Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery

by R M Wild

  Pathetic, really. Anyone who wants to demonstrate literary might knows better than to quote one of the most quoted lines of all time.

  If you want to be clever, you need to be obscure.

  This prankster would stand out like a new bookstore in the middle of Main Street.

  At the end of the road, I pulled onto the highway. The note caught a wind and whipped into the back seat. Good riddance. Besides, I had more pressing matters on my mind.

  I hadn’t seen Peter Hardgrave since he took the witness stand at his trial. If his war-mongering tattoos were any indication, he was not a man whom you wanted to cross, not in a dark alley, nor in dark woods.

  Could I really go into business with a man like that?

  When I finally pulled up to the guard’s booth outside of Thomaston, the pink horizon behind the fences had succumbed to the pressure of an oppressively gray morning. I had read somewhere that because our primitive rods and cones limited our vision to ten million different colors, our eyes rendered any color we couldn’t process as a shade of gray. If that were true, then the reformed optimist in me dared to imagine that a big, invisible rainbow was sitting right behind the razor wire. It was a lot better than the alternative, an anvil of heavy clouds and fiery brimstone.

  I pressed a button and my window rolled itself down. Power windows were downright luxurious compared to the Apache. The downside was that the Honda sat much lower than the pickup and I had to strain my neck to see the guard, a balding behemoth who seemed determined to consume enough calories to fill the empty space in his booth. He was the same guard whom I had seen in my two previous visits to the prison.

  Upon seeing me, he put down a box of donuts, licked his fingers, and turned on a swivel stool away from his computer. The timing of his shifts was uncanny—either that or he was the only man working at the prison who was qualified to sit on his butt all day.

  “Good morning, Miss Casket,” he said.

  His toothy grin was a tad unsettling. I wasn’t sure if he had remembered me or had read my name off the screen.

  “Good morning. How are you?”

  “I’m good, I’m very good,” he said. “I see you’re fifteen minutes early this morning.”

  “I thought I’d make your life easier, Gus.”

  “Who the blazes is Gus?”

  I pointed to the nameplate on his chest.

  “You need to get your glasses checked,” he said. “My name is God.”

  I snorted. “God? You’re joking.”

  His grin melted. “No, ma’am. My parents figured that no one would ever tease me with a name like God. After all, you cannot take the Lord’s name in vain.”

  “Were they right?”

  “Let’s put it this way, I get all the overtime I want,” he said.

  “Do you have a son named Jesus?”

  He didn’t smile. “I need to see your ID, Miss Casket.”

  I handed him my driver’s license, my shoulder straining from the effort. “I suppose with a name like God, even the gray clouds would make you proud.”

  God typed my name into the computer. “You’re here to see Phyllis Martin, correct?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Purpose of your visit?”

  “To visit,” I said coldly.

  “I need a little more than that.”

  “You didn’t ask the other times.”

  “You’re not kin and yet you’ve visited this inmate multiple times now. When certain patterns emerge, precaution is necessary.”

  “Fine, she’s my reference,” I said. “For a potential business relationship.”

  God shook his head in disbelief and passed my driver’s license down to me. This past winter, I had finally swapped my New York license for one from Maine.

  “I can’t say taking advice from a felon is a wise decision, but whatever. It ain’t my call. You’ll want to pull ahead and make a left.”

  “Same as before?”

  “Same as before,” he confirmed. “Good luck in there. I’m looking forward to the highlight reel.”

  “The what?”

  “You have a good day, ma’am,” God said. He slid his window closed and went back to his powdered donuts.

  I parked in the visitor’s lot, left my handbag in the car, pulled a metal barrette out of my hair and a ballpoint pen out of my pocket, and left them both in the center console.

  In the lobby, I met the first of the corrections officers. He gave me a thorough pat down, his right hand stopping on the hard square of my butt. His palm stayed there way longer than I was comfortable with.

  “What is this?”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of squats lately,” I said. “Helping old ladies onto the dock.”

  “Take it out.”

  I pulled my phone out of my pocket. The last time I was here, they hadn’t bothered taking it. “It’s just my phone.”

  “There are no mobile devices allowed inside the prison, ma’am. They are the most coveted item in here.”

  “More than toilet paper?”

  He stared at me.

  “That was a joke,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with a smile now and then, is there?”

  “Only on Christmas.”

  It wasn’t much different from teaching. “I brought my phone last time, but it wasn’t a problem.”

  “Who did you visit?”

  “The same person. Phyllis Martin.”

  The CO’s lip curled and he bared a single tooth, large and sharp. He took a clipboard from the counter and made a note. “We’ll check on that. Sometimes my fellow officers can be a bit sloppy depending on the level of security.”

  “You mean because I was in the women’s part of the prison?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “No, but it’s what you meant,” I said. “It’s really important that I take the phone inside with me. I need to show her a picture I have on this phone.”

  “Phones are not allowed, ma’am. The rules are the rules.”

  “It’s not pornography or anything.”

  “Ma’am, if you ask one more time—“

  “There’s like two inches of glass between us. It’s not as if I’m going to be able to pass it to her or anything.”

  “Would you like to turn around and leave, ma’am?”

  “No, sir,” I said meekly.

  He opened a locker on the wall and tossed my phone inside.

  “Be careful with that,” I said. “I finally got a new one.”

  The visitation room was darker and dirtier than I remembered, more fingerprints on the glass. I supposed this was because so many stupid women stayed loyal to their incarcerated men. Like the Bureau of Prisons and the state of Maine, they thought they could play the game of “fixer.” They thought they could take a damaged man, put him on the stove, and by applying lots of heat, transform him into a new, delicious concoction.

  But they always got their fingers burned.

  Not me. I knew people didn’t change. I never looked in the mirror one morning and suddenly saw a different face.

  Case in point: I was still an alcoholic. I just didn’t drink anymore. And pretending I wasn’t an alcoholic would send me down a dark and dangerous path.

  It was the same with Phyllis Martin. Thinking prison had changed her would be a huge mistake.

  A total of ten stations cut the visitation room right down the middle. Security cameras were mounted in all four corners, the servos grinding audibly in the silence of the room as the cameras rotated to cover each booth. I chose the station farthest to the left and plopped onto the metal chair as gracelessly as dropping a bag of groceries if you didn’t care about the eggs.

  I bounced my foot to burn off my anxiety. Like the stalls between the urinals in a men’s bathroom, the visitation stations had dividers between them. I reached a finger toward the window and tapped the glass, but the glass was so solid it didn’t make a sound.

  “Retract your finger, ma’am,” the guard in the corne
r said.

  “But there’s no one here.”

  He pointed to a sign on the wall. Like the placards on a cage at the zoo, it read: No Tapping on the Glass.

  “Yes, sir,” I grunted. I put my hand in my lap and squeezed it between my thighs. Security had definitely improved since I last came to visit. There must have been a new warden.

  A few minutes later, on the other side of the glass, the door opened and Phyllis Martin stepped into the visitation room. She was clad in an orange jumpsuit. Either the lighting had dimmed since my last visit, or her jumpsuit was darker, almost blood orange. Her jumpsuit sleeves were short, showing off arms toned to the thickness of radiator pipes. Her wrists and ankles were cuffed and her head was buzzed on the sides, a crooked tattoo of a skull and crossbones etched on her right temple.

  “My God, Phyllis,” I said out loud. “What have you done to yourself?”

  The guard who had escorted her into the room pointed to my station. Phyllis turned to see me. She looked like she could have been in slow motion, for she didn’t flinch, didn’t move a muscle, just stared at me, her eyes expressionless and cold.

  Usually, she was happy to see me.

  The stare felt as if she were reaching through the glass and squeezing my heart until its valves were bulging between her knuckles.

  Who was this person?

  The guard said something, pointed at the glass more forcefully, and Phyllis finally shuffled over to my station and took a seat.

  I cleared my throat and picked up the receiver. “Hi, Phyllis.”

  She didn’t move. Then her nose twitched and she winced as if she had just gotten a whiff of her own armpits.

  “It’s me. Rosie.”

  “I got eyes, Dear. What do you want?”

  “I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

  She shrugged.

  “Will you pick up the phone?”

  With both hands, she took the phone off its cradle.

  “How are you, Phyllis?”

  “Who is Phyllis?” she said.

  “What?”

  “Phyllis is dead. You killed her.”

  I had to force myself not to roll my eyes. “What should I call you then?”

  “Goat.”

  “Goat?”

  “That’s what they call me in here. They’ve milked me dry.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “I need to ask you about Peter Hardgrave.”

  “What about him?”

  “Is he trustworthy?”

  “Goodness, Dear. Why in blue blazes are you askin me?”

  I wasn’t sure anymore. This person barely resembled the Phyllis I used to know.

  “I’m thinking about going into business with him.”

  “You’d be better off licking your finger and sticking it in a socket,” Phyllis said. “Are we done here?”

  “Why didn’t you two get married?”

  The question caught her off guard. “Me?”

  “You and Peter.”

  “Why the hell would we get married?”

  “You had a child together.”

  “So?”

  “So, that’s what people do. They seek stability.”

  “Peter Hardgrave ain’t the marrying type. You of all people should know that.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Look in the mirror, Dear,” Phyllis said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She huffed. “You’ve spent all this time worrying about that fake sister of yours, when you didn’t care one hill of beans about your real sister.”

  “My real sister? What are you talking about?”

  Phyllis hung up.

  I leaned into the glass. “Phyllis, wait. Please.”

  “It’s Goat,” she mouthed.

  I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Goat. I got a picture, Goat. A photo. Someone sent it to me. A woman. Tied up. I got it during Peter’s trial. I wanted to show it to you today, but the guards wouldn’t let me bring my phone inside.”

  “So?”

  “So I think it’s Chrissy.”

  Phyllis was quiet. She just stared at me, her nose twitching as if she had inhaled something noxious and her nostrils were burning.

  “Why would I care?” she mouthed.

  “Peter claims he was helping her escape some very bad people. He was the last one to see her alive. I need to know if I can trust him. You know him better than anyone else in Dark Haven.”

  Phyllis shook her head. “Hardly true.”

  “How is that not true? You carried his baby for crying out loud.”

  “But you are his baby,” Phyllis said.

  6

  I stared at the glass. My faint reflection was on top of hers, giving me a very butch and gray haircut.

  It kind of made sense. I guess.

  Still, I didn’t move. I stared so long my eyes stung. Ordinarily, my mind would have been making frantic connections, but not this time.

  This time, it was blank.

  “Blink, Dear. I only got a few minutes left.”

  I forced my lips apart. “You? You’re my mother?”

  Phyllis grabbed the phone. “No, you dolt.”

  “But you just said—”

  “The man knocked me up. Just like he knocked up your mother.”

  I leaned back and put the receiver to my chest as if it were a defibrillator paddle.

  “I got no idear about that hussy you seem to care so much about,” Phyllis said. “But your real sister lived only a few miles away.”

  Lori. She had come to me that night for help. She had died right in front of me. And no one had told me the truth. “My half-sister,” I corrected.

  Phyllis curled her bottom lip. “But still blood.”

  From nowhere, the flood-gates in my head blew open. Peter Hardgrave in the pickup. Peter Hardgrave sticking his head into the courtroom during my testimony. Peter Hardgrave instructing Fitzgerald to send me “flowers” after the ordeal in the cave. Peter Hardgrave living in the bar beneath my apartment.

  “He—he lived right below me,” I managed.

  “He always wanted to stay close,” Phyllis said. “To keep an eye on you.”

  Peter Hardgrave at trial. Peter Hardgrave standing behind the bar and watching me as if he were suddenly reunited with a limb he had lost in the war.

  “The whole time I lived right above him,” I repeated quietly.

  “Actually, he owned that apartment,” Phyllis said.

  My cheeks flushed and my ears got hot. “Why didn’t he take me in? Why did he let me live with Robert Slate when I could have lived with him?”

  “It wouldn’t have been safe,” Phyllis said. “He wanted to keep you safe.”

  I practically shouted, “Just like he wanted to keep Chrissy safe?”

  “Ayuh,” Phyllis said.

  “From who?” I demanded.

  “I believe the correct word is whom, Dear.”

  I stood abruptly. “I have to go see him.”

  “Siddown,” Phyllis said.

  “I have to go.”

  “Sit down,” she said forcefully.

  “Why are you telling me this? Why now?”

  “I promised your mother I wouldn’t say anything,” Phyllis said.

  “Enough with the secrets!”

  The guard looked over.

  I put up a hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything.”

  “Three minutes left,” he said gruffly.

  I sat down again. “Why wouldn’t my mother want me to know who my father is?”

  “Because your life is in danger.”

  I blinked. “You used the present tense.”

  “Yes. It’s always been in danger.”

  I leaned forward and my breath fogged the glass. “The private entity? The one who sent me the card.”

  She was gray and vague behind the circle of breath, but I think she nodded.

  “Who Phyllis? Who?”

  She looked at the guards. Looked at the security camera. Looked at the o
nly other inmate two stations away.

  Then she gritted her teeth. “You didn’t tell me my daughter was dead. Your own sister.”

  “I didn’t know we were related. You know that, Phyllis.”

  “But she knew. She came to see you for help. About your own father. And you didn’t tell me. You sat on the other side of that glass and you hid that from me. So why should I try to help you now?”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You tried to kill me, Phyllis. Matt Mettle, too. Did you forget that part?”

  Phyllis put the receiver so close to her mouth that her teeth scraped the holes. “I already told you. I thought you were an intruder.”

  “Don’t give me that crap. You drugged me and put me in a cage.”

  Phyllis gripped the concrete ledge in front of her hard enough to make her knuckles turn white. The chain between her wrists was taut.

  “It’s true.”

  I shrugged.

  Behind Phyllis, the guard raised a hand. I could hear his voice through the phone. “Two more minutes, inmate.”

  My eyebrows narrowed. “Did you have an affair with Peter before, after, or during his relationship with my mother?”

  Phyllis narrowed her eyes. Her pupils were on fire. “All three.”

  “You good for nothing piece of…”

  Phyllis’s face blazed red and she yanked her hands apart. Her chains tightened so fast I could hear the clang through the receiver.

  “You don’t know anything, Dear. We tried to help you.”

  “You’re insane,” I said. “I’m done with you.”

  Phyllis was overcome with rage. She stood abruptly and gnashed her teeth and jerked her chains.

  “You don’t know anything!”

  “Siddown, inmate!” the guard said.

  In one violent motion, Phyllis yanked her arms apart as if she were trying to break her chains enough to choke me.

  And then, then, right before my eyes, she erupted in a ball of fire.

  7

  “Holy, Mother of the Devil!”

  A great wave of heat blasted the glass and burned my face. I pushed back from the eruption so hard that I fell over on my stool and landed on my back on the floor, the jolt sending a ripple through my spine and giving me an instant headache.