Stealing Taffy

  I do not snore like a damn bear.

  “… so I got my things together and snuck out of there. And look, I know I’ll never see him again, but the truth is I can’t stop thinking of him. It’s been weeks and weeks and I can’t get his face and voice and incredible body out of my darn head! That body of his was insane!”

  “Did you get his name?”

  “A number?”

  The questions popped up simultaneously from women on opposite sides of the room, even though AA members weren’t supposed to offer feedback during someone’s sharing. But hey, Dante figured so many rules had been broken in this meeting that it hardly mattered. He dared take a peek around the room—everyone in attendance was staring at Taffy with wide-eyed disbelief.

  “I did get his name, yes, thank you for asking, but I have a feeling he was lying to me, if you can believe the nerve.”

  Yeah. Right. The nerve.

  “And no, I do not have a number, which is probably for the best, because I think if I did I wouldn’t have the restraint to not call him, and if I ever saw that man again I would be done for. I mean, if I saw him again, I wouldn’t care what my therapist said. I’d probably just rip my clothes off and throw myself at him. Now, I should probably mention at this point that I do not throw myself at men as a rule, but for him I would make an exception.”

  Oh, fuck.

  Silence. Then someone coughed. Someone cussed under his breath.

  “Thankyousoverymuch.”

  And with that, she sat down.

  The young guy sitting next to Dante looked at him and frowned. “You good, pops? Need a hand?”

  “I’ve got it.” Dante slowly pushed himself back in the folding chair, making no noise whatsoever.

  The dude smiled at Dante and whispered, “I know, right? I almost fell out of my chair, too. That was the hottest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever heard at an AA meeting, and I am so gonna get that little piece of ass to come home with me.”

  Dante slowly leaned in toward the kid and kept his voice barely audible. “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen, but I dig older chicks.”

  Dante nodded. “Here’s the situation—if you go within twenty feet of that woman, I will shoot you. I’m a federal agent assigned to protect her.”

  The guy chuckled. “Right. And I’m Spider-Man.”

  Without making his clothing rustle or the old chair squeak, Dante displayed his weapon and shield. “We cool, Spidey?”

  The kid swallowed hard. He looked like he was going to piss himself, or cry, and his eyes flashed up at Dante. “Yes. Yes, sir. We’re cool. Please don’t shoot me, sir.”

  Dante smiled at him, covered his gun and shield with his jacket, and kept his head down until the meeting came to a close. Taffy was stopped a few times on her way out to her car—but not by Spider-Man. The way she managed to extract herself from the 13 steppers was impressive. Dante hung back from the parking lot lights and observed her get into an outrageous pink Coupe de Ville that he placed as a ’75 or ’76. He had to stifle his laughter at her choice of transportation.

  Once she’d pulled into the street, Dante hopped in his government-issued sedan and tailed her, calling in the plates on the way. Within seconds, he’d learned the car was registered to a Vivienne Newberry, 28 Willamette Road, Bigler, DOB 6-2-38, no outstanding warrants. Not that old ladies usually had them.

  He made a couple more calls, staying three cars behind the Caddy. It was probably the easiest tail of his career, since it would be awfully hard to lose a giant-assed vintage pink pimpmobile, even on a dark and winding mountain road. Yes, Taffy was indeed Tanyalee Marie Newberry, of the same address, and her rap sheet was just as colorful as she was.

  It took twenty minutes before she arrived home. Dante turned off his headlights and stopped three houses down, partially hidden by a large tree. He watched Taffy do her girl walk up the front porch steps of a pretty, old house. She entered and shut the front door behind her.

  Dante sat in the car for another ten minutes, letting his breathing settle and his mind retrace everything he’d learned that night. Two counts of misdemeanor shoplifting? Probation and a suspended sentence for felony forgery? This was getting better by the minute.

  He absently reached into the glove compartment for the bracelet, twirling it between his fingers, telling himself that he needed to be solid on the facts and proceed with extreme caution.

  Taffy was right under his nose. Despite everything, he wanted her. She wanted him. But she was supposed to keep her distance from men for a year and he had no business messing around with a felonious femme fatale—this year or any year. In fact, associating with a known criminal was against DEA policy.

  That should be it—case closed. And yet, he could not let that happen. Dante couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this conflicted about a woman. About anything, really. And as much as he respected her commitment to recovery, he was going to explode if he had to wait a year to get her in bed again.

  He threw the bracelet back into the glove compartment and slammed it shut. He would redouble his efforts to get a transfer. It was his only option.

  * * *

  Tanyalee hooked her handbag strap over an arm and opened the door to a repurposed 1950s elementary school near the edge of town. Loud, pounding music echoed from what looked like the cafeteria, but she put on a brave face and continued on. So what if these girls liked horrible music? Perhaps she could still be of some help to them. In fact, on the drive over here, Tanyalee prepared for her interview by making a mental checklist of how she could be a good mentor to a tween-age girl.

  She could do her colors, explaining whether a winter, fall, summer, or spring palette was most flattering for her. She could advise her on how to style her hair, dress for her body shape, and set a proper table. She could warn her about boys and how to protect her valuable assets when she began to date.

  Wincing as she entered the cafeteria, Tanyalee amended that list. It would be nothing less than her moral obligation to introduce her charge to quality music—like the Backstreet Boys, Spice Girls, Madonna, and Britney Spears—because what she was hearing wasn’t music even in the broadest definition of the word: it was garbage.

  Then she got an eyeful of the dance routine that went with it.

  Tanyalee headed to the volunteer office across the multipurpose room, as instructed. She sat down in a chair, placed her bag on the floor, and stared at the tasteless performance. Four girls gyrated, cartwheeled, and threw themselves around like they suffered from some kind of pornographic seizure disorder. She surely hoped she hadn’t been assigned to one of those girls. Tanyalee was never one to shy from a challenge but even she had her limits.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw a woman wave to get her attention, then smile and gesture for her to follow. Tanyalee crossed the room again, feeling dozens of sets of eyeballs on her. She smiled and made eye contact as often as possible.

  “Tanyalee? I’m Bitsy Stockslager, the volunteer coordinator. Candy told me you’d be coming this afternoon.”

  “Of course. You’re Sheriff Halliday’s secretary, aren’t you?”

  Bitsy smiled sweetly. “Yes, I am. And thanks for coming so late in the day—I don’t usually get here until after four, when I leave the sheriff’s department. How about I take you on a little tour? You can leave your things here in my office if you’d like.”

  Bitsy showed Tanyalee the facility. It was pretty rundown, held together with private donations and government grants, most of which had been slashed in recent years. “It’s getting harder and harder to keep the lights on here,” she said.

  “What kinds of things do you do for the girls?”

  Bitsy smiled sadly. “Not nearly what we’d like to, let me tell you. These young women need so much—everything from shoes and bras to dental care, birth control counseling, academic tutoring, nutrition support, therapy … the list goes on and on. We wouldn’t be able to function without our volunteers. I understand you need to ac
cumulate community service hours?”

  Tanyalee frowned. “Is that going to be all right?”

  “Most definitely,” Bitsy said. “I’ve already spoken to Mr. Smathers over at the courthouse, and he assured me your criminal history has nothing to do with violence of any kind or harming children in any way.”

  “What? Well, good heavens, of course not!”

  “I knew that, Tanyalee, but we have to go through the proper channels. It’s the law, and the safety of our girls is our first priority.”

  “I understand.”

  “Now, I hear you’re interested in one-on-one mentoring. Did you have any preference for age or grade? I’ve been thinking about who might be a good fit for you, but I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

  They’d stopped in the school hallway and Tanyalee was suddenly aware that wardrobe consulting might not be the most critical need for these girls. Maybe this is what Dr. Leslie meant by getting out of her own head. “I’m not particular, Bitsy. Just pick someone who needs help. I’ll be scheduled for a full workweek soon, but for now I’m part-time and can concentrate on volunteering.”

  “That’s good to hear. I think I know someone who could really use a friend right now.” Bitsy laid a hand on her shoulder. “Let me grab some paperwork and I’ll meet you back in my community room office in a few minutes.”

  “Sure.”

  “You might be able to catch the end of our weekly talent show if you hurry,” she added with a wink.

  Tanyalee returned in time to catch the end of a poetry reading—and a thief in the act. She gasped. Then screamed. “Drop that bag right now!” Tanyalee ran across the open room, dodging lunch tables and hurdling over backpacks.

  A stringy-haired, skin-and-bones girl stared at her with huge eyes, her hand slowly dropping Tanyalee’s favorite Dooney & Bourke Signature bag into the office chair.

  “Don’t move!”

  “Your cell phone was ringing, lady. I was only answering it. You know, in case it was an emergency.”

  It sounded like a perfectly legitimate statement, but something about this girl told Tanyalee that she wasn’t to be believed. She snagged the large bag and grabbed her phone from inside. As expected, there were no missed incoming calls. Tanyalee glared at her. “You lied.”

  The girl smirked, but said nothing. She looked more bored than any child should look, especially one that had just been caught in the commission of a crime.

  “You have nothing to say?”

  “I do, actually. That’s one ass-ugly purse.”

  Tanyalee gasped at the nerve of the girl, but decided not to let a teachable moment pass her by. She was hoping to become a mentor, after all. “Ladies carry handbags, not purses. Now what do you need to say to me?”

  The little brat shrugged. “Uh, that’s one ass-ugly handbag?”

  “Well, I never!” Tanyalee huffed and folded her arms over her chest, perfectly amazed by this ill-mannered wild child. “Has no one ever taught you that stealing is wrong?”

  “Sure. I heard about that on America’s Most Wanted.”

  Tanyalee was speechless. “You have a lot of nerve, missy.”

  Something in the girl’s face changed, and for an instant, Tanyalee thought she saw a hint of vulnerability. “Lady, you got no idea how much nerve I got.” She looked up and down Tanyalee’s person and then shook her head. “You wouldn’t last five minutes in my life.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing, but I gotta admit you can run like Usain Bolt with a firecracker up his ass.”

  “I don’t know what kind of bolt that is, but you’d better watch that mouth, missy.”

  The kid laughed. “I got a name, all right? And it ain’t ‘Missy.’”

  “What is it?”

  “Fern.”

  “Well, bless your heart! It can’t be easy having such an unusual name.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s your name?”

  “My name is Tanyalee Marie, if you must know.”

  Fern burst out laughing. “What was your mama drinkin’ when she came up with that hot mess?”

  Tanyalee pulled back, stunned. “What a disrespectful thing to say. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever met a—” Tanyalee had planned to continue with her lecture when she saw a wave of fear wash over Fern’s face. All the spark left her eyes as she leaned toward Tanyalee and whispered, “Please, lady. Don’t tell. Please. They’ll think my great-granny can’t handle me and drag my ass back to child protective services.”

  “Ah, I see you and Fern have already met,” Bitsy said, coming up behind Tanyalee. She looked from Fern to Tanyalee and back again. “Is there a problem?”

  Fern dropped her eyes and looked away, her thin shoulders collapsing in defeat. That simple movement told Tanyalee everything she needed to know about the girl—so much bad stuff had happened in her life that she’d come to expect it. Well, she was about to get a surprise.

  “No, Bitsy. There’s no problem at all.”

  “Except she keeps calling me ‘Missy,’” Fern said, her eyes flashing at Tanyalee, challenging her to keep up.

  “I only called her that because she refused to tell me her real name,” Tanyalee said, not missing a beat.

  “Yes, she has a tendency to do that.” Bitsy smiled at Fern and asked her to take a seat, then motioned for Tanyalee to sit as well. “Now, before we can go forward with a match, Fern’s legal guardian has to approve the mentorship. Should we give her a call?”

  Tanyalee glanced sideways at Fern, who was glancing right back. “That would be fine,” she said. “Who is her guardian?”

  Bitsy grinned. “Gladys Harbison, Fern’s great-grandmother.”

  “Ha! Well, of course I know Gladys—she was Granddaddy Garland’s secretary at the paper forever, and now she works for my sister, the new publisher. Gladys is like family.”

  Fern’s unruly eyebrows met in the middle of her forehead. “You’re Garland Newberry’s granddaughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Jesus. I’ve heard all about the Newberrys. You people are fuckin’ nuts.”

  Before Tanyalee could protest—about the language, not the facts, which were pretty spot-on—Bitsy intervened. “That was highly inappropriate, Fern. You can ask your great-grandmother if you don’t believe me, but if you use that kind of language while visiting Tanyalee’s house, her aunt Viv will give you a tongue-lashing the likes of which you’ve never experienced.”

  Fern looked thoroughly unimpressed.

  “Shall I call Gladys and see what she thinks about this match?” Bitsy lifted the receiver off the desk phone unit.

  “Go ahead,” Fern said, the boredom back in full force. “Three-Gee is always telling me I need to make new friends.”

  “Three-Gee?” Tanyalee was baffled.

  “It’s short for Great-granny Gladys. It saves time.”

  While Bitsy spoke with Gladys, Fern and Tanyalee summed each other up warily. The girl needed her nails trimmed, a decent haircut, and some clothes that fit. Heaven only knew what Fern’s opinion of Tanyalee was, but it was obvious it wasn’t charitable. Tanyalee had to remind herself that she wasn’t here to be liked. She was here to help.

  Bitsy ended the call and said to Tanyalee, “Gladys is thrilled and she’s given her permission for you to drive Fern back to the house today.” She handed Tanyalee a large manila envelope. “Inside is the mentorship agreement, which you and Gladys need to sign. It’s self-explanatory, but feel free to call if you have questions. There’s also some information for you and Fern to read together and sign, along with a calendar of all our Girls Club events for the fall. Please note that our annual bowl-a-thon is coming up very soon and we expect all our volunteers to participate. It’s our biggest fund-raiser of the year.”

  “Bowling?” Tanyalee swallowed hard. She hadn’t been bowling since her date with Travis Spence in her sophomore year of high school. Her motive on that night had had nothing to do with strikes and spares and everything to do w
ith how good her butt looked in her new pair of flared-leg jeans. “I don’t really bowl.”

  Fern snickered.

  Bitsy shot the girl a stern glance, then smiled at Tanyalee. “It’s just about having fun. Fern will go out and find people to sponsor her team.”

  “Oh, yay.”

  Tanyalee had to agree with Fern. This was sounding less appealing by the moment. “But … an actual bowling team?”

  Bitsy laughed. “Just for one night. You’ll need eight people on your team, including you and Fern. The other six members can be anyone you like. Our goal is to raise ten thousand dollars for our operating fund.”

  Tanyalee stood up and shook Bitsy’s hand. “All right. Well, thank you.”

  “No, thank you, Tanyalee.” She looked kindly at Fern. “I think this is a good match. What do you think?”

  Fern snorted. “I think I’m thrilled out of my mind.”

  When Tanyalee put her hand on Fern’s shoulder, she was struck by how bony the child was. A few weeks at Aunt Viv’s supper table should put some meat on her. “Well, let’s go. Do you have a backpack or anything?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll meet you in a minute, okay?”

  Tanyalee waited for Fern to exit into the community room and turned to Bitsy. “That girl’s a mess.”

  “Well, yes, to put it mildly. I’ll have to fill you in on the particulars, but her mother ran off when she was a baby and her daddy was working in Bobby Ray Spivey’s meth lab before he died.”

  “Oh, how horrible!”

  “She’s seen too much for a child and has trust issues, which is perfectly understandable. Though she’d never admit it, she needs a friend, someone to talk to and laugh with. Can you call me at the sheriff’s office tomorrow so we can chat?”

  “Of course.”

  “She’s not had much adult female companionship, Tanyalee. It’s going to take her some time to get used to you.”

  “The same can be said for me,” Tanyalee replied with a sigh. “I haven’t spent much time around kids of either gender, especially ones that aren’t, well, civilized.”

  “All I ask is that you be patient with her and set an example,” Bitsy said. “Our goal is for this to be a mutually beneficial arrangement, but she has to stick around long enough for that to happen.”