A Stroke of Luck

A stroke of luck…

My life was falling apart.

Actually, it had fallen apart. It was really as simple as that. 

Michael had walked out, leaving me thoroughly depressed and distracted, which led to problems at work. It’s not as though I enjoyed my job at the best of times, but it did pay the bills – or most of them, anyway. But since Michael had breezed into my life, I’d even had dreams of being able to hand in my resignation and walk cheerfully out through the front door, casually flipping my finger at my supervisor as I went. Instead, I found myself apologizing, cringingly, begging her not to fire me. I’d been late for work three days in a row and missed all my deadlines for the week. 

No good.

 We’d never seen eye to eye – on anything, I think – and I could tell she was positively enjoying her opportunity to rub my face in the dirt. So, no triumphant exit on my own terms. Instead, I was marched out by one of the security staff, with my few possessions from my desk in the traditional cardboard box. 

Total ignominy.

Michael was blond and blue eyed, a really hot looking guy. And he was built! Seriously. He was also a highflyer, apparently on a fast track to senior management with his firm. We’d met at a party thrown for a friend who’d just got engaged. Smartly dressed, with an Ivy League education, he was utterly charming, drove a flashy sports car and I was lost. No chance to think rationally at all. We hooked up and he’d moved in within a week, explaining that he’d been staying with a friend at his apartment while he went house or apartment hunting for his own place which we’d move to when he found it. That was three months ago. I’d never stopped to think things through.

So, he was an Ivy League graduate, but I didn’t actually get the name of the college. He’d just moved to town having been head hunted from a big law firm in New York. Which firm? He’d never actually said. And which firm was he with here? The subject had never come up, somehow. Where had he come from? Where was his hometown? I’d never got around to asking. It was like being caught up in a whirlwind, so exciting that I was just swept away by the pace of everything.

Mind blown.

I should have realised something was wrong the evening we had dinner at Rafallo’s. It’s one of the best restaurants in town. With profuse apologies, he found he’d ‘forgotten’ his wallet in his other jacket, and I’d had to pay.

  Ominous – in retrospect anyway. 

And then a number of odd things happened, and somehow, I was to blame for them all. I’d had a call from one of my credit card companies enquiring about a large online purchase from a website I’d never heard of. In a panic I’d checked my wallet – the card was gone! I’d lost it! A card I hardly ever used, but apparently, I had left it somewhere.  

Really? 

And I hadn’t even been smart enough to call in the loss?

 I was able to get that charge cancelled, but when the statement came through at the end of the month there were a number of other smaller amounts that I’d definitely never authorised, and many for that same website. Then the building manager came up to complain that I hadn’t paid my rent – but I always left a cheque in the drop box by the manager’s office. Not that time, it seemed. I thought I’d given it to Michael to drop off one morning, but he was adamant that I must have forgotten to do it., he said, but he hugged me, said he loved me anyway,

 I was such a 'scatter-head'!

Then I came home one evening and he was gone. No note, no message on my phone, just no Michael. That’s when I realised that I didn’t know where he worked. I didn’t know his friends. I called Andrea, since we’d met at her engagement party and asked her to ask George her fiancé where he might be, only for George to get back to me saying he had no idea who or where Michael was. He’d thought he’d come to the party with me!

Panic!

 I checked my wallet. My credit cards were there – but then a real panic. They weren’t my cards! There was another name on them! And where was my bankcard? It wasn’t there. I was on to my computer like a shot and hammering in my information for online banking. I couldn’t believe it. My checking account was virtually empty. There’d been a banking machine withdrawal just that morning, and one the night before. There’d been just over two thousand dollars in that account. What about my savings account? I’d been building it up in the hopes of making a down payment on my own home one day. I’d told Michael about it…oh God, of course I had … and I remembered him being beside me at the ATM at the local bank one evening. He’d watched me punch in all my numbers… All that was left was a few dollars.

And then I lost my job. 

Game over. 

No way I’d be able to pay my rent at the end of the month. And my credit cards? Yes, I’d report them lost, but I knew I was too late there too. 

I had gone to the police. In one of the most embarrassing interviews of my life I laid it all bare. The detective I was talking to obviously thought I was a complete idiot – but I’d already come to that conclusion myself, so that didn’t hurt as much as it might have. There wasn’t much they could do. They obtained the security tapes from the ATM and there, clear as could be, a man with a full dark beard, long black hair and a drooping mustache using my card, keying in my numbers and nonchalantly withdrawing the maximum amount allowed. The next day - same man, same thing in the early hours of the morning from a different ATM in the next town. My credit cards showed multiple small purchases – gasoline, food, a liquor store,

  You know the sort of stuff.

“We know of this man,” said the detective. “To our knowledge, he’s done this four times before over the past year. Always in another town. The woman whose credit cards you found in your wallet had the exact same scam pulled on her about three months ago. I expect your cards will show up in some other poor woman’s purse about three months from now. He’s a very clever con man, and he’s found a system that works for him.  Do you have a photo of him?”

 Oh God… He’d been almost allergic to photos. If we went somewhere and I wanted a photo of us, he always played bashful and insisted that he take the picture of me. He refused to be in selfies. “No, I hate them. People who take selfies are so up themselves. That’s not us.” 

  Now I knew why.

I sat with a police artist trying to put together a picture of him. It came out with a good likeness. Then they showed me artists’ pictures from his other scams. Similar, but always with small differences. Different hair colour, different hair style, one deeply tanned, the others more lightly so. Oh, I’d recognise him in all of them, but then I’d known him close-up and personal for almost three months. Apparently, these pictures had been up online for some time, but without local newspapers anymore, few people had seen them.

  I certainly hadn’t.

“I’m afraid we’re going to need a real stroke of luck to catch him. We had a chance a few months ago when one of his victims got suspicious of him, but as soon as she started asking too many questions he disappeared. By the time we heard of it he’d been gone for a week.”

Great.

 That made me feel like even more of an idiot.  And it was then that my supervisor decided to get rid of me. Too much time wasted talking to the police about a situation that was entirely my own fault was her opinion, spitefully given, and one that made it clear that I was not responsible enough for the job. 

I was out on my ear. 

I took the bus home, miserably clutching my cardboard box, feeling the eyes of every other passenger boring into me, marking me down as a loser. I made it back to my apartment and just dropped; box on the floor, myself into the first armchair. How long before the building manager evicted me? I was paid up until the end of the month, and he might give me a couple of weeks’ grace, but without a job I couldn’t even promise to catch up.

  I needed Mr. Bear.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Mr. Bear was a small stuffed light brown bear that my grandma had given me years ago. He’d been with me through all the good times and the bad. I collapsed on my bed, holding him and cried my heart out. It wasn’t the first time, but this was definitely the worst. I’d always confided in him, and somehow, he always made me feel better. In fact, things always got better after I’d told him all about it. I didn’t think he could help much here. But after what seemed like hours, I felt myself

  drifting

  off to sleep.

“Hush now, baby,” he seemed to be saying to me. “Things are never as bad as they seem. Get some sleep, and we’ll see what we can do about it in the morning.” 

And sleep I did.

It was nearly 10am when I woke the next morning. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and I felt almost reborn. Mr. Bear must have done his stuff, I thought affectionately.

“Just starting, Baby. There’s a lot to do, but we’ll get there.”

Mr. Bear? Was he talking to me?

“There’s no-one else here, honey. It’s me.”

“But… you can’t… Oh God, I’m losing my mind.”

“Come on! I spoke to you often when you were younger.”

I thought about that. “Yes, you did. I thought it was all in my imagination.”

“And did it help?”

“Yes, it helped a lot,” I admitted. “I always felt better after talking to you.”

“Right, so no more ‘I’m losing my mind.’ We’ve done this before, and we’ll do it again. We need to do more than make you feel better this time though. I think we need to make sure this doesn’t happen to anyone else. Don’t you agree?”

Oh, I did… 

The doorbell rang. Everyone I knew would be at work, so who on earth…?

“And this is the first step,” said Mr. Bear.

I answered the chime. “Hello, who is it, please?”

“It’s Detective Barnes, Ms. Carter. May I come up?”

The Police? I remembered Detective Barnes. The tall, good looking one… who seemed to think I was an idiot. I saw myself in the mirror. Talk about bed hair! My face was blotchy, and I was still wearing yesterday’s clothes – and I’d slept in them. I’d never looked worse.

“Come on Gwen, you need to let him in…”

“No way! I’m a mess.” But to my horror I heard myself say,

“Come on up, Detective,” and saw the front door release button depress all by itself!

“Mr. Bear! You can’t let him see me like this.”

“Relax Baby! Look at the mirror.”

I looked. Suddenly my hair was brushed! And my clothes – I was wearing a completely new, light blue summer dress, my make-up was immaculate, and I smelt – and felt – newly showered and fresh. 

Nice.

 There was a knock on the door. No time for anything else so I sent Bear a mental hug and turned confidently to the door.

“Detective, come on in. I’m sorry about the mess. It’s been a difficult few days.”

He came in. Tall, handsome, and in a lightweight summer suit. He looked around. Mr. Bear had done more than just clean me up. He’d done the entire room. 

  Wow! Molly Maid extraordinaire!

“I’d say you’d been able to stay on top of things very well.” He looked at me, smiled and seemed to come to a decision. “Have you had breakfast this morning? Why don’t we go to the coffee shop next door and talk?”

About to decline, still a bit embarrassed by our interview the previous day, my stomach suddenly gurgled - audibly.  “Er…” 

I could feel the blush all the way to my toes.

 “MR BEAR!!”

Detective Barnes laughed. “I think your stomach answered for you. Let’s go.”

“Put me in your handbag. I need to go with you.” Mr. Bear of course.

“Fine – Oh… I’ll just get my bag.”

It had been sitting on the shelf by the door. It was gone now. But when I went back to the bedroom, of course it was there, right by Mr. Bear, who seemed to have shrunk. He fitted inside easily. 

He flashed me a grin as I popped him in. 

The coffee Shop was a hive of activity. Large steel machines gurgled and steamed cheerfully behind the counter, and the aroma of coffee was delicious. To one side was a tempting selection of muffins, cupcakes and sandwiches. Soon, armed with a large Café Latte and a blueberry muffin I was sitting opposite the detective by the large window.

“I didn’t want to give you the impression that we weren’t taking this case seriously Ms. Carter. It’s a difficult one because we have so little to go on, but we really are trying. I was hoping you might remember if ‘Michael’ had mentioned any other towns that he might be planning on visiting.”

“Please, call me Gwen. Ms. Carter is so stuffy… You’re trying to see if you can get ahead of him, aren’t you?”

“Yes, that’s the idea. We know how he operates, but there’s nothing to suggest where he’ll turn up next.”

“That’s a tough one, Detective. I’m afraid I don’t remember anything like that.”

Then suddenly, my voice, my mouth, but it was Mr. Bear talking. 

“What I can tell you is he was very interested in the other side of town recently. The other side of the river. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s already working his next con over there now. He’s a clever man. He’ll know you’ll be looking at other towns given his pattern to date. So, I bet he’s changing his game. He’s still here, just on the other side of the river. Why don’t we go over there and look around?”

I felt Mr. Bear giving him a bit of a push.

 “That’s an intriguing theory Ms… er… Gwen. Let’s do that. We’ll go over there and perhaps have some lunch before I bring you back.”

An hour later we were enjoying a walk along the riverbank trail. We’d wandered through the business district, checking out the restaurants and coffee shops, but Mr. Bear said he couldn’t sense him there.

 “Head down by the river, through the park. He’s somewhere over there.”

Detective Barnes – actually, I was calling him John by then – didn’t take much persuading. He seemed to be enjoying himself quite a lot. I suppose it made a change from his usual workday to be strolling in the sun, in the park. I was surprised how much I was enjoying it too. We chatted while we walked, and found we had quite a lot in common, and I was almost disappointed when Mr. Bear broke in. 

 “Keep going along here. There’s a restaurant with a big terrace section ahead. He’s meeting someone there.”

“Up ahead. On the restaurant terrace.” I pointed.” I think that’s him”

“Wow, you must have excellent vision. Let’s get closer.”

And then I really could see him. The bastard had ginger hair now, and he was having lunch with – surprise - a young woman. His next victim.

“I’m calling in back-up”, said John. 

Oh no. This was between Michael and me. 

“Gwen, wait.” 

But I was already moving up onto the terrace. 

“Ready, Mr. Bear?”

“I am indeed. Go get him, Baby.”

I walked nonchalantly up behind the new victim and brought up my phone. Michael looked up, alarmed. “Hey, no pictures. Give us some privacy!”

“Same old Michael,” I said cheerily to his new girl. “Did you know he’s allergic to having photos taken?” I watched him turn a satisfying shade of ash.

 “Hello, Darling! Isn’t it a lovely day? I brought someone to meet you. Detective John Barnes,” indicating John, who’d rushed up behind me.

 “Oh, don’t go, he’s come specially to arrest you.”

Michael leaped to his feet. I saw the bright, checkered tablecloth slip from the table and snake down between his feet and, as he started to run, it wrapped itself around his ankles. He went down hard, face first on the paving stones. 

Delicious!

John moved forwards and snapped on the handcuffs. 

“How on earth did that happen?” 

“Didn’t you say it was going to take a stroke of luck to catch him, Detective?”

He looked at me. And suddenly we were both laughing helplessly. 

All three of us, actually.  My bag was rocking.

And all was right with the world again.