by Tamar Myers
Johnny smiled, his point made. “So, Mouse asked your daughter out. Is she underage?”
“She’s twenty-one.”
“How refreshing. Most mothers of adult women don’t do background checks on their daughter’s boyfriends.”
“Your brother isn’t her boyfriend. But he’s up to something. I ran into him at a nursing home this morning, and the next thing I know he’s asking Susan out.” I clamped my hand over my mouth. I hadn’t meant to mention Susan’s name.
“That’s all right. I won’t be passing any details on. Mouse and I don’t talk.”
“Oh.”
“And it’s not because I’m fat. Or poor. Or even a writer. Mouse is okay with all of that. I happen not to approve of him.”
“Oh?”
“Like you, Miss Timberlake, I can be as mum as a mummy. Let’s just say that my brother does not incorporate compassion into his lifestyle.”
“So, he isn’t likely to be visiting the elderly in nursing homes?”
He cleared his throat. “Not hardly.”
“Can you tell me what he does for a living? Does he deliver things?”
Johnny shrugged, causing an avalanche of quivers that began with his face and ended with his belly. “The last time I spoke with Mouse, he said he was starting a new job. Something about the import/export business. As long as he doesn’t ask for money, I don’t ask about his professional life. As for his personal life—well, that’s a matter of public record. I read about him in the paper just like everyone else.”
“Excuse me?”
“Minor brushes with the law. Marriages. Divorces. That sort of thing. Mouse gets a lot of newsprint. I think the folks at the Observer are in love with his name. Mouse Trap. Can you blame them? Anyway, like I said, I don’t gossip. You want the scoop on Mouse, go to the paper.”
“Will do. Would you advise me against talking to Mouse myself?”
Johnny stared at me. At least, I think he was staring at me. The man’s eyes were mere slits, but they seemed to be glinting with extraordinary intensity.
“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” he said at last. “Look, it’s a matter of public record—oh, what the hell. Mouse spent three years in juvenile detention for killing a man.”
“That’s all a life is worth these days? Three years?”
“It was a black man, and don’t get me started.”
“Well—”
“Because if it had been a white man—maybe a doctor or lawyer—Mouse would still be behind bars, juvenile offender or not. Anyway, our parents never could get over the shame. They moved to Florida and left us behind.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what? Because I’m fat and poor and have a murderer for a brother?”
“No, because you are obviously in pain.”
“Is that pity, Ms. Timberlake? Because I don’t do pity well.”
“It isn’t pity, dear. Life sucks; there’s no doubt about it. But it’s all we’ve got.”
“Yeah? Well, what would you know about pain?”
I tried to jump to my feet, but the leather bowl in which I was sitting made that impossible. Finally, after the third hard rock, I was able to spill out onto the floor.
“Do you think it’s easy being called ‘dwarf’ and ‘midget’ your whole life?” I yelled. “Don’t get me started! Because my daddy’s dead, and my mama’s a sandwich short of a picnic! Oh, and did I mention that I was married to a megalomaniac who took my home and children away from me?”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
We both grinned.
“Look, I’d better go now and let you get back to work. Did you say your books were available everywhere?”
“Yeah, just about. I’d give you a copy, but my publisher isn’t very generous with freebies.”
“No problem. If I buy one, will you sign it?”
“Be glad to. Try The Sting and I. It’s about a man who uses killer bees to commit murder. It’s my current favorite.”
“Mind if I ask you something personal?”
“Go ahead.”
“How can you write funny books when you’re in pain?”
“Humor comes from pain.”
“Then I should be a standup comedienne.”
“Maybe you should—but you’d need a podium.”
“Very funny. But thanks for sharing with me.”
Johnny walked me slowly to the door. “About Mouse—stay away from him, Ms. Timberlake. I can’t emphasize that enough. My brother is really bad news.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.
19
There is no use having connections if one doesn’t use them. I drove straight to the supercooled comfort of my home and called Greg. He was “away from his desk” but not out on assignment. I fed Dmitri, waited ten minutes, and called again.
“Hey, Abby!” Greg sounded cheery, so I knew the trip away from his desk had been successful.
“Well, I was wondering what you were doing tonight.”
“Tonight? Well, I signed up for another ride-along with Bowater. In fact, I was just about to head on home for a little shut-eye. What gives?”
“Oh, nothing. I just thought—”
“No need to say more. I feel the same way. How about tomorrow night?”
I told Greg about my dinner obligation with Mama and Her Majesty, Queen Priscilla Hunt. I took the liberty of inviting him along, knowing he would refuse. Greg has the social skills of an armadillo, but that doesn’t bother him. What holds him back are the cloying looks and roaming hands of mature women. Incidentally, younger women—those of an age to drool over Leonardo DiCaprio and Matt Damon—ignore my Cary Grant look-alike.
“Sunday?” he asked. I imagined those luscious lips pouting.
“Sorry, but Sunday’s no good. How about Monday for sure?”
“What are you doing Sunday, Abby?”
“I’m washing my hair.”
“Right. While the Fonz and I tune my hot rod. Abby, you have a date don’t you?”
“It’s a business meeting.”
“With who? It’s not with Buster, is it?”
“Gregory!”
“Sorry, Abby. So who is it?”
“It’s none of your business, but if you must know, it’s the Rob-Bobs.”
“Oh. Well, why the hell didn’t you say so?”
“Because even they make you jealous.”
“They do not.”
“Greg, you’d be jealous of my daddy if he were alive. The one time you met my brother, Toy, you nearly tore his hand off shaking it.”
“That’s because I didn’t believe he was your brother, for pete’s sake. The man is blond and six feet tall.”
“He’s six foot two. And you should trust me more.”
“Yeah, you’re right. So, Monday night, then?”
“For sure.” I swallowed and shifted gears. “Say, Greg, ever heard of a guy named Mouse Trap?”
“I know this one. Just give me a minute and I’ll think of the punch line.”
“What?”
“It’s got something to do with cheese, right?”
“This isn’t a joke,” I wailed. “I’m dead serious. I need information on a man whose name is Mouse Trap. Mouse is his real first name.”
“What kind of information?”
I could sense Greg’s antennae going up, and I knew I needed to back off. If he didn’t know about Mouse’s priors, then Johnny had lied. There isn’t a crime that goes on in Charlotte that Greg hasn’t either dealt with personally or known someone who has.
“Just general,” I said casually. “Like where he works and stuff.”
“Abby, do I look like a credit bureau to you?”
“Of course not, dear.”
“Listen, I’d be careful about hiring a man to help you out in your shop. I mean, there could be some awkward moments, like when you’re reaching for something that’s up high or have to get on a stepladder. Besides, lots of men don’t like working for
a female boss. Oh, they’ll say they do on their application, but taking orders is another thing. And personally, I prefer to be waited on by an attractive woman when I shop.”
“Oh, so she has to be attractive, does she?”
“Well—”
“Well, for your information, I’ve been interviewing several people, and I’m leaning toward Mouse. He’s a real studmuffin, you know.”
“A what?”
“A hunk.”
During the ensuing silence, we southerners gave up eating fried foods and the NRA membership all became Mennonites. “You’re just trying to get a rise out of me, aren’t you?” he asked at last. “I mean, he’s probably some wizened old geezer who can barely stand anymore. Right?”
“Wrong.”
“Abby, are you trying to make me jealous? Because if you are, it’s working.”
I sighed. “You’ve got no reason to be jealous of Mouse, I assure you. He lives up to his name.”
“Yeah? Say, Abby, I know I said I was riding around with Bowater tonight, but you don’t suppose I could drop by anyway?”
“Well—”
“You could have C. J. over, and the two of them could meet. We’d make it very casual-like.”
I’d totally forgotten about fixing C. J. up with the sergeant, but that gave me an idea. “Sounds like a good idea, but just so I know—so I can be sure to have C. J. there—let’s decide now on a time.”
“Well, Bowater’s shift starts at eight. How about ten?”
“Ten it is. But don’t be early, because we might take in a movie first.”
“Okay, but make sure it’s just you and C. J.”
“Good-bye, Gregory,” I said and blew a kiss into the phone before I hung up.
I called C. J. at her shop.
“Ooh, Abby, didn’t you get my message?”
“What message?”
“Some hunk came in here asking about you.”
“Greg?”
“No, silly, a real hunk. This guy had a leather jacket with studs. I mean lots of studs. You know what that means, don’t you?”
I refrained from asking. “Was he driving a motorcycle, dear?”
“How did you know?”
My heart sank. “What did you tell him?”
“I sent him over to you, only you weren’t there. He said your assistant told him to butt out and mind his own business. So he came back here. Abby, I didn’t know you had an assistant. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I only hired her yesterday. So then what did you tell him?”
“I told him to butt out and mind his own business, of course. But ooh, Abby, I hated to because he was so cute.”
“Good girl. You did the right thing. Say, C. J., would you like to hang out with me this evening?” That was a no-brainer. The girl adores me.
“No can do, Abby.”
“What?”
“Sorry, Abby, but I need to stay in tonight and string popcorn.”
“Whatever for?”
“For my Christmas tree, silly.”
“But it’s only July!”
“I know,” C. J. moaned, “but it takes me so long to string it. Those kernels are very hard, and I keep breaking needles.”
“C. J., you big doofus, you’re supposed to pop it first!”
“Now you tell me.”
“Look, C. J., I know you want to string popcorn, but remember the sergeant from Shelby I was telling you about? Well, Greg is dropping by with him and—”
“Ooh, Abby, I’d love to meet my new dreamboat, but like I said, I can’t tonight.”
“What if I help you string popcorn some other time?”
“It’s not the popcorn, silly, it’s the moon.”
“Come again?”
“I plum forgot about it the other night, Abby, but tonight is the full moon!”
“Huh? Is that prime popcorn-stringing time?”
“Actually, it isn’t, so I thought I might do something else instead. My household cleaners need reorganizing.”
“C. J., dear, don’t do this to me. I finally got you a live one, and you’re going to line up your Lime Away?”
“Abby, I appreciate what you’ve done, but I can’t afford to take any chances.”
“What do you mean?”
“The change, silly. Folks from Shelby can’t go outside when there’s a full moon or they’re subject to the change.”
“Of life? Of sex? C. J., make sense!”
“Werewolves,” she whispered.
“Tell me you’re not serious!” I, Wynnell, the Rob-Bobs, even Mama—we have all worried about C. J.’s sanity. Once we even managed to drag her to a see a psychiatrist, Dr. Fleischman. Unfortunately, the good doctor was himself as nutty as a pecan pie. There is an upside to C. J.’s illness, however; she makes Mama seem normal by comparison.
“I’m very serious, Abby. It happened to my granny all the time.”
“Granny Ledbetter?”
“Granny Cox. The poor dear would start to itch something awful every time there was a full moon. If she rubbed calamine lotion all over her body and stayed inside, she’d be all right, but if she stuck as much as one toe out the door, she’d turn as hairy as a Frenchwoman’s legs.”
“Get out of town!”
“It’s true, Abby.”
“You saw this?”
“No, but we lived only a block away. The howling was something awful.”
“C. J., maybe it was a dog,” I said patiently. “I mean, who told you it was your granny baying at the moon?”
“My brother Kyle.”
“The same brother who told you baby oil was made from babies?”
“So Kyle was wrong once, Abby. I know what I know.”
“Have you ever been outside during a full moon?”
“Not if I can help it.”
“But you have, haven’t you? And nothing happened, did it?”
“No, but—”
“But nothing. You get your butt over here right after work. We’ll grab ourselves some supper at Southpark Mall, and then we’re going hunting.”
“Ooh, that sounds like fun Abby. What are we hunting?”
She suddenly sounded too eager to join me. I would have to keep an eye on her hair follicles.
“The world’s largest mouse, dear.”
20
Southpark Mall has a Cinnabon shop, and I practically overdosed on warm buns. If I had to choose one food only for the rest of my life—provided that food was nutritiously complete—I’d choose cinnamon rolls. With cream cheese icing, of course. Biting into one of those is heaven to my taste buds, and that soft, slightly doughy center is—well, better than sex.
I may be a small person, but I have a large appetite, and I polished off two large rolls while C. J. nibbled at a chicken sandwich. At the start of our meal, I’d made the mistake of informing her that birds were descended from dinosaurs. C. J. balked at eating Barney on a bun until I threatened to put a hex on her. Fortunately, C. J. is as superstitious as a room full of professional ball players and finally deigned to dine on dino, rather than risk my wrath.
After supper we window-shopped for a bit before heading out to visit Mouse. A closer inspection of my Charlotte map revealed that the man lived well to the northeast of UNCC and, in fact, within whizzing distant of the Charlotte Motor Speedway. We took I-77 to I-85 and got off on Mallard Creek Road. It was dark by then, and we had trouble finding Mouse’s house, which was set back from the road. I mean way back.
When we finally saw the house, we both gasped. It was immediately clear to me that Mouse made a lot more money than his brother the writer. And there was a Lamborghini parked in the circular drive, not a van. I convinced C. J. to ring the doorbell, just in case I had made a mistake.
I couldn’t see what all transpired, but C. J. was back in a New York minute, and she was as white as cottage cheese.
“Well?” I demanded.
“It’s him!”
“Mouse?”
“I
don’t know about your mouse, Abby. All I know is that that’s Albert in there.”
“Albert?”
“Albert Westerman. We went to high school together in Shelby.”
“C. J., are you sure?”
“Positive.”
I firmly believe that genuine coincidences are few and far between. “Does Albert Westerman have enormous ears that stick straight out and buck teeth?”
“Ooh, Abby, you know him?”
A goose walked over my grave. “I know him as Mouse Trap. But I thought that name was too eccentric even for a southerner!”
C. J. slammed her car door shut and locked it. “Step on it, Abby. We have to get out of here.”
I turned the car around and drove reluctantly back up the lane, stopping just before it met Mallard Creek Road. Even though it was still stifling outside, I turned off the ignition so that my automatic headlights wouldn’t give me away.
“Spill it, C. J. Tell me what you know.”
“I know that man in there is dangerous,” she said, a quaver to her voice. “In high school, he used to brag about how he and his brother killed their parents. They were just kids—maybe nine or ten, I think, and besides, the state couldn’t prove it, so they got off scot-free.”
“That happened in Shelby?”
“No, ma’am. Folks don’t kill their parents in Shelby. They move there from someplace else. Wilmington, I think.”
I glanced in my rearview mirror. The Lamborghini was still in place. The same lights were on in the house.
“Did you know his brother? Was he overweight?”
“Is the Pope Dutch?” C. J. has always been metaphorically challenged.
“I don’t understand,” I wailed. “It couldn’t possibly be the same pair of brothers. One fat, the other skinny, both with huge rodent ears. C. J., tell me everything you know about these guys.”
C. J. scratched her head and stared at me. She has enormous blue-gray peepers, but they invariably lack emotion. It’s like looking into the eyes of a Scandinavian cow.
“Well, the brother is a writer.”
“A writer?”
“At least in high school he was. Johnny Westerman wrote the best stories for English. He always said he was going to be rich and famous someday. Ooh, Abby, maybe Albert decided to become a writer, too.”
