Needled to Death

by Annelise Ryan

  “At Pesto Change-o.”

  “Yummy.” She smiles, looking beatific for a second, and then her eyes narrow. “That’s only five minutes away. You have plenty of time.”

  “I need to change,” I tell her. With anyone else I’d simply leave the room and escape this interrogation, but I don’t want to leave P.J. alone with Toby’s laptop. I wouldn’t put it past her to try to look at it. Nor would I put it past her to figure out the password I used: Roscoe. But if I pick it up and carry it with me into the bedroom, that will arouse her curiosity even more.

  P.J. eyes me from head to toe—an admittedly brief scan—and narrows those eyes even more. “You look fine,” she says, taking in my work clothes: basic slacks, a blouse, and a blazer. “Unless . . .” Her eyes widen and she gives me a sly smile. “Do you have a date?”

  “What? No. Well . . . maybe. But not really.” Damn the girl. She has me flustered.

  “It’s about time,” P.J. says with a hint of disgust in her voice. “You’ve been alone way too long.”

  “Some people like being alone,” I tell her. This rings false even to my own ear, and judging from the look P.J. gives me, she isn’t buying it, either.

  “Come on,” she says, heading into my bedroom with Roscoe trailing along behind her. I follow them, relieved the issue of the laptop has been momentarily resolved. P.J. walks over to my closet, flings open the double folding doors, and then stands there a moment, staring at the things inside. I have my eye set on a pair of black slacks and a dark, burgundy blouse, thinking that the darker colors are slimming, but P.J. reaches into the closet and pulls out a navy blue, knee-length, A-line skirt and a blouse that’s slightly tailored and made out of a soft, shiny fabric in a lighter shade of blue.

  “Blue is a good color for you,” she says, tossing the items on my bed. “It sets off your eyes.” She bends down, grabs a pair of beige heels from the floor, and sets them in front of me. “These will add an inch or two to your height,” she says. She stares at my face for a few seconds, and then adds, “You should refresh your makeup. You look kind of tired.”

  I’d be stunned by her presumptuousness and bluntness if not for the fact that I’ve experienced it before. And I’ve learned from those past experiences that P.J. has a good eye for these kinds of things. She looks at Roscoe, says, “Come on big guy. Let’s go for a walk,” and leaves my room.

  I watch the two of them long enough to make sure P.J. heads for the front door and doesn’t give the laptop a second look before I start dressing.

  The clothing change only takes a few minutes, and as I look at myself in the mirror I realize that P.J. is right about the color. I remember when I bought the skirt, which was more of a midi length on me at the time. Few items of clothing fit me off the rack, because I’m too short for most adult styles and too round to shop in the kids’ sections. Thanks to my physical shortcomings—in the most literal sense of that word—I have to have most of my clothes tailored. Fortunately, I have Tamela, a talented seamstress and one of the kids I spent several years with in a group home. Tamela lives in a town about an hour away, and she alters my outfits for me for a nominal fee. She also serves as one of the few people in my life who I can call a friend. Because of our shared history, we understand each other in a way other people can’t. Tamela gets me. She understands why I occasionally filch items that aren’t mine and have no memory of it later, and why I hide some of the food I have in my house, even though I’m the only one who lives here. It’s hard for me to make friends with people who haven’t been in the system, though I do a grand job of faking it much of the time, if I do say so myself. My social work training taught me that.

  What it didn’t teach me was how to fix my hair into something that doesn’t look like a flyaway rat’s nest, which is what it resembles now. I give it a quick spray and try to tame it into submission, but my cowlicks—the closest thing to body my hair has naturally—refuse to stay down. After a few minutes of frustration, I give up and adopt an if-you-can’t-beat-them attitude about things and use my fingers to make the rest of my hair stand up in a borderline punk style. It doesn’t work as well on a thirty-something woman as it would on a younger woman, but for now it’s the best do I can do. I touch up my makeup, pack up Toby’s laptop in my briefcase, and hurry out before P.J. has returned, relieved she won’t be casting her critical eye on me one last time. I don’t lock my door. Sorenson is a reasonably safe town, and the people who live in this neighborhood do a good job of watching out for one another.

  I make it to the restaurant with two minutes to spare, feeling excited about the evening ahead for a couple of reasons. One, Pesto Change-o has amazingly good food. I could do without the magic show its owner, Giorgio, likes to put on, but I’m willing to put up with it if it means getting a delicious Italian meal. The second reason I’m ramped up is that the dinner is a date of sorts. I mean, it is a date, right? I asked a man out to dinner and he accepted. Doesn’t that make it a date? I realize there is another perspective.

  I’ve intrigued Bob with the Cochran case, and I have the boy’s computer. Did Bob agree to the dinner simply to work on me some more about handing over the laptop? Or is he honestly interested in me on a more personal level?

  Time will tell, I suppose, and I try to convince myself that it isn’t that important, however it turns out. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

  I try hard to assume an air of relaxed indifference, but as I park and get out of my car to head inside the restaurant, my legs feel frighteningly wobbly.

  Chapter Ten

  The aromas of basil, oregano, garlic, and tomatoes make my mouth water the moment I enter the restaurant. It’s a busy Friday night and there’s a good crowd here already. I’m not sure if Bob has arrived, since I don’t know what kind of car he drives, so I scan the existing diners. I don’t see him, though it’s only a minute past the hour.

  Giorgio comes up to me, smiling broadly and producing a paper bouquet of flowers from his sleeve.

  “I’m here to meet someone,” I tell him. “Mr. Bob Richmond?”

  “Here I am,” says a voice behind me. “Sorry I’m a little late. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

  I turn around and smile at him, craning my neck so much it lets out a loud crack. “I just got here myself,” I tell him.

  “Let me show you to a special table,” Giorgio says. This makes it sound as if we are getting special treatment, but I know from past experience that Giorgio says this to everyone he seats, regardless of where their table is. Ours is one of the nicer ones, however, a square table for two next to one of the windows, covered with one of Giorgio’s clichéd red and white checked tablecloths.

  Bob is gentleman enough to pull out a chair for me, but I suspect part of this gesture stems from his desire to be in the seat that gives him a view of the entrance. As a cop, this would likely be second nature to him. It’s an impulse I not only understand but share. I like having a broad view of my surroundings for a different reason than Bob, most likely, but the underlying principles are the same.

  “May I bring you some wine, and perhaps an appetizer?” Giorgio asks. “I have a special tonight on stuffed mushrooms.”

  “I would love the stuffed mushrooms,” I say. “And I’ll have a glass of your house red.”

  Bob’s brow furrows and he says, “Just water for me, I’m afraid. I’m on call tonight. But the mushrooms sound great.”

  “Back in a flash,” Giorgio says, producing a literal flash in his hand before he scurries off.

  “I see you brought your briefcase,” Bob says, arching one eyebrow in question.

  “Yes, I did. I have Toby’s laptop in it.”

  “It’s a bit risky to be carrying it around, isn’t it?”

  I shrug. “I don’t want to let it out of my sight.”

  Bob gives me a curious look. “Your interest in this case seems a little . . .” He trails off, not finishing the sentence.

  “Over the top?” I say with a smil
e. Bob shrugs. “I don’t like things that are left hanging. And I have a personal interest in cases like this.”

  “You mean because of your support group?”

  I straighten the napkin-wrapped silverware so that it is perpendicular to the table’s edge. “It’s not just that,” I say, glancing out the window. “I have an unsolved case of my own.”

  I look at him and he tilts his head, giving me a curious look. He says nothing. I figure he’s willing to see if I want to offer more information rather than him ask for it, and I appreciate this consideration.

  “It’s my mother,” I say, looking away again. “She was murdered, and her killer was never found.”

  “Damn,” Bob says, sounding sincere. “When?”

  “A long time ago.” I attempt a smile that I know falls short. “Like almost thirty ago. It’s so cold, it’s frostbitten.”

  “How old were you when it happened?”

  “Seven.”

  “And your father?”

  “I don’t know who he is,” I tell him with another of those forced smiles. “My mother . . . um . . . well, there’s no easy way to say this. She was a hooker.”

  Bob’s eyes grow big at this and he leans back in his seat, staring at me like he just saw me appear out of thin air. Granted, this is Pesto Change-o, but not even Giorgio is that good.

  “I suppose I’ve just changed your opinion of me,” I say, feeling myself blush.

  “I hadn’t really formed one. Well, not much of one,” he equivocates. “Just that you’re stubborn and determined.” He pauses, and I see the barest hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “And a bit of a manipulator,” he adds finally. “But beyond that . . .” He shrugs.

  I’m tempted to object to his impression of me, but I don’t. He has me pegged well so far.

  Giorgio arrives with our drinks, a basket of warm Italian bread, and a dish of whipped garlic butter. He informs us the mushrooms will be out in a few minutes and then asks if we are ready to order. Neither of us has looked at the menus, but we both say yes at the same time. Clearly Bob has his favorites here, the same as I do. He orders cheese ravioli with a side of sausage, and I go with the lasagna, though it’s always a toss-up for me between that and the fettucine Alfredo. We both opt for ranch dressing on our salads, though the raspberry vinaigrette does give me pause.

  As soon as Giorgio’s gone, I take a big gulp of my wine. Bob has hardly taken his eyes off me since we sat down, and I’m not sure if I should be worried or flattered. “Tell me a little about yourself,” I say, slipping into my social worker role. “Are you a native Sorensonian?”

  Bob shakes his head. “I grew up in Racine but came here for a police job. I figured a small town like this would be a good place to get my feet wet before I moved up to the big, bad city.” He huffs a small laugh. “Never made it to the big city, though. Worked my way through the ranks here and became a homicide detective. And then I tried to retire four years ago.”

  “I take it you didn’t like retirement?” I say, snagging a piece of bread and buttering it.

  “Oh, I liked it well enough, though it was more of a semiretirement, actually. I picked up shifts from time to time, and it was one of those times when I met Mattie Winston. It wasn’t long after that when I got shot, and that changed my entire life.”

  “Mattie mentioned something about you getting shot,” I say. “When did it happen? I’ve been at the hospital here for a little over three years now, and I don’t remember you coming in through the ER.”

  “It’s been three and a half years, give or take,” he says. He helps himself to some bread, slathering it with a thick coat of the garlic butter. “Did you move here three years ago?”

  I realize that as a cop, Bob Richmond is as well trained—maybe better—as I am in getting people to talk about themselves, making conversation, and diverting the subject away from himself and back to me. It’s going to make for an interesting give-and-take, I think.

  “Yes,” I say. “I moved here from the Milwaukee area. I have no family attachments anywhere, so . . .” I let the rest of the thought hang out there, allowing Bob to either fill in the blanks with whatever he wants or ask more questions.

  “Milwaukee to here?” he says. “That seems an odd move. Sorenson isn’t what you’d call a big attraction. Why leave a city the size of Milwaukee for a small town? And why Sorenson?”

  “Are you interrogating me, Detective?” I ask in a teasing tone.

  He blushes and says, “Sorry,” in a way that makes me think he truly was just curious. Though I’m betting he did a bit of research on me before meeting me here. What detective worthy of his badge wouldn’t? I’m also betting he didn’t find much. Outside of my juvie record, which is supposed to be sealed, I’ve lived a relatively low-profile life.

  “I’m teasing you,” I say with a smile. “Go ahead and ask what you want, and I’ll answer anything I’m comfortable with. As for why I left Milwaukee, it had too many bad memories for me. I spent most of my time there in the foster system, and I ended up in some rather dicey living situations. It got better once I was out on my own, and I was happy enough while going to school. After that I worked for the county for a while, and then switched to a health care setting. I found I liked that better, so I stuck with it.” I pause and take a sip of my wine. Bob, in good-listening fashion, takes a drink of water, prolonging the silence between us.

  “But Milwaukee never really felt like home to me,” I go on, letting him win this clash of silence. “And when I was looking into my mother’s murder, which I suppose is one of the reasons I stayed in Milwaukee as long as I did, I discovered that she had a client, someone who she saw regularly, who was from here.”

  “Really?” Bob says. I can tell his detective antennae are twitching. “Who?”

  “I don’t have a name,” I tell him with a regretful look. “All I know is that inside a box of my mother’s things that I went through a few years ago, I found some old letters from this person. He mentioned Sorenson often, and the envelopes had a Sorenson postmark; that’s how I know he’s from here. Unfortunately, they didn’t have a return address.”

  “He didn’t sign the letters?” Bob asks.

  “Oh, he did, but not with his full name. Every letter was signed the same way: ‘Can’t wait to see you again, R.’”

  “Just the letter?” Bob says. I nod. “Hmm, kind of intriguing.” I smile. He smiles, too, but after a few seconds, his fades. His eyes narrow and his head cocks to one side. “Wait a minute,” he says slowly. “How old are you?”

  I feign surprise and a hint of appalled indignation. “I’m thirty-six. Why?”

  “How old was your mother when she gave birth to you?”

  “Eighteen. I was her second pregnancy. Her first was when she was sixteen and still living with her parents. They wrote her off when it happened, banished her from their home. They were strict Iowan farm people, and very religious. Can you imagine? Being thrust out into the world on your own at the age of sixteen? And pregnant, to boot?” I shake my head in disgust, overcome with the feelings of anger and indignity I feel whenever I tell anyone this story.

  “Have you ever met your grandparents?” Bob asks.

  “No, and I have no desire to do so. Not that they’d be willing to see me. Though no one ever said anything about it, I know enough now about how the foster system works to know that someone has to have approached them back when my mother died to see if they would take me. And it’s obvious what their answer was. If they were able to toss their daughter out the way they did, I’m sure they felt no love for me, her bastard child.”

  Bob flinches slightly, an almost imperceptible reaction that I doubt he knows he showed.

  “Sorry if I come across as crude,” I say, hoping to soften the blow. “But I get so angry every time I talk about what my mother’s parents did, the way they treated her. It’s their fault that she lived the life she did. It’s their fault she died. And it’s their fault I ended up in the syste
m.”

  “Do you know what happened to your mother’s first baby?”

  “Stillborn. Or at least that’s what my mother told me. She often said I had a big sister who was up in heaven looking out for me.”

  “And the only potential family connection you have left is the man who is your father?” Bob says. Something in his tone alerts me to a change in his demeanor. He doesn’t sound as sympathetic as he did a few moments ago.

  I shrug. “I know it’s a long shot, and the odds are that if I did find him he’d want nothing to do with me.”

  “You think this man who wrote the letters and signed them with an R might be the guy?”

  “It’s possible. He seemed to know my mother well. And if he isn’t the guy, he might know who is.”

  “But if she was seeing multiple men, she might not have known who your father was.”

  “She wasn’t always hooking,” I say, feeling oddly defensive. “There were periods of time when she tried to make things work with a regular job, and that was the case when she got pregnant with me. Or so she told me. She said she was seeing only one guy at the time. She called him her special guy, and she always told me they were in love. But I think he was a sugar daddy, and the sugar stopped when she got pregnant. Maybe he was married. Who knows?”

  Bob scrutinizes me. “If your mother was alive today, she’d be, what . . . fifty-four or so?”

  I nod.

  “Which happens to be close to my age,” Bob says. “I’m fifty-two.”

  “Really?” I’m genuinely surprised. I figured he was older than me by several years, given his talk of retirement, but I know cops who retired after twenty-five years and were in their early twenties when they started. I pegged Bob as one of those and thought he was in his late forties.

  “And my name, my legal name, is Robert Richmond,” he says, folding his arms over his chest and eyeing me with suspicion. “Two Rs for you to pick from.”

  It takes me a moment to understand what he’s getting at. When I do, I’m quick to disabuse him of the idea. “No, no, no,” I say. “I don’t think you might be the mystery man.”