by Vicki Batman
“It’s so stupid.” Tracey pressed a tissue to each corner of her eyes. “Your boyfriend—”
“Not.”
“—implied he would arrest me if I didn’t come in for a chat.”
“Doesn’t seem like a lot of evidence if you ask me,” Mom said.
Me neither. “Allan has to resolve everything by making a timeline.”
“Doesn’t he need DNA?” Mom asked.
“They’ll get statements, eyewitnesses, fingerprints, videos. Trace, can you please tell us? Nothing leaves this room.” I crossed my heart with my finger. “I promise.”
Mom and Dad crossed their hearts, too.
My sister blew her nose. She pinched the used tissue with her thumb and forefinger just like a seven-year-old.
Mom passed her a napkin.
Dropping the tissue, Tracey pressed her gooky fingers to the napkin.
“I went to Super Saver to get Yummy Gummy's new pistachio and cherry flavored ice cream for Stuart. When I walked through the parking lot toward the entrance, I passed Jonson’s car. Only I didn't recognize his drive. Not the old beat-up truck I knew. Some big European boxy thing.” She stared. “Looked brand new.”
I still wanted to know where Jonson got the money for an expensive ride, like over one-hundred-thousand dollars ride. Maybe from Barbie's family. Maybe she has a big trust fund. Or maybe winnings from the poker-playing mafia.
Wait a minute. Could Jonson have been a hit? I should follow up with Allan again. “Ice cream for Stuart. Got it. Jonson’s new ride. Got it. Go on.”
“Just minding my own business.” Tracey squinted. “Happy…you know?”
I nodded. The whole solar system knew cloud nine had nothing on Tracey and her happy-ever-after.
“I weaved between a truck—a red one, I think—and a mini-van toward the store’s entrance. About the time I passed Jonson’s driver’s side, a hand—his hand—shot out in front of me. For a sec, the idea some stalker, murderer, or rapist scoped me out and scared me.” She pouted. “He’s just as evil.”
“I would have been frightened, too.” I plucked a new tissue from the box Mom passed me and handed it over to Tracey. “What next?”
“Then he said in a long slow deep drawl, ‘Traaaceeee.’ He would say my name like that when he tried to sound sexy. He could be charming but rarely was. Ick.” Her shoulders shimmied. “My creep-o-meter rose to danger-danger. I ducked his arm. In a flash, he grabbed my bicep and pulled me next to his vehicle. I set my hands on the door to push away, but I couldn’t.
“My white jacket”—she face-palmed me like a traffic cop—“I know what you’ll say about wearing white after Labor Day, but don’t—was smudged across my chest and tummy with car grunge.”
“Hmm. I can’t imagine Jonson letting an expensive car be dirty.”
“Me neither.” Tracey plucked the dingy undershirt, one which had been through multiple washings, she now wore. “Huh. I forgot the police took my clothing. Something about evidence.” Her look of puzzlement shifted to remembering. “Yes, that’s why, and why I’m wearing”—she plucked the front of the T-shirt—“whatever this is instead of my suit.”
I tilted my head. “The white designer suit you found at the consignment store?”
“Yes. I couldn’t believe the price—”
“A good value—”
“Girls.” Dad's fist slammed the table, causing us to jump. “Stay on track. I'm pretty sure Allan didn't take Tracey to the station to talk about women’s clothing.”
“You're right, Dad. Allan never talks about fashion.” Except, on occasion, he said something about removing my clothing. I set my hand on Tracey's. “Please, continue.”
She bit into her lower lip. “Jonson said, ‘Hey, darlin’, how ya doin’?’ I nearly vomited, especially after how he treated me in Wedding Wonderland the other day, you know, when we argued.”
“What argument?” Mom asked. “You never said anything about an argument with Jonson.”
“Give Tracey a sec, Mom. Jonson’s main goal was to cause trouble.” I rubbed my sister’s shoulder in my best sisterly fashion. “He makes me sick, too. You should have christened his car’s interior. I know I would have.”
“Now, I wish I had, but as we all are aware, I’m an anti-vomit person. I held it in. The ol’ swallow and breathe through the nose trick.” Tracey gave an appreciative baby smile. “I only wish I’d keyed the driver’s door just like you and I did after the divorce from hell.”
Tracey smacked her hand over her mouth and looked at our parents, whose mouths dropped to the floor. “Oops.”
Dad stood and walked around the table. “You keyed Jonson’s car?”
“It’s nothing, Dad. No worries,” Tracey said.
“Doesn’t sound like nothing to me,” he said.
Tracey shrugged. “I couldn’t help myself.”
I stood, lacing my fingers, stretching my arms over my head, and stretching from my right to my left. “Like Tracey said, Dad, nothing, just a teeny tiny insignificant nothing. Really. Jonson deserved more plus.”
“Sounds like…revenge.” Dad shoved his hand through his hair. “Nothing good comes from it.”
“You remember his piece of doo-doo truck.” I dropped my arms. “The ancient pale gold and white one with the tailgate which flopped open spontaneously? Kinda funny.”
“Somebody should have declared his truck a deathtrap,” Tracey added. “He probably didn’t notice the damage.”
“Girls.” Dad compressed his lips. “Your mother and I taught you to respect others’ property.”
They did, especially Mom with her “Respect, Respect, Respect” lecture. Must be the one time her talk didn’t stick.
I lifted my palms. “Don’t be mad at Tracey. A light bulb idea whacked me. I could say sorry, but considering whose car we’d violated, not really.”
“We raised you better.”
“You did. I blame the wine.”
His lips flattened to near white. “You were drinking and driving?”
“A bottle of Moët.” I shrugged. “We celebrated Tracey’s divorce. What better way?”
“I don’t want to hear any more about his car.” Mom posed her hands prayerfully against her chest. “Tracey, please finish.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tracey inhaled. “Jonson and I were face to face. I could smell the cheap whiskey on his breath—”
“He smelled like booze when he and Barbie were in the store,” I said.
“Not surprised. Wish I had known Jonson could throw back a drink like a fish.” She frowned. “Anyway, I wanted to get away and tried but couldn’t. I have a couple of bruises.”
She unfolded her arm. Sure enough, three oval-shaped imprints left by his fingers discolored her forearm.
Mom gasped. “That’s not an ordinary grab. It’s…brutal.”
Dad inspected the bruise, too. “I wish he’d resurrect so I could kick his ass.”
All three of us stared at my father, who rarely said anything, letting Mom do most of the talking most of the time.
“It’s horrible.” I dug for my phone stuck in my hip pocket. “Tracey, did the cops take pictures of your arm?”
“A woman cop watched me undress and took pictures.” She shook her head. “I don’t think they know. I didn't know.”
“Not even when you changed clothes?”
“No, I didn’t notice until later.” Tracey slid her left hand over the owie, blanketing the hurt with warmth from her body.
“You should have told them. Heads up.” I hit the camera app on my phone and took several photos of her arm and face, explicitly including a close-up shot. I would forward the photo to Mr. Perfect Policeman Allan.
“Why did you give them your clothing?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I felt discombobulated. The other detective asked, and I agreed. A policewoman escorted me to a room.” She lifted her right shoulder.
Lordy, this sounds so scary. “So, go on. Tell us everything that happe
ned.”
Tracey swallowed deeply. “Jonson held my arm. I pressed my hands against the window frame—where the police found my fingerprints. I don’t know how I managed a calm voice. When I asked him about his upcoming marriage, I choked on my words. He gave me one of those twinkly, revolting looks and said, ‘You know, Traceee, we always were good together. How about a last quickie before my big day?’ ”
Chapter Thirteen
Tracey pushed her hand over her forehead and sighed. “I think I’m might be sick.”
Dad gulped.
Mom gasped and ran for a bowl. She pressed one in Tracey’s arms. Tracey cradled it tightly.
I popped my eyes wide as I balled my hands into fists. Jonson Leggett the Third—creep extraordinaire—propositioned my sister—my sister—while engaged to Barbie Fenster, poor girl. Barbie had no idea about Jonson and his horrible demeanor. None at all.
The epithets tornadoing through my head were positively not PG-rated, more like Triple X. With my heart and soul, I ached to punch Jonson, but now, I couldn’t, seeing how he was already dead. “Sissie, I-I don’t know what to say.”
“Oh, I have tales to curl your hair and more. It’s sick.” Tracey nodded. “Jonson sent flowers a while back. And emailed.”
“He what? He emailed…you?” A smashed, moldy green-pea sickness rooted in my tummy. Eyeing the bowl Tracey held, I rubbed a circle around my belly button. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Or us?” Dad asked.
My parents must be in their own unspecial hell now knowing what Tracey went through.
Tracey hung her head, her hand passing over her face and dragging her skin in a grotesque way, conveying how exhaustion took over her. She put the bowl on the table. “No one could have been more disgusting than Jonson. I wanted to be as far away from him as possible. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t.” She pointed toward Mom and Dad.
Tracey aimed a finger at my chest. “And I know you. You would have more than keyed his car.”
I pressed my finger to my chin. “You are right, sister dear. I’m thinking slashed tires—”
“Hattie,” Dad said.
Dad’s warning tone said he wasn’t pleased with what Tracey and I did long ago. And usually, I wouldn’t have done anything remotely resembling the destruction of private property. “Sorry—again. But not really—again.” I scrunched my nose and tilted with a shrug.
“I trashed those sucky thoughts PDQ. Besides”—Tracey pressed her back to the chair—“I had happier plans to think about, like my wedding to Stuart. I couldn’t let Jonson’s vileness take Stuart from me.”
Dad laid his hand on her head as a parent would to a small child. My heart melted.
“What happened next?” he asked.
Tracey glanced up. “My blood boiled. It brewed and bubbled, and a fierce red took over. No way in hell would I sleep or do anything with the moron. When he wouldn’t let go of my right arm, I socked him with my left, right between the eyes. His head cracked back. His grip loosened.”
She shook her left hand as if still feeling the impact of hand to face.
“I ran away—”
“Did you tell Allan?” I asked.
Tracey shook her head. “No.”
I threw my hands in the air. “God, Trace. You left out the important stuff.”
“She didn’t say anything to anyone on purpose,” Dad said.
“Not a word,” Tracey said. “I didn’t want to get in trouble.”
“Yet, you gave the police your clothes.” Shaking my head, I set my hand to my temple.
“What?” Dad asked.
“Nothing. I promise it’s nothing. Continue, Tracey.” I pointed at her.
“When his grip loosened, I ran like the devil to my car. My hands were shaking”—she extended her arms—“see? They’re trembling while I’m telling you. Jonson epitomized the Devil.”
Tracey set her hand on her heaving bosom. “Once inside my car, I locked the doors. I could hardly start the engine fast enough. I kept poking the key everywhere, missing the ignition.
“But I finally did and rolled on two wheels out of the lot to the street. Someone honked, I think.” Tracey passed her hand over her mouth. “I probably swerved in front of them.”
“I’d have done the same thing.” I shrugged. Getting far away from Jonson was a superb idea.
Her frown deepened. “I didn’t get Stuart’s ice cream.”
“I promise you he’ll live.”
“But he wanted this flavor.” Tracey’s face crumpled into the “little lost lamb” expression.
Very pitiful.
“Why does crap happen?”
Behind her back, Mom and Dad shared a concerned expression, one which came with years of marriage. Just a solemn look at each other, but everything conveyed through their connection. None of us said a word.
Tracey being safe mattered more than anything.
I tapped the table. “Now, you know why I insisted you take the self-defense class with the Funsisters.”
“Yes, Ms. Bossypants. Your persistence paid off.” Tracey leveled her lips. “I don’t want anyone to find out, you know, how the jerk propositioned me. I couldn’t take the humiliation.” She buried her face in her hands.
Mom scrambled to Tracey’s other side. She tucked a strand of her hair behind one ear. “We won’t say anything, darling. Not a word.”
But one entity had to be told. “Sorry, Mom. You’re wrong. The police need to know.” I tapped the tabletop. “More than likely, someone will blab to the press.”
“Why?” Mom rocked back on her heels and stood. “Tracey didn’t kill him. She hit him.”
“I’m positive his murder is of supreme interest to the public. He was set for life when he married a Fenster,” I said.
“I’d still punch him like I wanted to do to the newspaper photographer.”
“What photographer?” I asked.
Dad grimaced. “The one hanging outside the station. Most likely waiting for some big scoop. Tracey shielded her face with her handbag.”
“See?” I shoved Tracey’s shoulder. “You can thank me later for suggesting the big purse, too.”
She made a crinkly nose face. “Told you so.”
“Well, I did.”
“You did.”
“The photo will be on the front page or in the Metro section forever. All of Sommerville will see it.” Mom crossed her arms with a “humpf.”
Dad cupped Mom’s shoulder. “You know how it is nowadays. A politician will say or do something stupid, and newer news will take its place.”
Mom covered his hand with hers. “We could only be so lucky.”
I rose, paced a bit, dragging my hand across the top of the chairs as I went. “I have an idea.”
Tracey snorted. “I hope it’s a brilliant one ’cause brilliant is what I need.”
“I can’t believe you two are bickering.” Squinting, Mom drew back slightly.
“We’re not.” I glared at my sister. “I’m betting Super Saver has security cameras. We need to check their footage. If Tracey didn’t kill him, someone else did, and I think the store’s cameras might have captured the bad guy or gal. We ask for a copy, and then we’ll know for sure.” I curled my fingers in a gimme. “Let’s see your hand.”
Tracey rested her extended left arm on the kitchen tabletop.
“Make a fist,” I said.
Tracey showed me her fisted hand.
I saw three swollen knuckles, and from the forming scabs, some abraded skin. I put the phone’s camera into action again on her fist and then on her flattened hand. “Done.”
“So how did Jonson die?” Dad asked.
Everyone looked at each other.
I tossed my phone to the table. Then our gazes turned to Tracey.
“What?” Tracey asked, palms lifted. “I’ve said it over and over. I don’t know. What I do know is I Didn’t. Do. It.”
“If Tracey didn’t, then who did?” Raising her brow,
Mom looked at Dad then me.
“Maybe his first ex-wife? What’s her name?” I asked.
They shook their heads.
“I don’t remember her name. I heard someone in Australia offered her a job,” Tracey said.
“Not far enough away, IMHO,” I said. “Someone would be doing the world a favor if Jonson was launched to Mars with no clothes so his willy would freeze off.”
Tracey shook her head. “He wouldn’t leave his milk train.”
“No. Whoever that is. Allan didn’t say anything about anything?” I asked.
They shook their heads again.
“Elaine?” Dad asked.
“I know nothing.” Mom raised her hands.
“Shirley know something?”
Mom turned aside her head and pressed a fresh tissue to her nose. She gave a brief rub. “I’ve been too embarrassed to call, and now is kinda early.”
“She’s your best friend, Elaine,” Dad said.
“I know.”
My poor mother. She was not dealing well with Tracey’s mess. I massaged her shoulder. “Sorry, Mom. Mrs. Wellborn is your best friend. If anyone will have your back, it’s her.”
“You’re right, dear.”
“You sound redundant,” I said. “Let’s review a sec. Detective Wellborn questioned Tracey solely because of her fingerprints.”
“And because she was previously married to Jonson,” Dad said.
I looked at him. “Allan says he doesn’t know all of Tracey’s story. By the way, how did the police get her fingerprints matched?”
“Tracey, your mom, and I attended a program at the station where you get fingerprinted,” Dad said. “When did we go, Elaine? Like five years ago?”
“I think so,” Mom said. “Took forever to de-ink.”
“They called them elimination prints,” Dad said. “Just in case.”
Wow, I’m glad I missed their field trip.
Slowly, the color drained from Tracey’s face as her hand slid over her mouth.
“Trace, what is it?” I asked.
Mom launched to her feet.
Dad touched my sister’s shoulder. “Tracey?”
With her mouth covered, Tracey shook her head. “Wh-what if my punch caused Jonson to have a brain injury or an aneurysm, and I really did kill him?”
