So Rita relented.
Which Hudson immediately regretted.
With the eyes of a madman (or maybe just those of a man trapped in a dryer by a madwoman in high-tops), Vince Garnucci darted out of the laundry room, neatly avoiding Hudson with a quick zig and a long zag around a row of washers.
And while Hudson was calling, “Mr. Garnucci! It does no good to run away!” Rita was zigging around him in hot pursuit. “Rita!” the septuagenarian called after her, but that, too, was to no avail. Rita simply shouted, “He’s the Nightie-Napper!” like it was a crime of unparalleled proportions (while also clearly conveying that Hudson had better get his boots in gear to help her undo the damage he’d caused).
Unfortunately for Hudson, he was not familiar with the labyrinth of basement hallways, doorways, and shortcuts.
Also unfortunate for Hudson was that he couldn’t track his bride by the ticky-tap-tapping of her shoes as he normally might.
There was also the dilemma of having told Gil Borsch that they were in the Highrise basement—something he felt he should update the lawman about as soon as possible.
This collective of unfortunates was, however, nothing in relation to the huge unfortunate of having given his new wife advice that had backfired.
Still. It was with great relief that Hudson wound up on the first floor and immediately heard his wife’s voice (shouting as it was) from down a hallway near the manager’s desk. This was followed almost immediately by the additional relief of Sergeant Borsch whooshing in through the front door.
“Gil!” Hudson called. “This way!”
So the two men raced toward the sound of Rita’s voice and skidded to a halt when they saw Rita with her foot jammed in a doorway, preventing an apartment door with a dull brass MANAGER plaque on it from closing. “This is not a joke, Vince!” she was shouting. “And I’m not dropping it!”
“How old is she?” Gil asked, forgetting his manners (which were notoriously MIA anyway) as he took in the scene.
Hudson shook his head and neatly avoided the question. “I tell you, it’s the shoes.”
“Rita,” Sergeant Borsch said, approaching the impasse. “Let me handle it.”
“Hrmph!” Rita said. “If by ‘handle it’ you mean you’re going to let him get away again, no thank you! This building has been terrorized by the Nightie-Napper for … for years!”
“Terrorized?” Gil said with a bit of a smirk. “By someone who steals nightgowns?”
“It’s not just nightgowns! And don’t you mock me, Gilbert Borsch! Ask anyone who lives here—the situation has been very unsettling!”
Now, there is clearly a huge gap between being unsettled and being terrorized, but Gil Borsch (wisely) didn’t make an issue of it. Instead, he calmly reached over Rita’s shoulder and knocked on the door. “Police!” he barked. “Give yourself up, Garnucci.”
And just like that, the pressure Vince Garnucci had been exerting on the inside of the apartment door ceased, causing the outside pressure Rita had been exerting to fling the door open.
Hudson had been to the Highrise enough to have had many friendly exchanges with Vince Garnucci. Usually the topic was the weather, but one time the manager had told him a long story about his grandmother’s foray into a seedier side of town, where she’d been on her bicycle in search of some organic agave for her afternoon tea. “I guess I was too slow finding some for her, so she set out to do it herself,” the manager had said with a laugh. “I will never hear the end of it!”
Hudson had mentioned the exchange to Rita, who had advised him to avoid conversations concerning the grandmother at all costs. “Once he starts,” she’d warned him, “he goes on and on and on and on!”
And that had been the extent of the thought Hudson had given to Vince Garnucci’s bicycle-riding grandmother. Only now as the man disappeared down a hallway inside the apartment (leaving his front door wide open) did Hudson realize there was something peculiar about the situation. (Well, beyond a grown man stealing old ladies’ nightgowns, that is.) “Does his grandmother live here?” he whispered to Rita.
“I’ve never seen her,” Rita whispered back. “I was under the impression that she lived across town.”
But the question was understandable because the apartment was furnished in florals. From the slipcovers on the couch, to the window treatments, to the kitchen-chair cushions, to the lampshades, the place was like a three-dimensional quilt of unmatched flowery fabrics.
And then to the left, partly tucked away behind the door, Hudson noticed a bicycle. An old-fashioned, onespeed, yellow, slant-framed bicycle with a white basket (adorned with synthetic flowers), faded blue-and-yellow handle ribbons, and a classic ching-ching handlebar bell.
“Something’s not right here,” Hudson said, to which Gil Borsch muttered, “You can say that again.”
Then Rita (referring to the abundance of overlapping pillows propped neatly along the back of the couch) whispered, “I believe those used to be Rose Wedgewood’s muumuu.”
“I mean, beyond theft,” Hudson said, pointing out the bicycle. “Something’s not right here.”
“Oh!” Rita gasped. “She does live here?”
Wanting to get a better look, Rita stepped over the threshold, but both Hudson and Sergeant Borsch pulled her back. “We don’t want to compromise the investigation with an unlawful entry,” Hudson said.
“Exactly!” Sergeant Borsch agreed, eyeing Hudson with appreciation. Then he cupped his mouth and bellowed, “Garnucci! Get out here!”
From inside the apartment, a gray-haired woman appeared. She was wearing glasses, a collared floral dress, and Velcro-close shoes, and was relying heavily on a cane. “Go away,” came her high, warbly voice. “I’ll pay for the damages. Vinnie has been through enough.”
The trio stared at the woman a moment, not wanting to argue with her. She was, after all, old. Far older than Hudson or Rita.
But Sergeant Borsch eventually managed to clear his throat and say, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but—”
“I said I’d pay!” she warbled, taking another step forward.
And that was when Hudson noticed something peculiar. “Uh, Gil,” he whispered as he leaned over to speak to the lawman. “Look at the arms.”
“Huh?” Gil asked.
“The hair on the arms? It’s brown. And rather thick?”
With a jolt of horror Sergeant Borsch and Rita simultaneously realized what Hudson had already concluded: This woman was neither old nor (actually) a woman.
“I’m feeling very Psycho,” Gil Borsch said under his breath. “Rita, you might want to back up.”
“Vince,” Hudson said calmly to the (wigged-out) man, “we know that’s you.”
“I am Carlotta,” came the high (not-quite-so-warbly) voice. “And I demand that you leave us alone!”
“Sorry,” Sergeant Borsch informed him. “Not gonna happen.”
From the bits and pieces Vince Garnucci had relayed about his grandmother, it should have been pretty clear to the others that she was a woman who didn’t take no for an answer, and this version of Carlotta Garnucci was certainly living up to that reputation. Rather than surrender or retreat, she attacked.
Fortunately, she was not a knife-wielding psycho, but simply a bike-bashing one. In a flash, the fake, flowered female was behind the fake-flowered basket, ramming the bicycle (wheel first) out the door and into Sergeant Borsch.
“That’s it,” the Borschman said, and in a surprisingly agile series of moves (and despite the still-present kink in his neck) he had the Highrise manager on the floor and securely handcuffed. “Looks like this one’s going to the psych ward,” he muttered. And after he’d radioed the station and had had a moment to catch his breath, he eyed Rita’s feet and said, “I need you to go home and change your shoes.”
Rita gave him a puzzled look, but Hudson threw back his head and laughed. Then he put his arm around Rita and pulled her along, saying, “Sammy’s going to love hearing all about this.”
>
And that’s when the realization of the situation returned to Rita full force.
Vince Garnucci (and his bicycle-riding grandma) had been an effective distraction, but it was time to get back to the hospital.
Back to Sammy.
13—RIBBONS
Back at the hospital, of all the people congregating in the ICU waiting room (or squealing behind the nurses’ station), the only one who knew Darren or Lana or Marko personally was Marissa, and she knew all three.
Casey and Heather had met all three.
In Las Vegas.
Briefly.
And Casey had heard about all three in great (sometimes disgruntled, sometimes humorous) detail from Sammy.
But Casey and Heather were not people to whom Marko would entrust seventeen teddy bears (and a rogue unicorn).
Marissa, however, was.
“Oh, that’s a great idea!” she cried when Marko had explained the plan. Then she set about passing around bears and Sharpies and instructions to all assembled, before fetching scissors from the nurses’ station so she could issue every bear a length of ribbon.
“Good choice,” Darren told Marko about Marissa, then led the drummer (and Lana) down the hallway to Room 411, leaving starstruck hospital personnel in their wake.
Zelda Quinn had instructed her cameraman to capture some B-roll footage of Darren Cole because an interview had clearly been out of the question at that juncture. What with the bald guy and the teddy bears and all.
But after the two Troublemakers and the diva had left the waiting room, the cameraman came out from behind his equipment with wide eyes and gasped, “That was Marko Rushmore!”
“Who?” Zelda asked, and her eyes narrowed suspiciously at the cameraman’s uncharacteristic enthusiasm.
“Marko Rushmore!” he said. “The Troublemakers’ drummer?”
Now, being a front-and-center performer herself, Zelda Quinn did not know (or care) who anyone besides the lead singer in the band was. And if she didn’t know (or care) who the drummer was, nobody in her viewing audience would know (or care) who he was, either.
“Tell me you didn’t shoot him instead of Darren Cole,” she said.
“You’re kidding, right?” the cameraman replied. “You’d rather get footage of a guy standing by than one delivering teddy bears to kids?”
“When the guy standing by is Darren Cole, yes!” she seethed. “When I tell you to cover the guy standing by, yes.”
“But look at them!” the cameraman said, pointing to the remaining crowd. “You don’t think that’s a story?”
“It’s my job to say what’s a story,” she snapped. “It’s your job to shoot that story!”
But then she turned and saw the scene without the presence of Darren Cole blinding her. Those kids she’d talked to earlier and the oddball adults were huddled in waiting-room chairs or sitting cross-legged on the floor, intently writing messages on ribbons.
And teddy bears were everywhere.
It was actually a very moving scene.
“Keep in mind they’re minors,” she warned her photographer (conceding his point without actually admitting it, while simultaneously reminding him to shoot in such a way as to avoid faces). Then she wandered back out into the main room.
After observing the quiet activity for several minutes, Zelda sat (somewhat awkwardly) on the floor alongside Billy Pratt. “May I?” she asked, then eased the ribbon from him and began reading aloud. “Zombies to the Rescue! Graveyard Golf Cart! Grim and Reaper! Laddies Gone Amok! The Black Pearl! Bucket o’ Bones! Condor Rescue! Not a 5-Person Tent! Drool Monster!”
Then, as if there was a delay to her brain in registering what her mouth was saying, she suddenly backed up on the ribbon, saying, “Wait. ‘Condor Rescue’?” She looked at Billy. “Were you the kids who rescued that condor last summer?”
“Du-uh” might have been a suitable response, but Billy simply nodded. “Me and Sammy and him,” he said, pointing over to Casey, “and …” He looked around and called out, “Hey, Cricket should be here.”
“I have her number,” Dot volunteered, and interrupted her own ribbon writing to call her.
Now, Zelda Quinn’s interest in the condor story had nothing whatsoever to do with condors. Zelda Quinn’s interest in the condor story had to do with how it had gotten her rival, Grayson Mann, fired.
And these kids had been the ones who had brought him down?
She stared at Billy as the full weight of his words landed. “So … you and him,” she said, pointing to Casey, “and your friend who’s in a coma … you’re the ones who put Grayson Mann in jail?”
“Well, mostly Sammy did,” Billy said, taking the ribbon back. “Sammy and Cricket and Casey.”
The gratitude she felt made Zelda oddly uncomfortable. Almost vulnerable. And not knowing how to handle these emotions, she turned to Dot (who had left Cricket a message and was sitting nearby) and said, “So what have you written?”
Dot held up her ribbon and read, “Fire! Fire!” and “The Monster from the Marsh!” but was interrupted by an excited Marissa, who exclaimed, “That was Halloween! Seventh grade! The Bush House!” (She was not, as you might reasonably conclude, reading from her own ribbon, but rather reacting to Dot’s.)
“Right!” Dot laughed. “Remember your mummy costume?”
“Don’t remind me!” Marissa laughed. Then she pointed at Dot’s ribbon and said, “What else do you have?”
So Dot continued reading. “Nibbles Swallowed the Key!”
“Who’s Nibbles?” Zelda asked.
“Dot’s crazy dog!” cried a chorus of teen voices.
Dot laughed and went on. “Ghosts in the Carriage House! Penny the Pig!”
“That was New Year’s of seventh grade!” Marissa cried. “When we found that meth lab!”
“A meth lab?” Zelda asked, her head whipping back and forth between Dot and Marissa. “Are you talking about that one out in Sisquane? That was you?”
“It was gnarly,” Marissa said, but Dot was already back to the ribbon. “Lucky Thirteen! Kickstart Her Broom!”
“Hey!” Heather snapped (because this was a reference to her, and she remembered the sting of the quip when Sammy had originally delivered it). “Not nice!”
Dot blushed but went on. “Water Hoops! Pepernoten! Land of Blue Invasion!” She looked up and smiled. “That’s it.”
So Marissa took over, reading her ribbon. “I’ve got … Double Dynamos! Elvis! Timber! Hollywood! Renaissance Faire! Loopy Noogies! Deli-Mustard Car!”
“The deli-mustard car!” Billy and Casey and Holly all cried, remembering how they’d narrowly escaped being trapped in the graveyard on Halloween.
“Paper Trail!” Marissa continued. “Employees Only Doors! Roof of the Mall! Awesome Dome of Dryness!”
Marissa looked up, so Holly took over, calling out, “Psycho Kitties! Canine Calendar Float! Catcher’s Mitt! Smackdown at the Mall!”
“HEY!” Heather shouted. “That’s … not … nice!” (Because she had, in fact, been the one smacked down.)
But over her shoulder, Holly snarled, “Like you’ve ever been nice to me?”
“What have I done to you?”
The waiting room fell quiet as Holly’s head turned like the turret of a tank to face her. And as Heather gulped, Holly fired. “Do the names Trash Digger and Homeless Hag and Ugly Orphan ring any bells?”
Heather gave a little cringe, then tried, “Sticks and stones …?” But then she remembered something that revived her. “And speaking of stones … you slugged me in the stomach, remember that?”
“Because you ambushed Sammy!” Holly snapped. “Remember that?”
“Stop it!” Casey said. “This isn’t helping anything. We’re supposed to be doing something positive here, not beating each other up. Heather’s trying to be a better person. So help her out instead of sniping at her.”
Holly heaved a sigh and turned her back on Heather again, but Heather (who’d only managed to com
e up with Backstage Passes! and House of Blues! for her ribbon) said, “Doesn’t anyone want to come up with a list of people who Sammy’s gotten arrested? People who might want revenge?”
“That,” Justice Jack announced from where he was hanging with the other oddball adults, “is a brilliant idea!” He stepped forward with the index finger of a Golden Glove of Justice raised. “I told her she should wear a mask!”
“A mask?” Heather said with a nasty squint, but then immediately dialed back the attitude. “Look, can we just deal with the here and now? Who could have done this to her?”
“What about those counterfeiters?” Marissa said. “What happened to them?”
Billy nodded. “Or what about that crazy lady who buried her husband in the backyard?”
“Or that creep with the meth lab?” Casey said. “Whatever happened to him?”
“Or that gang guy?” Marissa said with a shudder. “I know he got locked up, but is he still locked up?”
Madame Nashira stepped forward. “She also busted that crook who broke into my room and stole from me.”
“I remember him,” André growled through his cigar stub. “And what about Shovel Man?” He looked at Holly. “What was his real name?”
Holly shook her head. “He wasn’t—”
But her answer was cut short by Slammin’ Dave, who threw in, “What about those guys with the cat-fighting ring? Are they serving time?”
“Or the world’s worst teacher!” Billy cried. “The whole ‘Die, dude!’ thing?”
“But he didn’t go to jail,” Casey said.
“Still, he hates Sammy. She got him fired!”
Casey nodded. “So true.”
“Or …,” Holly said, “how about that lady who was blackmailing everyone in town? What happened to her?”
“Or the guy who almost murdered the Bush Man?” Dot cried. “Where’s he?”
Zelda Quinn shook her head as if trying to clear her hearing. “Are you saying Sammy was involved in all of those?”
“Yes!” came a collective cry.
“Which is why we should stop waiting for Sergeant Borsch and write them down ourselves!” Heather said. “We need to be systematic! Eliminate possibilities! Figure out who had motive and who had opportunity!”