Retirement Plan

by Martha Miller

  When Lois finally trudged in, Sophie had imagined a thousand things, none of which made sense. Lois was humming as she set a bag on the counter. “Guess who I ran into at the store?” Then she was standing over the table. “What’s this?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  Lois picked up the jeans. “These are mine. What’s wrong, the zipper broke or something?”

  “Smell them.”

  Lois’s brows furrowed. She lifted the jeans from the table, then, with a knowing look, put them down. She pulled out a chair and sat. “Is there any more tea?”

  Sophie started to rise, then fell back. “Get it yourself.”

  Lois swallowed and remained seated.

  When Sophie spoke again, her voice trembled. “What’s going on, Lo?”

  Lois shrugged.

  “Is it target practice? Did you take the Jumper job and forget to mention it?”

  Except for the thumping of the spin cycle in the next room, the kitchen was quiet. After a moment, Lois said, “I was protecting Ruby.”

  “How?”

  Lois pulled off her heavy glasses, looked downward, and rubbed her forehead with her three middle fingers.

  Sophie stood, jerked a glass from the cabinet, and went to the fridge. She set the tea on the table in front of Lois a little too hard.

  Lois said, “Thanks.” Blade, their fat male cat strolled into the kitchen and sat watching them. He rarely followed either of them around, but when they were both in the same room, he always showed up. Lois watched him nuzzle her leg. Then, without looking up, she said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Not so fast.” Sophie was still angry. “Tell me what you did.”

  Lois sipped the cold tea. “Last week, I found money missing from my wallet…”

  Sophie listened and resisted the urge to interrupt. The muscles in the back of her neck tightened. By the time Lois finished, the washing-machine cycle had completed and the house was silent.

  Sophie said, “This was the shooting at that old hotel downtown?”

  Lois nodded.

  “Don’t you think Ruby will have to learn how to deal with these problems herself?”

  “You’re right,” Lois said. “But she seems so vulnerable, and I really think she’s trying to do right. I just wanted to do what any mom would. You know, help her out.”

  “Not many mothers would eliminate the problem with an M-16. Wasn’t that a bit extreme?”

  “Yeah.”

  Sophie’s anger drained, but an unsettled feeling replaced it. Those damn baby- blue eyes. Lois could seem so strong and tough, but Sophie believed she could see into her heart through those eyes. “I don’t believe you’ve ever lied to me.”

  Lois smiled weakly. “A time or two about your permanent wave.”

  “You’ve deceived me. I don’t like it. I might have come to the same conclusion, given all we’ve been through with Ruby. But you didn’t give me a chance.”

  “I’m sorry.” Lois reached for Sophie’s hand. “I didn’t want you to talk me out of it.”

  “This killing didn’t bother you?”

  “It’s getting easier.”

  Later Sophie told herself that she shouldn’t have been surprised. Just like the business with underpants and toothbrushes, Lois did what she saw fit. “So who did you see at the store?”

  “Myrtle. I swear, that woman is coming apart.”

  Sophie thought, but didn’t say, how could Myrtle’s problems be any crazier than ours?

  Chapter Twelve

  Tia Johnson popped up with a warrant. She’d been released from Dwight and walked away from a halfway house after a violation two months ago. Her autopsy revealed that she’d been shot with a high-caliber weapon. The trajectory of the bullet was hard to determine, but the only location that made sense was the roof of the senior-citizen housing unit across the street. CSI had gone through the upper rooms that faced the St. Peter’s Hotel as well as the rooftop across the street and looked for other evidence. While the residents were interested in the investigation, a search of the building had yielded very little. The only way to the roof was up a dark, narrow stairway. The door wasn’t locked, evidently because none of the seniors ever tried to climb those stairs. They didn’t find prints or a casing up there.

  But in Tia Johnson’s reeking fourth-floor apartment, Rachel managed to dig the bullet out of the wooden bottom of a doorframe. Ballistics connected this bullet to the other sniper killings, including both of the ones in Indiana. Of course, the bullet that killed Jon Woods had never been found. The people the homicide detectives had talked to in the hotel the day of Johnson’s murder claimed they’d seen nothing. No one had heard the shot—with one exception.

  As Morgan had been leaving the building the day of the discovery, a uniform directed her attention to one old guy in the lobby who’d been watching the foot traffic in and out of the building. “I think he knew the dead woman, but he talks in circles. Do you want me to take him downtown for an interview?”

  “Let me have a run at him first,” Morgan said. “He may just want someone to talk to. If he seems to have something, we can take him in. If not, we’re wasting our time.”

  The uniform nodded. “I’ll be covering the door to the lobby. Let me know.”

  Morgan approached the man and he motioned for her to sit. The lobby of the St. Peter’s was reminiscent of a time when rooms had been expensive and lavish. Now the once-lush carpet was threadbare in high-traffic areas, and the upholstered lobby chairs had been replaced by low ones with red-vinyl cushions taped in several cracked places. As Morgan sat, she heard a soft whoosh of air. She extended her right hand. “I’m Detective Holiday.”

  The old guy wore dress pants with suspenders and a white Polo shirt. Morgan caught a whiff of shaving lotion. The four cigars in his shirt pocket were still in cellophane, and sections of a newspaper lay folded in his lap.

  “Nice to meet you, Detective. Name’s Rex Griffin.” He pumped her hand, then asked, “Was it that woman from 4A they just rolled out? Jesus, the stench.”

  Morgan pulled a pen from behind her ear and opened her notepad. She was pretty sure the smell was on her too. “Yes. Did you know her?”

  “Well, I knew her to see her. We weren’t friends. She was one of the ones waiting here in the lobby or out front most evenings.”

  “Why did she wait here? What was she waiting on?”

  The old guy looked over the gold rims of his glasses. “You’re pretty young, ain’t you?”

  Morgan smiled at him. Rex Griffin wasn’t talking in circles. Maybe the uniform didn’t have experience questioning senior citizens. People of a certain age didn’t talk in black and white, up and down, yes and no, or beginning to end. But you could learn a great deal from them as they circled the gray area. Morgan said, “Young is relative. Some days I feel pretty old. And I’m sure that one day forty will seem young to me.” Then she asked, “Was she tricking? Buying or selling drugs?”

  “I’d say all of them did at one time or other. She only lived here a few weeks. But she caught on to how things worked fast.”

  “Did she have any friends?”

  Griffin snorted. “Drug addicts don’t have friends. They just have people they use and the people that use them.”

  “How about other working girls? Would they know anything?”

  “Most of them don’t live here. They pay for a room for the night so they don’t have to take tricks into the alley. We got a couple on the second floor—share a room. But they wouldn’t have nothing to do with 4A.”

  “Would you recognize her pusher?”

  Rex Griffin rubbed his clean-shaven chin. “Probably.”

  “Would you be willing to go downtown to look at some pictures?”

  “Like on TV? Guess so.” He rocked forward as if to stand, then stopped. “Come to think of it, she did have one friend.”

  Morgan settled back. “Tell me about him.”

  “Wasn’t a him. It was a girl. Helped her
move in. She come through here a couple of times after that.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  With great effort Rex Griffin stood. “Little gal. Short, dark hair. Vietnamese, I’d say.”

  Morgan, lost in thought, stood next to Griffin, and together they started toward the door.

  Griffin said, “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “Huh?” She’d actually been thinking of Vice. They’d know who the pusher was, or they could find out.

  Griffin repeated, “I know what you’re thinking. To folks in this country, most Asians look alike. But I spent a lot of time in Vietnam during the war, and I know a Vietnamese woman when I see one.”

  Later, when the arrest warrant popped up, Morgan thought that if Johnson had a friend who helped her move in, maybe they’d known each other a long time. Maybe this woman had a record too. Outside, she told the uniform to take Griffin downtown to look at mug shots of drug offenders. Then she got into her own vehicle and headed toward home, to a hot shower and some much-needed sleep.

  *

  Celia Morning couldn’t get Kitty’s story about her father and Jon Woods out of her mind. November was nearing and another For Sale sign stood in front of the house next door. It had been more than a year since Jason Smallwood had moved into the neighborhood and the problems had started.

  Over the summer Celia fixed up a small room in the basement for Kitty to use whenever she wanted to stay. She’d painted the walls white and moved the extra bunk bed from Timmy’s room down there. A larger room that took up most of the rest of the basement had been a winter playroom. When Merris was younger, she’d had skating parties down there; three or four little girls in knee pads and helmets skated on the smooth concrete floor. Only a couple of old recliners, a nineteen-inch TV set, and a foosball table were left. Two doors at the far end of the room led to a laundry room and a small bathroom with a toilet and a sink.

  The day Celia showed Kitty the space, the girl looked uncomfortable and certainly didn’t say thank you. But she stayed for several days—longer than she ever had. When she left that time, she took some food (mostly peanut butter and bread) and fifty dollars from Celia’s purse. Upset about the money, Celia locked the house. She’d planned to not answer the door when Kitty returned. Let her spend some time on the street. Of course, Celia could afford to lose fifty dollars. It wasn’t the amount of money. It was stealing from a friend, from someone who’d done nothing but help her. But Kitty didn’t come to the door that night or the next. Celia didn’t see her again for a long time.

  After a week, Celia began to worry. She sat at the kitchen table reading late at night. Often she’d find herself thinking about the girl and her last betrayal, and a few minutes later she’d realize that she’d read a page and had no idea what it said. Had Kitty asked for the money, Celia would have given her fifty or more. It wasn’t enough to leave town or rent a room. It must have been cigarette money. The kid seemed to live on cigarettes and peanut butter.

  On the rare occasions Kitty shared a meal with the family, she usually picked at her meat and pushed the vegetables around on her plate. Although Celia thought her much too thin, she gave up trying to persuade her to eat. She’d never done it with her own children. Her husband, Jack, who’d had a bit of a weight problem that he’d fought constantly, insisted that the less attention paid to what the kids ate, the less chance of them becoming overweight or having any type of eating problem.

  Things settled back to normal. The house next door remained empty. The kids were busy with school and Celia joined a fitness club that she visited three or four mornings a week. Then one Monday afternoon while she was doing laundry, Celia wandered into the little room Kitty had used. She found the bed made and a note on the pillow. She sat down on the edge of the bed and read the childish scrawl.

  Dear Celia,

  Thank you for all your help. I have to leave. My dad found me. I don’t want to go back with him and I don’t want him to bother you or your kids. If he comes here and tries to make trouble, call the cops. I mean it. I will try to call you when I can. I borrowed some food and money. I’ll pay you back. Honest. You’re the only real friend I’ve ever had.

  XXXXXXXOOOOOOO

  Kitty

  Why hadn’t she thought to check this room before now? Celia stared at the abbreviated hugs and kisses before the signature and her eyes overflowed. Damn. Damn. Damn.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Morgan and her new partner had established an awkward truce. She wasn’t exactly happy with him; on the other hand, she could see how his meticulous nature could be of use—especially in paperwork. Plus, he was the one who finally made the connection between the Vietnamese woman the witness had seen and Ruby Burnett, a recently paroled inmate of Dwight. He’d talked to Burnett’s parole officer and got an address. Something bothered Morgan about Ruby Burnett, but try as she might, she couldn’t bring it to mind. It was like walking into the kitchen and not remembering what the hell she was doing there. They drove across town silently.

  As they pulled up in front of Burnett’s address, it came to her. Morgan’s mother knew two women who used to live here. Morgan had babysat for them when she was fourteen or fifteen on their pinochle nights. Those women would be quite old now. The little boy, Matt, had died in Afghanistan. Could Ruby Burnett be his mother? Morgan’s memory was sketchy, two women living together, raising a grandson. Morgan had been experimenting with smoking back then and burnt a hole in the arm of their couch.

  When she and Redick approached the Burnett house, a knot formed in Morgan’s guts. She didn’t understand why, but she hoped Ruby wouldn’t be home. Yet a short while after Redick rang the bell, she heard stirring inside and then the door swung open.

  Ruby was a small woman, four or five inches shorter than Morgan and comparatively quite slender. Her messy dark hair was swept up and clipped in back, and she wore a green T-shirt that hung to her knees. It was two in the afternoon and she was rubbing sleep from her eyes—they’d woken her.

  After a few seconds, Ruby’s eyes conveyed no recognition. She turned her head toward Robert Redick and seemed to wilt. “Yes?”

  “Ruby Burnett?” Morgan asked.

  “Yes. What’s this about?”

  “We need to talk to you. We’d like to take you downtown.” Redick pulled out his ID and badge, and Morgan did the same. Ruby barely glanced at them.

  “Why?” Ruby repeated. “What’s this about?”

  Morgan said, “The death of Tia Johnson.”

  “What?” Ruby said. “When?”

  Redick said, “Can you come in and discuss this with us? We know you were in Dwight with her.”

  Ruby exhaled. “I work nights. I was sleeping. Can’t we talk here?”

  Redick started to speak, but Morgan cut him off him. “May we come in?”

  Ruby stepped back and motioned them inside. The living room was small and cluttered, in a homey way. “Have a seat. I’ll just be a minute. I want to put something on.”

  Morgan hesitated.

  As if Ruby read her mind, she said, “I won’t run. I just woke up. I’d like to put some clothes on and use the john.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked down the hall.

  Redick tossed his briefcase on the coffee table and in a single step was across the room heading outside. Over his shoulder, he said, “I’ll cover the back of the house.”

  Morgan called after him, “Back door’s on the east side.”

  Alone, Morgan strolled around the room looking at family pictures that were displayed almost everywhere. She recognized Matt’s Cub Scout picture. He’d been a promising kid—smart and focused and rarely discouraged. On the wall next to the archway that led to the kitchen was a picture of the four of them. What a motley crew they were: two white women, one short and round, the other tall and slim; Ruby when she was about twenty, long dark hair, dressed in a gauzy sundress; and five-year-old Matt, in a white dress shirt and red bow tie. His smile showed the dark gap of a miss
ing tooth. The women stood behind mother and son.

  Ruby startled her. “I don’t know why Mom keeps all these old pictures up.” Still barefoot, she wore a pair of jeans and a fresh white T-shirt. Her hair had been smoothed.

  “It’s old age,” Morgan said. “My mom did the same thing. I guess at some point the past gets longer than the future.”

  Ruby motioned Morgan to the couch and sat in a rocking recliner and drew her feet up.

  Morgan unbuckled the bag that Redick had left on the coffee table. She pulled out a clipboard and started filling in the details on the interview sheet.

  “What happened to the guy you came in with?”

  Morgan didn’t look up. “He had to step out for a minute. He’ll be back.”

  The chair squeaked as Ruby rocked. With a nervous smile, she asked, “So. Why are you here?”

  “How well did you know Tia Johnson?”

  “We were cellmates in Dwight. Since you’re here, I’ll assume you know that.”

  “Have you had any contact with her since then?”

  “Some.”

  They both heard Redick’s steps on the front porch, and then the door opened. His eyes went from Ruby to Morgan as he moved toward the couch and sat.

  Morgan said to him, “We’re just getting started. We need to record.”

  Redick dug into his leather bag and pulled out the recorder. He tested it, “One, two. One, two,” and played it back, then pressed Record and set it on the coffee table.

  Morgan turned to Ruby again. “Now, where were we?”

  Something had changed. Ruby seemed calmer. “You were asking about Tia. We had very little contact. We said we’d keep in touch, but then—”

  “Tia Johnson,” Morgan said, “was murdered last week. A witness told us that you knew her, visited her.”

  “So it was Tia.”

  Redick’s deep voice cut in. “You know it was.”

  Ruby shook her head in disagreement. “The newspaper didn’t release the name.”