Half
way back home her SUV sputtered and died at a stop light, but it started up
again. She dreaded having it break
down. She’d freeze solid if it did.
She had a dead man in her loft.
A
blue car was parked in front of her shotgun two-on-two ancient vintage bastardized
bungalow. Cars all looked the same to
her, but this one had steamed up windows.
As she passed the car the SUV, of
course, died.
The
blue car’s driver side window came down two inches when she got up next to
it. A handgun barrel pointed out at her.
As
she frantically tried to restart her engine, a hole in her side window popped
open, the bullet angled into the front windshield, spiderwebbing them both. She actually heard the bullet go by
“Oh
my god, oh my god, oh my god!” Another
bullet hit the side of her SUV just before the vehicle finally started. She slammed it into reverse. That’s when she saw the license plate on the
blue car lit by her headlights--which she made herself memorize, go figure. Somehow her brain still worked.
Fumbling
the cell phone, she dialed 911 for the second time today and headed to the
North Market St. Police Department. “GJX473,”
she hollered to the 911 operator who answered her call. “Write it down. Write it down. It’s the license number of the car that shot
at me.”
Sirens
blared in the distance while the operator asked a hundred questions. Belinda skidded into the parking lot, jumped out
and ran to the police department’s front door. She grabbed the door’s handle
but stopped and looked back for the blue car she was sure followed her.
When
no cars tore into the parking lot with gunmen blasting away at her, her heart
rate started to slow down. She shut the
door behind her.
#
Magers
showed up an hour later. She guessed he
had to cover the search of her loft, call all the people whose names she’d
given him, take care of the body, talk to the Coroner, have time to get to his
office. It seemed like it took a
century. His remarkable blue eyes had turned
the color of granite, which bored into Belinda.
She was okay until his face softened and he looked at her with
sympathy. She cried.
“Don’t
do that. You can’t help us while you’re
out of control.” He walked a circle and stopped in front of her again.
“But
I don’t know why that guy shot a gun at me.
I don’t know why the dead man was in my loft. I’m afraid to go home.”
“Somebody
is looking for something. Any idea what
that might be?” He reached for his
iphone, scrolled through some items, stopped and said, “We got enough glue off
the dead man’s face to get a profile picture.
It’s rough but I want to know if you recognize him. You’re okay, right?”
She’d
never be okay again, but she clenched her teeth and looked at the small screen
on Sam’s phone.
She
choked. “Th-that’s Reedy.”
“So
who is Reedy?”
“He was my husband until he
disappeared four years ago. I got a
divorce decree from him just this morning because he is presumed dead. Oh my god.
I had no idea he was even in Washington
Chris
texted to her: where r u?
She
looked at the text message but didn’t want to tell Chris she was at the police
station. He’d freak out.
#
Sam
insisted he take Belinda home to pack then some place to stay a few nights
because she shouldn’t be alone. “A person
who is more concerned about blood in her paint than who killed cock robin isn’t
thinking entirely straight.”
She
could see his point.
“And,
the blue car that held the shooter at your house two nights ago has the wrong
serial number. It’s registered to a Tom
McKinzie.”
“But
it looked like my step-brother’s car.”
“Is
his name Tom McKenzie?”
“No.”
“Tom
McKenzie is dead. He was 84 when he died
of a heart attack, best I can tell.”
“What? That’s insane.”
“I
know...stay tuned for the next episode, whenever I find it.” Sam rolled his eyes and sighed. He opened the door with the key she dug out
of her purse, looked inside.
“Oops.”
Her
leather couch and other furniture were torn and upside down, the glass on the
front of her mother’s picture was broken out of its frame. Her fairy figurine collection was pulverized
to powder on the hearth. Sam pulled his
gun out, firmly pulled Belinda away from the door on the front porch, said “you
stay here,” and left to search all of the rooms for any intruder who may still
be there.
When
he hopped into her living room, gun in both hands just like the movies, her
heart pounded. She plastered herself up
against the outside wall of her house and waited in terror. When he returned, he brought her inside and
shut the door. “Don’t touch
anything. Just look around and see if
anything is missing.”
“Right.” Like she could tell if anything was gone in
the mess that used to be her home.
A leather bound set of
the classics from her book shelves had pages torn from them, wadded and thrown
around the room like litter. Her father
had given those to her for her 21st birthday.
She thought she had no tears left.
But she did.
“Think,
Belinda. What do you have that’s
valuable enough to...?” Her front door began
to open. He shoved Belinda behind him and whipped out the Glock 17 again. Honest
to God she thought Sam was going to fire it and kill her friend.
“It’s
okay, Sam. That’s my friend Maddie!”
Belinda yelled.
“Yikes,
Linny!” A woman’s head poked inside. She
froze when she saw the gun. Soft, round and short, she took two steps backward when
she noticed his uniform and badge. “Are
you okay?”
“
No, Maddie, I think I’m not okay. You
scared me to death! How did you know I
was here? Somebody shot a gun at me.
Somebody wants me dead and I don’t even know why!”
“I
parked down the street and saw you both come inside.” She looked around her feet, horror written on
her face. “The loft is a mess too. I was
just over there.”
The
adrenaline level in the room was heavy as mist.
They all stepped back onto the front porch. Sam talked into the box on his shoulder.
Belinda
babbled to Maddie. “Yes. That’s where it all started. Reedy was killed and left in the studio, then
they couldn’t get all the paint off him or the superglue, and they took a
profile picture and showed it to me and it freaked me out but of course by that
time somebody shot at me with a real gun., and ...”
Sam’s
eyes turned from one of the women to the other, then back again.
“Wait,
wait, wait, wait. You lost me at
superglue.”
“Oh,
sorry, Sergeant Magers, this is Madrigal , my friend.”
“Snzmeme
Madrigal, nice to meetcha.” Maddie held
out her hand to shake, which he shook lightly.
He
smiled with a question in his eyes.
“Snzmeme?”
“Snzmeme
is her tribal name,” Belinda said.
“Oh.”
Maddie
wore turquoise wool pants, a turtleneck shirt and a v-neck orange sweater. She had thrown back her striped serape so she
could hold her purse and wave her arms around.
Her brown skin and wide round face were incongruous with her Caucasian
features.
“Maddie
uses my studio to do her artwork. She
makes figurines and Native American art.”
“Yes,
I am a child of the sun,” Maddie added as her face lit up.
“She
means she’s American Indian and adores the people,” Belinda said.
Maddie
wrinkled her nose as she panned the room. “Reedy is dead?”
She turned to Belinda. “You could stay with
me. We can talk.”
Belinda
wasn’t really sure where Maddie’s house was.
Mostly she resided in her 1975 Lincoln Ambassador. Yet Maddie had often
been to Belinda’s house, her mother’s house, her loft since the two women had
met in an art class years ago. “I’m
going to my mom’s house.”
“Rachael? Are you sure you want to do that? How about Chris’s house? He’d love that.”
“I
guess I could stay with Chris for a little while--just until my house is
cleaned up.” Why did men always make you
feel safer than women? Women are trained
that way from birth.
#
Later
that day, Chris Danner, her would-be boyfriend, sat with Belinda at his
breakfast table. Belinda was all cried
out. “We should just get married,” Chris
said the third time since her arrival.
His brown puppy eyes pled with her.
And he was kind of cute with his blonde curls and scruffy little
beard. He had a good job as a foreman at
a big box store--with benefits. Marrying
Chris was never on her bucket list. She
didn’t feel the connection he felt. She didn’t love him. Well, her first
marriage hadn’t worked out so well, had it, and she’d definitely loved Reedy--or
thought she had. Maybe Chris would grow
on her. People used to have arranged
marriages. Her mother said once that
those were a good idea. Maybe she’d
think about it.
She
ignored Chris for the millionth time and felt guilty about it. He had gone to work by time Maddie called
Belinda.
“Are
you having fun playing house?” .
“I
don’t know, Mads, I feel like Chris is a roommate. Living with a man, you’d think I’d feel
something more for him.” She ran a hand
through her hair, which was still wet from her shower. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. Sometimes I think....” She shook her head to clear it from that
subject.
“For now, I’ll need a new canvas to replace
the d-dead guy one. I don’t have time to
get another canvas that size stretched, and primed.” The painting she’d contracted for was due to
be shipped in three days, and the art gallery already had CD pictures of the
first one. “I’ve been thinking... My dad
bought one of the first paintings I ever made and hung it in his den. That canvas is a little smaller than the one
at the studio, but I can paint over the picture that’s on it now. It isn’t very good anyway. He was just encouraging me when I was
thirteen.” The gallery work was supposed
to be new within six months. But over-painting
would still be new, wouldn’t it?
“Why
don’t you forget about painting for now?” Maddie said.
“I’ve
already paid the entry fee. The gallery
would probably accept the substitution¸ I think...I hope.”
“Especially
if you don’t tell them about it.”
“Yeah.”
No comments:
Post a Comment