Free The Miracle Strip by Nancy Bartholomew

brothers and Pop on a plane headed for Florida. Made me wonder where Denise’s family was. Why weren’t they wondering where their baby was?
    â€œI don’t get it, Fluff,” I said after I’d hung up. Fluffy cocked her head and pricked up her long pointy ears. “Maybe her family doesn’t know she’s lost. Maybe she went back home.” Fluffy didn’t have an opinion. “Fluff, if she was your friend and didn’t nobody else seem to care, you’d look for her, wouldn’t you?” Fluffy seemed to nod, or maybe she was looking for fleas. Whatever, I took it for agreement.
    â€œThen I’m gonna go look for her.” Fluffy wasn’t smiling. “What harm can it do? I’ll act like I’m a long-lost friend of Denise’s and don’t know she’s divorced. How could anybody have a problem with that?” Fluffy growled deep in her chest.
    â€œI know,” I answered, “but it’s the best I can come up with on short notice. I’ll do better before I see her ex.”
    Fluffy got down off her pillow and trotted across the bed to me. She lowered her head and nudged at my hand, wanting me to pet her. Her nose was cold and wet. When I scratched her behind the ears, she rolled over, wanting me to rub her tummy. I couldn’t leave town without getting someone to take care of Fluff, and I couldn’t do that without answering a lot of questions. This could take some doing, or else Fluffy was going on a road trip.

Eleven
    In order to go on a road trip, one must have a car and be physically able to drive said car. I was stealing 0 for 2 on that count. I spent the better part of the day trying to come up with options and drifting off to sleep. I couldn’t help myself. Every time I had to take a pain pill, I became a zombie. If I didn’t take something for the pain, then I couldn’t think straight. It was a vicious circle.
    I woke up from my third nap of the day with a pain pill hangover and an answer to my transportation troubles. Raydean had a car. She didn’t drive much anymore, which for Panama City was a blessing. However, she kept the car, an old Plymouth Fury, serviced and ready to go, in case the Flemish took over the town and it became necessary to evacuate. Raydean would see nothing odd or unusual about me asking to borrow it for a few days. She wouldn’t ask questions and she wouldn’t remember the answers even if I told her.
    Bruno, or whoever was now my “attendant,” stood between me and freedom. I could hear voices out in the living room. It might be easier to slip over to Raydean’s than try and make arrangements with people in my house. One person would pay attention to me, but two might not watch me so closely.
    I eased my way down the hallway, trying to identify my visitors, but the talking had stopped when I’d opened my bedroom door. They had to have been talking about me. That made sense. Just as abruptly, the voices resumed, this time louder, staged for my benefit.
    â€œAnyway,” the female voice said, “I thought she might like this. Be sure you keep it refrigerated. It’s got whipped cream and coconut milk in it.”
    Marla. What in the hell was she doing bringing me food? We hated each other. What we had was more than a professional rivalry; it was personal. I burst into the living room as Marla was opening the door to leave. She stopped, turning to face me with her best choke-and-die smile pasted in place.
    â€œSierra,” she cooed, “I was telling Vincent here how concerned we all are down at the club.” Vincent was looking very uncomfortable. “I baked you a cake. Thought you might like something sweet.” Her tone was all Southern honey, but her smile didn’t quite touch her eyes. “See you, Vincent. You think over what we talked about, y’hear?”
    She was gone, her sharp heels clicking down the steps and across the concrete to