TRACY DICK – MAID IN THE USA

CHAPTER 1 - DOORS AND DUMMIES

The body was positioned on the chaise lounge in a grotesque parody of life.  She had been carefully arranged with one arm dramatically draped over the back of the lounger, the other sedately placed in her lap.  Her back had been pushed against the one arm of the chaise, to give her the appearance of sitting with her feet propped up like a Roman noble.  Her murderer had taken the time to shut her eyes and stuff her tongue back into her mouth, but the pallor of her skin and the blue tinge to her lips gave away the fact of her strangulation.  The murder weapon was most likely the scarf that was now casually draped around her neck.

The room was your basic clichéd library, with dark paneling, a lot of books, an antique desk, and the aforementioned corpse and chaise.  It also provided the perfect backdrop to your clichéd murder scene, with locked door, locked and shuttered windows, and only one known way in or out of the room.  Even the discovery of the body was clichéd, with the maid unlocking the library with her key to gain entrance to clean.  She screamed, and the butler came running, who called the police, who then called me.  The me who was now singing to herself, “Here a clichee, there a cliche. Everywhere a cliche, cliche.  I hate cliches.” Who am I?  Well I’m NOT Sam Spade and why in the hell does this crap keep happening to me?  Do I look like I want to be in a film noir?

My name is Tracy Dick.  I come from a family of cops, starting from Great-Granddaddy Dick all the way to the current generation with me and my brother.  I’m no longer a cop, per se, although I did start out walking a beat and working my way up to detective.  Some stupid little meth addict decided to put the kibosh to my career by shooting out my knee.  My partner got him, and I got a new knee out of the deal.  I could have wound up with a desk job, but my brain needs to be more active than the mindless filing of report after report after report.  I hate paperwork.  So I decided to get a secretary of my own.  Since I had a secretary, I needed to have something for him to do, so I started my own detective agency.  Hey, I’m nothing if not pragmatic.

Probably 2 out of every 5 of my clients spout off with the old chestnut, “Oh.  So you’re a private Dick?” Chortle, chortle, ha, ha, ho, ho, hee, hee.  “Why how original you are,” is usually my response, while trying to contain the urge to belt them so hard they wind up in the next month.  Someday, I will figure out how to do that without repercussions and then -- watch out.  There will be a tank load of clueless putzes running around trying to figure out what month they’re in.  

More often than not my clients get the Dick Tracy connection.  THEY usually ask me if I’ve apprehended Mumbles, Pruneface or whatever villain they can come up with that seems appropriate.  One guy even asked me if I caught the Joker yet.  Holy villain, Batman! Can you at least get your comic references straight, you loser?  Do I look like a bat OR a man…with these curves?

The rest of my clients are usually too concerned with their problems to really pay attention to anything going on with my name.  They just want to know whether or not I can find his/her missing loved one, cheating spouse, or thief that has stolen their jewels, car, furniture, or house.  (Okay, only once was it a house, but it was on wheels at the time.)  The cops usually call me in on many of their stickier cases, which is why I am investigating a corpse in a library.

“This is really odd,” said one of the cops.

“What is it, Jones?” asked my brother.  Oh, did I mention he was Captain around here?  He’s competent, but right now he’s stuck with a bunch of clueless rookies.  He’s in dutch with the Chief.  He’s always in dutch with the Chief.  I’m not sure if it’s because he has to ‘consult’ me on Chief’s orders or because he has a problem with authority figures. Did I mention that the Chief’s surname is also Dick?  I, personally, call him Dad.  Ah Nepotism, we all worship at your altar in Stonewall, CT.  I don’t see why it would matter if they call me in or not since it was my knee I lost, not my brain.  (My brother may disagree with that, but that’s because he’s always been jealous of my superior brain power.)

“What are you smirking about, Shorty?” my brother whispered in my ear.

“Nothing that concerns you,” I whispered back.

“There are no fingerprints on the door handle,” said Jones.

“Well, wouldn’t the perp wipe the handle when he left?” asked another rookie.

“The door was locked from the inside,” I said thoughtfully.  Since I can’t kneel, I bent over to look closely at both sides of the door locks.  Feeling eyes upon me, I turned around to find 5 pairs of rookie eyes on my generous behind.  “Oh, Captain?” I asked sweetly.  My brother turned away from studying the desk layout to see his crew staring at his sister’s ass.

“GET BACK TO WORK!” he bellowed as the keystone cops crashed into each other in the scurry to find something productive to do.  Rich and I looked at each other and shook our heads.  “Rookies.”

I started thinking out loud staring at the lock and the door knob. “I just strangled a woman.  I need to get out of the room.  I’m wearing gloves because I don’t want to leave prints.  There should be prints of the people who live here even though I’m wearing gloves.  There are no prints because I wiped the doorknob before I left.  Why did I wipe the doorknob?  I had to take my gloves off to open the door.  Why did I need to take my gloves off?”   I looked at the key in the old-fashioned lock. “Any prints on that?”

“No ma’am,” said Jones.

“That’s the kind of key you have to turn from this side of the door to lock yourself in,” said one of the rookies, “My Gram has one in her house.”

I grasped the key to turn it in the lock, but it was stuck.  Rich grabbed it and said, “Let me, Tiny.”  He wrestled with it a moment and then it finally turned.

I looked at the woman on the chaise.  “There is no way she could have turned that by herself.”  I turned back to the door knob and studied the ornate design on it.  There was an elevated portion of the carving in the shape of a fleur-de-lis.  I pushed on it sideways and it lifted off the knob.  “Well, lookee here.  It’s attached by a hinge.”  Inside was the usual turn button lock you find in cheap plywood doors in trailer parks.  Except this one was pure brass in a door that was solid oak.  “Well, now we know how they got out of the room and locked the door behind them.  He would have had to have taken off his gloves to flip the fleur-de-lis and turn the button.  All we have to find out now is who and why?”

“Is that all?” my brother asked dryly.

I checked the outside of the door, and sure enough, the same design was there.  When pushed to the side, it revealed a keyhole that, not so surprisingly, matched the turn button lock on the inside of the door.  “Didn’t anyone think to ask the maid how she unlocked the door?”  The rookies all looked at their feet, the walls, each other, anywhere but at me.  “You’ve got your work cut out for you, Bud.” I said to their captain.

CHAPTER 2 – PUNS AND PARAGONS

My parents always refer to my brother and me as Mutt and Jeff.  I used to get offended by that considering one was tall and thin and the other was short and fat.  Guess which one I am?  For the record, I am not that fat.  Just curvy, the way women used to look before people became obsessed with America’s Next Bimbo, I mean Model.  With shoulder length auburn hair and green eyes, people assume that I have a temper.  Hey, I very RARELY haul off and belt someone, and they always deserve it.  At 5’7” I’m not really short either, but Rich calls me Tiny because to him most people are tiny.   My brother, Richard A. Dick, is a 6’5”, brown haired, blue eyed, ‘long tall glass of water’ my girlfriends tell me.  He’s always been just Rich to me.  By the way, NEVER call him Dick.  He got suspended in grade school because some idiot called him Dick A Dick.  I think the kid had to go to the emergency room, but no one ever made that mistake again.

The fortune in my cookie read, ‘The rubber bands are heading in the right direction.’ I sighed, “Not even my fortune is turning out right today.”

“Ah come on, sis,” Rich snickered. “The rubber bands are at least heading right.”

“Oh, hardy har har.  I wonder what kind of instruments they play in a rubber band.”

“What?”

“Maybe rubber drums.”

“Rubber drums?”

“Hey, they have steel drums, why not rubber ones?”

“You’re going around the bend again, sis.”

I threw my napkin at him.  “That’s because you tire of my levity.”

My brother groaned, as my sense of pun kicked into full gear.

“And you can’t follow the inroads of my conversation.”

“Groan. Boo. Hiss.”

“Am I treading on your patience?”

“Bad puns are the lowest form of humor,” the man behind us interrupted, as he got up and stalked out of the restaurant.

“He looked a little like Santa Claus,” said Rich.

“I am so getting coal in my stocking this Christmas.”

“Personally, I prefer oxymorons to puns,” said Rich, just as the waiter came up, placed a dish in front of me and said,  “Jumbo Shrimp.”

He placed a dish in front of my brother and said, “Spicy Sweet Fish.”

I giggled into my napkin.  “Do I get to start on oxymorons, now?”

“No.  With your luck there will be an Easter Bunny look alike that will be offended by those and then you won’t get any candy on Easter either.”

“I told you I can’t catch a break today.”

“Hey, you managed to scoff a whole handful of fortune cookies when you came through the door.  That’s a solid accomplishment.”

I rolled my eyes and looked at all the empty wrappers around my plate.  I don’t care what anyone says.  Fortune cookies are yummy goodness.

“And you figured out about the lock on the door.  Although, before you interrupted me about my guys checking out your ass, I noticed something odd on the desk.”

“Something good?”

Leaning forward, he whispered, “Paperclips.”

I was disappointed.  “Paperclips?”

“They were in a line on the desk, exactly ½ inch apart, with the larger side facing away from the side where the chair was.  There were 20 of them.  Your fortune reminded me of them, but your bad puns chased the connection out of my mind.”

“Sorry, but I’m sure Santa will make me pay for that.  So maybe the killer is OCD?  Should we be looking for Monk?”

“I had the boys take pictures of the desk, and then gather the clips up for testing.  I can’t see how the killer would have been able to be so precise when he was wearing wool gloves.”

I sat up straight in my chair, “Wool gloves?”

“Keep your voice down.  We found some black strands of wool stuck in the ends of the scarf.  We’re seeing if the forensics team can find out anything unique about the wool.”

“It would have been smarter to wear leather.”

“Not everyone has your smarts or fashion sense, sis.”

Something bothered me about the choice of gloves, even though it was cold enough for wool gloves.  Why would someone in a high class neighborhood be running around with such a common fashion accessory?  “I bet you find out that we’re looking for alpaca wool, bro.”

My secretary, Monty greeted me with an aggravated expression as I arrived at my office after lunch.

“Oh nice of you to join us today, your majesty,” he mockingly said as he followed me to my desk.  “I hope that work isn’t cutting into your precious social schedule.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I’m hobnobbing with the jet set now, out at Harringsford Acres.”

“OOO dish, girlfriend,” as he perched on my desk. “Did Caroline Harringsford lose her Pekinese?”

“No, her life.”

“Well that explains why you wanted her file.”  Monty plopped a large manila folder in front of me.  “Most of this stuff is from the society pages and industry magazines. I have been working my fingers to the BONE all day on the internet for you and I am just EXHAUSTED.”

“Hot date tonight?”

“The hottest.  You know that new barista down at the coffee house?”

“The blue eyed blonde guy?”

“The HOT blue eyed blonde guy.”

“Why are the really hot ones always gay?”

“Luck of the draw, baby.  So anyway, if you don’t need me…”

“Go.  I’m just going to appreciate all of your STUNNING research results and peruse a few of the articles, then I have my own ‘hot’ date to get ready for.”

“Oh honey,” Monty said sympathetically, patting my shoulder.  “Saturday night movie night with your brother is not a hot date.”

“Hey, butter plus popcorn equals hot.  It’s a mathematical law.”

“You just keep telling yourself that, honey.  I’ll see you later.”

I wondered briefly if Monty’s date was going to be wearing Ode Du French Roast behind each ear tonight, then settled down to read about Caroline Harringsford.  She was very active on the charity circuit, her latest cause de celebre was illegal immigrants and their trials and tribulations.  Apparently, they were little more than slave labor in many of the markets in the US.  This particular article mentioned that she had sponsored a movie called ‘Escape from Mexico’ and it was airing tonight.  Just in time for movie night.  The proceeds of the film were going to Caroline’s group, Amnesty for Illegal Immigrants.  It was supposed to be a real tear-jerker, so I looked forward to tweaking Rich’s nose by watching it.  Hey, since it was at my place it was my choice of movie.

My place consisted of a three room mother-in-law apartment on the top of my parent’s garage.  Since PI work was sporadic at best, I bit the bullet and for purely financial reasons moved in after my injury.  It was really quite spacious and suited me and my cat, Queen Anne, quite nicely.  The bedroom was large enough for a queen-size bed, a dresser and an armchair, which usually wound up covered in clothes and cat hair.  There was a half wall that separated the living room from the dining room/kitchen and gave the illusion of a bigger space than there was.  The super-high-tech-state-of-the-art-when-I-bought-it-3-years-ago TV took up almost the entire wall of the living room.  I met one of my favorite wrestlers around the time I bought it.  Since he was so huge, he presented a compelling argument to purchase an 80 inch LCD screen on which to watch my pro wrestling.

My girlfriends always asked me, “Tracy, you are not the chief demographic for pro wrestling.  How can you like that stuff?”  I always replied, “Hey. Tall, sweaty, hot, muscular men in tight little man panties.  What’s not to like?”  Add that to the fact that Monty usually comes over on Monday nights and we drool together over our favorite superstars, it adds up to one of my few social activities.  The timer on the microwave dinged and I poured the popcorn into a bowl.  Time for one of my other social activities, movie night.

CHAPTER 3 - MOVIES AND MAYHEM

        Maria kept hold of her young son’s hand. “Vamos, hijo mío. ¡Date prisa! ¡Date prisa!  Come on, my son.  Hurry!  Hurry!”  The desert sun beat down upon them mercilessly.  The truck had broken down 10 miles ago.  Already several of the old people had passed out from the heat, but Maria knew they couldn’t stop.  To stop was to die.  “Soon there will be more water and we can rest. Ahorita habrá más agua y podemos descansar.”  To come this far into the country where dreams come true and not have a chance to live was tearing her apart.  Her husband Raoul kept urging them on, but little Jose was becoming dead weight at the end of her hand.  Bleakly she looked at her husband as he scooped Jose up in his arms.  “Nunca vamos a perder la esperanza,” He said firmly.  We shall never give up.

        They had relatives in Arizona.  Los contrabandistas had taken their money and crammed 40 people in the back of a truck to make the late night run across the border.  There was nothing in Mexico for them, but now it looked like there may be nothing in the United States for them either.  If Maria had any extra moisture left, she would have cried.   Her precious little baby was so weak and there was no water to be had.  They collapsed against some rocks as the sun started to set.  “We must only rest a couple of hours then travel by night, mi querida.  It will be cooler then, we will not lose as much water.” Raul stroked his son’s head tenderly. “Nunca vamos a perder la esperanza.”

        After 2 hours of broken sleep, Maria sat up, looking around frantically.  “Jose!  JOSE!”  She again heard the noise that had awoken her fully.  “Mamá, me duele el estómago.”  My stomach hurts. “Oh Jose! José, ¿qué hiciste? ¿Qué has comido?" What have you done? She saw the remnants of the berries he had eaten spread over his hands and his face.  Raoul rushed over and cradled his son against his chest.  All Jose could do was vomit.  With so little moisture in his body, the poison from the berries took effect rapidly.  Within another two hours he was dead.  His heartbroken father had to bury his son in the cold desert night, while Maria screamed her grief to the uncaring stars above.  Before he died, he whispered to his mother, “Mami, hemos llegado a los Estados Unidos?”  “Yes, my son.  We have made it to America.”

I wiped my eyes with some Kleenex.  “Wuss,” My brother sneered.

“Oh yeah?” I sniffled back. “Next movie night we put on ‘Old Yeller’ and see how YOU do.”

“NO.  No movies where the dog dies.”

“My brother’s a sucker, my brother’s a sucker.”

“That’s it!” A tickle fight ensued until interrupted by an outraged yowl from a disturbed calico cat and from the house phone ringing.

“YOU KIDS KEEP IT DOWN UP THERE!” My Father’s baritone reverberated across the room. “Your mother is still bawling her eyes out over that stupid Mexican movie and I can’t get any PEACE AND QUIET!”  I hit the speakerphone button, since Rich and I are always entertained by Dad going ballistic.

“Sorry, Daddy.”  Usually the Daddy makes him turn into a purring pussycat but tonight it just sailed over his head.

“These Damn Illegal Aliens think they can just come over here and take jobs away from hard working Americans and then cause our crime rate to go up!”

“He’s on a rant now,” whispered my brother as I heard my mother murmur something in the background.

“THAT WAS A DAMN MOVIE, MICHELLE!  THEY DON’T COME OVER HERE FOR A BETTER LIFE!  THEY COME OVER HERE FOR AN EASY LIFE ON WELFARE!”

“How can they come over here and steal our jobs yet take it easy on welfare at the same time?” I softly asked my brother, who shrugged in response.

“It’s like that murder you two are working on.”  Rich and I both perked up. “Both the gardener and the maid have gone missing.  There’s evidence that they were both illegals.  They probably murdered their employer when she found out about them and threatened to expose them.”

We looked at each other. “We’re coming down,” I said.

        My mother’s kitchen is home.  Whenever anyone says the word ‘home’ I picture the comfy yellow kitchen with the shellacked pine cabinets.  An old fashioned wooden bread box sat next to matching canisters on the bright yellow counter top.  A yellow Formica table with chrome trim sat against the wall under the old pendulum clock.  It still chimed accurately every 15 minutes and played a little song every hour.  The room was state of the art in the fifties, it was retro art now.  I wouldn’t trade it for anything and lived in fear of my mother threatening to redecorate.  Luckily for my piece of mind, my mom and dad are not the kind of folks to redecorate for the sake of redecorating.  If the stove or refrigerator goes, that’s another matter.  (I did wish that the 70’s orange refrigerator would go, but that’s a different thing altogether.)

Rich and I sat down in the comfortable padded vinyl chairs at the kitchen table.  I brought my Caroline file with me.  Rich went into cop mode.

“So when did you find out the maid and the gardener were missing?  One of my rookies interviewed the maid right after the body was discovered.  She only spoke broken English and he only spoke broken Spanish so we were trying to borrow a bilingual from another city for re-questioning.”

“You should have taken her down to the station and held her until you had a translator,” the Police Chief said sternly.  

My mother motioned with her head to the dining room.  On the backboard was a large sheet cake.

“They’re not going to leave me any choice, are they?” she asked and looked at me mischievously.

“Don’t think so, Mom,” I said, always glad to be on her side in any possible conspiracy.  The argument was just getting going in the kitchen.

“Well, if you had given me more than a bunch of untrained rookies, maybe proper procedure would have happened!”  My brother’s voice was slowly rising.

“You had your sister there.  ARE YOU TELLING ME THAT BETWEEN THE TWO OF YOU, YOU COULDN’T FIGURE OUT ‘PROPER’ PROCEDURE?”

“SHE ISN’T ON THE FORCE ANYMORE!  CAN’T YOU REMEMBER THAT?”

To defuse the war, my mother plopped down the cake in the middle of the table, hard enough to jar the icing into flying off the cake and into the men’s faces. “Would you like ice cream with your cake?” she asked sweetly.  The men sat in stony silence, glaring at each other.  As she served the cake, my mother spoke to me. “In the days of the tribe, the strongest man led.  Oftentimes, by the time his son became a young man it was obvious that the leader would need to be replaced in favor of someone younger.  Usually it was the son that followed after, but the rituals would differ from people to people.   Sometimes the young man and the father would fight and the one who was the strongest would survive, the loser died.  Sometimes it was by the father choosing to step aside in favor of his son, if he felt it was time to do so.  And on rare occasions it was because the wife of the leader and the mother of the son got so DAMN SICK OF ALL OF THE MALE POSTURING THAT SHE TOOK A ROLLING PIN AND SMACKED THEM BOTH UPSIDE THE HEAD WITH IT!  More cake?”

I love my mom.