a very handsome bearded man. Definitely not Daddy. In another, she wore a full-length fur. I remembered that fur. She always kept it in the big black steamer trunk that I was leaning on. I eased off it, undid the latches and opened the lid. There it was, along with the aroma of mothballs. I slipped the full-length sable on and drew it tight. The melody became louder. I crept back and peeked around the corner under the basement stairs. I moved some boxes. Blackness swirled. Wind whipped. The music had laughter. I felt an irresistible forward force propelling me deeper. ~♥~I blinked. Sparkles. Rainbow-colored sparkles dazzled my eyes. People danced cheek to cheek. Lots of soldiers in old-fashioned uniform. The women were wearing white gloves and fancy hats. I found the exit and escaped outside into the night. A chilling wind stung my cheeks. Something was very not right. The cars were all jalopies. Really old ones, older than the ones at the classic car nights at the fast food restaurant I always went to. The kind of cars you had to turn a big crank on the front to start. I proceeded along. Passing a newsstand, I picked up a paper. The headline read President Roosevelt’s New Strategy For the Philippines. The date was February 16, 1945. I dropped it and ran. All right, this was spooky. Where the hell was I? Freezing rain pummeled my face. I stumbled in a grate, breaking a heel off my blue stiletto shoe. Blue stiletto shoe? What happened to my hospital slippers? I must be dreaming. Midway across the Fourteenth Street Bridge, gateway back to Virginia, I stopped. I leaned over the concrete railing and gasped for breath. I stuck my right hand into the deep silk-lined coat pocket and extracted a pearl-handled pistol. I screamed and dropped it over the rail. I watched it slide on the surface of the frozen Potomac River. Frozen river? This was July! I stuck my hand into the left pocket and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. An icicle fell from the lamppost above me. I examined the note in my hand. Benjamin Franklin’s portrait adorned both sides. It was bloody. I felt a tap on my right shoulder. It didn’t hurt. I turned…and saw a man.
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July 3, 2013
Sample Chapter of INAPPROPRIATE
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Inappropriateby Sherry Silver"If you enjoy quirky characters and unpredictable plots, you'll love this book...Extremely Funny."--Diane Scott Lewis
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Story Summary:By day, Sandra plucks trash off Cocoa Beach, points tourists to the restrooms and sometimes discovers dead bodies. By night, she’s a cozy mystery author wannabe. Sandra has an aversion to cops, one homicide detective in particular. They have nothing in common except pheromones. She was eighteen the first time he kissed her and the last. Five years ago, he answered his cell and ran off to work, leaving her panting on the kitchen table with a hurricane looming.
Lieutenant Hottie is married to his career. He moved up the ranks early and engrossed himself in bringing murderers to justice. Serious relationships are out of the question, he’s too busy and not interested. The only woman he wants is off limits. He has built a wall around his heart and won’t let himself be hurt again.
Sandra is attending a writers conference aboard private rail cars. It was organized by the wife of a popular televangelist. The writers are traveling alongside devout Christians on their cross-country crusade. Sandra's loving but hyper-critical mother has finagled a ticket to ride. The morning before departure, Sandra finds a dead sailor on the beach. On the train, Sandra must keep her lips off Lieutenant Hottie and unmask the murderer before another soul derails.
All aboard!
Excerpt:Chapter One
I hate discovering dead bodies.
I shook my head and slammed on the brakes. While leaping out of the golf cart onto the smooth Cocoa Beach sand, I wiggled my fingers into a pair of nitrile gloves. A shiver of fear convulsed up my spine as a fishy dead-human stench wafted through the dawn. I tiptoed over to a bloated young black man face up in a drenched United States Navy uniform, matted with sand.
“Sir, do you need some assistance?” Please roll over and puke or something. “Hey, buddy, you okay?” Nothing. I gave him a little nudge in the ribs with my sneaker. He felt squishy. I shuddered.
The June sun rose pink on the horizon. Red sky was good luck for sailors or something like that. Not for this guy.
This is so not the way I want to begin my last shift before vacation.
I loosened his tie, unfastened a button and placed two of my fingers on his carotid artery. No pulse. He stared past me, big brown eyes with long eyelashes frozen in a peaceful expression. No, not peaceful. The curl of his lips looked as though he had been up to something mischievous. I lowered my face and put my ear to his nose to listen for breathing as I studied his chest. I didn’t see or feel respirations. Up close he smelled like chlorine bleach.
I wasn’t a coroner but it was obvious to me that this guy had been dead for quite some time. I struggled with the gritty wet material, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt exposing his hairy chest and a gold Star of David necklace. I didn’t find the dog tags I was searching for. “Rest in peace, unknown sailor.” I whispered a little prayer for him and pulled off the gloves as I hurried back to the vehicle. After slipping them into the black plastic trash bag, I exhaled, flipped open my blue cell phone and punched nine on speed dial. I glanced at my simulated diamond Tinker Bell watch and wiggled my wrist to make the pixie dust dance under the crystal.
“Cocoa Beach Department of Public Works. What is your complaint?” asked Igor the grouchy dispatcher.
“It’s Sandra Faire. I’ve found a military floater washed up in front of the Copacabana. He’s dead.”
Within ten minutes I was surrounded by three hotel security guys in gray trousers and blue blazers; Andres, the perpetually hung-over lifeguard; Eagle, the hotshot volunteer beach patrolman who always startled the sunbathers tearing around the sand in his ATV; Bicep Betty in the yellow polka dot bikini and matching support hose; six uniformed City of Cocoa Beach cops. And Lieutenant Hottie Hernandez, homicide.
Okay so his first name was William, and not that he was my type…anymore…but my temperature sure soared whenever he met my gaze. I needed to figure out how to reroute those errant hormones. I was through with hot uber good-looking alpha males. Especially this one. No man of mine answered his cell phone during a romantic interlude. Just because there was a category five hurricane looming was no excuse for him to run off to work and leave me panting on the kitchen table.
Well, yeah, we had some other issues. William and I weren’t compatible except when we were making out. His kisses sent me to nirvana. Perhaps it’s just as well the hurricane interrupted us. I had nothing to regret. We didn’t have anything in common. I was eighteen the first time he kissed me. And the last time. Now I’m twenty-three and he would be thirty soon. I didn’t like cops. They were paranoid, manipulative drama kings. Well, most of the ones in my family tree were.
Hottie was dressed in a black tee shirt, way too tight. I could see the outline of his chiseled abs and the ripple of his deltoids. A badge on a chain hung around his neck, a service weapon and handcuffs tucked into the rear of his deliciously form fitting Levis.
The lieutenant swaggered down and looked over the deceased from a distance as the tide lapped the sailor’s mucky dress shoes. He paced off an area for the uniforms to seal the death investigation scene. Hotel security assisted, offering hot pink umbrellas to shove into the sand to wrap the yellow police tape around. The lieutenant stopped and squatted before approaching the body, shining his flashlight on the sand with a slow sweeping motion. He led the crime scene photographer to the areas he deemed important. After the initial images were shot, forensics arrived.
The CSI team deployed different colored lights and donned goggles. The photographer changed out the filters on his camera to match the colors the forensic team used.
The lieutenant had a lengthy conversation with the lifeguard then shook his head, scribbled on a notepad, ducked under the police tape and made a beeline for me.
I leaned casually against the umbrella rental stand, twisting an errant strand of pale hair around my finger, determined not to let his deep testosterone voice move me.
He looked down and rubbed his clean shaven chin. His eyes lingered on the finer parts of my anatomy as his gaze climbed to my face and he asked me, “You discover this one?”
I sucked in a deep breath trying not to remember his erotic whispers.
“Did you discover the body?” He repeated.
I nodded.
“Anyone in the area at the time?”
I looked into his smoldering brown eyes and shook my head.
“How long ago?”
I checked Tinker Bell. “About forty-five minutes now. I called in the find at six-thirteen.”
“Did you notice any footprints around the body before you approached it?” He cocked his head to one side and gave my sneakers the once over.
I kicked up one foot so he could see my treads. “Sorry, I forgot to look…”
He frowned and gave me that you’ve disappointed me again look. “Did you disturb anything?”
“I unbuttoned him with gloves on. He was all buttoned up to his chin. I felt his carotid artery. I couldn’t find his dog tags. Oh…and I kicked him in the ribs.”
“Left or right side?”
“Left.”
He scribbled in his note pad. “Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary on the beach in the last twenty-four hours?”
I shook my head. This was why I hated discovering dead bodies. It forced me to collide with the most inappropriate man for me in the whole darned universe. I didn’t want things to get stirred up again. I couldn’t get things stirred up again. On account of what I did during the hurricane.
“Do you know him from anywhere?” he asked.
I shook again, exaggeratedly slow with a wide-eyed expression.
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be in touch.” And with that formal tone, he strutted over to the hotel security guards kibitzing near my golf cart.
I smoothed my bright white Department of Public Works tee shirt down over my red uniform shorts as I passed them. They were discussing the evangelical Christian service held last night in the Copacabana ballroom. Pastor Eugene Donaldson was a modern thinking, feel-good preacher very popular with the locals and tourists alike. He had led prayer breakfasts at the White House during both Slick Willie’s and Dub-yah’s terms.
I chimed in, “The sailor was Jewish. There is a Star of David around his neck. He wouldn’t have attended.” William rolled his eyes and glared at me.
I hated when he did that. Just because I wasn’t a cop didn’t mean I couldn’t solve crimes…or sort out which leads were dead ends.
I climbed back into the golf cart and waved to Andres, the lifeguard. He smiled and waved back. I guess the guy was good looking if you liked suntanned guitar playing Euro-blonds without muscles. I didn’t. I didn’t like his sing-song German accent either. And I especially didn’t like guitar players anymore…because of Hurricane Alfredo.
I went on about my job, puttering down the beach, stopping to pick up a piece of petrified palm trunk, a glass grape juice bottle and a deflated football. I plucked them with a mechanical snatcher device. I don’t know if it has an official name but I called mine Monkey. After two years at this job I was pretty efficient. I could do it all from the driver’s seat. Snatch it and drop it into the trash bag and go along my jolly way.
The theme to “The Pink Panther” jazzed from my shorts. I stopped and dug my phone out. My mother’s picture smiled on the caller I.D. I inhaled and answered. “Hi, Mom.”
“Sandra, are you still intending to climb aboard that train of fools?”
“They aren’t fools, Mom. They’re very nice people.”
She sobbed, “You’re being kidnapped by that cult and I’ll never see my baby again.” She launched into one of her motherly speeches about how everything I do is inappropriate.
Mom was so disappointed in me. My four brothers were cops working under my dad, the police commissioner. But I toiled as a sanitation engineer and public relations specialist for the Department of Public Works. Translation: I picked up the trash left on the beach and told the tourists where the public restrooms were located. At least the uniform was cute.
What Mom didn’t know was by day I collected garbage but by night I was an infamous cozy mystery author. I wrote under the pen name of Dixie London. And I didn’t have a thing published. I had written almost twelve books…well, the first three or four chapters of twelve different books. Okay, so I was more like an infamous cozy mystery author wannabee. But I had fun. I belonged to the Global Order of Scribes pronounced “goose” for short. The international convention was transpiring in Morocco this week.
Rosemary Donaldson, wife of televangelist Eugene Donaldson, was the president of our local chapter. I couldn’t stand her, the snobby fakey flake. She arranged to have a little writers conference of sorts aboard three private railcars hooked onto the back of her husband’s crusade train, which was hooked onto the back of a regular North American Passenger Railroad train.
Of course I could set my feelings for her aside and grace the authors with my presence long enough for a two week free vacation aboard the private rail cars. The Donaldsons’ were wealthy so I knew this would be a first class to-do. The Agatha Christie birthday shindigs she hosted at her mansion were always loaded with fat shrimp, alligator tar-tar and a white chocolate fountain. Maids and cabbage roses everywhere you turned in her gaudy museum. Even the ceilings were painted with rose murals. Last time I tucked two pieces of her toilet tissue into my pocket to show Mom. It was printed in full color, embossed and scented with roses. Mom wasn’t impressed. She told me it would cause bladder infections.
“Mom—Mom—Mom!” I finally got her to stop ranting. “I told you it’s not a cult. I’m not going as one of the devout followers of Pastor Donaldson. Rosemary invited our mystery readers’ book club to tag along. We’ll be segregated from the fanatics. We have our own private cars and we’ll be reading and discussing books…and knitting.”
Mom loved knitting so I just threw that in.
“Really, knitting?”
“Uh-huh. A couple of the ladies are involved in the knit-a-scarf-for-a-serviceman charity. We’ll be knitting up a storm for those brave Americans.” I was great at making things up.
“Oh, well why didn’t you tell me? What time do we leave? I’ll need to finish the laundry…”
“No!” I cleared my throat. “No, Mom. You can’t go. The train is already filled to capacity. You needed to reserve a compartment ahead of time.”
“Nonsense. I’ll bunk-in with you.”
“No can do. I have a roommate. Dina.”
“Oh…Dina. How is she? Is her Aunt Beverly recuperating as well as can be expected?”
Dina Devers was the only friend I had who Mom approved of.
“Dina and Aunt Beverly are doing just fine. I’ll let her know you asked about them. I gotta go, Mom. Got to finish up by noon today.”
“Come see me before you leave.”
Yeah, right. So you can jump in the backseat and stow away. “I’ll try. Gotta run. Bye.” I closed my phone and stuffed it back inside my pocket.
I drove along the beach. Two guys stood knee deep in the surf, fishing. An early jogger trotted by. I smacked my forehead and took my foot off the gas. If Lieutenant Hottie had any follow-up questions for me I wouldn’t be available. I should have told him I’d be leaving on the GOOS Express this afternoon. Could this be a dilemma? He didn’t tell me not to leave town or anything. And I just reported the body. I wasn’t technically a witness…or suspect. And besides, it was a routine death investigation. I was confident the autopsy would show he had drowned. Poor guy. He had looked so young and fun loving. I resolved to live like every day was my last and chase my fondest dreams.
The sailor probably was on shore leave, rented a speed boat with his buddies, got drunk and fell overboard. Yeah, that’s it. He seemed really happy by the smirk frozen on his face. I ought to open a detective agency. And I could hire my writing pals as operatives. An all woman force. Nobody would suspect us of spying on them. We’d make a killing. I giggled at my pun.
I peeked at Tinker Bell, shook up her pixie dust, looped around and did a U-turn. It was time to stop by the dumpster and then check-in with Igor.
A crowd of tourists had gathered at the crime scene as the police carted off the corpse. I sighed. Great, they were noshing donuts and drinking Starbucks. More trash for me to collect later on.
The lieutenant stood down along the shoreline running his fingers through his short dark hair. Perhaps I should stop off and let him know I’d be leaving town. I slowed down and threw my hand up. He didn’t notice me so I kept going. I decided to call him from the train.
Part of me was relieved not to have to talk to him face-to-face. If Lieutenant Hottie were to make a late night visit to my little studio apartment…to discuss the case, I wouldn’t be home to answer the door…wearing something entirely inappropriate.
* * *
At exactly 1:47 P.M. I checked-in at the Orlando North American Passenger Railway station and dragged my huge cerulean blue rolling duffle bag outside. Missing one wheel, it fought me the whole way. I set my chambray blue hard plastic cooler on top of it and looked around the platform.
The crusaders sported primary and pastel colored leisure suits and church appropriate dresses. The African, Asian and Cuban-Americans carried the style off well enough. However, the European-Americans who had baked thousands of hours in the Florida sun, resembled shriveled dates.
Rosemary Donaldson waved me down to the rear of the train. My tummy jittered with excitement. And hunger. I couldn’t wait to gobble the fancy food. I took a deep breath and plodded through the throng of elderly passengers.
“Hi, Rosemary.”
We fake kissed the humidity near both cheeks. I tried not to cough in the perfume haze engulfing the raven haired, liposuctioned, botoxed pastor’s wife dressed in white patent leather boots, striped over-the-knee socks, a ruffled plaid fuchsia miniskirt and an orange low-cut sweater. She had the body for the outfit but at her age and considering her husband’s holy profession…jail bait tart was not a good look.
“We can board any minute now. Here’s our itinerary,” she said in her high-pitched nasally voice and offered me a floral motif pocket folder with a thick stack of papers inside. I let go of my suitcase handle and accepted it. The suitcase plopped down onto the concrete with a resonating thud. The cooler’s lid didn’t dislodge, thank goodness. I squatted to pick them up.
“Sandra, I’m so glad you talked your mother into joining us,” said Rosemary.
I shut my eyes tight, scrunched up my face and clenched my fists, hoping I hadn’t heard correctly. Before I stood I asked, “Pardon? What did you say?”
“Your momma stopped by my house this morning with a trunk full of yarn and knitting needles. She volunteered to teach the crusaders to knit.”
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July 1, 2013
Sample Chapter of THOUSAND DOLLAR PHARAOH
THOUSAND DOLLAR PHARAOH is a fast-paced, intricately layered mystery-suspense-romance with a strong, sassy heroine who shines through it all. --Christy Carlyle Night Owl Romance
Thousand Dollar PharaohBy Sherry Silver
She never thought she would have to sacrifice this much for her country…
A Stand-Alone Book in The Good Girls of Washington Series
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Book Summary:
In 1945, a beautiful undercover secret service agent has a dangerous assignment. United States thousand dollar bills are turning up all over the globe. Bodyguarding the widowed former First Lady, Eleanor Roosevelt, Chloe must tread lightly and include her in what the first lady views as a thrilling cozy mystery. Can she protect Mrs. Roosevelt, unmask the counterfeiting ringleader and throw the swift fist of justice while traveling from Egypt to Washington to London with a royal mummy’s severed arm and a peculiar sand cat? Agent Chloe Lambert takes a bullet for her country and suffers the government's inexcusable intrusion into her private affairs. She will stop at nothing to complete this mission…
Chapter One
August 1945 in the Valley of the Kings, Egypt
A redhead lay face down on the dusty earthen floor. Moaning as she regained consciousness, Chloe raised her head and twisted it from side to side, struggling to understand. Where was she? Searing pain in her upper right arm jolted her back to her surreal reality. When she had signed on to become a United States Secret Service Agent in the counterfeiting division, they neglected to mention all of the occupational hazards. She quickly learned that the missions providing an adrenaline rush always seemed to end in physical pain. Reaching over and snatching the three-thousand-year-old arm for leverage, she struggled to stand as she allowed her eyes to adjust to the flicker from a stubby red candle on the floor of the burial chamber. Oh God, no. Who desecrated this mummy...?
Chloe tried to clear her mind and figure out how she got there. She remembered tripping down some wooden stairs and grunting on a landing. As she clambered up, two men appeared at the top of the steps and chased after her. She scurried down, rounded three corners and squeezed into a small breach in an earthen wall. Did I lose them? No, they must’ve knocked me out cold. But my head doesn’t really hurt. Did they make their getaway or are they lurking, waiting to finish me off after they interrogate me?
What’s that smell? I know that smell. From where? She closed her eyes tight. Remembering a winter night. White fur coat and Bill...Hundred Dollar Bill...the printing room at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing in Washington. Up on the catwalk...the flash...six shots ringing out...the last one louder...the silhouette blowing smoke from the gun. The lithe shadow walking into blackness...her lavender French perfume commingled with hair lacquer and cigarette smoke. Bill’s assailant...his wife loomed there. Is here somewhere now.
Chloe, you’re delusional. What would his American wife be doing in Egypt? Ha ha ha. Good one, Chloe girl.
She staggered over to the candle and grabbed it. It was sometime after midnight, inside an ancient tomb. Grover Cleveland seemed to glare ominously at her from the bloody thousand-dollar bill stuck to a royal mummy’s severed arm.
A bead of hot wax dripped onto her ring finger. She drew in a short breath. Carefully cradling the mummy’s arm, realizing how sacred it was, she approached the three open stone coffins within the dusty tomb. One female had flowing red hair and a bent left arm. A black-haired male had his hands crossed at his groin. The third was a bald, one-armed female. Shivering at the sight, Chloe brooded over her mission and strategy. She gently replaced the arm on the mummy closest to her. Mummy! Yuck. It appeared to fit. Now noticing the thousand-dollar bill, her mind kicked into analytical gear.
Chloe examined the ancient corpse. Double ear piercings. Tight banding around the forehead where the headdress would have been. No trace of hair whatsoever. Bent right arm. Henna on the long fingernails. Fingers curled in as if gripping a scepter, which some evil tomb robber had previously helped himself to. This mummy was a royal woman and was in bad shape. Her mouth and chest had been bashed in on the left side. Right arm ripped off. Hacked off. Chloe’s stomach contracted as the bile churned. What kind of people could do such a heinous deed? The bad guys could. But who are the bad guys? Two of them surprised me in the upper burial chamber. One or both no doubt responsible for...
She grabbed the wound in her right arm. Her fingers slipped in the coagulating blood. Pain shot up her arm, all the way to her teeth.
I’ve been shot!
Anger seethed through her. Great. I’m going to die. Alone in a creepy crypt. But wait. I’m not dying yet. I’m up and about. The bleeding seems to have stopped. So it’s either a flesh wound or else the bullet is lodged in my arm. Fine. Take it like a big girl, Chloe. You’re the one who volunteered to jump right on into the boots of our boys at war. You are an American, and you will see this mission through. The fire of her resolve manifested itself in the nerve endings of her wound.
Chloe flinched and stumbled backward as a cat pounced from a stone ledge onto the mummy’s chest. Larger than most cats she’d ever seen. Tawny yellow-gray fur, a long tapering tail and striped markings. A sand cat. It kneaded and dug into the bandages before circling three times, nesting in the chest or what was left of it inside the shreds of black, tan and red burial wrappings.
Now that is just wrong.
“Here, kitty. Nice kitty.” She held her fingers to its nose. The cat sniffed and turned away. Not even a lick. Chloe petted and stroked the shaggy soft fur.
“Come on, kitty. Come on, girl. Come out of the coffin. Out you go.” Gently tugging on the cat near the back of its neck, it wouldn’t budge.
Dates. I have some dates left. Where is my bag? Chloe spun around until she spied it near the hole in the wall where she’d penetrated the chamber. The cat kept an eye on Chloe as she shoved her arm into the tapestry carpet bag and fished out a date. “Here you go, kitty.” Chloe offered the sticky sweet fruit. Allowing the cat one lick before pulling the date away, “No, no, no, girl. I guess you’re a girl. Let’s play fetch.” Chloe tossed the date on top of her bag. The cat leapt after it, with a piece of currency stuck to its tail.
Chloe petted the feline as it licked the date and even gave her one scratchy lick of thanks on her hand. Swishing back and forth, the tail betokened gratitude.
Hmm... A US thousand-dollar bill. She removed it from the tail. These haven’t been minted since 1936. Well, isn’t that a coincidence? That’s just the date on here.
Trying hard to examine the bill for authenticity in the dim candlelight, she thought it appeared real enough. She rubbed her fingers over a tacky patch. What was making the bills sticky? Taking the candle back to the stone coffin, Chloe shoved her left arm inside, cringing, feeling around. The brittle bandages crinkled. Or was that the currency?
Peering inside, she found a stash of thousand-dollar bills. Chloe dashed over and coaxed the cat off of her bag, more or less yanking it out from underneath the animal. She stuffed it with the cash, filling it one-third full. Feeling around the bottom of the sarcophagus, her ring bumped something metallic and clanked. Her wedding ring. She smiled and remembered the National Cathedral where Momma had walked her down the aisle. It still seemed like a dream. Did it ever really happen?
Chloe sighed. Her whirlwind action-adventure romance had culminated in marriage to fellow agent Mike Taurus. In the picture dictionary of life under the listing for man was his photograph. Perfect in every way, except when he opened his mouth and said something completely inappropriate. What a mouth. Firm lips. Slightly crooked two front teeth. Hot probing tongue. The world’s best kisser. Oh Mike. I wish you were here on this mission with me.
The cat meowed three times. Chloe turned to see the fur standing up along its spine. It must sense danger. Chloe returned her attention to the coffin and dug deep, running her fingers over the metal. They had to be plates. Plates to print currency. Shazam. Holding the dwindling candle between the mummy’s legs, she verified her deduction. Her stomach settled and she smiled.
Chloe gasped and nearly dropped the candle as the cat pounced on the mummy’s face. Hissing and with fur bristled up on its arched back, the agitated creature leapt across the three sarcophaguses, onto her carpet bag and then circled back to retrace her route.
Conspiring voices from elsewhere in the tomb loomed in the distance. Speaking English.
Relieved she didn’t set the mummy on fire, her pulse raced while she scanned the chamber for a weapon. She hurriedly dug through her bag and extracted her revolver.
Now what? Think, Chloe, think. “Almighty God, forgive me and be with me.” She reached into the next gritty stone coffin, grabbed the mummy’s straight right arm, closed her eyes and yanked. Oh did that hurt. Then pain in her arm shot both ways, up to her brain and stinging into her fingertips.
She focused on her disgusting task. Eww...just like trying to carve the leg off of an over baked, dried-out chicken like the one I ruined for Uncle Edmund’s wake. That incident was why Daddy had insisted she get her degree in Home Economics.
Chloe waved her hands in the air, shaking off the disgusting creepy task she was performing. Her injured arm screamed in pain. Tears of agony ran down her face as she likened it to the pain this mummy might be feeling in the afterlife, having her arm ripped off. Inhaling the stale air, she looked up at the low stone ceiling and prayed, “Almighty God of the sun and whoever else these poor old people believed in, whomsoever is guarding this tomb, please, please, please, forgive me.”
She tugged and twisted until the limb finally snapped off. Opening her eyes, she blinked and sneezed as dust flew. Dust and dead bugs and mummified flesh. Shoot! She had to unwind the bandages to get the arm loose. Eww! Ancient flesh and bones. Stop looking at me! Why did they have to perform an eye- and mouth-opening ceremony after they’d prepared the mummies? They’re all watching me do these horrible things to them. Tears trickled down her dusty face. She shuddered. Good grief, she was desecrating a pharaoh.Somehow, she had to focus on this task and convince herself she wasn’t actually tomb robbing, abusing a corpse and touching a dead person. This was just another day at the office...out in the field. Just doing her routine job in a routine way. Concealing the identity of this royal mummy, in order to protect her. What was left of her. In the process, desecrating the mummy’s boyfriend here next to her. Great, just great. Now two spirits wouldn’t be able to rest in peace and enjoy the afterlife.
Shaking it off, literally by shaking her head, Chloe positioned the straight arm on the mummy with the bashed-in face and the sarcophagus full of dough. If her research and hunches happened to be correct, these were the remains of a very important royal mummy. A pharaoh. A lady pharaoh. How divine. Wow. Chloe felt humbled in her presence. And more determined to protect the mummy and see that the counterfeiters were prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
As she placed the bent right arm in her carpet bag, the cat somersaulted into it too. Fine. Come along. Together they squeezed through the two-foot breach in the earthen wall and into the main chamber of the pyramid. The air wasn’t as dusty, but it sure was muggy and hot. Whose great idea was it to traipse off on a counterfeiting caper in the Egyptian desert in August? Orpha’s. Well, yeah, Orpha had volunteered for this mission, but Chloe had been drafted.
Breathless, Chloe scurried up the wooden stairs in the tight passageway, pushing the wall with her left hand, painfully hugging the carpet bag handles and candle with her right. Zigzagging through the ancient passages, she suspected the eyes on the hieroglyphics loomed judging her. As she briefly read the simple curses, she realized they were dooming her to be eaten by a crocodile, hippopotamus and then a rhinoceros. Yet some of the characters bespoke to urge her onward, as if history depended on her to complete this chapter. If circumstances had been different, Chloe would have loved to have lingered and examined the hieroglyphics. Maybe even buy an animal symbol necklace at the gift shop. Take photographs with her Brownie camera. Mug and pose...what a fun honeymoon this would be. Mike...
Chloe forged onward and upward as fast as she could. When the main entrance of the tomb spit her into the black Egyptian night, she extinguished the flame. Climbing the steep steps, she gasped for breath before making a sharp right at the top. She huffed her way through the sand hurrying toward the thunder of approaching hooves. Chloe stifled a scream as a camel rounded the next corner in her path.
Agent Orpha Livingston thumped the camel with a stick, forcing it to its knees. Chloe grimaced at the camel’s body odor as she handed the carpet bag to her partner and then hiked her sari up, grabbed onto the saddle blanket and hoisted herself astride the beast. “Boy, am I glad to see you, Orpha.”
“You too, clover-girl.”
As soon as Chloe was seated, she grabbed the bag and hugged it to her middle, smashing it between her and the driver. It screamed a meow as they stole away through the desert.
Clasping the carpet bag between herself and the jockey, Chloe balanced by digging her fingers around the belt on the driver’s sari. The woman’s slim waist didn’t leave much room for margin.
As the camel proceeded into the indigo night, Chloe’s heart pounded, nearly as much as her arm stung. Please let it just be a graze. I can’t get a bullet dug out now. No time. I should have departed yesterday. She tried to pacify and convince herself she could indeed still make it back to Washington in time. Well, she’d just have to. There was no alternative.
In an effort to calm down, she breathed in deeply through her nose and held it as long as possible, then blew it out through her mouth. Inhaling so deeply of Orpha’s wig-top incense cone was nearly drugging. Orpha had been a little over the top buying a black braided wig with an incense pot on top. Royal women wore them back in the days of real pharaohs. Orpha had always been a sucker for costumes.
Chloe’s nostrils separated out frankincense, eucalyptus and what was that other scent? Marijuana? That’s just about right. I’ll not only be late for my mission, I’ll be arrested and thrown in jail on drug charges. Still, perhaps the marijuana could ease my pain. Chloe lifted her nose and inhaled as closely to the cone as possible. Pressing against the jockey, she mashed the carpet bag between them, sending out a mew of protest from the sand cat. “Sorry, kitty.”
What am I going to do with this cat? I’ve always wanted a cat. A companion. Better than a dog. You don’t have to let it out.
Once they rounded a bend in the hot windy night, Chloe reached up with her left hand, mesmerized by the heady incense. In an attempt to crook the cone downward slightly for a greedy whiff, she inadvertently knocked it from the woman’s head. Chloe flailed as Orpha caught her with one hand and slowed the animal down.
“What the heck are you doing, Clover?” she demanded.
“Sorry.”
“That wig cost me my last six Mr. Goodbars.” Orpha sounded hurt.
“I’ll buy you a hot fudge sundae when we get home. I’m so sorry. And I’ll pay for a shampoo and dryer set at Mabel’s.”
Holding firmly to her colleague’s saffron silk belt for the rest of the journey, Chloe’s attention returned to fantasizing about having a cat. Keeping a cat. This cat. An Egyptian cat. I’ll call her Cleo. For Cleopatra. Maybe Patra? Pat? Patty? Paddycake... She drew in a deep sigh. Good old Paddycake. Paddy Grogan, proprietor of Paddycake’s Bakery in Miami Beach. Her room upstairs. The chocolate-frosted yeast raised doughnuts and his infamous cinnamon-sugar wiggle worms were to die for... She shivered. Babies did die for... Hundred Dollar Bill poisoned them. She wept for her twins. They said grief got easier with time, but she really couldn’t imagine a day would go by when she wouldn’t ache for her unfathomable loss.
Tears stung the kohl makeup into her eyes. She tightened her grip on Orpha’s belt and buried her head in the back of her sari, sobbing.
Orpha abruptly halted the camel. She twisted around to face Chloe. “What’s the matter, Clover honey?” After prying her friend’s fingers out of her belt, Orpha dismounted. She reached for Chloe’s hand. “Come on down and talk to me.”
Chloe let herself fall into Orpha’s arms, depositing both them and the carpet bag onto the hard-trodden sand path.
Chloe screamed and grabbed her right arm. Orpha rolled over on top of her. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been shot. My babies are dead. I botched the mission. I’m no good.”
“You’ve been shot? Where? Who shot you? Why didn’t you tell me?”
No stars dared twinkle. No moon shone down. Only blackness. Evil foretold.
Orpha crawled toward the sound of the camel’s breath and groped around inside her saddlebag. A beam of dim light returned to Chloe, in the form of an army flashlight.
“Clover, you’re bleeding. Your arm. Where else were you shot? Who did it?” She yanked down the sleeve on Chloe’s sari, exposing her shoulder and upper arm to examine the coagulated wound. Orpha slipped her fingers underneath Chloe’s arm and twisted herself and it to get a good look.
Chloe shoved her away with a shriek of pain. “Don’t touch me!”
“There’s no exit wound. I’ve got to dig the bullet out.”
“No! Are you crazy? Absolutely not!”
“Well, at the very least I have to close the wound.” She returned to her saddlebag and fished out her army air corps nurse’s kit bag.
“Don’t even think about it. I’m fine.” Chloe snapped at her friend. The tears in her voice betrayed her brave words.
“You’re fine? Then why are you writhing around in the sand, blubbering, shrieking and generally making a mess of yourself?”
The cat emerged from the tattered bag and pounced on Chloe’s stomach. She paced up and down the length of her torso, licking her nose, turning to swish it with her tail and then kneading her paws into Chloe’s taut belly before curling into a ball. Chloe concentrated on the cat’s purring as Orpha positioned the flashlight beam, propping it on the carpet bag to illuminate the surgical field.
Chloe jerked upright and screamed from the sting of alcohol as Orpha sterilized the area.
“Sorry, honey.” Orpha firmly shoved her patient back down.
“You are going to give me a bullet to bite on, right?”
“You don’t need a bullet, Clover. You already have one, remember? Now you’ll feel a little sting...and burn.”
A little sting and burn...more like blinding pain as Orpha injected the area with a local anesthetic.
“Again a little sting and burn.” She moved the syringe to an adjacent area.
“Could you have used a duller needle? Sheesh! What are you giving me? Procaine?” Chloe dipped her head to the left and tried to wipe her eyes and nose on her dress.
“I wish. Ran out of that the first week here.”
“Well, what is it? Camel spit?”
“Cocaine.”
Chloe tried to concentrate on the cat’s purring. She still hadn’t named her. Cleopatra and all its nicknames were unsuitable. Sphinx? Nah. Egypt? Phff. Valley? Valley of the Kings. Yeah, right. Here, kitty, kitty. Here, Valley of the Kings. Why did it have to be kings anyhow? Women were just as effective leaders. Queen. Queenie. Nefertiti. The wife of Pharaoh Akhenaten. Rumored to have assumed his role as pharaoh upon her husband’s death. Husband. What a glorious word. Mike. Chloe smiled.
“Do you feel that, Clover?”
“What?”
“Do you feel anything?” Orpha poked around the edges of the wound with a needle.
“No. What do you think of Nefertiti for a name?”
“You’re changing your name to Nefertiti?”
“No, naming the cat.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“Nobody. She just pounced into my carpet bag.”
“Well, you can’t keep her.”
“Why not?” Chloe asked defensively.
“She obviously belongs to somebody. Look how big she is, my gawd, she’s well fed.”
“She’s mine now and you can’t take her away from me.”
“Easy now, Clover. You know I wouldn’t do that. I just don’t want you to be surprised if she runs home.”
Chloe could feel tugging as her friend sutured the wound. “Are you doing layers?”
“I can’t. You won’t let me dig the bullet out.”
“You don’t know how to dig a bullet out.”
“I’ve watched plenty and assisted the army docs.”
“Yes, but all you have experience in is closing.”
“Not anymore.”
“What do you mean, not anymore?”
She handed Chloe the bullet.
“You promised you wouldn’t dig this out!”
Orpha tied off the last suture and clipped it. “It was right under the epidermis. Easy as pie with my little tweezers. I couldn’t leave it inside. The risk of anaerobic bacterial infection is too dangerous. No gangrene on my watch, Clover.”
Relieved, Chloe changed the subject. “Mike’s cute, don’t you think?”
“Sure.” Orpha agreed.
“You really didn’t get a chance to meet properly at our wedding. We’ll have you over for dinner. Lots.”
Orpha tied a bandage over the wound. “I didn’t know you could cook, Clover. What kind of food?”
“Country food. Southern cookin’. Fried chicken, greens, butter beans, corn pone, mashed potatoes and gravy you’ll be talking about for weeks.”
“Count me in. But where are you living now? Where did you and Mike set up housekeeping?”
Good question. Make-Believe Island was their little hideaway. Primitive and isolated. Oh wait. That was just a safe house on a mission. Owned by Uncle Sam. Shoot. Somebody else was probably there now.
“Mike said he’d find us a real home while I’m gone. I’m sure it will be small and cozy and just big enough for the two of us.”
“You are so lucky to have a husband. Me, I’m destined to be an old maid. That’s why I have a career, you know.”
“What?”
“I learned early on what men want, and I just don’t have a pretty face and big bazoomas.”
“Hush, Orpha. Men don’t want that. Well, yes, they do, but not for a wife. Just the shallow men. The high-quality husbands want personality. Good clean girls they can trust and count on. Sweet girls with a capital S.”
“Even if that is true, I’m obviously, glaringly lacking in the personality department. I’m boring as a boulder.”
“Orpha, stop that. You’re one of the funnest girls I know. Well, just look at you. Who else would be skulking around in Egypt, in the black of night, galloping on a camel, sewing up a bullet hole in the middle of the sand? Gee, think of all the adventures you’ve had. You are a very sweet, kind woman too. Caring, and you placed your country before your own happiness and safety.”
Orpha poured alcohol over the hypodermic needle and wiped it with gauze. “Sorry I don’t have any antibiotics for you, Clover. I’d slather some honey on it to try to ward off infection, but with those sutures, I’m afraid they’ll pull right out when you change the dressing. Keep it dry for forty-eight hours and then change the bandages after every bath.”
Honey. Hmm...maybe that was the substance sticking to the counterfeit thousands.
Orpha wiped down the forceps, then packed the unused portion of gauze in her saddlebag. She kicked sand over the bloody swabs.
Chloe rose to her feet and snatched the flashlight. “I don’t know about leaving that stuff here.”
“I don’t see any medical waste receptacles on the date palms, Clover. What do you propose we do? I can’t risk taking them and getting caught.”
“Why not? You’re here as a nurse.”
Orpha snorted. “Yes. And they’d want to know just who I sewed up and why I was carrying the bloody mess with me.”
“Good point.”
Chloe opened her carpet bag and awkwardly placed the cat inside with her left hand. It stepped inside willingly. She hoped she hadn’t been too rough with it.
Orpha said, “Here, give that to me.” She hooked the two leather handles around the rear saddle horn, draping the bag over the sitting camel’s rear end.
Feeling some euphoric properties of the anesthetic, Chloe giggled as she placed the back of her hand near the camel’s big nostrils. It sniffed and turned its head. She patted the top of the animal’s bristly skull and then climbed aboard.
Orpha jockeyed herself into position and coaxed-commanded the camel to stand.
Holding tight to Orpha’s belt, feeling the saddle horn digging into her hind parts, Chloe clutched on as the camel swayed up and down and back and forth as it rose. The cat mewed. Chloe turned her head. “Ouch! It’s okay, kitty. Nefertiti. We’re safe. You’ll be fine, girl... Orpha, what did you do to me? Sew my arm ligaments to my neck? It hurts like Hades to move. But I can’t feel my arm. And I do have a pretty good buzz going.”
“Sorry, Clover. You’ll have to take it easy for the next seven to ten days. Try not to use your right arm. Limit any reaching or yanking movements. Whatever you do, don’t try to pick up anything heavy with that hand.”
“No problem. I’ll be traveling anyhow. I’ll carry my bag with my left hand.”
The camel found its cadence and lighted through the sand.
“I am so sorry I knocked your incense cone and wig off.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that too. The marijuana might’ve eased your pain.”
Chloe gingerly shook her head, giggling. She marveled at the cultural differences. Here they were, two young women out in the middle of the night alone, and they had been inhaling an illegal drug. Illegal in their country. But it was perfectly acceptable in this context. Actually, it was part of their cover.
Cover.
Undercover agents for the United States Secret Service. On the trail of counterfeiters. A far cry from the life she’d led in Shrew, North Carolina. Not putting her degree in home economics to any good use here.
The thunder of hoof beats approached from the north. Orpha fought to keep the camel under control as it stumbled into a crow-hop. Nefertiti meowed and Chloe half-screamed as she was thrown.
A chariot arrived.
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Thousand Dollar PharaohBy Sherry SilverShe never thought she would have to sacrifice this much for her country…
A Stand-Alone Book in The Good Girls of Washington Series
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Book Summary:
In 1945, a beautiful undercover secret service agent has a dangerous assignment. United States thousand dollar bills are turning up all over the globe. Bodyguarding the widowed former First Lady, Eleanor Roosevelt, Chloe must tread lightly and include her in what the first lady views as a thrilling cozy mystery. Can she protect Mrs. Roosevelt, unmask the counterfeiting ringleader and throw the swift fist of justice while traveling from Egypt to Washington to London with a royal mummy’s severed arm and a peculiar sand cat? Agent Chloe Lambert takes a bullet for her country and suffers the government's inexcusable intrusion into her private affairs. She will stop at nothing to complete this mission…
Chapter One
August 1945 in the Valley of the Kings, Egypt
A redhead lay face down on the dusty earthen floor. Moaning as she regained consciousness, Chloe raised her head and twisted it from side to side, struggling to understand. Where was she? Searing pain in her upper right arm jolted her back to her surreal reality. When she had signed on to become a United States Secret Service Agent in the counterfeiting division, they neglected to mention all of the occupational hazards. She quickly learned that the missions providing an adrenaline rush always seemed to end in physical pain. Reaching over and snatching the three-thousand-year-old arm for leverage, she struggled to stand as she allowed her eyes to adjust to the flicker from a stubby red candle on the floor of the burial chamber. Oh God, no. Who desecrated this mummy...?
Chloe tried to clear her mind and figure out how she got there. She remembered tripping down some wooden stairs and grunting on a landing. As she clambered up, two men appeared at the top of the steps and chased after her. She scurried down, rounded three corners and squeezed into a small breach in an earthen wall. Did I lose them? No, they must’ve knocked me out cold. But my head doesn’t really hurt. Did they make their getaway or are they lurking, waiting to finish me off after they interrogate me?
What’s that smell? I know that smell. From where? She closed her eyes tight. Remembering a winter night. White fur coat and Bill...Hundred Dollar Bill...the printing room at the Bureau of Engraving and Printing in Washington. Up on the catwalk...the flash...six shots ringing out...the last one louder...the silhouette blowing smoke from the gun. The lithe shadow walking into blackness...her lavender French perfume commingled with hair lacquer and cigarette smoke. Bill’s assailant...his wife loomed there. Is here somewhere now.
Chloe, you’re delusional. What would his American wife be doing in Egypt? Ha ha ha. Good one, Chloe girl.
She staggered over to the candle and grabbed it. It was sometime after midnight, inside an ancient tomb. Grover Cleveland seemed to glare ominously at her from the bloody thousand-dollar bill stuck to a royal mummy’s severed arm.
A bead of hot wax dripped onto her ring finger. She drew in a short breath. Carefully cradling the mummy’s arm, realizing how sacred it was, she approached the three open stone coffins within the dusty tomb. One female had flowing red hair and a bent left arm. A black-haired male had his hands crossed at his groin. The third was a bald, one-armed female. Shivering at the sight, Chloe brooded over her mission and strategy. She gently replaced the arm on the mummy closest to her. Mummy! Yuck. It appeared to fit. Now noticing the thousand-dollar bill, her mind kicked into analytical gear.
Chloe examined the ancient corpse. Double ear piercings. Tight banding around the forehead where the headdress would have been. No trace of hair whatsoever. Bent right arm. Henna on the long fingernails. Fingers curled in as if gripping a scepter, which some evil tomb robber had previously helped himself to. This mummy was a royal woman and was in bad shape. Her mouth and chest had been bashed in on the left side. Right arm ripped off. Hacked off. Chloe’s stomach contracted as the bile churned. What kind of people could do such a heinous deed? The bad guys could. But who are the bad guys? Two of them surprised me in the upper burial chamber. One or both no doubt responsible for...
She grabbed the wound in her right arm. Her fingers slipped in the coagulating blood. Pain shot up her arm, all the way to her teeth.
I’ve been shot!
Anger seethed through her. Great. I’m going to die. Alone in a creepy crypt. But wait. I’m not dying yet. I’m up and about. The bleeding seems to have stopped. So it’s either a flesh wound or else the bullet is lodged in my arm. Fine. Take it like a big girl, Chloe. You’re the one who volunteered to jump right on into the boots of our boys at war. You are an American, and you will see this mission through. The fire of her resolve manifested itself in the nerve endings of her wound.
Chloe flinched and stumbled backward as a cat pounced from a stone ledge onto the mummy’s chest. Larger than most cats she’d ever seen. Tawny yellow-gray fur, a long tapering tail and striped markings. A sand cat. It kneaded and dug into the bandages before circling three times, nesting in the chest or what was left of it inside the shreds of black, tan and red burial wrappings.
Now that is just wrong.
“Here, kitty. Nice kitty.” She held her fingers to its nose. The cat sniffed and turned away. Not even a lick. Chloe petted and stroked the shaggy soft fur.
“Come on, kitty. Come on, girl. Come out of the coffin. Out you go.” Gently tugging on the cat near the back of its neck, it wouldn’t budge.
Dates. I have some dates left. Where is my bag? Chloe spun around until she spied it near the hole in the wall where she’d penetrated the chamber. The cat kept an eye on Chloe as she shoved her arm into the tapestry carpet bag and fished out a date. “Here you go, kitty.” Chloe offered the sticky sweet fruit. Allowing the cat one lick before pulling the date away, “No, no, no, girl. I guess you’re a girl. Let’s play fetch.” Chloe tossed the date on top of her bag. The cat leapt after it, with a piece of currency stuck to its tail.
Chloe petted the feline as it licked the date and even gave her one scratchy lick of thanks on her hand. Swishing back and forth, the tail betokened gratitude.
Hmm... A US thousand-dollar bill. She removed it from the tail. These haven’t been minted since 1936. Well, isn’t that a coincidence? That’s just the date on here.
Trying hard to examine the bill for authenticity in the dim candlelight, she thought it appeared real enough. She rubbed her fingers over a tacky patch. What was making the bills sticky? Taking the candle back to the stone coffin, Chloe shoved her left arm inside, cringing, feeling around. The brittle bandages crinkled. Or was that the currency?
Peering inside, she found a stash of thousand-dollar bills. Chloe dashed over and coaxed the cat off of her bag, more or less yanking it out from underneath the animal. She stuffed it with the cash, filling it one-third full. Feeling around the bottom of the sarcophagus, her ring bumped something metallic and clanked. Her wedding ring. She smiled and remembered the National Cathedral where Momma had walked her down the aisle. It still seemed like a dream. Did it ever really happen?
Chloe sighed. Her whirlwind action-adventure romance had culminated in marriage to fellow agent Mike Taurus. In the picture dictionary of life under the listing for man was his photograph. Perfect in every way, except when he opened his mouth and said something completely inappropriate. What a mouth. Firm lips. Slightly crooked two front teeth. Hot probing tongue. The world’s best kisser. Oh Mike. I wish you were here on this mission with me.
The cat meowed three times. Chloe turned to see the fur standing up along its spine. It must sense danger. Chloe returned her attention to the coffin and dug deep, running her fingers over the metal. They had to be plates. Plates to print currency. Shazam. Holding the dwindling candle between the mummy’s legs, she verified her deduction. Her stomach settled and she smiled.
Chloe gasped and nearly dropped the candle as the cat pounced on the mummy’s face. Hissing and with fur bristled up on its arched back, the agitated creature leapt across the three sarcophaguses, onto her carpet bag and then circled back to retrace her route.
Conspiring voices from elsewhere in the tomb loomed in the distance. Speaking English.
Relieved she didn’t set the mummy on fire, her pulse raced while she scanned the chamber for a weapon. She hurriedly dug through her bag and extracted her revolver.
Now what? Think, Chloe, think. “Almighty God, forgive me and be with me.” She reached into the next gritty stone coffin, grabbed the mummy’s straight right arm, closed her eyes and yanked. Oh did that hurt. Then pain in her arm shot both ways, up to her brain and stinging into her fingertips.
She focused on her disgusting task. Eww...just like trying to carve the leg off of an over baked, dried-out chicken like the one I ruined for Uncle Edmund’s wake. That incident was why Daddy had insisted she get her degree in Home Economics.
Chloe waved her hands in the air, shaking off the disgusting creepy task she was performing. Her injured arm screamed in pain. Tears of agony ran down her face as she likened it to the pain this mummy might be feeling in the afterlife, having her arm ripped off. Inhaling the stale air, she looked up at the low stone ceiling and prayed, “Almighty God of the sun and whoever else these poor old people believed in, whomsoever is guarding this tomb, please, please, please, forgive me.”
She tugged and twisted until the limb finally snapped off. Opening her eyes, she blinked and sneezed as dust flew. Dust and dead bugs and mummified flesh. Shoot! She had to unwind the bandages to get the arm loose. Eww! Ancient flesh and bones. Stop looking at me! Why did they have to perform an eye- and mouth-opening ceremony after they’d prepared the mummies? They’re all watching me do these horrible things to them. Tears trickled down her dusty face. She shuddered. Good grief, she was desecrating a pharaoh.Somehow, she had to focus on this task and convince herself she wasn’t actually tomb robbing, abusing a corpse and touching a dead person. This was just another day at the office...out in the field. Just doing her routine job in a routine way. Concealing the identity of this royal mummy, in order to protect her. What was left of her. In the process, desecrating the mummy’s boyfriend here next to her. Great, just great. Now two spirits wouldn’t be able to rest in peace and enjoy the afterlife.
Shaking it off, literally by shaking her head, Chloe positioned the straight arm on the mummy with the bashed-in face and the sarcophagus full of dough. If her research and hunches happened to be correct, these were the remains of a very important royal mummy. A pharaoh. A lady pharaoh. How divine. Wow. Chloe felt humbled in her presence. And more determined to protect the mummy and see that the counterfeiters were prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
As she placed the bent right arm in her carpet bag, the cat somersaulted into it too. Fine. Come along. Together they squeezed through the two-foot breach in the earthen wall and into the main chamber of the pyramid. The air wasn’t as dusty, but it sure was muggy and hot. Whose great idea was it to traipse off on a counterfeiting caper in the Egyptian desert in August? Orpha’s. Well, yeah, Orpha had volunteered for this mission, but Chloe had been drafted.
Breathless, Chloe scurried up the wooden stairs in the tight passageway, pushing the wall with her left hand, painfully hugging the carpet bag handles and candle with her right. Zigzagging through the ancient passages, she suspected the eyes on the hieroglyphics loomed judging her. As she briefly read the simple curses, she realized they were dooming her to be eaten by a crocodile, hippopotamus and then a rhinoceros. Yet some of the characters bespoke to urge her onward, as if history depended on her to complete this chapter. If circumstances had been different, Chloe would have loved to have lingered and examined the hieroglyphics. Maybe even buy an animal symbol necklace at the gift shop. Take photographs with her Brownie camera. Mug and pose...what a fun honeymoon this would be. Mike...
Chloe forged onward and upward as fast as she could. When the main entrance of the tomb spit her into the black Egyptian night, she extinguished the flame. Climbing the steep steps, she gasped for breath before making a sharp right at the top. She huffed her way through the sand hurrying toward the thunder of approaching hooves. Chloe stifled a scream as a camel rounded the next corner in her path.
Agent Orpha Livingston thumped the camel with a stick, forcing it to its knees. Chloe grimaced at the camel’s body odor as she handed the carpet bag to her partner and then hiked her sari up, grabbed onto the saddle blanket and hoisted herself astride the beast. “Boy, am I glad to see you, Orpha.”
“You too, clover-girl.”
As soon as Chloe was seated, she grabbed the bag and hugged it to her middle, smashing it between her and the driver. It screamed a meow as they stole away through the desert.
Clasping the carpet bag between herself and the jockey, Chloe balanced by digging her fingers around the belt on the driver’s sari. The woman’s slim waist didn’t leave much room for margin.
As the camel proceeded into the indigo night, Chloe’s heart pounded, nearly as much as her arm stung. Please let it just be a graze. I can’t get a bullet dug out now. No time. I should have departed yesterday. She tried to pacify and convince herself she could indeed still make it back to Washington in time. Well, she’d just have to. There was no alternative.
In an effort to calm down, she breathed in deeply through her nose and held it as long as possible, then blew it out through her mouth. Inhaling so deeply of Orpha’s wig-top incense cone was nearly drugging. Orpha had been a little over the top buying a black braided wig with an incense pot on top. Royal women wore them back in the days of real pharaohs. Orpha had always been a sucker for costumes.
Chloe’s nostrils separated out frankincense, eucalyptus and what was that other scent? Marijuana? That’s just about right. I’ll not only be late for my mission, I’ll be arrested and thrown in jail on drug charges. Still, perhaps the marijuana could ease my pain. Chloe lifted her nose and inhaled as closely to the cone as possible. Pressing against the jockey, she mashed the carpet bag between them, sending out a mew of protest from the sand cat. “Sorry, kitty.”
What am I going to do with this cat? I’ve always wanted a cat. A companion. Better than a dog. You don’t have to let it out.
Once they rounded a bend in the hot windy night, Chloe reached up with her left hand, mesmerized by the heady incense. In an attempt to crook the cone downward slightly for a greedy whiff, she inadvertently knocked it from the woman’s head. Chloe flailed as Orpha caught her with one hand and slowed the animal down.
“What the heck are you doing, Clover?” she demanded.
“Sorry.”
“That wig cost me my last six Mr. Goodbars.” Orpha sounded hurt.
“I’ll buy you a hot fudge sundae when we get home. I’m so sorry. And I’ll pay for a shampoo and dryer set at Mabel’s.”
Holding firmly to her colleague’s saffron silk belt for the rest of the journey, Chloe’s attention returned to fantasizing about having a cat. Keeping a cat. This cat. An Egyptian cat. I’ll call her Cleo. For Cleopatra. Maybe Patra? Pat? Patty? Paddycake... She drew in a deep sigh. Good old Paddycake. Paddy Grogan, proprietor of Paddycake’s Bakery in Miami Beach. Her room upstairs. The chocolate-frosted yeast raised doughnuts and his infamous cinnamon-sugar wiggle worms were to die for... She shivered. Babies did die for... Hundred Dollar Bill poisoned them. She wept for her twins. They said grief got easier with time, but she really couldn’t imagine a day would go by when she wouldn’t ache for her unfathomable loss.
Tears stung the kohl makeup into her eyes. She tightened her grip on Orpha’s belt and buried her head in the back of her sari, sobbing.
Orpha abruptly halted the camel. She twisted around to face Chloe. “What’s the matter, Clover honey?” After prying her friend’s fingers out of her belt, Orpha dismounted. She reached for Chloe’s hand. “Come on down and talk to me.”
Chloe let herself fall into Orpha’s arms, depositing both them and the carpet bag onto the hard-trodden sand path.
Chloe screamed and grabbed her right arm. Orpha rolled over on top of her. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been shot. My babies are dead. I botched the mission. I’m no good.”
“You’ve been shot? Where? Who shot you? Why didn’t you tell me?”
No stars dared twinkle. No moon shone down. Only blackness. Evil foretold.
Orpha crawled toward the sound of the camel’s breath and groped around inside her saddlebag. A beam of dim light returned to Chloe, in the form of an army flashlight.
“Clover, you’re bleeding. Your arm. Where else were you shot? Who did it?” She yanked down the sleeve on Chloe’s sari, exposing her shoulder and upper arm to examine the coagulated wound. Orpha slipped her fingers underneath Chloe’s arm and twisted herself and it to get a good look.
Chloe shoved her away with a shriek of pain. “Don’t touch me!”
“There’s no exit wound. I’ve got to dig the bullet out.”
“No! Are you crazy? Absolutely not!”
“Well, at the very least I have to close the wound.” She returned to her saddlebag and fished out her army air corps nurse’s kit bag.
“Don’t even think about it. I’m fine.” Chloe snapped at her friend. The tears in her voice betrayed her brave words.
“You’re fine? Then why are you writhing around in the sand, blubbering, shrieking and generally making a mess of yourself?”
The cat emerged from the tattered bag and pounced on Chloe’s stomach. She paced up and down the length of her torso, licking her nose, turning to swish it with her tail and then kneading her paws into Chloe’s taut belly before curling into a ball. Chloe concentrated on the cat’s purring as Orpha positioned the flashlight beam, propping it on the carpet bag to illuminate the surgical field.
Chloe jerked upright and screamed from the sting of alcohol as Orpha sterilized the area.
“Sorry, honey.” Orpha firmly shoved her patient back down.
“You are going to give me a bullet to bite on, right?”
“You don’t need a bullet, Clover. You already have one, remember? Now you’ll feel a little sting...and burn.”
A little sting and burn...more like blinding pain as Orpha injected the area with a local anesthetic.
“Again a little sting and burn.” She moved the syringe to an adjacent area.
“Could you have used a duller needle? Sheesh! What are you giving me? Procaine?” Chloe dipped her head to the left and tried to wipe her eyes and nose on her dress.
“I wish. Ran out of that the first week here.”
“Well, what is it? Camel spit?”
“Cocaine.”
Chloe tried to concentrate on the cat’s purring. She still hadn’t named her. Cleopatra and all its nicknames were unsuitable. Sphinx? Nah. Egypt? Phff. Valley? Valley of the Kings. Yeah, right. Here, kitty, kitty. Here, Valley of the Kings. Why did it have to be kings anyhow? Women were just as effective leaders. Queen. Queenie. Nefertiti. The wife of Pharaoh Akhenaten. Rumored to have assumed his role as pharaoh upon her husband’s death. Husband. What a glorious word. Mike. Chloe smiled.
“Do you feel that, Clover?”
“What?”
“Do you feel anything?” Orpha poked around the edges of the wound with a needle.
“No. What do you think of Nefertiti for a name?”
“You’re changing your name to Nefertiti?”
“No, naming the cat.”
“Who gave it to you?”
“Nobody. She just pounced into my carpet bag.”
“Well, you can’t keep her.”
“Why not?” Chloe asked defensively.
“She obviously belongs to somebody. Look how big she is, my gawd, she’s well fed.”
“She’s mine now and you can’t take her away from me.”
“Easy now, Clover. You know I wouldn’t do that. I just don’t want you to be surprised if she runs home.”
Chloe could feel tugging as her friend sutured the wound. “Are you doing layers?”
“I can’t. You won’t let me dig the bullet out.”
“You don’t know how to dig a bullet out.”
“I’ve watched plenty and assisted the army docs.”
“Yes, but all you have experience in is closing.”
“Not anymore.”
“What do you mean, not anymore?”
She handed Chloe the bullet.
“You promised you wouldn’t dig this out!”
Orpha tied off the last suture and clipped it. “It was right under the epidermis. Easy as pie with my little tweezers. I couldn’t leave it inside. The risk of anaerobic bacterial infection is too dangerous. No gangrene on my watch, Clover.”
Relieved, Chloe changed the subject. “Mike’s cute, don’t you think?”
“Sure.” Orpha agreed.
“You really didn’t get a chance to meet properly at our wedding. We’ll have you over for dinner. Lots.”
Orpha tied a bandage over the wound. “I didn’t know you could cook, Clover. What kind of food?”
“Country food. Southern cookin’. Fried chicken, greens, butter beans, corn pone, mashed potatoes and gravy you’ll be talking about for weeks.”
“Count me in. But where are you living now? Where did you and Mike set up housekeeping?”
Good question. Make-Believe Island was their little hideaway. Primitive and isolated. Oh wait. That was just a safe house on a mission. Owned by Uncle Sam. Shoot. Somebody else was probably there now.
“Mike said he’d find us a real home while I’m gone. I’m sure it will be small and cozy and just big enough for the two of us.”
“You are so lucky to have a husband. Me, I’m destined to be an old maid. That’s why I have a career, you know.”
“What?”
“I learned early on what men want, and I just don’t have a pretty face and big bazoomas.”
“Hush, Orpha. Men don’t want that. Well, yes, they do, but not for a wife. Just the shallow men. The high-quality husbands want personality. Good clean girls they can trust and count on. Sweet girls with a capital S.”
“Even if that is true, I’m obviously, glaringly lacking in the personality department. I’m boring as a boulder.”
“Orpha, stop that. You’re one of the funnest girls I know. Well, just look at you. Who else would be skulking around in Egypt, in the black of night, galloping on a camel, sewing up a bullet hole in the middle of the sand? Gee, think of all the adventures you’ve had. You are a very sweet, kind woman too. Caring, and you placed your country before your own happiness and safety.”
Orpha poured alcohol over the hypodermic needle and wiped it with gauze. “Sorry I don’t have any antibiotics for you, Clover. I’d slather some honey on it to try to ward off infection, but with those sutures, I’m afraid they’ll pull right out when you change the dressing. Keep it dry for forty-eight hours and then change the bandages after every bath.”
Honey. Hmm...maybe that was the substance sticking to the counterfeit thousands.
Orpha wiped down the forceps, then packed the unused portion of gauze in her saddlebag. She kicked sand over the bloody swabs.
Chloe rose to her feet and snatched the flashlight. “I don’t know about leaving that stuff here.”
“I don’t see any medical waste receptacles on the date palms, Clover. What do you propose we do? I can’t risk taking them and getting caught.”
“Why not? You’re here as a nurse.”
Orpha snorted. “Yes. And they’d want to know just who I sewed up and why I was carrying the bloody mess with me.”
“Good point.”
Chloe opened her carpet bag and awkwardly placed the cat inside with her left hand. It stepped inside willingly. She hoped she hadn’t been too rough with it.
Orpha said, “Here, give that to me.” She hooked the two leather handles around the rear saddle horn, draping the bag over the sitting camel’s rear end.
Feeling some euphoric properties of the anesthetic, Chloe giggled as she placed the back of her hand near the camel’s big nostrils. It sniffed and turned its head. She patted the top of the animal’s bristly skull and then climbed aboard.
Orpha jockeyed herself into position and coaxed-commanded the camel to stand.
Holding tight to Orpha’s belt, feeling the saddle horn digging into her hind parts, Chloe clutched on as the camel swayed up and down and back and forth as it rose. The cat mewed. Chloe turned her head. “Ouch! It’s okay, kitty. Nefertiti. We’re safe. You’ll be fine, girl... Orpha, what did you do to me? Sew my arm ligaments to my neck? It hurts like Hades to move. But I can’t feel my arm. And I do have a pretty good buzz going.”
“Sorry, Clover. You’ll have to take it easy for the next seven to ten days. Try not to use your right arm. Limit any reaching or yanking movements. Whatever you do, don’t try to pick up anything heavy with that hand.”
“No problem. I’ll be traveling anyhow. I’ll carry my bag with my left hand.”
The camel found its cadence and lighted through the sand.
“I am so sorry I knocked your incense cone and wig off.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that too. The marijuana might’ve eased your pain.”
Chloe gingerly shook her head, giggling. She marveled at the cultural differences. Here they were, two young women out in the middle of the night alone, and they had been inhaling an illegal drug. Illegal in their country. But it was perfectly acceptable in this context. Actually, it was part of their cover.
Cover.
Undercover agents for the United States Secret Service. On the trail of counterfeiters. A far cry from the life she’d led in Shrew, North Carolina. Not putting her degree in home economics to any good use here.
The thunder of hoof beats approached from the north. Orpha fought to keep the camel under control as it stumbled into a crow-hop. Nefertiti meowed and Chloe half-screamed as she was thrown.
A chariot arrived.
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June 29, 2013
Diet Another Day
DIET ANOTHER DAYBy Pamela DownsSummary:Jessica, a curvaceous New York City librarian travels to Miami Beach to attend a low carb boot camp with her soggy Scottish e-pal, Rosaleen. Inhaling the lingering aroma of lunch in an adjacent conference room, Jessica finds herself performing the Heimlich maneuver on Dr. Hunter Jones, a Navy physician. In gratitude, he invites her to his suite to soak her screaming muscles in a candlelit bubble bath. Jessica emerges, and Hunter introduces her to his colleague, Damien. They’ve been dabbling in their own weight loss research and feel she is the perfect specimen for their first trial. Skeptical Jessica is quickly persuaded to enroll in their eat what you like, exercise one hour a day and oh yeah, the exquisite romantic pleasure is required. Excerpt:
They survived the first day of boot camp. After a delicious dinner of parsley and kohlrabi slathered in mayonnaise, Jessica walked stiffly toward the ladies room. The aroma of pizza from the Panther ballroom caused her to stop at the door, close her eyes, and inhale. Oh, did she want just one slice. Just one whole pie. Just one cheesecake.
Hearing the approach of voices, Jessica opened her eyes, smoothed her wrinkled cotton capris, and smiled at the two men leaving the room. They looked right through her.
Just wait. By the end of the month, I'll be fifty pounds lighter with long, lean muscles, pert breasts and behind, no cellulite or wrinkles. Well, maybe I'll be ten pounds lighter, and maybe my panties will fully cover my rear again.
The last man from the room emerged, with wild eyes and pointing to his throat.
The universal sign of choking. Jessica asked, "Can you speak?"
He shook his head.
Jessica spun him around and hugged him from behind. Making one hand into a fist with the other clamped over it, she positioned it in the space between his ribs and sternum. By the second inward and upward thrust, he was spitting a long string of mozzarella cheese onto the floor. One last thrust and he said, "Thank you."
"Did I hurt you?"
"No."
Jessica stepped around the cheese and grabbed a hunk of napkins from the table. As she cleaned, a shudder overtook her. "You could have died!" she said, tears dripping down her cheeks. She threw the mess in a trash can.
"I'm prepared to die. Every day on duty, I know it might be my last shift. But I am not ready to let a pizza be my grim reaper."
Jessica didn't know whether to laugh or not.
He grabbed her hand and said, "I'm Hunter Jones."
He had a firm grip and Jessica immediately noticed his long fingers. Her thoughts turned to what they say about men with long fingers. She demurely looked him up and down. He was a good six inches taller. Khaki naval work uniform. A sailor. He smiled when she finally looked at his chiseled face. Clean shaven, long lashes framed sparkling brown eyes. Brown hair immaculately cut into a very short flat top.
Jessica realized he was still holding her hand. Her gaze shifted to his left hand. No ring. No tell-tale tan line. "I need to get going."
"Can't I buy you a drink or something?"
Oh yeah. I'll have a cosmopolitan, and you can dribble it over me naked. "No, I have to get back." She headed out the door. "It was nice meeting you."
"Wait. What's your name?"
"Jessica. Jessica Landry."
She hurried back to the conference room, worried she'd be scolded for being AWOL. She slipped in a side door just before the team leader dismissed them for the day.
The sailor was waiting for her when she emerged. "Hello, Jessica."
To say her heart went pitter-patter was right on target. "Rosaleen, go on ahead. I'll catch up."
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A Town Called Night
A Town Called NightBy Pamela Downs Summary:
In this vampire romance with a twist, mortal paramedic Baylee longs to bite a vampire. She lives in the forgotten town north of everywhere where there are still a few blood lines left. The guy she's longed for since adolescence turns out to be Mr. Wrong. Who knew her partner, Matt, might be just what she needs. Matt has his own secret longings. Travel with these star-crossed lovers from the cold black night to the warmth of the new dawn.
Excerpt: Matt radioed the dispatcher. “Communications, this is Medic-7. We’re off the air, en route to our special detail.”The disembodied male voice said, “All right, Medic-7.”And away they drove through the streets of a town called Night.Baylee reached down and grabbed her purse. Nervously fumbling through the contents, she felt for the smooth flat plastic and pulled it out. Peering into her lighted mirror, she finger fluffed her short brown hair, flipping it up and under. She shook her head to distribute some volume.Matt asked, “So, you didn’t answer me. Why aren’t you driving tonight?”“You have a license, don’t you?”“Duh.”She rolled her eyes at him. What a jerk…with an impossibly perfect jaw line. “Fine. Pull over and I’ll drive.”“Sorry, I didn’t mean to push your button.”“I’m just a little distracted tonight.” I hope I don’t throw up. Not that I’d been able to choke down more than a hard-boiled egg all day. Well, if I do, at least it will be over with quickly and I’ll feel better.Baylee stared at the oncoming headlights, mesmerized as they wound through the mountains. She finally asked, “So’d you do something wicked and they punished you by detailing you to Medic-7 on the p.m. tour while my partner’s on light duty?”“I put in for a transfer to p.m. tour. No slots available, except this temporary detail.”“You like working at night? I mean at night in Night during night season?”After five years of living in the township of Night, Baylee was accustomed to the two lunar months every autumn when the sun didn’t rise. Actually she looked forward to the extra sleep it stimulated.“Call me a creature of the night.” US eBook: Kobo Diesel Sony Kindle Nook iBooksUK eBook: Kindle Nook iBooksAU eBook: iBooks CA eBook: Sony Kindle iBooksDE eBook: Kindle iBooks NZ eBook: iBooks
Son of a Preacher Man
Son of a Preacher Manby Pamela DownsSummary:A powerful clergyman helps a wrongfully convicted cop killer escape from prison and he takes care of everything. When she's finally pardoned by the governor, it's time for her to visit the reverend, and retrieve what he was keeping for her. Too bad she can't get near the good man of the cloth. Desperate, she sets her sites on getting an audience with the preacher through his bad boy son. Junior is just a means to an end. If only he weren't so darned irresistible.
Excerpt:
Tuesday afternoon, Bianca arrived at the Alabama worship hall of the Reverend Bobby McNaughton, planning to confront him about a sensitive matter. The pale, yellow grass contrasted against the brown leaves littering the edge of the woods. Moss slithered around the trunks of second growth oaks. Spring was stubborn this year.
The parking lot hosted only seven vehicles. It could have held seven thousand. She parked her white, hard-topped Jeep. The afternoon sun beat down on the windshield, warming her. As Bianca shoved the door open, her cell phone dropped onto the concrete. She stumbled out and grabbed it. A pulsating rumble approached. Smoothing her gray, knee-length skirt, she stood and shut her door, careful to lock it.He parked his Harley in the space next to hers. She focused on his tattooed arms as he revved it up three times. He looked over at Bianca with the scariest eyes she had ever seen. She shuddered and hurried across the lot to the walkway.She sat on a cold stone bench, carved in memory of someone's son. Looking at a side doorway, she could hear the gaggle of middle-aged women who congregated with cameras, bibles, and fried chicken."Hi, Desi," they cooed.The tattooed man said, "Hello." He nodded and pushed the intercom button. Someone buzzed him into the reflective glass door.So that was Desiderio McNaughton. Late twenty-something problem child of his righteous father, the great Revered Bobby McNaughton. The tabloids had chronicled Junior's life story, from high school high-jinks to his last overdose. There's probably one in every family. Kids of cops and preachers sometimes are the most troubled. She snorted. Yep, I'm the former, and look at what trouble I jumped into.And that's how it went for the next four days. Bianca paced around the grounds of Fort God, waiting and watching for Reverend McNaughton. His female followers held vigil, sometimes singing hymns. Nobody ever penetrated the entrance of the church, except Desi. The doors remained locked. Worshipers were only allowed in on Sundays.On Friday at five o'clock, Bianca realized this wasn't working. She'd have to find another way to get to see the reverend. The ladies had all left, and she decided to take a quick reconnaissance stroll around the grounds. Stained glass windows in teal, amber, and blood-red animated the beige stucco façade.A rear door flung open. Bianca's breath hitched.Desi stepped out. Shoulder length wavy black hair, full beard, neatly trimmed. And those scary cerulean eyes. Wild, don't-you-dare, I'll-kill-you, give-me-a-chance, please-love-me eyes.
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