Revenge Is Sweet

by Kaye George

  She had picked off her bandage, and her cut was oozing again. Maybe she had picked off a scab, too. She didn’t remember.

  Dispirited and exhausted, Tally slogged toward the back door, following Andrea, who had bustled out in two seconds. The parking spaces behind the store were dark. Tally looked up at the streetlamp that was supposed to light the area, but it was apparently burned out. Someone loomed next to her car, a silhouette in the darkness. She stopped to figure out who it was as Andrea roared off, spinning her tires as she left.

  When the noise had died away, she took a step closer to the shadowy figure.

  “Tally? What’s going on?”

  Her shoulders sagged with relief as she recognized the voice. It was Allen Wendt.

  “Allen, you scared me. What are you doing lurking here in the dark?”

  “It’s not usually this dark.” They both looked up at the burnt-out streetlamp. “I saw the lights on in your shop, and the police cars and crime scene van, and had to stop. Have they discovered something new?”

  “Someone, not something.” Tally opened her car door, splashing a stripe of light across the inky blacktop.

  Allen frowned and took a step toward her. “Someone? They found Gene’s killer?”

  “You know, I halfway thought she might have killed him. But she was killed in a very similar manner. She was also stabbed with something lying around, something sharp.”

  “She? Who? Another killing?”

  “Yes.” Tally sank to her car seat, her legs giving way from weariness. “Mart Zimmer, my employee. Someone killed her in the bathroom. Stabbed, just like Gene.”

  “Oh no! Oh, Tally.” He put a strong, warm hand on her shoulder.

  Tally reached up and clasped his hand, then turned her eyes on him. Her tears, stemmed successfully for hours now, started to flow. He pulled her to her feet, and they stood gazing at each other for a moment. He held out his arms, then Tally fell into them and they embraced as she sobbed.

  Chapter 11

  Tally and Allen ended up on the relatively quiet far end of the noisy bar in one of the restaurants that stayed open late, having a couple of cocktails. She found him to be a good listener. She told him about trying to find Mart when she didn’t show up at work, and tried to recall when it was that she’d first smelled the awful odor in the shop’s bathroom.

  “I probably need to tell the detective when that was,” she said, “as soon as I figure it out. Have you given statements to the police about Gene’s murder?”

  “Not yet. I mean, not one that I signed. I’ve been told I will have to.”

  “We’re supposed to do that tomorrow for poor Mart. You probably will, too. When I came back from Yolanda’s…” She drummed her fingers on the bar, trying to recall exactly how everything had happened. She had stuck a new bandage on her finger, and it was feeling much better. Maybe it would be healed soon.

  Then it came to her. “It was right after I came into the shop from Yolanda’s. I put off figuring out what that smell was. Something that had spoiled, I thought.”

  “Are there spoiled candies that would smell like a dead body?” Allen said with a smile.

  “Maybe some ingredients. Spoiled milk?” She sipped her gin and tonic, refraining from guzzling it. “But no, not really.”

  Allen stared at the pretzel bowl while he played with a couple of pieces, shedding salt on the bar top.

  “Allen, I’m very worried about Yolanda. The detective wouldn’t tell me anything. All I know is that she was being questioned. This was before we found Mart, so it had to be about Gene. I can’t imagine why they would hold her that long. It was hours. She’s home now, so I ought to look in on her.”

  “Can I go with you?”

  Tally didn’t really want him to, since neither of them knew him that well. “I think that wouldn’t be—”

  “Wait a minute. There’s something I have to tell you.” He finished pulverizing the pretzel with his strong fingers. “I was there.”

  “Where?”

  “I was at her store when the detective came in.”

  “So you know what this is about?” She swiveled her stool to face him.

  He nodded. “I know exactly what it’s about.”

  Tally waited for him to tell her, then waited some more. “You have to tell me.”

  “I’m not supposed to.”

  “Says who?”

  “Detective Rogers, of course. They don’t want anything made public yet.”

  “So they have evidence against Yolanda? They can’t!”

  Allen dropped his head and stared at the pretzel crumbs. “They do. I want to help her. I don’t believe she put it there. It wouldn’t make sense. She wouldn’t have let me move things around in the cooler if she’d known it was there.”

  “What? If she’d known what was where? In her cooler?”

  “It looked like the murder weapon. It was her ribbon scissors.”

  Tally swayed, felt like she might fall off the bar stool. Allen reached over and steadied her. She now realized that this was what she’d been afraid of. Yolanda’s scissors had been missing right after the murder, and they’d never turned up. Yolanda had been evasive when Tally had asked about them.

  “Just because her scissors were hidden, doesn’t mean…” she said.

  “There was dried blood on them.”

  “If she had killed someone with them—okay, Gene, not someone—she wouldn’t have left the blood on them, would she?”

  “She also wouldn’t have stuck them in her own cooler. I was helping her move things out of it to install a new shelf, and surely she would have stopped me before I found them.”

  “You found them? And called the detective?”

  “No, no. He walked in the door right as I found them, the very moment. I had started to call him. Then he was behind me. Yolanda almost fainted. Terrible timing. But I feel responsible. I want to help Yolanda if I can, to make up for the trouble I’ve caused her.”

  Tally made up her mind to let Allen come along, and they wended their way to Yolanda’s Sunday House. It wasn’t nearly as close to work as Tally’s little rental house, so Allen drove his white pickup. Tally thought it was surprisingly neat for a single guy’s car. Nothing crinkled under her feet when she climbed in. Her own two-door Chevy Sonic was much messier. Things on the floor definitely crinkled when a passenger stepped into her car.

  * * * *

  Yolanda was roused from her crushing lethargy by a knock on her door. She glanced at the clock. Midnight. Her instinctive alarm sharpened at the sound, overshadowing the horrible ennui that had weighed her down and glued her to the couch, unable to move, since she’d been home.

  She approached her old-fashioned wooden front door cautiously and peered out the peephole. Seeing Tally, her spirits lifted. But…on reflection, did she want to see her friend right now? Did she want to see anyone? She cracked the door open, and Tally opened the screen door and pulled her into a hug. Yolanda was horrified to see Allen Wendt standing behind Tally.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” Yolanda stiffened in Tally’s arms. “And what are you doing here?” She directed the last question to Allen.

  “Can we come in?” Tally asked.

  She couldn’t leave them on the tiny porch this time of night. Talking out there would disturb her neighbors. She motioned both of them in, with misgivings. Stewing in her anxiety was taking up all her energy right now and she didn’t have much left for her friend.

  After Tally and Allen sat on her brocade couch and she slumped into the wingback chair, Yolanda asked, “Is something wrong? It’s midnight.”

  “Of course something is wrong,” Tally said. “What happened at the police station? Do they think you killed Gene?”

  “What’s he doing here?” Yolanda didn’t look at Allen.

  “We’ve been
talking about everything that’s happened,” Tally said. “Allen feels bad and wants to help.”

  Yolanda turned to Allen, sitting up straight. “You give the police evidence against me and now you want to help?”

  “I had no idea that pair of scissors was there.”

  “You sure happened to find it at the exact wrong time.”

  “I know. I didn’t know Detective Rogers was going to come by with more questions right then. It was all bad luck. When I saw him, I wanted to act like I never saw them and keep them hidden from him, but it was too late. I feel bad and want to help you out if I can.”

  “So you don’t think I killed Gene?” She glared at both of them, back and forth, daring them to say it, dreading what they thought. Wouldn’t anyone think she had killed him when the murder weapon had been found hidden in her shop? If she didn’t know differently, she would think so, too.

  “Of course not,” Tally said. “Why would you leave it there, let Allen find it, if you had put it there? That doesn’t make sense. So, do the police think you killed him?”

  “It’s my pair of scissors. My fingerprints are on them. I heard them say that enough times.”

  “Of course they would be—they’re yours.”

  “But…they’re in the blood. The detective says that’s damning evidence.”

  “In the blood? What does that mean?” Tally asked.

  “It means,” Allen broke in, “that her fingerprints got put there after the blood was there.” He gazed at Yolanda, his gaze level and calm. “You handled the scissors after Gene was stabbed.”

  The small room grew silent. A couple of cars passed by in the street outside. In the distance, a siren wailed, then faded. Yolanda felt faint.

  Tally came to sit on the arm of Yolanda’s chair. “Yo,” she said, “what’s going on? What happened?”

  Yolanda couldn’t stem the tears that finally started flowing. All during her interrogation and for the past few hours at home, she’d been too numb to cry. She started shaking with exhaustion and cold. Tally slipped a comforting arm around her shoulder, and Yolanda leaned into her friend. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes, they think I killed him. How could they not think that? There’s a ton of evidence against me.”

  “A ton?” Tally rubbed Yolanda’s bare, quaking shoulder.

  “A ton. We broke up, I was angry with him. Everyone knew that. People heard us argue. He took my money, he two-timed me, he treated me horribly. And my prints are on the murder weapon. I’m so cold. I’ve been cold all day.”

  Yolanda rubbed the goose bumps on her arms, exposed by the sleeveless dress she still wore. The air-conditioning had been set on high at the police station. “So, your scissors are definitely what killed him?”

  Yolanda nodded, taking the tissue Tally handed her to wipe her nose. “Go ahead. Ask me.”

  “Ask you what?”

  “Ask me how my prints got on the weapon, in the blood.”

  “I can’t imagine. I know you’re afraid to touch blood. You hate it. You almost faint when you get a tiny cut.”

  “That’s true. But not this time.”

  “What do you mean?” Tally’s hand stopped rubbing her shoulder.

  “This time I didn’t even notice the blood. I grabbed the scissors. I saw them there, sticking out of him, and it was mine, my pair of scissors. I couldn’t leave it there. I grabbed it, stuck it into your cupboard, and ran out.”

  She heard Tally let out a breath. Allen whistled.

  “You saw him dead? And didn’t tell anyone?” Tally said.

  Yolanda couldn’t speak anymore. “Please go. I have to be alone.” Her shivering hadn’t quit. If anything, she shook more. She had to get out of this light dress and put on her warm, fleecy robe.

  “But…did you put it in your cooler?” Allen asked.

  She shook her head and croaked out, “No, I didn’t bring them there. I put them where I didn’t think anyone would notice. On a bottom shelf at Tally’s. Not in my cooler.”

  * * * *

  Tally and Allen talked for a bit in his truck after leaving Yolanda.

  “Do you believe her?” Allen asked.

  “How can you ask that? Of course I believe her.” Her head was pounding, and she felt dizzy. This couldn’t be happening. The world felt unreal right now.

  “So, how did the weapon get into her cooler?” Allen asked. “Scissors don’t walk.”

  “Can you take me home? I have to get to bed.” She rubbed her temples, trying to ease her sudden headache.

  “Sure.” Allen’s rugged face was grim as he started the truck up and drove her home in silence.

  Tally was never so glad to see Nigel. She gathered up the giant blob of fur and carried him to her couch, where he purred in her lap for a good half hour. He didn’t seem to want food right now, for a change. What a good kitty, Tally thought.

  There was no sign of Cole. She wondered, dully, if he had taken off yet. She fully expected him to leave soon. He’d gone through a few of the local girls and would then move on, if he stayed true to form. How could they be brother and sister? Him, the love-’em-and-leave-’em guy. Her, the hardly-ever-have-a-date gal. And when she did go out with a guy, he dropped her off, mad, at her door.

  She blinked, hard. She would not cry. Not about that. She should be crying about Yolanda. What to think? If what Yolanda said was true, it made sense that her fingerprints were on the scissors. But if she put them on Tally’s shelf, why weren’t they still there on the shelf? It didn’t make sense. Who would have moved them? Hidden them where they would eventually be found?

  Nigel yelped as she jumped up and knocked him off her lap. Of course. The person who murdered Gene had moved them. Okay then, if that was what happened, how did that person know where they were? Surely no one saw Yolanda hide them. No one else had been there.

  When Tally had found the body, she had assumed the killer took the weapon when he—or she—departed. The police would naturally think that, too. But, before the murder, the scissors had been right there on top of the counter. Anyone could have grabbed them and stabbed him. That had to have happened before Yolanda went through the kitchen. So, who was there? That was what she had to track down. She had to reconstruct where everyone had been before Yolanda found the body.

  Tally sank deep into the couch, and Nigel, instantly forgiving her—what a sweet boy—jumped into her lap for another petting session. Tally absentmindedly stroked him, trying to cast her mind back and figure out who was where, and when. She had given the police the names of the people who had been around: Allen, Andrea, Mart, and Yolanda. And maybe Dorella. She mentally crossed off Yolanda, then Mart. Since she was dead.

  Chapter 12

  Before Tally got out of bed Sunday morning, her cell phone rang from the nightstand where it was charging.

  “How soon can you get to the station?” Detective Rogers asked.

  “I’m not up yet. You closed my shop, so I’m sleeping in. Or I was sleeping in.”

  “How soon can you get here? I need you to identify some evidence.”

  More evidence? Against Yolanda? “What is it?”

  “I’ll show you when you get here. When will that be?”

  How annoying. “An hour.” She wasn’t going to jump into clothes and rush down there for that rude man. She would eat breakfast, shower, dress, walk over and fetch her car from behind the shop, then drive out.

  “I’ll be waiting,” he said.

  When she got there, the detective made a production out of revealing what he wanted her to see. He ushered her into his stale-smelling office, invited her to sit, and offered her something to drink. When she impatiently declined, he summoned a young man to bring something from somewhere. Detective Rogers then took the bag from the man and held it open without touching what was inside.

  She leaned over to peer inside and saw a single tenn
is shoe. She directed a questioning look at Detective Rogers.

  “Do you recognize it?” he asked. “Does anyone you know wear Chuck Taylors?”

  “I don’t recognize it. But all tennies look pretty much the same to me. It’s not mine, if that’s what you’re asking. Yolanda doesn’t wear tennies.” She did, but hadn’t worn any lately, so it couldn’t be relevant.

  “Who else does?”

  “Most of the people I know, at one time or another.” She bent down and inspected the shoe more closely. “What are those spots? Is that blood?” Did it belong to the killer? She felt something crawl up the back of her neck.

  “Yes, it’s blood.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “We’re having it analyzed. Don’t know yet.”

  She searched wildly for an innocent explanation for those rusty spots. “So…someone could have cut themselves shaving, or opening a can of soup.”

  “And then discard one of the shoes in the alley behind your shop.”

  “Why would someone throw away one shoe?”

  “Good question,” he said with a grimace. “The killer must have been pretty rattled. Or extremely crafty. We’re looking for the other one, but haven’t found it so far.”

  That made her pause. When he put it that way, the tennis shoe became more important. “So you think this shoe belongs to the killer. And it was discarded after the crime. So the killer had to have fled out the back. And left one shoe behind?”

  “Not necessarily, although that’s the simplest explanation. It could have been put there later. We didn’t find it right away.”

  Leaving one shoe behind didn’t sound simple to Tally. “When did you find it?” She hadn’t known they’d searched the alley, but she hadn’t been out there watching them when they were going over the place. “The killer’s DNA is on it, right?”

  The detective smiled grimly. “I’m sure the owner’s DNA is on it.”

  “Well, whose DNA is it?”

  Now he chuckled. “Do you think we put a drop of DNA on a slide, hook it up to a computer, and a picture and full dossier appear on the screen?”