The morning went by quickly with lots of customers. Thankfully, most were pleasant and easy to please. Working at the DMV was a soul-sucking job. If I was changing the rest of my sad life, why not change my job too? The idea lit a spark of hope and I began to daydream about possible career choices. I called the next number and glanced up to see Daniel Crocker standing in front of me.
My eyes almost popped out of my head.
And from the look of him, his did too.
“You?” he asked.
I took his paperwork off the counter, wondering how he had gotten it back and why he hadn’t processed it already. But then I remembered his insurance card had expired. Maybe he had just got it replaced.
He rubbed his chin, then leaned his forearm on the counter, looking down at me in confusion. “Weren’t you the girl who fainted last time I was here?”
I gave him a tiny smile. “I don’t know, maybe.” I checked his paperwork. Everything seemed to be in order this time.
“How many of y’all faint around here anyway?” he asked in amazement.
“Well…I guess I’m the only one.” I answered, trying to shrink into my chair.
“Sloan isn’t your brother, is he?”
Crap, crap, crap. “Why do you ask that?” I asked, trying to keep my voice cheerful and professional.
“He’s a cop, isn’t he?”
My head shot up, my eyes wide in shock.
He leaned his head over the counter. “So I guessed right, huh?”
I had no earthly idea what he was talking about. “You really must have us mixed up with someone else. Sloan’s just a bartender and I work at the DMV.” I grabbed a sticker out of the drawer and stapled it to his registration paperwork. “See? I process license plates,” I said with a forced smile. “Everything is in order this time and you’re all set.” I handed him his forms. “You have a nice day now.”
He gave me a snarly glare, then walked away, looking over his shoulder.
“Jeez, I’m glad you processed him,” Suzanne said. “He stalked this place all last week. He’d come in and look around and leave, sometimes coming in a couple of times a day. I wanted to call the police but Betty wouldn’t let me. Guess he had a thing for you. Go figure.” She said the last part with disgust. Almost as if she were jealous.
I tried to figure out what happened. Why did he ask if Sloan was a cop? And even if he was, what did that have to do with me? I didn’t have time to dwell on it, because the rest of the day was one big swarm of customers with complicated issues. It didn’t help matters that I told one man he would be in a fender bender the next day and a woman that her deep freezer got unplugged.
By the time we closed, I was worn out and couldn’t wait to get home to take a bath. I could enjoy one as long as I wanted without Momma pounding on the door, telling me I was taking too long. I tried to find some guilt over the thought, and finally found it, but I had to dig deep. I was sorry she got killed, but I didn’t miss her harping on me all the time.
If that wasn’t an evil thought, I didn’t know what was.
When I pulled in next to the house, I couldn’t stop myself from looking for Joe’s car. I thanked God for the empty driveway; otherwise I wasn’t sure I could be responsible for my actions. I missed him. How that was possible, I didn’t know. I hardly knew him. I didn’t even know what he did for a living, yet I missed him. I sounded like a hormone-riddled teenager. In a way, I supposed I was.
Dirty plates and glasses filled the sink. Part of me wanted to just leave them for the next day since no one forced me to do them now, but the responsible part of me said to wash them. Perhaps if I dragged the responsible Rose out, I could trust myself not to run across the driveway to talk to Joe.
I told myself I could take a bubble bath when I finished the dishes. A little motivation. I piled the dishes in the sink and started to wash. When I opened the dishtowel drawer, I was surprised to find a Walmart bag. It was the nightie I’d bought and stuffed in the drawer the afternoon Joe came over to help me paint.
I hurried through the dishes, casting glances at the Walmart bag. Maybe I could wear it after I took my bath. That sounded decadent. A bubble bath, with candles. Then the nightie. I was turning into a wanton woman. I smiled at the thought. Too bad none of those things marked anything off my list.
I filled the tub with warm water and a lavender bubble bath, an old birthday gift from Violet. I found some candles and lit them before sinking into the water with a book, relaxing in the warm glow of candlelight and the smell of lavender. I could get used to this.
When the water cooled off, I got out and patted off with a towel, staring at the nightie that lay folded in a heap on the toilet seat. Could I really wear it?
Oh for heaven’s sake Rose, it’s a nightie you’re going to wear in your own home. It’s not like you’re posing for Playboy.
I slipped my arms through the straps of the gown, letting the silky fabric slide down my body. I reveled in the feel of it and turned to look at myself in the mirror. For the first time, I felt sensuous. I knew I should feel evil, but I didn’t.
I felt sexy.
I gasped at the thought. I’d never felt sexy in my life.
As I stood in front of the mirror, watching the silky fabric cling to my curves, I couldn’t help but think it was a shame this didn’t check anything off my list. Of course, there was the empty number twenty-nine. I could write wear a nightie in the spot, or take a bath by candlelight. But neither seemed big enough to put in the space. I’d leave it empty for now.
I went through the list from memory. Was there something else on there I could do tonight?
Dance. The conversation I had with Joe jostled its way into my head.
“You’ve never danced?”
“Nope.”
“Now that’s a damn shame. Everyone has danced in their living room.”
I could dance in my living room.
I blew out the candles and made sure the curtains in the living room were closed. I had a CD player in the hall closet, but the only music I had was Momma’s gospel CDs. I wasn’t sure it was really possible to dance to gospel music, even if I got around the wrongness of it. Then I remembered Daddy had an old AM/FM radio he would sometimes listen to while working outside. Last time I’d seen it was out in the shed.
Grabbing an oversized sweater from my room, along with a flashlight and the key to the shed, I opened the side door. The coast was clear, so I hurried to the shed, not running but not walking either. A giant magnolia tree shaded the corner of the backyard, making it hard to see the padlock on the metal shed door. But I didn’t want to turn on the flashlight until I got inside. What if someone saw me? After a bit of fumbling, I managed to get it unlocked. I slid the door open, trying to minimize the squeaking. During the daytime, it didn’t sound so loud when I opened the door to get out the lawnmower, but in the quiet evening, it echoed off the trees.
I slipped through the small opening and cracked the door about six inches behind me, flinching at the screech. The air in the shed was stifling. I hadn’t opened it in over a week, obvious from the slightly overgrown yard. The smell of gasoline and mildewed grass permeated the confined space, making me want to gag. I turned on the flashlight and edged my way past the mower toward the rear, stubbing my toe on the gas can. It banged into the metal wall, vibrating the sides with a loud rattle.
Crappy doodles.
I stopped, muttering to myself to be more careful. The radio wasn’t going anywhere. I needed to slow down, but the confines of the space tested my rising anxiety, my claustrophobia eating at my nerves. Turning sideways, I slid past the mower and managed not to kick anything else. Daddy’s old tools and odds and ends littered the rusted shelves against the back wall. The radio was tucked behind a power tool case on the top shelf. As I stretched to reach it, I heard the squeak of the metal door. I turned in panic and saw the door shut.
I was trapped inside the shed.
Later I thought of a handful of things I sho
uld of have done, but I didn’t do any of them. Instead, I did the first thing that came to mind. I released a blood-curdling scream loud enough to rouse every neighbor in a two-block radius.
“Rose?” Joe’s muffled voice called outside. The door scraped open and he filled the doorway. “What on earth are you doin’ in here?”
I still stood on the chest, my arm reaching up, frozen. At least I had stopped screaming. Instead, I bawled like a baby, to my utter embarrassment. “I was gettin’ the radio… and the door closed…and I thought I was trapped…”
Joe pushed his way past the mower to reach me. “I heard noises out here and thought someone was prowling in your shed. I didn’t know it was you.”
He helped me work my way around the clutter into the night air. I couldn’t make myself stop crying.
Joe leaned down and looked into my eyes, smoothing my hair with his hand. “Hey, are you okay?”
I nodded. Physically, I was fine, in spite of my shaking.
He pulled me into a hug and I laid my cheek against his chest, trying to compose myself.
“I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry.” He rubbed my back.
“It’s okay,” I said, my tears finally subsiding. “I’m just terrified of being locked up.”
“Why?”
“My Momma used to lock me in the closet sometimes.” My voice trailed off in embarrassment. What on earth possessed me to confide that?
“Your mother locked you in a closet?” He sounded incredulous. “Why?”
“Punishment.” I couldn’t admit that she locked me up when I saw things about people. At first, she thought I was spying and she tried to teach me a lesson. Later, it was because I scared her.
“What on earth could you ever do to warrant such a thing?”
I didn’t answer. Nothing could justify what I’d endured.
We stood there a moment, me in his arms, his breath in my hair. My fear dissipated, replaced with another reaction.
“What were you looking for in the shed?” Joe finally broke the silence.
“The radio, but I couldn’t quite reach it.”
Joe dropped his arms and went into the shed. “On the top shelf?”
“Yeah.”
He emerged from the shed with the radio in his hand. It was old and encrusted in dirt. “Is this what you were after?” He held it out.
I nodded and took it from him. “Yes, thanks.”
“Need anything else?”
I shook my head, still having trouble forming words.
He closed the shed and we walked in silence to my side door. I expected him to say something about the other night, to try to explain himself again. I’d listen this time, but he didn’t.
I reached for the doorknob. “Thanks…I think.” He helped me, but only after he scared the tarnation out of me.
“I’m sorry. I really was trying to help.”
I hesitated, not ready for him to leave yet. “Would you like to come in?”
An array of emotions played across his face. First, happiness, from the way his eyes lit up. Then indecision dimmed the gleam. And at last, resignation. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Oh…okay.”
“I’m right next door if you need me.” It came out as kind of a sigh.
I didn’t answer, just went in and shut the door behind me. I took a couple of deep breaths while I tried to slow my racing heart.
I was too late. He’d changed his mind. I set the radio on the table, no longer wanting to dance.
I tossed and turned in bed, shadowy images haunting my sleep. I dreamed I heard glass breaking. And then realized I wasn’t dreaming. I sat up in bed, straining to listen. Just when I was about to lay back down, I heard the creak of a window, the wood scraping the frame as it opened.
I jumped out of bed and stood in the doorway, trying to determine where the sound came from. Momma’s room. I bolted down the hall and into her room, just as a dark figure dressed in black and wearing a stocking cap stuck his leg through the window and I screamed. He jerked his head up, whacking it into the window frame. I grabbed a broom I had left in the room when Violet and I cleaned and started beating the prowler, who hung half in and half out of the opening. My wild swinging broke the glass in the upper window.
The burglar worked himself out the window and fell to the ground, scrambling up and bolting toward Joe’s house. It took me a second to realize I was still screaming.
Get a grip, Rose. He’s gone.
I tried to turn on the lights, but whoever broke in must have cut the electricity. Again. I heard pounding on the side door, causing my panic to return. What if the intruder was trying to get in the side door?
“Rose!” Joe shouted between the banging. “If you don’t open this door, I’m gonna break it down!”
Relieved, I shouted, “I’m coming, give me a second.”
I fumbled with the locks and turned the knob just as Joe burst through, half-naked. He stood in front of me wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts.
“Are you okay? I heard you screaming and when I got outside, I saw someone running from your house. I tackled him, but he knocked me off and got away.”
In the dim light of the streetlamp pouring through the window, I saw multiple scrapes covering his head and back.
“I’m fine,” I said, trying to settle down. “I heard someone breaking in and found them halfway in the window, so I beat them with a broom ‘ til they fell out.”
“Why would you do that? Why didn’t you run away?”
I hadn’t stopped long enough to reason it out. Joe was right. I should have run away, or at least called the police. More than likely, the person climbing through my window meant to kill me. I began to shake and collapsed in the kitchen chair next to me. I sucked in gasps of air as everything got fuzzy, now an all too familiar feeling; I was gonna pass out.
Joe figured it out as I did, kneeling beside me as he pushed my head between my knees. “You’re all right. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”
The feeling subsided and I sat up, still shaking with fear.
“Can you call the police now?” Joe asked.
His question caught me off guard. “You didn’t call them already?”
The contours of his face hardened. “No, I can’t. You have to do it.”
“Why?”
“I’ll stay here until you call the police and then I’m going back home. Don’t tell them I came over and don’t tell them I chased off the person who broke in. Just tell them you beat them with the broom and they ran off.”
“But why? Maybe you can tell them something about the person.”
Joe stood up and reached for the phone. “It’s dead. You’re gonna have to use your cell phone. Where it is?”
“In my purse…”
Joe grabbed the phone out of my bag, which still lay on the kitchen table. “I can’t explain, Rose, just trust me. They can’t know I was here. Can you dial 911 or do you want me to do it?”
I snatched the phone out of his hand, suddenly angry. “I can do it. If you’re gonna go, just go already. I don’t need you, Joe McAllister. I fought the person sneakin’ into my house off all on my own. I surely don’t need you to press a couple of buttons on the phone.”
Joe hesitated, then pulled me into his arms and kissed me, making me forget that I had to make a phone call at all. He leaned back and caressed my cheek. “Thank God, you’re all right.” He gave me a smile, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “I love your nightgown.”
Then he turned around and walked out the door.
ELEVEN
I waited for the police to arrive, alternating between anger and fear. What if I hadn’t woken up? What was up with Joe? Did Daniel Crocker have anything to do with this? It seemed an incredible coincidence that he saw me in the DMV in the afternoon and that night someone broke in. But when the police took my statement, I knew I couldn’t tell them anything about him. What would I say? “You see, officer, it all started when I had a vision
of myself dead…” They’d just haul me away to the funny farm, although I wondered if it might be the safest place for me at the moment.
The police went out back and did all their investigating, whatever that entailed. I hoped at the very least the incident would take their suspicion off me for Momma’s murder, but when I asked they wouldn’t tell me anything. They were there for hours while I sat on the chair in the living room, dozing off and on in my exhaustion. When they left around four in the morning, I struggled with what to do. I was too scared to sleep alone in my house. I didn’t want to call Violet and wake her just so I could get a couple of hours of sleep. Instead, I went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, which I realized I couldn’t do without electricity. I looked over at Joe’s house.
Why couldn’t I tell the police he’d been there?
A niggling of worry slipped into my mind. What if Joe had something to do with it? I really didn’t know much about him. Could it be possible? I dismissed the thought, burning with shame. Joe had been there for me when I needed him. He’d never done anything to make me think badly of him. Well, other than tricking me about his girlfriend. But that hardly made him a suspect in Momma’s murder and the break-in. Sure, I found it odd he didn’t want any involvement with the police, but plenty of people didn’t like police. It didn’t mean anything.
Yet, I couldn’t completely let it go.
I got ready for work and took the fastest shower in my life, peeking around the curtain to see if someone had crept back into the house, waiting to attack. I wondered how I got into this situation in the first place. Why would anyone want to kill me? I wasn’t a threat to anyone, and I’d never even seen Daniel Crocker before that Friday at the DMV.
I left for work much earlier than necessary. Joe’s car still sat in his driveway, and I hurried in case he decided to come out and talk to me. I didn’t feel like seeing Joe McAllister. I was tired and cranky and worried if he confronted me I might actually hit him.
Arriving at work over an hour early, the DMV parking lot looked barren. I laid against the headrest to close my eyes, for just a moment, and dozed off. Loud banging vibrated my side window. Startled, I jerked upright and found Betty standing next to my car. I rolled down the glass.
Crimes of Passion Page 69
