Desperate to the Max

by JB Skully

  Damn. What would Witt make of it? He'd think she was besotted and trying to win over his mother, that she wanted to wheedle all his secrets from Ladybird's lips, that she ... Not. He'd assume she was staking out Bethany's house, was caught red-handed, and had successfully bluffed her way out—not that Ladybird needed any bluffing; she was extremely good at doing that all on her own. In less than two months, Witt had grown to know Max too well. He'd probably be pissed that she wasn't trying to win over his mother.

  Max followed the little woman into the house, wended her way through the stacks of newspapers and magazines, the wheels of the cart squeak-squeaking behind her. Ladybird talked incessantly, most of what she said going right through Max's head as if there was nothing between her ears but air. Not that it mattered, Ladybird didn't seem to require answers.

  The kitchen was ... well, unique seemed perhaps the nicest way to describe it. Knick-knack shelves covered the walls. Cheesy ceramic bric-a-brac from every tourist trap in the country crammed each inch of available space. Mickey and Minnie salt and pepper shakers from Disneyland. A brightly painted cable car from San Francisco. A red and white paddle wheel steamer from the Mississippi. A pink candelabra from the Liberace Museum. An Elvis clock hung over the sink, the King's blue-clad hips rocking back and forth with each tick and tock. On the window sill over the sink sat a myriad of tiny porcelain creatures, a bird in a nest, a rabbit with a pink nose, a cat on a pillow, a horse pulling a carriage.

  On the other side of the window lay Bethany Spring's backyard.

  Max's pulse raced. “Did the police ask if you'd seen anything on the night she died?"

  Ladybird's eyes widened as they stared out the window together. Something yellow fluttered in a slight breeze, as if the end of the police tape on the back door had come loose.

  Ladybird's voice held awe as she spoke softly. “They did ask me. But I didn't see anything. I didn't even hear a noise. I'm a very heavy sleeper. Horace always says the house could burn down around me, and I'd never even wake up."

  So much for all those smoke alarms Witt said he'd installed.

  "What about before you went to bed? After all, we don't know what time she was killed, do we?” Well, Max did, actually, but Ladybird didn't have to know that.

  Ladybird warmed to her topic. “She did have that fight."

  Max suspected the little woman, unnaturally hesitant, wanted the pleasure of building her curiosity. “You didn't tell Witt and me about any fight last night."

  "Well,” she said through pursed lips, “I was saving it for the police.” Logical for Ladybird. She didn't want anyone stealing her thunder, not even her son. “I believe it could have been that Jada girl again. Although I didn't see her car out there when I went to water my rose bushes."

  The plastic rose bushes? Max decided not to ask. “Then who could it have been?"

  "Virginia maybe. Of course, I've never heard Virginia raise her voice. She wasn't that kind. She usually scolds with a look. You know the type.” Ladybird did her best to look down her nose with disdain. Max almost laughed. The expression certainly wouldn't have cowed Witt.

  So there was a fight the night Bethany died. Ladybird had already said there were often fights over there. “Did you hear what they were arguing about?"

  "No.” Ladybird beamed, her smile reminiscent of Witt's. “But I'm certain Bethany knew the person who killed her."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Max pounced on Ladybird's assertion. “How can you be sure it was someone she knew?"

  "Horace told me."

  Witt certainly wouldn't like Max's ghostly encouragement. She did it anyway. After all, ghosts weren't a figment of everyone's imagination. At least not in all cases. “What did Horace say?"

  "He was quite enigmatic actually."

  "Hmmm,” Max prodded with the sound.

  "He said Bethany was another victim of the evil that lived in her house. It claimed her father, and now it's claimed her."

  "I thought she didn't move into that house until after her father was dead."

  "She brought it with her. Once it's gotten its teeth into your nape, Max, evil follows you everywhere. Horace's words, not mine, but I believe him."

  Horace had also said that Witt would have to kill—for the first time in his career, in his life—to save Max. She glanced at the little woman. Ladybird certainly didn't seem to hold it against her. Who knew how Ladybird would feel when, if, it ever happened.

  "Horace has learned quite a lot on the other side, you know,” Ladybird went on. “Especially about the nature of evil."

  Max shivered and thought of Bud Traynor, evil incarnate. What was that Cameron had said not so long ago? Everyone has a Bud Traynor in their life. The question was, who had been Bethany's?

  Ladybird jumped then, her hands flying to her cheeks. “Oh my goodness, sandwiches. I'm forgetting. You did say you only had a few minutes. All this talk of evil will cast a pall over our lunch if we don't stop it right this minute."

  The subject was dropped with no easy way of resurrecting it.

  Ladybird opened the freezer door of her circa 1970s harvest gold refrigerator and pulled out a package of bread. She plopped it down on her matching gold Formica countertop, undid the tie wrap, and chopped at the pieces of bread with a pointed knife. The hair on Max's nape rose. What would Witt do to her if his mother cut off one of her own fingers with that knife?

  "You want me to do that, Ladybird?"

  "Oh no, no, no. You can take the bags out of the basket for me and put them on the counter."

  Max emptied the basket, watching Ladybird from the corner of her eye for evidence of massive bleeding. The chopping done, Ladybird held each piece in succession between her palms.

  "Now you can unpack them. If you wouldn't mind, of course. I have to thaw the bread."

  Max did so. Three boxes of All-Bran Cereal. Three bags of dried prunes. Two bottles of prune juice. A box of Ex-lax.

  "Must keep regular, you know,” Ladybird commentated.

  Two Salisbury steak TV dinners. Two Mexican burrito. Two chicken pot pies. Four Hungry-Man turkey dinners.

  "Witt likes turkey the best,” Ladybird went on, setting down a piece of bread and picking up another.

  In the next bag lay the promised tomatoes, a resealable plastic sack of baby carrots, four overripe bananas, and five extra vegetable bags.

  "You never can tell when you're going to need extra bags, my dear. You can put them in that bottom drawer."

  Max pulled out the indicated drawer. It was crammed with neatly folded bits of aluminum foil, wax paper, and Styrofoam meat packs.

  "Those are good for packing tarts and cupcakes for the church bake sale."

  Max eyed the empty Baby Wipe boxes.

  "I sometimes like to eat my lunch in the park, and you can fit a sandwich, an apple, and a cookie all in that one little box. So convenient. You can put the plastic grocery bags in there."

  With her chin, Ladybird indicated a brightly colored fabric tube with identical bags sticking out the end. Max gathered the empties and shoved them into the tube.

  "Thank you. You're such a good girl. Witt always tells me I'm harboring dreaded diseases by keeping that stuff around, but I do wash them after each use, you know."

  Thank God. Max had been a bit worried. “I have full confidence in you, Ladybird."

  The little woman set the last piece of semi-thawed bread on the counter and opened the cupboard above her for the canned salmon. The top two shelves, which were out of her reach, were empty. “You're nothing like Witt's first wife, you know."

  The hackles on Max's neck rose, and for a person not usually at a loss for words, she hadn't a clue what to say.

  "She would never have put away my grocery bags. She'd have thrown them out. Such a waste. She even wanted Witt to put me in an old folk's home. Can you imagine?"

  Ladybird reached into a drawer for the can opener, flexed her fingers, then started to undo the can, pinching her lips with the effort.
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  "I can do that while you get the cucumber and tomatoes,” Max offered.

  Ladybird beamed. “Oh, thank you again. It's the arthritis. To think that bitch used my poor joints as an excuse to try to...” She stopped when she saw that Max's jaw had almost hit the countertop at the sound of that word. “Well, she was a b-i-t-c-h, you know. Witt and I have called her that for so long, I can't even remember her real name any more. Debbie or Daisy or Doodoo or something.” She waved a hand. “You'd call her a bitch, too, if you met her."

  Max was sure she would. She already had a low opinion of Debbie Doodoo. However, there was something a bit unnerving about such a tiny, grandmotherly lady using “bitch” so easily.

  Together they made the small snacks and carried them to the table where Ladybird proceeded to slice the crusts off and cut the sandwiches in quarters while she prattled on about Witt's ex. It was a most delightful one-sided conversation which, Max decided, she'd be sure to needle Witt with at the first opportunity.

  "She wanted him to become a lawyer. More money. The way that woman spent money, he'd have needed it.” Ladybird gestured wildly with the knife in her hands, scaring the bejesus out of Max, who leaned to the side in the nick of time. “She said a lot of police officers made the transition. She just didn't know that Witt hates school. Always has. It was enough to get himself through junior college and the police academy. Oh my, all those years of classrooms to be a lawyer? He'd have ended up blowing her away with an AK-47 before he ever passed the Bar."

  In mid-bite, Max almost choked. Ladybird thankfully put the knife down and went on as if nothing had happened.

  "It's not that he's not smart. He's quite the scholar actually, reads and reads, knows something about everything. He just hates being confined inside all the time."

  Max remembered all those bookshelves in Witt's house. Though with all the other things on her mind at the time—like solving a murder—she hadn't had time to look at the contents.

  Ladybird chattered on. “Which is why in the end, I think he divorced her instead of bumping her off. I think he was afraid of getting caught, not that he ever said, but it's a hunch.” Ladybird sighed, fluttered her eyelashes dreamily. “Oh, but the nights we sat up planning her murder—it was such great fun. Horace had some excellent suggestions, too."

  Max sputtered, set down her own sandwich in case she actually caused herself bodily harm.

  "I said he should buy a wood chipper,” Ladybird went on with her soliloquy, not even noticing that Max was biting her lower lip. “Use it every weekend, I told him, for, oh, say two to three months beforehand. Then nobody would think a thing of it when he chopped her up and fed her through the chipper. I thought it was a marvelous idea. Witt said he preferred taking her to the cemetery and burying her in the bottom of a grave that was going to be filled the next day. He said the mob does that kind of thing all the time.” She tipped her head to one side and sighed. “In the end, he just divorced her. Much less dramatic, but certainly as effective. He hasn't heard from her since."

  "How utterly boring.” Max simply couldn't resist.

  Ladybird, eyes bright with laughter, patted her hand. “I knew you'd understand.” She popped the last bite of sandwich in her mouth and talked around it, lips barely moving as she spoke. “It was really the children that did it in the end."

  "Children?"

  "Yes. Witt wanted them. She said they didn't have enough money. I know it was because she didn't want to destroy her figure."

  Children and babies. The words were coming up a bit too often for Max's peace of mind. “I thought he divorced because she asked him to sit down when he took a leak."

  Ladybird pursed her lips and gave the idea her total consideration. “Well, there was that, but I really think he made up his mind when he found out she'd had that abortion."

  "Abortion,” Max repeated. It was all she could do.

  "Oh my, yes. Without even telling him she was pregnant."

  Max felt the sudden stab of intrusion into Witt's life. It was one thing eavesdropping on his minor marital squabbles and murder plots, but this was ... invasive. Nor did she want to hear about Debbie Doodoo's abortion.

  Still, there was no doubt that Ladybird had handed her the perfect weapon if Witt got too serious about this supposed “relationship.” Witt wanted children. Max could never have them. A nice little tidbit to keep around for when it was needed, but she felt a little slimy for knowing it without Witt having been the one to tell her.

  Max felt far more comfortable talking about murder. “Tell me, Ladybird, doesn't it worry you being here all alone when someone was killed right next-door?"

  It certainly wasn't a smooth segue into another less personal topic, but Ladybird didn't even look askance. “It's very exciting, isn't it? Shall I tell you what I learned at the grocery store?"

  Ladybird's excitement set her nerves jangling. Did the little lady see herself as the Jessica Fletcher of Garden Street? Oh yes, Witt was really going to bump Max off for sure, encouraging his mother as she was. But hey, what was one more reason added to his already lengthy list? “By all means, Ladybird, tell me."

  "Well, Mabel is friends with Barbara, who's friends with Ingrid, and Ingrid knows the mother of that boy who used to do a lot of the deliveries for the Spring girl."

  "Deliveries?” The rush of names overwhelmed Max.

  "Yes, you know, her business, delivering medicine and groceries or whatever it is that a housebound person might need. Didn't I tell you last night?"

  For the life of her, Max couldn't remember what Ladybird had told her last night expect that she spoke to her husband Horace. “Oh yes."

  "Well, that boy, Freddie I think his name is, broke down and cried, at least that's what his mama told everyone, but those kids were down at the store on their bikes, cutting school like usual, and Freddie was there telling everyone he was glad the cheap fat bitch was dead.” Ladybird sat back like the cat who ate the canary and beamed at Max.

  Max realized now exactly why nothing she ever said seemed to shock Witt. Piss him off, yes, but shock, no. With a mother like Ladybird, he was used to anything. “Freddie might have been boasting to impress his friends."

  "Or he could be a ruthless killer. Remember that movie The Bad Seed? He could be another Rhoda."

  The Bad Seed? Rhoda? Ah yes, she remembered, the one with the merciless villain being an eight-year-old child. “What would his motive be?” Rhoda had wanted the penmanship pin.

  "She might have stiffed him his salary. You know how those gang members are."

  Somehow Max couldn't see kids on their ten-speeds at the grocery store as a gang. “I think he might have been trying to save face with his friends, Ladybird."

  "Well, I have that nice Detective McKaverty's number, and I'm going to give him a call to let him know. I'm part of the neighborhood watch, you know."

  It was a terrifying prospect.

  "Be sure you let the police handle all this. Poking around on your own can be dangerous."

  Ladybird flapped her hand. “You sound like Witt."

  She certainly did. Max sounded exactly like Witt when he was telling her to quit poking around. Of course, she didn't listen either.

  Things, however, were really getting scary with the thought of Ladybird Long on the loose looking for a murderer.

  "Oh my goodness,” Ladybird gasped out. “Oh my goodness."

  Max about had a heart attack at the excitement in that breathy sound.

  "I have the most wonderfully brilliant idea."

  "No.” The word came out sounding a bit like Witt's horrified voice when Max had asked him to set her up on the phone sex line.

  "Yes.” She leaned forward to put her hand on Max's knee. “We're going to take Virginia a casserole. That's what people always do when there's a death in the family."

  "But you don't like Virginia. Yesterday you couldn't even remember her name."

  "I never admit I remember her name, that's all. Still, we must be kind to
those who are friendliness-challenged."

  Max stared. No two ways about it, she was a candidate for Witt's wood chipper if she didn't immediately put a stop to Ladybird's brilliant idea.

  With Ladybird, however, she couldn't get a word in edgewise. The little woman rolled on making plans. “You know you want to talk to her. And to Jada. You have to find out who killed Bethany. At least, that's what Horace told me."

  Once Witt heard about this, Horace would be glad he was already dead.

  Max simply gave in despite the danger to her health. The tiny woman didn't have such a bad idea. Even in Ladybird's hands, a simple casserole was harmless. Wasn't it? “All right."

  Ladybird jumped up, bouncing once again on her toes. “Casserole, casserole. What will we bring?” she sang as if it were a nursery rhyme.

  Witt's mother was certifiable.

  Max knew it was the same thing Witt had said about her the first time he'd heard her talking to Cameron.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In the end, Ladybird decided on lasagna. She had a store-bought one in the freezer. With Max's help, she took off the brand name cover, then settled a piece of tin foil—unused, thank goodness—over the top. Then Ladybird spritzed hairspray over her blue hair, dabbed on a little lipstick, and away they went.

  Neither the Camry nor the Honda had moved. They'd been joined by a white Cadillac—a model Max hated simply because it was the kind Bud Traynor drove—parked along the front sidewalk of the house. Obviously the first of the family friends to offer condolences.

  Ladybird's quick step made up for her short stride, and she actually reached Virginia Spring's front path ahead of Max. The curtains were pulled across the front window. The porch light was still on. The lawn was made of real grass, and the shrubs and flowers lining the walk proved to be organic, too. Plastic bushes, faded flowers, and Astroturf had not taken over all of Garden Street, only Ladybird Johnson's—oops, Long's—front yard.

  Ladybird rang the bell. The door opened moments later, as if the girl, Jada, stood sentinel by it, or was planning her escape. In the brooding dark of the house behind her, she appeared skeletal, her cheeks hollow and eyes sunken in their sockets. The typical Type A personality bags beneath looked like slashes of charcoal on a football player. The fragile Jada Spring—Max assumed the last name was the same—would have died of a heart attack or been crushed to death at a garden party, let alone on a football field.