Grannies' Deadly Reunion

Part 1

Chapter 1

Rolling down the streets of downtown Des Plaines in the police cruiser was a kick for the three sexagenarians Cheryl, Trixie and Diane. The former hookers were old-time friends of police detective Duane Morgan… their current driver and tour guide.

I can remember Bromo Joe, the traffic cop, kickin’ my ass off the corner just for being a punk, mused Morgan, as he cruised slowly past the bus depot.

Trixie—I’m so glad you got us back together after all these years, Cheryl Plummer said to her childhood friend. Cheryl had gained about a pound per year since their last meeting. She was neatly dressed in a teal blue tunic overshirt and pants. Cheryl was always the first to laugh, or crack a joke, or see humor in the direst situation.

It was a great idea, Trixie, added Diane Reilly, the other friend from Thacker Junior High School who hadn’t seen either of the girls—or Duane—for 30 years. Diane was the serious one of the three, and the most beautiful. Diane’s age clock had stopped 20 years ago. Her dark hair was its natural color. Her porcelain face had scarcely a line on it. Her weight was the same as it had been in high school. Personality-wise, Diane had a deep streak of the anal compulsive in her.

And Trixie—Trixie was a delightful ditzy blond. Petite, forgetful, forgiving—with a big smile that was always on. She said whatever popped into her head, and it usually made everyone laugh and feel they had known her forever. She was an excellent saleswoman. In recent years Trixie had taken to wearing hats, mostly as a means of distinguishing herself from the legions of real estate saleswomen in the San Francisco area. Today she had on a pink pill box, tilted down over her left eye.

You know, girls, I really can’t believe we’re back together again, Trixie said, after everything that happened.

What had happened was a murder—30 years earlier—of a friend and co-worker, Fay Kelly. The three women, then in their early 30s, began investigating Fay’s murder, but strange and dangerous things began to happen to them, and they fled the area and stopped investigating—for the sake of their lives.

The three—plus Fay Kelly—had been high-priced call girls working under Cheryl’s management. Shortly after Fay’s murder they all decided to leave the life and start over—in straight careers in different parts of the country. Cheryl and her husband, Rob, settled in Sarasota, Florida, where they would be close to the offshore fortune Cheryl had stashed away during her five-year proprietorship of the call-girl operation.

Trixie sold her house in downtown Des Plaines and headed for San Francisco where she obtained her Real Estate license, then her Broker’s, and ultimately Trixie Hills & Associates signs were commonplace on upscale homes in Pacific Heights, Russian Hill, the Marina District and even across the Bay in Marin County.

Diane Reilly took a job at Casewell’s Office Furniture in Elmhurst and worked her way up to head of the Office Furniture Design Department. She took night classes in design and business management. Her good looks and comfortable manner won her sales contract after sales contract with the rapidly expanding businesses in the Northwest Chicago suburbs. Her two girls—now adults—were very proud of her.

Now that their lives were settled and stable—and they were grandmothers for gosh sakes—Trixie had gotten them together in this place alive with memories, some good, some downright frightening.

Remember The Magic Mirror Bakery, Cheryl laughed. It was right there on that corner where the video store is now. We used to stop there every morning on the way to school for an apple slice—with the icing drizzled on top. Mmmmmm… they were good.

I’m surprised we all didn’t weigh 500 pounds, said Trixie laughing.

You were always a toothpick. I was the one who looked at an apple slice and popped another chin, Cheryl joked. That reminds me—did you bring that maple bar recipe we talked about?

Huh—oh, shit… I knew I’d forget something, Trixie said. I’ve just had so much on my mind these last few days…

Old-timer’s disease, eh, girl, Diane joked. Happens to the best of us. What’d you say your name was, lady?

The three laughed as though they were back in seventh grade again. Duane Morgan smiled and glanced into the rear view mirror… there was a look behind his eyes that suggested worry about where all this reflection was going to take them.

Morgan had grown up with the girls in Des Plaines. At that time he was probably the last person anyone would imagine would end up a police detective. In seventh grade, he begged his parents for a set of barbells. He was of average height, average build and average intelligence. And if there was one thing the young Morgan didn’t want to be, it was average.

He spent hours every day in the basement lifting weights—doing squats, curls, military presses, and soon he could press his weight—lift 114 pounds over his head from his chest. This was quite an accomplishment for a seventh grader, and Duane Morgan made good use of his strength. He was a bully.

To set himself apart from the other kids in seventh and eighth grade, Morgan adopted the appearance and persona of a tough guy—low slung Levi’s, long, greased hair in DA style, box-toed suede loafers, leather jacket with white tee shirt underneath. The James Dean look in Rebel Without A Cause, was the image Duane Morgan was after.

Duane’s friends in junior high—and beyond—were Jack Kale and Paul O’Malley, two thugs who were to grow up to shape most of the underworld in Des Plaines. Back in the ’50s, they were just punks. No one knew they were actually so good at what they did.

Back then Morgan’s appeal to Kale and O’Malley was muscle. Anyone who failed to go along with their decisions and desires would wind up answering to Morgan. Usually, the threat was enough and they came into line.

Morgan admired Kale’s guts and his moxie. Jack thought and acted big. And O’Malley was crafty, inventive and ambitious. Together they formed a nasty team.

Like many of the other boys at Thacker Junior High, Duane Morgan was wildly in love with Fay Kelly. And, like many of the other boys at Thacker Junior High, she was in love with him, from time to time. Unlike the other boys at Thacker Junior High, Duane pursued Fay long after eighth grade. They had been almost inseparable in their freshman year of high school, causing many to think that when she mysteriously left for California at the end of freshman year, it was to have his baby.

When she came back, they didn’t see each other for a while. Until after high school, and, in fact, until he had tried a couple of lackluster years at college, then joined the Des Plaines Police Force. He had never gotten her out of his system, and while his head told him that she would never belong to any one man, he could never accept that in his heart. He pursued her—and in between a seemingly endless succession of men—she would let him back into her life when it suited her.

The cruiser crossed Center Street and Morgan turned up to Ellinwood, toward the Des Plaines Movie Theater.

Jeez… we had some good times in there, didn’t we girls? Cheryl said. Every Saturday it was musical boys—’member that, Duane?

Kinda gave us a running start on our later careers, eh, girls,—Diane laughed.

I never thought of it that way, but that could well be, Trixie said.

I remember one afternoon I had been sitting with Paul O’Malley, but wishing I was with Jim Traylor. I really had a thing for that guy. And Fay—she could throw him over or pick him back up any time she wanted. Funny how things work out, Trixie said.

You know—I was thinking, Diane said, when Fay got pregnant and went to California to have the baby, did anyone ever determine who the father was?

Nobody knew, and she never said, Trixie added. She went with so many guys, I doubt even she knew. Duane, did you ever—oh shit… I’m sorry—you used to go with her, didn’t you?

Funny you should say… not long ago, I got some kinda shocking news about Fay and me. Seems the baby she had in California was mine—at least that was what she put down on the birth certificate.

No shit—Cheryl said.

Yeah—I was kinda surprised, too. Duane said, turning onto Lee Street and driving past the Choo Choo restaurant.

Well, how did you find out? Diane asked.

Actually, my son contacted me—kinda snuck up on me really. Sean’s his name. Grew up in California—now he works in Chicago—some kinda PR executive at Amalgamated Industries.

No shit — Cheryl said again.

"Yeah, we met at his place in Evanston. Had a nice little talk.

Life’s fulla little surprises, eh? Duane said, turning onto Pearson past the bowling alley. Remember the fun we had in there? Still smells like stale beer farts and cigarettes—just like it did back in the ’50s.

The girls rode in silence mulling over this news about Fay; filling in some of the answers to questions they’d wondered about for 30 years.

Chapter 2

Fay Kelly woke up one day in the seventh grade and realized that boys would do almost anything to win her affections. She was a bit ahead of her girlfriends—Trixie, Diane and Cheryl—on the physical development path. Her breasts were full B cups, while they were still stuffing their training bras with toilet paper. Fay had been shoving boys out the back door, as her parents were coming in the front, for almost a year now.

Fay was pretty in the extreme, and while other seventh grade girls had an innocent look about them, Fay exuded a magnetic sensuality that mystified and attracted pubescent boys.

Fay had always been tall for her age. She had long, silky blond hair, jade green captivating eyes, perfect skin, thick pouting lips and straight white teeth. She was 5’6" in seventh grade—and her presence and confidence made her seem even taller… and older… and bolder than her peers. Her sexy figure set her apart from the other seventh grade girls, and that was making it increasingly difficult for her to keep them as friends. It was much easier to have boyfriends—she knew exactly what they wanted, and it wasn’t complicated.

Fay had always displayed an interest in—and a talent—for art. Now, in junior high, she had art class twice a week. Mister Pelko quickly discovered Fay’s interest in art, and he pushed her along with extra projects and reading. She blossomed under his tutelage.

The difficulty of getting along with girls became clear to Fay one day in Miss Bennett’s swimming class. When Trixie asked whose ring she was wearing around her neck. Oh, Jimmy’s, Fay said, referring to Jimmy Traylor. I guess we’re going steady. Trixie reddened and her eyes welled up with tears.

Why don’t you leave him alone—I hate you, Trixie blurted out, her thin body shivering in the stark, cold pool room. Miss Bennett’s shrill whistle echoed off the hard white tile walls. Straighten up those lines—kick those feet, Miss Bennett barked.

Fay hadn’t given an instant’s thought to Jackie’s feelings about Jimmy—even though she well knew how she felt about him. At that moment, Trixie wished more than anything that Fay would fall into that pool and drown.

Another of the junior high crowd back in 1954 was Alex Shrewsbury.

Alex Shrewsbury grew up comfortably in the ’50s in a Father Knows Best household with mom, dad and brother, Bob. Mom came from old money and had grown up on Chicago’s Gold Coast. Her father had carried on his father’s law practice and inherited a long list of prestigious clients.

Sara Shrewsbury played the organ every Sunday in church. Her flawless camel, dark blue and black suits were the envy of every woman in the parish—as was her waist-length, thick black hair wrapped tightly into a bun at the back of her head.

Charles, Alex’s dad, was a large man, well-proportioned, with gray at the temples and the look of a senator. He was a salesman who traveled most of the time, and rumor had it that he had an eye for the ladies.

Bob, Alex’s older brother, had graduated law school at The University of Chicago and was following the safe and well-traveled path of his grandfather.

Then, there was Alex. Smallish, with smooth, clear skin, dark eyes and hair, like his mother… but when push came to shove… not too bright. His grades, combined with a well-cultivated sense of defeatism, ruled out law school… and anything else that required hard work. But one thing about Alex was certain—he was mom’s favorite, and he was absolutely guaranteed that anything in the world she could provide—and that was a lot—Alex would have.

Alex developed an early interest in art and things cultural.

One of Alex’s friends in junior high was Jim Traylor. Jim grew up with none of the things Alex had, including a father. However, one thing his father did give him were his uncommonly good looks. He also was a hard worker, smart and more than a little devious. He was always popular in school and got good grades.

At Thacker Junior High, all the girls had mad crushes on Jim at one time or another. He had coal black hair, slicked back into a DA style. His skin was baby smooth, his eyes ocean blue. His quick smile showed straight even teeth.

Jim was talented in art—particularly in his ability to faithfully reproduce on paper or canvas virtually anything he could see. He started with horses’ heads, then graduated to racing cars. Then ultimately spent