MacDonald saw me look at the house, looked away, said nothing. His silence said: Something.
He heard my unspoken question.
“We’ll talk,” he said.
“When?” I asked, and he answered, “I don’t know.”
On the way out of the place, through the gate, all the way to the grocery store a mile or more down Raines, not one word. Not even about Nikki.
13.
21 July, 9:06 a.m.
The Inn — Out of Sorts — Eileen’s
I’d stolen an hour of sleep anyway, Eileen’s summons notwithstanding. Bowl of Cheerios. What the hell, I’m late as it is—set up the laptop on the desk.
Nikki snored, moaned a little.
Checked my email—first time in two days. Meet horny housewives in your neighbourhood. You, too, can make fifteen thousand a month, doing absolutely nothing. Enlarge this body part, shrink that. Click—junk. Most of the other traffic was from a single address. Sweet emails. May-the-Lord-bless-you emails. Hope-you-don’t-mind emails. Old-time’s-sake emails. So-sorry-to-hear emails. Hope-you-are-well emails. Would-love-for-us-to-get-together emails. Wanted-to-bring-you-a-casserole emails. Damn—I’d get to the bottom of this.
Kill two birds with one stone. This nonsense first. Then whatever it was Eileen wanted to see me about. So I hit SEND on a vague reply, then drove over to Red Line.
I opened the front door oh-so gingerly, so Eileen’s cute little jingle bells didn’t ring. Shushed Jackie before she could say a word, and barged on back, plopped myself in a chair, facing Eileen.
She didn’t look up. “Practising our stealth skills, are we?”
“Did some of that last night,” I said. “Feeling kinda done with all that, for today. What are you practising?”
She looked up. Her face asked. Then answered her own question. “She’s contacted you?”
“Numerous times,” I said.
Eileen feigned a smile. “Good, good. So you two will be getting together, then?”
“I’ve no doubt.”
“Good. Well. Reason I called you in—”
“We’re not done with this yet, Eileen.”
“Oh?”
“Question, Eileen. Barbara Jean McCorkle—does she drive a Cadillac?”
“No. Um, more like an SUV, I think. An…Escapade?”
Come off it, honey. Ex-cop. She knew her cars better than that.
“Escalade,” I said. “Black?”
“Um…not quite. More like a—”
“Really, really dark purple.”
“Could be…yes. I think that’s it.”
“This is bullshit, Eileen.”
“I don’t appreciate that kind of lang—”
“And I don’t appreciate games.”
“Then maybe you won’t appreciate this, either.”
She handed me a larger-than-usual envelope, flap open. Cheque. Twelve hundred dollars and change, for the divorce case. Two months at the Benbow. Or a month plus eats and gas, maybe even a few revenue stamps for my collection. She passed it along with a card, in a pretty, perfect hand, turquoise fountain pen. Simple. Thank you, Jack, for a wonderful job. Please know we love you…Eileen.
I didn’t know anyone loved me.
Deep breath. “I’m sorry, Eileen. I owe you better. I’m just…”
“Tired,” she filled in.
“Not an excuse,” I said.
“No,” she said. “But perhaps a cause. She’s been pestering you with calls?”
“No,” I told her. “Just emails.”
“Well, good. Because I didn’t give her your phone number, Jack.”
“Thank you.”
“Not yet, anyway.”
“And what would prompt you to give her my number?”
“Your consent.”
“Why would I give that?”
“Because I’m asking.”
“Asking because…”
“Because she…needs…and because, well…you need.”
“You don’t mean…”
She looked at me querulously, then the realization broke across her face. “That I’m playing matchmaker? No. Definitely. No. Good God, no. Didn’t even think of that angle. Didn’t think you’d think…I’m sorry, Jack.”
“No sorries required, Eileen. If what you say is true. And if Barbara Jean McCorkle has the same understanding.”
“She’s happily…she’s married, Jack.”
“Still married to…”
“Um…far as I know, Jack.” She knew, all right.
“So what does she want, Eileen?”
“You know Barbara Jean,” Eileen said. “She’s not happy unless she’s helping.”
“‘Helping.’ Like the Boy Scout who helped the little old lady across the street—”
“—even though she didn’t want to go.” Eileen laughed. “That is true. The thing of it is, I guess, is that she’s not happy unless she’s involved.”
“Involved in what?”
“Well, in…giving to people. Doing things for people. You know…”
“Back to the question. What does she want?”
“Well, I think she really does want to…to see you…to help you if she can…to…”
“Bring me a casserole?”
Eileen laughed again. “If she gives you a choice, go for the green bean with the almonds and the crunchy cracker crust. It’s pretty good. It’s a hit around our house…my house.” Her smile faded, took a few seconds to come back.
“I’ll remember that,” I answered.
“Of course, the thing about casseroles…” she said.
“Is what?”
“Well, you’ve got to wash the dish. Then you’ve got to give it back.”
“Barbara Jean McCorkle and I are not just going to slurp a thirty-minute Americano at Starbucks, are we?”
“Umm…I expect not.”
“There’s going to be a whole…thing here, isn’t there?”
We both started to laugh. “Yeah,” she said. “I reckon there is.”
I made my smile go away. “One more time, back to the question. What…” Big, dramatic pause. “does she want?”
“Bring you a little cheer. A casserole, maybe?”
“That’s to me, Eileen. What does she want…” I love pauses. “from me?”
There’s a certain look crosses Eileen’s face when she’s about to say something glib or smartass. Whatever it was Les had fallen in love with, it surely included that. “Other than her casserole dish back,” I said.
“Just some information, Jack. Just that. I think.”
“And whatever that…information is, Eileen, I presume it’s not the sort can be gathered from a desk and a phone and a high-speed internet connection.”
“No.”
“How much do you know?” I asked.
“Truly, Jack, next to nothing. I asked, but you know Barbara Jean—she did all the talking.”
I nodded. “Way less informative than it was long.”
“She came in at four that day,” Eileen said. “And we weren’t out till seven.”
“And she said…?”
“Like I say, next to nothing. There was something she wanted you to ‘look into’.” A big pair of air-quotes. “Said she wanted a real…”
“Real what?”
Her mouth made a tiny smile. “‘Gumshoe,’ is what she said, Jack.”
“That the actual word?” I felt my eyes roll.
“As God is my witness, Jack.”
“Those only exist in fiction,” I said. “As well you know.”
“Not in her mind.”
“I need a trench coat for this?”
“And a fedora hat as well, I expect, Jack.”
“Jesus.”
“You might need him, too.” Her face was dead serious.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t,” Eileen replied, “mean…anything. I just have this… feeling.”
So did I.
14.
A Cozy Wee Place for Two
I stopped for ice cream on the way back to the Benbow. Breyers. Vanilla bean. “Got to be the vanilla bean,” Nikki had once told me. “No bean, it’s just, well…vanilla.” That and chocolate sauce. That’d perk the girl up, I thought. I’d noticed that morning the swelling had already gone down considerably. Her face was still, half of it anyway, one giant bruise, and it had worn pain, even in her sleep.
I unlocked the door as quietly as I could, thinking she might still be sleeping. I felt for the overhead light switch, thought better of it, turned on the little desk lamp I’d bought.
No Nikki. Just a note. Thank you, Jack, for everything. Just a little cozy in here, is all. Don’t worry—I’ve got somebody…Love, Nikki.
“Somebody.” I had my own idea who.
I thought about tucking the ice cream—a gallon’s worth—in the fridge. Then I thought better of that, too, hoofed it over to the office, found LaKenya, plucked a smile from somewhere, and passed it off as a gift I’d dreamed up just for her.
My consolation: ramen noodles in the microwave.
15.
23 July, 2:00 p.m.
Nikki, Don’t Lose That Number
“Jack.” It sounded like: Hey, you.
“Nikki?”
“Yeah. Listen, Jack—”
“How’d you get my number?”
“Phht,” she said. “I’ve had it for years.” Swelling must be down, I thought—the muffle was gone from her voice.
“You never gave me yours.”
“Oh, I’d never give that out. Not to just anyone.”
Sigh. “So…”
“Anyway, she’s here.”
“Where?”
“At the counter, idiot.”
“Who?”
“You know.”
“No. Who?”
“Too classy for you, buster.”
Some kind of titter in the background.
“Name?” I asked.
“Some uppity Collierville chick. Kind of a babe.”
“This uppity Collierville chick have a handle?”
“Some triple-barreled, three-ring circus kind of a thing. Southern as pecan pie.”
“Wouldn’t be Barbara Jean McCorkle, by any chance?”
“Bingo.”
“She want to talk to me?”
“No, Jack. She drove all the way in from Hooterville for burnt coffee and stale cheesecake.”
“Well, put her on, then, please.”
“Hell, no. I’m not burning my cell minutes on you, bozo. Thing is, Babs, here, wants to see you—not listen to your dulcet tones through the crackle of AT&T.”
“Was she expecting me?”
“She is now.”
“Well, she didn’t have an appointment.”
“She got one now.”
“How?”
“Told her I’d make one.”
“What are you—my private secretary?”
“You wish. But I’m not wearing that French maid’s outfit.”
“What a relief,” I said. “The butler will appreciate that. When’s the appointment?”
“Now, fool. You’re late. Get your ass in here.”
Click.
My ass got.
Barbara Jean McCorkle, all five-ten of her, rose to greet me. Six-two or three, if you counted the heels. And they did get my attention—she’d been a flat-soled, long-sleeved, buttoned-to-the-neck church lady, last I’d seen her. I knew she was just shy of me, in age, and you have to be something to carry off a leather mini if you’re that vintage. And she was something, I had to admit. Different look, for sure. Fine vintage.
She’d saved the two soft seats in the corner, and motioned me into one as she sat in the other, a little round table between us. Her blouse gapped, and I started thinking: boob job.
“So…” She leaned in. “Jack.” She smiled. “Lovely to see you.” She did something throaty and wonderful and nineteen-thirties with the ‘o’ in lovely.
“You too,” I said lamely, sure I couldn’t invest my own lovely with what she’d given hers.
“Um…your voice is different, Barbara Jean.”
Smile. “Speech. Elocutions lessons,” she said with obnoxiously immaculate articulation. Private lessons, she told me, with more than a touch of pride on private. A Miss Mary Hail-sham, she told me. Old school. “England, you know,” she said in a want-to-be-British way.
Nikki wanted in on this, it was apparent. Last time she’d indulged anyone with table service was Mac’s cup of tea a few days back. And before that, months ago, a guy in a wheelchair—and even he got a sigh and a roll of Nikki’s eyes. Quite the conversation they’d had, Nikki and Barbara Jean, apparently. “Another latte for you, BJ,” Nikki said, setting it down. “On the house. And you, Jack? My treat.”
“Oh, my,” I said. “Your discretion, Nikki. Thank you.”
Nikki banged off something resembling a curtsy—for my benefit, I recognized, a kind of pantomimed sarcasm.
“‘Bee-Jay,’ “Barbara quoted. “Charming, isn’t she? I haven’t been called that in years. Never used to like that, till now—it always felt so…”
“Unseemly?” I filled in.
“Yes, I suppose so,” she said.
Was that a faint blush on those cheeks?
“But I like it from her,” she said.
I smiled blankly.
“Lovely girl.”
I held that smile.
“I love young ladies like that,” she said. “It’s the spunk, I think. Have you known her long, Jack?”
“Been spunked for several years, now. Since about the time—”
“Oh, yes, since…well,” she said in a let’s-not-talk-about-it way.
“Right.”
“So…”
“Yes.”
“Jack, it’s been a very—”
“Long time, indeed,” I said, nodding. I wanted to ask something in the what-the-hell’s-the-point-of-this vein, but nothing I was composing in my head matched the woman before me, even less the one I’d remembered. I’ve got rude, somehow, in my old age.
“Well, Jack, I suppose you’ve been wondering why…”
Thank you, Jesus. “I had been.”
“Well,” she said. “I did want to say hello, did want to bring you a casserole”—she laughed at that, turned serious. “And talk to you about…something.”
Portentous. High control needs, my old shrink would have said. It was meant to make me ask. “And what is that something, Barbara Jean? Exactly.”
“Blackmail,” she said with surprising directness, looked me square in the eye.
I looked back, eye to eye. “Details?” I said.
“That’s the gumshoe in you,” she said, smiling again. “I’d have thought you’d say, ‘Oh, Barbara Jean, I’m so sorry’—something like that.”
There she was, the Barbara Jean of old—always needing to correct you on something.
“I do, of course, feel that way. Must be a terrible—”
“It is!”
I leaned in, the way she had, nodding to Nikki’s bringing my coffee. A tall Americano, I noted, recalling that ‘tall,’ in Buck-Speak, means ‘short’. Uselessly small, criminally unflavourful. No cream, no sugar, and not a thing I’d ever drink voluntarily. Nikki avoided my look.
“Barbara Jean, you’re clearly here to ask my help, my advice, something. In order to help, it’s details I need. Not meaning to be rude or presumptuous, but that’s where we need to go.”
“Shall I begin at the beginning?” She looked like she was about to start back in high school.
“Start in the middle,” I said. Then, remembering Eileen’s description of their talk, I decided I’d better manage this more closely. “What—exactly—are they blackmailing you for? Paint me a real tight picture.”
My control-tactic registered on her face unpleasantly. “All right,” she said, a little coldness creeping in. “You want pictures…�
�� She reached into a slim leather case set on the floor, pulled out a file folder. “Here.” She slapped them down on table. “You’ll want to make sure we’re not seen or heard,” she said.
I looked. Listened. No one else inside the place but Nikki. I asked her to switch the PA to jazz and turn it up some.
Opened the folder. First picture: The girl couldn’t have been more than eleven, even allowing for the smaller sizes you see in Latinas. Couldn’t tell whether she was pretty or not, in any sense a guy like me could relate to. First, I’m attracted to women, not girls, usually somewhere between the wrong side of forty and Barbara Jean’s age. Second: This poor wee thing was painted up like an aging transvestite in an Amsterdam red-light window.
I looked at Barbara Jean, trying to appear expressionless. “Go on,” she said, motioning.
Two: Thai, Malaysian, something. Seventeen, maybe. Poured into a blue lycra tube dress with a red-lips kisses motif, and—I didn’t get this part—clutching what looked like a toilet brush. Bad lighting. Amateur shot. And a facial expression that rolled resentment and embarrassment and perplexity all into one.
Three: Filipina, looked like. Mid-teens. Pretty, this one—but in a sweet, baby-sister kind of way. She was squeezed into something that looked like a prom dress for the gal voted Most Likely to Be Busted for Soliciting. She looked, nonetheless, still innocent. Smiling, wide-eyed. As if all she knew were that the dress was the prettiest thing she’d seen in her life, she was grateful to be given it, and she felt like somebody wearing it.
Eighteen, twenty pictures in all. Every one an eight-by-ten glossy. Interestingly, some colour, some black and white. Some digital, and some, it was clear, good old fashioned film enlargements. Every one a girl or young woman—almost all something other than Caucasian—dressed to, as it were, impress. Impress in one particular way, to one very particular kind of audience.
You be nice to the gentlemen, Fancy…and they’ll be nice to you.
“You’ve called the police, of course.”
“Oh. No. Certainly not,” she said in the most matter-of-fact tone. “You see, they’re in on it.”
One last picture. A guy. Balding. Middle-aged and a bit beyond. An odd cross between a man with money, confidence, and the kind of guy who sells aluminum siding. I looked at her.
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