Ruby's Slippers (7 page)

“No. I’m … well, I was searching for my dog.”

“You one of those people who bring their animals for us to pet?”

“No, I live here.”

The clicking of tiny nails against linoleum makes me turn around. Otto rounds the corner and instantly heads for the scattered popcorn, licking at the carpet, sniffing around for more bits. I scoop him up into my arms and introduce him to Sophia.

“I wasn’t much help to you, was I?” Sophia offers Otto a fluffy kernel off the palm of her hand.

“I wouldn’t say that. The smell of cracked corn—” I pause, shake my head. “That was wrong. Um … popcorn. It lured Otto to us. So you were a huge help.”

“I’d like to believe that. It’s so hard to feel useful in this place. No one seems to need me anymore.”

“That’s not true! You changed the lightbulb. Maybe you could help me keep an eye on Otto. He runs off all the time. I spend most of my time walking around looking for him. Of course, the walking is good for me.”

“An optimist, are you? I like that.” She rubs Otto’s dark furry head. “He’s a curious little wanderer, is he?”

“More like trouble.”

“But you love him very much.”

“Most definitely.”

“That’s good. That’s important. My daddy always said, ‘Everyone needs someone to love.’”

But did he mean only a dog? The fact that my sole companion is Otto makes for a sad commentary on my life. Not that I’ve thought much about that over the years. It’s just how
things worked out. I wonder if Sophia has someone, or if she’s alone. Like me.

She peers closer at me, wrinkling the skin between her eyebrows. “You’re awfully young for a place like this. Or do you have a wizard of a plastic surgeon?”

I laugh. “I was in a coma. Now I’m recovering.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, of course! I visited you. You look different with your eyes open, minus all the tubes and such.”

“You visited me?”

“Prayed for you.” She pats my arm. “Worked, didn’t it? Look at you now!”

Prayers to me are like wishing on haystacks. “Well, I don’t know about—”

“Sure it did. Don’t get all practical on me now. We see what we want in this life. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not taking credit. I’m not smart enough to do something wonderful like that. But even someone like me can believe.”

“Is that all it takes?”

“To move a mountain.” She pops more popcorn into her mouth and chews. “You walk all the way from the Blue Building?”

“I’m not there anymore. They’ve moved me since I’m more motivational.” I frown.

She laughs. “You are that! A miracle for sure.” She hooks her arm through mine. “But I think you meant ‘mobile.’ Come on, I’ll walk you back. Where are we?”

“You don’t know?”

“Tell you the truth, I get lost in this place all the time. Plays with my sense of direction, which is much better out of doors.” She looks at the room number on the plaque outside the door then peeks back inside as if she forgot something.

She scratches her head, a frown deepening the wrinkles lining her forehead. “Sometimes my son thinks I’ve lost my brain.” She leans close. “He might be right.”

“Lost it?” A smile tugs at my lips. “Then we make the perfect pair. Where could it have gone?”

She chuckles and pats my arm, then rubs Otto’s head. “I like the way you think.”

Someone’s looking for you, Dottie,” Chuck Wyler says as he joins a group of senior residents watching
Antiques Roadshow
. They’re planning a trip to Seattle with all their personal heirlooms in tow for an upcoming show.

“Thanks, Chuck.” I concentrate on Wii bowling, which has become a popular sport at the facility. To me, it’s a way to work on regaining my balance and coordination. I left Otto in my room because my pooch has a tendency to get under my feet and trip me. Sophia and Maybelle sit on a nearby sofa sharing a coconut cupcake.

I click the button on the Wii remote, step forward, pull my arm back as if I’m holding a bouncing—no, bowling— ball and let it go. The virtual pink ball rolls in slow motion down the alley on the screen but hooks left and winds up in the gutter.

“You’re twisting your arm,” Maybelle advises from her armchair view. “Give it some power, girl! And keep your wrist straight.”

I retrace my motions. This time, I throw the “ball” over my head and make all the Miis behind me jump and spin.

“Try again.” Maybelle leans forward, her elbows on her dimpled thighs, watching my every action with the scrutiny of an Olympic coach. “Go faster.”

“You have to go slow,” Sophia contradicts.

I step toward the TV, release the virtual ball, and watch it roll toward the pins at a pokey pace. It’s as if time slows as the ball has little momentum. But then it strikes the first pin. The rest topple, bumping and knocking into each other until not one is left standing.

“Whoo-hoo!” Maybelle raises her arms in triumph.

Sophia claps.

Someone from the
Antiques Roadshow
crew says, “Keep it down.”

I punch the air, turning and freezing with my arm raised high at the sight of a strange man watching us. Watching me. Slowly, I retract my arm.

The man wears a navy suit. Suddenly self-conscious, I tug at the hem of my shirt. Sophia and Maybelle compliment my spare, and I clear my throat to get their attention.

“Excuse me,” the man says, his tone clipped, “I’m looking for a Miss Dorothy Meyers.”

My eyebrows arch. My friends look at me. He’s about my age, but I don’t recognize him. And apparently, he doesn’t know me either. I give a slight wave of my hand, like I’m in school again. “That’s me.”

“Could I have a word with you in private, miss?” He has a crisp New England accent.

I hesitate. “What about?”

“Official business, ma’am.” He pulls a black wallet from his breast pocket, flips it out, then back, and slides it back into his pocket. “FBI.”

“Oooh! You’re in trouble.” Maybelle’s heavily made-up eyes are big and round. Her faded lipstick-stained lips pinch together.

The man does look official, with a government haircut and plain suit. He’s relatively nondescript as if he could be anyone, fit into any crowd. Except for the blue suit, which doesn’t fit in here at the extended-care facility. Scrubs, warm-ups, or pajamas are the usual attire. Only preachers and funeral directors wear suits here.

Feeling my stomach contract, I motion to the doorway that leads to the hall. “We could go down to my room.”

“That’ll be fine, ma’am.”

Maybelle starts to rise.

“It’s okay.” I motion her back.

We pass Frank Porter sitting in the hallway in his wheelchair. He saves French fries from his lunch for Otto. “I hear your dog whining, Dottie. Aren’t you going to let him out?”

“Later,” I say, aware of the FBI man behind me.

Opening the door, I nudge Otto back with my foot, then decide it might be better to hold him. He rubs the top of his head against my chin. But his body stiffens when he sees the FBI agenda—um, agent—behind me. “Shh, it’s okay. No barking.”

The agent closes the door, cutting me off from the rest of the facility. My nerves jangle a warning, but I silence them. This is probably about the tornado. Or maybe the upcoming auction. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you know Abigail Meyers Edgerton?”

I sit in the chair by the window, not offering the only one I have to my guest who is not really a guest. “Of course. She’s my sister.”

He nods and jots something down in a palm-size notebook he’s pulled from his jacket pocket. “And do you know her current location?”

“Not really. No.”

“Her residence?”

“L.A.”

“Address?”

It surprises me that I don’t know. I never memorized her address but had it written down in my address book at home. Which was probably lost in the storm. “I lost all my records in the storm. The facility here may have that information, Mr… .”

He gives a slight nod. “I see. And—”

“What’s wrong?”

“We are seeking Ms. Edgerton—or does she go by Meyers?—for questioning. When was the last time you saw her?”

“I’m not sure. She visited me here while I was in a coma, I believe.” Suddenly I wonder if that’s the reason I haven’t seen her. Does she know our father has been here? Is she trying to find him too? I rub my temple, wish my brain was working at full capacity.

The man scribbles something in his notebook. He walks along the length of my bed, his brown shoes scuffing the linoleum as he comes to a halt. He stares out the window for a moment and crosses his arms over his barrel-sized chest, brushing a waxy leaf on the potted plant beside him. “You seem like the type who wants to cooperate.” He turns and
settles his gaze on me. His eyes, narrowly set in a square face, are the color of toasted wheat. “It’s about the shoes, ma’am.”

“Shoes?” I swallow hard, give my head a shake as if I’ve misheard.

“The ruby slippers. Do you know where they are?”

My skin contracts and heat rushes to the surface. “I … uh …” My hand cups my forehead.

“Do you know why your sister might have an interest in the shoes?”

I can only stare at this man. Words fail me.

“The shoes, Miss Meyers, are considered stolen property.”

“Stolen property?” I repeat the words as if trying to decipher their meaning.

“Crossed state lines. A pair was stolen from the Judy Garland Museum in Grand Rapids.”

None of this makes sense. Words and phrases twist around in my head and hog-tie my tongue.

“Ma’am?”

I blink.

“Are you okay?”

I shake my head. Or do I nod? My ears vibrate with the pounding of my pulse.

He waits a minute or two, I’m not sure how long. Finally, he scribbles something on a piece of notebook paper, rips it from the spiral, and hands it to me. “This is serious business, Miss Meyers. If you learn of anything, don’t hesitate to call. Day or night.”

* * *

“WHAT DID THAT man want?” Maybelle has appeared in my doorway.

I feel numb, unsure how long I’ve been sitting and staring out the window.

“Are you okay?” Sophia follows Maybelle.

“What did the FBI want with you?” Maybelle gives a half hop and settles on top of my bed like we’re about to have a slumber party. “You kill somebody?”

Sophia sits on the footstool next to me. “You’re cold.” I glance down and see she’s holding my hand between her long tapered fingers.

“Should we call the nurse?” Maybelle’s dyed eyebrows slant into a frown.

Sophia chafes my hands gently. “Just frazzled, I’d say. Did that man say something to upset you, Dottie?”

I blink as if coming out of a stupor. “He wanted to know about the ruby slippers.”

Sophia’s features crumple into confusion.

“The ruby slippers from
The Wizard of Oz
?” Maybelle’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Those shoes—”

“I have them.” Panic takes hold of me, and I glance toward the door. “Shut it, will you?”

Sophia does, coming back to my side. “I’m not sure I’m following you.”

I motion for my friends to move closer and whisper, “I have a pair of ruby slippers. Someone left them here while I was in a coma. I think it was my father.” Pushing up from the chair, I pace the room. “I have to get out of here. I have to find out what’s going on.”

* * *

THE CURSOR BLINKS at me, waiting, expectant. The computer in the recreation room is available to any resident. It takes my fingers a while to remember how to type. I punch in
my father’s name: Duncan Ernest Meyers. When that doesn’t yield any clear results, I remove the middle name and try again. There are a few hits, and I check each one, but none match. I narrow the search to Seattle, but still I come up with nothing.

Then I attempt to find Elizabeth Turney. With Otto sitting in my lap, I Google my aunt and find seventeen women listed by that name. I study birth dates and narrow down the year of her birth and approximate age to rule out all but one.

It’s a quick click to her obituary.

Something inside me compresses.

Born in 1942 in Kansas, this Elizabeth Turney would have been slightly older than my father. Her maiden name of Meyers is listed, as are her closest relations: her husband of thirty-eight years, Tim Turney, and one brother, though his name is not mentioned.

I click on a link and study a photo gallery of Elizabeth Turney, which I then compare to the picture in my possession. I’m positive it’s the same woman. Whoever she is, she knew my parents at some point. Maybe her husband did too. It’s the only lead I have.

Tim Turney lives in San Francisco. His phone number is unlisted, but I jot down his address and now have a destination in mind.

* * *

I WALK BACK to my room, Otto prancing at my feet, circling me, darting in and out of rooms. There’s a commotion of voices up ahead, and Otto races ahead of me.

Maybelle barrels out of my room, her usually garish face pale, arms waving.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“She’s here! She’s back. And she’s mad!”

“Who?”

“Don’t go in there!”

Has Maybelle mixed up her medication? Otto’s barks are louder, more insistent. Breathing hard, I stumble into my room.

“Can you get that yapping dog to shut up?” Abby’s appearance startles me. Her hair, now red, is curly and teased about her head. She wears expensive, silver-studded jeans and a simple, white, too-tight T-shirt and pointy-toed heels.

“Nice to see you too, Abs. I’m doing fine, thanks.”

“You certainly look better than the last time I saw you. You looked like a corpse!” She shivers then plops onto the end of the bed and crosses her long legs. “When are you getting out of here?”

It’s then I notice the closet door is open. When I left, it was closed. I think. But I can’t be sure. “What are you doing here, Abby?”

“I came to check on you. After all, you’re my ward.”

“Call off the sale of the farm, Abby.”

“Dottie, much as I’d like to, I can’t. I already signed the papers agreeing to the sale. I know you don’t like it, but there are medical expenses. While you’ve been lounging around here, I’ve been stressed and working, trying to pay all the bills. Just to get the farm cleared of debris took quite a bit.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “You couldn’t be too concerned with how I’m doing. You haven’t been to see me once.”

“That’s not true. I was here when you arrived. Since then, the nurses have kept me informed. I’ve been busy with this show. Earning a living. It’s been such a success that we’re taking it on the road. We leave at the end of this week.”

Which is my goal too. But I don’t bother to tell her that.

“Craig is stirring up all sorts of trouble.” Her frown deepens. Maybe it’s the lighting or my imagination, but there’s a tint of green to her skin.

“It’s his job.”

She flicks her raging red hair over her shoulder. “I don’t have a problem with that. I don’t want to tell you what to do. Now that you’re all right, you can make your own decisions. I did what I had to do. Of course, I wanted to protect you. Take care of you. You
are
my sister.”

I stare at her, unblinking, unmoved by her feigned devotion.

Her eyes soften at the edges. “I care about you, Dottie. I—”

“Uh-huh.” Why don’t I believe that? “What do you want, Abby?”

“Nothing.”

Moving toward my bed, I run a hand down the side, taking great care with each step. Abby swivels around to face me. From this angle I can see into the closet, how the clothes have been pushed to the side. Someone has been rifling through my things. Pulling open the drawer in the bedside table, I grab the box Craig brought me. “Is this what you want? It’s all that was left after the storm.”

Her eyes brighten, and she reaches for the box.

I yank it back and tuck it under my arm.

Her hand swipes the empty space between us, her long nails like talons.

My suspicions are confirmed. Behind her, Craig stands in the doorway, waiting, watching. He said he’d come by to see me before returning to Kansas. His face is sunburned, as
is his scalp, which shows through his thinning hair. A stuffed animal dangles from his hand, hanging loose at his side.

Fortified now, I glare at my sister. “What do you want, Abby? You were searching for something when you came to the farm last time. And now here today. In fact, some guy from the FBI was here and wanted to talk to you.”

She blanches, her skin stretching over her cheekbones. “The FBI? What did he say?” She glances over her shoulder toward the door. “What did he want? Did he mention,” she takes a step toward me and lowers her voice, “the shoes?” Her eyes round and she points a finger at me. “He did! What did he say?”

“That they’re stolen property.”

“He was bluffing. You can’t trust—”

“What is this about?”

She turns away from me. “Momma’s ruby slippers. Well, they were originally Granny’s. She worked on the movie. Maybe you’ve forgotten with that head thing of yours.”

“I remember.” But did I forget Momma’s telling me about a pair of ruby slippers? I don’t think so.

Craig steps into the room. His usual affable expression has given way to a look almost as menacing as Abby’s. “Abby,” he says in his best authoritative manner, “what’s going on here?”

“Oh, great. Are you going to slap me with a lawsuit or something?”

“What’s going on here?” Gloria soars into the room. Her face is flushed, her blue eyes bright, as if she’s been running. “Maybelle said—”

“I’m checking on my sister.” Abby places her hands on her slim hips. “Seeing if you’re taking care of her or if—”