The Entirely Fabricated Story of Lizzie Nickerson

Chapter 50

In the beauty salon, flattered by the stylist complimenting her new hair color and trendy bob, Chloe Tarpick felt pretty and confident.

"You look ten years younger," gushed her stylist, Trish. "Love, love, love the way your hair frames that gorgeous face, you sexy kitten!"

They say Cincinnati is the place where the Midwest meets the South. A dollop of Kentucky was evident in Trish's voice, bless her heart.

Chloe tipped Trish generously, admired her new cut in the mirror one more time for good measure, and sashayed out of the shop glowing with confidence.

By the time Chloe had crossed the parking lot to her silver Honda Accord, her exuberance had waned. When she checked her reflection in her car window, she froze. Had she been talked into an aggressively short hair length? 

She was no sooner behind the steering wheel when she groped for the vanity mirror. Sure, she wanted to eliminate the strands of gray that had infiltrated her hair but had she gone too dark? Her hands trembled, her stomach grumbled. Her hair didn't look so dark under the bright lights of the beauty salon but now, in the diffused afternoon sunlight, she second-guessed her decision.

Chloe hoped she hadn't become one of those pathetic middle-aged women who sacrificed their dignity begging for a sip of ambrosia from the goddess of youth. Would she draw derisive stares and snickers like the fifty-year-olds with unflattering rainbow-colored hair and large floral tattoos? Frumpy women who wear velour shorts that say JUICY across the butt? The embarrassing older ladies who trust yoga pants do the work of full-length Spanx and wear cringe-inducing clown makeup with two-inch eyelashes? With her new cut and color, Chloe hoped she hadn't committed a mortifying blunder. Worst case scenario, she could always wear a hat. She began to fret. She didn't have a hat-friendly head. 

She started the car and then noticed a police cruiser that had stopped behind her Honda, preventing her from backing out of her parking space.

The uniformed officer exited his car and approached the driver's window. Chloe flashed a friendly, hey-I'm-one-of-the-blue smile that failed to register.

He said sternly, "Would you open the trunk, ma'am?"

.........

It's never a good thing when you get a call from the police informing you that your wife's car has been impounded and she's being held without bail on felony drug charges. It's even worse when you're a veteran police officer.

The first thing that came to mind when Mitch Tarpick ended the phone call, the very first thought that cut through his raging panic, was of getting into his car and driving west as fast as he could, driving west until the land flattened even flatter than Ohio. Kansas, he thought. He could take refuge in the cornfields of Kansas and become an anonymous homesteader, Joe Smith the corn farmer who spent most of his days in his barn at the potter's wheel, his hands wet and slick in the soothing clay, the music of the wheel whirring and whirring while his corn crop simmered under the heat of the midday sun.

He'd trade in his suits and ties for flannel shirts and overalls, maybe put up a scarecrow or two just for appearance's sake. Maybe he'd grow a beard. In the summer, he'd bring a jug of homemade lemonade out to his corn stand and sell handmade pottery along with Kansas corn.

"Hey, Mitch." Frazier Stoudemire's voice yanked him out of his fantasy. "You okay, buddy? You look a little wobbly."

By now, it should be painfully obvious that this is not a police story. Granted, Frazier Stoudemire and Mitch Tarpick were police detectives but this story really isn't about them. And even if it was, one of them would much rather be a potter. There aren't many stories about potters who are actually undercover police officers, maybe none and that's because readers who enjoy police stories would be terribly disappointed. The tales of a ceramics craftsman are not likely to be described as 'suspenseful,' or 'dark and dangerous' and with regard to the stacks of glazed ceramics described in this story, the answer to the question of whodunnit is obvious. It's the guy at the potter's wheel. There's no real mystery here. So no, this really isn't anything like a real police story. Don't act surprised. You were warned.

Anyway, the veteran police detective who fantasized about a carefree life as a ceramics artist experienced a sudden, sharp pain in his chest. Acid fumes wafted from his stomach, up his esophagus, and into his mouth. The room seemed to spin like he was standing on a giant potter's wheel. His knees turned to Jell-O and the next thing that got his attention was the painful sensation of his cheek striking the corner of his desk moments before the back of his head bounced against the coffee-stained office carpeting.