“Yes, that’s right.”
“Is she still in the facility? I’d like to talk to her.”
“Talking to her won’t help you. Alzheimer’s. Nana doesn’t know me anymore, though she still cheats the same way when we play Scrabble.”
Just my luck. “Is there anyone who remembers him?”
“There’s Marilyn Edling across the street.” She nodded at the opposite house. “But I don’t think you’ll get much sense from her.”
“Alzheimers?”
“Her brain is fine. It’s what she thinks with it. The woman has a deplorable worldview.”
Peter’s only witness had been a child with an active imagination when Heenan vanished. He looked back at the former Heenan residence, calculating his next step.
“It was the most exciting thing that ever happened during my childhood. I grew up with the stories.”
Hope rose.
“I imagine you want to hear the gossip. I could use a cup of coffee. Will you join me?”
Peter did not care for coffee but it would be unproductive to refuse. Enough milk and sugar and he’d deal.
Donna showed him to a sunny breakfast nook overlooking the back yard.
At some point her kitchen had acquired aftermarket granite countertops and an assortment of chi chi appliances, including a thermal beverage dispenser, the kind you saw at gas stations and seminars. She pumped coffee into a pair of hand-thrown mugs and handed one to Peter. He doctored his cup and tasted. Better than decent, a different animal than the burnt sludge that stank up District Five.
She seated herself across from him, pushing a plate of oatmeal cookies in his direction. “What would you like to know?”
Peter took a cookie and bit in, tasting cranberries and walnuts. “What do you remember about the days before Andrew Heenan disappeared?”
Donna folded her lips inward, pressing them together as she thought.
“We weren’t paying attention at that point. No one knew he was missing until he didn’t return from his trip.”
“I understand. How much were you around back then?”
“Both my parents worked, so I stayed here after school every day. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing I noticed, nothing anyone talked about later.”
“He was last seen at a birthday party,” Peter primed.
“I saw him leave that morning. I was in the yard, and I was pouting because I wanted to see his tricks. He promised he’d put on a show just for me after he got back from Europe.”
“Did he say where in Europe?”
“No. At that age, I didn’t think to ask. I thought Europe was its own country.”
Peter felt his eyebrows raise.
Donna broke off a corner of cookie, nibbled. “I was only six.”
“Did anything unusual happen while he was gone? Did you see anyone coming and going?”
“There was a chubby boy looking for lawns to mow. I don’t think he had any takers. Nana wouldn’t hire him because he charged too much. Besides him there was only Jenny. She came every day to pick up the mail.”
“Jenny?” No mention of a Jenny in the reports.
“She kept house for him. She’d come over and push me on my tire swing sometimes.”
“Do you remember her last name?”
Donna shook her head. “She was just Jenny. She worked for him after school. If she saw me in the yard, she always stopped to talk to me.”
“What happened to her?”
“I never knew. We never saw her after Nana reported Andrew missing.”
“How did your grandmother find out he was missing?”
“Jenny told her, said he’d been due back a week earlier and she was worried. She asked Nana to make the report because she didn’t think the police would take her seriously.”
“Your grandmother didn’t mention Jenny in her report.”
“Jenny left a key with Nana and asked her to pretend she’d been watching the house. She gave Nana the name of Mr. Heenan’s lawyer so she could call him.”
“Didn’t your grandmother think this was unusual?”
“In later years, yes. But Jenny was so sweet. It was impossible to imagine she had anything to do with his disappearance, and grandma couldn’t see putting her through a police interrogation.”
“How old was Jenny?”
“I don’t know. She talked about wanting to go to college, so she was still in high school. Sixteen? Eighteen?”
“One of the neighbors mentioned a prostitute who came and went.”
Donna huffed. “That would be Marilyn and her charitable view of mankind.”
“Oh?”
“She thought my parents were unfit because my mother worked. Used to drive Granddad crazy. He said there was nothing wrong with Marilyn a lobotomy wouldn’t fix. Nana said tolerance meant being tolerant of intolerant people. But she never invited Marilyn over for coffee.”
“Why would Marilyn think Jenny was a prostitute? Was it the way she dressed?”
Donna sighed. “That woman sees evil everywhere. Jenny was sweet enough for a Doris Day movie. She mostly wore jeans—not tight ones—and polo shirts.”
“Do you remember anything else about her?”
“I wish I could help. She had such long, pretty hair. I wanted to be her when I grew up.”
Peter jotted “housekeeper Jenny high school long hair” in his notebook. “How about your parents? Would they know anything about Jenny?”
“Doubtful. They’re RVing in Oregon right now. I can ask them for you.”
“Thank you. I’d appreciate that.” Peter glanced at his notes. “I have one more question for you.”
“Sure.”
“The house sold months after Andrew Heenan disappeared. I’m trying to figure out how a missing person could sell a house.”
“That was the lawyer, and it scandalized Nana. She said she wished she’d never called him.”
The front door opened, then closed. Peter was home. Lia stepped back from her canvas and gave the iris a critical look. It had been perfectly fine before, but after showing it to Zoe and David, she’d decided it needed more layers. She wiped her brush and her hands, then headed for the living room with Chewy and the oh-so-innocent Gypsy trailing behind her.
Peter sprawled on the mission couch, head back, eyes closed, Viola curled on the floor beside him. Unaware she was in the room, he yelled, “Why are your shoes in the bookcase?”
Lia sat next to him, leaned in and pressed her lips to his for a substantial hello kiss. His mouth curved, smiling under hers.
“You’re a detective and you can’t figure that one out?”
He opened his eyes, toyed with a lock of hair that had slipped the bun she always wore when painting. “What did she get into?”
She sighed. “I stepped out to get the mail and came back to find the entrails of Honey’s bed everywhere.” She’d cried over that. “You’d have fluffy white stuff all over your apartment if she knew how to climb stairs.”
“Busy girl.”
“Then the furry piranha decided my shoes and ankles are high-value prey. Did you know they make kevlar socks for hockey players?”
“Sounds uncomfortable.”
“I’m saving it as a last resort.”
Peter sat up, wrinkled his nose. “What’s that I smell?”
“Bitter apple chewing deterrent. I sprayed it on my feet.”
His eyebrows raised. “Does it work?”
Lia scowled. “She is now licking my feet instead of biting them. I suppose it’s an improvement.”
“Regrets?”
Lia held Gypsy up, eye to eye. She whispered, “Don’t listen to the bad man.” Gypsy wriggled out of Lia’s hands and pounced on Peter’s feet, worrying his laces. Viola gave Gypsy the evil eye while Peter removed his shoes, holding them out of reach. Gypsy tugged a sock.
“I see what you mean.”
“I left you space on the shelf.”
“You are a ruby among women.”
>
Lia rescued Gypsy and imprisoned the little demon on her lap. “Only for you. How was your day? You look tired.”
“Got a confession.”
“That was fast. They must be calling you uber cop at the station.”
Peter snorted. “The only one calling me uber cop is Susan. Did you see the video?”
“Between Facebook, text messages, and phone calls, seventeen people tagged me about it.”
Peter winced. “Sorry.”
Lia rubbed noses with Gypsy. Gypsy would never be Honey, but girlfriend was a great distraction from unpleasant realities. “In my happy little world, your former fiancée doesn’t exist. You are welcome to join me in my happy little world. Tell me why getting a confession doesn’t make you an uber cop.”
“It was a false confession, which I knew before I went in. I had to waste ninety minutes interviewing him and writing it up.”
“Why interview him if you knew he was bogus?”
“Most people who walk in off the street to make fake confessions are nutcases and it goes no further. This guy is an artist who self-publishes graphic novels about zombies. According to his bio he wasn’t even in the area when Heenan died. He wants publicity.”
“Someone like that deserves less of your time than some poor guy who’s mentally ill.”
“Pure CYA. I’m sure he was hoping I’d arrest him so he could have his very own Twitterstorm. But you can lay money on him having a backup social media campaign ready to—” Peter made air quotes. “—leak if I blew him off. So I made him go over every stinking detail, backwards, forwards, and sideways. His story was full of holes. If he paid attention while I took it apart, he realized any attempt to capitalize on Heenan will only make him look stupid. Repairing the damage and explaining things to the powers that be after he went ahead with his publicity stunt would take a lot longer.”
Lia shook her head. “First Susan, then this jerk. I hope the rest of your day went better.”
“I talked to Commodore. I hoped he might remember seeing our guy on the creek back when.”
“Any luck?”
“If you consider Steve a viable suspect.”
“That bad?”
“Pretty much. I took a field trip to Heenan’s house and lucked out. One of the neighbors bought the house from her grandmother and remembers Heenan.”
Peter summed up his visit to the neighborhood.
“So the lawyer had power of attorney and sold the house? That’s cold. Probably stole all his money, too.”
“Could be.”
“Do you think he had anything to do with Heenan’s disappearance?”
“I can’t rule it out.”
Lia pulled Susan’s mangled scarf out of her pocket and dangled it in front of Gypsy’s muzzle. Gypsy snarled and snapped at it. “Good girl,” Lia crooned.
“I wish you’d stop that.”
“Certainly.” She jerked the scarf. It quivered like a small, desperate creature. “As soon as the woman who doesn’t exist in my happy little world leaves town.”
“Lia—”
“Peter, I’m trying. I know you have no control over anything she does, but I have to deal with this in my own way. I imagine the statute of limitations has expired on anything illegal the lawyer did.”
Peter was silent for a beat, then pulled her into a hug, apparently deciding to join her in the happy little world where Susan did not exist. “Which is to my advantage.”
Lia dropped the scarf. Gypsy pawed at it, then snorted and walked away. “How so?”
“If the lawyer is still alive, he has no reason not to talk to me. Not unless he killed Heenan. No statute of limitations on murder.”
Rose
Friday, April 22, 1938
Mal stood on the Trianon stage, smoking a cigarette while he polished the swords he used with his trick cabinet. It was a subtle thing to sell the act. The brilliant reflection of spotlights on the blades sent a message of deadly danger as he inserted them into the cabinet, drawing involuntary gasps from the audience.
It had taken six months for Mal to graduate from working tables to setting up his act. It could have been sooner, but Mal wanted to get it right: the right act, the right girl, the right equipment. His table-side card tricks were amusing enough, but patrons—that’s what Pete called them—wanted some real flash on stage. People didn’t know table magic, close-up sleight of hand, required more skill than the illusions that got the big applause. Those were all staging and misdirection.
He’d bought a decommissioned hearse to haul equipment and built his own pieces, guided by the man who’d taught him. Now he opened for the biggest names in showbiz. After a year in the BH, it was still heady stuff for an Irish gutter rat.
A girl with a pale face and long, black curls slipped into the dining room and crossed the sea of empty tables, ducking around to the side of the stage.
Her Betty Boop mouth gave a mew of distress as she struggled with her hat, a frilly pouf the cigarette girls wore as a uniform along with the puritanical black dress with its prim lace collar. Pete hired good-looking gals to please the men, but he put them in drab plumage so they didn’t outshine the female customers.
She hadn’t seen him. Mal clanked the sword against his trick cabinet, making her jump. She looked up with a sad twist of a smile.
“I’m absolutely hopeless.”
Mal checked the clock. Thirty minutes before dinner was seated, another thirty before the curtain rose on his stage show. For now they were alone. He set the sword down and knelt at the edge of the stage.
“A bit early, aren’t you?”
“First day. I was too nervous to sit at home.”
“What are you doing in here?”
She looked around, as if uncertain where she was or how she got there. “I didn’t want anyone to see me with my hat falling off, so I ducked back here. It’s not a problem, is it?”
“Nah. Come over here, I’ll fix that for you.”
She came to the edge of the stage. Mal tucked his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and made quick work of the silly pouf with nimble hands. “There you go.”
She tilted her head experimentally. The hat stayed in place. “My hero.”
The smile she gave him was sunny, lacking the sly, brassy veneer too many of the girls had. He wondered how long she’d stay so innocent. He cocked his head.
“Why aren’t you teaching kiddies in school?”
“I’d like that, but jobs are scarce. I was lucky to get this.”
“What’s your name?”
The head ducked. “I’m Rose.”
“Nice to meet you, Rose. I’m Mal. Anyone gives you a hard time, you let me know.”
Mal’s heart gave a pleasant tug as he watched her walk away.
“That was an affecting little scene,” Esme whispered in his ear, jerking Mal out of his thoughts.
“She’s just a kid with first-day jitters.”
Esme, his stage assistant, was one of the perks that came with his promotion to stage magician. He gave Esme’s spangled bottom a pat, knowing she expected it.
Esme humphed. “She’s like a zebra in a henhouse. She doesn’t belong here.”
That was probably what he liked about Rose. She didn’t belong. “What have you got against her? She’s a cigarette girl. You’re a star.”
Esme’s eyes narrowed. “Misdirection doesn’t work on me, buster. Something about her smells.”
Mal returned to the sword, mentally shaking his head. Dames. Some of them are just plain nuts.
That night, and every night after, Mal had to fight to keep his eyes from following the little pouf as it moved between the tables.
He was smart enough to hide his interest in Rose. Esme was a dame with a capital D. Like everyone else in this place, Esme had her eye on the brass ring. She might be biding her time with him until she caught the eye of one of the high rollers, but she’d make him pay if she thought he was interested in another woman. That was fine with him. A gal l
ike Rose needed wedding bells before she climbed into bed with a fella.
He found himself coming in early to catch Rose before shift. She liked to sit at a table in the empty dining room before the bustle started. Their conversations were about nothing: her sick mother, the pregnant cat, kids she babysat. As looks went, Rose wasn’t a stunner like most of the girls Pete hired, but she had a sweetness about her, and a love of small things unusual in a place that catered to the high life and impossible dreams.
Mal never wanted the straight life. That meant church, kids, and a back-breaking job that barely paid enough to keep a roof over your head. But Rose almost made living like a sap seem like a good idea. He wondered how long it would take before something happened to grind the sweetness out of her.
Day 13
Thursday, May 2, 2019
Bailey held her hands out as Lia and her wiggly passenger approached their usual picnic table. “Come to Auntie Bailey, you gorgeous thing.”
Lia set her travel mug on the table and good-naturedly removed Gypsy from the Moby wrap, handing her over. Kita, lying prone on the tabletop, lifted her head, gave Gypsy a sniff, snorted, then laid her muzzle on her paws. Chewy butted Lia’s leg, looking for attention. Lia dropped a hand without thinking and scratched the base of his ear.
Bailey stroked Gypsy’s head. “Since you’re not halfway to Canada, I assume Susan lives.”
Lia inhaled the spicy scent of her chai latte, took a sip, and admired her own zen calm. “Can’t kill her if I don’t know where to find her. Seriously, I refuse to let that woman mess with my head.”
“Good plan.”
“She is less than the buzzing of insects in my world.”
“Attagirl.”
“May she find happiness, wherever she is.”
Bailey frowned at the parking lot. “Who do you suppose that is?”
Lia caught a flash of blue from the corner of her eye. “Who do you think it is? That’s Terry’s truck.”
“Not Terry. Behind him.”
Lia lifted her head to see a white Cadillac pulling up to the fence.
“Geezle-freaking-pete. That’s Susan’s car.”
Swamp Monster Page 12
