Bertha thought she heard a sound and stopped everything, straining to hear. There it was again—a thud. A door creaked and someone was moving around downstairs. Why would someone else be in her house? If it was the police, maybe a neighbor had called them. A male voice said something and a second male voice answered—at least two of them. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but she had a strong feeling that if they were police, they weren’t friendly. She listened as they walked around, obviously unaware of her presence. If they opened the pantry door, the stairs to the attic would be right in front of them, and she’d be trapped.
Despite the chilly attic air, sweat trickled down Bertha’s forehead into her eyes. She didn’t want to make a sound yet eyed the attic vent that looked out over the front yard and street. She wanted to look out of it, wanted to see if there was a car she recognized, wanted to see if the cat was okay, but the boards might creak and she didn’t want to give up her position to God knows who downstairs. Their voices came from her bedroom, the room she’d shared with Toni, goddamn them.
Her heart pounded so loud she was sure they could hear her. She groped in the canvas bag for one of the guns. It might scare them, but she wasn’t sure how to put the bullets in. The .38 used a clip, but she was pretty sure that made a loud click as it went in. She hoped she didn’t have to figure it out.
The late autumn sun was setting as Bertha came out of the pantry with the strap of the dusty tent pole bag over her shoulder and an acrid-smelling baby book tucked beneath her shirt. Although the air downstairs was cold, her clothes were damp with sweat. She left through the broken French door, thinking she’d have to call the insurance company about getting the house secure again. Cautiously, she headed back to the alley where she’d left the Honda and found Norman Bates asleep on the driver’s seat.
*
The first thing that happened when Bertha dropped off Norman Bates at Alvin’s was a dachshund attack. As Alvin rushed to grab the dog’s collar and pull her out of harm’s way, he said, “This may not work.”
Jerry jumped in. “We can keep them separated for a couple of days.”
The dog pulled from beneath him, Norman Bates squeezed underneath the couch. Jerry knelt and put his ear to the floor. “Here, kitty-kitty.”
Norman growled.
“Do not,” Alvin said, “stick your hand under there.” He turned to Bertha. “If it’s the money, I’ll pay to kennel him.”
“I checked. The kennel’s full until Monday. I think I’ll be back in my house long before then.”
Jerry said, “Got him. He can stay in the laundry room for a couple of days.”
Bertha realized he was handing her something. He had Norman Bates by the scruff of his neck. She reached for the stiff orange ball of fur, and the cat pressed his nose beneath her chin. He was trembling. She stroked his head and scratched his ears as she followed Jerry through the kitchen.
Bertha sat on a chair and held the cat, trying to give him some comfort.
Alvin carried the cat litter and food in and closed the door to the rest of the house. He knelt down next to Bertha. “Why don’t you go get your things and stay here? That way Norman can spend some time with you.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“You said it’ll be only for a couple of days.”
A single tear rolled down her cheek. “Please leave me alone.”
“Why? What did I do?”
“I don’t want to cry in front of you. I don’t want your pity.”
Alvin passed her a roll of paper towels. “Let me help. Wouldn’t staying here help you and your cat?”
Bertha blew her nose and nodded. “Most of my stuff is at the house. I got these sweat pants when I bought the cat litter at Walmart early this morning.”
“I’ll have Jerry fix the guest room.” Alvin stood and left the room.
“I went by the house a little while ago to get something from the attic, and someone has been in there. Not only that, a couple of guys came while I was up there.”
“Who? The police? Firemen? Cleaners?”
“I don’t know, but it scared me.”
“All the more reason to stay here where you won’t be alone at night.”
“They came in broad daylight.”
“For that you have 9-1-1, or that cat could probably scare intruders off.”
Bertha smiled. Norman Bates was asleep in her lap.
Chapter Eighteen
The barking dog woke Bertha at six thirty the next morning. She’d opened her eyes and remembered she was staying in Alvin’s guest room. Using the bathroom, dealing with the animals, and eating a bowl of Cheerios, all seemed difficult as a guest in someone else’s house, sort of like swimming upstream. But Alvin and Jerry were gone by seven thirty and she had the house to herself, that is, she and the dog and the cat. As soon as the guys were gone, Norman Bates jumped up on the table and stared at her while she finished her coffee. Even though it seemed like a bad idea, she pushed the cereal bowl with the remaining milk toward him. She put Norman in the laundry room and showered before making the trek out to Stumpy’s farm.
On the way, Bertha crossed a small bridge under construction two miles out of town. A flagman in an orange coat stood directing her, as the road was down to a single lane before and after the bridge. He motioned for Bertha to move on because she was the only vehicle on the road. A short time later she pulled the Honda up behind Pop’s truck and turned off the motor. The morning was gray, and a light snow had fallen the night before. A knee-high mist hovered above the stubble field beyond the ruts and puddles of the lane. The cold, damp weather made her joints ache. As she moved around it would get better, but moving around hurt. She swung the car door open and stood, thinking old age was full of that kind of irony.
Bertha retrieved the heavy bag of guns and ammo from the trunk and started up a stone path toward the two-story farmhouse where Pop, Stumpy, and Mel waited. Together they followed a path around the house, turning away from livestock gates and a water trough. Next to it sat giant piles of feed, mostly covered with tarpaulins weighted down with old tires and partially covered with snow. Stumpy took the bag from her and said, “Let’s see what you got.” He laid it all out on an unpainted picnic table next to his own guns, ammo, and ear protectors, then scratched his head. “You’ve got some fire power here, but the guns need cleaning. We don’t want a misfire. Tell you what. This morning we’ll use my Beretta. It’s close to your .38. Then I’ll clean these up and you can start on them tomorrow.”
About twenty feet beyond the barn, a man-made target was set up with wood and hay bales. Pop went first, while Bertha and the two white guys stood back several feet. After the first shot, the next several came quickly. Pop crossed the yard, took his target down, and set up another. Returning to the group he said, “Not too bad.” The bullet holes were mostly grouped in the center, though a couple were high.
Stumpy held up the chart, pointed, and said, “See that. All guns kick upward. A lot of training goes into holding the muzzle down. Most people who miss, miss high. Even experts can make that mistake.” He stepped up to the firing line and showed her how to use the sight. He lined up the shot and, at the last minute, pulled his cap off and let it fall by his side, then adjusted the ear protector, beneath which the only hair he had was plastered to his skull.
The kick didn’t worry her as much as the flash of the muzzle, which seemed to be right in front of her face. It didn’t appear to bother Stumpy at all. He emptied the clip, and while he showed Bertha how to hold the gun without slicing her thumb open, Pop retrieved Stumpy’s target and set up Bertha’s. She looked admiringly at the target with bullet holes all dead center. She positioned herself and held the Beretta with both hands. Lining up the sight seemed too easy. She squeezed the trigger and the gun flashed and kicked upward.
“That’s okay,” Stumpy said. “You’ll get the next one.”
“I missed?”
Stumpy pointed. “Got the corner of the
target. A little high and to the left. Line her up again.”
Bertha lined up the sight, determined this time to at least hit the target.
“Whoa,” Stumpy said.
She looked at him.
“Careful. The way you’re holding that gun, you’re going split your hand open.”
“How?”
“There’s a slide action. Common mistake. I’ve seen it happen to experienced officers.”
Bertha flushed. It was hard, but she was determined. “Thanks.” She adjusted her hold, then fired.
“Hot dog!”
“Did I get it?”
“By God,” Pop said. “You’ve hit the target.”
Stumpy was next to her. “Go on, girl. You got several shots left.”
She lined it up and fired again, and again and again. When her clip was empty, the barrel still smoking, she lowered the gun.
Pop’s boots crunched all the way as he retrieved her target and set up another. By the time they were finished, Bertha had shot up four targets, and with each clip the shots were grouped a little closer to the center.
She was cold and dog tired when Stumpy said, “Let’s go in the kitchen and warm up. I got a pot of coffee on.”
The kitchen had a high ceiling and cabinets that went all the way up. A linoleum rug was worn but clean. Four coffee mugs were waiting on the table. While Stumpy poured, Bertha removed her coat and hung it on the back of a chair. Finally seated, Stumpy said, “One last thing about carrying a gun.”
Pop chimed in with Stumpy. “Don’t use it.”
Bertha objected. “I just spent the morning learning to fire it and I shouldn’t use it?”
Stumpy went on. “Make it your last resort. Even then, unless you’re in mortal danger, aim to maim. Hit one of his limbs if you have time to line it up.”
Pop added, “Make sure you hit the target. A miss will make them mad.”
Mel, who’d been quiet all morning, said, “Kneecaps will slow your enemy down. Kneecaps were always my favorite. Course, he can still aim and fire at you.”
They were silent for a minute, and then Stumpy added, “You really got to think on your feet in a showdown.” Bertha noticed Mel looking out the back window. She followed his gaze and saw a brown quarter horse at the water trough.
“She’s beautiful,” Bertha said. “Do you own any others?”
Stumpy shook his head. “I have in the past, but Lady’s the last one left. This is a big place. I ride her out to check fences once in a while. That way we both feel useful.”
They watched the horse turn and head back toward the barn. Then Bertha said, “When I went by the house yesterday, I found it ransacked. Then a couple of guys came while I was sitting in the attic.”
Pop let out a sigh and turned to Mel. “You still have connections inside the department? I’m afraid I’ve offended everyone I know there. We need to know who broke in: police, contractors, or what. Once we know who, the why will be easier to find.”
Mel said, “I’ll make a few calls.”
Pop said, “Good.”
Around noon, Pop and Mel left, and Bertha was gathering her things when Stumpy said, “Stick around. I want to show you how to clean these guns. You want them to work right.” He pointed to the tent-pole bag. “Bring ’em over here.”
Bertha carried the bag to the table.
“You know. I been thinking about it. And I recommend that you shoot to kill. That’s the easy way. Just make sure you’ve got the right guy.”
*
On the way back into town, Bertha stopped for lunch at a small diner. A line of trees, bare branches ready for winter, threw ghostly shadows on the parking lot. It was mid-afternoon and the place was almost empty. The door creaked and a bell overhead rang as she entered. Sunlight slanted through the front glass. She saw a row of booths to her right and slid into one of them facing the door so she could see who was coming and going. The place smelled of cooked onions, and she heard the splash of raw fries being plunged into hot oil. A young couple sat at the counter, half-eaten dinners in front of them growing cold, while both were texting, oblivious to what was going on around them, including each other.
Bertha was startled when a glass of ice water and a laminated, single-page menu appeared in front of her. Then a woman said, “Whoa, you been in a shootout?” She stepped back and wrinkled her nose.
“Huh?” Bertha looked up into the blue eyes of Maggie the cat lady. Her unruly mane was pulled up, and silver curly locks on the back of her neck escaped the clip. She wore faded jeans and a clean, red-checkered apron. Bertha didn’t remember her right away and stared at her a moment too long.
“You smell like gun powder. I assume it isn’t some new kind of shampoo.”
Bertha’s hands went to her hair. “Friend of mine out this way is teaching me target shooting. The stuff really gets all over you, doesn’t it?”
With a sideways swipe of her eyes, Maggie said, “Strange hobby for a judge.”
Bertha agreed. “With any luck, I’ll never need it.”
“What you doing all the way out here?” Bertha asked.
“This is my day job.” Maggie’s smile was godsent.
“Small world.”
“So. How’s Snuggles?”
“He’s better every day. We’re staying with friends right now. There’s a problem at my house. I think the cat is adjusting better than I am.”
“I’m so glad you’re making it work with him.”
Guilt made Bertha confess. “I did change his name.”
“Most folks who adopt do that. What’s his new one?”
“Norman Bates.”
Maggie threw back her head laughing, and Bertha started laughing too. It felt good.
The couple at the counter moved to the register, and Maggie excused herself to check them out.
Bertha felt good about the day so far. The shooting lessons had gone well. She was pretty sure she could clean and, almost, assemble the two handguns. Now she’d run into a new friend. Well, not really a friend, but someone she knew.
Maggie returned and sat down in the booth opposite Bertha. Her pencil and pad ready, she asked, “What will you have?”
Suddenly uncomfortable, Bertha picked up the laminated menu and, without looking at it, said, “Cheeseburger and fries.”
Maggie made a couple of marks on a tablet. “Want something to drink?”
“This water will be enough, thanks.”
Maggie hesitated, then asked, “Have I offended you?”
Bertha shrugged. How did she politely get rid of this woman? One minute she’d been glad to see her, and the next she wanted to be alone. She couldn’t explain the feeling. If there was a thing called a comfort zone, Maggie had sped past it when she sat down. On the surface this woman seemed nice. Bertha told herself there was nothing wrong with talking to her and finally forced herself to say, “UMS.”
“What’s that?”
“Ugly mood swings. I used to think they were hormonal. But I’m way past hormones.”
Maggie laughed, nervously this time. Then she covered Bertha’s hand with her own. “I know from experience what it feels like to be turned inside out by loss.”
Bertha withdrew her hand.
“Sorry.” Maggie stood and left her alone with her ice water.
Bertha wasn’t hungry anymore. Trying to pull herself together, she took out her smart phone and opened the app Angry Birds. About ten minutes later Maggie was back with a cheeseburger and a huge order of fries. She set the food in front of Bertha and pulled catsup and extra napkins out of her apron pockets. “Will there be anything else?”
Bertha shook her head and looked up at Maggie. “I think I want a cup of coffee after all.”
“Cream?”
No matter how often Bertha said “no cream” she usually got it anyway, but she tried again. “No cream.”
Maggie started to walk away.
“Wait.” Bertha’s heart was pounding and her guts executed a swan dive
as she added, “Bring one for yourself and sit with me. I’d like the company.”
“I have prep to do.”
“Sit with me and I’ll help you.”
“You’re a judge. I’m sure you don’t even know what prep is.”
“I worked in a cafeteria to help put myself through college. There are a ton of things I like less than prep work. I’ll tell you about them if you give me a chance.”
Maggie left and returned with two cups of coffee. She slid into the booth across from Bertha and said, “Okay, tell me about it. What things do you like to do?”
Bertha shrugged. “Since Toni’s death, every day starts with an alarm clock and ends with TV.”
“Toni’s the partner who was killed?”
Bertha nodded. Trying to focus on her food, she found herself intoxicated by the smell of the French fries and shoved one into her mouth, devouring it. Her appetite had returned.
Maggie asked, “How long has it been?”
“Three months.” Bertha laid a slice of tomato beneath the top of the bun and lifted the cheeseburger to take a bite.
Maggie added so much sugar to her coffee that Bertha lost track—three spoons, four? They were quiet for a moment, and then Maggie said, “My lover of almost seventeen years left me last summer. She took everything, including our granddaughter. Just threw me under the bus and moved to Brazil.”
“Where’s the child’s mother?”
“Killed by an IED on her third tour in the Iraq. Her mother never got over it.”
“Sounds awful,” Bertha said.
“I thought the child would be in my life forever. I planned on seeing her regularly, you know, like a divorced dad.” Maggie looked at a spot over Bertha’s shoulder and said, “The Brazilian lover is the jealous type. So I’m not even sure if my e-mails get opened. I can’t visit on a waitress salary. I’m dead to them. This isn’t how I imagined my life.”
Widow Page 18