Shakespeare's Trollop Part 5

It took me an hour to identify my anger as loneliness. It had been a long time since I'd felt lonely; I'm a person who enjoys being alone, and the past few years had afforded me plenty of that. For a long time, I hadn't made friends; I hadn't taken lovers. But this year had seen so many changes in me, and unfortunately, side by side with the willingness to have friends traveled the capacity for loneliness. I sighed as I put Mrs. Jepperson's stained sheets in the washer to soak in bleach.

I was just plain old feeling sorry for myself. Even though I knew that, I didn't seem to be able to quench that resentful smoldering inside me.

I went to my next job, and then home, without being able to find a thought to still my inner restlessness. Jack, whose timing was often off, chose that moment to call me.

Every now and then Jack told me all about a case he was working on. But sometimes, especially in a case involving financial transactions and large sums of money, he kept his mouth shut, and this was one of those times. He missed me very much, he said. And I believed him. But I had unworthy thoughts, ideas that dismayed me; not their content, exactly, but the fact that I I was having them. California, the home of tanned young hardbodies, I thought; Jack, the most pa.s.sionate man I'd ever met, was in California. I wasn't jealous of a woman, but a was having them. California, the home of tanned young hardbodies, I thought; Jack, the most pa.s.sionate man I'd ever met, was in California. I wasn't jealous of a woman, but a state. state.

Not surprisingly, the conversation didn't go well. I was at my most clipped and inaccessible; Jack was frustrated and angry that I wasn't happier he'd called right in the middle of his busy day. I knew I was being impossible, without seeming to be able to stop it, and I believe he knew the same.

We needed to be together more. After we'd hung up, just barely managing not to snarl at each other, I made myself face the facts. One weekend every now and then wasn't enough. It took us hours to get re-accustomed to ourselves as a couple, together. After that we had a wonderful time, but then we had to go through the detachment process when Jack returned to Little Rock. His hours were unpredictable. My hours were generally regular. Only by living in the same town were we likely to see each other consistently enough to establish our relations.h.i.+p.

Your own life is plenty hard without complicating it with that of another. For a moment I wondered if we should stop trying. The idea was so painful that I had to admit to myself, all over again, that Jack was necessary to me.

I didn't want to call him back when I was so fraught. I couldn't predict what he would say, either. So what I ended up doing that evening was going into the empty guest bedroom and kicking the h.e.l.l out of my punching bag.

Chapter Five.

Thursday was biceps day in my personal schedule. Bicep curls may look impressive, but they're not my favorite exercise. And they're hard to do correctly. Most people swing the dumbbells up. Of course, the more swing you put in it, the less you're working your biceps. I've noticed that in every movie scene set in a gym, the characters are either doing bicep curls or bench presses. Usually the guy doing bicep curls is a jerk.

Just as I put the twenty-five-pound barbells back on the weight rack, Bobo Winthrop walked in with a girl. Bobo, though maybe twelve years younger than me, was my friend. I was glad to see him, and glad to see the girl accompanying him; for the past couple of years, even after all the trouble I'd had with his family, Bobo had been convinced that I was the woman for him. Now that Bobo divided his time between college in nearby Montrose and visits home to check on his ailing grandmother, visit his family, and do his laundry, I seldom got to visit with him. I realized I'd missed him, and that made me wary.

As I watched Bobo start working his way around the room, shaking hands and patting backs, I moved from free weights to the preacher bench. The short young woman in tow behind him kept smiling as Bobo, shoving his floppy blond hair out of his eyes, introduced her to the motley crew who inhabited the gym at this early hour. She had a good, easy, meet-and-greet style.

The early-morning people at Body Time ranged from Brian Gruber, an executive at a local mattress-manufacturing plant, to Jerri Sizemore, whose claim to fame was that she'd been married four times. As I put weights on the short curl bar at the preacher bench, I marked Bobo's progress with a touch of amus.e.m.e.nt. In his golden wake, he left smiles and some infusion of joie de vive.

What did it feel like, I wondered, to be almost universally known and liked, to be attractive to almost everyone, to have the backing of a strong and influential family?

With a shock like a dash of ice water, it occurred to me that I had once been like that, when I'd been about Bobo's age: before I'd gone off to live in Memphis, before the media-saturated nightmare of my abduction and rape. I shook my head. Though I knew it was true, I found it was almost impossible to believe I had ever been that comfortable. Bobo had had some hard times himself, at least in the past year, yet his long look into darkness had only made his radiance stand out with greater relief.

I'd finished my first set with the curl bar and returned it to its rests by the time Bobo worked his way around to me.

"Lily!" His voice was full of pride. Was he showing me off to the girl, or the girl to me? His hand on my shoulder was warm and dry. "This is Toni Holbrook," he said. "Toni, this is my friend Lily Bard." The gaze of his dark blue eyes flicked back and forth between us.

I waited for my name to ring a bell with this girl-for the horrified fascination to creep into her gaze-but she was so young I guess she didn't remember the months when my name was in every newspaper. I relaxed and held out my hand to her. She stuck her fingers up against my palm instead of grasping my hand firmly. Almost always, the offenders who shake hands in this wishy-washy way are women. It felt like getting a handful of cannelloni.

"I'm so pleased to finally meet you," she said with a sincere smile that made my teeth hurt. "Bobo talks about you all the time."

I flashed a glance at him. "I used to clean for Bobo's mother," I said, to put a different perspective on the conversation. I'll give her this, she didn't flinch.

"What you want on there, Lily?" Bobo asked. He waited at the disc rack.

"Another set of dimes," I told him. He slid off two ten-pound discs, put one on each end of the bar, and then added clips to secure them. We were comfortable working with weights together; Bobo's first job had been here at the gym, and he'd spotted for me many a time. This morning, he took his position at the front of the bar and I straddled the seat, leaning over the padded rest, the backs of my hands toward the floor so I could grasp the bar to curl up. I nodded when I was ready, and he helped me lift the bar the first couple of inches. Then he let go, and I brought it up myself, squeezing until the bar touched my chin. I finished my ten reps without too much trouble, but I was glad when Bobo helped me ease the bar down into the rack.

"Toni, are you here for the rest of the week?" I asked, making an effort to be polite for Bobo's sake. He slid the clips off, raising his blond eyebrows interrogatively. "Dime again," I said, and together we prepared the bar.

"Yes, we'll go back to Montrose on Sunday afternoon," Toni said, with equal politeness and a tiny, clear emphasis on the we. we. Her smooth black hair was cut just below chin-length, and looked as if it always stayed brushed. It swung in a lively dance when she moved her head. She had a sweet mouth and almond-shaped brown eyes. "I'm from DeQueen," she added, when her first sentence hung in the air for a second or two. I found I didn't care. Her smooth black hair was cut just below chin-length, and looked as if it always stayed brushed. It swung in a lively dance when she moved her head. She had a sweet mouth and almond-shaped brown eyes. "I'm from DeQueen," she added, when her first sentence hung in the air for a second or two. I found I didn't care.

I nodded to show I was ready, and Bobo gave me a little boost to get the bar off the stand. With a lot more difficulty, I completed another set, making sure to breathe out as I lifted, in when I lowered. My muscles began to tremble, I made the deep "uh" that accompanied my best effort, and Bobo did his job.

"Come on Lily, squeeze, you can do it," he exhorted sternly, and the bar touched my chin. "Look at Lily's definition, Toni," Bobo said over his shoulder. Behind his back, Toni looked at me as if she wished I'd vanish in a puff of smoke. But I was honor-bound to complete the next two reps. When they were done, Bobo said, "You can do another one. You've got it left in you."

"I'm through, thanks," I said firmly. I rose and removed the clips that secured the weights. We began putting the discs back on the rack.

Toni wandered over to the water fountain.

"I need to talk to you this weekend," Bobo said quietly.

"Okay." I hesitated. "Sat.u.r.day afternoon?"

He nodded. "Your place?"

"All right." I was doubtful about the wisdom of this, but I owed it to him to listen, whatever he wanted to say.

My forehead was beaded with sweat. Instead of searching out my towel, I lifted the hem of my T-s.h.i.+rt and dabbed at my forehead, ensuring Bobo saw the horrendous scars on my ribs.

I saw him gulp. I went on to my next exercise feeling obscurely vindicated. Though Bobo was handsome and wholesome as a loaf of good bread, and I had once or twice been tempted to take a bite, Toni was from his world. I intended to see he kept my age and bitter experience in his mind.

Janet was doing shoulders this morning, and I spotted for her while she worked on the Gravitron. Her knees on the small platform, the counterweight set at forty pounds so she wouldn't be lifting her whole body weight, Janet gripped the bars above her head and pulled up. She was working pretty hard the first few reps, and by number eight, I wandered over to hold her feet and push up gently to lighten the strain on her arms. When she'd finished number ten, Janet dangled from the bars, panting, and after a minute she slid her knees off the platform and stood on the uprights. Stepping off backward, she took a few more seconds to catch her breath and let the muscles of her shoulders recoup.

"Are you going to the funeral?" she asked. She moved the pin to the thirty-pound slot.

"I don't know." I hated the thought of dressing up and going into the crowded Shakespeare Combined Church. "Have you heard if the time's certain yet?"

"Last night, my mother was over at Lacey and Jerrell's when the funeral home called to say the coroner's office in Little Rock was sending the body back. Lacey said Sat.u.r.day morning at eleven."

I considered, scowling. I could probably finish work by eleven if I got up extra early and hurried. If I ever got around to getting my clients to sign a contract, I decided one of the clauses would be that I didn't have to go to their funerals.

"I guess I should," I said reluctantly.

"Great!" Janet looked positively happy. "If it's okay with you, I'll park at your house and we can walk to the funeral together."

Making that little arrangement would never have occurred to me. "Okay," I said, struggling not to sound astonished or doubtful. Then I realized I had a bit of news I should share.

"Claude and Carrie got married," I told her.

"You're... you're serious!" Janet faced me, astonished. "When?"

"At the courthouse, yesterday."

"Hey, Marshall!" Janet called to our sensei, sensei, who'd just come out of the office in the hallway between the weight room and the aerobics room where we held karate cla.s.ses. Marshall turned, holding a gla.s.s of some grainy brown stuff he drank for breakfast. Marshall was wearing his normal uniform of T-s.h.i.+rt and muscle pants. He raised his black eyebrows to ask, What? who'd just come out of the office in the hallway between the weight room and the aerobics room where we held karate cla.s.ses. Marshall turned, holding a gla.s.s of some grainy brown stuff he drank for breakfast. Marshall was wearing his normal uniform of T-s.h.i.+rt and muscle pants. He raised his black eyebrows to ask, What?

"Claude and Carrie got married, Lily says!"

This caused a general burst of comment among the others in the room. Brian Gruber quit doing stomach crunches and sat up on the bench, patting his face with his towel. Jeri yanked her cellular phone from her workout bag and called a friend she knew would be up and drinking her coffee. A couple of other people sauntered over to discuss this news. And I caught a blaze of some emotion on Bobo's face, some feeling I found didn't fit in any category of comfortable response to my trivial piece of gossip.

"How did you know?" Janet asked, and I discovered I was in the middle of a small group of sweaty and curious people.

"I was there," I answered, surprised.

"You were a witness?"

I nodded.

"What did she wear?" Jerri asked, pus.h.i.+ng her streaky blond hair away from her forehead.

"Where'd they go for their honeymoon?" asked Marlys Squire, a travel agent with four grandchildren.

"Where are they gonna live?" asked Brian Gruber, who'd been trying to sell his own house for five months.

For a moment, I thought of turning tail and simply walking away, but... maybe ... it wasn't so bad, talking to these people, being part of a group.

But when I was driving away from the gym I felt the reaction; I'd let myself down, somehow, a corner of my brain warned. I'd opened myself, made it easy. Instead of sliding between those people, observing but not partic.i.p.ating, I'd held still long enough to be pegged in place, laid myself open to interpretation by giving them a piece of my thoughts.

While I worked that day, I retreated into a deep silence, comforting and refres.h.i.+ng as an old bathrobe. But it wasn't as comfortable as it had been. It didn't seem, somehow, to fit anymore.

That evening I walked, the cool night covering me with its darkness. I saw Joel McCorkindale, the minister of the Shakespeare Combined Church, running his usual three miles, his charisma turned off for the evening. I observed that Doris Ma.s.sey, whose husband had died the previous year, had resumed entertaining, since Charles Friedrich's truck was parked in front of her trailer. Clifton Emanuel, Marta Schuster's deputy, rolled by in a dark green Bronco. Two teenagers were breaking into the Bottle and Can Liquor Store, and I used my cell phone to call the police station before I melted into the night. No one saw me; I was invisible.

I was lonely.

Chapter Six.

Jack called Friday morning just as I was leaving for my appointment with Lacey at Deedra's apartment.

"I'm on my way back," he said. "Maybe I can come down Sunday afternoon."

I felt a flash of resentment. He'd drive down from Little Rock for the afternoon, we'd hop into bed, and he'd have to go back for work on Monday. I made myself admit that I had to work Monday, too, that even if he stayed in Shakespeare we wouldn't get to see each other that much. Seeing him a little was better than not seeing him at all... as of this moment.

"I'll see you then," I said, but my pause had been perceptible and I knew I didn't sound happy enough.

There was a thoughtful silence on the other end of the line. Jack is not stupid, especially where I'm concerned.

"Something's wrong," he said at last. "Can we talk about it when I get there?"

"All right," I said, trying to soften my voice.

"Good-bye." And I hung up, taking care to be gentle with the telephone.

I was a little early. I propped myself against the wall by Deedra's apartment door and waited for Lacey. I was sullen and grim, and I knew that was unreasonable. When Lacey trudged up the stairs, I nodded a greeting, and she seemed just as content to leave it at that.

She'd succeeded in getting Jerrell to remove the boxes we'd packed the previous session, so the apartment looked a lot emptier. After a minimum of discussion, I began sorting through things in the small living room while Lacey boxed the linens.

I pitched all the magazines into a garbage bag and opened the drawer in the coffee table. I saw a roll of mints, a box of pens, some Post-It notes, and the instruction booklet that had come with Deedra's VCR. I patted the bottom of the drawer, then reached back in its depths. That netted me a coupon for a Healthy Choice microwave meal. I frowned, feeling the muscles around my mouth clamp in what would be wrinkles before too many years pa.s.sed.

"It's gone," I said.

Lacey said, "What?"

I hadn't even heard her in the kitchen behind me. The service hatch was open.

"The TV Guide." TV Guide."

"Maybe you threw it away Wednesday?"

"No," I said positively.

"What possible difference could it make?" Lacey didn't sound dismissive, but she did sound puzzled.

I stood to face her. She was leaning, elbows on the kitchen counter, her golden-brown sweater already streaked with lint from the dryer. "I don't know," I said, and shrugged. "But Deedra always, always kept the TV Guide TV Guide in this drawer, because she marked the shows she wanted to tape." I'd always found it interesting that someone with Deedra's limited intelligence was blessed with a knack for small appliances. She could set her VCR to tape her favorite shows in a matter of minutes. On nights she didn't have a date, Deedra had television. Even when Deedra was going to be in her apartment, if there was a man present, often she wouldn't watch her shows. She'd set up her VCR to record. in this drawer, because she marked the shows she wanted to tape." I'd always found it interesting that someone with Deedra's limited intelligence was blessed with a knack for small appliances. She could set her VCR to tape her favorite shows in a matter of minutes. On nights she didn't have a date, Deedra had television. Even when Deedra was going to be in her apartment, if there was a man present, often she wouldn't watch her shows. She'd set up her VCR to record.

Every workday morning, Deedra slid in a tape to catch her favorite soaps, and sometimes Oprah. Oprah. She used the Post-It notes to label her tapes; there was always a little yellow cloud of them in the living room wastebasket. She used the Post-It notes to label her tapes; there was always a little yellow cloud of them in the living room wastebasket.

Oh, h.e.l.l, what difference could a missing magazine make? Nothing else was missing-nothing that I'd yet discovered. If Deedra's purse was still missing (and I hadn't heard that it had been found) then the thief hadn't been after her keys for entry into her apartment, but had wanted something else in her purse.

I couldn't imagine what that object could be. And there wasn't anything of value missing from the apartment, only the stupid TV Guide. TV Guide. Oh, there might be some Kleenex missing. I hadn't counted those. Marta would probably ask me to. Oh, there might be some Kleenex missing. I hadn't counted those. Marta would probably ask me to.

While I'd been grumbling to myself, I'd been running my hands under the bright floral couch cus.h.i.+ons, crouching to look underneath the little skirt that concealed the legs.

"It's just not here," I concluded. Lacey had come into the living room. She was looking at me with a puzzled expression.

"Did you want it for something special?" she asked cautiously, obviously humoring me.

I felt like a fool. "It's the only thing that's missing," I explained. "Marta Schuster asked me to tell her if I found anything gone missing, and the TV Guide TV Guide is the only thing." is the only thing."

"I just hardly see ..." Lacey said doubtfully.

"Me too. But I guess I better call her."

Marta Schuster was out of the office, so I talked to Deputy Emanuel. He promised to draw the absence of the magazine to Sheriff Schuster's attention. But the way he said it told me he thought I was crazy for reporting the missing TV Guide. TV Guide. And I couldn't blame him for his conclusion. And I couldn't blame him for his conclusion.

As I went back to my work, it occurred to me that only a maid would have noticed the absence of the TV Guide. TV Guide. And I had to admit to myself that I'd only noticed because once Deedra had left it on the couch and I'd put it on the kitchen counter: in the hatchway, though, so it was easily visible. But Deedra had had a fit, one of the very few she'd had while I'd cleaned for her. She'd told me in no uncertain terms that the And I had to admit to myself that I'd only noticed because once Deedra had left it on the couch and I'd put it on the kitchen counter: in the hatchway, though, so it was easily visible. But Deedra had had a fit, one of the very few she'd had while I'd cleaned for her. She'd told me in no uncertain terms that the TV Guide TV Guide always, always went in the coffee-table drawer. always, always went in the coffee-table drawer.

So a mad rapist molests Deedra, strangles her, parks her nude in her car out in the woods and . . . steals her TV Guided TV Guides TV Guided TV Guides were readily available in at least five places in Shakespeare. Why would anyone need Deedra's? I snorted, and put the thought aside to work over some other time. But Deedra herself wouldn't leave my thoughts. That was only right, I admitted to myself reluctantly. I'd cleaned her apartment for four years; I knew many tiny details about her life that no one else knew. That's the thing with cleaning people's homes; you absorb a lot of information with that cleaning. There's nothing more revealing about people than the mess they leave for someone else. The only people who get to see a home unprepared and unguarded are a maid, a burglar, and a policeman. were readily available in at least five places in Shakespeare. Why would anyone need Deedra's? I snorted, and put the thought aside to work over some other time. But Deedra herself wouldn't leave my thoughts. That was only right, I admitted to myself reluctantly. I'd cleaned her apartment for four years; I knew many tiny details about her life that no one else knew. That's the thing with cleaning people's homes; you absorb a lot of information with that cleaning. There's nothing more revealing about people than the mess they leave for someone else. The only people who get to see a home unprepared and unguarded are a maid, a burglar, and a policeman.

I wondered which of the men Deedra had bedded had decided she had to die. Or had it been an impulse? Had she refused to perform some particular act, had she threatened to inform someone's wife that he was straying, had she clung too hard? Possible, all three scenarios, but not probable. As far as I knew there was nothing Deedra would refuse to do s.e.xually, she'd steered clear of married men for the most part, and if she'd valued one bedmate over another I'd never known about it.

The sheriff's brother could've been different. He was attractive, and he'd certainly carried on like he was crazy about Deedra.