Nodding, Mary Grace said, “I expected that. I’ll talk to the detectives on the case and see if they’ll talk to you instead.”
The manager nodded back. “Still going to need a subpoena. But if you really have the proof, that shouldn’t be an issue.”
Mary Grace showed her copies of the drawings to the clerks there and none of them remembered the woman in particular. Two remembered selling the outfits, but didn’t remember to whom they had sold them or whether they had sold the outfit to the same person who had bought the sling. It’s hard being a detective, she thought. My feet hurt. I should have worn sneakers instead of heels. All those times Scully was wearing heels on The X-Files was phooey. And as for detectives’ lives being glamorous, that’s a bunch of craporama.
When she exited the store, Mary Grace looked around and saw Jones sitting in his sedan, gazing at her expectantly. She frowned and looked around. This store had the sling. This store had the baby outfit. She’d seen a rack of them still available. It stood to reason that Deep Throat Mommy had been there and recently, too. Mary Grace was close, close enough to be frustrated at the abrupt halt of information.
Did Deep Throat Mommy live around here? Mary Grace thought it was a strong possibility. But there was also the factor that the sling and the outfit could have been a gift from someone else.
Not wanting to go with that scenario, Mary Grace looked around determinedly at the stores in the strip. Where else would a mommy go here? Starbucks for a caffeine injection? Linens N Things for Yankee Candles so she can’t smell baby drool? Applebee’s for ribs to get the extra calories for producing milk? She was stumped. I wonder if I can burn a Yankee Candle in the Monza without having a major explosion.
Someone stepped through the sliding glass doors from the store behind her and paused just to Mary Grace’s right. She was a slender young woman wearing a blue work smock and worn blue jeans. Her label pin said her name was Tabby. She had short red hair and blue eyes, neither of which was real. She watched Mary Grace for a moment and lifted a pack of cigarettes out of a front pocket. Efficiently, she extracted one and put it to her lips. While she was expertly lighting it with a disposable lighter, she said, “You want one?”
“No, thank you,” Mary Grace said. She hadn’t asked this woman about Deep Throat Mommy, probably because Tabby had been in the back pulling out stock or unloading incoming merchandise. It seemed like a long shot to ask the young woman then.
“Someone said there was a lady asking about a blonde haired woman with a blonde haired baby,” Tabby said casually, expelling smoke into the air. “‘Course there is a ferocious shit load of blonde women with a passel of blonde haired babies around this place. Can’t poke a stick without hitting a baby here.” She laughed and smoke belched out of her nostrils.
Mary Grace produced the copy of the drawing and showed it the young woman, not really expecting any results.
Tabby looked at it and then her gaze returned to Mary Grace’s face. “What do you want with her?”
I’m tired of secrets, Mary Grace thought, unsure if Tabby really knew anything or she was simply bored on her break. “She knows who has been trying to kill me,” Mary Grace said instead of lying. “I want to know who it is.”
Tabby didn’t seem particularly surprised by the revelation. She puffed once and blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth instead of into Mary Grace’s face. Finally, she asked, “Are you going to turn her into the police?”
“No, she’s been trying to protect me. I don’t want to hurt her or her child,” Mary Grace said somberly and sincerely. It was true.
Tabby thought about it as she smoked. When half the cigarette was gone, she said, “Goose Creek. Her name is Pippa. I don’t know what her last name is. She’s friends with my sister and sometimes she comes in to use my employee’s discount.”
“Goose Creek?” Mary Grace repeated. The name sounded familiar. She thought of the flying goose logo on the piece of paper left on the Miata’s windshield but it hadn’t said Goose Creek on it.
“It’s over on Granbury Road,” Tabby pointed. “All the way to the end. There’s a big sign. Kind of like a commune, I think.”
“I could kiss you,” Mary Grace said gratefully. “But I won’t embarrass you.”
Tabby shrugged. “Don’t hurt Pippa. I think she’s a pretty nice lady, but she’s in a bad sitch.”
“A bad sitch,” Mary Grace said. “What do you mean by that?”
A sudden tapping at the window behind them showed the manager gesturing at Tabby to come back in. Tabby pitched the butt and nodded to Mary Grace. “Good luck,” she said as she went inside. “With someone trying to kill you and all.”
Mary Grace looked after Tabby and frowned. She could wait for the girl to come back out on another break or get off work, or she could go check out Goose Creek herself.
She shrugged. What’s it going to hurt?
Chapter Twenty-One – Saturday, June 25th
How to preserve a husband: Choose one who is young, unmarked, and frisky, but not too young for he will be green at heart. Keep warm with loving, and serve with warm apple pie and French vanilla iced cream. Who cares about the stickiness? Wrap up a cocoon of appreciation or leather if you’ve a mind for kinkiness. Deep-rooted guidance is the best kind and you can just imagine the outcome. - Aunt Piadora’s Beauty Hints (and sometimes helpful yet old fashioned advice)
Mary Grace stared at the gate for the compound known as Goose Creek Association and mentally catalogued her various aches, bruises, and scrapes. The bloody nose resulting from the car’s air bag being deployed from the impact into the back of an eighteen wheeler had lasted only a few throbbing days, leaving no discernable damage. The BMW emblem was still embedded in her door frame at her home and apparently wouldn’t cause anything to become infected or make a difference in how her house appeared. The oleanders and crepe myrtle were dead and they weren’t coming back. Her neighbor, Mrs. Frasier, swore that her pet poodle’s tail wasn’t growing back, but Mary Grace saw a few days earlier that Attila’s tail was indeed coming back, puffier than ever. The shooting attempt combined with assisted battery had caused a facial bruise that was fading fast and required neutral concealer in abundance and applied with a trowel. However, the Prada purse was toast and the Jimmy Choos needed reconstructive surgery. The successive event was Callie getting smeared by someone as yet unidentified and her leg wouldn’t ever be the same again, extra metal pins and all. Then Mary Grace could throw in the getting-banned-from-the-mall experience which included the occurrence of getting thumped over the head by No. 3 wearing a cheap disguise.
At first Mary Grace had discounted her Texas wine country escapade as a product of her own foolishness, but she reconsidered that it wouldn’t have happened if she had been looking for Deep Throat Mommy and the identity of Mary Grace’s stalker. Getting beaned with a wine press hadn’t been No. 3’s responsibility but ultimately Mary Grace was certain that No. 3 would have approved whole-heartedly.
But the thorough destruction of Callie’s Miata was definitively unwarranted and Mary Grace had ended up with a new collection of colorful scrapes on her legs and arms thanks to her erstwhile rescuer. Note to self, she thought. Send that guy some of Bill and Marv’s merlot, maybe a whole case. Hope he likes red and that he’s not a recovering alcoholic by chance.
All of that was the culmination of Mary Grace’s life for the previous three weeks. There was the loss of her job, the gaining of a lover who distrusted her, and the infamy of being a pair of walking, enormous boobies which had garnered the attention of not one perverted, doctoral candidate but a lecherous boss and his sociopathic, five year old son. Not that Trey seemed interested in my howitzers but it can’t be discounted completely.
Am I leaving something out? Mary Grace chewed on her lower lip. Probably, but who’s counting?
So she studied the gates of the compound. White painted, wrought iron gates hung lackadaisically from two natural-rock, stone pillars. A wooden sign hung crooke
dly on one pillar and announced in hand painted letters that this was Goose Creek Association. A flying goose above the letters emphasized the point. Through the gates was an asphalt road that had seen better days. The asphalt was breaking into piece and through the cracks weeds were sprouting at a phenomenal rate. Through a thick range of trees she could see what looked like an old plantation house.
It was smaller, of course, and the paint was peeling from what she could see. The faux columns were tilting and one side of the roof looked like it was ready to fall in, but at sometime in the last fifty years, someone had built their own version of Tara, right in the hearty part of Northern Texas.
A few cars lined the drive way, mostly older models with wear and tear evident. Mary Grace had parked outside the gate along the side of the road and stared. Jones the detective had pulled up behind her and waited unhelpfully. She thought about asking him what he could find out about the place, but knew he would probably call Brogan to tell her to stop bugging him. Then Brogan would tell her to hide in a corner somewhere until his machoness found the real suspect.
Mary Grace knew she was being unfair to Brogan but she couldn’t quite bring herself to let it go yet. The frustrated accusation of the previous day still rankled; no matter out of what well of despair it had sprung.
Focusing her attention on the gates in front of her, Mary Grace knew she had to come to a decision. Sunset was coming soon and she would have to call her mother and tell her the results of her search or she could simply walk up to the door and ask for Pippa. Mary Grace frowned. When Deep Throat Mommy had confronted Mary Grace in the mall, she had scanned the area as if expecting someone to find her. Then she had froze, and muttered, “Oh, crudcakes,” whereupon she had fled. Deep Throat Mommy had snuck up to Mary Grace’s back gate to talk to her because she hadn’t wanted anyone to see her. And somehow she had followed Callie and Mary Grace to North Arlington where Jack lived.
Why? Mary Grace hadn’t asked herself before. Pippa, or DTM, knows who No. 3 is. Furthermore, she doesn’t want No. 3, or perhaps someone else, to know that she’s warning me. So if I walk up to the house I might be putting her in danger. She pulled out her cell phone, noticed it was low on its charge, and dialed information. A minute later she had the number for the Goose Creek Association and she had remembered where she had seen the name before. When she had looked through the yellow pages she had seen it. Goose Creek Association. No logo or advertisement. Just a telephone number. She had disregarded it because it wasn’t just ‘Goose.’ But then she should have looked under something like ‘Flying Goose,’ or ‘Airborne Goose,’ or something else of that ilk.
I’m not a bad detective, she decided. No, I’m a shitty detective. And what was she going to say to Jones the detective sitting in the car behind her? ‘I’m selling Tupperware here, don’t worry, and can you have your big gun ready just in case I come running out with someone in a cheap red wig chasing after me with an order for a six piece container set in raspberry and a large, shiny, butcher knife?’
Mary Grace held the phone in her hand and started to punch the buttons for the number when the phone immediately announced it was out of juice and gave up the ghost. She reached for her charger only to rapidly remember that her cell phone charger was in the Explorer, which was in the auto shop and that she was in the Chevy Monza. Like my nose is going to forget that.
Casting a glance over her shoulder at Jones, she thought about it. If she walked up the drive, which was open and didn’t deny trespassers, she could be out of his sight almost immediately. Then she could work her way around the back of the house and maybe look inside to see if Pippa AKA Deep Throat Mommy was present and accounted for. Then she could formulate her next move.
After all, Mary Grace felt confident wearing camouflaged leggings with a denim miniskirt and a scoop neck camisole in life jacket orange. She wore Mossimo Gracie heeled boots in basic brown that set off the ensemble which she had gotten at Target for 30% off, and did she need to mention that not all chain stores were built the same? Of course, she had the Taser gun, too, just in case. It wasn’t exactly a fashion accessory, but it certainly helped prop up her coolness level.
•
Thatcher Jones brushed his hand through his short, dirty blonde hair and watched Mary Grace Castilla get out of her borrowed car. An ugly primer and brown colored hatchback, it looked like it would expire on its hideous back on the blistering asphalt like a beetle gasping for its last breath. That was all right with Thatcher because he’d much rather drive Mary Grace to her various destinations than follow her in a haphazard manner. He couldn’t figure out what she was doing. She had gone to several stores dealing with baby merchandize. Finally, she’d ended up here, at someone’s private residence.
Thatcher looked at the sign. Not exactly a private residence. Be damned if I know what Goose Creek Association is, though. Probably someone’s idea of a stupid joke or something that sounds a lot fancier than it really is. He thought about it before he was going to call it in; he didn’t really want to talk to Brogan while the other man was in such a shitty mood. Thatcher didn’t want to think about what the other detective was so riled up about; it might be catching and what guy needed that?
Mary Grace took her purse out of the car and slung it over her shoulder, peeking at Thatcher as she did. He thought she appeared a little guilty. He also thought that Brogan was in a lot of trouble if she was visiting baby goods shops so early in their relationship. Furthermore, if anything happened to Mary Grace while Thatcher was watching her, in the mood that the other man was currently in, Brogan would gleefully rip out Thatcher’s testicles and shove them down his throat in retribution.
Guy’s got it bad, Thatcher thought. Mary Grace seemed to be good looking, bona fide flaky, but nice girl. He nodded to himself. The worst kind. The marrying kind. So much for Brogan being a single, fun loving kind of guy anymore. Gonna miss that big screen plasma in his living room. Oh well, maybe she’s got some hot sisters or girlfriends for all Brogan’s single cop friends. Like moi.
Locking the car’s door, Mary Grace paused briefly, set her shoulders squarely, and then went through the gate. Thatcher fiddled with the keys. The sedan was still running on account of the air conditioning worked well and the air outside was very hot. Since she was going into a private house or whatever it was, he was thinking he was going to have to follow her. It was different when Brogan said she was inside her aunt’s house. This wasn’t her aunt’s house and as far as he knew, it wasn’t one of her friends. It certainly wasn’t a big chain store with a couple of dozen people, mostly women with babies, milling about. He took a deep breath and turned the keys to the off position.
Thatcher got out of the car and Mary Grace was already out of sight. Dammit, she’s like the Energizer bunny, he thought, only peripherally noticing a dark car pulling up behind him to park.
“Hey!” Thatcher called to Mary Grace. There wasn’t a response and he sighed melodramatically. He jangled the keys and put them into his pants pocket without much enthusiasm. The things I have to do. What I get paid to baby sit a twenty-something shopaholic with big moon balloons is insane.
Thatcher started to call out again, when someone slugged him in the back of his head, and the conscious world abruptly ceased to exist for him.
•
Brogan looked out the window of his home and wished he could have slept more than a couple of hours. He’d been watching Mary Grace all night long, concerned about her well-being, but not wanting to actually talk to her. He groaned audibly. How could he have said those things about her? Certainly, once sanity had returned, he didn’t think them. Anyone who even talked with Mary Grace for more than a minute could tell she was ridiculously innocent, as naïve as the day she was born.
His only excuse, his only rationale, was that in the moment he had realized he was looking at the squashed remains of the vehicle that Mary Grace had been driving, he had lost all sense of reason. That single moment that had stretched into a hopeless eterni
ty where Brogan knew that a day without Mary Grace in it would be dull and lifeless, and as appealing as swamp gas. But that moment had passed and she was there, standing as if nothing was wrong, with a peculiar expression on her face. It was in that instant Brogan had nearly snapped. He found himself with his nose buried in her hair, smelling her unique fragrance as if it were life-giving, and the next second he had pulled himself away, finding a well of anger to defend himself against the unwelcome feelings raging inside him.
The wrecking ball incident brought at least one thing to the forefront of his mind. There was still someone trying to kill Mary Grace. The first one was an idiot. Trey Kennebrew thought he was doing something ethical and scientific and had lost sight of daylight in the process. The second one was ludicrous. Morgan Covington was five years old and a child prodigy. He was probably going to graduate from college before he was ten years old, but the psychological aspects of his brain development hadn’t caught up to social and ethical mores. The DA and the shrinks would have to deal with that one. So who was left?
Mary Grace had said Kennebrew hadn’t done the third attempt. Furthermore, Kennebrew had an ironclad alibi for the time period when Callie had been hit by the unidentified sedan. Brogan had checked it out himself. The kid had been playing golf with his doctoral advisor and two other doc-can’s. He’d shot a 74. The four of them had even taken a photo when the doctoral advisor had shot a double eagle on a par-5 hole.
Then Brogan had spent some time with Victor Bloodsaw putting their cases together to see what they could come up with. Brogan was seriously considering asking Mary Grace to go into protective custody or leaving the state until they resolved the issue. Even the security guards at the mall that Mary Grace had been banned from and the security feed didn’t help. In addition, the security feed in the parking garage had been drastically out of focus and didn’t help identify the figure that had systematically flattened the Mazda Miata’s tires and scratched the exterior of the vehicle. The crane operator hadn’t gotten a good look at the person who had accosted him, and apparently, neither had anyone else.
Dial M for Mascara Page 23
