"I am right where I'm supposed to be," I answered. "And I can't call somebody back if I don't know they called."
"You don't check your messages?"
"Well, you know, with all that's gone on, I just plumb forgot." No apology from me.
"From now on," he said, "I don't want you to sneeze without letting me know."
He was wearing a new pair of cowboy boots, lizard skin, Tony Lamas if I didn't miss my guess. His belt buckle was large and silver. He caught me staring at it and arched an eyebrow. My stomach did its little flip, and I found myself responding to the man behind the badge.
"Listen," I said, "I am not your property. I have a life and I intend to lead it. Now, you and I both know that I've got a job and I work regular hours. If you want to haunt me, come right on down to the club. Looks like you were headed there anyway. As for my personal life, and where I go and with whom, well, buddy, I ain't never punched a clock for nobody and I won't start with you."
We were off to a good start. He took two long strides and was up the steps and by my side in a heartbeat, his jaw twitching and his eyes glowing with anger.
"Now see here, Ms. Reid," he said, "I cut you some slack when I let you go last night and-"
I interrupted. "You did no such thing." Let me
go! If he'd held me, I would've known it. I would've felt it. I would've… Stop it, I argued with myself, he's just a cop.
"I could've held you, don't let's be mistaken about that. If you want to play games, I'll make your life a living hell, lady. This is a murder we're dealing with, not some little dating game charade. I want to know where you are and with whom, at all times."
I turned and started to walk back inside. I'd had all I could take of this bozo. I was going to work.
He followed me. I could smell him. I could almost feel him breathing down my neck. "I want to talk to you," he said, "downtown."
I whirled around to face him. "Look, Detective, I told you I'd go over this all again and I will… tomorrow. Right now, I'm going to work."
I didn't give him a chance to say anything. I marched off into the kitchen, into the walk-in closet, grabbed my purple denim outfit off its hanger, and started back to my bedroom. I needed space. I needed to keep my head before my body got involved and I lost my cool and started acting like a damn woman. But he was right behind me.
"If you don't mind?" I said, waiting for him to move. He didn't budge. I took another step closer, until I was inches from his flint-hard face. "I'm going in that room," I said, gesturing toward my bedroom, "and I'm going to change. I think it would be carrying things a little far for you to accompany me." How long has it been? When was the last time a man… Stop it!
"I'm thinking we're going to have that talk tonight," he said, clearly angry. For a second I wondered if he really could hold me. I decided it wasn't worth testing him.
"All right," I said, "let's make a deal. I'll get changed and we'll talk for a little while." He said nothing, which I took for an okay, so I closed the bedroom door and started changing.
I intended to honor my end of the bargain, I really did. But that was before I looked at the clock and saw what time it was. Sparks had called an early practice and now it was five minutes 'til eight. If I had to stick around and talk to the detective, I'd miss practice, and maybe even be late for the first set. I couldn't do that. My band, the Drivin' Wheel, was my job, my dream.
I pulled off my jeans and slipped on my skirt. There was only one thing I could do. I picked up my purple suede boots, tiptoed to the backdoor, and quietly twisted the handle. I let myself out into the chilly fall night and eased down the stairs, sneaking out of my own house, just like a rebellious teenager.
For the first time in twenty-four hours, I felt good. I allowed a small giggle of triumph as I gripped the door handle of my car and started to open the door.
"Not this time," Weathers said, a strong hand clamping down on my shoulder. He seemed to have materialized out of nowhere.
I gasped, jumped about six inches, and felt his strong hands twisting me around to face him. I was pinned against the VW, Weathers's strong arms on either side of me, his face inches from my own.
"Maggie, why do you keep lying to me?" he asked, his voice menacingly soft.
"I just have to get to work and it's late," I answered.
"Nice try, but I don't think that's it." He wasn't moving. He had me trapped, and the only way to move would've been to try and wriggle out under his arms. Something he knew I'd considered, because he brought his elbows down and moved in still closer.
To anyone passing by, we would've appeared to be lovers, embracing. He was so close that I could feel his breath on my cheek and smell his cologne. It felt intoxicating, the smells, the sensations, my fear, all snowballing into a reaction I felt powerless to control.
"Trust me, Maggie," he breathed. "Talk to me." His voice was hypnotic. "Trust me."
I snapped out of it, jerking my head forward. "There's nothing to tell," I said. "I have to go to work. You can follow me, or ride with me, but I have to go!"
"What did Jimmy do to hurt you, Maggie?" he asked softly.
"Nothing, I'm telling you!"
Weathers was staring at me, his eyes burning into mine. He wasn't ready to let me go, not just yet.
"Maggie, I know he did something to you. People like you, they don't just take a life unprovoked. Let me help you, Maggie."
"Damn it! No!" I cried, stamping my stockinged foot on the cold ground. "I didn't shoot Jimmy!"
"Shhh," he whispered, his voice a warm caress, "Where's the gun, Maggie?"
"Listen to me," I said, "if I was gonna kill someone, I sure wouldn't do as sloppy a job as this. Believe me, if I were to kill you, there wouldn't be a trace left behind. And right now, I'm giving homicide some serious consideration. If you don't clear away from me and let me go, I'm liable to take matters into my own hands. Trust me, you won't like that, Detective."
He pushed back slowly, dropping his arms to his sides. "I'm not through with you, Maggie. I know you've got something you're not saying. You don't lie well." Well, he was right on that count. I wasn't one to go long without talking, but he was dead wrong about everything else.
"You can trust me, Maggie," he said softly. "I want to help you."
For one split instant I let his voice get to me, reaching deep inside, starting up a bank of feelings I hadn't let out in years, but just as quickly I boxed it back up. I could trust him, sure I could. Like Mama always said, if you put your faith in a bucket but let someone else do all the toting, you'll come up empty-handed every time.
The only person who could help me was me. I would have to find Jimmy's killer on my own. The police didn't believe a word I said. My daughter was living in the midst of a nest of vipers. And I was the number one suspect in a murder investigation. The way I saw it, it certainly fell to me to put things to rights.
Now I knew two other things that I hadn't known an hour ago. One was that Detective Marshall Weathers was dangerous. If I didn't watch him, he'd lull me into admitting all kinds of things, only half of them true. The second thing I'd learned frightened me even more: Sheila was involved somehow in this whole situation. No matter what else happened, I had to help her, even if it meant that the police thought I was guilty of a crime I didn't commit.
Chapter Eight
Every night before I go on stage, just before the band strikes up the tune that the regulars all know as mine, I get sick. I rush for the ladies room, shove my way into a stall, and break into a cold sweat, my stomach churning like Mama's old Sunbeam electric mixer. I am just sure that I am going to throw up, but I never do.
This little ritual has not changed in all the months I've been singing at the Golden Stallion, and so I do not look for anything to be different in the near future. I figure they wrote the line "You gotta suffer if you want to sing the blues" just for my benefit.
When the band starts the set, they always do so without me. They play one song, then break
into Maggie's tune. Out I come from the restroom, my lipstick fresh, my hat on straight, and a smile on my face. The second I set foot on that stage, my stomach problems vanish, my life outside of the club fades away, and I am there, live, and ready to steal your heart.
It was no different the night after Jimmy died. I ran up the five steps to the stage, grabbed the mike from Larry the stage hand, and strutted out to the middle of the stage. I threw my head back, let my free hand swing out to my side, and started to croon my signature song: "He Was Just a Lonely Cowboy till I Lassoed Him with Love."
Right in the middle of the third verse, I whip out a little lasso and make a big show of roping in one of the young studs who wanders a little too close to the stage. It's kind of expected now, so a whole crowd of them come down front, shouting out my name and trying to get me to reel them in.
Tonight was no different from all the others, except that the man I lassoed bore a strong resemblance to my ex-husband. Of course, it couldn't have been him. Vernell Spivey wouldn't have been caught dead in a club like the Golden Stallion. He had a reputation to uphold.
Nowadays, Vernell frequented the Guilford Country Club. I don't know how he got a membership, because they don't normally let uneducated country bumpkins in. I guess he must've had some dirt on somebody, or else paid a wad of nouveau riche bucks to smooth his entrance. Whatever, once he learned about me and the Drivin' Wheel, old Vernell had increased motivation to stay away from the Golden Stallion.
So, it couldn't have been him. Besides, the Vernell Spivey I knew didn't drink hard liquor. At least, I thought he'd given up the hard stuff three years ago. But Vernell came by his lyin' easy, and many's the time he'd pulled the wool over my eyes. This man in front of me was blind drunk. He was wearing a powder blue polyester cowboy suit, with fancy white cording on the lapels and down the sides of his pants, another thing that Vernell would never do. Vernell was vain as a peacock. Once he learned about rich folks and Ralph Lauren, Vernell made the switch and, to my knowledge, never looked back at man-made fiber. Of course, in his heart of hearts, I knew Vernell and his roots were country, West Virginia country.
But, doggone, that sure looked like Vernell, with his dull brown hair, his pencil-thin mustache, and his little pot belly.
"Eee-haw!" he yelled, as I threw the noose around his shoulders. "She got me!!"
The band was playing, I was singing, and at the same time roping this strange man toward me. My mouth was singing about the lasso of love, but my mind was saying something completely different. Something I really did not want to hear. My brain was saying, "This here's your ex-husband, and honey, he's lookin' volatile."
Sure enough, there was an ugly, snakelike look in Vernell's beady eyes, a look I'd seen all too often in our marriage. I looked over at the band, hoping for help. Sugar Bear was the biggest, but he was picking out a solo and totally unaware that he was even in the Golden Stallion. Sparks was sitting at the pedal steel, lost underneath his white ten-gallon hat, and too short to be a match for Vernell anyway. Jack was watching me, but he was also tracking yet another cutie who was waving to him from the edge of the dance floor. The situation was too complicated to communicate to a man whose mind was divided by female attention.
"Maggie," Vernell said, his voice slurred with liquor. "The most horrible thing has happened." Sugar Bear was picking out his instrumental, so I could speak, but only for a moment. I roped Vernell closer, which took some doing as his body didn't or couldn't cooperate.
"Vernell Spivey," I said, in my no-nonsense, mother tone, "now you listen to me. This is not the time nor the place to get into this."
Vernell looked up at me, his brown eyes narrowing and his bushy eyebrows furrowing so close together they looked like one continuous shaggy line of displeasure.
"The hell it ain't," Vernell blustered loudly. "He died in your house. I'd say you got some 'splainin' to do." Vernell was clearly out of his mind. I wasn't sure, at that moment, that he even realized we were divorced.
The young studs on the fringe of the floor were catching on that our dialogue was not exactly friendly. A few of them moved closer, their testosterone spoiling for a good fight. I looked up for Cletus the bouncer, but he was working the door and momentarily unavailable. I gave up all pretense of singing, and Sugar Bear took over with an instrumental.
"You and Jimmy," Vernell stuttered. "You and him was… was…" Vernell's face was taking on a green hue and I remembered right quick why Vernell had knocked off drinking. It didn't agree with his liver.
"Me and Jimmy was family, Vernell, and that's all there was to it."
"You and Jimmy was dogging me in my own house!" he thundered. That brought the dance floor to a standstill and set Cletus into action.
"Well, if that ain't the pot calling the kettle black," I stormed, unfortunately into my live mike.
"But kin, Maggie, you was doggin' me with my own kin."
As if that somehow made the sin worse. I gave Vernell a pitying, down-my-nose look.
"Vernell, I would no more be unfaithful to you with a member of your family than fly to the moon. But all that's really neither here nor there, 'cause we're divorced! You left me and married a bimbo!"
This clearly threw Vernell for a loop.
"Naw!" he cried, falling back a step into Cletus's outstretched arms. "Naw!" A confused look crossed his face, then pain, and finally tears. "Cain't be."
What was wrong with him? Had Jimmy's death sent him into such a tailspin that he no longer remembered anything? Was this a form of post-traumatic stress or amnesia?
The band had picked up that their lead singer was out of action and was doing its best to rock the audience away from me and back out onto the dance floor. I crouched down at the edge of the stage and motioned for Cletus to move Vernell up closer.
"Vernell, I know Jimmy's death was a terrible shock-" I said, but he interrupted me.
"Jimmy and me, we always take care of our own, Maggie. I take care of my family."
"I know you do, Vernell." Yep, he took care of me all right. Ran out on me and his baby girl, but those support checks rolled in, right on time, every month. Of course, they quit coming the day Sheila moved in with Vernell and his lovely Dish Girl. There was caring and then there was care. Vernell maintained his family, but he didn't care squat about us when he left.
"Come on," Cletus grunted, and started to lead Vernell away.
"Keep your hands off me!" Vernell shouted.
When Vernell was younger, he was bad to drink. Young and wiry, he'd been mean as a snake when he got liquored up. Soon as he sobered up, he'd forget everything that'd happened. Most of the time, he'd deny he'd ever been drinking, just block out what he didn't want to remember. Looked to me like Vernell hadn't changed much, even though I thought he'd quit the hard stuff over ten years ago.
Cletus let his eyes go flat and hard. His grip tightened on Vernell's arms and I could tell by the pinched look on Vernell's face that it hurt. Vernell had to face facts, he wasn't a young buck anymore and Cletus would take him if he had to.
"Maggie," Vernell said, his attention once more on me. "I done drove my ducks to bad market but there's no undoing it now. I got to lie down with the dogs and take my lumps."
"Vernell, what on earth are you saying?" I didn't like the way he was talking, or his tone. Something about it frightened me.
"Be careful, Maggie. There's all kind of danger in this world. There ain't always gonna be somebody looking after you. You're a woman alone. Yep," Vernell said, the green tinge to his skin suddenly turning ash white. "You never know when life'll sneak up on you and eat your lunch, sack and all." Then he clasped a hand to his mouth. "Aw, gawd," he moaned. "I'm gonna be sick!"
That got Cletus moving. With one beefy hand on Vernell's collar and the other on Vernell's waistband, Cletus propelled Vernell away from me and over to the men's room.
I straightened up, looked out at the crowd who by now had returned to dancing, and shrugged my shoulders at the young studs. Po
or Vernell, I thought, but I couldn't quite get my heart into the sentiment. There was something different about him, and it wasn't just the clothes and the liquor. Something had changed and Vernell the Entrepreneur had vanished, leaving behind a shadow of the man I'd once known.
Chapter Nine
Jack noticed the long scrape down the side of my car first, then the flat tire. We had walked out of the Golden Stallion together, the energy necessary for performing quickly draining away and leaving in its place a bone-weary fatigue.
"Shit!" he swore. "What is that?"
My right rear tire lay flat on the ground, a gash torn vertically across the rubber, just below the rim. I stood there, trying to get my brain to accept the image. Then I saw the scrape down the passenger side. Narrow and jagged, it cut through the paint, leaving an ugly metal scar.
I looked around at the cars nearby. They were untouched. Why me? Why my car? What was going on here? "I'm coming," the voice had said. Was this it? The beginning?
I didn't say anything. Maybe I was afraid to open my mouth, afraid of the sounds that would come out into the cold, fall dawn. Instead, I gently lowered my guitar case to the asphalt and walked to the hood of the Beetle. Jack was squatting down by the tire, his fingers rubbing against the fraying rubber, swearing under his breath. Slowly and methodically, I pulled the tire kit out of the trunk, then unbolted the spare and began carrying it.
"I'll get that," he said, moving quickly to take the dirty tire out of my hands.
"No, don't!" I tightened my grip and practically shoved him aside in my hurry. I didn't want any help. I needed to feel as if there was something I could do, one thing I could still control in my crazy universe. I could change a damn tire by myself!
I knelt down, pulled out the tire iron and placed it over the first lug nut. I gave it a mighty wrench. When it didn't move, I stood up and jumped on the iron arm, demanding that it give. Slowly the lug turned.
To his credit, Jack never moved, never said a word. He stood there in the frosty morning air and watched, now and then stamping his feet against the cold. My car, I thought over and over. My car, my car, my car. My house, violated. My gun, stolen. My grandma's rug, ruined. Jimmy, dead. My daughter. What about my daughter?
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