Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam Read online

  DEDICATION:

  For my husband, the First Reader,

  thank you for believing.

  Published 2009 by Medallion Press, Inc.

  The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO

  is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”

  Copyright © 2009 by Marilee Brothers

  Cover design by Adam Mock

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset in Baskerville

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-93-475546-4

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

  Without a career in public education where I experienced the best of the best, the worst of the worst and (thankfully) the vast majority between the two, this book would not be possible.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 1

  Friday

  Panty hose are a tool of the devil.

  On a tall woman, the crotch hangs at knee level, so she’s forced to crouch and shuffle like Quasimodo. If a woman’s vertically challenged, the things slither downward, pooling around her ankles like a reptilian second skin. My troubles began with panty hose.

  For a Friday, it had been relatively tranquil. No fights, no blood spilled, no weapons displayed. All in all, a good day for a teacher in a classroom of behavior disordered teenagers with a few felons thrown in for good measure. The queen of Bedlam: that’s me.

  After school, I scoot across the parking lot as fast as my walking cast will allow. In forty minutes, I’ll be cast-free and ready for my third date with Michael LeClaire. Seriously hot, comfortably rich Michael LeClaire. Rumor has it his parents have ordered him to go forth and multiply. Enter Allegra Thome, stage right.

  I threw together a killer outfit. Short, clingy black dress with a neckline that dips down—tastefully—to allow a glimpse of cleavage. Wispy lace panties and strappy heels. Successfully field-tested and ready for action, it’s stashed in a shopping bag behind the seat of my red Ford Ranger.

  Zipping across town to the clinic, I think about my leg and how it will look cast-free: pasty, shriveled and, in all likelihood, sprouting coarse dark hairs. Did I throw in a pair of pantyhose? Of course not! I slap myself in the forehead.

  Braking hard, I swing into Sid’s Gas’n’ Grub. Because Sid is the father of one of my students, Crystal (in for shoplifting), I like to give him my business. Sid sits on a stool engrossed in a tabloid, his big belly pressed up against the counter. He marks his place with a pudgy finger and looks up. “Hey teach! How’s my kid doin’?”

  “Not bad, Sid. Just a little language once in a while.”

  The corner of his mouth draws down. “Hey, Suze! Didja hear that? Goddam kid swears at school!”

  Sid’s wife Suzy stands up from behind the Plexiglas case, where shriveled hot dogs rotate over a heat lamp. She talks around the cigarette dangling from her lips. “What are ya gonna do?” She shakes her head. Ashes fly.

  I assure them, compared to her classmates, Crystal is a veritable poster child of good conduct. I pick out my panty hose and rummage through my purse for $6.73 while Sid peruses the package. He beams his approval. “Good choice, Ms. Thome. Ya gotcher midnight smoke, lace high-cut panty, nude toe and heel. New boyfriend, huh?”

  “Sort of,” I mumble, regretting it immediately. Oh, what grist for Crystal’s mill. I’d pay. I wave goodbye as Sid assures me, “Let me tell ya, I’ll have one serious fuckin’ talk with Crystal about her language.”

  I step into the parking lot where a midnight blue Honda Accord with flipper wheels sits next to a beat-up Chevy, both of them nosed into the line of poplars marking the back of Sid’s property. I know this car. It belongs to another of my students, Jose Delgado. Jose is relatively crime-free, assigned to my class due to spotty attendance, two weeks on, one week off, like clockwork. With his multiple gold chains, smooth olive skin, and dreamy eyes, Jose is the hands-down favorite of my behavior disordered girls.

  I lift my hand to wave. But it isn’t Jose behind the wheel. It’s his guardian, the man he calls Tio Estefan, talking earnestly to a man in the passenger seat. I stuff my new panty hose behind the seat and look at my watch. I still have time to speak to Estefan about Jose’s attendance. Dragging my cast, I skitchity-hop across the parking lot calling out in my pathetic Spanish, “Hola, Estefan.”

  He looks less than thrilled to see me and makes shooing motions with his hand, which I ignore. As I lean over to remind him of his responsibilities, a series of events explode like a string of firecrackers.

  Doors slam. I gape in openmouthed astonishment as the man in the passenger seat points a gun at Estefan. I am grabbed from behind and pinned against the car. A rough male voice growls in my ear, “You’re coming with me, lady!”

  Heart leaping in my chest, I scream, “Sid! Suzie! Help me!”

  With a howl of rage, I slam my cast into the man’s shin. He mutters an oath, spins me around, rams a shoulder in my midsection, and hoists me into the air as I shriek and struggle. My captor, grunting with effort, tells one of his henchmen, “Get the goddamn door open. She weighs a ton!”

  What?

  “It’s the cast!” I yell as he stuffs me into the back seat of the Chevy.

  Frantically, I try to scramble out of the car and, in the process, bash my nose into his elbow. Blood gushes from both nostrils. The man recoils, and I finally get a look at the guy who not only assaulted my person but implied I’m overweight. Big, mean-looking guy. Cheeks dark with stubble. Bloodshot, pale eyes. Strings of greasy hair hanging below a baseball cap turned backwards.

  “Wha—wha—?” I stammer as he digs a filthy-looking bandana from his jeans pocket and tosses it at me. I press it against my nose, gagging from the rancid odor of motor grease and sweat. He backs out of the car, slams the door, and tells the guy behind the wheel, “You know where to take her.”

  At his words, I feel the air leave my lungs. I scrabble for the door handle. There is none. I fight for breath while my brain books a one-way ticket on Air Terror. Who are these people? What do they plan to do to me? Shoot me up with heroin? Sell me into white slavery? Will I end up in some third world
country dragging my cast behind me as I walk the streets, forced by a sadistic pimp to turn a trick in exchange for a crust of bread?

  “Nooo!” I howl as the driver executes a perfect three-point turn and pulls out of the parking lot. Sid and Suzie stand in the doorway of the Gas ‘n’ Grub, eyes wide with surprise and mouths agape. I pound on the window and scream, “Call the cops!”

  The driver pulls out into the street. “Take it easy, lady. We are the cops. What in the hell are you doing in the middle of a drug bust?”

  I sink back in the seat, pinch the bridge of my nose to stop the bleeding, and moan, “I just wanted to invite him to parents’ night.”

  Three hours later, I’m locked in a small room inexplicably painted pink. Periodically a man with chubby, dimpled cheeks steps in to check on me. He tries to look intimidating but fails miserably due to his squirrelly, chock-full-o-nuts demeanor. He tells me I have to wait for Sloan, the DEA agent in charge, the key to my freedom. Bereft of personal belongings, I pass the time tormenting Squirrel Cheeks.

  “My aunt dates a lawyer who loves to sue people,” I say. “In fact, he specializes in false arrest.”

  The last part’s a lie, but I see a flicker of fear in Squirrel Cheeks’ soft woodland eyes.

  When Sloan finally slams through the door, I rise to a half-crouch with a feral growl. “You’re in big trouble, pal! This is America. I know my rights!”

  The corner of Sloan’s mouth twitches. He winks at Squirrel Cheeks. “You okay? She’s pretty scary.”

  “You’d better let me go, or …” I stutter to a stop when he yanks off his cap and his long, greasy hair comes along for the ride. He sails it across the room where it lands on the floor at the base of a mirrored wall in a crumpled heap, like a dead porcupine along the side of the road.

  Lifting my astonished gaze to the mirror, I see Sloan studying my backside. I whirl to face him. “You’re checking out my ass!”

  He shrugs and swipes at his close-cropped dark hair.

  I turn back to the mirror, assuming it’s one way and Sloan’s superiors are standing behind it. “First he bashes me in the nose, then he abducts me, and now…”

  “There’s nobody behind the mirror,” Sloan says with a smirk.

  I whirl around and put my hands on my hips. “Are we done?”

  I desperately want out of this room and away from Sloan, whose scary, pale blue eyes and overbearing presence make me want to scream.

  Sloan opens the door and leans against the frame. “You’re free to go. Chuck will take you to your car.”

  I clomp to the door to squeeze by him. As I turn my head to blister Sloan with one last glare, my walking cast snags the doorjamb and I lurch sideways, falling against his body. His arms wrap around me as I teeter off balance. Pressed up against him, I feel a jolt of heat pass between us, the feeling so intense I inhale sharply, reach up, and touch my hair to see if it’s standing on end à la Albert Einstein.

  Sloan leans down, his breath warm on my face. “Good way to break your other leg.”

  Oh, yeah, the cast. I feel my anger return. He releases me, and I back away to put some space between us. “If not for you, my cast would be gone and I’d be on a date with my boyfriend.” I pause so he can digest this information and apologize. He doesn’t.

  On the brief ride back to my car, I pump Squirrel Cheeks, AKA Chuck, for information about the drug bust and whether or not Jose is involved. But Chuck, hands locked on the steering wheel at ten till two, is afraid to look at me, much less speak. After collecting the Ranger, I head home with a sigh of relief.

  Grandma Sybil’s roomy two-story house seemed the perfect fit when I slunk back to Vista Valley after my short, disastrous marriage. When Grandpa Mort died, Grandma sold his string of auto supply stores but flatly refused to leave the family home. I have my own apartment upstairs. Grandma and my thrice-divorced Aunt Dodie share the main floor and finished basement. Basking in my family’s support, I’m comfortably at home in apple-, peach-, pear-intensive Vista Valley, Washington, whose unofficial motto is “We never met a fruit we didn’t like.”

  When I burst through the front door into the empty house, I find a trail of notes, in Dodie’s handwriting, taped to the banister. I read each one as I mount the stairs.

  5:15 p.m. “Allegra! Where the hell are you? Dr. Myers said you didn’t show up for your appointment, and he missed his massage.”

  Dodie’s the office manager for Whole Health Clinic, where three generations of Myers doctors offer cradle-to-grave services. Dodie does not tolerate missed appointments.

  7 p.m. “Susan called. Sounds upset. Says call her about Nick.”

  8 p.m. “Michael called. Thinks you stood him up. He called your cell but got voice mail, and is he ever pissed!”

  8.15 p.m. “Word of warning: Your grandmother is with a client.”

  With a little hiss of dismay, I crumple the last note and shove it in my pocket, wishing I could turn off images dancing in my head, the ones featuring Grandma Sybil and her diligent efforts to help mankind.

  I mentally sort the messages as I climb the stairs. Too late for Dr. Myers. I decide to let Michael cool off before I call. Nick, on the other hand, can’t afford to be upset. His life depends on it. At sixteen, he functions fairly well considering he has cystic fibrosis. Nick and I became close during my short-lived marriage to his Uncle Harley. I adore his mother, Susan, having forgiven her for introducing me to Harley.

  Susan answers on the first ring. Her voice is taut with anger, which I know springs from desperate worry. “It’s that girl in your class. Sara. He won’t talk to me. If he gets sick again…”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say, feeling guilty even though it’s not my fault Nick is in the throes of a king-sized crush. A single parent, Susan struggles to hold down a job as an accountant for the Quail Hollow Winery and tend to her son.

  I want to say more, but Susan slams down the phone and yells for Nick to pick up the extension. After a click and the alarming sound of Nick’s fluid-filled struggle to breathe, I hear him say, “Sara’s gone.”

  An alarm bell clangs in my overloaded brain. Sara’s foster mother, Patsy, is no prize, but she keeps close tabs on her charge.

  “Gone, as in—?”

  “She told me to call her tonight. When I did, Patsy told me Sara left a note and took off.”

  His voice trails off into a deep, racking cough.

  “Nobody saw her leave?”

  “No, they were out shopping. Sara was gone when they got back. She wouldn’t do that. I know she wouldn’t!”

  I hear panic in his voice and struggle to find the right words. “You know, bud, Sara’s had a rough life. Maybe she’s fed up with Patsy. Maybe she has a new boyfriend.”

  “She doesn’t have a boyfriend. I’d know!”

  “What did the note say?”

  “Just the usual crap. ‘I’ll be okay, don’t worry,’ stuff like that.”

  I finally convince him to let it ride over the weekend and promise if she’s not in school Monday, we’ll file a missing persons report. Before we hang up, Nick says, “You think you know Sara, but you don’t.”

  His remark is so strange I’m not sure how to react. “I know her dad’s wanted for dealing drugs, her mom’s in prison, and she has a little brother somewhere. Is there more?”

  “Oh yeah, Aunt Allegra. There’s more. Lots more.” Nick sounds old and tired, as if he’s bearing a burden far too heavy for a kid of sixteen. He clicks off before I can question him further.

  I decide to face the music and listen to Michael’s messages on my cell phone. When I reach for my purse, I realize it’s still in the truck and then trudge back outside, feeling each step reverberate in my throbbing nose. I grope around behind the seat, retrieve my purse, and start back toward the house. Then it hits me. The shopping bag containing my man-catching outfit and new panty hose? It’s gone. That creep Sloan stole my underwear!

  Chapter 2

  Monday

  So I’
m lying in a hospital bed,” I tell my friend Marcy as we dash down the hall to our respective classrooms. We dodge groups of slow-moving students while keeping a sharp lookout for R.D. Langley, our principal, who has huge issues with punctuality. Since we’re both late, we’re fair game for one of R.D.’s “corrective action requested” memos.

  “Hospital bed, huh?” Marcy muses, an avid gleam in her eyes. “Then what happens?”

  I lower my voice as we pass a drifting group of freshman boys. “I’m lying naked under a sheet. The room is dark, but the door is ajar and light is leaking in from the hall.”

  I pause for a minute, savoring the memory of a dream so sensual, so real, that when the alarm went off, I whapped the snooze button and slipped back into the action without missing a beat.

  “Hurry up! We’re almost to my room,” Marcy urges.

  “I see a hand—it’s Michael’s hand—he’s holding a bath sponge. He tugs at the sheet and it slides off ever so slowly. He holds the sponge over my naked body and squeezes. I see droplets of water suspended in air like tiny crystals. Then they splash down on my bare skin and slide across my body like warm honey, touching each and every sensitive nerve. My whole being feels bathed in fire … a good kind of fire.”

  Marcy pulls me toward a bank of lockers. “Come on! Get to the good part.”

  “He moves to my breasts with the sponge, softly stroking, round and round, back and forth until I’m moaning and gasping …”

  “Hurry!” Marcy says. Her eyes are huge. She’s breathing hard.

  “He pulls the sponge away, and I hear the splash of water as he dips it into the basin. He takes my left foot in his hand and draws the sponge along the inside of my leg. Ever so slowly, starting with the ankle, then the calf, to the inside my knee. Onward and upward to the inner thigh. He leans down and follows the trail of the sponge with his mouth. His tongue is hot and wet, moving higher and higher. I’m going crazy. Oh, God, so close to heaven!”

  “Yes!” Marcy shouts and gets a puzzled look from a sleepy-looking kid slumped against his locker.