next to the chair. “Don’t get your feathers all ruffled now. You’re fine.”
Sadly, my Stella McCartneys aren’t. The cage, small though it is, has a tiny water bowl, which sloshes its contents all over. Some drops—enough—hit the lovely dark green velvet. All that extreme shopping down the drain.
My earlier frustration returns. What a rotten day. “I can’t wait until it’s over,” I tell the showy bird. “And don’t complain again. I’m no happier than you are. And by the time I come back tomorrow, you better be gone.”
Purse in hand, I hurry to the ladies’ room—yepper, that’s right, the bathroom. In their never-ending, way-out-there wisdom, Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona figure no sane robber would think to check out the restroom for a vault. So right between the last of six sinks and the hot-air hand dryer, behind the walnut wall panel, one finds the Shop-Til-U-Drop Network’s vault.
That’s right. I’m with ya. Crazy.
When I walk into the bathroom and don’t see Julie at her post, I get that hinky feeling of something not quite right. But ready to go hide out in my room at the house, I press the exact spot that activates the spring-loaded panel. It swings out and the massive steel door gleams at me. The lock, with its coded numbers, is the last hurdle before I can ditch the diamond and go home.
Once I plug in the right sequence, the tumblers click into place, and I give the huge wheel-shaped lock a spin. Good.
I’m just that much closer to home.
But when the door swings toward me, I stumble. My eyes pop. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
My hands shake.
My stomach heaves.
I grow cold, then hot as I lean over to get a better look at the man sprawled facedown on the floor of the vault, a puddle of blood under his head. Horror gets the best of me, and I let out a wrenching, heartfelt scream.
“HELP!” Then quieter, “Oh, Lord Jesus . . . please, please help.”
I don’t know if I blacked out or if my brain just blocked out the awfulness, because I remember nothing more until the door bursts open and Julie runs in. Behind her are Miss Mona, Aunt Weeby, Carla, Sally, and Max.
“Andie! Are you okay—” Julie cuts off her own question with a gasp. She goes for her pistol, holds out her free hand to keep the others from crowding after her, and then steps into the vault. “Call 9-1-1.”
The irregular thump-thump of Aunt Weeby’s walking cast comes up behind me. She wraps her arm around my waist. “What happened, sugarplum?”
That’s when I realize my teeth are chattering so hard I can’t even form an answer. The trembling spreads down through my body. I feel chilled, colder than I have ever felt before. My head spins. My knees go watery and my stomach turns into a vast pit.
A rumble of furniture pierces the fog in my brain. Then, “Here,” Max says.
Next thing I know, I’m in the armchair that usually sits in the left corner, just inside the ladies’ room door. Miss Mona is kneeling in front of me, her hands rubbing mine. Aunt Weeby stands behind me, her hands on my shoulders.
“Is he . . . dead?” Sally whispers.
I try to draw in enough breath to answer, but my body still refuses to cooperate, not that I know what to say. The best I come up with is a weak shrug.
“Hush!” Miss Mona admonishes. “Andie’s in no kind of shape to chitchat right now. Besides, Julie’s checking out the . . . the person. Did anyone call the police?”
“I’m on it, Miss Mona,” Max says. Despite my earlier anger toward him, all I feel right now is a swell of gratitude.
The room, eerily still and silent, then resonates with Max’s beautiful voice. What he says isn’t so beautiful.
“. . . We have a person in the vault. Security is with him, so I can’t tell you much about his condition. What I did see is blood under his head, and he’s not moving. Please send us help—and fast.”
Somewhere in the gray desert that my mind has become, I register his calm demeanor. How
Sadly, my Stella McCartneys aren’t. The cage, small though it is, has a tiny water bowl, which sloshes its contents all over. Some drops—enough—hit the lovely dark green velvet. All that extreme shopping down the drain.
My earlier frustration returns. What a rotten day. “I can’t wait until it’s over,” I tell the showy bird. “And don’t complain again. I’m no happier than you are. And by the time I come back tomorrow, you better be gone.”
Purse in hand, I hurry to the ladies’ room—yepper, that’s right, the bathroom. In their never-ending, way-out-there wisdom, Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona figure no sane robber would think to check out the restroom for a vault. So right between the last of six sinks and the hot-air hand dryer, behind the walnut wall panel, one finds the Shop-Til-U-Drop Network’s vault.
That’s right. I’m with ya. Crazy.
When I walk into the bathroom and don’t see Julie at her post, I get that hinky feeling of something not quite right. But ready to go hide out in my room at the house, I press the exact spot that activates the spring-loaded panel. It swings out and the massive steel door gleams at me. The lock, with its coded numbers, is the last hurdle before I can ditch the diamond and go home.
Once I plug in the right sequence, the tumblers click into place, and I give the huge wheel-shaped lock a spin. Good.
I’m just that much closer to home.
But when the door swings toward me, I stumble. My eyes pop. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
My hands shake.
My stomach heaves.
I grow cold, then hot as I lean over to get a better look at the man sprawled facedown on the floor of the vault, a puddle of blood under his head. Horror gets the best of me, and I let out a wrenching, heartfelt scream.
“HELP!” Then quieter, “Oh, Lord Jesus . . . please, please help.”
I don’t know if I blacked out or if my brain just blocked out the awfulness, because I remember nothing more until the door bursts open and Julie runs in. Behind her are Miss Mona, Aunt Weeby, Carla, Sally, and Max.
“Andie! Are you okay—” Julie cuts off her own question with a gasp. She goes for her pistol, holds out her free hand to keep the others from crowding after her, and then steps into the vault. “Call 9-1-1.”
The irregular thump-thump of Aunt Weeby’s walking cast comes up behind me. She wraps her arm around my waist. “What happened, sugarplum?”
That’s when I realize my teeth are chattering so hard I can’t even form an answer. The trembling spreads down through my body. I feel chilled, colder than I have ever felt before. My head spins. My knees go watery and my stomach turns into a vast pit.
A rumble of furniture pierces the fog in my brain. Then, “Here,” Max says.
Next thing I know, I’m in the armchair that usually sits in the left corner, just inside the ladies’ room door. Miss Mona is kneeling in front of me, her hands rubbing mine. Aunt Weeby stands behind me, her hands on my shoulders.
“Is he . . . dead?” Sally whispers.
I try to draw in enough breath to answer, but my body still refuses to cooperate, not that I know what to say. The best I come up with is a weak shrug.
“Hush!” Miss Mona admonishes. “Andie’s in no kind of shape to chitchat right now. Besides, Julie’s checking out the . . . the person. Did anyone call the police?”
“I’m on it, Miss Mona,” Max says. Despite my earlier anger toward him, all I feel right now is a swell of gratitude.
The room, eerily still and silent, then resonates with Max’s beautiful voice. What he says isn’t so beautiful.
“. . . We have a person in the vault. Security is with him, so I can’t tell you much about his condition. What I did see is blood under his head, and he’s not moving. Please send us help—and fast.”
Somewhere in the gray desert that my mind has become, I register his calm demeanor. How
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