by Dianne Emley
He felt it was cruel to stand on protocol about not revealing salient details of the investigation. The forkful of banana bread he was chewing turned to mush in his mouth.
She gently pleaded. “I won’t tell a soul or do anything to jeopardize your work, Detective. I’ve waited a long time. My hope is to see Mar-ilu’s murderer brought to justice before I die. My fear is that I won’t.”
He set down the plate and fork and absently blotted his mouth with the linen napkin, forgetting his intention not to soil it. From his jacket pocket, he took out Vining’s pearl necklace and handed it to her. “A Pasadena police officer was given that under similar circumstances before she was attacked.”
She held it between her hands. “This is the same as Marilu’s, except the pendant in hers has a polished turquoise.”
“It was left at our officer’s home with a handwritten note, congratulating her.”
“Congratulating her?”
Kissick indicated that he also found it bizarre. “Near as we can figure, congratulating her for having killed a bad guy in the line of duty. She was front-page news for a while.”
“Like Marilu with Bud Lilly.”
“Yes.”
Margaret handed the necklace back to Kissick. “Marilu’s necklace was dropped off before she was attacked. That means he’d been stalking her. Her murder wasn’t a random act.” She rubbed her hands over her arms. “That gives me chills.”
From his jacket pocket, Kissick took out the artist’s rendering of Nan’s attacker and the photo of Nitro. “Do you recognize either of these men?”
She closely examined the images. She held up the one of Nitro. “This one looks harmless. This one, though … Is this drawing based upon that police officer’s description of the man who attacked her?”
“Yes.”
“He looks so plain, doesn’t he? He looks like anyone. The political theorist Hannah Arendt wrote about the banality of evil, the interdependence of thoughtlessness and evil. This fellow’s picture certainly brings that phrase to mind.” Finally, she shook her head and sighed. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.” She gave him back the photo and drawing.
“You’ve helped tremendously. Thank you for your time.”
“It’s the least I can do. I’m so grateful for your effort. I have a good feeling about this. I think you’re going to get him. I really do.”
“I’ll do everything in my power. I’ll let you know how things are going.”
The grandfather clock chimed the hour. The light in the room had grown dim and the shadows had lengthened.
Margaret was pensive. “If he’s murdered two, there are probably more. Is that your theory?”
“We are examining that possibility.”
“All females in law enforcement?”
“Perhaps.”
“Makes one wonder who he really seeks to kill. Marilu and your officer attracted his attention. By giving them a necklace, he’s anointed them. In his mind, he’s transformed them into this iconic woman. He murders the stand-in, and for a while, finds release.” She made a face, as if she feared she sounded ridiculous. “Forgive the pop psychology.”
“I’m intrigued. So does he stop after he kills the prototype?”
“He may not be able to kill her. Perhaps he can’t get up his nerve. Perhaps he’s not fully cognizant of his motives and doesn’t realize that she’s the one he wants dead. Perhaps she’s already dead. When these warrior women appear, he’s compelled to knock them down.” She shrugged, again dismissing her theory. “But who knows?”
She stood and walked around the room, turning on lamps. “You’ll want Marilu’s necklace. I’ll get it.”
While she was gone, Kissick took a small spiral pad from his jacket breast pocket and made a few notes, including: Turquoise = December? He didn’t broach the death stone issue with Margaret. There was no need for her to know how well-planned the assassination of her daughter had been.
Nan’s attacker was sentimental and romantic, in a twisted way. Thinking of how he’d planned, watched, waited, and then had coolly executed the murders rattled Kissick’s bones. The psycho had given Nan the necklace five years before he’d attacked her. Five years. He’d had a romantic relationship with Nan during that time. Had that creep been following them? Watching them? The thought made his blood boil. He finally had to concede the possibility of a criminal mastermind.
Shortly, Margaret returned, dangling the necklace from one hand, holding it away from her body, looking at it like she might a friend who had lied to her. She seemed relieved to give it to him.
He turned to a fresh page on his spiral pad. “I’ll write you a receipt. You’ll likely be able to get it back once things are resolved.”
“I don’t want it back. I don’t want it in my house anymore.”
It was another example of a truth that Kissick knew too well. Death changes everything. Death takes something that was beloved and turns it inside out, rendering it into bloody viscera.
He ran his thumb over the polished turquoise oval surrounded by small diamond-like stones. He dropped it inside the jacket pocket with Vining’s necklace.
He gave Dr. Feathers a warm good-bye and promised to let her know of any developments.
BACK INSIDE HIS CAR, HE RETRACED HIS TRIP ON HIGHWAY 1, HEADING south. He was looking forward to having a cocktail and a nice dinner at Dorn’s restaurant in Morro Bay, checking into the modest motel he’d selected, and getting to bed after a long couple of days.
While driving back, thinking of the martini glasses shoved into the vat of chipped ice that he remembered on the bar at Dorn’s, and almost tasting that first martini, he affixed his Bluetooth to his ear to check his cell phone messages.
One was from Nan. It was nice of her to call and check in.
The next message was also from her, but had a decidedly different intent.
I need you tonight.
He pondered what she meant by “need.” That she missed him and wanted to see him? But wouldn’t she have just said that if that was what she’d meant? Her slightly breathy tone suggested another meaning. He played the message again and became convinced that “need” meant need. He’d accused her of being tightly wound and not herself, but this sort of craziness he could more than handle.
His martini, seafood dinner, and motel bed lured, yet … He nearly called her back, but decided not to. She had left the message impulsively and he responded in kind. He didn’t stop in Morro Bay but continued to the 101. Maybe she’d have changed her mind by the time he arrived, but maybe not.
TWENTY-FIVE
PARKING ON GREEN STREET NEAR TARANTINO’S WAS ALWAYS NEARLY impossible. Vining could have parked in the red, but there had been a rise in complaints about the local cops violating parking and traffic laws. Even though the Crown Vic was unmarked, many citizens recognized it as a cop car. She circled the block, and on her return, nabbed a spot as someone was leaving.
Inside the shoebox-size restaurant, the handful of tables was full and people were lined up along the wall in back, waiting. It was a late dinner hour for the local crowd who patronized this hole-in-the-wall place, but the too-warm September night was a siren call that awakened the continental spirit in the most stalwart soccer moms and overworked dads who broke the school-night rules for their overscheduled children.
At the counter, Vining paid for a large sausage pizza she’d ordered over the phone. She thought she’d surprise Emily with her favorite. She knew Granny enjoyed a slice of Tarantino’s pizza even though she’d been having problems with her dentures lately. Vining thought there was a bag of prewashed spring salad greens in the fridge. Dinner was going to be later than she’d wanted, but she was happy she was going to be able to sit down at a table with her daughter and grandmother. When she was overly tired, she had a tendency to become sentimental and vulnerable. She needed the anchor of the two relatives who were most precious to her. Her grandmother was a tie to her past. Her daughter was her hope for the future.
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br /> She adored her younger sister Stephanie, but their bond had weakened over the past years as stay-at-home-mom Stephanie’s life became focused on her husband and two little boys. Vining appreciated Steph’s commitment to her family but wondered if she was using it as an excuse to distance herself. Vining felt her attempted murder had damaged a fragile equilibrium and Steph was now circling the wagons around her husband and kids. While Vining was recovering from her injuries, Steph had done and said the right things, but Vining sensed she was doing it more from obligation than from love and a heartfelt desire to help.
Now, over a year later, Steph was often unavailable to meet for shopping and lunch, just the two of them. As their grandmother became frailer, Steph had become nearly invisible. Vining doubted Steph was as busy as she claimed, but had convinced herself she was. Vining felt like telling her that life was hectic, complicated, and it frequently stank, but that was no reason to wash her hands of familial responsibilities. She was going to have that conversation with her sister, once her own life stopped being so hectic and complicated.
Their childhoods had been a sea of upheaval and unsettledness. Products of different marriages of their perennially rainbow-chasing mother, Patsy, each sister’s father had abandoned her when she was a toddler. That was Patsy’s explanation. Vining suspected that Patsy had chased them away, but an abandonment story carried more drama. Vining was four years older than Steph and had dim memories of her sister’s father, but none of her own. In a way, both sisters felt their lives were held together with duct tape, paper clips, and dreams of building better lives and sounder families.
They didn’t much resemble each other physically. Steph was fair and petite, like their mother. Brunette, statuesque Vining had always been told she resembled her father.
As for their mother, Patsy Brightly, the sisters maintained a respectable level of contact, yet kept a reasonable distance, as one would do with a stingray, tiger, tarantula, or any other beautiful but potentially destructive creature.
VINING HEADED HOME, TRAVELING WEST ON COLORADO BOULEVARD AND going over Suicide Bridge. She reached Mt. Washington from the opposite direction she usually went, taking San Rafael up the hill, then going down the other side, turning left onto her cul-de-sac, Stella Place. The aroma of the pizza sitting on the passenger seat made her stomach rumble.
A car she didn’t recognize, a brand-new white BMW convertible that still had the dealer plates, was parked in front of the house. She assumed it belonged to a guest of her new, unfriendly neighbors who had constructed a modern behemoth with a gated entrance after razing two boxy 1960s-era homes from the original housing development.
Vining drove up to her boxy 1960s home. It looked small from the street, as most of the house extended off the hillside, supported by cantilevers. Sure, she worried whenever there was a significant temblor or when El Niño came and the ensuing rains seemed as if the heavens had opened, but Mt. Washington’s cliff-hanging houses had been secured into solid rock and built with care not given to the slapdash, newly constructed homes built too close together on unstable hillsides that seemed to be always slipping away. That’s what she told herself when the earth shook like hell or the mountain seemed to be melting into mud. Brush fires had not presented a significant problem so far.
Granny’s baby-blue Oldsmobile Delta ’88 was parked in the driveway. The lights in the front of the house were off, although she could see the flickering of the television through the drapes. The darkness was Granny’s doing; she had never shaken the WWII-era mentality of pinching pennies wherever she could, even if they were her granddaughter’s pennies.
When Vining entered the driveway, a motion light turned on, illuminating the small front yard. The yard had a patch of grass that she or Emily occasionally mowed, hearty shrubs next to the house, and equally hearty old rosebushes planted by the previous owner, which bloomed defiantly with the smallest amount of care.
She always waited until she could see the garage before clicking the automatic opener, making sure no one sneaked in. She’d adapted her life in many ways since T. B. Mann had become a part of it. Her precautions had done little good, as he’d gotten inside her garage to deliver the bloody shirt, but the garage wasn’t alarmed like the house. She and Em were fastidious about setting the alarm.
If he did get inside the house, Vining’s weapons were close at hand. Emily was well trained on Vining’s Glock .40 and her backup Walther PPK, as well as the arsenal in the locked gun case. Em knew that under pressure she should grab the Mossberg 500. She didn’t need perfect aim, as it would stop anything within twenty feet of her.
Vining parked the Crown Vic next to her aging Jeep Cherokee in the two-car garage. She was counting the months, and there were not many, before Emily would get her driver’s license. Her ex-husband Wes’s too-young, too-thin, and too-involved wife, Kaitlyn, wanted to give Emily a new car for her sixteenth birthday. Vining thought that Kaitlyn had too much disposable income and time on her hands, even with two boys aged five and three— the distraction of which was mitigated by ample paid help— and was too concerned with appearances. They would need another car, as Vining took home one of the Crown Vics only when she was on call, but Em didn’t need something brand-new.
Vining viewed this transition with both relief and trepidation. Emily being able to drive would simplify things, but would bring a new set of concerns. She had nurtured Emily’s self-respect and sense of right and wrong and had imparted tools to navigate life’s murky waters. She no longer knew, every minute of the day, where Emily was and what she was doing. She had to trust Em to do the right thing, while always reminding the girl that her mother was remaining ever-vigilant to insure that she did.
Emily was relishing this journey. Her new school had brought new challenges and friends. Watching Emily break out of the dark shell that had kept daughter and mother so tightly bound made Vining’s heart soar. It was time for Emily to break from the past.
Vining felt the need as well. Her thoughts again trailed to Kissick. Her cheeks burned when she thought of the impulsive phone message she’d left him. Oh, well … She’d meant what she’d said. In spite of the recent prickly edges between them, she wanted him, and she wanted him here.
She threw her purse over her shoulder, grabbed her jacket, and hoisted the pizza with one hand. Beside the door into the house were the washer, dryer, and the laundry basket in which Emily had discovered the bloody shirt.
Vining opened the dryer door and saw that the clothes that Em had gone to retrieve that night were still inside. Vining decided that even though they were clean, she’d wash them. Maybe she’d throw away that laundry basket and buy a new one. The handle was cracked and about to break anyway.
Suddenly, Vining was overwhelmed with the desire to move on with her life. Lately, she’d often felt fed up and ready for a change, but now the yearning was almost physical, like a blow to her guts, or like someone compressing her heart between his hands.
Again, like all the times before, her helium balloon of hope grew a lead coat and dragged her crashing back to earth. She could not move on as long as he was still out there. T. B. Mann had broken her down and remade her. To get back her life, she had to repay the favor. She’d break him down, all right, and grind him into pulp.
TWENTY-SIX
VINING OPENED THE DOOR FROM THE GARAGE INTO THE KITCHEN. The prealarm sounded. She was barely able to hear it over the blaring television. Granny still wasn’t wearing her hearing aid.
She set her purse on the kitchen counter and dropped her jacket onto a dinette chair. Turning the oven on low, she shoved the pizza inside.
She heard the television in the next room broadcasting that Celine Dion song from the movie Titanic, but a woman other than Celine was singing. At the song’s final note, a wave of whimsy hit Vining and she closed the oven door with a flourish, doing a half pirouette and posing with her hand in the air. The television audience applauded thunderously.
Walking from the kitchen into th
e adjacent television room, she saw Nanette Brown, her grandmother, reclined in the Lay-Z-Boy, covered with the chenille throw, dead asleep, snoring vigorously.
The television was broadcasting Dancing with the Stars. Vining picked up the remote control from Granny’s lap, taking a moment to marvel at the indestructibility of the old woman’s set-and-comb-out, which she had done once a week by the same hairstylist she’d gone to for decades, ever since she’d closed the beauty parlor that she had run out of her home. Vining and her sister had spent many an after-school afternoon there.
Vining looked at her grandmother’s lank hand atop the throw. Granny was wearing, as always, her diamond wedding set. Her husband, Wade, the foreman of a local machine shop, deceased for fifteen years, had added baguettes and round stones at each ten-year anniversary of their fifty-year marriage. Ever-present on Granny’s arm were the heavy gold bangles Wade had given her over the years. Nanette and Wade had lived modestly, raising two girls and a boy in the Alham-bra home where Nanette still lived. Vining’s mother, Patsy, was the problematic middle child. Jewelry was Nanette’s indulgence, and Wade loved spoiling her. A friend who worked in downtown L.A.’s jewelry district finagled discounts.
Other than her jewelry and perfectly coiffed hair, Nanette’s indulgence was manicures, also a legacy from her beauty-shop days. She had her nails polished pink during spring, coral in summer, burgundy in fall, and red for the holidays. As it was early September, her nails were coral.
Vining shook her head at the expensive jewelry. She’d told Granny a million times not to wear it when she was going around town by herself. All Granny would say in response was “These old things?”
She clicked off the television.
Granny bolted upright, pushing down the recliner’s footrest and snapping it into place, flinging off the throw, and was about to spring from the chair before she turned and saw Vining.
