“But isn’t this Ashley’s dog?” Ashley had been a year older than Matt. They played together when they were children, always at Matt’s house, where no one worried if they made a little noise.
Lois nodded. “She went out West to college. After that she married some guy from Oregon. Has two little boys now. She was home a couple of years ago for her mother’s funeral. Before she left she asked me to look after Daisy—she knew her father wouldn’t. She didn’t have to ask, though. I took over when her mother filed for divorce.”
“How’s Randy doing alone?”
“Who knows?” Lois said. “I suppose he’s having a hard time. But I never liked him, so it takes more energy than I’m willing to spend to feel sorry for him.”
Ruby stood next to Lois, looking over the back fence. Her mother was the same height as Ruby’s five feet two inches. Her white hair was cropped short and her eyes, behind the black-rimmed glasses, were the color of the Caribbean off the coast of Florida. Sophie and Lois had taken Ruby there when she was a little girl, and they’d stayed for about ten days. Every afternoon had been hot and steamy, then came violent thunderstorms followed by sunshine that glistened on the wet palm leaves.
In Florida, Ruby saw, for the first time, other women who lived like her mothers. That and the color of the ocean were the things she remembered all these years later. Sometimes Ruby wondered why Lois and Sophie hadn’t moved to Florida when they retired. She’d asked Sophie about it once, and Sophie told Ruby they’d move someday when they could afford to. That was before Ruby’s life had gone down the sewer again—before she’d taken the money. Matt’s money. The Florida money.
“…a woman staying there off and on,” Lois was saying. “No one can stand him for very long.”
“Do you think I could walk Daisy? I just can’t seem to get in enough walking since I’ve been home.”
Lois jerked her head toward the house. “Leash is in the mudroom. She’s old. Don’t go too fast.”
*
The big dog pulled at first, but by the time Ruby approached the Mini-Mart gas station, Daisy was trotting along beside her at an even pace. She had only eight dollars and some change left from the fifty dollars she received when she checked out of Dwight. She wanted to get a pack of cigarettes, but she’d promised herself that she’d wait until she found a job and had her first paycheck before she’d even think about smoking again.
She had an interview at the Super Walmart out on the east highway the next afternoon. The opening was for the night shift. If she got the job, she’d be unloading trucks and stocking shelves. She was glad for a job where she wouldn’t have to work with customers very much. For some reason she didn’t want to run in to any old friends—not yet, anyway. When regular paychecks were coming in, she’d start saving for a car.
Ruby sat on a bus bench in front of the gas station with Daisy happily curled up at her feet. She scratched the dog’s ears, then reached in her pocket and pulled out a folded-up envelope. A letter had been forwarded from Dwight. Her ex-cellmate, Tia Johnson, was looking for her.
*
Morgan sat in the conference room with Robert Redick and two detectives from Indiana, heartburn bubbling up in her throat from a greasy lunch. Her head hurt and she was infuriated because, following introductions, both Indiana detectives directed their conversation to Redick, the rookie.
The first Indiana detective was smooth and polished, and he spoke in a professional manner. His white shirt contrasted to his dark-brown skin. The other guy was past middle-aged and in pretty good shape, except for a roll that hung over his belt. The older guy was a lieutenant and had rank on the black guy. The lieutenant produced a folder that contained reports and photos of the crime scenes and passed it to Redick. Instead of Redick relaying the folder to her, the dickwad opened it and examined each photo carefully.
When Morgan had enough, she cleared her throat, held out her hand, and said, “Bob, if you don’t mind.”
Redick flushed and quickly slid it toward her.
“We have two,” Morgan said, reaching for her briefcase. “The MO is the same, but that’s all. We can’t match the bullet because we haven’t found one at the second crime scene. An assault rifle has quite a trajectory. Even after it made a crater the size of the Grand Canyon in the vic’s head, it could have traveled a long way.” She handed her two fat file folders across the table.
After her own close examination, Morgan passed each item from the Indiana files to Robert Redick and waited as the four of them examined the evidence.
Morgan was absorbed in a rather long and poorly written report when the lieutenant’s voice startled her.
“Look at this, Anthony,” he said. “These wounds are exactly like ours. The shooter hit about the same spot.”
In a voice a little above a whisper, Anthony said, “A crooked nursing-home administrator and a convicted pedophile. It kind of goes along with ours.”
“How?” Morgan asked.
Anthony looked at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. Then he explained. “Our guys were violent men, stalking their ex-wives.”
“And the wives’ new boyfriends,” the lieutenant put in. “Especially the first one, Schneider.”
“We had a stack of police reports on Schneider this high.” Anthony held his hand about six inches above the conference table. “He was a tenacious bastard. A real nut-job. Each time we arrested him, he made bail, got out, and started all over again.”
“So, what about the wife?” Robert Redick asked.
“In the beginning,” Anthony said, “we liked both her and the boyfriend for this. But they had solid alibis. We brought them in for questioning several times. Neither had a history with firearms. This was a sniper shot—a damn good one.”
“When we heard about your cases, we thought ours might be connected to them,” the lieutenant added.
Morgan said, “I have to think—”
Robert Redick raised his index finger and said, “If I may.” He seemed to have forgotten about the last humiliation.
“Go ahead, Bob,” Morgan said. “What you got?”
“If we agree that, in each case, someone—maybe more than one—wanted these guys dead, maybe they employed a sniper to do the deed. This shooter might be a hired killer.”
Anthony wrote something on a notepad and said, “We can check the bank accounts of the ex-wives and their boyfriends. Contract killers don’t come cheap.”
Morgan stared at the square shoulders of her new partner. Well-built men usually looked ridiculous in suits, and Redick was no exception. He seemed to be uncomfortable, but she was the one with the headache. The room was a little too warm. She should have thought of the hit-man angle months ago. Maybe having a fresh set of eyes on this one would be helpful. She gave him a quick smile and said, “It’s worth checking out. Of course our guys don’t have one person who wanted them dead for an obvious thing like this”—she looked down at the file and read—“Josh Schneider.”
“That we know of,” Redick said.
The lieutenant remarked, “You say you didn’t find the round on the second site. How about the first? Do you have the bullet?”
“We do,” Morgan said.
“Then we need to look at it,” the lieutenant told her. “See if we can get a match.”
Morgan stood. “If we’re all done here, let’s go have a look at the evidence in our vault. The building is a couple of miles east of here.”
The Indiana detectives stood gathering their papers and returning Morgan’s files to her.
Morgan assembled everything else and put it all in her briefcase. When she was at the door, Robert Redick blocked her.
He said, “I need to tell you something.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t ever call me ‘Bob’ again.”
“What would you like for me to call you?”
Through clenched teeth, he said, “Detective Redick.”
For a moment she thought she’d faint from the
growing intensity of her headache. She wanted to pop him one, but without comment she squeezed around him to freedom.
Chapter Nine
Lois hadn’t heard from Myrtle since the day Sophie registered her for an Internet dating site. Now a woman with hair the color of gold tinsel was standing next to Myrtle. Her wiry perm, swept up in the back, was held in place by a large green clip. She shed her parka, revealing a short-sleeved, white T-shirt, adorned with the word Pink in sequined letters, pulled tight across her ample breasts. Her bare arms were thick and mottled. They hadn’t even called first.
For a moment no one said anything. Finally, Sophie stepped back and pulled Lois away from the door, to leave room for Myrtle and her friend to enter the living room. Sophie said, “Come in. Come in.”
They stood inside the door, and Myrtle said, “Roxie, this is Lois and Sophie, two of my closest friends.”
Lois was a little surprised by the “closest friends” business, but she extended her hand to shake.
Sophie said, “Come in and sit down. I’ll just get some iced tea.” She met Roxie’s eyes. “You like iced tea?”
“Anything you got.” Roxie’s voice sounded like Kelly Ripa singing Lady Gaga.
“Okay, then.” Sophie went into the kitchen, leaving Lois to entertain this total stranger and Myrtle, the total nut.
Lois needn’t have worried. Roxie seated herself and started talking right away. “We met through the Internet. I can’t believe my luck.”
“Oh, stop.” Myrtle gave her a playful nudge.
“You wouldn’t believe some of the tramps you find on those sites,” Roxie said. “All they want from a girl is sex. They don’t even want to eat dinner. They just come over and do it and leave. Even the ones who say they want a relationship—boy, you really got to watch out for the ones who say they want a friendship. Things get pretty weird.” She threw one of her thick arms around Myrtle. “I’m glad I didn’t quit before I met this one.”
“So you have met many others before Myrtle,” Sophie asked, coming toward them with two glasses of tea.
Roxie said, “Geez, so many I lost count.”
Lois stood and headed for the kitchen for the others. Behind her she heard Roxie say, “I guess it’d be fair to say it was more than fifty. I just felt so used. I didn’t even get some of their last names. They never called again.”
In the kitchen, Lois found the two glasses (one with a wedge of lemon the way she liked it) sitting on the table. She stood still for a moment, pressing two fingers to her temple.
She took her time clearing the table, wiping off the counter, and emptying the dishwasher while Roxie’s loud mouth went on and on. She considered cleaning the oven but decided it would be rude to wait much longer. She picked up the tea. When she turned, she found Myrtle standing close behind her.
“Can I help you with anything?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got it.”
“So what do you think?” Myrtle whispered.
Lois shrugged. Roxie’s voice was still booming.
“She is a bit much, isn’t she?”
“A little talkative,” Lois said.
Myrtle sighed. “I know. It’s just that I haven’t had no one for so long.” She flushed. “I wanted you to meet the best prospects and help me decide.”
“How many have you met?”
“Roxie’s the first.”
“So do you or don’t you think Roxie is the one?”
Myrtle shook her head. She leaned close to Lois’s ear and said, “I just wanted to get laid. But Roxie started talking about all the others who only wanted sex, so I thought I could spend a little time with her first.”
“When do you think you’ll make your move?”
“When we leave here, I’ll take her home and walk her to her door and then do it.”
Lois chuckled. “You’ll have to get a word in first.”
“I’ll grab her and kiss her. How can she keep talking if I have my tongue down her throat?”
Lois threw her head back and laughed, then wished Myrtle luck.
Back in the living room, Sophie gave Lois an unpleasant look.
“I don’t get to meet good people much,” Roxie was saying. “I’ve gone to the bar all my life. Bartenders know my drinks—”
Myrtle interrupted her, for that was the only way to say anything. “The bar used to be the only way to meet anyone.”
Roxie nodded. “That is so true. When I was a youngster, I went to the Crone’s Nest every night after work. You remember when it used to be on Main Street—right there by where the Taco Bell is now. It was in the late seventies, I think. Oh, my, I’m telling my age. I met my first lover there. We were together for a couple of years. Then I got with Leslie. She screwed around on me all the time. But, boy, she was hot between the covers, if you know what I mean. But in 1983—”
“Excuse me,” Sophie said. “I’ve got something in the oven.”
Lois stood. “Can I help you, sweetheart?”
“No. I’ve got it. I know you want to talk a little more.”
Lois sat down.
Roxie had started in about Tallulah’s, how she (a drag queen) opened the week before the turn of the century with a big Y2K bash.
“Only youngsters go there now,” Myrtle said.
The next twenty minutes seemed like twenty days. Finally Myrtle stood and said, “We’ll be going. I don’t want to take up you girls’ whole afternoon.”
“You should come over to my place,” Roxie said. “I have a bar in the basement that’s real comfortable. It’s so nice meeting good people. Let’s keep in touch.”
Lois shook Roxie’s hand again. Every finger had a gaudy ring on it and she had a tattoo on her left forearm—Mickey Mouse.
When they closed the door, Sophie said, “Good people.”
“Right,” Lois said. “I was considering going for the M-16 to get her out of here.”
“Did you notice those long fingernails?”
Lois shook her head. “I hope Myrtle isn’t too disappointed.”
“She will be if she was counting on penetration.”
“Maybe she uses dildos. Or her fist.”
Sophie gave her a playful shove. “Miss Burnett,” she said, “remember yourself.”
*
The girl had come to Celia Morning the night after two pickup trucks had hauled the trash and any furniture that wasn’t worth saving away. Celia was sitting in the living room watching a Friday-night late movie and working a crossword puzzle when the tapping on the back door startled her. But as she walked into the kitchen, through the window she saw a small figure.
Celia pulled the door open and said, “Come in. I’ve been expecting you.”
The girl wore a red windbreaker and torn, faded blue jeans. Her long reddish hair was pulled back in a limp ponytail, held in place by a green rubber band. As she walked past Celia, a faint smell of body odor followed her.
“Do you want something to drink? I’ve got soda.”
The girl nodded without meeting Celia’s eyes. Then, as Celia swung the refrigerator door open, the girl said, “You know he’s dead, don’t you?”
Adrenaline shot through Celia, but all she said was, “I have Died Pepsi or Diet Mountain Dew.”
“Pepsi.”
Celia handed the girl a can and asked, “Are you hungry?”
“Will you answer my question?”
“Who’s dead?” Celia stalled while asking herself how the girl knew that about Smallwood.
“Jon Woods, the guy who lived next door.”
“Mr. Smallwood lived next door.”
“Is that what he called himself?”
Celia pulled a jar of peanut butter out of the cabinet and slid the bread box open. “I didn’t know him well. But I can’t say I’m sorry he’s gone.” She motioned toward the table. “Have a seat. I’ll fix you a snack.”
The girl sat and watched Celia as she prepared the sandwich. The Pepsi can sat on the table unopened.
�
��My name is Celia Morning. I have a daughter about your age.”
“I’m sixteen,” the girl said.
“Well, Merris isn’t quite that old. You don’t look sixteen.” Celia set the paper plate in front of the girl. “What’s your name?”
“Kitty.” The girl picked up the sandwich, and her dirty fingers contrasted against the white bread. She chewed and swallowed, and before she took a second bite, she said, “Kitty Curry.”
“Nice to meet you.” Celia pulled a chair out across from her and sat down.
The girl ate in silence. When she shoved the last bite into her mouth, she opened the Pepsi and said, “Can I have another?”
Celia stood. The sudden move seemed to startle the girl, but she hurriedly tried to hide her reaction.
As Celia worked, the girl asked, “How well did you know the guy next door?”
Shrugging, she said, “Not very. Why?”
“You seem awfully interested in things over there. If you didn’t know he was dead, you wouldn’t of broke into his house. Neither would I.”
Celia placed the second sandwich in front of the girl and sat down across from her. “Why are you staying there?”
Kitty chewed and swallowed. Then she took a long draw from the Pepsi can and, with her free hand, held up two fingers. “Two reasons.”
Celia waited, watching her.
“First, he was a bad man and I’m glad he’s gone. He can help me more dead than he ever did when he was alive. And, second, I don’t have nowhere else to go.”
And that’s how it started. The girl stopped in late at night for food. She sometimes asked for money. She’d sleep on the couch and be gone in the morning, not every night, but more than once a week. Sometimes, not nearly enough, the girl used the shower. Now and then Celia noticed that she took food with her on the way out, but Celia was glad to provide it.
Kitty’s father had known Jon Woods. She’d run away the night Woods was killed. As time went on, Celia realized that she wanted to tell the girl about the killing, to talk to someone about it. She’d considered confiding in her own mother, but when she tried to imagine that, she’d pulled herself up short. She could never tell anyone—unless it was Kitty, who already believed she’d been involved somehow. What if Kitty went to the police? It hardly seemed likely, but Celia couldn’t risk it. Twice Celia tried to ask the girl where she stayed or what she did during the days that Celia didn’t see her. But Kitty was good at avoiding those questions.
Retirement Plan Page 10
