by Sandra Balzo
'How many times do I have to tell you?' Kevin protested. 'I did pass the product to Anita when she stepped off the train from Milwaukee.'
The prolonged handshake I'd seen between the two at the edge of the stage.
'Then the balloon with Jo's body crashed down, practically cutting her toes off, and Anita stashed the rocks in one of the bowls, so she wouldn't be caught holding. She told me she came back when the police were gone the next day, but . . . nothing.'
No wonder Anita looked so crappy yesterday. She was probably going through a cold-turkey withdrawal.
'Stupid,' Ragnar said. It appeared to still be his favorite word. 'And then you just walk away and leave the ice for anybody who likes pretty sparkles, like glove-girl here?'
Given that the mime, himself, was wearing gloves, I thought it was a low blow. I sensed Christy tensing.
Kevin, however, was too deep in debate mode to mind anybody but Ragnar. 'And just what was I supposed to do? The cops had sealed off the stage, the boarding platform, even the gallows. They were questioning me. Then, at some point –' he raised his finger toward Christy – 'she must have taken both pots.'
Christy's face – showing no tension now – bopped up and down in agreement like a bobble-head doll. 'It began to rain, you see.'
That was her story, and she was sticking to it.
But Ragnar had begun fingering the rock in his hand. 'You girls ever try ice?'
Another complete change of voice and tone. Coaxing, now, like encouraging a couple of kindergarten kids to swing on to 'real' bicycles without training wheels.
Christy's eyes – and probably mine, as well – went big and round.
'Maybe this'd be a good time.' Ragnar, still persuading. 'That way, Kevin and I can be here to help. It would be a shame if you sampled our ice on your own and made a mistake. Tragically overdosed, perhaps.'
A chill went up my spine. We were going to die.
How long would it take the authorities to find our bodies? And even then, would they realize we'd been murdered?
Apparently having found something the two men could agree upon, Kevin herded us from the living room into Christy's tiny kitchen. Ragnar followed.
A round table was centered in the room. Two chairs, but a single place mat, signaling a perennially hopeful, but usually solitary, diner. Ragnar put the meth on the mat, the rock already leaving powdery white traces on the dark blue cloth.
A whimper from Christy. 'I have newspapers you can spread. If you like.'
'Not necessary, bird. Better to leave traces of your . . . experiment.'
Eric would be told I'd overdosed. My son was only nineteen. Oh, God – what would that do to him?
'Silverware?'
Index finger shaking, Christy pointed to a drawer next to her sink.
Ragnar pulled out a serrated steak knife. 'Straws?'
Christy shook her head, 'I don't have—'
Kevin was uneasy. 'Then how can they snort? Maybe they should smoke it.'
'Inspired. Do you have a pipe?'
'No. You?'
Ragnar looked skyward, then reached into the obviously empty pockets of his mime-pants and pulled them inside out.
'I don't smoke, either,' Christy said. 'But Maggy's friend Sarah does. Maybe I should go across the street—'
'Good of you to offer,' Ragnar said. 'But snorting should do fine. Would you have playing cards, by any chance?'
Christy shook her head. If her eyes got any bigger, I wouldn't be able to see her nose.
'Not to worry, luv. A dollar bill – rolled right – will do the job.'
'But how can we make them inhale?' Kevin gestured carelessly with the gun, like he'd forgotten it was still in his hand.
'Hold their mouths closed.' Ragnar's tone changed again. 'You'd know all about that, Kevvie. Am I right?'
Kevvie, wisely, I thought, kept his own mouth closed.
'Don't worry.' Ragnar back to the silky, coaxing tone. 'Practice does make perfect.'
The mime sat down at the table with Christy's steak knife and pulled the place mat toward him. 'You might want to stop waving that gun, though, Kevvie, and keep it trained on them. I have to concentrate on what I'm doing here. '
Ragnar swiveled toward me, his back to Christy near the sink. 'Spare a dollar?'
'You really think I'm going to lend you a dollar to kill us with?'
'Not a loan, really, luv, since that implies—'
Ragnar's head jerked back convulsively, and the steak knife hit the place mat as though its handle had gone red-hot in the mime's palm.
'Don't move.' The words came from Christy, but the low, raspy voice didn't sound like hers. The piano teacher was standing directly behind Ragnar now, her left hand grasping his braid, pulling back on it to expose his throat. Her right hand, though, was against the back of the mime's neck, whatever she was holding lost in those yellow gloves.
'What, the—' Kevin started to raise his gun.
'Either of you moves, he dies.' Christy yanked the braid again, canting Ragnar's chair on to just its back legs.
I felt like we were in a roadshow of The Exorcist. Unearthly voice, supernatural strength. Pretty soon Christy'd be spouting Latin and pea soup from a spinning head.
Ragnar started to speak, but I heard him cry out in pain.
'Mimes . . . don't. . . talk.' Christy said, underlining each word. 'What part of that didn't you understand?'
'Best lay your gun on the table, Kevin,' I suggested.
The props man still had his weapon half-raised in the direction of Ragnar and Christy. Now he began to turn toward me.
'Freeze!'
The word hit the kitchen like a thunderclap, and we all did as told. Then I recognized the . . . 'Pavlik?'
'Police,' he roared, nearly deafening me again. 'Drop the gun. Now!'
Kevin, resident moron, just stayed . . . well, 'frozen'.
The butt end of a wickedly impressive assault rifle came down on Kevin's mighty forearm.
I cringed reflexively and suddenly the room was alive with sheriff's deputies stomping all around us. Gravity, if not shattered bones, had sent Kevin's handgun clattering harmlessly to the floor, the man following, screaming in pain.
Pavlik's own weapon was trained on Ragnar. The muzzle looked about six inches wide to me. 'Hands on your head!'
Fortunately for Ragnar, the mime seemed to know the drill.
Even after he complied, though, Pavlik's aim never wavered off Ragnar's chest. 'Now, Christy. One small step at a time. Move back and away from him.'
Christy released Ragnar's braid as part of her first movement, so his chair rocked back on to all four of its legs. Every firearm in the room seemed at the ready until Pavlik moved himself between the piano teacher and Ragnar.
Releasing one hand from his pistol grip, the sheriff swept the steak knife from the table and back toward a deputy, who stepped on the tip of its blade. 'Cuff this silly sonofabitch.'
Christy had circled around to me by the time two deputies snapped clasps on Ragnar's wrists, both behind his back and twisted toward the spine, palms out.
As they jerked Ragnar to his feet, blood ran down the side of the mime's neck from a spot below and slightly behind his right ear.
'What did you . . .' I waved vaguely toward Ragnar, now nearly out of the room. I heard a deputy calling the EMTs for Kevin Williams, who had been reduced to blubbering and rocking like a lovelorn walrus on Christy's floor.
The piano teacher didn't seem concerned about the 'mess' in her kitchen. She held out her yellow-gloved right hand to me. In it was the shiv-toothbrush, long handle tapered down, the blood on its sharp point a bright crimson.
'Ohhh, Maggy.' Christy Wrigley practically levitating with joy. 'Ronny's going to be so proud of me.'
Chapter Twenty-Two
'A shiv?' Pavlik finally asked, incredulously. 'Where on God's green earth did Christy Wrigley get a shiv?'
He and I were standing on the sidewalk in front of her piano studio.
She herself was being ministered to by paramedics. I wasn't sure if she was really going into delayed shock or was just mesmerized by the sight of so many men wearing gloves.
'Your jail,' I said. 'Ronny was afraid he'd be gutted by his room-mate's shiv, so he gave it to Christy.' I hesitated. 'It is your jail again, right?'
Pavlik did a quick scan to make sure no one was looking directly at us, then he pressed his lips to mine. 'I'm so sorry.'
'What? For letting me believe you'd been arrested for murder?'
Pavlik waggled his head. 'Not that, so much. We'd been watching Williams and Norstaadt even before the DEA conference. We suspected they'd taken over the drug trade in southeastern Wisconsin, but JoLynne Penn-Williams calling for an appointment with me while I was physically at the Chicago event, persuaded us.'
'Did she actually come . . . see you?' The misunderstood word more 'tripped' than 'came trippingly' off my tongue.
Pavlik met my eyes, pure regret and not just a little guilt in his. 'Never had a chance. She called my office Tuesday, but didn't leave her name or number. The next morning, my assistant Cheryl checked the telephone logs and reached me on my cell as I drove back from Chicago. I tried Ms Penn-Williams' number over and over, but no answer. When I arrived at the dedication, I realized why.'
No more JoLynne. I linked my arm with Pavlik's and laid my head on his shoulder. 'I'm sorry, too.'
He brushed the hair away from my face. 'Maggy, neither of us killed her.'
'No.' I raised my head. 'But we could have killed us.'
'You, literally,' Pavlik said, as we watched the bad guys leave us – Ragnar by cruiser and Kevin by ambulance.
'Yes, but I meant me and you,' I stared into his eyes again, not getting anything back. 'As a couple.'
'I knew that's what you meant.'
And that was all Pavlik said.
In the following days, I learned many things.
I'd guessed that Pavlik's 'arrest' had been a hoax: an effort to make Ragnar and Kevin, especially the latter, feel safe enough to do something stupid. Not that Kevin needed much encouragment.
Ragnar's real name was Harold Hart, neither Nordic nor, at least any longer, a mime. In fact, Harold was talking such a blue streak these days that I feared a lot of folks were going to pay more for his memoirs than they had for his crystal meth.
Kevin Williams, on the other hand, was both dupe and dope. His business faring poorly, and unhappy with his share of the profits from Ragnar/Harold, the props man tried to strike a side deal with Chef for the shake-and-bake trade. Kevin figured the profit margin would be larger on the lesser-quality meth, since the stuff wouldn't cost him very much in overhead to produce.
Instead, his plan had cost him everything.
But the fact that Kevin was a moron didn't mean he wasn't a villain. JoLynne had fallen in love with a man she believed wanted to turn his life around. She wasn't perfect, but she'd done her part while he had first betrayed and then conspired to murder her. I hoped Kevin Williams and his brown eyes would burn in an especially torrid circle of Hades, with Ragnar tied to the next stake.
The news media had broken the story and poor Brewster had done his best to weather the storm. To his credit, in my opinion, the county exec was standing beside his woman and his county. At least so far.
WoPro was on temporary hiatus, since so many of their members had opted for 'vacation time'. In rehab. Anita included.
Rebecca Penn and Michael Inkel remained engaged, though with no date set. I suspected Michael'd gotten a cautionary case of cold feet when Rebecca acted so nutsy. I hoped one of the things listed on their gift registry, eventually, was a pair of nice, warm slippers for him, because I had a feeling the marriage wouldn't keep the groom's toes warm for long.
All was still fair in love for our unexpected warrior, Christy Wrigley. She visited Ronny regularly, but also had added Kevin to her shortlist of special convict friends. My theory was that someone like Christy needed an antiseptic relationship. A man she couldn't have physical contact with – say an inmate awaiting trial for a capital crime – felt 'safe' to her. I'd love to be a fly on her wall when she Googled 'conjugal visit'. Not that a fly stood a chance in Christy's house.
Uncommon Grounds continued to prosper, except on Saturdays. Since the lack of business had driven Sarah to pretend-smoke, we'd temporarily gone to being open just weekdays. Down the road, we'd likely expand our hours, but right now all of us – Sarah and Tien, Amy and I – needed the time more than the money.
As for me, the following Saturday I awoke to the morning sun with a heaviness in my chest.
'Frank, damn you. Get off me!'
The sheepdog opened one eye.
'Off, Frank.'
The other eye opened, but still no movement.
'Wanna go out?' I tried. 'Huh? Huh?'
Frank took his ole-boy time to lever all limbs up. Then he stood for a moment, body shading my face, two hairy legs on each side of me.
I shielded my eyes with a forearm, preferring that his private parts remain as private as possible. When the bed finally rocked, I shifted my arm to look up. No more sheepdog.
'Thank God,' said a voice in my ear. 'I thought he'd never leave.'
