Segment 14.5

The babble of accusations melded into a screeching storm of sound that made intelligible thought impossible. A raised voice from an unexpected source caused the sound to dissipate, leaving only whimpers.

“Girls. Please. Enough.”

A tiny, almost whispered “she started it” rose from somewhere in the car. Candy ignored that and carried on. “We need to keep our attention on protecting your sister instead of ourselves.”

“How could she be so stupid?” Becca fumed. “Just taking off like that.”

“She’s just a kid,” Imelda replied.

“Exactly,” Candy said. “In her mind, she may think all sorts of things the wisdom of a few years has made you forget. Do you ladies remember being afraid of the dark? That’s perfectly common at some ages and even for you it would not have been that long ago. You can probably imagine what Shauna Rae is thinking if you just give it a moment and think of yourselves at that age.”

“I was never such a baby,” Becca declared.

“Let’s try to think like your sister,” Candy said. “Where’s her happy place? Who does she love to be with?”

“The last one’s easy,” Imelda said. “It’s you. She never stops talking about you.”

“But I was right there at the hospital and the only reason I left was to open my shop. She didn’t show up at the store and we didn’t see her on the street nearby.”

“Becca and I looked everywhere for her,” Imelda groaned. “We went around the hospital, inside and out. We walked for blocks.”

“Did she have any money?” Candy asked.

“Enough for a basic snack I’d guess. She’d never be able to afford a cab like the one we finally took to your shop.”

“But!” Becca interjected. “She could have taken the bus. It stops right in front of the hospital.”

“And where would she go if not my shop?”

Each sister hit upon the same conclusion, their voices overlapping as they responded. “The mall.”

“That’s right,” Becca continued. “Not a weekend goes by without her begging for a trip to the mall and she always wants to go with you, if possible. You don’t get to hear about it because you don’t live in our house. Sometimes I have to cover my ears. And sometimes it seems like she’s the only one you see when you look at us.”

“Sorry,” Candy blurted. “It’s just…she’s…you know.”

“A kid,” Imelda concluded. “Our little sister. Emphasis on the little.”

“Yeah. She just seems like she needs a mother more than you.”

“She’s just not as good at hiding it,” Imelda said.

“Oh my God!” Becca squealed. “I see her!”

Candy squinted in the direction of Becca’s urgent point and saw them, three people sauntering away from them several blocks away. Shauna Rae was flanked by a man and a woman whose arms crossed behind her back. The sight of them distracted her from the red light but the girls’ screams brought her back to the truck bearing down.

Segment 14.4

Some money had to go into the story, but that was nothing, given the payout. A few groceries were surely worth a couple hundred thousand dollars. The story would go that some anonymous benefactor donated the finest gourmet pasta fixings, complete with the appropriate wine in a fine vintage. If pressed, Wyatt would offer a version of the truth that he would feel comfortable spouting with a straight face. The donor, he would say, was a distant friend unable to visit at this time. She might even guess at the true identity of her benefactor, to which he would only reply, “I couldn’t say.”

Even if she threw him out, he would have managed by then to get far enough into the house to locate the bowl. Sydney had said it would be right beside the door. Misdirecting her attention long enough so he could scoop the bowl into the delivery case would be done by asking her to fetch the phone book so he could find the number of the local soup kitchen, either to report he was running late for a non-existent delivery or had some food to donate, depending on how it went.

Wyatt amazed himself at the sense of calm that struck him as he knocked on Raisa’s door. His heart didn’t even quicken until the door opened and then it was only because of the unexpected sound of her voice beforehand, as she appeared to be talking to someone else, offering an apology for having to attend to a visitor. He glimpsed the other man’s face over her shoulder as she opened the door. The man’s eyes narrowed and his upper lip rose slightly on one side, warning Wyatt of a territorial dispute on the horizon. If it was just about Raisa, he could easily put that to rest with his best feminine squeal.  More troubling was the notion of tangling with a potential witness.

Raisa gasped in reply to Wyatt’s introduction, “I didn’t order any groceries!”

Before Wyatt could respond with his well-rehearsed answer, the man dove in around her and snatched the delivery case, snapping, “Perhaps one of your husbands neglected to inform you of the order.”

“I need that back,” Wyatt simpered.

“Of course you do,” the man replied. To Raisa, he said, “Keep him company. I shall unpack for you.”

“Could I borrow your phone book?” Wyatt asked, as the man retreated into the house with the delivery case in hand. He started to cross the threshold but Raisa motioned him back and said, “I’ll have Monsieur Sackett bring it back from the kitchen when he returns.”

Wyatt leaned in, exclaiming, “Let me just see what you’ve done with the place.” His eyes rose from the empty perch beside the door to the kitchen, from which he felt the weight of a stare. The look Guillaume gave him as he settled back on the stoop told him his quest had been observed and understood. Wyatt shivered.

Segment 14.3

The cook had that “better you than me” grin when handing out the order.

“Take out the trash one last time, girl.”

Sugar’s smile in reply said, “my pleasure” and meant it. The cook’s smile faded into a sneer.

Sugar hefted the bulging sack of peelings and scapings and wrappers and embraced it as she stumbled out the back door of the diner. She could not see over the girth of her burden but felt her way down the steps and over to the dumpster, half relying on the fresh memory of a handful of journeys with lesser loads. When she had released the plump bag into the ripe cache of similar bags, she slammed the cover and wiped her hands on her apron. The day was finally done.

Only in turning did she catch sight of the pair of sneakers on the ground. Her eyes followed their tops into a pair of jeans and up bent legs until she found the heavy-lidded eyes of a young girl, her face resting on hands that perched on her knees.

“Hey there,” Sugar said. “Can I help you?”

“Not unless you can heal people or turn back time.”

“That’s a lot to ask. Can I do something a little less heroic?”

“Like what?”

“Can I call anybody? You have a Mom or Dad looking for you?”

The girl shook her head.

Bertie emerged from the back door, his apron slung over his shoulder. “Indy, I’m ready to take off.”

“Yeah. Hold on. No Mom or Dad?”

“I know you,” Bertie said. “You’re the girl who told me your Dad said you make your own luck in life.”

“He used to say.”

Sugar squatted and peered into Shauna Rae’s eyes. “He’s…dead?”

Shauna Rae moved her face down and away. Her body shook before Bertie and Sugar could hear the sobs that wheezed out of her.

“Oh, oh,” Sugar soothed. She wrapped her arms around the forlorn girl. “We can’t leave her. We have to help.”

“Of course,” Bertie said. “Let’s take her over to the church with us when we go. They’ll know how to help. Let me punch your timecard for you and we’ll be on our way.”

“Thanks,” Sugar murmured. She laid her face against Shauna Rae’s head and let the tears come without sound, just as she had always done in the house she shared with Oscar, even as she crooned, “Let it out. Let us hear it, sweetheart. Don’t ever hold it in…no…it’ll eat you inside out.”

Bertie waited until the two caught their breath and released their entwined arms. One by one, he helped them to their feet and then he steered them to the bus stop, bearing their weight against him with a deep sense of peace.

Segment 14.2

Steady pounding on the door brought Emmy around once she realized the sound no longer came from the neighbor’s home. Once again, the lady police officer who had barged in before stood on the doorstep.

“Ma’am,” the visitor grunted. “Did you not hear me knocking?”

“There’s been knocking and banging all day. I didn’t realize it was for me. Come in, Officer. Can I offer you some lemonade?”

“No, ma’am. I just want to follow up on a statement made by the victim next door.”

Emmy clutched her throat. “Victim? Victim of what?”

“There’s been an assault and apparent attempted murder. Are you going to let me in now?”

Emmy stepped aside as Dinah shouldered in and began pacing around, her eyes sweeping the apartment.

Emmy crossed her arms and followed the officer in her tour. “You people told me earlier that was just a private disagreement and none of our business.”

“That was before Mr. Daniels attacked Madame Sackett. It’s quite another matter to pounce on a guest with a knife.”

“Heavens. What do I have to do with that?”

“According to Madame Sackett, there is a drug ring operating out of this location.”

“My house?”

“One of these two. The others found nothing illegal over there but Madame Sackett located a pearl necklace hidden in a closet.”

“Funny, that is. My own pearl necklace is missing.”

“Did you report that to police?”

“No. I assumed my nephew, Bertie, borrowed it.”

“Pretty strange. Why would he do that? Is he a cross-dresser?”

“Imagine that! So silly. I would know if he’s a cross-dresser and I say no. He’s a good boy. I gave him some of his uncle’s clothes to replace those ratty black things he was wearing.”

“Black things? Do you mind showing me?”

“I can’t imagine why you’d want to see them but wait here and I’ll bring them to you. Any lemonade while you’re waiting?”

“Fine. If you insist, ma’am.”

Segment 14.1

Open studio ended with the last click of the heavy, black minute hand. For once, the teacher sprang up from the chair ahead of all the others in the room. The student stooped beside her, halfway through a question, grumbled and swallowed the rest of the sentence.

“I’m sorry,” Bobbi said. “What were you asking?”

“I just wanted to know if you’d give me one more day on project four…”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”

“It’s just…you’ve always been pretty strict about sticking to the syllabus…”

“We can bend a little, can’t we?”

“Um…could I have that in writing…just in case?”

Bobbi scribbled a quick note on the corner of a sheet of scratch paper and tore it off. She handed it to the student, who hesitated on taking it.

“You didn’t even ask why,” the student said.

“I’m sure it’s none of my business. Just…make good use of your day.”

Bobbi scooped up her satchel and scurried out the door. She plunged down the hall to the right and then swung back and trotted in the opposite direction. The community college receptionist waved to her as she sailed past into the main office, angling for the corner with the mailboxes. The main office secretary grunted in greeting.

Her box yielded flyers for student events and bookstore discounts and then a graphic arts magazine and a catalog. Bobbi dumped the pile into her satchel. The phrase “Dance Marathon!” caught her eye running up one side of a bright green page. Tiredness flooded through her and caused her to slump at the notion. She retrieved the paper and declared, “Not happening!” The crumpled announcement made a fine missile but it flew wide of the waste can and bounced behind the copier.

“Recycling, Ms. Kamil,” the secretary said.

“Sorry. Let me just check through the rest and then I’ll get that one.”

Her probing hand found other candidates for the bin, crumpling them as she pulled them out. She stopped at a folded sheet adorned with her name in precise block letters. The same uniform hand inscribed the interior of the note.

Do not celebrate yet
You must surely beware
Pinkham was Wycliff’s pet
But look what happened there

Bobbi muttered aloud, “Pinkham? Who’s that?”

“The murder victim?” the secretary asked.

“The what?”

The secretary held aloft the latest edition of the local paper boasting of intense police action in the case of Ronald Pinkham. Bobbi snatched the paper from the secretary’s hand and scanned it but no mention of Wycliff appeared. The victim seemed to have been an unlikely colleague in the world of foundation grants, a street tough with a long criminal history. A suspect, a local derelict, had been detained but no motive had yet been divulged to the press.

“Must be another Pinkham,” Bobbi said. She handed the paper back. “I believe I’ll visit the library before I go home. I’ll need the internet.”

Episode Thirteen Re-Cap

Pug picks Petra up at work, driving her home past a mysterious stranger watching her house from within a crowd of onlookers assembled to watch Oscar get arrested. Peter continues his search for clues around the dry cleaners’ shop in search of clues by asking Candy for access to the back of her shop. During his visit, Imelda and Rebecca come to report Shauna Rae missing. Meanwhile, Shauna Rae visits the diner where Bertie now works and takes in his cheerful encouragement. Sydney engages Wyatt to fetch him the antique Mexican bowl at his and Raisa’s home, which is now off limits due to a restraining order. Sam and PePé break into Oscar’s home in response to Monique’s calls for help and rescue her. Sam’s call for back-up interrupts Dinah’s interrogation of Lyndsey, who follows her at Polly’s urging to make sure Bobbi is safe. Rex is angered by the fact that Bobbi’s receipt of the Wycliff grant has pushed him off the top of the news page on the school website. Raisa receives a visit from Guillaume, causing Saffron to panic at the thought of her tormenter within reach and urge PePé to take action.

Segment 13.10

The sign on the corner looked like all the others, the seemingly hundreds of markers at identical junctions in the sprawling maze of uniform housing units known as “Shoals Court.” This one, though, was the one she sought. She let her rucksack slide off her aching shoulder for a moment and then yanked it back into position. She always loved the last leg of the hike.

Up the street, she spotted two cop cars, lights flashing. In this neighborhood, where no one ever laid eyes on one of those improvised explosive devices, they probably just had a cat up a tree or a baseball that went through a window. It was good. All the commotion and the evolving crowd on the sidewalk would cover the sudden appearance of a stranger toting a pack and scanning the boxes and nameplates for a sign of something familiar.

She slid between the gawking, whispering neighbors. She turned away from her quest at the sound of applause. Some of these folks seemed pleased that the cops were dragging a guy out of his house in cuffs and wrestling him into a cruiser. He was squalling about his innocence and his lawyer. He barked, “Hey, where were you when my stupid wife ripped me off and ditched me?” just as they made the final push and shut the door.

“Doing our real jobs,” one of the cops sneered.

She slipped away from the crowd and moved up the walkway beside one of the housing units. She knew the number from those boxes Omar got in the mail. He would follow them here just as she had.

She joined the crowd again, her eyes sweeping across the faces. None of them recalled the one that had smiled up from a dozen places around Omar’s cot, wherever they bunked. He’d always made a priority of setting up his shrine to his home base, proudly displaying photos of the one he called “his touchstone in life.” Her actual name was Petra. But she was not the one who took him through the living Hell of the battlefield, saw him through the sleepless nights caught on the knife’s edge of tension and fear, and soothed him through the losses and the pain. Petra had lost her right to that cocky smile because at the most crucial moments, she had failed to be there for him. Now the rightful occupant had come to claim her place.

A car threaded a slow path through the throngs and glided by her. As it passed, she caught a glimpse of Petra’s face in the passenger side seat and reveled in the expression of ignorant ordinariness it wore. To Petra, she was still a meaningless stranger, a face in the crowd like every other. Petra wouldn’t see it coming.

She squinted at the smooth, well-groomed man beside her at the wheel. One more reason Petra didn’t deserve Omar. The man himself deserved nothing either, certainly not her mercy or pity. He would pay too.

Segment 13.9

Indistinct muttering traveled along the stairwell in the opposite direction. Someone was ascending the stairs in the neighboring unit as she headed downward. The walls were just thick enough to obscure the words, just thin enough to betray the progress of the party on the mirroring set of stairs.

The tone of one speaker’s voice caused Saffron to stop and shudder. A moment later she understood what had struck her about the drone of that singular sound. She froze in place, her mind racing through an incoherent jumble of ideas about how to proceed.

The front door squeaked open, causing her to jolt and drop down one step.

PePé called, “Florecita! Don’t worry. The police have come and taken that terrible man away. You are safe now.”

Saffron drifted down the stairs and wove her way into the living room. Her satisfied father-in-law beamed at her from the door.

“I saw it myself,” PePé crowed. “They locked him up and put him into a car headed to jail. He cannot hurt anyone again. I was just in time too. He was ready to kill a poor woman who had only come to visit.”

Saffron sagged as he embraced her. “PePé,” she gasped. “They took the wrong man.”

He held her at arm’s length. “But I saw the knife. I heard her scream. I rushed in to defend her and a policeman was already there. They know he is bad. How many such men could there be in our little neighborhood?”

“I don’t know. I only know I heard that man talking in Raisa’s apartment. He’s here and it sounds like they are friendly with each other.”

“This is the woman who took the side of that devil from across the street. Now it is clear you cannot trust her.”

“Maybe she doesn’t realize what he is. She’s in danger, PePé. We must try to help her.”

“You are such a good person, Saffron. You never seem to learn the truth of the world. Such people as Raisa, we should just leave to their fates if they would rather be at the side of men who hurt and kill.”

“I can’t believe you’re saying this. We’ve shared our table with this woman. She has comforted us when we needed her.”

“You weren’t there to see how she acted as the friend of that bully, Oscar.”

“Just to keep the peace, I’m sure. I might have done the same in her place.”

“Mujeres! What will you have us do then, Florecita?”

“I…I’m not sure. Just…something…”

Segment 13.8

Sickness made the marriage sweet in a way health could never do. The fact that the divorce had not yet come through and cut Raisa off from Sydney’s insurance was the only bright spot in her new life as a cancer patient. Neither of them had used the policy before for anything more than initial check-ups with the required primary care physician. Now a long road composed of tests and treatments stretched ahead for her.

“How long?” she wondered aloud as she contemplated the customer handbook, still locked in its shrink wrap. “How much more time until you people cut me off?”

Until Sydney moved out, most of the official documents involved in their lives had been invisible to Raisa, who couldn’t even identify their location. Since taking charge, she had relocated them all to her own office space where her own preferences reigned supreme and all trace of Sydney’s empire of jumbled papers and art deco divas had vanished into a new order of crisp earth-toned boxes and serene landscapes. Raisa surveyed the key elements of her health safety net from the seat of a tall desk chair, her feet gathered under her thighs.

The doorbell intruded, urging her to pull her feet out and rise up. Where before she had feared her husband’s intrusion, now she hoped he had come, not so she could turn him over to the crowd of police thronging the middle of the block, but so she could confront him in person with the new brand of misery he had caused in provoking their separation. He would know the tedious struggles with the paperwork and the wrenching fear of losing coverage.

The man on the step was treated to the full force of Raisa’s angriest expression. He stepped back and matched her with an amused smile.

“Greetings to you, Madame Westcott,” he said. “I am Guillaume Sackett. We have met, but I do not presume you remember me.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, I do. You’re the manager for the development. What can I do for you?”

“Mon Cher. How gracious you are. I heard of your misfortune and came to inquire as to how you are getting along.”

“You know about the cancer?” The tension flooded away from her as he dropped his eyes and shook his head.

“That I know nothing of.” He raised his eyes and let a downturned smile struggle onto his face. “I was speaking of your sad parting with your husband. You know it is my job to assure the members of our little community here are comfortable and have all they need to carry on. Please allow me to offer my immediate assistance in whatever way most suits you.”

“Thank you. That is kind. Most kind. Refreshingly kind. Won’t you come in and join me in some iced tea?”

Segment 13.7

Licking her fingers made the pages spread more easily, but, more importantly, it drove up the drama. A delightful look of foreboding rose in the eyes of her audience and hands clutched more tightly in response. She kept her eyes lowered to the page, while monitoring the scene in the edges of her glances to the side. “I don’t much care whether you decide to give me any names, Professor. The prime suspect in this drug deal you tried to cover up is clear, given what the witnesses say…those who’ve seen you in her house and standing by her side…all while your sick wife—”

“It’s a lie!” Polly roared. “My husband has done—”

The words “nothing to” faded in the crackle of Dinah’s radio and the rest of the sentence was drowned by the announcement that followed. “Attention all units in the vicinity of Shoals Court Drive respond to the call. Officer with suspect in custody requesting backup.” The address given provoked a gasp from Polly, who released Lyndsey’s arm and hand from her grasp.

“Bobbi’s place?” she murmured.

“The neighbor, I believe,” Lyndsey replied.

“You should know, Professor,” Dinah said, tucking away her notebook. “I have to go assist my partner but just know this: We are not through with you, Dr. Templeton.”

Dinah tipped her chin as she turned away and strode out the door.

“Follow her,” Polly squeaked.

“But if they see me—” Lyndsey began.

“Shush. Bobbi is my friend and she’s been such a comfort to me. I owe it to her to be sure she is safe.”

“There will be police over there, plenty of safety to go around. And Bobbi is probably still at work at this hour. It makes no logical sense for me get in the middle of the situation. If anything, it’s a wonderful way to call attention to myself yet again. They may even find some excuse to arrest me. Oscar could come out and call me a trespasser again…”

“I ask so little of you, Lyn.”

It was the tears in Polly’s eyes that sent him out the door, even though he had other solid arguments against placing himself back in Dinah Saris’ purview and was anxious to state them. Long years of marriage had made him unlearn his scholarly habit of belief that defaulting to carefully constructed piles of evidence from irreproachable sources made for unassailable cases in one’s favor. This might be so in a journal article or a university staff meeting but not in the face of Polly’s disappointment, which trumped all at home.

Lyndsey jogged down the sidewalk, facing the flashing lights, swallowing his embarrassment and fear as he moved, focused only on his desire to wipe the tears from his wife’s eyes.