Page 15 of Your Every Wish

Emma tells me to go inside the house but what’s the point? It’s not like I can barricade myself behind the kitchen table and the police will go away. It’s time to face the consequences of my mother’s actions. I just wish it didn’t have to be with half of Cedar Pines’s residents present.

For the second time in fewer than ten days, we’ve drawn a crowd. Apparently, police visits aren’t commonplace here.

Harry and Misty bump up our driveway in Harry’s golf cart. “What’s going on?” Harry says to me, then to the deputy who’s just gotten out of his car.

Emma steps in front of me. “How can we help you, Officer?”

“Are you the other owner?”

“I am. Emma Keil.” She sticks out her hand to shake his, which he does.

“We’ve received a complaint from a”—the deputy reaches into his shirt pocket for a tiny notebook and flips through the pages—“Trapper Bing.”

“Ah, Jesus,” Harry blurts out and both Emma and I turn to look at him. “He’s nuts. The man is certifiably crazy.”

The deputy ignores the interruption and continues, “He’s feuding with a neighbor, a woman named”—he checks his notebook again—“Rondi Brown over a cat that’s gotten into his yard and is scaring the birds away.

He wants an arrest made.” The deputy is doing his best to say this with a straight face.

“As far as I can tell no crime has been committed. But Mr. Bing is pretty upset about it. I did my best to quell the situation. The woman with the cat said I should contact you.” He looks at me again.

I don’t hear the rest of what he says because I’m too busy sagging with relief. At one point, I feel the palm of Emma’s hand pressing against my leg. A silent warning.

“We’ll take care of it,” I hear her tell the deputy.

The deputy takes off and the crowd slowly dissipates. Harry and Misty drive away and Liam resumes the short trek to his trailer, leaving me alone with Emma.

“Oh my God.” I collapse into her, and she holds me up.

“I know,” she says. “We need to talk. But first, I think you should go handle Rondi before the police get called all over again. ”

“Okay. Do you know which trailer she lives in?”

Emma gives me a number and I run inside to get my car keys. I’m too tired, and frankly too shaky, to walk.

Rondi’s trailer is like a throwback to the ’60s and smells a lot like cat box. Snow White’s cat house takes up a quarter of the living room and the rest is covered in tie-dye. Tie-dye sheets draped over the windows, tie-dye posters all over the walls, even a tie-dye throw blanket.

She makes room for me on the sofa by pushing a knitting bag to the side. “So you heard what happened?”

“I did. Was it Snow White?” As far as I know she only has the one cat.

Rondi nods. “What is she supposed to do, Kennedy? She’s a cat, for goodness’ sake. She roams free. That asshole is threatening to feed her rat poison. ”

Cats, crazy bird people, rat poison—all out of my wheelhouse. “Is that where he lives?” I glance out the window at the six-foot privacy fence that separates Rondi from her neighbor.

She nods again.

“Is there a way you can keep Snow White from going over there?”

“How?” She shakes her head. “I won’t make her an indoor cat. It would kill her spirit.”

“Let me go over and talk with him.” Rondi tries to trail after me but I tell her, “Under the circumstances it would probably be better if you wait here. I’ll come back to report.”

She waits as I go around to the front and cross over to Trapper Bing’s driveway.

“I’m in the yard,” he calls after my third attempt at knocking on his door.

I undo the latch to his gate and let myself inside what appears to be a bird sanctuary.

Bird feeders hang from every branch of every tree and a freakishly large birdbath made from an old mosaic-tiled fountain sits in the middle of the yard covered in white bird shit.

Trapper (what the hell kind of name is that?) is planting something in a garden bed on the other side of the lawn and barely looks up as I enter.

“Mr. Bing, can we please talk for a second?”

“Give me a minute to finish what I’m doing here.”

I don’t argue and pass the time wandering around, checking out all his bird innovations, including a birdhouse made out of an old cuckoo clock. Clearly, the man is as obsessed with birds as Rondi is with tie-dye.

“What can I do for you? If you’ve come to advocate for that lunatic woman next door, don’t bother.”

“I came to work this out, so the police don’t have to be called again,” I say in the calmest voice I can muster. I’m a casino host, not a mediator.

“Tell her to keep that beast out of my yard and we’ll be fine.”

“Mr. Bing, it’s a little unrealistic to think she can control a cat’s comings and goings, don’t you think?”

“Then euthanize it.”

“Whoa, a little harsh. Snow White is her pet. I’m sure other cats visit your yard.

” Of course they do. He’s turned the place into a hunter’s paradise.

“Look, you need to work this out with Rondi . . . and not with rat poison. What if she put a bell or some kind of chimes around Snow White’s neck, that way the birds can hear her coming from a distance?

” They have to sell collars like that at Petco or wherever people go to buy their cat crap.

It’s an inspired idea, if I do say so myself.

“That seems like a fair compromise, right?”

He grunts. I’m not sure what that means but it doesn’t sound like a hard no.

“Then we’ve got a deal. Rondi puts a bell around her cat’s neck, and you stop calling the cops. And no rat poison. Agree?”

He gives an imperceptible nod, which I take for a yes.

“Okay, then we’re good here.”

I start to beat a hasty retreat, worried that if I linger, he’ll change his mind.

“When are you and your sister going to resurface the bocce ball courts? This has gone on long enough.”

“Soon, we’re getting quotes,” I lie, then make a beeline for the gate.

Back at Rondi’s, I give her the 411 on the compromise I’ve drawn up with Trapper, rather proud of myself. She’s less than enthused, calling it an insult to her cat’s “felineninity,” whatever the hell that means.

“How would you feel wearing bells around your neck?”

“It’s the best I could do,” I tell her. “It was this or he threatened poison again. The bells seemed like the lesser of two evils.”

“I don’t know.” Rondi pouts. “I don’t like it.”

Okay, kill me now .

“Why don’t you try it out for a few weeks? See how it goes. If it’s too big of an indignity to Snow White, we’ll come up with something different.”

I leave with a solemn promise that she’ll put a bell around Snow White’s neck. Whether she’ll actually do it, who knows? Either way, my work here is done.

* * *

Misty’s trailer doesn’t look like a witch’s home.

I never did tell Emma the gossip Harry told me about Misty’s illustrious career, that’s how much credence I give it. I wonder which police departments use her services. If I ever go missing, I pray it’s not one of them.

In any event, her house isn’t what I was expecting.

It’s actually lovely. Lots of lace, throw pillows, floral furniture, and hook rugs that remind me of the potholders I made in a crafts class one summer after Madge sweet-talked her then-boyfriend into paying for it.

There is a big wooden WELCOME sign propped against the exterior wall next to the front door and an autumn wreath on the door.

Everywhere I look are more signs: G ATHER , F AMILY , F RIENDS , K ITCHEN C LOSED .

They must’ve been having a closeout sale at HomeGoods.

The table has been set like an afternoon tea at Harrods with a flouncy white tablecloth and lots of tiered plates with finger sandwiches and tiny pastries. The napkins match the blue-and-white tea rose china and the silverware is so shiny I can see my reflection in it.

“Wow, you went all out,” I say.

Emma chimes in, “This is gorgeous, Misty. Do you have a background in design . . . or catering?”

“Neither. I just like to set a nice table, is all. I’m glad you girls appreciate it. Hardly anyone else here does. They’d sooner eat off paper plates and drink out of Solo cups.”

Yeah, I can’t see Harry, or even Rondi for that matter, dining off Blue Willow china or whatever this is. But it’s nice that she went to all this trouble for us.

“Sit, girls. Help yourself.”

Emma and I each pull out a chair and gingerly tuck ourselves in, careful not to bump or dislodge anything on the table.

I hesitate to fill my plate because everything looks too pretty to eat.

Sensing our reluctance, Misty digs in, silently encouraging us to follow her lead.

The food is as delicious as her tablescape.

I never imagined I’d be a cucumber sandwich fan.

“I can’t believe you made all this stuff.” Emma shovels another forkful of succotash salad into her mouth.

“I like to cook.” Misty seems delighted by how impressed we are.

At least my last meal before going to prison will be a memorable one.

Emma says that even without Dex, we’ll find the money someway, but I’ve learned in our short time together that she’s an eternal optimist. The only way to get my hands on thirty thousand dollars is to sell this place and that’ll take more time than I have.

My last hope is that Willy stashed a load of cash somewhere before he died and Emma knows where it is, though she swears she doesn’t.

And the clock is running out.

Last night, I got another message from Detective Salazar. It’s only a matter of days before he tracks me to California. For all I know, he’s on his way here now.

“Oh, ladies, can you believe it? I forgot the tea.” Misty hops up from the table, busies herself in the kitchen, and returns a few minutes later with a silver serving set and pours us each a cup.

I help myself to a second sandwich and another helping of the succotash salad while Emma and Misty make small talk.