Segment 13.5

Ghosts showed up around every corner. They weren’t really dead people, at least not yet. It was just that everything in the mall brought up thoughts of Candy and Dad and those troublesome half-sisters. Shauna Rae couldn’t find a trace of that feeling that she had come to reclaim, the pleasure of lazy weekends browsing the storefronts, dreaming and scheming amidst the rafts of goods her family could never afford but so admired.

She staggered out of the food court and plunged into the big department store that anchored one corner of the mall. She scurried past the make-up counters where she and her sisters used to try on other looks and scents and boss the sales personnel around, playing at a life they’d probably never own. At the end of the aisle, she glimpsed the outside, blazing in a patch of glare. She sped up through the lingerie department, ignoring the calls of “Miss? Miss? Can we help you? Is something wrong?”

Her ears burned as she halted just outside the door, taking in the fresh air and warmth of the day. Someone inside was still calling after her. Her belly rumbled a moment before she recognized the smell of something sweet being baked. She followed that scent across the parking lot to a steel and glass box wedged against the sidewalk. Her mouth watered as she closed in on the door.

The last table in the cafe with an open seat was still heaped with crumbs, used napkins, and half-drunk coffee. Shauna Rae crumpled into the booth seat and considered the menu.

“Hey, you look bummed,” a man’s cheerful voice intruded. Strong arms reached in front of her to pull the dishes and trash into a gray bin. “You should try the sweet roll…big as a truck tire. It’ll put a smile right back on your face. It’s the specialty.”

Shauna Rae looked up into the man’s beaming face. “They just tell you to say that stuff,” she said.

“Not at all.” He winked.

“How can you be so happy? You’re a busboy at a cheap diner.”

“It’s a job, kiddo. An honest living. First time in my life, I’m just an ordinary guy. And I like it. Got a lady in my life. Found a clean flop at a church, where, for once, I feel welcome. I can’t believe my luck.”

“Dad says…Dad…he always said…you make your own luck.”

“That so? Maybe that’s your own answer then for whatever’s eating you.”

A waitress sidled up to the busboy and slapped him on the back. “Bertie, why don’t you get out of this lady’s way so I can help her?”

Bertie nodded. “One moment, girlfriend. I’ve got to make it shine.” He wiped the table with a damp cloth and retreated.

“His first day,” the waitress said. “Tomorrow, I won’t be so kind.”

Bertie whistled as he backed into the kitchen. Shauna Rae caught the sound as it faded into the clank of cooking and washing. It made her smile.

Segment 13.4

From behind, the sameness of the condos only intensified. Each one hid behind a smooth façade of brown wooden fencing flanked by uniform fleets of gray trash barrels and bright blue recycling bins. Only the perfectly symmetrical white numbers painted beside each gate distinguished one unit from another.

Sam replayed the number of the Templeton residence over and over in his head as he poked through the contents of the two trash receptacles beside the gate. Nothing looked like it could be useful in a drug case. No surprises there. Something about Lyndsey had always felt very clean to Sam, especially compared to the real lowlifes, such as that guy who knifed Ronald Pinkham. He couldn’t see whatever minute clue his partner insisted on seeing in the man.

A movement down the alley caught Sam’s attention. A man burst out behind one of the condos and applied his shoulder to the gate. In his hands he carried a hammer and a heavy craft knife. Sam streaked down the alley, fumbling for his gun and shouting to him to “cease and desist.”

“Que?” the man called as the gate gave way.

“I’m telling you to stop,” Sam said, his gun sliding into his hand.

“There’s no time,” the man informed him. He threw down the knife and hammer. He snatched up a heavy pot and heaved it at the glass patio door. The door shattered inward. “There is a woman here being attacked.” He stepped through the doorway. “I heard her call for help.”

Sam scurried up to the man, joining him as he crept into the living room. The two forged their way across a mass of broken glass and furniture, clearly the remains of a bigger battle.

“Hello?” Sam called.

“In here,” a woman croaked.

Sam and the rescuer followed the voice to the kitchen. They found the woman backed into a corner clutching a cast-iron pan. At her feet lay an unconscious man, a knife still clutched in his hand. The rescuer touched the man with his toe and then applied a kick to the man’s ribs.

“You filthy dog,” the rescuer growled. He spat on the man’s head.

“Now, now,” Sam said, tucking his gun away. “It’s all over. The lady is safe.” He pulled out the handcuffs. “I’ll need your statement, miss. And yours too, sir. Please step back from the suspect.”

Sam set about applying the cuffs, muttering a fast Miranda warning. The suspect’s hand opened, releasing the knife. The rescuer kicked it aside.

“Thank you,” the woman said. “You saved my life. He had that knife. He said he’s killed before with it.”

Sam lifted the knife in his fingertips.

“Such a strange knife,” the woman continued. “I’ve never seen such a thing. I was only paying a friendly visit to Monsieur Daniels to discuss association dues. He became suddenly violent.”

“Come along, Oscar,” Sam said. He tugged on the suspect’s arm until he sat up.

Sgment 13.3

The address was right but it struck Wyatt as peculiar. Why would a grocery store request a food delivery to the premises? Sure, the bodega was small but even places such as these had their own delivery systems.

“Hello?” Wyatt called as he opened the door. “Someone call for a delivery?”

The clerk at the counter snorted, “Delivery? What kind of delivery?”

“Oh, it’s me that called,” said a customer lurking in the second aisle. “I’m Sydney Westcott.”

Wyatt shook the man’s hand, taking in his polished appearance. “You’re not my usual client, Mr. Westcott. I assume you’re buying my services for someone else.”

“Not at all. I have my own job for you.” He steered Wyatt towards the door, one eye on the clerk. “Step outside and let me give you the details.”

The pair retired to the sidewalk, just under the awning. Passersby were few and mostly in a hurry. Nevertheless, Sydney lowered his voice as he spoke. “I have an item I need help recovering.”

“You should hire a detective, Mr. Westcott. I don’t do that sort of thing.”

“I need a finer touch. As a lawyer, I work with private detectives all the time and they are not the most subtle people you’d ever want to meet. Plus, my wife can spot one from three blocks away. She grew up in the biz.”

“I’m to deliver something to your house and then spirit the object away?”

“That’s the idea.”

“And you can’t do this yourself?”

“There’s a restraining order.”

Wyatt took in a sharp breath and chewed his lip a moment. “This sounds like a situation I don’t really want to mess with.”

“It’s perfectly legal…in a sense. I mean, it’s technically still my house and I was the one who purchased the item. Fair is fair.”

“You’d pay…”

“Whatever you ask. Name your price. I’m pretty flush with cash and lots of credit cards with high limits. Have at me.”

“One Hundred Thousand.”

“Done. I can do that.”

“I was kidding you on that fee, you know. I can’t take that much money. It would look suspicious.”

“I can find a way to get it to you that won’t raise eyebrows. Believe me. This is what I do.”

“So, what’s this object, then?”

“A bowl. I’ll draw you a picture. It’s an antique bowl from Mexico.”

“Valuable?”

“Just don’t drop it. The thing’s priceless.”

“What is my excuse for getting in? What’s my story?”

“That’s your own job. You’re a creative guy, right?”

Wyatt thought of the half-written novel and all the short stories that had absorbed him between his deliveries. Weren’t they the whole point of taking on this new life? Sydney had a point. It was just another story to tell, his wife just another audience. Wyatt shook Sydney’s hand.

Segment 13.2

Numbers lined up but wouldn’t balance. It was not that something was wrong with the accounting. The numbers just refused to resolve themselves into something intelligible.

“Did I do good boss?” the clerk asked.

“I can’t tell,” Candy muttered. The clerk’s eyes widened and her breath stilled. “I’m sorry,” Candy said. “It looks like you had a good morning. I just can’t concentrate enough to check your work over.”

“If we had a cash register built after the invention of electricity, it would be so much easier to keep track of everything.”

“Sorry. I put all my technology budget into the E-Bay storefront.”

“Maybe you can get your boyfriend’s teenage daughters to whip up some kind of snazzy database to help us for free.”

“None of us is really focused on anything outside their father’s hospital room at the moment.” Candy checked the antique clock on the opposite wall. “He should be out of surgery in about an hour or so.”

The bell on the door gave a shrill screech as a man in a sleek suit and tie stepped in.

“Well…Mr. Peter Goodkind,” Candy said.

The clerk gaped and then dropped her head, letting a low “woof” drop out.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said. “I don’t recall having the pleasure.”

“I’m not surprised,” Candy said. “It was a very brief exchange in the office of the holding company that handles our property for Goodkind Enterprises. I’m Candida Grenholm, the proprietor.”

“Hey,” the clerk chirped. “Quite a coincidence, you having the same last name as your boss, right?”

“Not especially,” Peter replied. “It’s a family business.”

“Madame Sackett informs me you are representing Wycliff too,” Candy said. “She also says they own the dry cleaner next door.”

“True,” Peter replied. “I wonder if you would be so kind as to allow me to look around in your storeroom. I’m trying to make some sense of the layout between your store and the neighbor.”

“Tell me something,” the clerk answered. “Does the fact that the dry cleaner is next door give Madame the right to come over and demand we remove things she doesn’t like from our window?”

“Perhaps, if she can prove that you have impeded her ability to do business. What is the item in dispute?”

“Want a list? There’s a full-length fur coat made for a man for starters. We’re asking fifteen-hundred for the beast.”

“Ironically, I noticed the very item hanging up at the cleaner today. I thought it quite handsome.”

“Ohhhh…,” the clerk purred. “Did I say fifteen-hundred? I forgot about the mark-down. I just remembered that we knocked it down to nine-fifty in honor of the holiday.”

Candy gaped.

“What holiday?” Peter asked.

“Er…Saint Anthony’s day,” the clerk said. “Lucky you.”

The bell screeched again as Immy crashed in ahead of Becca. “We lost Shauna Rae!” she announced.

Candy strode away from the cash register, turning her back on Peter and the clerk, and clamped her hands on the sisters’ shoulders.

Segment 13.1

The achy cramp in the middle of her feet let itself be known as Petra swiped her i.d. card to sign herself out of work. A good soak in Epsom salts would do nicely. However, there was that trek down the block to the bus stop to conquer. Other nurses, nurse aides, food service workers, and janitors with younger, more flexible feet already swarmed ahead in her path. She might have to wait for the next bus.

Petra groaned and trudged down the street. The crowd that pressed against the waiting bus showed no mercy. She wrapped her arms about herself as she watched her co-workers pack themselves into the aisles. The bus driver closed the door before she could propel her painful arches towards the steps. Just as well, she thought, since this was the same bus driver who had once humiliated her in front of a full load of passengers over her failure to quickly come up with the fare.

As the bus roared away, a familiar sedan cruised into its space. The passenger side window glided open and Pug shouted to her, “Hurry up, Petra! The next bus is just down the street and they’ll ticket me if I get in his way.”

Petra sank into the seat and threw her head back.

“I don’t have to ask if it was a long day,” Pug declared. “I had the same one, only without the disinfectant and thermometers.”

“I’m sure you didn’t chase a customer out onto the beach and drag him home.”

“I did do some begging and pleading but it was about finding the right interest rate.”

Petra pulled one shoe off and massaged her foot. “You don’t have to do this, you know, Atticus.”

“Pug. Please. I hate my given name.”

Petra attended to her other foot. “It’s a nice name. It’s distinguished.”

“It sounds like a prison. And, yes, I do have to drive you to and from work.”

Petra curled her toes and rolled her head about, loosening her neck. “I hope it’s not because you feel sorry for me…you know, the lonely woman whose boyfriend is deployed overseas and, judging from his blog, enjoying the friendship of other women more than he misses me.”

“Of course not. It’s because of my own selfish agenda. I realized this morning that I am the kind of person who just needs someone to talk to. Besides, you told me this morning that Omar is coming home, so I have no reason whatsoever to pity you…except maybe for your Scrabble skills.”

Petra grinned and shook her head. “I’m sure you’ll find more mundane reasons to pity me when Omar gets home.”

“Save a slice of that self-pity for me instead. Let me tell you how I’ve earned it.”

Episode Twelve Re-Cap

Sydney discovers Wyatt’s grocery delivery service and hatches a scheme to use it to overcome the limitations of his restraining order. Peter’s interest is piqued by the way the Wycliff’s dry-cleaning store varies from the layout Monique gave him. Raisa notices that the Olmec bowl Sydney bought her is missing. Shauna Rae tries to forget her worries with a trip to the mall. Saffron reveals to PePé that she has been traumatized by a stalker, causing him to seek out Oscar, whom he suspects of being connected to the incident. Oscar, meanwhile, is at the mercy of Monique, who turns the tables on him as PePé arrives. Emmy provides a reference for Sugar/India. Dinah attempts to get Lyndsey to reveal the identity of the woman who gave him the “fake” drugs. A mysterious visitor seeks Omar. Bobbi’s attempt to learning more about the mysterious “Wycliff Foundation” is interrupted by a visit from Guillaume that outlines one price of the prize the Foundation has bestowed upon her.

Segment 12.10

At first, everything looked fuzzy. When it all came into focus, the floor seemed so close. A damp spot touched his face. It seemed he was lying on the floor. His head pounded and spun when he tried to lift it.

“You’ve been a busy bee, Mr. Daniels,” a woman’s voice informed him. It was certainly not Sugar who addressed him. There was too much cold confidence in her tone, along with a faint accent he couldn’t place.

Oscar sat up. A throbbing pain on the side of his face assaulted his senses until he put it in check. The damp spot where his head had rested came into focus. It was pinkish in color and some still glazed his cheek.

The woman approached, holding up a pearl necklace in one gloved hand. “I found this tucked away in your bathroom. You also had a pair of earrings and some gold chains stashed away in there too.”

“My filthy wife…keeping secrets from me.” Oscar fought the achiness to get to his feet. A glance in the mirror told him a black eye was on the way. He’d seen Sugar develop them often enough. He knew the look.

“Hmmm,” The woman said. “Was it your wife who called Ronald Pinkham too? Someone called from this number.”

Anger flared in Oscar’s chest. “She called another man? From my phone? Who does she think she is? I pay the bills around here! This is my house!” He stomped up to the woman. His face went hot as he raised his voice. “And who the blazes are you anyway? What are you doing in my house?” The woman backed away towards the desk and he followed. “And how dare she? Did you put her up to it? Are you one of those rotten social workers? Who told you that you could put your nose in my business?”

The woman groped across the desktop behind her back towards an odd, folding knife that lay half open. Her hand missed. Oscar dove around her, snatched the knife up and held it in her face. The grip felt smooth and comfortable in his hand, well-worn. “Answer me,” he growled.

A loud pounding sounded at the door.

“Answer me or I’ll cut you,” Oscar hissed.

More pounds rained on the door.

“Get back with that knife! Don’t! Help!” the woman shrieked.

Oscar thrust the knife towards her. She shrank back and screamed, “You’ll kill me!”

“Shut up,” Oscar snapped. He sprang towards the woman. She dodged around him and knocked him to the floor with an elbow to the head. As he lay on the floor struggling to get the pain back in check, the front door creaked open and the woman said, “Thank God you came to help! He’s a killer.”

Segment 12.9

Wikipedia…Google…none of the usual suspects yielded any information about “The Wycliff Fellowship.” Searching for Wycliff alone yielded nothing relevant. The foundation, its sprawling parent corporation, and the shadowy family that had created the entire empire proved invisible. Bobbi fought down the pang of unease tingling along her body and tried that urban legends site, just in case it was a known scam. Nothing came up there either.

“Maybe that first check-in with the board will clear it all up,” Bobbi muttered. Her attention turned to the packet that had come with the announcement. The dean had mentioned “details in the fine print.” So far, she had only skimmed the materials, hoping to find a clue as to how she had ever come to be awarded this obscure prize. This survey had only underscored the dean’s summary, which stated she was obliged to produce a public product, such as a piece of sculpture, in exchange for funding and work-release time to pursue the project in any way she saw fit. The amount was beyond generous.

“The fine print” proved daunting. Bobbi snatched up the loupe she used to inspect the details of her students’ work and applied it to the tiny type. Therein she found only a brief history of the Wycliff Foundation, a charitable organization funded by “responsible investment” and motivated by “the greater good.”

The clearing of a throat startled her. Bobbi turned to find a man in a silky suit with an artistic, museum-themed tie approaching. She noticed the hand just pulling away from his mouth bore neatly manicured nails and that he wore a platinum watch. She caught a faint scent of spicy musk from him, even over the stronger, more familiar scents of the graphic arts lab.

“Are you Barbara Kamil?” he asked.

“Yes. Do I know you?”

“You may. I am Guillaume Sackett. I manage the Shoals Court complex. I am also the local representative of the Wycliff Foundation’s board of directors. I chair the board of overseers for the Wycliff Fellowship program.”

“Yes, now that you mention it, I have seen you around the Court.”

As Guillaume held out his hand, Bobbi approached him to shake on their new re-acquaintance. The grip of his wide palm was strong. He turned her hand and kissed it, planting it into the palm of his other hand afterwards. He ignored her gentle attempt to retrieve her hand.

“Welcome to our family, Ms. Kamil,” he purred. “Should you want for anything, call me, day or night.”

As Guillaume dug in his pocket with one hand, he twisted the other to keep Bobbi’s hand in check. The moment crawled by for her until he retrieved the business card and placed it in her hand, releasing her at the end.

“I shall call on you more formally as you proceed,” Guillaume said.

Bobbi glanced at the card, her heart hammering. He had neatly penned in his personal cell phone number and underlined it. He winked as he turned away.

Segment 12.8

The meter on the cab spun into its final resting spot.

“Fifty-three twenty,” the driver barked.

“I can see that,” the passenger grunted. She dropped three twenties in his palm. “Still don’t know where Shoals Court Drive is?”

“Sorry, ma’am. It’s a big development. Every section has its own name. I ain’t studied the whole map.”

“Some cabbie. People used to have pride in their jobs. What happened to this country while I was away?”

The slamming cab door cut off the driver’s reply. The passenger marched away from him, swinging her rucksack up over her shoulder. The driver thought she could have been pretty if she had more hair and wasn’t dressed in those mannish fatigues and boots. The big knife didn’t do much for her either. He tucked the money in his box and sped away.

The passenger strode along the sidewalk leading down into the maze of condos. The heat was no obstacle. She’d had worse. The load was no trouble. She’d had worse there too. She’d been lost before with a lot more at stake. Too bad they’d taken back the GPS unit at the end of the tour but she could make do.

She unclipped her water bottle and took a swig. The stuff was pure and sweet and a little too warm, just the way she’d come to like it. Some guy jogged by in shorts, slick with sweat, absorbed in some tunes that blared as he passed. He glided along with ease, not having to worry that his next step might put him right in the middle of a mine or a booby trap or a sniper’s line of fire. She raised her bottle in a salute. “What a tool, man.”

The jogger veered away, meandering through the quiet street. One look at the street sign showed this was not the place yet. This section was called, “Shoals Court Heights.” Just to be sure, the passenger ran her finger over each of the numbers on the mailboxes at the corner. She’d seen the number enough times on the return address that it was burned on her brain. It somehow came out right over the top of all those other searing images, the sounds and smells and sights that she could barely believe were real anymore. They were all like a bad movie or a worse dream. The only thing that made any sense anymore was that number.

“Twelve-Oh-Four,” she muttered. “Omar LaChance. I’ll be home to meet you, man. I’ll be the one with the cookies. Just me.” The woman’s face, grinning out of the video capture from Omar’s blog wavered in her head. “I mean it,” the passenger snarled. “Only me, lady. I’m the one.” She stowed her water bottle and tromped away towards the next corner.

Segment 12.7

A squeak announced the application of Dinah’s foot to the brake.

“Why are we stopping?” Sam asked, without looking up. He preferred to cast his eyes back along the lines of the telex. Some old geezer at the nursing home nicked a few personal items out of another resident’s room. The name “Wycliff” kept jumping out. How common is that?

Dinah rooted around in the storage compartment between them, pulling out a notebook and pen. “I’m not ready to let this one slip away.” She pointed with her nose to the unit before them.

“Which one is this? They all look alike to me.”

“Learn to pay attention, Officer Tranh. That’s the way we get ahead in this profession and score an assignment just where you like.” She continued to share her wisdom as they exited the cruiser. “This is my choice. I happen to think you can find every vice in the world behind these walls.”

“These walls here?”

“They’re part of the pattern.”

Dinah took note of the bicycle lying on its side as she passed up the walk. Could be a clue. Sam trudged behind her muttering, “Why this place?”

“Take the alley, Officer Tranh,” Dinah hissed.

“Right.” He veered off beside the house. Dinah shook her head, marveling that she even had to direct him, disgusted, too, at his heedlessness.

Dinah rapped on the front door of the condo with her nightstick. She repeated the knock four times before Lindsey Templeton shambled forth and greeted her with a mumbled “What-d-ya-wan?” His rumbled hair and suit suggested he had been lounging. His reddened eyes spoke of too little sleep, perhaps some guilty tears, maybe an elicit draught of the substance from which the baking soda in his pocket on arrest was supposed to distract.

Dinah took a sharp breath through her nose. She detected only a tang of antiseptic and ladies’ cologne, mixed with dirty teeth.

“I wanted to follow up with you, professor,” Dinah said.

Lindsey pushed his hair back and sighed. He gestured towards the inside of his home. “Please. I am at your disposal, officer.”

Dinah wheeled on him as soon as he closed the door. “When I arrested you, you were telling me about a young lady who was the subject of a misunderstanding. I need the lady’s name to make one last determination.”

“What is the point of this? It was only baking soda I had.”

“Clearly you didn’t know that. You assumed something else. I would like to speak to the young lady to see what she can tell me about your story. If she backs you up, very well. If not…”

In the silence that followed, their eyes locked. Polly’s voice quavered from the steps. “Lyn…don’t speak to her. Don’t say a word until Peter is here to help.” She joined her husband and slid her hand over his arm. “Be gone, you! You have no business here.”