Sherri Travis Story 01 - Bitty and the Naked Ladies

I’m ashamed to say I accused someone.”
    “Who?”
    She moved restlessly on her chair, gave a giant sigh and said, “Well you know that nephew of mine, Willy?”
    I nodded.
    “Thought it was him. He’s never been real honest. Given his folks nothing but worries. I tore a strip offa Willy but he swore up and down it wasn’t him. Last week I knew it couldn’t have been Willy. A little wooden box went missing.” Her hands squared the small shape of the box. “He hasn’t been by since I went after him.” She shook her head and said, “No, it isn’t Willy.”
    “Who else is in the house?”
    “Just the nurse regular like.”
    “Well there you go. It must be her.”
    Bitty sighed. “Seems like it but why would an educated lady steal? What would she want with that stuff? I just don’t know what to do, Lovey.”
    “Go to the police. Let them sort it out.”
    Bitty looked uncomfortable. Police weren’t the first line of defense in the world Bitty and I come from. Back at the Shoreline Trailer Park you tried real hard to stay away from them. “Who they gonna to believe, a nurse or me?”
    “Okay, make a list of everything that’s missing. We’ll start there.”
    Her eyes lit up as though I’d actually solved her problem. In truth, I had no idea how to help her.
    “Is there a lawn service?”
    “Course.”
    “Put down the dates you noticed things were missing. We’ll see if they are the same days the grass gets cut.”
    “But they’re never in the house. I take a jug of lemonade and a jug of ice tea out to them.” I knew she would. That was Bitty. “Could one of them be slipping into the house while you’re occupied outside?”
    “Don’t see how and Miss Jane would scream real loud if she saw a man in her house.”
    “When does the nurse come in?”
    “Ten ’til noon.”
    The next day I was outside the elegant old house on Washington Street at a quarter to twelve. Around it, houses of the same age had been knocked down and replaced by monster homes, the disease of south Florida, but number fourteen still had all the Spanish charm of the nineteen twenties. The over-sized lot was dotted with mature jacaranda trees, which spread a beautiful dappled light over the neatly clipped lawn.
    At five minutes to twelve a tall thin woman, dressed in a tailored navy suit, came out of the house. She looked more like my idea of an investment banker than a nurse but she carried a big canvas bag instead of a briefcase.
    I called Bitty on my cell. “Did the nurse just leave?”
    “Yes.”
    “What was she wearing?”
    Bitty laughed. “She was dressed to do business. A blue suit. She takes off the jacket and puts on a smock when she’s here.”
    I followed the suit feeling silly. What did I think I was doing playing detective? I was in debt up my ying yang and eating had become a habit I couldn’t break so I couldn’t afford to miss my shift at the Sunset Bar and Grill, even thought the tips were barely keeping me alive now that the snowbirds had flown north for the season.
    The nurse drove to a deli. It was ninety degrees already and my air conditioning wasn’t working. After fifteen minutes of waiting in the furnace of my car I fled to a card shop, hovering near the front window and watching the deli.
    When the nurse came out again I followed her to an estate out on Beach Road and watched her go into a pink stucco mansion. Hoping she’d be staying there for awhile, I drove to the address Bitty had given me; a sub-division built in the late forties with narrow lots and two-bedroom houses.
    The nurse’s house looked abandoned. A crumbling concrete path led to a tilting front stoop and a faded blue door. I knocked loudly, praying no one would answer, waited awhile and then banged even harder. No one came to tell me to get stuffed so I cupped my hands and tried to peek through the diamond shaped window of the door. My reward was the sight of a blank wall in mustard yellow.
    A screen door banged to my left. I jumped back from the door. My heart was pounding as if I’d been caught doing what I was only considering.
    A man in his sixties, naked but for wrinkled cotton shorts slung low beneath his belly, stood on the porch with his hands on his hips. The white hair covering his chest was as thick as a Brillo pad while his head was smooth and shiny. “She ain’t home.”
    “Oh.”
    “You the niece?”
    “Yup.” I smiled widely, trying to look honest.
    “You’re early.”
    I nodded.
    He waved a