by Nancy Martin
“Look,” I said, “Kiley needed help, whether she realized it or not. I did what needed to be done.”
“As usual, you bullied your way into a situation with a bazooka instead of a sensible argument.”
“If I’d had a bazooka, I’d have used it.”
“You’re a bully,” Sage snapped. “You can’t be a sensible human being in a crisis. You always explode.”
“I do not, damn it!”
“Kiley’s life sucks, and it’s your fault!”
Before I could make a snappy comeback, Sage’s phone, sitting on the coffee table, began to buzz.
Zack, who had been observing us argue like he was watching a tennis match, suddenly rolled his eyes and grunted his disgust.
I pointed at the phone. “You going to answer that?”
“She doesn’t have to,” Zack said. “She knows who it is.”
“Who is it?” I asked my daughter.
Sage, who had never been a pouter, suddenly had a lower lip big enough for a bird to land on. “Brian.”
“Who’s Brian?”
“Brian Stinkler,” Zack said.
“Sinkland!” Sage corrected.
“He calls every five minutes,” Zack told me.
I said to Sage, “Why don’t you just answer? He’ll stop calling.”
“She doesn’t want him to stop,” Zack said. “She’s got a crush on him.”
“I do not!”
“Then why are you going out with him Friday night?”
“I haven’t decided if I’m going,” Sage said.
“You’re stringing along the mystery man?” I asked. “Meanwhile, you’re going to first base with Zack?”
“I’m not going anywhere with Zack.” She grabbed the phone and leaped off the sofa. “I don’t know why I try to make conversation with either one of you. I’m going upstairs.”
Sage took her phone and ran up the stairs. When she was almost out of sight, she answered her phone with a sweetened voice. “Hello?”
We didn’t hear the rest of the conversation because she slammed her bedroom door.
Usually, I cut Sage a lot of slack. She was a better kid than I had been at her age. The thing I didn’t like was her growing up at all. I’d been happier when she was ten and showing me how to use a computer than I was now, when she had one sly boyfriend in the house and another one on the phone. And a skirt so short I could practically read the tag on her panties.
Zack laughed, and I swung on him. He had seen my expression. “She’s hot, isn’t she?”
“Shut the hell up.”
“Hey, she comes by it naturally.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Zack stayed relaxed on the sofa, looking up at me. “You’re not exactly the PTA type, Mrs. A. So don’t get all bent out of shape about Sage. Just be glad she’s with me most of the time.”
“I should be glad about that?”
“She could do worse.”
“Like this Brian kid?”
“Maybe.”
I cocked both fists on my hips. “Who is he?”
“He’s a senior at one of those snotty prep schools. His dad is Mr. Squishy, the frozen-custard guy.”
“Who?”
“You know—the ice-cream stands that are all over town. Mr. Squishy. He’s a self-made bazillionaire, so his kid’s got money to burn, not to mention a fancy Escalade to impress girls with.”
“How’d Sage meet a guy like that?”
“Who am I, your spy?”
He was still smiling when he said it. I wanted to drop-kick his ass out the front door, but I’d had a long day, and my head was fuzzy where Sage was concerned. I knew she had to grow up. Of course I did. I just didn’t want her plunging headlong into adulthood the way I had. Hanging out with rich kids and horny neighborhood guys like Zack seemed like she was going down exactly the wrong path.
As for Zack, it felt like he was trying hard to become my second kid. I wasn’t sure how to handle him exactly. I wanted to kick him out.
But he had that sandwich.
Zack noted the direction of my gaze. He gave me a crafty smile. “You look hungry, Mrs. A.”
“Quit calling me that. I’m nobody’s Mrs.”
“Okay, okay.” He paused before saying temptingly, “Want half my sandwich? Consider it a peace offering.”
In my own defense, I hadn’t eaten anything since a Slim Jim at breakfast. A few oatmeal cookies had only started my belly growling. And the delicious fumes of the sub were soon going to make me drool on the floor just like Rooney.
With dignity, I decided to accept his peace offering. “If you insist.”
I sat down in an armchair. Zack hunkered forward and handed over a paper napkin. He plunked half the sandwich down next, which I grabbed and bit into right away. I almost moaned with pleasure. Bruno’s made a sub like no other—orgasm on a fresh-baked roll.
I ate, and Zack watched as if pleased with the situation. We could hear Loretta and Sister Bob banging around in the kitchen, but the two of us were alone.
Small talk wasn’t my specialty. But Zack looked like he was expecting a discussion of football scores or something. Probably, he wanted to talk more about Sage, but that seemed like a bad idea.
My mouth full, I said, “What’s with the shirt?”
Zack’s grin widened. He was wearing jeans and a blue shirt proudly printed with the words Event Security in bold white letters across the chest. “I got another part-time job until I can take the police exam. I’m working a security detail at a big concert later this week. They even gave me a free shirt. Cool, huh? I get free admission to the concert, too.”
“I hope you don’t get assigned to the parking lot.”
He frowned. That possibility hadn’t occurred to him.
I said, “I thought you got hired full-time somewhere else. What happened? You lose that job already?”
“It’s only part-time. I got hired at the gun range. But they don’t pay me enough, so I took a security gig, too.”
“Which gun range? The same place Irene Stossel works?”
“Yeah. In fact, old Irene hired me.”
Since I was the same age as Irene, I tried not to be offended. “How’d that happen?”
“Irene lives next to my uncle and heard I needed some income. I know she’s weird, but she was nice to hire me. But, man, you take your life in your hands at that place. You know how many idiots want to shoot at targets? Half the time they’re waving loaded weapons at each other. Irene’s always in the line of fire, but she doesn’t lose her cool. I’m telling you, it’s dangerous work.”
The thought of Zack getting himself blown to bits was kind of appealing, actually.
But further make-nice conversation was in order.
I swallowed and said, “Your mom’s a volunteer at the big museum, right? Has she ever heard of somebody named Crabtree?”
Zack’s expression turned to surprise. “You mean Professor Crabtree? The dinosaur guy? He’s way famous.”
I used the paper napkin to wipe some of the sandwich juices off my chin. “That’s not who I’m talking about. This Crabtree is a woman.”
Zack tore open a bag of chips and didn’t appear to hear me. “My oldest brother studied with Professor Crabtree for a while. They went on a class trip to Alaska, looking for extinct animals in glaciers.”
“Extinct animals, huh? Now there’s a useful knowledge base for getting a job.”
Zack popped a chip and grinned a little. “Paleontology. It’s actually very cool. My brother took me to a lecture once, let me sit in the back. It was great. I wanted to take Crabtree’s intro course when I got to college, but I didn’t have the grades to get into that school.”
Zack slouched back into the sofa, his legs spread comfortably, eating chips with confidence in spite of his bad grades. “Crabtree’s lecture was unbelievable—slide shows and wild stories. That’s why I wanted to take his class. The trips were big adventures, you know? Indiana Jones st
uff.”
“Does he work at the museum?”
“He was a professor at the university. Maybe he did work for the museum, too. I mean, they’d be crazy to ignore him. I think there’s even some kind of national park named after him—one of those places were dinosaur bones are, like, spread all over the place. The museum has some of the stuff he dug up.”
I didn’t want to need Zack for anything. The kid had seduced my daughter at least once—hell, they might be doing it regularly now even with another boyfriend in the wings—and I really wanted to shove his sandwich down his throat and stomp on his chest while he choked on it. But somebody was looking to kidnap Clarice Crabtree, and it only seemed right to ask around a little.
So I said, “You know anything about Clarice Crabtree?”
“Clarice? That’s really her name?”
“No kidding.”
Zack frowned in concentration. “He mentioned something about a daughter, in the class I visited. She used to go on digs with him. She the one you mean?”
“I don’t know, maybe.”
I thought about things for a minute. Even though I’d gone to high school with Clarice, I didn’t know anything about her family or where she came from. Marvin had said she worked for the museum now, but that was news to me.
I said, “Is there anybody in the neighborhood who works for the museum?”
Zack frowned at the ceiling and finally said, “My cousin’s brother-in-law used to work security at an art museum. Night shift, before he joined the force.”
That wouldn’t do me any good. “Anybody else?”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
Me, too.
“What are you trying to find out, Mrs. A?”
Zack was no brain surgeon, but he could probably put two and two together if I let slip too many details. I shrugged. “Nothing special.”
“You have something going on?”
“More than you do, Zack. You’re necking with my daughter, but she’s got Mr. Squashy on the phone. You lost your charm?”
He smiled winningly. “How about you put in a good word for me?”
I laughed. “Dream on, tiger.”
My cell phone rang in my pocket. I pulled it out and checked the ID. It was Gino Martinelli.
“Damn,” I said.
Zack said, “Trouble?”
I put the phone back in my pocket without answering. “Nothing unusual. Just a man trying to prove his dick is bigger than it really is. Thanks for the sandwich, tiger.”
“Anytime, Mrs. A.”
After talking with Zack, I went back to my place that night. But I had trouble getting to sleep. It wasn’t the hot peppers that kept me awake. I was thinking about Marvin’s job offer. I didn’t want any part of it, but knowing that somebody wanted to kidnap Clarice Crabtree—well, maybe I was going a little soft, but I wondered if I ought to look her up and warn her.
5
In the morning, I got a call from my longtime friend Adasha Washington, another high school pal who’d had nothing to do with hiding cherry bombs in piñatas. Unlike me, Adasha had studied hard and loved school so much that she was now an ER doc at the hospital around the corner from my house.
After a big yawn in my ear, she said, “I had a lousy shift last night. I can’t go running this morning.”
“Damn,” I said into my cell phone. “I’m all warmed up and ready to go.”
She laughed. “Yeah, right. Your lazy butt is still in bed, isn’t it?”
“Hey, I’ve been up for—well, half an hour, at least.”
“Did you have a late date last night?”
It was a loaded question, and the word “date” didn’t quite cover how I used to spend a lot of my evenings. I popped open a Red Bull and took a slug while rummaging in a drawer for a Slim Jim. Breakfast of champions.
Hearing my silence, she said, “Oh, Rox, I thought you quit sleeping with strangers.”
“I did,” I said. “Cold turkey.”
After I’d fooled with the guy who turned out to have killed two people, I started thinking about the patterns of my life. I ended up talking to Adasha about it over a couple glasses of wine. I had bad impulse control to begin with, but when things got hairy, I tended to go looking for men to take out my frustration. Maybe it was unresolved anger related to my mother abandoning me when she got killed, like Adasha said, but I don’t know. I was reckless, yes, but maybe I just liked sex. It was fun. Exhilarating. Therapeutic in a weird way. Satisfying, too, if only for a couple of hours. I liked having a few laughs with a man, then forgetting about him. No need to remember any phone numbers. No awkward conversations. Just good times.
“I’m glad to hear you’re sticking to the plan,” Adasha said. “Because you had a hell of a wake-up call, my dear.”
“I know, I know.”
“Look, I don’t want to beat you up about this, but I heard about a therapy group that might be good for you. It’s for sex addicts.”
“Sex addicts! Is that what you think I am?”
“This group could be just what you need.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Wait, somebody actually puts a bunch of sex addicts in the same room together? What do you think they’re going to do? Have a prayer meeting?”
“It’s therapy,” Adasha insisted. “With an experienced therapist who leads the group. Everybody participates and—”
“That’s some great group participation, I bet.”
“Very funny. I’m just saying, it could be good for you.”
“Is this like the time in seventh grade you conned me into joining the Kitchen Klub? Those girls who spent all their time weaving potholders and discussing good nutrition?”
“That was a mistake, I’ll admit. I thought it meant we’d get free cupcakes.”
“Mostly, we cleaned out cupboards in the home economics room.”
Adasha and I had been through a lot together. She knew me well enough to make a suggestion and not get all upset if I didn’t take it. I said, “Look, I’m not going to do any group therapy. I do things my own way.”
“But—”
“I can handle my situation.”
“Okay,” she said mildly. “Think about it, Roxy. It couldn’t hurt, right? Meanwhile, it’s me who’s got a problem.”
“What’s going on? More ER patients throwing up on your shoes?”
“Nothing that easy. Can you meet me on the porch?”
Barefoot, I went out to the porch and found Adasha there, still wearing her hospital scrubs, standing with a slim, pretty young woman and two scared little kids. On the street in front of the house sat the Monster Truck, and both kids blinked at the paint sprayed on the tailgate. I figured they couldn’t read the word, but just the same, I wished it didn’t look so scary.
Adasha said, “What’s that orange stuff in your hair? Paint?”
“Dye pack from a bank. Long story.”
She gave me a sideways glance. “Did you make a good getaway?”
“No gunfire. Who’s this?”
“Roxy, this is Jane Doe.”
Jane smiled and held out her trembling hand for me to shake. “It’s not really Jane Doe. But I’m supposed to keep my identity secret. Social worker at the hospital suggested it.”
Her identity was plain to me. I recognized her face from the news channel where she gave the weather every morning. Except today her face was a mess—black eye, bruised cheek, swollen lip with stitches. I couldn’t remember her name—Ashley or Nicole or something trendy like that. She had a chirpy voice with a tinge of southern flirtation that got stronger when she bantered on-camera with the guy with the hair plugs who read the news.
From behind Jane Doe, her two young kids peeped at me with big eyes. The little girl clutched a pink blanket to her face and sucked her thumb. The little boy—he was maybe three—looked like he might burst into sobs any minute.
Feigning a brightness she obviously wasn’t feeling, Jane said, “These are my children, Michael and Emil
y. Say hi, kids.”
The kids didn’t say a word, so Jane turned back to me. She was jumpier than a frightened rabbit. “I share custody with my first husband, and I don’t want him to get the idea that anything’s wrong with my—my current relationship, but I—um—I mean…”
Adasha got down to business. “Jane’s a patient who came in last night. She needs a safe place to keep the kids for a few days. Somewhere her boyfriend can’t find her.”
I kept my voice low so the children couldn’t hear. “Why can’t she go to Social Services? They’re in the business of helping women like Jane.”
“She needs a place to hide,” Adasha corrected. “This boyfriend is a city fireman, and he probably knows all the shelters where Social Services could put her.”
“That’s what restraining orders are for.”
Adasha shook her head. “She can’t do that, either. Takes too long, and the cop community might pass the word to the firefighters. And she’s likely to be recognized at a hotel. Believe me, she shouldn’t be found. Not until her face heals up.”
A well-known television personality with a beat-up face wasn’t going to keep any secrets for long.
On TV, Jane was perky. I could see she was trying hard to keep up the perk factor, but she looked like a battered hooker with a crazy pimp. Her smile was too bright. Her eyes gleamed with suppressed hysteria. It looked to me as if her fireman boyfriend could have finished her off without too much trouble. I wondered if the kids had watched him beat her.
I scooped up her little boy. For a second, he arched away from me, sucking in a big breath to scream, but then he caught sight of my necklace—the gold cross I usually wore around my neck—and he grabbed it with a sticky hand.
Adasha said, “I told Jane that you have an extra house next door. It’s nothing fancy, Jane, but it’s safe and clean.”
“Not so clean at the moment,” I said, hefting Michael on my hip. “Unless you’re handy with a broom. The last tenant moved out fast.”
In fact, my last tenant had gone to jail for stabbing her man with a broken beer bottle. I’d emptied the house myself—to make sure all her needles were gone—but I hadn’t swept out the last layer of dust yet.
