Thirteen
The next morning, Joan, Irene, and Frances were still slow to give up on one last heist, even though all signs pointed to it being a bust.
They had taken the discussion to a diner on Main Street, Sunny Side Up, which seemed to be the only breakfast game in town, judging by the crowd.
Plants hung in the large storefront windows painted with the signs of fall—pumpkins and hay bales, ghosts and cauldrons.
Walking into the diner, one had to go past a display case stocked full of homemade pies.
They’d lost Joan there for a couple of minutes.
The aisles were crowded with patrons looking for a seat.
It was only the kindness of a young man, who probably saw his grandma in Frances, helped along by her pretending not to be able to stand straight, that won them the booth.
He helped her into it, and while Joan and Irene slid gingerly across the other seat, the young man bussed the table for them.
Frances was enjoying feeling pretty darn good for a change.
The terrible headaches and dizziness of yesterday had faded pleasantly into the ether, and this morning, she had an appetite.
The waiter brought them coffee, copious amounts of creamer, and took their orders.
Frances ordered a “Tennessee Platter” that appeared to have every standard fare item in an American breakfast.
“Goodness,” Joan said. “Someone’s hungry.”
“Someone is,” Frances confirmed.
The waiter collected their menus. “What are you ladies up to today?”
“Nothing much,” Frances said, smiling up at him. He was cute. Muscular. He had that vitality of youth practically rolling off him in waves. “Planning a big heist of art or jewelry. We haven’t decided. And we need a fourth to pull it off. What are you doing later?”
Joan kicked her under the table.
The young man laughed. “Playing some hoops with my friends. Have fun on your heist.” He went off with the menus.
“Do you have to do that?” Joan asked. “Are you trying to call attention to us?”
“I don’t think I could if I tried,” Frances said. “There is no risk here, Joan. No one gives us a second look. That young man sees his grandma and nothing more. No one believes we are capable of anything but a bit of gardening and knitting sweaters for the family. We’re practically invisible.”
“Great. Then think of another invisible person we can recruit instead of messing with the waiter.”
Unfortunately, the only name that came to Frances’s mind was Marjorie.
Frances would trust Marjorie with almost anything.
But even though her old friend was bored and looking for trouble (so she said), Frances didn’t believe for a moment that she could ever be so bored as to become a criminal.
Marjorie had her standards, and they were higher than her own.
And there was still the matter of not having a heist to invite anyone to.
When the waiter brought their food, Irene leaned over to examine Frances’s platter of eggs, ham, sausage, toast, biscuits and gravy, and tomatoes. “I’m happy to see you eating something that’s not a cup of yogurt,” she said. “But that’s going to clog your arteries.”
“Are you monitoring me?” Frances asked.
“Not intentionally. But your eating habits have always been hard to ignore.”
Frances figured she better change the subject before Irene began to interrogate her. “Okay, who else have we got?” she asked.
“I’ve got one,” Joan said, holding up a finger. “Mary Scheinman.”
“Mary Scheinman?” Frances repeated, and searched her memory. When she found Mary, she shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“Why?” Joan asked, surprised.
“Because she was a two-bit thief. We were at least six bits, if not a dollar. Way above her.”
“She’s in prison, anyway,” Irene said, earning looks from Frances and Irene. “You didn’t know? She shot her husband a few years back.”
Joan and Frances gaped at Irene in shock. “Oh my goodness,” Frances whispered.
“In the head,” Irene added nonchalantly, and pointed her forefinger right between her eyes. “It was pretty gory. I watched the trial on Court TV, and I swear she looked almost pleased with herself for all that gore. How about Karen Hank?”
“Oh my God,” Frances said, rolling her eyes. “I can’t see her being useful at all. She was impossible to shut up. She’d draw all kinds of unwanted attention because of that.”
“Precisely why I thought of her. There could be some benefit to an old woman running her mouth. She could be a literal Karen and draw all the attention away from us.”
“Good point,” Joan said.
But Frances shook her head. “We need someone who can keep their wits about them, and I remember Karen as being too excitable. Not to mention, we need someone who doesn’t have qualms about thievery in general.
By the way … if it’s not the original four, I don’t want to give a newbie a twenty-five percent cut.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to give them that much if I have to train them in the art of the heist at the same time. ”
“Will you please stop saying that out loud?” Joan insisted.
Frances smiled at her as she forked some eggs. “Heist heist heist heist heist.”
Joan shook her head. “It’s like dealing with toddlers.
” She looked around, but just as Frances had said, no one was paying them the slightest bit of mind.
Joan leaned in and said in a loud whisper, “There’s a woman who buys weed from me.
” She paused to dump more sugar in her coffee.
“She’s younger, probably in her fifties, and attractive.
She could seduce a security guard. That’s what we need, you know. Someone who can take over her role.”
Her being Edie, of course.
There was a sudden surge of customers in the aisle; someone leaving a seat and others scrambling for it.
As people jostled for room, someone knocked against Frances’s elbow as they passed.
She glanced up and saw a young woman making her way to the cash register.
She put down her fork. “Hey. Hey, hey, hey, it’s the granddaughter. Edie’s granddaughter.”
The granddaughter stopped at the cash register to pay. She happened to glance back and looked straight at Frances.
“Shit! Don’t look, don’t look,” Frances said, but both Joan and Irene had already twisted around to see. Unfortunately, twisting anything at their ages required the full body, arms and legs, and so forth, so they were quite noticeable.
“I’m going to talk to her,” Frances said. “Don’t touch my food.”
“Wait! Are you going to eat all three biscuits?” Joan asked, eyeing them.
Frances ignored her. She hopped out of the booth and gave a friendly wave before the granddaughter could escape, like it was perfectly natural to have a chat after getting kicked out of her grandmother’s house.
The granddaughter was accepting her change when Frances reached her. “Hi there,” she said, and stuck out her hand. The granddaughter looked at her hand as if she didn’t know what to do with it. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name yesterday.”
“Um …” The young woman looked past Frances to the booth were Joan and Irene were sitting. She reluctantly took Frances’s hand. “Marcy. Marcy Kessler.” She quickly shook and dropped Frances’s hand.
“It’s a pleasure, Marcy. I’m Frances. Look, I’m so sorry about what happened yesterday. We were too big of a surprise, it seems. But I want you to know we never meant to startle Edie like that. We thought it would be a happy surprise.”
“Yeah,” Marcy said. She bit her bottom lip and folded her arms tightly across her body. “I was so embarrassed.”
Frances winced. “We can be a handful—”
“No, not you. Nana. She was so rude,” she said, sounding amazed by it. “I don’t understand why.”
Frances sensed an opening. Maybe there was a way to see Edie yet. “That’s what we thought,” she said, shifting closer. “We’ve never known Edie to be that angry. At least not when we knew her.”
Marcy took the bait. “When did you know her?”
“Oh, way back when. High school. Or college. High school and college,” Frances said.
Lord, but she was rusty. She used to be able to think on her feet, but she was a little slow on the uptake, which she blamed entirely on that damn tumor.
She smiled. “The years run together. But she was my best friend.”
Marcy looked stunned. “Nana? Then why was she so mad?”
“That’s my question. I suppose she’s been stewing on something for a long time. But without talking to her, I can’t really know. Or make it right, if necessary.”
Marcy studied her for a moment, as if she was confused by Frances. Frances studied her right back. She was very pretty. Of course she was—she had Edie’s genes. She was a darker version of a young, blonde Edie.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Marcy said.
“It was so long ago, it’s hard to remember everything, you know?
But I would love to know, too. I wish I could talk to her,” Frances said wistfully.
“I’m sure it must be something I did, and I would apologize in an instant if I knew.
” She sighed, as if she’d given up hope of reconciling.
“I guess I won’t have the opportunity. Oh well.
Anyway”—she put her hand on Marcy’s elbow—“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. ”
“I’m fine. But wait—can you tell me anything about her? Like, what was she like? She never talks about her life. When I ask her, she says it’s old news, or she can’t remember, or it’s not worth mentioning.”
Frances almost patted herself on the back for reeling this girl in so skillfully. “Everyone loved her. She was so funny, and so lively. So smart. Come sit, and my friends and I will tell you whatever you want to know. We’ll buy you a coffee and fill your ears with memories of Edie Smith.”
Marcy looked uncertainly at the door. Then at Frances. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Come on.”
The young woman gave her an uncertain smile, but she nodded. “Okay. Just for a minute.”