Cold Feet (Five Star Mystery Series)

by Karen Pullen

  She poured boiling water into her coffeepot. While they waited for it to drip through, she picked up Stella’s purse, a black leather bag which Fredricks had brought to her. Yellow fingerprint powder had collected in the creases. She pressed the bag to her cheek.

  “I met Jax a week ago, at a wedding,” she said. “You must know about the case Stella’s working on, Justine Bradley’s murder? He was utterly charming. He asked me out.”

  Fredricks startled visibly. “What?”

  “Stella knows; she stopped by last Sunday, just as he was leaving. He was here to measure my shed, make a chicken coop out of it.” She got out two mugs and poured the coffee. “Milk? Sugar?”

  “Just black.” He sighed, a big tired exhalation. Fern knew he was exhausted. During the night he’d driven to the SHP District Office in Smithfield, to talk with the troopers and get the things from Stella’s car—her phones, her purse, and, curiously, a carton of cookbooks. He’d arranged to have the car towed. He’d spent an hour at the rest stop, watching the evidence team. Then he’d driven to Verwood to meet Fern.

  “She told me to drop Jax, that he sold drugs. But nothing specific.” To protect me, Fern thought.

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  Ridiculous responses came to mind. Jax was charming. She’d knitted him a scarf. She should have better instincts after nearly a half-century of dating. A tangle of trivia and guilt. “Not much.” She held up the two cell phones he’d put on the table. “What are these?”

  “They’re Stella’s. Both state-issued. One’s her undercover phone, the other’s for everyday business.”

  “She has another one too, for personal calls.”

  Fredricks shook his head. “It wasn’t in her car. What’s the number? I’ll ask the phone company to triangulate it.”

  Fern gave him Stella’s personal phone number. “Don’t you need to keep her phones? They might have information—calls or numbers.”

  “We’ve already downloaded all the data on those phones.You hold onto them for her.”

  His implication, that Stella would get her phones back, was such a positive statement that tears came to her eyes. She blinked them back and swallowed. “Where do you think she is? Where are you going to look?”

  He pushed his chair back and stood, rubbing his belly like an unhappy Buddha. “We’ll find her. I’ll keep you informed.”

  “You’d better. I want to know everything.” She handed him a cranberry muffin for the road.

  They paused on the porch. The donkeys peered over their fence, watching them expectantly. To the east, a periwinkle sky was dotted with orange clouds, lit up from below by the golden half-sun. It was a gorgeous scene and yesterday Fern would have grabbed her sketchbook. Today, she’d easily forgo the sight of all future sunrises to have Stella’s hand in hers. The coffee soured in her throat.

  A car crunched its way along her rutted drive. Another early-morning visitor. If it were good news they would call, she thought. She sank into a rocking chair and watched the man get out of the car and slip on his suit jacket.

  He had to be Richard, Stella’s boss. Stella had described him perfectly—slim, mid-fifties, milky brown skin and close-cut hair. Impeccable in black pinstripe at six A.M. Under normal circumstances, such a sight would catch her breath and activate her flirt gene. Now she felt unexpectedly cold and nauseous; he reminded her of an undertaker. She shivered.

  As the man approached them, Fredricks waited with her on the porch. “Sir, have you met Fern Lavender? Stella’s grandmother?”

  Richard leaned down and took her hand. “How are you doing, Ms. Lavender?” He smelled faintly like a cold sea. His black eyes were intelligent but his concerned expression was profoundly irritating. She wanted action, not sympathy.

  “Have you heard anything?” Rude, yes, but she shouldn’t have to ask.

  He straightened and shook his head. “Not yet. We will.” He turned to Fredricks. “We need to talk. I want to hold a press conference.”

  “No. Abso-fucking-lutely not. Excuse me, ma’am.” Fredricks’s face flushed purple. Richard turned to Fern. “My apologies. Would you mind . . .”

  “Sit down. I’ll get you some coffee,” Fern said. She went into the house, through the living room and into the kitchen. The window over the sink was open, and she could clearly hear the men on the porch. She took a mug, then leaned over the sink to listen. She could just see their chairs and their heads, close together. Beyond them, the mist was beginning to burn off as the sun warmed the air. This second-worst day of her life was going to be a nice one, God’s idea of a thoroughly inappropriate joke.

  “Tell me what happened,” Richard said. His voice was tense.

  “Stella called me around nine-fifteen last night, said she was having car trouble and had stopped at the Johnston County rest area. She said she saw Dana Degrasso,” Fredricks said. “Then the phone went dead.”

  “The woman from the coke buy a few nights ago.”

  “Right. But she might not know Stella’s an SBI agent. Stella’s ID was in her car, and it seems Degrasso didn’t touch anything in the car—the car was locked, and still had Stella’s purse and state-issued phones in it.”

  Richard shook his head. “The sooner we find Stella the better. And the media can help us.”

  “Then assume Degrasso doesn’t know Stella’s a cop. Leave her undercover. A missing person.”

  “There’s no urgency to a missing person. I’m going to report it as an abduction. Give out her name and picture and description. If they know she’s police—”

  “The word gets out that Stella’s a cop and she’s dead.”

  Richard leaned closer to Fredricks. “My friend, here’s the hypothetical. If Stella is dead and I haven’t roused an goddam army to find her, I will rightfully be crucified.”

  “Her death would look bad?” Fredricks spit it out.

  Richard studied him. “You misunderstand.”

  “I heard what you said.”

  “Where is she? You have ideas?”

  Fredricks stood and rolled his shoulders. “I will find her.”

  “I’ll give you twelve hours. Then I load the big guns.”

  “I’m glad I don’t have your job.”

  Richard snorted. “You’re not alone in that sentiment, my friend.”

  At that, Fern decided she had to rejoin the conversation. She poured coffee into the mug, put it on a tray with a small pitcher of milk and the sugar bowl, and went outside. “I know you both have work to do, so take the coffee with you,” Fern said. She wanted them to leave. Standing around on her porch wasn’t finding Stella.

  They gulped down the coffee and thanked her. She watched them get into their cars, then walked over to the donkey pen. Bill and Hillary nuzzled her with their white mouths as she leaned into the fence, crumpled by exhaustion and fear. She closed her eyes and concentrated on Stella. “You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine,” she whispered. Her prayer. She would will Stella home safe.

  Fern dreamed she was at the controls of an airplane, a huge passenger jet flying a few feet above a forest of trees, seconds from crashing. She didn’t know what to do, she couldn’t fly a plane, she was paralyzed. The plane lurched as it brushed the trees, plunging toward the ground and she couldn’t even scream. “Ahhh,” she tried to say. Nothing came out. A dog barked. And barked. And barked.

  She woke up disoriented and still afraid, slumped in the chair by her fireplace. The barking continued, a tinny metallic recording coming from the kitchen. She stood up slowly, then realized what she was hearing—Merle, Stella’s dog, a ring tone. One of Stella’s phones. She scrambled into the kitchen and grabbed it. “Hello?”

  “Stacy? Is that you? Who is this?” It was a woman’s voice, rushed and panicky.

  “There’s no Stacy here,” Fern said. “You must have the wrong number. What number were you calling?”

  The woman gave a number, triggering a memory—Stacy was Stella’s cover name! This was one of
Stella’s drug contacts, maybe a link to Stella in some way. She had to hold onto her.

  “Okay, just checking. We never know who’s calling or what they want,” Fern said. “I’ll take a message. What’s your name?”

  “Tell her Bebe called. She met me with Mo. And he’s disappeared!” The woman nearly shrieked this last in anguish. “I wanted to warn Stacy. I think Jax has killed him.”

  “Who is Mo?” Fern mashed the phone into her ear. At the mention of Jax, she wanted to reach into the phone line and pull this woman through by the hair.

  “He’s my husband. I been sleeping in the car. I got nowhere to stay, no money, and a baby coming any minute. I thought maybe Stacy could help me.”

  “She’s not here.” Fern’s emotions were mixed. Did she care about Bebe’s plight? She couldn’t spare the pity right now. But anyone who could put Jax and Stella/Stacy in the same sentence needed to be clutched, tightly. Yes. She wanted to be Bebe’s new best friend. “Did you tell the police your husband was missing?”

  Bebe let out a barking laugh. “I don’t talk to cops. They ain’t my friends. What do they care about a tweaker!”

  “A tweaker?”

  “Mo does meth. A tweaker. He went off to meet Jax two nights ago.” Bebe coughed, a smoker’s terrible hack. “Thing is, we got nothing. I’m scared to go back to our apartment.”

  “ ‘We’?”

  “I got a little boy, Oliver.”

  “Don’t you have any family?”

  There was a silence on the other end.

  “You still there?” Fern asked.

  “Yeah, sure. Just thinking about my asshole father. Sorry, that’s what he is. No, I don’t have family. What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Fern Lavender.” Fern’s thoughts flew. Did she want to help Bebe? Bebe might know something. She thinks Stacy’s a drug user like her husband. Fern took a deep breath. “I’ll give you a place to stay for a couple of nights, until you get settled.” As she uttered these words she felt a tinge of fear to be stepping into Stella’s undercover world. At the same time her spirits lightened; it felt good to take action, not just sit by the phone waiting for a call that might never come.

  Bebe hesitated. “Where do you live? And who with?”

  Fern reassured her as best she could. “Out in the country, by myself. You’ll be safe.” She gave Bebe directions, and hung up. She clasped her hands to her chest, feeling her heart pound. Stella would have my head, she thought, my addled head.

  Thirty minutes later, as Fern was changing the donkeys’ hay, a blue station wagon, its paint faded and grimy, crept down her gravel driveway and stopped. The driver’s door opened and a woman pulled herself out. She wore a rumpled sweat shirt and jeans, and looked as exhausted as Fern felt. She was thin except for her enormous belly. A small bony boy emerged from the car and took his mother’s hand, staring at Fern with black eyes in dark-hollowed sockets. The pair of them could have been right out of a Depression-era Okie dustbowl.

  “I’m Bebe and this is Oliver,” the woman said, looking wary. “Stacy lives here? With you?”

  “I’m Fern. Stacy’s not here right now.” Fern tossed one last forkful of hay and set the pitchfork in a corner of the shed. She shut the gate and latched it. “Do you need a hand with anything?”

  Bebe’s face relaxed a fraction. “You’re a good person to help us out.” She tugged open the car’s rear door and retrieved two stuffed grocery bags. “These are our clothes. We got nothing else, not even a blanket. We slept on the seats. Though I wouldn’t call it sleeping.”

  “Come inside,” Fern said. “Are you hungry? Want something to eat?” She addressed the child.

  He nodded but didn’t speak.

  “He’s not much of a talker,” Bebe said. “You’re hungry, aren’t you, Ollie?”

  “Come in. I’ll fix some eggs.”

  They followed Fern inside. “This is a nice house,” Bebe said. “Reminds me of my grandpa’s old place in Rocky Mount. Quiet.You’re not scared staying here by yourself? I’d be scared. Not as scared as last night. Try sleeping in your car ’cause you can’t go home.” She barked a laugh as she took out a cigarette.

  “You’ll have to smoke outside. Better still, quit. Can’t be doing that baby any good,” Fern said.

  “Yeah, sure.” Bebe put the cigarette back into the pack and dropped it in her purse. “Listen, thanks a bunch. I swear I haven’t closed my eyes since Mo went off.”

  “Want to wash up?” Fern pointed down the hall and hoped the answer was yes—the little fellow was grimy. Bebe led him by the hand to the bathroom. Well, at least Bebe and Oliver were taking her mind off Stella, and after they ate, she’d see what Bebe knew about Jax.

  The child ate his eggs quickly, followed by two slices of toast and strawberry jam. He’d saved the bacon for last but it didn’t survive long either. He held out his plate. “More, please,” he said, the first words Fern’d heard from him.

  “Drink your milk first,” Bebe told him. She’d cleaned her plate, too. She sagged against her hand, her elbow on the table. Fern stirred the second batch of eggs. The bread slices popped up in the toaster, and she sliced them in half and buttered them. Oliver watched her spoon jam onto his toast—“Enough?” and he nodded and began to eat again.

  “Stacy live here?” Bebe asked.

  Fern shook her head, no. She wanted to talk about Stella but couldn’t figure out how to phrase things. She rinsed the frying pan and set it in the dish drainer. She took the milk to the table and poured Oliver another cupful. He was slowing down, she noticed. His eyes glazed over, unfocused as he sipped the milk. “How about a rest now?” Fern said. “Come with me.” She led them up the stairs to Stella’s old bedroom. Dusty, but it didn’t matter. At least the double bed was made up, covered with a soft chenille bedspread.

  “This is nice.” Bebe removed Oliver’s shoes and pants and he slipped under the covers. Thirty seconds later his eyes closed. “I’ll get a smoke, then lie down with him for a while.”

  Fern followed her outside to the back porch. “You’ve got your troubles, Bebe.”

  “I’m scared. I can’t go back to the apartment.” Bebe lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  “When’s the baby due?”

  “Three weeks.”

  Fern could think of nothing to say. She couldn’t bring herself to utter greeting-card sentiments about bundles of joy. A new baby seemed like the last thing Bebe needed.

  Bebe looked away and blew a cloud of smoke. “I’m missing Mo right now.” She put her hand over her eyes and her face crumpled.

  “What happened to him?”

  “He went to meet Jax at a burger joint two days ago. I haven’t seen him since. That bastard Jax, his ass is mine. I’ve got a gun in the car. I’ll kill him.”

  Guns, drugs, murder. Just like that, Fern had entered a new universe, Bebe’s world. It was time to fess up about Stella’s disappearance. Bebe might be able to help. Fern thought how she might phrase things without revealing Stella’s job. “Stacy’s gone missing. Last night.”

  Bebe attempted a deep breath that turned into a cough.

  “That’s terrible. Just last night? Maybe she’s partying somewhere.”

  “No, the police think Jax maybe had something to do with it because Stacy saw his friend Dana at an I-40 rest stop just before she disappeared. The police found her car but no sign of her.” Sharing this sort-of truth with Bebe made Fern feel perversely hopeful.

  “That motherfucker!” Bebe let out a stream of curses for a good minute as she extracted another cigarette and lit it, puffing out a goddam this and cocksucker that. At least the little boy was out of earshot. Fern remembered Grace’s “goddammits,” used appropriately as a tower of blocks fell. The threeyear-old had picked it up, of course, from listening to Fern’s muttered swearing when she ran out of cadmium red at a crucial moment. When was that, forty years ago? Before Fern learned how hard life could be.

  Bebe calmed down and put her hands on
Fern’s shoulders.

  “Here I am taking all your time and you worrying about Stacy.”

  “Do you know how to find Jax?” Fern asked.

  “I know where he hangs.”

  Fern felt a jolt of excitement. “Have you told the police?”

  “I don’t talk to police. And promise me you won’t either, or I’m outta here.” She dropped her cigarette and stepped on it, then leaned over awkwardly to pick up the butt and put it in her pocket. “Let’s say I take the rest I badly need, then I’ll drive you around, okay? If you buy the gas.” Her breath smelled like rotten fish, and Fern tried not to cringe.

  “Sounds better than doing nothing. Go lie down.” Fern would have preferred to hit the road that instant but Bebe looked like she was running on fumes.

  While Bebe and Oliver slept, Fern turned on the television. She flicked through the channels, looking for news. Even channel 14, the all-news-all-day station, didn’t mention her missing granddaughter. Fredricks had said that law enforcement had been alerted. She’d forgotten to ask exactly what that meant, whether they were actively searching or just adding Stella’s name and picture to a long list.

  She had to move so she wouldn’t think. Thinking led straight to what-ifs—what if Stella had been hurt and what if she was frightened and what if she never came home again? No thinking, just move and concentrate on the job. She put hot water and a splash of oil soap in a bucket and went upstairs to wash the hall floor that years ago she’d painted red, the red now worn away in places showing green paint underneath. She backed down the stairs, washing each step clean enough to eat from. She drank a cup of coffee standing up, looking out the window at the donkeys and Bebe’s car. It was filthy. Fern grabbed plastic bags and went outside.

  Paper bags from fast food restaurants were jammed under the seat. Dozens of wrappers spoke to a candy bar addiction. She wasn’t surprised to see roaches scuttling away as she gingerly eased a rifle onto the ground, then pulled out the cups, burger wrappers, peanut shells, empty cigarette packs. She took Ollie’s few toys inside and dunked them in a bleach solution. She vacuumed the floor mats and seats, until she started to feel faint and realized she hadn’t eaten in hours. She went inside, boiled, peeled, and ate two eggs without tasting them, then went back to work, soaping and hosing off Bebe’s car, washing the windows in and out, spraying bug killer under the seats.