Trouble in a Big Box (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery)

by Alter, Judy

  “And, Kelly, keep your eyes open when you shoot. Don’t shut them. Lots of women are tempted to do that.”

  It was all way too complicated. “What if I don’t have time to remember all those instructions?”

  “Just shoot,” he said.

  We put on earmuffs, and I found myself shooting at the outline of a man, with a bull’s eye where his heart should be. Somehow that was a lot different than shooting at a real person, and after a few shots that went wild, then a few that hit other parts of the target, I got in a head shot and one close to the heart. Darn! I was good at this, and, to my dismay, I began to enjoy it. In fact, I used up all the ammunition Hank had sent us with—practice bullets, though I didn’t know it at the time. It might have diminished my sense of achievement. Anyway, I was slightly disappointed when Mike called it quits.

  “We’ll practice every day this week,” he said. “You should be ready for the class on Saturday.”

  “Every day?”

  “Yep, every day.”

  “How’d she do?” Hank asked.

  “Like a pro,” Mike said. “She’s going to be good.”

  I murmured something about beginner’s luck and reminded myself that if I ever did have to shoot at a living person, it would be a lot different. I still didn’t think I could do it. We paid an exorbitant amount for this small gun and left with barely time to get the girls. When they asked where we’d been, I said, “Mike and I did some shopping,” and dared him, with a long look, to be more specific. The girls were not to know about our purchase.

  ****

  Keisha asked about my afternoon the next morning and I told her the truth but emphasized I didn’t want the girls to know about it. “Those girls figure out more than you know,” she retorted. When I told her about my daylong session Saturday and Maggie’s game, she immediately said she and José would take her. “José used to play soccer. He can give her some pointers.”

  I wasn’t at all sure that was what Maggie would want.

  Meanwhile, I told her I’d be at the range every afternoon, per Mike’s orders, and she laughed.

  Thanks for your support, Keisha.

  Joe called to report he was off for the day and would be trying to catch up with Bella.

  “The police haven’t found her, Joe. I don’t know how you can.”

  “She’s not following you?”

  “No, not since the other night. I don’t know why she turned up outside our house last night, but I suspect she knows they found a bloody butcher knife at her mom’s house and they want to fingerprint her and Ben.”

  “I bet I can find her,” he said, and I decided there were some things it was better not to ask Joe about.

  Sure enough he reported that night he’d found her and Ben, hiding out in an abandoned building, apparently one that several homeless kids stayed in. He wouldn’t tell me more—“I can’t betray a trust,” he said. “She says she didn’t kill Sonny and neither did Ben. She didn’t much like him, but as she put it ‘He wasn’t worth killing—not over Rosalinda.’” He paused a minute and said, “She did tell me Rosalinda was pregnant. She hadn’t told anyone yet except Bella. I gathered she kind of lorded it over Bella with how good Sonny was going to be to her and her child.”

  That led my mind on a whole different train of thought—perhaps Sonny had almost staged that accident so he could get rid of Rosalinda. Gruesome thought—and it made me angry all over again. To think Mike might have been killed because that scum—excuse me, don’t talk ill of the dead—wanted to dump a pregnant girlfriend. Surely not. How could he be sure she’d be killed—or at least lose the baby—and he wouldn’t be hurt? But back to Bella and Ben.

  “If they’re innocent, why don’t they come forward and let themselves be fingerprinted?”

  “If they’re innocent, and it’s a big if, they still don’t trust police. Call them ‘the man.’ She asked me if I knew anything about a big development on Magnolia Avenue. Told her I don’t.”

  “I do, Joe. I’m opposed to it.”

  “She said Sonny Adams was mixed up in that and that’s probably why he got killed.”

  How would she know that? And what did that have to do with her stalking me?

  “If she didn’t like Rosalinda or Sonny either one, why stalk me?”

  “I haven’t figured that out. I asked her, and that’s when she looked scared, said she couldn’t talk to me anymore.”

  We talked a bit more, neither of us getting anywhere, and then said good night. I was totally confused.

  I tried to repeat the conversation to Mike, but as I did it made even less sense.

  “The good thing, Kelly, is that you don’t have to figure it out. It’s police business.”

  How many times have I heard that before? “I don’t have to figure it out, but I have to be prepared to shoot someone to protect myself, my girls, you? That’s even more confusing. Of course I have to figure it out.”

  “Mom, you’re not going to shoot anyone, are you?” Em had come quietly into the room and now stood in front of me, looking very solemn.

  I swept her into my arms. “Of course not, darling. Mike and I were having a hypothetical conversation.”

  “What’s hypo-et-ical?”

  “Hypothetical,” Maggie said calmly, coming up behind her sister. “It means it’s not really going to happen.”

  “I don’t want Mommy to shoot anyone.”

  Neither does Mommy, I thought.

  I tossed and turned that night, and I know I disturbed Mike, who found it hard enough to find a comfortable position where his hip didn’t hurt him. Finally I went into the living room and curled up on the couch. It wasn’t as comfortable as curling up next to Mike.

  I guess it was three in the morning when Mike, using his cane, came into the living room and sat on the edge of the couch.

  “Can’t sleep,” I muttered into my pillow.

  “Because you’re trying too hard to figure all this out.”

  “And you’re not?” I thought he should at least be as puzzled as I was. “Aren’t you worried?”

  “Yeah, I am. Mostly about you.” He stroked my hair. “I’ll talk it all out with Conroy tomorrow, though you know what he’ll say about Joe being involved.”

  “Don’t say anything about how or where Joe found Bella. I wish you didn’t have to tell him about Joe at all. Joe doesn’t want to be a snitch, and Theresa says there’s always a chance someone will retaliate for his having gone over to, oh I don’t know, the other side.”

  “What other side?” Mike was grinning. I could see his face in the reflection from the streetlight.

  “The law-abiding side.”

  “I suppose he’s right. I’ll work it out with him to keep Joe out of it.”

  “And I’ll call Tom Lattimore tomorrow, see if I can find anything out.”

  “Kelly, wait till next week to do that.”

  I sat up. “Why?”

  “‘Cause you’ll have a gun then. Come on back to bed.”

  I overslept, the girls were late to school, Mike was late to his desk, and Keisha gave me a skeptical look.

  ****

  Mike wasn’t fooling. We went to the practice range every day for two hours or more. He made me take apart that gun, load it and reload it more times than I care to remember. He moved targets closer to me, than farther away. He narrowed the range of the target until I could put five out of five bullets within quite a small circle and at a fairly distant range. And I did it repeatedly. He beamed like a proud father.

  Friday, as we left the range, he said, “I think you’re ready. All those practices I made you do are what they’ll ask you to do in the exam.”

  “Exam? I thought it was just…well, you know…they’d talk a lot and I’d sign my life away if I shot somebody and that was it.”

  “Nope. It’s a test. You have to demonstrate that you can shoot.”

  Saturday wasn’t nearly as long a day as I expected. The class began with lectures—about safety,
about where you could and couldn’t carry a concealed handgun. The State of Texas has a thick book of regulations—no way could I remember all of them, but I think I got the basics. There was a quiz, and apparently I passed, because Hank didn’t pull me out of the class.

  Hank showed some purses that had built-in sleeve-like things so you didn’t have to dig in your purse to find your gun. “Excuse me, would you stand right there? Don’t shoot me yet, because I’m still looking for my gun.” Since I dig in my purse all the time for my keys, the purse wasn’t a bad idea—but it was expensive, and I still didn’t think I was ever going to use that gun. There were practice sessions on cleaning a gun, loading it, unloading it, etc. Over half the people in the class of about twelve looked to be thoroughly familiar with guns and fairly bored with this part. We also had to fill out endless forms about our background, occupation, all that stuff. I presume they do a background check on everyone who applies for a CHL.

  Finally, after I ate my tuna sandwich from home with a Coke from the machine during a short lunch break, it was time for the range test. I wouldn’t ever tell Mike that I looked forward to that part of the day. Once again I did well—in fact, I ended up at the head of the class, much to the disgust of some of the more seasoned shooters among us.

  “Tell Mike you get a gold star for the day—and a permit.” He handed me the permit. “Keep this on you at all times when you’re carrying.”

  I almost asked carrying what, but I caught myself in time. Instead, I said, “Is that like the smiley face my girls get at school?”

  Hank was taken aback, but he finally said, “Well, I guess so.”

  When I got home, Mike announced that the girls wanted pizza and we were going to Chadra. Claire and Liz would meet us, but Megan was busy—a date, he thought. Sounded good to me.

  We had a happy dinner, with thoughts of guns and stalkers and Tom Lattimore far from my mind. The girls and Liz wanted pizza, while Claire and I settled for the restaurant's big salads and Mike ordered chicken schwarma.

  Liz regaled us with tales of high school life, and Maggie hung on her every word. Em stared more skeptically when Liz talked about crushes on boys and who liked who.

  “So is there someone special in your life, Liz?” Mike asked.

  She as much as glared at her mother. “No, Mom won’t let me date until I’m sixteen. Or drive.”

  Claire remained calm under the stare directed at her. “Soon enough, my dear, and then there will be rules. Ask Megan.”

  “Mom, that was a long time ago.”

  “Hmmm. Three years, I think.”

  “Well things are different now.”

  “They sure are. Your texting bill is out of sight.”

  Primly Liz said, “I can afford it,” and I saw Claire clench her jaw. According to Jim Guthrie’s will, Liz had a monthly allowance that was probably twice what a girl her age should have. And Megan got no money. Apparently all the tension between Claire and Liz wasn’t resolved.

  “I want a cell phone,” Maggie said. “All my friends have iPhones.”

  Mike and I exchanged glances, and he spoke. “An iPhone is pretty expensive, but we might consider looking at some other smart phones. Isn’t Christmas coming?”

  “Do I have to wait that long?” Maggie wailed.

  Liz jumped in. “Maggie, I didn’t get one until I was in high school. My dad got it for me.”

  That little barb again. I decided it was time to change the subject.

  “Thanksgiving is coming, and I don’t think Mom wants to do it at her house. Too many painful memories of last year, when she was so happy that Ralphie joined us.” Actually, Mom hadn’t said that, but I suspected she wouldn’t want to hostess and I’d present it to her tactfully.

  “His name was Ralph,” Em corrected. She didn’t understand I couldn’t think of him as anything other than Ralphie when he confessed how he’d hated it when his mother and her friends called him that well after he was grown.

  “Uh, my mistake. Anyway, you all understand. Other than that, I think we’d want the same crowd, except Keisha will want to bring José and I suspect both Keisha and Mom will want Otto included.”

  Claire was behind times, and we had to explain about Keisha’s new beau, José, and Mom’s new friend—I thought the term beau wildly inappropriate—Otto. Claire laughed at the story of Keisha and Mom practically fighting to see which one could adopt Otto and feed him more often. Then she sobered. “My house was built for entertaining”—she shot a glance at me, for after all it had been my house before I sold it to her—“and I’d love to host this year.”

  “We’ll all bring something,” I said. “Let me make a list of who’s coming and then we can find out what each one wants to provide.”

  “I insist on fixing the turkey,” Claire said. “I saw some great recipes in the new Bon Appétit.”

  Mike groaned. “Can’t we just have plain old-fashioned turkey?”

  “Hush.” I squeezed his knee under the table. “You know what Claire fixes will be good.”

  “And you can carve, Mike,” she added.

  “Oh, great.” But he smiled. His arm had been out of the cast for a while, and he could now carve with both arms. I think he was pleased to be asked.

  “I can make onion soup dip,” Maggie said proudly, and Em looked crestfallen until I assured her we’d find something for her to make.

  “It’s only two weeks away,” I said. “We’ve got to get busy.”

  Late that night, when Mike plaintively asked, “Aren’t you coming to bed?” I replied, “In a minute. I’m making a Thanksgiving list—it’s really long, as I expected.” And it was: Anthony and his sons, Theresa and Joe, Mike, me and the girls, Mom, Keisha and José and Keisha’s mom, Claire and her girls. Oh, yes, and Otto. Why was he always an afterthought? “Sixteen of us.”

  “I didn’t know we had that many friends,” Mike said, and I nearly threw a legal pad at him. Then I turned out the light and climbed into bed, my thoughts full of how to spark up the traditional menu without abandoning it.

  As he reached for me, Mike said, “I do not want to debate the various ways of cooking a turkey.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Monday morning in the office, I was worrying about how to approach Tom Lattimore. I hadn’t forgotten Bella’s words that the development held the secret to Sonny Adams’ murder and the implication that Lattimore might hold the secrets to a lot more things. But I was not going to be a hypocrite and call to ask brightly how the plans for the presentation to the Historic Landmark Commission were going. I certainly wasn’t going to gloat over the Zoning Commission’s decision to delay their verdict. I hadn’t talked to Tom since—and our last two lunches had ended disastrously—so I was drawing a blank on a pretense to call him. Unless I just called and asked bluntly what he knew about Sonny Adams. Not a good idea, Kelly. Cancel.

  I’d shuffle papers, read a few new MLS listings, sit and stare, then shuffle papers again. Getting nowhere. Until the phone rang about ten, and Keisha said, “Certainly, Mr. Lattimore. I’ll put you through.”

  “Put you through,” meant “I’ll hold my hand over the receiver and tell her it’s you.”

  I answered as cheerfully as possible. “Hi, Tom, how’s it going?”

  “Fine, Kelly, just fine. But I wanted to apologize for a couple of things. One is that I did not put Jake Southerland up to what he said the other night.”

  “I know. His wife is a client of mine.”

  He coughed self-consciously. “Ah, not any more, Kelly. I just sold them a house in Berkeley. Sorry. But Jake didn’t want to deal with you any more after that meeting.”

  This conversation wasn’t going well, but I tried to tell myself that in real estate, as in any other business, you win some and you lose some. So my reply was honest: “I’m sorry to lose a sale. I had a house that his wife really liked.”

  “Someone else will like it just as well. But, Kelly, we’ve been friends a long time, and I want to keep it that way.
Our last two lunches were pretty, well…what’s the word I want?”

  This time I couldn’t resist. “How about disastrous?”

  That cough again. “Yes, they were disasters. I want to take you to lunch to make amends. We won’t talk about developments. Just visit for old times’ sake.”

  If Tom Lattimore thought he wasn’t as transparent as a sheet of clean glass, he needed his brain examined. But it might be worth it to see what he wanted. And I could slip in my Sonny Adams question.

  “Sounds good, Tom. Let’s mend fences.”

  “Indeed. How about today or are you booked?”

  Hmmm. I could pretend to have a busy schedule and fit lunch in a week from Thursday—or I could be honest and say today would be fine, which is what I did.

  “Great. No tacos. No Chadra. How about meeting at Carshon’s? I love that place, and I don’t get there often enough.”

  Claire and I had been there recently, but I was game. “Sure, I can meet you there—say twelve thirty?”

  “I’ll be there,” he promised.

  I took Mike home at noon, made him a sandwich, pleaded an appointment and left. He was preoccupied with a cold case file someone had thrown on his desk this morning and barely noticed that I wasn’t eating lunch with him.

  “Sure, hon. See you tonight.”

  Tom Lattimore had secured a table in a remote corner of Carshon’s. “It’s rarely quiet here,” he said, rising to greet me. “But this is the best I could do, and besides, we aren’t telling secrets, are we?” He grinned conspiratorially, making me his ally—or so he thought.

  “My treat. What will you have? I recommend the Reuben.”

  I love Carshon’s Reuben sandwiches and was sorely tempted. But I resisted and ordered lox and cream cheese but with rye toast instead of a bagel. Tom gave me a strange look but ordered a grilled Reuben with pastrami. “Kelly, I got you here under false pretenses. I want your help.” His smile was his most charming and disarming.

  I was neither charmed nor disarmed. “How so?”

  “It looks like the development is going down the tubes, and my backers want me to do whatever I can to pull it out. So I want your advice.”