by Bill Hopkins
caught with my pants down around my ankles again.”
“I prefer you never use that figure of speech in my presence again. How I’m going to stop that visual from rattling around in my brain, I don’t know.”
Rosswell checked his cellphone. No service. What else could he expect? That would’ve been too convenient. When he stuck the thing back in its holster, it beeped. Nothing like a sarcastic cellphone.
A porch ran the full length of the front of the house. The sidewalk leading from the driveway to the porch was lined with lilac bushes in full bloom, pumping a sweet aroma into the air. Their smell reminded Rosswell of Tina’s perfume. Every log of the house shined. The lawn, although small, had been freshly cut without the least sign of a dandelion or any other weed. There wasn’t a garden gnome in sight. Nadine clearly had good taste.
Nadine’s silver Buick Regal was parked in the double garage. The garage door shuddered down. Rosswell mulled it over. Either she’d seen us coming and closed the door or she’d just arrived and was closing up. She could’ve been hiding. Or setting up an ambush.
A red-winged blackbird, clinging to a cattail growing in the ditch in front of Nadine’s house, screamed an alarm. The bird probably knew something they didn’t. At least the bird wasn’t out trying to capture bad people.
What Nadine was doing inside the house was anyone’s guess. But they didn’t have to wait long before they found out.
Nadine bounced out her front door, waving to them, smiling broadly. “How nice of y’all to come over.” Perky as hell, dressed in tight white shorts and a loose blue kind of a blouse thing.
Rosswell said, “Ollie wanted to look at your car again if that’s okay.”
“Yes, oh, yes. Get out. I’ll open the garage.”
Nadine disappeared into the house, pulling the front door shut. When the door closed, it boomed, sounding like a thunderclap.
Ollie said, “Little house, damned big door.”
“Let’s stand over there, where we can’t be seen from any windows.”
“Or be fired at from any windows.”
Ollie and Rosswell jumped out of Vicky and scuttled to the front of the garage door. Rosswell kept a watch on the windows of the garage door while Ollie surveyed the rest of the area. Ambushes were Rosswell’s least favorite activity, especially if he was the ambushee.
After a moment, the garage door rumbled up. Rosswell found his gun but kept it hidden. No use telegraphing his intentions.
Nadine had come out her kitchen door into the garage. “Come on in.” She waved at the two men.
Ollie mumbled, “Said the spider to the fly.”
The garage smelled of fertilizer and bug spray. Fifty-pound sacks of white sand and pea gravel lined both sidewalls. Small barrels of potassium nitrate, calcium nitrate, potassium phosphate, magnesium sulfate, and other chemicals lined the back wall. There were two five-gallon cans of gasoline and a lawnmower. There must’ve been one hell of a garden out back. Odd. There weren’t any shovels, rakes, hoes, things you’d associate with gardening. And no weed killer. On one shelf, sat a row of diaries, the year number stamped on the spines, beginning ten years ago and continuing to the present.
Nadine said, “You want me to back it out?”
“No,” Ollie said. “I’ve already had a pretty good look at it.”
Beef stew was cooking in the kitchen. The odor of something else—cherry pie?—had wafted out the kitchen door when Nadine opened it.
She flicked on the garage lights. Like Nathaniel, if Nadine were trying to hide anything, she did a lousy job of it.
Brushing a smudge off the SAVE THE EARTH bumper sticker, Rosswell asked her, “Where did you get this bumper sticker?”
“I bought it from the Greenies.”
“Greenies?” Ollie said.
“It’s the Ecology Club at Sterling Price,” she said, referring to the local high school. “Or maybe it’s the Environmental Society. Something like that.”
Rosswell said, “They were selling these stickers?”
“That’s what the woman said,” Ollie said unnecessarily.
Nadine said, “Yes, oh, yes. They sold around a thousand of them.”
The stickers were the peel off plastic kind, the ones that would clog up a garbage dump for five or six hundred years.
Ollie said, “What’s that slogan mean? Save the Earth.”
Nadine said, “I have to be careful with my politics. I don’t want anyone knowing how I vote or what I think about controversial subjects. You have to do that when you want everyone of every persuasion using your services. Those kids, though, they’re cleaning up creeks, maintaining abandoned cemeteries, stuff like that. I thought Save the Earth was so general that no one could be against it.”
“Yes,” Rosswell said. “No one’s in favor of destroying the Earth. It would be hard to keep track of your stuff.”
Ollie and Nadine gawked at him. Neither one laughed. Oh, well. I thought it was funny.
“Then,” she said, “there’s the real reason I bought the bumper sticker.”
Ollie said, “Which is?”
“My initials.”
Playing dumb would be a good idea here, Rosswell thought, so he said, “Nadine, you lost me there.”
“This is the letter N and this is the letter D.” She semaphored N and D with her arms. “Some people think ND stands for nuclear disarmament. But I think it stands for Nadine Dumbarton, my maiden name.”
Superimpose the N and the D and you get a chicken claw. Or peace symbol.
Either way, the murderer had left that clue. The answer shone clear and bright in Rosswell’s mind.
“Nadine,” Rosswell said, “you’re under arrest.”
Nadine froze in position. Rosswell had his hand on the gun, resting in his back pocket, just in case. He would never shoot anyone, but if he aimed at someone, that person wouldn’t know that he couldn’t shoot him, her, or it.
Then she burst out laughing. “You looked so serious, Judge. You do have a reputation for being a joker. Now I know how you got it.”
Ollie said, “He’s not kidding.”
“Get in my car,” Rosswell said. “We’re going to see the sheriff.”
“You want to carry me to jail in a red Hyundai? That’s even funnier.”
Rosswell said, “Vicky is not a Hyundai and she’s not red. Vicky is a 1972 Volkswagen Cabriolet, colored Monarch Orange Pearl.”
“Vicky?” Nadine clapped her hands to her face, shrieking. “You’re too precious for words! You named your car?”
Each of her fingernails was painted with a different color and a different design. On each ear, she had a couple of earrings, all of varying hues. Five rings with unusual gemstones. She must’ve been going through a rainbow stage.
Rosswell said, “My mother named that car.”
Nadine said, “What’s a Cabriolet?”
Ollie said, “It’s from a French word that means leap in the air like a goat.” Rosswell thought Nadine would choke to death, she laughed so hard.
Ollie said, “Rosswell, get her in the car.”
Nadine stopped laughing long enough to threaten Rosswell and Ollie. “Do y’all have handcuffs? I’m not going anywhere with y’all. Judge, if you want to carry me off anywhere, then you and this rat-faced drunk are going to have to handcuff me and drag me to wherever you want to take me. And after my lawyers get through with you both, y’all won’t have a straw to piss through.”
Ollie said, “Rat-faced drunk?”
Rosswell said, “I think she’s insulting us.”
Nadine started again, leaning against her car in a paroxysm of laughter that threatened to cripple her. If it kept up, she’d slither to the driveway. Rosswell signaled to Ollie, and each of them grabbed one of her arms.
“Rape!” she yelled.
She tried to yell it again but fell to guffawing. Nadine’s threshold for humor was exceptionally low. It’s difficult to arrest someone who’s laughing at you.
The surreal scene turn
ed deadly when a gunshot shattered the back window of her Buick.
Chapter Twenty-three
Saturday morning, continued
Nadine shrieked again, but there was no humor in this scream. “My God, they’re shooting at us!”
“They?” Rosswell said. Why had Nadine referred to more than one shooter? Had some of her disgruntled clients paid a visit?
Ollie and Rosswell hustled her to the passage door leading to the house. Rosswell slapped the garage door switch. Before the door hit the ground, another bullet screamed into the garage. Another round hit the outside of the garage door but didn’t penetrate it. Rosswell found it odd that the door was so exceptionally strong. The three of them bolted into the kitchen. Nadine clicked off her oven. Someone was trying to kill them and she worried about her baking. The cherry pie or whatever it was that smelled so good would have to wait.
“Where’s your phone?” Rosswell said. She pointed. He lifted the receiver, praying that the bastard (or bastards) shooting at them hadn’t destroyed the phone service. The receiver had a slight odor of perfume. His sweaty palms would soon obliterate the pleasant aroma. The receiver grew slick with sweat while he waited. Then, a dial tone. Thank you, Lord. He dialed 911. The phone rang. Thank you again, Lord. And rang. And rang. No one was at the sheriff’s office. He clicked off and then dialed the operator.
“Operator.”
Rosswell told the man on the other end the situation, gave him directions, and told him to call the highway patrol.
The operator said, “Dial 911 if you have an emergency.”
Rosswell said, “What’s your name?”
“Sir, I’m not allowed to give out that information.”
“Operator, I don’t
