Love Trumps Game (17 page)

T
wo days later, after leaving her three kids in the capable hands of a nanny, Myra drove from Victorville to Hesperia to check on her pet care business. The sun was up early this morning, preparing to wreak havoc on the desert landscape. Expecting another heat wave, she dressed light in a yellow T-shirt, cut-off jeans, and yellow sneakers. Her auburn hair was off her neck in a ponytail. It was far from the designer look she loved sporting, but casual dressing was a must for dog grooming, something she enjoyed.

It had been almost two weeks since she'd showed up to check on the three employees that had been running the place while she was off on her family emergency “hiatus.” She dreaded the disaster that awaited her. She supposed that profits had no doubt dwindled since her absence, which happens when owners attempt to run a business via a phone line instead of in person. Stealing and goofing off came with the territory.

It was a little after seven when she let herself into the shop, and canceled the alarm on the modest-sized dwelling that was sandwiched between a deli and 24 Hour Fitness. The venture had started out as a pet grooming facility, but had morphed into the sale of pets and pet products. My Pampered Pooch had been in business all of three years, thanks to a generous investment from Glen who had agreed that his wife needed something more than
kids to occupy her easily bored mind. A few low-maintenance pets could be found like fish, turtles, lizards, birds and hamsters. Small dogs were her preference. In fact, if it wasn't for Glen, she would no doubt have a house full of small dogs, mostly tea-cup poodles and pugs. Two local breeders occasionally supplied her with pure-bred puppies on consignment. But thank goodness, there were no hungry, whining puppies crying for her attention before her morning coffee.

“First thing first, some coffee.” Myra turned on her coffeemaker and pulled out her Gevalia blend. For the first time in a while, she felt happy and relaxed knowing that her mother and the kids were safe and secure. She could get back to her own life. In no time the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the air. Pouring a cup she headed to her office to check the day's grooming appointments.

“Umph. Miss Shone's prissy little poodle, Whitey, at eight.” Not exactly her favorite, but Miss Shone was a good tipper. Twin Spaniels at nine.
That should be interesting.
A new customer at ten, and another new client at eleven. There were a few others on the list, but they were regulars. Looked like a busy day was planned. Sipping coffee and perusing through a stack of receipts and invoices, her heart almost leaped out of her chest when she looked up and found a stranger standing at her office door.

“What the hell!” Myra shot up from her padded chair prepared for a good fight. “What do you want?” Her eye-to-eye contact with the pink-faced stranger conveyed both suspicion and anger. “Why are you here?” Her immediate assumption was that the stranger was affiliated with Topps Jackson, working for him and looking for her mother.

The stranger stepped into her office, smiling. “Didn't mean to scare you.”

“Who are you?”

“The name is West. John West. I'm trying to locate a Miss Hattie Sims.”

“Why? I mean, may I ask what is the nature of your inquiry?” Myra stole glances around for a suitable weapon. Her large crystal paperweight? Her sharp letter opener?

“Relax. I come in peace. Your front door was unlocked.”

“You're lying!” Or was he? She couldn't recall if she had locked that darn door or not.

“Mrs. Bradshaw…I…”

“How do you know my name? Look, I don't know where Hattie Sims is, and even if I did, I wouldn't tell you.” It was the truth. She really didn't know the location that Bruno Kelly had taken Hattie and the kids. Even if she did, she had no reason to trust this man. “If Topps Jackson hired you to find her, you're wasting your time. She left two days ago.”

“I'm a private investigator, but you're way off track. I know that Hattie is your mother.”

“Who hired you?” The sound of the store's front door opening and a female calling out her name calmed her. Marva Moon, her trusty assistant, had arrived early. “Marva, I'm in my office!” Thank God. She could relax a little knowing she had backup in case this John West tried anything. “Well, who hired you?” she prompted impatiently.

Marva, who was Hispanic and black, was at her office door as perky as ever. “Hey, boss lady. Good to see you.”

Myra returned a salutation but kept her eyes glued to John West, who looked more like a school principal in his navy-blue dress shirt and matching slacks.

“I work for no one right now. You could say that I'm a friend of Neema Sims, trying to help her out. Perhaps I came at a bad time.”

Marva asked, “Is everything okay here, boss?”

“I'll just see myself out,” West announced casually before turning and walking away.

“Boss, you need me to do anything?”

“Uh…yeah, Marva. Put all invoices in order by date for me. Thanks.” Myra walked after West. “Mr. West? Hold up…I'm sorry. Please forgive my behavior. I've been under a lot of stress lately. Tell me what's going on.”

“That's understandable. So has your sister.”

“May I ask how you know Neema?”

After West ran down the situation about Neema's accident, her memory loss and how she was being taken care of until she was herself again, Myra looked flabbergasted.

“Are you serious? She doesn't remember her own kids?” That would explain why she hadn't called to check up on them. She'd seen TV episodes of people having their memory lost after head trauma, but had always surmised that it was a Hollywood gimmick. It was hard to believe that such a thing could actually happen. “Does she remember anybody?”

“You can talk to her, if you like. I can't guarantee you anything.” West took out a cell phone and called his house where Neema was still recuperating. Once Neema answered, he passed his cell phone to Myra.

Skeptic, Myra took the phone to her ear with her heart racing like crazy. “Nee?” The voice she heard on the opposite end brought joyful tears to her eyes.

While Myra fired one question after another, Neema kept repeating questions. “Who is this? What's your name again? How did you know where to call me?”

It was Neema's voice for sure. “Oh, my God…Nee? It's you! It's really you.”

“Nanny, is our momma ever coming back?”

“I don't care if she never comes back,” Brandon deadpanned. “When I go live with my daddy, I'll have my own room and I can do whatever I want. I can even smoke weed if I want to. That's what Daddy told me.”

“Brandon, you shut up. Momma's coming back, huh, Nanny?”

Hattie was at the stove cooking scrambled eggs for breakfast. “Nita, I think so. Sometimes mothers need time to themselves. She's just taking a long vacation by herself. Think of it like that.”
What a liar,
she thought. The truth was, she didn't know if Neema was still alive or not. The more she called the detective working on the case, the story was pretty much the same. Not one clue to Neema's whereabouts. Hattie could only imagine that having to deal with a monster like Topps Jackson, something terrible had happened to her child. She prayed morning, noon, and night, but she couldn't let herself cry about it now. A brave front. That's what she had to put on for the children's sake.

“Mama don't give a shit about us,” said Brandon, like cursing was so natural for a seven-year-old boy. The two sat at the table waiting for Hattie to feed them. It was almost noon and Bruno was outside dealing with his guard dogs.

“Brandon, you watch your mouth now.”

“It's true,” Brandon confirmed, his face twisted. “Mama is a
selfish whore who only cares about herself. That's what Daddy said.”

“Brandon!” Hattie removed the skillet of eggs from the flame and walked over to where Brandon sat at the table. “Don't let me tell you again about your mouth.”

“All women are bitches,” he smarted.

“You just won't listen, will you?!” Hattie yelled, snatching Brandon up from his seat. She dragged him to the nearest bathroom and turned on the faucet. Brandon squirmed and tugged but couldn't get away from her. “I am so sick of your dirty mouth! You hear me? I'm sick of it!”'

“Get offa' me, bitch!”

“I warned you. Didn't I?!”

While Brandon was yelling, “Bitch! Leave me alone,” Hattie took up a bar of soap and shoved it into his gapping mouth. She had warned him continuously about his dirty language, but he obviously didn't heed the warnings. Now, she had to show him that she meant business. Her own kids never talked to her that way, and she had no intention on allowing some little snot-nosed, know-every-damn-thing, mannish-acting grandson to do it. “You will not use that kind of language with me, young man. You will not!”

Raynita was watching with the excitement of a back alley fight. “Want me to get the belt, Nanny?” The anticipation of watching her brother get a whipping glowed in her eyes.

“Go find me a belt, Nita!” Tackling that child was more than Hattie expected. She couldn't believe how incredibly strong his little behind was. The more she struggled to restrain his hands, the more Brandon kept breaking free and pounding his small fist against her thighs. Sweat dotted her forehead, and Hattie had the brief sensation that she was wrestling with a wild bear. “I have
told you over and over again about your mouth! You just won't listen, will you?”

Brandon tried to clench his mouth shut, but it was hard to do and call his grandmother names at the same time. The bitter taste of soap on his tongue made him gag and cough. Soap bubbles came out of his nose while he frowned and spit the offensive taste out.

Raynita ran back into the room. “Here, Nanny. Here's a belt. Whip his little butt good!”

Brandon was yelling and crying, but Hattie could see that he still hadn't had enough by the fierce look he gave her with his balled-up fist. It occurred to her that if the boy was a little taller and older, she'd be the one getting a beat down. “Oh, I see. You need some more convincing that I mean business!” She took the belt and began wailing away on Brandon's legs, ignoring his fake tears, careful not to strike his face. “This is because I love you. You remember that. You hear me, Brandon? I'm whipping your tail outta love!”

Yelling and crying brought Bruno running in to see what the deal was. “What's going on?” Of course, it was obvious. Seeing Hattie dance Brandon around with a thin, leather belt brought a smile to his face. For the three days they'd been at his place, he had witnessed the boy talking to his grandmother and sister with so much disrespect that he had wanted to intervene. “It's about time.” He closed the bathroom door to give Hattie some privacy, then turned to Raynita. “Hey, how 'bout some ice cream?”

“For breakfast?”

“Why the heck not? How does strawberry sound?”

“Sounds good,” Raynita squealed. “I like strawberry.”

Bruno took Raynita's little hand and led her to the kitchen. They hadn't been sitting down with their cold delight a good five minutes when Hattie slow-dragged into the spacious kitchen.
She looked like she'd done battle with the devil himself. Breathing hard, she plopped down into a chair.

“Shoots, I forgot how much work it is to spank a child. I need a nap and a Red Bull.” Her hair was wild, her blouse stretched out of shape. She was tired and her arms and back ached. “Sorry I had to do that in your house,” she panted, out of breath, “…but…but it couldn't be helped.”

“No problem. The Bible says, ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child.'” Bruno regarded her, looking perplexed. “I'd rather see a parent knock some discipline into a child instead of the police.”

“Absolutely, and that's why I did it. What?” Hattie asked, noticing the odd way Bruno was looking at her.

“Nothing. I didn't think you had it in you.”

“Well, I did, but it's been wrestled out of me now. Dang, that boy is strong.”

Hattie went over and put some now-cold eggs on a plate. She poured herself a cup of coffee and moved to the table to sit again. “Nita, you eating ice cream for breakfast?” Whatever. She was too tired to fuss about it. “You still eating some eggs, young lady?” She set the plate down in front of Raynita.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“And what do we say when someone gives you something?”

“Thank you, Nanny.”

“You're welcome.” She was going to mold the kids into shape even if she had to go to an early grave doing so.

“Hey, what say we spend the day out and about? A nice outing would do us all some good. How would you like to have a makeover?” Bruno waited for her reaction.

Hattie raised a brow. “What kind of makeover?”

“I don't know. I was thinking that if you changed how you look a little, you wouldn't be such an easy target. Some new clothes, a new hairdo, maybe even a change in hair color.”

“I look that bad?” A hand flew up to pat her hair into place. “I'm telling you that child put up quite a fight.” Hattie thought about it. The last time she'd had her hair done was after the breakup with her last boyfriend, Harold. The relationship had lasted over a year with some hints toward marriage, but Harold had a slight drinking problem that had him acting like a lunatic. That put the brakes on marriage. After the split, Hattie simply gave up on dating and men. There was no need to keep her hair and nails up after that. “I don't have a beautician. I wouldn't know where to go.”

“No problem,” Bruno assured her. “I have a play sister that owns her own shop in Fontana, not too far from here. I can give Queenie a call to see if she can work you in. How 'bout it?”

“Well…I suppose it couldn't hurt.” Shoots. Who was she fooling? She'd been needing some personal pampering for months now.

“Be right back.” Bruno excused himself to go make a call. Back in ten minutes, he announced, “Get the kids ready and let's roll. She says she can squeeze you in.”