The Return of Betty Snickerdoodle Read online

  “At least. Maybe more like five,” Bea said. “Perry, this is ‘Penelope,’ but you can call her Angela. Angela, Perry taught me to play casino hold‘em years and years ago. That’s how I made ends meet before I became you-know-who.” Perry was one of the few people who knew that Bea was not just Mabel, but also the elusive author Betty Snickerdoodle. Bea knew she could trust him to keep all her aliases and hidden talents under wraps. Bea trusted almost no one, but Perry she trusted with her life.

  “Nice to meet you, Angela. Any friend of Bea’s is a friend of mine.”

  “So Perry,” Bea said, “Remember that item I told you I was thinking about buying a while back? Do you still keep a couple here in your safe?”

  “I do and I do.”

  “Well take the cost out of my stack, and put what’s left in my box in the cage. I don’t feel comfortable keeping a bankroll at home right now.”

  “Done. I can email you a receipt if you like,” Perry said as he returned from the back office.

  “Very funny. Don’t you remember how I feel about empowering electronic snoops?” Bea said.

  “Of course. I’m just kidding,” Perry said. “Here’s your receipt. I know how paranoid you are about technology.”

  “Only the paranoid survive,” Bea proclaimed, pumping her small fist triumphantly.

  “Ironic, Bea,” Angela laughed. “You’re quoting Andy Grove – he’s a legend of the technology industry.”

  “Yeah, well he would know.”

  Angela pushed her tray of chips under the glass cage window to cash out. She took five crisp $100 bills and put them in her pocket, then handed the rest back to the clerk for safekeeping in Bea’s box. Perry returned from the back and handed Bea a drawstring sack about the size of a handbag.

  “Here’s that item you wanted. Do you need a refresher on how to use it?”

  “Nope. But can I assume starter supplies are in the bag?”

  “You’re all set,” Perry said, his expression turning serious. “Take care of yourself, Bea. And don’t be such a stranger. If Angela here gets the poker bug, maybe I’ll see more of you two? I have a feeling you’d clean up.”

  “I’ll work on her,” Bea chortled, noticing the resistance painted all over Angela’s face. “You might have to tidy up a little if you want her to come back. Even I think it’s pretty grubby in here.”

  As they drove back to Bea’s house, Bea and Angela rehashed the most entertaining hands. They laughed and laughed over Bea’s antics, and how they frustrated the grinders at the table. Bea had almost forgotten how much fun it could be when a bunch of cocky poker rats had no idea who was controlling the action. Of course, a few lucky hands at the right time helped, too.

  “We got to work on your bluffing, though, Angie. You would have won your last hand if you’d bet anything at all.”

  “The one where the guy showed ace-queen?”

  “Yep. That rock would have folded if you’d bet anything.”

  “I just knew he had something better than my nine-ten suited. I was thinking about the probability.”

  “Knowing the probability’s important for success in the long run. But in the long run, we’re all dead!” Bea howled with amusement at her own joke, as she usually did. “Poker’s not just about math. You can’t be afraid to take a risk.”

  The two were still giddy as they pulled up at Bea’s house, but they immediately noticed something wasn’t right. The front door was ajar – and they knew for sure they hadn’t left it that way. They’d been careful to lock up the whole house before heading out the back door.

  “I think I should call the police,” Angela said, pulling out her cell and starting to dial.

  “Not yet,” Bea said. “Let’s go see what we’re dealing with first.” Angela reluctantly agreed.

  The pair quietly exited Angela’s vehicle, and Angela held Bea’s arm as they moved slowly toward the door. Bea cautiously pushed the front door wide open with her cane. Her newly reorganized piles had been overturned. Papers and books were scattered everywhere. Her desk had been tipped over, and her typewriter was knocked to the floor.

  Someone had obviously rifled through her belongings in a hurry. Bea had a pretty good idea who: Cash. He’d made his move sooner than she expected.

  “We should be careful,” Angela whispered anxiously in Bea’s ear. “What if whoever did this is still here?” But Bea had already glanced toward the rear of the house and noticed the back door was open. She tipped her head in that direction: “Don’t worry. He’s gone.”

  As Bea and Angela gingerly picked their way through the mess, Bea’s furious gaze locked on one thing: her desk drawers, all smashed and emptied onto the floor. The lidded cardboard box that had contained a huge stack of carefully typewritten pages was split apart – and the contents were gone. Bea flipped the cover with her cane; underneath it, she found a remnant of the note she’d stuck on the top of the document. “For your eyes only, Charlie. Happy reading. I hope it brings a chuckle or two – Betty herself….” read the part that remained. The rest of the message had been torn off and was gone.

  “I guess you can see now why I wanted this.” Bea showed Angela the contents of the pouch she’d purchased from Perry: a used handgun and a small supply of bullets. “Just a day late, I guess.”

  Angela gasped. “I hope you’re planning to tell me what on earth is going on!”

  “Don’t worry. The jerk who did this doesn’t want to kill me. He just wants a meal ticket. And I just want to be sure I can protect my property,” Bea said, angrily picking through the mess of her desk with her cane, turning over the box and the drawer again to be sure the pages really were gone.

  “He thinks he’s gotten what he wanted,” Bea continued. “I don’t think he’ll be back any time soon. I promise I will tell you the whole story at some point. But what do you say we get another Treacle Town in the can first? I’m really ready now, and I want to do it good and fast.”

  “Well, you know that’s music to my ears,” Angela said. “But I can’t promise I’ll stop worrying.”

  “No better cure for worry than a project. Best thing for us both is just to get started. Now can you help me set my desk back up?”

  Together, the two women tipped the desk back up and replaced the drawers. It was a bit more scratched up than before, but seemed to function properly. The Selectric, on the other hand, was in bad shape. Once they heaved it onto the desk, they could see that several keys had broken off, and the paper bail was bent. And when they plugged the machine back into the wall, it refused to turn on.

  “Crap!” Bea cried. “Dang it, I was sure old Betsy would outlive me. I wrote every Treacle Town book on her. Where am I going to get another?”

  “You know, Bea, I don’t want to push,” Angela said gently. “But maybe this is a good time to embrace technology. Working electric typewriters aren’t easy to find these days. If you let me help you get started on a computer, I promise I’ve got all kinds of ways to make it easy for you to put a new book together. If you want to go fast, we can go really, really fast – as fast as you want.”

  Bea sighed and looked again at the wreckage of her trusty typewriter and the empty box where her pages had been. Though she prided herself on thinking rationally and avoiding emotional overreactions, Cash had made her feel violated. He hadn’t just broken her typewriter and stolen a manuscript, he’d pierced her anonymity, too. What was he planning to do with his knowledge of Betty Snickerdoodle – and with those pages he stole? Would he be stupid enough to try to publish them? Getting prepared was more urgent, now that Cash had made his move. And getting a new book together was key to her plan.

  “Can you help me make sure my new manuscript won’t be stolen?”

  “Absolutely,” said Angela. “We can save your files in a way that’s secure. It’s much safer than typing. We could even scan in your old manuscripts if you want – I mean, if by chance you want to get rid of some of these piles of paper.”

  “Well I guess
I’m ready to go high-tech,” Bea announced gamely. “But promise me you won’t go overboard. I don’t want you to turn me into some kind of propeller-headed geek.”

  “Somehow I doubt that’s a risk,” Angela smiled. “This is great news, Bea. I can gather the stuff we need and we can start tomorrow. I’m excited – we’ll get you all tricked out. But are you sure you’ll be okay here alone until then? I can stay if you need me to.”

  “I’ll be fine. Like I said, the burglar thinks he got what he wanted. So tomorrow sounds like a plan. Let’s start at noon – right after ‘The Price Is Right.’”

  “Perfect. That will give me enough time to get everything together.”

  Angela left, and Bea slowly picked up the rest of the mess Cash had made of her living room. Once more, she found the tedious chore oddly energizing. By upping the stakes so quickly, Cash was forcing her to act fast, too. Bea was ready to launch her plan, starting with creating a brand new Treacle Town. After years away from a keyboard, she was surprised to feel excited about getting back to writing. She was even feeling oddly open-minded about technology. What the heck, if computers could really do everything Angela promised, giving them a try seemed only logical.

  She left another message on Charlie’s machine – still no answer. Nothing to be done but move forward, she thought. Charlie’s son or not, she had to be ready to deal with Cash.

  Chapter Five

  Cash exhaled as he shut the door of his minuscule San Francisco studio apartment behind him. Finally able to relax, he jogged a clumsy little victory lap around the tiny, dark apartment, fist pumping the air.

  He could scarcely believe it, but his scheme – the one that would get him the nice San Francisco lifestyle he so craved and deserved – was going way better than he’d hoped. It had actually been pretty easy so far. He’d been expecting to have to steal Betty’s computer, or at least find a way to hack it. Then when he found out the old bat didn’t even use a computer, he’d wondered how he’d ever get his hands on a paper manuscript – or if one even existed.

  He’d imagined having to stake out her place for days, waiting for an opportunity to get inside and look around again. He’d even considered that he might have to break in while she was sleeping. What luck that the annoying old raisin wasn’t even home on his first trip back there – and that she’d been lying about writing another book!

  And just like that, he’d grabbed himself the golden ticket: a stack of hundreds of thin, slightly crinkly typewriter pages. Betty’s title page right on the top. That pile of pulp was his passport to a quick score. He knew she’d been lying. Stupid fossil thought she’d get away with it.

  So now what? He still had to plot his next move – and get it done within three short weeks. Well, 22 days, to be exact. That wasn’t a lot of time. Did Betty really send a pile of typewritten pages to her publisher for every book? What a cluster. No wonder they hadn’t put out a Treacle Town in years, he thought. Of course, that’s what made the opportunity so great: pent-up demand. The return of Betty Snickerdoodle, with a brand new book, would be huge news – if he played his cards right.

  One thing was for sure: Cash needed reliable, discreet help — and he needed it fast. It would take forever if he tried to create a soft copy himself. Cash didn’t have forever; he barely had a few weeks. There was the matter of the cover, too, not to mention planning for a big launch of the book. It was a lot to get done in very little time. Get it done fast, and he could take the money and run. Move too slow, and the opportunity would be gone forever.

  Luckily, he was sitting right in the epicenter of tech success – which was also the epicenter of tech envy. Not everyone with skills was hitting it big in the Bay Area. Plenty of tech-savvy people were slaving away at their third or fourth startup with nothing to show for it. Someone in the ‘hood would be willing to trade their knowledge for a quick little piece of a big pie – he was absolutely sure of it. He just had to find the right like-minded individual.

  So what would attract that special fish? It was just a matter of dropping the right bait into the right pond, he decided. Cash sat down at his makeshift desk and fired up his laptop. He strained his brain to remember the communication skills classes he snoozed through in college. Then, inspiration struck: he typed “GET RICH QUICK!!” at the top of a fresh document. That would get my attention, he thought. Perfect.

  Or maybe not. “Get Rich Quick” was inspired, but it might be too general, he decided — it would attract every random, broke slacker in San Francisco. Cash sighed as he highlighted the sentence and hit the backspace key. He needed a phrase to speak directly to the kind of person he was looking for: a techie who was tired of watching buddies ride away on the gravy train. Someone with righteous resentments. Someone like him — but nerdier.

  “Hey Social Media/Tech Expert: Isn’t It Time for YOU to Start Living the Dream?” he typed.

  Now that’s more like it, he thought. He hastily added a few more promises of untold riches and some vague job requirements, then hit “submit.” His anonymous job ad was live. Soon he’d find the perfect partner in crime. It was all coming together now, he thought, rubbing his hands together.

  This must be how Steve Jobs felt, Cash imagined. Soon he, too, would spin a fortune out of thin air, relying on nothing but his amazing cleverness and initiative.

  He tilted his rickety chair back and closed his eyes, revisiting his favorite fantasy: deciding what he was going to do with all that money. Soon, he’d be able to do more than fantasize about it.

  Chapter Six

  The phone rang and Bea’s instinct was to ignore it, as she usually did. The only extension in the house, an antiquated touch-tone that looked like it belonged on a steel desk from the 1970s, was all the way back in her bedroom. Too far, Bea thought. Okay, it was only 30 feet away, but by the time she rocked herself out of her chair and made it down the short hallway, the caller might have given up. Or worse, she’d make it to the phone, only to find it was a creepy, robotic voice offering a free hotel stay. This was why she always ignored the phone. Who would be calling her, anyway?

  But today Bea thought someone she cared about might be calling: Charlie. He’d know not to hang up, she thought, to wait for her to get to the phone. So she hurriedly stubbed out her butt and hauled herself upright for the cane-trek to the bedroom.

  “Hello?” she said into the heavy handset. A familiar voice answered, but it wasn’t Charlie.

  “Bea? It’s Angela. I’ve got a friend with me, and we’ve got everything you need to make getting the next Treacle Town done in a snap. We’re psyched to bring you into the 21st century! And we’re only about five minutes away. You ready for us?”

  Bea thought about it for a moment. When she’d told Angela that she was ready to open her mind to technology, she meant it. But now Angela was talking about “everything she needed.” What on earth would that entail? It was starting to sound like a lot of change happening at once. Envisioning her home overtaken by wires and metal boxes and beeping and blinking devices that were probably spying on her, Bea felt unsteady beyond her normal wobbles. Her home had already been breached by Cash; now her imagination ran wild with visions of cyber-stalkers dismantling what remained of her carefully maintained anonymity.

  Yet there was the pressing matter of her new Treacle Town tale. She wanted it done fast — it was critical to her plan for dealing with Cash. She had the whole story plotted in her head and wasn’t feeling patient enough to do it the old-fashioned way. Even if she could replace her typewriter somehow, that might take weeks — she needed to start now. And she had to keep it safe from Cash – and anyone else who might want to grab it. She realized she needed Angela’s help – and, alas, technology – to do it.

  “Okay, but there’s a little problem,” Bea said. “Look at the clock. Did you forget our deal?”

  “I know, I know,” laughed Angela. “But ‘The Price Is Right’ will be over in half an hour. We’re planning to stop and get you an egg sandwich and iced c
offee and won’t arrive until your show’s done, I promise.”

  Angela and her friend – a dusky, handsome man of about 30 – arrived as promised, carrying boxes that they loaded into Bea’s second bedroom. Bea couldn’t help but notice that Angela’s swarthy helper seemed mighty attentive to her. Guys don’t help you move boxes for nothing, and she doubted Angela was paying him to do it.

  “Bea, we’re going to set up in here. You never use this room, anyway, right?” Angela said, handing Bea her bag of fast-food goodies.

  Angela was being diplomatic, of course. To her knowledge, the second bedroom had not been entered by any human since Bea moved in. It was home to a thriving community of dust bunnies and a few piles of especially junky junk – second tier crap that didn’t qualify for prime real estate in the living room. Bea hadn’t even used the room as a work area – the typewriter and the tiny desk in the living room had sufficed for years. It didn’t bother Bea to work in the same room where she enjoyed her entertainment. She had bought the little two-bedroom cottage because it was the smallest place she could find. She would have preferred a one-bedroom house, or even a one-room shack, if she could have found such a place on an acre of land in a quiet little country community.

  “Okay,” Bea nodded, turning to Angela’s attractive friend. “And who are you?”

  “Oh, sorry,” Angela said. “Aseem, meet Bea. Bea, this is Aseem.”

  “Nice to meet you, Bea. Angel’s told me so much about you,” Aseem said amiably.

  “Aseem? What are you, a tailor?” Bea cracked. Angela and Aseem looked confused. “Don’t you get it? A-seam. Like a seam.” As Bea began to pull up the bottom of her nightie to point out the seam, Aseem and Angela noted the nightie’s upward trajectory and looked vaguely panicked.

  “Okay, yes, we get it!” Angela said.

  “Oh, it’s a knee slapper, don’t you think,” Bea cackled, literally slapping her own knee. Though she was tough, unsentimental, and often blatantly inappropriate, Bea also had a cornball streak. Betty Snickerdoodle’s cloyingly folksy puns and sweet plots came from the goofier, gentler recesses of Bea’s imagination.