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Authors: Gretchen Archer
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poppers like they were popcorn?
I waited on Bradley’s call behind and between two of Magnolia’s ficus trees, with
an eye and a loaded gun on my front door and occasionally, the elevator. My phone
buzzed.
“Wife.” He sounded out of breath. “I’ve been out of the vault two minutes and I only
have one minute to talk.”
“Bradley. Magnolia is in our haunted house. I’ve got her cornered. Get up here.”
He ate up half of his one minute with total silence.
“And I have more than a million dollars in counterfeit cash I just took from a guest
room.”
Nothing.
“Bradley, Magnolia’s in our house.”
Nothing.
“Bradley! Two and two! Fake coins! Fake money! She’s behind every bit of this.”
I could hear him breathing.
“Davis, we’ll get to the bottom of this, and I promise you, it won’t be Magnolia.
That being said, I’ll be there in a minute. Stay put.”
I screamed when the elevator doors opened, my phone flew through the air, I accidently
shot the ceiling three times—bang, bang, bang, accident, accident, accident. Baylor
and Fantasy flew out of the elevator and drew on (me) the shooting trees, and all
this happened on the exact click of the clock as Dionne Warwick’s front man was rounding
the corner. He let out an otherworldly crazy shriek when he saw me crawling out of
the bushes with a smoking gun at the same time Fantasy and Baylor turned on him. They
trained their sights between his eyes, and that was when the ridiculous entryway chandelier,
a Smart Car-sized lead glass drippy thing garnished with bobbing jeweled magnolias
and lucky recipient of the three rounds I’d accidently fired, decided to come tearing
out of the ceiling.
Dionne Warwick’s guy passed out.
Just then the elevator doors, unprovoked, closed, scaring the living daylights out
of us. It’s nothing short of a miracle we didn’t shoot each other.
There was panting (me and Fantasy) and foul (foul) language from Baylor, the kind
of language I reserve for vehicular surprises, like when someone tries to run me off
the road, smoke and dust rising from the chandelier rubble in the floor, and it was
Fantasy who said, “Holster! Everyone! Holster your guns!” It was a good idea, but
before we could click on our safeties and maybe get Dionne Warwick’s guy off the floor,
the elevator doors opened, again, for no good reason—none of us were pushing elevator
buttons—and it was but by the grace of God we did not execute my husband.
* * *
Bradley crunched through the chandelier.
I opened my mouth to explain and he stopped me with a hand. “We’ll talk later.”
Baylor and Bradley went in first to catch Magnolia. Fantasy and I waited in the chandelier
rubble, keeping an eye on Dionne Warwick’s guy.
“Some people just can’t handle the least little bit of excitement.”
I fanned him with a branch I’d snapped off a ficus tree.
Fantasy said, “He’s cute. Corporate cute. I like his socks.” His socks were mint green,
with little black birds on them. She kneeled down and checked him again. “Strong pulse.
He’ll be okay. He smells good.” She looked up at me. “What in the world is going on here? Holder Darby, the vault, Mr. Funny Money, this guy laid out on
the floor. It’s summer, you know? We’re supposed to be taking a breather.”
“The only thing I know is that Magnolia Thibodeaux is behind every bit of it. That’s
all I know.”
“Davis,” Fantasy said. “You have to stop with that.”
“She’s going down.”
But maybe not today. Bradley and Baylor claimed she wasn’t there. They also claimed
to have inspected under every bed, in every closet, and even the refrigerator. They
were back in five minutes, which isn’t enough time to find an elephant in the French
Quarter Freak Show, much less Magnolia, who’d lived here almost twenty years and knew
where to hide.
“I’m telling you, Bradley, she’s
poppers like they were popcorn?
I waited on Bradley’s call behind and between two of Magnolia’s ficus trees, with
an eye and a loaded gun on my front door and occasionally, the elevator. My phone
buzzed.
“Wife.” He sounded out of breath. “I’ve been out of the vault two minutes and I only
have one minute to talk.”
“Bradley. Magnolia is in our haunted house. I’ve got her cornered. Get up here.”
He ate up half of his one minute with total silence.
“And I have more than a million dollars in counterfeit cash I just took from a guest
room.”
Nothing.
“Bradley, Magnolia’s in our house.”
Nothing.
“Bradley! Two and two! Fake coins! Fake money! She’s behind every bit of this.”
I could hear him breathing.
“Davis, we’ll get to the bottom of this, and I promise you, it won’t be Magnolia.
That being said, I’ll be there in a minute. Stay put.”
I screamed when the elevator doors opened, my phone flew through the air, I accidently
shot the ceiling three times—bang, bang, bang, accident, accident, accident. Baylor
and Fantasy flew out of the elevator and drew on (me) the shooting trees, and all
this happened on the exact click of the clock as Dionne Warwick’s front man was rounding
the corner. He let out an otherworldly crazy shriek when he saw me crawling out of
the bushes with a smoking gun at the same time Fantasy and Baylor turned on him. They
trained their sights between his eyes, and that was when the ridiculous entryway chandelier,
a Smart Car-sized lead glass drippy thing garnished with bobbing jeweled magnolias
and lucky recipient of the three rounds I’d accidently fired, decided to come tearing
out of the ceiling.
Dionne Warwick’s guy passed out.
Just then the elevator doors, unprovoked, closed, scaring the living daylights out
of us. It’s nothing short of a miracle we didn’t shoot each other.
There was panting (me and Fantasy) and foul (foul) language from Baylor, the kind
of language I reserve for vehicular surprises, like when someone tries to run me off
the road, smoke and dust rising from the chandelier rubble in the floor, and it was
Fantasy who said, “Holster! Everyone! Holster your guns!” It was a good idea, but
before we could click on our safeties and maybe get Dionne Warwick’s guy off the floor,
the elevator doors opened, again, for no good reason—none of us were pushing elevator
buttons—and it was but by the grace of God we did not execute my husband.
* * *
Bradley crunched through the chandelier.
I opened my mouth to explain and he stopped me with a hand. “We’ll talk later.”
Baylor and Bradley went in first to catch Magnolia. Fantasy and I waited in the chandelier
rubble, keeping an eye on Dionne Warwick’s guy.
“Some people just can’t handle the least little bit of excitement.”
I fanned him with a branch I’d snapped off a ficus tree.
Fantasy said, “He’s cute. Corporate cute. I like his socks.” His socks were mint green,
with little black birds on them. She kneeled down and checked him again. “Strong pulse.
He’ll be okay. He smells good.” She looked up at me. “What in the world is going on here? Holder Darby, the vault, Mr. Funny Money, this guy laid out on
the floor. It’s summer, you know? We’re supposed to be taking a breather.”
“The only thing I know is that Magnolia Thibodeaux is behind every bit of it. That’s
all I know.”
“Davis,” Fantasy said. “You have to stop with that.”
“She’s going down.”
But maybe not today. Bradley and Baylor claimed she wasn’t there. They also claimed
to have inspected under every bed, in every closet, and even the refrigerator. They
were back in five minutes, which isn’t enough time to find an elephant in the French
Quarter Freak Show, much less Magnolia, who’d lived here almost twenty years and knew
where to hide.
“I’m telling you, Bradley, she’s
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