“What I mean is, there could be other explanations,” Bobbie amended.
Patsy leaned close, obviously not willing to consider any other explanation. “There are the paintings, too.”
“What paintings?”
“We’re sure he sells them for god-awful amounts.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He paints like John Wayne Gacy.”
John Wayne Gacy? “Sorry, but who’s that?”
Patsy rolled her eyes. “He killed all those boys, oh I forget exactly when, the seventies, I think, and buried them under his house. They executed him. But his clown paintings go for thousands now.”
Clowns? “I’ve never read anywhere that painting clowns was a symptom of being a serial killer.” Or even an animal killer.
“It’s all those things together, dear. And the worst is...” She leaned in to whisper words Bobbie could barely make out, her smoke-laden breath hot and sour in Bobbie’s nostrils.
Bobbie clapped a hand to her mouth. “You mean he’s a porn star?”
Patsy’s eyes darted to different spots of the yard as if to make sure the gargoyles couldn’t hear. “Not any more. He’s too old.”
Wasn’t it the women who got too old for those kind of movies, or rather too old for the men who watched them? “How old is he?”
“Thirty-eight, I think.”
Two years younger than she was. That wasn’t too bad. They said a woman hit her sexual peak much later than a man. “I’m still not sure the evidence means he’s a...” She allowed her voice to trail off meaningfully.
“He was a troublemaker in high school, always getting into one scrape after another. I’m surprised they never put him in juvenile hall. Maybe if they had...”
“Boy, Patsy, you’ve done a lot of research on your serial killer.” Bobbie wondered for a minute if she’d gone too far with her skepticism.
But Patsy didn’t seem to mind. The woman actually batted her had-to-be-fake eyelashes. “He’s not my serial killer. But I’ve lived in Cottonmouth all my life. I knew his dear departed parents.” She put a hand over her heart. “Goodness, the trials and tribulations they had to endure with that boy, racing around the county in that monstrous orange car of his, trying to corrupt his friends.” Her brows vanished once more beneath her shellacked bangs. “The town had to lock up their daughters. And that poor Mary Alice Turner...” Patsy’s words trailed off, her eyes suddenly misty.
“Mary Alice Turner?” Bobbie prompted.
Patsy sniffed. “It’s just too terrible to talk about.”
A murder victim? No. She really didn’t believe this serial killer stuff. Bobbie wanted to hear that story, but, in deference to the moisture in Patsy’s eyes, she decided to leave it for another time.
“So, he’s lived here all his life?” she asked instead.
“Except for the twenty years he was away making those...” Patsy’s lips pursed, and her eyes squinted. “Those movies.” She rummaged in her immense handbag for her cigarette case. “The Angels passed away just over a year ago, car accident, and when does he come back to town?” She jabbed a now lit cigarette at the house across the street.
Bobbie surreptitiously waved away the smoke. “Right after they died?” she ventured.
“Vulture,” Patsy spat through a smoke plume. And that seemed to be the worst sin of all.
They turned to stare at the house in silence. A child rode his bike to the edge of the property, stopped, gaped, then turned around and furiously pedaled away.
The hot June sun beat down on the street and the homes lining it, but the serial killer’s faded blue house stood in the shadows of its tall surrounding oaks. A porch, dim beneath an overhang, ran the length of its front and disappeared around either side. Weeds had invaded the lawn still covered with a blanket of last fall’s leaves. Dormer windows accented an attic room. She thought of Norman Bates in Psycho. And shuddered.
Bobbie shifted from one foot to the other. And Roberta, well, Roberta was shrieking at the top of her lungs, but Bobbie steadfastly refused to listen. Of course, Patsy was making all this stuff up. Wasn’t she?
Dead animals in your yard, clown paintings, and a porn star reputation didn’t necessarily translate to killing human beings for kicks. Yes, it does, Roberta insisted.
Shut up, you wimpy woman. She decided right then and there this was the last she’d hear from Roberta. She wouldn’t be Roberta anymore. She couldn’t be. That old life was over. Forever. No matter how much her old Robert-self sniveled about it.
But Bobbie did have to sort Patsy’s rumors from fact here. “If he’s a serial killer, why hasn’t he been arrested?”
“It’s not for lack of trying. The Sheriff says there’s no evidence.”
“How about some dead bodies, other than animal carcasses?”
Patsy looked from the house back to Bobbie. “We think he does those dirty deeds out of town.” The dirty deeds presumably being the real serial killer stuff. “At least for now,” Patsy added with portent.
Something, a curtain maybe, flickered in the right dormer window. Bobbie’s heart fluttered. A breeze blew across her bare midriff. She tugged her shirt down.
Porn star. Painter of god-awfully expensive clown art. Gravedigger of animals. High school troublemaker. She didn’t really believe Patsy’s melodrama, except maybe that last part.
But she was willing to risk it in her quest for Warren’s attention.
* * * * *
Gazing out the upper window of his parents’ home, Nick Angel smeared charcoal from his fingers onto his once white T-shirt.
Patsy Sapp was attempting to make another convert in her war against the infidel serial killer. Actually, it was Eugenia Meade’s war. Patsy was just a private. Not that their opinions irked him. Their reasons were legitimate. So screw it.
As for the woman with Patsy, now she was a different matter; screwing her wasn’t a bad idea at all. Tight jeans displayed a slender set of thighs. A short top revealed a bit of tasty bare flesh. The total package was not the normal Cottonmouth fare. Another time, another place, he’d consider sketching her, just like this, from afar. Wearing a tiny leather thong and snake tooth amulet hanging between her plentiful breasts.
He shook off the tantalizing image.
Another potential tenant for Mrs. Porter’s place? Probably. Damn, he missed seeing the old lady putter in her garden, tending her bright flowers. Maybe he should plant a few in his own yard. Christ, his mother would roll over in her grave if she could see the weeds infesting her untended beds. He was a real prick for letting them get that way. Maybe if he wasn’t so busy digging holes down there...something caught his eye.
A dark shape crushed the weeds. A cat? Something small and furry anyway. And mangled. Shit. He’d have to perform another burial rite. Neighborhood kids had been throwing roadkill in his front yard for months now. Why they’d started doing it, he didn’t have a clue. Why they kept it up, that was easy. He was The Serial Killer, after all, and running up to his front window in the dark of night gave them a thrill. Teenagers thrived on danger and risk. He knew that better than most. He could have called Animal Control to clean up the mess, but he wasn’t sure they’d come. Or that he wanted them to.
He’d bury the animal tomorrow. Today he needed to get back to the painting. His newest creation called to him like a siren; he couldn’t rest until he’d brought her fully to life on the canvas.
* * * * *
The move into the cottage on Garden Street had taken the whole of Sunday evening. Within half an hour, Bobbie had organized the two suitcases of new jeans, clingy T-shirts, short skirts, and several pairs of sexy little thongs. Everything new and unlike anything she’d ever worn before. New clothes for her new life.
Bobbie had taken much longer to deal with the kitchen. First, she’d carefully stowed away the items which came with the rental. Then she’d unloaded her own pans, bakeware, knives, sharpener, and the precious tart tins her mother had left her. Utensils were like pets—they grew on you. Lastl
y, she’d unpacked her pride and joy, the mocha machine with special super foam attachment. Warren had given it to her last Christmas, and unlike the BMW, she’d rather die than part with it. If he wanted that in the divorce, he’d be in for one nasty fight.
Since she’d settled in last evening, Nick Angel was on her list for Monday morning. Her mother had always said the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. Though it wasn’t her intention to capture his heart, she figured the same method applied for finding her way into his house. And other places. After all, it had worked with Warren. It just hadn’t kept him. But who was talking about keeping anyway? She was only thinking about showing Warren a thing or two about his mistakes.
Cookies, cakes, or a casserole to start? Coffee, tea, or me? Me. Ooh, wasn’t she just too funny. Once upon a time, Warren had thought so. Bobbie winced at the sudden pain in her lower lip where she’d bitten down a little too hard. Bad thoughts, think only good thoughts.
She pulled on her new backpack purse, tied her perky white tennies and headed out for downtown Cottonmouth. The minimall at the junction of Highway 26 and South Main, recently built by the look of freshly planted trees and shrubbery barely providing shade in the concrete parking lot, just wouldn’t do for her shopping excursion. No, after living in the city for fifteen years, she wanted the flavor of Cottonmouth to permeate her very bones. Maybe, in a past life, she’d been a small-town girl. Then again, in a past life, she could have been Anne Boleyn. At least Warren hadn’t chopped her head off when he dumped her. He’d just cut her heart out.
But who needed a heart, with all its messy emotions? Sex for Sex’s Sake, that was her new motto.
With a glance at the serial killer’s house, she relished the drama all the gossip added to her life. Getting dumped counted as bad drama, contemplating serial killers—though she didn’t really believe it—counted as good drama. From Garden Street, she turned right on Pine. Midmorning sun warmed the top of her head. She imagined her new red hair glistened. When was the last time she’d thought about glistening? Cottonmouth air must be good for her.
Besides feeling good, she looked good in the blue, fitted sweater she’d worn just in case she ran into Warren. Thank God, the ten pounds she’d dropped hadn’t come off her chest.
With school still in session for a few more days, the only person she passed was an elderly woman pulling a wire shopping cart, the wheels crunching on the gravel. Bobbie smiled. The lady returned it with a toothy grin. In the city, people didn’t even meet each other’s eyes, let alone smile.
Beau’s Garage stood at the corner of Pine and Main Street like a battle-scarred cactus amidst a rose garden. If you wanted gas, you went to the minimall where you got a free wash with every fill-up. If you wanted your oil changed, you went there, too, because there were five lifts and ten techs. Bobbie had already figured these things out, and it was only her second day in town. By the looks of the dusty, weed-choked concrete pad, everyone else in Cottonmouth knew it, too.
Turning the corner onto Main Street, she caught her breath. Awnings, colorful if a bit faded, stretched over the sidewalks on either side of the street. A barber pole swirled with red, white, and blue. A theater marquee, unlit during the daytime, reached up to the clear blue sky. The sight was something out of Ozzie and Harriet or Leave it to Beaver. People said Ozzie and Harriet was hopelessly unrealistic, but like an addict sneaking a fix, Bobbie still watched reruns on the TV Land channel and smelled again her mother’s jam tarts cooling on wire racks on a summer afternoon. Cottonmouth was the land of Ozzie and Harriet come to life.
Beside her, the door of Bushman’s Clothiers opened, a broom walked out and down the three steps. No, a man with a broom. Hair slicked back, neat lines pressed into his gray slacks, and an out-of-date, too-thin tie. He smiled. Gee, everyone smiled.
“You must be the little gal who moved into Mrs. Porter’s place,” he commented as he began sweeping the sidewalk, scouring away the dirt that had crept into the cracks in the pavement.
The little gal. Bobbie fought the urge to roll her eyes. Despite his receding hairline, he couldn’t be much older than she was, maybe even a couple of years younger. But the fact that he was right about who she was and the way his eyes kept falling to bosom level warmed her the same way the sun had. Politically incorrect or not, she was one forty-year-old woman who didn’t mind being ogled. Especially since she’d never been ogled.
“Yep, I am.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “And your name is Bobbie Jones. You’ll have to excuse us, we’re not really nosey, but Patsy’s been spreading the word along. I’m Harry Bushman.” He stopped sweeping and used the broom like a crutch while he waved his other hand at the seasoned brick facade. “This is my store, been in my family for...a long time. Men’s and women’s fashions.” He brightened like a flashing advertisement. “No reason to get in your car to find what you need. We’re right here.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”
“Cottonmouth’s also got a pharmacy, grocery store, hardware, barber shop, hair salon, whatever you need.”
She picked up an edge of desperation in his pleasant voice. “Well, thanks for telling me, Harry. I’m on my way to the grocery now.”
“That’s great. I won’t keep you then.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “Have a nice day.”
The forlorn furrow on his brow urged her to ask, “Do you carry shoes?”
His shoulders pulled back as if he were a puppet reacting to the tug of her words like strings. “Of course. Just about anything you could possibly want.”
She’d done all her shoe shopping before she left San Francisco. But hadn’t someone said a woman could always use another pair of shoes? “Today, I’ve got to get my groceries, you know, the mundane stuff, but when I’ve got myself settled...” She let the sentence trail off, a promise with no expiration date.
Harry Bushman smiled again. She wondered if he realized how grateful it looked, half-cocked like that.
“Bye then.” She gave him a wave over her shoulder, caught him checking out her butt in her tight jeans. She’d be back. Harry had just sold a pair of stilettos. Any man who looked at her forty-year-old butt like that deserved a reward.
She passed Fry’s Pharmacy, the gold-stenciled name chipped and worn off in spots. Johnson’s Soda Fountain continued the tired, worn-out theme of downtown Cottonmouth, white wrought iron tables, turned gray, arranged on the sidewalk in a pathetic attempt at a dapper city sidewalk cafe.
The only spots of frenetic activity along the street involved the beauty salon—The Hair Ball, which made her think of something cats puked up—and The Cooked Goose, some kind of specialty restaurant. As she passed the eatery’s dirty window, a Help Wanted sign seemed to plead for a waitress and the booths, though filled with customers, were scarred and ragged. A bit like the town itself.
Bobbie opened the door of Dillings Grocery. A waft of cool air greeted her, scented with cleaning agents, flowery perfume, and the spicy tang of rotisserie chicken. A sign on the empty checkout stand commanded, “Yell when you’re ready.” Too trusting, but nice. Like leaving your doors unlocked at night.
Quiet surrounded her. The slap of her tennies on the battered linoleum floor and the squeaky sound made by the wheels of her wonky cart echoed off the ceilings and walls.
She reached the meat counter before finding the first signs of life. A woman, mid-thirties, butcher’s apron stained with dried blood, hopefully animal, and dark frizzy hair pulled back into a hairnet, beamed at Bobbie with a sweet smile. “You must be the new girl.”
“Yes, Bobbie—”
“Jones. I know.” Her smile was marred only by the lipstick smear at the corner of her mouth. “I’m Janey Dillings.” She stuck her hand over the high glass countertop, thought better of it, and pulled back. “Better wash up before I shake your hand.”
“Don’t bother. I need some hamburger anyway.”
“We cut and grind our own meats. Low fat hamburg
er to die for. You won’t find that at the big chain stores.”
The one out in the minimall, the words left unsaid but implied. The meats were as promised, a fresh red instead of the usual packaged brown. Bobbie had the woman wrap a pound of the best.
“What are you making?”
“Lasagna, I think.”
“Noodles. Aisle Five.”
“Thanks.” Bobbie pushed her cart.
“Call me when you’re ready to check out. I promise I’ll wash my hands.”
“Do you take credit cards?”
With a finger, Janey Dillings lowered her slightly smudged glasses and gave Bobbie a look that said, What, like I’m going to give three percent to the credit card companies?
“How about checks?”
“Now that we can do.”
Smiling, Bobbie left her for aisle five, then moved on to aisles six, seven, and eight. They were as devoid of shoppers as the others.
Right there and then, Bobbie decided she wouldn’t patronize that horrible new minimall. Not ever. Cottonmouth needed her. Needed her business.
And to top it off, the town even had its very own serial killer.
Did serial killers like lasagna?
* * * * *
Bobbie revolved in front of the cheval mirror in her new bedroom, assessing her body from every possible angle. With her pushup bra, if she stood just so, at a slight angle in relation to the object in front of her, her breasts could pass for C-cup instead of B. At least on a good day with the sunlight behind her creating a nice shadow.
Maybe she shouldn’t have cut her hair. Men liked long hair, didn’t they? She sighed. Warren did, as evidenced by the Cookie Monster. True, the picture he’d shown Bobbie was from high school, and the hair style might have long since changed. But somehow Bobbie didn’t think the Cookie Monster had to worry about her face being dragged down by the length of her hair.
God, was her butt drooping? Hind end towards the mirror, Bobbie hefted the jeans, noticed a slight lift, let them fall again. A squeak escaped as she saw, indeed, that her butt had dropped. Not by much, maybe half an inch, tops. But it was no teenage rear end and hadn’t been for twenty years.
She's Gotta Be Mine (A sexy, funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 1) (Cottonmouth Series) Page 2
