Free Opal Fire by Barbra Annino Page A

me. “Cripes, Stacy I was just kidding. “Course I’ll take him.” He backed up and adjusted his uniform, not to mention his unmentionables. He tossed me a hurt look, like a puppy dropped at the pound.
    “Sorry, Gus. Can I have a napkin, please, and my phone call?”
    “Oh, I made that call for you,” Gus said, unlocking the gate. Thor darted through. “Your ride should be along any minute.”
    “What? Wait a second, who did you call? Gus!”
    But he was already gone.
    Please, let it be Cinnamon.
    My cousin knew the ropes in this department. And by this department I mean every jail cell in a 300-mile radius. She rebelled against her cop father for years by landing herself in the slammer, which was ironic, since he often slapped the cuffs on himself. Hmm. I never thought of that before. Maybe the violent outbursts, dangerous pranks, and artistic vandalism were her way of seeing Uncle Deck more often.
    I, in contrast, never even had a speeding ticket.
    The drink was beginning to harden on my face and since I didn’t expect that napkin anytime soon, I untucked my turtleneck and wiped it away.
    She came at me while my shirt was stretched over my head. “Can you not keep yourself out of harm’s way for five minutes?”
    Definitely not Cinnamon.
    I pulled my turtleneck down and faced Birdie.
    “It wasn’t my fault.”
    “It never is, dear.”
    “Birdie, I’m serious. That asshole should be in here. Not me.”
    “Then why didn’t you press charges?”
    That was a good question. For which my only answer was, “I didn’t want to make things worse.”
    Birdie pointedly eyed every inch of the cell I was standing in. The message, clearly, was ‘and yet, here you are’.
    “Please, can we talk about this later?” I said.
    Birdie paid the fine as I gathered my things and clipped a leash on Thor. I told her I would wait outside and stepped onto the sidewalk, searching the street for her white Cadillac. I spotted it in the narrow parking lot. That’s when I felt a twinge in my chest. Not nausea, not the chills. Just... a tug.
    “We go,” Birdie said, behind me.
    I shifted to face her and spotted the mustache man, lingering near the courthouse.
    “One minute,” I said to Birdie. I put my things in the car.
    When I looked back, he was gone.
     
     
    As we pulled up to the house, Gramps was waiting in his Buick, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, probably crooning with Sinatra.
    “Are you still going?” I asked, Birdie.
    “Remember that wonderful talking gadget you gave me for Christmas?”
    “You mean a cell phone?”
    “Yes, well we aren’t allowed one of those.” She rolled her eyes and made a grand gesture with her hand. “Bonding, you know. Getting in touch with our feelings. As if I have any new feelings left to experience in this mature body.”
    “Birdie, the talking gadget?”
    “Right. You see, mine has a little typewriter built in. So we can communicate if the need arises.”
    I smiled. “Good enough.”
    We all exited the car and Birdie got into the front seat of the Buick. She flipped the mirror down and dabbed on some lipstick.
    Gramps said something to her and got out of the car.
    “There’s my star,” he said.
    I smiled.
    “Listen, sweetie, I forgot to tell you that I called Stan Plough and told him that if you girls needed anything, he could tack it onto my bill. I have him on retainer, for my investment properties and such.”
    By ‘such’, I assumed he meant the crazy women in his life. He handed me a card.
    “Thanks, Gramps. Why haven’t you left yet?”
    He angled around the front of the car, opened the driver’s side door and shook his head. “Wouldn’t you know it? Your grandmother was sorting through the luggage and noticed one of the bags wasn’t ours.” Gramps shrugged. “See you Monday, dear.”
    He slammed the door and put the car in reverse. I stood there, for a split second, processing that little tidbit of information.
    I narrowed my eyes at Birdie