Mistaken for the Mob

“But you’re acting like a rookie with a bone to pick. Unless you want to blow a case we’ve worked for months, you’d better get a hold of yourself.”

“So what do you have to say about the lab findings? Those were her fingerprints on Laundromat’s IV-fluids stand. They match the ones we lifted from her desk.”

Dan shrugged. “She’s in and out of that nursing home with her library cart and to visit her father all the time. Who knows when she might have touched the thing? For an innocent reason, I mean.”

J.Z. snorted. “They have sick people there, Dan. All that equipment is cleaned and disinfected and sanitized—all the time. It’d be pretty hard for fingerprints to survive that kind of scouring.”

“Hey, there’s always a first time for everything.”

So as not to continue the argument, J.Z. ground his teeth. He followed Maryanne’s progress toward her plain little Ford, and took note of how she patted the tight bun at the back of her neck.

He didn’t buy the story she was selling. No woman would choose to hide her hair like that without a reason.

Many years ago, his father had mastered the art of the innocuous appearance. The plain black suits, black ties, white shirts and black shoes he’d worn were the male equivalent of Maryanne’s dowdy wardrobe. Her bun was the perfect counterpart to Obadiah’s unremarkable barbershop cut.

He had to give the devil his, or in this case her, due—Maryanne Wellborn had her cover down pat, just like his father had. But J.Z. wasn’t about to let the illusion of respectability get in the way of his mission. He hadn’t gone over the edge; he just knew the difference between a trick and reality.

Everywhere the librarian went he’d be sure to follow. He would keep the pressure on her until she cracked. Sooner or later, she’d talk. And then he’d bust her, Olive Oyl disguise notwithstanding.

Maryanne ran into her father’s suite, out of breath. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The Sunday School Council meeting after the service dragged on forever.”

“Gimme a hug,” Stan said. “And in about an hour I’ll be the one griping about endless meetings. The Residents’ Senate has an agenda fatter than the Federal budget for today’s meeting.”

“Oh.” She plopped onto his bed. “Well, then, I guess I’d better be going. I’ll come back later…maybe after dinner.”

Stan caught her fingers. “Don’t you dare leave me to the mercy of that bunch of geezers.”

“Dad! How can you call them something so ugly? Besides, you’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“Yup. And that’s why I can call us anything I please. We’re geezers, all right. Just you come and listen to us. I know you’ll agree before the pecking party’s over.”

Since her father rarely asked of anything, Maryanne didn’t have the heart to turn him down. “Okay. I’ll stay. But only if you promise I won’t fall asleep during this senate thing.”

Stan winked and pushed the forward button on his wheelchair. “I can promise you fireworks, Cookie. Besides, I still have some of my birthday cake in the fridge. Come back here with me after the shoot-out’s over, and we can make a serious dent in it.”

Maryanne frowned. “How’s your blood sugar?”

“Bah!” Stan waved and rolled ahead. “I’m sick and tired of all that poking and bleeding. Can’t a man have himself a piece of cake without it turning into a big deal?”

“Oh, Daddy.” She hated the part of party pooper. “I wish I could tell you it’s no big deal, but you’re in that wheelchair because of the diabetes. The amputation was no joke, and we have to take care of your heart.”

Irritation flared in Stan Wellborn’s blue eyes, but he stifled it almost as soon as she saw it. “Don’t mind me, Cookie. I just get testy when I can’t have my way. I know the Lord’s blessed me with a bunch more days to hang around this side of life, and I can’t dishonor His gift by misbehaving. But I won’t deny I’d sure like to every once in a while.”

Before she could respond, he opened the apartment door, and waited for her to join him. He locked up, then propelled his wheelchair toward the elevator at the end of the long interior balcony that served as a hall.

They made their way down in silence, consumed by private thoughts. Once the elevator pinged at the mezzanine level, they waited for the doors to open. Maryanne followed her father to the activities hall. His friends greeted her with affection, a fondness she returned. Soon, however, petite Mitzi Steinbrom tottered on her stiletto heels to the podium.

“Yikes!” Maryanne leaned closer to Stan. “Has Mrs. Steinbrom ever fallen from those spikes?”

“Alls I know is that she says they give her a regal bearing. I guess if you translate from Mitzish to English, that means she feels a need to make up for her lack of height.”

Maryanne glanced forward again, but the plucky widow had disappeared. “Where—”

“Watch,” her father answered. “She had maintenance build her a set of steps. Otherwise, we’d never see her over that dumb stand she insists she needs to run these goofy gatherings. She likes to follow Roberts’ Rules, but no one else here’s willing to waste time on those kinds of things.”

Sure enough, the tangerine curls popped up over the lectern and Mrs. Steinbrom tapped the microphone. The woodpecker beat self-destructed into a wicked screech. From the control room at the back of the hall, a man hollered, “Sorry about that.”

Mrs. Steinbrom smiled magnanimously. “We’re used to it, Reggie. We’ll wait until you’ve fixed it.”

“Hey, Mitzi!” A bald gentleman waved a cane from the far right bank of chairs. “We heard Reggie, so it’s fixed. Get on with your dog-and-pony show. I want to catch my before-dinner nap.”

An eleven-type fold appeared between Mitzi’s penciled-in brown brows. She smiled, clearly comfortable with the noblesse oblige she felt the position of chairwoman required.

“Very well, Roger. We’ll bring this meeting to order.”

“Ah…give it a rest, will ya, Mitz?” another man called out, this one seated near the back door and garbed in a blue polo and pants. “Just get on with the stuff you wanna talk about and forget all this other junk. We’re all too old to sit around and wait.”

Mitzi pursed her orange-coated lips. “It’s best if we do things properly, Charlie. Have some patience.”

“It’s best,” Maryanne’s father offered, “if we’re efficient, Mitzi, so why don’t you start with number one?”

The chairwoman’s cheeks blazed red. “Fine,” she said in a curt voice. “What do we think about cats?”

“Litterbox stink!” a lady Maryanne didn’t know yelped.

That one’s neighbor to the left added, “They yowl.”

“Are you going to pick up my garbage when they go dig for stuff?” the impatient Charlie asked, his jaw in a pugnacious jut.

Someone up front offered, “I’m allergic….”

“Those claws…they scratch everything,” came from the right.

A frail wisp of a woman stood with difficulty, aided by her aluminum walker. “They’re a great comfort when one’s all alone.”

The room silenced at the dignified tone.

“Eloise has a point,” Maryanne’s dad said. “None of us has too much company at night. It’s worth giving that some thought.”

Eloise nodded, and abundant waves of white hair rippled at her temples. “I think we can tolerate some inconvenience if a pet helps another of us during a time of need. I vote for the cats.”

“But no dogs!” Charlie bellowed, arms crossed.

Mitzi smiled in what looked like relief. “Let’s discuss the canines, then.”

Roger stood. “See this cane?”

Everyone nodded.