Suicide Supper Club

by Rhett DeVane

  Agent Hurst finally spoke. “Used to do all the work himself. Now he finds some witless, no-hope, dead-end loser to do it for him.” His nostrils flared. The young agent took obvious pleasure in this part of his job.

  The senior agent held up a hand to calm his partner. “We’d like to round him up, Glenn. Why catch the mouse when you can have the cat?” Wickler flashed a smile.

  Where the hell did Feds get their brand of humor? Was it something they taught in Special Agent Stand-up Class? Sign these two goons up for a mic at improv night.

  Hurst took a couple of steps toward the table. The menace in his body language, unmistakable. If the three were in some back alley, this dude would chain Glenn to a fence and beat the living daylights out of him. And enjoy it immensely. Whoever Clay was, the Feds wanted him bad.

  Glenn pushed back in his chair. “What’s in it for me?”

  “You help us get Clay, and we’ll have a talk with the State’s Attorney,” Wickler said.

  “No time served?” Glenn waited.

  “Can’t say. Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, it will be much more favorable for you if you cooperate.”

  Agent Hurst leaned over and put his face so close, Glenn could smell the half-chewed mint on his breath. “You shot two women.”

  “Two?” Glenn frowned. “Are they—?”

  “Dead?” When Agent Hurst smiled, the effect was as far from enchanting as a bull gator in mating season. “Can’t say. Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t seem to recall.”

  A prickle of cold sweat popped out above Glenn’s brow. Florida had the death penalty. If one of the women was belly up on some morgue slab, his future would dim to a pinprick.

  Something niggled at him. Why the hell had Sheila hired a hit on herself? That cost money, his money! This whole mess was her fault. If it wasn’t for having to support her lazy ass, he’d already have that boat and he would’ve never gotten mixed up with Clay. Sheila would pay for this, if she was alive, if she bailed him out. With his money.

  He’d figure a way to handle Sheila, but what about that other woman? Crap in a crocodile cradle. He glanced down at the photographs of the man he knew as Clay. If he cooperated with the Feds, he would make an instant enemy: one, Glenn was sure, who wouldn’t use a judge and a jury of his peers.

  Time. He had to buy time to consider the consequences from all sides. He licked his cracked lips. Time, and a drink. His insides quivered like a small engine’s twitchy idle.

  Glenn looked Agent Hurst in the eyes. Any sign of weakness at this point would not be cool. He said the only words he knew that held power. “I want an attorney.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Two days after suicide

  Wednesday

  When Sheila Bruner opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was Elvina Houston sitting in the lounge chair next to the bed with a computer in her lap and a cell phone balanced on the armrest.

  “Elvina?” Sheila started at the unfamiliar rasp of her own voice.

  “Well, mornin’ glory!” Elvina tapped a couple of keys and snapped the lid closed. “I was working on my blog: Essentials from Elvina. I got one of those wireless cards where you can get on the Internet anywhere you are. A miracle of modern technology. Too bad my dear departed friend Piddie didn’t learn to use all of this before she passed. She would’ve gotten such a kick out of how you can find out anything with the click of a few keys.” She ran her hands over the laptop’s sleek crimson cover. “I can check email and surf the net with my phone, but I do better on the computer for my blog. Hope I didn’t disturb you.”

  “No.” Sheila’s gaze roamed around the private room. “May I have some water, please? My throat—”

  “Surely, sugar. I’ll go round up one of those little Styrofoam pitchers. By now, they won’t mind you having something to drink. You hungry? Bet you’ll get breakfast shortly. They usually want you to start eating as soon as you’re able. Builds up your strength.”

  Sheila’s mind grappled with the stream of prattle.

  “That, and heaven as my witness, they’ll have you trotting up and down the halls with your rolling pole later today. Not like you feel like doing a marathon, but you’ll have to walk a little. Prevents the blood from pooling in your legs. I’ve found this to be God’s gospel truth: if you keep them happy—peeing, pooping, walking, and eating—they’ll let you go home.”

  Sheila shifted positions to alleviate a cramp in her lower back. Her stomach roiled from the sting of the incision, then at the thought of returning home.

  “My cat. He’s bound to be hungry by now. Elvina, could you—?”

  Elvina raised a hand. “All been taken care of, sugar. Your little buddy Doreen at the vet’s office uptown called me right after she heard the news. I met her over there when I went to pick up a few of your things, and we looked high and low. Finally she stepped outside and discovered his little house. He’s mighty sweet. Came right to us. Doreen took him home with her. Hope that’s okay.”

  “Good thing Glenn was at work,” Sheila said. “He doesn’t know I have Buttercup. He’s not one much for cats . . . any animals for that matter.”

  Elvina pursed her lips. “Never could understand a person who didn’t like pets.”

  Sheila winced. “I’m kind of queasy.”

  “That’s the aftermath of that stuff they use to put you to sleep. It’ll wear off.” Elvina slid the laptop onto the rolling bedside table and stood. “Now let me go get you that water. I’ve already scoped out where they keep the cups and ice. Those poor nurses are worked plumb to death.”

  Elvina bustled from the room. In a few minutes, she returned with a full pitcher of ice water, cups, bendy straws, plastic spoons, napkins, and a cup of lime gelatin.

  “Lady at the main desk said they serve breakfast in about an hour. I managed to scavenge up some Jell-O. Your nurse said you could eat and drink, slowly at first until you get used to the notion. They’re changing shifts right now, so a new one will be by to check and prod you soon.” Elvina studied the control panel for a moment before hitting the correct button to elevate the head of the bed. She stuffed a second pillow behind Sheila’s back.

  “Good thing it’s not my right shoulder that’s hurt. I can’t even scribble with my left hand.” Sheila lifted the cup and tried to aim the end of the straw in the correct direction.

  Elvina helped her to guide it to her lips. “Here. Now, that’s better. You’re still pretty weak. Sip a little at a time. Last thing you want is to drink too much too fast and upchuck.”

  The effort used what little energy Sheila had. She lowered her head onto the pillow with a sigh. “Best water I’ve ever tasted.”

  “When you’re up to it, I’ll spoon you some Jell-O. Jell-O’s not my favorite, as a rule. But I became quite fond of it in rehab after I broke my ankle last year. Ate so much of this lime flavor, I’m surprised I didn’t come out looking like an alien.”

  “Maybe I’ll have some in a little bit.” Sheila closed her eyes. It would be so easy to give into the painkiller fog and forget about the whole royal mess. Any second, Glenn would burst into the room and she’d have to hear his take on things. By the time he bossed the nurses around, she’d be doing good to get them in the room if she was on death’s doorstep. “Do you know what happened last night, Elvina? Or was it even last night?”

  Elvina rooted out a spot on the bed and perched. “What do you remember, shug?”

  “The three of us were standing outside of the restaurant trying to decide the best way to get to Abby.” Her eyes flew open. “Abby! How’s Abby?”

  Elvina touched Sheila’s hand. “She’s doing just fine. I had a voicemail message from Ben. They’ve moved her to Intensive Care for a bit. She had some kind of bowel thing. They had to take a piece out, but it sounds like she cruised through surgery without a blip.”

  Any other time, Sheila would have asked for precise details so she could appoint the proper level of concern and make plans on how to lend a hand. Not that she wasn’t worr
ied about her friend. She was. She didn’t have the vigor to stretch her compassion much past the confines of her own skin.

  “Good. Glad she’s okay.” Sheila turned her head. “Could you hand me the phone and dial my house? I need to talk to Glenn. Or have you called him?”

  Elvina blinked, hesitated. “You’re going to find out, so I might as well be the news-bearer, and there’s no gentle way to put this. Glenn was the one who shot you, Sheila.”

  “Wha—?”

  “He was drunker than Cootie Brown, from what I heard, and that’s all that saved you and that other woman from dying.”

  “Other woman?” Sheila blinked to clear the spots swimming in front of her eyes.

  “Glenn fired a bunch of times. Hit you and some bystander. She’s in ICU. I managed to find that out. She got shot in the stomach, so her injuries are more severe than yours. I caught up with her husband late last night. He was trying to rest in the little waiting room off the Intensive Care Unit. Bless his heart, he looked like he’d been beaten up in a back alley.”

  “Is she going to . . . make it?” Sheila’s mouth felt as if a thick wad of gauze had soaked up every smidgeon of moisture. She closed her eyes. Too much.

  “The husband said she was in serious, but stable, condition.” Elvina busied her hands straightening the sheets and bedcover. “I’ve added her to the prayer lists on all of my online forums, and at the churches in Chattahoochee. Along with you and Abby, of course.”

  Sheila took a deep breath to steady her quivering insides. “What if she dies, Elvina?”

  For the first time in as long as she could recall, Loiscell Pickering had a decent night’s sleep. Not because of any prescription sleep aids. Not because of complete peace of mind. Rather, exhaustion so absolute, it splayed her into submission. For the first few moments of wakefulness, she curled beneath the cool smooth sheets, unwilling to break the spell. Then the doorbell sounded.

  She glanced at the bedside digital clock radio. “Oh no! It’s past nine!”

  The covers flew in two directions. She fumbled for a light housecoat, but she couldn’t find one of her bandanas. Whoever it was would have to get over the fact her hair looked like rusty steel wool.

  Loiscell’s voice left her when she opened the door.

  “Mom?”

  Loiscell cleared her throat. “Lisa?”

  Her daughter pushed through the front door and grabbed Loiscell in a fierce hug. “I got your letter. And I’ve called and called! Why haven’t you been answering your phone? I’ve been worried sick!”

  Crap. The letters.

  No use to deny anything. It had all been put to ink. The cancer. The plea for forgiveness. The insistent urging for both Lisa and Lance to continue with successful lives without her.

  “I was going to drive, but I was so frantic, I caught the first flight out and snatched a rental car in Tally.” Lisa shoved a rolling suitcase out of the way, then dashed for the bathroom. “I left messages for Lance on his cell,” she called out. “He’s biking the Rockies, from what I was able to find out. No telling when he’ll be in a spot with enough reception to check his voicemail.”

  “That’s your brother,” Loiscell said in a loud enough voice to carry down the hall. “He’d bike the moon if he could flag a shuttle.”

  Loiscell heard the trickle, the flush. Her daughter walked back into the living room, fastening the button on her pants. “Got any coffee? I could use a cup. That airline stuff is rotten.”

  “I’ll start a fresh pot. The one I programmed to come on at six has been sitting there for three hours now. I seem to have overslept a bit.”

  Lisa’s expression darkened. “I don’t like that. You hardly ever sleep in.”

  Loiscell raked a hand through her hair. With no make-up and horror-flick hair, she must look like death-not-warmed. “I feel okay, myself. I’ve been sitting with a friend in the hospital. Actually, two friends.” She glanced toward the wall-mounted phone. “Which reminds me. I need to make a quick call to Elvina Houston. I’m supposed to be over at TGH this morning.”

  Lisa settled onto one of the kitchen chairs. “I could drive you.”

  “Elvina’s quite resourceful. She has a stand-by list of people as long as God’s arm. I’ll ask her to call on someone else. Besides, by the time I get showered and drive over, the morning will be mostly over.”

  “Why do I have the feeling that more is going on than just your . . . cancer?”

  Loiscell rubbed the tight spot between her daughter’s shoulders: a loving gesture that never failed to relax Lisa. “Tell me about you. What’s happening with your book? I’m so excited about you becoming a published author, I can barely stand it.”

  Lisa grasped her mother’s hands and turned to fix her with a stern stare. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk about me later. This is about you, Mom. Not me. Not my job. Not my writing. Not Lance. Not the twins.”

  Tears formed at the corners of Loiscell’s eyes. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Lisa jumped up and enfolded her mother in her arms. Her daughter had that same fresh linen scent she favored. No heavy perfume, just clean. They swayed back and forth in the same fashion Loiscell had rock-and-hugged Lisa as a child.

  Loiscell pushed back from the embrace. “I’ll put on that coffee and call Elvina. I have a couple of Joe Fletcher’s sweet potato biscuits I can warm up. He has that little bakery uptown, you know. We can sit and have a nice, long talk.”

  Nothing had prepared Glenn Bruner for the amount of thinking he would have to do, locked in a cell alone without the benefit of a beer. Instead of mixing Glenn with the general inmate population, the powers in charge had isolated him. Because of his law enforcement background? Who knew. At least meals came at regular intervals, though he’d eaten better slop at a greasy spoon diner.

  “Bruner, you have a visitor.” A guard unlocked the cell door and motioned with one hand.

  Glenn stood and ambled from the cell. No use giving the corrections officer any lip. It would shine a bad light on himself.

  Again, he was led into a cramped room. This one, without the partial wall of one-way mirrored glass. A small-stature man entered, an expensive oxblood-colored leather briefcase in hand. Glenn checked the cut of his suit. The man was no public defender. His thinning hair was slicked from one side to the other in one of the worst comb-overs Glenn had ever seen. And no snarky attitude like the federal agents who had graced him with their presence earlier in the day.

  What kind of vehicle would this fellow drive? Glenn enjoyed the game, matching a person to a make and model. The man was no law enforcement type. No dark Crown Vic with darkened windows for him. Judging from the set of the thin shoulders and the flashy wristwatch, Glenn guessed a late model S-Class Mercedes. Better yet, some low-slung, over-priced foreign convertible. That comb-over would fly back like a flag stunned straight by a stiff breeze.

  “Mr. Bruner. I’m Martin Washington. I have been retained as your counsel.” The man didn’t extend a hand, only nodded and slapped the briefcase onto the metal table.

  Where had Sheila found this clown? And where had she gotten the money? One good thing: the arrival of the attorney assured him that his wife wasn’t stone-cold dead. Tried to snuff the woman and she still loved him. Atta girl. Glenn released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Guess you’ve met Sheila, then. How is my wife, anyway?”

  The attorney flipped open the briefcase. “Your wife is in the hospital, from what I can surmise.”

  Glenn pulled out the plastic chair and sat down.

  The lawyer unbuttoned his jacket, a practiced move so slick it looked like sleight of hand. “I’ve not met your wife. Neither have I met the other young woman involved in the alleged incident.”

  Glenn frowned. “Who hired you, then?”

  Martin Washington’s mouth twisted on either end. The result was an imitation smile, one that didn’t make it to the rest of his features. “Let’s just say . . . a mutual friend. One who wi
shes to remain anonymous.”

  Glenn crossed his arms over his chest. “None of my friends have that kind of cash.”

  The attorney settled into the chair opposite of Glenn. “I’m certain if you give it a little thought, you know someone who has a vested interest in the progression and outcome of your case.”

  A claw of ice wrapped around Glenn’s heart and squeezed. “I see.”

  “As your counsel, I advise you to carefully consider the consequences of your actions in regards to your cooperation with the authorities.”

  Glenn narrowed his eyes. “You a real lawyer, or just someone sent here to threaten me?”

  Martin Washington offered a second tight-lipped smile. “I assure you, I am quite qualified to settle your charges. Taking into account, of course, the best results for all involved.”

  No reason to act coy with this guy. Clearly, he knew the details. Dancing around the issues would take more oomph than Glenn could muster. Oh God, he needed a drink. “If I decide to take the Feds up on their kind offer, what then?”

  Something black and oily flickered across the attorney’s face, swiftly replaced by a bland expression. “Prison can either be an experience one can master, or one that provides insurmountable, and often fatal, obstacles.”

  Glenn huffed. “Who said I was guaranteed of serving time? I give ’em what they want, and they take care of me. Heard of the witness protection program, buddy?”

  The attorney extracted a neat pile of papers from the briefcase. “If you make unfortunate errors in judgment, Glenn—” He paused. “I may call you Glenn?” Then after Glenn nodded, continued, “there will be no place to offer complete solace. Safety is an illusion.”

  A childhood memory flashed into Glenn’s mind. He and one of his buddies had gone against parental warnings and tramped into the swampy low land near a remote river landing. The recent torrential spring rains had left the soil boggy, and the two boys reveled in the muck. At one point, Glenn’s feet sank into a patch of unstable ground. The more he pulled and struggled, the more his body lowered until he was locked into place up to his groin. A water snake slithered by, stopping to taste Glenn’s fear with a flick of its forked tongue before disappearing into the cypress knees and splashing into the river.