Charlie's Angels

“Thank goodness that’s over with for another year,” Joyce said, ruefully patting her ample bosom as she caught up with her friend Paula. “Modern medicine’s a wonderful thing, but how many guys do you think would put their boy parts in a freezing cold vice and squeeze them flat?”

“It’s just a mammogram, for Pete’s sake. You’ve earned yourself a decent brunch in that chichi place across the street. My treat,” said Paula, chuckling.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you to keep me on the straight and narrow,” said Joyce. “How do we get out of here? It’s a maze. I don’t remember coming in this way. Oncology waiting room? We must have taken the wrong turn.”

She stopped so suddenly that Paula almost ran into her.

“It’s her. I swear it’s her. The nerve.”

Paula followed her gaze. Joyce was staring through narrowed eyes at a tall, elegant brunette in a red jacket who had entered the lobby from the street.

“Miranda!” she said, approaching the woman who looked at her blankly. “Remember me? Joyce.”

“Have we met before?” said the brunette, looking down her nose at the petite Joyce. “I’m sorry, but you must have mistaken me for someone else.”

She stepped deftly around Joyce and disappeared into the oncology clinic. Paula grabbed Joyce’s arm as she turned to follow.

“No, you don’t. I know when your temper’s up. We’re going for brunch now.”

She steered Joyce, who was quivering with rage, across the street to the restaurant.

After they ate, Paula looked at Joyce.

“Okay, now that you’re fed and watered, tell me what that was all about.”

“Thank you for saving me from myself,” said Joyce, smiling sheepishly. “I might have done something unfortunate.”

“It’s just ‘cos I don’t have money to bail you out,” said Paula. “Go on.”

“I swear on a stack of Bibles that that was my son Luke’s ex.”

“Really?” said Paula. “I thought she was blonde.”

“She was blonde,” said Joyce. “But I recognize her walk and that heart-shaped mole on the side of her neck.”

She sighed.

“This is between you, me and the gatepost. Luke would be mortified if he knew I’d said anything. She fleeced him blind.”

“That’s awful,” said Paula. “Did he report her to the police?”

“She was too slick for that. First the story was that her mother in Latvia or somewhere had a rare type of cancer. Luke gave her money for the treatment. Then she didn’t have money for the air fare to go home when her mother’s condition got worse. Luke paid for that. When she returned, she said she’d spent all her money on her mother’s funeral. He paid her rent. Finally, he let her use his credit card, but when he got the statements, there were all kinds of charges for clothes, restaurants and trips. He cancelled the card, of course, but the damage was done. Meanwhile she disappeared. There was nothing he could go to the police about. He’d willingly given her the money and allowed her to use the credit card. He was so devastated that he took a job in Australia to have a fresh start. I miss him terribly.”

The chime over the restaurant door rang.

“Act normal,” Paula muttered. “Here she comes.”

The tall brunette sashayed into the room, followed by a short, paunchy man with receding grey hair. They sat down in a booth and perused the menu.

“Her next victim,” whispered Joyce. “We need to warn him somehow. She can’t keep getting away with it.”

She fished her phone out and signaled to the waitress, who hurried over, smiling.

“Hon, can you get some pictures of me and my friend? Make it flattering!"

She positioned Paula so that they were sitting with the booth in the background. The waitress obligingly snapped shots from various angles.

“Thank you,” said Paula, tipping her generously. She beckoned the waitress to come closer, discretely putting some more money on the table. The waitress, a tired middle-aged woman whose name tag said "Molly”, blinked.

“Molly, I think I saw that lady over there in the cancer center for treatment this morning. She’s very young. It’s so sad. Do you know anything about her?”

Molly glanced sideways at the brunette.

“There’s something fishy there. For the last month, he’s been dropping her off at the cancer center early. She goes in. Ten minutes later she strolls out as cool as a cucumber and leaves by herself. Quickest appointment I ever seen. Occasionally they come in here to eat.”

“Thank you,” said Paula, sliding the money towards her. “She reminds me of my daughter. I’d love to help her if I could. If you could obtain any information, I’d be most grateful. Discreetly, of course.”

Molly slipped the money into her pocket without missing a beat, winked and left. Paula hurried Joyce outside to her car.

“Tell me every little detail you can remember about Miranda, even the trivia.”

Joyce took a deep breath and thought.

“Her last name was Roberts, and she worked in a travel agents’ office. She didn’t talk much about personal stuff. She didn’t like getting her picture taken. Luke told me the story about her mother.”

Joyce scrolled through her phone.

“Molly did a great job with the pictures. There’s Miss Miranda in the background. Zoom in on that picture," she said, peering at the phone. “There. You can see that heart shaped mole on her neck.”

She dropped the phone back into her purse.

“Okay, amiga," said Paula. "Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to call Luke and see what else he can tell you. Send him the photos. Also, scope out local travel agents. I’ll search on Facebook. Let’s meet here again for breakfast tomorrow.”

She high-fived Joyce and drove off.

The café was busy the next morning, but Joyce managed to get a table by the window facing the cancer center entrance. Paula joined her a few minutes later.

“I had to park three streets away,” she said breathlessly.

“Morning, ladies,” said Molly, appearing with a coffee pot and mugs. “Look over there.”

The tall brunette was getting out of a Mercedes sedan driven by her elderly companion of the day before. She blew him a kiss and entered the building.

“She’s moved up in the world,” Joyce whispered. “Luke had a 2010 Ford Focus.”

“Keep your eye on the clinic door,” Molly muttered under her breath, as she pulled her order pad out of her apron pocket. “What can I get for you ladies?”

“An omelet for me, please,” said Joyce.

“Same for me,” said Paula, tucking some bills into the menu as she handed it back to Molly. “Did you happen to notice anything unusual with that poor young lady, Molly? I really feel so bad for her.”

“Well, bearing in mind your kind offer to help her,” said Molly, eyes twinkling. “I managed to steer the conversation a little bit. Her name is Christie and her husband is Richard. They’d been married for a couple of months when she was diagnosed with lymphoma. He was almost in tears telling me. Quick, look.”

Joyce and Paula stared across the street as the tall woman emerged from the clinic and merged into the crowds.

“I talked to Luke and he agrees that it’s Miranda,” said Joyce. “I also checked with the travel agents around here and no one remembered her working there, as a blonde or as a brunette.”

“I did some facial recognition stuff and found a Christie Montgomery who looks like our girl," said Paula. "Very little past data either, but she married a Richard Holmstead earlier this year. She still had a profile up on some dating sites. She’s quite the chameleon, sometimes blonde, sometimes brunette, but you can see the mole in various pictures.”

“Hark at you, Ms. High Tech,” said Joyce, grinning. “How come you’re so familiar with those dating websites anyway?”

“Well, I… never mind that,” said Paula, flustered.

“So, now what?” Joyce said.

“All we can do is warn him that his dear wife may not be who he thinks she is. It’s up to him if he decides to be a fool for love after that,” said Paula. “We have no proof that she’s done anything wrong or doesn’t have cancer for that matter. Now this is what I think we should do…”

Molly smiled as Paula and Joyce came in for brunch the following week.

“Hello, there,” she said. “You didn’t have anything to do with all that commotion at the drop off lane of the cancer center the other day, did you? Some old car stalled and blocked the road for a good ten minutes. Richard had just dropped Christie off and couldn’t leave. He looked like he was going to blow a gasket. I thought I saw one of you ladies get out of the stalled car and give him an envelope, but that could have been my imagination.”

“That old car is always letting me down at the most awkward moments. I owed him an apology for holding him up,” said Paula. “Have you seen them since?”

Molly shook her head.

“No, they haven’t been back. But a reporter did come around asking questions. Here’s his card. He’s investigating fraud and I don’t know what all. Now, today’s specials are…”

Joyce perused the card with interest.

“Let’s give him a call while we’re waiting for our food,” she said, dialing the number.

She ended the call as Molly served them.

“You look mighty pleased with yourself,” said Paula. “Spill the beans.”

Molly listened, all agog, as Joyce began.

“His name’s David Brown. He’s an investigative reporter looking into Miranda or Christie or whoever she is. He’s very interested in talking to us, including you, Molly, if you’re willing. He’s making a documentary about her. Apparently, she's left a trail of mayhem behind her. There are variations, but her most popular sob story is that either she or a close family member need money after being diagnosed with cancer. It all ends in tears for everyone except her so far."

Six months later, Paula, Joyce and Molly, eagerly gathered at Joyce’s place to watch the newly released documentary.

As the opening music died down, David Brown appeared on screen. He was a lithe, handsome young man clad in tight jeans and a hip leather jacket.

“This story is about how deceptive appearances can be. A beautiful, shape-shifting, young woman who deceived many men, leaving a trail of broken hearts and empty wallets behind her, was brought to justice in large part due to the efforts of a pair of elderly Charlie’s Angels called Joyce and Paula,” he intoned, looking directly into the camera.

“What!” said Joyce, outraged. “Elderly indeed. What a cheek. He must mean you.”

“Give me a break,” snapped Paula. “You’re six years older than me.”

“Hush your squabbling now, girls,” said Molly, choking back laughter. “You both look pretty good up there onscreen.”

Joyce laughed, nudging Paula with her elbow.

“Not too bad for a couple of old broads,” she said. “Now pass the popcorn!”

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