A Teeny Bit of Trouble

by Michael Lee West

  I sighed. Fiona McTavish had died two years ago—a hit-and-run driver had plowed into her on California Avenue. I told Miss Emma good-bye, promising I’d give my regards to Irene, then I walked back to Hanover Square.

  Lunch was served in the solarium, but I stayed in the kitchen and ate graham crackers. I thought about Coop’s ulcer—why hadn’t he mentioned that he’d been feeling poorly? Or was Irene trying to goad me?

  A swooshing sound rose up as Sir padded around the room, dragging his leash over Irene’s throw rugs.

  Clues on the wall, clues beneath the fur, clues underfoot.

  I felt certain that Barb’s anagrams referred to organ harvesting. She’d worked at the hospital, with access to patients. She could have been part of a black market ring—without Lester’s knowledge. Maybe the Philpots weren’t involved. But why had Lester pushed for Kendall’s cremation?

  I needed to study the mural and look under Barb’s rugs. Her closet was probably filled with fur coats. But how could I get inside the Philpots’ mansion? I could wait until they were gone. I’d hidden Kendall’s Hello Kitty chain in the truck. Maybe one of the keys would fit. But if the burglar alarm went off, the police would swarm to Musgrove Square.

  Still, I had to try. As the smell of Irene’s sweetbreads wafted into the kitchen, I found a notepad and wrote: I’m taking Sir for a ride.

  I grabbed his leash and we raced out of the house, into the sweltering, pine-smelling air. By the time I stopped in front of Barb’s house, I had a plan. If everything worked out like I hoped it would, I’d know the identity of her killer.

  twenty-five

  Sir trotted down the Philpots’ sidewalk, straining at the leash. Before I could ring the bell, Helen flung open the door as if she’d been waiting on the other side. She’d changed into white Bermuda shorts and a crisp, sleeveless t-shirt. A tote bag dangled from one hand, a key chain from the other. The foyer was spotless, not a trace of the urn fragments or spilled litter.

  “You’re back already?” she said. “What did you forget? Because I was just leaving.”

  Behind her, the French doors stood open, and wind stirred a gauzy curtain. She glanced over her shoulder. “Emerson, for the last time, get out of that pool!”

  I heard a splash. Then Emerson yelled, “I told you to go without me. So go!”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” A fine net of perspiration stood on Helen’s upper lip. She dumped her tote bag on the floor and everything spilled—sweatbands, metal racquet, water bottle, tennis balls, and a towel monogrammed with a black P. Philpot, petty, puzzle.

  “I ought to leave the little monster,” Helen said, shoving the items back into the tote.

  I stubbed the tip of my shoe against the porch trying to distract myself from the ache in my chest. A long time ago, my mama and I had taken an unexpected road trip from Tybee Island to Myrtle Beach. At night she’d dumped me with strangers. If free sitters weren’t available, she parked me in a motel room by myself.

  Quit crying, Teeny. I’ll be back in a few hours. Put the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door. If anybody knocks or rattles the knob, start barking. Robbers are scared of dogs.

  “I’ll stay with Emerson,” I said.

  Deep lines slashed across Helen’s forehead. “I hope you’ve had rabies shots. Little Miss Know-it-All is in the pool, but she’s not alone. She went behind my back and invited some neighborhood kids. Nothing but tiny hoodlums.”

  “I like kids.”

  Helen’s forehead puckered. “Are you sure you want to babysit? I’m in a tennis tournament. A round robin. I could be gone for hours.”

  “My whole afternoon is free,” I said. “Take your time.”

  “I suppose you could use the practice. Emerson could end up with Coop. But I still think she belongs to someone on Curry Island. We should have the DNA results any day now.” Helen slung the tote bag over her shoulder. “I’m sorry if I was rude earlier. I wasn’t happy to see you at first. I’m upset about that damn urn. And I was ticked off about that document you mentioned. I called Lester, and he doesn’t know about it.”

  My knees began shaking. “I was mistaken,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Lester is upset. He’s had so much tragedy in his life. He had a promising baseball career until he hurt his shoulder.” Helen lifted her key chain. “My son has suffered. Everyone in this family has suffered except for Barb and Emerson.”

  Helen looked down at Sir. “Will he tinkle on Lester’s walls?”

  “No, ma’am. He’s housetrained.”

  “He better be, or I’ll send you the cleaning bill.” Helen rushed out the front door.

  After I heard her car drive away, I set down Sir’s leash and walked up the staircase. I paused in the curve that Miss Emma had mentioned. A cherub statue sat on a low ledge. Faux ivy looped around and behind it, then trailed up the wall.

  I pushed it aside. It took a minute to find the exact spot where the art teacher’s precise images ended and Barb’s cruder ones began. Bucolic clouds hovered over a street that did not, to my recollection, exist in Atlanta. Barb had painted a replica of downtown Bonaventure, with its pastel buildings nestled around the Square. Lester’s green pharmacy stood across the bridge. On the sidewalk was a stick family. One figure had long blond hair and wore a sequined majorette costume. Beside the woman was a blue-eyed man with dark bangs. Next to him was a little blond child with a wide mouth.

  The next thing I saw made me gasp. Scattered behind the little family were two dismembered stick figures. One had frizzy hair and stubby legs. She wore an apron. The other figure had long brown hair and resembled Ava O’Malley, Coop’s ex.

  Barb had painted this scene years and years after she and Coop had broken up. I imagined her squatting in this curve, leaning toward the ledge, illustrating key events from her past. She’d painted her mural in a hard-to-see spot, below eye level. Her tall husband couldn’t find her handiwork unless he bent over, shoved aside the statue, and clawed away the silk ivy.

  I squinted at the mural. A flash of red caught my attention. Just outside the square green pharmacy, body parts were lined up on the sidewalk. Eyeballs, bones, teeth. Attached to each one was a price tag. A trail of blood led into the store.

  My heart slammed against my ribs. Clues on the wall.

  A shrill cry rose up from the pool. I straightened up and ran down the stairs. I grabbed Sir’s leash and led him to the patio. Three small children stood in the shallow end of the pool, tossing a beach ball.

  Emerson spotted me and waved both hands. She scrambled out of the pool. “Teeny! You came back.”

  “Helen is playing tennis. I’m babysitting you.”

  “I’m so glad.” Emerson started to wrap her arms around me, then she hesitated. “I’m all wet.”

  I pulled her against me, feeling her cold body mold itself against me. Two small boys pushed in around us. “Let’s play hide-and-seek,” the taller one said.

  Emerson introduced them as the Gallagher twins—Reed and Alex, though I couldn’t tell them apart. They seemed younger than Emerson, and so skinny, their rib bones threatened to poke through their skin.

  “Alex’s got a missing front tooth. It makes him lisp like the Asshole-Who-Can’t-Be-Named.” Emerson pointed to a boy in green swim trunks. “Reed’s got a chicken pox scar on his forehead.”

  She scooted away from me, reached for a towel, and blotted her face. “I’ve been through hell,” she said, her voice muffled by the terry cloth. “Mr. Philpot and his lab rats got my saliva. They snuck up behind me and did a blitz attack.”

  “I’m so sorry, honey.” I helped her dry off.

  The Gallagher twins bounced on the balls of their feet. Alex stuck his finger in his nose. Reed pointed at Sir. “Lady, what kind of dog is that?”

  “English bulldog.” I reached down and patted Sir’s head.

  “Quit talking.” Reed shoved his brother. “I want to play hide-and-seek.”

  Emerson thumped my arm. “Teeny’s it.�
��

  “One, two, three,” I said. The children scattered into the house. “Four, five, six.”

  Still counting, I led Sir back inside, past the staircase. Giggles drifted down, followed by, “Shhh!”

  “Ten, eleven, twelve…” I felt overwhelmed by the sheer number of walls and floors. Miss Emma had said that Barb had hidden pages of her diary under the rug. I decided to check under the rugs first.

  At the end of the hall, double doors opened into a bedroom that was bigger than my whole upstairs. The walls were bare, except for a large plasma TV. No rug. Who’d removed it? And why?

  The closet door stood ajar, showing a glimpse of pastel ball gowns. Further down, I saw mink coats. I hated to deviate from my plan, but clues beneath the fur kept reverberating in my head. I checked the full-length coats and found nothing. Then I plunged my hand into the pocket of a silver fox jacket. My fingers closed on a cold, hard object. I dragged it up. The light hit a small brass key.

  I tucked it into my bra and moved back into the hall. I lifted a small Persian rug. Nothing. So far, so good. I’d found clues on the mural and a key beneath the fur. I peered up the stairwell. Did those bedrooms have rugs? No, keep looking downstairs.

  “Ready or not, here I come,” I yelled.

  More laughter swirled down as I passed through a living room. Chandeliers, curvy French tables. Oil paintings. But no rug. That seemed odd. Wouldn’t a manse have Persian carpets? Maybe a few sisals?

  Sir and I climbed the back staircase and turned into a frilly bedroom. Lilac walls, pink silk curtains, and a plush white carpet. Sir looked at the closet and wagged his tail.

  “Come on, Sir,” I said. They’re not hiding in there.”

  More giggles.

  I shut the door behind me. Sir and I checked the other bedrooms. Each one had the same thick white carpet on the floor. At the end of the hall, we turned into a storage room. It was piled with boxes and doodads. Everything was so dusty, I was afraid it would set off my asthma.

  A few rag rugs were scattered over an unfinished floor. I moved around the room, lifting the rugs. All I found were dust bunnies. I’d literally worked myself into a corner, and I needed to think a minute. I perched on the edge of an old Windsor rocker. The chair scooted backward a few inches.

  Sir trotted past me, toward a window that overlooked the front yard. “We’ve checked all the rooms,” I told him. “Guess Miss Emma was mistaken. Barb didn’t have any rugs to hide her papers, did she?”

  The bulldog didn’t answer. I leaned back in the chair, and it listed to the right. I rocked again, and the chair jerked. I got up. Now I saw the problem. The rocker was caught on the edge of a thick flotaki rug. I scooted the chair aside and pulled back the rug.

  A flutter of white.

  My pulse slammed against the top of my head. I lifted a page and recognized Barb’s curvy handwriting. Coop and I broke up last night at the drive-in.

  I slid the papers into my deep pocket, my breath coming in sharp, painful bursts. “Come on, Sir.”

  He wouldn’t leave the window. His paws were spread on the sill, and he growled under his breath. I glanced past him and my lungs flattened. A Mercedes was parked in front of the house. Norris got out and walked to my truck.

  I glanced down at my bulging pocket. I had a sudden vision of Norris dragging me into a bedroom. My stomach lurched. I dragged Sir away from the window and stepped into the hall.

  Stop it, Teeny. Norris won’t attack in front of a child posse. I had a perfectly good reason to be here. If he asked, I’d say, I’m babysitting. And he would answer, Gollum-like, What’s do you have in your pocketeses, Precious?

  Sir and I ran into the hall, veered into the lilac bedroom, and flung open the closet door. Alex grinned up at me.

  “Where’s Emerson?” I asked.

  “Hiding.”

  I walked back into the hall. “Game over, Emerson,” I called in a Mary Poppins voice.

  Silence.

  “She ran outside,” Alex said. “She always hides in the gardenia bushes.”

  A sick feeling threaded from my stomach to my throat. So the Philpots had gardenias? Somehow I managed to get Sir down the stairs and out the French door. Alex bobbed at my elbow.

  “Where’s the gardenias?” I asked.

  “This way.” Alex pushed open the iron gate and darted to a bush. I had a clear view of the street. The Mercedes was empty. So was the front lawn. Where was Emerson? Where was Norris?

  I smelled a waxy sweetness. I moved to a cluster of bushes, all of them sprinkled with white flowers. Emerson wasn’t there. I turned to Alex. “Does she have another hiding spot?”

  “She might. Want me to yell for her?”

  “No, no. Let’s play another game. Have you heard of ‘Where’s Waldo?’”

  He nodded.

  “Let’s play ‘Where’s Uncle Norris’? You know him, right? He’s Emerson’s uncle?”

  Alex nodded again.

  “Listen carefully,” I said. “Run around the house. If you don’t see Norris in the front yard, yell, ‘Clear.’ Can you do that?”

  He nodded. Then he sprinted around the gardenias. Sir tried to follow him, and I snatched his leash, my hand shaking. A drop of sweat hit my knee and rolled onto his head.

  “Clear!” Alex yelled.

  I gripped Sir’s leash with both hands and crept out of the bushes. Norris stepped around the house and blocked my path. He looked me up and down. His gaze stopped on my pocket.

  “Nith of you to thop by, Teeny.”

  My pulse ba-doomed in my ears. “I’m babysitting.”

  Alex crept forward. “Lady, I didn’t mess up,” he said. “He wasn’t in the yard. He was on the front porch.”

  Sir lunged at Norris’s pant leg. I pulled him back.

  “He bites,” I said.

  “Then he thould be put down,” Norris said.

  Acid burned the back of my tongue. Norris’s eyes were the size of jumbo eggs, the lids stitched with tiny bird-like veins.

  “Why were you thneaking around my houth?” he asked.

  “We were playing a game called ‘Where’s Uncle Norris,’” Alex said.

  I cringed.

  Norris smiled. “Why were you looking for me?”

  “What? No, I don’t—”

  A raptor claw seized my arm. He towed me toward the Mercedes. “Let me go,” I yelled.

  “Thut up and get in my car.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.” I slung off the claw. “You freak.”

  Norris punched me in the mouth. The blow knocked me to the ground. I lay on the grass, too dazed to move, my mouth filling with the taste of copper pennies.

  A shadow fell over the grass. “Get up,” Norris’s disembodied voice said.

  I shook my head.

  “Were you thpying on me?”

  I ran my tongue over my lip. It felt huge. “I wathn’t thpying.”

  “Bitch.” He snatched my arm. “Come with me.”

  I sat up, gingerly touching my mouth. Emerson ran into the yard. “Don’t you hurt, Teeny,” she yelled.

  Norris ignored her and grabbed my arm. Sir dove into my lap, his fur bristling, and glared up at Norris.

  “I’ll kill that thupid mutt.”

  Footsteps pounded in the grass. Emerson dropped to her knees beside me. “Teeny, your lip.”

  “She was thnooping.” Norris stepped back. “I’m taking her to the police.”

  Emerson and Alex helped me to my feet. Nothing felt broken, but my mouth throbbed. She glanced back at Norris. “Why’d you hit her? You big popeyed ape.”

  “I didn’t hit her, I juth tapped her.”

  “I saw you.” Emerson shook her fist. “Norris, you’re a conehead. An ostrich’s eye is bigger than your brain.”

  “Thut up.”

  “You could fit an ostrich in your forehead.” She spat. “Alex, run inside and call 911.”

  “I touched my lip. It hurt worse than a bee sting, but it was swell
ing. Ice. I needed ice.

  “I’m okay,” I said. “Really.”

  But I wasn’t okay. I’d tricked children, stolen a key and diary pages, and I’d gotten slugged by a pervert. I couldn’t leave these innocent babes with him.

  Norris walked alongside us. “Go into the houth, children. I need to talk to Teeny.”

  Emerson ran to the flower bed, grabbed handfuls of black mulch, and threw them into Norris’s eyes. He staggered backward, fingers clawing air.

  “Drive to the police station, Teeny!” Emerson yelled. “Go, or he’ll hurt you again!”

  “I won’t leave you,” I said.

  “I can handle him.” She dug her small hands into the mulch again and pelted Norris.

  A green Cadillac lurched to a stop behind the Mercedes. The door opened, and Helen flew out like a white swan, her head bobbing on her long neck. Her hair was damp at the roots, feathered at the tips. She flung off her sunglasses, looking from Norris to me, then she ducked back into the car and pulled out her tennis racquet.

  “Norris, damn you,” she cried. “Did you hit that woman?”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Yeth, but—”

  “Are you insane? Two neighbors have called me! You attacked a woman in front of witnesses.” She sprinted across the grass and slammed the racket against his ear.

  Whap. Whap. Whap.

  “Mama, no.” He yelped. “Pleath.”

  “Quit sniveling!”

  Whap, whap, whap.

  Norris wrenched away from her grasp and ran around the house. Emerson and Alex grabbed more mulch and chased him. Helen walked over to me, swinging that racquet. The skin around her eyes had turned white.

  “Miss Templeton, I am so sorry. I didn’t raise Norris to hurt women. Please don’t have him arrested. He’s going to a clinic in Arizona next week. But they won’t take him if he’s got pending assault charges. You need to leave before the police get here. I’ll pay your medical bills. I’ll do anything.”

  “Just be kind to Emerson,” I said.

  “Is that all?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  In the distance, I heard a splash, followed by a loud, lisping voice that beseeched Helen to save him from Emerson’s wrath.

  I staggered to the truck. Helen helped me put Sir inside. I got into the front seat, flipped down the visor, and looked at the mirror. No broken teeth. But an upper incisor felt loose. My lip was so big, a chickadee could mistake it for a perch.