Adventures of RealtorMan

It was Friday evening; the girls had gone to bed, and finally settled down. They didn’t mind at all that their father had called to say that his dinner plans had changed. They’d had a lot to tell Mrs. James, about the school concert and how there was this one girl in Pansy’s class who thought she was such a good singer and sang really loudly but was always flat and how the teacher made her stand in the back row, making it up that she was tall so she had to stand there but it was so she wouldn’t sound so bad if she was way back there. Poppy had to say about seeing her Dad standing by the door looking at some other girl but wondering why he kept smiling at that girl instead of at her. Then they both launched in on Aunt Gina and Bert, curious if there were still out on the drive telling jokes because Aunt Gina knew so many funny ones. Mrs. James was curious about that, too. It was spring, after all.

Not too much later, as Mrs. James lay in bed, she was in a daze but not dreaming. Lee’s confession – that boy on the beach – turned her thoughts to times from her own girlhood. It was all so innocent; babes in the woods, they’d been. It was with R.T. of course. It had only ever been him, all of her life. Could life with a childhood sweetheart lay in store for Lee? Less and less likely, she assumed. Kids these days met so many other kids, over so many years, had such amazing opportunities to see the world, were exposed on such levels.

But hers was truly an exposure, too, and she smiled, recalling it so vividly. She gave herself quite a start finding it didn’t hurt to remember. Her widowhood had long become an exercise in turning away from intimate memories, not trusting her emotions to refrain, not whip them into the loneliness of her unanticipated and bitter loss. Perhaps she might have the luxury of reverie restored to her, of things simply taking time to refresh, not to re-injure.

So, back she went into the past. She was at the family cottage, at last persuading her parents, and her grandparents, whose place it was, to permit her boyfriend, R.T., to join them for the weekend. She was seventeen, he slightly older; they’d been keeping company for about a year, and their families were known to each other. Night-time separation would be strictly enforced, of course, although they’d had a fun time, at her youngest aunt’s suggestion, of playing a game of assigning numbers to all of the available spots to sleep, then of everyone drawing a matching number out of a hat, with hilarious, even incestuous results, and her lucky aunt and R.T. imaginarily sharing a pull-out couch.

During the day, however, they were more or less free to come and go, and though expected for meals, had been allowed to go off with a picnic lunch on their first day. There was a sandy beach a five minute walk away and they left the cottage clad in their suits and beach towels, expecting to spend late morning and afternoon there. She could hardly wait to introduce him to all of the things she’d enjoyed doing as a child: a sandcastle raised here and there, to abandon at will; swimming, of course, but also wave jumping, if possible; crawling, playing at ancient amphibians, out through the succession of sandbars; wading out to the one or two huge rocks beyond to do some diving into the finally deeper waters; and now with him, the prospect of long, long unchaperoned walks to the neighboring beach along the wide beckoning curve of the bay, with time to share, and of double that joy with going back again.

There were two ways that led to the bay, and together they formed a sort of square. The one most used was by way of the lane and then two roads along to the path down to the water. Right, left, left. The other direction up the lane led into the woods, to a narrower trail running parallel to the creek that eternally sang behind the cottage, trilling toward the bay. That trail crossed, a bit further up, the same path that led to the water. Left, right. The trail was deemed the shortcut but it amounted to the same distance. There was a sort of panache about using the trail, adding to the illusion of private beach access. The old man living in the last cottage along the lane misanthropically claimed that the access into the woods was solely his; he clearly could not bear the invasion of light foot traffic past his door but everyone on the lane ignored him.

Both the creek and the trail extended beyond the turn for the beach, much further into the woods. The spring fed creek was sometimes blocked by a beaver dam. Local wallies went back into the resulting swamp, got all hooted up, and blasted out the dam. For awhile, the creek ran high again. The beavers persisted, and so did the wallies. The seldom frequented section of the trail meandered slightly uphill even further, past the dam and the swamp, traversing a deeper forest, with mature hardwoods and a taller understory. Young Ivy had never quite dared to go that way; not afraid of legendary giant beaver, simply unwilling to go it alone, sensibly wary of lurking wallies. At the junction to the beach she paused.

“Want to walk in the woods, first?” R.T. was so happy to be there, he would go anywhere, do anything. Ivy was animated, describing the route and its many features, before they fell into a sort of silence, unbeknownst to them a sign of respectful acknowledgement of where they were. And that is how they entered the glade, quietly, hand in hand, rapt by the high light freely poured into the bowl of space opened before them.

“Is this what they mean by ‘dappled’? whispered Ivy into R.T’s sheltering shoulder.

“Let’s be naked here together, be a part of nature, the way it all begins.”

“Now? You mean now?” Ivy glanced about her. No excuses, at least in human form, materialized.

“Now. Let’s look at each other as a part of all this beauty.” It was surpassing lovely. Swept away by the solitude, enamored by their ecstasy, they soon stood apart and bare as the forest floor between them, shafts of sun as a mythic blade bronzing the sward, where they might have lain, protecting their amazed, adoring mutual gaze. The sun dimmed, the moment passed. Enriched, distilling the revelation, they retreated, more suitably dressed for the scrutiny of the public eye. Play always came easily to them, after that morning.

Somewhere, on her beach, Lee could meet that moment; who could deny such bliss? So many years on, and Ivy reveled in it, still. Who would crave the superficial, after such an insight? Absent R.T., she’d have spent a lifetime attempting to resurrect that connectedness again and again, mistaking it no doubt in the artifice of certain personalities offering a plausible swap, and she giving too much affection in return. That same, cottage grandmother had been a young widow; she complained about the widowers who approached her for marriage, fellow card-players, deciding that their protestations of love were based simply on a hope for regular and decent meals, at which she was a true proficient. Hers was not a bad precedent to follow, accurately ascertaining the inauthentic.

It was reprise of the previous Sunday afternoon. Bert was having a deja-vu moment as he led a flagging Pocano up the POPS drive – it was only for the third time in a row in his afternoon charade – and saw Gina’s car near the front door. This time, the pile of stuff was exiting, not entering her car, and was in the process of being handed, in bucket brigade fashion hand over hand, in through the wedged open front door.

“Ah, look, it’s Mr. Steinhardt, right on time for a canine cooking class.” Gina was already in form.

“Hello, girls. Gina.” Bert approached her with one of his best dog combos. “So, what do you get when you cross a Bloodhound with a Labrador?”

“OK, Bert. What do you get?”

“A Blabador.” This didn’t sound so good as it looked in print. He could see her thinking, amongst other things.

“This would be a dog, wait, wait, I’ll get it, that talks too much?”

“Hey, you’re quick! Got one for me?”

“Mr. Steinhardt?” Poppy piped in. “How to bees get to school?”

“I give up.”

“They take the buzz.” Poppy was triumphant.

“My turn.” Pansy, not to be left out, had one too. “What do you do if you break all of the little piggies on your foot?”

“Tell me.”

“You call a toe truck!”

“Runs in the family, I see.” Bert addressed them all.

“I’m training them.” Gina flashed a grin. “My turn. Two hydrogen atoms meet, and one says, ‘I’ve lost my electron!’ The other one asks, ‘Are you sure?’ And the first one says…?”

Mrs. James emerged, inventory foremost in her mind, from the lobby, “I’m positive that…”

“Yes! That’s it! Well done, Mrs James.” Gina exclaimed, while everyone else was simply bewildered.

“I was going to say,” Mrs. James continued, “that I was sure that I’d seen only one backpack taken inside. Good, here’s the other one. There’s homework this weekend, remember?” The girls harbored a hope that she hadn’t known. They didn’t comprehend this new vigilance in their collective of caregivers.

“If that’s everything out of the car, then, I’ll be off.  Poppy, Pansy, enjoyed your concert. You were fantastic. It was all great. Can’t wait ’til the next one.” Gina hugged them, and turned to go. “Nice to see you again, Bert.”

“Wait, please. Could I have yours again, your joke, one more time?” Bert, floundering, wasn’t accustomed to the rapid pace of child-timed turnovers. Mrs. James had already ushered her charges indoors. Bert, Pocano, and Gina owned the drive, temporarily. Gina paused, attentively. “Unless,” Bert plunged, “you’d like to share some of your best jokes in a slightly more adult setting, over a few drinks?”

“How about without dogs, as well?” Gina had never seen Bert without his dog attached. Some guys were like that. She was skeptical of them.

“Oh, of course. Just taking Pocano upstairs.” For this self-serving abandonment, Bert received a baleful glance from his faithful but badly used companion, who would undoubtedly revisit this infraction at a later date. “Let’s go in my car.” he suggested. “I’ve got an extra parking space downstairs. If you’d like to pull around the ramp, I’ll let you in the garage.”

“When is a car no longer a car?”

For a split second, Bert thought she was serious. He would have to keep on his toes to be able to tell the difference. Toe truck, ha!

“Um…”

“When it turns into a driveway. Sorry, it’s the one we always tell when we arrive here.” She pulled into his extra space.

“Glad to hear that our building is such a source of amusement. Makes a change for us these days. If you could just wait for me in the lobby, I’ll be right back.”

“Depending on the elevator.”

“Oh that, yes. There are a few novels on a shelf there, if it gets long.” The POPS had one of those communal bookshelves where residents left books they had read, to share theirs, and in turn, to pick up others’ discards. Gina’s department at work had one of these little collections, too, but it mostly housed police procedurals, true crime, and murder mystery. Conversation in the break room often turned on the glaring inaccuracies in these books, as noted by the scoffing experts of the force. Not quite sure what she’d just let herself in for, she reasoned that, as they had been introduced by Mrs. James, how bad could Bert be. Gina left a message for Georgia, explaining where and with whom she’d been waylaid, then turned for a quick browse; she had ample time.

“It’s a bit early to drink. Fancy a spin, first?” Bert proposed. He had returned, a little more formally dressed, and they were exiting the drive in his black BMW.

“That sounds nice but you don’t ever have to wait for me to have a drink. It must be five o’clock someplace, I always say.” Bert hopped on the ramp to Hwy. 41 and headed north-west. It was the route to Asphodel Meadows, not that he intended to take her there, not yet. As far as he knew she knew, he was just some schlub with a big dog, who lived somewhere in the building. He wanted to take the drive to see how he felt about being that, a man without a reputation, without wealth, and how she might respond to just him.  Anyway, there were some decent places up that way, for drinks, and for supper, if things went well. As he drove out into Washington County, he was surprised to see Gina relax back into the seat.

“I can tell a competent driver when I see one.” Gina offered into the quiet of the space. “And your lovely car is purring, so if you don’t mind, I’ll just take in the ride. Don’t often get a run this far out of town.” She simply watched out the windows, radiating contentment.

Bert reflected that here was this stranger, no longer intangible, worth knowing, and so tantalizing, quite suddenly in his life, although a mostly unknown and unexamined stranger, with some flimsy, or unstated, perhaps even ultimately unfortunate, connection with which he’d later have to contend. He found himself asking what he might discover about himself too, a subject effectively proven uninteresting and a closed book to him for as long as he could remember, now as intriguing to him as what he’d find out about her.

The only self-examination he’d attempted of late was his own interpretation of recent events in the building, and his own retiring role in them. Out here, heading north by northwest, that all seemed so exquisitely far away. He’d certainly given his daughter a complete pass, for any responsibility for any of that nastiness. For himself, he understood finally, he’d done the expedient thing. Would it be the same with Gina? Would he do an expedient thing, even aware of the attraction he was so palpably feeling, even in this moment, as she rode beside him. Perhaps her diffidence and his expediency would prove excellent companions.

He pulled into the lot of a favored supper club; she came back to life.

“Is this a live music place?”

“I believe so, but I think we’re a bit early. It should be pretty quiet in there.”

“Good. It’s hard to hear jokes over a live band.”

“I guess I’ve never tried but I see what you mean. You’d be having to shout out punch lines. Embarrassing when the music stops.”

Bert spent Friday morning on the internet, researching jokes. For every one he liked, there were dozens of pathetic ones, endless variations, or just plain repetitions. The longer he looked, the less funny the jokes sounded, just like the proverbial guy at the party telling too many and who, desperate to be the life of the party, bored a fixed stare onto any trapped listener, who then drank to excess to compensate for social paralysis.

Bert persisted, needing a few more corkers to add to his quiver. Not knowing Gina’s taste in comedy, only that she liked to joke, to be prepared for anything he included a number of genres. For business meetings, he generally lined up only the one joke to deliver during any remarks he might give. Now he had to be prepared to trade, possibly a joke for a joke; anything to get her interested, and say she’d go out with him.

And, this was all on the off-chance that she’d arrive at the building at the usual time to drop off the girls. He was hoping to seem to bump into her then, be amusing and casual, and strike before she was on her way. Would his attempt at witty and spontaneous demeanor persuade her, or would he muff his chance? The timing was so uncertain; all Bert knew was after school on Friday. He hadn’t a clue when school got out; he’d have to trot up and down, looking like an idiot, all along Prospect, hoping he wouldn’t be suspected of loitering, or something worse. Pocano would have his legs walked off, playing his part in the scene.

The concert finale was timed to coincide with dismissal and the plan was that Gina would take the girls directly to the POPS. Georgia and Gina had arrived at school separately and each looked forward to a free Friday evening, a respite they used to recover from the week, to catch-up on whatever had been missed or mislaid along the course of it.

Greg, as instructed, had avoided even so much as eye contact with them while at school. After the extravaganza, sitting in his car and retrieving his missed calls, he observed Gina’s departure with the girls, and Georgia’s, on her own. He took an unpremeditated chance and rang Georgia’s cell.

“Hi. Thanks for including me. Any chance we could meet and talk for a bit?”

“Wait. Aren’t you supposed to be rushing back to take care of the girls?”

“Mrs. James will be there.” he sheepishly admitted. “She’s much better at that preliminary sorting out than me. I’ll catch them later.” He didn’t  add that he’d just failed to even recognize his daughters amongst their classmates. “How about a quiet drink, someplace nice?”

“It’s a bit early for me, and I’m not dressed for someplace nice.”

“I can meet you at home in an hour.” Greg offered. “Please.” Please had worked the last time. Maybe he should say it more often. “I’d like to have the chance to discuss how our new plan is working out, so far.”

Georgia weakened. It had been a crazed week. The thought of a nice, quiet bar seemed more pleasurable than not, even though she was apprehensive about what he wanted to talk about. She was beginning to feel a bit silly constantly using Gina as an intermediary, though Gina never objected. She knew that Gina cared about them all and would do anything for her but maybe she and Greg really should be talking again, one on one. He’d looked so patient standing there at the gym door and she’d wished for just a perplexing moment that, well, that it could be different. Then, she’d been annoyed at herself for imagining that it ever could be.

“Oh, alright then. I’ll see you at the house, in an hour.”

Later, small talk completed, next to him at the little table that held their adult beverages, she sank back into the plush of the chair, sighed, and gazed at him. She’d almost forgotten how good-looking a man he was, how she’d always felt like a million bucks just being beside him and had loved being the object of his attentions. It had been awhile. She couldn’t help but see something of their girls in him, though she’d always fancied that they took after her side of the family, resembled her even. That joke was on her; she giggled.

“What’s the joke?”

“Your daughters are starting to resemble you.”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“No, unless polished and handsome is bad.”

“Thank you, I’m sure.” What is this all about now, Greg wondered but pressed on. “Time for a refresher?”

“Sure. I’ll have another.” Georgia quite liked being treated tastefully by a gentleman, in a public place. She could just about imagine what Gina would say to her. She’d left a message saying she was out for a drink with Greg and that she’d tell all when she got home. The second round served, Greg raised his glass to her.

“Wooden shoe!”

“Wooden shoe!” Georgia chorused. It was a long-standing toast between them, from their courtship days, and referred to his career of coaching skating, and his childhood love of Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates, a story set in Holland about a boy who wore the traditional wooden shoes to skate in a race, inspired to win to save his family.

“Good to hear the girls singing Mairzy Doats, wasn’t it? Do you think they learned it in the cradle?” This bit of supposedly unintelligible WW2 doggerel was employed for coded messages, and ended with the phrase ‘wooden shoe’, that translated meant, ‘wouldn’t you?’ It was a very, very inside story.

“Greg, you’re an idiot. That wasn’t the girls’ class singing that at the concert, it was the junior kindergarten class. Didn’t you look at the program notes?”

“The programs were all gone when I got there.” Greg looked abashed. “I guess I just got carried away remembering that it was special to us, um, our family.” Georgia then informed him what the third grade classes had actually performed and promised to give him one of the programs that she and Gina had each, apparently greedily, taken. Into this concession, Greg dared to dump the problem of the play dough project.

“That was Gina’s idea. She wanted to hand you the ultimate test first.”

“Here’s to Gina. Let me guess? She didn’t want to do it either and pawned it off on me?”

“Exactly so. That project’s on my list to discuss with the teacher. Too much to ask, if you ask me. Of course, you can do conferences, too.”

“We seem to have run out of beverages before we’ve run out of talking points. Would you consider going on to supper, to continue?”

“And Mrs. James?”

“Mrs. James will roll with it. She’s the best.”

“She must be, to put up with you. Now that I’m all dressed up, are we going someplace even nicer?”

Mrs. James, unsure of the girls’ arrival time this afternoon – something special was happening at school – had fall into customary conversation, this time about faith and religion, with Gervase, while waiting in the lobby.

“Are you a believer?” Gervase led in gently, for fear of offending.

“I’m Episcopalian.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“Oh, that we needn’t bother with such questions. It’s all self-explanatory.” This formed her standard reply to such inquiries.

“But you do respect others’ beliefs?”

“I respect anyone who’s sincere about practicing his, and still respects mine. Ah, here they come! Let’s pick this up another time, OK?”

Kitty skipped the dolefully and communally consumed breakfast oatmeal; she showed up at eight, still hungry and thirsty, as Herbie explained that any food, clothing, or personal grooming expenses associated with her public appearances would be covered, although she would of course be told what to eat, what to wear, and how to look on those occasions. For their daily training sessions, a casual dress code sufficed. He leered at her breasts momentarily, then, from a box in the corner, handed her a church logo t-shirt, adult size small, and excused her to change into it.

Now they were closeted alone, in the dark room with the door ajar, seated side by side at the near end of the table, well out of the view of passers-by. Herbie was purposefully stifling any of her remarks and moving swiftly to describe her assignment.

“You’ve been chosen for a specific job, for a specific reason. I’ve recognized in you certain preferred characteristics and recommended you on that basis.” Herbie patted her now bare arm. His previous compunctions about propriety apparently held no sway by light of day. “Here is the scope of the new mission. National attention begins to focus on our state as one where notably conservative and demonstrably spiritual values are re-taking their rightful hold.”

They can make a pile, thought Kitty. Amen to that. Sign me up.

“A tour is in the planning stages. It will feature the bright lights of the evangelical stage, and a full range of talents. You, because of your experience in speaking, may be considered for inclusion in some of these events.” Herbie rested his hand on her shoulder. “There will be an opportunity for you to demonstrate your ability, in a small way to begin, and if you excel, you may be considered for a wider range of presentations, live and recorded. This will be an opportunity for you to hone your delivery of the message you will be told to give.”

I’ll have to sell their medicine, instead of mine. It would be all about how much money, not the number of souls, collected while she was on stage. If they said she bombed, it would be because of poor receipts. Last night, she’d had a nightmare. She’d finally located a dependable and regular supplier of paper butterflies on etsy, an online marketplace of handmade goods, but the site was down, and the butterflies flown. She’d had to alter her presentation and she’d woken up with a cold sweat, in a strange room.

“The mission will be Biblically based, focused on a series of events designed to replicate New Testament miracles. Using your local knowledge of people and places, you will seek out appropriate venues for the re-enactment of these miracles. You will perform this research and liaise through me.” With this instruction, Herbie reached down and pressed her knee. “Your superiors will make final decisions concerning those that will be presented to either live, or studio audiences. Your input will be critical but each setting you recommend will be thoroughly field tested before a production phase is scheduled. You will be given enough information to do your research but will not in any way be involved in determining the nature of any of these events.”

Water into wine. Kitty remembered that one. At least they weren’t going to sideline her into wedding planning.

“You and I will do the first part of your training here. You’ll learn these miracles by heart, so that you can be instantly responsive to the many venues you will be reviewing. Any expenses you incur while researching, you will present to my son, Timothy, who works here in this house, and you will be reimbursed, according to our judgement in the matter. Any meals or other food expenses accrued away from the house will not be covered.”

It’ll be a miracle if I ever eat here. I’d rather pay then be stuck and carbo-loaded in this shack. Kitty loathed oatmeal.

“You must be prepared to respond to any situation where you will be representing us – without disclosing our mission in any way – while appearing confident and assertive. Of course, you will never assert yourself with me.” Herbie cautioned Kitty, tapping her on the nose with a bony forefinger.

Assertive? Moi? Kitty figured there was more than one way to skin this cat.

“At no time will you speak directly with anyone in the national organization nor with anyone else  in our church family. You will work hand in glove with me to speedily achieve these goals, and report to me alone. You are a field agent only, until I say otherwise.”

Your job is on the line. Without me and my information, they’ll be looking for somebody else and some other church to do the groundwork. But Hallelujah! They’re going to let me outside of this room!

“Any questions, Kathy?”

“These venues. Indoor? Outdoor?”

“Both. Scripture reveals a variety of settings for the miraculous.”

She wondered what would happen when it rained.

“What happens when it rains?”

“There will be some reliance on longer range forecasts. That is not your concern.”

Wait. Didn’t Jesus calm some waves? Guess she was about to find out.

“If you have no further questions, we will begin.”

“When and how will I be paid?”

“Weekly. Timothy will be handling your paycheck. You can see him about that. I had hoped your questions would focus on our mission.”

I leap to do your bidding. Kitty determined to play the game.

“I’m ready for miracles now, Herbie. Herb. Mr. Minosa, sir.” Herbie reached for her hands, enfolding them between his, raising them in a lengthy and breathy prayer.

Gina phoned Greg, to remind him about the concert at Poppy and Pansy’s school on Friday afternoon.

“Concert?” Greg was drawing a blank.

“Look, Greg, you’re supposed to be finding out about this stuff, now. Look on the school website, or get on the mailing list, or ask them, or something. I said I’d help but you have to get with the program here, OK?”

“Sure. Thanks, Gina, I will but in the meantime what’s about tomorrow, now?”

“It’s the last one of the year. Parents and family go to hear their darlings. Georgia wants to know if you’ll be showing up.”

“Are you both going?”

“Wouldn’t miss it! Kids out of tune, the proud, tone-deaf parents bawling, what could be better?” Gina outlined the details, reminded him that if he came he shouldn’t sit with them, and that he was unlikely to actually speak to the girls, or with either of them, not in public. Oh, and there would be no place to park close-by.

“Sounds great! Thanks, Gina. I’ll see if I can make it.”

On Friday, Greg dutifully arranged his schedule to fit. He felt as though he should be wearing a disguise, going incognito, but then his daughters wouldn’t see that he was there, and that would defeat the object. He arrived a bit late, after parking blocks away, uncertain what entrance to use. He followed the stragglers, and hoped. He ended up in standing room only, in company with a demographic of presumably other spurned ex-spouses, all miserably exposed as not belonging, clinging like so many barnacles to the framework of the opened, gym double doors.

Some kids were lined up and chirping their irresistible way through some classic numbers; he recognized Mairzy Doats. The girls had been doing it in the car of late, terrifically amused. They must be in this group but the children all looked the same, kind of little. He was such a bad father, didn’t know his own kids when he heard them.

As Martinelli predicted, the report did come back the next day. There was an ‘extra’ clear print on Lee’s bike, one that didn’t match any of the group already taken. He phoned Mrs. James.

“Mrs. James? Martinelli, here. Yes, yes, I’m fine, thank you for asking. Look, there’s something of a sensitive nature we’re wondering if you might consider doing, to assist us. We’ve turned up a print on the bike that’s different from any we collected last night. Could you, on your own, find out from Lee if she was aware of anyone else who could have left a print on her bike? We never asked her directly, the state she was in, and we’re thinking that she might confide in you.”

Mrs. James decided that there was no point in extracting information from Lee without first telling her why she was asking. The best she could hope for, if there was anything else for Lee to tell, would be to simply say that the police were asking; they quickly wanted to eliminate any of her friends from their inquiries before they questioned anyone else in the matter. She walked across the hall and inserted the unit key she’d been given so she could check in on Lee, while Guy and Carrie were gone to work. It seemed prudent to leave the door locked in their absence. The TV was on but Lee was disinterestedly turning the pages of a celebrity studded magazine.

“Hi, Mrs. James. Glad you came. It is soooo boring, I could scream.”

“Well, perhaps that’s good, an incentive to get better soon. What can I get for you?” Lee was able to manage hobbling the few steps to a bathroom, at least, so she didn’t require a constant nursemaid. Mrs. James brought her a plate of nibbly bits to last her awhile and sat down opposite.”Mr. Martinelli has asked me to ask you again about your bike.”

“What about it?”

“Well, it seems that there’s a still unidentified print. They want you to remember if there’s anyone else who handled your bike. If they can find a match, they could drop that person from their investigation, always assuming that person meant you no harm. What do you think? Anyone else come to mind?” Lee looked down. Mrs. James waited.

“I didn’t tell because my Dad would kill me, and Aunt Gina would just give me the look.” Mrs. James waited. “Do you have to tell them?”

“I’m asking so I can tell the police, Lee, and help your family. If it is so terrible, let’s figure out a way we can tell them, OK?” Lee sighed.

“Oh, alright. Do you remember I told you about the boy, at the dance?”

“Yes, the unfortunate Michael.”

“You have a good memory, don’t you?”

“I try to pay attention to important things.”

“The week I got my bike, I went riding, down by the lake. I didn’t tell my Dad I was going to meet Michael there. We waded in this beautiful bay with a sandy beach, so much more private than Bradford. We hiked up into the woods, and walked and talked, and filled our pockets with cool looking stones and sat all alone way out into the water on this pier thingy. All you could hear was the lake splashing all around us. It was like being in a different world. I was so happy, then I remembered it was wrong somehow and I felt like a kid with a burst balloon.”

“And you think Michael touched your bike that day?”

“I know he did. He carried it down to the beach for me, across some steps, where we locked them together. But he’d never hurt me, and even if he wanted to, he didn’t then, when he had a chance to, which he didn’t cause he knew we weren’t supposed to be alone together, and he couldn’t have come into the garage. What will happen? I really like him.” Mrs. James considered this whirlwind, before answering.

“Do you happen to have anything else that definitely has his prints on it? A memento?”

“Don’t think so.” Mrs. James pondered what had become of girls, these days.

“Then, when I give his name to Mr. Martinelli, they will likely take his prints, as they did yours yesterday. If the print is Michael’s, it means that whoever did this to your bike left no prints. The police will try and approach it another way. If it isn’t his, they will continue to try and identify whose it is.”

“Will he get into trouble? He’s so sad already, about his Dad and everything. I don’t want him to hate me.”

“I can’t think why he would hate you or get in trouble, unless his mother, I assume now, has a rule that he can’t see girls on their own.”

“He told me his parents didn’t care.”

“Well, I’m sure they do, perhaps just about different things.”

“Will you tell on me?”

“Give me a minute to think about that.” They sat quietly together. Finally, she said, “You say you like this boy and he likes you and you’d like to see him again?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then I’d suggest that you approach it like this. Ask them to listen because you want to explain something you did. Tell them what happened, exactly, just like you did me but be prepared to answer questions you don’t want to, and do try not to be a drama queen. They will not ruin your life. Tell them you realize you made a mistake, that you didn’t ask them because you thought they’d say no. They will tell you that it’s a big world out there and they want you to be safe. I’m sure you understand that a lot better now, yourself.”

“I know, I do. But what good will it do? They’ll just ground me.”

“Maybe they will, for awhile.” Mrs. James grinned.”This would be an excellent week for that, though, wouldn’t it?” Lee giggled. “Point is, now that you want to be with a boy, you need to let them know that, so they can meet him, and know that you are learning to be responsible about your relationships, with other people but also with them.”

“I have to trust them to let us see each other? What if they say no again and say I’m too young?”

“Accept that you may have to do this in stages, prove you’re responsible, and on time, and where you’re supposed to be, that kind of thing. And Lee, you are very young, and you have a lot to learn.”

“It sounds so boring. We were having such a good time just by ourselves.”

“Then you’re very lucky in your choice of friends. In order to keep them, you’ll be better off playing by the rules first, and then watch how the rules ease up, because your family knows that you don’t need their rules anymore. The rules you live by yourself will be good enough.”

“Do you think they might let him come over to visit me, while I’m stuck here?”

“It’s worth asking. You may have to wait for an answer, give them some time to get used to the idea. Perhaps you have some other friends you could include, at first.”

“Trouble is, everyone wants to go out and have fun, not sit around like this.”

“Even so, they are your friends. By the way, I was going to ask Gertie to come down to visit. Is that OK with you?”

“Sure.”

“Fair warning, though. We may gang up on you and ask for your help with sorting out pet pictures.”

First thing Thursday morning, R.M.’s phone jangled him away from his morning crossword. He tended to linger a little longer than he should some mornings, especially over the trickier puzzles.

“Morning, this is R.M.”

“Good morning. This is Dr. Thorne speaking. I hope I’m not disturbing you too early?”

“Not at all. How are you?”

“We are all well, thank you. I always feel it’s best to call people early in the day, before they get busy.” R.M. set his puzzle aside.

“What’s on your mind?”

“It’s really on my daughter’s mind but I believe you can help me with her questions.”

“Would you prefer to get together to talk or to ask me over the phone?”

“If you have time, now?”

“Go ahead.”

“My daughter is Keki’s mother, a single mother. She lives here with us but was at work the afternoon you came to tea. We take care of Keki when she’s away. She is being promoted, to a position that will require her to be often out of town, professionally, I mean. She is interested in buying a condo for all of us to share, with two bedrooms and two baths. As long as Keki is little, two bedrooms will be adequate. I told her I would ask you about it.”

“I can help you with this. First thing she should do is meet with a lender to find out about a monthly mortgage amount, what I term a ‘comfort level’, before she starts looking at units. So many people go out looking at properties first, and are disappointed later when the lender says they’re not looking in the appropriate price range.”

“Oh, she’s already done that! She’s very organized. I’d like to take the credit for that but I think she’s better organized than I will ever be.”

“It does seem to run in the family. So she has a price range in mind, then?”

“Yes, she says it’s between $300 to $350 thousand. It’s a good promotion!”

“There are many choices in that range. So, what are the basics here? She’s looking downtown, correct? You said two bedrooms, two bathrooms. You have just one pet – the white cat?”

“Two, actually. Our other one is shy.”

“And how many cars?”

“Two, again. As we will be there more than she, Mrs. Thorne and I would prefer, as I’m sure you remember, to be near the lake with a clear view of the water. If she ever has to move away, she would like us to live there, and keep a guest room for her.”

As was often the case with decisions about other people’s lives and properties, R.M. walked a line, fine like the edges of the paper contracts that filled his days. His role was to satisfy the desires of his customers, whether they could articulate or afford them, or not. The process, whether intuitive, hit and miss, or statistically exact, brought buyers close to their perception of value, though some were unlikely to ever settle on less than an absolute.

For consumers in this culture, perfection was, more often than not, the entitled reward. Some required that certain ‘Wow’ factor to get them over the top and into contract. Others figured that ‘Wow’ must be more expensive and eschewed those choices. To give them their due, a few buyers said that a place was good enough; clearly, for these people, there were other, often unspoken, priorities. The impossible customers, those who never, ever bought, used ploys – the wallpaper in the powder room was just too awful – to ever consider buying this, or any other listings they determined to be equally dismal, though for other excuses, shown to them.

R.M. left it up to the lender to work out the details of who was buying what for whom, and on what terms. Once that was established, he could do his job, introduce buyers to properties most likely to meet their needs. Everyone was different. He had a kindergarten teacher friend who’d said it best, about her years and years of incoming children; every year the molds are broken and each child, and by extension buyer, is unique. Buyers didn’t care about him personally, understandably, despite the focus given by the larger brokerage firms to this type of branding, but his principal care was to discover, very quickly, how they wanted to live and in what, with all of that wrapped, as a silk cocoon, into a price point.

“OK, Dr. Thorne, I appreciate your call. This is what I’ll do. I’ll research what’s currently on the market, with these details in mind. Did you want these results e-mailed for you to look at, or would you prefer me to bring them to you so we can discuss them, with your daughter?”

“You can e-mail them to me, and we’ll look together first, then call you with questions.”

“Alright, let me get to work. I’ll send you what I have later today. One last question before I go. I’m assuming that you’d be ready to move quite soon?”

“We do have a lease on our apartment but it will be up for renewal in a month or so. That’s one of the reasons my daughter thought this would be a good time to make a move.”

“And your daughter’s name. I can’t keep calling her ‘your daughter’, or ‘Keki’s mom’.”

“Of course. Her professional name is Sue, Sue Thorne.”

Mrs. James had been thrilled to hear that Kitty Doyle was leaving the building and she went down early on Thursday morning to share the news with Gervase. In this case, she was keen to gossip outright.

“Gervase, did you hear the news! Kitty Doyle…”

“…is moving!” they ended together, like any old married couple, finishing each others’ sentences.

“I saw her going. How did you find out?” Gervase had hoped to be the first to tell her.

“It came out, last night, up at the Karon’s. Martin had seen her packing up the day before. We had no idea her place was up for sale, did we?”

“No, we didn’t. And, we still don’t.”

“Odd.” She looked at Gervase, who burst out laughing.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself. Reason I knew, was that she’d tied up the elevator. She had some kids there with a truck, moving stuff out. I reminded her that she needed to arrange a time for this.”

“Yes, a real rule-follower, that one. I just hope she pays her bill before she goes. Hans told me she got it. The girls will be so excited that she’s gone. They keep expecting her, or her witchy alter-ego, to materialize around every corner of this building.” Mrs. James seldom prattled; so much enjoyment lost. “Any idea where she’s going? Is it far?”

“Let’s face it. You mean, is it far enough!” Gervase hoped he wasn’t as transparent as this with most people. He put this down to Mrs. James, and marveled at the difference between a good witch and a bad witch. He’d never believed, up until this moment.

“Carrie Karon let drop that there was a hoped-for job down south and that she personally had – and gave – inside information, nixing Kitty’s prospects for said job.”

“Speaking of prospects, that interior designer, Vanity Fairbourn, who’s working up the other penthouse, you know, across from Steinhardt’s, deigned to speak to me and ask if there was any protocol about moving in. Guess her client is finally ready to make an appearance and understands that standards do exist, even for the likes of them, as my mother would say.”

Woody and Tad were unloading, by the time Kitty pulled up next to the truck; it was backed tight into the opening of the storage unit. They were being careful with her stuff, afraid of her displeasure; they’d seen enough with the man who’d come about the elevator. She peered inside the back of the truck. Tad thought she was glaring at him and dropped his side of the mattress. Unable to hold it up any longer, Woody let go of his side and the mattress came thumping down on the truck floor.

“Getting weak from hunger, boys?” Kitty insinuated. “Tell you what. I noticed a pizza place a few blocks back. Tad, hoof it over there and bring back whatever you both like, while Woody and I keep going.” She fished out folded bills from her inside jacket pocket, black gloves silky in the artificial light, and peeled back some tens. “That should do the trick.”

“Thanks! Anything for you?”

“Not now, Tad.” Tad obediently set off.

“There won’t be much to eat at the house, Miss Doyle, if you’re going to stay there tonight. Fixings for a small sandwich, if you’re lucky. They’re always talking about spiritual hunger and forgetting there are other kinds, too.”

“Where is this training center? Let’s sit down and you can tell me.” She tucked herself up, knees to chin, in the middle of the fallen mattress. He perched on one edge.

“It’s our old house. After the ministry took off, we moved to a better one, but my Dad said keeping the little house for multiple purpose rooms for traveling preachers, meetings, and training, was a good investment. There’s a bedroom and office suite for my kid brother. Dad likes having Moth living there, to keep his hand in.”

“Moth?”

“Short for Timothy. Anyway, my Mom said she didn’t want all those people in her new house.”

“What’s your Mom’s name?”

“Myrtle. Can you believe that? You have a nice name, Kathy. May I call you Kathy?”

“You can call me Kitty, if you like.”

“That’s even better. You’re like a pretty kitty, all curled up like that.”

“Have you been trained, Woody? What’s it like?”

“Who, me? No way. I just work here. Don’t believe in any of that stuff, do you?” Woody tested.

“Guess I’m about to find out for myself. Do you like to do that, Woody?”

“Do what, exactly?”

“Find things out, for yourself.”

“Depends on what it is.”

“Like me, for instance,” Kitty uncoiled and lay on her side, her head wantonly resting on her wrist, inches away from him, platinum strands flicked away and dangled through her free hand. “What would you like to find out about me?” Kitty drew that hand slowly down, painting a picture of her curving side.

“Same thing you want to find out about me?” gulped Woody.

“How hungry are you?”

“Starving.” Woody knelt on the mattress, sending up a quick prayer before partaking.

“Better get it quick, before Tad wants some, too.”

“Leave your gloves on.”

“Woody, where are your manners? Say please.”

When Tad arrived, bearing his hot and aromatic box, he couldn’t see that they’d done anything much in his absence. He’d taken his time, hoping it would be all done, so he could just eat at her expense, and go.

“Here, we left the mattress, for a table.” Kitty winked at Woody. “It’s a multi-purpose mattress.” Her phone buzzed. It was Herbie. “Almost done. Just feeding the five thousand. Or two boys, anyway. Are you waiting for me? How sweet.”

Another hour later, Herbie stood in the blare of the front porch light, directing into the dark. “Just park over there, on the drive.” She dragged her case out of the car and into the entry. “Were Linwood and Thaddeus satisfactory?” Kitty murmured her appreciation. “You’re very late. I see you have a suitcase. Your room’s upstairs.” He didn’t offer to carry it up for her. He had the air of a man who was accustomed to having his own bags bell-hopped.  As she assumed the same level of attention, the bag served as a stand-off.

“Herbie, I’m a bit hungry, and you promised everything I could ever need.” Kitty rummaged through the kitchen cupboards, in uncharacteristically curious fashion. She was alarmed, in fact, to find no coffee, nor a coffee-maker. This boded very badly for the morning; she planned an early start, a drive out for a drive thru’. A disheartening surplus of carbohydrate basics spilled from the shelves, and one barely scrape-able jar of peanut butter. There were no eggs, no apples.

“There’s quick rice or noodles.” Herbie was testy. “We eat supper at five, before our evening work begins, not at this hour. We take early nights to rest for early mornings. Bible meeting begins down here at six sharp. We take in God’s word before we break the fast. I’ve left the reading, selected especially for your arrival, by your bed. You’ll need to be familiar with it. You’ll be introduced to the rest of the team and be expected to participate. You must call me Herb. I’ve got to go now. It’s unseemly for us to be here alone at this hour. Moth’s in bed.”

Kitty lugged her suitcase up the steps, reviewing the evening: a ravenous, agnostic son, a kept, younger brother, a regimented, prurient father, and a house-proud mother. Quite a lot to take in on an empty stomach; that was the only way she could swallow the readings designated for study at dawn. Something about a handmaiden, whatever that was. Nobody she knew.

The gloom of that room at six was surpassing any gloom she had ever known. Dark she reveled in, but illuminated, candlelit. This was just dark; a small, heavily paneled, windowless room – more a closet – the table oversized, with discomforting sticks for chairs wedged between it and the enclosing walls. The door was shut and the room stifling, the only air moving out of pontificating, cheerless lips, black looks darting at her from sunken, suspicious eyes. Wan, female faces gazed, pinched by the poverty of their point of view, and unkindly framed by unflattering hair, worn tightly back. Herbie had confiscated her purchased coffee at the door; she must resemble them all. Instruction continued for some interminable length of time, with just Bibles, no pencils, no paper, no room for thought, interpretation banished like her consoling caffeine.

Herbie, unrecognizable in his severity, lead the waltz. “…the gold standard of female behavior. What all women must aspire to, must become.” Kitty acknowledged her failure to meet this imposing degree of self-regulation but wasn’t inclined to confess it. Myrtle was glaring at her from across the table. Kitty guessed that she didn’t know what Linwood had been up to the previous evening. “Do you accept service on these terms, Miss Doyle?”

“The Lord being my helper.” Kathy dutifully replied. She’d read the required responses.

“Then we will proceed with your training. Report to me in this room, at eight.” The group silently exited. She hoped for a shower and a spot of make-up, sprinting upstairs, to be first in line, if there was one.

“Kathy?” She reluctantly turned, to face Myrtle Minosa. “I understand you met my son Linwood, last night.” From Kitty’s advantage up the stairs, Myrtle dwindled in size, became a Minnie Minus, evermore.

“Oh yes, Mrs. Minosa, and Thaddeus, too. Most helpful, and so eager. Will I be seeing more of them? They said they were staffers.”

“You may, from time to time. Ours is a large organization, with many people in it. I hope you’ll take our high standards very seriously. From now on, you represent us all.”

“Starting with your list, then.” Martin quickly deferred. “The brakes were cleanly snipped, the work of a moment, with the right tool. The family said the bike was never properly hung up, just only leaned against the back wall, without the kickstand. If the snipping could be easily enough done, without leaving any prints, this print collection we’ve got going here doesn’t mean very much. And, there have been no other reports of tampering in the garage or in other common areas, by any other residents. That makes it look very specific to the Karon’s, doesn’t it, so there goes your mischief theory?”

“Let’s say that’s right. Are we waiting for another incident? Nicely spaced a week apart, each time?”

“Don’t think so.” At that rate, Martin thought, we’ll be buying a unit here ourselves, just to be in the area in a timely manner. Maybe this crowd needed a cop, not a concierge.  “I don’t think many people do check their vehicles before driving, as a general rule. Most people just throw a car into gear and go, isn’t that right?”

“And then drive like shit.” Martinelli felt his mind free to soar when his underling did the mental lifting.

“A warning message could fit the facts here, given what’s happened last week. But who’s doing the warning, and what about? I gather that most of the residents opposed the development next door, so why go after a committee member who’s leading the charge against it? But is there a tie-in? Are we back to the Mangold’s?”

“This is too Mickey-Mouse for Mangold, that’s what I think. Like Guy says, there are other ways to deal it out, in business. I mean, he has a whole ferry boat could be blown up. Why mess with a girl’s bike?”

“Women’s.”

“Watch it, Martin.”

“You said it first. What about the Doyle woman, then? Piece of work, that one.”

“Have you started to notice how she’s always there, somewhere, but always just out of it, somehow never involved? I have a sister like that. Complete pain, she was, still is. Never to blame, somehow. A supreme goody two shoes.”

“Do you know that story?”

“What story?”

“About the real Goody.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me. We’re almost back at the station, so it’ll at least be quick.”

“It’s short and it’s old, three hundred years old. Back then Goody was a common name for a woman, or a wife, or a witch.”

“No differences between those?” Martinelli commented. “They were smart, back then.”

“Anyway, an educated young woman lost her home, and all her belongings, to a heartless landlord. She had only one shoe left – though, maybe it was her right shoe – who knows?” Martinelli groaned.

“In these reduced circumstances, she took up work as a traveling tutor and eventually obtained a permanent position, as a schoolmistress. Finally able to afford a whole pair of new shoes, she announced to her students, “See, I have both shoes! Goody has two shoes!”

“OK. Thanks. What’s this got to do with my sister?”

“Well, somehow from that woman, happy about her new shoes and her improving situation in life, we get an expression that means a prissy, vain female.”

“Now I get it. Very pleased with herself. That’s my sister all over. Know any more helpful fairy tales, do we?”

“Bet you didn’t know that the original Goldilocks was an old, female vagrant. She’s fared better than poor Goody, over time. Goldilocks is now a rosy-cheeked, golden haired innocent. Much like Miss Doyle, if you can believe her press, though when you get closer up, she’s not so young as she should be.” They had pulled into the car park but stayed in the car, gassing. Even their bad puns were better than the buzz of the office.

“Comes to us all. My wife blames it on gravity.”

“Gravity? Oh, you mean the one that brings things lower.”

“Is there another kind?”

“As in, the gravity of the situation. I don’t mean that Kitty Doyle looks serious, and therefore older. No, I just was surprised to see her as older than she sets herself up as being. Faking her age, like.”

“My wife calls me ‘craggy’ these days, says it’s an improvement from looking ‘dorky’, when I was younger.

“See, this is the thing. I never think about Mrs. Martinelli as being older because I’m always waiting for her to say something funny.” Martin refrained from making a comment on his boss’ physiognomy.

“Maybe funny to you.”

“When’s the last time you think Kitty Doyle said something funny, or laughed? Crabby faces look older.”

“I’m getting more interested in what she says that’s true, or not, not what she looks like. We should have a match on these prints tomorrow, courtesy of our bluebird of happiness technician. See what a low point a career in the force can bring a man to?” Martinelli mused about this from time to time, his own descent into cynicism, the other side of what he suspected was the same coin, the lot of a policeman.

“We never actually asked Lee Karon who she knew for certain had ever handled her bike, did we?”

“Other than her girlfriend that was there, no. You think there may be others?”

“We should ask her, or find out anyway, if there are any, before we start rounding up suspects.”

“Like Doyle, you mean?”

“Let’s just say instinct tells me not to trip off the Kitty early warning system. Save her for when we’ve actually got something.”

“OK. What if we ask Mrs. James to ferret that out from Lee? They seem tight enough. Maybe she’ll be more forthcoming with a friend than with us. She is sixteen and old enough to be keeping secrets from her parents, well, her family, shall we say.”

“With an aunt like hers, I might be careful to watch what I said, for fear of where it might come out again.”

“I got the feeling that Carrie prides herself on her discretion but that since this was a family matter, she’d tell all.”

“Maybe. I’m sure Mrs. James would rise to the occasion. But let’s wait and see what tomorrow brings. Think I’ll just check out from here and slip into the night. You can go in – you’re the young lion on this team – and face the other lions. Don’t call me. I’m going home to hear what amusing things Mrs. M has to offer. See you in the morning.”

There was never any hope that all of Kitty’s belongings would fit into the church truck, not all at once. Woody and Tad didn’t mind a bit; they got paid by the hour, a bit more for overtime and it was already near nine, and dark, even in the sunset sky. Before setting out on their second westbound leg, Kitty, who by now knew the way, said she had a quick errand to do, and would meet them soon, out at the place. She was in charge, they’d quickly learned.

At the drive through at the downtown post office, she extracted from her bag the police destined envelope, passing along the row of available mailboxes and noting that it was past the last posted pick-up time. Tomorrow is another day, she smirked as she watched her leather clad hand stuff that lode bearing mail down into the last box in the row; a day more promising for me, she crowed, than for some of the mopes this post would break.

There weren’t enough kitchen chairs for everyone; it was a first at the Karon’s, where the demand for seating generally centered around their bar, in the living room. Now, that was Lee’s space. Whispered conversation was fairly new to the kitchen as well, but there they all were, a huddle of henchman, in her service. Martin and Martinelli, Guy, Mrs. James, and Carrie due in any minute. Gwen had given up on adult company and gone to Lee’s bedroom, to wait.

“Do you have any enemies?” Martin felt foolish every time he asked this of anybody.

“I’m in business, Mr. Martin. Everybody in business makes some enemies. Plus, I deal with the end user, so there are complaints.” Guy sighed, removing from consideration that this could even remotely be the act of an irate customer. “There are ways to handle people and payback in business. For instance, I’m on the committee to try and stop a development next door. No secret about it. Does that make me hated to this extent? Maybe, but I doubt it. So no, I can’t think of anybody who’d take it out on me this personally, to try and hurt my kid, to get back at me. It’s obviously a girl’s bike.”

“Woman’s bike, actually.” Martinelli corrected.

“OK, OK. Anyway, how could anyone get in to even try?”

“A recurring question in your building.” Martinelli concurred. This conversation was echoing the one they’d had with Morrie Mangold, who’d also questioned if somebody at the POPS, to get back at him, had taken out a business matter on his nephew and, fatally, succeeded.

“Of course, I’m starting to look at everybody sideways, now. It’s horrible to think about neighbors this way.” Guy had been ruminating about his actions the night of the drowning. He hadn’t discussed his role in it with anyone, even Carrie, since parting from Bert that night. Was he a hypocrite? He’d been honestly trying to rescue the man with the pole, intending no harm, unlike this tamperer. Granted, he and Bert had agreed to abandon the body, once they’d figured out who it was. Had he feared a reprisal, even then? Had it happened that way?

“Are there any people with whom you don’t get along, anybody with a grudge?” Martin persisted with the stock questions.

“Can’t think who. Can you, Carrie?” His sister had just come home from her salon, looking as though she could use some tender loving care herself. “Long day?”

“I hoped it might be better, losing Kitty Doyle as a regular. She didn’t show up yesterday, her regular day, so I assume we’re done, whether she moves away or not. Not that she bothered to cancel her appointment, mind you.”

“Oh right, you’re her stylist.” Martin remembered not to say ‘hairdresser’. “She’s packing up her place. She was faking a drawl last week when she told us that she’s taking a new job, somewhere down south.”

“She’s sure not going to be getting that one, if it’s the one she mentioned to me.”

“How’s that?”

“After the stunt she pulled, she’s best kept far away from impressionable young girls, in my opinion, which I freely gave to my friend who works with twirlers here in town.”

“Sorry, not following.” Martinelli frowned. “Stunt?”

“My friend is Lee’s former coach. Her cousin runs the twirlers down south, where Kitty applied. I may have been her stylist but I’m not responsible for shaping her personality, or what she gets up to, once her hair and nails are done.”

“But what did she do, exactly?” Martin tried to help pry it out.

“She was caught last week having an affair with a parochial school principal, knowing her, to get back at Greg. How’s that for using your head, I ask you?”

“Greg?” Martinelli considered getting his own hair attended to more often if it meant finding bounteous information laid out like this, on a platter. Carrie dished up dirt like mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving.

“Greg Mendel. He lives here, too, with his little girls, the ones Lee and Mrs. James sit for. He ditched Kitty, last week, for more time with his girls.” Mrs. James had more to tell.

“She flushed Greg’s farewell flowers goodbye and overflowed a toilet, causing a leak and that stain on the meeting room ceiling. It’s fixed now, by the way, if you need to use the room again. The bill’s already been given to her.”

“So, Kitty had a grudge against Greg, big enough to finish off his flowers.” observed Martinelli, who now remembered talking briefly with the man.

“After she chopped them to bits, first.” explained Mrs. James. “According to Gervase, that is. He delivered the box up to her and later saw them in pieces all over the floor, when he took in the plumber.”

“Does she know that you gave a bad reference, Carrie? I heard you tell Cindy but Kitty couldn’t have heard about that, could she?” Guy, with an habitual ear tuned to the bitch sessions his sister routinely reported from her salon, feared the undetectable, complex communications of women.

“No way I’d tell her.”

“I assume, when you said you spoke with Cindy, that Lee was also a twirler.” Martin kept up with women rather well, in his own estimation, helpfully summarizing details for the benefit of his superior. Carrie nodded, impressed.

“She was in it for a long time, up until last year.”

“This is a long shot,” said Martinelli, “but did Kitty happen to know that Lee was a twirler?”

“I may have mentioned it to her. I do chat up my customers, have to have something to keep the conversation going. I doubt she’d ever remember. She never cares much about anybody else.”

“I think I can answer that.” offered Mrs. James. “Lee often talked to us about being a twirler, made it sound like a lot of fun. The girls told me that they’d asked their father if he thought it would be something for them to try. Kitty, so I heard, was with them on that occasion and dismissed it all as nonathletic and kitschy. I remember having to explain the word ‘kitschy’ to them. I’m their walking dictionary, it seems.”

“But didn’t you just say that she’s applied for a job working with twirlers?” Martinelli continued, perplexed.

“Welcome to the mind of Kitty Doyle.” Carrie pronounced. “Weird but certainly not wonderful.”

The mechanics of fingerprinting then proceeded, with the technical difficulties of a broken arm overcome by the experience and unlikely cheer of the technician, who when asked about it, extolled his joy at ultimately arriving at a simple vocation. Prints achieved, the police contingent left the condo. Martin and Martinelli began one of their summary chats on the way back to the station.

“Martin, I need to think this through and you’re going to listen. Everyone seems to assume that this was a vicious attack. What are the alternatives to that idea and do they throw up any clues our way?”

“Clues would be good.”

“I’m thinking of random, or, generally bad behavior, or, bikes themselves as a target, or, mischief looking for a place to happen, or, the Karons being in the wrong place at the wrong time, or, a warning message – as in, don’t annoy me anymore – before I do something worse.”

“Or, maybe the tamperer thought that most riders would check over their bike before they rode, at least the brakes.”

“What’s the matter with my list?” Martinelli burst out. “I’m in charge, so we’ll do mine first, OK?”

“Sorry, sir. Just brainstorming right along with you.”

On Wednesday morning, Kitty awoke to a call. It was not delivered, Old Testament style, in a dream; no lions, no giants, no beasts. The phone rang and roused her from dreams of a different kind, from a deep sleep brought on by her hours of frenetic packing up the previous day, dreams of running unimpeded and alone, sinuous along wave splashed sand, the beach so firm underfoot.

“Kitty Doyle.” she croaked, into the phone.

“You are Kitty no more.” intoned a man’s voice. “You are re-named Kathy, a Kathy called to service.” Kitty snapped awake in time to refrain from an uncalled for response.

“Herbie? Is this you?”

“The messenger, with excellent news. The Miracle Tour is coming and so is our leader. In the meantime, we must prepare.”

Kitty assumed this meant that she’d got the job. She sat up. “Am I in the employ of the leader, now?”

“Yes, with conditions.” He was extremely pleased with himself; his recruiting choice had won him high praise from their leader. From now on, he would be considered a link in the armored chain that bound that sublime organization. He could hardly wait to get his hands on his neophyte, to be the first to shape her for her coming role. “First, you are re-born as Kathy Doyle.” As her given name was Katherine, she, with reluctance, conceded the change. “Second, that you move to our pastoral house, to undergo intensive training.” As she had already arranged with White, Choyce, and Wong to pre-sign on her unit closing as soon as possible, and had no particular place in mind to lay her head after that, this too she was prepared to do. “Third, that you undertake this training immediately, with me, and my staff. The mission is at hand.” This was all beginning to seem like a doddle, effortless, even to a newbie.

“Herbie, I’m thrilled.  I’ve never had a call like this, ever.”

“We will take care of all your needs now, so you can fully enter the life of service to which you’ve been called.”

Kitty figured he must say this to all the ladies. Quite the pick-up line but two could play at this game. “Does that mean that your staff will move me out of here, and in there, so I can begin at once? I’m so ready to move, worked at it all day yesterday, just hoping for this moment. Please say yes!”

“You have spent your time well. I’ll send over my son Linwood, with the church truck. When would you want him?”

“You mean there’s a moving allowance built in, too? How wonderful! I have so much to put into storage, can you suggest a suitable place?”

“Linwood will pick up and deliver your things, yes, if you go along with him. We command a special rate there and will reimburse you for your storage expenses. Then, he’ll direct you to our training center. Pack lightly for that. We have everything you could possibly require.”

Kitty requested that the truck arrive after five that evening, when Gervase was done for the day. It would be a fine time to tie up the elevator, when people would be arriving home or going out for the night. She could then avoid the interference of the concierge, who always asked that residents inform him when a move was in the works.

That afternoon, once more in the throes of packing, she noticed by her door an invoice from the association, including the amount due the painting outfit that had just completed the repairs to the meeting room ceiling. Gervase, given a bill by the crew, had walked it up to deliver to Hans, slipping it under his door, and Hans, ascertaining its contents, had hastily transcribed it and slid it silently under her door, wishing to avoid another confrontation with Kitty.

She scrawled, in large, unfriendly letters, ‘you pay’, and sent it flying under Hans’ door. Hans, hoping to buy some time, slipped it back under hers, after suggesting at length, in his customary small and precise hand, that she call her own insurance company, to ascertain if they would pay for any of the damages. Later, he found it at his entry again, her new addition to it reminding him that, as he was about to become the new owner, he could call his own stupid insurance company. Scoffing, Hans wrote, up and down and in-between the lines on the now palimpsest-like invoice, explaining that the way it worked was that these costs were assigned to the current owner, not to the unit number itself, and that she was personally responsible for settling the bill by the time of the closing, whether she had any insurance, or not.

Furious at his obstinacy, before she packed up her computer, she donned a pair of dress gloves she’d found the day before in the back of a drawer, then printed out from her phone the incriminating picture of Peter’s car. She slid it into a standard mailer envelope, swiping the adhesive flap closed with a wet rag, and addressed it to ‘Martin, Milwaukee Police’, before stashing it first in a zippered plastic bag and then into her handbag. She quite liked knowing it was there, forced to bide its time, waiting for her will to act on it.

A few minutes after five, she went down to the garage and opened the door to a truck, waiting outside.

“Are you Linwood?”

“Yes, ma’am. Woody, to my friends. You can call me Woody.” Linwood leered at the pretty lady. There was another young man, in the passenger seat. “Here’s my cousin, Tad. You can call him Thaddeus, if you want.” Tad blushed furiously and looked at his shoes.

“Back in over by the elevator doors, and park. I’ll take you upstairs and we’ll get started. How old are you, by the way?”

“Twenty, ma’am, both of us.”

Just as Gervase was getting ready to leave for the day, late as usual, a few of the residents were standing and grumbling at the lobby elevator doors.

“What’s going on, Gervase? Damn thing’s jammed or something.” Gervase went to search, discovered a truck on the garage level, and walked up the back stairs to the first residential floor, where he saw the elevator doors blocked and the door to Kitty Doyle’s unit wide open, with sounds of grunting and heaving escaping into the hallway, along with a trail of boxes and bags. Never surprised by anything the Doyle woman might do, he was still curious. As far as he knew, this unit hadn’t been for sale but here she was, clearly moving, or showing all the customary signs of a complete-move out, anyway. Re-arranging for decorating looked quite different, to his trained eye. He knocked on the door jamb and called out a hello.

“Hey, Miss Doyle!” Woody yelled.”There’s some guy outside.” Kitty appeared.

“Excuse me, Miss Doyle, but are you holding the elevator, for some reason?”

“Yes.”

“Moving in or out is scheduled, according to association rules, so as not to inconvenience other residents.”

“Too bad, I’m using it.”

“I’ll have to free up the elevator, now.”

“Aren’t you already supposed to be off for the day?”

“Yes, I am, Miss Doyle but a number of people are wanting to use the elevator.”

“Whatever.” He released the elevator, rode it down to the lobby, and went home. Kitty and Gervase both knew that she would lock it up again the moment his back was turned.