Bitch Factor

by Chris Rogers

  She turned the van into a quiet suburban neighborhood. Live oak trees lined both sides of the street, and trimmed boxwood or Ligustrum hedges framed deep yards. Jon Keyes’ house sat in the middle of a block, architecturally distinctive. A pair of four-foot-high nutcrackers flanked the entrance, and a snow-flocked Christmas tree was visible in the living-room window.

  Dixie parked at the curb and strolled to the front door as if expecting someone to be home. She rang the bell, glancing around as she waited. In this sort of neighborhood, at least one or two homeowners would be retired. She saw a white Ford Taurus parked in a driveway down the street.

  After ringing the doorbell again, she rounded the house to check out the fenced backyard. The DOVER PLUMBING sign on the van would keep the neighbors from getting too anxious, as long as she didn’t set off the alarm system. Keyes had the real thing, not just a decal. In back, a swimming pool had been installed, with a child’s slide, and possibly a heating system, since the pool wasn’t covered for winter disuse. Some live oak leaves floated on the chlorine-blue water. The houses in this subdivision were twenty to thirty years old, and swimming pools were not part of the original packages. Keyes had given his house a pool along with the face-lift.

  Leaving the van parked in front of Jon Keyes’ house, she walked three doors down to the house with the white Taurus. A wreath of dried pinecones and holly springs brightened the entrance. When Dixie rang the bell, it played “Frosty the Snowman” and a tall, willowy woman of about sixty-five frowned through a sidelight before opening the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Beringer?” Dixie had read the name on a magazine sticking out of the wall-hung mailbox. “I’m doing some follow-up work on an accident that occurred last spring. Did you know Betsy Keyes?”

  The woman sucked in a sharp breath. “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you recall if Betsy had any close friends here in the neighborhood? Other children her age? Or perhaps a babysitter who might have known Betsy?”

  “Well, yes. The Gilbert child, Rona, sits for all the little ones in the neighborhood. I’m sure she sits for Mr. Keyes on occasion.”

  “Rona’s what, about fourteen, fifteen?” At sixteen, kids usually went to work at McDonald’s or Wendy’s or KFC, Dixie had noticed.

  “Fifteen, I believe.”

  “And the Gilberts live where?”

  “The two-story blue house on the corner.”

  “Thank you.” Dixie turned to leave.

  “I certainly hope the drunk who murdered that child is going to be put away long enough to teach him a lesson.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The Gilbert house had toys in the yard and a bicycle parked beside the front door. A basketball hoop was mounted over the garage door. Dixie rang the bell and wasn’t surprised when a teenage girl answered. Nobody’s quicker to the phone or the doorbell than a teenager.

  “Rona Gilbert?”

  “Yeah.” Her brown eyes widened.

  “Dixie Flannigan. I’m following up on the Betsy Keyes accident. I understand you knew Betsy.”

  “Yeah, sorta.”

  “Do you often sit with Ellie when Mr. Keyes goes out?”

  “Yeah, not often, I guess. He doesn’t go out much.”

  “I suppose Betsy was old enough to sit with the younger kids… before the accident.”

  The girl looked away. After a moment, she said, “Yeah, when he wasn’t going to be gone a long time.”

  “What’s a long time? Did he ever stay away overnight?”

  “Once, you know, when he had a meeting out of town.”

  “And he left all the girls here?”

  “Yeah.” Rona grinned. “Betsy and I stayed up all night watching videos.”

  “Did Mr. Keyes ever take Betsy or one of the other girls somewhere and leave the other two with you?”

  “No, well yeah. The doctor. When one was sick, I’d stay with the others.”

  “Do you remember Betsy being upset about anything shortly before the accident?”

  Rona’s eyes widened again. “Yeah, she was always clicking that toy thing.”

  “Toy thing?”

  “This thing, you know, you get at Halloween. Metal thing, and you press it and it goes click-click. Betsy carried it everywhere.”

  “She started carrying it last Halloween?”

  “Yeah. No! I don’t think I saw her with it until a long time after Halloween, after Christmas, maybe even after Easter, or some time around spring break. Yeah. I think, maybe, around spring break. Is it important?”

  “Do you have any idea what Betsy was upset about?”

  “Yeah, well, no. I guess she might’ve been getting hassled at school. That’s what always gets me moping around.”

  “She didn’t mention any problems at home?”

  “You mean with her dad? I guess he might’ve been on her case. Yeah, my dad gets on my case, I get zoned out.”

  “Did Betsy’s dad get on her case often?”

  “Yeah, well no. I guess, you know, like most dads—oh! There’s the phone, sorry!” The teenager glanced over her shoulder as the telephone rang again. “Mr. Keyes comes home sometimes for lunch. Maybe you can ask him.”

  Dixie barely caught the last few words before the door slammed. She arrived back at the van to find Jon Keyes turning into his driveway. He jumped out of his car and shouted.

  “What the hell—?”

  Dixie didn’t think he’d be willing to talk about what was upsetting Betsy during the weeks before she died. Just to get his reaction, she considered asking him anyway. She was itching to confront the sonofabitch.

  But his undisguised anger as he stalked toward the van suggested provoking him further would be a bad idea. And Barney had taught her to never throw a rope until it was properly looped. She didn’t want Keyes wriggling out of her lasso. Starting the engine, Dixie sketched a cheerful wave and drove away.

  An hour later, after drive-thru barbecue for lunch, she found herself parked across the street from Payne Hardware. Jon Keyes hadn’t picked Dann’s name out of a hat. They must have bumped into each other somewhere before meeting that night at the Hornet, casually enough that Dann didn’t remember. After considering the acoustics in the cafe, she couldn’t imagine anyone overhearing ordinary conversation there, unless they were seated side by side at the counter. But in the hardware store, she’d had no trouble at all overhearing the banter between Travis Payne and his friend Tate.

  She entered Payne Hardware to the metallic ring of a hammer hitting big-headed nails. Sawdust bit at her nostrils. Payne, jangled away from his work by the cowbell, came bouncing around the corner in his orange overalls, a big welcoming smile spread across his face.

  “The copper polish lady! Hope that Tarnex worked for you.

  “Actually, I haven’t used it, yet.” She scooped up one of the magnetic key holders from the basket near the register. “If I put a spare car key in one of these, where’s the best place to hide it?”

  Payne didn’t even pause to consider. He must have been asked often enough to have an answer ready.

  “Not on the driver’s side—first place a thief looks. Very first place. Not in a tire well, either. Too easy to feel under there without even stooping down, if you see what I mean. Not under the hood, unless you have an external hood latch, and then not too close to the engine heat.”

  “Under the front bumper, maybe?” Actually, professional car thieves never bothered searching for spare keys. They could pop a door open and have a car started in sixty seconds flat.

  “Me, I’d put it on the passenger side, rear, right up on the frame.”

  Dixie smiled. “Is that where yours is?”

  He twinkled. “Now that’d be telling, wouldn’t it?”

  She picked up a key chain with a penlight smaller than her pinkie. Cute.

  “Will that be all today?” Payne asked.

  “A friend said you could help me choose some fence stain.”

  “Certainl
y! Fence stain, you say. Cedar fence? Pine? Redwood?”

  “Cedar.” She had hoped he’d ask who the friend was so she could casually mention Keyes’ name. Apparently fence stain didn’t stimulate Payne’s interest as much as key holders and computers. A gallon of Barnwood Brown practically jumped in her cart without much discussion. “When I was here yesterday, I noticed you have a good selection of… baking pans.”

  “One of the best cookware departments in town—Chantal, Le Creuset, Chef’s Pride. Have a brand in mind?”

  “Which would you buy?” Dixie couldn’t pretend to know about cookware.

  “For baking, I’d have to go with Chefs Pride, I suppose, mostly because of the variety. Let me show you…”

  Leading the way to the kitchen section, he explained the difference between reflective and nonreflective baking surfaces, nonstick coatings, and the various utensil shapes. Dixie examined a bright red enamel pot with a price tag she thought had to be a typo.

  “Two hundred dollars for one pot?”

  Payne chuckled. “Top of the line. Some cooks won’t use anything else. We have good brands for half the price, though.”

  Dixie noticed the shelves were heavy with expensive stock. Selecting a medium-priced loaf pan, she put it in the cart. She browsed from one area to another while they talked.

  “Have you been at this location long?” she asked Payne.

  “Three years next week. Three good years. Bought the place after taking early retirement.”

  “My neighborhood hardware store doesn’t carry nearly the variety of items you offer. What made you decide to handle housewares and decorating supplies?”

  “I listen to people. Things they haven’t been able to locate, hard-to-find items, if they can get those here, they’ll shop for other items as well. Started with kitchenware. Then I built the garden center, the decorating corner, and now I’ve added the real attraction, computers.”

  None of the areas he mentioned looked completed, Dixie noticed. “Must be an inventory nightmare, though.”

  “No, no, no. First you set up your space. Then you add your products, then your support products. That’s where I am now, adding software and accessories.”

  But he was still finishing shelves?

  “Were you in the hardware business before you retired?”

  “Geologist, one of those professions that suddenly got overstocked and outdated.” He laughed, his belly shaking like Saint Nick’s.

  The cowbell jangled, and Rebecca Payne stormed through the door.

  “I thought I recognized you. You’ve been stirring up trouble with my ex-husband.”

  “Rebecca,” Travis said, “this is a customer. She’s not—”

  “She’s a spy. She was at the cafe yesterday talking to Ellie. Now Jon calls asking about someone named Flannigan, the same name that’s on this card, and says he’s going to start another custody suit.” She shoved Dixie’s business card in Travis’ face.

  “Custody?” Travis frowned. “Well, Ellie’s his daughter.”

  “She’s my daughter, and he’s not taking her.” She turned on Dixie, green eyes snapping, forefinger jabbing at Dixie’s chest. “YOU get out of here!”

  “Mrs. Payne—”

  “Out!”

  “I’m not working for Jonathan Keyes. In fact, I wanted to ask you some questions about him—”

  “Out!”

  “Did Jon Keyes ever show more than a fatherly interest in your daughters?”

  Rebecca sucked in a sharp breath. “OUT!”

  “I only want to help—”

  “Travis! We don’t need her money. Throw her out of here.”

  Payne hesitated, then very quietly he said, “It’s our right to refuse service to anyone.” Anyone. His Saint Nick twinkle was gone, replaced by a hooded wariness.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Now that she’d alienated the Paynes as well as Jonathan Keyes, Dixie knew she’d have to tread carefully. Everybody filed harassment suits these days. With only six days before Dann’s trial resumed, she couldn’t waste it arguing with a judge.

  Wrestling mentally with what would be her next step, she cruised past the Valdez house. It sat dark and quiet as ever. Dixie wasn’t surprised. The longer Hermie Valdez sat in a cell with a few incorrigibles, and the more prostitutes she watched sail in and out, scarcely warming a bench, the itchier she’d be to roll over on Sikes to save herself. But if Rashly was planning to withhold the Keyes case folder until Dixie located Sikes, she wished he’d get on with his part.

  She spent a couple of hours at the courthouse, looking up construction jobs Keyes had worked on and reading transcripts of the custody hearing. Even with her contacts, the files took time to acquire, time to read, and in the end proved to be about as useful as a sewed-up pocket.

  Keyes’ building designs held no surprises. They were fairly basic, mostly steel and glass boxes. A few of the newer ones boasted interesting stone facades. No unusual lawsuits or worker’s comp reports. The custody hearing provided more fascinating reading.

  In the end, the judge denied joint custody, but granted Jonathan Keyes generous visitation rights, in return for substantial child-support payments, considering Rebecca was making a pretty fair wage as a chef.

  Leaving the courthouse, Dixie remembered her promise to visit Ryan. She found him sniffling and still somewhat pale, but no longer feverish.

  “Check out this letter, Aunt Dix. I deleted all the obvious geeks—you know, too old, too young, too wimpy. This one’s got a son, fourteen, and a daughter, thirteen.”

  DWM, 41, with Curb Appeal My clan heads for the South Dakota cycle rally this summer. If you’re “born to be wild,” let’s fit your seat to the leather on my spare Harley before road fever is upon us.

  A color photograph that accompanied the letter showed a brawny, ponytailed man in a black leather jacket and black boots on a huge black motorcycle. Two equally brawny teenagers posed beside him on smaller bikes. They looked like a trio Dixie might see eventually in a police lineup.

  “Ryan, I’m not sure this is a good idea.” It was a terrible idea. “Suppose one of these men showed up on my doorstep one night—uninvited.”

  “Can’t happen, Aunt Dix. All they know is your E-mail address, actually my E-mail address, which exists in cyberspace.”

  “Cyberspace?” To curtail his enthusiasm, maybe she should ask Amy to arrange another dinner with Old Delbert Snelling. “Are you positive there is absolutely no way anyone can trace your E-mail address to this computer? To this house?”

  “None. Aunt Dixie, you need to join the technology age. You’re riding a bicycle in a space shuttle zone. Look at what you can do—”

  He pushed the mouse around its pad, and the monitor lit up like Star Wars. This wasn’t the first time Ryan had endeavored to impress Dixie with his keyboard wizardry, but this time she paid attention. Close attention. Because this time she realized she’d overlooked the most obvious way to learn more about Jon Keyes.

  Valdez’s house was still dark, Augie was still on sick leave from the Green Hornet, and the Gypsy Filchers wouldn’t arrive at their headquarters until midnight. Sometimes Dixie wished her life had a fast-forward button. The Filchers had given her a private number to call if she needed to reach them in a hurry. She dialed the number from her car phone and punched in a code. The callback came from Hooch. He had some friends, he assured her, who could take a peek at Jon Keyes’ financial records without anyone knowing.

  “You’re sure they’re discreet? And they know computers as well as business?”

  “What they doan know, girlfriend, you doan need or doan want.” He directed her to a corner in the Heights. “No way you ever find their place alone. I’ll take you.”

  Having lived most of her life in Houston, Dixie found it hard to imagine a place she couldn’t locate with good directions, especially in the Heights, a formerly prestigious neighborhood near downtown. Hooch was standing on a dark corner when she drove up in the van. He swun
g up into the passenger seat, his ruined face grinning on one side. She wondered how many people he’d given heart attacks, lurking around in the dark like a grotesque phantom.

  He directed her down a dead-end street, through a gate posted with HIGH VOLTAGE signs, into an alley behind a shipping company, and then down a set of stairs that opened into a narrow, musty-smelling hallway. The hallway turned twice before Hooch knocked on a plain wooden door, identical to other plain wooden doors. For several moments, Dixie heard voices raised in argument behind the door.

  “Who are these people?” she muttered. “Do they live here?” Who would live in such a secluded, uninhabited place?

  “Pearly White and Smokin.”

  “Those are names?”

  The door finally opened two inches, and a man of about seventy peered out at her, bald, with a trim white beard, half-size reading glasses, cherry-red suspenders, and cloudy brown eyes full of suspicion. He stood about as high as Dixie, but looked as if he might have been taller in his youth, as if someone had washed him too often in hot water.

  “Smokin!” Hooch greeted the little man with a high-five. “Pearly White told you we was coming, didn’t she?”

  “Yep, yep. She didn’t say when.”

  “I said directly,” came a crisp voice behind the door. “Said they’d be here directly, and here they are, right on time.” A white-haired woman even shorter than the man pulled the door wide and smiled at Dixie. “Why, Hooch, you didn’t say she’d be so pretty. Did you? I don’t recall you saying she’d be pretty.”

  “Must’ve slipped my mind, Pearly White. You take care of what she needs, though, and I’ll be owin’ you.”

  “It’s me that’s got what she needs.” The little man grinned, all suspicion gone. He took Dixie’s arm and tugged her into the room. “Yep, yep. Come right on in here.”

  Hooch faded into the shadows and was gone.

  The room held a big-screen TV, VCR, and two recliners at one end. The TV/VCR straddled a black line that had been applied to the carpet with electrical tape. The line divided the room precisely in half, with one chair on either side. At the other end of the room sat two pairs of sawhorses. A wooden door had been laid across each pair to make two desks, one on either side of the black line. Each desk was covered with computer equipment and software manuals. Dixie recognized some slight differences in the two sets of equipment. One monitor glowed with a screen saver that looked like July Fourth fireworks, the other with tropical fish swimming serenely across a sea-green background. On one desk, beside a cigarette dispenser, an ashtray was filled to overflowing.