by Jana DeLeon
“I did,” I said. “I was practically staring at my chest the entire time, even when I was running. I think Gertie’s safe with that habit on, so we’re probably in the clear.”
I said it to reassure the two of them, but I couldn’t be certain, at least not about the being recognized part. My other assumption was confirmed a couple miles down the highway when a police cruiser sped by in the opposite direction, lights flashing.
“Maybe there’s something else going on,” Gertie said.
“I seriously doubt it,” Ida Belle said. “The hotel is the only thing out here for a good stretch except the bar, and he passed that. Let’s get this key back to Shirleen and get out of here before we’re spotted by someone we know.”
“First things first,” I said. “I’m getting out of this nonsense.”
I yanked off the wig, then lifted and raised and pulled and tugged until I got the hooker dress over my head. I pulled on my T-shirt and jeans, then slipped on my socks and tennis shoes and breathed a sigh of relief. “That wig was hot. My head’s all sweaty.”
“So is this flannel,” Ida Belle said. “As soon as we get to the bar, it and these boots are coming off.” The hat was already long gone and sitting on the floorboard in the back of the car.
Gertie pulled and tugged on the collar but didn’t seem to be making progress. “This is stuck,” she said.
“Lights please,” I said to Ida Belle, then leaned forward, trying to see what was keeping the collar in place. “How is it attached?” I asked.
“There’s a string that ties it,” Gertie said, “but I can’t get it undone.”
I flipped the rear of the habit over Gertie’s head and tugged at the knot. “It’s pulled too tight from when Winky was choking you. This isn’t coming off without a knife. I don’t suppose you have one in your Bible?”
“Crap,” Gertie said. “It’s probably the only thing I didn’t bring.”
“We’ll take it off when we get to Fortune’s house,” Ida Belle said.
“Easy for you to say,” Gertie complained. “You’re not being choked by your outfit.”
“I’m going to point out that you picked the outfit you’re in,” Ida Belle said.
Gertie gave her a dirty look, but there wasn’t much else she could do. Five minutes later, Ida Belle pulled into the bar parking lot. It was an old run-down building made of red brick with wooden eaves that were rotted on the corners. Country music blared from inside, and slivers of light streamed out of the narrow slits between the window coverings and the walls. We hopped out of the car and Ida Belle shrugged off the flannel shirt and work boots and pulled on her tennis shoes. Then we headed for the entrance.
The noise level on the inside was ten times worse than in the parking lot, but as soon as we stepped through the front door, all talking ceased, decreasing the sound level to an eerie sort of quiet. A big beefy guy behind the bar looked over at us and shook his head.
“We don’t want any weird stuff in here. Take that nonsense to New Orleans.”
Shirleen jumped off a barstool and hurried over. “I’ll give them directions to a club I know,” she said. The bartender frowned at her, then went back to pouring beer. We hurried outside and across the parking lot, where it was easier to hear.
“Why are you dressed like a nun?” Shirleen asked Gertie.
“It’s a disguise,” Gertie explained. “So if things got hairy, no one would recognize us. I was going to take it off, but the knot in the collar is too tight.”
Shirleen pulled a knife out of her pocket, grabbed the collar, and cut it in two. “There. Now you can talk without sounding like you’re choking. Did you get something?”
Gertie nodded and handed her the key. “You probably don’t want to put that back tonight. There was a bit of a, uh…fray. We’re pretty sure the police are there now.”
Shirleen’s eyes widened. “What the hell did you do?”
“What you asked us to do,” Gertie said. “We got a picture of Winky with another woman.”
Shirleen flushed. “That lying cheating bastard! But why are the cops there?”
“He chased us naked through the lobby,” I said, “and landed on Gertie, who fell flat on the lobby floor. Right in front of the desk clerk, I might add.”
Shirleen looked back and forth between us, clearly waiting for the punch line, but when none was forthcoming, she blew out a breath. “So Winky attacked a nun? Naked?”
I nodded. “All he was wearing was a frown.”
Shirleen still didn’t seem completely convinced, but she also couldn’t think of any reason we’d make up such a story. “Let me see the picture,” she said.
Gertie lifted the phone and turned it around. “You’re not going to like it.”
“That bitch!” Shirleen screamed and grabbed Gertie’s phone from her. “I knew she was up to something when she wouldn’t come out with me tonight even though I offered to pay. Said she wasn’t feeling well. Amber has never once passed up a chance for a free beer because she wasn’t feeling well. When she had surgery, I sneaked her beer into the hospital.”
“I’ll text you the picture,” Gertie said, “but you have to save the picture and delete the text. I don’t want it traced back to me. I’ll delete the pictures off my phone as soon as you receive it.”
“I’m no rat,” Shirleen said. “Besides, you got me the answer I needed. I ain’t going to say it’s the one I wanted, ’cause that would be a lie. But at least now I know what I’m working with.”
Shirleen pulled her phone out of her pocket and checked the text messages. She saved the photo, then deleted the message and showed us the log. “You’re in the clear.”
“Unless someone recognizes us on the security tapes,” I said.
Shirleen waved a hand in dismissal. “Those cameras haven’t worked in years. The manager keeps them up there to make the staff think they work. Keeps people from stealing if they think someone’s watching.”
“But if you know they don’t work, how does that stop anyone from stealing?” I asked.
“Oh, not everyone knows,” Shirleen said. “Just me and the day clerk. We both had a go at the guy from the security company that installed them. He told us the manager wouldn’t pay to repair them. But we don’t tell the others because that would leave less for us to pilfer.”
“Of course,” I said. I suppose it made perfectly good sense, assuming you weren’t burdened with morals.
“I appreciate you gals,” Shirleen said. “I best get back inside. I need to win some money at pool. I’m going to need cash for a new apartment and probably bail.”
“You live with your sister?” I asked.
“Not for long,” Shirleen said. “Of course, I might have to refill the shampoo bottle with Nair before I go. Things happen.” She gave us a big grin and headed back for the bar.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
* * *
By the time Ida Belle dropped me off at my house, the neighborhood was dark and silent. I invited them in for drinks and cookies, but they both begged off, saying they needed a shower and bed. Gertie promised to burn the costumes in her fireplace, just in case. I was pretty sure I needed the shower part, too. After all, I’d touched Winky’s hands and I knew where they’d been. But I’d spent so much time sleeping lately that I didn’t think bed would look inviting any time soon.
I took a long, hot shower, then headed downstairs for the kitchen. I still had some leftovers, but I grabbed one of the frozen dinners instead and popped it in the microwave. While that was cooking, I checked the refrigerator and reached for a beer, then changed my mind and pulled out a bottle of wine. By the time I’d gotten the cork out and poured a big glass for myself, the microwave dinged and I pulled my Salisbury steak and mac-and-cheese dinner out. It needed a bit of salt and pepper and could never be confused for Gertie’s or Ally’s home-baked offerings, but there was something comforting about sitting alone at the kitchen table and eating a frozen dinner like I had so
many late nights in DC.
I pulled my laptop over and opened it up to check my email. Nothing from Harrison, which could be seen as either good or bad, depending on which side of the half a glass I wanted to be on. I flipped over to Facebook and pulled up Gertie’s account, shaking my head at the picture that was 80 percent butt and tattoo and 20 percent pie and oven. She’d gotten a couple of comments on it, including one from Celia who’d told her she ought to be ashamed. Like Celia was one to talk. She’d been sending someone young enough to be her son pictures of her half out of her best dress.
I scrolled down to the next post. It was fairly lengthy and didn’t include a picture. Usually Gertie wasn’t long-winded online, but as I started reading, I understood. This was her “I’m questioning my life” post. The one where she talked about the death of her fictitious aunt and money was nice but it couldn’t make up for all the things she hadn’t done. Then she went on to talk about how her aunt had never married or had children and had died alone, and while Gertie had friends that loved her, it wasn’t the same as sharing your life with someone day in and day out. I had to give her props for delivery. It was a fine snow job, and if I hadn’t known that’s what she was up to, I might have wondered if it was real.
Maybe some of it is real.
The thought flashed through my mind like a bullet and I paused, fork right in front of my lips. No. That couldn’t be the case. Gertie was perfectly happy with her life. She’d never once intimated that she had any regrets for the choices she’d made or the way she lived right now. And while her age her slowed her down physically, that bit of news hadn’t reached her mind yet. It was still convinced she was twenty.
Was it possible, I wondered, to choose a single path at a young age and be so certain it was right for you that you never questioned it at all? At one time, I would have said absolutely, but I would have been answering with no exposure to anything else but my narrow existence. And that wasn’t an answer that came from a place of truly knowing. It was an answer that came from a place of ignorance. Now that I’d been exposed to a different type of life, I couldn’t seem to stop questioning every choice I’d ever made or ever would.
And just when I’d started to convince myself that I was overthinking everything and that my true place in life was back in DC, busting the bad guys with Harrison and generally being unsung heroes, Harrison had to go and tell me he was chucking everything over a woman. Of all the things he’d told me since I’d arrived in Sinful, that was actually the most shocking.
Not once had I ever thought about Harrison as a husband or father. I couldn’t wrap my mind around him washing a car in the driveway in front of a pretty clapboard house, or spending his Friday night at a children’s choir recital instead of the gun range. It didn’t fit.
Or maybe it did.
Before Sinful, I wouldn’t have pictured myself with even one friend that I confided in and trusted, much less several. Granted, some knew more about me than others, but I’d let all of them become part of my life. I shook my head. The problem with the future was there was so much unknown. If only someone could look past today and tell me what to do.
My feelings for Carter had taken me completely by surprise. And that surprise had led me to make foolish decisions that had only resulted in hurting both of us. I regretted hurting him, but not what I felt for him. Never that.
Without warning, my thoughts shifted to my mother. It was amazing to me how after so many years, I could still picture her as if she were standing right in front of me. I could still smell the coconut body lotion she always wore. I could feel her fingers gently pushing my bangs out of my eyes.
Did she love my father? I guess she must have. She married him and had me. I was young when she died, but I couldn’t remember them arguing or even disagreeing.
I frowned.
Maybe that was the most telling thing of all. My feelings for Carter were real and I believed his were as well, but that hadn’t stopped either of us from arguing. Two intelligent people couldn’t be expected to agree on everything, but yet, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t recall a single instance of disagreement between my parents. Were they careful to make sure I never heard? I doubted it. Kids tended to hear everything eventually. Or were they just pretending to be the perfect couple?
I stretched my mind, trying to remember what daily life had been like when my mother was alive. My father was gone often for work, sometimes weeks or a month at a time, so it was just my mom and me most of the time. But when I thought about the times I remembered my father at home, I couldn’t recall him doing anything with us or anything with my mother. I remembered having a sitter once when they attended a funeral, but otherwise, I was never far from my mother’s reach.
I slumped back in my chair and blew out a breath. Why hadn’t I ever thought about my parents’ marriage before? My father was cold and uninterested in raising his own child. I had never stopped to consider that his disinterest might have also included my mother, but thinking about it now, it must have.
Derrick Redding could be charming when he wanted to be, and likely that charm is what sucked my mother in. And maybe in the beginning, he’d really wanted her or thought he did. But at some point, his narcissism took over and everything became about him. Or maybe it always had been and he’d simply been able to hide it for a while. Playing the role of the devoted husband and father. He played roles every day in his work. The only difference was this role didn’t have an expiration date. Until my mother died.
I reached for the wine and downed half the glass. This was too much to think about. There was no way I’d ever know the truth, and dwelling on it would only depress me even more. I remembered my mother as a kind and happy person. I didn’t want anyone or anything to alter that memory.
Chapter 8
“Fortune, wake up.”
Ida Belle’s voice was in my dream but I couldn’t see her. The room was black. Then I felt someone touch my shoulder and I bolted upright. Ida Belle stood next to my bed, wearing a worried expression.
“Is something wrong?” I asked. “Where’s Gertie?”
“She must have been in the shower when I called,” Ida Belle said. “I left a message for her to meet us here.”
I looked over at the clock. Seven a.m. Not the crack of dawn, but considerably earlier than an accepted time for house calls. “Did someone at the hotel recognize us?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Get dressed and come downstairs. Gertie should be here any minute. I want to wait for her before I tell you what’s happened.”
She headed out of the room and I heard her footsteps on the stairs. I hopped out of bed and pulled on yoga pants and a T-shirt before hurrying behind her. Ida Belle was in the kitchen putting on a pot of coffee. I grabbed some bagels from the refrigerator.
“You want one?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I had eggs and toast.” She pointed at the empty wine bottle on the table. “Party for one?”
“What else?”
She put the bottle in the trash can and the glass in the dishwasher. “You sleeping all right?” she asked.
“Let’s see. Running for my life from a naked man, hot shower, half a plate of cookies, and a bottle of wine. After all of that, you should worry if I didn’t sleep.”
She started to respond when I heard the front door bang shut. A couple seconds later, Gertie stepped into the kitchen, her hair still in rollers. “How come nothing ever happens after I’m done with my hair?” she asked.
“Because that would be convenient,” Ida Belle said. “Grab some coffee. I have news.”
I fixed my bagel, poured some coffee, and sat at the table across from Ida Belle. I glanced over at Gertie but she appeared to be as much in the dark as I was.
“Myrtle called me early this morning,” Ida Belle said. “Gail Bishop was murdered last night.”
Gertie dropped her coffee cup and it crashed onto the floor, sending coffee and bits of porcelain all over the kitchen floor.
&
nbsp; “Don’t worry about it,” I said and hopped up to grab Gertie another cup.
Gertie took the cup, her hands shaking. “I can’t believe it. Myrtle is sure it was murder?”
“Shot in the forehead while sleeping.”
I frowned, trying to recall anything about the woman I’d met in the General Store that would explain why someone would want to murder her. “She’s in her forties and pleasant-looking, right? Husband in a wheelchair?”
“That’s right,” Ida Belle said. “You met them at the General Store.”
“Yes. When her husband tripped Celia with his wheelchair.”
“What about Nolan?” Gertie asked.
“He’s got some bruises but is otherwise all right,” Ida Belle said. “Physically, anyway. Myrtle said he fell apart when the paramedics told him Gail was dead.”
“Did he see anything?” I asked. “Do you have any details?”
Ida Belle nodded. “The story as I heard it was that Gail had a headache and turned in before Nolan. Their bedroom is upstairs. They have one of those rail things that lifts Nolan’s wheelchair up the stairs. Nolan was watching television downstairs in the living room when the power went out. He heard a scream, then a pop, but he said it didn’t register at first what it was.”
“That makes sense,” Gertie said. “No one expects to hear a gun being fired upstairs in their house. He could have thought it was a lightbulb bursting or something of the sort given the power outage.”
“Except for the scream part,” I pointed out.
“Exactly,” Ida Belle said. “He wheeled over to the bottom of the stairs and called for Gail, but she didn’t answer. Then someone with a flashlight ran down the stairs straight for him. He shoved Nolan’s wheelchair over and ran out the front door.”
“How did he get in the house?” Gertie asked.
“The window in the master bedroom was open. The latch on it doesn’t work properly. Apparently all you have to do is jiggle it some and it will work its way loose. There’s a trellis on the back wall of the house that leads right up to it.”
