I tripped on the last step out of the police station. Oh yes. The mighty Detective McBrennain had decided there was nothing to charge me with after all and released me. Bully, that’s what he was: accusing me of things I knew nothing of, twisting my words, and stealing my sleep. I felt like I’d lost half my weight and part of my mind in sweat and anxiety. And now, here I was, picking myself off the ground, wondering if anyone would see me on my middle of the night hike back home, and hoping my wild floral combination of red, orange, and spring green wasn’t sticking out from under my sweats. I was absolutely too tired to do anything about it.

“Miss?”

I looked up and a policeman motioned me to his car. I had the crazy urge to make a run for it, and I’d like to say common sense prevailed, but who are we kidding? It was fatigue.

“You look tired. Can I give you a ride home?”

Seriously? I began to regret ever going for a mani-pedi and Sunday School cursed everyone involved, including the lovely Lolita, my manicurist. Despite my newly-found mistrust of detectives in general, I got in his car.

“My name is Sergeant John Don. And you are . . .?”

I gave him my name and address, leaned my head back, and, I’m embarrassed to say, immediately fell asleep. I must’ve been roused by the engine turning off. And there in front of me was my boring apartment building. I’d never seen anything more beautiful.

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Good grief. I was so very tired, but not so tired that I didn’t care if people saw me sitting in a police car at 3:00 in the morning. I invited him in.

I flipped the switch to heat the coffee I’d made for McBrennain. Sergeant Don would not get a fresh cup.

Two hours later, I’d not only made a fresh pot, but was more awake than I’d been since my mani-pedi. I’d shown the Sergeant the pictures from my phone, I’d told him everything I’d told McBrennain, and more. I’d even told him how glorious the stranger had been. John D. was a very attentive listener, and I couldn’t seem to stop talking. The coffee didn’t help.

And he had told me something that not only washed away the shame I’d felt as I was questioned by McBrennain, but gave me hope and energy. It turns out, my interview with McBrennain was the final nail in his coffin. Oh yes! Apparently, he’d been so cock-sure of my pitiful vulnerability, he’d revealed more than he realized. According to Sergeant John D., McBrennanin was a bad cop they had been investigating a long while on the suspicion he covered for the car trafficking ring, one of whom was Mr. Glorious. Huh. Well he certainly was in a good position to do so.

Voltaire said, “Fear follows crime and is its punishment”. I believe that it does, but not for everyone. As I warmed my hands on my third cup of coffee (don’t judge unless you’ve had a Why Wine incident of your own), I thought to myself that, as glorious as the stranger had seemed, he didn’t seem the kind who would ever know regret. Or maybe even fear. And McBrennanin? I couldn’t say. Some people love criminality, either outright or cloaked in authority.

I signed something that said I’d testify to everything I told Sergeant John Don, who by now was beginning to develop his own sort of gloriousness. I swallowed my thoughts, gave him a little smile, and closed the door behind him with my beautifully and dreadfully manicured hand.

I left our coffee on the table, grabbed a blanket to cover myself, and fell asleep on the couch. I’d need my beauty sleep if I was going to have another mani-pedi: and I mean the minute Salon de Beauté opened. Why Wine was my new least favorite color. Maybe I’d replace it with Siren Red.

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You know how when you know you should do something but don’t want to do it, you find other things to do? Within an hour, my kitchen was sparkling down to the chrome on the water faucet at the sink and refrigerator grate.

I scolded myself, and, sinking down into my most comfortable chair, called the police. Detective John McBrennain was in charge of car trafficking and, I was told, he would be given the message and would contact me.

The next evening a loud knock on my door startled me, and, although the moon hadn’t yet risen, I had my pajamas on – a wild floral combination of red, orange, and spring green. I flew into my bedroom, pulled sweatpants and a sweat shirt over my pjs and raced to open the door before I realized I should look through the peek hole first. My first hope was that it was the rough stranger with gray eyes even though he might be a car trafficker. How desperate was I? It wasn’t.

Detective McBrennain showed his badge and stepped across the threshold. I invited him to sit at the kitchen table, made coffee (my policy was no decaf, but he looked like someone who preferred the dark of night to the light of day anyway), and told him my story. I told him about the car, the man with glorious gray eyes, and seeing the same car on a Facebook post of a missing car. I told him the car must have been given a paint job, otherwise – and here I held up my beautifully manicured nails – it had been white. I told him I recognized the car by a triangle of tiny dings on the door handle.

Okay, I didn’t describe the trafficker’s eyes as glorious. I do have some sense. As I waited for John McBrennain to finish his furious scribbling in a little notebook, I looked down and noticed wild red, orange, and spring green sticking out from under my sweats. I tried pulling the bottom of my pant leg down with my foot, then gave up, reached down, and gave it a yank.

When I looked up, Detective McBrennain had placed a picture in front of me on the table. His eyes looked dead as he stared at me. “Are you playing games with me, Ma’am?”

“What? No!”

“We have been trying to track this guy down for years. And now I’m called to a house and given a story by someone who is next to him in a picture dropped at my office just one day ago. It certainly looks current.”

He gave me a perfunctory once over, clearly unimpressed.

“May I see your phone?”

I wondered if he could actually ask for it, but I couldn’t think of a reason to refuse. He gave it a couple of taps and frowned.

“You’ll need to come down to the station with me.”

I couldn’t believe this was happening. “No! This . . . this . . . guy, the car owner or trafficker or whoever he is took the picture with my phone.”

John McBrennain raised his eyebrows and tilted his head.

“Look, I know how this sounds . . .”

“Do you know how it looks, too?”

I paused, my mind racing. Someone who looked that glorious wouldn’t be as awful as I was beginning to think he was.

My mouth was dry as I said, “He set me up, Detective.”

The Detective rose as if he hadn’t heard me, pulled out a pair of handcuffs, and led me to his car.

to be continued . . .

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I bent at the waist, held my hand next to the rear passenger side of the car, and with my other hand held up my phone. As I was just ready to tap the little white thingy that takes a picture, I felt hot breath on my neck and a strong hand squeeze my wrist so hard I dropped my phone.

“Hey!” I spun around and looked straight into the most angry and glorious set of gray eyes I’ve ever seen.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” the glorious set of gray eyes said.

“I . . . I . . . I was admiring the color of this car – is it yours? And . . .”

My mouth was dry and my heart was beating much too loudly for me to think, so I held up my newly manicured hand, hoping he could figure out the rest of my sentence for me.

He pressed his lips together. I have to say here and now even that was beautiful. Stooping to pick up my phone, he turned, grabbed my shoulders, spun me around so that he and I were facing the car, hugged me close, and took a picture of the both of us. Then he punched in some numbers, tapped once or twice, and tapped again. Handing me my phone, he jumped into the car and started a purring engine. A perfect triangle of tiny dings on the passenger side door handle caught my eye as he pulled into the light afternoon traffic.

I shielded my eyes with my beautifully manicured hand and watched as he disappeared from sight while Tracy (my friend) made gurgling noises that ended in a gaffaw.

“No worries.” She held a small slip of paper in front of my face. “I got his license number.”

“Well that isn’t creepy at all.”

“What? It won’t hurt to see if you can at least find his name.”

Later that evening as I was munching on chips with a lovely little loaded cream cheese and salsa accompaniment, and staring at the picture of the two of us on my phone; he, with his chiseled good looks and me with a startled look on my face and no car in sight, I wondered what else he’d done besides take it. I mean he’d tapped a couple of times. Maybe he sent a copy to himself! Wouldn’t that be exciting! Why would he do that anyway, unless he thought I was just a little bit glorious, myself? The deafening silence of my little apartment holding no steamy or romantic memories asked me an awkward question: Who was I kidding? Still, I couldn’t think of what else he would’ve done.

I scrolled through my messages and contacts. A new number was nowhere to be seen. He’d either not sent the photo to himself or he must’ve deleted the number he sent it to.

I knew I shouldn’t, really I shouldn’t, but Tracy’s slip of paper was calling to me from my purse. I rummaged around, pulled it out, and sat down at my computer. A few taps would give me a name, right? Before I pulled up the DMV website, I checked Facebook to see what everyone had for dinner, their vacation pictures, and anything else that was better and more exciting than my little corner of the world.

As I sped past the political posts and inspirational memes, something caught my eye, so I backed up. It was a picture of someone’s baby. Not a real baby, mind you, but a car they had fixed, spit and polished ’til kingdom come. The post said it had been reported stolen, but to please repost and keep our collective Facebook eyes open for it. It had been a gift from his father, and, from the long post, the writer was heartbroken.

I squinted at the picture to convince myself it wasn’t the same car outside of Sissy’s Diner. After all, the posted car was white, not Why Wine. I know, I know. That’s not a real car color. They probably named it something like candy apple red, but, like most of the population, for now I’m sticking with what I know, even if I’m wrong.

But I wasn’t wrong. Not about the car. Because there, on the passenger side door handle was a perfect triangle of tiny dings.

to be continued . . .

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First of all, no, I’m not a mani-pedi sort of girl. If I wanted someone cleaning my nails, I’d just dip ’em in melted butter and sit down by the dog. But I ended up at Salon de Beauté last Saturday because my best friend has a thing for things like that and I had a free afternoon. It wasn’t in France, either. It was on Buford Street tucked in between Matt’s Realty and Nuts To You. By the time we had pedis with matching manis, we were hungry. So we sauntered over (I know, what a word; but I believe it matched the extravagance of walking over the threshold of a place using French in its name, don’t you?) to Sissy’s Diner and ordered soup. Again, I know. But we’d just had manicures. What did you expect us to do? Break a nail carving steak? We considered sandwiches, of course; but by the time we would’ve handled the greasy fries that came with them, again, why take chances? And it wasn’t like we ordered chicken broth. We had the clam chowder Sissy’s was famous for. Plus handling a spoon gave each of us an excuse to glance at our newly polished fingertips: Pink Delish for my friend and Why Wine for me.

As we chatted on our way out the door of Sissy’s, I noticed a car just a few parking spaces down that exactly matched my mani-pedi color. What are the odds? We decided to walk (done with the sauntering now that we’d had clam chowder) over and take a hand selfie by the car. I mean, the color match was so unlikely – in our minds, at least – that it deserved a photo.

Can I just suggest one thing? If that ever happens to you, don’t do it.

to be continued . . .

Images: Photo by Plush Design Studio from Pexels; Photo by Jonas Zürcher on Unsplash

She rocked back in her chair as the breeze played softly with a tendril of gray hair that fell loosely on her temple. Voices of the grandkids shrieking and laughing echoed from the yard below and though she watched them, her mind was in another place and another time. It was a time when she was young, living among the elite in Yugoslavia; a time when her father was in the inner circle of Josep Tito – above the masses’ deprived, disconsolate lives; a time when she had everything and felt nothing.

For in that place and at that time Communism had smothered all religions but itself. Citizens worked and loved and read and thought – but work was poorly rewarded and thoughts were stilted by muffled truths twisted into something that served the reigning religion. News was only what those in power wanted those watching to hear. And to think. And dreams? Well it’s hard to dream of something you have no idea exists.

When she moved to a place called the United States of America, she had marveled at the freedom everyone enjoyed but didn’t notice. The air was different in this country. Freedom made breathing easier. She discovered a Savior here – a name that had been all but banned in her former home. She could be a Christian here, and it made her freedom greater still.

Little feet ran up the steps of the wide porch and little Zuhra climbed into the familiar lap as her grandmother held her close and prayed a familiar prayer with first-hand gratefulness: Let freedom ring.

Photo by twinsfisch on Unsplash

“You here for the speaker?” he asked as he offered his hand and she shook it. She nodded, then glanced down at his hand. “Whaaat? I have one just like that!” She held up her wrist for him to see. “Nice. Where did you get yours?” “College. They were handing them out to whoever wanted one. You?” “Mine was passed down from my dad and he got it from my grandpa.” She nodded. “Wow.” “Yea,” his voice quavered. “It holds a lot of meaning for me.” “Oh for sure,” she replied. “Shhh. It’s starting.” They both sank down in nearby chairs and listened to the speaker. He wasn’t from around there, but there had been flyers and posters and curiosity simmered quietly in the crowd. An hour passed quickly by, as one by one their charms had fallen from their bracelets. “Do you buy what he said about stomping on the rights of the people we claim to care about?” “I think he was just hung up on the phrase ‘right to choose’. “Right. But the ‘stage or age’ thing he said about abortion being murder?” “The thing that got me was that phrase he kept using.” “Your silence is your signature on the death certificate,” the two new friends chimed together. He looked down as his PP charm fell to the floor. “And the thing about loving someone enough to tell them the truth about God’s laws.” He shuddered, “Creepy, right? As though people don’t have enough to deal with without someone telling them their sex partner’s all wrong.” “I agree! But what if he’s right?” “You mean that our silence is . . .” “Our signature on their ticket to hell? Our signature on their death certificate?” “Yeaa,” he answered slowly. “But who am I to tell anyone . . .” “What’s right and wrong? I don’t like it either.” “It’s their choice, right?” “But hell . . .” He pressed his lips together. “I know.” She looked at the LGBTQ charm on the floor. “I thought there was going to be a riot when he started in on immigration.” “Illegal. He kept pressing that point,” she added. He lowered his voice. “What do you think about the trafficking?” “I know! And the little kids he talked about.” “And the millions of dollars in drugs brought and sold. My best friend’s brother died of an overdose last year.” She brushed his arm with her hand. The two looked down at the floor as some more charms fell. “I just can’t get that phrase out of my head!” He put his hands over his ears. “Your silence is your signature . . .” “Stop!” He calmed himself and gave her an apologetic smile. “Do you think killing trafficked kids for organs actually happens?” She shook her head quickly and shut her eyes. “Whatever happened to just loving everybody? Can’t we just love everyone? Let whoever wants come and go?” “Legally, remember?” he laughed. “It should be more simple than he’s making it,” she said, biting her lip. “But the worst part was his next point. How silence allows unthinkable things you shut your eyes to. Child sacrifice has made it’s way from the abortion room to secret rooms and rituals.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe it,” he whispered. She sighed imperceptibly. She wondered if her hoping something wasn’t true would make it so. The two new friends made their way over to a table stocked with information and charms.. She looked at her new friend. “It couldn’t hurt. I don’t have anything left, do you?” He shook his head as he rubbed his empty bracelet between his fingers, and they sorted through the charms, marveling they were free.         Images: Pexels.com; Scripture sources: Romans 1:22-26; Leviticus 18:22, 20:13; I Cor. 6:9-11; Jude 1:7; I Cor. 6:9-10; Romans 1:18-22; I Timothy 1:9-10; Acts 17:26;John 3:16

I didn’t want to think it, but I had to admit the evidence wasn’t exactly looking good. A body had been buried under my deck – a deck that hadn’t existed until the previous owner who, by the way, had asked me to help burn a rather large leaf pile in the general location where Tor had dug it up. Of course, it could’ve been coincidental. Hope and doubt changed places the more I thought about it.

Then there was the issue of a bag of gold coins; money I was loath to part with. However, I was more averse to parting with my good name. Even if no one discovered my secret, I would know it. The Bible verse, “A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches” had been drummed into my skull throughout childhood, and was now pestering me like a very determined mosquito.

I got up, washed my lunch dishes, and grabbed the leash to take Tor out for a walk until I could safely let him in my backyard again. But as I headed for him, leash in hand, he bolted, and knocked over my coffee table. Darn dog! Now I had a 3 legged coffee table – one I wouldn’t be able to replace soon at the same great price I’d gotten from Susan, my house’s former owner. I snapped his leash on rather more aggressively than usual. It didn’t take long for Tor to do his business. That was one good thing about my dog. He’s focused. By the time we got back to the house, so was I.

I called the local police and asked if someone could drop by. Good thing I live in a small town with a bored police force. Thinking I’d better make the living room presentable, I picked up the coffee table leg to see if there was any chance Super Glue could come to my rescue. Ha! No need! It appeared I could just screw the thing in. As I congratulated myself on this bonus and turned the table upside down, a slip of paper fell out of the leg. I should’ve known they were hollow. You don’t get much for five bucks. Weird, though.

Squinting, I peered inside the leg. Nope. Nothing else. I unfolded the paper. It said: Hypocrisy is the audacity to preach integrity from a den of corruption. – Wes Fesler. Okay. I’m not much of a sports fanatic, but why was a quote from him written down? And stuffed in the leg of my end table?

Sitting back on my knees, I stared into space, then quickly screwed in the leg and unscrewed the other three. I looked into their small openings and shook each one. The first two were as empty as an old sock, but another slip of paper fell out of the third one on my last shake. I barred my door to bribery, and knocked it to the floor. He’ll eat his gold in silence and bother me no more. Who wrote it? The former owner, Susan? I righted the table as the doorbell rang.

By the time I’d given sweet tea to the officer, told him and showed him everything, including the two slips of paper, I was ready for an old movie. I was also richer. Detective Timmons informed me they’d do a cursory investigation, but most likely I’d be able to keep the money under the ‘finders keepers’ law. That’s not really what it’s called, but that’s what it amounts to.

As far as Simon – well let’s just say after snipping some pieces here and there and filling some plastic bags with them, Timmons confided to me he suspected it was a fellow by the name of – O why should I spread tales? Suffice it to say that he’d caused trouble for town folks for a long time, including corrupting a number of folks who didn’t have it in them to turn down a dollar; and the whole town should be grateful someone finally put a stop to it. The coroner (who I suspect had been on the bullying end of the not so dearly departed) didn’t seem interested in storing the body after doing her thing and talking to Timmons. I’d made the mistake of calling him Simon, so she asked if I had a preference for his final resting place. Small towns. Ya gotta love ’em.

 

It’s been a couple of months since. Tor is free to roam the back yard again. I planted my garden and, for the first time ever, its blooms are brilliant.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Well, that’s not entirely true. Can something be kind of true? I mean, at the moment I wished I hadn’t looked, but after I examined it more closely, I was of two minds. My mother used to use that phrase a lot. My father would always reply that he only needed one. Getting back to the thing Tor dragged out from under the deck – I guess I’d have to say that I was glad for part of what it was and horrified at the other part. That’s not kind of true. It’s absolutely a true statement. Score one for clarity.

I knelt down and looked at it. Okay, I admit I jumped back a little after my first glimpse. I grabbed a big stick and, scrunching my face, poked at it. Best guess, originally 145 lbs and maybe 5 feet 9 inches, or 8 or 6. It was hard to be sure. It looked like the body had been buried long enough for the clothes to decay which, in the climate I lived in would take longer than, say, the tropics. Then again, I’m no mortician.

What looked like it had been some sort of bag was stuffed in the mouth of – oh – for the sake of my sanity I’d begun calling him Simon. Giving him a name preserved my humanity (and his) to my way of thinking. The bag was nearly decayed, so its contents were visible. I looked around at my neighbor’s yards to see if anyone was watching me. Fortunately, no one was out. Who knew what was behind the curtains, but as far as I could see, there didn’t seem to be any activity. And really. If I hadn’t been up close, I would’ve thought it was a big pile of dirt. I hurried into the house for a baggie, then out again, and stuffed it full of the decayed bag’s contents. Laying the baggie carefully on the deck’s railing, I grabbed my gardening gloves and shoved the body back under the deck as well as I could.

I know. I should have called the police. But here was the problem. The bag had a decent amount of money in it; money I wasn’t altogether sure I was ready to part with without some consideration. I coaxed Tor into the house and hosed him off in the tub, but not before pouring the gold coins into a mixing bowl and covering them with the white vinegar I’d gotten a week before to clean my washing machine. It’s a good thing I procrastinated.

Once Tor was cleaned up and I was, too, I gave him a second breakfast and sat down to think this through. Whoever had buried the body there must have buried it before the deck was built because it would’ve been nigh unto impossible to do it flattened out underneath a structure. I started thinking about who had owned the house before me. It was known as the K house, I think because whoever built it had a name starting with K. Once upon a time people probably called it by name, but by the time I came along, it had become just K. I tried to recall what I could of the person who owned it before me.

She was actually, a sweet woman, big-boned some would say, and a little bookish. It was by now close to noon. I got up to make myself a sandwich. Don’t judge. I’d washed and I was hungry. And as I was spreading mayonnaise, my thoughts drifted back to the first time I had met the previous owner. I’d seen an ad on Craigslist for an end table and had come to take a look at it. She’d invited me in, and we actually had begun something of a friendship of convenience. Every once in a while she’d call me to do something for her – burn a leaf pile or change her furnace filter – and then we’d sit down to tea and cookies and she’d send some home with me. I’m not much of a baker, so it was a nice little perk.

But as I was thinking about it, I remembered that she hadn’t always had a deck on the back of the house. I remembered it because the first time she’d had me over to manage the burning leaf pile for her, I’d thought to myself that it was too close to the house. I’d even told her so. It was after that she’d burned them farther back. Huh.

to be continued . . .

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Image: Pixabay through Pexels.com

Hi. My name is Ginger Teigh. Yes, it sounds like “tea”. Yes, my parents thought it was funny when they named me – each of them having safe names like Gary and Ramona. No, I don’t mind when people ask. Yes, I do get tired of the jokes.

I was sitting outside on my rather small deck – large enough to hold  two sun chairs with pink and green Hawaiian print, a small stump I lugged up the two steps from the yard on which to put my sweet tea, a couple of flowering plants I picked up on sale at Sam’s Club, and the dog. It’s not as small as you might imagine. My dog is huge. And my dog is the problem.

He likes to dig. Fine. Dig away. I’m not in the market for a layout in Birds and Blooms, anyway, being the type of gardener with a less than admirable success rate. See, I have all sorts of grand plans every spring. I buy dirt. Whoever thought of selling dirt is probably very wealthy and living somewhere where someone takes care of every speck of dirt for him. He probably sits on a pristine beach and drinks something with an umbrella in it. I don’t imagine it’s sweet tea. Anyway, I drag the bags over to my “gardens”, cut them open, and dump. Then I smooth the area with a hoe, and lovingly plant delightful little plants in even rows. And as the spring turns to summer, I watch them die a slow death. It’s tradition. But I digress.

So the dog – I might as well tell you his name – Tornado (Tor, for short) – had been digging up a storm under the deck for two days. This morning as I was sipping my morning brew of green tea and Mountain Dew, I noticed he was heaving and panting; even whining a little. That’s unusual for Tor. He’s not a whiner. He came out from under the deck as black as sin a couple of times, looked at me, and returned to his digging.

His project had by now become my project. I wondered how big a hole he was making and was wondering how many bags of dirt I’d have to buy to refill them. Then I wondered if it was necessary. Who looks under a deck anyway, right?

I was on my second cup when Tor pulled a huge bag of something out where I could see it. I hopped down to the yard to have a closer look. And immediately wished I hadn’t.

to be continued . . .

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