Miranda and the D-Day Caper

CHAPTER ONE Miranda Davis was undaunted as she approached the spring reopening of the tailgate market. She took in the crisp morning air, shimmering sunlight, and cloudless sky of vibrant Carolina blue. The verdant green of the Seven Sisters mountain range hovered in the near distance along with the crackle of cheery greetings from the popup canopies. Yet again, she reminded herself that whatever cousin Skip had in mind, whatever quandary or trouble he was in, she’d handle it in the same manner she handled her realty clients—upbeat but firm, open-minded but sensible. Sporting spanking new bib overalls and a bright peasant blouse that echoed her spunky resolve, she passed the pottery display under the Mud Buddies logo and called out, “I see you muddy gals got cleaned up real good.” The response was just as chipper. At Trudy’s, she ordered a half dozen apple turnovers she’d pick up as soon as she finished her rounds. Resuming where they’d left off since the closing of the market months ago, Trudy’s unblemished Nordic face beamed as she said, “So tell me, how is it going since last time?” Without missing a beat, Miranda said, “Oh, you know, same old, same old. Thinking about the realty market getting into gear, managing weekends at the Tavern. Nothing new to report.” “Ah. Not to mention that other business I read about that you solved?” “All water under the bridge,” said Miranda, recalling a client’s hassle over poison pen letters, a matter Miranda had no intention of hashing over. “Right now it’s my long-lost cousin who happened to drop by. See what’s on his mind and then the beat goes on.” “Cousin? You never mentioned.” “No big deal. As it happens, I grew up in a little town in Indiana. So did he. As they say, you can take the girl out of the heartland, but not the heartland out of the girl.” “Ah,” said Trudy again, obviously confused but wanting to know more. “I can always tell when something’s up.” “Nothing’s up, Trudy, believe me. Be back in a minute.” Trudy nodded, still beaming as if taking the cue to keep everything on the Q.T. despite her growing curiosity. Moving on, Miranda saw that the bluegrass trio at the far end was drawing a crowd with a down-home singalong, segueing from “Let the Circle be Unbroken” to “I’ll Fly Away.” She hung back a moment, petting the ragtag assortment of dogs, making small talk with the little kids, and holding onto to her let-Cousin-Skip-off-easy objective. Drifting away from the bluegrass trio, she circled around and cut through the swath between the food vendors and handmade jewelry stalls. At the end of the pathway, all she’d have to do is stop at the picnic area and find out what caused Skip to hightail it all the way down from Manhattan and show up out of the blue. Though he was a distant cousin, she’d told Trudy he was long-lost because she didn’t want to go into it. Point of fact, they had had a special bond when she was a kid. Once, when she was around eight years old and laid up after spraining her ankle, he, age fourteen, popped in and regaled her with stories of Jack Armstrong, the all-American boy. Another time, he happened by on her twelfth birthday, finagled some duds, and took her to the annual costume bash dressed as night stalkers on a raid. But first, he whipped out a bottle of crème de menthe and, straight out of Casablanca, said, “Here’s looking at you, kid.” Which was her cue to raise her glass and spout the WWII regimental toast: “To rose-lipped maidens and lightfoot lads.” Kid stuff back in the heartland. But, truth to tell, as vivid to tomboy Miranda as if it were yesterday. They’d kept in touch since, mostly exchanging birthday cards. Later on, there was some improv TV show out of Chicago she got wind of. There was also a sketch comedy troupe show that came to Asheville she saw two or three years ago. But nothing had set her up for a call at first light and this clandestine meeting under the spreading oaks. Unless it had something to do with that e-mail about two weeks ago: Hey, Cuz. Got a fill-in radio gig in the Big Apple and ran across this clipping from USA Today. It says a small-town rank amateur had a hand last month in breaking a cold case involving her realty client and an unhinged looney. And, lo and behold, that rank amateur was you. Got hold of your Blue Ridge website and wanted to wish you all the best with your new sideline. Miranda mulled this over at the Dynamite Coffee stand while downing a hot mocha. Discarding the Styrofoam cup and reciting the old postman’s creed, she muttered, “Get a grip, girl. Nothing shall deter you from the completion of your appointed rounds.” She hurried past the remaining vendors, peered here and there, and finally spotted him sitting at a picnic table and holding up a newspaper. Even with his back to her, there was no mistaking that tousled mop of grayish-red hair and coiled beanpole frame. But he didn’t spring up when she tapped him on the shoulder. He only turned slightly, forcing her to sit next to him, both of them positioned cattycorner from an empty field to their right. “Okay, I get it,” said Miranda, assuming it was playtime as always. “We’re double agents. You keep reading the paper and light a cigarette. A minute later, you toss the cigarette and leave the book of matches on the table with the coded inscription Moscow rules. That’s when I take it and slip away to await further instructions.” This was flippant Miranda. The one with the short bob, over thirty, just trying to set the easy tone on this glorious Saturday. But playful Skip seemed to have lost his way. His eyes were bloodshot, underscored by dark circles. And the signature mischievous smirk on that smooth, narrow face had been replaced by a worrisome twitch. Folding the newspaper with his cornflower blue eyes gazing into the distance, Skip said, “I don’t know, kiddo. I tell you, I just don’t know.” “Which makes two of us. So tell me again why you couldn’t simply e-mail me?” “Why? Am I holding you up or something?” “No, you’re not holding me up. Look, what do you say we cut to the chase? For my part, as you may recall, I’ve got a birthday coming up. As my profound wish, I promised myself no more overloading the circuit. However, for old times’ sake, I penciled you in between picking up some apple turnovers and taking in this wondrous day. Penciled you in because you wouldn’t spell it out over the phone. Insisted on meeting face to face. Okay? Your turn.” Glancing around, taking his sweet time, making sure no one was within earshot, Skip said, “All right.” “From the top.” “Okay. Like I indicated, I was filling in, got a break on a prestige AM station only a few weeks ago. Well then, soon enough, I started doing riffs on that right-wing drivel from Russ Mathews. You know, the stocky pundit.” “Stocky pundit?” “Far-right commentator. The one who cranks out doomsday pronouncements. Walrus moustache, always leaving the dregs of his cheroots still smoldering in my wastebasket.” “Whatever. Go on.” Getting more anxious by the second, his lanky body beginning to squirm, Skip said, “So, when opportunity knocks, you seize the day. Right?” “Out with it.” Scrunching forward, he continued, “One night I started to wing it. No more of this ‘Yup, it’s midnight, folks. Some of these homespun Indiana tales should ease you right off to sleep.’ I was antsy. I’d had it with Russ, who’d signed off that night sounding more and more like some fearmonger back in the day.” “And what day was that?” “World War Two, remember? Shep Anderson on the radio telling us children about those times when Jack Armstrong had to be on the lookout for German U-boats lurking off the New Jersey shore.” “Telling you as a kid.” “Whatever.” More glancing around on Skip’s part. More checking the flow of visitors coming and going. Getting antsy herself, Miranda said, “Will you get on with it? Is there an upshot in our future?” “I’m coming to it,” Skip said, looking right at her this time. “Right after my kazoo rendition of ‘I dream about the moonlight on the Wabash,’ I lean into the mic and say, ‘Guess what? Ole Russ must be on to something. I’m talking the plot against America.’” “Where do you get this stuff?” “I told you, I told you. From good ole Shep Anderson and his broadcasts from the heartland.” “So?” “So I tell the insomniacs all over the Liberty Broadcasting System that at first I thought Duffy was pulling down on the blinds out of longing.” “Duffy?” “Just your average ginger house cat, left alone, separated from other felines on the prowl. But every night I come home to my sublet, he’s perched in the exact same spot, his green eyes staring across the street. So, over the airwaves, I said, ‘What if I told you night people something was up in a dilapidated rooming house in Hoboken? Right across the river from the Big Apple?’” “That does it,” Miranda said, getting to her feet. “How am I supposed to follow this? When you’re ready to get to the point, let me know.” “Wait a minute. Don’t you see?” said Skip, getting to his feet as well. “I stumbled onto something. Just like one of Shep’s old timey shows about subversives—a fifth column, enemy agents holing up, in cahoots with alien forces out to shatter our democracy. Before you know it, my ratings climb. But since the weather’s getting warmer, those guys across the street aren’t scurrying in and out of the cold. They’re loitering by the stoop, glancing across the shadows.” “Great. Swell. Very entertaining, Skip. But, as it happens, I’ve got things to do.” “Are you kidding? I haven’t got to the kicker.” Shaking her head, she remained standing by his side. “Right,” Skip said. “Next thing I know, I’m getting negative call-ins. Guys from the heartland telling me to knock it off or else.” “Wait a minute. How do you know they’re from the heartland?” “Because that’s my stock in trade. Accents, idiosyncrasies, characterizations. These voices had that same flat tone of strictly business guys from Nebraska, back home in Indiana—you name it. Anyways, undaunted, I tell everyone in radio-land what’s going on may have far-reaching consequences. Unless I intercept. The way things are going, let’s give it, say, five days—from now till next Wednesday.” “Oh, please,” said Miranda, walking away. Skip scurried after her and held her arm. He towered over her. “Listen to me. Completely different types were out there, hardened New Yorkers. I could hear them talking. Pulling up in a delivery van with a light gray emblem on the side. Crossed cavalry swords like Civil War rebels—totally out of character—plus a small American flag. I tell you, they were carting off concealed stuff.” “I’m not listening anymore.” “You’ve got to. You have obviously become some kind of tracker. Tracked down a poison pen perpetrator like the paper said.” “Enough. Stop hyping everything up. Look at you. You’re coming down with full-blown hysteria.” “Exactly. Because it appears there’s no longer any line between entertainment and politics. While messing around, sticking it to Russ Mathews and boosting my ratings, I may have stumbled onto an actual plot utilizing WWII codes.” “Amounting to hype piled upon more and more hype.” “Oh really? You think so? Get a load of this.” Skip reached inside his windbreaker and pulled out a roll of white ribbon attached to a small collar sliced in two. The ID tag hanging from the buckle was embossed with the name Duffy. “Just cause you’re paranoid, missy, don’t mean they ain’t out to get you.”