Chapter Ten
Ten
I’m not gonna lie, it’s weird when your eighty-three-year-old grandmother has a better social life than you do. Weirder still when you’re trying to decide whether to offer her a refresher on the birds and the bees. Or mention an Ann Landers quote that my mother used to repeat about a man not wanting to buy the cow when he can get its milk for free. Not that I think Grand is a cow that the silver fox only values for her milk because my grandmother is not a cow and, well, yuck!
Still, I don’t want to see her taken advantage of, and while I may be living vicariously through her since no one is interested in my milk at the moment, I also googled “STD statistics in retirement communities” and am happy to report those numbers are grossly exaggerated though I’m not sure why or by whom.
We’re at the table chowing down on pressed Cuban sandwiches and black beans and rice from the Floridian, when I oh-so-subtly bring up Brian.
“How did the golf assessment go?” I ask.
“Great,” she replies. “I think I’m going to sign up for some private lessons with the pro.”
“That is great.” Wow, this being subtle thing really sounds inane. “Was Brian upset that you chose to work with the pro rather than him?”
“No, not at all.”
“He really is attractive.”
Grand’s eyebrow sketches upward.
“Brian. Not the pro. I haven’t met the pro.”
“The pro’s pretty hot, too,” she says. “But he’s closer to your age than mine. Would you like to meet him?”
“No, Grand. I wouldn’t. Let’s stay on topic here.”
“But we’re talking about golf, aren’t we?”
“No,” I reply. “We’re talking about Brian. And how attractive he is.”
“He is, isn’t he?”
Now she’s just playing with me. So I go ahead and ask what I really want to know. “You aren’t sleeping with him yet, are you?”
“The pro? Certainly not!” She feigns shock but her eyes twinkle.
“Seriously, Grand. You know what Ann Landers said about cow milk. And, well, women have to be careful. Especially these days. Because—”
“I do hope you’re not planning to bring up birth control.” Grand’s tone is wry. “Because I’m pretty sure that ship has sailed. Which I must admit is wonderfully freeing.”
She winks. I blush.
We carry glasses of wine to the living room, settle into the sofa, and click on the TV. I scroll through the Guide and carefully avoid Murder 101 , current and past seasons, and we end up watching episodes of Fixer to Fabulous on the Magnolia Network.
· · ·
By ten o’clock, we’re yawning. By ten fifteen, I’m in bed and slipping into dreamland. Where I happily remain until a huge crash and my grandmother’s shriek yank me awake.
Torpedoing out of bed, I race down the hall to find her bedroom door open and the room empty. I fly down both flights of stairs and find her in the foyer getting ready to yank open the door that leads into the garage.
“Wait! What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Someone’s in my studio!” she whispers back.
“Which is why we want to stay in here with the doors locked and call the police!” I reply.
“No,” she insists. “Let go of me. Someone’s in my studio!”
“I know you’ve got work in progress, but there can’t be anything down there worth dying for!”
She looks at me, her eyes wide, but she doesn’t let go of the doorknob. We’re still struggling over possession of it when we hear the sound of feet crunching on glass followed by shouts and the sound of a boat engine roaring to life back behind Grand’s town house.
We race into the garage and through the door into the bonus room, where Grand’s things have been tossed around, paper ripped from canvases in progress, easels knocked over. One of the sliders has been smashed and glass litters the floor of her studio and the porch outside.
“Do you have your cell phone with you?”
She nods.
“Call nine-one-one!” I shout to her while I race outside, only to see the boat disappearing around a spit of land.
“What did they say?” I ask when I return out of breath. “How long until a car can get here?”
She doesn’t respond.
“Are you okay? What did they say?”
“I didn’t call,” Grand replies.
“Are you kidding me? Why not?”
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea,” she says.
I straighten and look her in the eye. I see fear in them but also something that I can’t identify.
“Of course it’s a good idea,” I say as calmly as I can. “Somebody, maybe two somebodies, if you count whoever was driving the getaway boat, smashed your slider, broke into your home, and tore your studio apart. They were looking for something, Grand. And if they left empty-handed, they could decide to come back and look some more.”
“I’m sure it was just some random…something. There’s no need to make a fuss.”
I look at my grandmother, who should be shrieking with fright but isn’t.
“There’s every reason to make a fuss, Grand. We’re just lucky they didn’t come through the garage door and into the foyer to see if there were better pickings inside. Tomorrow, we’re going to call a security company and get information and prices on having a security system installed. Right now, we need to call the police.”
She doesn’t call 911 but only turns and begins to pick up the mess.
“Don’t touch anything, Grand. It’s evidence.”
“Stop overreacting. It’s nothing but vandalism,” she says.
“That we need to report. I may have only pretended to be a cop, but I do, in fact, understand basic police work. Any actor worth his or her salt does research on the kind of character they’re playing. And I prepped for Cassie Everheart by going to the local police academy, doing ride-alongs, and talking to real cops who did the work I would pretend to do.
“Fine,” I say, pulling my own phone out of the waistband of my pajamas, which are too short for a pocket. “I’ll do it. But don’t touch anything else. We don’t want to smear fingerprints or any other evidence.”
A police car arrives in minutes, siren blaring. I press the garage door opener.
“Oh, thank goodness!” I say as the garage door finishes grinding upward and a Treasure Island police car screeches to a stop.
“We’ve had a break-in,” I shout as the two TI cops jump out of their cruiser. They’re already hunching over to get into the garage when another police car arrives. My voice trails off when Luke Hayes and his partner vault out of the second car. Like the TI policemen, Luke and his partner are wearing uniforms, glossy black shoes, and badges.
I am wearing shorty pajama bottoms, a sleeveless crop top with a picture of Bugs Bunny on it, and no bra beneath it.
Where’s the justice in that?