Double Jeopardy
by Brian Lawrence

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On my tiny television, the host of The Joker’s Wild  said, “Joker.  Joker.  Joker.”

The buzz from an eagle-sized horsefly drowned the scream of the contestant.  I snatched the fly swatter, nearly knocking over a drained bottle of Bud, and lunged for the window.

My office door swung open.  I paused mid-swat.  Even the fly stopped buzzing at the sight of the broad.

In a southern accent smoother than Cognac, she asked, “Would you be Jake Sledge?”

She wore a dark blue sarong.  A matching wrap of cloth barely covered her ample breasts.  Blond hair was piled high over a face chiseled from the smoothest stone, inset with sparkling blue eyes.

“I would.”  I dropped the fly swatter.  “And you are?”

She glided into my office, closing the door behind her.  Counting her hair, she was only a couple inches shorter than my six-three.  No where near my two-twenty, though.

“I’m Jeopardy Dupree.  May I sit?”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’d really like to sit.”

“I mean the name.”

She sat in one of the cracked vinyl chairs.  “My mama was obsessed with game shows.”

“Oh.”  I sat.  “You’re not from River City, are you?”  I know, River City.  And believe me, there’s always trouble in River City.  And the itch on the back of my neck told me trouble had entered my office, but when trouble looked like Jeopardy Dupree, I didn’t mind getting into it.

“No, suh.  We’re from North Carolina.  My daddy was the third largest tobacco grower there.  He’s retired.  After my mama died, we moved.”

“Why here?”

“Daddy was born here.”

“I’m sorry.”

She arched a thin brow.  “I’m here because I need your help.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Oh, I’d say you have quite a few other redeeming features.”  She winked.

I almost blushed.  But her body language, arms and legs crossed, back flagpole straight, told me she had only business on her mind.  Maybe another time.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Dupree?”

“It’s Ms.”  She paused.  “My sister is going to murder my father.”

“Sister?  And would her name be The Price is Right?”

Without cracking a smile, she said, “While that aptly describes her character, she goes by Connie.”

“Short for?”

“Concentration.”

“Naturally.  And you’re dragging me into a family feud?”

She smiled.  “Something like that.”

I was on a roll, so added, “Then you’d better tell me the truth or suffer the consequences.”

The smile faded.  She clenched her eyes closed and massaged her temples.

“Was it something I said?”

“I have awful migraines.  I’m fine, now.”

“So your sister wants to kill your father.  What do you want me to do?”

“Stop her, of course.”

“What about the cops?”

She snorted.  An unappealing sound from such a gorgeous woman.  “They won’t lift a finger until a crime has actually been committed.”

River City’s finest.  “Why me?”

“You played football, right?”

“Until I wrecked my knee my second year with the Browns.”  A painful memory I preferred to keep buried, but everyone in River City wanted to resurrect.

She stared blankly, then said, “Yes, well, Connie is a rabid football fan.  And besides, you were a cop.”

She’d done her homework.  Detective First Class until last year, when I’d slugged my lieutenant.  Hey, the man deserved it.

“With your charm and your background, I’m confident you can stop my sister.”

Tactfully, she didn’t add that I was also the only game in town.

“Why does your sister want to kill your father?”

“Greed, Mr. Sledge.”

Again, she closed her eyes tight, bent her neck slightly forward and massaged her temples.  For a moment, the only sound in my small office was the whump of the ceiling fan and the buzz of the horsefly.

“You all right?”

She straightened and placed her hands on her lap.  “Connie has a gambling problem.”

“A card shark?”

“She prefers betting on sports.  Only she loses much more than she wins.  And as long as Daddy’s alive, all she gets is her weekly allowance.”

“Which is?”

“Two thousand.”

I whistled.  Not a bad allowance.  Double what I allowed myself from my football insurance settlement.  But in River City, a thousand a week is more than enough to get into trouble with.

“And what makes you think your sister is ready to strike?”

“I just know.  I really need to go.”  She stood.  A spasm of pain seemed to tear through her body.  She sucked in her breath and closed her eyes for a few seconds.  When she opened them, she said, “Tonight, please, Mr. Sledge.  Six-thirty?  Come to the house.  She’ll be expecting you.”

“Is your sister as attractive as you?”

She nodded, showing no reaction to the compliment.  I tried.

“Tell me where.”

She did.

Before leaving, she extended her hand, palm down, as if I should kiss it.  Instead, I rotated it and shook it, then rotated it more and stared at the pale scar across her wrist.

“Troubled youth,” she said, and then left.

*****

At six-fifty, I rang the doorbell of the Dupree’s Colonial three-story at the outskirts of River City.

Bachelorette number two answered the door.  Same height, same build, same facial bone structure, but the similarity ended there.  Connie wore a powder blue skirt suit and a beige blouse.  Dark hair cascaded over her shoulders.  Cool brown eyes regarded me with amusement.

“And the password is?” I asked.

She smiled.  “Please come in, Mr. Sledge.  You’re late.”

Same killer accent.  Her eyes roamed over me like I was hanging in an art gallery, so I returned the favor.

“Dinner’s ready.”  She winked.  “Please follow me.”

We entered the dining room.  Only two place settings.

“Isn’t Jeopardy going to join us?”

“Jeopardy’s out.  And besides, three’s a crowd.”  She smiled and gestured me to sit.

“What about your daddy?”

Her smile disappeared.  “He already ate and went to bed.  He’s getting on in years, likes to nap after dinner.”

“I’d like to meet him.”

“Maybe later.”

She went into the kitchen and returned pushing a cart filled with a veritable love buffet.  Smells from the ocean and fresh fruit filled the dining room.  Mushrooms stuffed with crab meat, seafood gumbo, salmon steaks, and Patriotic Pie: strawberries, blueberries and cream cheese.  The urge to salute was strong, but I resisted.

During dinner we talked little but eyed each other a lot.  After clearing the dishes, she suggested we move to the sitting room for sherry.  I preferred beer, but held my tongue.

In the sitting room, cozied next to each other, she stared at the empty fireplace.  I stared at her elegant throat and neck, wanting to nibble, but resisting while on the job.  We played What’s My Line, talking about my football career, the upcoming season, and who was most likely to win the Superbowl.  I think she was looking for a line of her own, one she could parlay in Vegas.

We could have talked sports all night, but I thought about why I’d been hired.

“Did Jeopardy tell you why I’m here?”

“No, but I know why.  The little tattletale thinks I’m going to murder Daddy.”

“Are you?”  I always liked the direct approach.

“To tell the truth, Jake, Jeopardy’s a step-daughter.  I’m the real daughter.  She’d like me out of the way.”

“I see.”

“You don’t believe me.”  She moved to the end of the sofa.  My side, where she’d been snuggled, suddenly felt cold.

“The two of you look very similar.  I find it hard to believe you’re not sisters.”

“Half sisters.  Jeopardy was a the result of a love tryst.  Yes, she’s my daddy’s real daughter, but not my mama’s.”  The venom in her voice was thick.  “My daddy’s fortune was built on my mama’s money.  Everything you see is rightfully mine, not Jeopardy’s.  And she knows it.”

“Do you like to gamble, Connie?”

She looked away, drained her sherry glass.  “I have been known to place a wager or two.”

“How far in debt are you?”

She shot me a sharp look.  “Why the inquisition, Mr. Sledge?”

Back to Mr. Sledge.  Not a good sign.

“How much do you owe?”

She stood.  “I’m getting a refill.”  She left the sitting room.  I heard the clink of a bottle from the kitchen, then silence.  After a moment, she returned, a full glass of sherry in her left hand, her right hand buried in her suit jacket pocket.

“Would you like to meet Daddy?” she asked.  “You can ask him about Jeopardy.”

“Daddy Dupree come on down.”

She walked out of the sitting room.  I followed.  We ascended a spiral staircase lined with landscapes of blacks working tobacco fields while white masters rode horses.

“Tasteful,” I commented.

Connie ignored my sarcasm and led me halfway down the second story hall, then stopped.

“I’ll take door number two,” I said.

Her smile lacked humor.  She pushed open a set of double-doors.

I entered the master bedroom and wished I’d gone for door number one.  On a canopied bed, bathed in the yellow glow of the setting sun, lay a man with a pasty blue face, full white beard, and wide open eyes.  Both his hands were raised to ear level.  The pillow used to suffocate him had been tossed to the other side of the bed.

In the window I caught the glint of cold steel poised to plunge into my back.  Looked like we weren’t going to be couple number one.

I dove right and landed on Daddy.  He didn’t object.

Connie snarled and lunged.

I rolled and kicked.  Connie crashed against the nightstand, but recovered with the speed of the psychotic, and charged.

I kicked again, catching her in the stomach.

She doubled over.  I bounced off the bed, grabbed her right hand, and twisted.  She dropped the paring knife.  I stared at the pale scar across her wrist.  She looked at me, her lips twisted in rage, one brown contact out of place, showing a peek of blue.

Will the real Jeopardy Dupree please stand up?

Some of my old buddies from River City’s finest hauled sick little Connie / Jeopardy away to the county mental facility in Kansas City.  Her psychiatrist muttered some mumbo jumbo about dissociative disorder, but all I knew was that in the game show of life, it was hard enough being one contestant, let alone two.
 

Copyright 2000, Brian Lawrence