Rock and Roll Queen of Bedlam Read online

  “Don’t call me Blondie.”

  Grandma’s on a roll. “Allegra has a lovely voice, and she knows how to move her body. When we sang ‘Old Time Rock and Roll,’ Mr. Wamsley jumped up and started boogying with his walker. He tripped, and Allegra tried to catch him, but he fell on her. That’s how she broke her ankle.”

  “Wow.” Sloan gives me a half grin. “Have you been banned from Serenity Bay?”

  Grandma says, “Oh, no, they love Allegra. Now that her cast is off, we’ll be doing the Pointer Sisters next Saturday night.”

  Sloan chuckles.

  Thankfully, he departs after the pie, kissing Grandma’s hand and praising her culinary skills. On the way out, he pats me on the head. “See you soon, Al.”

  “Don’t call me Al and, no, you won’t see me soon.”

  “We’ll see,” he says and is gone.

  “Hot-cha-CHA!!” Aunt Dodie fans her flushed face with a napkin. “Watching Sloan walk away is like crème brûlée for the eyes. He sure does fill out a pair of jeans.”

  “The front’s not bad either,” Grandma says.

  “Settle down, you two.” I gather up the pie plates.

  Grandma sips her coffee and muses, “Things happen for a reason, Allegra. Michael may be out of the picture, but now you have Sloan.”

  “Yep,” Dodie says. “When one door closes, another opens.”

  “I don’t want Sloan. He’s a jerk.”

  “Michael’s not right for you,” Dodie says. “He’s a pouter. My second husband was a pouter.”

  I’m saved by my cell phone.

  Labored breathing. A whispery voice. “Ms. Thome, it’s me—Sara. I need …” She stops mid-sentence with a squeak of surprise. I hear a clunk like the phone’s been knocked from her hand.

  My heart does a double flip in my chest, and I shout, “Sara? Sara? Where are you?”

  The line is dead.

  “Hang up, and press star sixty-nine,” Dodie orders.

  I obey quickly and punch in the numbers of the last incoming call. A disembodied voice tells me my party is not available. “Damn!”

  “Call Mr. Sloan, and have him trace the call,” Grandma says.

  “Forget Sloan. I’m calling the cops.”

  As I relate the one-sided conversation to the authorities, I begin to have doubts.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m writing this down,” a bored-sounding detective says. “You say she sounded afraid?”

  Was it fear I heard in her voice or excitement?

  “You’re sure someone knocked the phone out of her hand? Did she cry out?”

  “It wasn’t exactly a cry … more like a yelp.”

  “A yelp,” he repeats, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “Surprise or pain?”

  I admit I don’t know. When I ask if Sara’s disappearance has been reported, he says he’ll check and then tells me to call back tomorrow.

  Questions without answers make my head hurt. In an effort to clear my mind, I load the dishwasher and clean up the kitchen. Still no wiser, I kiss Grandma’s soft cheek and wave nightie-night to Dodie. Before heading for Nick’s, I scoop up the paper with the mystery phone number. I know Grandma’s busy little fingers won’t be able to resist, and Sloan will be back in the picture. I need time to think without his overbearing presence.

  Nick squirms in embarrassment as I read Sara’s letter aloud.

  Hey, Woodstock,

  Something’s come up, and I gotta go. Remember that thing we talked about? You’re right.

  I’ve decided not to do it. Take care, and tell your aunt to come get her book.

  Give Clementine a hug for me.

  Luv ya - Magpie

  Daniel 3:17

  I feel a headache coming on. Sara’s letter is a mishmash of noninformation. References to a mysterious thing. A Bible verse. Birds. And who the hell is Clementine? I need answers, and I know Nick has them.

  “Okay, spill it,” I say. “What’s going on with Sara?”

  He blushes and looks at his feet. “She calls me Woodstock, like the bird in Peanuts.”

  With his fair, spiky hair and big eyes, the name suits him. “And you call her Magpie?”

  He ignores the question, picks up a retractable pen, and begins clicking the button with his thumb. When he looks at me, his eyes are wary. “Sara was sneaking out to see her dad. She made me promise not to tell ‘cause there’s a warrant out for his arrest.”

  “Was she planning on taking off with him?”

  “I talked her out of it,” he says. “What kind of a life would that be? Her dad’s on the run. She’d have to drop out of school.

  I point at the letter. “It says here she’s decided not to.”

  “That’s why I know she’s in trouble,” he says. “Don’t you see? Sara promised she wouldn’t take off with her dad, and she has no other reason to leave. I think somebody was watching her write this letter, somebody who …”

  I throw my hands up. “She’s just a kid, Nick. Kids change their minds. Things probably got hot for her dad, and he talked her into leaving. Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  He won’t look at me. His thumb goes faster. Click. Click. Click. I want to grab the pen and shake him until the truth rattles out. I know there’s more.

  “Well, doesn’t it?” I ask, hoping to loosen his tongue.

  When he doesn’t answer, I know it’s time to switch gears. “Okay, maybe the Clementine she mentions is Clemmy in our class.”

  “I called her. Clemmy said they weren’t friends. She and Sara hate each other.”

  “Okay. What about the Bible verse? Did Sara go to church?”

  “Yeah.” Nick mumbles and looks away.

  “Which one?”

  “Church of the Holy Light,” he snaps and folds his arms across his narrow chest signaling the end of the discussion.

  I ignore his surly behavior. “Did you look up the verse?”

  “Yeah, it’s about three dudes who get thrown into a hot furnace.”

  “Oh, yes,” I say, eager to share my biblical knowledge. “Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.”

  Before I was big enough to fight back, my mother dragged my sorry butt to Sunday school every week, praying I’d be scared straight. I still have a visual of Mrs. McPherson’s felt board with Shadrack, Meshach, and Abednego standing in the fiery furnace, orange flames licking at their feet.

  “Whatever,” Nick says.

  “To test their faith,” I add. “God saved them.”

  He stands suddenly. “We need to go to the Hewitts’ and look for your book.”

  Back to the book. When Nick bows his neck, it’s useless to argue. But I try. When I ask him how such an innocuous letter can possibly make him believe Sara is the victim of foul play, he looks away and says, “I just know.”

  We make plans to go to the Hewitts’ tomorrow after school. Though I’d planned to tell him about Sara’s call, I, too, decide to hold something back.

  Later, alone in my apartment, I douse the light and tumble into bed, curling up on my side to gaze out the open window at the night sky. The wind rustles softly in the huge maples bordering the street in front of our house, a gentle lullaby that softens the edges of my worried mind.

  My last thoughts before drifting into dreamland are of Sloan’s magnificent denim-clad butt. Hey, I’m only human.

  Hot-cha-CHA.

  Chapter 4

  Tuesday

  Pull in here.” Nick points to a long gravel driveway bordered by an overgrown hedge.

  Two small boys pummel each other in the front yard of a shabby 50s bungalow set back from the street. A scrawny gray cat with a notch in his ear crouches nearby looking ready to jump into the fray.

  “Davie and Dwight Junior,” Nick tells me.

  I grab my tote as we exit the truck. The screen door flies open, and Dwight senior appears. “You two, knock it off. Davie, get to mowin’.”

  “But it’s his turn,” Davie whines, giving his brother a shove.

  “I
s not!”

  “Well, it better get mowed, or you’ll both be sorry,” Dwight snarls.

  He retreats into the house yelling, “Patsy, that teacher woman’s here.”

  Davie and Dwight junior stare at us with dull eyes.

  Nick nudges me. “Look.”

  I follow his gaze further up the driveway, where a shiny new Dodge Caravan is parked.

  “New wheels?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Patsy appears at the front door. She smiles at Nick and grunts at me.

  “Great car, Mrs. Hewitt!” Nick gushes as we step into the darkened living room. Dwight sucks on a cigarette and stares at a big-screen television.

  Nick says, “Plasma screen? Wow!”

  Patsy looks pleased. “Dwight’s doing real good at the mill.” She gives me a scathing look. “Some folks have to work for their money.”

  A prepubescent girl sits cross-legged on the couch with a bag of Cheetos. Her sandy hair and unfortunate overbite mark her as one of Patsy’s brood.

  Nick sits down beside her. “Hi, Doreen.”

  “Hey,” Doreen replies, offering the bag to Nick. They munch in companionable silence. Patsy and I stand mute in the middle of the room.

  Finally I say, “Could I have a look at Sara’s books? I lent her one that was my grandmother’s favorite.” The lie slips easily off my tongue.

  “Doreen!” Patsy screeches. I jump in alarm. “Take her to Sara’s room and show her the books.”

  “Why do I have to do everything around here?” Doreen licks orange Cheetos dust from each finger and drops the bag onto Nick’s lap. She slips into oversized wooden mules and clomps toward the back of the house. As I hurry after her, I hear Nick say, “Can I go look at your new car?”

  I follow a pouty Doreen through the sticky-floored kitchen to a small enclosed foyer with three steps leading to the back door. She makes an abrupt right turn and starts down a flight of slick concrete stairs leading to the basement. Guided by some feral instinct, Doreen disappears into the shadows, leaving me to fend for myself. I thrust a hand against the wall for balance but recoil quickly when I encounter a spider’s sticky web. Visions of walking casts dance in my head.

  “Hey, Doreen! How about turning on the light,” I call.

  Teeth flash white in the dim light, and I heard a disembodied voice. “I can see just fine.”

  “Don’t make me call your mother.” My voice has risen to a screech.

  “Jeez, I was just kidding. Why are you teachers always so crabby?”

  Deep sigh. Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. I hear her fumble with a chain, and suddenly an overhead bulb illuminates the dreary basement.

  I stand at the end of a long L-shaped room strung end to end with an indoor clothesline. The far end of the room is lined with floor-to-ceiling cupboards. An ancient coal furnace lurks in the shadows against one wall. I count four rooms opening off the main room: three with closed doors and one open wide, revealing a washer, old-fashioned stationary tubs, and a shower head positioned over a drain in the floor.

  “In here.” Doreen opens one of the closed doors. A tiny window set high in the wall at ground level throws a small rectangle of daylight into the room revealing a neatly made single bed and little else. Glancing around for a light switch, I see none. However, on a wooden apple box by the bed sits a small gooseneck lamp. I picture Sara lying in bed reading in this dismal little room and feel a wave of pity so strong my eyes fill with tears.

  I switch on the lamp as Doreen points to a bookcase formed by plywood boards and concrete blocks.

  “That there’s her stuff.”

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll look through it.”

  I hope she’ll take the hint and leave. Instead, she leans against the wall, folds her arms, and scowls at me. I sit on the bed and check out the items on the shelves. A grubby Cabbage Patch doll, four paperbacks, and a dried corsage. A fruit jar holds a colorful bouquet of feathers. I think about Sara using the plumage of birds to create something beautiful in this dreary room, and I try to swallow the lump in my throat.

  I pick up the corsage and set it carefully on my palm.

  “That’s from when Sara and Nick went—” Doreen starts.

  “I know.” I dig a tissue out of my bag and blow my nose. “I helped pick it out.”

  I didn’t need Doreen to tell me about the prom. How Sara’s eyes sparkled when one of my many bridesmaid dresses fit her perfectly. How Nick, awestruck at taking the prettiest girl in school to the prom, hyperventilated and had to breathe into a paper sack.

  “Are you going to sit here all day?” Doreen demands.

  “As long as it takes to find my book.”

  Moving in exaggerated slow motion, I set the brittle corsage carefully on the shelf and pick up a paperback, feigning interest in the blurb on the back.

  Doreen taps one giant shoe. “There’s more under the bed.”

  When I tug at the cardboard box, I feel it bump something.

  I peek under the bed, pull out a one-liter bottle of cola, and then hand it to Doreen, who eyes it with interest. When I start to unpack the books, she heaves an impatient sigh and leaves. I hear her clatter up the concrete stairs.

  Scanning the stack of books, I see nothing of mine. To lend credence to our story, I grab a few paperbacks. But when I bend over to turn off the lamp, I spot a slim, hardcover book caught between the bed and the apple box. I pick it up and find out I’m not a liar after all. The title of the book is Best Loved Poems and the name on the fly leaf is Sybil Thome. Somehow, Sara has one of Grandma’s books. Did I give it to her? If so, I must have been in a stress-induced blackout.

  With the books tucked under my arm, I switch off the light and leave the depressing little room. When I step through the door, I come face to face with the furnace. Each time Sara leaves her room, she sees the furnace. The fiery furnace. Now, at the beginning of June, the cold, dead furnace. The perfect place to stash something in a household short on privacy. I dig a penlight out of my bag and illuminate the furnace’s gaping maw. Nothing.

  A toilet plunger and push broom rest against the left side of the furnace. Feeling a little silly, I play the light over the other side, a narrow opening between the furnace and a freestanding metal cabinet. I see cobwebs, dust, and what looks like an old brown sweater pushed back against the wall.

  Squatting down, I take one last look. At this angle, I pick up a flash of white peeking out from under the sweater. I reach in, trying not to think about venomous spiders licking their chops at the sight of my bare arm. With a shudder, I retreat and use the push broom to pull the sweater toward me. My pulse begins to race when I pick up the sweater and find it’s wrapped around a Tyvek envelope embossed with the U.S. Postal Service logo. Inside, I find a Bible and a spiral notebook. “Property of Sara Stepanek” is written on the front in purple ink.

  As I stuff it back into the envelope, a brown, hairy spider scampers across my hand. With a silent scream, I flick it off and do my spider stomping dance, dropping the envelope in the process. I bend over to pick it up and nearly levitate when Doreen bellows, “Ma! She’s snooping around!”

  Caught up in my mission, I failed to notice she’d sneaked back down the stairs barefoot.

  I turn my back to block her view as she marches toward me. With my heart in my throat, I grab the sweater and cover the envelope. In a semi-crouch, I let the envelope slip into my tote.

  I stand up, turn, and shove the sweater at Doreen. “Is this Sara’s? I found it by the furnace. You should put it with her things.”

  She shrugs and tosses it over her shoulder.

  Without waiting for Doreen, I hurry up the stairs to collect Nick and get the hell out of Dodge. I find him sitting behind the wheel of the new van while Patsy fiddles with the CD player. I wave the books at him and shout over the sound of the lawn mower, “Gotta go, bud.”

  With a few last words to Patsy, he scrambles out of the van. Patsy doesn’t look up.

  I set my bag on my lap and fire up th
e Ranger.

  “You found it, huh?”

  I hand over the loot. He opens Sara’s notebook and scans the pages.

  “Oh, great,” he says. “Poems. Every page has a stupid poem on it.”

  “Teenage girls like to write poetry.”

  “Not Sara. Remember the fit she threw when you made the class write poetry?”

  Nick flips through the pages again and then checks out Best Loved Poems. “She didn’t write these. She copied the poems from this book. Each one has a date. Weird. Why would she take the trouble to hide a bunch of poems? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe there’s something in the Bible.”

  I glance over at him and see disappointment in his eyes. He turns away and stares out the window. “I wonder where Patsy and Dwight got the money for a new car and plasma TV.”

  “Maybe they have good credit.”

  “Sara said they made her answer the phone ‘cause collection agencies kept calling them.” He turns his head toward me.

  I feel the urgency in his gaze.

  “They bought the car at Better Buy Auto Sales. We could go there and pretend we want the same car. Maybe we can find out if they financed it or paid cash,” he says.

  I roll my eyes. “Gimme a break! You wanted the book. I got the book. You think Patsy and Dwight are involved in some sort of conspiracy?”

  He doesn’t answer, but the stubborn set of his jaw tells me he won’t let it go.

  I drop him off with the pirated goods. He climbs out and, before he shuts the door, says, “Tomorrow. After school. Better Buy Auto.”

  I murmur something noncommittal and head for the barn.

  Chapter 5

  Wednesday

  Where’s Allison?” I ask the next morning, counting noses after the break.

  Her best friend, Janie, nibbles on bright green fingernails and mumbles, “She asked Coach Thorndyke if she could TA for him next fall. He said she had to try out.”

  “Try out?” I shriek while watching two girls give each other the stink eye. The stud muffin responsible for their bad blood slouches nearby, a proud smile on his narrow, pimply face.