A baby out of wedlock: me.

  “You hadn’t known, before?”

  He shook his head. Hands went into his pants pockets. “It wouldn’t have mattered. I love your sister.” His eyebrows shot up. “I guess it’s ‘mother,’ isn’t it? Seems obvious now. How could I not have known? I’d have been there for you, Brandy, better than I ever was. I always liked you. As far as Peggy’s concerned, well … I guess you know I’d do anything for her.”

  Anything?

  My neck began to tingle.

  He seemed to be talking as much to himself as to me. “When Connie threatened to go public with the information, I offered her money for her silence.”

  I said, “I think she may have been blackmailing others, like my father, Senator Clark. And possibly Benjamin Timmons, who may be involved in some kind of fraud with his customers.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Connie hadn’t been bilking them and more. She was a spider caught in her own web. She told me she’d been investing that money for the time when I would leave Peggy Sue for her. But when the money no longer placated her, when I could no longer keep her at bay … she gave me an ultimatum.” He spread both hands. “Don’t you see? I couldn’t have Peggy Sue hurt. My girl, my sweet girl, dragged through the mud like that …”

  Mrs. Crumley’s words came to mind. “At least your sister’s husband knew enough not to interrupt the game.” Secretary Sheila had said that Bob had been in his office all this morning, but I bet she couldn’t say that about the morning of last week’s bridge club. It must have been then—the morning Connie died—that Mrs. Crumley spotted Bob in the parking lot.

  I said, “You switched cars with Peggy Sue, didn’t you? Knowing she would have an alibi.”

  “Yes,” he sighed. “My sports car was too recognizable, so I took Peg’s, parking mine in the same spot at the country club, then retrieved it later. Don’t look so stricken, Brandy. Somebody had to do something about Connie Grimes. More than just shove her in a department store.”

  I felt sick to my stomach—worse than any morning sickness.

  “Don’t feel bad, Brandy. You’re not putting the final nail in my coffin. Connie had already done that, by having me named as the beneficiary of the investments and her life insurance policy. It’s just a matter of time before I’ll be charged.”

  Bob was Tony’s suspect.

  “Oh, Bob, I’m so sorry….”

  He smiled sadly. “I know. You’ve always been very sweet to me, Brandy. Much as I love her, Peg could use some of your qualities—your sense of humor, your heart.”

  “What now?”

  “Nothing good. Listen, uh … Peggy Sue’s going to really need your support now. When she finds out what kind of financial shape I’m really in … and not just because Connie had been draining me … anyway. Be a good sister. Good daughter.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I guess I’d better call your friend, Chief Cassato.” Bob moved to his desk. “But first I need to give Sheila some instructions.”

  He spoke into the intercom. No answer. He tried again. No Sheila.

  Bob looked at me. “She must be in the copy room at the end of the hall—would you go down and get her for me, please?”

  I nodded, picked Sushi up, and numbly made my way to the closed door.

  The next minute I relive over and over in my mind. Did I suspect that Bob only pretended to use the intercom? Did I realize he was purposely sending me out of the room?

  No … firmly no. Never. But maybe … maybe a little bit yes….

  In slow motion I open the door of his office. I step out, close the door. But Sheila is there—she looks up from her desk. I turn and hesitate a heartbeat before I open the door to the office again. The sliding glass panels to the balcony stand open. Beyond, the water sparkles as if blanketed with diamonds, while a white barge chugs lazily up river. Just another tranquil day in Serenity.

  Bob’s office is empty.

  Then five stories below, a woman starts to scream.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  One way to spot a knock-off is if the item doesn’t show wear and tear where it should. There should be marks around drawer handles, on chair arms or table legs which would be consistent with normal use. If an antique looks so new that it seems too good to be true … it is new, and it’s not true.

  Chapter Twelve

  Hard Knock Life

  Predictably, Bob’s tragic demise sent most of the family into a stunned depression. But Mother swung into action, and within twenty-four hours, not a living soul in Serenity hadn’t heard that Vivian Borne’s despondent son-in-law had taken his life because he had Creutzfeldt-Jakob’s Disease. (I think the “fine folks” at Wikipedia had a hand in Mother’s affliction selection, too).

  This fatal condition (had Bob actually contracted it) would have caused blindness and loss of movement and memory within one year of its diagnosis. And, as she told all and sundry, Mother felt certain Bob didn’t want to become an emotional and financial burden to his family, which made his decision “courageous.” This was one of Mother’s finest performances, and she really did do Peggy Sue and Ashley (and Bob’s memory) a service.

  Mother’s defense of Bob seemed to me particularly gracious in light of the fact that he had not come forward when she was arrested, to clear her of the murder he’d committed. I like to think that while he might have allowed Vivian to go through with a trial—figuring (rightly) that she would likely enjoy the theater of it—Bob fully intended to step up and clear her, should she be found guilty. After all, someone else standing trial for the murder might be enough to muddy things so that he could get away with his crime.

  I doubt Mother had thought any of that through, though, and acted less out of compassion for Bob and more out of protecting her eldest daughter.

  Perhaps Mother could forgive Bob, but I wasn’t sure I ever could. I had thought I’d known the man—he’d seemed sweet, kind, even mild-mannered, but he had stabbed Connie Grimes to death with a kitchen knife. Whatever homicidal fantasies I had ever harbored about that dreadful woman, such a savage act was beyond my comprehension. Sometimes still waters do run deep. And scary.

  Sis had her own forgiving to do. After the funeral—a small, private affair—a numb Peggy Sue, who had never been one to worry about finances, got a rude awakening when she learned just how far in debt her late husband had sunk them: double mortgage on the fancy house and loans on three cars, with the recently expanded business severely overextended.

  Bob had even cashed in his hefty life insurance policy to keep them afloat (although, with his suicide, the company wouldn’t have paid out, anyway).

  In anticipation of Peggy Sue having to sell her house in the near future and move in with us, Mother readied the guest room. We had plenty of space in the house, but not enough beds, so I rounded up an air mattress for Ashley in case she might visit from college.

  On the brighter side (yes, Brandy was back on Prozac, so everything had a brighter side now), Mother received a suspended sentence for her interference in Connie’s murder, which remains on the books as unsolved. I know for a fact (because Tony told me during one of our lengthy phone conversations) that Sheriff Rudder had pleaded with the judge for leniency on Mother’s behalf.

  “Well, that was generous of him,” I’d said, “considering everything she’s put him through.”

  “Oh, don’t misread it,” Tony’s voice said on the other end of the line. “She deserved a year in the county jail. But having your mother as an extended guest at his facility was nothing Rudder could abide. In fact, he threatened to resign if she were allowed back in his jail.”

  Mother’s suspended sentence, however, came with community service, and she wasted no time in creating her jail theater program, so the sheriff got stuck with her anyway. Whether that’s poetic justice or karma (good or bad), I’ll leave to you.

  In fact, on a recent Saturday evening at the jail, an original play written and performed by the female inmates, and directed by Mother, had its gala opening night (or as gala an opening as a play presented inside a detention center could have, anyway). Mother had invited me to watch the dress rehearsal, going to the trouble of clearing it with the sheriff himself, but I declined, not wanting to spoil all the fun.

  I say “fun” not because I was expecting to have a fine time seeing a wonderful evening of skilled amateur entertainment. No. We’ve discussed before that I am not a perfect human being, and one of my flaws included an ability to perversely enjoy Mother when she was caught up in a complete theatrical debacle.

  There was no guarantee of that—Mother had been genuinely good at times, particularly when she wasn’t directing herself. But the odds were in my favor, particularly with this surefire combo of elements—Vivian Borne and the Cell Block H Players? I was almost giddy with anticipation—there’s nothing quite so entertaining as seeing Mother fall flat on her face.

  Was that really so terrible of me?

  Don’t answer.

  The performance was being presented in the women’s common room at the jail, and at seven o’clock—one hour until curtain time (though there wasn’t a curtain)—deputies began herding attendees through the main floor metal detectors, then escorting them (four at a time) through the various security doors, and finally depositing them in rows of plastic chairs, borrowed from our church.

  The audience—approximately fifty to sixty people, carefully selected and approved—included the mayor and his wife (Mother calling in a favor for having helped to elect him), several city council members, four of Mother’s Red-Hatted League gal pals, Tina and Kevin, Judith Meyers from NAMI, the senator’s aide, Denise Gardner (of all people), and of course various family members of the cast. The latter included a fairly rough element, but they were dressed in Sunday clothes and on their good behavior. Maybe they were hoping for an early release.

  Absent were Senator Clark (who was back in Washington), Peggy Sue (in seclusion and anyway not up to it), and the chief of police (still on leave until Monday). I’d been hoping Tony would come, because I hadn’t seen him since he’d stopped by my hospital room. Several phone calls, yes, but nothing in person….

  The stage at one end of the room was small, consisting of risers borrowed from the high school, and the scenic direction simple, the only props being five plastic chairs placed in a row. Next to the stage, on the floor, was a large game wheel with an arrow, its pie-shaped sections each sporting a word, “REGRET,” “HAPPINESS,” “SHAME,” “LOVE,” and so forth.

  There was no program pamphlet. Mother detested printed programs and whenever possible with held them from her audiences, disdaining anything that might take the audience’s eye off of her or her production. Once, when she was playing Lady Macbeth, a woman in the front row was so engrossed in her program booklet, rustling the pages, that Mother paused mid-Bard to walk to the footlights and declaim, “Madam! I am about to die. You might not want to miss it.”

  (Lady Macbeth dies off-stage in Shakespeare, but Mother’s interpretation has her dying on stage. She once explained, “I find that audiences always enjoy my death scenes, dear,” to which I could only comment, “It is a crowd pleaser.”)

  While Mother had kept this, her first penal play, under wraps, she had told me that the format was unusual: one act, free-form, and in part improvisational. I say “in part” because, knowing Mother, she would not leave everything to chance.

  I was sitting toward the back (so I could watch people’s sure-to-be-amusing reactions), next to Tina, who had baby Brandy strapped inside her oversized shirt, up against her skin.

  Have you heard about the new procedure for preemies called “kangaroo care?” If the baby is otherwise healthy, he/she could go home as long as the infant remained attached to the Mother’s warm chest. Anyway, so far it has worked for Tina and Kevin.

  (Admission: If you think it’s easy to give birth and then hand the baby off to someone else—even a dear friend—think again. While it gave me joy to see Tina with little Brandy, I couldn’t see that sweet small creature without my heart swelling with pride, and then breaking a little.)

  At precisely eight P.M. (according to the white-faced, black-handed institutional clock), a security door to one side of the stage opened, and five female inmates in their orange prison jumpsuits filed in, with Mother—dressed like a gypsy—following behind.

  Wow, I thought. A gypsy! This would be rich….

  The inmates walked up the few steps to the stage, took their chairs, while Mother assumed her position on the floor in front of the big wheel.

  I recognized the women from what Mother had told me about her short incarceration—young, blond, slender Jennifer; stocky crew-cut Carol; tall, curvaceous red-haired Sarah; dark-complected, pudgy, curly-haired Angela; and the only one I’d seen before, the woman who’d given the hypnosis testimony—brown-haired, attractive if hard-featured Rhonda.

  One odd (but I think interesting) side note: Carol was due to be released for her assault charge days before the performance, but she had shoved poor jail deputy Patty just to get her sentence increased. (I don’t know if this was Mother’s idea or Carol’s. But I suspect Mother of aiding and abetting.)

  The ceiling lights dimmed.

  I contemplated clapping, so that Mother would be assured of some applause, but no one else seemed so inclined.

  The room fell silent, and you could hear the proverbial pin drop, though I had a feeling if one did, a guard would go for a gun. Suddenly a spotlight fell on Mother (I wondered if they were using the same one usually reserved for third-degree-type interrogations).

  “Come one, come all!” gypsy Mother called, like a flamboyant circus barker. And wasn’t this a circus, after all?

  She gestured to the round prop. “Come spin the wheel of fortune!” (I would have to remind Mother that she might be open to a lawsuit from the popular game show, should she, as promised/threatened, take her play out on the prison circuit.)

  Mother pointed animatedly to Mrs. Hetzler, an ancient gal pal in the front row. “You, madam—come forward and spin the wheel!” I suspected Mrs. Hetzler was a shill, to get the ball rolling (or wheel spinning).

  The former high school English teacher, who had given me a “D” on my essay final for bad composition (readers who pause here to say, “I’m not surprised!” should be ashamed!), stood uncertainly and took the few steps to the wheel.

  Now frail and stooped, her navy pantsuit looking two sizes too large, Mrs. Hetzler had trouble giving the wheel a good whirl, and I wondered if it had to go all the way around to qualify, like in Match Game reruns.

  Apparently not, the arrow quickly pointing to the word, “SHAME.”

  As Mrs. Hetzler returned to her seat, Mother turned ever so slowly toward the stage. “Who among you feels shame?”

  The spotlight shifted from Mother to the seated inmates. Like in BBC’s Whose Line Is It, Anyway?, the women looked briefly at each other, then Sarah stood, and strode to the edge of the stage.

  Looking out over the audience for a moment, she said, “My name is Sarah Coulter, and a year ago I had everything going for me….”

  I was impressed with her casual manner as she told of her road to the county jail; yet her tale of woe—freely admitting her guilt—was neither maudlin nor self-serving. Once Sarah seemed to lose her train of thought, but the women behind her uttered words of encouragement, and she finished her frank monologue to loud applause.

  A second audience participant was selected to spin the wheel, followed by another inmate performance, and so on; sometimes the monologues were lengthy, other times short. And not all the admissions were downers. Humor peppered throughout to lighten the mood, as when Rhonda came forward with the word, “REGRET,” and said what she really regretted was getting caught. Everyone laughed at that (well, not everybody—Sheriff Rudder seemed less than amused).

  I thought the format of the play was very clever: each woman had a story ready for each of the possible words that might come up, and yet it was spontaneous as to which word was landed on, and who felt like taking it. Brilliant.

  But it was Carol who stole the show, when she came forward when the wheel stopped on “LOVE.”

  “I think I first knew I was different was when I was in middle school. I told my mom about it and she promised she wouldn’t tell Daddy, but she did. He whupped me for it. He said I was trash, but I knew he was trash for hitting me. That’s when I left home. I had to live on the street and it was hard. If that wheel stopped on ‘SHAME,’ I wouldn’t talk about being gay, because I’m not ashamed of it. I’m not proud of it, either. I just am. And I know that for all the stupid choices I made in my life—and bein’ here in the county jail sure shows I made my share—I know my partner will stand by me. Because she loves me.”

  No matter how the audience felt about alternative lifestyles, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house (yup, even the sheriff).

  After the performance ended—to a standing ovation—I had never been prouder of Mother … nor more ashamed of myself for looking forward to her making a fool of herself. I felt like the fool. I felt like going up there, spinning that wheel to “REGRET” or maybe “SHAME,” and telling that audience what a lousy daughter I could be.

  After the performance, while the audience was milling, offering their congratulations to Mother and the cast (the guards keeping a watchful eye), Denise Gardner approached me. She was wearing a pale green pantsuit, her bloodred lips and nails replaced with a softer shade of pink.

  “Well, that was … interesting,” the aide said.

  Feeling magnanimous in light of Mother’s success, I said, “Thank you for coming, Denise.”

  “It wasn’t exactly my idea,” she said, intimating that my father had something to do with it. “But I did want to see you again and, well … apologize for jumping to the conclusion that you and Senator Clark—”