She gazed through the sights again, this time ready to squeeze off the shot, but Curry had moved. He was across the room at the side window looking down. If Lois didn’t kill him today, she’d lose the extra ten thousand.
She lifted the M-16, tripod and all, and moved to the window a few feet to her right. Using the butt of the rifle, she broke the glass and saw him clearly again. She zeroed in on a spot behind his left ear and squeezed the trigger. The barrel exploded, then Curry fell forward and disappeared. At first she thought he’d simply fallen to the floor, then she saw the jagged edges of the broken window. It was the window that led to the fire escape. He could be lying out there for everyone to see. Damn.
Lois quickly dismantled the weapon and packed it in its case. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air as a freezing wind ripped through the broken window. Holding the stair rail in one hand and the rifle and tripod case in the other, she cautiously made her way downstairs and across the warehouse to the door through which she’d entered.
Her heart pounded as she moved along the edge of the building, treading carefully in the ice and snow, toward the spot where Sophie waited. As she rounded the corner she looked upward. The fire escape had pulled loose from the side of the building and was suspended awkwardly. Curry wasn’t there, but a garbage truck idled, motionlessly blocking Sophie and the little truck in.
Lois stepped back around the edge of the building. Sophie wasn’t visible. The cab of their little truck appeared empty, although the windows were frosting up. Lois shivered and waited, listening to the grinding sound, then the loud crash as the dumpster was emptied into the big truck. It seemed forever before it pulled out of the alley and rattled eastward.
Lois waited, her back to the rough brick of the building, counting off an eternity of three minutes. She approached the little truck just as Sophie, who had been lying in the seat, rose.
Lois pulled the door open, tossed the rifle case behind the seat, then pulled herself up into the truck.
“You okay?” Lois asked.
Sophie nodded and pointed up toward the sagging, empty fire escape. “He fell from there.”
“Where’s the body? Did you see where it hit?”
Sophie nodded. “Right in the back of the truck. He’s headed for the town dump as we speak.”
“I should have checked on the trash pickup. I should have known they were coming this morning. This is what we get for rushing.”
Sophie patted Lois’s shoulder. “It’s our last job. We’ll hope our luck holds.”
Lois nodded. “Let’s hope.”
Sophie started the motor, wiped frost from the inside of the windshield with a mittened hand, and pulled out of the alley. The street lamps, decorated with silver Christmas bells, turned themselves off just as they rounded the corner.
*
The morning of Morgan’s mother’s death, she’d found her lying on the floor inside the employee break room. Someone had shoved a long table that contained a box of doughnuts up against the wall to make room for, first, the nurse, then the paramedics to work on Betty Holiday. Frozen snow and ice on her nightgown and robe were still thawing. Morgan could hear the paramedics rolling a gurney through the corridor behind her. She turned to Redick and said, “Can you keep that door closed? I’d like a moment.”
Redick nodded, then pulled the door shut and stood guard, talking to the paramedics. Morgan heard the men say something about another call, then the DON arguing, getting louder. Redick silenced them all with two words, “Bad death.” Then the commotion ceased and Morgan had her time alone.
It bothered her that she’d felt so detached. She had this mix of relief—no more insane Sundays—and anger. The Prairie Flower had been responsible for taking care of her mother; they sure charged enough to do it.
Added to those feelings was the objectivity of a homicide detective. She was glad that someone had covered her mother’s torso and head with a white sheet. With the heart stopped, the blood had pooled to a grotesque lividity. The telltale bruising showed scarlet and blue on the tops of her mother’s feet and shins. Morgan couldn’t bear to look at her face. She imagined it would be bruised, maybe bloody. Fixed lividity took over six hours under normal conditions, but the temperatures the night before were hardly normal. Morgan noted the yellowed frozen hands and feet.
Her mother had died slowly—facedown. Hell, she was barefoot and wore only a pink flannel nightgown and a long quilted robe—no hat, no gloves, no coat. Had she tried to find her way back inside—had she come to the door and pounded? Only a few months ago, she’d made it all the way across town, to Morgan and to home. Maybe that’s where she’d been headed again.
Morgan lost track of time. Her black wool coat was thrown over the back of a chair and she sat on the floor propped against the wall with her knees drawn up. She thought about who she needed to call, then remembered her brother, who would have to fly across the country in the middle of a work week. As hard as it had been, she’d done what she could for her mother. David would have to live with all he hadn’t done. Maybe that wouldn’t bother him.
A tap at the door interrupted her thoughts. Redick looked in. “Do you want me to call CSI?”
“I don’t know.”
“We probably would if this were a stranger.”
Morgan’s voice was flat. “Get the uniform to do some interviews. Bring in the camera from the car and take some pictures before they move the body.”
“I’ll check the scene outside when you don’t need me here anymore.”
“Just a couple of minutes more.”
“Sure.” Redick closed the door.
Then Morgan looked at the sheet-draped body of the thing that used to be her mother and the tears came.
*
Saturday, after all the arrangements were made, David arrived, not for the wake, but at the last minute for the funeral. Not many other relatives were there—an aging aunt from Idaho accompanied by Morgan’s cousin, who was closer to David’s age than her own, and two second cousins from her father’s side of the family that she barely recognized. The rest of the visitors, including the pallbearers, were Morgan’s friends and neighbors. In David’s absence, Henry Zimmerman had been at Morgan’s side through all the hard stuff. A few old ladies from her mother’s reading group had brought over a sliced ham and homemade cookies and stayed long enough to offer some comfort and ask if they could help in any way. They sat behind her at the funeral.
Several retired policemen had attended her father’s funeral, which featured a rifle salute at the graveside. This funeral was different, but the number of mourners only mattered to the living. Many of the men at her father’s funeral had since died, plus an old woman who had lived in a nursing home for six years didn’t have many close friends.
But Morgan was glad that this funeral was small and quiet. Because of the cold weather, it had been difficult to have the grave dug in the frozen ground. Henry took care of that—Morgan wasn’t sure how. He chased a local newspaper reporter, who’d learned about pending neglect charges, away from the house. At Morgan’s insistence, Henry took the place in the front row next to her.
David, who came in too late to protest, sat on her opposite side, creating a minor disruption as he took off his coat and settled in. Later, at the graveside, he started in on her about selling the house or buying out his half. Henry quickly pulled him aside and whispered to him while the cold wind whipped the canvas awning under which Morgan stood. Their voices rose. The old women whose grandson she’d babysat all those years ago, Lois Burnett and Sophie Long, stepped forward and filled the spaces that the two men had left on either side of her.
Morgan stopped listening to the graveside service and remembered the day she found out about Sophie and Lois. Her mother had called the women sisters, and Morgan never had occasion to question that until her junior year in high school when Francy Skorczewski was at her house on a Friday night. They’d been reading True Confession magazines and listening to Bob Seger when Francy
brought up the sisters that Morgan sat for.
Francy had asked, “Those women live together, right?”
“Yeah, for as long as I can remember.”
Francy giggled. “You babysit for a couple of dykes.”
“Huh?”
“Lesbians.” Francy dragged the word out. “Queers.”
Morgan knew what the words meant. “Naw, they’re sisters.”
“Sisters, my eye. Think about it.”
Morgan thought. They did share a bedroom. But she didn’t know what the word “queer” meant beyond sex, which she couldn’t imagine.
Francy went on incredulously. “That short one wears men’s clothes, for Christ’s sake.”
“Well,” Morgan said, “even if they are, they’re nice.”
“You better watch out. One might attack you.”
“Oh, shut up. Those women are our friends.” And that had been the end of it. They’d lost interest in the magazines and gone out to the kitchen for ice cream. Later, with a picture of Cher in front of them, they tried some eye makeup that Francy had brought. The next morning Morgan woke up looking like a raccoon and with a new curiosity about the women.
Morgan wasn’t sure when Henry and David returned, but when the pastor said, “Amen,” each of them took an elbow and supported her as they walked back to the waiting car. David didn’t mention the house again that day.
Off and on during the days that followed, either Sophie or Lois or their daughter, Ruby, came to the door checking on her and offering to help with whatever she needed. At one point, Morgan asked for and received more homemade cookies. Besides illegal substances, they were the only things that killed the pain.
Only after the funeral did something swim up from Morgan’s consciousness. It was about the day she got the call about her mother. She’d been on her way in to question Ben Curry. She’d seen Lois Burnett standing in front of her little blue truck examining a parking ticket. Somehow that didn’t fit, but she hadn’t fully registered it. What had Lois been doing in that end of town? She’d not only been there, but was there long enough to get a parking ticket.
Chapter Twenty
The incident with the dinner rolls was the last time Morgan had seen her mother alive. She’d tried to be a good daughter, but in the end it had been too hard. After the night her mother had come home, as frail as a bird and wanting her father, back at the Prairie Flower, she’d screamed as the orderlies literally picked her up and carried her away.
A crime scene had eclipsed that morning, until now. Could she have done something else? David’s presence at home angered her. He was no comfort. Her feelings wavered between recrimination and loss. She wanted a drink, but didn’t want to drink alone. Thus she was sitting in the parking lot at Tallulah’s. Several men and women had gone in. The lot was nearly full. Maybe she could find Chelsea and just talk to her, take some comfort from her, a woman she barely knew.
She got out of the car and hesitated, asked herself if this was a good idea and, without answering, headed for the door. A blast of music greeted her as she stepped into the darkened room. She walked along the tables, all full, the length of the long and narrow room. In the back, she found the dance floor and watched couples cling to each other, moving together to a slow song. No Chelsea. Finally, she turned away and walked on the other side of the room, near the opposite line of tables, all the way up to the coat room, where she squeezed hers among so many coats she was sure she’d never find it again. At the bar one seat was empty, and she took it.
“Coffee?”
“Not tonight,” Morgan said. “I need something stronger.”
“Beer or stronger than that?”
“Tanqueray and tonic.”
The bartender smiled. “Wouldn’t have taken you for a gin drinker.”
She had no energy to answer. A numbing fatigue had set in. After the drink was placed before her and paid for, she stared at it for a while. Then she picked it up and drained it. She signaled the bartender for another. She repeated the routine and was in the process of ordering a third when she became aware of a woman close beside her.
“What’s a beautiful thing like you doing here all alone?”
God. The woman was hitting on her. “Getting drunk.”
“Good for you.” The woman extended her hand. “Name’s Vic.”
“Morgan.” After shaking Vic’s hand, she turned to the bar, picked up her drink, and downed it.
“I have a table in back. Want to join me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Aw, come on. You don’t want to get drunk alone, do you?”
Of course she didn’t. That was why she’d come here. A little unsteady, she slid off the bar stool.
Vic waved at the bartender. “Get me a draft beer and another one of whatever she’s drinking.”
Glasses in hand, they headed for the back.
The round tables were crowded together. Morgan squeezed into a seat that backed up to the wall and Vic sat across from her. Morgan sipped her new drink. She didn’t want this stranger buying her another. She’d finish this one and make her excuses and leave.
“I saw you back here looking for someone,” Vic shouted over the loud music. “Girlfriend?”
“Just a friend.” Then for no reason she could understand, Morgan said, “I’m single.”
A smile spread across Vic’s face. “Good for you, honey. You want to dance?”
Morgan looked at the dance floor and considered it.
“Come on,” Vic said. “It’ll cheer you up.”
Morgan stood, swallowed most of her drink, and let Vic take her hand and lead her. As they danced, Morgan watched herself in the mirror tiles that covered two sides of the area. She looked like all the other women, bigger than some and smaller than others. Hell, she felt like all the others. When she sobered up, she’d have to think about what that meant.
The song changed to a slow one. Some dancers left the floor and others replaced them. Vic pulled Morgan into her arms. Hot and sweating, Morgan felt her chest rise and fall, then realized that Vic’s breasts were pressing against hers. Vic held her tight, and although Vic was only an inch or so taller than she was, Morgan managed to rest her head on Vic’s shoulder. This was what she wanted—some closeness, some comfort.
“Aren’t you the sweetest thing,” Vic said. Then, although Morgan wasn’t quite sure how it happened, they were kissing passionately. Vic’s hands seemed to be everywhere.
Morgan liked it.
The song ended. “You see that door over there?”
“Where?” She’d pointed to a black-curtained wall.
“To your left. This place has a disc jockey sometimes on weekends. That’s where his equipment is. We could have some privacy back there.”
“I-I.” The room was spinning.
“Come on,” Vic said, taking her hand.
Then they were alone in the hot little room.
Morgan stood with her back to the wall while Vic pulled her shirt loose and quickly unbuttoned it. “I can do it.” Morgan slurred her words. Then her belt was open and Vic was tugging at her jeans. “Excuse me. I can do it.”
“I know you can, sugar,” Vic whispered close to her ear. “I’m just helping you.”
“Your clothes…” But an intense sensation rose from Morgan’s middle. She kissed Vic and brought her hands up to this stranger’s breasts.
“That’s it, baby.” Then Vic was between her legs.
Morgan gave a little cry and began moving against the thrusting fingers.
*
“What’s her name?”
“Don’t know.”
Someone shook Morgan’s shoulder and a male voice said, “Come on, honey, wake up.”
She opened her eyes. The bartender’s face came slowly into focus.
“Come on, babe, I got a cab out front.”
Morgan turned toward the second voice. It was Vic. She slurred, “What happened?”
“You got drunk, remember?”
&
nbsp; “Oh, yeah.” Morgan realized she was sitting in a chair. She tried to stand. Her clothes were loose.
“Get her coat,” Vic said to the bartender.
Morgan protested. “Never find it.”
“Oh, he’ll find it. We’re the only ones left. The bar’s closed.”
“God.”
Then Vic was helping her stand, and they walked out of the DJ’s room and passed the empty tables toward the front. Morgan squinted against the overhead lights.
“I put my phone number in your pocket,” Vic whispered. “What’s your name?”
Morgan didn’t answer but struggled into her coat. As they came out of the bar, she saw the empty parking lot, her own car covered with snow. The cab was waiting. Vic handed the driver a twenty and said, “Where do you live, babe?”
Morgan gave the driver the address, and as they pulled out of the lot, she quivered in shame.
*
The next morning before her brother woke, Morgan called a cab so she could retrieve her car. In the empty parking lot, her car was alone, the windows covered in frost. She paid the driver, then stood in the lot and stared at the car.
“Let me help you with that.” It was the cab driver.
“I can do it.”
“Start the car and let her warm up.”
Obediently she wrestled the driver’s-side door open, slid in, and started the car. She grabbed the ice scraper. The cab driver was working on the back window, so she started on the windshield. Her mouth was dry. She put a bit of clean snow on her lips.
The cab driver had started on the other side of the windshield. When they were finished he approached her. She reached for her money, but he held up one hand.
“I don’t need more. I’m glad to help.”
Morgan gave him a confused “Thank you” and had turned to get in the car when she heard him say, “How’s your mother?”
She looked at him carefully. “My mother?”
“Remember, I brought her home awhile back.”
“She’s dead.”
Retirement Plan Page 22
