by Betty Webb
However, now that Dr. Bradley Teague had been proven to be in Africa at the time of the killings, and the nurse Dr. Cameron had fired was pretty much ruled out, too, I considered the prime suspects to be the Hoyts, with Monster Woman a close runner-up. The entire Hoyt family was vicious, and one of them liked to swing a baseball bat. As for Monster Woman, aka Terry Jardine, she was crazy-mean enough to do anything. At least the judge had raised her bail to five hundred thousand, so I might be able to gather her dog’s feces in peace.
Frustrated by the incongruity of collecting dog poop, I decided to do something more pleasant: see how Ali was getting along. A call to her uncle elicited the fact that the girl had spent yesterday afternoon clothes shopping with Juliana.
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked.
“Why would you think I’m kidding, Miss Jones? The girl couldn’t keep wearing the clothes they gave her at her release, and she certainly doesn’t want to go back into that house…” He paused for a moment, then continued. “…back in her house for her other things. Later, maybe, but not now.”
“I meant that you had to be kidding, letting her leave with Juliana.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
He probably didn’t know Juliana was Ali’s biological mother, which might explain his obtuseness. But I remembered the way Juliana had stared at Ali during her family’s funeral, the hunger in her eyes. Would the ice queen be sensitive to the girl’s needs? I doubted it. Ali needed someone warm, not a senatorial candidate.
“There’s nothing actually wrong, Dr. Teague, just that, considering everything, getting those two together could wind up being problematical in several ways. Leaving that aside, tell me how they got along?”
“Fine, I guess, because they’re shopping again today. Miss Thorsson’s already picked her up for another trip to Scottsdale Fashion Square.”
I let that sink in for a moment. “Um, I’m curious, Dr. Teague. How much do you actually know about Ms. Thorsson?”
“Enough to know she’s probably going to make a run for the U.S. Senate. We had a nice discussion about politics and there’s a lot of agreement there. I found her quite refreshing.”
“Oh, for…” In these cynical days, when politicians smoked crack and texted pictures of their penises, Juliana’s being a politician might make a more cautious person think twice about handing an impressionable young teen over to her care for a carefree day at the mall. But not Ali’s uncle, who had the sensitivity of a doorknob. “You mean, based on the fact that she’s a senatorial candidate, you turned your niece over to a woman you’ve just met?”
“Well, that and the fact that she’s Ali’s biological mother.”
“Thorsson told you?!” I yelled so loudly, that everyone in Starbucks, baristas included, turned to look at me. After mouthing “Sorry” at them, I lowered my voice. “She actually said that?”
Dr. Teague sounded surprised by my surprise. “Why wouldn’t she? And she didn’t just tell me, she showed me her copy of the contract she’d signed with my brother and Alexandra.”
So Juliana had kept it all these years. Interesting. I forced myself to calm down. “Has she told Ali yet?”
I could almost hear his shrug. “I didn’t ask.”
The man was emotionally tone-deaf, so I ended the call as civilly as possible. Compared to Teague, Juliana Thorsson was a heaving mass of unrestrained emotion, but I wanted to make certain she treated Ali with more sensitivity than he did. Given the death of the girl’s family, followed by a three-week stint in the corrections system, she had been traumatized enough. The last person she needed to be around was someone who knew diddly-squat about kids. It was one thing to experience a brief yearning for your biological child, another thing entirely to care for her. During my twelve-year stint in Child Protective Services, I’d lived in two foster homes where the people had loved the idea of children, but wound up hating the reality. As a result, they took their disappointment out on their foster kids. In some cases, the kids fought back.
Remembering the gun cabinets in Juliana’s condo, I hit Thorsson’s number on speed dial. She picked up right away, sounding hurried. From the bits of bad canned music I heard on the other end, they were already in the mall. “What do you want, Lena? I’m busy right now.”
“Yeah, shopping with Ali.”
A sniff. “You talked to Dr. Teague, I take it.”
“Yep.”
“Then that’s one conversation we don’t need to have.”
With a feeling of dread I realized how much the woman took for granted. We could turn back time, and as some high-toned medieval philosopher once exulted, all would be well, and all would be well, and all would always be well. Except when it wasn’t. Careful not to let my frustration show, I said, “Although technically you are my client, I’m as concerned about Ali’s welfare as I am yours, so I’m just checking in to see how she’s doing.”
“She’s doing fine.” A hint of amusement.
“You haven’t already told Ali about your, ah, relationship, have you?”
The frost returned. “Give me credit for some common sense.”
Common sense? When she was out in public with a young teen who looked just like her? When I mentioned that, she laughed.
“It’s common knowledge I have a sister and niece, but so far, no one’s said anything about the resemblance. If and when they do, I’ll deal with it. In the meantime, say hi to Ali. She’s been asking about you.”
Rustling sounds, then a new voice. Lighter. Warmer. “Lena! Guess what? I’m out of juvie!” For the first time since I’d met her, she actually sounded like a fourteen-year-old.
“That’s great, kiddo. I hear you’re at the mall.”
“Yep. I got new jeans, new tops, new skirts, a couple necklaces, and a bracelet. Oh. And shoes and underwear.”
I remembered she was going through a Goth stage. “All black?”
Her tone sobered. “I’ll never wear colors again.” The way she said it, I knew it wasn’t a reference to style. “Anyway, Julie showed me this new color, Arctic Black. It looks black, but in certain lights, it’s bluish-gray.”
Julie? “Sounds pretty. I’ll have to look that up for myself. Now pass the phone back to, ah, Julie.”
“Told you so,” Juliana said, as soon as she was on the line.
“Well, don’t rush things.”
The note of amusement returned. “Says the expert on teenage girls. Oh, well, since you’re so concerned, why don’t you drop by my place around five? We should be finished shopping by then, and you can check out Ali’s emotional health in person. I’ll make us some more iced tea.”
I’d thought more along the line of going back to Jimmy’s trailer for a nap after my next two stops, but I didn’t want to pass up this chance. “Sounds good. Uh, just as a warning, I got into a bit of a scrape the other day…” when a lunatic tried to kill me “…so I’m sporting a shiner and a few other cuts and bruises. Better prepare her for that.”
“She’s seen worse.”
I remembered the photographs of the Cameron crime scene. “Yes, she has.”
It was only after the dial tone that I wondered how long Ali’s visit with Juliana would last. Surely Dr. Teague wouldn’t let her spend the night with a woman he’d just met. Then again, given the man’s utter cluelessness, he might.
The crowd in Starbucks had thinned out by the time I stashed my cell back into my carryall, so I walked up to the counter and ordered a venti to go. No fancy flavors or froths, just twenty ounces of high-test straight stuff. Thus fortified for my next appointment, I went back to my Jeep.
***
Monster Woman’s roommate was happy to see me. Due to a misunderstanding I hadn’t bothered to correct when we spoke on the phone, she thought Terry Jardine and I were friends. Like Terry, Phoebe MacIntosh was a bodybuilder, although I’d never seen her ar
ound Scottsdale Fight Pro. But unlike Jardine, Phoebe wasn’t insane. Her pink Spandex workout clothes revealed her body; she’d stopped at the apex of terrific.
With a welcoming smile, she brushed frosted brown hair out of her eyes and invited me in. “Don’t pay any attention to Brunhilda,” she said, gesturing toward the slavering Rottweiler at her side. “She’s really a sweetie.”
Brunhilda didn’t look like a sweetie to me, but I walked in anyway and sank onto the softest sofa I’d ever encountered. The living room was a riot of pastels. Pink walls. Rose and cream-colored sofa and chairs, pale gray Berber carpet accented by a pink, cream, and mint-green throw rug. A menagerie of delicate glass animals capered across several antique-white occasional tables. The only evidence of a bodybuilding lifestyle was a series of framed photos on the wall showing Phoebe, bronzed and beaming, holding large trophies. No photographs of Terry. Women who overdevelop themselves to the point of psychosis don’t win trophies.
“How’s Terry?” I asked Phoebe, after explaining my face away as the result of a dropped barbell, thus continuing her belief that Monster Woman and I were workout buddies from the gym.
“Not so good. You know about the ’roids?”
“They’re kind of obvious.”
“If I’ve warned that girl a million times…Well, now she’s detoxing from them and she’s miserable. Not that she wasn’t miserable before, what with the eye injury that vicious bitch who jumped her in the gym parking lot gave her.”
“Hmm. Say, could I have some water? It’s really hot out there. And I need to pop an Excedrin.”
She gave me a look of concern. “Geez, where are my manners! I’ve also got iced tea?”
Of course she had iced tea. Everyone in Arizona makes iced tea in the summer. “I’d love some, but don’t put yourself out for me.”
“Don’t be silly, it’s already made.” With that, she jumped up and headed for the kitchen, followed by Brunhilda and me, carryall in hand. The kitchen was pink, too. Pink walls, pink and green-striped curtains, marbled pink dinette set. At least the refrigerator was white. When Phoebe opened the refrigerator door and began rattling things around, I snuck a look out the window. Small concrete patio with two chairs and a glass-topped table, desert-landscaped yard area, kidney-shaped pool. Was that dark lump in the far corner a rock or a turd?
Phoebe carried a big pitcher of tea over to the sink and poured us both full glasses. “Want sugar? I don’t use it, myself.”
“Naw, this’ll be fine.” I washed down an Excedrin. It got caught halfway down, so I took another big drink. After it had cleared, I said, “You were telling me about Terry’s eye injury. Is it serious?” I settled myself in a pink chair and sipped at my tea, showing no eagerness to return to the living room.
Phoebe took the hint and sat down, too, Brunhilda at her feet. “Oh, Terry’s eye. She can see out of it again, thank God, but it’s still blurry. The doctor told me they won’t transfer her to jail until it’s back to normal, and like I said, ’cause she’s detoxing off the ’roids, she’s got stomach cramps, muscle aches, she’s hurling all over the place, and she’s lost a ton of weight. She hates that more than anything ’cause she’s so proud of her body.”
Despite everything, I felt a pang of pity for the demented Terry Jardine. “They let you visit her in the hospital?”
“Oh, yeah. After her brother OD’ed, she listed me as her emergency contact, so I was the first person they called. It was awful, I’m telling you, seeing her handcuffed to the bed like that.”
I acted surprised. “Handcuffed!”
Brunhilda growled. She was a sweetie, all right. Her and Cujo.
I was still trying to figure out how I could get a sample of the Rottweiler’s feces when Phoebe added in a near-whisper, “Cops said she broke parole when she hit the woman back, but I’m not buying it. Terry wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Not flies, maybe. Human beings and innocent office buildings, different story. But Phoebe had given me the perfect opening. “I’m sure you’re right. Terry’s judgment isn’t always the greatest, though. The steroids, that pen pal of hers, the guy in prison, what-his-name.”
Phoebe mashed her Cupid’s-bow mouth into a grim line. “Kenny Dean Hopper. Talk about slime! Why she bothered with that creep…” She shook her head. “Only way I can figure it, he looked something like her brother. You ever meet Ashton?”
I shook my head.
“Terry showed me Ashton’s picture once. Same build as Kenny Dean, same wild look in his eyes. From what she told me, he was a sicko, too.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to go there, so I moved the subject back to the late Kenny Dean.
“She was pretty shook up after Kenny Dean was, uh…”
“After he rode the needle,” she finished, a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. “I comforted her as best I could, but to tell the truth, I’m glad the whole thing’s over. He wasn’t exactly the world’s greatest influence, if you know what I mean. That ’roid business and that stupid Hummer of hers, it only started after she began writing him. He told her all kinds of stuff, such as liking tough-looking women who could handle themselves like men. Why do they let those creeps write naïve women like her and spread the crazy around like they do?”
Because even creeps have civil rights, I wanted to tell her. But I kept the conversation on track. “Did Terry ever say anything about getting even?”
Phoebe gave me a puzzled look. “Even with who? About what?”
I shrugged. “Oh, I dunno. The warden. Maybe even the executioner. Anybody who had a hand in killing Kenny.”
A laugh of disbelief. “That sounds too crazy even for Terry.”
“You’re probably right.” I was trying to figure out how I could reasonably ask for a tour of the backyard when Brunhilda, bless her vicious heart, trotted over to the door, sat down, and whined. “Looks like she wants out.”
Phoebe stood up. “Yep. Wanna wait here?”
“Sure.”
“Won’t be but a minute.”
“Take your time.”
As soon as she and the dog were out the door, I reached inside my carryall and took out a baggie. Hiding it behind me, I went to the door and opened it.
“On second thought,” I called, stepping outside, “maybe a little fresh air would be nice.”
“It’s awful hot.”
“I like it.” I didn’t, actually. It must have been a hundred and ten by now, and my head hurt again.
But there was Brunhilda, hunched over in the corner, near the other dark mound. Regardless of breed, dogs are creatures of habit; they like to crap in the same spot. Once Brunhilda had done her business, she scratched some gravel over it, and began to caper around, snapping at flies and chasing her non-existent tail.
“She’s so cute!” I exclaimed. “Why don’t we have our tea here and watch her? I’ll go in and get our glasses.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Phoebe said, all politeness. She tsk-tsked me and went back inside, declaring she’d get the glasses herself. The minute she closed the kitchen door behind her, I ran over to the fresh turd and, to the Rottweiler’s amazement, scooped up a sample. By the time Phoebe returned with the tea, the turd was in my carryall and I was back in my seat.
For the next few minutes we discussed various workout routines and Terry Jardine’s problems—they extended far beyond murderous boyfriends, although that was definitely the most spectacular—until I could leave without appearing rude. Feeling guilty about my dishonesty toward Phoebe, a pleasant enough woman, I climbed into my Jeep and headed straight for Arizona Pet Lab.
I had once used the lab’s services to settle a homeowners association’s squabble over whose mutt was responsible for depositing fecal matter all over the condominium community’s lavishly landscaped green area. The guilty party turned out to be the shar-pei in 4710-D, and the owner was given a heft
y fine. To ease the pain, the HOA gave the shar-pei’s owner a month’s supply of doggie-do bags. Arizona Pet Lab, although expensive, offered a much faster DNA turnaround than the overburdened county lab. I dropped off the baggie, then left to see how the work was coming along on my apartment. The sooner I got out from under Jimmy’s eagle eye, the better.
***
After making sympathetic noises over my beat-up appearance, Cal Kinsley, the good-looking foreman from Scottsdale Restore, said he was pleased with his company’s progress. As far as I was concerned, my apartment remained a disaster. The ceiling was finished, but the new drywall hadn’t yet been installed so the walls, with their two-by-fours showing, looked skeletonized. The floor wasn’t much better. Having decided that neither the carpet nor the pad could be saved, Tinsley’s men had ripped up both, exposing an expanse of algae-green linoleum.
“We’ll get rid of that, if you want,” he said.
Envisioning another week added to the original estimate, I shook my head. “Carpet over it. Same color, same style.”
He made a check on his clipboard. “I suggest new drapes.”
“Can’t the old ones be saved?”
“They got ripped at some point. We can stitch them back together, but due to the moisture they were subjected to and the subsequent stretching, there’s no certainty they’ll ever hang right again.”
I sighed. “Replace them. Same color, same style.”
“Wish all our clients were as amenable as you.” He made another check on his clipboard. “Next item. That Navajo rug and Navajo-print pillows on your sofa? They’ll be fine, but they’re still being treated at our plant.”
“How about my ‘Welcome to the Philippines’ pillow?” It was no work of art, but it had memories.
He gave me a curious look, as if wondering why I sounded so concerned about such an obviously cheap souvenir. “Same story there. It’s at the plant.”
