Deanna shrugged and poured vodka into the glasses. “I dunno. Kind of poetic. Kind of mysterious. Like a character in a Raymond Chandler novel.”
His interest piqued, Blatch straightened his shoulders. “You read Raymond Chandler?”
“Yes.” Deanna topped the vodka with lime juice. “He’s one of my favorite authors.”
“Mine, too.”
Deanna handed him a drink. “Really?” She raised her glass.
“Really.” Blatch clinked his glass against hers. “So we’ve got Chandler in common.”
“I guess so.” Deanna took a sip.
“That and getting roofied,” Blatch quipped.
Deanna snorted, nearly spilling her drink. “And gimlets,” she said, nodding toward his drink.
Blatch took a sip. His face puckered. “Jury’s still out on that one.” He set the drink on the counter. “I better go.”
Deanna smirked. “Mom waiting up with a rolling pin?”
Blatch looked at her sideways. “Hardly. Maybe with a hug.”
“Oh. Right,” Deanna said, not even able to imagine that loving domestic scene. “Lucky you.”
Blatch locked eyes with Deanna and wondered what life must have been like with a mother like Melody Young. From what he’d seen of her house, the woman was neglectful, at best. What had she been at her worst? “Thanks for the drink, Deanna.”
Deanna nodded. “Any time, Detective.”
Deanna followed Blatch to the front door, drawn by the odd, magnetic tension in the air. As he stepped out onto the porch, the yellow lightbulb fizzled out.
“Must be my animal magnetism,” Blatch quipped.
They both laughed nervously, then stood beside each other in the dark, feeling the heat between them, neither daring to make a move.
“Deanna,” Blatch said, and reached out to touch her.
The sudden squealing of tires on asphalt made them both look toward the street. A dark sedan whizzed by, its headlights off.
“That’s him,” Deanna said, her throat suddenly too tight to speak over a whisper.
“Stay here.” Blatch flung open the screen door. He ran through the yard and into the street, then chased after the vehicle.
A sharp sound like an engine backfiring set Deanna into motion. She ran into the street just in time to see Blatch fall forward onto the road. She scrambled to his side.
“Are you hurt? That sound ... have you been shot?”
“No,” Blatch said, waving away her help. “Just tripped. Gave myself a skinned knee.”
Deanna stared at the torn knee of his jeans. Blood oozed from his erased skin and soaked the ragged edges of the hole in the denim surrounding the wound.
“That looks bad,” Deanna said. “Come inside and let me clean it up.”
Blatch hobbled to his feet. “No. I’m okay. I better get going before this thing stiffens up on me.” Blatch realized his unintended double-entendre and felt his cheeks go hot. He hoped to God Deanna hadn’t caught it.
“I’m so sorry this happened,” Deanna said.
Blatch shook his head. “Don’t be sorry, Deanna. Look. I got a partial plate number off the sedan. I’ll have a guy I know at the DMV see what he can do with it.”
“DMV?”
“Department of Motor Vehicles.”
“Oh, right.”
“Do me a favor and make sure all your windows and doors are locked.”
Deanna nodded. “I will.”
Blatch looked up at the house and sighed. “I hate to see you here in this house all alone.”
Deanna put on a brave face. “I’m not alone. I’ve got vodka, remember?”
Blatch laughed despite himself. “Listen. This person ... well, it could be anybody. I’m only a few blocks away. Don’t hesitate to call me, okay? I can be here in no time.”
Deanna nodded, and was surprised to find tears brimming in her eyes. “Okay. I promise.”
Blatch took a few stiff steps down the sidewalk and turned around. “Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. If you’ve got no plans, join us. I’m sure my mother would love to meet you.”
Deanna cringed. “Thanks. That’s really nice of you—”
“But,” Blatch said. “I get it. No worries.”
“No. It’s just that ... I have other plans. How about a rain check?”
Blatch’s chin lifted. “Sure.”
“Friday night? I’ve got this art gallery thing.”
Blatch smiled. “Okay. Sure.”
“Fair warning. The artist is kind of strange. And I have a feeling the artwork is going to be even stranger.”
Blatch’s tentative smile broadened into a grin. “And you figured that would be right up my alley, did you?”
Deanna pursed her lips to keep from grinning. “Maybe.”
Blatch shook his head. “Okay. It’s on. Now go inside and lock up. Don’t hesitate to call, okay? You’ve got my number.”
Deanna smiled and headed back to her front door, her thoughts much lighter than she’d thought possible.
I’ve got your number, Marcus Blatch. I wonder if you have mine.
Chapter Forty-Eight
THE DARK SEDAN SPED off down the road.
Who does that guy think he is?
Why does he think he’s got any right to her?
It’s time to find out this jerk’s name ....
And put an end to him.
Chapter Forty-Nine
DEANNA SLEPT FITFULLY, waking half a dozen times throughout the night, her dreams plagued by spiders and dark faces in even darker sedans. At a quarter to six, she gave up on the idea of sleep and padded to the bathroom for a shower. Afterward, she stumbled through the living room in her bathrobe, the hot shower having done nothing to clear the cobwebs from her groggy brain.
Then something she saw set her mind to crystal clear.
On the side table by the couch, a cigarette lay crushed out in the ashtray.
Deanna was relatively certain she’d dumped the butt she’d smoked the other night. But with all that was going on, perhaps she hadn’t. Or maybe Blatch or Smalls smoked one when she’d been out of sight yesterday. Did either of them smoke?
Deanna shook her head. That had to be it.
She padded to the kitchen, put a pot of coffee on to brew, and went to fetch the newspaper. As she opened the front door, a head popped up outside the screen door.
Deanna squealed and nearly jumped out of her robe.
“Who are you?” she screeched before her brain had time to register the familiar face. “Oh! Mrs. Havenall! I’m sorry. I ... uh ... good morning.”
Mrs. Havenall cringed. “Oh, good grief! Sorry to give you a fright, hon! I’m just, well, I wanted to get this off your steps before you saw it.” She held up a vase of flowers. “I guess I’m too late.”
Deanna peered at the bouquet through the screen. “Those look like the same kind of flowers as—”
“They are,” Mrs. Havenall said. “From the same weirdo, no doubt. Look at them.” She shoved the flowers at the screen, then jerked them back, horrified she might have frightened Deanna. “Oh! I mean, don’t look. There are spiders in the flowers. Just like the other ones. I thought he’d quit when Melody died. I guess I was wrong.”
“He? You know who left them?”
“Well, no. Not by name. Just some fellow in a big black car.”
Deanna’s skin crawled. “You’ve seen him before?”
“Yes. I think it was him the other day, too.”
“What did he look like?”
Mrs. Havenall frowned. “I couldn’t say, for sure. I didn’t have my glasses on. But he was kind of tall. Slim, I guess. Dark hair, maybe. White. I didn’t get a look at his face.”
“Thanks.”
“Sound like someone you know?”
“Not offhand.”
“Why would these weirdos keep bothering your poor mother after she’s dead?”
“I don’t know,” Deanna said. “But today is Mom’s birthday.”
&nbs
p; Mrs. Havenall’s lips softened from a thin, aggravated line to a sympathetic smile. “Oh. That’s right. I’d forgotten, what with it falling on Thanksgiving this year.”
“Better to forget,” Deanna said. She opened the screen door and reached for the vase. “Here, give those to me. I’ll take care of them.”
Mrs. Havenall hesitated. “You sure? I know you’re no fan of spiders, hon.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Deanna said wryly. “But seeing as how I know these are just rubber, I think I can handle it.”
“Okay, then. Here you go.” Mrs. Havenall handed over the flowers. “I better get back and baste the turkey. Dinner’s set for one o’clock.”
“Great.” Deanna held the screen door open and asked, “Need any help?”
Mrs. Havenall smiled and shook her head. “Naw. But you can come a little early if you want.” She glanced around the yard and winked. “I’m letting Jodie help, bless her heart. It’ll take twice as long, but it makes her feel useful.”
She waved and turned to go, then turned back around, her once mirthful face now etched with worry. “Dee, I wasn’t going to say anything, but, well, Jodie’s had such a tough time of it. I hope you decide to stay. Jodie could use a friend. One who ... you know ... understands her condition.”
Deanna cocked her head. “Her condition? You mean the manic depression?”
Mrs. Havenall grimaced. “Oh. Crap.” She shook her head. “Forget I mentioned it.” She turned to go, then turned back again. “She really didn’t tell you?”
Deanna shook her head. “No.”
Mrs. Havenall sighed, and chewed her bottom lip as if thinking something over. “Oh, hell. I try to put on a brave face, but Jodie’s been diagnosed borderline schizophrenic.”
Deanna’s eyes widened. “I had no idea.”
Mrs. Havenall cringed. “Please, whatever you do, don’t mention it to her! She’s been doing so much better with her meds. Especially now that she’s sleeping. I thought I was going to lose her this past year—when her insomnia was out of control.”
And you let her take care of my mother? Deanna thought. She was concerned for Jodie, sure, but also for her mother. Schizophrenics could be dangerous.
“Well, I’m so glad she’s better,” Deanna said with as much cheerfulness as she could muster. “And as far as staying, I don’t have any plans set in stone. We’ll have to wait and see how things pan out.”
Mrs. Havenall smiled. “Yes. Only time will tell. Okay. I’m off. There’s a turkey in the oven in dire need of basting.”
Deanna watched Mrs. Havenall go, then closed the screen door and nearly shrieked. She’d forgotten about the bouquet of flowers in her hand—and the rubber spiders peeking out from each bloom.
Ugh! she thought. Phobias really suck.
DEANNA SET THE FLOWERS on the dining room table and sat down at her computer. She was annoyed and slightly pissed that Mrs. Havenall hadn’t told her about letting Jodie care for her mother. Two years without mentioning a word to me about it, she thought as she mashed down hard on the computer’s power button. Didn’t she know that schizophrenics could be violent?
Deanna had never actually counseled such a patient, and wanted to refresh her memory on the symptoms of schizophrenia. Her Google search uncovered they varied by individual, and could include delusions, hallucinations, phobias, agitation, disordered thinking, and inappropriate reactions.
Jodie does seem a bit inappropriate at ... well, almost all times, Deanna thought. And the knife—hacking at that raw chicken. Had Jodie been delusional the other night?
Deanna read further through the list of symptoms of schizophrenia. Flat affect, lack of emotional expression, and lack of pleasure in activities. Those didn’t seem to fit Jodie. Deanna recalled her friend could be a little over the top with her emotions at times. But Jodie took pleasure in painting. She must. She had an art opening tomorrow.
Perhaps she’s able to overcome those symptoms with medication, Deanna thought.
Then she read further down the screen and was chilled to the bone.
Many experts believe as many as one in four serial killers are paranoid schizophrenics.
Dear God! Deanna thought. Could Jodie have ...?
The doorbell buzzed, startling Deanna so badly she jumped out of her chair. The vase of flowers toppled over, spilling water, flowers, and rubber spiders onto the table, her laptop, and the floor. She looked at the clock and was surprised to find it was nearly nine o’clock. She’d been on the computer for well over two hours.
“Shit!” Deanna stooped down and gathered the flowers up. She shoved them back into the vase and sprinted to the door. She was expecting the overnight carrier with the letter from Larry. But when Deanna peeked through the pane in the front door, a strange, red-headed man was standing inside the porch, grinning at her like a circus clown.
Deanna blanched. “Can I help you?” she called out through the front door.
“I’m Charlie Rhodes,” the man said, then waited expectantly, as if his name should mean something to her.
It didn’t.
“Can I help you Mr. Rhodes?” Deanna asked again.
The man’s smile faded a notch. “Oh. I thought Linda Havenall told you about me.”
“No.”
He fished a business card from his front pocket and held it up to the glass panel in the door. “I’m her cousin. The realtor.”
“Oh! I didn’t ... I wasn’t expecting you.”
“No worries. I can come back another time.”
“No, it’s okay.” Deanna unlocked the door. “Come in.”
“Thank you.” Charlie shook Deanna’s hand as he made his way in the door. He took a long look around and whistled.
“I know,” Deanna said. “It’s bad.”
Charlie bit his lip. “I’m not going to lie to you. It is. But I’ve seen worse.”
“Really?”
He laughed. “Well, honestly, no.”
Deanna sighed. “Come on, let me show you around. It only gets worse.” She padded from the living room toward the kitchen.
Charlie stopped at the dining room along the way. “Pardon me, but do you have a leak somewhere?”
Deanna stopped and turned to face him. “Not that I’m aware of. Why?”
He pointed toward the dining room. “There’s water on the floor.”
“Oh. I spilled a vase of flowers.”
“Cleomes,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The flowers. They’re cleomes.”
Deanna glanced over at the disheveled bouquet. The flowers jammed in the vase were odd, ball-shaped, like scraggly mums. “I’ve never heard of cleomes.”
“Oh.” Charlie smiled. “You probably know them better by their common name. Spider flowers.”
Deanna’s back arched with unease. “No. But that makes sense.”
Charlie looked at her curiously. “It makes sense?”
Deanna smiled and shook her head. “Never mind.”
Charlie glanced back at the flowers and smiled. “You know, I haven’t seen cleomes in years. I’ll have to tell Linda.”
“Why?”
“They used to be our grandmother’s favorites. Come to think of it, I think they’re Jodie’s, too.”
Chapter Fifty
AFTER LEADING CHARLIE Rhodes through a cursory look around her house, Deanna got rid of him by arranging another meeting on Saturday. His casual comment about the cleomes had Deanna’s mind on other things. As soon as the realtor left, Deanna grabbed her phone and called Blatch.
As she listened to the phone ring over and over, Deanna’s conviction faded. She wondered if she really had anything worth telling him about Jodie Havenall. After all, what did she know for sure about her? That Jodie had mental issues and she liked cleomes? Not exactly hard evidence that she killed people and framed her mother for it.
An accusation like that wasn’t the kind of information she wanted to send as a text or leave as a message
on an answering machine. When Blatch’s recorder picked up, Deanna settled for a simple, “It’s Deanna. Please call me.”
Antsy and with no other leads to follow, Deanna went back to her computer and looked up local florists to see who carried cleomes. None showed the odd flowers in their list of available bouquets. A search of the flower itself provided the reason why. Cleomes were a delicate summer flower, typically unavailable this time of year. The fact that they stunk like garlic was another reason they weren’t high on any florist’s list.
Even so, Deanna called Genie Bouquets, a local florist, to find out how one would go about getting cleomes. Just as with Blatch, her call was answered by a recorded message. “Happy Thanksgiving! We’re out delivering holiday bouquets. We’ll be back on Monday. Enjoy your holiday!”
This is nuts, Deanna thought. Jodie has nothing to do with this. They’re spider flowers. Only a die-hard fan of Spidey Hawkins would go to that much trouble. Or maybe an old flame.
The doorbell buzzed again.
Okay. This has got to be the letter, Deanna thought. But when she got to the door, it wasn’t. Not unless Marcus Blatch moonlighted for UPS. She opened the door.
“You rang?” Blatch asked, holding up his cellphone.
Deanna bit her bottom lip. “Yes. I just had something I wanted to run by you. It’s probably nothing. You didn’t have to—”
“Good. I’m out for a walk. Join me and let’s talk about nothing.”
Deanna smiled. “Okay. To tell you the truth, I could use the fresh air.”
“I CAN SEE HOW YOU COULD go there with Jodie,” Blatch said after listening to Deanna’s theory.
Deanna shrugged. “I know it sounds pretty farfetched”
“Stranger things have happened. Let’s put a pin in that until the handwriting analysis is complete. At this point, we’re just trying to prove that your mother didn’t ... you know.”
“Right.”
“On that note, did you get the letter from Larry?”
Deanna shook her head. “No. Not yet. Any news on the partial plate?”
What She Forgot Page 17
