Archives for posts with tag: clarice

Donna Louise here. Anyone leave an autographed box set of the “Fifty Shades of Gray” trilogy at the block party? You can call Clarice and claim it, but I’ll warn you that she’ll talk bad about you and your taste in reading material. If you have teenage children, send them to reclaim it for you. (And, NO, it isn’t mine.)

The police detectives took my missing person’s report, but they didn’t seem too interested in solving the case. Can’t say as I blame them. No sign of any struggles in the house. They noted that she’d left her dentures behind and all of her wigs.

When Yank asked me if I knew whether she owned more than one pair of dentures, I had to admit that I hadn’t known she wore dentures or wigs. He asked, “Then why are the dentures and wigs important here?” I referred him to Clarice who seemed to know more about Vivian’s dental history and hair woes than I did.

When the mail came this afternoon, I leafed through it. The usual advertisements for a free weekend at the lake appeared, but they try to intimidate you into buying a condo. I don’t bother going anymore. Then there was the ad for water line insurance sent out by the city. What a scam. Someone at city is making some money off that one.

Then I see the statue of the Pony Express rider that sits next to City Hall in St. Joseph, Missouri. Turns out it’s a postcard from Vivian with a short message.

“Dear Donna Louise, stopped at Love’s Truck Stop for a cup of coffee to stay awake. Still have a long way to go. Sorry I left so abruptly, but emergencies don’t always happen at convenient times. Don’t worry about me. Love, Vivian”

The same handwriting graced the back of the postcard as was on the note stuck in my door. If someone other than Vivian is sending these messages, they want to convince me that she’s alright. I’ll show the note to Clarice to see what she thinks. Is it Vivian’s handwriting or not?

Then again, who would drive fifty miles to St. Joe to mail a postcard just to convince us that the emergency was real?

I’m going back to the house by myself to do more checking on my own. I must have overlooked something before Clarice’s scream stopped my search. Then the detectives came and prevented me from nosing around. Better to investigate by myself.

Oh, by the way, Mr. Singersanger came home from the hospital today. He looks so much better although he lost the color in his face when I told him about Vivian’s disappearance. Poor man, it must have been a shock to him. They traded plants and shared gardening tips. I better be more careful in the future about sharing upsetting information with him. I don’t want him to drop dead on my account.

 

Advertisements

Donna Louise here. Last night Clarice and I entered Vivian’s house to make sure Vivian was okay. It doesn’t look good—the situation, that is, not her house which she kept immaculate. Something about the feeling inside the place creeped me out. It’s not right.

Clarice headed to Vivian’s bedroom while I searched the front room. Her scream about made me wet my pants. As I rushed into the bedroom, I found Clarice sitting on the bed holding a cup with dentures in it. That’s not a good sign, I don’t think, but then I never knew she wore dentures.

“Someone took her, Donna Louise. She’d never leave the house without her teeth or her wig.”

“Her wig? I looked around the room to see if I could locate a wig, but not one was in sight. I never knew she wore a wig either.

“Yes, she wore one every day of her life after an illness in her 40s left her bald as a bowling ball. She bought sixty of the same style because she figured, if she lived to be a hundred, she’d have enough to last her lifetime. Here. They’re all in this closet.” She flung open the doors. I gasped.

The closet was lined with fake heads all of them wearing the same hair as Vivian wore in real life. The things we don’t know about our neighbors. Some of them we should never know.

Clarice had sat down in the bed to have a good boo-hoo. “She’s gone. Poor woman, they took her without her teeth. Those white slavers have only one thing in mind:  turning elderly, Christian women into whores. The scum.”

Without thinking I said, “I understand that women without teeth can perform great oral sex.” As soon as the last words left my mouth, I knew I’d regret sharing that little bit of information. But, Dr. Ruth had mentioned that fact on a program she did about oral sex.

Clarice rose from the bed. “Young lady, I’ll have you know Vivian would never stick something like …like…THAT in her mouth. She was raised to be a proper lady.”

So was I, but…well, never mind, it isn’t relevant to this story.

I returned to the dining room where I found Vivian’s land-line unplugged. Her cell phone sat in the middle of the dining room table.

“Clarice, I’m calling the police. We need their assistance.” I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

“9-1-1 operator, what is the nature of your emergency?”

“Missing person.”

“How long has the person been missing?”

“Ninety-six hours, I think. Is that 24 times 4?”

“Yes, ma’am. What is your relationship to the missing person?”

“A friend and neighbor.”

“I’ve sent a police car to the address associate with this phone. Please remain on the line as I have some additional questions to ask you.”

“You better send them to Vivian’s address. She’s the one missing.” I gave her the correct address and then I gave her my name, address and phone number.

“Now, ma’am, do you have any idea what may have happened to your friend?”

“We think she was kidnapped and sold into white slavery.”

“Then she’s Caucasian.”

“Well, yes, but women of any race or color can be sold into white slavery.”

“Really?”

Why don’t people know more about white slavery? Before I could educate the operator, someone who identified himself as a police officer knocked on the front door. I shut my phone and went to let him in.

The officer and his partner came in the house and asked questions. They asked us what we had touched. We cooperated with them. After about an hour, they called the detectives.

When I opened the door, I came face-to-face with Detective Yank Kaiser, my old friend from my nunnery days.

The corners of his mouth turned up and he said, “I should have known it was you. After all, you live just down the street, don’t you? This must be a doozie of a case.”

“You don’t know the half of it, Yank.”

He walked into the front room. “I know you’re right. If you’re involved, the case must be bizarre.”

I chose to take that as a compliment, but I’m not sure he meant it that way.