One Hot Mess Part 8

7.

Every morning I read the obituaries. If I ain't there I make myself a cup a tea and carry on like I have for the past century or so.

-Ella Brady, Chrissy's

maternal grandmother,

age unknown

N THE FOLLOWING MORNING, as I lay in bed and considered the dust motes floating aimlessly in a slanted beam of sunlight, my head was still reeling. Senator Rivera was planning to run for president, his son still hadn't called me, and I had to pee something terrible.

It was Sat.u.r.day. I dressed in a pair of only slightly stained sweats, packed Harley into the Saturn's abused backseat, and headed to Yum Yum Donuts, where they fry up reasons to go on living. I used their bathroom and, being the health-conscious nut that I am, ordered a milk with a side order of apple fritters.

While Harley romped with a dachshund the size of my left ear, I ate my goodies and considered the day ahead.

I can't really tell you what possessed me to finally head west. But I arrived in Edmond Park in a little less than a full lifetime and called directory a.s.sistance for Kathleen's address. Despite Kern County's claim to fame, there wasn't a hummingbird in sight. Still, it was a pretty town, quiet and considerably cooler this close to the mountains.

A few minutes later I was parked beside a three-story Victorian. It was painted yellow, had gingerbread trim and a matching detached garage, which managed not to detract much from the overall ambience. Above its door was a wooden sign that declared it to be Kathy's Cave.

Harlequin was snoozing jerkily in the back, boxy snoot squished against the door, paws drooping over the edge of the seat. Apparently his dachshund buddy had worn him out. I debated waking him to make it appear as if I were just out for a stroll with man's best friend, but after some deliberation I left him to his frolicking dreams, crept out of my Saturn, and made my way up the driveway to the garage. I have no idea what I thought I might find, but let me say, I fully understand the curious cat's plight.

There were no windows on the garage door, so I went around to the side and tried the k.n.o.b. The door was locked. But the house was only- "Can I help you?"

I jumped guiltily and turned. "Oh, yes, hi."

The woman who came toward me said nothing. She was about my height, dressed in blue jeans cinched tight at the waist. She had a runner's physique and a skeptic's gaze. I judged her to be in her early fifties, though not a strand of gray could be seen in her hair. It shone in the sunlight, a deep chestnut hue set in waves that looked natural to my untrained but generally jealous eye. Her face was lightly lined with wrinkles that were somehow attractive, and her eyes were red.

Kathy's sister, I guessed. I had seen pictures of the deceased on the Web, and they looked alike. Both athletic, handsome women aging with panache. There had also been photos of the deceased with her daughter, standing in front of their wooden wares at a craft show.

"I just..." I motioned toward the garage and wondered a little desperately what the h.e.l.l I was doing there. "I just stopped by to see if Kathy was around."

Pain chased anger across the woman's well-maintained features and was gone.

"She's not." The words were solid, matter-of-fact. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh, well, I..." I glanced toward the garage again and noticed the other sign. The one that listed wooden items for sale. "I had ordered a..." I tried to read the list, but it seemed imperative that I look the woman in the eye, so I turned back toward her before ascertaining s.h.i.+t, "...a piece from her some time back. I just stopped by to pick it up."

She was watching me pretty closely. It gave me the w.i.l.l.i.e.s. "Now's not a good time."

"Oh. I'm sorry. Shall I stop by later?"

She drew a deep breath. "If you put down a deposit, I'll make certain you get a refund. What's your name?"

The question caught me off guard, but I refrained from starting like a particularly stupid deer and tried to kick my mind into gear. "There's no problem, is there?" I asked. "I was hoping to get my..." Still couldn't read the d.a.m.n sign. "... piece today."

"What's your name?" she asked again, and her eyes narrowed a little.

"Uhhh, Bea," I said. I don't know why I chose that particular lie. Possibly because I'm deranged. "Beatrice Ankeny."

"How did you know Kat?" she asked.

"Kat?" I was stalling-and possibly very stupid.

"You work with her at the plant?" She took another step toward me.

"No, I... I never met her, actually. Just her... I think it was her daughter... at the mall in Chatsworth. I ordered through her."

"You never met her?" She seemed to relax a little, but I wasn't that optimistic.

"No. Just her daughter. Jessica, wasn't it?" I watched her, looking for clues, hoping she wouldn't try to kill me. "She was sure a pretty girl."

"Jess?" She pursed her lips, nodded. "Yeah. Pretty, just like her mom." She choked up a little. "She woulda done anything for that kid."

"Well, that's-" I began, and stopped myself short, as if shocked into silence. "Would have? What do you mean? Has something happened?"

She cleared her throat, glanced toward the street. A car drove by at a leisurely pace. Small-town life. Crazy. "She's dead."

"Dead! No! What happened?" Oscar material right there.

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't really know."

"You don't know! You mean... she's missing?"

She glanced toward the street again. "The coroner said she died from loss of blood. In her workshop."

I gasped. If I hadn't felt so guilty I would have been proud. "How'd it happen?"

"They say she pa.s.sed out, fell into the saw."

"Oh my G.o.d, that's horrible. Did she have a history of seizures, or why-"

"What did you say your name was?" she asked, and took another step toward me. There was something in her eyes, something that stopped my brain entirely. I searched my mind for my fake name, but it was gone, entirely gone.

"Who are you?" she gritted, and pulled a pistol from behind her back.

8.

When in doubt, shoot first and ask questions later. But avoid the head, 'cuz they're a lot more likely to answer if they're not dead.

-D, Chicago mob boss and

pretty good friend

Y HEART WAS BEATING like a wild bunny's, but my brain had stopped dead in its tracks. "Hey!" It was the only word I could come up with on such short notice. "What are you doing?"

"Who are you?" she repeated.

The pistol was short and black, but I'm told guns can kill you no matter what their size and ethnic background.

"My name's...my name's Beatrice," I said, and found that for the literal life of me I couldn't remember my declared surname. d.a.m.n it!

"You're lying," she snarled, and leaned toward me. The gun muzzle wavered a little. "What are you doing here? Who sent you?"

"What? No one sent me! I just-"

"Why can't you leave her alone? Why couldn't everyone just leave her alone?" she blurted, and suddenly she was crying, sobbing like a heartbroken child. She lowered the gun muzzle and wilted to the ground. I glanced toward my Saturn and considered making a dash for it. It seemed like the sensible thing to do. But my would-be attacker had slumped onto her elbows, weeping into the perfectly manicured bluegra.s.s.

"Hey," I said again, voice tentative enough to suggest I really wasn't nuts. "You okay?"

"No." She was shaking her head. "No."

I glanced toward my car again, thinking Harley was probably crazed with the need to save me, but not so much as a whisker showed through the window. "Can I do anything? Get you a gla.s.s of water? Call a friend?"

She glanced up, face etched with sorrow. "He sent you, didn't he?"

I chanced a careful step closer. "Who's he?"

"Her old man. She was married for..." She choked a laugh. "Jesus, for twenty years. 'Til Jess went off to college. She stayed with him 'til then, but even after that-" She shook her head.

I eased cautiously onto the gra.s.s beside her. "After that what?" I asked, but maybe she didn't hear me.

"I was always so proud of her. Smart, pretty, successful. Always wanted her to be proud of me, but..." Her voice trailed away.

I was nodding. I don't know why. "Do you think he had something to do with her death?"

She blinked at me, eyes s.h.i.+ny with tears. "What?"

"Her ex. Do you think he had something to do with your sisters death?"

She stared at me a full five seconds, then laughed out loud. The sound was choked and watery. She wiped her nose on her wrist, leaving the gun on the gra.s.s as she settled back on her haunches. "Who are you and what do you really want?"

I pondered that for a moment, glanced at the car, and decided I was more likely to be rescued by a swarm of wild bees than my ever-faithful hound. "I just...1 was hoping to find out how this happened." I motioned weakly toward the garage. "Kathy's death."

She staggered to her feet. "You a cop?"

"No." I rose, too, thinking it might be a good idea to be upright in case she started taking potshots at me.

"A private investigator?"

"I'm a psychologist," I said.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Sometimes it surprises me, too," I said.

She scowled at me for an instant, then turned away and walked into the house, leaving the gun on the lawn and the door open behind her.

I stood there for a good three minutes wondering what a normal person would do, but I hadn't encountered a lot of normal in the past... well, lifetime, so finally I picked up the gun between my forefinger and thumb, turned, and followed her inside.

The house was as cute as a Cabbage Patch Kid. Carefully framed period photographs graced the entry. The walls of the kitchen were papered with tiny rows of flowers. Geraniums bloomed in the window above the sink.

The woman with the chestnut hair sat sprawled on a slat-back chair near the table, face blank, hand wrapped around a coffee mug.

"You take yours black?" she asked.

It took me a minute to catch up, but when I did I set the gun on the counter. "I don't drink coffee," I said.

She glanced up as if startled from her sorrow. "Ever?"

"Not unless it's banned by the Diabetes Foundation."

The shadow of a grin crept across her haunted face. "Who sent you?"

I pondered that for a second. "An old friend of hers asked me to look into her death."

"So you really didn't know her?"

I shook my head, and she laughed a little.

"She always said I was too d.a.m.n jealous, but she was so..." She drew a deep breath and gazed into the living room. The hardwood floor gleamed like honey. An untrimmed tree looked strangely naked against the bay window. "...so amazing. I told her I'd have to be crazy not to be jealous."