Stand By Your Man mr-2

by Nancy Bartholomew

  "And I suppose you're so smart you've got it all figured," I said.

  "Maybe not that smart, but I've got ideas. Look at what just happened here," he said. "I tell you that one of my reasons for being around is to look after you and Sheila, and what do you do? You start in on me. You change the subject. You're scared of me, Maggie. I frighten you 'cause there's nothing holding me back. I am completely available, and I like you, and you know it. So go on, Maggie, run away. Just don't get your kid killed over it, okay?"

  I stopped the van, pulling it over against the curb into a tow-away zone. I couldn't think. I couldn't hear for the roar of blood that thundered in my ears. I wanted to kill him.

  "That is so totally unfair!" I yelled.

  Carlucci just looked at me.

  "I would not jeopardize my daughter's life! That is not true! I can't believe you'd even say something like that!"

  I wanted to tear him apart. I wanted to scream and scream and scream until he went away or said he was wrong and I was right, but he just sat there, waiting.

  "Vernell needs me," I said. "No one believes he's innocent."

  Tony raised an eyebrow. "Bess King does. He doesn't need you. You need him. You need to be needed. You wouldn't know what to do if someone wanted you just for you and not for what you can do for them."

  "Shut up!"

  "Marshall Weathers," he said, "another prime example. I didn't have to spend thirty minutes with the man to see what a piece of work he is. You can still see the pale spot on his ring finger, Maggie. He's just another wounded bird."

  I lashed out at him then, swinging my hand up to hit his face, stopped by his hand grabbing my arm.

  "Let me go!" I jerked my arm back, but he wouldn't release me. He pulled me closer, leaning across until I felt myself backing away.

  "See," he whispered, "you're afraid of me."

  "No I'm not," I said, my voice even through clenched teeth. But my heart was racing, and the van was suddenly too close and confining.

  Carlucci reached over and hit the button that held my seatbelt in place. He moved, grabbed my legs, and turned me to face him.

  I froze, knowing what was coming, remembering the last time he'd kissed me and called me scared. I was not going to back away. I'd show him it didn't matter. And when he reached out to cup my chin, I went to him. His kiss was gentle, but mine was not. I pushed. I kissed him hard, ignoring his attempt to be tender, until he at last responded as I had, giving in to some force that ran between us like a current.

  "There," I said, pushing away and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Still think I'm so frightened?" I looked at him and hated him.

  I saw the hurt flare up then pass away and the inky blackness return to his eyes. "You are really terrified," he said. "Whoever hurt you cut deep, didn't he?"

  I reached for my seatbelt and snapped it back in place. "If I need a therapist, I'll pay one," I said, and pulled back out into traffic.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  I didn't need to worry about Sheila Lynn Spivey. It was Detective Marshall J. Weathers who needed prayers and divine intervention. By the time I dumped Tony Carlucci out of Bonnie's van, returned it to her, and scooted over to the police department, half an hour had passed and Weathers was firmly roasting on the skewer of Sheila's rapierlike anger. There is nothing like a scornful adolescent to rattle the cage of your self-assurance. And Miss Sheila was one dynamite cage shaker.

  Weathers led me to her. He had not isolated her in an interview room, knowing that this would not be appropriate, but the price he paid was that every detective and support staff member of C.I.D. had full access to the exact extent of Sheila's wrath.

  "She's been giving me hell," he said when he came for me.

  "Uh-huh," I answered.

  "I can't seem to get her to calm down. She just goes on and on. I told her we're looking at all the evidence. I told her that I didn't want to arrest her daddy, but I had no choice. Why won't she listen?"

  He seemed genuinely perplexed. I said nothing, just followed silently behind him, thankful that my little girl was indeed all right.

  When we rounded the corner into his cubicle, I saw her. She sat across from his desk in a battered metal chair with a vinyl seat cushion that had ripped and spilled a thin crumble of ancient, spongy filling.

  Her legs were sprawled out in front of her, crossed at the ankles, and she slouched in the chair with her arms crossed and a giant wad of bubble gum stuck in her mouth. On her lap was a puppy of indistinguishable heritage. Despite her attempts to dress otherwise, Sheila looked five years old.

  "Hey, babe," I said, stroking her hair as I pulled up a chair next to her.

  Sheila looked over at me with the same frown she'd been reserving for Weathers. "Whatever," she said softly. Then, sensing a probable ally, she straightened up, glared at Weathers and turned to face me.

  "Mama," she said, "you're, like, over him, right?"

  I groaned silently and felt myself melt under the intensity of her gaze.

  "Sheila, let's focus on what's going on here. I thought I told you to stay on Darlene and Earl's farm. They are worried sick. And technically, you stole your uncle's truck."

  Sheila sighed impatiently. "Whatever, Mama," she said. "But somebody had to take care of Daddy."

  And the awful realization hit. I was raising her to be just like me.

  "No, honey, Daddy can take care of himself."

  "From a freaking jail cell? Oh, I think not." She turned her attention back to Weathers. "All right. You've got Daddy's gun as the murder weapon. But there was no gunpowder residue on his hands, was there?"

  Sheila tossed her hair like she'd just played a trump card and Marshall hid a smile.

  "Too much time had elapsed, Sheila," he said. "The test wouldn't have shown anything."

  "So, like, what would be his motive?"

  "There's three million dollars missing."

  "Oh well, like, duh. My dad is so stupid he'd shoot someone when everyone knew he was going off with the guy? My dad is not that stupid."

  Before Weathers could answer, I stopped the process. "Baby, this won't get you anywhere. I've called in Roth Carruthers. He'll try and get Daddy out on bail tomorrow."

  Sheila drew her long legs up and stood, cradling the sleeping puppy in her arms. She looked at each of us. "So, this is being adult, huh? You call a big-shot lawyer and try to act all civil about it." Her voice dripped with rage and contempt. "Well," she said, looking at Weathers, "I don't think that's honest. I say you're a big, stupid jerk. And I say, if you come near me and my mom, I'll…"

  "Sheila, stop."

  Weathers looked sad. "I'm sorry about this, Sheila. I can understand why you need to be angry with me."

  "Oh, bite me, cop!" she said, and took off.

  "I'm sorry," I said. Marshall Weathers had done a terrible thing. For the first time I found myself doubting Vernell's innocence, and that felt horrible.

  "Maggie," Weathers said, "I heard what you said about being worried for your safety. I'm going to put someone on your house, or wherever it is you go. If you take Sheila back to Virginia, I'll call up there and get some coverage too."

  The moment might've turned, could've gone any one of a number of ways, I was so confused, but I didn't have to worry about that. Tracy the cadet chose that moment to make a well-timed entrance into Marshall's cubicle. I didn't doubt for one second that she'd been listening to our conversation.

  "Mama," Sheila called from somewhere out in the corridor, "let's get out of this place!"

  I couldn't have agreed with her more or moved any faster.

  "Hey, Marsh," Tracy said, "can you pick me up tonight? My car's in the shop."

  Yeah, probably busted from all the rolling around they'd done in it the night before, I figured. And then I found myself staring at the third finger of Marshall's left hand, looking for the pale indentation. I caught myself, caught Marshall watching me, and spun around.

  "Mama!" Sheila called.

/>   I tore out of the cubicle like the Queen Mary headed for England, sailing past Sheila and right on down the hallway toward the exit. Sheila followed me, her heavy shoes making loud clomping noises that echoed off the walls of the police department corridors. I waited until we were out in the parking lot to take on my hell-raising daughter.

  "Sheila, I know you're mad about your dad, but there's something you need to understand. He's in big trouble and it's very dangerous for you to be around right now."

  Sheila's puppy woke up and stared at me with huge, liquid brown eyes. Sheila was staring too, but her stare was hard and unfriendly.

  "I'll be eighteen next year," she said. "According to the law, I could be declared an emancipated minor right now. I know how to shoot a gun. Daddy taught me. I took two self-defense classes and knocked Mr. Gray right on his butt, not just once, but every single time we sparred."

  She patted her puppy's head absently and continued her lecture.

  "My psychology teacher says that my reaction time and my cognitive thinking skills are peaking. So, I think I'm gonna stay right here and help you."

  "Your reaction time may be peaking, but your judgment skills are nowhere near functional." I squared off, my hands on my hips and a frown on my face.

  "Mama, you are starting a power struggle, a control battle. That is, like, so totally unnecessary. We should work together on the problem, not let it come between us."

  What kind of Martian was her psychology teacher?

  "I'm not going back," Sheila warned. "And if you take me, I'll just run back here and not tell you where I am."

  Now what? It was one of those mother-daughter crisis moments where you wish your own mama was around to clue you in. I looked at Sheila, I looked at her mangy dog, and I sighed.

  "Good!" Sheila cried. "I knew you'd see it my way. Now, where are we going?"

  I shook my head and started walking off toward my car, then stopped. Why take my car when everybody knew it was mine?

  "Let's take the pickup," I said. "I'll drive."

  "Mama," Sheila started, then for some reason let it go and handed me the keys.

  We climbed up into the cab of Earl's old Ford pickup. He'd had a run-in with a fence post or something because you had to pull hard to close the door, and when you did, the hinges screamed in agony. It was a clunker, but when I stuck the key in the ignition and turned, it roared to life with all of its V-8 power.

  We bounced out of the lot onto Washington Street and headed for Elm. There was only one set of condominiums large enough to hide a well-kept bimbo, and I headed right for it.

  "What did you name him?" I asked.

  Sheila looked down at her puppy, stroked its head, and was rewarded by a frenzy of licking.

  "Wombat."

  I laughed in spite of myself. "You named a dog Wombat? Why?"

  Sheila hitched him up in her arms like a baby. "I don't know, on account of he's so strange looking, I guess. I mean, he's got black hair, and brown and gray and white and yellow. It's curly up front and straight in the back. His legs are long and he doesn't have a tail. Mama, when he's happy, he wags his little stump so hard it knocks him over! Isn't he cute?"

  I looked over at Wombat. Wombat's eyelashes were longer than Rozetta's fakes, and his eyes were a whole lot prettier.

  "I guess he does have a way about him."

  We pulled into the lot of the ten-story condo building and stared up at it.

  "Now what?" she asked. "Which one is it?"

  I leaned on the steering wheel. "I don't know."

  "Mama!" Sheila said. "There's gotta be ten gazillion apartments in there." She sighed. "Wait a minute, I'll go find out. What's the name?"

  "Pauline Conrad, but the apartment may be in Nosmo King's name."

  Sheila had the door open and was almost gone before I could stop her.

  "Sheila, they won't tell you where she lives. It's part of their security system."

  Sheila jumped out of the truck, handed me the puppy, and straightened her camisole top.

  "Well, like, duh. Of course not. I'm not going to ask them like that. I'm going to ask them like a stupid harmless kid would ask them. Just wait here."

  She started out, stopped, and walked back up to the passenger-side window.

  "So, like, if I'm not back in, like, five minutes…" She paused for effect. "Call the freakin' cops!"

  As I watched, Sheila walked across the parking lot, hitching her school backpack up on her shoulder and slouching. She walked up to the entrance, opened the door, and disappeared inside. Within two minutes she was back, a triumphant smile on her face.

  "Ten A," she said.

  "How did you do that?"

  Sheila sighed, as if the explanation was too much for her. "I just told them that I was supposed to stay with my aunt after school, but I couldn't remember the apartment number."

  Sheila smirked. "That is sooo adolescent, don't you think? Teenagers just never listen. And then, after he told me, he went right off upstairs to help some little old lady move a chair. That is, like, so dumb. What if I was a criminal or something?"

  I handed Wombat to her. "You might oughta walk him," I said. "I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

  "I'm coming with you," she said.

  I shot her a look that said, don't even try me.

  "All right, you don't need to take on an attitude!"

  I walked away and left her standing there, her ridiculous puppy in her arms. This was going to be a hell of an investigation.

  I swept past the empty doorman's stand, hit the elevator, and rode up to the tenth floor. "A" was the first door on the left. I walked across the thickly carpeted hallway and punched the doorbell. It rang like a high-class doorbell, a deep dinging that sounded nothing like a shrill apartment buzzer.

  I waited, heard footsteps cross the foyer, and then waited some more as I was checked out through the peephole and a decision made.

  Finally the door swung open, just wide enough to stretch the security chain. It was not Pauline Conrad who answered the door; it was her blonde friend, Christine.

  "Hey," she said, her voice wary. "You're that girl from the funeral. What're you doing here?"

  She did not seem at all pleased to see me.

  "I need to talk to Pauline, please." I smiled and tried to look harmless, like I'd dropped by for a glass of tea.

  "She's not here," Christine said, but she was lying. I could hear water running in the background and someone was humming.

  "I really do need to talk to her," I insisted.

  "About what?" Christine's expression looked skeptical. Her eyes were narrowed and her mouth was a flat line of displeasure with what she was hearing.

  "Nosmo King," I said. "She and my ex-husband were probably the last two people to see him alive. I just wanted to talk to her about-"

  Christine cut me off. "You're Vernell Spivey's wife? Well, we for sure don't want to talk to you."

  "Fine," I said, "then I'll just talk to the police about it."

  It always works on TV, but Christine wasn't buying it.

  "Fine then," she said. "Talk to them." And closed the door.

  I stood out in the hall listening to her footsteps dying away, hoping to hear her talking to Pauline, but there was not a sound.

  "Great," I muttered. "Some detective I am."

  I rode the elevator back downstairs, walked outside, and found Sheila and Wombat deep in conversation with a young guy with long stringy hair and a goatee. Sheila had a knack for attracting oddballs.

  I walked to the truck, pulled open the squeaky door, and climbed up inside. Sheila noticed me, waved me off, and continued talking. I watched her through the rearview mirror, watching her toss her head and laugh at something the boy said. She was so young, and despite her facade, so vulnerable.

  After a few moments, Sheila stood, gathering Wombat up into her arms and saying her good-byes. The kid watched her walk away and I watched them both in the mirror. Young love.

  I cranked t
he truck as she stepped up into the cab.

  "I believe you could find a boy to talk to in an all-girls school, Sheila."

  Sheila smiled and tried to speak without moving her lips. "Mama, just wait until he can't see us."

  I shrugged and pulled back out onto Elm Street. I debated for a moment about where to go and then figured my house was best, even though it was broad daylight.

  Sheila startled me when she started talking again. "Mama, that was no boy, as in attractive, go-out-with type boy. He works as a maintenance guy at the condos."

  "Nothing's wrong with a service profession," I started.

  "Mama, get a grip! That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying he's worked on that girl's apartment and he was telling me all about her." Sheila took a deep breath. "Mama, she is, like, totally shallow, you know what I'm saying? Like totally not authentic. She was Nosmo King's, like, woman. He paid for everything. The apartment and all is in his name. Did you know that?"

  I sighed. "Yes."

  "Well, so, like, did you know that Nosmo was cheating on his girlfriend with her own girlfriend?"

  Now she had me. I looked over at her. "What do you mean?"

  Sheila sighed. "What do I mean? I mean, Todd said that once, when Pauline was out, he had to go in and do something to, like, her toilet or something. And guess what? That King guy was there, and so was this friend of Pauline's, some blonde girl that's always around. Well," she said, "the blonde girl was topless. See, they didn't know Todd was coming. And when he opened the door…"

  Sheila started laughing. "The old fart was in his boxers and the blonde was like on his lap. The old guy jumps up and the blonde falls over and Todd said he was, like, too freaked to move." Wombat shifted in Sheila's lap, unable to get comfortable with the amount of wiggling Sheila was doing to tell the story.

  "What happened?"

  "What happened?" Sheila echoed. "The old guy, King, goes ballistic. He freaking screams at Todd for, like, five minutes before it dawns on him that Todd could dime him out to his girlfriend."

  "Then what?"