Michael, Antoinette, and Me

 

Part 25

 

“Antoinette Blanc,” I said to the dark room, sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed watching the telephone. I needed sanctuary, the fire, dancing my bastard ballet. I needed Antoinette Blanc. I’d taken on her name, not her identity. Somewhere in the dark corridors of my mind, I thought I was being her.

“I don’t know who I am.”

I needed some serious Pamala time.

I picked up the telephone receiver halfway through the ring, the telephone positioned to call home, not that the apartment even remotely felt like home. “Yes?”

“Sorry to bother you so late, Miss Grimes.”

Miss Grimes. Artemis Grimes. “What is it, Mr. Hudson?” That’s who I am in this moment.

“We’re hosting a regional fashion show Thursday evening. I’ll have two passes in your name at the door.”

“Thoughtful. Thank you. Is that all?”

“Kitchen closes in two hours.”

I glanced the clock on the bedstand. “Thank you, again.”

“Is there anything you need, Miss Grimes?”

“Let’s say a girl in town for a couple weeks wanted to engage in a serious hand of poker.”

“I’ll call you back.”

I watched the telephone for two minutes, then dialed. “Hi, Shawn.”

“Eh, Toby. Where you been?”

“I’ll fill you in another time.”

“You left the door unlocked. I scrubbed the bathroom again. I think the only smell of shit now is in my imagination.”

“Pamala home yet?”

“She dropped Michelle off. Said she had to meet up with Rachel.”

“Details?”

“I hugged her hard and long for you.”

“I meant about Rachel.”

“She didn’t say.”

“Is Michelle OK? Over her pouting?”

“We talked a little. I think she’s cashing in on the attention.”

“I understand that, for a person whose only attention growing up was bad attention.”

“When will you be home?”

“I won’t. You may stay the night. I like when the bed smells like you.”

“You’re flirting with me now.”

“Stating facts. Eight sharp in the morning. At the garage. Dress for hard physical labor.”

“Aye. Odd sense of freedom, not having to go to the Nook.”

The telephone yelled at me as I hung up. “Yes.”

“Thirty minutes OK, Miss Grimes?”

I calculated. “Yes, Mr. Hudson.”

“I shall escort you.”

 

Mr. Hudson held the chair as I sat. “Miss Artemis Grimes,” he announced.

I clocked the six faces.

“Now we have a game,” Anthony Dixon declared much louder than he needed as he sliced playing cards into each other repeatedly across the table. “Grimes of the Pittsburg Grimes?”

“Not that I –”

“You look like your grandfather. Spitting image.”

“Eh –”

Johnny, too young to be in the room, too young to be up that late, set my drink – tea in a short glass filled with ice, two cherries – on a napkin to my right, shy, avoiding eye contact, attentive of the players at the table. He collected glasses, replacing drinks.

“Who are you wearing,” Jacop Knapp asked, elbows on the round table, chin in his hands.

“Wearing? Oh, I have a private designer.”

“We simply must talk.”

“Are we going to chat about clothes or play cards?” Christeen French asked dismissively from Dixon’s right. Demure, 50ish, she was slim, dark, blue blazer over a white shirt, open collar. Her eyes, light brown like mine, were cold, calculating. I read her as someone who would kill me without smudging her makeup, heavy also like mine.

Dixon har har-ed his fake laugh, which he added to everything. A large man, the only other person at the table in a hat, a cream Stenson, off the rack cream suit to match, his jacket over the back of the chair, black suspenders cutting his white shirt. “There’s a $200 buy in –”

“Done,” Mr. Hudson said, bowing, backing away.

Like our meeting at the Holiday Inn, the table sat an oasis of light in the center of the room, the windowless walls standing vague in darkness.

“Deal to the left, cut to the right. Dealer’s choice,” Dixon said. “You may pass the deal if you’re afraid of breaking nail. I do hope you bring some excitement to the table.”

Dismiss me, I have you right where I want you. “I’m good, Mr. Dixon.”

“Call me Tony!”

“I think not, Mr. Dixon.”

“Oh, I like her!”

“Dixon,” French said.

“Five card draw. Twenty buck ante.” Cards came around the table.

Knapp topped thirty years old, not by much, white-blonde hair neatly kept, bright red silk shirt, pale lips, blue eyes watching me. “Model? Specifically, runway?”

“I am not.”

“It’s the way you walk and sit. In town for the show?”

“Not specifically. I may attend.”

To a person, cards were held tight to the table, the corners bent up ever so slightly.

I gathered my cards, holding them in front of me, sitting back, rolled my eyes, rearranging cards. I glanced at the boy to my right, the only person out of place at the table. “Are you trying to see up my skirt?”

Steven Langley blushed. Like Johnny, too young to be in the room and up late, too young to get a drink from the bar. Pretty, large brown eyes like a doe, skittish, attentive of the room and the exits. Dark suit obviously not his hanging on him. “I can’t see through the table.”

“That’s a metaphor, son,” Dixon said. “Artemis is asking if you tried to see her cards.”

The man to the left of Dixon glared at Dixon. “I’d thank you for not mocking Steve.”

Dixon pushed back from the table. “Well, Hastings, I was just explaining what Artemis said.”

I narrowed my eyes at Hastings. He looked more like Chase than Randy. However, he was uncomfortable in his designer suit, which could have used a visit to the dry cleaners. He attempted to project more confidence than he processed, drinking heavily. Though I avoid conjecture, I assumed he wasn’t our target’s friend, but he was close to the gene pool.

Hastings glanced Steven, Steven blushed.

Oh, that’s creepy.

I held Dixon’s eyes. “I’m comforted knowing I have men around me willing to explain what I said.”

He laughed, much too loud.

“Dear, you are responsible to mind your hemline, not wave your cards around,” French said like a good mother schooling her daughter. “$100.00.”

Cameron Hightower buffered me from French, designer suit the likes Bill Locke would wear. Piercing brown eyes, well attended hair to match, conservative. Serious. I pegged him as the most likely to kidnap me, rape me, murder me, and bury me in The Pines. He bent the ends of his cards again, twisted his face, feeding the pot.

I knew he had something. I had nothing. I shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ll kick it a buck.”

“Huh?” Langley asked.

“I absolutely hate newbies,” Dixon muttered. “That’s $200 to you, Steve.”

Hastings leaned toward Dixon. “You want to take it outside?”

“Outside? How about I just put you over my knee and spank you here.”

“$200.00 to you, Mr. Hastings,” Knapp said.

“Out.”

On my turn, I took one card, rolling my eyes again. Over the next five hours, I managed to lose $3,350 without looking as if I were trying to lose. I laughed at Dixon’s stupid jokes, puffing him up like a Bantum rooster at dawn. Knapp, the fashion show coordinator, and I shared our love for silk, nauseating French.

Toward morning, interweaving the cards into each other, I pursed my lips. “How come I only have fifty-one cards here?”

“Er?” Dixon leaned toward me. “How can you know that?”

“It’s a gift.”

Dixon clocked the faces. “Hands on the table.” He looked hard at Steven.

“Anyone runs for the door, I’ll break his legs,” Hightower said coldly from my left, meaning Steven.

“I’ve had it with you, Dixon,” Hastings said.

“Fuck you, Jerry, and fuck your boytoy.”

“Want to know what card it is?” I asked flatly.

“You know that?” Dixon asked.

“No, Mr. Dixon.” I turned the deck over, quickly stacking the deck on the table one card at a time. “Ace of hearts.”

“Are you a card counter?” Knapp asked.

“I am not. I have a good memory.” I rolled my eyes. “$100.00 says Mr. Langley has it up his left sleeve.”

Hastings stood, his chair falling over. “We’re leaving.”

“Sit down, Jerry.”

Resetting his chair, he sat hard.

“Why?” Dixon asked.

“Langley is right-handed.”

“The card, boy. Now,” Mrs. French demanded.

“I don’t –”

“The card.”

Red faced, he fished the card from his sleeve.

“Jerry Hastings.”

“Christeen?”

“This boy is never to attend any of our games. Ever. Oh, I should have known better. I should have. But, you had to insist, didn’t you? Count yourself fortunate I don’t ban you from all future games. If not for your brother, I would. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand.”

“Mr. Hudson?”

Hudson appeared over Langley’s shoulder. “Mrs. French?”

“Please show Mr. Langley our back alley on the way out.”

I thought that was overdoing the cliché, Mr. Hudson dragging Langley off by the arm.

“Miss Grimes.”

“Mrs. French?”

“My apologies. Our games are always run better than this. Sometimes the riffraff squeak in.”

I offered a subtle nod.

“You may wish to train yourself not to roll your eyes.”

“Roll my eyes?”

“When you get a bad hand. You roll your eyes. We take your money.”

I rolled my eyes. “I like to play, win or lose. I had a lot of fun. Thanks for having me.”

“I like you –” Dixon started, getting a hand from French, French placing a notebook on the table, writing.

She looked up, holding my eyes. “There’s a place. A private club.” She torn off the top sheet, sliding the paper to me. “Invitation only. This is your invitation.”

“Sounds like fun. Thank you.”

“Just so you know. If you wish to sit at my table, it’s a $2,000 buy in. Every Saturday. I like to start at eight.”

“I like blackjack.”

“We have that, too. You’re always welcome at my table, even if you manage to not roll your eyes.”

“I concur,” Hightower said, pushing his chair back, gathering his money. “Johnny?”

Johnny appeared, serving tray at hand. “Mr. Hightower?”

Hightower placed $100 bill on the tray, which I matched.

Hightower stood, nodding with each name. “Christeen, Tony, Jacob, Jerry. And, Jerry, clean yourself up. You’re a disgrace.” He looked down on me. “Artemis Grimes. You are a delight. If I weren’t old enough to be your father, I just might ask you to breakfast.”

 

I was a puzzle, even to myself, bracing against the terror of the highspeed train underground, focusing on my reflection dancing in the light and dark of the window.

My reflection.

Tan work shirt, faded and worn denim jacket, red paisley bandana under my hair wrapped as a headband, no makeup, loose fitting jeans, tan boots. I missed Antoinette looking back at me.

I couldn’t get on the elevator. I’d pushed the button, no problem, waiting. The door opened to the empty car. I froze, unable to enter. The evening before, nonchalantly like a model on the runway, the elevator enveloped me lovingly and I loved it back.

That wasn’t me. That was Artemis Grimes.

“How can elfin makeup and a silk dress change my personality so completely?” I asked my reflection.

Again, I considered consulting an expert. “Psychologist or priest?” I laughed aloud, the three people on the early Saturday train ignoring me.

The air was heavy, the sun pulling moisture from the ground, a reminder of the rain the day before. Shawn greeted me with a long hug. “Don’t even think about pulling away. I’m not done yet,” she said.

Her familiar scent, her embrace was like a balm for my damaged soul.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Harold,” I greeted. “Shawn, Mr. Harold, Mr. Harold, Shawn.”

They passed pleasantries.

“First thing,” I said, “is that lawnmower in the window display.”

“I have some in boxes.”

“I assume the one in the window is oiled, ready to work.”

“It is!”

“Then it’s sold, you silver tongue devil.”

Mr. Harold made me a garage door key, a truck key, both of which I gave to Shawn, and a half dozen keys to 1 Bread, one of which I gave to Shawn.

While Mr. Harold made my keys, I read the instructions on the back of the lockset and deadbolt package. “Doesn’t look difficult.”

“I’ve seen it done. We need an installation kit,” Shawn said.

“I recall. And a drill.”

 

Thomas neglected to mention his property had been neglected for at least two years, a perfect introduction for Shawn. Three hours later, we loaded up, off to the first of three yards on my list, which fell to our mowers, edger and trimming in thirty minutes.

Shawn tossed the mowers in the back of the truck as if they were bags of groceries. “I like this, Toby. I really do. What do we do with the grass?” She nodded to the back of the truck.

“I fork it into the trash container at the apartment. Lunch?”

She considered her watch. “I have two hours before I have to get to the dance studio. I have two classes back-to-back, then Cassandra and I have the adults, after we’re doing a couple hours of the flapper dance.”

“Charleston.”

We laughed at each other.

“You said yesterday that you had a list of things you must get done today. Let’s do that.”

“Two more lawns – like this one.”

“Let’s get to it.”

 

My back to the truck, I noted Shawn’s hours in my book. “You in?” I asked.

Shoveling grass clippings, Shawn answered, “I’m so in, Toby. Thank you.” She leaned on the fork, looking down on me. “Weber called the house yesterday.”

“To beg you to come back?”

“Yeah, right. He wanted to bellyache to my father what an awful, ungrateful girl I am.”

“Did he out you?”

“Out me?”

“Did Weber tell your father you’re gay?”

“I don’t think he knows, else he’d have fired me a long time ago.”

“At least to protect Donna from getting corrupted.”

“At least. I calmly explained Weber was mad because I quit. I explained I got a better job, more money.”

“Good dodge.”

“Right? Dad goes on about: What are you going to do in the winter when there’s no grass to cut. I told him I had plans, a new restaurant opening. He said, Do tell, but I didn’t feel like do telling.”

I watched up on her.

“What? You have that I’m serious as fuck face.”

“We’ve talked. Never dead serious. Are you in?”

She pursed her lips.

“Raymond, Shawn. Do you really wish to murder him?”

“Since we talked, never dead serious, I’ve thought about it. No matter how I approach the topic, I always come back to he murdered me. I don’t have the words –”

“No one does. I understand.”

“Is that really possible, Toby? Killing Raymond?”

“Yes.”

Our eyes tethered in a bond few human beings could understand, our shared damage the mortar binding our rocks of twisted reality one to the other.

“Yes, Toby. I am so in.”

Bill Locke thought he had tests.

I didn’t bother to shower and change, not minding looking like I work for a living, stopping by the apartment rental office. Mrs. Harris sprang from her chair, backing to the wall.

“Mrs. Harris?” I greeted.

“We got that all straighten out. Didn’t he tell you?”

 I chuckled dismissively. “Oh, that. Sure. We’re good.”

“Your Mr. Falcon is scary.”

“Most people find him charming.”

“I’ll bet he can be. We’re moving to evict.”

“Me?”

“No! Mable Rodgers.”

“Why?”

“She came in here with a complaint.”

“What kind of complaint?”

“About you and your shenanigans.”

I shrugged. “We had a disagreement. I thought Michelle had straightened that all out.”

Harris carefully worked back into her chair. “She’s been chronically a month late on her rent for a year. When she came to me with her complaint, saying she refuses to live across the hall from a homosexual, I thought I’d be doing you and her a favor evicting her.”

I produced my checkbook, flipped in open on the desk, and began writing. “What’s the number?”

“Number?”

“That’ll get Mable Rodgers even. Rent plus accrued late penalties. What’s the number?”

She pulled a file from her a drawer at her right knee, opened it, reading a number.

I completed the check. “We’re not putting a seventy-four-year-old woman out on the street even partially on my account.”

“I’m speechless.”

“I want you to assemble a list of tenants with children you know to be struggling to buy food. Number in the household, age of the children. If you qualify, you may put your family on the list.”

“Why? I mean what for?”

“Dinner. Once a week. Saturday. On me. Delivered to the door, starting soon.”

“Antoinette, all I can say is I’m speechless.”

I shrugged.

 

Laying down the thirteen miles to the mall on my bike, I gather a few nods wheeling my bike to the back of Harvest, stowing my transportation in the office.

The door clicked shut behind me, I spun. “God, Mr. Edwards. Creepy.”

“Even me?”

“There are no exceptions to that.”

“Sorry. May I keep it closed?”

“Sure.”

“I want to have an off the books, off the record, just between you and me forever kind of talk.”

“If there are exceptions to the confidentiality agreement, there is no confidentiality agreement.”

He dropped heavily behind the desk. “Hypothetically, then.”

“Hypothetically.”

“If a girl were raped in school, and you could discover the identity of the rapist, would you do something about it?”

I watched his eyes. “Hypothetically. You mean the three rapists.”

“My God.” He kept my eyes, pulling back tears. “Why wouldn’t she say that?”

“Many reason, Mr. Edwards.”

“Bob.”

“We’re going chin deep into a quagmire that’s going to require Mr. Edwards.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“It’s been years. Here we are.”

“Here we are.”

“Such a girl may not tell her father because she’s afraid she’d not be believed, and she’d be equally terrified she’d be believed.”

“Make sense.”

“Often, a girl such as this is not believed, thus getting assaulted again. If she is believed, she’s afraid of what someone – like her father – may do on her behalf like chain the doors and burn the school down.”

“That does make sense.”

I shrugged.

“If you were to discover the identity of the rapists, would you do something about it?”

“We have a statute of limitations. We have he said, she said, with deference granted to the person with the dick, making pushing the boulder uphill near impossible, without a complaining witness, impossible. You’re not going to get a complaining witness because she’s not going to want to be raped again by a callus system that doesn’t give a fuck about her.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“If you’re going to advocate murdering someone even hypothetically, at least have the balls to use the words. I do get this, Mr. Edwards. You’ve had a rotten ball of bile stuck in your gut for years, like a lump of underdone potato giving you indigestion. Here comes Mrs. Taylor with her fear I may murder someone, a propensity you glean as a solution to your indigestion.”

“Eh, ah.”

“Do you know anything about witchcraft? I’m sure you do, Pamala yapping excitedly at the dinner table about what she learned in school. However, I doubt she said much about spells, her parochial school avoiding even the mention of that kind of magical thinking.

“Witches do not cast evil or negative spells. Generally speaking, within the belief systems, they have this thing called the three-fold rule. Whatever you bend to your will with spells comes back to you three times as bad. This same thinking keeps people like you from murdering people, so you seek out people like me.”

“People like you.”

“In another magical tradition, under the umbrella of voodoo, the spell caster gets around the three-fold rule by being the instrument of the person who wishes the evil done. The voodoo practitioner is the rock. You are the wielder. I murder someone with a rock, we don’t blame the rock.”

“Which do you believe?”

“None of that. Everything that has life dies. If death is evil, then creation is evil, and our preaching of high moral platitudes is meanings confetti cast willy-nilly into the air so we can feel good about ourselves.

“Let me tell you this: murdering Maria’s three rapists won’t fix Maria, won’t make you feel better.”

“A lifetime of indigestion.”

“Compared to the yoke heavy on Maria’s neck, that indigestion is a soft kitten nuzzling your heart. I did not fully understand the length and breadth of my damage, I did not know the chains I drag behind me, until I held Maria’s hands, watching her eyes, Maria a perfect mirror by which I can see myself.”

“But, Toby. Would you?”

“Yes.”

“Not a word to anyone.”

“Mr. Edwards. Forget we had this conversation.”

“We didn’t even have this meeting today.”

 

I caught Pamala on the food line, holding her. “I’ve missed you more than ever. I even pretended I was reading to you.”

“You’re corny.” She broke, nodding toward the dining room. “Rachel’s out there. Talk to her.”

“She’s not doing well?”

“She’s not.”

“I have a stop to make, shouldn’t be more than thirty minutes.”

“OK.”

 

Liberty Real Estate and Insurance Broker was outside the mall, which was why I couldn’t find Gus. First, his name not on the marquee, and second, his office didn’t have an entrance in the mall. “Mr. Avery,” I greeted, arrogantly dropping to one of the two chairs in front of his desk.

“Eh?”

“Antoinette Blanc. I’m looking for some insurance.”

“Eh, OK. What kind of vehicle? Do you have the title with you?”

“Liability insurance. Small business. One employee, though I suspect having many volunteers. You do that sort of thing, don’t you?”

Gus Avery was a disappointment. I expected a cliché shiny shoed salesman, Harold Hill, Dale Carnegie, even my homegrown Butch Falcon. I’d met him briefly. At the time, I was in shock over the move, being uprooted, I didn’t even look at Avery.

Dreary, pallid flesh from years of alcohol and tobacco abuse. Graying hair cut in a flat top like my father, brown eyes squinting often, indicating a need for glasses. Gray suit, which looked like it’d been slept in more than once over a dull white shirt, thin black tie pulled loose.

Dismiss me, I have you right where I want you. Artemis’ words were so vivid, I thought she whispered in my ear.

“Yes, we write a lot of insurance. Full service here and Liberty.”

“Aren’t you surprised to see me, Mr. Avery?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Am I supposed to know you?”

“I’m the girl your nephew, Ted, ran into the other day.”

“I assure you, I know nothing about that.”

I stood, looking down. “Wow. I expected you to be a better liar than you are. Here I was thinking you the mastermind behind the stealing of Jane Wilkins’ life savings.”

He stood, red faced, fists clenched, knuckles on the desk.

“I’ll see you Wednesday, at the bank. You’ll want to be in that meeting.”

 

I slid onto the bench seat, reaching, taking Rachel’s hands. “It’s good to see you.”

“Toby, hi. I’ve not been good.”

“What’s going on?”

“You know. I’ve got this constant bad feeling, like I did something wrong and I’m going to get caught.”

“Our circle is small, tight. All people I trust with my life.” Except maybe for Michelle and the good doctor. “No one is going to find out.”

She rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

I resisted an eye roll of my own.

“I did wrong,” she said. “I look back, and I can’t see any other choice but the choice I made.”

“I neither agree nor disagree with your choice. I support the decision you made for you.”

“But it’s wrong.”

“I don’t agree with that.”

“Help me. Again.”

“How?”

“We’re taught this thing, when we do wrong.”

“Sacrament of confession. I’m familiar with the general concept.”

“I can’t tell the priest.”

“Priests in general are not in my circle of trust.”

“I can take it directly to –” She looked to the ceiling again.

“OK.”

She sat back, keeping my eyes. “I need to do good works, to balance the scales. Will you help me do that?”

“Yes.”

Pamala placed a key on the table. “I want you to take Rachal to sanctuary. Show her.”

“Eh.”

“I know you have a driver license. I’ll catch a ride home with Dad. Car’s where I always park it. Rachel’s staying with me tonight. Meet me there.”

“Only if you hold me like the world’s ending.”

“Like there’s any other option. Dad wants to talk to you about 1 Bread anyway.”

“I should have seen that coming.”

“He has a whole pitch prepared. Please be patient.”

“You have no idea how much I indulge Dad.”

 

Rachel did not comment on the long walk, sitting on the log watching me kindle the small fire.

I realized the ritual I made of sanctuary , not unlike the rituals in church, at weddings and funerals. “Rituals,” I said aloud, “give us the illusion of control of an uncontrollable universe.”

“I can see that.”

I sat next to Rachel, removing my boots.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“What I’m going to do is beyond the words I have to explain it. Only three people in the entire world have witnessed what you are about to witness.”

My clothes folded neatly on the log, naked, I spun to and around the fire, losing myself in yet another ritual. Rachel laughed at the absurdity, finally crying into her hands for the final ten minutes of my thirty-minute dance.

“You OK?” I asked, working into my pants.”

“Toby. I. I don’t know.”

“I warned you. There are no words of pope or poet.”

“I think, I feel, well, there was a moment – watching you, your reflection? You, that wasn’t you, mirroring your moments, where I understood the all of the universe, life, my place in it.

“Then, gone. I can’t remember what I understood.”

“But you know you understood.”

“I do. Who was she?”

I shivered as I buttoned my shirt. “That’s complicated.”

“She looked right at me, smiled. I knew everything was all right.”

“Yes, Rachel. Everything is all right.”

“You have your own angel.”

 

Taylor Edwards met us at the door, first a hug for Rachel, then holding me as if I were dying. “Sorry things got so complicated,” she whispered in my ear.

“I’m not a mother. I still understand,” I whispered back.

“Pam told me about 1 Bread.”

“There was gushing, wasn’t there?”

“A bit.”

We broke, staying close.

“Help me with the books?”

“Your books are just fine.”

“I’m adding employees. I don’t wish to miss any details, filings, shit like that.”

“Pamala.”

“Eh, no. Change of plans. I haven’t told her yet.”

“I’m pleased to hear that. She’s overextended, overwhelmed as it is. She’s not going to see the wall until she’s six inches deep in it.”

“There she is,” Bob Edwards greeted me, taking me up in a hug.

“Good to see you, Dad. It’s been too long.”

“Way too long.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Bob,” I whispered in his ear. “Which I find a good thing.”

He stepped back. “I know that about myself. I have something for you. In the dining room.”

Rachel and Pamala were in the living room, holding hands, facing each other, Rachel bubbling.

“Pam,” I called.

She looked.

“Dining room. We have stuff to go over.”

“Oh, Toby, don’t sound so serious all the time. This is the fun stuff.”

Taylor and Pamala took the head and foot of the table, Rachel and I on the side, Bob standing on the other side. I took Pamala’s hand. “I’ve missed you.”

“You’ve said.”

Bob handed out menus to each of us. “Pretty straight forward. Eight dinners. I thought with eight, you can go two months without repeating.”

“Pen?” I asked.

Taylor provided.

Making a note on the menu, I said, “We can go with two hot dogs, not one. Let’s wrap them in bacon, add cheese. American.”

“I was going for –”

I looked up. “Bob, this is great. Really great work.” I presented the menu. “The only other person I approached so far jumped in talking over me, babbling about price. You don’t even have a price on here, which tells me you get what I’m trying to do.”

“1 Bread,” he answered. “A symbol of abundance. Yes, Toby, I get it.”

I looked hard at Pamala. “Brace yourself.” I caught Bob’s eyes. “Final approval rests with Shawn Beedle. She’ll be running 1 Bread.”

“Oh, I like Shawn. A lot,” Bob said as Taylor nodded.

“Thank goodness,” Pamala released a long sigh. “You can’t imagine how good it feels to get fired.”

“Shawn said the same thing.”

“She got fired? From Collings Nook?”

“They had a difference of opinion over policy. I believe the parting of the ways was mutual.”

“She didn’t hurt him, did she?”

“No.”

Rachel bounced on her chair. “I’ll be working there, too! A volunteer!”

“My gosh, Toby.” Pamala shook my arm. “What a great idea.”

 Taylor smirked. “Seems I’ve been roped in, too. Overseeing the books like at Harvest.”

Bob glanced Pamala. “I guess you’re going to be wanting Saturday evenings off for deliveries.”

“I’ll be contracting the Royal Taxi and Limousine Service for the deliveries.”

Taylor narrowed her eyes at me. “I was warned.”

“About?”

“Not having the whole picture.”

Bob laughed. “I didn’t need a warning.”

“With an established menu like this, we can plan a couple weeks ahead of time, too, making it easier for Harvest.”

“That’s the idea. I’m looking hard at the numbers. I’m thinking Harvest can make this a regular donation.”

“See?” I said to Pam.

“What are we seeing?” Bob asked.

“I don’t want to take advantage of our friendship. If you wish to make a donation, we take check or cash.” I looked at Taylor. “I’m sure my volunteer accountant is going to be filing for nonprofit status.”

“Eh, I was going to make that suggestion.”

“I feel like Shawn should be here. I’ll OK that.”

I clocked the faces. “Anything else?”

“You can stay the night,” Tayor suggested, more like an order.

“Anything else concerning 1 Bread? Great job, Bob. Thank you. I have my bike in the car.”

“Nonsense!” Bob objected. “We’ll take you home.”

“You guys have church in the morning. Besides, I need the ride. I need the time on my bike. Almost as good as sanctuary.”

“Oh, sanctuary,” Rachel cooed, pushing my shoulder with hers.

“Speaking of getting fired,” Pamala said.

Bob sat. “That was embarrassing.”

“You mean that woman today in Harvest?” Rachel asked. “More scary than embarrassing.”

“Tammy got fired,” Pam explained. “Made a scene.”

“Surprised me, John and her father are good friends,” Bob said. “Even though he’s talked of letting her go.”

“She was ranting something about how it’s my fault. She really wasn’t making sense.”

“People like her will blame everyone before they take responsibility,” I said.

Rachel sat straight. “I’m Catholic. I like to think I’m a good Christian – at least most the time. Considering. I would never, ever scream at anyone concerning who God hates. I’d never think myself grand enough to speak for God.”

“I believe there’s a parable about tending the plank on your face before mentioning concern for the splinter in your neighbor’s eye,” I said.

“That’s the gist of it, though stretching the details,” Taylor said.

“Peter had to drag her out. He scolded her pretty good,” Pam said.

“I think Tammy could use some anger management, maybe a few weeks at the Jungian clinic in Zürich where a team of therapists can work on her around the clock.”

 

“I would have guessed the deadbolt for the front door,” Shawn said, approaching.

“Right?” I pulled the door shut, twisting the key both ways. “Perfect.”

Standing, we hugged. “Happy Sunday,” I said.

“You’re weird. Good morning.”

I pushed the door open again, handing off keys. “This room is to be kept secured.”

“OK.”

I shuffled through file folders on the rickety wooden table, the table left behind by previous tenants. “Sit.” I presented a file folder, indicating an equally rickety chair.

Shawn scanned the wall behind the table. “What’s –”

“The seven locations I mentioned, one of which is where Jody was held. That’s an assumption on my part.”

She opened the folder. “Wait.”

“Waiting.”

“I mean. I’d not given it any thought.” She glanced the wall, dropped on the chair, flipped a page, and looked up at me. “I thought I’d be cutting grass, putting a face on 1 Bread. I never imagined –”

“Shawn Beedle. I ask you again. Are you in?”

She glanced the wall and file folder again, biting her lip, nodding at the stack of file folders on the table. “You’re going after all of them.”

I shrugged. “Girl’s got to have a hobby.”

She held up an 8 x 10 glossy for me to see, a school photo. “Yes. For what he took from me, I could kill him. I don’t mean that as a figure of speech.”

“His smug arrogance comes across in that photo.”

“It’s funny. When he romanced me, I saw his, eh, smug arrogance, but always directed at others.”

“You identified with the abuser. Like at the dance, Michael joining in the bullying. It’s kind of like an insanity, reason and rational thought take a vacation.”

“He’s married now. Linda Waverly. I think I met her once.” She looked up from the file.

“I feel if we’re going to kill a man, we should look at who else we’re going to hurt.”

“We could start with Linda. Deliver a sucker punch.”

I like the way you think. I’m not sure I like that about myself. “Read the file. Keep this door locked.”

“I saw the door open,” Tom Thomas greeted in the front room.

I narrowed my eyes. “Did you know about the bathroom?”

“Yes. I just hadn’t gotten around to it. I know better than to try to lie to you.”

“I should bill you.”

“The lease specifically says –”

“Yeah, yeah. As is. I read the lease. I should bill you anyway, have Butch drop the bill off.”

Thomas stepped back instinctively. “I’m open to a fair compensation.”

I shrugged. “At one time, I was called that little shit girl, I cleaned up so much shit. Did you get by the property?”

“You do really great work.”

I bowed slightly. “Thank you.”

“Your invoice?”

“You were in a bind. I helped you out. First lawn is free.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I kid you not.”

“My other properties?”

“Twenty bucks each. I’ll invoice. Slow to pay, you’ll be seeing Mr. Falcon.”

“That’s a little high. How about –”

“How about I wish you a good day?”

“I mean, well, I can give you a lot of business.”

“I have plenty now. Let’s say twenty-two bucks a lawn.”

“Twenty’s good.”

“I thought as much.”

“Mr. Falcon said he’d stop by the office in the morning. The Indians will officially be your problem.”

“He’ll go over those other offers with you, too.”

“One might jump, the others –”

“We’ll drop the other offers by ten percent, let them sit.”

“I could have guessed you’d say that.” He produced a two-page handwritten list. “Go over this, see what you can do, maybe give me a written estimate. Break it down.”

Shawn plucked the papers from my hand, glancing. “Yeah, we’ll have something for you by Wednesday.”

I rolled my eyes. “Mr. Thomas, Shawn. Shawn, Mr. Thomas.”

Shawn declined the extended hand. “The properties are occupied? That makes a difference.”

“All but one.”

“Yeah, we were at the one yesterday.”

Shawn waited for Thomas to be five strides away after the door clicked shut. “If I overstep, slap me back.”

“We’re good. I wanted to ask, I mean, I did ask are you in? I meant, are you interested in being my number one?”

“Like Pam is going to be Jessica’s number one?”

“Much like that. Of course, what I ask will never interfere with your college or dancing.”

“Oh, I’m so in, Toby.” She presented Thomas’ list. “My father works for a guy who does this kind of work. Well, the guy’s a builder, or so he says. Much of his time is spent doing bullshit like this. Basic handyman bullshit.”

“One of those less than dependable people Thomas goes on about. I’m sure Thomas trying to squeeze every nickel until the buffalo shits has something to do with that.”

Shawn giggled. “I’m sure. I wasted my summer after my senior year working with my father, getting pawed by coworkers, much to his amusement.”

“Men just got to men.”

“Men menning, his boss, figuring I was a girl, figured I wouldn’t be good at driving nails or cutting 2 x 4’s, stuck me with the paperwork: writing estimates, billing. I did get a mess of experience picking up after the men.”

“Because, Shawn, that’s just how the universe works.”

“Mr. Thomas is right. There was a constant struggle between my father’s boss and the clients concerning pricing.”

“Well, let’s make this our policy. We work up a fair price, end of story. We really don’t need the work.” I understood Mort, my paster man.

Samantha Sullivan, shadowed by a boy a head over her, lanky, his face pale, all arms and legs, black hair hanging in his eyes, talked with Mr. Thomas briefly on the sidewalk.

I waved her in.

“Good morning, Toni, Shawn.” She indicated behind her. “Logan Smith.”

We managed to avoid the handshakefest.

“I’m Andy’s chief cook and bottle washer,” Logan said with a shy blush.

“Logan is my good friend,” Andy corrected. She presented an 8 x 10 poster board. “No offense meant to Mable Printing.”

She’d put the 1 in a circle, adding two yellow stars to the Bread, improving the cartoon bread slice.

“Wow, Andy.”

“If I have your approval, I’ll do the window today. Now. I’m going to paint the design backwards on the inside, so the weather won’t weather it.”

Shawn nodded. “Approval granted.”

She nodded behind her, sending Logan out the door. “Mom said what you said about payment. Mom also said since this is a charity, I should consider doing it for nothing.”

“Pro bono.”

“Huh?”

“Fancy way of saying doing it for nothing. 1 Bread is a charity. You are, however, entitled to get paid for your work. That’s how the universe is supposed to work.”

She looked at the window, then back to me, narrowing her eyes. “$20.00 sounds good.”

I laughed, presenting her artboard. “I was thinking five times that.”

She blinked repeatedly. “Eh, OK.”

Logan had returned, setting a three-foot folding ladder, placing a box on the floor.

I rolled my eyes. “Chief cook and bottle washer. I get it.”

“Andy is a great artist. It’s a privilege to serve.”

Andy rolled her eyes back at me. “He’s corny like that.”

“Shawn’s an art major.”

“Dance. I teach at Expressions.”

“I only wish Marshfield had any kind of dance program.”

I narrowed my eyes. Andy had been in my English class, three desks behind me, lost in the sea of faces, me fighting to stay afloat in Marshfield high school. The difference between the two of us was striking, Andy a child, me an adult, yet the same age.

I lost my mooring, my sense of time and place.

“Check with your friends. See how many kids are interested. We could do a class on a Wednesday evening eight to ten. We could handle as many as twenty-five students. I’m sure I can negotiate a reasonable price with Cassandra.”

“I’ll sponsor it. Rather Tony’s Lawn Service will.”

“You guys are great!”

 

The sun barely made itself known over the eastern horizon, Shawn piloting her blue Toyota to the curb. “Toby, I’ve never been refused service.”

“I should have seen that coming. Weber’s an asshole.”

“I wanted to make a scene.”

“A dramatic scene. I do like their eggs. Making a scene wouldn’t have proved anything. Best to just let it go.”

“Just letting it go isn’t easy.”

“I had a night where I had a confrontation. I couldn’t let it go. I came up to watch you dance.”

“All this time, I thought that was about me.”

“I wish I could say it was all about you. It wasn’t.”

“Wait. Are you saying I should fuck you?”

“I’m saying instead of laying Weber out, you need to displace that anger and frustration.”

“Like beeping the horn at that guy who cut me off, giving him the finger?”

“Yelling fuck you, asshole, was a nice touch. I would suggest, however, avoiding directing such actions toward strangers. You never know who’s crazy as fuck.”

“I’ve had a glimpse of you, Toby. I don’t think there anyone out there crazier than you – I mean that in a good way. When I’m with you, I shall fear no evil. That's one of the many reasons I enthusiastically hitch my wagon to your horses.”

“Because next to my crazy, you don’t seem crazy at all?”

“Exactly.”

 

Through the gate, halfway down the expansive drive, Richard Katz met us with two plastic hardhats. “Miss Blanc. I’m glad to see you dress more appropriately for a construction site.”

“Shawn Beedle,” I introduced. “My number one.”

The worksite foreman was pleased to meet Shawn. “Another random inspection tour?”

“A couple things, actually.”

Shawn had walked ahead twenty paces, turning back. “This is it, huh? Toby. It’s beautiful.”

“Wait until you see the crow’s nest.”

“If you can do ladders, you can.”

“We can do ladders, Mr. Katz.” I unfolded a real estate page. “Lot 405. I’m going to own it within the hour.”

He examined the sketch.

“There’s a house, burned down to the foundation. I want to pull it out like a rotten tooth.”

Katz rolled his eyes. “The front loader.”

“Yup.”

“I’ll write up the proposal, get any approvals we might need.”

“I thought since I own the property, it’d be just a matter of digging.”

“Never that simple.”

“A story’s floating around about dead Indians buried on the property.”

“Is that filed?”

“It is.”

“That could complicate matters.”

“I’ve already contracted with the town’s historical society. You can get Butch involved to uncomplicate things. We’re making the plot a park.”

“I’ll get in touch with Mr. Falcon today. Get the wheels turning. You want to be in and out?”

“Like dunking a candied apple.”

“Me, two laborers, a truck, the front loader. An afternoon.”

“The stuff dreams are made of.”

“I like my job.”

Shawn and I are going to find our way to the crow’s nest, wander around. We don’t need a tour guide.”

“I had a talk with the men after your last visit.”

“About?”

He cleared his throat. “Their, eh, inappropriate behavior.”

“I’ve learned to be tolerant of –”

“Miss Blanc. Toby. You are not just some girl wandering by. You’re the owner.”

“Even some girl wandering by shouldn’t have to tolerate that bullshit, Mr. Katz. That some girl could be your daughter.”

“I know, I know. You have to put up with a lot.”

“You have no idea. At least you’re trying. More men should be like you.” I rolled my eyes. “Give us an hour. Then, I’d like to see one of your employees in the trailer.”

“Who?”

“Theodore Avery.”

“Good kid. Aways on time, stays late when I need him. Hard worker. Dependable. Is he in trouble?”

“That depends on him.”

 

I swept over the large blueprint page. “There’s the crow’s nest.”

“Toby. It’s breathtaking. I had no idea. I know, I heard you and Jessica talking about it. Toby. You own this?”

“You are one of a handful of people who knows that.”

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why are we mowing lawns?”

“I have my afternoons free.”

“Really.”

“I came into some money I must account for. The legal term is money laundering.”

“We don’t need the work.”

“You are the only other person in the world who knows that. A couple people suspect but are willfully ignorant.”

Shawn held my eyes in a blank stare for a long moment.

“You OK?”

“Oh, Toby. I’m so fucking in.”

Shy rapping whispered from the trailer door.

“Come,” Shawn answered.

The door opened out, Theodore Avery stepping from the bright exterior removing his yellow hardhat, half a head shorter than me, mouse-brown hair curtaining his eyebrows, broad face, full pale lips, stocky.

“Eh, hi.” From across the table, he looked at Shawn and then me. “Mr. Katz said you wanted to see me?”

“Theodore, sit.” I indicated the chair. “Or do you prefer Ted?”

“Ted is good.”

He sat, we didn’t.

I placed a yellow legal pad and pen on top the blueprints facing Avery.

“Recently, Ted. You ran into me with your car. I bounced off your windshield.”

“What?” Shawn asked.

“Where do you get such ideas?” Avery asked

“The right pedal of my bicycle in the grill. My hair in a crack in the windshield. I saw your face. Officer Martin wanted me filing a complaint. I didn’t want to get you all jammed up just because Uncle Gus is an asshole.”

“Gus is an asshole.” He looked down.

“I know Gus got you the car at that place on the highway.”

“Yeah, Five Star. He said it was untraceable.”

“So, you thought you’d keep it.”

“I should have dumped it like he told me to. Then Officer Martin wouldn’t have snagged me.”

“What did he pay you?”

“Huh?”

“What did Uncle Gus pay you to kill me.”

“When you put it that way –”

“Put it any way you like.”

“Fifty bucks.”

Shawn released a long sigh. “I’d think you’re worth at least a buck-fifty. Maybe two hundred.”

Avery sat back defiantly, looking hard at Shawn and then me. “What the fuck do you want?”

I shrugged casually, nodding to the yellow pad. “All I want is the truth involving the plot to murder me.”

“Then what?”

“Then I’m done with you. If this were about you, Ted, we’d have already poured concrete over your cadaver.” I swung my red suede bag off my shoulder. “Fifty bucks to kill me?” I counted out five $100 bills onto the blueprints. “How about I pay you this not to kill me?”

He narrowed his eyes, then squinted. “The truth? I get the $500?”

“The money is for not killing me. Write the truth because deep down inside, you’re a good person.”

“I am a good person.” He placed the pen to paper.

“No need for a long narrative. Just list the facts.”

“Good advice for any writing,” Shawn said.

“I was never good at English. Augustine Avery gave me fifty bucks and an old black Rambler to kill Antoinette Blanc. He gave me her address. How’s that? Do you want details of, you know?”

“That’s good. Sign and date it.”

“I’d like a favor.”

“Other than the $500?”

“Well, I’d like to keep my job. You got to understand. Uncle Gus is an asshole. It wasn’t about the fifty bucks.”

In that dark moment, my hands flat on the table, leaning ever so slightly, my eyes tethered to eyes not unlike mine, Avery holding his breath, I understood beyond the words. “This stays between us. I’ll not say anything to Mr. Katz. I’m not going to jam you up just because you got caught in the switches.”

“Gus was wrong about you.”

Probably not.

 

“Toby,” Shawn said, dropping behind the wheel of her blue Toyota.

I rolled my eyes, bracing for some questions.

“We missed breakfast.”

“Weber’s an asshole. Back over the bridge, let’s hit Homer’s Diner down on the circle. They have a passable cheeseburger.”

Shawn pulled out into traffic.

“Besides, they’re a quarter mile from 5 Star Auto.”

“Who knows someone tried to kill you?”

“Ted, his uncle, you, my detective.”

“You didn’t tell us because you didn’t want us to worry.”

“I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want anyone to have to lie if I murdered someone. The difference between Ted and me is he hates his uncle. I don’t.”

“Why’s he want you dead?”

“Short story. Gus Avery is a con man who rips people off in real estate deals. Best I can figure, he generates false fees in transactions, in some cases, generates loans, the money never going to the borrower.”

“He keeps the money.”

“Uncle Gus found out I was on to him.”

“How?”

“I told him, well, I told one of his partners.”

She pursed her lips. “How’d you come to enter this story?”

“Jane Wilkins.”

“Taxi Jane?”

“Yes. Taxi Jane. They stole her life savings. Too much bother for anyone to care. Even with a civil suit, the money is gone, nothing to recover. Jane’s on the edge of being put out on the street.”

Shawn growled.

“It gets messy.”

“You’re buying houses so Jane has a place to live?”

“I’m buying the taxi company. 10 AM Wednesday. You want to come to the meeting?”

“You bet I do.”

“I should put this in writing, but if I felt I had to put this in writing, it would be meaningless.”

“Go ahead.”

“We, that is to say you and I, have an understood confidentiality agreement.”

“I kind of gathered that as soon as we talked about murdering Ray, maybe before.”

“The agreement covers everything. We do not repeat to anyone what we say to each other.”

“Everything.” She nodded. “That way, there’s no doubt what’s confidential and what’s not.”

“Jacob Bancroft.”

“Who’s he?”

“You’ll meet him Wednesday. His name may come up Thursday night.”

“I have a date with Lauren Thursday.”

“Bancroft is married, banging Lauren on the side.”

“He may break off the affair.”

We rolled to a stop in the parking lot. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll better know how to handle Lauren.”

“She may have no other shoulder to cry on.”

“Some first date.”

Outside the Toyota, Shawn glanced around. “Looking for a car?”

“Not just yet.”

“Michael asked me.”

“About a car?”

“He’s saving up.”

“You mean Michelle.”

“Michelle isn’t getting her driver's license soon.”

“Yeah, that.”

“I like Michael much better than Michelle. Don’t get me wrong.”

“How could I take that wrong?”

“Toby.

“Bucko Pete!” the man announced us still fifteen strides from the door. “I saw you ladies across the lot and I said to myself: There’s some ladies of class and taste!”

Red plaid shirt, blue jeans, pull-on boots, straw hair. All he needed to complete the cliché was a cowboy hat and a gee golly.

“We’re just looking for some information today,” I greeted back.

“That I’m fresh out of. Maybe try the library.”

“66 black Ramble, sold off your lot within the past month.”

“If I did or didn’t, that’d be confidential information.”

I turned toward Shawn. “My rapist – well one of my rapists – drives a black Rambler, too.” I turned back to Bucko Pete. “Is that the choice of vehicles for assholes, do you think?”

“I really can’t help you.”

I approached, stopping inappropriately close, looking up, holding his dark brown eyes, tired eyes, ringed in yellowed flesh like my mother’s. A $100 bill appeared, breaking his stare. “How confidential?”

He plucked the bill from my fingers. “Augustine Avery. He does all our insurance for customers. Liberty Real Estate and Insurance, office at the mall. Off-the-books cash sale.”

“Thanks, Bucko Pete.”

“Pleasure doing business with you.” He would have tipped his hat if he were wearing one, stepping backwards into the shack he called an office, closing the door.

I turned, almost stepping into Shawn. “I get it.”

“What?”

“The confidentiality agreement.”

“Don’t go dropping to a knee now.”

“Blood oath? I’ll cut my palm.”

“Not necessary.”

“Just spit, then?”

“Not even that.”

“This, Toby, has been the perfect illustration why such an agreement is important.”

We dropped into her Toyota.

“Avery should have paid him more – for his confidentiality. He’s a drunk. Bucko is only loyal to one thing. At least we confirmed Ted’s story.”

“Burgers? I wanted to get by Thomas’ houses this afternoon before school, work up the numbers. He’s got a long list of bullshit. I have a dance class tonight.”

“Drop me at the truck. I have some stuff, too.”

“Need me?”

“I’m good.”

“I don’t know about my hours.”

“Meaning?”

“Was our visit to the restaurant worksite hours?”

“I see your point. You’re salaried as of now. You’ll like the salary.”

“Like you told Andy. It’ll be more than I’d think to ask for.”

“You were starting to say something about Michael.”

“When?”

“Right before Bucko Pete jumped out of the shack.”

“Oh, right. How do you do that?”

“I’m cursed with a great memory.”

“I was going to say: I like Michael a lot better than Michelle.”

“Yeah, that’s what you said. Admittedly, I don’t know Michael at all. I’ve worked with Michelle, but we’ve never had a personal relationship.”

“On purpose.”

“I don’t see where that really matters. I don’t see where investing in a personal relationship with a person who may not be here tomorrow.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s hardly been six months since Michael discovered his inner Michelle. I have no reason to believe that anytime soon Michelle will tire of the makeup ritual, runs in her stockings, sitting with her knees together, and peeing sitting down.”

“Six months.”

“More like four months since she committed to being Michelle. Now, she’s off to that dance. Michael has a date with a girl.”

“He says that’s a favor for George.”

“My viewpoint at this point: Michelle isn’t real. Michael’s an asshole.”

“Eh.” Shawn bit her lip. “Michelle. Michael works too hard at being what he thinks a girl is.”

I shrugged. “These past six months have been the first time in his life he’s had any girl role models up close and personal, the main role model being me, which isn’t a very good thing.”

“You are an absolutely –”

“I am not typical. Pamala is not typical. You are not typical. See what I’m getting at?”

“I think so.”

“Michael made a mistake quitting school. Or rather, he should have figured out a way to be Michelle in school, hanging out with people like Andy and Logan.”

“Andy is pretty exceptional for a child her age. I was impressed with the way she took it upon herself to improve the artwork, set up the window project.”

“Donna Weber, same age.”

“Hard worker. When she turns 17, I might try to steal her for your restaurant.”

I let out a long sigh.

“What?”

“Samantha – Andy, Logan, and Donna are my age.”

“Fuck.”

We stopped adjacent to my truck.

“I know that, but I don’t know that. Wasn’t the dance class my idea? I swear it was my idea. You wanted to cap the age at seventeen –”

“To keep creepy older guys from trolling children.”

“Good idea. My point was you want to create a space and place Michelle can interact with children her own age.”

“That’s exactly correct.”

“I feel like you can see the whole puzzle, I don’t even know it’s a puzzle.”

“That, Shawn, is why I need a number one.”

I climbed from the car, Shawn running around hugging me as if the whole of existence were collapsing.

“One more thing, while I’m thinking about it,” I whispered in her ear. “Thursday, at the fashion show, you won’t see me, but I’ll introduce myself.”

“Is that a riddle?”

I laughed, breaking. “Details will come all in good time.”

“I have to rush.”

“Eat something.”

“You, too.”

 

The late afternoon sun burned down Main Street from behind me as I maneuvered the pickup to the curb, Andy’s artwork welcoming me. Dropping the tailgate, I dragged the metal desk across, working the furniture to the asphalt. The desk wasn’t heavy – relatively. I had eyed their oak desk.

“Much too big, too heavy,” even with the help of their hand truck, which the nice church ladies would not allow me to borrow even with my promise to return the item within the hour.

“I should have just thrown $100 at them.” I had thought to wait for Shawn or Pamala, pushing the door open, returning to the desk, intent on walking a side at a time.

“Let me help,” Jack Blanc said, bending.

I was panicky to decline, lifting my side, Blanc managing to sneak up on me a second time.

“Not so heavy,” he said. “With two people doing it.”

“This is good.”

“Where do you want it?” He looked around.

“This is good,” I repeated, forcing the desk down in the center of the room.

“Jack Blanc.” He offered a hand. “I didn’t catch your name the other day.”

“Thanks for the help.” I declined the hand keeping the desk between us as he moved.

“You do remind me so much of my daughter.”

“You said, thanks for the help, now I have things to do.”

“She passed. Did I tell you that?” He circled.

I matched his steps. “Sorry for your loss. Now, if you’d be so kind –”

Something in his eyes told a story featuring me tied to a stanchion in his basement.

“You never told me your name.”

From the doorway, behind Blanc, as if to answer, Detective Rich Serling said, “Toby? Is there a problem here?”

“No, Dad. Mr. Blanc was just leaving.”

Blanc pivoted. “I was just –”

“Leaving,” Serling finished, taking Blanc under his arm.

Blanc blustered free. “Well, I never!”

“I’m sure you have, Blanc. Don’t ever come around fucking with my daughter again.”

Blanc didn’t bother with an or what, pushing Serling out of his way, taking the door in a huff.

“Antoinette’s father?”

“Good guess.”

“It wasn’t that hard.” He glanced to the door. “Maybe I should give him a visit, make sure he got my message.”

“I’ll give you his address. If I ever go missing, his basement will be the first place to check.”

“I have his address.”

“When you ran my profile?”

“You’re pretty smart – for a girl.”

We moved the desk into position to the back right of the room facing front.

“Need help?” He nodded to the street.

“No. I do need you to teach me how to pick a lock.”

“Huh?”

“Isn’t that what they call it?”

“It is.”

“Locke’s properties. When I’m sure they’re not occupied, I want to break in, look around.”

“With no evidence of anyone being there. Good idea. I have an extra kit. Tools. I’ll dig up some schematics. That’s drawings of lockset interiors.”

“I know what schematics are.”

“I’m just fucking with you. Once you see how locks work, picking locks will be a breeze because you are pretty smart for a girl.”

“I’ll get a book at the library. I’m sure they have a weighty volume on locksmithing.”

“You still want the tools, or are you just going to use a hair pin?”

“That works?”

“Not as well.” His hand disappeared into this jacket. “I have that invitation.”

“Is it a forgery?”

“Well –”

“You give me a forgery, tell me the people can be dangerous, send me in with your fingers crossed.”

“When you put it that way. I told you it’s risky, the rewards are great.”

“I have an invitation. Not a forgery.”

“Huh?”

“Christeen French.”

“How the fuck?”

“Sometimes the winds of universe blow my way. I took a room, or rather Artemis Grimes took a room at the Commadore in Center City. I wanted to get some practice and experience at a card table, so I lucked into a private game in the building.”

“You took a room?”

“Well, Artemis has to be staying somewhere.”

“Assuming someone will ask.”

“I told you already. Someone will ask. Risky. A stranger come among them. Now, I’m not a stranger. I’m a guess of Mrs. French.”

“You have no idea –”

“Actually, I do.” I considered the ceiling. “Jerry Hastings was at that table.”

“Mark’s brother.”

“I figured. He’s exploitable. Heavy drinker. Has a predilection for boys.”

“He’s not our target.”

“Why kick in the front door when I can pick the lock on the back door?”

“Saturday, then?”

“Mrs. French is expecting me.”

 

I watched the people and traffic out the window, arraigning the yellow pad, pens and pencils in a red cup, desk lamp, and adding machine. I circled in my used chair to remind myself I was a child.

I didn’t need an adding machine. I knew Shawn would.

The door opened, offering Jackeline Curran. “Hi, Toni. Busy?”

“Never too busy for you, Jacks.”

“You’re so sweet.”

“Oh, I have a dark side.”

“We all do.” She wrestled with her leather shoulder bag. “I trust you have a safe place for this.” A large file folder found the desk. “I’m tempted to burn it.” She dropped to a nearby chair, one of four.

I kept her dark eyes. “I only have small pieces of this tapestry. Still, I have no doubt if we step hard in the wrong place, it’d get us killed.”

“I guess being dead already emboldens you.”

I shrugged. “Not fearing death emboldens me. Are you stalking me?”

“Well, I work at McNaughty’s –”

“And, you live over the pet store. I was kidding.”

She let out a long sigh. “Miss Crispy, round two.”

“Jennifer Longe. I don’t know why. I had this obsession to bring her home.”

“I knew it was you the moment I unwrapped her. I mean, she was the Miss Crispy they passed off as you. I almost pointed that out. Doctor Sullivan pontificated upon the reality that we were looking upon Jennifer Longe. He’s not a very good liar.”

“It was Jennifer. Murdered by Paul Atkinson, who’d raped her repeatedly, planting evidence in the fire to lead the authorities to believe it was me.”

“I know that name.”

“He’ll be featured in the newspaper soon. Drifter. Murderer, rapist. He had a tragic accident living by the railroad tracks. They say tragic, I say fitting.”

“Were all his victims the same profile?”

“No. He was just an opportunist, not a planner. Jennifer was fifteen years old. Atkinson killed her to keep her quiet. All else was incidental.”

 

I walked Jacks halfway to her apartment over the pet store. We spoke of nothing dark, stopping in front of Valkyries Drycleaners and Formal Wear, Jacks looking to the concrete, then my eyes. “You know who did this.”

I assumed this to be the murder of Jody Demarko. “Knowing is one thing, proving another.”

“Proving to your satisfaction is different from proving in a court of law.”

“Something being wrong isn’t good enough. The right people have to care.”

“Without the wrong people telling us to look the other way.”

“Or switching up the reality.”

She grimaced. “You’d think the truth wouldn’t be malleable.”

“Two files on Jody Demarko exist side by side. Which one is the truth being a matter of opinion, a matter of who we ask. The truth isn’t malleable. Our point of view is.”

“You do know there’s a web connecting everything?”

I shrugged. “I assume you mean literally and not existentially in some sort of Hallmark Card phrasing.”

“What is it you want, Toni?”

“I want to burn it all to the ground.”

Jacks nodded as if I gave her the correct answer.

 

Charlotte Cliff appeared behind the waist-high counter, answer to the bell on the door. “Hi, Toby!”

I answered with a coy smile, hands flat on the counter, watching her rich brown eyes. “Do you own a gown – an eye-popping gown.”

“I do.”

“Next question is kind of weird.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Are you able to keep a take-to-your-grave secret?”

“I have several now.”

“Give me an example.”

“Nice try. Yes. I can keep a take-to-your-grave secret.”

“Thursday. There’s a fashion show –”

“At the Commadore in Center City. I’d kill to go.”

“Would you attend? With me. No murdering required. I figure on wearing the white silk, with the crossover –”

“Really? Not about the dress. The dress is perfect. I have just the compliment.”

“Yes, really.”

“Why? I mean, why me?”

I smirked. “Pamala’s working. For a host of reasons, I wish eye candy on my arm.”

“I will not blush. I will not blush. You think I’m eye candy?”

“If I’d yet to sway you. I’ll introduce you to Jacop Knapp.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re just kidding me now. Is this some kind of joke?”

“Charlotte. This is not a joke. Jacop already complimented one of your dresses, the black silk.”

“OK.”

“You aren’t going to faint, are you?”

“Maybe I should sit down.”

“I’ll have a car pick you up.”

“What’s the secret? I’m likely to blurt stuff out to strangers on the street.”

“Your attendance is not a secret. Tell everyone. Take an ad out in the paper. You can never say you attended with me.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll be there under another name. A secret name. You shall never know any details.”

She crossed her heart. “To the grave.”

 

 

Part 26