Strange Brew Part 7

"Where'd you get the tow truck?" I asked as Neva Jean hopped off the hood.

"We bought it after the storm, on Sat.u.r.day," Neva Jean said. "Swannelle's cousin Rooney Deebs knew a man who wanted to sell, and we been wanting a second tow truck. We pulled thirty-seven cars into the shop between Sat.u.r.day morning and last night. You know how many cars there are in this town that got hit by trees or telephone poles during that tornado?"

"I know about one car, personally," I said, pointing at my Mousemobile van.

Swannelle eyed the van critically. "That there is a teetotal, Callahan," he said.

"Not according to the insurance adjuster," I said. "He says it's an eight-hundred-dollar repair job."

Swannelle snorted. "I been in auto body for thirty years, and I'm tellin' you, eight hundred dollars ain't gonna cut it on this baby. For one thing, every body shop inside the Perimeter's maxed out with storm work. Ain't n.o.body gonna take on that hunk of junk."

Neva Jean poked him in the ribs. "You could fix it."

"Yeah," he laughed. "If I didn't have thirty-seven other cars to fix first. Cars I can make some real money off of insurance companies."

I'd always dreaded the prospect of a moment like this-the moment I'd have to grovel before Swannelle McComb.

"Please," I said, gritting my teeth. "I've got too much money invested in the van to total it out. Custom-made racks to hold the cleaning equipment, new upholstery on the seats...."

"Rebuilt transmission and a new fuel pump," Neva Jean added. "You should have traded that van in a long time ago, Callahan."

I gave Swannelle my most hangdog look. "Can you fix it or not?"

"Take a while," Swannelle said. "But since it's you, I reckon I can move you up the list."

"I'll need a loaner," I said. "Can you handle that?"

"Sure," Neva Jean volunteered. "McComb Auto Body is a full-service shop. We'll fix you right up."

Swannelle's idea of a loaner was a yellow 1985 Lincoln.

Its interior had once been white leather, but now everything was stained yellow-orange and stank of nicotine.

"Where'd you get this car?" I asked, choking from the fumes. "Joe Camel?"

"Only thing I got to spare," Swannelle said, handing me the keys. He pointed out a case of Quaker State 10W40 on the floor of the pa.s.senger side. "It's kinda bad to burn oil. You want to put in a quart every time you fill up."

"I'm not planning to keep it that long," I said. "You promised you'd have the van fixed in a couple of days."

He smiled, ran his fingers through his graying pompadour. "Give or take a day or two."

I opened the trunk and filled it with my grime-busters kit: plastic caddy of cleaning supplies, mop, broom, industrial-strength vacuum cleaner, heavy-duty hand vac, buckets, and a box of black plastic trash bags. As an afterthought, I talked Swannelle into letting me borrow his wet-dry shop vac.

I had two houses to hit, both in Peachtree Corners, an expensive suburb in Gwinnett County. The houses were supposed to be right next door to each other on a cul-de-sac.

"Two hours apiece and no more," Edna had promised me.

"You told the homeowners they'd get three hours minimum," I said.

"That was earlier," she said. "Before we knew the demand. Now it's three hundred and fifty dollars and two hours. The woman in the first house, Jean Miller, is a friend of Barbara Heckart's. She's Neva Jean's regular Tuesday job."

"I can't believe you're gouging storm victims," I said.

"It's not gouging," Edna insisted. "Besides, since they're referrals, I did agree to let these two pay by check."

It was a good thing I'd brought the shop vac. The Peachtree Corners houses were knee-deep in broken gla.s.s, rainwater, and despair.

I pulled on my heaviest rubber gloves and waded into the first house. I had to shovel up the first layer of mud and broken gla.s.s from the marble hallway, where the high winds had blown out the windows and blown in half their front yard.

It took closer to three hours, but I got up all the water and most of the gla.s.s, and despite Edna's new rules, I pulled down Jean Miller's drapes, pulled up her area rugs, and dumped them in her garage, where they could be sent to a commercial cleaner. Then I hauled twelve garbage bags full of debris down to the curb. The Millers' house was going to need major painting and fixing up, but at least it wouldn't resemble a swamp anymore.

Jean Miller wrote me a check with tears in her eyes. I tucked it in the pocket of my jeans, then I went next door and did the same thing all over again.

By six P.M. I was filthy dirty and physically exhausted, but I felt strangely exhilarated. The good thing about cleaning is the immediate results. I'd hit these two houses like a second tornado, imposing order where there had been chaos, s.h.i.+ne where there had been grit.

I called the house to check in with Edna before I left for home.

"Your friend Bucky Deavers called. Wants to know why you didn't stop by the police department today. Said he had some stuff for you to look at. I thought you were done with all that stuff over there in Little Five Points."

"I am," I promised her.

"Better be. Because the roofer says it's gonna cost eight thousand dollars to fix all that tree damage. So you got no time to be working for deadbeats like that Wuvvy."

"I'm not," I said.

I hung up and called Deavers.

"Have you heard from your client today?" Bucky asked.

"I've heard from all my clients today," I said. "They all want their houses cleaned, yesterday."

"I meant Wuvvy," he said. "Virginia Lee Poole."

"No," I said. "Guess you'll have to make like a cop and find her yourself."

"Screw you," he said cheerfully. "And here I was all set to invite you out to dinner tonight."

"Take one of your little girlfriends," I suggested. "What's the new one's name? Chloe?"

"It's Zoey," he said. "She was my first choice, believe me, but she can't make it."

"Her mom won't let her go out on school nights, huh?" I clucked my tongue sympathetically.

"You're a riot, Callahan," Bucky said. "Actually, this is sort of a business dinner. I thought you might be interested in touring the Blind Possum Brewery. The one up in Roswell."

"How come you're inviting me?" I wanted to know. "You're always telling me to keep my nose out of your cases. Now you want me to play Watson to your Sherlock Holmes?"

"Christ," Bucky said. "Okay, look. It's not really an official interview. They don't know I'm coming. I just want to look around a little bit. Get the feel of the business. I thought it would seem more casual if I was, like, with a date. You know, just a couple out on the town, sucking down some homemade brew."

"And asking questions about the murder of one of their executives," I said. "That's pretty casual. I'm sure the guy in charge of this brewery won't have any idea you're a cop and I'm a PI."

"You leave the questions to me," Bucky said. "And the guy in charge is actually a woman. This thing they're having tonight is the Brewmaster's Dinner. It's sort of a private party, if you reserve ahead of time, which I did. The dinner starts at eight. You want me to pick you up, or not?"

"You're paying?"

"The City of Atlanta is paying," Bucky said. "See you at seven-thirty."

10.

"You better come out and look at this," Edna hollered, pounding on the door of my bathroom. "That Wuvvy woman is on the news."

I shut off the shower, wrapped a towel around myself, and dashed into the kitchen, where Edna had stationed herself in front of the portable black-and-white television we keep on the counter.

"It's on all three local channels," Edna said.

The "it" Edna was referring to was a blurry photograph of a woman, kneeling down beside a brown-and-white dog with a Frisbee in its mouth. The woman looked a lot like Wuvvy.

"Police are searching for this woman, Virginia Lee Poole, a convicted murderer, in connection with the weekend slaying of Atlanta businessman Jackson Poole," the news anchor said. "Authorities say Virginia Lee Poole, who was convicted of the 1977 shotgun killing of her husband, wealthy Hawkinsville pecan plantation owner Broward Poole, had been living under an a.s.sumed name and running her own business in the Little Five Points area of Atlanta since the governor of Georgia commuted her life prison sentence ten years ago, citing new evidence that Poole killed her husband only after years of battering and s.e.xual abuse.

"Jackson Poole, twenty-eight, was one of the owners of the Blind Possum Brewery of Atlanta, and was Virginia Lee Poole's stepson," she continued. "Police believe revenge was the motive for the slaying of the younger Poole, whose business was taking over s.p.a.ce previously leased by Virginia Lee Poole. Anyone having any information about the whereabouts of this woman is asked to call the Atlanta Police Department."

Edna sniffed disparagingly. "Battered wife. Abused child. Misunderstood adult. Everybody's got an excuse nowadays, and n.o.body's responsible for nothing."

"Even a whipped dog will bite back eventually," I reminded her. "You and Daddy taught me that yourselves." I hitched up my towel more securely and went back to my room to get dressed.

I had finished drying my hair and was pulling a turtleneck s.h.i.+rt over my head when I heard it: a faint scratching noise. Coming from behind the bed? I shoved my feet into the nearest pair of shoes. We'd seen a snake and a couple of rats out in the yard after the tornado; if there was something behind my bed I didn't want it to jump out and bite me on the toe.

The scratching came again, only this time it was definitely from the window beside the bed. I ran to the window and pushed the curtain aside. The sky outside was purplish-blue, with white clouds still visible through the treetops. The big mophead hydrangea underneath my window had branches that rubbed against the gla.s.s sometimes, but there wasn't even the hint of a breeze right now.

I let the curtain fall back into place, picked up my purse, and pulled out my pistol, a nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson. With hands shaking from haste and nervousness, I loaded the gun, tucked it in the waistband of my jeans, and pulled my s.h.i.+rt out to hide it.

Edna was still watching the news when I whizzed by on the way out the back door. "Stay right where you are," I ordered her. "There's somebody out in the yard. Stay inside."

I dashed around to the side of the house where my bedroom is. A thick privet hedge ran the length of our lot, ten feet away from the window. It curved and ran along the back of the lot, too, so high and so effective as a privacy fence that we've never even met the neighbors who live behind us. At the back corner of the lot, a piece of shrubbery moved, leaves crunched, and a twig snapped.

"Who's out there?" I called, sounding braver than I felt. I pulled my gun out and held it loosely by my side. "I've got a gun," I called. "Who's there?"

By the time I got to the back of the lot, I could hear footsteps cras.h.i.+ng through the undergrowth, and I glimpsed a flash of white, like a s.h.i.+rt or a jacket. Whoever had been creeping around out there had a head start now. I walked slowly back to my bedroom window.

The hydrangea bush had hairy, fleshy leaves the size of basketb.a.l.l.s. They had started turning a russet color, and the blue mophead flowers were turning crimson too. I knelt down beside the bush and pawed around to get a better view of the ground. Some of the lower branches had been mashed flat against the pinestraw mulch. I could see a medium-sized footprint in the soft, damp soil. Somebody had been here only moments ago, peeking in my bedroom window at me. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck bristle, feel goose b.u.mps under the snug sleeves of my turtleneck.

I stood up slowly and brushed pine needles from the knees of my black jeans. My sockless feet felt suddenly cold and wet through the thin leather of my shoes. I was cold all over, s.h.i.+vering uncontrollably. Someone had been peeking into my bedroom, watching me. For who knows how long? Bile rose in the back of my throat. I held on to the window frame while waves of nausea washed over me. Who? Who was watching me? A stranger, or someone I knew?

Edna stood at the back door. "What's wrong?" she called. "Should I call the police? Was there really somebody there?"

"Kids, probably," I said, taking a deep breath. I tugged once at the window sash. It was locked from the inside, but I wanted to check. It didn't budge. "Whoever it was, they're gone now."

"I'm calling the police," Edna said.

A horn honked from the front of the house.

"That's Bucky," I told her. "I'll talk to him about it. He can send over a detective in the morning. If we call now, they'll just send over a uniformed officer. And for what? The guy's gone. He knows I heard him out there. He probably won't be back. You worried about being here alone tonight?"

"h.e.l.l no," Edna said. "I'm gonna call Mr. Byerly and tell him to call the other block captains. Let 'em know we got a Peeping Tom prowling around the neighborhood. Maybe somebody will catch the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

I followed her inside the kitchen so I could fetch my purse. I noticed how carefully she locked and dead-bolted the back door, and switched on all the outside lights. She ran her fingers over all the kitchen windows, too, making sure they were locked tight.

Bucky honked his horn again. I took the gun out of my waistband, hesitated, then laid it on the hall table. "I'm leaving you this," I said. "It's loaded. You want me to show you how to use it?"

"Take it with you," Edna said grimly. "I've got my own."

"A gun?" I yelped. "You don't know anything about guns. Where is it?"

"None of your business," Edna said. "It's a thirty-eight. I've got a permit and you better believe I know how to use it. Now go ahead on. I'm not helpless, Jules," she said. "Never have been."

I looked over my shoulder at our little aqua bungalow as I went out the front door, locking it carefully. Inside, Edna threw the catch on the deadbolt. She jiggled the doork.n.o.b to make sure the door was locked tight. So that was how it was. We were two women living alone. Armed and dangerous. G.o.d help anybody who stepped foot on our property tonight.

11.

"My mother's got a gun," I said glumly.

We were in Bucky's personal car, a tiny red Miata convertible, headed north out of the city. The car was cute and totally impractical, the perfect cure for a midlife crisis. Only Bucky wasn't old enough yet to earn a midlife crisis. The car zipped in and out of traffic on the interstate like a nimble little bug.

"What's wrong with Edna having a gun?" Bucky asked. "It's in the second amendment, Callahan. Mothers have the right to bear arms, too, you know. It's a dangerous world out there."

"Mothers aren't supposed to have guns," I said. "Mothers are supposed to teach Sunday school and crochet and stuff. You know what my mother does? She gambles. She heads up the neighborhood vigilante committee. And now she packs heat."

Bucky shrugged. "What brought all this on? Same old neighborhood crime-wave stuff?"

I hesitated. "Somebody was peeping in my window tonight. Watching me."

He looked startled. "You sure?"

"I heard a noise," I said. "Ran outside, but you know how slow I am. He got a head start and ran through the hedge at the back of the yard. I saw a bit of white, like a jacket or something, and heard him running through the woods. When I checked by the window, I could see where he'd trampled the hydrangea bush. There was a footprint."

"I don't suppose you called the cops?" Bucky said.