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Coco kicked off the pumps, tore off the wig, and bolted after her.
The woman wasn’t in shape or athletic, and he caught up to her before she reached the bedroom door. Coco grabbed her by the shoulder, spun the woman around, and pushed her up against the wall.
“What the hell are you doing in my house, Francie?” he demanded.
“I…I forget something important, Mr. Mize,” she said, terrified. “I no know you’re here.”
“Obviously,” Mize said. “What could be so important that you broke into my house wearing rubber gloves, Francie?”
She began to cry. “I was looking for…my bank card. The ATM.”
“You figured out you were missing your bank card three months after I fired you?”
Francie nodded wildly. “Yes. Just yesterday. I look everywhere. I say, this one must to be at the Jeffrey Mize’s house. So I come. I call you from outside. I ring doorbell.”
“To make sure I wasn’t home,” Mize said.
“No! You no answer. You no hear?”
“I was busy.”
His former maid’s gaze flickered down to his black panties, garter belt, and hose, and then back to the eyelashes and makeup.
“I so sorry,” she blubbered. “I see this now.”
“My secret life?” he said. “My closet?”
“I no mean to! I just looking for—”
“Something to steal, isn’t that right?”
“No, Mr. Mize,” the maid said, and she made the sign of the cross.
Mize’s mind turned to Coco’s unique perspective again, and he said, “I was wondering why I’d been missing some of mother’s lesser jewelry. Never suspected you, Francie, but that’s my naturally trusting personality.”
The maid got more frightened. “No, that’s not—”
“Sure it is,” Mize said. “You’re dirt-poor, Francie. So you steal. It’s what you do. It’s what I would do if I were you.”
She clamped her jaw shut and tried to struggle away, but he threw her back against the wall. “Please, Mr. Mize,” she whimpered. “Don’t call police. I do anything, but not that!”
Mize thought, said, “You can keep a secret, can’t you, Francie?”
She seemed not to understand for a moment, but then her head bobbled like a toy. “Of course, I no tell anyone you like dress lady-boy, Mr. Mize.”
He laughed. “Lady-boy? Is that what they’d call me in Haiti?”
Francie’s eyes darted around, but her head started bobbling again. “I sorry, Mr. Mize. Is a bad thing? Lady-boy?”
“You tell me.”
“No, Mr. Mize,” she babbled, “I no care your lady-boy secrets.”
“Then I don’t care you’re a thief, Francie.”
She didn’t know what to say, but she nodded in resignation. “Merci, Mr. Mize. Please, I so sorry.”
“How’d you get in?” Mize asked.
